Everyone was exhausted by the time we reached the legion camp, all except the Praetorians that is. Had I been fresh out of BUD/S, I would have been fine, but I hadn’t been forced to perform anywhere near this level of continuous activity since. I legitimately felt like a lazy fatass. As for the Praetorians, they still possessed enough energy to set up defenses and seemed prepared for a lengthy engagement if need be. Approaching the gate, we called for the sentries to allow us access to the camp. They quickly obliged once Caligula had something to say about it.
He’d recovered well from his ordeals, and was the only lucky person on the march with the luxury of being drawn in a cart pulled by horses. He sat up in his stretcher and demanded entry by the power of Julius Caesar himself.
I couldn’t help but be awestruck at the Roman’s camp. I’d read about them in dozens of books over the years and knew just how efficient camp life was for a legion, but to see it in person was a sight to see.
In both function and aesthetics, this fort was no different than the camp we had just left, simple in design, but strong in defensive capabilities. However, this one was made for long term operation. There was a deep ditch, with the dug up dirt piled beyond it to make up the palisade, which had large wooden stakes protruding from it. Then came a large wooden and stone wall, complete with thick gates, and as a last line of defense, enough room between the wall and tents, to keep the camp’s inhabitants out of arrow range. The camp also boasted gravel lined roads, armories, a hospital, an altar of worship, and seemed… homier, more lived in, with men bustling about as though it were a city.
It struck me as an odd thing that this camp wasn’t built along the Roman frontier, but in Northern Italy, well away from any enemy force, and yet still boasted the same defensive parameters of any frontline bastion. Romans never missed an opportunity to continue their training, and were never caught with their pants down.
Well, almost never.
Each fort was constructed in exactly the same way. They were square, with four gates, one on each side. Cutting horizontally through the camp was the via principalis, or principal street. Situated smack dab at the center of that particular road was the praetorium, the legion commander’s tent. South of his tent came officer’s quarters, cavalry and auxiliary tents, tents for the legion’s administrators and bureaucrats, men almost as important as the legionnaires themselves, and a miniature forum. North of the praetorium came eight blocks of tents, four across and two deep, with small roads dividing them. These were tents meant for the legionnaires, and local allied forces. Entering through the northern gate, the porta praetoria, it was a straight shot to the praetorium. As we walked, we had the eyes of the legion all over us. They’d all seen Praetorians before, some maybe had attempted to join, but the sight of the rest of us got their attention. Especially Helena.
What really got them riled up, however, was the sight of their emperor laid out on a stretcher, looking healthier than he did a day ago, but still weak.
News of our arrival traveled fast, and even before we reached the via principalis, the legion’s commander emerged from his tent. A legate by rank, he was easily the highest ranking person in the camp, save Caligula himself.
The legate did not leave the immediate area of his tent, waiting for us to approach his position as any good commander would instead. But when he noticed Caligula, he ran to meet him. Reaching the emperor’s side, the man looked down at his weakened form.
“Caesar,” he said. “What has happened? What has befallen you that requires your arrival here?”
Caligula managed to prop himself up on an elbow and offered the man a strong look. “There has been a coup. My uncle, the dog, Claudius,” he spat on the ground as he said the name, “has seized power by swaying many of my Praetorians to his cause. I should have put him out to pasture as soon as I became emperor.”
That was more interesting information to consider. Clearly there was bad blood between the two, but I couldn’t say why.
“Gather your advisors, Legate. We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed, Caesar,” he said, before looking up at me, having already noticed and ignored our presence, only now indicating in our direction. “Who are these people?”
Caligula smiled. “Pay them no ill will. They are allies, and you would do well to call them friends. We will need them in the days ahead.”
***
The praetorium, no bigger than a small classroom, was crammed with people. Its sole resident, Legate Lucius Livius Ocella Sulpicius Galba, had not only the longest name I’d ever heard, but was also one of the ugliest men I’d ever seen. He had a bumped nose, a double chin, busy eyebrows, and a receding hairline. Ugly wasn’t even the worst adjective one could use to describe him, but his eyes contained an intelligence and determination that demanded respect.
His looks weren’t the most intriguing thing about the man, however, and were the last thing on my mind when I realized he was actually Servius Sulpicius Galba, the Galba, the one who became the first emperor during the year of four emperors in 69 A.D. after the fall of Nero. I tried to remember what little I had learned about the man from my Intro to Roman History course at Dartmouth.
Born Servius Sulpicius Galba, he took the name Lucius Livius Ocella from his step mother who had raised, cared, and loved him. He didn’t officially reclaim his birth name until after he became emperor, as short lived as that had been. He’d been a praetor once before, and had served as consul, and I assumed was taking on another command position now. He was known for his excellent generalship in Gaul, Germany, Africa, and Spain, and I thought I recalled he had become governor of the entire Iberian peninsula later in his life, prior to becoming emperor. I didn’t know why he was in northern Italy now, or why there was even a legion stationed in northern Italy for that matter, but I assumed he had a reason.
The only other fact I knew about the man was that when Caligula died, he had been called upon by his friends to make a bid to take over. He declined and had served loyally during Claudius’ reign. He seemed well at ease around Caligula now, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Caligula had observed him on campaign as a child.
To either side of Caligula, who now rested comfortably in Galba’s bed, stood Marcus and Gaius, his dutiful caregivers for the past few days. Continuing clockwise around the room came Marcus Varus, Centurion Quintilius, myself and the rest of the team, and standing near the entrance was a tribune from one of the two Praetorian cohorts from Caere, Marcellus Pullo. Continuing along the other wall from the entrance came Galba’s retinue. First came two slave scribes, a junior magistrate, the legion’s primus pilus, or “first file”, who was the first and foremost centurion in the legion and served as the prestigious 1st cohort’s 1st century’s centurion.
Interestingly, I had always thought primus pilus translated as “first spear.” I always thought that pilus was another derivation of pilum, or spear. It wasn’t until today that I learned it was a common mistake even in the Roman world.
Who knew?
To round out the group were the praefectus separatism, the camp prefect, and five tribunes, some of which were used for military use, others as administrators, and one who was appointed directly by the Senate, their eyes and ears in the legion. Lastly, standing by his desk next to the bed in which Caligula rested, was Galba himself, looking very angry, and rightfully so. The story we had just told him was not one that inspired confidence in the loyalty of mankind.
“That diseased rat of a man!” He screamed, pounding his fist on the table. “He isn’t fit to lick the shit from Pluto’s boots, and to think I once called him a friend. And you!” He continued, pointing an accusing finger in Quintilius’ direction. “I suppose none of this is your fault. You damned high and lofty Praetorians, with your fancy togas and leisurely detail, with less loyalty than a rabid dog! How is it that you let this happen??”
Caligula answered for him. “Do not blame Centurion Quintilius, my friend. Without his loyal Praetorians, most of whom lie
dead at this moment, I would not be here. It is obvious that Claudius has been planning this for months, maybe even before it was decided that I would succeed Tiberius. We are quite lucky. I had planned a trip to my family’s island estate on Capri. Had I been there, it would have been far easier for him to seize power, but the unexpected arrival of these individuals delayed that trip,” he finished, pointing towards me and my squad mates.
And another piece of the puzzle falls into place. Had we not shown up, Caligula would have gone to Capri and been poisoned there. That would match up with history’s record of where and when he got sick. Claudius wouldn’t have tried a grand assassination attempt, because all he would have needed to do was let nature take its course, and be appointed emperor himself once news arrived that Caligula had died from a mysterious illness. He never thought that Caligula would actually survive the poisoning, only to return as a total nutjob.
Instead, Caligula had gained newfound allies. Us. Allies who were far more powerful than anything Claudius could ever imagine, and he went ahead with his poisoning plans anyway, this time with a backup plan. He had recruited a small army to do his dirty work for him should the poison plot fail. The mob itself must have been formed around those who felt Claudius was overlooked and slighted when Caligula took over. Its size was probably augmented with people distrustful of us time travelers. There wasn’t a soul in the city who didn’t know of us, or what we could do. During those runs Helena and I took, we didn’t just run into adoring fans, but also shady groups of men who would have stabbed us right then and there if they had the chance.
“Ah, yes. These curious looking people,” Galba remarked dismissively, sounding just as Caligula had during our first few encounters. “You have explained their exploits, and I have no reason to doubt you, but I find it hard to believe you so easily trust those who won’t even tell you the place of their birth.”
Caligula chuckled. “You can trust them, Legate. We’ll need them. Now, how are we to reclaim my empire?”
Galba sighed. “Claudius couldn’t have picked a better time to start a civil war. Africa and the East are quiet, although Jewish rumblings may bring trouble in the future. Germany is quiet as well and I’ve just received word that an expeditionary force of Britons has ran back to their island. I’ve had word of lightning strikes and a man’s head spontaneously exploding as though the gods were involved. Very odd, but it allows us the freedom to focus on Claudius. Now, as for this legion, it was to go north to Germany, to help alleviate the loss of Quinctilius’ three legions thirty years ago.”
“But why are you here? Training a fresh legion?” Caligula asked, dumbfounded. “I recall commissioning the inception of this legion, but you were not assigned its commander. You have lead veteran men in battle throughout Germany and Spain. This is a demotion, and I never would have authorized it had you been ordered.”
“I volunteered,” Galba replied with a shrug, “and the Senate approved. After the incident in the Teutoburg Forest, I knew I couldn’t let the fate of a legion rest on their commander alone. Rome’s legions are the finest military forces the world will ever see, but I felt I could make them better. That’s why I volunteered to train this legion, to make them the best. I’ve seen my share of combat, and I’m sure I will see more, but for now I’ve decided to turn my attention to training.”
From what I knew, Galba had been a notorious disciplinarian, and a strict drill master. He would train good legions to replace those lost in the north.
When Publius Quinctilius Varus, no relation to my ancestor, Marcus Varus, at least as far as I knew, had been stationed in Germany in 9 A.D. he was taken by surprise and ambushed by Germanic tribes during what was later known as the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest. He had been killed and his three legions annihilated. Only a handful of men survived, literally only enough to count on a hand or two, and their trio of standards were stolen, a very embarrassing moment in Roman military history. I’d read theories claiming the loss of those three legions was one of the earliest precursors to Rome’s downfall centuries later. A boisterous claim, but definitely one worth considering.
“Unfortunately,” Galba continued, “I am not finished, and this legion, the XV Primigenia, hasn’t completed its training yet. It was scheduled to be pressed into service next year, but in my opinion, can be rushed into deployment now. We have a full complement of legionnaires, as well as auxilia, and my command staff is well seasoned. My first file, Maximus Nisus,” he pointed towards a stern looking man who nodded in greeting, “served under Tiberius and started his career under Agrippa. We are not lacking experience from them, but the boys are. With your two Praetorian cohorts, we can muster around twelve thousand fighting men. If Claudius manages to contact your remaining Praetorian cohorts, he can field around six thousand, and gods knows how many auxilia and levied troops from Rome itself. Plus the city itself would be hard pressed to take. It would be a tough fight alone, and we would need to plan carefully.”
Galba looked around the room to make sure everyone was paying attention, before turning to Caligula. “There is also the question of whether or not to involve other legions. I would recommend against it. Should word of a coup spread, a series of civil wars may erupt, and that could end very badly for all of Rome. I suspect Claudius understands this as well and will do nothing until he has eliminated you.”
“I approve of your thoughts, Legate,” Caligula assured. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Well, sir, as you know, we are nearing the end of the campaigning season. My suggestion is to wait until Spring, train the boys as hard as we can during the winter, and then besiege Rome, and hope for the best. That would be our best strategy.”
Ah, the armies of the past. Not a war was fought between November and March and any war in progress practically called for an armistice until the Spring rolled around again.
“I concur, Legate. Make your preparations. We’ll try and sneak some information out of Rome in the meantime, but for now, if you will, please make accommodations for my friends here,” he said, again, pointing in our direction.
Galba grunted. “Very well. We have a few understaffed officers’ tents they can use.”
Vincent held up a hand. “We appreciate the offer, sir, but we have our own shelters. Just give us a spot.”
Galba grunted. “So they speak Latin. Interesting. Fine. Take some room behind the praetorium, next to the forum.”
“Thank you.”
Caligula laughed. “Galba, old friend. You may want to watch them. If they make camp like they do war, I’m sure you will be most interested.”
***
Making our way behind the praetorium, Santino, Bordeaux, and I unpacked the small, two man tents we’d added to our assault packs. Night had fallen, and we set up a portable battery powered lantern that lit up a small area around where we intended to make camp. Combined with the glow sticks we had hanging from our vests, we had plenty of illumination.
Not to mention a crowd.
The tents were extremely simple in design. The frame was folded in on itself, and was made out of an extremely thin, flexible, and lightweight material, but also extremely durable and water proof. Laying it out, right side up, I pulled on a tab, and immediately backed away. No longer pinned in place, springs connecting the poles together shot out in a choreographed sequence, and within five seconds, a small, black tent materialized out of thin air. Those watching were stunned. I heard snorting coming from the praetorium, and looked to see Galba shaking his head before returning inside.
The three of us pounded a few stakes in the ground to secure our tents, before backing away to admire our handiwork. Hands on his hips, rifle still hanging in front of him, Santino shook his head.
“You know, sir,” he said, speaking to Vincent, “I’ve been thinking.”
“That would be a first,” I jibed.
He ignored me. “Since we’re going to be cooped up in these small tents for the entire winter, I was thinking maybe we switch up our s
wim team pairs. Just to shake things up.” He made this last comment while looking at Helena, flicking his eyebrows and nodding towards his tent suggestively.
I punched him in his shoulder with more than just playful force.
“Never mind,” he said, rubbing his arm.
“So, sir?” I asked Vincent. “Do you know anything about this particular legion?”
“Actually, I do, but not much.” He looked around to make sure there weren’t any legionaries around, even though he spoke in English. “Unfortunately, despite it being named for the goddess, Fortuna, this legion’s luck doesn’t last very long. It spent time on the Rhine and fighting the Britons, but is eventually destroyed in 70 A.D. along with a sister legion.”
“Just out of curiosity,” I continued. “Since Galba apparently trained this legion, who does it fight for during the ‘war of four emperors’?”
“Ironically it sides with Vittelius, and fights directly against Otho and Galba. You have to remember that most of these men won’t be serving in the legion thirty years from now during that civil war, so even though Galba first raised the legion, there would be little loyalty left to him.”
I nodded. That made sense.
“Sir?” Santino queried. “How could you possibly know all of this?”
Vincent looked at Santino blankly. “I’ve been studying the classics since you were in diapers, son.”
Santino shook his head. “And I thought Jacob was a dork.”
“Anyway,” Vincent said, moving on. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m taking a nap.” He spoke with the first hint of lightheartedness I’d heard from him since taking command. Santino sighed, realizing he’d have to share the tent with the much older man for the winter.
The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) Page 26
