by James Mace
“Let Augustus mourn,” Tiberius said without looking up from the map. “And let the public see that he mourns with them. Reprisal, securing of the frontiers, and salvaging the public’s sanity is now our responsibility.”
Germanicus nodded in assent. “We have two legions, Second Augusta and Twentieth Valeria, we can send to the frontier almost immediately. Auxiliaries can be picked up at garrison stations along the way. I suggest we expedite the move by leaving the artillery wagons, at least temporarily, and stripping all baggage trains to the bare essentials.”
“Leave the auxiliaries,” Tiberius said. “They take too long to get organized. What we need right now is speed. They can be picked up later with the follow-on forces. Right now, all that matters is getting to the bridges as quickly as possible. I’ll take both legions and start immediately. I’ve already sent dispatches to the legates of each. Once we reach the frontier, we’ll secure and reinforce whatever forts remain. Supply won’t be an issue while on the march. It may be another matter once we reach the Rhine. We don’t know what’s been plundered from the frontier forts nor do we know if the countryside has been scavenged or not.”
“I’ve already taken care of that,” Germanicus replied. “I’ve sent word to the auxiliary commanders to send out as many foraging parties as they can. They’ll have extra stockpiles of rations available for pickup. We can use them to escort the baggage trains and artillery wagons once they come up, thereby freeing up more legionary forces. I’ll bring them as soon as I can rally at least another legion.”
“You’re not coming,” Tiberius said, “at least not right away. There has been much panic since word of the disaster broke out. Augustus feels that you’d be best suited staying back to calm the masses for the time being.”
“My place is with you, uncle,” Germanicus protested. “My place is with my men.”
“Your place is where the Emperor tells you it is.” Tiberius snapped.
Germanicus looked crestfallen. Tiberius was a hard, practical man, but he was not entirely unsympathetic. He remembered what it was like to be left behind on an important campaign. In his case, it had been the campaign where his beloved brother died. Oh yes, he understood how his nephew felt. He suddenly felt the need to console the young man who had served him so well in the past.
“Germanicus, I know your quality as a soldier and as a leader of men. You have learned your lessons, both in study and on the battlefield. I dare say you rival your father as a tactician.”
Germanicus smiled at the compliment.
“I also know,” Tiberius continued, “that you have a way with the people of the city. They look to you for inspiration and guidance. The Emperor, while dearly loved, is an old man. He is tired. He looks to the young to breathe life and hope back into the city. You alone can do that. You have the gift. It is the gift many lack, to include myself.”
Tiberius, while a capable administrator with strong ethics and principles, lacked the ability to convey these to the public. He was seen as a bitter, spiteful individual, preferring solitude over companionship. This, of course, was an exaggeration brought on by the gossips. His closest companions were philosophers and scholars, and that damned astrologer of his. At forty-nine, he was still in amazing health, though his face bore the scars of acne and his body the ravages of war. Drusus, his late brother and the father of Germanicus, had been a good-looking and charming young man with the same gift for words that his son now possessed. The force of his aura and personality could inspire even the bleakest of souls to do great things. He had been adored by the public and was loved like a father by his men. And he had been one of the few people Tiberius, himself, ever truly loved. While he did possess a certain fondness for his own son, also named Drusus, for some reason the feelings just didn’t run as deep as they should have between a father and son.
Besides his brother, only two other people in his life were loved. The first was his father, divorced by his mother while she was pregnant with his brother. He died when Tiberius was still a boy. The other was his now ex-wife, Vipsania, whom Augustus forced him to divorce years ago. Tiberius had then been forced into a loveless marriage with Augustus’ daughter, Julia. That was amongst the prices he had had to pay in order to ensure his succession, and it was something he would always regret. In reality, Tiberius had no desire to be Emperor. He was especially bitter that he was selected to be Emperor by default, every potential successor having died a very premature death. Yet, in spite of everything, he still loved Rome. The city and the empire were in his soul. And though he had no desire to rule the known world, he truly felt he was the one most capable of it, and therefore obligated to take the reins of power. He knew he would serve Rome until his dying day.
In his heart, he wished that years ago he’d had the courage to tell Augustus what he could do with that whore of a daughter of his. The result would have been forced retirement from public service; no longer would he have been able to serve Rome. And, of course, there was the possibility of banishment. That he could have handled, for at least he would have still been with Vipsania, and perhaps he could have been a more active father in their son’s life. It was the one time he truly felt he had been a coward. But sadly, he could not undo the past. Vipsania remarried. Julia had been banished to a desolate island when her father discovered the truth concerning her adulterous ways. Drusus, the younger, grew up practically alone. All that was left was a lonely man destined to rule the world some day.
Germanicus, like his father, was attractive, extremely athletic, fair-haired, and almost Apollo-like in appearance. He was scholarly when it came to military study, and at the same time aggressive and adaptable when it came to practical application. Like his father, he was loved by the public and seen as a father by his troops, in spite of the fact that he was younger than many of them. His wife, Agrippina, was the younger half-sister of Vipsania. He was very much in love with his wife, and his children were the source of his pride and joy. He was also very protective of his younger brother, Claudius, who walked with a limp and had a serious speech impediment. But above all, he was a statesman and a soldier. He would do his duty, whatever that may be. He left to face the hysterical mob that had formed outside the palace.
It was a warm, sunny day. A young boy ran through the glades, waving his toy sword about. He pretended he was with his brother, off in the legions, fighting for the glory and honor of the Empire. It was getting late in the afternoon, and he would soon have to come in for his lessons. He did not particularly enjoy these, especially on days such as this. However, it was something he knew was necessary if he were to live up to the promise he’d made to his brother before he left two years before. He thought about his brother as he walked towards his home. What was life in the legions really like? His brother had sent him letters telling him about his home on the Rhine, of his brothers-in-arms, even of the beautiful young woman he had fallen in love with. Though Roman law did not recognize the marriages of soldiers below the rank of centurion, it did not stop these men from settling down and starting families. He wondered if Metellus intended to start a family with this woman. It was something eleven-year-old Artorius thought to be silly. After all, he was not yet at the age when girls became interesting, though his closest friend was a young girl named Camilla.
As he ran down the hill towards his home, he saw a pair of riders on the road. They were heading towards his home. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like they wore the uniforms of legionaries. He was immediately filled with excitement. Could it be Metellus, come home for a while? Did that mean the stories he had overheard about a disaster on the Rhine were not true? He immediately started sprinting towards home. His elation was cut short when he saw the riders dismount and hand a parchment over to his father. His mother was standing with her hands covering her face. What could be wrong? Did these men bear news concerning his brother? If so, what could it be? He slowed to a walk as he approached the house. The two soldiers looked less than pleased with the task of delivering t
heir message and seemed anxious to leave. One stood with his head downcast, clutching at the bridle of his horse. The other shifted nervously from one foot to the other, unsure of what they were supposed to do next. Artorius walked over to the man who was standing with his horse.
“Are you a friend of my brother’s?” he asked, looking up at the man.
The soldier closed his eyes and turned away. “Your brother was a brave man,” he mumbled. He was obviously shaken.
“Artorius,” his father said with his arms now around his wife. “Go inside, lad.”
Instead, the young boy turned and walked away towards the river nearby. Incomprehensible thoughts crossed his mind, and he started to run. His father did not try to stop him.
Several weeks later, Tiberius stood at the gate of the Rhine fortress that now housed the Twentieth Legion, Valeria. A small band of refugees was being escorted in. Rumor had it these were more survivors from the Teutoburger disaster. A reconnaissance party had spotted the ragtag bunch and almost attacked them until one of them starting shouting in perfect Latin that he was a member of the Eighteenth Legion and had survived the massacre. There had only been a couple other groups of survivors found so far. The largest had been led out by Cassius Chaerea, a tribune with the Nineteenth. One hundred twenty had been with that group. Another group of about fifteen who escaped being captured turned up a week later. This latest group looked like it had been hit the hardest. There were only six of them, and they were a frightful sight.
Tiberius was stone-faced as he watched the men pass through the gate, yet his heart broke for them. Two were borne on litters hastily constructed by the reconnaissance party. The others stood, heads lowered in shame, their clothes tattered, bodies covered in partly healed bruises and infected lacerations.
“What are we going to do with them, Tiberius?” a centurion asked. “I mean, after we feed them and treat their wounds, of course.”
Tiberius’ expression remained unchanged. “We welcome them back. We tell them that the fault of the disaster is not theirs. The blame rests with one man alone, that damned Quintilius Varus, who now burns in hell. These men will take their proper places back amongst the ranks.”
“But, sir, what of the Emperor’s standing order about not accepting back soldiers who have been publicly disgraced? I pity them, yes, but I do not know if it would be proper, in the Emperor’s eyes at least, to accept them back as if nothing happened.”
Tiberius turned to face the centurion. “Centurion, you, as a professional soldier and a practical man, should realize that with the loss of life we have suffered, we need every man we can get. The shame and disgrace lies not with these men.”
“Yes, sir.” The centurion smiled and nodded. He felt the same way, but had to be sure of his Commander’s feelings and intentions.
Without further delay, Tiberius walked up to each soldier in turn. He placed his hands on each man’s shoulders and kissed them all on the forehead. He next grasped each of the litter-bound soldiers by the hand in a sign of friendship. He then took a step back and with a sweeping gesture of his arm towards the camp, said, “Welcome home, my brothers and friends.”
The soldiers stood dumbfounded. After all, they had just returned from the biggest disgrace an army had suffered since any could remember. No one could recall a time when a single Eagle had been taken, let alone three. Indeed, none of these legionaries had been alive during the disaster in Parthia, under Crassus, a generation before. Yet here was the Commanding General of the Army of the Rhine, a man all of them knew was destined to be the next Emperor of Rome, welcoming them back. They slowly started to walk towards the interior of the camp where legionaries stood ready with fresh clothes, bandages and medicine for their wounds, hot food for their empty stomachs, wine and companionship to salve their shattered souls. Theirs’ was a bond only soldiers could understand. Yet one soldier stood fast where he was. Tiberius walked over to him. The man was young, in his early to mid twenties. He had little to no facial hair, in spite of his lack of a shave. His eyes did not look as lost as those of his companions. Rather they were filled with stark awareness of horror and sorrow.
“Why do you not join your companions?” Tiberius asked the young soldier.
“What right do I have to join them?” the soldier asked, his voice breaking as he looked at the ranks of the Twentieth Legion. “We failed you, sir. We failed the Emperor, we failed Rome. Worst of all, we failed each other. I’ll never forget the savage horrors we witnessed. I can still hear the screams of the tortured as they begged for death. Some had their tongues cut out. The barbarians thought that by eating the tongue of a Roman they might learn to speak Latin. Some were crucified and gutted. Others they put in wicker cages and burned alive. My friends, my brothers, and yet I was helpless to do anything for them.” He closed his eyes hard as tears streamed down his face. He was beyond being shamed by them. “I swear their ghosts haunt me. I don’t know how I can ever forget the horror… the pain… the suffering. How do I live again, sir? How do I find redemption?” He was now looking Tiberius straight in the eye.
Tiberius placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Macro, sir. Platorius Macro. Formerly of the Nineteenth Legion, Third Cohort, First Century.”
“Platorius Macro, you can live again by doing them justice, by ensuring that your survival was not in vain. Rejoin your comrades in the ranks, and in time, I promise you will find redemption.”
Macro nodded and without another word went to rejoin the other survivors.
As he walked off, Tiberius said to himself, “And you shall have revenge.”
Germanicus would join his uncle on the Rhine two years later. After capturing and repairing the Rhine bridges, Tiberius led many sorties into the frontier. These were limited at first, as he did not have the resources available for a massed campaign. As the months went by, fresh troops, mostly recruits, started to rebuild the Army of the Rhine. Varus was publicly damned and the numbers XVII, XVIII, and XIX were never again used to number a legion. Units were transferred from all over the Empire, increasing the army’s strength to eight legions. Soon they would be ready to launch an offensive unlike anything Arminius had ever witnessed.
Late in the year 13 A.D., in the forty-second year of the reign of Augustus, Tiberius was recalled to Rome.
As his chariot approached the gates of Rome, Tiberius looked upon the Eternal City with nervousness and dread. On the frontier, he never felt more alive. That was his true calling, to be on the front lines of Rome’s battles. He knew full well why he had been recalled. The aged Emperor was nearing the last of his days. The succession and transition of power would have to come swiftly and smoothly in order to prevent chaos and unrest.
Many in the Senate pined for the days of the Republic, when they alone ruled the Roman Empire. In truth, very few could even remember what that time had actually been like. The political infighting, the corruption, and the unchecked abuses of power were conveniently forgotten. Augustus had ruled for so long that a large proportion of the masses knew of no other system of government and were very much reluctant to even think about returning to the days of the Republic, where in its death throes there had been numerous civil wars and much internal strife.
Rome expanded its borders so far as to make a true Republican system virtually ineffective. Someone had to keep the Senate and regional administrations in check, to ensure all worked together for the greater good, which now expanded far beyond the borders of Italy. From Gaul to Egypt, all known civilizations and peoples fell under the domain of the Empire. To effectively rule an Empire required an Emperor. The Emperor was dying, and his successor felt the full weight of the world coming down on his shoulders.
Tiberius stopped his chariot in front of the Imperial Palace. He knew right away where to go. Though he had been away from Rome and the Imperial estates for nearly five years, he knew the area like the back of his hand. Servants came and took the reins of the chariot from him as
he ascended the steps into the palace proper. He saw his mother, Livia, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the door leading to the gardens.
“It is good you have returned,” she said without even looking his way.
“How did you know I was back in Rome?” Tiberius asked. “I’ve only just arrived.”
Livia smiled a half smile. “I have my sources. They keep me well informed.” She had a determined, yet sad air about her. Though it was plain to see her one intent was to get her son elevated to the highest position of power, the final step of that transition would be very painful for her. After all, she had been married to Augustus for more than fifty years. The man she shared the vast majority of her life with was slowly slipping away.
“So how is he?” Tiberius asked. His real concern was how long until he had to take on the task he’d been preparing for, and yet dreading, his entire life.
“He’s in the garden,” Livia replied. “He asked to see you once you returned. He spends most of his waking moments in his garden, off in his own little world. He knows his time is growing short, and so he takes the most pleasure in the simplest things in life. He’ll want you to assume the majority of power immediately. You will become Emperor in everything but name, ruling jointly with him until he breathes his last. Go to him.” She motioned with her head towards the door leading outside.
Tiberius took a deep breath and walked through the door. He was still dressed in full military garb, his helmet held under his arm.
As he walked through the gardens, he came upon the aged Emperor. Augustus was seated on the edge of a fountain, a small pot with a sapling in his hands. He had just finished planting it and was marveling over something only he could see.
