by James Mace
“Quite the long voyage you have had, my dear,” the emperor said, as he read the dispatch from Primus. “A pity it was completely unnecessary. We now control the Ravenna fleet, who carried the news of Vitellius’ defeat and the loss of most of his army.”
“I am gladdened to hear of your victory, Caesar,” Aula said, with a respectful bow. She was filthy, and exhausted, and a little put off that she had hastened almost two thousand miles over the period of five weeks on an unpleasant voyage, only to find there was no need for her to travel to Egypt in the first place. She said as much to Vespasian as servants took her traveling cloak and brought her water and wine. She then laid on a reclining couch near the desk in the governor’s office the emperor was utilizing.
“I feared this war would possibly last for years, but it seems to have been almost completely won within a few weeks,” Vespasian replied. “I will need you to soon take a ship and sail for Ariminum. I believe that is where Primus will head first. His initiative was a bit reckless, but he has proven successful. I do hope that you were able to compel Mucianus to hurry his ass up.”
“I would assume so, Caesar,” Aula answered. “When I saw him, his army had made it as far as Stobi in Macedonia.”
“Meaning, if he sets a decent pace, he can reach Rome in about eight weeks,” Vespasian noted.
“If not, Primus will have plundered the imperial treasury and all of the kitchen silver by the time Mucianus arrives,” Titus remarked.
“A shame there is no way of coordinating them and the Ravenna fleet,” Trajan noted. “They could march to the coast and sail to southern Italia in a week. Vitellius would then be faced with a two-front war, caught between Mucianus and Primus.”
“Unfortunately, that is not possible,” the emperor replied. He held up a thick scroll which he handed to Aula. “This is a message General Primus is to read to the Roman Senate. You are to remain with him after that. I’ll have another messenger deliver my instructions to Mucianus, who I hope is not too far from Rome by then.”
“Do I leave at once, Caesar?” Aula asked tiredly. “I would at least like to have a bath first.”
“Take a few days,” Vespasian replied. “And please know that I thank you for your service, Lady Vale. You do your family and Rome great honor.”
That evening, the Flavian Emperor met with his war council to decide the next phase of their campaign. While Primus and Mucianus were leading the actual invasion forces, there was more to be concerned about than just winning battles.
“The sack of Cremona was most unfortunate,” Trajan noted, as he read the report.
As much as he tried to place the blame on the shoulders of the Vitellians, there was no real way for Primus to deflect responsibility for the city’s destruction away from himself.
“Yes, well, Primus was always a little unhinged,” General Placidus remarked.
“Coming from you, that’s saying something,” Titus said quickly.
“Oh, piss off already,” the auxilia corps commander retorted. “All I am saying is that it’s one thing to raze the squalid dung-heaps of barbarians or the cities of traitorous Jews. It’s another to sack and destroy Roman cities that have stood for centuries. Are we to believe he has so little control over his forces that they can simply burn one of our own cities to the ground and he cannot stop them?”
“As I said,” Trajan interjected. “It is unfortunate. But it was a victory all the same.”
“And besides, Vitellius did plenty of his own wanton destruction on his journey to the capital,” Titus added. “In his case, it was simply a matter of devouring his way through the region.”
This got an appreciative chuckle from his peers, despite the rather uncomfortable political ramifications to come from Primus’ levelling of Cremona.
“Vitellius has suffered a rather bruising defeat,” Vespasian observed. “But that does not mean he is finished. There are still plenty of reinforcements he could call upon. Legio X, Gemina, and VI, Victrix are in Hispania, but it will take some time for them to march a thousand miles from their fortresses to central Italia. Our more immediate threat, however, is from North Africa.” He placed his finger on a large map in emphasis.
“There is only one legion there, the Third Augusta,” Titus noted.
“Yes, but they have a lot of auxiliaries,” Placidus added. “If the province were to prove loyal to the pretender, they could rally upwards of thirty thousand fast-running Numidian spearmen in a couple of weeks.”
“And there are five port cities they could leave from, including Carthage,” Vespasian said. “As far as we know, the fleet at Forum Julii in Maritime Alpes is still loyal to Vitellius. They could ferry the bulk of any African reinforcements to Ostia in a matter of days.”
“Carthage is sixteen hundred miles from here,” Tiberius Alexander spoke up. “Still, give the word, Caesar, and my two legions will be ready to march.”
“First off, let us hope they don’t have to invade North Africa,” Vespasian replied. “And secondly, even if they do, they should not have to walk most of the way. Remember, the Ravenna fleet has declared for us.”
“Yes, but they are still in the Adriatic Sea,” Alexander remarked. “It will take at least two weeks to get a message to them by ship, and the same amount of time for them to return.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll tell my lads to start walking. The fleet can pick us up somewhere in Cyrene.”
“And the North African Army will have landed in Ostia and engaged our forces well before then,” Placidus countered, a disgruntled tone in his voice.
“That’s why we bluff them,” Vespasian explained. “We don’t need to uproot two entire legions or send the Ravenna fleet on a fool’s errand. All I need is one ship and a single messenger.”
“Will you send Lady Vale?” Titus asked.
“No,” his father replied with a soft laugh. “She has done enough trudging across the seas as a messenger for one lifetime. I am sending her as my personal emissary to General Primus. But I don’t want any regular courier to take this message for me.”
“I’ll go, sir.” It was his bodyguard, Centurion Octavianus, who spoke. “I feel I have some unfinished business there, after what happened to Clodius Macer.”
The emperor nodded. “Nothing you can do about that. Whichever one of your mates did the killing, he was either slain during Otho’s disaster in Maritime Alpes or was among those dismissed by Vitellius. Besides, I have no intention of dealing with the proconsul. He’s a mindless old twat, who was likely one of Galba’s bedfellows. No, I will send you directly to the fortress at Thamugadi. It’s about four days’ ride south of the port city of Rusicade. The only person I want you speaking with is Legate Festus of Third Augusta.”
“I know him,” Trajan said. “He’s your typical senatorial nobody who buried his face up Nero’s backside in order to get a legion command.” The legate gave a short laugh. “He annoyed Nero so much that he was sent to arguably the biggest shit hole in the entire empire.”
“Yes, I have met him a few times,” Vespasian remarked. “He was part of Nero’s entourage around the same time I got sent on my little exile to Achaea. He’s a notorious flatterer, but he’s no fool. Even if the province remains loyal to the fat pretender—whose ass has likely broken the imperial throne by now—he’s not stupid enough to leave the province completely undefended. If he suspects there is the remotest possibility of ten thousand legionaries invading his shores, he’ll stay put, no matter what the proconsul demands.”
“I’ll make ready to depart at once,” Octavianus said.
During the weeks following what was now being called the Second Battle of Bedriacum—despite the actual fighting taking place at Cremona—the Padus Valley was subjected to the first deluge of the late autumn rains. Political infighting had further hampered Primus’ attempts at getting his army on the move, even more so than the saturated ground. Chief among the malcontents was a newly 0arrived legate named Lucius Plotius Grypus. A former member of the equites who Vespasian recently el
evated into the senatorial class, he had been sent by Mucianus, ostensibly at the emperor’s directive, to assume command of Legio VII, Claudia.
“My appointment displeases you, general,” Grypus observed.
“To be perfectly candid, yes, it does,” Primus replied. “Chief Tribune Messalla distinguished himself by his valor and conduct during our victory at Cremona. Command of the legion should have fallen to him.”
“A victory, perhaps, though it was won by Fortuna rather than you,” Grypus retorted. “Forgive me, general, but your recklessness nearly cost us the entire campaign.”
“You weren’t there, so forgive me if I tell you to piss off,” the commander-in-chief said rather gruffly, though keeping his voice level.
“Grypus wasn’t there, but we were,” Legate Lupus spoke up. “He’s right, general. You hurried forward with the cavalry, devoid of any legionary support, and got into a spot of trouble. Instead of taking the time to regroup properly, you ordered a forced march of sixteen miles with no food or logistics. To top it all, we ran headlong into a battle at night! By any stretch of military logic, we should have lost.”
“But we didn’t,” Aquila countered. Though he’d had his share of squabbles lately with the commanding general, the legate of Thirteenth Gemina knew this was not the time for airing grievances. “Instead of arguing about the past, we need to decide how to proceed now that the Vitellian’s Northern Army is smashed.”
“There is no proceeding,” Grypus emphasized. “We hold here and wait for Mucianus.”
“Agreed,” Lupus concurred. “We may have won the battle, but our army took a sound thrashing. All of our legions lost a lot of good men, especially among the officers. My Eighth Augusta alone lost ten centurions at Bedriacum.”
“And for their sacrifice, we honor them,” Primus said earnestly. “But I will not have their deaths be in vain. We have won a battle, but the war is far from decided.” He took a long drink of his wine and paused. He knew his next words would cause dismay in his assembled legates. “Given the circumstances, I have decided to use the emperor’s prerogative and allow the men in the ranks to nominate those who will command them. Standards will be maintained, of course; they must be literate, with a good service record, and prior leadership service as a principle officer.”
As predicted, a number of disheartened grumblings were heard from each of the commanding officers.
“Have you gone mad, or are you looking to build your own private army?” Grypus protested. “You would have us all dragged about by centurions who will be loyal to you rather than their legates!”
“If you are not capable of controlling your legions, then feel free to go running back to Mucianus while I find men who can.” Primus’ rebuke was rather severe, but he had been appointed commander-in-chief by Vespasian. The grumbling legates knew they had little choice in the matter. Where they did have a say, however, was on the movements of the army.
“I think one thing we can all agree on,” Aquila said, trying to calm the mood of his peers, “is that the Vitellians are broken. The war may not be finished, but I simply cannot see the armies in Gaul, Hispania, or North Africa coming to the pretender’s aid. Bedriacum may have been a close-run affair, but all anyone will care about is that Vitellius’ entire northern army was lost, and the survivors are now loyal to Vespasian.”
“Perhaps,” Primus conceded. “Though I cannot help but feel we are being rather presumptive to assume so. Even with Fourth Macedonia returning to their garrison on the Rhine, there are still plenty of legionary and auxilia forces who remain loyal to Vitellius in Germania. To simply sit here and wait is to become complacent, allowing the enemy the opportunity to regroup. No, we must continue the advance and strangle him before any more of his allies arrive.”
“To take the entire army would be rather ponderous,” Grypus observed. He was now calmer in his demeanor, deciding it would be best to compromise with the commander-in-chief rather than continuing to bicker with him. “Most of Northern Italia has been turned into a quagmire by these incessant rains. If we are confined to only using the roads, our column would stretch anywhere from five to ten miles from end-to-end.”
“And if there is a viable threat in Germania, we should not leave ourselves exposed,” Aquila added. “General, I recommend we leave the bulk of the army here, and send the more lightly equipped auxilia infantry ahead with the cavalry and select cohorts of legionaries.”
The other legates hurriedly agreed to this compromise. While most of them felt the Vitellians were, for all intents and purposes, broken, Antonius Primus was the last man they wanted taking Rome. They also knew Mucianus held nominal seniority over Primus. And for men like Grypus, who were firmly in the camp of Mucianus, they felt if Primus continued to advance south with too light of a force, he would have no choice but to wait for reinforcements.
While the senior commanders debated rather spiritedly, sometimes with belligerence, Master Centurion Vitruvius stood by the entrance to the principia tent, his hands clasped behind his back. As the officers began discussing which elements would go forward with Primus, the large entrance flap was pulled open and a legionary stepped in.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” the soldier said, “but you will want to come to the north gate of the camp at once. There is a legion approaching.”
“A legion?” Primus asked incredulously.
He and Vitruvius hastened from the principia. The other legates soon followed. Some speculated as to whether it was Mucianus’ advance guard. Grypus had just come from his entourage and informed them that they were still at least three weeks’ away. The other thought was that it might be Vitellian loyalists, looking to engage in hostilities.
“If that were the case, they would not advance with just a single legion,” Primus retorted, when he overheard this speculation. He squinted his eyes, trying to discern the standards in the distance while the sound of trumpets heralded the legion’s approach. It was Vitruvius who recognized them.
“It’s the Eleventh Claudia, sir,” the master centurion said, denoting the standards that accompanied the eagle.
“About bloody time,” Primus remarked with a relieved sigh. “I thought they weren’t going to turn up for this little party at all.”
Legio XI, Claudia Pia Fidelis , had a history dating back to the time of Julius Caesar and the Conquest of Gaul. Perhaps its most famous veterans were the centurions Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo, who gained fame when Caesar noted their extreme valor in his Gallic Commentaries. In more recent years, the legion had been garrisoned along the Danube. Having first declared allegiance to Otho, they were part of the division that Primus had led to come to the former emperor’s assistance. Since Otho’s death and their return to the Danube, the legion had been rather quiet.
“I know their legate,” Primus said. He strolled through the camp entrance, where a growing number of auxiliary troopers tasked with guard detail was forming.
“Bassus, you old bastard!” Primus said, as the Eleventh’s commanding officer dismounted.
Annius Bassus was a highly experienced legion commander, who had served in various posts along the Danube and in Asia Minor, for the past fifteen years. The fact that he had yet to hold a substantial governorship, and was instead content to command legionaries, made him a safe political nonentity to Nero and his immediate successors. He was also very effective at fighting the various tribes who relied heavily on their horsemen, across the Danube.
“Marcus Antonius Primus,” Bassus grinned, extending his hand. “Never was a man less suited for peace, yet better matched in war.”
“Your flattery will not get you a discounted rate on your next wine shipment,” Primus retorted, clasping the legate’s hand. “And as our colleagues here will likely tell you, I almost completely botched the last battle. Had Fortuna, Mars, Victoria, and Bellona all not been favoring our little venture, we should have lost. So I may not be as well matched for war as one may think.” He was smiling and gave a wink at this last r
emark.
Bassus laughed boisterously. Even the assembled legates, who’d only minutes before been arguing voraciously with their commanding general, appreciated his candor and honest self-deprecation.
“I’m sorry we are so late,” Bassus said, becoming serious once more. “We received word of your victory just a few days ago. Well done, all of you. Delayed as our journey was…Eleventh Legion reporting for duty, all present and correct!”
“You appear to have brought a lot more than just the Eleventh with you,” Primus said, nodding toward a Dalmatian warrior who still sat astride his horse.
“Indeed,” Bassus acknowledged. “This is Krsto Luka, of the Scordisci tribe. He brings six thousand spears and the friendship of his people.”
“We fight for Rome and for Vespasian,” Krsto said, his voice heavily accented.
“So what exactly did this ‘army’ cost us?” Primus whispered to Bassus.
“Just some preferred trade rights,” the legate replied. “And the promise to come to their assistance should their hostile neighbors, the Celegeri, become unruly.”
“And Silvanus approved this?” General Aquila asked, referring to the old, decadent senator who governed the Roman province along the Danube.
“Fuck him,” Bassus said. “That fat old bastard can’t even remember what he had for breakfast this morning, let alone a treaty with a potential ally. He’s been the perfect shield for me these past six years. I’ve been able to do, essentially, whatever I want, while the emperor and senate believe he controls the province.”
Primus laughed appreciatively before addressing Krsto.
“You are most welcome, noble ally,” he said slowly, with a respectful nod.
The Scordisci chief nodded in return but remained mounted.
“Vitruvius, see to these men,” Primus directed. He then said to Bassus, “Come, I’ve heard nothing from you since Otho’s unfortunate demise. The Eleventh Legion has been strangely quiet.”
“We returned to our billets like good soldiers,” Bassus answered as he accompanied Primus into the vast camp. “However, the lads refused to swear the oath of allegiance to Vitellius. I was not about to threaten them with flogging or other forms of punishment. I believe an oath administered under duress is completely worthless. Besides, I have no love for Vitellius any more than they do. That said, after I received word from my cousin that the Ravenna fleet had defected to Vespasian, I knew Vitellius’ cause was lost. I only hope we can make good our absence from the Battle of Bedriacum.”
