by James Mace
“Ever the political survivalist,” Paulinus chuckled.
“I kept my word,” Celsus emphasized. “I was just as loyal to Vitellius as I was to Galba and Otho.”
“You are certainly the only man who all would agree loyally served every ‘Caesar’ in this Year of the Four Emperors.”
Their revelry was cut short as they approached the Forum. The street was clogged with hundreds of citizens, who quickly cleared away from the armed force. A handful of senators, including Consul Simplex, stopped on the steps of the curia. Atticus noted his colleague’s face was ashen as he wordlessly watched the procession.
The Forum was still crammed with thousands of onlookers, as well as numerous centuries from the Praetorian Guard. Vitellius, however, was nowhere to be seen. At first, the crowds thought the urban cohorts had arrived to help with the city’s defense against the Flavians. When they saw Sabinus they flew into a collective rage.
“The traitor’s brother!” they shrieked. “He comes armed for battle!”
“Cast the Flavians into the Tiber!”
The lead ranks of the urban cohort suddenly halted, their expressions wrought with fear as the hordes descended upon them.
“That’s a lot more than just a few rioters,” Sabinus noted.
“Where the fuck is Vitellius?” Paulinus asked. “His guardsmen are here, but there is no sign of him.” He then composed himself and began giving orders to the lead cohort. “Close ranks, weapons ready!”
The nervous men crouched into their fighting stances behind their shields with spears protruding forward. The mob was being whipped into a frenzy by the praetorians, who were forming into their own battle ranks.
“They outnumber us, sir,” Centurion Cornelius called back. “Even without this mob who wants to tear us to pieces.”
“Back up, lads,” Paulinus said, keeping his voice calm and measured. “Nice and steady. Maintain formation.”
The old general was back in his element once again. With so many years of experience in innumerable campaigns, it all came instinctively to him. He knew they were in a bad position, almost half of the lead cohort was out in the open. He also knew the men of the urban cohorts were terribly outmatched by the praetorians, most of whom had come from the Rhine Legions.
As the long column tried to back its way onto the main the road, the hostile crowd surged forward. Many of them carried clubs and other makeshift weapons. There were also many from the People’s Army that carried gladii and small shields. The brandishing of spears from the urban soldiers kept them mostly at bay. One overzealous young Vitellian rushed forward, ready to bash in the skull of one of his adversaries, only to take a spear to the guts. He cried out as he fell onto his side, blood oozing from the terrible wound. This elicited a howl of rage from the man’s companions, who attempted to overwhelm the Flavians by sheer force of numbers. Several others were spitted by the long spears, their shrieks of pain echoing over the din of the growing battle. Two of the Flavian vigiles were felled by the clubs of the mob, and as their companions haplessly backed away from the frenzy, they were bashed to death by scores of the enraged Vitellians.
The crowd soon backed away. They were by far getting the worst of the exchange. Two Flavians had been brutally slain, while more than a dozen from the mob lay dead or dying. The shrill sound of whistles caused a parting in the crowd, as praetorian officers led their men into the fray.
“Guardsmen, on me!” a senior centurion shouted, holding his gladius high.
With the discipline that came from years in the legions, hundreds of praetorians rushed through the crowd and formed into battle ranks across from the urban cohorts. With a blow from the centurion’s whistle, they gave a loud battle cry and charged. Their larger shields and superior armor negated the reach of the vigiles’ spears, though one guardsman’s head snapped backwards as he was stabbed through the throat. The other spear thrusts embedded in the praetorians’ shields, becoming stuck as the guardsmen rapidly closed the distance with a clashing of shields. The urban soldiers in the first few ranks either hurled or dropped their spears, then drew their gladii as their ranks buckled under the praetorian onslaught.
Towards the rear of the first cohort there was much confusion. The urban soldiers could hear the sounds of battle coming from the Forum; however, they could not see anything other than the men directly in front of them. Tribune Pacensis had made his way up from the rear cohorts to see what the confusion was. He saw a lone praetorian running towards them from a narrow side street.
“Contact right!” he shouted.
Both Celsus and Consul Atticus turned. General Paulinus was still near the front, trying to withdraw their lead elements.
“Wait, wait!” the guardsman shouted, holding his hands up in surrender.
A score of vigiles turned their spears towards him. “This is not a flank attack! I mean you no harm!”
“I know you,” Sabinus said, as he rode over to the man, his eyes narrowing. “You’re Guardsman Statius, the emperors’ hired blade.”
“And you are Prefect Sabinus, who called upon my skills after Vitellius’ rise,” Statius replied bluntly. He looked over his shoulder. “Now is not the time to discuss our pasts, sir. If you still wish to take Capitoline Hill, follow me. This street leads into a series of alleys which will take us around the backside. There is no one posted up there, and the western steps are clear.”
“Can we trust him?” Atticus asked nervously.
Sabinus gave a short nod of consent. “Given the hell our lads at the front have been subjected to, we don’t have much of a choice.”
“Our column extends back half a mile,” Pacensis noted. He turned to his nearest centurion. “Send word down the line, have everyone withdraw and make their way around to the north side of the hill. We’ll rally at the southern steps.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on!” Statius said. He waved the men on as he raced down the street, his hobnailed sandals clattering on the cobblestones.
“Withdraw by ranks,” Sabinus ordered the men of the lead cohort. He remained astride his horse just on the other side of the small intersection. From there he could coordinate their withdrawal. Atticus and Celsus had gone with Statius, and Sabinus wondered why the guardsman was helping them.
At the front of the cohort it was absolute chaos. The vigiles had managed to back their way out of the Forum and onto the street, but only after leaving a score of their soldiers dead with dozens more badly injured. Those unable to walk were regrettably left behind. Paulinus grimaced. He hoped those unfortunate men would be taken prisoner by the praetorians, rather than beaten to death by the mob.
The old general kept himself in the second rank, and as the praetorians surged forward, he would thrust his spatha over the shoulder of the vigiles in front of him. He caught one unfortunate guardsman in the face. The man dropped his shield and gladius, falling to the ground, screaming as he clutched at his shattered cheekbone. The surge of the praetorian onslaught soon dissipated, as their commanding centurion ordered his men to pull back to the Forum.
“General Paulinus!” Sabinus shouted from atop his horse. “Follow me down this side street. There’s another way around to the hill.”
The general nodded and waved with his sword for the surviving urban soldiers to follow him. The vigiles were bloodied, and their nerves frayed from the harrowing ordeal they had just endured. Few had any sort of experience with the legions, and the battle against the praetorians had been completely unexpected. They rushed through the side street following Sabinus. All the while, Paulinus wondered just how much fight their men had left in them.
Back at the Forum, Prefect Varus had just arrived, having escorted the Empress Galeria and Prince Germanicus to the house that had belonged to Lady Sextilia.
“By Vulcan’s cock, what the fuck happened here?” he asked, as he saw the large number of bodies near the north end of the Forum. Praetorians were binding the hands of those wounded vigiles they had managed to sa
ve from the mob’s wrath.
“Sabinus came here with the urban cohorts, armed for battle,” one of the centurions reported.
“I see,” Varus acknowledged. “So our dear city prefect decided to help his baby brother onto the throne after all. Where are they now?”
“They withdrew down the main street there, sir,” the praetorian officer said, pointing with his gladius. “I elected not to pursue them, in case it was a trap.”
“Very well. I want the house of Sabinus surrounded, and he is to be arrested on charges of high treason.” The prefect happened to glance to his left. Behind the Basilica Julia and Temple of Saturn, the stairs on the southern slope of the hill extended to the top. Varus grimaced in anger as he saw large numbers of men from the urban cohorts sprinting up the steps. “ Idiots! They’ve gone around the backside of the hill! Stop them!”
The large forum square was still filled with both Vitellian supporters, as well as thousands of curious spectators. By the time the praetorians forced their way through the immense crowds, it was too late. Flavius Sabinus, Consul Atticus, Generals Paulinus and Celsus, and a thousand vigiles now held the high ground atop Capitoline Hill.
Capitoline Hill was extremely steep on all sides. At the top was a high wall that encompassed the complex of temples and other buildings. The most practical way inside was via the side stairs on the southern face, known as ‘The One Hundred Steps’ . The only other approach was up the infamous Gemonian Stairs, which led down into the Forum.
“Barricade all entrances!” Sabinus ordered.
There were still numerous priests, temple workers, and various civilians within the large complex. Many of these elected to hide within. Others forced their way out past Sabinus’ soldiers and fled down the flights of stairs.
Meanwhile, vigiles were building barricades from tables, benches, and even statues while their senior leaders looked down onto the Forum below. The hour was late, and the sun shone behind them, as the Temple of Jupiter cast its massive shadow over the square.
“The praetorians are just sitting there,” Celsus observed.
Guardsmen were scattered about, and while there were groups at the base of the stairs, none seemed anxious to try and storm the heights.
“They know we have a strong advantage from up here,” Paulinus reasoned. “Rest assured, once they have sufficient reinforcements they’ll try to dislodge us. There is no way in Hades Vitellius will allow enemy troops to occupy this sacred hill.”
“We must get word to Primus at once,” Sabinus asserted.
One of the vigiles then ran over to him. “Sir, the western edge of the hill is mostly undefended. I saw your horse still tethered near the Theater of Marcellus.”
“How are your climbing skills?” Sabinus asked.
“I can make my way down the hill, if that is what you’re asking, sir.”
“Take my horse,” the city prefect ordered. “And ride like hell to General Primus. Let him know that we are under siege and need him to come to Rome with all possible speed.”
“Yes, sir.”
The southern stairs ended at the base of the complex’s surrounding wall, where a much narrower set of stairs angled up to the main square. On the lower level a narrow walkway extended back towards the Temple of Jupiter, and it was here the young urban soldier crept. He kept to the shadows, hoping the glare of the setting sun would blind any who would seek to hinder him. Sabinus and Paulinus watched anxiously, as the man eased his way onto the rocky face of the vertical hill and slowly made his way down. With less than ten feet to go, he lost his footing and landed hard in a large shrub with a loud crash. Sabinus grimaced. He thought the young man was badly hurt. But he soon emerged, limping a bit, covered in numerous cuts and scrapes. He looked up and gave a wave to say he was alright, before rushing over to where the prefect’s horse was tethered near the famous theater.
“I’m surprised no one ran off with my horse,” Sabinus said. They watched the urban soldier mount up and ride towards the western gates leading to the Field of Mars. Paulinus, however, was more interested in the walkway below them.
“Once the Vitellians do decide to attack, that is where they will come,” he surmised.
Both men gazed along the wall, to where it joined with the southwest corner of the Temple of Jupiter.
“You’re certain?” Sabinus asked.
“It’s how I would do it,” the general remarked. “They’ll launch an assault on the main stairs, but here is where they will focus their energies. The portcullis on the backside of the temple is wooden with many windows. They could either break them down or set fire to them.”
“And we have shit for missile weapons,” Sabinus lamented. “Of course, had we known Vitellius’ supporters were still anxious for a fight, we could have better prepared.”
Celsus joined them. “We’ve barricaded the top of the Gemonian Stairs. The crowds seem to have dispersed, likely due to boredom, and the praetorians are still sitting on their asses.”
“I should send a message to Vitellius,” Sabinus remarked. “It is unfortunate that blood was spilled this day. Unless he has recanted his intent or lost all control of his soldiery, he can still put an end to this.”
“I’ll deliver your message, sir,” a voice said, behind him.
Sabinus turned to see Centurion Cornelius.
“Very good.” The city prefect nodded. He sent a man to fetch parchment and a quill from the nearby Temple of Concord.
“It won’t work, you know,” Guardsman Statius spoke up.
“And why is that?” Sabinus asked. His voice was a little more indignant than he’d intended. He knew the praetorian was well aware of the Vitellian forces’ disposition.
“Vitellius’ remaining supporters are fanatics,” Statius explained. “They’re determined to fight to the death. And before you ask, that is why I decided to help you.”
“Ever the survivalist,” Sabinus noted.
“Just practical, that’s all,” the guardsman replied, with a shrug. “And, yes, I intend to survive this. I told myself yesterday; I did not serve three emperors over the course of this past year and come back in one piece from Otho’s idiotic expedition to Maritime Alpes, only to be slaughtered with these fanatics. I am one of maybe fifty of Otho’s praetorians who was allowed to remain with the Guard. The rest were sacked and are most likely marching with Antonius Primus. But I did not turn on Vitellius only to die here this night. I will survive this, and I’ll do what I can to help you get through this as well.”
“I am grateful,” Sabinus said with a slight laugh, unsure how one lone praetorian could possibly ensure his safety. “So you’re still loyal to no one, then?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Statius replied candidly. “I have always done my duty and followed the orders of my superiors. I kept my oaths to Nero, Galba, and Otho. I only broke it to Vitellius when I realized the rest of the Guard will never allow him to abdicate.”
“Fair enough,” Paulinus interjected. He grinned as he asked, “But, of course, you could have left the city. Once it fell to Primus, no one would be the wiser.”
Statius smirked knowingly but said nothing. In truth, he wasn’t exactly sure why he decided to help the Flavians. Perhaps, for the first time in many years, it wasn’t about the rewards. Maybe he was finally willing to fight for something other than gold and silver.
Sabinus decided to wait until morning to sending Centurion Cornelius with his message for Vitellius. It was mostly quiet. The praetorians were blockading the Forum, and the merchant carts were unable to unload their supplies for the markets. Sometime around midnight, while Sabinus fitfully dozed against the steps of a small shrine near the western wall, guards heard the sound of footfalls sprinting up the steps.
“Halt!” one of them shouted, as they shone their torches over the barricade. “Who comes upon the bastion of the Flavians?”
“Domitian, son of the emperor,” the nervous voice called out, from the shadows.
“Domiti
an!” Sabinus said, stumbling to his feet. He beamed as the young man was helped over the barricades. “Praise Diana! How did you manage to get here?”
“Your house is surrounded, but the guards were sloppy and careless,” Domitian explained. “Two near the servants’ entrance were practically asleep, and I was able to walk past them. I did the same here, once I reached the southern steps. I figured this was the safest place in the city for me.”
“Well done, my boy,” Sabinus said, embracing his nephew. Since the brawl in the Forum, he had been worried that the young man would be imprisoned or otherwise harmed by Vitellius’ maddened supporters. He said as much, adding, “The fact that you live tells me Vitellius still has some control over his reckless mob. He knows that, should anything happen to you, there will be no mercy shown to either him or his family.”
The Flavian defenders passed the rest of the night in nervous anticipation of the coming dawn. Sabinus knew his message would either bring about Vitellius’ capitulation, or there would be bloodshed atop Capitoline Hill.
Chapter XXX: The Burning of Rome
Rome
19 December 69 A.D.
***
Vitellius had gotten no more sleep than Sabinus that night. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, his hair disheveled, and he was in need of a shave. The morning sun seemed to glare down on him accusingly, as he stepped out onto the landing that overlooked one of the gardens below. He had not only lost control over most of the empire, but over his entire world. He was so powerless, he could not even abdicate the throne!
“Is death my only way out, as it was for Otho?” he asked aloud as he paced back and forth.
“Yes,” Prefect Varus responded bluntly. While Priscus was in the south with Lucius Vitellius, quelling the insurrection in Campania, Varus was now sole commander of all Vitellian forces in and around the capital. He had also gotten little sleep this past night, yet his eyes burned with a fierce sense of determination. “You need to face up to it, Caesar. Once you assumed the imperial throne, it was for life. Only death can sever you from your duty.”
