by James Mace
Lucius could only shrug his shoulders. The centurion was an imposing figure he found rather unnerving, to the point that Lucius did not even think about correcting him for not addressing him as ‘sir’.
“That’s it,” Lucius confessed. “Afterwards, I was mayor of Ariminum for a short time, before the emperor awarded me this command.”
“I see,” the centurion grumbled. “We ask for a new regimental commander and Vitellius sends us a damned politician wearing a uniform.”
Lucius knew he was being disrespected, and whether he had the experience or not, he was still Liberius’ superior. The centurion soon corrected himself, saving Lucius from an awkward situation.
“No disrespect intended, tribune,” Liberius said. “You must understand that, while we are currently on reconnaissance duty, this is still a fighting regiment. Every last trooper is an experienced veteran, to include fighting against fellow Romans. Our last commander was an inexperienced politician who arrived just prior to us going into battle. He was young, eager, but could barely ride a damned horse. When we faced the Othonians at Locus Castorum, which is not very far from where we stand now, the stupid twat led us in a headlong charge against the Thirteenth Gemina Legion. The enemy’s legionaries had plenty of time to react. Yet, even after they established their ‘repel cavalry’ formation, our idiotic commander thought our charge would break their ranks.”
Lucius swallowed hard as the centurion briefly paused.
“This regiment went into battle nearly six hundred strong. We left fifty dead on the field that day, including our illustrious commanding tribune. We also suffered three times as many wounded. There has been little time to find replacements, and a number of our wounded were invalided out of the army. With another war on the horizon, every last one of our companies is understrength. I hope that, while you lack experience, you possess at least some wisdom and tactical savvy.”
“It is from you that I hope to learn,” Lucius asserted. “I know my shortcomings, but you will not find me wanting when it comes to the desire to listen and improve myself for the good of the regiment.”
“Well spoken,” the centurion acknowledged. “Normally, you would have been placed under the direct charge of an experienced equite officer, acting as his deputy. Since you have been denied this, it is up to me and my subordinate centurions to make you into a worthy commander; one who inspires both confidence and respect from our troopers.”
“I will do all I can to earn their trust,” the tribune stressed. He remembered the words his father had spoken to him before he left Ariminum. “Know that I will allow you and your centurions to exercise as much personal initiative as needed. I also accept that, while I can delegate authority in this manner, the responsibility of command is still mine alone.”
“I think we will get along well, sir,” Liberius said.
The corner of Lucius’ mouth turned up in a partial grin. He felt as if this had all been a test and by addressing him as ‘sir’, the centurion was letting him know he’d passed.
He was disappointed, although hardly surprised, to discover that there were no baths at the fort. Normally, the commander had his own private bathing facilities attached to the principia. The mobile nature of his regiment made this completely impractical. It was likely they would be transferred to a new location within the next few weeks. So instead, he settled for washing in the nearby stream, where his troopers often went to clean themselves and their clothing.
As he laid down on his bunk that night, pulling the wool blanket over him, Lucius stared into the dark, contemplating all that had transpired that day. He was grateful to have a second-in-command like Centurion Liberius, who was at least ten years older than he and possessed an infinite amount of experience. By the same token, he also felt terribly alone. While he was a tribune from the noble class of equites, his men were all non-citizen auxiliaries with a few citizen plebs amongst their officers. It was a strange world he found himself in. Equites were often given command of auxilia regiments, because men of the senatorial class felt it was beneath them to be in charge of non-citizens, whom they viewed as scarcely more than barbarians.
For the first time that day, he allowed his thoughts to fall on his brother. Lucius let out a melancholy sigh as he realized, in the coming months or possibly even weeks, he and Gaius could very well find themselves on opposing sides of the great battles that would determine the fate of Rome. And given the placement of his companies, the Siliana Regiment of Horse would likely be among the first to greet the invading Flavian Army.
Chapter IX: The Gathering Storm
Pannonia
28 August 69 A.D.
Legionaries in marching camp
(Photo © Cezary Wyszynski)
The main Flavian division under Mucianus had rallied in Syria, departing soon after the detachments from Judea had set sail in early August. Their pace was excruciatingly slow, with Mucianus halting at every major city in order to placate the local governors and demanding donatives to help fund his expedition. By the end of August, they had only advanced as far as Ancyra in Asia Minor. But as no one in the Flavian Army thought they would invade Italia until the following spring, Mucianus and his generals were unconcerned. For them, it was better to secure the eastern provinces in their fealty, keep the army well-supplied and paid, and take the time to completely undermine Vitellius politically and diplomatically.
In Pannonia, General Antonius Primus had no intentions of waiting until the next spring to launch his offensive against the Vitellians. In addition to his own Legio VII, Gemina, the Moesian Legions, Legio III, Gallica, and Legio VIII, Augusta were also joining the Flavian cause. The former Othonian Legion, Thirteenth Gemina was also anxious to exact retribution against Vitellius. At their fortress near the city of Poetovio, Primus met with the other allied legates. His own Seventh Gemina was on the march from their post at Carnuntum, two hundred miles to the north. The first matter to deal with, however, was the Governor of Moesia, Marcus Aponius Saturnius.
“General Primus,” Saturnius said, as the other assembled officers turned to see the commander of Legio VII entering the large pavilion tent. “I am glad to see you answered our summons appropriately.”
“Yes. And I must say, your threats were unnecessary,” Primus replied. “Especially coming from the man who first went sniveling to Vitellius about the rebellion.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as the various legates looked to Saturnius, who swallowed hard in embarrassment.
Primus smirked. “What? Did you think I didn’t know? Come now, I allowed your courier to pass through, because I wished to see how that fat despot would react. I may only be a legate, but nothing passes through Pannonia without my knowing about it.”
“Until I knew the disposition of my legions, I had to do my duty as I saw fit,” Saturnius replied defensively. He attempted to regain control of the conversation. “Having since openly declared my fealty to Vespasian, I am as much a part of this as you are. And as the senior governor present, it is only fitting that I assume command of this army.”
“Is that so?” Primus asked.
“Yes,” Saturnius emphasized. “As you so aptly stated, you are but commander of a single legion. I am therefore your nominal superior and, like it or not, we all have our orders to follow.”
“That we do,” the legate replied, producing a scroll which he tossed to the governor.
Saturnius gritted his teeth as he read the message. “ Will expect full cooperation and support … command of the Balkan Division will fall to …but this cannot be!”
Primus was now grinning. “Like you said, we all have our orders. And mine come directly from Emperor Vespasian. This trumps whatever nominal seniority you think your governorship holds over me.” He then struck an almost conciliatory tone. “Just keep my supply and communication lines open. And whatever you do, don’t let a maritime force of Vitellians get behind us and fuck me in the ass.”
“Excuse me, governor,” Legate Aquila of Thir
teenth Gemina spoke up. “Are we to understand that Antonius Primus is our commander-in-chief?”
“According to Vespasian,” Saturnius grumbled, tossing the scroll onto the large table and dejectedly taking his seat.
Primus set his helmet on the table and addressed the assembly of officers. “Men, I know many of you personally. Some of you I consider friends, others would cut my throat if given the chance. But any friendships or personal differences must be set aside. We are here because we share a common purpose, and that is overthrowing the pretender, Vitellius, while bringing peace and stability to the empire. And whether a friend or rival, I know each one of you is skilled in the art of war.” He then looked over at a very young officer, seated near the head of the table. “Except I cannot say we’ve ever met. Who in Hades are you?”
“Vipstanus Messalla, sir,” the man said, standing up. “Chief Tribune of Legio VII, Claudia. Now acting legate, since General Tettius was sacked by Governor Saturnius.”
“It was a justified removal,” Legate Lupus of Eighth Augusta spoke up. “Because of Tettius, Seventh Claudia has yet to leave their billets. But Tribune Messalla is a capable officer and more than fit to lead them.”
“Fair enough,” Primus acknowledged. He then addressed the throng of legates and senior commanders. “I know most of your legions and auxilia regiments are already on the move. I want all forces to rally at Emona in three weeks’ time. I have also asked Vespasian for reinforcements. Once they arrive, we will assess our total military strength, while preparing for the invasion of Italia and the liberation of our great empire. In the meantime, I have numerous sets of eyes within the capital, and they have kept me abreast of the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. As we get closer to the invasion, we will know as much about our adversaries as they know about themselves.”
In Rome, the issues surrounding intelligence gathering was a different matter altogether. While spies for Antonius Primus had been gathering information since well before Vespasian’s declaration, the Flavian general had posted small bands of cavalry pickets along every major road leading out of northeast Italia. Nearly every courier from Rome had been intercepted and detained. Primus had almost unfettered access to Vitellius’ attempted correspondence. It was these same pickets who captured and later released Governor Saturnius’ courier from Moesia.
“We are completely blind,” Caecina grumbled, as he and Valens read through the paltry number of dispatches. “We sent dozens of couriers and scouts to Pannonia, Africa, and Syria. So far only four have returned, and none of these came from the Balkans. We have no knowledge of how many legions have defected.”
“Vespasian is being rather thorough in controlling the flow of information,” Valens replied, with a trace of reluctant admiration.
“And yet, we have captured none of his spies or informers,” Caecina added. “You cannot tell me he doesn’t have eyes in Rome, his brother being the most obvious. But with a population of a million citizens, plus the tens-of-thousands from our army, it is impossible to prevent information from leaving the city.”
“I took precautions there,” Valens said. “Sabinus’ privilege of using imperial couriers has been revoked, and we have recovered two of his four signet rings. He understands, of course. Can’t be easy, when one is not only the brother of a traitor, but Prefect of the City of Rome. Vitellius has not sacked and imprisoned him simply because he hopes to still draw support from many of the Flavians’ backers.”
“And what of his remaining couriers’ signets?”
“I doubt we’ll be seeing those back. One has departed for the Danube, carrying an overture of peace. I suspect the armies there, if they are in fact traitors, will simply refuse to allow the courier to return. The other is simply missing, but of no matter. Sabinus has been rather diligent in projecting his fealty to Vitellius. If he still has one imperial courier’s signet, it’s scarcely a crisis.”
“What is a crisis is the messages we’ve received from Germania and Britannia,” Caecina remarked. “By keeping the bulk of the armies of the Rhine here in Rome, the frontier has become largely unstable. The feeble old twat, Flaccus, has been completely overwhelmed by crisis after crisis. And now he’s telling us the Batavians are rebelling.”
“We’ll send Fifteenth Primigenia and Fifth Alaudae to deal with them,” Valens replied. “But what of Britannia?”
“Their defenses have been spread terribly thin,” Caecina replied. “Before the reassignment of Fourteenth Gemina, there were only three legions posted there. Legio XIV has yet to re-establish themselves within the province, and the detachment of eight thousand legionaries has left the rest at less than half strength. To make matters worse, our strongest ally, Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes, has been overthrown by a rebellion led by her former husband. Governor Bolanus has stated rather emphatically that he cannot spare more troops. In fact, he has gone so far as to demand his legionaries back.”
“Damned impertinent bastard,” Valens snapped. He broke into a brief coughing fit before continuing. “We will sort him out, as soon as Vespasian’s head is on a spike. In the meantime, I think we should start readying our forces in Rome for the journey north.”
“I’ll begin at once,” Caecina replied. He frowned as Valens’ coughing began once more, ending when he unceremoniously spat onto the floor. “Are you not well?”
“I spent too much time down by the Tiber the other day,” the older general grumbled. “The flies are terrible from all the carcasses and shit that gets dumped in there. And the congestion of this place has only made things worse. Just don’t think I’m going to fall over dead, so you can have sole control over the emperor.”
“No, unfortunately, I need you right now,” Caecina said, with a twisted smile. “Feel free to take the plunge to Hades after we’ve dealt with Vespasian.”
A little over a week after departing the port city of Hermione, the Flavian flotilla was compelled to divert their course, when a sharp-eyed lookout spotted what appeared to be an entire squadron of Vitellian warships from the fleet at Ravenna. The narrower Adriatic Sea was now essentially blockaded by enemy ships. Only an early morning fog masked the Flavians from their adversaries. The admiral then made a difficult but necessary decision. He would drop the legionary cohorts at the port city of Senia, a hundred miles south of their original destination.
“What should have taken a day, will likely take you five or six,” the admiral said to Centurion Galeo, his voice apologetic.
“It is what it is,” Galeo replied. “Had those Vitellian warships spotted us and decided to give chase, we’d likely all be dead.”
“I intend to return to Caesarea immediately and inform Emperor Vespasian,” the admiral stated. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to retrieve any dispatches from General Primus this time.”
The unloading of all the soldiers and their equipment went much quicker than it took to store them aboard the ships. The mariners were anxious to get the cohorts off their vessels, so they could be underway before drawing any unwanted attention from the roaming Vitellian fleet.
For Optio Gaius Artorius, returning to land felt like sanctuary. Though he handled the second leg of their voyage far better than the first, his legs were still wobbly. When he took a long drink off his water bladder, he promptly vomited it up again.
“By Hades, I thought you were over being seasick,” Nicanor said reprovingly.
“Actually…I feel much better now,” Gaius replied, taking another drink and rinsing his mouth out.
It took some time for their soldiers to sort out and reassemble their armor and kit. As they anticipated, a number of tags had come off the armor and helmets, and legionaries were trying to sort out which sets were theirs. The cohort commanders, meanwhile, sent some of their signifiers into the city to purchase pack animals. Signifiers were not only the keepers of the cohorts’ treasuries, they were also far better at negotiating with traders. Gaius’ signifier, Aurelian, arrived back at camp later that afternoon with four mules in
tow.
“Luckily, I was one of the first to find the mule traders,” he said to Gaius and Nicanor. “I had pick of their stock at reasonable rates. Once they saw how many centuries were needing pack animals, their demeanor changed from one of friendly traders to downright extortionists. I heard one fellow from the Fifteenth shouting at the top of his lungs that he was going to ‘gut the bastard and use his entrails for rope’ .”
The three officers chuckled in relief, and set about sorting out their own kit. By late afternoon, the cohorts were ready and their commanders decided to begin the long journey. They followed the coastal road north, the Balkan island of Curicta visible off to their left, just a couple of miles out to sea. On the first evening, Centurion Galeo halted the taskforce near a road station known as Ad Turres . The road ran along an extremely high and steep ridge. Forests covered the landscape on either side. There was a small lake a couple miles further on, where the cohorts watered their animals and refreshed their own stores.
The long march from Senia came as a relief to Gaius. He would have rather walked a thousand miles than set foot on another ship ever again. Though the Dalmatian province was heavily mountainous, the taskforce kept along the coast for much of their journey. The terrain did, however, prevent them from taking the most direct route, instead forcing them to follow the main road towards the city of Tergeste, before winding their way northeast towards their destination. At Tergeste they met envoys from General Primus, who had anticipated them arriving at the port by ship. Once Centurion Galeo explained the situation, one of the riders departed to inform the commander-in-chief, letting the legionaries know the army was assembling at the city of Emona, four or five days to the northeast.
In addition to the far more rugged terrain, the land was very green and lush, especially when compared with the arid and often desolate lands of Judea and Syria. It was now the middle of summer, with the proximity to the sea making it hot and extremely humid. Legionaries found themselves drenched in sweat from the time they donned their armor each morning, until well after they halted and made camp for the night. Splotched salt stains encrusted their tunics, which stank after a day’s wear. Though each soldier carried three extra tunics, and took the time to try and wash both themselves and their clothing whenever possible, their officers complained that the enemy would be able to smell them twenty miles away. Hence, when the cohorts arrived at Tergeste, Centurion Galeo and the other pilus priors ordered a day of rest and washing for their men.
