by James Mace
Vitellius glared at him before looking back at the gardens below. “I now understand how Otho felt, once he knew he was beaten. My hope was by abdicating, I would save anyone else from dying needlessly.”
“And what of those who have died already?” Varus retorted. “ Thousands have been killed fighting for you in the wars against Otho and Vespasian. And even greater numbers bear terrible scars, with many maimed and unable to walk again. As long as you still draw breath, those of us who remain will not allow their sacrifices to be in vain.”
It was in that moment Aulus Vitellius finally found his resolve. He clenched his teeth with determination. “Until I draw my last breath,” he asserted. “Is the temple complex on Capitoline Hill properly encircled?”
“It is, sire,” Varus assured him. He had no idea Domitian had snuck past his men during the night.
A sense of serene calm came over Vitellius as he descended the steps leading to the gardens. From there he made his way to the great dining hall. He intended to fill himself with a great breakfast. It was here a pair of guardsmen brought Centurion Martialis to him.
“This traitor came from Capitoline Hill, sire,” one of the men said. “Says he has a message for you.”
“What is your name?” Vitellius asked the man.
“Cornelius Martialis,” he replied. Shooting a piercing gaze at the guardsmen, he growled, “ Centurion Martialis to these insulant twats.” He handed the scroll from Sabinus to the emperor.
Varus read the message over his shoulder.
To Aulus Vitellius, greetings,
It is with a deep sense of indignation that I am compelled to write to you, while being besieged by our own soldiers of the Praetorian Guard. That they, along with your most loyal of supporters, attacked my urban cohorts in the Forum is conduct that is both shameful and despicable.
Are we to now think that your abdication was nothing more than a ruse? A jest of some sort? You have promised to bring peace to the empire, yet there is now bloodshed on the streets of Rome herself. That the Prefect of Rome should have to take refuge among the city’s most sacred temples, out of fear for his own life, is disgraceful.
Whether you choose to continue in this war, which was lost at Cremona and Bedriacum, know that you gain nothing by laying siege to our temples, while threatening the life of a former consul. I have served you loyally, despite my brother being your rival for the throne, and I demand that you bring about an end to this shameful siege at once.
Yours faithfully,
Titus Flavius Sabinus
Prefect of the City of Rome
“Sabinus should have his tongue cut out for his insolence,” Varus scoffed.
Vitellius held up a hand, silencing him. He then said to Cornelius, “Return to Sabinus and offer him my apologies for the conduct of my supporters, as well as the praetorians. Reassure him that we will put an end to this siege.”
Cornelius nodded and shoved his way past the two guardsmen who awkwardly saluted their emperor before departing.
“Sire, do you mind telling me what that was all about?” Varus asked.
Vitellius kept his gaze fixed on the hall where the centurion departed. “I said we would put an end to the siege, and we shall. Once Sabinus’ messenger has returned to Capitoline Hill, you will attack with every guardsman you have. I want our sacred temples restored to us before the day is done. Kill whoever you must, but bring me Sabinus and any other noble traitors alive.”
The sun shone in the faces of the defenders of the Hill, as Centurion Cornelius returned to the barricades. Men from the urban cohorts nervously gazed down into the Forum below, which was crammed with centuries of praetorian guardsmen and volunteer militia from Vitellius’ People’s Army. Sabinus and Paulinus walked along the wall, checking the guard posts. Guardsman Statius did the same. Despite his lack of rank, he suddenly had leadership thrust upon him, due to his natural talents and years of combat experience. Atop the Temple of Jupiter, General Celsus and about a hundred men were gathering stones, roof tiles, and anything else that could be hurled down onto their assailants.
“It’s not sacrilege if we save the temples from destruction,” Celsus reasoned.
“And now we wait,” Paulinus said, to the very tired Sabinus.
“I only hope our message gets to Primus,” the city prefect remarked. “Otherwise there will be no aid coming to us this day.”
“He probably expects the truce to hold and Vitellius to abdicate. To be honest, I’m not all that certain our contingent of urban fighters can stand against a determined onslaught from the praetorians.”
What unnerved General Paulinus most was not the quality of their enemies nor their superior numbers. Despite the ferocity of the Vitellian attacks, the old soldier knew he had a very strong defensive position. He was in an even better position than when he’d fought against Boudicca’s hordes, eight years earlier. What troubled him was the quality and lack of training of his troops. The men of the urban cohorts were brave and resolute in doing their duty, but they simply were not professional soldiers. Fighting fires and policing the populace was the extent of most of their experience. Against previous generations of pampered, untested praetorians, they might have stood more of a chance. But Vitellius had filled the ranks of the Guard with fearsome veterans from the Rhine Army. The odds were decisively stacked against the urban cohorts.
Vigiles leaned against their spears and the barricades. They waited to see what the Vitellians’ next move would be. There was a cheer as Cornelius was helped over the stacks of benches, doors, and statuary.
“Compliments of the fat pretender,” the centurion said, as he saluted Sabinus. “He apologizes for his inability to control his men.”
“Did he say anything else, anything of substance?” Sabinus asked.
“He promised the siege of Capitoline Hill would be over soon.”
The sound of numerous whistles from praetorian centurions alerted the men.
‘Form testudo!’ was shouted by an officer at the base of the Gemonian Stairs.
“Seems they intend to end this siege, alright,” Paulinus sneered.
“They’re coming up from the south!” Celsus shouted, from the rooftop of the Temple of Jupiter.
From the height of the enormous temple, whose peak was nearly eighty feet high, the general and former consul had the best vantage point on the hill.
“Skirmishers forward!” Paulinus ordered. He drew his spatha.
Piles of rocks and stacks of roofing tiles lay near or on the barricade. The men with the best throwing arms, designated the night before, lined the rampart. An entire cohort of vigiles arrayed themselves into battle lines, six ranks deep, behind them. They knew they had to hold the barricade. If the praetorians broke through the obstacle and were able to reform within the vast open square, the urban cohorts would be horribly outmatched.
Walking slowly up the ‘stairs of mourning’ , the praetorians braced behind their large shields. The men in the front rank hunkered low, trying to keep their shields from catching on the steps as they ascended. Soldiers behind them held their shields overhead, providing extra protection. They walked in step, with their footfalls sounding rhythmically upon the stairs. Any disruptions or failure to maintain proper speed and cadence could cause gaps in the testudo. The sound of their hobnailed sandals echoing off the steps had a hollow and ominous tone.
“Let them get a little closer, lads,” Paulinus said.
They only had a finite amount of missile weapons, and he wanted to make certain none were wasted. On came the first wave of guardsmen. In the Forum below, centuries were standing ready to launch successive assaults upon the heights. Once their foes were within thirty feet, the Flavian general raised his spatha and brought it down in a hard chop.
“Now!”
A salvo of stones and heavy tiles flew from the barricade, crashing into the Vitellians’ shield wall. This was met by a series of grunts, yelps, and shouts of profanity, as the guardsmen continued to advance. A
fairly large chunk of broken mortar was heaved over the barricade by a pair of vigiles. It smashed into the shields of two praetorians, sending one of the men backwards into his mates. He was propped up and shoved forward, only to take a stone to the face. The man screamed as blood streamed between his fingers. He clutched at his smashed nose and brow. The praetorian centurion blew his whistle. His men gave a shout of rage as they lowered their shields and sprinted the short distance to the top.
“Vigiles, forward!” Paulinus shouted.
“On me!” Centurion Cornelius called. Holding his gladius high, he sprinted to the barricade.
The urban cohorts used their long stabbing spears to keep the praetorians at bay. It was a difficult struggle for the guardsmen. None of the men in this wave had brought their javelins. The crude barricade hindered their efforts to close the distance and engage with their gladii. Sword and spear clashed against armor and shield, and a stalemate quickly ensued. The praetorians pressed hard in an attempt to breach the defenses.
The guardsmen, being former legionaries, were highly-skilled fighters. The marginally trained vigiles found it difficult to keep them at bay, even with the barricades protecting them. One overzealous soldier thrust his spear forward, only to have a bold praetorian grab the shaft of the weapon. Before the vigile could think to let go of his weapon, he was violently pulled onto the barricade where another guardsman plunged a gladius into his back. The light mail armor worn by the urban cohorts offered marginal protection, and proved useless against the razor point of a gladius thrust downward with most of its wielder’s weight behind it. The stricken man’s scream unnerved his companions. His writhing body was flung back over the rampart. Still the men of the urban cohort held the line, even as praetorians smashed against the barricade or attempted to scramble over. One guardsman took a spear to the guts as he tried to climb the wreckage. His armor deflected the blow, but the force sent him over the edge of the stairs, where he crashed against the rocks of the steep cliff face.
Paulinus kept close to the cohort commander on the right flank, occasionally thrusting his long spatha over Cornelius’ shoulder and into the faces of their assailants. He kept glancing off to his right, past the Tullianum prison and a series of shrines and smaller temples.
“Hold here, centurion,” Paulinus said to Cornelius.
“Sir!”
The Flavian general sheathed his spatha and rushed along the eastern wall, his gaze blocked by the shrines and smaller temples as he sprinted towards the southern wall. As he suspected, here was where the Vitellians were concentrating their efforts.
Tribune Pacensis was holding the defenses at the top of the steps. He had attempted to make a stand where the side stairs met with the larger One Hundred Steps along the landing, twenty feet below. The Vitellian numbers were simply too great, and he was forced to withdraw up to the main square.
“General, sir!” the tribune yelled to Paulinus.
The legate instinctively ducked as the whoosh of a scorpion bolt rushed past his head.
Pacensis was keeping low behind the wall. “Now you know why we couldn’t hold the lower defenses.”
Paulinus glanced over the wall and saw a number of dead and dying men sprawled along the landing that ran beneath the wall. The Vitellians had brought four scorpion bolt throwers from the praetorian barracks, with many of the fallen vigiles been struck down by the fearsome weapons. As he suspected, the praetorians who attacked the barricade atop the side steps were simply keeping the urban cohorts contained. Scores of guardsmen now raced along the landing with their shields held overhead.
“All depends on Celsus now,” Paulinus said grimly.
Sabinus noticed the danger at the same time as Paulinus and took a large contingent of their reserves to the Temple of Jupiter. Domitian took a gladius from one of the fallen and insisted on fighting beside his uncle.
“It is time I earned the right to be called a Flavian,” he said, despite Sabinus’ protests.
The city prefect knew better than to argue with the young man. With nearly two hundred men, they ran through the open doors of the Temple of Jupiter. The porticos along the back were made of wood, as were many of the windows and internal structures.
“We must prevent the enemy from gaining access to the temple grounds from here,” Sabinus emphasized to his soldiers.
The sounds of shouting and the crashing of stones and tiles from above warned the men. Sabinus ran outside and saw the Vitellians being bombarded by Celsus and his men on the rooftop. Given the extreme height of the temple, the force of the stones and other projectiles smashed shields and crushed the helms and armor of those they struck.
The roofs of nearby shrines were manned by Flavian defenders who rained havoc down upon the enraged Vitellian assailants. Ladders were being placed against the surrounding wall. Given the narrowness of the lane, these were easier to tip over. Several crashed from the great height of the hill onto the rocks, trees, and buildings below. The praetorians were now redoubling their efforts on the temple itself. The southwest corner butted up against the surrounding wall and was the most vulnerable point in the defenses. They were still being subjected to intense bombardment from the heights. Their shields providing scant protection against the weight of the heavy projectiles. Those who attempted to clamber around the backside and come in via the porticos and windows were met with a frenzy of spear thrusts and gladius strikes from within.
Sabinus gave a sign of nervous relief and headed back towards the Gemonian Stairs to check the defenses there. He saw Suetonius Paulinus coming from the southern stairs and walked briskly over to the legate.
“Celsus is doing a magnificent job defending the temple,” he noted. “How goes the southern defense?”
“Pacensis is holding,” Paulinus replied. “But the Vitellians are not really trying to break through there. They are simply keeping him from inhibiting their attack on the temple. Cornelius is being pressed hard at the Gemonian Stairs, but unless the Vitellians bring up catapults, they won’t get through that way.”
“Sir, they’ve brought scorpions and fire brands onto the landing!” Pacensis shouted from the southern steps.
“Damn it all,” Sabinus swore.
There was a combined sense of determination and desperation from the Vitellians. Prefect Varus was not about to let a few urban fighters keep Rome’s finest troops from taking Capitoline Hill! At the same time, the casualties suffered by his men were unnerving. Scores of wounded had been carried or drug down the southern steps and Gemonian Stairs. One could only guess how many dead littered the ramparts.
Varus cursed that the praetorians had no archers. It would have been easy to keep the defenders suppressed while his men broke down their barricades.
“It will take at least two hours to bring the onagers up,” a centurion reported to him. “The streets are crammed with Saturnalia revelers. Even with our blades drawn it is proving difficult to clear a path.”
“A bitter irony,” Varus muttered. “A war rages within the holiest place in Rome, yet the people celebrate the festival as if nothing were amiss.”
The prefect had ordered his infantry and scorpion crews to use fire only on the smaller shrines. He was willing to sacrifice a few, if it created a breach for his praetorians. What he did not want was for them to use flaming shot on the great Temple of Jupiter itself. Such a loss would have been unforgivable.
While men grabbed burning torches from the metal fire pit they dragged up to the landing, scorpion crews wrapped oil-soaked rags to the ends of their bolts and set them alight. The flinging of fire brands and burning scorpion bolts was quickly having its intended effect. A dried wooden portico on a small shrine of Minerva burst into flames. The defenders on that structure were driven from the rooftop, but they persisted in repelling the guardsmen who attempted to scale the wall with their ladders.
While the brawl along the rampart continued, an ardent scorpion crew decided to dislodge the defenders on the Temple of Jupiter. With the wea
pon set to max elevation, a burning bolt was placed in the feed tray. The flames obscured the gunner’s vision. He quickly loosed the bolt, lest the scorpion catch fire. The projectile flew in a high arc, embedding itself in one of the massive eagles that sat on either end of the temple. Unbeknownst to most, these large monuments were neither stone nor marble, but carved out of wood. One hundred and thirty years with only the occasional repainting had left the large bird in a highly combustible, bone dry condition. Flames quickly engulfed the eagle, causing both defender and attacker to panic.
“What the fuck have they done?” Varus shouted, as he raced across the Forum towards the One Hundred Steps. As if to emphasize the gods’ displeasure, a large gust of wind blew across the top of Capitoline Hill, carrying the burning remnants of the shrine of Minerva portico onto that of the Temple of Jupiter. The massive and most sacred monument to Rome’s chief deity was now in flames.
As a million sets of eyes fell upon the burning Temple of Jupiter, which dominated the horizon, the men who had manned its defenses fled for their lives. Domitian and the men inside rushed through the large doors, closing them behind them. Many of the vigiles cried out about how all was lost, that Jupiter himself had abandoned them.
And while this sacrilege wrapped in hellfire certainly unnerved the attacking praetorians, it gave them the breach into the Flavian defenses they so desperately needed. Tribune Pacensis now realized his right flank was completely exposed. The One Hundred Steps could no longer be defended.
“Fall back to the inner courtyard!” he ordered his men.
Dread had already overcome many of them, and they were looking for a means of escape.
As the tribune attempted to maintain order of his terrified troops, a praetorian grabbed a discarded spear from the barricade and flung it at him. The blade plunged into the back of his leg. Pacensis cried out in pain and fell to his knees. Unable to regain his footing, he was grabbed by the helm from behind by an infuriated guardsman.
