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"It is our considered view that the leadership of Freisreich sees a nuclear exchange as at best unavoidable and at worst something to be actively initiated; working from this assumption it is therefore likely that Freisreich will launch a full scale nuclear attack the moment it senses either i) that it can launch such an attack whilst escaping the worst of any Roman counterstrike or ii) when it senses that the long-term strategic situation is no longer in its favour. Further complicating the picture are two additional factors; i) the universal perception, bordering on paranoia, amongst the leadership that Rome aims to subdue Freisreich by any means necessary, meaning that any Roman action can be seen as an attack necessitating a response, and even more disturbingly ii) the influence of Volkish religious leaders, who wield considerable influence and power in the high councils of the Kingdom. Their religious leaders have consistently stated that it is preferable for the Reich to be destroyed than to be subdued by Rome; with some going further and maintaining that only by initiating such a mutually suicidal nuclear war can Freisreich truly fulfil God's will. The effect of this theological imperative is likely to be significant amongst a non-trivial proportion of the Volkish leadership. Therefore, given the paranoid outlook, the risk that at any moment the more apocalyptic religious leaders will gain in influence and the overall ideological stance of the leadership in Khronstaal, we assess that the People's Republic of Rome should continue to regard Friesreich as a potential threat capable and willing of launching a full scale nuclear attack at any time without warning."
Extract from VIII Report on Strategic Threats; presented to the Summa Bellum Concilium January 2747
"Rome's hedonistic and degenerate nature should not blind us to the fact that they are our greatest strategic threat to the sanctity and independence of Our Holy Fatherland. Although their contempt for the Divine and their materialistic natures mean that they are unlikely to engage in a course they understand will lead inevitably to their demise, having no concept of higher purpose and the rewards awaiting us in Valhalla should we martyr ourselves in God's service, we cannot take this to mean that they will not launch an unprovoked attack. Blinded by their arrogance, they may miscalculate their chances, heedless that God will not allow His chosen people to be destroyed due to the wiles of the forces of darkness. Knowing that Our Holy Fatherland will respond with righteous fury should Rome aim to enslave us either openly or covertly, yet unable to refrain from their stated goal of subjugating all of Mankind, the Roman leaders, in their ignorance, folly and mockery of God, openly fantasise about attacking us first, fearful of our purity of faith. We must therefore be forever on our guard, ignoring the honeyed words of Roman lies, and ready to respond instantly. Let the infidel Roman warmongers, slaves of Loki, hear us! We will respond, we will turn Rome into a sea of purifying fire, and we will do this joyfully; for even should we die we are assured of a place in Wotan's hall!"
Speech by Vojvoda-Kommissar of the OKSR, Ober-Jarl Syven, to the Jarlhammer, February 2747
Ahead of me, my master is sitting, reading documents on his desk, his face betraying no expression, giving me no clue what he's reading. Should I dare to venture an opinion, my assumption would be that it has something to do with the War - or rather the wars, that recently have threatened to combine into one. In the Orient, the Empire of the Rising Sun invades our allies; in the Indus Freisreich's puppet states pounce upon their neighbours; in Africa Volkish soldiers and Roman legionaries have already clashed in open warfare as the continent once more burns. Every day there are incursions across our northern border, clashes at sea, planes shot out of the sky.
But no matter the news, my Dominus retains always that stern, impassive visage. Immaculate in his white toga and crimson tunic, his grey hair nearly shorn and parted. It is an image - to be sure, and I, who aid in the creation of that image every morning and evening, should know that more than most - but it reflects reality. That's why the Republic turned to him, why he was elected Princeps. He offers an iron will rather than golden words, cold competence rather than empty gestures, brutal honesty rather than soft lies. It's late at night - nearly midnight - and my dominus has been working since six in the morning.
I stifle a yawn. As his valet, I attend him irregularly throughout the day. I adjust his toga, ensure his clothes are fresh, fetch him refreshments and drinks; ensure he is always presentable, always reassuringly the image of a Roman leader. No doubt some might have found ways to parley this into discreet power, but Severus is not a man who would allow this. He is certainly not cruel - indeed, such a motive would probably be alien to him - but nor does he notice me more than he has to. Certainly, he doesn't notice the yawn.
The study is not the office you associate with the Princeps. It is small, wood panelled, lined with books and busts, with a small window, giving a fine view of nothing much but the western wing of the Senatorial palace. It verges on cramped; but that is it seems a constant with the Princep's apartments in the Palace - the most powerful man in the world occupies a few small rooms, no larger than the average domus. It has however the advantage of privacy and seclusion, unlike the Aquila Officium, which is as much a stage as a place for work. Only a few of his most trusted intimates meet with him here, and for Severus, that is indeed a very small number.
I stiffen, slightly, as I hear voices and running footsteps; muffled by thick carpet and thicker doors. Severus puts down his pen, frowning - just as the door - wood lined, to be sure, but with a core of steel - swings open. Four men stand in the doorway, pistols at the ready. You might mistake them for high ranking functionaries- until you notice their muscles, their poise. They scan the room quickly, and then two stride towards Severus; the other two remaining by the door. For a brief, confused moment - it cannot have taken more than a second - I wonder if this is a coup; if someone somewhere is making a bid for power. It isn’t unknown. Severus ascended to power on the back of one, after all, no matter how prettily it was dressed up.
Before Severus can speak one of them raises his hand. I dimly recognise him - Centurion Turso, of the Comitibus Senatus.
"Eminence, we have to go. Now. Exitus aquila".
And with that, the night become a blur; events and impressions without order.
We are hurrying through a maze of darkened corridors, descending. The walls here are simple plaster, the floors linoleum. Service corridors. It's quiet - it is late - but every so often we encounter a slave, wide eyed with terror. The Companions push them aside, roughly, shouting at them to get back to their quarters, that the Palace is in lockdown. One fat man starts to protest; likely bleary and confused from sleep. Casually, a Companion rams his head against a wall. There is a crunch of breaking cartridge; a smear of blood left on the wall. They leave him blubbering and crying on the ground as we run, ever downwards. I hear buzzes of radio chatter; in the indecipherable code of the Companions, booted feet ringing out on metal stairs as we come closer to the earth. Eventually, we reach a larger room. In normal times, it is likely a storeroom, where vehicles make deliveries. Now it is echoing, dark - but far from empty. It's chill, too, night air blowing through the vast open entrance.
In it, three black vehicles - squat, armoured, fast looking - are waiting; lights flashing. Blue and red and white lights dazzle us whilst leaving the shadows in the corners sharp and black as pitch. I catch a glimpse of Severus' face as he's ushered into a vehicle; his face a deathly pallor in the ghastly illumination; save for his eyes. Those are deep in shadow; black holes in his face. Like a skull.
Another companion half pushes, half drags me to the same vehicle. I'm pushed inside, and before I'm even seated I feel the vehicle accelerate off; at such speeds I half topple on a Companion. The screams of the vehicle's sirens inside the cabin are deafening.
I glance out of the window; and wince as I see the speeds we're going. Ahead of us; other black vehicles are forging a path for us; I see cars and rickshaws swerve to avoid us; and one unfortunate is simply smashed aside by one of our escort vehicles. No one stops, no one even slows.
I see Turso shout into a radio. "Faster, faster. Exitus aquila!"
I don't ask where we're going - in fact, I have the suspicion I've been dragged along more by mistake - but I can suspect. We're heading roughly north east, into the area that was in ancient times known as the Campus Martius, and where these days the Militum holds sway. Familiar sights flash by, almost too fast for recognition; stonework made ominous in the harsh artificial glare. The Academiae Martius. The Arsenal. The Temple of Mars; the Arch of Bellona, the Gardens of Victory. It is this last one we turn into; the statue of Mars with his spear pointing triumphantly at the sky floodlit. On the level expanse of grass are three helicopters, rotors circling. We are hustled from the vehicles, onto the helicopters, which lift off the moment we are aboard.
I see Turso relax - slightly. "Extraction complete. Exitus aquila, first stage complete."
For the first time, I hear Severus speak.
"What in Hades-"
"We have to get you out of Rome, Eminence. Discreetly ideally, but definitely quickly." Turso’s head is cocked, and I see an earpiece in one ear.
Severus sniffs. "That's discreet?" he asks, sardonically.
Turso nods. "More so than landing a helicopter right there in the Senatorial Palace. Motorcades are common; helicopters land in the Gardens on occasion, even at night. We want there to be uncertainty whether you've left. The Senatorial Palace is already locked down, all communications cut. Should give us a good thirty minutes before the news leaks out."
"What's happened?" asks Severus, crisply, and then he answers his own question. "Ah." He swallows. "Hora Lupus".
I feel my blood run cold. I am hardly privy to the deepest secrets of the Republic, but I know what the Hour of the Wolf alludes too. The Volkish, I am told, believe that at the end of all things, a wolf will swallow the sun, heralding the final battle. Their greatest enemy has adopted that image; for the time long feared; when the Archenemy decides to settle accounts, once and for all.
"Yes, Eminence. At sea. At least ten of our ships lost, eight others crippled. Detonation was confirmed twenty five minutes ago. We're taking you to safety until the situation has clarified."
Clarified. Situation. Safety. Comforting euphemisms, blanketing true meaning. ‘Safety’ is a bolt hole, where we can lurk as the world burns. ‘Clarified’ means we don’t know whether the world is about to end, or not. And the ‘situation’ is that within the next few hours the human race might commit mutual suicide. For all we know, Freisreich’s missiles are already flying through the atmosphere, Volkish planes in the skies; nuclear payloads ready to be released.
"Ensure all - repeat all - Militum units are in their highest state of readiness. I want to be able to able to ensure total retaliation, but not before I've spoken with the Concilium." He pauses. "Send out a further order. If they hear nothing more from me or a member of the Concilium in the next three hours, assume we've been wiped out and respond accordingly. I won't have the Volkish win because they've managed to decapitate the leadership."
I blink, wondering if anyone will say anything – whether Severus himself will realise the insanity of what he’s just ordered.
"Your will, Eminence" says another Companion, and then speaks into a radio. "Response Grey Storm, repeat Grey Storm." He looks at my dominus, and for a moment, my dominus uncharacteristically seems unsure. Perhaps he is weighing what he is about to say, words that could end the human race forever. Or perhaps, in the stress of the moment, the long memorised phrase has evaporated from his mind.
For a moment, I dare to hope. Have the Gods taken pity, swept the knowledge from his mind?
But the moment passes. "Order code October-Grim-Zero-Five-Red-Field-Eight-Eight-Blue-Ruby-Eight-Six-Nine-Glory-Ascends". The Companion nods, and then repeats the code. The words are innocuous nonsense, but their import is not. In but a few seconds, switches will be flicked, keys turned, codes read out and consulted; and Rome will be ready to respond. With a lurching step, civilisation has come closer to oblivion.
Then, my Princeps does something I haven't seen him do for years. He swears, quietly but vehemently, almost childishly. "Why the fuck did they do that? What's changed?"
"They've gone mad" says Turso, simply. "They most know we can exterminate them, utterly."
"Maybe they don't care" says Severus, bleakly. "Maybe they finally think Ragnorak is upon them." He swallows, and clenches his fist. "Well, it will be."
Over the next minutes, more information drips out; as the lights of a sleeping and unsuspecting Rome - soon potentially to vanish forever from the Earth after almost three thousand years - disappear into darkness behind us. I glance town, at the landscape below us. It is dark mostly, small clusters and lines of light showing settlements and roads. I wonder if anyone in that darkness glances up, and sees us; black omens of doom, passing by in the night.
I pray they're ignorant, don't recognise the import. Let them have a few more hours of contented, untroubled sleep. Knowing what the morning might bring won't help them.
A large Volkish flotilla was moving down, likely on a course for either Africa or the Indus. There have been skirmishes in the North Sea and Atlantic for months now - planes shot down, ships sunk; a quiet, undeclared war, no one wanting to escalate yet unwilling to back down. No one orders the attacks - but no one doesn't order them, either. Scared young men, filled with dreams of glory and secretly terrified, make mistakes - or possibly doesn't. The next time, another young man is even more scared, or thirsting for revenge for his countrymen, or dreams of even more glory.
It's a story as old as time, I guess. Tit for tat feuding, escalating hatred, testing each other, until one day someone does something really foolish and, without planning too, both sides are locked in war.
As it passes Hibernia, five Roman planes come too close; all five are shot out of the sky. Maybe they were about to attack; maybe they were scouting. Maybe they were lost, who knows?
Acting on orders - whose orders isn't quite clear at this time, and in a couple of hours it won't likely matter - a Roman fleet attempts to block the Volkish ships from continuing south. Rather than going around, the Volkish ships maintain course. The Roman fleet moves towards them; until the fleets are less than a kilometre apart; each one trusting that the other's will will break first.
And then, someone, somewhere, opens fire. It's night, the sea is rough. No one knows who. Someone returns fire, and within minutes, without anyone likely giving an explicit order, a full naval battle is raging; commanded by panic and confusion and fear; an uncoordinated slaughter in a darkness lit by the flash of muzzles and the glow of fire.
"Shit" says Severus, when he hears this. "Oh, by Juno's fucking cunt! The Gods bend us over and ram their cocks in our fucking arse! Fucking, stupid, idiots!" He swallows, closes his eyes, calm again. Nods at Turso to continue.
Reports are sketchy; the Roman fleet tries to encircle the Volkish. An air base on the Hibernian coast monitors the battle, and sends squadrons of planes to aid their comrades, all the while picking up radio transmissions. Ships are burning, men drowning, planes falling in flames into the sea. Our commander calls for a ceasefire, but either through incomprehension, fear, mistrust or sheer rage, the Volkish continue to fight. And then, with obscene bad luck, he's killed when a Volkish suicide boat rams into his flagship. A few minutes later, what seems to be a Volkish aircraft carrier is engulfed in flames. The new commander says they're winning; compliments one of his frigates for their gunnery, reiterates his call for a truce.
And then, suddenly, there's a single scream, a burst of static; and all communication ceases .
Observers on the shore report a new sun rise for an instant in the west. Three scout planes see the same; five other planes, closer, simply transmit screams as their blinded pilots dive into the sea. A Roman ship, further away than the others, calmly radios that most of both fleets have vanished; and the ones still afloat are badly damaged - listing to one side, smoke pouring from them. Despite orders, it moves to render what assistance it can, despite the death-laced droplets hanging in the air; shot through with radiation.
"It was them, was it?" asks Severus, finally, as the story finishes its emergence. A stupid, avoidable battle.
"Unsure, Eminence" says Tursus. For a moment, he looks almost awkward. "As you know our aircraft carriers are nuclear strike capable."
"So we don't even know if it was one of ours, doing something incredibly fucking stupid" snaps Severus. He shakes his head. "Not that it might matter" he says. "If it was ours, the Volkish are likely to think its deliberate - and so launch." He sighs, and suddenly looks three decades older - no longer a fit man of sixty five, but an exhausted, elderly man of ninety five.
His smile is ghastly in the harsh light of the cabin; Mars contemplating the coming slaughter, Pluto imagining the ranks of His subjects swelling beyond imagination. "So if it was the Volkish, it was a precursor to an attack, and we have to launch. If it was us, the Volkish are about to attack – because that’s what we would do in their position - and so we should get our strike in first."
I almost open my mouth, wanting to scream at him. Beg him, frighten him, ask him to see the madness he’s contemplating. Get him to realise that there’s no longer any point, that if their missiles have launched then it doesn’t matter what we do, there won’t be a Republic left to protect – and that all his orders will achieve is empty vengeance. That although his logic might be impeccable, his reasoning is utterly untethered from reality.
If I was a braver man, I would do, but I also know it wouldn’t do any good. I doubt, in fact, even if Severus wished to, he could now stop it. The script has been written, the actors are in their places, and all that’s left is to play this tragedy to its final conclusion. At this point, in fact, maybe empty vengeance and spite is the only comfort we have left.
We're descending, and below us I can make out what seems like a large farm, encircled by barbed wire. Except at this time of night, few farms have helicopters buzzing above them, or convoys of military vehicles driving around them.
The moment we touch the ground, the doors are flung open, Companions surrounding us again, ushering us towards a squat, concrete building.
Just before I’m pushed inside, I glance up at the night sky, recognising this might be the last time I ever see it.
The stars, I see, are serene, and still. I take one final gulp of cool, night air, before I’m ushered inside and steel doors slam behind me.