Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians

by James Mace

  “So dies a filthy traitor,” the man snarled, as he plunged his gladius into the side of the tribune’s neck.

  Aemilius Pacensis lay dying, watching helplessly as his life’s blood gushed onto the cobblestones. He hoped history would view him kindly. Would future generations remember him as the disgraced overthrown leader of Otho’s maritime expedition? Or would they know that in the end, he chose to fight for the right side, and gave his life so Rome might be saved from the reign of the tyrants.

  “Our southern defenses have fallen!” Paulinus called out to Centurion Cornelius. The commander of the first urban cohort looked over his shoulder and saw dozens, if not hundreds of praetorians storming into the square. And like every man on both sides, he was horrified to see the Temple of Jupiter engulfed in fire.

  “Fall back!” he shouted to his men, who quickly abandoned the barricade atop the Gemonian Stairs.

  Within seconds, Vitellians smashed through the barricade, many scrambling over the wreckage. Most of the vigiles were now in a state of panic. The roof of the Temple of Jupiter was completely engulfed in flames, with thick clouds of black smoke jutting towards the heavens. The walls and pillars were of stone, the inner scaffolding and supports were made of wood. This terrible desecration also unnerved the praetorians. Though they started the blaze, they managed to keep their composure and now swarmed the overwhelmed soldiers from the urban cohorts.

  A wall of more stalwart Flavians kept themselves between Sabinus and their adversaries. And though they fought courageously, even while their companions tried to flee in terror, they were little match for the former soldiers from the Rhine Army. The Vitellians were arrayed in battle formation, their shield walls smashing into the outmatched vigiles. Many fell beneath the praetorian blades in a bloody frenzy. As they continued to be driven back, the lone guardsman fighting for the Flavians grabbed Sabinus by the shoulder.

  “We have to get you out of here, sir!” Tiberius Statius shouted, above the din of shields crashing and crackling of flames from the temple. “Follow me, there’s a narrow path cut into the backside of the hill.”

  “No,” Sabinus said, shaking his head. “It’s me they want. Save who you can, but I will accept whatever the fates hand me.”

  “I am with you, Sabinus,” Atticus added. “As Consul of Rome, I will not cower in the face of an emperor who is already beaten.”

  “Gods go with you,” Statius said. He knew the vigiles’ battle line would not hold much longer, as their flanks collapsed under the onslaught of praetorian cohorts from each direction. Near the Temple of Concord he found both Celsus and Paulinus.

  “It’s over lads,” Paulinus said, to the remnants of the urban cohorts. “They win this one.”

  “General, I need you to follow me,” Statius said emphatically. “Just over the western wall there is a narrow path. It will lead us down to a back alley below. You cannot stay here; if you do, your life will be forfeit before Vitellius.”

  “And should we run into your mates down there?” Celsus asked.

  “I’ll take care of that, sir,” Statius assured him.

  “We’ve captured the traitor’s brother!” a voice shouted.

  The battle was drawing to its ignominious close.

  “Come on,” the guardsman said, as they watched the cheering praetorians surround Sabinus and Atticus. The surviving vigiles were being disarmed and led away.

  The wall was hidden in the shadows of one of the many shrines. The crash of the roof imploding on the Temple of Jupiter was deafening, ash and glowing wisps of embers fell all around them. Statius pulled himself onto the wall, turning back to face his companions as he eased himself down onto the constricted ledge below.

  “This first bit is the trickiest,” he said. “A few feet down it widens enough to gain better footing.” He slowly lowered himself down the far side of the wall.

  Paulinus helped Celsus over the wall. His fellow former Othonian general was encumbered by civilian dress. As he pulled himself up and over, he was startled by the distance from the wall to the ground below. The old general took a deep breath and lowered himself down until his feet found purchase on the jutting rocks.

  “Ease over to your right,” Statius directed him.

  Paulinus saw a handful of men from the urban cohort running towards the nearby alley. Either they had fought their way past the praetorians or found another way down. Most had dropped their weapons and were stripping off their armor, so as to not be recognized as enemy combatants by the Vitellians.

  Once he found his footing, it was a short trek to the street below. The path was little more than a series of rock outcroppings allowing them to climb down. As the three men landed on the cobblestone road, they heard the clattering of armored men running towards them.

  “Hold, guardsman!” a voice shouted.

  The three turned to see about twenty praetorians led by a tesserarius. A minute number of Otho’s former guardsmen had been allowed to remain with the praetorians, yet none of these men knew Statius. The officer pointed his gladius and demanded, “Password!”

  “Juno Vitellius,” Statius answered. “Now let us pass.”

  “Just a minute. Who are these men? Prisoners?”

  “Loyal generals of the empire,” Statius replied. “Do you not recognize the former consul or the savior of Britannia?”

  “How do I know whether they are loyalists…” the tesserarius’ words were cut short as an enraged Paulinus stepped forward and slammed the palm of his hand into his shoulder armor.

  “You would do well to lower your fucking weapon,” he said, keeping his voice low yet filled with anger. His eyes narrowed as the praetorian officer swallowed hard. “This man just gave you the proper password. Now stand down, or I will drag you before the emperor myself.”

  “Y…yes, sir,” the man responded nervously, quickly sheathing his gladius. “Forgive us, general. We saw a number of Flavians escape from the Hill, and we hoped to catch the lot.”

  “They headed west towards the Field of Mars,” Statius lied.

  “They’ll be hard pressed to get through the crowds of Saturnalia revelers,” Celsus added. “If you hurry, you might catch a few of them.”

  The tesserarius nodded and waved for his men to follow him. He seemed glad to be away from the enraged General Paulinus. Few guardsmen ever stepped into the senate chambers. Therefore, they had no knowledge of Paulinus’ Flavian sympathies. All they knew was he was still lauded as a national hero, despite his previous loyalties to Otho.

  “It is here I must leave you,” Statius said. “I have practically no influence over this lot of praetorians. However, I can be your eyes and ears within the palace. Once Primus takes the city, I will guide your men to Vitellius.”

  “Very good,” Paulinus said.

  The general then turned to Celsus. “I go to join the Flavian Army. I will not have my last battle of this war end in defeat.”

  “My armor and weapons are at my villa just outside the city,” Celsus replied. “If I can get there without being detained, I will join you for the final assault.”

  The two men clasped hands before departing.

  “May Fortuna guide us.”

  Paulinus made his way back to his home. It was only two miles from the Forum, but it took him the better part of three hours, due in no small part to the main roads overflowing with drunken revelers. It was evening by the time he returned to his house, retrieved his horse, and made his way across the Milvian Bridge on the northern outskirts of the city. Armed militias and bands of Vitellian loyalist soldiers roamed about in stark contrast to the celebrations that consumed so much of the city. Strangely enough, no one stopped or questioned the general. A group of auxiliaries actually came to attention and saluted Paulinus as he crossed over the bridge.

  Domitian trembled in terror as he hid beneath the tattered robes. A temple slave grabbed him and hustled the young man into the Temple of Concord, once the vigiles surrendered to the Vitellian praetorians.

&
nbsp; “You will be safe here,” the slave reassured him, handing him a ratty set of robes.

  “How can you be so sure?” Domitian asked. “Do you know who I am?”

  “The son of Rome’s rightful emperor,” the slave said, with a short bow. “But it is your uncle they want, highness. I doubt they even know you are here. These terrible blasphemers have already burned our most sacred temple. Jupiter himself will strike them down. But you must remain inconspicuous.”

  The slave led Domitian to a side alter, where he directed him to pull his hood up and kneel in prayer.

  Vitellian guardsmen came into the temple, though soon left after not seeing any uniformed Vigiles or other nobles. Domitian was one among a dozen men kneeling at the altar. The praetorians likely had no idea what he looked like, and so they paid him no mind.

  “Remain here with us, highness,” the slave said, placing his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Your father’s army will soon come to liberate Rome from the oppressors. Until then, let us pray for their victory.”

  While Domitian remained hidden within the Temple of Concord, and Suetonius Paulinus crossed the Milvian Bridge, Sabinus’ messenger finally reached the Flavian camp. Unlike Paulinus, he was unable to ride boldly from the city, but instead had to rely on stealth. It was only when he reached a barricade near the Aqueduct of Claudius that he spurred his horse into a gallop, leaping over the palisade stakes before the startled soldiers could react. Once he was out of the city, it took him some time to reach Primus’ army, and find the general.

  The red glow of the Temple of Jupiter forewarned the entire Flavian Army, though from their position ten miles distant, it was difficult to ascertain exactly what caused the red glow on the horizon. The messenger had departed well before the temple caught fire, so he could not say for certain either.

  “Vitellius was intercepted on his way to the Temple of Concord,” the scout reported. “His loyal praetorians and citizens’ militia have stated their lives are already forfeit, and that they would rather die with dignity rather than surrender in disgrace.”

  “Damn it all!” Primus swore. “What of Sabinus and Domitian?”

  “Domitian’s whereabouts are unknown,” the man replied. “But Sabinus has armed himself for battle, as has General Paulinus. They are leading the urban cohorts in a defense of Capitoline Hill, where Vitellius’ praetorians have them surrounded.”

  The last statement caused Aula to gasp. If the Vitellians knew all was lost, how would they exact retribution against the victorious Flavians?

  After what transpired at Cremona, Primus was fearful his army would subject Rome to the same horrifying fate. The empire had nearly bankrupted itself during Nero’s attempts to rebuild the city following the Great Fire. And now, there was the very real risk that Rome would be destroyed once more; this time by her own soldiers.

  With Vitellius no longer in control of the city and Sabinus either dead or captured, the Flavian general knew he had no choice. And, he was not about to make the same mistake he made prior to Second Bedriacum, allowing himself to be drawn into a nighttime battle.

  “Alert the legions,” Primus said. “We march at dawn!”

  Chapter XXXI: Fate is Calling

  Rome

  19 December 69 A.D.

  Titus Flavius Sabinus

  Flavius Sabinus had been stripped of his weapon and armor before the praetorians led him off Capitoline Hill. The surviving vigiles were crammed into the Tullianum Prison to await Vitellius’ judgment. Whether the emperor was feeling merciful and would simply cashier the lot or make a harsh example of them via execution remained to be seen. The praetorians had taken it upon themselves to form a firefighting effort with civilian volunteers to prevent any further destruction atop Capitoline Hill.

  With the fighting now over, citizens were flocking to the Forum. Stages were being quickly erected, where the night’s bawdy theatrical performances would be played out for the delight of the masses. It seemed rather macabre, sacrilegious even, that this would all happen while the Temple of Jupiter smoldered above them.

  There was also a planned nighttime chariot race at the Circus Maximus. Amateurs would be allowed to compete with their own chariots for a chance at fortune and glory. Such a race was extremely hazardous at night even for professional charioteers. The chance of dazzling wrecks, coupled with serious injury or death, were part of the event’s charm. All of that was far from Vitellius’ mind, however, as his city prefect and one of the imperial consuls were dragged before him. The emperor had been told of their capture, and had ceased in his midafternoon meal to quickly don his formal purple robes of state and laurel crown. He sat upon the throne as a herald blew a somber note on his trumpet. As he gazed upon the two prisoners, he noticed Atticus appeared disheveled and perhaps repentant. Sabinus stood tall and defiant.

  “Dear Sabinus,” Vitellius began, while shaking his head for emphasis. “To think it should end this way. All this time I had faith that your loyalty to Rome was greater than to your failure of a brother.”

  “My brother was a failure at many things,” the city prefect replied. “But he’s beaten you.” This retort caused one of his guards to swiftly punch him in the stomach, doubling him over.

  “Enough!” Vitellius snapped. He signaled for the praetorians to move away from Sabinus. The emperor slowly stepped down from the dais and turned to Atticus. “You disappoint me, consul. All of my advisors have called for your execution, but I am feeling merciful. However, that mercy will only come if you answer me one question. Who was it that set fire to the Temple of Jupiter? Was it my men or yours?”

  “It…” Atticus stammered. “It was my soldiers, sire. They panicked and hoped the flames would shield their escape.” He hung his head in shame.

  No one in the room, least of all Vitellius, believed him. It was what he wished to hear, however, that he might be absolved of the sacrilege. “Your life will be spared,” he said. “But you will spend the rest of your years in exile. Pandataria should suffice. You’ll be able to walk its circumference in less than an hour. You will become well acquainted with the island prison of Augustus’ abominable daughter, Julia.” Atticus said nothing, and Vitellius waved for the guards to take him away.

  “He’ll never even reach Pandataria,” Sabinus scoffed. “Within a day, maybe two, you and I will both be dead and Atticus lauded as a hero by Vespasian. And you know as well as I that it was your praetorians who burned the temple.”

  “You are right about one thing,” Vitellius replied, standing close to him. “ You will be dead by the morrow. Believe me, this breaks my heart; for in spite of your treachery, I still admire you. I would have sent you to someplace not quite as remote as Pandataria, in hopes that you might repent once Vespasian is crushed. But there are limits to even my power as emperor. I may have been able to convince the senate and my imperial council to spare Atticus, but there is no way we can allow the traitorous Flavians to live. Take heart that your sons will be spared, but Vespasian’s will die along with their faithless father.”

  “And I will see you very soon in the pits of Hades,” Sabinus retorted. He started to walk away, his hands still bound in front of him.

  Vitellius nodded quickly to the praetorians and to Prefect Varus, who led the defiant Flavian away.

  A full century of guardsmen formed a column of two files, with Sabinus walking between them towards the front. Varus marched next to him, keeping one hand on his shoulder. The procession drew hundreds of curious onlookers who followed the men, trying to catch glimpses of the prisoner. Many recognized Sabinus and called out his name in disbelief. All knew of the battle between the praetorians and urban cohorts, accented by the black columns of smoke which spewed forth from the wreckage of the Temple of Jupiter. Many who were not present at the Forum when the fighting erupted, now realized it was the much-loved Flavius Sabinus who’d finally come forward to fight for his brother.

  During the long walk to the Forum, Sabinus’ eyes were fixed on the plume o
f smoke that hung like a pall over the city. He had accepted this was a possible fate the moment he armed himself. He now wished he had died fighting beside his men atop Capitoline Hill. Brave Centurion Cornelius and the redeemed Tribune Pacensis had fallen valiantly. Sabinus found he envied their fate. The erection of stages and the preparations for the night’s entertainment ceased as the somber procession made its way to the base of the Gemonian Stairs. Hundreds of praetorians and other volunteers were still scurrying about, bringing up buckets of water to put the blazes out.

  As the praetorians fanned out into a hollow square, one of their number removed his helmet and drew his gladius.

  “Kneel,” he ordered Sabinus.

  Instead, the former general, who led the Ninth Legion during the Conquest of Britannia, found the courage that had been dormant for far too long. He slammed his forehead into the man’s face, smashing his nose. He cried out and dropped his weapon.

  “I die standing, like a Roman!” he snapped. Sabinus stared accusingly at Varus. “At least have the decency to kill me yourself, rather than having one of your lackeys do it!”

  The guardsmen were shocked by what they had witnessed, but many broke into grins of admiration for the old general and former consul. All knew his reputation as a soldier, even if he hadn’t donned his armor in more than twenty years. Many had to suppress the urge to break into cheers for the condemned Flavian.

  Prefect Varus simply nodded and removed his helmet, which he handed to a nearby guardsman. He drew his gladius and walked over to Sabinus, whose gaze bore into him. A Vitellian loyalist to the end, and one who had forcibly prevented the emperor’s abdication, Varus had nothing but contempt for Sabinus. As if to punish him before death, he plunged the blade of his weapon into the older man’s stomach. Sabinus’ eyes squeezed shut and he gritted his teeth, doubling over as he fought the urge to cry out in pain. Blood gushed onto Varus’ blade as he wrenched the spatha free. He grabbed Sabinus by the hair and violently hacked away at his neck, blood spraying him. It took several blows, but finally Sabinus’ twitching body fell to the ground, leaving Varus clutching the bloodied head.