by James Mace
Despite being savaged by a second pila storm, the praetorians stalwartly held the line. Ranks were reformed, shields linked together, and with a loud cry of hatred they charged the Flavian lines. Hundreds of shields came together in a deafening clash. Soldiers on both sides fought with a savage frenzy not seen since the hateful slaughter outside the walls of Cremona.
On the left and right wing, the Flavian auxiliaries charged into the mass of Vitellian volunteers. Spear and gladii were thrust with abandon. Both men and women were brutally slain in the onslaught. And though the professional auxiliaries held a decisive advantage over the newly-raised militias in both training and armament, the ensuing battle was certainly not one-sided. The Vitellians fought with admirable courage, and they held a numerical edge over the Flavians. Scores of auxiliaries fell injured or slain, as they continued to brutally cut down swaths of enemy militia.
What finally broke the defenders was the charge of Arrius’ cavalry. As a thousand horsemen on each flank swept between the Eleventh Legion and their supporting auxiliaries, the previously brave fighters of the People’s Army shattered. Many were trampled beneath the chargers’ hooves as the swarm of troopers smashed into the praetorian flanks. Any other armed force would have acknowledged defeat and surrendered. But these guardsmen, so fanatical in their determination to fight to the last, refused to yield. Instead, they conducted a fighting retreat across the bridge, cutting down many of their own allied militia who failed to get out of their way. The bridge was clogged with fleeing soldiers. Thousands of militiamen leapt into the Tiber. A number of those who either neglected to strip off their armor, or who were simply terrible swimmers, sank beneath the current and drowned.
“Secure the far side of the bridge,” Bassus ordered his cavalry. “Once the legion is across, we’ll push into the city proper.”
“Yes, sir,” Arrius responded. He then gave orders to his senior centurions, who shouted for their troopers to follow them.
Had the Vitellian defenses been manned by legionaries, or even substantial numbers of praetorians, they could have conceivably held the bridge against the Flavian assault. But with their militias broken, and the remaining guardsmen fleeing towards their barracks, Arrius’ horsemen had little difficulty in riding down many of their fleeing adversaries. They formed a large semicircular formation on the far side of the bridge. Legionaries quickly followed, centurions keeping their men organized as they pushed past their cavalry and advanced into the city. Auxiliaries followed, though it would be more than an hour before the last of them crossed over. The Milvian Bridge now belonged to the Flavians, and the brutal fighting within the streets of Rome commenced.
For Alfenus Varus and the Vitellian resistance, the situation was quickly deteriorating. Tragically, among the first slain was Vitellius’ son-in-law, Valerius Asiaticus, who had been struck down by a legionary javelin at Milvian Bridge. Originally thinking the Flavians would all attack over the bridge, they had concentrated their forces just on the other side where they hoped to fend them off. But Antonius Primus had divided his huge army into three columns, and the Vitellians were forced to do the same. Varus accompanied his left wing on the Field of Mars, where the Flavian division under General Lupus was now driving away the thousands of citizens who fled the onslaught.
“On me!” Varus shouted from atop his horse, raising his sword high. He had only three cohorts of praetorians but another four thousand volunteer militia.
The Flavians spread out into a long line in between the various temples, foreign embassy buildings, as well as across the large open field where local soldiery drilled. Auxilia archers manned the high steps and rooftops of some of the buildings, raining arrows down upon the attacking Vitellians. It maddened Varus, for although the Flavians were assaulting Rome, they were now content to hold the defensive. Waves of his guardsmen and militia battered the Flavian shield walls in vain. All the while, death rained down on them from above. Hundreds more lay dead or wounded from the Eighth Legion’s javelin volleys. And while the praetorians could more than hold their own against legionaries, the militia were slaughtered in droves. After a couple of hours, and numerous futile assaults, Varus ordered the retreat. The citizen volunteers threw down their weapons and fled for their homes, while the prefect and his guardsmen withdrew to the barracks.
The attack from the northeast would prove far more difficult than either the assault on the Milvian Bridge or across the Field of Mars. The lead cohorts from Legio VII, Gemina, advanced along the narrow road that led between the various country farms and estates. The muddy fields had been churned up by Cerealis’ cavalry the day before, and a fresh splattering of rain that night had turned the ground into a quagmire.
Antonius Primus rode just behind his First Cohort, while Paulinus took charge of the rear of the column with the Judean cohorts. Legionaries advanced quickly but cautiously. The Vitellians knew they were coming, and given the skirmish with their cavalry the day before, they had to suspect the Flavians would send one of the columns this way.
“Too bloody quiet,” a First Cohort legionary muttered.
It was then that Vitruvius spotted the lone enemy soldier standing up behind a tall garden wall, a short throwing spear ready to fly.
“Contact left!” he shouted, as the long dart flew in a high arc towards General Primus. It struck the commander-in-chief directly in the chest, deflecting off his breastplate.
“Contact right!” a centurion called out, as Vitellians on both sides sprung up from behind the walls of various farmhouses.
Stones and throwing spears rained down on the Flavians who quickly dropped behind their shields. The narrowness of the road combined with the slippery mud of the fields made maneuver extremely difficult. Screams were heard as several of Primus’ legionaries were felled in the barrage.
The enemy skirmishers were lightly equipped, and they quickly bounded from one farmhouse to the next. Dozens of smaller battles broke out, as centuries attempted to surround each walled complex and root out their assailants.
Towards the rear of the column, General Paulinus saw the havoc and ordered half his cavalry to swing out to the right and encircle the farmhouses from behind.
“The rest of you, with me!” he shouted. He then signaled for the Judean cohorts to follow him as well.
The mud was slick and ankle deep in most places as Centurion Galeo led the Fifth Cohort in pursuit of their cavalry. The terrain impeded horses from advancing at more than a quick trot, and even then it was perilous for their riders. Several horses slid onto their sides, throwing troopers into the muck. Gaius used his optio’s staff to maintain his balance, many of his legionaries using their shields and javelins for the same purpose. It took them the better part of an hour to make their way around the series of houses, where legionaries helped each other over the walls. All the while, the Vitellians continued to unleash salvos of various missile weapons upon them.
“We’ll use the cavalry to cut off their escape,” Paulinus informed the three legionary cohort commanders. “Meantime, take your men and clear out those insulae near the gate.”
“Yes, sir.” Galeo and the other centurions acknowledged.
Along the road near the heart of the fighting, Antonius Primus hunkered low behind a wall of legionary shields. Master Centurion Vitruvius crouched down in front of him as they slowly crept towards a nearby house.
“Sir, I wish you weren’t so close to me,” Vitruvius said, with a trace of morbid humor. “You’re the perfect target, you know.”
“As if your centurion’s crest doesn’t stand out,” the commanding general retorted. “Besides, I don’t have a shield, and I can’t exactly get back on my horse, now can I?”
“Oh, you could, sir,” the master centurion said, as a throwing spear skipped off his shield. “Just not sure how long you’d be able to stay mounted before these bastards cut you down.”
Unbeknownst to the defenders, General Paulinus had sent companies of horsemen to attack the buildings. Men rode up n
ear the walls, leaping from their mounts near the gates. Sporadic fighting broke out as the Vitellians were caught unawares. Cavalry troopers quickly fought to get the gates open, allowing the Flavian legionaries to more easily storm each compound.
“That will sort this lot out,” Primus said, as he stood up.
Shrieks echoed from within, as no quarter was given by his soldiers. Those families who had refused to abandon their homes were also slain for providing shelter to the enemy. That they may have had no choice mattered little to the incensed Flavians. The pitiful cries of men and women echoed across the open fields as they were murderously butchered.
The commander-in-chief cringed as he witnessed some of the terrible slaughter. His soldiers were already overly anxious for battle and spoils, and their blood was now boiling, as an unexpected number of their companions had been killed or wounded by the persistent Vitellian ambushers. Would Primus lose all control over them as they swarmed into Rome? All he could do was berate their centurions into keeping their men focused on the task of finishing the Vitellians, rather than abusing and slaughtering the populace.
The commanding general signaled for his manservant to bring up his horse. He quickly mounted and rode to where Paulinus and his contingent were preventing any enemy combatants from escaping into the city. The Judean legionary cohorts were heard smashing in doors of the mostly deserted insulae, many taking what they wished for spoils.
“Once they run out of enemies to fight, they turn to looting,” Paulinus scoffed.
Primus shrugged. “Nothing I wouldn’t do in their position,” he reasoned. “Alright, once we’re through the Colline Gate, I need you to take these men and find General Bassus. The praetorian barracks will likely be where these bastards will make their final stand, and I want them smashed into oblivion.”
“Understood,” his fellow general concurred.
“And thank you, by the way, for that bit of ingenuity,” Primus added. “Sending cavalrymen leaping from their mounts over the walls was bloody brilliant.”
“Just had to get the gates open,” Paulinus reasoned. He nodded in the direction of the Colline Gate. “What say we dispose of the pretender once and for all, while claiming Rome herself as a prize for Emperor Vespasian?”
It was now late afternoon, and the Vitellian defenses had completely collapsed. The issue was never in doubt. Rome was not built like a fortress and was simply too large for a few praetorian cohorts and citizen militias to make a viable stand. The Flavians had them too badly outnumbered, plus all were professional soldiers. The People’s Army made a more resolute stand than any of their adversaries expected. However, assailing walls of armored legionaries could only end badly.
The Flavian columns now swarmed into the city from three directions. Several centuries of legionaries from Primus’ column pursued the fleeing Vitellians through one of the residential districts, south of the Circus Maximus. Sounds of musicians and celebrations filled the air as the fighting spilled into one of the market squares. There was a war going on, and Rome was under assault, yet in a city of over one million inhabitants, those in the southern districts were completely oblivious to the battle.
Historians would later state with revulsion that so many did not care about the strife over the imperial throne. It was the week of Saturnalia, and there were hundreds-of-thousands within Rome who were not about to let something, even as devastating as civil war, come to the imperial capital and spoil their celebrations. Numerous citizens were so oblivious to what was happening, they thought the horde of Vitellian soldiers, now fighting for their lives, was part of the entertainment. The screams of the dying and violent slaughter quickly turned the entertainment into a symphony of terror.
A hastily erected theatrical stage collapsed under the onslaught of a score of Flavian legionaries. The actors found themselves being trampled as soldiers from both sides scrambled through the wreckage. Several were struck inadvertently by blows from gladii. Their costumes were stained with blood as they fell screaming to the ground. The crowds were so thick that those who wished to escape found themselves caught in the middle of the fray, while those on the far end of the square were still unmindful to the violence that had spilled into their celebrations. Dancers, jugglers, and acrobats continued their acts, even as soldiers crashed their shields together, blades slashing and stabbing in fury, both soldier and unfortunate onlooker crying out as they were cut down. Those ill-fated citizens who found themselves in the midst of it all were smashed with shield bosses, stabbed with contempt, and crushed under the bevy of rampaging legionaries.
All organized resistance had collapsed, though the surviving praetorians still refused to surrender. While the People’s Army was cut to pieces by Primus’ unleashed forces, the most fanatical of Vitellius’ guardsmen fled for the perceived safety of the praetorian barracks. It was here that Paulinus found General Bassus, whose Eleventh Claudia Legion was surrounding the large complex.
“Fucking bastards still don’t know that they’re beaten!” the legate spat in contempt.
“Those walls are thirty feet high,” Paulinus observed. “Each tower has at least one scorpion. And who knows how many archers and javelins they have in their armory?”
“I do,” a voice said, behind them. They turned to see Tiberius Statius being roughly handled by four of Bassus’ legionaries.
“We found this praetorian shit lurking about,” one of the men said, cuffing him behind the head.
Statius skull was still rather tender, even though it had been months since his rather traumatic head injury during the Maritime Alpes expedition. “Fuck me, would you take it easy!” He then nodded to Paulinus. “General, sir, would you kindly vouch for me?”
“Unhand him,” Paulinus said to the soldiers. “And give him back his helmet and weapon.” When Bassus looked at him with a perplexed stare, he quickly explained. “This man fought beside us atop Capitoline Hill, where the smoke of the Temple of Jupiter’s wreckage still smolders. Because of him I escaped the same fate as poor Sabinus.”
As the sets of hands released their grip on him, Statius snatched his gladius back from one of the legionaries and then shoved the man roughly. The soldier shoved him back. The two nearly came to further blows.
“Knock that shit off!” Bassus shouted at the men. He then told his soldiers, “Return to your posts. Now, guardsman, what do you have to offer us?”
“You need catapults and a battering ram to get in there,” Statius explained. “And I happen to know where you can get some in a hurry.”
“That’s good,” the legate acknowledged. “Because it will take several hours to bring up our siege trains. I don’t know how long my men will allow themselves to be kept in place. A number of our replacements came from Otho’s former praetorians, and they are anxious for a little revenge.”
“Well, bugger me,” Statius replied with a chuckle. “I probably know most of them. If one of you will come with me, sir, and bring about fifty men. I don’t have any draught animals lying about, and those wagons are pretty damn heavy.”
The warehouse where these siege engines were hidden was only a couple blocks from the barracks, and all could not help but wonder how the guardsman had placed them there in the first place.
“It wasn’t hard,” he explained. “I simply convinced the prefect two months ago that we’d need them for the city’s defense, and they needed to be readily accessible. He then forgot about them.”
“Four onagers with ammunition wagons,” General Bassus noted. “One battering ram with protective shed, and a dozen scorpions.”
“There are also about twenty ladders,” Statius remarked. “And now if you will excuse me, general, I have a usurper to help capture.”
Bassus simply waved the guardsman off, as he ordered his master centurion to see to the deployment of the siege equipment. “Ironic that we’ll be using their own engines against them,” he said to Paulinus, as he stepped out onto the street.
“The re-taking of our camp will
be the crowning achievement of our soldiers,” a former Othonian praetorian said to the legate, as the onager wagons were wheeled into place.
Another added thoughtfully, “The fighting may still be intense, but we’ve given the capital back to the senate and the people of Rome. And the temples of the gods will be restored to their true dignity.”
“Load!” a centurion shouted, as soldiers brought forward the heavy stones for the catapults. Others brought up a small metal fire pit. Alternating volleys of solid and flaming shot would reduce the towers and other defenses to ruin.
For Alfenus Varus and the surviving Vitellian praetorians, the end would come in blood-stained glory. Every last man was determined to fight to the last. Even as the barrage of catapult shot and scorpion bolts pelted the ramparts, the prefect formed up the last two cohorts into a massed battle formation. Their own scorpions were shooting back against their foes, though Varus winced as he watched one of the towers over the gate crumble, the base smashed by Flavian onagers. The men manning the scorpion on top cried out in terror as they tumbled with the mass of shattered stones onto the wall and the ground below.
“They’re bringing up a battering ram, sir!” a guardsman called over his shoulder, before he was shot through the stomach by an enemy scorpion.
“At least this will get things over with,” Varus muttered, drawing his sword. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Make ready, lads! They will not conquer without suffering pain!”
