by James Mace
“That he was,” Claudius said quietly, allowing himself a brief smile at more pleasant memories. Germanicus and Claudius were so completely different in both physical appearance and demeanor that one could scarcely believe they were brothers. Germanicus had been a physical specimen, devoid of any of his younger brother’s deficiencies. He was well-spoken, highly intelligent with a natural apt for military prowess. Trained in the art of war under Tiberius, he’d shared the same distinction in that in his years of command he not once lost a major battle.
Oddly enough, Claudius had never envied Germanicus, even when the latter was awarded the first Triumph in a generation for destroying the Germanic Alliance and avenging the disaster of Teutoburger Wald. Germanicus had been one of the few to recognize his brother’s true qualities and, in fact, he was one of the few people Claudius had never stammered around. But now he was gone.
Premature deaths seemed to haunt the imperial household, as Claudius’ cousin and the emperor’s only son, Drusus, had died of a mysterious illness just a few years later. And Claudius’ own son had been just a boy of four when he choked to death. Such thoughts made him fear greatly for his unborn child. He had only just found out that Aelia was pregnant, and unpleasant reckonings plagued him as the litter made its way through the night, despite the well-intentioned banter of Cornelius.
“Here we are, sir,” the praetorian said as the slaves bearing the litter came to a sudden halt, jolting Claudius awake. Cornelius extended a hand and helped him from the litter.
Claudius then took a deep breath and sighed as he ascended the steps leading into the imperial palace.
It should have come as no surprise that Livia Augusta was breathing her last. At her extremely advanced age she had seen more than most would in ten lifetimes. Most had forgotten that she had been married to Tiberius Claudius Nero, who despite having served as Quaestor to Julius Caesar, sided with his assassins, the Optimates, in their civil war against Caesar’s nephew, Octavian. Livia had been forced to flee with her husband and infant son in wake of Octavian’s onslaught against the Optimates. As fugitives, they had journeyed all throughout what was still known as The Roman Republic. Their exploits, now forgotten, would have been worthy of Homer!
After the warring factions reconciled, Livia and her husband returned to Rome. Even after all these years she could still remember the charming young man who had so recently been their enemy and the reason for their exile. What was intriguing was that Octavian was completely enamored with her, despite the fact that she was six months pregnant with her second child. Octavian’s own wife, Scribonia, was about to give birth to his daughter, Julia. Through much intrigue, her husband had been compelled by Octavian to divorce her. Their separation was amicable, even friendly. Nero even gave Livia away at her wedding to Octavian, which happened just three days after their son, Drusus, was born. During this time, Livia never imagined that the young man she had married would in just a few years become master of the known world.
Her sons would not come to live with her until the death of their father, though they were still very young. Octavian would raise them as his own, along with his own daughter. In the years that followed, Livia would watch as her husband rose in prominence; and following the defeat and subsequent death of his rivals, Antony and Cleopatra, he became the most powerful man in Rome. He became known as Augustus, or majestic. Though he would avoid titles such as ‘king’, he was now sole ruler of what history would call the Roman Empire. Within the span of just fifteen years, Livia had gone from fugitive to Empress of Rome.
For more than forty years Livia would serve Rome beside her husband, though often out of the public eye. It was she who convinced Augustus to send Germanicus to the Rhine after the disaster in Teutoburger Wald, rather than the volatile and inexperienced Posthumous Agrippa. Livia had secretly shuddered at the thought of what further disasters would have befallen the Empire had Posthumous been left to command the eight legions charged with unleashing Roman vengeance upon the barbarians. And yet despite her lifelong service to Rome, Livia’s influence was abruptly halted upon the death of Augustus and the rise of her son, Tiberius. It was a constant source of bitter irony between the two that if not for Livia’s substantial influence over Augustus, Tiberius may never have become emperor at all. The truth was, Tiberius had never wanted the imperial mantle. One could argue that his estrangement from his mother was born out of resentment for being saddled with the burden of ultimate power.
The room was dark, with the empress dowager only allowing a small oil lamp on a nearby table. It was the end of an era as Livia’s life slowly gave way. The powerful soul that had both inspired and terrified many lay trapped in the frail and dying body of an extremely old woman. Above all else, Livia’s spirit was tired.
She fought to hang on for just a little while, for she had one last task to complete. Then she would be ready to face Charon, on the River Styx, who would take her to the afterlife. She fought for breath, her vision starting to fade slightly, as the door opened and her grandson stumbled in.
“G…grandmother,” Claudius stuttered, rushing to her side. He took her hand in his and shuddered as it was already cold. He then looked around, puzzled. “W…where is my uncle? Capri is but a couple days from here by ship. He should be here with you!”
“He will not come,” Livia reply, sadly shaking her head. “I lost my son years ago. Now that my time is nearly done, he will be glad to finally be rid of me.” A single tear ran down her cheek. Livia had been stoic most of her life, but now she was finally unashamed by the tears that came. “He loathes me now as much as he once loved me.”
“I have spoken to some of my friends in the senate,” Claudius said, reassuringly. “Caecina Severus and several others have agreed to press for your deification.”
“That’s very kind of you,” the dying empress replied. Her voice was raspy, and Claudius struggled to hear her. “It was kind, but in vain. You forget that Tiberius holds the Tribunician power of veto. Even if the senate votes unanimously in favor of my becoming a goddess, he will simply cast his veto and nullify it. I hear he plans to void my will as well. Livia Augusta will simply pass into the afterlife a mere mortal, no more worthy than a Sicilian whore.”
It broke Claudius’ heart to hear how his uncle could be so heartless towards his mother. Though Claudius’ relationship with his own mother, Antonia, had been tumultuous at best, he still loved her and would never dream of hurting her. Tiberius seemed to go out of his way to injure Livia.
“Uncle has named both Gemellus and Gaius Caligula as his joint heirs,” he replied, referring to Tiberius’ grandson and great-nephew. “I will speak with them and see if perhaps…”
“Ha!” Livia interrupted before succumbing to a brief coughing fit. “Gemellus is still but a child, and he is not even mentioned in the sibylline prophecies. Gaius Caligula? He’ll try and deify himself before he ever thinks about his great-grandmother!”
“What can I do then?” Claudius was beside himself. His grandmother wished more than anything to be with Augustus in the next life, and that could never happen as long as she was but a simple mortal. Despite his own reluctance regarding deification while he lived, soon after his passing, the senate had voted unanimously to make Augustus Caesar a god. Even Tiberius had voiced his support for the measure, yet he would never allow his mother to receive such divine honors.
“You forget the rest of the prophecy,” Livia chastised. The prophecy she spoke of was written by the divine Sibyl many years before and kept locked away by order of Augustus. Besides Livia, Claudius was now one of the very few who even knew of its existence. It foretold the rise of both Tiberius and Gaius Caligula, further elaborating that Caligula would not sit on the imperial throne for long. What had startled Augustus, causing him to lock away the book lest it cause a panic amongst certain members of the imperial house, was that after a brief reign, Caligula would be succeeded by none other than his Uncle Claudius.
“You are the last truly nobl
e member left of the Julio-Claudians,” Livia continued. “I always thought you a fool, but I later realized it was all of us who had been fooled. Your destiny will be revealed to you when you least expect it. Don’t forget your promise!”
“N…never!” Claudius said with an involuntary twitch of his head. “I promise that Augustus himself will lead you through the gates of paradise.” Though he had no delusions of becoming emperor, he was determined that Livia Augusta be given justice in the next life.
His grandmother gave a resigned nod. Her eyes twitched and her breath became shallow and labored. “Stay with me,” she said quietly. “Stay with me until the end and place a coin in my mouth for the ferryman.” It did not take long.
Claudius, ever the sentimental, wept openly as he watched his grandmother close her eyes and slowly allow her spirit to leave her body. After her last breath gave out, he reached into his toga with a trembling hand and took out a single coin, which he placed in her mouth. He stayed by her side for some time, lamenting that Livia Augusta, Mother of the Empire, had been left utterly alone at the end.
Chapter I: Incursion on the Rhine
Fortress of the Twentieth Legion, Cologne, Germania
March, 31 A.D.
***
“Bastards never learn,” a legionary growled as he huddled under his cloak. Though the frost was off the ground and spring had come once again to the Rhine, the perpetual dampness made the still-present cold cling to the shivering soldiers that lay hidden behind the embankment.
“When one is without food, the risk of death by the sword is still preferable to that of starvation,” Optio Praxus reasoned as he walked behind the line of soldiers.
Spring was a time when trouble would strike the borders of the Empire. The previous fall’s lackluster harvest, combined with an unusually harsh winter had left many in want of food and other resources. It had also led to an increase in raids from across the Rhine. Though the region had been largely pacified since the campaigns of Germanicus Caesar fifteen years earlier, the deprivation of the tribal peoples just outside of the Empire had emboldened many to raid the more fertile lands west of the Rhine.
“I’ll spill their guts and then warm my hands in their blood,” the legionary said as he rubbed his hands together and breathed on them in emphasis. Praxus ignored the man and took an assessment of the farm settlement.
They were just a few miles southeast of the Roman fortress at Cologne. The complex consisted of about half a dozen dwellings with thatched roofs, a kraal for livestock, and a large silo full of grain. With but a handful of farmers residing there with their families, it was an easy target for starving bands of marauders. A few days before, an auxiliary patrol had encountered a band of raiders as they fell upon the farms. So fast and so great were their numbers that the auxiliaries were quickly overrun and forced to withdraw; leaving four dead behind. Fearing the threat of additional Roman forces in the area, the barbarians had panicked and fled.
In response to the raid, Centurion Pilus Prior Dominus, Commander of the Twentieth Legion’s Third Cohort, dispatched one of his centuries to the settlement. A routine patrol would normally consist of an eight-man squad of legionaries or auxiliaries. However, given the size of the raid and the losses already suffered, a stronger show of force was needed. The Roman governor had been harried with numerous complaints from locals, demanding that Rome make good on its promise of protection. The Third and Fourth Cohorts had been tasked with dealing with the situation, and Dominus knew the magnitude of what was at stake. He wanted the raiders destroyed! His remaining centuries, as well as those of the Fourth Cohort, were dispatched to various settlements and small farming villages in the region.
Soon after receiving their orders, the Second Century, under the command of Centurion Titus Artorius Justus, left the fortress under the cover of night. They had made the final mile of their trek off the main road, keeping to the trees, lest unfriendly eyes spot them. The embankment sloped down from the far side of the farming settlement, where a small stream trickled. It was here that Artorius had his men bivouac for the remainder of the night.
Dawn had come, and while most of the century lay hidden behind the embankment, a single squad walked about the settlement, coming upon the spot where the auxiliaries had been beaten back. Enemy spies would not be alarmed by the presence of a few Roman soldiers; in fact, it was to be expected following a raid from across the Rhine.
“These people never learn,” a legionary reiterated as he gazed at the body of a slain auxiliary. “The locals could have at least had the decency to bury him.”
The man’s corpse had been stripped of armor, weapons, and anything of value. His body was sprawled on its back, head turned to the side, tongue sticking grotesquely between his teeth, eyes open and vacant. Flies had started to gather in the pool of dried blood that saturated his slashed throat. The bodies of the other three had been taken away to be burned; however, this poor fellow had been left to rot in the dense undergrowth along the river. It was only when the corpse started to stink that he’d been found.
“They’ll learn a permanent lesson soon enough,” his decanus replied. The two men immediately snapped to attention as they saw their commanding officer, Centurion Artorius, approaching.
“Pickets are positioned within the tree line, sir,” the decanus said. Artorius nodded in reply. “There’s a narrow ford that makes for a perfect crossing point. Though they got the jump on our auxiliaries, they were spooked enough that they left without taking hardly a thing from the settlement.”
“A scouting mission,” Artorius grumbled.
“Then you think they’ll attack again, sir?” the legionary asked.
“I hope so,” the centurion said as he turned and walked away.
Though their commander’s face was stone serious, the decanus could not help but grin at the remark. Like his cohort commander, Artorius understood the need to teach the raiding barbarians, as well as the indigenous peoples, a lesson in Roman power.
“Then centurion enjoys killing, does he?” the legionary asked once he felt Artorius was out of earshot. The young man had only been in the legions for six months and was barely out of recruit training. Like most, he’d stumbled many times when learning weapons drill and marching; as a result suffering centurion’s wrath, along with that of his training officers. It was something every young man who joined the Roman army went through, but the legionary still caught himself cringing when his centurion approached.
“No,” his squad leader replied, shaking his head. “He hates it. Many days he curses the gods that he is so damned efficient at it.”
Though the legionary only saw his commanding officer perhaps twice a week during battle drills, his reputation was legendary. Despite being the youngest centurion within the Twentieth Legion, Artorius had held his command for six years. Given how quickly he accelerated through the ranks, it surprised many of his men that he was not on the short list for promotion to cohort commander.
Artorius reckoned he would get the chance soon to prove his killing efficiency, as well as testing that of his men. It was their second night at this settlement, and he knew that sooner or later the raiders would strike.
“They have to return,” he told his optio, Gaius Praxus. “That last raid was just a reconnaissance mission. Were it not, I doubt they would have fled in the face of less than a dozen auxiliaries.”
Praxus remained silent. The two senior leaders of the Second Century were feeling the same agitation as their men.
“With such a large supply of grain,” Praxus at last replied, “to say nothing of the handful of cattle and goats, it is too ripe of a target to be ignored. I wonder how Magnus and the Fourth Cohort are faring.”
“His men are still fairly raw and inexperienced,” Artorius noted. “I think a clash with the chance to bloody their weapons will do them some good.”
Centurion Magnus Flavianus was a close friend of both men. He’d come up through the ranks with Artorius. After the legion�
��s Fourth Cohort met disaster at the Battle of Braduhenna, Magnus had been selected as one of the centurions to lead the reconstituted unit.
“The pickets have been instructed not to engage the enemy directly,” the decanus from the patrol squad said as he joined the two senior leaders.
The men assigned this duty had the most difficult task of all, particularly regarding their need to remain hidden in the dense undergrowth along the river, unable to move about freely. Artorius made certain only the best disciplined men were posted here, with the previous pickets being relieved just before the predawn cast its glow through the dense mass of trees.
“Have designated runners been assigned to notify us when the enemy is spotted?” the centurion asked.
“Yes, sir,” the decanus confirmed. “They also know they are to provide the blocking force to prevent any raiders from escaping back across the river.”
Aside from the pickets he posted to watch for movement on the far side of the river, his men had remained mostly hidden, encamped in the small defilade just on the other side of the road that ran past the settlement. Though the farmers had wished to send their wives and children away, Artorius had forbidden it, as he wanted everything to have the appearance of normality. The Roman governor made it clear to the legions that he wanted the raiders wiped out, not scared away. Artorius’ men mostly slept during the day, and their chief enemy proved to be boredom. Two of his men had already felt the lash of his vine stick for fighting amongst themselves. The sooner they had an actual enemy to battle, the better.
As the day wore on, Artorius elected to take another walk through the settlement. As he reasoned that a raid during the daytime was highly unlikely, he allowed his men not on picket duty to remove their armor. He strolled along the dirt path between thatched houses, the ground still damp as the sun did not penetrate through the tall trees until near midday. He’d left his armor with his century, his centurion’s belt and his sword hanging from his left hip being the only indicators of his rank. The smell of livestock was strong, and he caught the aroma of the grain silo as he walked past. The Gallic farmers went about their business, most paying him no attention. Though he hoped the presence of Roman soldiers so close would instill feelings of safety, there was an air of overwhelming fear amongst the populace.
