by James Mace
As they rode back to the governor’s palace at Caesarea, Titus rightly suspected it was not just the sea air and the lull in the war that had rejuvenated his father. There was a greater sense of purpose about him now, a purpose they had yet to fully embrace. What they did know was that the destiny of the Flavians was not to simply languish in the hellish landscapes of Judea, slaughtering rebellious fanatics. Their time was coming, and the fates had something greater in mind for both father and son alike.
Vespasian was still soaking wet, his sandals squishing, as they walked up the stone steps into the courtyard of the palace. Aula was about to take her leave of the commander-in-chief when she saw her old friend, Gaius Artorius, walking along the breezeway, his eyes fixed on a stack of documents he carried.
“General, sir,” he said with a salute, as he caught sight of Vespasian and Titus.
The two returned the courtesy and made their way into the palace.
“And not even a ‘hello’ for me?” Aula asked, as the large doors closed behind her.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gaius said with a laugh, nearly dropping his papers. “I did not think I would see you here again.”
“Nor I you,” Aula replied.
“Yes, well, if I stay away too much longer, my temporary replacement back at the century won’t let me have my position back. But what are you doing here?”
“Same thing as before, acting as courier for the Prefect of the City of Rome. I take it you’ve heard?”
Gaius nodded. “Yes, though we only received the official word recently. It was Antonius Primus who sent one of his tribunes to deliver the news to us, three weeks before we heard anything from the senate.”
Gaius nodded towards the doors. “Enjoy your ride with the young legate?” he asked with a cocked grin.
Aula looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Really, Gaius? We have only recently heard that the emperor is dead, a usurper has laid claim to the throne and you’re jealous of my going on a horse ride with Titus and Vespasian?” Before he could answer, she giggled and quickly said, “Not that it matters, but I am scarcely his type. I hear Titus likes his women slightly older.”
“You’re referring to Queen Julia Berenice,” Gaius replied, with a laugh and a shrug.
Aula simply smiled.
Titus carrying on an affair with the sister of the allied Jewish king, Marcus Julius Agrippa II, was no secret to anyone. Berenice’s brother encouraged the liaison, as he felt it strengthened the ties between his family and the Flavians. That she was eleven years older than Titus, with her eldest just five years younger than him, mattered little.
“I am sorry,” Gaius said, with a short laugh and a shake of his head. “You are right. The empire has scarcely rid itself of the tyrant, Galba, and now Otho is gone as well. If Vitellius is half as incompetent as Vespasian believes, I suspect Rome will find herself facing another grave crisis this year.”
“We can only wait and see,” Aula remarked.
“Yes, but I am very glad to see you, especially since I am heading back to the legion in two days. I thought I would have returned some time ago, but then General Trajan extended my duties here for another month. We received a draft of twenty new recruits, and I am to escort them to Scythopolis. But what about you? Will you stay long in Caesarea?”
“Like you, I am bound to do my duty,” Aula replied. “Vespasian may keep me here for a while, or he may send me right back to Rome. He’ll likely have plenty of messages to send to his brother, but after that, who knows? Sabinus is my employer, and I will go wherever he needs me. Still, something tells me you and I will see each other again before this is over.”
She was now giving him a rather coy grin. It was a look she had used since she was a girl, and Gaius found it rather alluring. He truly loved Aula and had expressed his feelings for her during her last journey to Judea. Her reply had been evasive. She did not feel she could commit her heart to anyone at this time. They could only wait and see what the future brought. Both suspected the probability of war would soon arise between Vitellius and Vespasian. How cruel would the fates be, if they should fall for each other only to have one or the other killed during the coming conflict?
For the praetorian officers from Maritime Alpes, the journey to Lugdunum had taken the better part of a week. A trireme had taken them as far as the River Rhodanus, from there they were transported by river barge to the city. It was baffling to Optio Proculus and the other officers that while they had been directed to leave their weapons and armor behind, they had never been formally placed under arrest. No one was bound or shackled, and aside from the accompanying tribune, there were no other soldiers journeying with them. There were twenty total officers from the maritime taskforce ordered to Lugdunum, including Proculus. The rest were either dead or missing. While most of the men were more curious than fearful about meeting the new emperor, three of their companions had jumped overboard in the middle of the night when the barge passed by the city of Valentia. The tribune had berated the others in the morning, not to be so damned foolish. He then simply crossed the names off his list as ‘deceased,’ not wishing to have to explain to his superiors that he let three of his charges escape.
Upon reaching the Gallic capital, an armed escort was waiting for them. Then the optio’s stomach began to twist, as his feelings of unease turned to outright fear. In a sudden revelation, he began to realize the significance of not who was on the list of names, but rather who was left off. Weak-willed men like Centurion Novellus were not ordered to come before the emperor. Proculus realized the list was not random at all, but a compilation of those praetorian officers who had set the stage for Galba’s overthrow and who most voraciously fought for Otho. He wondered if the other praetorian cohorts had also been given a paid discharge. And were their perceived troublesome officers also sent to Vitellius?
“Wait here,” a legionary ordered the men, while he went into the mayor’s palace.
They were now surrounded by at least an entire century. All the soldiers remained rigid and completely silent. The quiet indifference of their fellow soldiers was even more unnerving than the maddeningly long wait to see the new emperor.
After at least an hour, the men were finally ushered in to the audience chamber. The walls within were lined with soldiers, with a large gathering of senators, magistrates, and other hangers-on flocked around the large chair in the middle of the floor.
Proculus had heard stories about the slothful Vitellius. Yet until that moment, he’d had no idea the new emperor was an even more wretched sight in person. His fat face was flushed as if he had run a great distance, though the optio suspected he had not left his chair for most of the day. A large laurel crown sat atop his head, and while his purple and gold imperial robes were magnificent, they could not take away attention from Vitellius’ protruding stomach. To say Proculus and the other praetorian officers found him uninspiring was an understatement. Seated on either side of the emperor were two men, who Proculus could only guess were the Vitellian generals, Caecina and Valens.
“The last of the praetorian officers from Maritime Alpes, sire,” a centurion stated.
“Ah, yes,” Vitellius said, sitting upright and folding his hands in his lap. “Having dealt with your companions who accompanied the usurper, I almost forgot about you. A pity for you that I remembered.”
“Are we being formally charged?” Proculus asked, taking a step in front of his peers. His sense of indignity was now overwhelming his fear.
“The emperor will suffer no rivals,” Valens spoke up. “You men not only fought most voraciously for the usurper, but you are also the same ones who placed him on the throne in the first place.”
“A list has come into my possession,” Vitellius said, holding up a piece of parchment. “It contains the names of every man who claimed to have personally slain Emperor Galba, and who demanded they be rewarded for it. All of you are on this list and have, therefore, confessed to the murder of your own emperor.”
&nb
sp; “But you rebelled against Galba!” Proculus protested. “How can you condemn us, when you marched on Rome with seven legions in order to depose him?”
“And by your confession,” Valens shouted, interrupting him, “You are sentenced to death, to be carried out immediately.”
Proculus and the others shouted in protest as they were violently dragged away by a swarm of legionaries. One man punched the praetorian optio hard in the stomach, doubling him over. Two others grabbed him by the arms and dragged him down the long foyer and out into the main courtyard. Twenty legionaries stood in a line, each with his gladius drawn and hands folded in front of him.
“Consider yourselves lucky,” the decanus leading them said to the condemned. “The last lot were strangled to death. At least my lads will make it quick for you.”
Proculus and the others were roughly forced down onto their knees, with at least two to three legionaries holding them in place. There was no gloating from the executioners, but rather an air of sadness about them. None took any sort of pleasure in executing fellow soldiers of Rome, even if they were praetorians. The legionaries with the drawn swords stood behind the condemned officers, while their decanus stood in front of the mournful display.
The decanus raised his hand up. Proculus gritted his teeth, his mind racing in a contrasting frenzy of both terror and acceptance. There were also long-suppressed feelings of guilt. Even though Galba had been a despicable tyrant, Proculus knew his actions in overthrowing him amounted to nothing short of murder. The decanus dropped his hand, and for a few brief moments, Proculus felt the blinding pain of a gladius being plunged into the back of his neck. The agony soon left him, and his world went black.
Chapter IV: Feasts of Victory and Bloodshed
Ticinum, Northern Italia
28 May 69 A.D.
***
The unpleasant business in Lugdunum concluded, the new emperor finally began his long journey towards Rome. Three days before Vitellius’ arrival at Cremona, he spent the evening in the city of Ticinum, sixty miles to the west. In an attempt to win favor with the emperor, the city’s governor had levied a one-time tax upon the entire populace to fund a massive banquet, celebrating Vitellius’ triumph. The tax, which was enforced either by coercion or threats, raised nearly half a million denarii for the extravaganza. And it was not just for the emperor’s banquet, but also to provide food, drink, and a bevy of entertainment to the emperor’s ever-growing entourage of soldiers, senators, magistrates, and various persons seeking imperial favor.
In addition to Valens and Caecina, Vitellius had invited the newly appointed Governor of Britannia, Marcus Bolanus, as well as the Governor of Gallia Lugdunensis, Junius Blaesus. The banquet would act as a farewell dinner for Bolanus before he departed for his new province, and Blaesus was now the largest holder of the emperor’s personal debts. While Caecina and Valens continued in their incessant contention with each other, they now had another rival in Blaesus, who was essentially purchasing his influence within the imperial court by continuing to fund Vitellius’ excesses. Whatever the rivalry existed between the two generals, both resented an outsider usurping their authority with some chests of gold coin.
Perhaps the most intriguing of the emperor’s honored guests was Verginius Rufus. As a reward for his loyalty and service to the empire, Otho had awarded him a two-month suffect consulship which ended in April, soon after the previous emperor’s death. Caecina, who understood well the former general’s popularity, had urged Vitellius to reach out to him, as he would be a viable ally. He had kept a low profile since resigning his command of the Rhine Legions, following the Gallic rebellion a year earlier.
“The noble senator, former consul, and eminent general, Lucius Verginius Rufus!” the porter announced, over the noise of the various musicians, who were dispersed throughout the chamber.
“Verginius, my friend!” Vitellius said, as he struggled to sit upright on his dining couch.
“Sire,” the senator said with a bow. He knew of Vitellius’ refusal to take on the name ‘Caesar’ and so avoided its use.
“Please join us,” the emperor replied, waving towards a vacant couch. “You honor us with your presence.” He then clapped his hands and shouted, “My serving dish!”
Slaves quickly departed for the kitchens, while Vitellius grinned broadly. Several trays of half-eaten delicacies and two or three upturned wine cups lay scattered on his table.
“Wait until you see this,” he said excitedly to Verginius. “I had it specially made to commemorate my victory over the usurper. Don’t tell anyone, but it cost two hundred thousand denarii.”
The former general almost choked on his wine. For a man who had been terribly in debt, and who was undertaking a fair number of pragmatic reforms to control imperial spending, Vitellius still spared no expense when it came to his own lavish lifestyle. And it was indeed a magnificent serving dish. Carried by four servants using poles underneath, it was at least a half inch think and looked to be crafted from pure silver. The sides curved upward, giving it the appearance of a flat-bottomed bowl rather than a platter. It was adorned with hundreds of small designs depicting heroic acts from both Greek and Roman mythology. A figure of Perseus holding the head of Medusa was visible, as was the famous she-wolf suckling the infants Romulus and Remus. Atop the platter sat a pair of roasted peacocks whose feathers had been reattached, adding a plethora of color to the display. As magnificent as the platter was, Verginius hoped the emperor was speaking in jest regarding its cost.
“A most inspired memento to your triumph, sire,” the general said in appreciation.
Vitellius reached over and tore of a piece off one of the roasted peacocks, while nearly tipping the platter over. “Ah, Bolanus,” he said to the new Governor of Britannia, whose couch sat near Verginius. “Enjoy the trappings of civilization while you can. In another month or so, you’ll be living in the wild among barbarians.”
“I think you will find the people of Britannia are assimilating well into our way of life,” Bolanus replied. “The rebellion under that filthy bitch, Boudicca, was the last gasp of the unwashed hordes.”
Vitellius winced at the mention of the Iceni queen’s name. Not that he cared a damn about the slaughter of tens-of-thousands wrought by both Boudicca and the Roman Army, but it served as a reminder that the general who defeated her had later become one of his enemies. That Paulinus was still lauded as a hero by the masses was the only reason Vitellius allowed him to live.
The emperor soon demanded a fresh pitcher of wine, his fourth of the evening, while urging the musicians to play on.
While the emperor and his guests engaged in their vast banquet, the military camps that enveloped Ticinum had become a spectacle of drunken debauchery. The city’s wine stores were insufficient to supply an army that now numbered almost sixty thousand men. Every city within five hundred miles had been scoured for its best vintage beforehand. Actors, musicians, and various entertainers had traveled great distances in order to separate the imperial soldiers from their hard-earned coin. Most importantly of all, every brothel from Augusta Taurinorum in the west to Ravenna on the east coast had shuttered their doors, and sent every prostitute under their roofs to satisfy the wanton lusts of Vitellius’ army.
Near the western edge of the camp, a large force of Batavian auxiliaries were bivouacked along with legionaries from the Primigenia Legion. The arrogance of the Batavians was well known. They took great pride in the fact that they had prevented Legio XIV from reinforcing Nero during the Julio-Claudian emperor’s final days. As such, they ceaselessly proclaimed they had mastery over the legions, and that they had decided who became emperor.
“And I’ll prove our superior strength over you Latin cunts!” a drunken trooper proclaimed, while holding aloft a large clay jug of mead. “You Romans are soft as a fat woman’s tit!”
Like most Gallic and Germanic peoples, the Batavian soldier was a big man, nearly half a head taller than most of the growing crowd of legionaries.
Though his face was shaven, his blonde hair hung down to his shoulders, which looked as if they were cut from stone. The legionaries, who were in an equal state of inebriation, soon took offense to the raving man’s insults and began to look for a suitable challenger among their companions.
“I accept your challenge,” a voice called from the crowd. “Even if it means having to put my hands on an unwashed barbarian.”
The legionary who stepped forward was also of Germanic origins, though he was still a couple of inches shorter than the Batavian. A big man in his own right, he threw off his tunic, revealing a ripped and muscular physique.
“Excellent!” the auxiliary trooper said, tossing the jug over his shoulder.
A circle was formed of both legionaries and auxiliaries, as the two men faced each other in what was quickly agreed would be a wrestling match. For several moments they circled each other, while their friends shouted and jeered, hurling insults towards their friend’s opponent. Finally, they grabbed a hold of each other, grunting and pulling, trying to get the other man onto the ground. The legionary realized he was being overwhelmed by the brutal strength of his adversary, and brought his knee up sharply into the Batavian’s groin. The auxiliary howled in pain as he fell to his knees. Then, with a growl of rage, his face completely red, he lunged back to his feet, hoisted his opponent up off the ground, and threw him into several of his fellow legionaries. What happened next would have been predictable to any who witnessed the chaos involving drunken men, who were also heavily armed.
