Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians

by James Mace

“With the usurper deposed and peace in the empire,” Vitellius continued, “I feel that the size of our armies in Gaul and Germania is a strain on the imperial coffers that we can readily lessen. Therefore, I have decided all legions and auxilia regiments in Gaul and Germania shall be allowed to fall beneath their authorized strengths. Recruiting operations within the provinces are hereby suspended for a period of two years, and any soldier wishing to leave military service will be honorably discharged and given a portion of his pension.”

  This was met with polite applause from a number of the assembled patricians, but Sabinus was aghast at what he’d just heard. He glanced over at the emperor’s two closest advisors on either side of him on the reviewing stand. While Valens appeared indifferent, Caecina was livid, his face red and scowling. The emperor then said a few more words. The consul did not even pay attention, excusing himself for what he described as a much-needed afternoon rest.

  “Is he trying to bankrupt the empire?” Caecina later asked his colleague. “Gods only know where we will find the coin to pay off however many legionaries decide to walk away from the ranks. Vitellius had to run up a debt to Blaesus just to pay off Otho’s praetorians.”

  “A temporary inconvenience which will save the imperial coffers in the long run,” Valens reasoned. “And with the senatorial delegation here, we can access the imperial treasury and no longer worry about Blaesus buying his way into Vitellius’ favor.”

  “If we pay every voluntarily discharged legionary a thousand denarii, it will take four or five years to make good those losses,” Caecina persisted. “But if recruitment is to recommence in just two years, then no, the imperial coffers will not save in the long term. This will also not win the emperor many friends among those who remain. It is not as if the barbarians across the Rhine will remain docile. If anything, they may become even more problematic, once they know our armies are understrength. The legions have to perform the same hazardous duties, but with far fewer soldiers. It will be crushing to morale!”

  “Enough already,” Valens said, becoming impatient. “In case you have forgotten, the war is over . And since when does an emperor need to make friends with his soldiers? They will do as they are told. It should be enough for them that Vitellius is having them billeted in citizens’ homes, rather than forcing them to build a marching camp every night. This march to Rome has also allowed them to live a rather comfortable lifestyle compared to usual. There should be less complaints and more gratitude from the ranks.”

  Caecina knew it was pointless to argue any further. Valens was a veteran general and it shocked Caecina to hear his lackadaisical attitude towards the welfare of his soldiers. He could only hope the older legate was correct, and the wars truly were over, and that he was simply being paranoid about potential threats from across the Rhine.

  Chapter V: Rise of the Strong

  Alexandria, Egypt

  15 June 69 A.D.

  Titus Flavius Vespasian

  The legionary was still in shock when he entered the governor’s palace. He had only been on the grounds once, to serve as part of a guard detail for the commanding legate during the Feast of Vesta a few weeks prior. He had never been inside the palace and was surprised;the guards seemed to be waiting for him. He was escorted by a servant to the audience chamber where not only Prefect Alexander but General Thrasea, the commanding legate of Legio XXII , Deiotariana, awaited him.

  The legionary snapped to attention and saluted. “Legionary Faustus reporting, sir!”

  “Stand at ease, soldier,” Thrasea said. He completely baffled Faustus by handing him a large chalice of wine. “Have a seat.”

  Still uncertain of what was happening, but having the good sense to follow orders, the soldier did as he was told, while taking a drink off his cup. His eyes widened. He was pleasantly surprised at the delectable flavor of the vintage; a barrel which likely cost more than his wages for a year.

  “Tell me,” Alexander said, “how long have you served in the army?”

  “Almost twenty years, sir,” Faustus replied.

  “Your term of service is scheduled to end in November,” his commanding legate said, producing a scroll. He glanced over. “I see you’ve been decorated several times for both valor and exceptional conduct. You were elevated into the First Cohort with just thirteen years in the legion; a splendid feat in its own right. Your centurion informs me that, although you are devoid of any leadership rank or responsibility, your fellow legionaries hold a keen amount of respect for you.”

  “I have seen my share of both tedium and bloodletting,” the soldier replied. “I suppose I take it upon myself to look after the other lads in the ranks.”

  “Your commanding officer says you wield almost as much influence as he does,” the legate said with a grin, as both men took another drink of wine. Alexander abstained.

  “An exaggeration, I assure you, sir,” Faustus replied humbly. “I’m simply able to make the lads see reason and follow orders they might otherwise find disagreeable.”

  “Which is why you were summoned here,” the prefect said, cutting to the chase. “The truth is, these are turbulent times we live in with the very foundation of our great empire at stake. Vitellius may have won the war against Otho, but Rome is no more at peace because of it.”

  Faustus said nothing, fighting to suppress a scowl at the mention of Vitellius’ name. A servant refilled his cup, and he nervously drank. While he was a rugged soldier who had proven himself to be utterly fearless in battle, he was never certain how to act around senior officers and patricians. In fact, he had made it a point of avoiding anyone over the rank of centurion during his near twenty years as a soldier.

  “I’ll speak plainly,” Alexander said. “We need someone of influence, someone the lads will listen to.”

  “But not an officer,” Thrasea clarified. “For this little tasking, we need a man who inspires his fellows with charisma rather than rank.”

  “Any way I can be of service, sir,” the legionary asserted.

  “The first thing you can do is be candid with us,” Alexander stated. “As you know, Rome was recently embroiled in a civil war between Emperor Otho and the pretender, Vitellius. What we need to know is, what is your opinion of these two men? Were either of them worthy of serving?”

  “And be honest with us,” the general spoke up quickly. “We don’t give a damn about false flattery or what you think we wish to hear. Forget about any oaths you may have sworn recently. Just give us your honest opinion of the two men who many Romans have bled for.”

  Faustus thought about how to phrase what he felt. Finishing his second chalice of wine, he figured he should simply be direct and tell his senior officer and governor exactly what he thought of Otho and Vitellius.

  “To be perfectly honest, sirs,” he said. “Neither one of them is worth a vat of piss, let alone the blood of a single Roman soldier. I suppose that is being a little harsh towards Otho, but in all honesty, we never knew him. And if he was so easily deposed, how great of a leader could he have been?”

  “And can we presume that your brother legionaries feel the same?” Alexander asked.

  “Well, I cannot speak for them individually,” Faustus answered. “But I will say that the consensus amongst the lads is that no man of any worth has been called ‘Caesar’ since the end of the Julio-Claudians.”

  “And is there any man to whom they would willingly swear their allegiance?” Thrasea asked. He then forcefully added, “And don’t say anyone in this room!”

  “There is one man, sir,” Faustus nodded, smiling for the first time.

  “That is what we wanted to hear,” General Thrasea said.

  The Cremona gladiatorial exhibition put on by Fabius Valens was even more violent than typical contests of the day. Fatalities certainly happened in the arena; however, they were far less common than many believed. Gladiators were expensive to purchase, train, house, and keep healthy. Their owners, most of whom were extremely wealthy, took serious umbrage
when one of their defeated fighters was put to death in the arena. As such, unless a gladiator performed terribly, or showed abject cowardice, they were most often spared when beaten.

  On this day, however, the men—and even a few women gladiators—who had once served in Otho’s army as volunteers from the arena, were now pitted against each other for the amusement of their conquerors. And since Valens wished to dispose of as many of Otho’s gladiators as possible, he secretly offered handsome payments in coin for any who killed their opponents outright, rather than subduing them and waiting for the crowd to determine their fate. They therefore fought with reckless abandon, much to the amusement of the mob. So fierce was the fighting, that a large number of those who won their contests later succumbed to their fearful injuries. This, coupled with the losses already suffered during the war, meant only a few hundred of the original two thousand remained when all was said and done. At Valens’ behest, Vitellius granted freedom to ten of the best performers. The rest were to be auctioned off to various gladiatorial schools. But, it was not the spectacle in the arena that drew the emperor to the region.

  The day after the games ended, Vitellius traveled the short distance to the battlefield between Cremona and Bedriacum. It was a much smaller group that accompanied him this day, mostly military officers and a few senators. When the traveling delegation was still about three or four miles from the battlefield, the pungent stench of death assailed them. None of the Othonian dead had been buried. They had been rotting in the sun, to be feasted on by wild animals for the better part of two months.

  “Here, sire, you’ll want to take a drink of this,” Valens said, handing Vitellius a jug of rather pungent wine.

  The legate, Caecina, and several other officers soaked rags in the liquid and held them up over their mouths and noses. Several senators wretched at the hideous aroma.

  The emperor did not seem troubled by it. “A dead enemy always smells sweet,” he reasoned. “A dead traitorous countryman, even sweeter.”

  The procession halted near the open field, where the Predator and Adiutrix Legions had battled each other with brutal ferocity. Of the Othonian slain, only Legate Drusus Benignus had been given proper funerary rites. The rest of the bodies were left where they fell. All had been stripped of their armor and weapons, and by this time their tunics were little more than shredded rags. Flies still swarmed about, and most of the corpses had been torn apart by dogs and other foul beasts. One senator could not contain himself any longer and proceeded to vomit violently onto the ground, with several of his companions following suit. Even Caecina and Valens kept the wine-soaked rags up by their faces. Only Vitellius appeared to be completely nonplused.

  “Twenty-First Rapax Legion defeated those damned amateurs from First Adiutrix here,” Valens said, through the rag. “They then turned the enemy flank and drove into their auxiliaries, who were engaged with our troops in the wood-line up ahead.”

  Over the next hour or so, Vitellius continued to traverse the battlefield. His generals gave detailed descriptions of each set piece, while attempting to exhort their own actions that day. When they at last came to a spot along the Via Postumia, where the battle ended and the pursuit began, the emperor brought his horse to a complete halt.

  “The sights and smells of victory,” he said, before turning to face his entourage.

  Most of the senators still looked pale. A few had discretely departed and made their way back to Cremona.

  “But this is only half my triumph. I think it is time I pay a visit to my fallen adversary.”

  Brixellum was about thirty miles south of the battlefield, across the River Padus. Vitellius had sent a messenger back, ordering his household staff to join him there and the rest of his host to proceed the following day.

  The town itself was very small, consisting of a few shops and houses, with most of the residents residing in grape and olive estates in the surrounding region. They found Otho’s grave near the crossroads that lead southwest towards Parma. It was a simple stone monument, little more than a miniature mausoleum that only stood about chest high. There were no elaborate carvings, just a simple epitaph. The emperor and his small following dismounted their horses and stared quietly for a few moments.

  “Diis Manibus Marci Othonis,” Vitellius read aloud. “Into the gods’ hands, Marcus Otho.” He sneered in contempt. “Here is something for you to take to the gods.”

  With that, he lifted the folds of his robes and urinated on the side of the tomb. He gave a forced laugh, as he splattered both the grave and his own garments. It was an undignified display. The senators and military officers could not help but wonder if Otho would have done the same. After all, he had left Galba’s head on display in the Roman Forum and treated that of Licinianus like it was his personal war trophy. And while the senate had paid homage to Otho’s self-sacrifice, men like Caecina and Valens found it disgraceful that an emperor should be remembered more for how he died than how he had lived.

  The remainder of June would see Vitellius making his painstakingly slow advance down through Italia, spending several days in every city that wished to entertain him. By the first of July, he had been ruler of the empire for two and a half months and had yet to step foot back inside the capital. It was on this first day of the month that Tiberius Alexander decided to put his plan of emperor-making into action.

  The Prefect of Egypt knew his plan carried with it substantial risk. Yet, he could not help but congratulate himself for his cunning and knowledge, for he was about to change the fate of the world forever. The previous month had been spent subtly spreading the seeds of discourse throughout the east. And just like the Germanic Legions were compelled to disavow Galba at the start of the year, so too were the legions in the east being persuaded to renounce Vitellius.

  On this day, Alexander wore his finest toga with its narrow purple stripe and gold trim. The entirety of Legio III, Cyrenaica, and Legio XXII, Deiotariana, were paraded before the great palace, which had once belonged to Queen Cleopatra, last pharaoh of the Ptolemy Dynasty. As the prefect gave a final glance over his clothing and appearance, the commanding legates walked into the room. Each was wearing their best ceremonial armor, consisting of a highly polished and ornate breastplate with white leather strips coming off their shoulders. Each wore a dark crimson cloak over the left shoulder and carried their helmet under the left arm.

  “The legions are assembled,” General Thrasea said.

  “Very good,” Alexander replied. He was practically beaming as he clapped his hands together. “Come, my friends, let us make history!”

  On the large parade field below gathered ten thousand legionaries, arrayed in a pair of gigantic square formations. Legionaries and decanii were all clustered together. The centurions formed up in two long ranks in front of each legion, along with the staff tribunes. It was midmorning, and the sun was already shining brightly in the cloudless sky. The humidity from being so close to the sea made the air in the enclosed field stifling. The only saving grace from the heat was that the legates had directed their men to parade in tunics only, and to leave their armor at the barracks. Thousands of voices were talking while they waited for the prefect and their generals to make an appearance. At last, after what seemed like an eternity to the restless soldiers in the ranks, Alexander and the two legates stepped out onto the balcony.

  “Legions of Rome,” the prefect began, “on the first of January you renewed your oaths of allegiance to Emperor Galba. You did this despite the fact that he was a mean-spirited and tyrannical despot; because it was your duty. That tyranny was mercifully brought to a quick end by loyalists within the Eternal City, who saw fit to save Rome from cruelty and destruction. With the Julio-Claudian line now extinct following the death of our dearly loved emperor, Nero Claudius Caesar, the senate took the bold but necessary step of proclaiming Marcus Salvius Otho as the rightful heir to the imperial throne.”

  It left the Prefect of Egypt with a foul taste in his mouth, referring to Nero in s
uch flattering terms, for he knew what a wicked martinet the deceased emperor could be. And yet, to the legions of Rome he was a beloved martyr whose death they mourned, while cursing the senate that drove him to his ignoble end. But whether a hero or a villain, Nero was gone, and Tiberius Julius Alexander was determined to be the first to gain favor in what he hoped would become a new imperial dynasty. He had gone over his plan a hundred times, often wondering how Vespasian would react. He reckoned perhaps this was exactly the start of the populist uprising the Flavian general was waiting for.

  “Civil war has stained our lands,” he continued, “with a usurper who comes from the north purchasing the imperial throne with the blood of our brother legionaries. Though only ratified by the senate due to intimidation from his army of mercenaries, this man, Aulus Vitellius, now demands we declare him our emperor and swear our oaths of allegiance to him. It is the divine duty of every soldier of Rome to give absolute fealty to the rightful ruler of the empire. But are we to bow before a man who now controls Rome not because of merit or birthright, but simply because his army placed him there in an act of rebellion? I ask you, my brothers, is Aulus Vitellius truly the rightful Emperor of Rome?”

  “No!” Legionary Faustus shouted from the crowd. “I piss on Vitellius, the pretender to the throne!”

  This was met with immediate shouts from his fellow legionaries. The ripple effect was immediate. Soldiers from both legions shouted profane insults towards Vitellius, calling him ‘usurper’ , ‘pretender’ , ‘tyrant’ , along with a host of more vulgar names. Per their legates’ orders, centurions and tribunes remained silent, allowing their legionaries to openly defile the name of the man who now demanded their absolute loyalty.

  While the Roman Army was the most fiercely disciplined military force in the known world, throughout its eight hundred year history, various leaders had been able to call upon the passions of the soldiery to bring about the storms of revolution. Tiberius Julius Alexander felt such power in his hands, as he raised them up to silence the raucous mass of legionaries.