by James Mace
The ominous sound of the large ram slamming into the gate echoed loudly. All else was silent. Not a man on either side uttered a word with the exception of the officer leading the ramming crew.
“Pull…ram!” A loud crash sounded, and the cross-brace holding the gate split.
“Pull…ram!” Another smash and the gates broke open.
Praetorians wordlessly hefted their javelins up to their shoulders. They were determined that the Flavians would pay a terrible price this day. Hearts pounded in every man’s chest as the ram was wheeled away and the first wave of assault troops burst through the splintered gates.
“Now!” Varus shouted.
Waves of heavy pila flew the short distance to the gate, puncturing shield and armor alike. At least a score of Flavian legionaries fell dead or badly wounded, while at least twice as many had their shields rendered useless by the javelin storm. The praetorians gave a cry of despairing rage and charged.
The soldiers of the Eleventh Legion were only momentarily rattled, the survivors quickly reforming and rushing into the fray. The Vitellians at first held the upper hand. The momentum of their charge knocked the Flavians back towards the gate. However, as men hacked and slashed away at each other, large numbers of legionaries could be seen coming over the walls. Bassus had launched an assault with ladders at the same time as his lead elements stormed through the gates. The impetus of the Vitellian counterattack floundered. They were being assailed on all sides by throngs of furious legionaries.
Varus placed himself in the front rank, so he might lead his men by example. He was one of the first to fall. A legionary pinned himself against the prefect’s shield, while another plunged his gladius into Varus’ exposed neck. Blood spurted from the hideous wound as he fell to his knees. Enraged Flavian soldiers stabbed and hacked away, even after his soul abandoned his body. The rest of the praetorians continued to fight. Their adversaries knew not whether they should admire or hate them for their stubborn tenacity. The former Othonian guardsmen were particularly contemptuous, and they attacked with equal venom. Within an hour, not a single Vitellian within the barracks remained among the living.
Chapter XXXIII: You Win or You Die
The Imperial Palace, Rome
20 December 69 A.D.
Aulus Vitellius
“Come on, hurry up!” Vitellius shouted to his cook and baker, as they followed him down the steps towards the western entrance to the palace grounds. There his private litter awaited him, along with a dozen slaves. He was in such haste as he dove into the litter he nearly upended it and struggled to pull himself back in. “To my family home on Aventine!”
The streets were filled with chaos, though as far as he could tell, the Flavian troops had yet to storm the neighborhoods in the vicinity of the imperial palace. If he could reach the Vitellian ancestral home in the wealthy neighborhood of the Aventine Hill, he would be safe. From there, he could wait until the cover of darkness then flee to Tarracina, where he could join up with his brother and what loyalist forces remained.
“Stop! Stop!” he suddenly shouted, as soon as they were outside the gates of the palace. Through a gap in the drawn curtains of his litter he could see people rushing to and fro, screaming in both rage and terror. Though none of these people appeared to be soldiers, Vitellius was suddenly filled with trepidation and doubt.
Having absolutely no knowledge as to how the fighting was progressing or what avenues of approach the Flavians had used to breach the city, he was now fearful the districts between Palatine and Aventine Hills had fallen to his enemies. The thought of being pulled from his litter and cut to pieces by Primus’ enraged soldiers caused him to panic. He fell from his litter, scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and fled for what he supposed was the safety of the imperial palace. His servants were dumbstruck. Fearing their master had succumbed to a fit of madness, they dropped the litter and fled for their lives.
Vitellius, red-faced and panting in near hyperventilation, raced through the gates and forced the heavy doors shut. With his hands on his knees, he tried to catch his breath. He had not the courage to commit suicide like his predecessor, Otho. So he knew he needed to find a place to hide.
The palace complex was now utterly deserted. No praetorians guarded the palace grounds. Those who had not fled had all fought and died beside Varus at their barracks. Screams of chaos could be heard clearly out on the streets. Yet for the moment, Vitellius felt safe behind the walls. As he walked quickly past the Temple of Apollo, he cursed that he failed to follow through with the agreement he had reached with Sabinus. His most fervent supporters had forcibly prevented his surrender and abdication, with so many having died for nothing. And now that the city prefect was dead, there would be no negotiation. Even if Primus wanted to take him alive, the unbridled fury of his soldiers would be almost impossible to contain.
The palace was dark aside from a stray oil lamp here and there. Even the slaves had abandoned the palace. Vitellius was truly alone. He was once more in a state of panic, as he reckoned he had made a grievous error. As large as the palace was, there were only so many places one could hide. And while the bedlam out on the streets had been unnerving, being left completely alone within the palace was terrifying. The sounds of his footfalls echoed ominously, as did his labored breathing. As he made his way down every corridor searching for a viable hiding place, he felt completely abandoned. His mother had left him by taking her own life, his wife and children were in hiding, and his brother was at least a hundred miles from Rome. It felt as if even the gods had forsaken Aulus Vitellius.
Down one of the bottom floor hallways, he came across a nondescript room no bigger than a closet. It was full of rags, brooms, and various cleaning supplies, as well as a small bed belonging to the slave who oversaw custodial duties on this end of the palace. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled off his robes and threw them into a corner. He then donned a ragged slave’s tunic, which he saw on a small stand. He took the bed and braced it against the door before huddling into a corner.
“Alright lads!” the Flavian tribune said, as the southern gate to the palace was breached. “We are here to find the pretender, not to plunder for ourselves. Find Vitellius and bring him to me alive!”
Tribune Julius Placidus was as determined as any to find the usurper and bring him to justice, especially after the decapitated corpse of Flavius Sabinus had been found floating in the Tiber. The fighting within the city was essentially over now that the praetorian camp had been taken. The People’s Army that had marched from Rome to defend Vitellius had scattered. Many of its members were now loudly professing their loyalty to Rome’s true emperor, Vespasian. The dead were being hastily cleared away. Most would be tossed into the Tiber as traitors, preventing their mourning families from conducting any sort of funerary rites.
“Come with me, sir,” Guardsman Statius said, as he escorted the tribune up the steps of the palace. “I know this place better than any. If the pretender is hiding in here, we’ll find him.”
While detachments of his men searched the outlying buildings, Julius took a century’s worth of legionaries and began the search of the palace proper. It was an hour later, when he came upon the small closet door, barricaded from the inside.
“What in the bleeding hell?” he grumbled, as he rammed his shoulder against the door.
A pair of legionaries took turns kicking it, until finally the bed that held it closed slid back enough to allow them entrance into the tiny room.
“Who in Hades are you?” he asked the cowering, fat man.
“Please don’t hurt me!” the man pleaded. He was filthy and ragged, the scruff covering his face acted as a disguise.
“Who is it, sir?” a legionary asked, as they opened the door further.
“Just some bloody slave,” Julius replied.
Statius then noticed something glinting on the man’s upheld hands that gave him pause. “Hang on.” He gruffly grabbed the supposed slave by the wrist and drug him out into the
hallway.
“Here, that’s the emperor’s signet ring!” a legionary exclaimed.
“And look at this,” the other said, coming from the closet and holding up the purple imperial robes. “Thought he could hide from us while pretending to be a slave.”
The legionary spat on Vitellius, while the other punched him across the face.
Statius grabbed him underneath the chin and looked him over thoroughly. “It’s him alright. He hasn’t shaved in a couple days, but I recognize that fat face.”
“Get him up,” Julius ordered.
They took a length of cord and bound Vitellius’ hands behind his back. The deposed emperor said nothing but whimpered quietly.
“We found him!” one of the legionaries shouted, as they made their way down the hall.
Shouts of triumph echoed along the corridors, as soldiers made their way into the main foyer to celebrate their success. They shouted profanities at Vitellius, many spitting or physically accosting their former ruler.
“What shall we do with him?” one soldier asked.
“Let’s lop his cock off and feed it to him!” another exclaimed, brandishing his gladius before the petrified Vitellius.
“That’s enough, lads!” their centurion shouted. He walked over and said to Julius, “We should take him to Capitoline Hill. Let the usurper meet justice like all traitors to the empire.”
“Agreed,” Julius replied. “Send word to General Primus. And let all know we have captured the usurper!”
Word had spread quickly, even before Julius and his soldiers found Vitellius. Once the Flavian troops were seen entering the palace, the curious onlookers knew it was only a matter of time before they found their quarry. Most had speculated that Vitellius would attempt to hide within the palace, and as word reached families and friends, a crowd numbering in the thousands gathered. Being subjected to the brutal horrors of urban warfare left many in a state of shock; however, it seemed even terrible bloodshed could not overcome the curious voyeurism of the average Roman citizen.
The throngs of onlookers stretched all the way from the palace to the Forum, and then to the Gemonian Stairs. Most thought that once found, Vitellius would be quickly disposed of. There would be no mock trials; at least he would be spared that indignity.
A loud cheer erupted as Vitellius was led from the palace by Tribune Julius and a century of legionaries. Though unshaven and dressed like a slave, there was no mistaking who they had captured. While a pair of soldiers grabbed him by the arms, Julius held his gladius beneath Vitellius’ neck, forcing him to watch the unfolding spectacle.
“And now the pretender will witness the spoils of his treachery,” the tribune said. He pointed to an otherwise inconspicuous square not far from the palace. “Behold! The sight of Emperor Galba’s murder, brought on by your rebellion!”
In truth, it had been Otho who murdered Galba, but to the people, the current pretender carried the blame.
It was only a short distance from the palace to the Forum, yet it took nearly half an hour to make the journey. The crowds pushed in close, soldiers doing little to prevent them from verbally and physically berating the deposed emperor. As one slapped Vitellius hard across the back of the head, his fat neck was pushed into Julius’ blade, cutting him. One of the legionaries grabbed him by his hair and forced him to look straight ahead.
“The same people who fawned so embarrassingly over your fat ass now curse you to Hades,” the soldier snarled into his ear.
A path was cleared at the Forum, with Vitellius very gruffly dragged to the top of the Stairs of Mourning .
“And there!” Julius shouted, as they reached the top. “The body of our dear city prefect, Flavius Sabinus, murdered and desecrated by your butchers!”
It was a horrific sight. The headless body of Sabinus, lying on its back, covered in blood for all to see. It was completely soaked from spending the better part of a day in the river.
These were all partially unfair accusations. Vitellius had not even known about Galba’s murder. Although by rebelling, he had sought it. And it had been his overzealous loyalists who so gruesomely murdered Sabinus. And yet, he had to bear responsibility for both hideous actions.
“Tribune Placidus!” a voice called. Julius turned to see Arrius Varus approach with about twenty of his cavalry troopers. “Captured the traitor, I see.”
“Yes, and we’re about to do away with him,” Julius replied.
Arrius simply nodded. “Bassus has taken the praetorian barracks,” he said. “And I’m doing all I can to restore some damn order. Those few surviving guardsmen once loyal to this piece of shit have fled. General Primus suspects the pretender’s brother is marching towards Rome with whatever cohorts remain.”
“We’ll dispose of them soon enough,” Julius remarked.
Vitellius closed his eyes and tried to fight back his emotions. He knew his own life was forfeit. He was now terrified for his son. It seemed his enemies were deliberately keeping him alive long enough to torment him with such thoughts, during these last few moments of his life. Generals Primus, Lupus, and Paulinus soon arrived. Marius Celsus managed to return to Rome after the fighting commenced. He too joined his colleagues.
The sound of a dozen blades being drawn echoed in Vitellius’ ears, and he was forced down onto his knees. About thirty legionaries had taken up position halfway up the stairs, fulfilling the crowd-control duty normally taken on by the urban cohorts. Thousands of people crowded into the Forum to witness the grim spectacle. This was the first time in Rome’s often violent history that an emperor was to be cut down by way of execution, like a common criminal. There were no speeches to be made, just the savage meting out of justice. Many of the Flavian soldiers found it both perverse and contemptible that these same people who had groveled over Vitellius in life, were now watching his death with malicious glee.
Primus nodded to Tribune Julius, who grabbed the deposed pretender by the hair. “Vile creature, who should have never been allowed to ascend to the throne,” he hissed.
As he accepted his fate, he found a pang of what may have been called courage. Vitellius looked up at Julius. “That may be,” he said, through his bloody and swollen lip. He then added defiantly, “But I was still your emperor!”
Julius gave a cocked grin in appreciation of this last remark. He raised his gladius high. The crowd gave a voracious cheer as he brought his weapon down in a hard blow across the back of Vitellius’ neck. Vicious blows from the other gathered soldiers soon followed. Within seconds, Vitellius’ head was lopped from his shoulders, blood gushing from the gaping hole that remained. His right arm had been hacked off, though it was still tied to his left, and numerous grisly blows left deep bleeding gashes all over his body. A soldier came forward and impaled the head upon his javelin. Another deafening cheer erupted as he held the bloodied head up high.
“Behold!” Julius shouted, pointing to the head with his sword. “The head of a traitor!”
It was now the evening of the 20 th of December, and the empire at last belonged to Vespasian. He was the fourth man to claim the title of Caesar since January. It appeared there would be no more claimants to try and take the throne by force. He now truly was Master of Rome.
Chapter XXXIV: Last of the Vitellians
Ten Miles South of Rome
21 December 69 A.D.
***
While families of the slain mourned privately, the Senate quickly and rather enthusiastically sought to confirm Vespasian as Emperor of Rome. However, there were survivors among the Vitellians who refused to capitulate, even though their emperor’s severed head now adorned a spike overlooking the Forum. With his brother dead, Lucius Vitellius was doggedly determined to march on Rome and assert his six-year old nephew’s rights to the throne. And so, having disposed of the rebels in southern Italia, he marched doggedly towards the imperial capital.
“We only have six cohorts of guardsmen,” Prefect Junius Priscus protested. “If Primus has taken Rome there is
nothing left we can do. The emperor is dead, and Vespasian now rules the empire. It’s over.”
Lucius smacked the prefect across the face, his eyes widened with rage. “It is never over!” he snarled. “Germanicus Vitellius is now Rome’s rightful emperor. We will seize the capital and enforce his rights to the throne. Once the senate confirms this, naming me regent until young Germanicus comes of age, Primus will have no choice but to stand down. He may have won this battle, but he will lose the war.”
Priscus was baffled by the ever increasing erraticism of Lucius’ behavior. Though he had fought for Vitellius and served as one of his praetorian prefects, he knew neither plebeian nor patrician had any love for the slain emperor. Even if the senate did wish to confer upon Germanicus the right to become Caesar, which was unlikely given his father had been little more than a usurper himself, they were cowed by the victorious armies led by Antonius Primus.
While the Flavian Emperor was far from perfect, Priscus had long admired Vespasian. Undoubtedly there would be those within the senate who decried his less-than-noble origins. However, since the common people were enthralled by one of Rome’s greatest military leaders, who had come from rather humble origins, rising up to become emperor, it was best to let matters lie. Even Vitellius’ closest friends quietly admitted that Flavius Vespasian was a far more suitable candidate to become Caesar.
As for Priscus, though he viewed Lucius Vitellius’ actions as less-than-rational, he still felt duty bound to stand by the deceased emperor’s brother. As such, he left to order his remaining cohorts to make ready to march on Rome.
“Gaius!” Nicanor’s voice called from over the optio’s shoulder.
The Fifth Cohort of Legio X had been dispatched along with roughly fifteen thousand other Flavian soldiers to deal with the remnants of the Vitellians. Their forces were arrayed along a low ridge south of the town of Aricia, ten miles south of Rome. Their left was anchored by a lake that ran almost up to the Via Appia.
