Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians

by James Mace

  Primus responded, “Vespasian has ordered me to take you as part of my entourage. Your days of traversing the empire on the seas may be over, but I think there will be much good you can do for Rome before this is over.”

  Aula concurred and took her leave. She immediately set out to find the vexilation from the Tenth Legion. It was a difficult task. The camp was extremely large, and the recent arrival of the Eighth Legion had only increased its size.

  When she finally found the vexilation standard it was nearly sunset. Aula realized she had not eaten since morning, her stomach grumbling as an uncomfortable reminder. She saw numerous small campfires where soldiers set about preparing their evening meal. Some of them stared at her as she walked past. Others appeared to ignore her. Regardless, no one said a word until she found Centurion Nicanor.

  “Lady Aula.” His voice carried a trace of surprise. “I thought General Primus had sent you to Vespasian months ago.”

  “He did. And the emperor sent me right back. I’ve been attached to Primus’ entourage until we get to Rome.” She looked around, appearing nervous. “Where is Gaius? I do not see him among your soldiers.”

  “Gaius was badly wounded at Cremona. He led a small number of our men in an attack on the enemy siege engines. He burned or otherwise disabled a number of them before a damned ballista shot him. Nearly took his arm off.”

  Aula grimaced and bit her lip. She imagined Gaius lying on the ground, a bloody stump all that remained of his arm.

  The centurion placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey, I said nearly took his arm off,” he repeated. “It was only a glancing blow, though it still did terrible damage. The crazy bastard insisted on returning to the line and was supervising our artillery bombardment when the onager he was next to took a precise hit and blew apart. Not only does he have one arm in a sling, but he now walks with a slight limp.” He nodded toward the edge of the camp “He should be over there, checking on the entrenchments or at his tent, having supper.”

  All soldiers tended to look the same when fully armored. Aula tried to spot Gaius’ optio’s crest in the mass of soldiers manning the camp’s defenses. It was not his crest she noticed first, for he was wearing neither armor nor helmet, but the heavily bandaged arm slung across his chest and a pronounced limp. As Gaius saw her, his face broke into a broad smile.

  She stood with a stern expression and her hands on her hips. “Really? I cannot leave you alone for a couple of months without you nearly getting an arm and leg ripped off?”

  “Good to see you, too, Aula.” He was still smiling, but Aula could see the strain on his face. Gaius’ injuries were clearly very painful. “It’s getting better,” he tried to reassure her as he sat down on a camp stool outside his tent.

  “Fabius Valens has been captured.” Aula sat on the ground nearby. “I figure everyone will know soon enough, so no harm in telling you.”

  Gaius flinched as he slowly untied the sling on his arm. “That will take the strain off General Primus,” he noted. “Not to mention the rest of us. When?”

  “He was brought in soon after I arrived,” Aula replied. “Given his role in the rise of Vitellius, as well as his importance to their army, I’ll be surprised if Primus allows him to live.”

  Gaius’ fatigue and constant pain was momentarily forgotten by his joy at seeing Aula. It was so improbable that they would ever see each other again, let alone find themselves in the same army camp during Rome’s most brutal civil war in a century. He said as much to Aula.

  “The empire is quite large, as I have now seen for myself,” she remarked. “You left Britannia to join one of the legions clear on the other end of it. In all likelihood, we never should have seen each other again.”

  “I’ll not pretend it was anything like fate or destiny,” Gaius said, his countenance suddenly darkening. “The fates are cruel. They allowed my brother to finally realize his desire of becoming a soldier of Rome, yet the price was leaving his dear wife a childless widow.”

  Aula did not reply. She didn’t know what she could possibly say. It had been a little over a month since Lucius was killed. The feelings of loss were still felt strongly by his younger brother.

  “I’m sorry,” Gaius said, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence. “I should not burden you with this.”

  “It’s alright,” she said reassuringly, as she stood. “Forgive me, but I am very tired. I have not slept well in almost a month. The weeks at sea were hell, and I rode as fast as I could from Ariminum. But do not despair, dear Gaius. I ride with this army and will not be leaving again.”

  She leaned down and kissed him on the top of his head. He trembled. He struggled against his feelings for Aula, but Gaius knew it was one battle he could never win.

  The resolve of the defenders of Narnia had begun to crack, even though they were unaware of Valens’ capture. The praetorian rankers from Vitellius’ Germanic legions were fiercely loyal to their emperor. The officers, on the other hand, were not as willing to fight to the death. Even the two prefects were daunted by the task now before them. As night fell, they stood atop the high ramparts overlooking the hills to the north. Innumerable campfires burned at the Flavian Army camp.

  “Did you know my cousin, Arrius, is commanding Vespasian’s cavalry?” Varus asked.

  “I was not aware of that,” Priscus replied. Cynically, he added, “I suppose he hopes Vespasian will give him your job when it’s all over.”

  “Probably.” Varus shook his head, then expressed what he knew his colleague was feeling. “This is a good, strong place to make a defense. But how long can we really hold? The enemy had another legion arrive just yesterday. How many more are behind that? From what we know, Mucianus has an entire division that hasn’t even been engaged yet.”

  “Well…Valens did promise to return with reinforcements,” Priscus said unconvincingly.

  “Come now, Junius,” Varus retorted. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. I don’t doubt Valens’ intentions. But how many troops can he really bring over from Hispania and Gaul? No doubt the Flavians are sending every rider they have to the far-flung corners of the empire to tell them our main army has been defeated, and the survivors are defecting to Vespasian. No matter how strong these defenses are, they cannot bear the weight of the entire empire, should the provinces abandon Vitellius.”

  “What can we do?” Priscus asked.

  “Survive,” a voice said, behind them.

  Both prefects were startled when one of their men walked out from the shadows.

  “What is it, guardsman?” Priscus asked curtly.

  Varus recognized him. “Statius isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the guardsman replied. “Forgive me. I was not intentionally eavesdropping. However, I think all three of us are of a like mind. We won’t be able to compel the men in the ranks to abandon this position.”

  “What do you mean, we?” Priscus replied, his voice filled with irritation.

  “Easy there,” Varus said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This man is the emperor’s personal blade.”

  “I know who he is,” his colleague stated. “Guardsman Statius has somehow managed to serve Nero, Galba, and Otho. Somehow Vitellius allowed him to maintain his billet within the Guard, whereas he sacked the rest. Are you here to put your sword into our guts?” His hand instinctively rested on the pommel of his gladius.

  “Now why would the emperor order me to do that?” Statius replied. “Either of them. Vespasian probably doesn’t even know who you are, and Vitellius needs you. But he needs the Guard in Rome, not here. Like you both have said, this fortress cannot stand against the weight of the entire empire.”

  “You are very presumptuous for a guardsman,” Priscus remarked. “Even for one as cunning and ruthless as your reputation states. And what would Guardsman Statius recommend we do?”

  “The same thing you are already planning,” he replied. “Abandon this futile defense, return to Rome, and see which master is worth serv
ing.”

  It took two weeks for Centurion Octavianus, formerly of the Praetorian Guard, to arrive at the North African port of Rusicade. Having thought of North Africa as a dry, desolate wasteland, Octavianus could not believe the lushness of the area surrounding the small port city. The hills consisted of green grasslands where sheep and cattle grazed. The valleys were mainly farm fields watered by an entire network of irrigation canals.

  The populace was a mix of various peoples from around the region. The largest indigenous ethnicity were the Berbers, who looked very similar to Latins in hair color and skin tone. There was also a substantial Jewish population, particularly in the merchants’ quarter of the city. Mixed in were Africans of various tribes and ethnic groups. Many were from neighboring Numidia.

  When he first met Vespasian, he had been wearing a tunic and carrying a gladius. The Flavian Emperor had seen to it that he was now properly kitted up in full segmentata armor. Though he was a personal bodyguard with no troops under his command, out of respect he was allowed to maintain the centurion’s crest atop his helmet. His conspicuous attire made him the target of every merchant and peddler within the port of Rusicade. As he walked his horse through the crowded streets, Octavianus kept a close grip on his gladius and his money pouch.

  He did stop to purchase some of the local cuisine from a vendor near the edge of the vast market. It was a type of yellow pepper stuffed with rice and some unknown meat. Rice was a rare commodity in Rome; only the rich could afford it. The centurion was surprised to see how plentiful it was here. He nearly choked when he took a bite. The peppers were extremely spicy.

  “Is good, yes?” the vendor asked him, a hopeful expression on his face.

  “If it doesn’t burn my tongue out of my head,” Octavianus said, his mouth still full. He took a second bite, and was surprised when the spice was not as overwhelming. He gave the man a nod of approval.

  The centurion was anxious to reach the legionary fortress. He had not seen any imperial soldiers within the port aside from the local urban cohort. He took this as a good sign. Perhaps the African Army had already departed for Italia and he was too late. As he spurred his horse into a moderate canter, he prayed that was not the case.

  Chapter XXVI: The People’s Army

  Outside of Rome

  16 December 69 A.D.

  ***

  It was not just the Flavian Army at Narnia that threatened to overthrow Vitellius. There was unrest in southern Italia. Several of the larger cities were defiantly calling for the emperor to surrender the throne to Vespasian. Upon Lucius’ advice, Vitellius had recalled several of his praetorian cohorts from Narnia. This gave the two prefects, Priscus and Varus, the excuse they had been waiting for to return to the capital. They made certain the cohort Tiberius Statius was a part of was among those recalled. And while the emperor decided whether he should personally lead his forces in quelling the uprising in the south, his brother had a rather pleasant surprise waiting for him.

  On the grounds of the Circus Maximus, thousands of men were crammed into the vast arena. They cheered voraciously as the Vitellian brothers and the two consuls, Simplex and Atticus, stepped onto the field.

  “The People’s Army, sire,” Lucius said, waving his hand towards them ceremoniously. “The one true defense of Rome herself.”

  “We fight for you, Caesar!” one man shouted.

  “Down with the Flavian traitors!” said another.

  This was followed by deafening chants of Vitellius’ name over and over again. The emperor finally raised his hands, silencing the mob. “I am so honored that I am nearly moved to tears.”

  “Arm us for battle, sire!” a volunteer bellowed.

  “It is time,” Consul Atticus said, as Vitellius looked to his companions for advice. “Arming of the mob would normally be considered madness. But these men have sworn to fight for you to the last. And right now, even with the defenses holding at Narnia, Rome will need every blade she can muster.”

  It was difficult to say just how many were asking to take up arms for Vitellius. Lucius guessed they numbered ten thousand, maybe more. And while his brother was moved by such a large showing, in a city of a million souls it was not difficult to find ten thousand loyalists who were willing to fight and die for their emperor.

  “You will forgive me for taking the initiative,” Lucius said, later that day, “but I have already ordered every smithy within fifty miles to start turning out swords and shields.”

  “And for that you have my gratitude, dear brother,” the emperor replied.

  “The blades may be crude, but they’ll cut through flesh,” Lucius explained. “Legionary scutum shields are time consuming to make, but we can have sufficient bucklers and other types of shields made.”

  “And what about armor?” Vitellius asked.

  Lucius shook his head. “Unfortunately, that is something the majority will have to make do without. But remember, these are supplemental troops. We still have the praetorians and the urban cohorts.”

  “I just hope Festus arrives soon with our African forces,” the emperor remarked. “In the meantime, we should take what military troops we have and deal with the malcontents in the south.”

  Legio III, Augusta had a history dating back over a hundred years, when it was raised at the ‘Third Republican Legion’ by Pompey Magnus. And while they held the honor of being the only autonomous legion in all of Africa, they also held the rather ignominious distinction of being one of the last legions to suffer decimation; a punishment they had been subjected to when the entire legion fled from battle during the revolt of the Numidian traitor, Tacfarinas, during the early reign of Tiberius. It was a stigma the legion had fought for fifty years to rid itself of. In addition to the legion’s fortress, there were various auxilia camps housing ten to fifteen thousand additional soldiers.

  Centurion Octavianus arrived at the legionary fortress near Thamugadi after three days of riding. He was here to see the Augusta legate, and was glad to see legionary and auxilia going about their daily duties, as if there wasn’t a civil war raging just a short distance across the sea.

  “Centurion, sir,” one of the men guarding the gate said, coming to attention. “What business brings you to Third Augusta?”

  “I am here to see General Festus,” Octavianus replied. He took a bold step with his next words. “Inform him that I come with a vital message from Emperor Vespasian and must speak with him at once.” Whether he was welcomed or arrested would tell the centurion which side this legion was on.

  The soldier was nonchalant. “Of course. One of the lads will take your horse, and I’ll escort you to the legate personally.”

  “Glad to hear you’re on the right side, sir,” another legionary added. “We’ve been compelled to detain Vitellius’ envoys who’ve been begging us to hasten to his defense.”

  The words heartened the centurion. He knew threats against Legate Festus were now unnecessary. Instead, he would give the general the emperor’s warmest regards with the hope that peace would come to the empire soon.

  It was the evening of 14 December, and Antonius Primus was hosting Fabius Valens as his guest in the principia tent over supper. There were no other officers present and only a handful of slaves serving them. A pair of legionaries stood outside the entrance with strict orders. No one was to disturb them.

  “Is this the final feast of a condemned man?” Valens asked bluntly.

  The servants brought the first course of fruits and nuts, along with pitchers of wine.

  “So it would appear,” Primus replied candidly. “To be honest, I wish it did not have to be so.”

  “Bah!” Valens retorted. “You’ve wanted to shove my head onto a spike since long before this war began.”

  “Honestly, Fabius, I’ve never thought much of you one way or the other. I do know you were a worthy adversary. After all, you did defeat Otho’s army and almost singlehandedly assured Vitellius’ rise. I will even go so far as to say that had you been on the
field at Second Bedriacum, I may not have emerged the victor.”

  “You can say that again.” The Vitellian general’s tone was hostile, though wine and an acceptance of his pending fate had begun to soften his demeanor towards his rival.

  “By the same token, you would not have won First Bedriacum had I been there. Unfortunately, Otho became impatient, entrusted overall command to his idiot brother, and could not wait a week for me to show up with three additional legions. It was your own cousin who I fought against, was it not?”

  “Aye, in a manner of speaking,” Valens answered. “He tried to assume overall command. I fault myself for not appointing a temporary commanding general until my health returned. I will give you credit, though. As brazenly stupid as it seemed, your bombastic and reckless assault won you the campaign. I had a lot more troops with me and intended to reinforce Cremona. I did not expect you to attack so suddenly. Had you faced the full strength of my division, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Primus concurred. “I applaud your tenacity to continue the war. But once you saw Gaul and Hispania were changing their allegiance, you had to know the war could not be won.”

  “Perhaps,” Valens acknowledged, with reluctance. He stared at his plate for a moment and sampled a date. “I was not ready to recant the oath I swore to my emperor. There are forces in Germania, Britannia, and Africa that could overwhelm your forces with their combined strength.”

  “True. But where are they?” It was the Flavian commander-in-chief’s turn to stare at his plate for a few moments. He took a pull off his wine chalice and demanded another before speaking again. “Look, Fabius, I do not want to order your execution. Perhaps I did at one time, but not now. We may not like each other, but I do respect you. Not only as a worthy adversary, but because you are just as much a deviant, conniving, rat-fucking-bastard as I am. How can I not respect that?”