‘Hold,’ he shouted. ‘Can you not see his right hand? It is the disfigurement we were told to look for. The Emperor Marcus Salvius Otho Caesar wants to deal with this one personally. There will be no easy death for Gaius Valerius Verrens.’
Still, they would have killed him but for the Spaniard’s snarling presence. In his own land, Serpentius would have been a prince, but the Romans had made him a slave, then a gladiator, which had left him all the more fearsome. As the Praetorians stepped back, Valerius had a momentary, almost detached vision of a spearman plunging his javelin again and again into the writhing body of Titus Vinius.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Spaniard whispered. ‘But it was the best I could do at short notice.’
Valerius smiled bleakly. ‘So be it. Let the gods decide.’
But he knew the decision whether he would live or die would not be made by the gods, but by Marcus Salvius Otho.
They kept him in a cell for an hour in the disciplinary block of the Praetorian barracks until they brought him before the new Emperor of Rome. As he limped towards the praetorium of the great camp, two patricians were just leaving. Valerius was so weary he would barely have acknowledged them, but he noticed one of the men falter and he looked up into the eyes of Suetonius Paulinus, Boudicca’s conqueror, the general who had awarded him the Corona Aurea, and more recently sent him on the mission that had led to Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo’s death. The general shot him a look of confusion, which quickly turned to scorn. It was plain he knew what he was seeing: a dead man. With an audible sniff he stalked away, saying something that made the other man laugh.
Otho had set up his headquarters in the utilitarian villa which until recently had been the home of Cornelius Laco and his family. Now he sat behind Laco’s desk, sampling Laco’s wine, and studied the man in front of him with a look of puzzled irritation. Valerius met his gaze and kept his own face expressionless. He tried not to notice the severed head that sat to one side of the desk. Even in death Servius Sulpicius Galba’s glassy-eyed stare personified his outraged dignity.
‘How is your wound?’ Otho asked.
‘I’ll live.’ Valerius regretted the terseness of his reply even as he uttered the words, but it didn’t really matter because it was a prediction he knew was unlikely to come true.
Otho produced a weary smile. ‘It really would have been much tidier if you’d got yourself killed like poor old Servius here. Did the silly old goat really think I was going to sit back and let him hand Rome to some upstart who couldn’t put on his shoes without the help of six servants? I told them I didn’t want Galba’s head, but now that he’s here I find it quite comforting: a reminder that I did what was right. I didn’t do it for myself, Valerius, I did it for Rome.’ The words hung between them for a moment before Otho’s face twisted into a grin that Valerius couldn’t help matching. ‘No, that’s not actually true. We both know why I did it. I did it because Nero stole my wife and my position and packed me off to a stinking hellhole where the people’s only ambition was to add another acre of dust to their worthless farms. I did it because Galba as good as promised that I would sit where Nero sat, and then, just when I had it in my hands, he took it all away again.’ He sighed, and for the first time Valerius recognized a desperate sadness in him. ‘And now it’s done. I’m sorry about all the people who are being killed out there, but I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand the force I was letting loose. That’s something I’ve learned today, Valerius, but at least I know I have a lot to learn. Not like Servius. Servius thought his breeding and his upbringing and his wealth made him infallible and that taking advice was weakness. I, on the other hand, am happy to take advice. You see, I am being candid with you.’ He picked up a second cup and poured Laco’s carefully selected wine. Valerius accepted, knowing it could be the last he ever drank. Otho seemed to confirm as much with his next words. ‘Now it’s possible that’s because you are already a dead man – you’ll admit I gave you every chance to join me? – but I prefer to think that it’s because you’re an honest man. A man I can trust, even though you would not repay me with yours. For instance, what advice would you give me now?’
Valerius frowned at the unexpected question. He had expected scorn, and, at best, a quick death. Instead, he stood here drinking fine wine with his wound throbbing and his head full of puzzles.
‘Get your men off the streets, that would be the first step. Be magnanimous in victory. Announce an amnesty for Galba’s supporters. Pay the Praetorians what Galba owed them – I assume you’ve already confiscated his fortune?’ Otho nodded. ‘Rome is like a boiling pot with the lid jammed tight. It could still explode in your face. Take the heat off and allow it to cool.’
Otho smiled. ‘Good advice, and I’ll take most of it. Laco, Vinius …’ He read something in Valerius’s eyes and a pained expression crossed his face as he realized his prospective father-in-law was dead. ‘No, not Vinius then, but Laco is sitting in the carcer waiting for the strangling rope. He can be packed off to some dusty little island where he can be fat and idle for the rest of his days. Piso, though? That would be a sign of weakness. As Galba’s heir he probably thinks it’s his turn to be the Emperor, and we can’t have two Emperors, can we? He’s hiding out somewhere, but they will hunt him down soon enough and by nightfall he will be reacquainted with his adoptive father here.’ An aide entered with a document. Otho read it quickly and signed with an assured hand. When he looked up his eyes had turned serious. ‘I may have work for you, Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome, but first I require something from you.’
‘You hold my life in your hands. What more can you want?’
‘This is something that must be given freely. Your oath.’
For a moment the air seemed to be sucked from the room. In his mind, Valerius counted the days since he had made his sacred pledge to another man. But that man was dead and his head lay between them on the table, the pale features already dulled to a soft grey by the first signs of corruption. He brought his right hand with the wooden fist across his chest in salute and tried to ignore Galba’s accusing stare as the words emerged from between cracked lips.
‘In fulfilment of my vow I gladly pledge my loyalty to Marcus Salvius Otho Caesar Augustus, Emperor of Rome.’
Otho nodded gravely. ‘What should I do about Germania?’
Again, the question caught Valerius off balance. ‘The legions of Germania Superior mutinied against Galba, not the Empire. They have no grievance against you. When they find out he’s dead they will take the oath.’
The Emperor shook his head. ‘No, you misunderstand the situation. Galba was not entirely honest with you. While he has been showing off his new son, things have changed for the worse. That is why you are here and why you still have your head.’ In the silence the manicured nail of Otho’s forefinger nervously flicked the rim of the glass cup he held in his right hand. ‘You see, Valerius, the Rhenus legions have declared Aulus Vitellius Emperor and they are preparing to march on Rome.’
XXI
Colonia
In the comfort of his personal quarters in the governor’s palace in Colonia Agrippinensis, Aulus Vitellius reflected on the dilemma he faced and the opportunities his position offered. How could it have happened? In all honesty, he had no idea. One moment he had been enjoying the unlikely pleasures of this city, the next he had been confronted with their grim faces and their ultimatums. Perhaps he had been too gentle with Flaccus. Perhaps he should have done more to placate the legions of Germania Superior. But Valens had been so certain. And now? Now he understood that Valens was not quite the simple soldier he had believed. Valens had been clever, and he had not. Valens had tricked him.
When word came that the Twenty-second Primigenia and the Fourth Macedonica had refused to take the oath to the new Emperor and taken the governor into custody, Valens had persuaded him that the only course of action was to march on Moguntiacum with as much strength as he could muster. When they saw the forces against them and the situation was expl
ained at spear point, the legionaries would see sense. They had made their grievances known. If Galba was clever, he would accede to a few of their demands and quietly see that the ringleaders eventually ate the wrong kind of mushroom.
Vitellius had pondered the question overnight and concluded his general was probably right. He had ordered the four legions under his command to provide six cohorts each and such auxiliaries as they could spare – in all, the equivalent of three full legions – and given Valens command. But Valens insisted that the expedition would only have the Emperor’s authority if the Emperor’s representative led it.
That was how he had ended up shivering on the flat plain west of Moguntiacum as he reviewed a parade of twenty-five thousand legionaries, with the eagle standards of the former mutineers from Twenty-second Primigenia and Fourth Macedonica arrayed to his right, and the men of First Germanica, Fifth Alaudae, Fifteenth Primigenia and Sixteenth Gallica to his left. Twenty-five thousand. The equivalent of five full legions, the finest fighting troops in the Empire, and that took no account of the cohorts of auxiliaries who would march with them. His heart had swelled at the sight of that vast swath of scarlet and silver, the polished iron of their armour glittering bright in the low winter sun. It was odd that Flaccus had not joined him, but perhaps not so odd. The governor of Germania Superior was not the man he had been a few months earlier. The creature freed from the guardroom had been broken in spirit and mind. Valens was proved right, the mutinous legions came to heel, and Caecina Alienus, the personable young man Galba had appointed as legate of Fourth Macedonica, had been most cooperative, given the cloud hanging over his career.
When the time came to administer the oath a hush fell over the whole assembly, a breathless moment that he imagined must be like the pause before a battle charge. As he rode out in front of the two formerly mutinous legions with Caecina and Valens the chanting had begun and he knew how it felt to have a cold iron sword pierce his heart.
One word.
It began with the ten thousand men facing him, but he heard it taken up by those behind. Over and over, until it made the very air throb.
One word.
Twenty-five thousand voices.
‘CAESAR!’
‘No,’ he whispered.
‘They will not follow Galba.’ This from Valens.
‘You have a bloodline as ancient as his,’ Caecina pointed out.
‘He took the purple by stealth.’
‘He is not worthy of the throne.’
‘They will follow you …’
‘Or …’
What choice did he have? If he refused they would kill him. He looked from Valens to Caecina.
‘There is no turning back.’ Valens again.
He lifted his arms to accept their acclaim.
‘CAESAR! CAESAR! CAESAR!’
He almost groaned as he remembered the moment, wrapping his cloak closer against the morning chill and calling for another cup of warmed wine. The room seemed to spin about him. Soon he would exchange this … yes, this rustic mansion, for all its fine carved furniture and glowing mosaics, and the busts of his ancestors lining the walls, for a true palace – Nero’s Golden House swam into his mind – or … He took a long drink from the cup the slave proffered.
It was only later he understood it had been Valens who had engineered the failed attempt to make Verginius Rufus Emperor, and whose head would be on a spike when Galba discovered the fact, as he inevitably would. And that the personable Aulus Caecina Alienus had been about to be dismissed by the Emperor following an audit which had discovered a large hole in the accounts covering the years of his quaestorship in Baetica.
Their only hope was to get rid of Galba, and they were using him to do it.
He picked up the case containing Julius Caesar’s sword, opened it and withdrew the gleaming blade from its cloth bag. He knew he was no soldier, but truly, there was no turning back.
‘And now?’ He directed the question at the two legates. It was disturbing that the two men who held his life in their hands patently found it difficult to sit in the same room with each other. Valens continuously darted glances of varying degrees of loathing at his fellow general, while Caecina contrived to convey the impression that only he and Vitellius were present.
‘Now we march on Rome,’ the commander of the First Germanica said gruffly. Caecina gave a reluctant nod of confirmation.
Vitellius felt a thrill of fear as the reality of what he was now part of was put into words. We march on Rome. Do, or die. ‘Very well. I will lead my legions south in the spring. We—’
‘With the greatest respect, Imperator,’ Valens interrupted, reluctantly looking to Caecina for support, ‘delay would be fatal. We must act now while we are at our strongest and our enemy at his weakest. If we wait, Galba will be able to call the eastern legions to his aid. Show your leadership now and every man of the Rhenus legions will support you. If you wait for three months …’
‘Soldiers are creatures of the moment, Caesar,’ Caecina agreed. ‘You must take the initiative.’
Vitellius smiled. Did they take him for a fool? ‘It was my understanding that we do not campaign in winter. Surely we must not act precipitously. There are supplies to gather, funds to put in place, plans to agree and alliances to make. We cannot leave the frontier unguarded. It will take a month to make our preparations, perhaps two.’
Valens produced a wide roll of parchment and unrolled it on the table. It was a map of Germania, Gaul, Belgica, Raetia and Italia, detailed and recently drawn. ‘That will be Galba’s thinking, but we intend to surprise him. Two columns. Myself to the west, following the river route,’ he trailed his finger along the blue lines of the Rhenus, the Mosella, the Sauconna and the Rhodanus, ‘and then turning east towards Augusta Taurinorum. One full legion, the Fifth, and six thousand men from the other three legions of this province, plus twelve thousand auxiliaries. In all a force of twenty-three thousand men …’
‘While I,’ Caecina chimed in, taking up a position on the opposite side of the map, ‘will lead a force of equal strength from Germania Superior by the more direct route through the Alps.’ Vitellius opened his mouth to interrupt, but just then a gust of wind from the opening in the roof blew smoke from the open fire back into the room and Caecina brushed a few spots of black soot from the map before continuing smoothly, ‘We will march immediately and push as far as we can, acclimatize the men to the mountains while we wait for the passes to open. There has been less snow than normal. We may not have to wait for long. Each column will be large enough to deal with any opposition it is likely to meet and small enough to move quickly. If all goes to plan, we will combine somewhere around Placentia for the final march on Rome with around fifty thousand men. An unstoppable force.’
‘But provisions …?’
‘Each unit has supplies for a three-month campaign. The order of march has been agreed. The men are ready. All it requires is your order.’ Valens produced a new sheet of parchment. ‘And your seal.’
Vitellius toyed with the newly crafted gold ring inscribed with the words Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator that the two generals had presented to him. Caecina had claimed it was the work of a famous Celtic craftsman and had come from Gaul, but he was such a dissembler, who knew? Like all the rest of this, the ring spoke of premeditation, much more so than he had realized. Only now did he understand the full extent of his manipulation. Every element of their plan was another bar to the cage that held him. Could there be a way out? He felt the hard eyes on him. The answer was no. Still he did not accept the parchment. ‘You say two columns? What part will your Emperor play in this?’
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