by David Blixt
Taking command, Sabinus gave a few sensible orders about cleaning up the riverbank, then left the rest to Mamercus while he went into the tent to interview Macer alone.
Freed from bondage, the deposed commander talked as he rubbed feeling back into his chafed wrists. “Caecina tried to ford the river. Lashed a bunch of fishing boats together to make a bridge. So, fool that I am, I ordered the men to row me out to a small island upstream – I thought from there we could wreak some havoc. But Caecina's men saw what we were up to and swam to the island faster than these gladiatorial idiots could row. We took heavy casualties and had to pull back, all under the eyes of Caecina's men on the other bank. I think their jeers are what pushed the men over the edge. Our boys locked me up to send me to Otho to be tried for treason.” Macer smiled ruefully. “I don't envy you this command.”
For the life of him, Sabinus couldn't think of anything Macer had done wrong. Recalling what Mamercus had said about order, he decided to impose some. He paraded the men for the briefest of speeches, then returned them to their duty of patrolling the southern bank of the Padus. No coddling, no brow beating. Just crisp, simple orders.
At the same time, he had Macer put on a horse and got him out of the camp, heading back to Otho or Rome, as he saw fit.
At Mamercus' suggestion, Sabinus instituted remedial training in the guise of gladiatorial bouts. The gladiators thought they were being honoured, while the crafty veteran Mamercus taught them a thing or two about real soldiering.
* * *
In Otho's council of war, Paulinus and several other senators expressed a desire to wait for more legions. Thus far only two had arrived – the Seventh Claudia and the Thirteenth Gemina. Besides, already there was talk of feuding between Caecina and Valens. If the two commanding officers fell out, it would destroy the enemy morale. Time, the senators argued, was against the Vitellians.
But, infected by his men's eagerness, Otho was determined to give battle, and viewed temporizing as a lack of enthusiasm for his cause. “Look how well the Praetorians fought! Passion can carry the day!”
“Passion can carry a day,” countered Paulinus. “Training carries a war.”
Unsurprisingly, Otho's views prevailed. Having made the decision to trust to Fortune, he shut his eyes as a man might when leaping off a cliff.
But Otho was not allowed to leap himself. His closest allies refused to allow him to march with the army. “Vitellius isn't in the field, little brother,” said Titianus. “If his side loses, he can fight another day. You must do the same.”
“If my side loses, best I die with them,” countered Otho. But in this, he was firmly over-ruled, forced to stay in the nearby town of Brixellum.
On the Fourteenth of April, the day after the Ides, Otho's army set out without their leader. They marched in a column towards Cremona, making poor progress on the first day due to bickering between the commanders. But they were heartened by the fact that the Vitellians did not stir to meet them.
This was because the enemy had other plans. While Valens fortified his camp, Caecina was busily trying to build his bridge across the river. He hadn't given up hope of winning this war single-handed. If he could seize the southern bank, he could simultaneously cut off Otho from more legions and take the rest from the rear.
The only man in his way was Sabinus.
* * *
“Arrows! Arrows!” Despite the hail of enemy missiles, Sabinus walked upright from cover to cover along the front bank – a real commander was not afraid. He stood in full view of the enemy, a target for every archer who could make out the plume of his helmet. “Archers, make the sky around those pontoons to look like a swarm of locust has descended. Don't let them cross! Riddle those bladders with holes. If that bridge is completed, we'll be in Hades by nightfall!”
“Can we pierce them bladders?” asked one legionary.
From somewhere, Sabinus found a grin. “Trust me. I have experience.” His pace was measured, his head was high, but inside his ribs his heart was hammering. All he wanted to do was lie down and hide from the constant rain of arrows. Mamercus had organized a bodyguard, five men with over-sized shields to march between Sabinus and the enemy. But the occasional missile still made it through to whisk past his nose.
“You're doing fine,” Mamercus told him when they were out of earshot of the cohorts. “The men are fighting well – for untrained show-boys,” he couldn't help adding. Oddly, he wasn't referring to the gladiators. After the disaster with Macer, Otho had sent three cohorts of praetorians as reinforcements. In their pretty white armour, they were odd-looking soldiers, and Mamercus was privately scornful.
A messenger came running up. “Sir! Sir! Otho's army is marching to meet the enemy at Cremona.”
“Then let's make plans for the morrow.” Trying not to be grateful for the reprieve, Sabinus returned to camp.
Indoors, bent over a map, the messenger outlined Otho's plan. “Tomorrow the commanders will march to this point here, north of Cremona, and build a camp. At dawn the following day they will draw up in formation and attack Valens' camp. They expect him to call Caecina for aid. When that happens, you are to cross the river and take Caecina's forces in the rear.”
“Cross the river how?” asked Sabinus with a laugh.
“Can your men swim?” answered the departing messenger.
Mamercus waited until the messenger was gone before speaking. “Do you have a fast horse ready, sir?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You're going to need a fast horse before sundown tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Otho is about to lose.” The centurion traced a line on the map. “The idiots in charge of this column mean to march past Valens' camp to get to the high ground. A wonderful notion – which is why Valens will never let it happen. He can punch into the column at any point while they're marching past, or else wait until they're busy building their camp to fall on their necks. There's a hundred ways for him to slaughter them. By dusk tomorrow, you'll need to run.”
Boggled, Sabinus was silent for a long moment. “I can't run.”
Mamercus smiled. “If need be, I'll put you over the back of my saddle. I promised your father I'd look after you.”
After a moment Sabinus realized he must look quite stupid, standing there with his mouth hanging open. But he was genuinely astonished. He'd thought his father sent Mamercus to fill in Sabinus' deficiencies as a soldier, while in reality the centurion was a bodyguard. It was the most genuine expression of paternal affection Old Sabinus had ever shown, and Sabinus found himself touched.
Nonetheless, he would not dishonour the gens Flavia by running away. “I'm not abandoning my post. And if you don't swear to Bellona here and now to fight with me to the last, I'll have you in Macer's chains and take my chances.”
Mamercus grunted approvingly. “Very well, very well. Then we'd best come up with a plan to preserve these men after Otho's pretty army dashes itself on the rocks of Cremona.”
Sabinus looked down at the smudge the grizzled centurion's finger had left on the map. “Can't we warn them?”
Mamercus shrugged. “Feel free. Doesn't mean they'll listen.”
* * *
Sabinus was not alone in warning Otho's army. Paulinus and Marius shouted themselves blue in the face with denouncements of the planned folly. But Titianus and Proculus felt sure that fear would keep Valens' forces inside their camp. “They'll be too afraid to come out!”
When the column set out in the morning, Paulinus demanded they march in square, with shields and pila ready. But he was firmly over-ruled. “Speed, Gaius, speed!” cried Titianus.
“If we are about speed,” countered Paulinus, “why on earth are we bringing the baggage train with us?”
Proculus looked him as he would a backward child. “So that the engineers have their tools to build siege machines, of course!”
“You fools!” shouted Marius, shaking. “You'll kill us all!” But the angry looked that comment
garnered from Otho's listening soldiers shut his mouth. Both he and Paulinus wondered what Otho had ever done to deserve such unwavering loyalty. Neither could think of an answer.
In the end, it was worse than Paulinus had feared. The army didn't send out scouts, or even swing weapons to the front. Instead they marched up the road with their whole baggage train in tow – and stumbled right into Valens' army strung across the road.
On horseback, Valens gave the nod and a trumpet blared. He'd decided that the Rapax, so mauled by Otho's men at Placentia, should have a hand in this day's slaughter. So a vexillation had been chosen by lots to stand at the center of the line, that they might lead the charge.
In the center of the line the chief centurion of the Rapax's Third Cohort, an aging Spaniard called Gaius Mansuetus Senior, lowered his sword in a slashing motion. A veteran with skill at training elite troops, he had been transferred from Britannia to Germania over a year ago, just after the defeat of Vindex.
“Roma!” cried Mansuetus, and began racing forward. His men surged forward, following the golden eagle of the Rapax held high by the aquilifer.
On the other side, the soldiers shouted the same word. But it was less a cry of triumph than a plea for salvation.
* * *
The first Sabinus knew of the battle was the sight of Caecina's men retreating from their failed bridge and racing off to the north-west, just as Otho's men predicted – but a day too early.
“They've got Otho's men now,” said Mamercus, “and Valens needs Caecina to wrap them up.”
Sabinus issued several orders. “If we can get across the river, we can fall on their rear.”
Mamercus shook his head. “We'll never get there. Just you wait.”
Feeling the same sense of inevitable dread, still Sabinus began dutifully loading his men into fishing-vessels to cross the river.
Before even one of them had cast off, several riders arrived with fresh orders. “Retreat to the nearest bridge and hurry to reinforce the army!”
Mamercus advised Sabinus to delay, but it wasn't necessary. The men did the delaying themselves. They did not understand their new orders, thought that here was another senator trying to sabotage Otho's victory. It wasn't until word spread that Otho's main army was in terrible danger that they started to fall in line.
It took nearly an hour to gather all the men from the boats and get them in order for a march. By then, it was already over.
After heavy fighting, the Battle of Cremona had been lost.
* * *
Long after dark that night, Sabinus arrived at Brixellum, where Otho's remaining forces had gathered. Mamercus was still riding by his side. The rest of Sabinus' men were resting comfortably in their camp – a camp guarded by Valens' soldiers.
Otho was sitting by an open fire with several common soldiers who had fled to warn him of the loss. Notably, none of his generals had come to him, either out of shame or self-preservation. Not even his brother, Titianus, had come.
“Titus Flavius. Come and sit down.” Otho was not wearing his wig, and Sabinus saw that his hair had grown sparse beneath it. He looked older, and somehow more Roman. “Tell me, did they let you surrender? They weren't bent on slaughter?”
“No, Caesar,” replied Sabinus gently, sitting on a bench. “Valens and Caecina were gentlemen. They freely offered me my liberty – didn't even make me swear to follow Vitellius.”
“Because they know this war is over.” Shaking his head, Otho prodded the flames idly, sending sparks up into the night air. “Is it true Nero's band of untried marines, the men Galba decimated, took the Rapax's eagle?”
“Yes. But it so enraged the Rapax that they got it back.”
“Good for them. For them both. Sounds like a bastard of a battle. I wish I had been there. Then I would have been able to die surrounded by my army. Not all alone.”
“Aulus may spare your life,” said a man seated not far away – none other than Lucius Vitellius, younger brother to the new ruler of the world. It was a mark of how odd Roman warfare was. The man could have been a hostage, and certainly he had been brought from Rome to keep him from stirring up trouble, a task at which he excelled. But Otho had never threatened him, and had entertained him as a host might a beloved guest.
Now Otho replied, “I won't put him in that position. Lucius, it's been a pleasure to have you with me. I've enjoyed our conversations. But I think it's time for you to leave me. Convey my good wishes to your brother, and tell him to treat Rome well, with my blessing.”
Even as Lucius Vitellius departed, some soldiers were defiant. “Caesar, don't give up hope! There are more legions coming from the East, and every man here will fight until our bones are ground to dust!”
But Otho shook his head. “If I let you do that, I'd be unworthy of such devotion. It's too high a price to pay for my life. We've sized each other up, Fortuna and I. I swore that if we lost, I would not prolong this miserable civil war. Let this be the act by which posterity judges Otho. Others have been Caesar longer, but none shall quit it more courageously.” He smiled wanly. “Here's your best proof that my decision is irrevocable – I complain of no one. Denouncing gods or men is a task for one who is in love with life. I'm not. Not anymore.”
Otho spent the evening fending off the entreaties of his friends. Even Sabinus, who had not supported Otho in his heart, pleaded for him to change his mind. But Otho remained firm. He burned all his correspondence, a tradition among defeated generals. He sent for his nephew, whom he had planned to make his heir, and told the lad not to forget him, but not to remember him too openly. He then excused himself to write letters. The first was to his sister. The second was to Spiros, whom he addressed as Poppaea Sabina. The third was the woman he had hoped to marry – ironically, Statilia Messalina, Nero's third wife. He told her how fortunate she was that they had not married, as she would have been widowed twice that year.
Retiring for the night, Otho asked for some cold water, and a pair of daggers. Choosing the better of the two, he went to bed with it under his pillow. At dawn Otho awoke, drew the dagger, and plunged it straight into his heart.
Watching the funeral pyre blaze that afternoon, Sabinus found tears in his eyes – tears of pride. This was the definition of a teaching sacrifice. For whatever else one could say of Otho (and there was much to be said against him), he had died as well as any man could wish. His death had ended a war.
Or so everyone believed.
* * *
After visiting Gaius Fonteius Agrippa, governor of Asia Province, Titus finally returned to Judea, having delivered his message to all the legions and magistrates that might be sympathetic to his father's cause. He'd been rewarded with more support than he had expected. No one thought much of either Otho or Vitellius, and everyone saw the value of giving their support to a man who needed them to win. It put them in a fine position for favour down the road.
Arriving at last in Galilee, Titus found the governors of both Syria and Aegypt waiting for him. It seemed that Mucianus preferred the role of king-maker to king, and Tiberius Julius Alexander recognized with perfect clarity that no mere knight, let alone one Hebrew-born, could aspire to be Caesar. Better by far to have the new Caesar beholden to you.
Titus quite liked Tiberius Julius, a practical man with enough intelligence to know his place. His only flaw was his hatred for Berenice, who had once been married to his elder brother. Tiberius Julius still suspected her of poisoning her husband when his usefulness came to an end. But as her affair with Titus was now public knowledge, the subject was discretely avoided.
In a war council between Titus, Mucianus, and Tiberius Julius, they decided to wait until there was only one foe standing, Vitellius or Otho. It was the same strategy Vespasian had employed regarding Jerusalem – tertius gaudens. Let the factions tear each other down, waste their blood and treasure, and when they were exhausted, strike.
Meanwhile, there were signals to give, more men to sound out. Mucianus directed the mint at Antio
ch not to strike any coins bearing the likeness of Vitellius, as they had done for Galba and Otho. Instead they pressed a new series devoted to Rome's victories in Judea – unsubtle, but not outright treasonous.
At the same time, Titus sounded out his fellow legates, and was relieved to find both Trajan and Placidus more than amenable to rising up for his father, whom they now admired a great deal.
“I cannot think of a fitter man living to be Caesar,” said Trajan stoutly. If perhaps he thought his old commander, Corbulo, would have been better, that was no longer an option.
Then in mid-June they received news of Otho's death. At once Titus summoned his co-conspirators – Mucianus, Tiberius Julius, Trajan, and Placidus. “Time to see the general.”
At the last moment, Titus decided to add one more to their retinue – the captured general Josephus. Having predicted this, it was only fitting he be present now.
Awkwardly, Vespasian was rubbing life back into his gouty foot when the party trooped in, dressed in the formal attire of senators and knights. Taking in their appearance, Vespasian scowled. “Who died?”
As one, they hailed him, “Ave Vespasianus Caesar Augustus, Imperator!”
“Cacat!” cried Vespasian, so startled he almost fell out of his chair. Then, slowly, that creased mouth began to grin.
It was now the Year of Four Imperators.
Part Five
The Great God
“WHATEVER BEGINS, ALSO ENDS.”
- SENECA
XXI
CAESAREA, SYRIA
3 JULIUS 69 AD
The question that had vexed Vespasian's high command most was how to make the announcement to the legions. The soldiers had to be told, as did the Roman citizens in Judea, Syria, and Aegypt. They also had to reach out to the Balkan legions that had backed Otho, but never reached him. This move had to seem justified, not an act of hubris on Vespasian's part. Of all the men hailed as Caesar Imperator this year, his lineage was the most inglorious.
