by James Mace
“Yes, sir,” Bassus said with a nod.
“I will lead the assault on our left and come in from the east,” the commanding general continued. “General Lupus, you and the Eighth Legion will be with me, along with the attached cohorts from Judea. We will look to secure the imperial palace and capture Vitellius. Be ready to support each other and dispatch centuries and cohorts as needed. I do not want this to be a frenzied brawl with little to no coordination.”
“It will likely denigrate into that no matter what we do,” Cerealis remarked.
“That may be,” Primus conceded. “But I will not have the entire city sacked and burned like Cremona. If we have to attack Rome, it will be to finish the overthrow of the pretender, Vitellius, not so our soldiers can engage in an orgy of looting and destruction. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” The legates sounded off in unison.
He then spoke to Aula. “Lady Vale, you are still in the employ of the imperial messenger service.”
“I am.”
“Then I will have a message for you to take to the imperial palace. If we can compel Vitellius to renounce his claim to the throne and accept exile for both he and his family, we can save a lot of good Romans from dying for a lost cause. We’ve tried negotiating with him before. This will be our last chance for a peaceful end.”
Empress Galeria left her husband to brood over his sorrows. While she pitied him, he was no longer in any position to help her or their children. The forces at Narnia had surrendered without a fight, and the Flavian Army was less than a day’s march from Rome. And while Vitellius contemplated what, if anything, he could do at this point, he heard the soft sound of footsteps in the hall, accompanied by the thump of a cane on the tiles.
“Hello, Mother,” Vitellius said, into the shadows.
Sextilia appeared in the chamber. She said nothing.
“You were right, you know. I have brought about the end of our once-great family. I achieved the impossible, became Emperor of Rome…only to lose it all in the end.”
“The fate of the family is for you and your brother to decide,” his mother finally said. “But I do not wish to see it, regardless of what may come.”
“What are you saying?” Vitellius sat upright. He was alarmed by what his mother was implying.
“What I am saying is I have lingered for far too long. My distaste for this current situation and my fear of the future has forced my hand. It is time I joined your father. If you bear even the remotest shred of love for me, you will join me in my quarters within the hour. Bring the fastest-acting poison your assassins can scrounge. And if you do not still love your old mother…well, then let it be out of spite that you would remove my presence from this world.”
Sextilia’s words disturbed him greatly, though they should have come as no surprise. She was a proud old woman, and she felt the ignominy and shame of her family’s imminent downfall. Even if her son were allowed to give up the throne and live out his days in peace, the stain upon their name would never go away. All that her husband and his father before him had worked for was lost.
Vitellius said nothing but nodded in consent. His mother left him and he went to find one of his alchemists who specialized in both elixirs and poisons. When he did come to his mother’s bedchamber, she was lying peacefully. Her maidservant knelt beside the bed, weeping uncontrollably. Sextilia dismissed the woman who almost ran into the emperor, as he handed a small vial to her.
“I am assured this will make your passing quick,” he said.
There were no attempts to convince her otherwise. And even at the end of her long life, it still proved impossible for either mother or son to express their feelings for each other. Each felt as if they had failed the other. Yet, they could not find any words to say.
And so, Sextilia simply nodded. She watched the tear that ran down the side of her son’s face before taking the vial and in a single gulp swallowing the bitter contents. She felt a searing pain in her throat. She tried to gasp but found she could not breathe. She clenched her teeth and clawed at her neck as the burning pain shot down her throat and into her stomach. With a blinding flash across her vision it was over.
The Seven Hills of Rome were now in full view of the Flavian Army, as they encamped and made preparations for a possible assault on the city. From the west bank of the River Tiber to the Via Flaminia, the legions and auxilia regiments formed a large frontage out of their various camps. Primus wanted to make certain that the Vitellians were well aware of his army’s strength, ‘Lest they do something stupid’ .
The vexilation cohorts from Judea occupied a large open field, nestled between two curves of the Tiber. From their position on the valley floor, the silhouette of Capitoline Hill stood majestically just a few miles away. It was early evening, and the sun was beginning to set. Soldiers not on sentry duty bathed in the river, washing the sweat and grime out of their tunics and socks.
“A shame that we come as an army, girded for battle,” Gaius said, with a sad shaking of his head. He used his optio’s staff to pull himself out of the river.
His leg still ached, though he was able to get around better. He was also getting at least some movement back in his right arm, but the yellowish-purple bruising had still not gone away. What was more troubling was the numbness in his hand. He had given himself a quick shave while bathing, having become rather proficient with his left hand; albeit his face bore numerous cuts and scars from his failed attempts over the past six weeks.
“Worried about holding your sword again?” Nicanor asked, as he joined his second-in-command.
“I have learned to shave with my left hand,” Gaius remarked. “But even if I did learn to wield a gladius with it, I’m still useless if my other hand cannot carry a shield. The surgeons said it will be three or four months before I know if my arm will ever be fully functional again. I simply do not have that much time; not if we are poised to go into battle.” He looked his centurion in the eye and saw the concerned expression on his face. “Don’t hold me back, not now.”
“If the Vitellians make a stand, the fighting will be fierce,” Nicanor replied. “You know this. Your primary job is to keep our soldiers on line and coordinate with the century on our left. I’ll not relieve you of your duties. But I do want you keeping well back of the main battle line. Should it come down to house-to-house fighting, as is likely, you are to remain on the streets and keep our sections together.”
“Something I should be doing anyway,” the optio observed. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you or the lads down.” With a macabre grin, he added, “and if I happen to catch a sword point in the neck, well…Julius has been anxiously waiting for a promotion for years.”
He donned the closest he had to a clean tunic and slowly walked over to his tent. The cold water of the river had bit into him at first, but it worked wonders on his injured arm and leg. For the time being, he could walk with only the slightest trace of a limp.
Outside the tents for the centurion and principle officers, Nicanor’s manservant was cooking their supper. It was a simple stew of cooked meat with vegetables and some various grains. After the slave filled Gaius’ mess tin, the optio sat down on a camp stool and stared at the steaming plate. He tried to grip his fork with his right hand. Only with great exertion was he able to close his fingers around it. Every morning and evening it was the same. He would try to eat with his right hand for as long as possible, but whenever it became too messy, or he simply could not grip his utensils anymore, he would switch to his left. Though it had only been six weeks since his terrible injuries, he was filled with trepidation. He might never again be fit for active service.
He wondered if he was being foolish by compelling Nicanor to allow him to take part in the assault. He would, of course, be careful and keep back from the actual fighting. However, urban warfare, by its very nature was a chaotic nightmare. They could very easily find themselves assailed by enemies from all sides. If his decision proved foolhardy, he may find himself reu
nited with his brother in Elysium.
Chapter XXVIII: Abdication and the Final Betrayal
Rome
17 December 69 A.D.
***
It was eerily quiet as Aula rode along the Aqueduct of Claudius on the eastern outskirts of the city. The sun was setting, and the nighttime traffic should have been rolling to and from the city. Instead, it was deathly quiet, not a single oxcart or pedestrian to be seen.
Aula soon spotted a row of evenly spaced, ornate trees on either side of the road. Not far from there was where the aqueduct took a sharp turn to the west, leading directly past the imperial palace. The young courier saw a section of soldiers; legionaries from Vitellius’ defeated northern army who had escaped capture. They had placed palisade stakes on either side of the road and were questioning what few people there were trying to enter or leave Rome.
“Hold there!” a legionary shouted.
Aula slowly rode up to the barricade.
“What business have you within the Eternal City?”
The soldiers looked relatively clean, yet haggard and utterly beaten. The legionary who stopped Aula had bloodshot eyes, as if he had not slept in weeks.
“I bring a message to Vitellius from the Flavian general, Marcus Antonius Primus.”
“That would be Emperor Vitellius to you, lass,” the soldier replied curtly. “And why would that filthy traitor send a saucy little bitch like you to parlay with the emperor?”
“Just a minute,” the man’s decanus said, walking up behind him. He pointed to Aula’s left hand. “She bears the signet ring of the imperial couriers.” He then addressed Aula. “Who was it that employed you?”
She swallowed hard, not knowing what may have happened to Sabinus. No messages had reached the Flavian Army since Bedriacum, and it was feared they might take reprisal against Vespasian’s brother or son. Still, she knew she had to be candid and accept the risk that might come from naming her benefactor.
“The Prefect of Rome, Flavius Sabinus,” she said.
This brought a few guffaws from the soldiers.
Their squad leader simply nodded. “He is with the emperor at the palace,” the sergeant replied. He then stood aside. “You may pass.”
Aula kicked her horse into a modest trot. She did not wish to cause any alarm. However, she wanted to get away from those men as soon as possible, lest they have second thoughts about letting her enter the city unmolested. At the Temple of Apollo she would find the defeated Vitellius. The temple was located on the palace grounds, west of the imperial residence itself, and next to what had been the houses of Emperor Augustus and Empress Livia a half century before.
The temple was chosen for this meeting because its sanctity, as well as being ‘neutral ground’. A pair of guardsmen stood outside the doors. They ushered Aula in when they saw she bore a message from the Flavian Army. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Sabinus with the emperor and the former consul, Italicus. The only other one present was Cluvius Rufus, a former governor and close confidant of Vitellius. Aula saw Sabinus’ eyes grow wide for a moment. He fought against the smile that wished to form on his face. The two had been out of contact for months, and he had feared the worst for his young ward.
“I bring a message from Flavian General, Marcus Antonius Primus,” Aula said formally, producing the scroll, which Italicus took from her.
“It is a reiteration of his terms of surrender,” the former consul said, quickly scanning its contents. “He once again offers to spare your life and the lives of your wife and children. He offers a substantial donative of twenty-five million denarii, and you will be allowed to live in retirement on an estate in Campania.”
Vitellius looked like a man beaten. His eyes were fixed on Aula. “Was there any other news?”
“Valens is dead,” Aula replied.
“Yes, I know,” Vitellius acknowledged.
“That would explain the surrender of our forces at Narnia,” Italicus muttered.
Aula continued, “The praetorians had steeled themselves to fight to the last, believing Valens was bringing reinforcements from Hispania and Gaul. It was only when his head was displayed for them to see, that they realized all was lost.”
“I will have my reply to General Primus shortly,” Vitellius said. He waved the courier off.
Aula stood in a corner near the entrance. She was the only witness to what transpired next between the four men. Even the praetorian prefects and the current consuls were not allowed into the meeting.
“The terms are fair,” Sabinus emphasized. “Unlike Galba and Otho, you are being given a chance at life.”
“Life,” Vitellius snorted. “I think that having you and Vespasian’s son in my care are the only reasons I am being offered such clemency.”
“Though I think you are being unfair, I will not argue the point,” Sabinus replied. “If not for yourself and your son, then abdicate out of love for the people of Rome. If there is further resistance and Primus is compelled to launch an assault on the city, how many more will die? Will we subject the Eternal City to the same fury our legions wreck upon foreign adversaries?”
“It is not just the Flavian Army that we need to worry about,” Rufus said, “but the emperor’s own supporters.”
“What do you mean?” Sabinus asked.
“What he means is that most of the Vitellian loyalists who remain are hardened bastards,” Italicus said. “They will view abdication as a form of betrayal. Should the emperor surrender the throne after all they’ve fought for, then he will be safe from neither his former enemies nor his supporters. There are many who will refuse to give up without one last fight, to include the thousands of volunteers Lucius Vitellius raised for the People’s Army.”
“It is true,” Rufus added. “There are those, especially within the praetorians, who would rather see the city burn than surrendered to Vespasian.” He looked to Vitellius. “And even if Primus keeps his word, for the rest of your days you will live in fear of retribution from those who followed, as well as opposed you.”
“Then we have no choice but to stand and fight,” Italicus replied. “We have seven cohorts of the Praetorian Guard that are still loyal. Our friend, Sabinus, may be the brother of the usurper, but his urban cohorts consist of men loyal to the Vitellian regime.”
“Even so,” Sabinus interjected, “I have only three cohorts available. These are part-time militia who are called up only in the direst of emergencies…”
“And if this is not a dire emergency, what is?” Rufus interrupted. He had another thought, one bordering on madness. “More than half the population of Rome are slaves. We can arm them as well.”
“As dire as this is, ten cohorts of praetorian and urban fighters will not last an hour against Primus’ army,” Sabinus retorted, keeping his cool demeanor. “And if you are thinking of arming slaves, then you are truly mad. Eight out of every ten slaves in Rome are women; they are maidservants, housekeepers, and prostitutes, not soldiers. Even if you armed every gladiator and male slave you can find, offering the promise of freedom, who’s to say they won’t simply turn on you once they see the strength of Primus’ legions advancing on them?”
“Sabinus is right,” Italicus said. “Arming slaves would be insanity. The Flavians have us terribly outnumbered, and with the surrender of our forces at Narnia, there will be no aid coming to us. It is finished.” A tear ran down the side of his face as he looked to his friend and emperor. “I am sorry, Aulus.”
Vitellius said nothing for a few moments, staring at the floor in contemplation. The recent death of his mother, the defeat of his armies, and now the loss of the empire had left him unreservedly broken. He knew there would be no heroic comeback from the brink, no elusive victory to be had in the face of overwhelming odds. Valens had been his last hope, and his death ended the reign of the Vitellians.
He finally took a deep breath and said, “If there is one thing I learned from my predecessor, it is that there comes a time when even an empe
ror’s life no longer matters.” He signaled for Aula to come to him. “Inform General Primus that I accept his terms. There is much that needs to be done first to ensure a peaceful transition of power. When the time is right, I will convene the senate at the Temple of Concord, and from there will I hand over the imperial signet ring and lay down the rule of the empire. Sabinus, I have no doubt that your brother will wish for you to act as regent until he arrives.”
The city prefect responded, “As you treated the family of Otho with clemency, so too will Vespasian show kindness to you and yours.”
The sun had set, and it took two hours for Aula to ride back to the Flavian camp. Even from a couple miles away, she could make out just how vast their forces were. Legions had established themselves all along the hills. The southern rampart of the camp stretched nearly a mile in each direction from the Via Flaminia. She knew Primus had established his principia on the eastern end near the Tiber and Legio VIII, Augusta.
Despite the late hour the camp was alive with activity. Few would be able to sleep, so great was their anticipation. Everywhere was lit up with torches as decani inspected their legionaries’ weapons and armor. Centurions and their immediate subordinates sat together outside their tents, discussing the battle plan. Most had never been to Rome. They were dependent on those who could give them some idea as to the city’s layout.
Aula found the principia tent glowing from the numerous oil lamps within. A legionary held the entrance flap open for her. She saw the commander-in-chief lounging with a cup of wine, along with a handful of officers.
“Ah, Lady Vale,” he said, sitting upright. “Has the pretender accepted our terms?”
