Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians

by James Mace

  The five soldiers, who stood together in front of the massed formation of legionaries, walked slowly over to their collected senior commanders. Of the twelve who attacked the enemy siege engines, only these five had survived. Besides Gaius, two others were badly wounded. Gaius used his optio’s staff to help him hobble across the field. The other uninjured survivor stood between his two mates, helping them make their way over. The assembled generals were in their armor and helmets, but Primus had directed these men wear only their tunics and sword baldrics.

  A staff tribune carried a stack of laurel crowns, and he walked behind his commander-in-chief, who took each crown in turn, placing them on the heads of the survivors.

  General Aquila continued, “In the name of the Senate and the People of Rome, and by the authority of Emperor Titus Flavius Vespasian. For valor and extreme courage, far beyond that expected of an imperial soldier, and for saving the lives of many of your brethren, you are hereby awarded the Civic Crown. May your bravery in the face of danger continue to set an example to all soldiers of the empire.”

  With the last crown presented, Primus took a few steps back from the men. “Legions,” he barked. “Gladius…draw!”

  A thundering shout resounded from over thirty thousand voices as blades flashed from their scabbards. The assembled legates and senior commanders drew their own weapons. The entire army raised their swords in salute. The five soldiers nodded in acknowledgment. Only two of them were even able to draw their gladii. The short ceremony complete, centurions quickly dismissed their legions.

  It was strange for Gaius. He wasn’t sure exactly how he was supposed to feel about being presented with one of Rome’s most prestigious military decorations. The Civic Crown was the highest award for valor that a soldier from the ranks could receive and was specifically for saving the life of a fellow soldier or citizen. The only award of greater precedence was the Grass Crown, given to a commanding officer whose actions had saved an entire army. Only a handful of these had ever been awarded during Rome’s eight hundred year history, and the only currently living recipient was, ironically, Aula Vale’s father, Aulus Nautius Cursor.

  Unbeknownst to any man on that parade field, Cursor’s Grass Crown had been awarded during the same battle in which Vitruvius’ father had been killed. Gaius’ father and grandfather were badly wounded during the same action. Nor did the master centurion of Seventh Gemina or the young optio from Tenth Fretensis know that Vitruvius’ father had been both friend and mentor to Gaius’ grandfather. In the span of just forty years, the memory of such shared histories was lost forever.

  Whether by coincidence or deliberate design, the months of September and October were among the least busy for the Roman senate. Come November, the elections for the next year’s two consuls would bring about a short season of political campaigning, where likely candidates attempted to coerce their peers into selecting them. Vitellius was considering nominating his old friend and son-in-law, Valerius Asiaticus, to one of the consulships, while he had named himself as the other consul for the next ten years. December, in turn, was dominated by preparations for the Saturnalia celebrations, with most of the empire’s political business left dormant until the start of the next year.

  The two months prior to this were often a time of rest and minimal work for the imperial government. Most senators took an extended holiday during this time, though with the crisis in the north, few strayed far from Rome. Emperor Vitellius, meanwhile, retired from the capital to his family’s villa in the town of Aricia, a half day’s ride southeast of the capital.

  Some of his political critics argued that Vitellius should have taken a more direct hand in leading his army against the rebellious Flavians. However, as he had during the war against Otho, Vitellius recognized his shortcomings as a military leader. And so, he had deferred to Caecina and Valens, his two most competent generals. Though he was troubled by hearing of Caecina’s betrayal and attempted defection to Vespasian, he was heartened to hear the vile traitor had been thrown into chains and imprisoned. His confidence had been further enhanced with the news that Marcus Antonius Primus had invaded Northern Italia without reinforcements from Mucianus, who was thought to still be in Greece or Dacia. The emperor was supremely confident that matters regarding the war were well in hand. So he elected to retire to his villa, for what he felt was a well-deserved holiday.

  Despite this reprieve from the strains of ruling the empire, Vitellius was feeling rather ill during the last week in October. His gout was acting up again, and he found himself having to walk with a cane. He was only fifty-four years of age; six years younger than his imperial rival, Vespasian. Years of soldiering and his ever-vigorous lifestyle had blessed Vespasian with a constitution normally seen in one half his age. Vitellius was constantly plagued by sickness and other physical ailments. His obesity contributed greatly to this, though none had the courage to tell the emperor to cut back on his incessant feasting.

  Vitellius’ wife, Galeria, joined him at their estate with their six-year old son, Germanicus. Though the senate reluctantly accepted her husband as ruler of Rome, Galeria had trouble thinking of herself as Empress of Rome. Vitellius wondered if it was because the reigns of his two predecessors were so short. Perhaps Galeria worried her husband would meet a similar ignominious fate.

  Late one morning, after a lengthy and filling breakfast, the emperor found his wife playing with their son in one of the walled gardens within the estate.

  “It has been good to have you here with me,” he said, feeling rather awkward at his choice of words. Though they’d been married for sixteen years, they had grown even further apart since the armies of the Rhine declared him emperor. “You know I regretted not being able to return to you sooner, but there were so many issues that delayed my arrival in Rome.”

  “I go where my husband needs me,” Galeria replied, her voice devoid of any emotion. “And you needed me here. When will you return to Rome?”

  “Tomorrow,” Vitellius replied, suspecting his wife was glad to be rid of him again. He leaned against his cane awkwardly watching Galeria, who was engrossed in watching her son play. “There’s the matter of Caecina’s betrayal to address, and of course we must look to the consular elections next month. I’m considering nominating Valerius to one of the positions.”

  “Our son-in-law will serve the empire well,” Galeria said, not looking at him.

  “Yes…well, will I see you at supper this evening?”

  “If that is your wish.”

  As Vitellius left the garden, his face was red with anger. He detested the way his wife spoke to him; yet because she was never rude or blatantly disrespectful, he could never find it within him to berate her. He was Emperor of Rome, yet he was afraid to chastise his own wife!

  That she had been only fourteen when betrothed to marry the thirty-nine year old Vitellius was hardly out of the norm. Young girls, especially those within the nobility, were often married off to older men in order to cement political alliances as soon as they were old enough to bleed. Giving birth to their daughter, Vitellia, scarcely a year later had been an arduous ordeal. Because of this, there was a large age difference between their two children.

  Vitellia was now the same age her mother had been when she married her father. She had been given as a bride to Valerius Asiaticus, despite her mother’s protestations that she was too young. She was now expecting their first child, and Vitellius wondered if his wife’s animosity stemmed from his marrying off their daughter so young. Galeria would be a grandmother by the time she was thirty.

  The emperor and empress dined together that evening, though scarcely a word was spoken between them. In order to avoid any awkward silences, Vitellius had invited the local magistrate and several patricians from the area, as his honored guests.

  Her husband’s incessant gorging through numerous courses turned Galeria’s stomach, and she found she had little appetite. The following morning Vitellius would depart for Rome, and she would be expected to
follow soon after. Perhaps she could stay with her mother-in-law; the only member of the Vitellius family who Galeria had any sort of affection for.

  The sky was overcast with a smattering of rain as the emperor rode in his rather ornate litter, complete with silk curtains, the entire sixteen mile trek to Rome. Along the way they were joined by throngs of onlookers, both pleb and patrician alike. Several of these were senators, who were also returning to Rome following their brief holiday. They either rode on horseback or in litters like Vitellius. An entire cohort of praetorian guardsmen acted as his escorts. Among these was the ultimate survivalist within the entire Guard, Tiberius Statius.

  Statius was one of a small number of Otho’s former guards who had been allowed to retain their postings within the praetorians. In his case, it had come at the price of assassinating one of Rome’s national heroes. Though a disagreeable task, Statius had accepted the slaying of Dolabella as both necessary and inevitable. If anyone was going to profit from his death, it may as well have been him. At that time, he had never seen what Emperor Vitellius looked like. Had Statius known what a morbidly fat, sickly, and apathetic figure he was, he may have had second thoughts.

  “A pity Vespasian has no use for my sword,” he muttered quietly, as he walked a few feet behind and to the side of Vitellius’ litter.

  The journey was long and tedious. Slaves could only walk at a shuffle while carrying the emperor’s litter. As they entered the city, centuries of praetorians marched ahead clearing the road, while shouting, ‘Make way for the emperor!’ The senate house, or curia, was located on the western end of the Forum, just in front of the Forum of Augustus and the Temple of Mars Ultor.

  The emperor was met by his brother, Lucius Vitellius. They entered the chamber together. All the members stood in respect. Though many were split in their loyalties, none had yet made any open denouncements of Vitellius. Once the Flavians were defeated, and Vespasian either dead or in chains, the emperor hoped to shore up the devotion of Rome’s ruling classes. As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew he could not possibly control the vast and unstable empire without their unified support. He knew he needed to be decisive in his dealings with them this day, to show all that he was worthy of being called ‘Caesar’, for he had finally acquiesced to be being addressed by that particular name. Vitellius took his seat at the head of the chamber between the two vacant consul’s chairs.

  “Noble senators of Rome,” Vitellius said, electing to sit instead of stand while addressing them. “I welcome you all upon your return from your autumn holiday. My one regret is that our collective minds are not yet at ease, so long as there are traitors who would threaten all that we have strived for.”

  “Your pardon, Caesar,” a voice said. It was the emperor’s son-in-law, Valerius Asiaticus.

  “Senator Valerius,” the emperor acknowledged. “It is your appointment as consul for the following year that I wish to address.”

  “Honored, sire, but first I must inform you of the tragic news from the north,” Valerius said, his face full of vexation. “Valens has been defeated. Most of his army surrendered to the Flavians at Cremona.”

  Vitellius swallowed hard, his face flushed as his eyes grew wide in disbelief. “The entire northern army, lost?” he asked. “But how?”

  “Perfidy and treachery, sire,” Senator Italicus spoke up. “However, this is but a mere setback, rather than a total defeat.”

  “The loss of forty-thousand men seems rather total to me,” Suetonius Paulinus retorted rather audaciously. “The majority of Primus’ army is likely still intact, and will be reinforced by Mucianus in the coming weeks. And let us not neglect the very distinct possibility that Primus has compelled some of the legions of our former army to change their allegiance and march with him on Rome. How, then, do you call this a mere setback?”

  “Because Valens has taken ship at Pisae and is en route to Gaul in order to bring back reinforcements.” It was the emperor’s brother, Lucius Vitellius, who countered Paulinus’ assessment. “We have forces in Hispania, Gaul, as well as additional troops on the Rhine, and of course the bulk of the Praetorian Guard. And sire, you will be pleased to know I have personally overseen the creation of a citizens’ army in Rome.”

  “There, you see?” Vitellius said quickly. “All is not lost. At this very moment, I suspect Valens has arrived in Gaul where our loyalist forces will soon be marching to crush this upstart, Antonius Primus.”

  The emperor was especially angered by Paulinus’ outburst. The former Othonian general had mostly behaved since his return to Rome; however, since the uprising of Vespasian, he had been practically seditious in his speech. While he wished to be rid of the insufferable old general, Vitellius loathed the thought of ever reviving the notorious treason trials, especially against a national hero who was beloved by both the plebs and the army. With a noted pause in the proceedings, a senator named Rosius Regulus stood to address the assembly.

  “Your pardon, Caesar,” the man said. He was an older patrician in his early sixties, who wore a rather expensive Egyptian wig in order to mask his rather rampant hair loss.

  “Senator Regulus,” Vitellius said, acknowledging him.

  “As a matter of propriety, we should discuss how to deal with the treachery of our own consul, Aulus Caecina Alienus. The very fact that he still holds his consulship, despite his attempt at turning his own soldiers against his rightful emperor, is a gross travesty.”

  “His term ends tomorrow,” Marius Celsus remarked. “Since he is not even in Rome, it matters little.”

  “It matters if we wish to observe proper decorum,” Regulus stated. He addressed Vitellius once more. “Sire, I firmly suggest we revoke Caecina’s consulship for the final day of his term. I also humbly request that I be appointed to the position in his place.”

  “A splendid idea,” Vitellius replied.

  “You will take up office and lay it down on the exact same day,” Nerva said, with a touch of disdain in his voice. “A splendid idea, indeed, for one who has served in the senate for several decades and never once held the consulship to hold Rome’s most auspicious office for one day.”

  “And, of course, this will make you eligible for a long sought after governorship,” Celsus added, leading to a series of retorts back and forth between Regulus’ supporters and political adversaries.

  Vitellius sighed in dismay and waved to the porter, who beat his staff on the marble floor three times.

  “Caesar calls for silence!” the man’s voice boomed.

  “Good senators, this is ridiculous!” the emperor protested. “We have enough enemies to contend with without resorting to fighting each other. Senator Regulus will assume the traitor Caecina’s consulship for its final day. And while we await the noble Valens’ return with reinforcements, our praetorian prefects, Varius and Priscus, will mobilize their cohorts and make ready for the defense of Rome.”

  “Sire, we should also send word to Valens’ forces and let them know they have not been abandoned,” Lucius Vitellius added.

  “Yes, agreed,” the emperor replied quickly. “Where is it they have withdrawn to?”

  “Narnia, sire,” Senator Valerius said. “Approximately a hundred and twenty miles north of here.”

  “If the traitors come that way, which is very likely,” Lucius said, “then Valens’ troops can hold the stronghold there indefinitely.”

  “And should they fold, Primus can be in Rome in less than a week,” Paulinus said quietly, to his friend, Celsus. His peer gave him a sideways glance, uncertain if the old general meant this as a point of dismay or something he personally wished for.

  Valens rode day and night to reach the port city of Pisae. The city’s governor was a personal friend of Vitellius and a staunch loyalist. He therefore had little issue with acquiring transport. Valens had explained the urgent nature of his mission, to rally reinforcements from Gaul and Hispania; however, he made no mention of his army’s humiliating defeat at Cremona.

&n
bsp; He reached the coastal city of Hercules Monoecus, just a couple days sailing from the port city. His original intent was to travel west to Massilia and then north to Lugdunum. However, time was short, and he first needed the governors of Gallia Narbonensis and Maritime Alpes to rally what troops they could to reinforce the Vitellians preparing to defend Narnia. Valens hoped this would stall Primus long enough for him to bring forward the western legions. Maritime Alpes only had a couple of cohorts of auxiliary troops, yet Valens knew they were loyal and had fought well during the repulse of Otho’s previous expedition. He rode by horse the short distance from the port of Monoecus to the provincial capital of Cemenelum, where he was greeted by the governor, Maturus Marius.

  “General Valens,” Marius said, greeting him with an extended hand.

  “Dark times are upon us,” Valens replied candidly. “The traitor, Antonius Primus, has defeated our loyalist forces at Cremona. Caecina has also betrayed us and gone over to the Flavians. I need to get to Narbonensis and meet with Valerius Paulinus at once.”

  “That would be ill advised,” Marius said. “As you know, Governor Paulinus is Suetonius Paulinus’ brother. And well, he too has defected to the Flavians. Given Suetonius was such a strong supporter of Otho, I suppose this does not come as much of a revelation.”

  “Damn him,” Valens swore.

  It was no secret that Suetonius Paulinus resented his treatment after the defeat of the Othonians. Many suspected that, had Vitellius not kept him close under watch, he would have already defected to Vespasian. That his brother had now done so should have surprised no one.

  “What forces has he mustered?”

  “All of Otho’s discharged praetorians,” the governor replied. “Plus, about six auxiliary infantry cohorts and one regiment of volunteer militia cavalry. I am sorry, but my two cohorts are not suited to take on such a force.”