by James Mace
“Yes, sir?” Gaius replied, turning to face his commander.
“The cohort is to take position up ahead on the far slope of that short ridge. We will be on the extreme left near the lake. Should the enemy refuse to yield, we are to charge down the hill and smash into their flank.”
“If that happens, Julius can take my position,” Gaius conceded, knowing he’d be lucky to stumble the short distance to their position, let alone lead half their century in a charge.
“You’ll be interested to know that your little friend, Aula Cursia Vale, is with our commanding general.”
At this remark, Gaius actually broke into a short laugh. “You call her my ‘little’ friend, yet she is tall enough to look me in the eye,” he observed.
“What is she doing with General Primus?” Julius asked, his brow furrowed.
“I believe the tribune leading the Vitellians once served under her father,” Gaius explained.
“Our commanding general hopes perhaps she can persuade the praetorians to see reason,” Nicanor added. “It would be a shame if we have to spill any more blood of our countrymen this day. Enough Romans have died over the past year. I would rather no more had to be slain, not even the Vitellians.”
Prefect Junius Priscus rode at the head of his detachment from the Praetorian Guard. Lucius Vitellius rode beside him wearing a legate’s muscled cuirass with a purple cloak over his left shoulder.
There was a sense of nervous confusion amongst the ranks of the guardsmen. While they had all sworn the oath of allegiance to Vitellius, now that he was dead they did not hold similar loyalties to his brother or son. They were uncertain whether they should continue to follow Lucius or align themselves with Vespasian. Lucius assured them repeatedly that the people would rise up and proclaim Germanicus as Caesar, overthrowing his father’s murderer.
As they approached the smaller lake that lay to the east, the road made its way between a pair of short ridges. These were covered in legionaries. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight and could be seen from several miles away. Priscus recognized the black shields of the Tenth Legion, as well as the red of the Twenty-First Rapax. The largest number of shields were orange, and he did not recognize their markings.
“Must be that new legion Galba raised last year,” he surmised. As he recalled, this particular legion had been under the direct command of Marcus Antonius Primus. He knew the display of various legions who previously battled against each other, and were now standing on the same battle line, was to demonstrate without doubt that the defeated legions of Vitellius stood with Vespasian.
“The Predator Legion now stands with the usurper,” Priscus said, nodding towards the shields bearing the emblem of Capricorn. They, like the other cohorts, were arrayed by centuries in battle formation.
“Damnable traitors,” Lucius spat. “I will see the entire legion disbanded and their legate crucified for this outrage!”
Approximately a quarter mile from the twin formations of legionaries, a detachment of cavalry awaited the approaching praetorians. Riding well ahead of them was General Antonius Primus with a small escort.
“Primus.” Lucius scowled, recognizing the legate. “I want his head on a spike!”
“In due time,” Priscus cautioned. “We should parlay with him before deciding upon any hostile action. Let us not be too hasty. After all, they hold the high ground and have us comfortably outnumbered.”
Lucius made ready to protest, but given the prefect’s hard demeanor, he knew his suggestion was more of a statement than a request. The two men spurred their horses into a fast canter, as the praetorian officers halted their cohorts. The guardsmen all bore expressions of consternation at the sight of fifteen thousand imperial legionaries facing them, plus the cavalry regiment arrayed on either side of the road. A row of scorpions were emplaced ahead of the legions for added psychological effect.
“Commander Priscus,” Primus said, as the two men rode up to him. “What is the meaning of this? The war is over. Vitellius is dead, and his legions have declared for the Flavians. The senate has confirmed Vespasian’s legitimacy as Caesar, backdating the start of his reign to the first of July. Vitellius has been named an unlawful usurper who stole the throne from the rightful emperor, Marcus Salvius Otho.”
It was, of course, hypocritical for Primus to refer to Vitellius as a usurper. Vespasian had acted exactly as he had against Otho. His last statement was also a deliberate falsehood, for the senate had also yet to convene. However, the Flavian commander-in-chief knew the outcome was a forgone conclusion.
While Priscus remained silent, Lucius flew into a rage.
“Damn Vespasian and his duplicity!” he snarled. “Otho murdered Emperor Galba, and my brother avenged him. We come to claim the rights of Germanicus Vitellius, in whose name I am now Regent of the Empire; not you, traitor .”
No one responded to him. Instead, Priscus’ eyes fell upon Aula, who sat astride her horse beside Primus.
“Lady Vale,” he said respectfully. “In these difficult times, it warms my heart to see you well. Though it also saddens me to see you have declared your allegiance to the Flavians.”
“As has my father,” Aula replied. “It is he I am here to represent, not Emperor Vespasian or even the good General Primus.”
“Your father is a senile fossil,” Lucius rebuked. “That he would cast his lot with the Flavian traitors undoes all his years of service to the empire. For your impudence, I shall invoke damnatio memoriae upon him and exile the entire Cursor family!”
Aula’s gaze narrowed. She spoke slowly, her voice like ice. “Take heed of your ill-chosen words,” she said, throwing back her cloak and reveling her spatha. “Were General Primus not under orders to take you alive, I would split you from your shriveled balls to your throat.”
“You dare threaten me, woman?” Lucius sneered. “Once the people hear of my approach, they will cast out the soldiers of the usurper, who lacks the courage to even show his face in Rome.”
“And where are the people?” Primus countered, shaking his head in disbelief. “All of Rome knows the brother of a dead pretender marches with a paltry force of a few praetorian cohorts.” He waved his hand back towards the legions. “I have brought but a fraction of the army that overthrew your despotic brother, and yet this lot alone outnumbers you four-to-one.”
Aula spoke up quickly, addressing the praetorian tribune. “Priscus, please, I implore you. I can speak for my father who loved you as if you were his own son. That love makes you my brother. I ask, as your sister, to put an end to this madness. Do not allow another Roman life to be lost in vain.”
Priscus nodded slowly, then turned his attention to Primus. “I wish to put an end to the fighting,” he said. “What terms are you offering?”
Lucius looked at him, horrified at the prospect of negotiating a surrender to the Flavians.
“Your men swore an oath that they thought was right,” Primus replied, having rehearsed his words during the short march from Rome. “Though they emplaced the pretender on the throne, Emperor Vespasian wishes to give each of them the chance to expunge the misjudgment from their collective conscience.”
Primus took a breath and paused for a brief moment before laying out the terms he had decided upon, having first sent a dispatch to Mucianus. “You and your men are ordered to surrender their arms and return with us to Rome. At the praetorian barracks, each man will be given the opportunity to swear his allegiance to the true Emperor of Rome, Titus Flavius Vespasian. Your peers refused to do so, and their blood stains the barracks of the Guard. Those who swear fealty to Vespasian will be welcomed back into the ranks of the emperor’s most distinguished guard. Those who do not will be discharged and ordered to leave the city. No further actions will be taken; they can still live out the rest of their days as free men with the emperor’s clemency.”
“And if we reject your terms?” Lucius spoke up quickly, before Priscus could reply.
“Then every last one of you will di
e today,” Primus said plainly. “Starting with you. The corpses will be left to rot along the road, with a pall of shame falling upon the families of the slain.”
Lucius was filled with terror as reality finally set in. His force was hopelessly outmatched, and there would be no uprising from the people. His rather sad and pathetic bluff had been called. Given Priscus’ lack of resolve, he realized the praetorians who had marched with him would now do anything to save their own necks, even if it meant betraying the heir to the throne. He noted that Primus’ offer had only addressed the guardsmen, and not him.
“W…what terms are you offering me?” he stammered.
“Terms?” Primus asked in return, chuckling softly. “If you’d had any sense, you would have returned to Rome and offered your submission once your brother’s cause was lost. Instead, you don the imperial purple, which you have no right to wear, and you march towards the capital in an attempt to cause sedition amongst the good citizens. No, sir, there are no terms offered to you. Regrettably, the brother and son of Vitellius must die.”
Aula quickly turned her gaze to Primus, her eyes widening at the thought of the boy, Germanicus, having to forfeit his life because of who his father was. She remained silent, reminded of the words of Emperor Augustus, ‘There can be only one Caesar’ . She took a deep breath in through her nose, and fixed her eyes on Lucius Vitellius once more. Her right hand twitched as her feelings of loathing towards this despicable man rose.
“Give me a few moments to confer with my senior officers,” Priscus requested. “If my men will follow my lead, then we will accept your terms of surrender.”
“You’ve betrayed me!” Lucius screeched in despair. He made to draw his weapon.
Aula proved too fast. Her spatha flew from its scabbard, and before Lucius could fully unsheathe his blade, he felt the cold steel plunge into his guts beneath his breastplate. The weapon was not only cold but razor sharp. Aula leaned forward slightly in her saddle, her expression one of pure malice.
The threats to her father and family had filled her with a boiling rage that had been completely foreign to her. Lucius tried to gasp as blood and spittle ran down the corners of his mouth. Aula wrenched her weapon free, and the brother of the slain pretender fell from his horse. She was suddenly drenched in a cold sweat, as a shiver ran up her spine.
“Well done,” the general remarked casually. “You are certainly quick with a blade. If you possess even a fraction of your father’s skill, I’d like to see how you’d fare in the arena.”
Aula took a deep breath. “Forgive me. It’s not every day a Roman noblewoman has to kill another human being…even if he was a maniacal shit. I only did what I had to, nothing more.”
All the while, she stared at the thrashing body of Lucius Vitellius, as death slowly took him.
“And by doing so, put an end to this disgusting war,” Priscus spoke. “You have also saved my life, Lady Vale. For that I am ever in your debt.” He bowed before turning his horse and riding back to his men.
The praetorians were talking frantically amongst themselves. Those in the front ranks had witnessed Lucius Vitellius’ slaying.
After a few moments, the prefect turned and raised his spatha high. “Hail, Caesar! Hail, Vespasian!”
Praetorian gladii were drawn and held up in salute.
“Hail, Caesar! Hail, Vespasian!”
The final encounter with the Vitellians had been rather anticlimactic, but Gaius Artorius and the other Flavian soldiers were relieved the fighting was finally over. Primus had elected to leave most of his detached army near the lake, where they would camp for the evening before returning to Rome. Most of the legionaries took the opportunity to bathe. Though central Italia was still relatively warm, even in December, the lake water was brisk. Gaius found it helped his arm immensely, and he stood in the deeper waters almost up to his neck, working to stretch the injured limb.
“Damn it all, but I hope I get use of this back soon,” he grumbled.
Nicanor joined him. The centurion had stripped down and brought his razor with him.
“About that,” Nicanor said, as he began to shave. “I have spoken with Centurion Galeo, and he agrees you should not return with us to Judea just yet.”
“What are you talking about?” the optio protested. “I think I have proven myself as much as anyone here. Even with an injured arm, I can do my duty.”
“Perhaps. But your chances of fully healing are impeded if you keep banging about with the rest of us. You need to rest and rehabilitate properly; something which you haven’t done since Cremona.”
Gaius started to speak up when Nicanor interrupted him.
“This is not a request, Gaius. You are being given two months of convalescent leave which you will take in Ariminum.”
“Ariminum?” the optio asked. “Why?”
“It is a rather splendid seaside city, perfect for what ails you. Plus I think your brother’s widow could use the company of a friend.”
Gaius was suddenly subdued. Laura had probably remained at Ariminum for the time being, and Gaius did feel a rather strong sense of obligation towards her. “When do I leave?”
“Pack your kit and you can leave tomorrow,” Nicanor answered. “I’ve convinced Galeo that we should give you until the end of February to get your arm strength back. If you manage to do so, then you can take your place among your brothers. And if not…well, we’d best not think about that now. We’ll sort that out, should it arise.”
Chapter XXXV: Regent of the Empire
The Senate, Rome
22 December 69 A.D.
***
The two days that followed the execution of Vitellius had been a firestorm of activity. Lucius Vitellius was now dead, with his widow left to see to their remains. Arrius Varus had assumed the role of acting praetorian prefect and had spent much of his time trying to find suitable candidates to fill all the vacancies. In what would become a modicum of Vespasian’s assumption of power, Arrius had promised full pardon to all who returned to their duties and swore allegiance to the new emperor. ‘As the divine Julius Caesar pardoned the venerable Titus Pullo, so too does Emperor Vespasian offer you pardon,’ he had said.
Still, it was proving problematic. Only about half of the guardsmen who accompanied Lucius Vitellius agreed to give their oaths to Vespasian. The rest had taken their discharge and were now banished from the imperial capital. The former Othonian praetorians had been welcomed back into the Guard; that still left Arrius with scarcely four thousand guardsmen, in a force that could reach as high as twenty thousand soldiers. And while Primus had agreed to look into transferring suitable candidates from the army, he adamantly refused to deplete the legions, as Vitellius had done.
Of even greater importance was reestablishing the urban cohorts. Those who had been imprisoned after the battle on Capitoline Hill had been freed and reinstated, though they were still critically understrength. The already raucous Saturnalia celebrations had turned into something far more sinister. It seemed that every district and neighborhood, even those that had been nowhere near the fighting, were now subjected to looting and other various crimes. The cheekiness of the week of mischief had given way to savage muggings, rape, and vandalism.
Primus had tasked the equite tribunes of the plebs with finding a new prefect and volunteers to fill the ranks immediately. While the thought had briefly crossed his mind of tasking his soldiers with maintaining order, he knew this would prove disastrous. Legionaries were not policemen. At the first sign of unrest, there was the risk that they would start killing indiscriminately, while perhaps taking part in the ransacking themselves.
Above all else, Antonius Primus knew he needed to convene the senate immediately. More than six years had passed since he’d set foot within the chamber, and that was when he was stripped of his position as a senator and exiled from the city.
On the morning of 22 December he rose before sunrise, bathed, shaved, and donned his best toga. In a show of solidarity amon
g the Flavians, as well as the former Vitellians, he was accompanied by Suetonius Paulinus, Marius Celsus, and even Silius Italicus. There were a hundred different conversations taking place as Primus entered the chamber. All were immediately silent, eyes on him. The two consuls fidgeted rather uncomfortably in their chairs.
“Senators of Rome,” Primus’ voice boomed. “I have returned.”
“You are most welcome, General Primus,” Consul Simplex said, as he stood and bowed.
“Am I?” The general’s expression remained unchanged. He then waved for the senators to take their seats and walked across the floor. The senators who had accompanied him took their seats near the speaker’s platform. Paulinus carried a sealed scroll in his hands.
“Know that I come, not as a senator, nor as a general,” Primus began, “but simply as an envoy to Rome’s rightful emperor, Titus Flavius Vespasian. He wishes to open the arms of friendship and reconciliation to this august body.”
“And we welcome you as a Roman general and envoy of the Flavians,” Senator Italicus replied. His eyes fell accusingly on a number of Vitellian supporters. It said much to his political adaptability. He hoped by accompanying the conquering general who had overseen the death of his dear friend, Vitellius, there might be reconciliation between factions.
Italicus continued, “As a token of our esteem, I recommend Marcus Antonius Primus be reinstated to his place within the senate, and that he be given consular regalia.”
“I will second this,” Simplex quickly added. “And if it pleases the general, I will give him my own consular ornaments, that he may assume my duties.”
“If you will accept, then I gladly welcome you as my colleague,” Consul Atticus remarked.
There were numerous calls of affirmation from the assembly. Primus grimaced. Though he understood Italicus’ intent, he found the whole display to be utterly nauseating. He knew the only reason the senate now lauded him was because his armies had taken the city and killed the usurper. And with Vitellius’ brother disposed of, opposition from any of the Vitellian loyalists gave way to flattery and the hopes of saving personal fortunes.
