by James Mace
His vision blurred. Gaius gritted his teeth as he tried to sit upright. He then saw the large splinter protruding from his left thigh. Unnerved by the ghastly sight, he yank the large chunk from his leg, gasping as fresh pain shot all the way up into his hip. The muscles were twitching, blood oozed from the hideous gash.
“Oh, this is not good,” was all he could think to say as he clasped his left hand over the wound, trying to hold the torn flesh together. Blood seeped through his fingers. He heard screams coming from some of the badly injured onager crew. One man’s right forearm was shattered, the bone jutting through the skin. Another had taken a large splinter to the throat, which he clawed at while his life’s blood flowed onto the ground. A third man lay motionless. Gaius could not tell if he was dead or had been knocked unconscious by flying debris.
“By Victoria’s cunt!” he heard Legionary Decius say as he rushed to his side. The young soldier took a long strip of rag and tied it over the wound.
“Damn, Gaius,” Centurion Nicanor added, kneeling beside him.
“It’s been quite the day,” the optio remarked. He attempted to grin through the terrible pain in his arm and leg. “I think it is time I allowed myself to be taken to the hospital.”
“That it is,” the centurion concurred. “I would say you’ve done enough for one day.”
“That did it!” General Primus shouted with glee. He was so focused on the destruction of the enemy defenses, he failed to notice one of his onagers had been shattered.
“Here, sir, you’ll need this,” a soldier said, handing him a shield. “Sorry that it’s a Vitellian shield; belonged to someone from Fifth Alaudae.”
“Hmm,” Primus said, apprising the battered scutum. He gave a shrug. “Well, why not.” He drew his gladius and walked over to Master Centurion Vitruvius. “You ready to take this fucking camp?”
“We are, sir,” the primus pilus acknowledged. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming with us?”
“Of course. I can’t very well sit on my ass doing nothing while the rest of you attack. That would be in poor taste. Besides, the emperor would never forgive me if I failed to set a proper example for my men.”
The commander-in-chief then forced his way through the ranks of his legion, taking his place in the center of the First Cohort. The young, inexperienced men of the Seventh Gemina Legion had proven their mettle time and again over the past two days. Now he would lead them to their greatest triumph.
“Seventh Gemina, follow me!”
Though the Vitellians had a strong position to defend from, there was little order to be had once two of their gatehouses were smashed by Flavian catapults. And while they had valiantly thrown back the initial assault by the Eighth and Thirteenth Legions, the camp was now being attacked on three sides. With two of their legions having fled for Cremona, and thousands of other troops having absconded altogether, they simply did not have the numbers to withstand a determined Flavian onslaught. General Manlius Valens had taken it upon himself to act as commanding general during the battle. Now, he was nowhere to be found.
“Bastard likely buggered off with the rest of his legion!” a soldier spat in anger, when asked where the legate was.
About the only officer who had not lost his head was Legate Claudius Zeno of Legio XXII. It was his soldiers who had repelled Thirteenth Gemina. They now stood in well-disciplined battle ranks, ready to meet this latest assault. His legion had also been the only one to withdraw in order after the Vitellian lines broke. Nearly a third of all legionaries from Fifth Alaudae and Fourth Macedonia had abandoned the field. Legio IV’s chief tribune had been among these. The commanding general of Legio V lay dead, brought down by a javelin during the night’s intense fighting.
“Sir, the Flavians are through the south gate!” a rattled staff tribune reported. “The southeast ramparts are being overrun as well.”
“There is only one thing left to do,” the legate said grimly. While leaving the Primigenia Legion to hold the north ramparts, which had yet to be breached, he signaled for his cornicen and aquilifer to follow him.
At the very center of the large encampment was a tall platform the commanding legates used to address their soldiers. As Claudius stood atop, he looked to the south where thousands of Flavian troops had overrun the rather pitiful attempts by Fourth Macedonia to hold the gates. Many of these soldiers, along with a substantial number from Legio V, were rushing for the western gate. The Flavians had a blockade in place consisting of auxilia infantry and cavalry, but they would not have the numbers to stop such a surge of fleeing soldiery. Both the aquilifer and cornicen grimaced at the sight. Each understood why the legate ordered them to come with him.
“Order the stand-down,” he directed.
The cornicen nodded glumly and sounded the somber notes on his horn. The aquilifer inverted the eagle standard and raised it up and down. Both armies used the same signals and trumpet calls. There was no mistaking the intent. Soldiers fleeing towards the western gate stopped, fearing they would still be assailed by the Flavian auxiliaries should they continue their attempt to reach Cremona. The soldiers of Fortuna’s Twenty-Second Legion sheathed their gladii and laid their shields on the ground.
The Flavian Army had also ceased in its frenzied assaults. General Primus, his armor and gladius covered in blood from a nasty brawl his lead cohort had engaged in, ordered his own legions to stand down.
“Have all Vitellian soldiers disarmed and paraded outside the camp,” he ordered. “I think I shall go have a chat with our adversaries’ commanding general.”
The Vitellian Army’s remaining senior officers were waiting for him near the central principia. Primus was surprised to see that Caecina Alienus was not among them. He did, however, recognize the commander of Legio XXII.
“Claudius Zeno,” he said. “The gods have a sense of humor, it seems.”
“A rather morbid one,” Claudius replied, extending his hand.
While the two were not exactly friends, Claudius was one of the few members of the senate who ever spoke well of Antonius Primus. The Flavian general, in turn, had always given him a fair deal on his wine shipments, considering him off limits to any of his more corrupt money-making schemes.
“I was hoping to speak with General Caecina,” Primus remarked. “He hasn’t bought it or buggered off, has he?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Claudius replied. “He tried to turn the army against Vitellius back at Hostilia.”
Primus laughed out loud at this. “I knew it! A pity he failed to convince the rest of you lot to join him. We could have avoided this rather embarrassing affair.”
“In retrospect, I would have to reluctantly agree,” Claudius confessed. “Especially if we’d known Mucianus had already reached the field.”
“What are you talking about?” Primus asked. His eyes grew wide. “By Diana’s unsullied twat, is that why you fled from the field this morning?”
“You mean to tell me that was not Mucianus your men were hailing at dawn?” Claudius was aghast at what a profound misjudgment the entire army had made.
“No, that was just those silly buggers from Third Gallica hailing Sol Invictus. They do that every morning; odd little tradition they picked up in Syria.”
Claudius could only shake his head. “And here I command Fortuna’s Legion, yet she has clearly favored you this day. Come, we should discuss our terms of surrender inside.”
“Gladly,” Primus replied.
Chapter XIX: Revenge is My Name
Cremona
25 October 69 A.D.
***
The commanding generals dealt with the formalities. Centurions, options, and their decani went about the arduous task of overseeing the disarming of the Vitellian Army. Vitruvius had ordered their adversaries to not only disarm but to remove their armor. As tired as they were and having no more need of it, they were only happy to oblige. While his own troops stacked weapons and armor, the master centurion tasked the Vitellians with sorting th
e wounded from the dead. Artillery wagons were commandeered to transport the hundreds of badly injured soldiers to where the Flavian Army designated their casualty collection point.
Given the large numbers of slain and the filth brought on by the copious amounts of blood and gore, Vitruvius felt the Vitellian camp was no longer habitable. “Our own tents and camp equipment will be here by nightfall,” he reassured his subordinate centurions.
“In the meantime, what say we take care of those contemptuous bastards at Cremona?” the primus pilus of Legio XIII asked, his eyes filled with malice.
Having defeated the majority of the Vitellian Army, the men of the Thirteenth were anxious to exact retribution against the people of Cremona. Neither two days without sleep nor the exhaustion of fourteen hours of battle could assuage their wrath.
“We should wait and see what General Primus’ intentions are,” Vitruvius noted. “Besides, we have ten thousand prisoners to take care of.”
“Suit yourself,” the other master centurion said, with a shrug. “You want to keep an eye on the prisoners? Go ahead. Me and my lot are going to start wheeling these siege engines towards Cremona.”
Vitruvius grimaced, but said nothing. He could see the hateful gleam in his fellow senior centurion’s eye, despite his rather tranquil speech. He also knew, despite thinking they should wait for confirmation from General Primus, that he could not order the master centurion to do anything. After all, the man was his peer and from another legion.
An hour later, while the soldiers of Thirteenth Gemina loaded the last of the Vitellian onagers and ballistae onto their transport wagons, Antonius Primus emerged from the principia. He was accompanied by his legates, as well as Claudius Zeno.
“Ah, Vitruvius,” Primus said, wiping his tired, bloodshot eyes. His face was filthy, and he could not stop yawning.
“Sir, the lads of Thirteenth Gemina are headed for Cremona,” the master centurion reported.
“Good,” Aquila confirmed. “That means they are taking the initiative. And I see they have packed up the catapults.” The legate was still smarting from the initial repulse of his legion during the attack on the camp. And like the rest of his men, he was anxious to put the people of Cremona in their place by the harshest means possible.
“Sir, they mean to burn the city to the ground,” Vitruvius protested.
“So what if they do?” Aquila retorted. “That is not your concern, centurion .”
“Alright,” Primus said with irritation. Waving off his fellow legate, he addressed Vitruvius. “Whether Cremona gets sacked and destroyed depends on their behavior once we arrive at their walls. We’ll try not to burn the entire place down, though.” His words were unconvincing.
Vitruvius knew it was all he could ask.
Primus continued, “I want our lads and the detachments from Judea to see to the prisoners, as well as the wounded. I’ll take the rest of the army and pay a little visit to what remains of our enemy at Cremona.”
Claudius Zeno then spoke up. “General, if you have no more need of me, I would like to stay with my men.”
“By all means,” Primus replied. “Have a little chat with them and let them know what we discussed.” As he walked away, looking for his groomsman and his horse, he was heard shouting, “Fuck me, I stink! Where in Hades can I go have a wash?”
Fear gripped the citizens of Cremona as their garrison legions fled through the gates of the city. Many had witnessed the nighttime battle, many of the women bringing food and drink to their defenders. That much of this food had been given by the Vitellian Legions to their adversaries was appalling. In the chaos, many of their supposed protectors had now taken to looting, in the hopes of filling their packs with treasure before fleeing the city.
“The Flavian Army approaches!” the governor rushed into the palace.
General Manlius had taken up refuge inside and was completely beside himself. “How can they even walk, let alone fight?” That their adversaries were still battling after the horrific ordeals of the past two days was beyond comprehension.
“Sir, they’ve set fire to some of the villas outside the city gates!” a frantic councilman said. “And they approach with catapults.”
“We have to put an end to this,” Manlius said glumly. “Have Caecina brought to me at once.”
“That’s enough!” Primus shouted to a handful of soldiers who set fire to a pair of large houses in the district just outside the city gates. “We don’t need to burn the whole quarter, just send a message to the people who’ve foolishly closed their gates to us.” As he slowly rode over to the long line of onagers being staged, he kept sniffing under his armpits and looking offended.
“Onagers are ready, sir,” a centurion reported.
“Very good,” Primus replied with a loud yawn. “I want flaming shot only. We don’t need to smash the shit out of the city walls. And besides, fire brands are more likely to scare the piss out of the good citizens.”
It was indeed terrifying to both citizen and soldier alike within the walls of Cremona. The Flavians had taken every single catapult and ballista from the Vitellian camp that hadn’t been smashed in the fray. All were arrayed in a line half a mile long, facing the eastern wall. Clay pots filled with pitch were ignited, and in cases where these were not available, crews simply tossed burning timbers from the blazing buildings nearby. General Primus, still astride his horse, raised his spatha high. As he brought it down in a long swoop, the clashing sound of throwing arms from scores of catapults flinging a terrifying volley of fire and death towards the city, echoed throughout. Many smashed against the walls in an impressive spray of liquid fire. Others sailed over the walls and burst among the streets or against the closest buildings.
“Reload!” section leaders shouted.
Screams of horror reverberated from inside the city.
Caecina Alienus had been locked inside a dank dungeon cell for the better part of two weeks. His hair was disheveled, his face unshaven. He was filthy. The bruises on his face from where indignant soldiers had struck him had only just begun to heal. The disgraced Vitellian general could hear the screams and shouts of soldiers outside the palace and could only assume things had gone ill for his former army.
“Manlius Valens,” he said, with disdain. “What pleasure is this? I thought for certain your cousin would wish to dispose of me.”
“Unfortunately, the general—your co-consul I might add—is unwell and has not been able to travel. And it is not disposing of you that I intend, but rather to implore you for assistance.”
“Why?” Caecina asked incredulously. “Have the great armies of the Rhine been defeated?”
“The Flavians are burning the city with their catapults,” Manlius remarked. “And only two of my legions remain to defend against them. I need you to speak with them on our behalf.”
“Fuck you,” the consul said, plainly and without emotion. “If you bastards had listened to me in the first place, we could have joined with Vespasian, cast down the incompetent Vitellius, and spared Rome the horrors of another civil war. How many have died, then? Hundreds? Thousands? And what will happen to this defiant city once they do breach the walls? You’re finished!”
There was an uneasy silence. Manlius did not know how to best respond.
Caecina sighed and decided to answer for him. “You would do well to release me, so I might bathe, shave, and change into my formal robes. I also want my lictors returned to me. Negotiate your own terms of surrender with the Flavians. Just remember, I am still Consul of Rome and should be treated as such.”
There was no point in further debate. Manlius simply waved Caecina off. The consul and former general shoved his way past his guards and left the chamber. The Vitellian commander was left to think of his own salvation now. The commanding legate of the Predator Legion had been badly wounded during the retreat to Cremona, which left only Manlius to negotiate with the hated Antonius Primus.
“Sir, they’re hanging banners of truce from
the walls!” a staff tribune shouted.
“Cease fire!” Primus called out.
The order was echoed all along the line of siege engines. An hour had passed since the first order to unleash was given. It was now close to midday, and the plumes of smoke from dozens of fires could be seen billowing over the city walls.
After a few minutes, the gates slowly opened with a loud groan. Primus and his entourage of legates and senior officers rode forward, the commander-in-chief dismounting near the large wall. He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his matted and filthy hair, waiting to see who emerged from Cremona’s defenses. Wails of pleading sorrow were heard coming from within, as many of the citizens begged the legions not to abandon them.
It was a very small delegation consisting of Manlius, the chief tribune from Legio XXI, and both aquilifers. No other officers or soldiers accompanied them.
“General Marcus Antonius Primus,” he said slowly. He tasted bile, as he addressed the one he so hated. “I have come to negotiate the terms of surrender for the Italica and Predator Legions…”
“There is nothing to negotiate,” Primus interrupted. His discussions with Claudius Zeno had lasted over an hour, and all he wanted at this point was to wash and rest. His biting tone told all that he was in no mood for niceties or parlance. “Your entire army will disarm and march through the city gates. From there, you will all be escorted to the Flavian camp two miles east of yours. After we have dealt with the people of this city, your fate will be decided.”
