by James Mace
“General Primus,” Porcius said, with a respectful nod. “On behalf of our absent governor, I welcome you to the City of Ariminum.”
“And for that I thank you,” Primus replied. “Please know that the armies of Emperor Vespasian greet the people of Ariminum as friends.”
He then dismounted, as did his senior leaders. A number of cavalry troopers also dismounted and took charge of the officers’ horses. Porcius waved his hand towards the governor’s palace, taking his place beside Primus as the group walked through the large open gates to the outer gardens.
“You understand my concerns, of course,” Porcius said, electing to speak plainly. “Ariminum is a Roman city. After what happened to those poor souls in Cremona, I fear greatly for our citizens.”
“They are all our citizens,” the general remarked. “And you must remember, unlike the people of Cremona, Ariminum is not offering safe haven to the emperor’s enemies.”
“But which emperor?” Porcius countered. “While I appreciate your overtones of friendship, I am largely troubled by the insinuation that we have only one emperor. The harsh reality is that four men have been called ‘Caesar’ since this year began. Now we are down to two. Who, then, are the plebs supposed to profess their loyalty to?”
“To be completely honest, they would do well to wait and swear their fealty to whoever wins.” Primus’ candor had a slightly humorous, as well as extremely pragmatic undertone.
“And I am to assume, then, that Vespasian is the victor in this war?” the governor asked. “After the news we received a few days ago, and your very presence here, I deduce he is winning at the moment.”
“Like any loyal general, I am expected to say that our adversaries are on the run and victory for the Flavians is eminent. But I will simply give you the facts, and those are that we defeated the Vitellians at Cremona. The former legions of Vitellius, which we cornered within the city, have sworn their allegiance to Vespasian. We’ve brought a single cohort from each of those legions with us, if you should wish to personally verify this claim. Their chief and equites tribunes have been dispatched throughout the region, to inform all provincial governors and military commanders of Vitellius’ defeat.”
“I knew of Vitellius’ defeat before we received any official word,” Porcius remarked.
“I take it his surviving forces have passed through this way?” Primus asked.
“They have,” the governor confirmed. “It was a modestly sized army, mostly praetorians, a few auxiliary regiments, as well as some individual cohorts from his defeated legions. But there was not one eagle standard amongst them, nor was this a calculated withdrawal.”
“Indeed. And did you see where they were bound for?”
“No idea, though I would assume they intend to regroup in Rome.” Porcius paused, his brow furrowed. He then corrected himself. “Actually, I do recall hearing one of their officers stating that they would make a stand at Narnia while awaiting reinforcements from General Valens. I take it Valens was not captured or killed at Cremona?”
“No,” Primus said, shaking his head. “In fact, he was not there at all. Some of the prisoners informed us he had been taken with a severe illness, and had only begun his trek to join up with the army, just prior to our attack on Cremona. If he was there, he did not remain for long. One of the reasons why I dispatched former Vitellian officers to the nearest provinces was because I believe Valens will try to bring reinforcements back from either Gaul or Hispania.”
“Well, then, for the sake of peace within the empire, I hope he is captured soon,” Porcius remarked.
“As do I,” Primus concurred. “Many of his soldiers, particularly amongst Vitellius’ praetorians, are fiercely loyal. If they suspect there is a chance of reinforcements coming to their aid, then I believe they’ll continue to make a defiant stand against us.”
The assembled leaders drank in silence for a few moments, though Porcius was clearly vexed about something which did not involve General Valens and his continued defiance.
“I have to ask you something personal, general,” he said. “As you know, I am only the deputy governor of this city. The actual governor, Lucius Artorius Magnus, took command of a Vitellian cavalry regiment a few months ago. He and his wife are dear friends of ours. There was no sign of him when the Vitellian survivors passed through here. Am I to assume he was captured by your forces?”
The question which Porcius now asked of General Primus had haunted Laura ever since they received word of the Vitellian Army’s disastrous defeat at Cremona. As the governor’s wife, she felt obligated to stand with his deputy to greet the Flavian generals. But as Porcius and Primus left most of their respective entourages to go speak in private, Laura was left to wander the gardens of the palace alone. Certainly there were hundreds of dignitaries and government officials, along with the escorts from Primus’ army. Yet, it was as if none of them even noticed her. She sat on the edge of a fountain, located in the small side garden that followed an open air corridor away from the mass of people. Her emotions were twisted with fear and trepidation about the unknown fate of her husband. With the arrival of the Flavian Army, she hoped to hear something soon.
“Hello, Laura.” The voice caused her to jump to her feet. She stared for a moment at the armored soldier who addressed her, though she did not recognize him. He carried an optio’s helmet under his left arm, his right was held by a sling across his chest. His left leg was heavily bandaged, and he walked with a limp. There was something familiar about him, yet she could not place it.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“We have never met,” the young man said. “Yet, I feel as if I should have known you all my life.”
“By Diana,” Laura said, seeing traces of her husband in the young man’s face. “Gaius?”
He smiled sadly and nodded. Such was Laura’s sense of joy and relief at seeing a familiar face, her own brother-in-law, that she did not notice the melancholy nature which consumed Gaius. She embraced him passionately yet gently. She was careful to avoid his injured arm.
“It fills my heart with gladness, to see you,” Laura said, as they both sat on the rounded edge of the fountain. “I only wish it were under different circumstances.”
“As do I.”
“It greatly upset your mother when Lucius was given his command,” Laura continued. She spoke quickly, her courage failing her as she delayed in asking the question which haunted her. “It hurt him deeply that she did not seem proud of him. Her sorrow was because she knew both her sons were on opposing sides of a terrible war.”
“Mother?” Gaius asked, raising an eyebrow. “She is here?”
“She was,” Laura corrected. “She and your father came to see us after we received word of Otho’s suicide. Traveling from Britannia by sea, they had little knowledge about the awful series of internal wars which have afflicted Rome. They left for Gaul two months ago. Your father said there was an old friend he wished to see.”
Though meeting her brother-in-law gave her a brief reprieve from her trepidations, she was filled with an even greater sense of vexation. Laura took a deep breath and steeled herself. “But please, dear Gaius, I must know if you have seen my husband. Was he captured at Cremona?”
Gaius had hoped to remain somewhat stoic long enough to tell Laura what had happened to her beloved. The memories of Lucius’ last few hours in this world overwhelmed him, and he found he could not speak. He slowly shook his head. He choked up as a single tear ran down the side of his face.
Since the day Lucius left, Laura had tried to prepare herself, though she had always denied any such possibility. It was inconceivable that her husband should be so mercilessly wrenched from her. Every day Laura’s heart told her he would be alright. That no harm would come to him. Her heart was a liar.
No words were said by either of them as Gaius placed his good arm around Laura. She rested her head on his shoulder, the months of strain, and now this horrifying realization that Lucius was never
coming home, shattered her very soul. Gaius had once thought he had no more tears left to shed for his brother, but as Laura sobbed uncontrollably, her hands clutching at the plates of his armor, he found his sorrows as raw and painful as the moment Lucius died.
It was almost nightfall when Valens reached Massilia. His horse was completely exhausted. It collapsed as he fell from the saddle. He had barely escaped with his life, and he cursed to Hades the abominable traitors from the First Adiutrix Legion.
“That Galba ever made those filthy bastards legionaries!” he swore.
An unfortunate stroke of misfortune, the riders sent by Antonius Primus had gotten a head start of several days on him. They had reached Lugdunum long before Valens arrived by ship in the province. Once word of Vitellius’ defeat spread, any sense of loyalty or courage immediately failed the provincial governors and their armies. The Sixth Victrix and Tenth Gemina Legions had declared for Vespasian, while the men of Legio I, Adiutrix had drawn their blades against the Vitellian general. As he rode away from their fortress, scarcely escaping with his life, Valens had cursed himself for his naivety. After all, First Adiutrix had been fiercely loyal to Otho, and no doubt resented their old enemy demanding they march for him. He may very well have succeeded had word of Primus’ victory not already reached the legion. Many soldiers viewed the Vitellian defeat as their own vindication. Aligning themselves with Vespasian would give them a chance at redemption.
Valens had ridden through the night and well into the next day, all the while eluding the patrols of legionary cavalry sent to dispatch him. His mission a complete failure, he now looked to his own survival. He would return to Rome, gather what forces he could muster, and make a stand against Primus at the fortified city of Narnia. And while he had never had much genuine loyalty to Vitellius, he knew he was completely trapped. He had no intention of trying to turn his soldiers like Caecina. He also recognized that if he were captured now, his life was forfeit. His one hope was to make Primus bleed and then negotiate terms with him. Only by surrendering on his own terms could Fabius Valens hope to save himself.
As he stumbled to his feet, he was relieved to see his ship still docked. It was a small trireme-class warship with three decks of oarsmen, in addition to its sails.
“Cast off at once!” he ordered the ship’s commander.
With a few shouts to the crew, the mooring lines were taken in, the plank retracted, and within minutes the rhythmic beating of the drummers echoed from below deck. Rowers dipped the long oars into the water, slowly pulling the vessel away from the shore.
“What’s happened?” the commander asked Valens, who was clearly distraught. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and his hair disheveled.
“Betrayal,” he replied coldly. “There will be no aid coming to the emperor from either Hispania or Gaul.” He then excused himself and quickly walked over to his small cabin at the back of the ship. It was three days’ journey from Massilia to Ostia, and General Fabius Valens dreaded his next meeting with Emperor Vitellius. Exhaustion overtook him that night. He fell into a deep sleep, not knowing that such a meeting would never occur.
The ship had sailed through the night, her oarsmen weary from their labors, when they passed the inlet harbor for the port of Athenopolis. The seas were rough this time of year, and the ship’s commander elected to take the coastal route rather than risk the treacherous, deep waters of the most direct route to Rome. They were still about twenty miles from Forum Julii, the home of the western fleet, when they spotted three distinctive shapes on the horizon. The commander stood on the prow, gripping the railing hard as he watched what he knew to be three imperial vessels coming closer into view. Two were heading straight for them, the third was veering off to their right, looking to cut off any means of escape to the east.
Valens slept late and had just come out of his cabin when he heard the commotion from the forward deck. He stumbled along as the vessel heaved up and down the tall waves. He heard the voice of a lookout shout, “Three imperial warships, quinquereme-class!”
“It would seem Paulinus is not about to let you return to Rome,” the commander said, as the Vitellian general joined him.
“Can you not outrun them?” Valens asked.
“Not a chance. Triremes are faster over short distances and far more maneuverable. In a dead race, we haven’t a chance. Besides, my oarsmen are spent. We had little wind last night, and they expended themselves just getting us this far.”
“Then turn towards the shore and drop me off there!” Valens ordered, the desperation rising in his voice.
The commander glared at him. “And just how far do you think you would get?” he asked indignantly. “You made us leave your horse, remember? And if I do beach my vessel so you can make a futile attempt to escape on foot, what do you think those warships will do to me and my crew?” He then looked to his nearest mariners. “Take him.”
“Hades damn you!” Valens spat as a pair of sailors grabbed him by the arms. He suddenly regretted leaving his spatha in his cabin, for he wished for nothing more than to impale this vile traitor.
“I am truly sorry, sir,” the commander said. “But I will not needlessly sacrifice my crew for any one man, not even the emperor’s right hand.” He shouted to his crewmen, “Strike the sails and bring in the oars!”
It would be another thirty minutes before the much larger warships closed around them. Fires could be seen near the catapults, emphasizing their seriousness in capturing or killing Fabius Valens. As the vessels drew closer, they saw that the central ship was not a quinquereme, but a massive octeres-class with eight files of one hundred rowers per side. It towered over the trireme, which it could easily split in half with its formidable ram. And unlike the smaller vessels, it had two large castles, both fore and aft.
“That’s Admiral Flavianus’ flagship,” the sailing master said, as he joined his commander.
In addition to the imperial standards, there was a large blue flag that depicted a hammer encircled by a pair of wings. The banks of oars were retracted as the massive vessel slowed to a gradual halt next to the trireme. Both ships rose and fell on the large rolling waves, though it looked as if the octeres could cut through even the harshest surf. The respective sailing masters hailed each other, and a large plank was lowered with a loud slap as its massive spike slammed into the trireme’s deck, holding the two ships together.
The fleet’s admiral was a large Norseman, hence the hammer on his flag. His father had been a Roman mariner, while his uncle was a retired senior-ranking centurion from the legions. He wore no armor, only his tunic and a rather plain-looking gladius on his hip.
“Admiral, sir,” the trireme’s commander said, saluting as his superior boarded the ship with several marines and other officers.
“Commander,” Flavianus replied. “I believe you have something I want.”
A sad interlude had fallen over much of the empire, as if the very corners of the Roman world were suddenly aware of the tragedies which had unfolded at its heart. For Aula Cursia Vale, and indeed every person employed as an imperial courier, there was no reprieve. Her long and arduous trek lasted over two months and would have taken far longer, had she not been able to acquire passage by boat from Thessalonica in Macedonia. And now, with only a few days of rest in Alexandria, she was being sent back to Italia. This time, there would be no returning to the east. The winter seas were extremely violent. Speed being of great importance, Vespasian was willing to accept the risk involved with sending Aula by ship.
“I’ll not lie to you, it will be a rough voyage,” the emperor said, as he escorted Aula towards the docks. “However, this ship is quite large and was the same vessel which brought me news of Primus’ victory at Cremona. It would take you another three or four months to return by land, and I need these dispatches to get to him at once.”
“I understand,” Aula acknowledged. “I knew the risks when I accepted Sabinus’ offer to act as his courier.” She then said with a laugh, �
��I only hope I am done sailing after this. I have spent more time on the seas this year than most of our sailors.”
“I don’t expect to see you again until I return to Rome,” Vespasian replied. “In one of my directives, I am naming you as an envoy to General Primus. He is a vile, rakish sort of fellow. He is also extremely loyal to me. He will treat you with the dignity and respect due to a noblewoman and friend of the emperor.”
“Then until we meet again in Rome, Caesar,” Aula said, with a bow.
Chapter XXV: Futile Defiance
Ariminum
15 November 69 A.D.
Slopes of Narnia in central Italia
The Flavians lingered at Ariminum for almost a week while they consolidated and debated their next move. Antonius Primus originally thought to use the Ravenna fleet to sail directly to Rome. Upon the advice of his experienced legates, including General Aquila, it was determined an amphibious assault on Ostia could be very costly. Instead, the fleet was tasked with ferrying food and supplies for the army. Warships could carry an extraordinary amount of rations and equipment, traversing in days the same distance that would take ground transportation weeks or even months was a huge boon for the Flavians. Still, it was plain to see he rift between Primus and his wayward counterpart, Mucianus, was only continuing to worsen.
“Our friend, Grypus, has written to Vespasian, via Mucianus, denouncing my ‘reckless’ actions,” the commander-in-chief said, to Aquila on the eve of their departure from Ariminum.
