[Gaius Valerius Verrens 05] - Enemy of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  He could fight on, he still had the means. The people would support him, the Guard still possessed the strength and the will to hold the city walls. His brother Lucius commanded a substantial force in the south. Yet all that meant nothing when balanced against the overwhelming strength facing him. Cremona, and now Narnia, meant the end was not in question. The one cost him the cream of his legions, the other opened the door to Rome. Eventually, he would be hunted down and defeated, and his family would be killed. Yet even in despair Vitellius’s frantically seeking mind was able to find a tiny silken thread of hope. His negotiations with Sabinus had created the possibility of an end without bloodshed. He could give up the throne immediately, with dignity and honour, and hand over control of the city to Sabinus. His decision made, he sent word to the Prefect of Rome that he would make the announcement in the Forum at the seventh hour.

  Only Galeria had been informed of his decision, but nothing escaped his court. The ashen faces of his faithful Asiaticus and the others told their own story. They wept as he handed out gifts: the bejewelled rings adorning his fingers and the deeds for the villas and estates they’d inhabited as a mark of his favour. Of the two, the rings were of more significant value. It would be up to Vespasian to agree the transfer of the properties and it would be a brave man who placed much faith in the iron general’s predilection for forgiveness. Still, the gesture was a measure of his gratitude. These men at least, unlike his generals and the senators who had proclaimed him, had stayed loyal to the end.

  For a moment he stood swaying, unsure what to do next. Galeria and Lucius would have run to him, but he shook his head and tried to remember. A revelation from the mists of confusion. Of course, it was the symbol of his reign. He stumbled to the dais and opened the rosewood box to reveal the sword of the Divine Gaius Julius Caesar. He had removed it from the Temple of Mars when Galba appointed him governor of Germania, carried it during his triumphal entry into Rome, and been sustained by it since. Now his fevered brain told him he must pass it on, a token of his humility – he would not call it humiliation – that Sabinus could hand on to his brother. He remembered the sword as he’d first seen it, one like no other, the hilt wonderfully worked in spun gold, with precious stones decorating the scabbard and a miniature legion’s eagle on the pommel. He’d never noticed before how heavy it was, an almost intolerable burden, but he would carry it with him today.

  ‘Come,’ he said to his family and his courtiers, his voice gruff from the effort of keeping it from breaking. ‘Remember this not as the day Aulus Vitellius lost Rome, but as the day he saved it.’

  He led the way through the corridors and along the marble tiles around the great artificial lake. It was here Nero had re-enacted naval battles in the pomp of his reign, and he shuddered at the manner in which that reign had ended. Behind him came Galeria with Lucius, followed by Asiaticus, Silius Italicus – the former consul who had attended the negotiations at the Temple of Apollo – and the rest. By the time they reached the doors leading to the Sacred Way Vitellius was sweating heavily despite the chill wind. Awaiting him were his lictors, already assembled, and an honour guard consisting of a century of Praetorians. No trumpets or drums or golden chariot drawn by four ivory-maned horses, just a single litter, which Vitellius ignored.

  ‘I will not be carried on this day,’ he announced to the astonishment of all. He sensed Galeria’s outrage, but nothing would divert him. ‘Let Lucius take the litter as if it were my funerary procession. It is only right, for today is the last that will be lived by Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus. It is the end of the Emperor.’ The Praetorians remained ramrod straight, but Vitellius sensed a collective reaction run through them, like the barest ripple of breeze across a summer corn field. He knew the impact his announcement would have on them individually and as a body, but he could not consider that now. ‘In a few moments I will be plain Aulus Vitellius, patrician of Rome, and at my Emperor’s command.’ Vitellius flinched as Galeria Fundana reacted to the words by wailing and tearing at her hair as if her husband truly was dead. A second litter appeared and the tiny doll-like figure was helped into it, still emitting her baleful, undulating howl. Vitellius heard the Praetorian centurion whisper an order to one of the escort and the rasp of nailed sandals as the man turned and set off at a trot for an unknown destination.

  Heralds had gone out an hour earlier to spread word of the Emperor’s announcement, but Vitellius was shocked by the size of the crowd awaiting him outside the gilded gates of the palace complex. They lined the Via Sacra ten deep, and so close his lictors had to push their way through with threats and curses. Hundreds – no, thousands – more filled the steps and colonnades of the temples and basilicas along the route. A shout went up when they recognized the Emperor, but it turned into a moan of anguish as they saw the dark colour of his toga.

  Vitellius felt a surge of outright fear at the unexpected sound and tried to ignore the sea of faces turned in his direction. This was not how it was meant to be. For all his terror he had imagined a dignified procession and a short announcement. He would pass on Caesar’s sword to Sabinus and walk away with the stunned silence of the crowd in his ears. But this? This was how a man must feel marching to his own execution.

  His steps faltered as if he were walking into a driving wind, legs suddenly weak and his mind overwhelmed by what he could only describe as a vast wall of feeling. It seemed to pulse towards him in a wave, threatening to engulf him and all who accompanied him. Even his lictors quailed before the unearthly outpouring of emotion, until the Praetorian centurion barked at them to keep their formation. Vitellius himself responded to the order like a ranker and recovered his stride, the ceremonial sword of Julius Caesar held across outstretched hands.

  Onward through the avenue of soaring columns, each topped by a statue saved from the Great Fire of – could it be only five years ago? Past the familiar temples and the basilicas, some of them still bearing the scars of the blaze, that had been such a part of his life. Another chill made him shudder. He already thought of himself in the past. The regia where he had so recently performed the duties of Pontifex Maximus. A familiar face flashed into view among the crowds on a temple step, the white scar on the cheek and deep green eyes staring in weary astonishment. Gaius Valerius Verrens. Of course, he remembered, he had told Valerius he would wait. But surely he must understand that the news from Narnia changed everything? Vitellius set his broad shoulders and took strength from the face and the memories it brought. Their time in Africa together, he dictating the affairs of state and, by his side, always dependable, the man he thought of as his sword.

  A new wave of remorse. If Gaius Valerius Verrens had accepted his offer of a legion everything might have been very different. This man would have moulded an army where Valens and Caecina had let it moulder. Primus would have been swept aside, or thrown back into Pannonia, Mucianus left with no choice but to retreat or starve, and Vespasian forced to negotiate. He suppressed a sob and searched for the face again, but it was already lost in the crowd.

  ‘What’s the idiot doing?’ Serpentius didn’t hide his puzzlement.

  ‘He’s trying to give away an empire.’ Valerius had understood the moment he saw the sword in Aulus Vitellius’s hands; the sword of Caesar, in its familiar gilded scabbard with the legionary eagle on the pommel. ‘The trouble is, will they let him?’

  He was referring to the crowd, but as they pushed their way through the mob it was clear another factor would soon come into play. From the direction of the Argiletum a compact column of fully armed Praetorians forced their way through the gap between the Senate house and the Basilica Paulli. Shields at the ready, they marched in columns of four through the Forum to form a solid wall surrounding three sides of the Imperial rostrum. It was an impressive display of strength, designed to intimidate or inspire, depending on your loyalties. A murmur of surprise faded to a hushed silence and the tension in that confined space became almost physical. Valerius saw Vitellius hesitate at the sight
and realized this was not part of his plan. He had a choice now. It would require an instant decision, but the outcome of the entire day might depend upon it. He was directly to the right of the Rostrum Julium. All it would take was three steps to mount the stairs, where he could appeal directly to the people and, through them, to the Guard. Valerius willed him to act, but, after a moment’s nervous hesitation Vitellius continued along the Sacred Way to the Imperial rostrum. When he spoke from here it would be to the members of the Senate, drawn up in the almost military phalanxes that declared their loyalties, or at least their current allegiance in the ever-shifting sands of Roman politics.

  With the Spaniard snarling at his side Valerius barged through the crowd to a position on the basilica steps where he could see what awaited Vitellius. Senator Volusius Saturninus held pride of place, looking as puzzled as any of them, and Trebellius Maximus, locked in discussion with their mutual enemy, Titus Sextius Africanus. Verginius Rufus and Caecillius Simplex, one of the two serving consuls, hovered on the margins as if searching for someone. Where was Sabinus?

  Vitellius reached the level of the rostrum and stumbled to a shambling halt. With a clatter of wood on stone the litter bearers eased their burdens to the ground. Now that he’d reached his goal the Emperor seemed unable to decide whether to mount the platform, and a murmur of impatience began at the back of the crowd. At that moment Aulus Vitellius reminded Valerius of a chained bear broken beyond defiance, its chest scarred and torn by the dogs. Hair matted with blood it had stood, shoulders slumped and head down, seeming to pray for an end to its suffering. Finally, the Emperor’s great head lifted and he turned to the senators, his desolate eyes seeking what? Support? Acknowledgement? Pity? Whatever he expected, it was not forthcoming. Not a hand moved nor an expression changed. A hundred men he had counted as colleagues and even friends were as indifferent to his fate as the marble statues that topped the fluted pillars along the Sacred Way. Another man might have been overwhelmed, but Aulus Vitellius seemed to take strength from the scorn of his enemies. With a great heaving sigh he moved towards the stairs. The black and silver ranks of the Guard parted and he hauled himself unaided to the podium, the sword of Caesar clenched beneath his arm. Augustus had stood here in all his pomp; Tiberius, before his descent into debauchery and his retreat to Capri; Gaius Caligula’s dangerous eyes had roved crowds just like these seeking out his next victims; Claudius, who could barely speak two words to a stranger, but whose stutter miraculously disappeared when he stood before a thousand; and Nero, of course, driven mad by excess and power. But no Emperor had ever stood here like this.

  Aulus Vitellius looked out over the shining helmets of the Praetorians and blinked as if he was seeing the enormous crowd for the first time. Valerius had been wrong. Standing on the Imperial rostrum he ignored the senators and spoke to the people. With a last glance at his family, he began.

  ‘I have been your Emperor for one day shy of eight months.’ His voice shook as he spoke those first dozen words, but it didn’t lack strength. Vitellius had never lacked strength, only restraint. A few shouts went up to sing the praises of his reign, but he raised a hand for quiet. ‘I ask only that you hear me out till the end and judge me on the whole of what I have to say and not just a part. Just as you must judge the whole of my tenure. During that eight months I have been soldier and priest, Pontifex Maximus, a member of the arval brethren, and a commissioner for the performing of the sacred rites and for organizing the sacred feasts. Despite the constraints placed upon me by the profligacy of my predecessors I have endowed temples and funded the great games. As a magistrate, I always tried to be just, though I am aware,’ his eyes darted left to where the senators remained frozen in position, ‘that certain calumnies have been uttered against my name. I curbed the power of the soothsayers and I maintained the grain supply at a reasonable price in trying circumstances.’

  He paused and the only sound was the whistle of the bitter wind through gaps in the ochre roof tiles of the temples. ‘I did not seek to be your Emperor,’ he continued at last. ‘But when the legions of my province hailed me as such in the days after Marcus Salvius Otho murdered Servius Sulpicius Galba, how could I refuse them?’ From the basilica steps Valerius noted that his old friend had overlooked the fact that Valens and Caecina had been on the march for a week before he heard that Galba had been killed. Still, it was a small omission on this day of days. ‘I did not want to fight, but when Otho held a knife to Rome’s throat what choice did I have? When my legions defeated his armies on the field of Bedriacum, I treated those who had been my enemies with mercy and honour. I executed only those directly involved in the slaughter of their Emperor. No man who profited from the reigns of Galba and Otho was impoverished by me. I took no estates nor disinherited any sons.’

  Vitellius’s head had slumped forward as he recited the litany of his successes and his mercies, but now it rose again. His gaze roamed across his audience so every man, and the few women among them, felt he was gazing directly into their souls. ‘I have made mistakes,’ he acknowledged with a long sigh. ‘I placed my trust in a man who was not worthy of it and that man turned traitor against me. You all know that man. Aulus Caecina Alienus, who tried to sell my army to our enemies like a common market trader. I should have led those armies in the field, but I left it to another. General Gaius Fabius Valens is dead, and I honour him for his service and his loyalty. It was not through lack of courage or strength that I did not march with my legions, but lack of confidence in my ability as a soldier. I was wrong.’ He drew the sword of Caesar from its golden scabbard. ‘I believe my soldiers would have fought better knowing their Emperor fought by their side with the sword of a hero in his hand.’

  Despite his entreaty for quiet a great shout went up from the crowd and the soldiers at the front surged towards him. Lead them and they would follow, whatever the odds. Caesar’s sword would carry them to victory over the usurper. They wept at their Emperor’s suffering and Vitellius put a hand to his eyes to dash away the tears of pride and regret and the realization that he had failed these people. His people. But that was not why he was here. For a second time he raised a hand for silence.

  ‘There are different kinds of courage,’ the enormous barrel chest heaved as he stifled a sob, but somehow he recovered himself, ‘and believe me when I say that Aulus Vitellius would have had the courage to fight, and, if need be, to die with his soldiers. Yet sometimes it takes courage to do what is right, even when what is right makes a man look – and yes, feel – like a coward. A man might want to fight on for the sake of honour and pride, but when fighting on means more harm and suffering to his people is not that honour so tainted that it is no longer honour? Is not what is left pure selfish pride?’ The fat hands shook as they sheathed the sword. ‘I did not ask to be your Emperor. In truth, two men created Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus, and one of those men is dead and the other in chains. I have failed you as a commander. The enemy will soon approach the gates of this city. If I force them to attack, fire and steel and blood will rain down on the streets of Rome. Fire and steel and blood on the Forum where you stand. I cannot allow that. I will not allow that.’ He held up the sword of Julius Caesar and his voice regained its strength. ‘If Rome is to be saved from destruction and death I can no longer be your Emperor. This sword is the symbol of my office. I will hand it to a man capable of ensuring a peaceful transfer of power to Vespasian, should the Senate and people of Rome see fit to appoint him Emperor in my place. That man is Titus Flavius Sabinus, Prefect of Rome.’

  By the pillar in the basilica Valerius experienced a surge of relief. This was Sabinus’s moment. All he had to do was step forward and accept the sword and Rome could sleep easy tonight. But where was he?

  On the rostrum, Vitellius turned to find the ranks of senators watching him with something close to horror. His numbed mind slowly comprehended that something wasn’t right. What did those expressions mean? Every nerve had been concentrated on reaching this point, and he
felt close to collapse now that he had come to the end. Where was Sabinus? He searched for the familiar, despised face. ‘That man is Titus Flavius Sabinus, Prefect of Rome,’ he repeated, desperation making his voice shrill. When it was clear there would be no answer he stumbled from the podium towards the Senate steps. ‘Where is Titus Flavius Sabinus?’

  A dozen more heartbeats passed without a reply. Vitellius was left standing with the sword in his hand and his carefully orchestrated plan stuck fast like a ship on a sandbank. He searched frantically for a face he recognized, someone who would save him from this. All he wanted was to hand over the sword and walk away. Instead, he felt like a small child lost without its mother and he experienced an irrational urge to weep.

  He advanced through the lines of horror-struck senators with Caesar’s sword offered out before him. Not a man moved to take it. Every one backed away, shunning him as if he were a plague carrier. At last, he found a trusted face, plump and bland, but a man he had promoted to high office. ‘Gnaeus Caecillius Simplex, will you deliver your Emperor’s sword where it is needed?’

  Simplex raised his hands, but to ward off the evil being foisted on him, not to accept the sword. He stepped away, shaking his head in mute regret.

  ‘Saturninus, old friend. You have been feasting with Sabinus of late …’ But Saturninus had already turned away, and now they were all going. In moments the precinct was free of purple-striped togas.

  His spirits rose momentarily as a familiar presence appeared at his side. ‘Come, Aulus,’ Galeria said quietly, ‘we must return to the palace.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head and Galeria was shocked at the almost childlike smile that wreathed her husband’s face. ‘The Temple of Concord. That is where we must deposit the sword. They can keep it for Sabinus. Not Concord? Mars Ultor then. Yes, that is where Caesar’s sword belongs.’ He changed direction, seemingly oblivious of the hundreds of people around him. As he pushed his way towards his friend, Valerius noticed the increasingly fractious mood of the Praetorian Guard. These were men whose futures were as entangled with that of Vitellius as ivy stems clinging to an oak tree. If Vitellius fell they would fall with him. By now Valerius had a feeling no promises from Sabinus would satisfy them. When he reached the Emperor’s side their commander was already haranguing the mob in much the same terms from the rostrum steps.