Nero_s Heirs

by Allan Massie

  Otho could not fail to be affected by the mood of suspicion that surrounded him. Without good reason, he fell into distrust of some of his most able commanders. I cannot blame him altogether for this; the rumours of treason had thrown him into a state of perpetual alarm. He sat for hours in his tent, sipping the wine that failed to intoxicate him, but which nevertheless numbed his critical faculties. Time and again, I heard him bewail his unhappy lot. 'If you ever dream of wearing the purple, dear boy,' he said to me, with many heavy sighs, and on the verge of tears, 'wake from that dream. It is a crown of thorns, not of laurel, that presses on my brow.' Yet in public he strove, not always in vain, to appear cheerful.

  There was a consequence of the dissension and the rumours still more damaging to his cause than their effect on his state of mind. That is not the best way of putting it, for the consequence was provoked by the distrust and dismay that clouded his judgement. Believing that if so many men spoke ill of his generals he could not know whom to trust, he resolved to hand over the management of affairs, and indeed the whole conduct of the campaign, to his brother Titianus, a man with neither experience of victory nor the capacity to inspire the soldiers with confidence. Of all Otho's mistakes, this was the most serious. Soldiers who trust their commanders will fight bravely, to the death, even when the cause is failing. Those who neither trust nor respect them will lose the battle in their hearts, even when the disposition of the forces may yet be in their favour. For the truth, Tacitus, is that morale is the determining factor in war; perhaps you have heard your father-in-law Agricola say so.

  Yet on the ground things still appeared to go well. Caecina, perhaps because he was unnerved by the failure to take Placentia and his discomfiture in other lesser actions, perhaps because Valens was now bringing his untested army up and Caecina feared that he would gain the glory of the campaign, now made a rash attempt to regain the credit he had lost with his troops and with his imperial candidate, Vitellius.

  He posted some of his veterans – auxiliaries as we later learned -concealed in the woods that overhang the road twelve miles from Cremona, at a place called Castors. Then he sent forward a cloud of cavalry, with orders to provoke a battle and then withdraw to lure our men into the trap he had laid for them. It was a pretty scheme, but dangerous in the circumstances of a civil war in which spies and deserters abound. No doubt, had he been engaged against a foreign enemy, his plan would have met with success. But in a civil war there are always many men whose commitment is wavering; they have friends and relations in the opposing army, and so there is habitually a communication between the armies of a sort which is not found in foreign wars. So his scheme was betrayed, or revealed to us.

  Titianus was, fortunately, some miles in the rear, and neither Paullinus nor Celsus felt the need, or desire, to consult him. As it happened I was then in the front line, having been sent forward with a message from the Emperor. I was therefore in a position to observe the disposition of our troops and to admire the assurance with which this was made.

  Paullinus commanded the infantry, Celsus the cavalry. The veterans of the 13th legion, men who had fought with Corbulo in Armenia before that greatest of generals was discharged, disgraced and destroyed by Nero on account of his jealousy of any other man's virtue and success, were drawn up to the left of the road. The raised causeway through the marshes was held by three cohorts of Praetorians, in deep columns, while the right was occupied by the 1st legion and a few hundred cavalry. Several troops of cavalry were sent forward, and more cavalry held in the rear. I myself, with the general's permission, sent my horse to the camp-lines and stood by Paullinus.

  Paullinus was a general of the old stamp. His first care was to throw up defence works, so that he could secure himself against defeat before venturing in search of victory. So the first part of the battle was fought some distance ahead of us, and I know of its course only from hearsay.

  The Vitellianist cavalry having provoked battle then withdrew. But Celsus, aware of the ambush, checked the advance. This caused some alarm, especially when a handful of Illyrian cavalry galloped back to our lines, calling out that all was lost. They would have inspired a panic, had Paullinus not quickly intervened, and ordered his men to stand their ground. Baffled, the Illyrians wheeled about, and for some time galloped to and fro in front of our line, neither seeing a way to safety nor daring to try to force the barrier we presented to them, forbidding their flight.

  Meanwhile, the Vitellianists, believing that the battle was in their favour, surged from their concealed position to give battle to Celsus. He gradually withdrew, making an orderly retreat, the most difficult manoeuvre in war, especially for cavalry. But he moved too slowly, and so found himself surrounded. It was at this moment that Paullinus gave us the order to advance. I did so myself at the head of a cohort of the Praetorians, whose officer had been wounded by a stray javelin.

  I have been in so many battles since this first one that I have learned to distrust all accounts of conflict. There is no narrative of a battle, rather a phantasmagoria of discordant impressions: the look of surprise on a dead man's face, the glint of a horse's hoof raised above you, the grunts of men thrusting with swords, sounds strangely like those emitted in love-making, the sudden face-twisting fear as a man struggles to free his weapon from the body of a fallen man which, holding it fast, renders the killer for the moment defenceless.

  Most of all, though, it is the smells which linger vilely in your nostrils for days after a battle: the stink of fear, of sweat, blood and ordure, for terror can cause a man to defecate, and shit to rush down the wavering legs of even the victors. The idea of war has its beauty, but there is nothing pretty about battle.

  As the infantry came together we thrust and slashed and pushed. Close combat gives you strength, adds also to fear, since there is no escape unless the hindmost ranks give way to panic and turn to flee. Then you find your back naked.

  That morning the close fight lasted only a short time which, nevertheless, was endless. I had no notion we were winning, for at first we seemed to be pushed backwards, and I stumbled twice, thrice, over fallen comrades. Then I felt a weight behind us, a great press of men and, without warning, the soldier with whom I had crossed swords, each hacking at the other's shield, glanced over his shoulder. His mouth opened in a wordless cry and he took two steps backward, then, before I could launch myself at him, turned tail and ran. And I saw that the whole line of the enemy was in flight. We pursued them with cries for some half a mile, and then the trumpet sounded and a grey-haired veteran seized my shoulder, checked my attempt to free myself, and said, 'That's enough, young sir. That's the recall. Run on and you'll find yourself alone. And that'll be the death of you.'

  Later, there was fierce criticism of Paullinus for halting the pursuit so abruptly. Men said that if he had not done so, we would have achieved a complete victory, that Caecina and his whole army might have been destroyed. The critics may have been right. There is no doubt that a general panic had spread through their ranks. I myself had heard many cries such as 'It's every man for himself.' But Paullinus justified his caution. He said that he did not believe that the whole army of the enemy had been engaged, and that their commanders might throw reinforcements forward, who, attacking our men after they had lost order in the pursuit, might reverse the decision of the day. In short, he asserted that it was enough to have inflicted so much damage on the enemy and that it would have been folly to risk throwing away the advantage we had won. No doubt there was much wisdom in what he said, and events might indeed have turned out as he feared. Yet his policy dismayed the army. They thought they had had a chance to settle the campaign in one afternoon, that the opportunity had been lost, that the enemy had been only bruised and would soon recover. So, instead of celebrating a noble victory, men talked more readily of what had been thrown away. Their mood was such that you might even have supposed we had lost the battle.

  Nor was that all. Paullinus, though he had master-minded the victory, and shown su
ch skill in the disposition of his troops, and such control over their movements, yet lost credit on account of his decision to halt the pursuit. Those who had already been putting it about that he was less than completely committed to Otho were confirmed in their suspicion. Some even went so far as to say that his halting of the pursuit was an act of treachery.

  For a few days the war was suspended. This allowed the enemy time to repair the damage done. More significantly, it permitted the union of Caecina's army with that of Valens. Though our intelligence assured us that the two generals were now bitter rivals, each fearing that the other would become the chief man in the army, and indeed the State, when Vitellius was victorious (for nobody regarded the so-called Emperor himself or thought him anything more than a figurehead), yet the coming together of the enemy made it necessary for Otho to call a council to discuss strategy.

  The question,' he said, fingering a piece of material merely to keep his hands occupied, and perhaps to prevent anyone from observing their tremor, which was occasioned not by fear, but by some nervous complaint that I had observed to afflict him in moments of excitement, 'the question is whether we should seek battle or wage a defensive campaign and so draw out the war longer, in the hope of exhausting the enemy.'

  He invited Paullinus, as the senior commander – in years, that is -and as the victor of the most recent battle to give his opinion first.

  Paullinus spoke with an old-fashioned formality. His conduct in the recent battle had won my respect, however I might think the prudence which had caused him to halt the pursuit to be ill-timed; and I was therefore displeased to observe that his manner of speaking gave rise to some amusement. In particular, the two ephebes who were customarily in attendance on Titianus, and who were assumed to be his catamites, though they were at the council in the capacity of secretaries, giggled and nudged each other, and smirked and pulled faces in imitation, as they thought, of Paullinus' grave manner. During the course of his speech I sidled round the room, and, coming up behind the two little beauties, jabbed each hard in the ribs with my knuckled fist; they yelped, and fell silent, rubbing themselves where I had struck.

  Vitellius,' Paullinus said, 'has now assembled his entire army. He can hope for no further reinforcements. Nor has he any strength in his rear, for Gaul is restive (as I hear) and he can strip no more troops from the Rhine frontier lest the Germans break through. He can get no reinforcements from Britain either, unless prepared to abandon that rich province to the barbarism of its northern wilderness. There are few troops left in Spain. Narbonnese Gaul has been reduced by the action of our fleet. Italy, north of Padua, is confined by the Alps. It cannot be supplied from the sea where we still have mastery; and, lastly, his army has already stripped the towns, villages and farms of the last grain. He can get no more corn, and without supplies an army cannot be kept together. Then the German auxiliaries, who are among his finest fighting men, will suffer, should we drag the war out till the summer, from the heat of our climate to which they are unaccustomed.'

  He paused, and cleared his throat. (It was at this moment that I silenced Titianus' catamites.)

  'Many a campaign, beginning well in the fruits of its first impetuosity, has crumbled, become nothing, when subjected to delay. Was that not how the great Fabius Maximus wore down Hannibal, the most formidable enemy Rome ever faced? But our position is very different. We have Pannonia, Moesia, Dalmatia and the East, with armies that are fresh and ready for action. We hold Italy and Rome, the seat of Empire and of government. We have at our disposal all the wealth of the State and of countless private men. We control the corn route from Egypt and we have a vast supply of money at our disposal. Money may be a sharper and mightier weapon in a civil war than the sword. Did not Antony and the young Octavian, later the Divine Augustus, prove that when they moved against the Liberators, Brutus and Cassius?

  'Our soldiers are accustomed to the climate of Italy and the summer heat. We have the River Po on our front, and strongly garrisoned and fortified cities, any of which will withstand a siege, as the defence of Placentia has demonstrated. Therefore, for us, the wisest course is delay. Let us protract the war or, at least, if there is to be a battle, let us compel the enemy to come at us. Then we shall fight in a prepared position, while they endure the hazard of open ground. In a few days, or weeks at most, the 14th legion, laden with battle honours, will arrive from Moesia. We shall then be even stronger than we are now and if, sir,' – he turned to Otho, who started, as if till that moment he had abstracted himself from the company and permitted his mind to wander through a world of dreams – 'if you are eager for battle,' Paullinus said, 'we shall fight with increased strength and a greater assurance of victory. For this is my final word: the wise general delays battle till the odds are overwhelmingly on his side. And with every day that passes the balance of advantage tilts towards Otho.'

  Otho thanked Paullinus for his advice, and for speaking so frankly. Then he bit his nails while he waited to see who was eager to follow the first speaker. Marius Celsus got to his feet.

  'I've had my quarrels with Paullinus in the past,' he said, 'and I still hold that he was wrong to halt the pursuit in the last battle. But what's done is done. You can never alter yesterday's course. Now Paullinus talks sense. Everything comes to he who waits, as the proverb says. All we have to do is sit tight, hold our position, and Vitellius will be like a rotten fruit that falls from the tree. Why risk defeat in battle when victory is ours if we do not do anything rash?'

  A young blond legate, who had nodded to me approvingly when he saw me silence the catamites, and whom I now recognised as one whom I had been accustomed to see, years previously, in Lucan's company at the baths, now stood up. He wore the short military tunic and rubbed his hands down his thighs as if they were sweating. His thighs, I recall noticing, were shapely and free of hair. Not many men have the cool self-esteem to shave their legs on campaign. He addressed Otho in a dandified voice, with a note of haughty reserve.

  'Permit me,' he said, 'to introduce myself, for few of you will know me, while those who do may be surprised to see me at this council. My name is Caesius Bassus, and I am attached to the staff of Annius Gallus. As you know, my general had a heavy fall from his horse a few days ago, and is presently laid up. Therefore he sent me here, that I might read to you a paper which he has written giving his views of what should best be done. I see no reason not to say straightaway that he is in substantial agreement with Paullinus. Nevertheless, since his reasons for advocating this course are not identical, which you may consider adds weight to the argument, I request your permission, sir, to proceed.'

  As he read his general's document, a line of verse floated for a moment just out of reach. Domatilla had quoted it, I knew that, and named the author as Caesius Bassus, which meant nothing to me then. Now the three things came all at once together, Domatilla's lips framing the line as we gathered our things and looked round the garden before returning to the villa, the line itself – 'Stark autumn closed on us, to a crackling wind from the west' – and the image of the poet stretched out on a bench at the baths, caressing himself, as Lucan urged in a voice that grew sharper the more his friend ignored it, some wild course, but what I know not. How strange, I thought, to find him here, so untouched by war, untouched even by time, for he, who was several years older than myself, now appeared to me to be my equal in age.

  He finished speaking made a curt bow towards the Emperor, and turned away, as if indifferent to the effect of his words which, I suspected, might have been written by him, for Annius Gallus was not reputed to have any skill in rhetoric or letters.

  It seemed to me that the argument for delay was cogent, and I also believed it would accord with Otho's own predilection for postponing. But I had reckoned without the influence of his brother Titianus, who spoke up for immediate war. He was supported by the Prefect of the Praetorians, one Proculus, an ignorant and short-tempered man. Their chief argument was that delay in a civil war encourages desertions and that
the troops should not be given time to consider whether they might find better fortune in Vitellius' army. This argument, though expressed inelegantly and without any attempt to appeal to reason, nevertheless prevailed. It did so because it played on men's fears, and fear is a more potent advocate than good sense. Even as Proculus spoke, I could see Otho begin to twitch; he had told me only that morning that he had dreamed of waking, naked but for a single sheet, in a vast desert; a cold wind was blowing and vultures hovered in the air. Poor man, he had no confidence in the loyalty of either his soldiers or their officers. Having won the Empire by an act condemned as treasonable by so many, he saw traitors lurking at every corner of the road he was compelled to travel.

  Then Titianus, either because he sought to reserve glory for himself, or perhaps because he had a certain affection for his brother Otho, which I find hard to credit, proposed that the Emperor should not command the army in person – or rather should not remain with the army command of which he had surrendered to his brother – but should withdraw to Bedriacum some dozen miles to the rear. There, he said, the Emperor would be secure from danger and able to occupy himself with the administration of Empire.

  Otho received this speech with a blank expression on his face. I don't think he knew what his brother had been going to propose; and the words pained him. They suggested that he was useless, an embarrassment to the troops, some of whom would have to die to maintain him as Emperor. He looked around as if seeking someone to oppose his brother's motion. His gaze fell on Caesius Bassus, who held it a moment and then lowered his eyes. Otho's mouth trembled. When he saw that no one was going to demand that he remained with his army, he gave a little shrug of his shoulders, clapped his hands, and called for wine for the council. Unusually, there had been none provided beforehand, perhaps because Marius Celsus was known to be intemperate.