by James Mace
“No love lost between the Germanic provinces, I see,” Italicus laughed as he took the satchel from the courier. It contained not just a personal message from the governor of Upper Germania, but a scroll with a broken seal, from Governor Julius Vindex in Gaul.
“That will be all,” Italicus said to the courier, who saluted sharply and left.
“My dear consuls!” Nero said, as he sauntered over to the men. His face was flushed despite being covered in white powder. “Why do you not join us?”
“A message from Verginius,” Italicus answered, as he quickly read the scroll. “It would seem there is trouble in Gaul.”
“Yes, well we’ve had troubles before,” the emperor said with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure Verginius, and our good friend Capito, can sort it out.” He then gave the outgoing consul a playful tap on the shoulder with his baton. “Well, you two do what you must, but be sure you are at the banquet this evening, where we will honor your incoming consulship, Italicus, along with your colleague, Galerius. And Capito, you can tell me then about the ‘troubles’ in Gaul and how you intend to fix them.”
Nero and the rest of his entourage soon left them, the emperor calling for his lyre.
“It would seem Vindex is sending subversive messages to all governors in the western provinces,” Italicus said, once Nero had left them. “I suspect we will see similar messages forwarded to us from the other governors soon enough.”
“A bold, if utterly stupid, move on his part,” Capito said, as he read the message from Vindex. He cared not what Verginius had to say about the matter. “He says that Nero is a direct threat to the empire’s well-being, and that one of them must ‘save Rome from the tyrant’.”
“And yet he does not say who among them must save Rome,” Italicus noted. “Perhaps he is waiting to see who, if anyone, actually answers his call to insurrection before deciding who should lead them in his proposed coup against the emperor.”
“He’s completely daft if he thinks he can raise a rebellion against Nero,” Capito replied, although his voice betrayed his lack of assertion.
“Don’t be so certain,” Italicus said. “The plebs in Rome may love the emperor, as do most of the legions. However, that is not to say that there aren’t seditious feelings brewing throughout the provinces. We both know that Nero’s increased taxation and tariffs have not been taken well, especially when it is known that the money is being used for his extravagant building projects in Rome. And you should know, even better than I, the horrified reactions from the people when he ordered the temples plundered.”
“And if he had not, then the empire would have bankrupted itself long before the city was even half rebuilt,” Capito retorted. He was still a Nero loyalist, for he owed the emperor his consulship, as well as his governorship. “I leave for my post in three days. It’s almost nine hundred miles from here to Cologne, a distance which will take me a month to travel; longer if the roads through the Alpes are impassible due to the snow.”
“By which time, Vindex will have either committed suicide or found enough support with which to launch a full-scale rebellion,” Italicus observed.
“Well, Mogontiacum is on the road to Cologne,” Capito said. “I’ll be able to see if that idiot, Verginius, hasn’t panicked and lost his head before then.”
His insulting tone towards the governor of Upper Germania had more to do with the inherent rivalry that existed between the two provinces, rather than any personal animosity he had towards Verginius. The Rhine frontier was by far the most volatile within the whole of the empire. It had the largest number of permanently garrisoned forces, with seven legions posted throughout the two Germanias. And though a little over a hundred miles separated the provincial capitals, soldiers from the various legions almost never interacting with each other, there had always been an intensely competitive spirit between them. The governors encouraged this, in part because they knew that in a crisis their legionaries would fight even harder, so as not to appear weak in front of their rivals.
As for the incoming consul, he secretly hoped that Vindex’s seditious talk would fall on deaf ears. Should unrest spread throughout Gaul and Germania, it would risk unsettling the rest of the empire. Part of the reason less ambitious and unimaginative governors were sent to the Germanic provinces was because Rome would face disaster, should a rival emerge who could bring the force of the fearsome Army of the Rhine to bear. That Verginius had chosen to inform the emperor of Vindex’s intentions meant that their loyalty was secure, for the time being.
Chapter III: War Master in the East
Caesarea, Coast of Judea
20 January 68 A.D.
Flavius Vespasian
The political upheaval in Rome, as well as the growing unrest in the western provinces were a world apart from the war-torn Judea, more than three thousand miles from imperial capital. Two years prior, the province had erupted in open rebellion, the Romans driven from Jerusalem. The first attempts at restoring order had proven disastrous, with over six thousand imperial soldiers killed during a hellish ambush at a mountain passed called Beth Horon. The Roman governor, Cestius Gallus, was immediately sacked and later died of an apparent suicide.
So desperate was Nero to quell the rebellion, he reinstated the previously disgraced Flavius Vespasian to active service. The emperor detested the general, despite his exemplary record of military service. Unlike most patricians with a common ancestry, Vespasian had done little to mask his humble origins. He was prone to vulgar language and crude humor, and he found the emperor’s lyrics utterly insufferable. For reasons few understood, Vespasian had been part of Nero’s entourage during a tour of Greece and Asia Minor, having fallen afoul of the emperor’s wrath after he fell asleep during one of Nero’s poetry recitals. Nero subsequently banished Vespasian from the imperial court, ordering him to remain in Achaea where he could spend his days tending to bee hives.
When the emperor received word of the magnitude of the disaster, he had little choice but to recall Vespasian, who was readily available to be dispatched to the province. It still took some convincing, namely from Suetonius Paulinus. He reminded Nero that Vespasian was one of Rome’s fiercest generals, who had fought in over sixty battles and sieges, never once tasting defeat. Veterans of the Britannia conquest still referred to him as ‘The War Master’. Another name he had earned was ‘Siege Breaker’, after he shattered the defenses of a supposedly impenetrable barbarian stronghold in a single day.
Vespasian’s army was massive. In Judea alone he had three legions; Legio V, Macedonia, Legio X, Fretensis, and Legio XV, Apollinaris. These elite soldiers were the bulwark of his fighting force. In addition, he also commanded an entire corps of auxilia infantry cohorts and cavalry regiments, whose total numbers were almost twice that of his legionaries. Furthermore, he had thousands of allied troops dispatched by the client king of Arabia, as well as the loyalist Jewish king, Marcus Julius Agrippa II. A substantial number of these were archers, both on foot as well as mounted, and their service had proven invaluable to the imperial army. All told, the commander-in-chief had over sixty-thousand fighting men under his command in Judea and Galilee. In addition to these assets, there were two additional legions in Egypt he could call upon, with three more located in Syria, plus an equal or greater number of additional auxilia forces. Vespasian had at his disposal over one-third of the entire Roman army, a far greater force than any one man in the rest of the empire.
Wielding such enormous power would usually label one as a threat to Emperor Nero, who seemed to regard both great success and failure with equal amounts of disdain. Vespasian’s one saving grace was his lack of wealth, as well as his family’s plebeian ancestry. Paulinus had further reassured the emperor that Vespasian was a political nonentity. The increasingly paranoid Nero was always watchful of potential rivals, lest they be given too much power. However, he also knew that bloodline, prestige, and family wealth were what mattered most in the Roman political world, and the Flavians possessed sca
rcely any of these. More importantly, he needed someone in Judea who could fight. He needed the War Master. Nero, therefore, felt comfortable with dispatching Vespasian to Judea with such a huge army. And unless he wished to risk losing the province and the possibility of rebellion spreading throughout the east, he had little choice but to give the Flavian general every asset he required.
Since becoming commander-in-chief of all Roman forces in the eastern empire, Vespasian had unleashed a hell storm of fury upon the rebellious Judeans. Wherever there was resistance, his soldiers killed every man and boy of fighting age, and sold the surviving woman and children into slavery. Long caravans of slave merchants followed his army wherever it went, with the tens-of-thousands of captives sold to them glutting the slave market. Both Vespasian and his soldiers profited immensely. The general, who had once resorted to selling mules in order to pay his debts, was quickly becoming immensely wealthy, albeit through much human suffering.
After the extremely violent yet productive campaign season of the previous year, a lull came over the war-torn province. The northern region of Galilee was now firmly under the control of the Romans. Loyalist cities, such as Sepphoris, were rewarded for their fealty with favorable trade agreements, additional soldiers to protect their citizens from marauding bandits, as well as first selection of some of the freshly procured slaves. Those cities that rebelled, such as Jotapata and Gamala, were utterly destroyed. Less than two thousand of Jotapata’s forty thousand citizens and refugees had survived to be sold as slaves, while the populace of Gamala was completely exterminated.
The present lull in the fighting had as much to do with logistics as it did the pacification of so much of the region. As the roads in Judea were little more than unpaved dirt tracks, the winter rains had rendered them impassible quagmires for the imperial army’s siege trains and logistics wagons. Legionaries could, conceivably, still march along these muddy stretches, albeit at a much slower pace and in far greater discomfort than they were accustomed. And while pack mules could be used to transport rations and tents, the rebellious Jews were fighting a strictly defensive war now, refusing to leave their cities and strongholds. Without their siege engines and engineer assets, there was no practical way for the Romans to breach the walls of the remaining major cities still under zealot control. Because of this, General Vespasian had cantoned his army in various encampments all throughout the pacified regions of Judea and northern Galilee.
Many of Vespasian’s senior officers were spending part of the winter with him at the coastal capital of Caesarea. It was midday, yet the sky was black, with sea winds howling against the governor’s palace. Torrents of rain hammered the tiled roof. The commander-in-chief was joined this day by his son, General Titus of the Fifteenth Legion, as well as the commanding legate of the Tenth Legion, General Marcus Ulpius Trajan.
“I pity our soldiers who have only their tents to shelter them from this shit,” Titus remarked.
“Getting pissed on by the Jewish winter rains will only harden them and make them even angrier,” Trajan laughed. “And besides, if it wasn’t the weather, then the rankers would find something else to complain about; either not enough whores to keep their cocks wet, or too few profits from the selling of slaves, or that the war is progressing too fast or too slow for their liking.”
“It’s true,” Titus concurred with a grin. “I suppose they’re happy as long as they have something to complain about.”
Vespasian sat across from the two legates at the long table. He was clearly bored and spinning a pugio dagger by its point on the table, while staring at a rather haggard looking map.
“As soon as this little war is at an end,” he said, “I think the safest thing would be for me to send Nero my resignation, along with my intent to retire to some remote island far away from Rome.”
It was said in jest, with more than a trace of dark humor.
“It is quite the dilemma,” Trajan remarked. “Should you fail, Nero would send you back into exile or worse.”
“And yet with each victory, he may eventually see you as a potential threat,” Titus added. “Or at least his damned praetorian prefects might name you one, once they find out just how much money we’ve amassed during this war. Tigellinus is more diabolical than Sejanus ever was, and Nymphidius is even worse. They could easily fabricate some fanciful charges against us, have Nero demand our suicide or execution, and then steal all our assets to pay for another fucking marble palace!”
“Yes,” Vespasian nodded. “A pity we no longer live in an age where the emperor trusts his legates, rewarding triumph rather than punishing it. I cannot help but wonder what the divine Augustus would make of this, the latest ruler to come from his line. Nero wasn’t always like this; eccentric, most certainly, and a bit unhinged to say the least. But ever since the Great Fire, he has slowly plummeted down into the abyss of madness. I’ve never loved him, and I thought his mother was a royal cunt, but damn me to Hades if he hasn’t become downright evil.”
“I think even Emperor Claudius knew Agrippina was a royal cunt,” Titus remarked dryly. “Though after what he’d been through with his first three wives, he probably figured she was the safest. At least she never tried to hide what she was. And she certainly bore you no good feelings, general.” Out of respect, Titus always addressed his father by his rank, at least in the presence of others.
“Not that any of us remember the time of Augustus,” Trajan observed, ignoring the crude remarks about Nero’s mother. “After all, I wasn’t even born until midway through the reign of Tiberius. And correct me if I’m wrong, Titus, but you were still a babe, shitting yourself, when Caligula was assassinated.”
“It’s true, I could do little but eat and shit then,” the younger legate laughed. “I was only two when ‘Little Brat’ met his end.”
The revelation suddenly reminded Vespasian of the profound difference in years between himself and his subordinate legates. At fifty-eight years of age, the commander-in-chief was the only one among all of his senior officers who was even alive during the reign of Augustus, even though he was just a boy of five when Rome’s first emperor passed into the afterlife. Though Trajan was one of the older legates in the eastern armies, at forty-one he was still young enough to be Vespasian’s son. As for his actual son, Titus, at twenty-eight he was quite possibly the youngest legion commander in the whole of the empire. All of the other legates, as well as auxilia commanders, were in their early to mid-thirties. Vespasian had demanded senior officers who were old enough to have a good amount of practical experience, while young enough that they still possessed sufficient fortitude to set a proper example to their legionaries.
And yet, Vespasian never felt ‘old’ amongst his peers. Though the twenty-five years that had passed since the Invasion of Britannia had slowed him a bit, his energy knew no bounds. Just a few months prior, Vespasian had personally led one of the assaults that broke the rebel stronghold of Gamala, much like he had during the Britannic conquest.
“You know,” Titus said, his brow furrowed in contemplation as he suddenly thought about his father’s words regarding the emperor. “I’ve used plenty of words to describe Nero over the years, both good and bad. And yet, ‘evil’ was never among them. But with the terrible things he’s done in recent years, what else can we call it?”
“Dangerous and erratic,” Trajan replied. “Much like our present conversation.”
“Still,” Titus continued, speaking to his father, “if it’s that great a cause for concern—and given your history with the emperor it might be—perhaps you should send your resignation as soon as we defeat what’s left of the zealots. Retire to an island or remote estate somewhere; gods know you’ve made enough money off this campaign to afford to build a palace on a hundred acres. And if Nero asks you to return to Rome to celebrate a Triumph, graciously tell him that war injuries and ill health prevent you from traveling.”
“Just don’t tell him where you’ve gone,” Trajan added.
; Vespasian chuckled at this last remark but shook his head.
“Ill health,” he grumbled. “I’m nearly twice Nero’s age, yet I could beat the living piss out of any man at the imperial court. And to tell a deliberate falsehood just to avoid returning to Rome does not become me. I’d rather celebrate a Triumph by whipping my cock out in the middle of Nero’s court.”
“And I’m sure many would find it impressive,” his son remarked. He then added in a more serious tone, “but one must toy with the truth, if one is to survive.”
“Is it really that bad in Rome?” Trajan asked. He quickly explained himself, as both of the Flavians looked at him in disbelief. “I mean, I hear all the rumors, like anyone else. But remember, I’ve been away from Rome for almost ten years.”
Trajan, who was a native of Hispania, had spent much of his career away from the imperial capital. Though he had served as governor of his home province, he found that, like Vespasian, he most excelled at leading men into battle.
“Politics in Rome is a dangerous, and sometimes bloody, business,” Vespasian observed. “And it gets worse, the closer one is to the very top.”
“Since I am the first of my family to attain membership in the senate, I suppose I am relatively safe,” Trajan stated. “And being that this is my third tour as a legate, I am little more than a dog soldier in the eyes of the emperor and senate.”
“And that, my friend, is why I hold you in the highest regard,” Vespasian said with an approving grin. He then nodded to his son. “Titus, you understand the political game far better than either of us. I’ve twice been expelled from the imperial court, and were it my wife’s family that had been implicated in a conspiracy against the emperor, my rotting corpse would be at the bottom of the Tiber.”
“Believe me, I thought that was a very real possibility,” Titus remarked. He gave a somewhat embarrassed glance over to Trajan, whose wife was the sister of Titus’ former spouse. “Trajan, you showed true bravery, standing by your wife, whereas I could not cut my marital bonds with Furnilla soon enough.”
