by Kate Quinn
“Our reports say Fabius Valens is some days out, Caesar,” Densus said. A slash on one forearm was oozing blood down over his fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice it. “He and Caecina Alienus have quarreled in the past—they’ll not get along when they join forces.”
“Confusion to the enemy, then!” Otho raised his goblet and a storm of shouts and laughter went up—
Emperor Otho removed himself to Brixellum, some miles distant, for sake of safety. He took a substantial reserve force and left several observers to act as messengers and bring him constant news of the battle.
One of the observers was Lucius Aelius Lamia, who had barely spoken to Marcella since they’d left Rome. “It isn’t fitting for a woman to witness a battle,” he sputtered when she announced her intention of staying at his side to observe the fight.
“I’m sorry,” Marcella said blandly. “Did I give you the impression I was asking permission?”
He glared at her in open loathing. “You’re making a fool out of me!”
Marcella smiled. “I think you do that all on your own, Lucius.”
“You willful bitch—I’ll divorce you, see if I don’t—”
“Go ahead.” Marcella wandered away. “In the meantime, I’ll be watching the battle.”
Emperor Otho just seemed amused when he heard that. “How valiant,” he laughed. “And how fortunate you were born to a Roman clan, Marcella my dear. If you’d been born a Pict, you’d be painting yourself blue and charging into battle with an ax.”
“No, Caesar.” Marcella bowed. “I’m only the watcher.”
“Well, write up my stunning victory in good style, and be sure to give me a copy.” He patted her hand. “I’d like to read it.” And although Marcella knew he’d forget all about her history as soon as he turned away, his touch was so sincere and his smile so warm that she flushed with pleasure. He went off in great splendor to Brixellum, surrounded by Praetorians, laughing and throwing dice with all the handsome young courtiers who tried so hard to look just like him. Marcella heard later that he went to a play that night as his troops prepared for battle a few miles away, and the whole town marveled at his composure. I believe that. He’d have lounged in the tiered seats with his gaudy friends, perfumed and braceleted and perfectly at ease, throwing coins to the actors in their comedy masks.
Otho’s generals entered the battle with two legions, another standing in reserve. In the center position was the Praetorian Guard.
She got the names of the legions later, when she had time to put her facts together. At the time it was only a mass of armored men and spear points. The legionaries all looked alike from a distance, but one cohort passed quite close below the hillock where Lucius and the other observers were stationed, and suddenly the armored ants became men again. Fair-skinned Gauls with their skins peeling in the sun, swarthy Spaniards, copper-skinned Egyptians, darker Nubians. Men from all over the Empire, once distinct, now hammered into a fearsome and brutal anonymity.
After some confusion, the Praetorians in the center engaged against the Vitellian legions. No javelins were thrown; only shield against shield.
Marcella knew battle was all confusion on the ground, but she’d thought it would be clearer observed from above. Lucius and the other observers—herself among them, despite Lucius’s rage and the disdainful glances of the others—were stationed on a hillock well back from the fray. For a while Marcella could follow the agonizingly slow motion as the two masses of men heaved themselves up the causeway like whales giving birth and marched stolidly into each other. But then the dust from so many marching feet kicked up into the warm spring morning, and all she could see was a dust cloud out of which came fearsome screams. She hadn’t known a battle would be so loud. Iron shield bosses grinding together, men grunting as they shoved back and forth in furious swaying lines, swords clashing over the top of the shields, and always the shrieks of wounded men. They’d fall back clutching themselves, bleeding fearsomely, turned from armored ants back to men again, and the next disciplined rank would step forward into the gap, blank-eyed and eager—
On the left flank, the Othonian legion plowed into the Vitellian line and captured their eagle. The Vitellians regrouped and advanced again, surrounding the legionaries on broken ground and slowly cutting them down. The Othonian generals fled, while the Vitellians continued to feed in reinforcements. The central block of the Praetorian Guard was left standing alone.
All pieced together later, of course—from the hillock Marcella could see nothing. That evening she’d found a legionary, one of the few to escape the horror of the right flank’s massacre. “A bloody mess,” he said, blank eyes fixed somewhere over her head, not knowing or caring who or what she was. “Half of us had friends on their side—we kept lowering our swords and realizing that the one we’re fighting was one we used to get drinks with at the Blue Mermaid tavern two months ago. And we’d smile at each other and look sheepish-like, and then we’d have at it again till one of us was dead. A bloody cock-up, Lady, I’ll tell you that.”
The Praetorians, exposed on both sides, finally broke ranks and fled.
What else could they do? All over the field men fell out of their battle lines and fled, slipping in pools of blood and clambering over fallen bodies. “We go,” Lucius hissed, his hand clamped on Marcella’s arm. “We’re going, it’s a rout, have you seen enough for one day, you bloodthirsty bitch?” They clambered into a chariot left waiting and the driver whipped up the horses in a panic toward the road back to Brixellum. Fleeing legionaries crowded all around, dusty, bloody, exhausted. Several put up their hands and cried to be taken along. One massive aquilifer planted himself screaming in the road, still clutching his ragged standard and hailing them with a clenched fist. Only it wasn’t a fist, it was a ragged stump where some Vitellian had struck off his hand, and Marcella only saw it for an instant before the horses trampled him under.
The Vitellians had no reason to offer quarter to men who could not pay ransom, so thousands of survivors were slaughtered. Others fled to Brixellum, joining Otho’s reserve force there and hoping for a chance at another battle. The rest formally surrendered to Vitellius the following morning, among them the Emperor’s brother.
Lollia’s husband, who had cracked his knuckles busily and counseled Otho to launch an immediate attack without waiting for the rest of the legions to arrive. He’d been allowed to live, for the time being. Marcella had a moment to reflect that whether he lived or died, Lollia would soon have a different husband. Her fifth, Fortuna help her, and she only nineteen.
A substantial force still remained at Brixellum, bolstered by survivors from the battle. Several of Emperor Otho’s advisers counseled leading a second attack against the Vitellians.
Lucius and Marcella were driven at breakneck pace from the battleground to Brixellum, soon leaving the limping legionaries behind. They were swept through a vortex of shouting men, stamping horses, and prowling guards and whisked into Otho’s tent. One look at his taut face told Marcella they were not the first with news of the defeat, but Lucius bowed and gave his report.
“Thank you, Lucius Aelius Lamia,” Otho said, and beckoned a slave for wine. His hand never shook on the goblet; there was even a faint smile on his face, but the dark eyes were turned inward like the blank gaze of a statue. Hours of waiting, then—Marcella knew she should not have been there, huddled in her corner, but no one thought to evict her. She saw Centurion Drusus Densus limp in, holding a wad of rags to a slash on the side of his neck. A final courier fell on his knees, announcing that forty thousand dead littered the field, and a tumult of shouting erupted, whirling around the Emperor in his gilded chair.
Emperor Otho heard all advice calmly before making his decision. Afterward—
There Marcella’s account broke off.
DON’T grieve, friends.” Otho spread his hands. “I’ve made my decision.”
They stared at him, dumbstruck: courtiers, generals, messengers, Praetorians, slaves. “Caesar,” so
meone said, but Otho cut him off with one of his perfect careless gestures.
“To expose men of your spirit and courage to further danger I think too high a price to pay for my life,” he said. “Vitellius began this civil war by forcing us to fight for the throne. I will end it, by ensuring that we fight no more than once. Let this be how posterity judges me: Others may have reigned longer, but none will relinquish his power so bravely.”
His voice rolled around the common soldier’s tent as if it were the marble walls of the Senate, and he threw back his head with a brilliant smile. Perfectly groomed, perfectly poised, perfectly in control. A thought drifted through Marcella’s head: How long has he been planning this speech?
“Caesar,” someone said again with half a sob, “we can still fight!”
But Otho raised a hand. “You cannot expect me to allow the flower of Rome’s youth, so many splendid legions, to shed their blood a second time. Let me carry away with me the thought that you were ready to die for me, but survive you must.” He clapped his hands. “No more delay! I must not endanger your safety, nor you impede my decision. To dwell on one’s last moments is a coward’s way. The ultimate proof of my determination is that I make no complaints. To find fault with gods or men is the behavior of one who would prefer to go on living.”
As one, the men in that room sank to their knees. Marcella was among them. She saw men weeping and couldn’t weep herself, but she could feel . . . awe. An emperor was as skilled a performer as any actor; he had to be—and she had just seen a man give the performance of his life.
Nor was it over. He walked among them then, raising every man to his feet, finding a few words for each. He told a weeping Praetor Paetus that he should not gamble so much at dice; he commended Centurion Drusus Densus for his bravery in trying to hold the center line once the flanks collapsed; he joked with Senator Urbinus that now his gambling debts would never have to be paid. One of his commanders tried to argue with him, swearing they could wreak vengeance on Vitellius, but Otho gave a placid smile and told him to offer Vitellius all allegiance. “He is your master now, and Fortuna grant he will be forgiving.”
“Fortuna grant,” Marcella echoed.
Otho gave Lucius Lamia the same advice, telling him to find a discreet escape back to Rome and offer his loyalty when the time came—and then he came to Marcella. “My dear girl, it appears I will never read that history of yours.” He raised her up. “Do me a favor, and write it the way it should have happened? Give me a resounding victory over that tub of lard, and a glorious triumphal procession back to Rome.” He leaned in to kiss the corner of her mouth, adding in a whisper, “And write that I dragged you off behind the bushes at least once!”
Her throat thickened then. She nodded, wordless. A tiny pinpoint of panic danced in Otho’s eyes, but the hands that clasped hers were steady.
“Ah.” Making the circle of the tent, Otho paused at last before the door flap to his bedchamber. A slave stood there with a silver tray, sniffing back tears. On the tray lay two daggers. “This one, I think—” Choosing. “It has a better edge. Good night, everyone.”
Marcella didn’t see him die.
He slept that night, she knew that much. Several of his friends huddled all night by the door flap, waiting to be called, but he never called them. In the steel-gray dawn came a single cry. The guards rushed into the chamber, but Otho was already dead, a blade in his heart. He died alone.
He must have wanted it that way, Marcella thought. Perhaps he realized the furor that would surround his body afterward: the Praetorians carrying him to a flaming bier so the Vitellians could not despoil his corpse; the weeping as several of his closest friends stabbed themselves rather than serve a new Emperor; the uneasy grumbles from the soldiers; the panic of the remaining courtiers as they struggled to find passage back to Rome. From coronation to funeral, an emperor’s life was a circus.
But even an emperor had to die alone.
WHEN she looked back, Marcella could never remember the details of her journey back to Rome. Lucius stayed, anxious to proclaim his undying loyalty to Vitellius once the new Emperor arrived, so she found a cart or a wagon or something with wheels and paid for a place. Jolting roads, silent companions. Just flashes, when she tried to remember it. A journey of a week’s duration—two weeks?—and then she was back in the city. She looked about vaguely for a hired litter, something to take her home, but a slave in sumptuous livery recognized her at the city gate and whisked her back to the house in comfort.
“Juno’s mercy, you’re safe!” Cornelia enveloped her in a violent hug as she alighted on the doorstep. Half the family was arrayed there, but her sister and cousins were at the forefront and Marcella fell into their comforting arms, wondering how she could ever have thought them exasperating. “We had slaves watching every gate in the city for you, ever since we heard the news—”
“You’re all right.” Lollia was beaming. “I wore down my knees at every temple in Rome—”
“Now you’re the crazy one in the family instead of me.” Diana flung an oddly bruised arm about Marcella’s waist. “Just do what I do, and smile whenever they lecture you. It drives them all mad.”
“Good to have you home,” Gaius said, smiling.
“Gaius, you aren’t condoning this, are you?” Tullia sniffed. “I hope you see the folly of your adventuring, Marcella. You could have been killed.”
“I’m sure you’re sorry I wasn’t,” said Marcella. “Then you could redo my room in that sickly pink you’ve pasted all over the rest of the house.”
“She’s very tired, dear,” Gaius whispered quickly in his wife’s ear. “Maybe crazed.”
There was a family dinner to celebrate Marcella’s return. Cornelia shared her couch, deflecting the family’s questions for her while Marcella ate, and Marcella could have cried in gratitude. She gave her sister’s hand a fierce squeeze under the cushions, and Cornelia squeezed back.
“So Salvius is alive?” Lollia asked. “I’m glad. He’s harmless enough, despite his knuckle cracking. Though this means another divorce for sure.” She sighed. “Grandfather is already looking for a Vitellian husband for me.”
“You know Vitellius is a Blues fan?” Diana wrinkled her nose. “Well, at least it means more races . . .”
“I’m sorry.” Marcella put down her goblet. “But I need to get outside—I need to walk. Can you cover for me?”
“Of course,” Cornelia said at once, and headed Tullia off with a complaint about the oysters. Lollia distracted Gaius by letting her dress fall off her shoulders, and Diana tossed Marcella her own cloak.
Marcella’s hands were shaking when she climbed into the litter, and despite the fine breeze in the spring twilight she closed the curtains. The slanting sun made rosy shadows through the pink silk, and she lay back on the cushions with the heels of her hands pressed to her eyes as the bearers rose beneath her. “The gardens,” Marcella said through her hands, “take me to the nearest gardens.” It was a long time before the tremors went away, before she lowered her hands from her face.
When she did, she was smiling.
The bearers stopped, and she climbed out of the litter. A nameless little green patch at the top of the Quirinal Hill; not much of a garden. Just a grassy hillock with a few trees and a stone bench or two, where the pleb boys liked to take their sweethearts on fine evenings—but it did boast a high, wide view of Rome, and Marcella had it all to herself as she strode up the slope on legs still faintly shaky and looked out over the city. Dusk now, the sun falling orange-pink behind purple bands of clouds, the sky on the other side a cool darkening blue. Torches and lamps lighting the streets below, a sprawling forest of lights. Rome. She’d seen four emperors within the past year—Nero, Galba, Otho, and now Vitellius. Four emperors . . .
Three of them, thought Marcella, done away by me.
Partially, anyway.
Nero really had been an accident. “The world would lose a great artist in you, Caesar,” Marcella had told
him at that private banquet, just trying to soothe his frantic nerves. And instead he’d sobbed into her lap and asked her how he could possibly escape it all, and she’d said he would fall on his sword before the Senate could execute him. All she had wanted was to get out of there and go home . . . but Nero did fall on his sword a week later. He’d even stolen Marcella’s words about the death of an artist. Nero never could write a decent line for himself.
Galba . . . well, one could say he was an accident too. Almost. Piso had been declared heir, Marcella jibed at Otho about how he might be declared Emperor yet if the omens weren’t favorable, and he had seized the idea, bribing a priest to interpret the omens badly and using the discontent of the soldiers to his own ends. Her little joke hadn’t really been a joke—even at the time Marcella had wondered if Otho might take the hint. But she never dreamed he’d go as far as he did. She certainly hadn’t wanted Piso dead; hadn’t wanted to end up dead herself on the steps of the Temple of Vesta along with her sister and cousins, as had so nearly happened. That really did get a bit out of hand.
Otho. That had been more of an experiment. Poor Cornelia was so blind with rage about Piso’s death, so burning with hatred for anything Othonian. Marcella couldn’t resist dropping her sister a few tidbits of information, wondering what she’d do with them. She’d been much more daring than Marcella would have anticipated—she’d started meeting Vitellius’s supporters on her supposed trips to the bathhouse, in fact, to pass along any information that might help defeat Otho. Marcella had been perfectly prepared to meet with the conspirators herself, but with Cornelia being so obliging, all she had to do was feed her sister the necessary information. Movements of legions, supply lines, petty rivalries among Otho’s generals—she’d dropped it all into Cornelia’s ear or left little jotted notes lying on her desk where they could easily be found. Cornelia had passed it all on for her, every weakness the Vitellians had exploited to defeat Otho at Bedriacum. Did Otho lose the battle due to my information-passing? Perhaps not, but it was certainly amusing to think so. Pity Otho had committed suicide, though—Marcella had liked him, very much.
