Gaius Valerius Verrens rapped his wooden fist against his chest in salute. ‘One tribune and a hundred and fifty men at your service and ready to fight, general.’
‘This is not a defeat.’ Marcus Antonius Primus spat the word as if it was poison on his tongue. ‘It is a setback, and a setback that we will turn into a victory. Do you understand? There will be no turning back. We will fight here and we will die here, if necessary.’
‘Your orders?’ Valerius asked.
For a moment Primus looked slightly bemused, as if, despite his fiery words, he hadn’t expected to be able to do anything tangible to stem the tide. He shook his head to clear it and the orders flowed as a plan took shape. ‘Form your men into five squadrons and place them to the south of the road about a hundred paces out. That will be the centre of our line and this stream and the men behind it will be our only defence. Spread your junior officers on either flank to help gather everyone who can fight and order them to kill anyone who refuses. They will collect them into squadrons and add them to the line.’
‘And the road?’
‘I will hold the road. You must hold the rest.’
It felt like the end of something, but it was only the beginning.
The makeshift line of cavalry behind the gully firmed up thanks to Valerius’s decurions and optiones and their willingness to use a blade when required. Their efforts slowed the flow of fleeing men and created a dam of Thracians on the far bank of the stream. Those on the fringes of the cowering mob suffered terribly from the swords and spears of the pursuing Vitellians, but as Primus said: ‘If they hadn’t run they wouldn’t be dying now.’
Eventually, the flow of friendly troops slowed to a trickle of wounded and shocked survivors and the leading enemy formations became visible, strong and unbloodied. If they’d followed up their advantage they might have broken through, but their horses were winded and the men felt they’d already won a victory. That was enough for now. Besides, in the far distance towards Bedriacum, they could see the banners of Primus’s legions marching to reinforce the battered and demoralized cavalry units. The sound of trumpets echoed across the flat, churned-up fields and Valerius watched as they wheeled about and trotted unhurriedly back to Cremona.
When the Vitellian units had vanished into the distant haze, Primus rode along the line of the stream calling encouragement and taking stock of his exhausted cavalry. They were still nervous, but the fact that they had fought off the Vitellians, however belatedly, had raised their spirits. Valerius was glad their commander showed enough wisdom not to reverse that situation.
‘We will have words about this,’ Primus promised his officers. ‘But at the right time. When the legions come up we will camp on this side of the stream and maintain strict vigilance until morning. For now, we will rest.’
But there was to be no rest.
XVII
‘My men refuse to take up defensive positions.’ The look on Vedius Aquila’s lined features reflected an anxiety that seemed to exceed the news he imparted. ‘Their blood is up and they demand to continue on to Cremona. They believe the withdrawal of the enemy shows a lack of fight.’
‘Then have the dissenters whipped in front of their comrades,’ Marcus Antonius Primus said dismissively. ‘And have them sleep outside the perimeter,’ he added with a grim smile. ‘The enemy is welcome to a few mavericks who do not obey orders.’
‘All of my men,’ Aquila persisted. ‘Every last century and cohort.’
The smile froze on Primus’s face.
‘The Eighth also has disciplinary problems,’ Numisius Lupus admitted gloomily. ‘They can see the smoke of Cremona’s cooking fires while they dine on rough porridge. They mutter that we promised them they would be feasting on the city’s food stores and they are but an hour’s march away.’
Primus turned his attention to the campaign map for a few moments, but Valerius knew by the set of his shoulders that he was attempting to control his rage. They’d gathered in the commander’s headquarters pavilion at the place where an hour earlier Primus had turned the tide of Vitellian cavalry by sheer force of will. Now he faced an even greater challenge: mutiny in his own army. Everything won might be lost in the next few moments if he made the wrong decision. The general might be impetuous, and he understood that any decision was better than no decision at all, but that didn’t mean he was ready to blunder headlong into a battle. Eventually, he addressed the respected commander of the Seventh Claudia. ‘And you, Messalla?’
‘The bastards will do what I tell them,’ the veteran tribune said. ‘But they want to fight. They know only two legions defend Cremona and that it’s there for the taking.’ He shrugged and Valerius saw he agreed with his soldiers. ‘Our supplies are low. We can’t afford to get involved in a protracted siege. Why delay when they could have another five or six legions here tomorrow?’
‘But our heavy weapons won’t be here for another two days,’ Primus pointed out. ‘And a night action?’ His expression said it was absurd.
‘If we move now it could be all over by nightfall.’ Messalla kept his tone respectful, but failed to hide an edge of impatience. ‘If not, we’ve fought night battles before. Cohesion is the key. Make sure every man knows the watchword, keep your formations tight and kill everything that gets in your way.’
Valerius’s dismay grew with every word he heard. The discussion reminded him of the conference before Otho’s army marched down this very road. Then, it had been clear the Emperor had lost the faith of his generals and the result was a disaster that cost forty thousand lives. Primus still had his commanders’ respect, but they had lost control of their soldiers. That was the problem when fighting a civil war. Every man had a stake in the result. He wasn’t just fighting for victory and plunder, he was fighting for the future of his family and the Empire. And he was a Roman citizen, with a Roman citizen’s rights and privileges, and sometimes he believed that gave him licence to dispute a commander’s decision. A lull in the conversation broke his train of thought. He realized that Primus had asked him a question.
‘I said you and Aquila have fought over this ground. He has given his opinion. What is yours?’
Valerius took time to gather his thoughts. ‘To carry on risks being caught in a battle you can’t control, against an enemy whose numbers you can only guess. Setting up camp here allows us to rest and consolidate our forces, with only a short march to Cremona at dawn and the opportunity to choose our own ground. Yes,’ he cut off Aquila’s interruption, ‘it also risks allowing the legions from Hostilia time to reach Cremona, but that risk exists in any case. I say do not be caught in the trap that ensnared Otho. Fight the battle you choose, not the one the enemy wants you to fight.’
Primus nodded thoughtfully and made his decision. ‘I will talk to the legions,’ he said. The moon face twisted into a sarcastic smile and the slightest hint of contempt edged his voice as he surveyed his commanders. ‘Are there any other complaints I must deal with for you?’
‘The Thirteenth blames the city of Cremona for what happened at Bedriacum,’ Aquila said carefully. ‘Its people supported Vitellius from the start and gave shelter and supplies to his legions. My soldiers believe it should be made to pay.’
‘And mine,’ Lupus reinforced the point.
Primus frowned. ‘It is Vespasian’s policy that civilians should not suffer for the mistakes of their political leaders. I cannot be seen to allow such behaviour, nor to condone it.’ He met the eyes of each legate in turn to ensure every man understood exactly what his words meant. ‘However … in war who knows what happens when a general’s attention is drawn elsewhere?’
Valerius felt the unnatural silence that followed as the occupants of the tent digested the reality of what they had just been told – or not told.
With a verbal shrug of the shoulders Cremona’s fate was sealed.
‘The centurions are running things now,’ Serpentius confirmed dolefully. They were returning to their tent past a valetudinarium wher
e the army’s surgeons were working on the day’s wounded. A terrible scream rent the air and the Spaniard visibly paled at the rasping sound of a bone saw on an arm or a leg. Valerius felt a twinge in his right hand, but he smiled at the thought of Serpentius being squeamish about a doctor’s work. The Spaniard swallowed and spat before he continued his theme. ‘The centurions smell loot and when a centurion smells loot you’d best not get in his way. Their men are ready to follow them.’
He was right, Valerius knew. The sixty veterans who led a legion’s centuries were a hundred times more respected and feared than the tribunes who had nominal command. Experienced, often avaricious men, they used their seniority to milk their soldiers of bribes for allocations of leave or to be given light duties. A man’s centurion could make his existence a living nightmare Primus did as he’d promised and spoke to the men of his five legions. Valerius listened as the general stood at the centre of the massed square formed by Eighth Augusta. He reasserted his right to command and highlighted the perils that would face them if they continued: the lack of supplies and artillery, the strength of the enemy position, the possibility of ambushes. But they wouldn’t be swayed. They had the scent of plunder in their nostrils and his reputation for audacity told against him. When he spoke of caution, they heard something entirely different. He’d spent the last week telling them of the need to strike quickly. What had changed? In the end he had no choice but to resume the order of march.
They set out as the light began to fade, joined by three ragged cohorts of Praetorian Guards disbanded by Vitellius who marched in from the swamps south of Mediolanum. But the vanguard had been on the road for less than an hour when a blare of trumpets from the head of the column announced they’d inexplicably halted.
Primus was with his staff at the centre of the second legion, the Seventh Galbiana, and Valerius heard him complain to his aides, ‘I did not order this.’ Valerius exchanged glances with Serpentius and they simultaneously checked the column’s flanks. The land around them was flat as a table top, but far to the north the mighty Alps shimmered like silver wraiths in the fading light. To the south the lamps of an occasional unsuspecting homestead shimmered beyond the river. Neither appeared to show any sign of a threat.
‘Perhaps the Twenty-first and the Fifth have decided to contest the road?’ a tribune suggested. ‘If so, it’s a decision they will come to regret. Let me send a galloper to find out.’
‘Better that I see for myself.’ Primus smiled grimly. ‘But pass word to my generals that they should prepare to deploy. If the Vitellians believe they can defy Marcus Antonius Primus with two legions and a few auxiliary cavalry it will be my pleasure to disabuse them.’
He twitched his mount to the left, down the slope, and galloped up the flank of the column accompanied by his staff and personal escort. When they reached the leading legion, Valerius saw Vipstanus Messalla questioning the commander of a cavalry patrol which had ridden up with two prisoners. The men were bearded cavalrymen from some eastern auxiliary unit, bound and bloodied, but surprisingly defiant.
‘It is impossible,’ Messalla barked, his weathered, hook-nosed features a mask of consternation. ‘Ask them again.’
‘What is impossible?’ Primus demanded.
Messalla turned in surprise and hastily saluted the general. ‘The patrol commander claims to have seen the insignia of at least five legions on the road from Cremona.’
‘Why should that be a matter of concern?’ Primus said calmly. ‘We know Twenty-first Rapax and Fifth Alaudae are supported by small detachments from another three legions.’
‘But these are not the banners of the Ninth, Second and Twentieth, lord,’ the cavalry prefect interrupted. ‘My men identified the Twenty-second Primigenia, Fourth Macedonica and First Italica.’
Primus’s aides shuffled in their saddles and Valerius could tell from the man’s voice that the information he carried frightened him. The general’s face froze. When he spoke his voice had lost its certainty. ‘A few outriders …’
‘No, lord.’ The trooper indicated the two prisoners. ‘These men confirm it. The legions at Hostilia broke camp immediately after the arrest of General Caecina Alienus. First Italica alone covered thirty miles yesterday. They marched into Cremona, resupplied and were on the road again within the hour.’
Expectation filled the air and the aides tensed, ready for the inevitable order that would send them scurrying back to their units and another night of chaos as they reversed course to retreat to Bedriacum. Valerius knew the calculations that would be going through Primus’s mind. He faced five full legions instead of only two, and those legions were just the vanguard of Vitellius’s army. If he attacked, they’d pin him in place on ground of their choosing and eventually destroy him by sheer weight of numbers. If he retreated, they’d chase him all the way out of Italy. The morale of his men might never recover, but at least his army would survive. However, for a man like Marcus Antonius Primus there could only be one answer to that dilemma, and it wasn’t the one his officers expected.
‘We fight. Vedius?’ Primus searched the ring of startled faces for the legate of the Thirteenth, but Aquila was with his legion almost two miles back up the road. The general’s face twitched with irritation until his eyes fell on Valerius. ‘Verrens? You have fought over this ground. I need a position where we can hold the enemy and hurt them.’
Valerius struggled to recall Otho’s conference and the detailed map his generals had studied. Nothing would be gained by retiring to the position where Primus had earlier stopped the Vitellian cavalry. The runnel where they’d made their stand was flanked to the north of the road by row upon row of olive trees strung with the vines which had so hampered Thirteenth Gemina in the first battle. In any case, the bulk of the army would be well past now. Every mile closer to Cremona, the better the ground became. An image entered his head – a certain set of contours; a winding stream that followed the Via Postumia before curving south across the line of march; a crossroads nearby where a slightly elevated farm track dissected the raised causeway of the main road. He hurriedly explained the position to the general.
‘How far?’
‘Perhaps a thousand paces ahead,’ Valerius estimated. ‘If we push on now we can form a defensive line before the enemy reach it.’
True to his nature, Primus didn’t hesitate. ‘Messalla? You will force-march Seventh Claudia and wheel to form our left flank on the banks of the stream. Galbiana will follow. Verrens will command in my absence.’ He read Valerius’s disbelieving glance. ‘I will conduct the battle from the centre, with the Thirteenth, but you will be responsible for the tactical dispositions of your legion. Do you think yourself incapable?’
Valerius drew himself up to his full height in the saddle. ‘No, general, but—’
‘Then carry on. Your warrant will follow.’ Valerius was forgotten as Primus turned back to the aides frantically scratching out his orders on the wax tablets strapped to their saddles. ‘Third Gallica will form the right flank, with Eighth Augusta defending the boundary of the track …’
When Valerius rode back to where the eagle of the Seventh glittered above the column, auxiliary cavalry units were already streaming to the front and flanks. He prayed they would carry enough threat to make the advancing Vitellians pause, because if the enemy caught Primus’s legions on the march the inevitable result would be carnage, chaos and defeat. Valerius Verrens didn’t intend to allow that to happen.
Because a man who wanted him dead had given him the Seventh Galbiana. The Seventh was his legion and Gaius Valerius Verrens’ legion would fight and it would win.
XVIII
‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, appointed commander of Legio VII Galbiana on the orders of Marcus Antonius Primus.’ Valerius struggled to keep the raw edge from his voice. ‘And with the full authority of Titus Flavius Vespasian.’
He saw the conflicting emotions flicker across the face of the fresh-faced military tribune who was the Seventh’s second in command.
First disappointment, because the young man had his pride and his bloodline. That bloodline dictated he was born to command and his pride told him he should want it. But it was swiftly replaced by relief, because a battle was imminent and he was as inexperienced in battle as the young Spaniards who made up the legion’s ranks. The Seventh had been formed less than a year before by the prospective Emperor Servius Sulpicius Galba. Its ranks were filled by Roman citizens, mainly farmers, from his province of Hispania Tarraconensis, stiffened with a backbone of centurions from other legions. The legion had escorted Galba to Italia and taken part in his blood-spattered entry to Rome. They’d stayed only long enough to see him formally proclaimed Emperor before being dispatched to the Danuvius frontier to learn their trade under Marcus Antonius Primus. Since then, they’d trained and they’d patrolled, but they’d never had to fight. Only a handful of the men now under Valerius’s command had ever stood in a shield line or hurled a pilum in anger. What he needed to know was their mettle and their temper. He waited patiently as the tribune twitched under the unforgiving dark eyes and took in the white scar that disfigured his new commander’s face from eyelid to lip. Valerius flicked back his cloak to reveal the carved wooden fist on his right arm and the young man’s eyes widened.
‘C-Claudius Julius Ferox, at your service, sir.’
Valerius nodded. ‘I don’t have time for pleasantries, tribune,’ he said. ‘We leave the instant the legion is formed up, so you may introduce me to your officers on the march. For the moment I need to know our supply situation and ration strength.’
‘We resupplied at Bedriacum with rations for three days.’
‘Water?’
‘Skins filled during the halt.’
‘Numbers?’
Ferox frowned. ‘We have the usual sicknesses and men on furlough. The only major loss has been a few dozen men from the fifth cohort we had to leave with the heavy weapons.’
[Gaius Valerius Verrens 05] - Enemy of Rome Page 13
