by James Mace
He used his optio’s staff to stand up. All he wanted to do was get away from the vast scene of suffering that unfolded before him. With not enough tents to house the thousands of injured soldiers, those not critically wounded were left out in the open. If they were lucky, someone had found their traveling cloaks to lie on, though this was rare at best. And as the Flavian doctors were treating friend and foe alike, legionaries and auxilia troopers from both sides were co-mingled in a mass of humanity that stretched for half a mile in each direction. Few complained. The fighting, as far as any of them could reckon, was over.
The Vitellian eagles and the thousands of prisoners taken at Cremona were marched along the road, a hundred meters or so from where Gaius now stood. Those who did not volunteer to help the wounded would be kept in the open under a minimal guard. Wagons and pack animals bearing rations had followed the field hospital, and so the Flavians were able to return the favor of providing food and drink to their vanquished foes.
Gaius took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. There were only a few wisps of clouds. At least the wounded would not get rained on this day. The lack of rain, however, reminded him of just how thirsty he was. His lips were parched, and his mouth was so dry he could not spit even if he wanted to. He started to slowly hobble towards the main Flavian camp. He wished to get away from the sea of sorrows. As he reached the edge of the mass of wounded, he thought he heard a voice whisper his name.
“Gaius…”
Gaius was the most common of Roman given names. The voice could have been calling to any number of people; a best friend, a son…a brother. He started to scan the pain-stricken faces of the wounded men nearest him. His heart almost stopped as he saw one badly injured man lying not ten feet from him near the edge of the road. He was naked to the waist, his stomach wrapped in bandages saturated with a dark crimson stain.
“By Diana,” he said quietly. “Lucius…”
He nearly collapsed as he fell near where his brother lay. Lucius’ face was pale and clammy, his eyes coming in and out of focus as he struggled to hold on to life.
“Dear brother,” Gaius said. He then clutched Lucius’ hand, his own severe pain forgotten. “What happened to you?”
“We were taking a hilltop…thought we had you lot outflanked when we ran into a cohort of legionaries. One of them caught me with a javelin. Went right through my damned armor.”
A tear streamed down Gaius’ face as memories of the night before suddenly flooded back. With over thirty thousand men on each side, and a battle frontage that extended a mile or greater, how could the fates be so cruel to place the two brothers at the exact same spot? Gaius then knew, it was Lucius who had nearly run him down. He hated himself for having smashed his brother with his shield, after Lucius had already been stricken by a legionary’s pilum. And though he did not know it, fate had been particularly unkind that day. There was a new recruit from Legio VII, Gemina who slew his own father in Legio I, Italica. And also a father in Legio VIII killed his own son, who served with Legio XXII. An inconceivable number of men had fallen to the blows wrought by their own kinsmen. Many would later say it was the gods’ punishment for the Romans making war on each other.
“What…what were you doing here?” Gaius persisted.
“My duty,” Lucius replied. “Just as you were. I have no regrets, dear brother. I fought for the cause I believed in. I only wish I could have lived to see an end to this senseless killing of our fellow countrymen.”
Gaius wanted to reassure his brother, to tell him that his wounds were not so bad, and that he would recover in time. Such talk would be a lie. He would not so disrespect Lucius during his last moments in this life. Abdominal injuries were not only terribly painful, but they took an agonizingly long time to perish from. It had already been almost sixteen hours since Lucius had been struck down, and still he lingered. Perhaps the gods were being merciful enough to allow him to find some closure with his brother who, even after all these years apart, he still loved dearly. Gaius vowed not to leave his side until Lucius’ soul departed for Elysium.
“I regret,” Lucius said quietly, “the jealousy I bore towards you. I always envied you, because you were given the freedom to choose what path your life would take. For years, all I ever wanted was to be a soldier…and now, the gods have granted my request, yet they demand that I pay the highest price for it.”
“You have nothing to regret, dear brother,” Gaius said. He squeezed his hand, in the vain hope that somehow he could give him a portion of his life’s energy. “You fought valiantly, and you have done your duty.”
Lucius forced a weak smile, but was then saddened once more. “Our poor mother,” he said. “This will break her heart. Give my love to Mother and Father, and to my dearest Laura. To think I should repay her love by making her a widow so young.”
Another four hours would pass. The late afternoon sun glared down, almost accusingly, upon the battlefield of Cremona. As a gentle breeze blew in from the east, Lucius Artorius Magnus finally breathed his last. Gaius stayed with him, and as his brother’s eyes clouded over, his last breath slowly easing from his lungs, the once stoic optio openly wept. His broken heart hurt far worse than his physical injuries, and he was blinded by the tears he was no longer ashamed of. After several minutes of uncontrolled sobbing, he managed to compose himself. He closed Lucius’ eyes and kissed him on the forehead, saying a quick prayer to any gods who may have been listening, that his brother would find his way to the Fields of Elysium.
It was with both sadness and relief that Claudius Zeno addressed the survivors of the Vitellian Army. Manlius Valens had appointed himself as their commanding general during the battle, yet he remained silent and sulking as Claudius addressed the mass of soldiery.
“Soldiers of the Imperial Army,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “You have fought well, having gone beyond the limits of both valor and duty. But for us, this war is over. Now we must look to heal the wounds inflicted by our brothers-in-arms. We have fulfilled our oaths to Vitellius and must now renew the same pledge, this time to Vespasian.”
There were no retorts or words of protest. The defeated soldiers were exhausted beyond measure and found they no longer cared who they served. Each understood there were far worse potential Caesars than Vespasian. Their oaths satisfied, the legions that had bloodied themselves in two wars for Vitellius quietly yearned to never draw another blade against a fellow Roman.
Antonius Primus knew he was facing a political and diplomatic dilemma. He had emerged from his bath cleaned, revitalized, and ready to accept the surrender of the city. Instead, he found the governor dead, and his army unleashed beyond his ability to control them.
The Vitellian legions and the city of Cremona had all surrendered. And yet, by removing himself from the scene to have a bath, he had completely lost command of his soldiers. Thousands of legionaries and auxiliary troopers now rampaged the city; looting, burning, and killing all who tried to stop them. Even the centurions, whose job it was to maintain order, were taking part in the destruction.
As Primus walked over to where his commanding legates and chief tribunes were gathered, all appeared dejected despite their great victory. Only Aquila was grinning with sinister delight; his legion finally had its revenge. Primus wondered if their dejection was due to losing control of their legions or if it was because they had lost the opportunity to fatten their own coffers.
“Probably a little of both,” he said quietly to himself.
“What was that, general?” Legate Lupus asked.
The commander-in-chief simply shook his head. “Now it becomes tricky. We’ve laid waste to a Roman city. We must make it appear to be the Vitellians’ fault. Hard to do since they surrendered and marched their legions out of the city before we did this.”
The army’s lust for plunder and retribution against Cremona would not be satiated for another three days. The officers watched as legionaries made their way from the Flavian camp to take their share in the
spoils. All of this reflected poorly upon Marcus Antonius Primus. Romans firmly believed the actions and character of the legions directly mirrored that of their commanding general.
“To be fair, the people did attempt to flee into the city and bar the gates,” Master Centurion Vitruvius said, as he walked towards the group of senior officers. The primus pilus for Legio VII, Gemina was partly ashamed that he had been unable to keep his own men in line. Although they could hardly be blamed, once the entire army went berserk.
Still, it was a weak argument. Even if the people had managed to bar the gates against the Flavian Army, with the Vitellian Legions gone there had been no one left to protect them. Saner heads would have prevailed, undoubtedly coming to a settlement. Regardless of provocation, be it real or fabricated, Antonius Primus knew the city of Cremona and its tens-of-thousands of citizens did not deserve the horrific fate that now befell them.
“Fuck it,” he said, in the exact same dismissive tone he’d used when he received word of Emperor Otho’s defeat and suicide.
Chapter XXI: Thunder in the Silence
Bononia, Italia
29 October 69 A.D.
***
For Fabius Valens, the incapacitation brought on by a sudden stomach illness would prove disastrous. He had made it as far as Bononia, along the Via Aemilia, which lay halfway between Ariminum and Cremona. Word had reached him rather quickly regarding the horrific defeat of his northern army. Antonius Primus had sent laticlavian and staff tribunes from the defeated Vitellian legions to spread the word of his victory throughout the western empire. And while these officers were dispatched to Germania, Gaul, Hispania, and even far-flung Britannia, the Flavian commanding general thought it would be mildly amusing if it were Valens’ own cousin, Manlius, who delivered the message of his army’s destruction.
“The entire army, lost?” Valens asked, his mind refusing to grasp the magnitude of the disaster.
His cousin nodded. “It was perfidy that undid us,” he stressed. He spent the next hour telling Valens of all that had transpired. He changed many of the details, while outright omitting others. No mention was made of Primus’ almost disastrous decision to force march his legions sixteen miles and send them into battle. Nor did Manlius dare speak of the impromptu truce orchestrated by his legionaries, or the panic that swept over his forces when they thought Mucianus had arrived from Syria. Instead, he fabricated a type of treachery brought on by Caecina’s sympathizers, led by Claudius Zeno.
“Why would Claudius betray us?” Valens asked, completely perplexed by the idea.
“I don’t know,” Manlius replied. “But seeing as how Primus has allowed him to retain his command while dismissing the rest of us, makes me think he was in collusion with the Flavians from the very beginning.”
The elder Valens stood and paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. His entire army of five legions, numerous vexilations from seven more, and countless regiments of auxilia infantry and cavalry were lost. He now regretted sending Legio IV, Macedonia to reinforce Cremona. All Valens had with him was a regiment of cavalry, three regiments of auxilia infantry, and a handful of legionary vexilations and praetorian cohorts; scarcely four thousand total fighting men. Another legion could have given him a viable force with which to make a defensive stand until reinforcements arrived. Instead, the soldiers of Fourth Macedonia and the rest of the northern army had most likely changed their allegiance to Vespasian. While Valens did not expect Primus to be so brazen as to try and compel the former Vitellian legions to march with him, he still had a formidable army in its own right. At least Valens reckoned they were formidable. They had, after all, defeated the feared Army of the Rhine! And Mucianus was still out there, somewhere between Syria and Northern Italia.
“The fates test us, dear cousin,” he said, after a long and uncomfortable silence. “Betrayal seems to spread like a disease. First Caecina, then Claudius, and now the Ravenna fleet.”
“We’ve lost the fleet?” Manlius asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Apparently they defected to Vespasian around the same time as my former colleague, Caecina. But all is not lost. Germania, Gaul, and Hispania still remain loyal. And though it will take some time to bring troops all the way from Britannia, they have a sizeable army with which to swell our ranks.”
“What would you have me do?” Manlius asked. He sought to find even a glimmer of the same hope that his cousin exuded.
“You will be my messenger to the emperor,” Valens explained. “I will withdraw our forces here back to Narnia. It is much closer to Rome and the most direct route to the capital. It is also in the mountains and commands an ideal defensive position. We could hold indefinitely against the Flavians, even if they outnumbered us ten-to-one.”
“I will have every praetorian sent from Rome to reinforce you,” Manlius asserted.
“You do that. Our cavalry will head towards Ravenna to prevent any incursion by the enemy fleet. Auxilia cohorts will blockade the road south to Ariminum. While the remainder of our men fortify Narnia against the Flavian scourge, I will take one of our fastest ships to Gallia Narbonensis.”
While Fabius Valens hastened west towards the port city of Pisae in the hope of finding allies to continue the fight against Vespasian, the emperor and senate in Rome had yet to receive word about the magnitude of the disaster suffered by the northern army. Vitellius was aware of Caecina’s betrayal, as well as the defection of the Ravenna fleet. However, he was supremely confident that Valens and the Rhine Army would make short work of Antonius Primus. Mucianus would afterwards be compelled to either change allegiances, or fight a losing battle long after the Vitellians had called up more reinforcements from around the empire.
“One way or the other, this war needs to end soon,” Marius Celsus said, during a private meeting with his former fellow Othonian general, Suetonius Paulinus. Ever the ultimate political survivalist, Celsus had been given a suffect consulship for July and August by Vitellius. Meanwhile, Paulinus had been expelled from the imperial court and threatened with exile. Regardless of the emperor’s animosity towards the former general, Celsus still regarded Paulinus as both a confidant and friend.
“Northern Britannia has already suffered as a result of our internal quarrels,” Paulinus observed. “Our noble ally, Queen Cartimandua, has been overthrown by a rebellion led by her former husband.”
“So I heard,” Celsus remarked. “A lot of trouble will now come from the Kingdom of the Brigantes, who have been our allies for the past twenty-six years.”
“They aided us considerably during the war against Boudicca and the Iceni,” Paulinus remembered. Cartimandua had further sealed her personal alliance with the Roman general by taking him into her bed on several occasions during Paulinus’ governorship; something he remembered most fondly. “But with the empire tearing itself apart, there simply were not enough soldiers available to save her kingdom.”
“The queen herself was saved, though?” Celsus conjectured.
“She was. But the kingdom was lost to an extremely hostile enemy. It is not just in Britannia that troublesome provincials are causing havoc. Another of our former allies, the Batavi in Germania, has openly rebelled, but the Rhine Army is in no position to put them down.”
“The Fifth Alaudae Legion was supposed to deal with the situation,” Celsus noted. “However, as I understand it, Valens procured them for his fight against Vespasian. We should count ourselves fortunate that the Jewish zealots are embroiled in their own civil war at the moment. Otherwise, we could risk losing much of the territory our friend, Vespasian, has re-conquered these past two years.”
“In other words, if this war does not end soon, Rome risks falling apart from within,” Paulinus said thoughtfully. “If the empire were to ever fall, it would not be from external conquest but because we destroyed ourselves.”
Near midday, three days after the sacking of Cremona came to an end, the entire Flavian Army stood in a massed parade formation on the open plan
e that surrounded their camp. Clustered close together, ten ranks deep, the legions and auxilia infantry formed a large hollow square on three sides; each of which extended over half a mile. Master centurions and cohort commanders stood in a long line in front of their respective units. The fourth side of the square was occupied by the Army’s Cavalry Corps. All faced towards the inside of the square where General Primus, the legates, chief tribunes, and regimental commanders stood. It was a cloudy day, heralding the coming of the late fall and winter rains that would soon turn the entire valley into a virtual swamp. A breeze blew across the plane, causing officers’ crests and vexilation flags to whip about.
“Soldiers of Rome!” Primus shouted, his voice echoing loudly. “We have fought a terrible battle and emerged victorious. While our triumph was wrought by the collective skill and valor of every man here, there are five exceptionally valiant souls who we honor for their bravery and personal sacrifice. By their actions, the Vitellian siege engines were silenced, saving countless lives and leading us to ultimate victory.”
There were a number of murmurings of approval from the ranks, in particular those of Seventh Gemina who had been savaged by the enemy catapults and ballistae. Primus turned to Legate Aquila, who read off the list of names.
“Optio Gaius Artorius Armiger, Legionary Decius Arsinius Olennius, Legionary Drusus Tertinius Caelianus, Legionary Manius Avidius Longinus, Legionary Titus Vesuvius Belletor…post!”
