Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  Paulinus’ words swayed his colleagues, even those most anxious to pronounce the death sentence upon Nero. It was agreed that he should be allowed to live. And so a second courier, this one actually sent by the senate, rode with all possible speed to Phaon’s villa. The rider quickly dismounted and forced his way past a pair of slaves into the main foyer.

  “Damn it all,” he hissed, as he saw Nero, his back against the wall, a bloody knife in his lap.

  With the help of Epaphroditos, he had forced the point of the blade into his neck. Dark crimson gushed from the hideous wound and, despite the pain, Nero had a content smile upon his face.

  “It wasn’t supposed to end this way!” the courier said, as he ripped a section of Nero’s tunic and compressed it against the wound. It was immediately saturated in blood.

  “Is it...is it, then, so dreadful a thing to die?” Nero rasped in a famous quote from Vergil’s The Aeneid. Blood and spittle dribbled from his lip. With his strength almost gone, he slapped away the messenger’s hand. His skin was pale, his eyes slowly clouding over. With his last words, he whispered, “Too late. This is fidelity.”

  As his vision faded, Nero recalled the bitter irony. This date marked the anniversary of the execution of his first wife and step-sister, Claudia Octavia. Would her vengeful spirit torment him in the next life?

  Thus ended the reign of Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, the last of the Julio-Claudians. The dynasty that had ruled the Roman Empire for a hundred years, ended with a broken man’s knife thrust into his own neck.

  Chapter XI: An Uncertain Beginning

  Hispania Tarraconensis

  16 June 68 A.D.

  ***

  On the morning of 9 June, before the city criers read the news of Nero’s suicide to the public, Galba’s freedman, Icelus, was immediately released from his prison cell by a member of Nymphidius’ guard. His orders were simple, to ride with all possible speed to Galba, and inform his master that he was now master of Rome. Though the senate had yet to make any sort of formal declaration, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Servius Sulpicius Galba would be declared Rome’s new emperor. Icelus rode day and night, and in a feat that few would have believed, traveled a thousand miles in just seven days.

  It was on the 16th of June that the ever loyal freedman arrived in the city of Caesar Augusta in northeast Hispania. Outside the city gates was a vast military encampment. And though it was easy enough to spot the eagle and standards of Legio VI, Victrix, there were twice as many men conducting drill and other duties.

  “Who are these men?” Icelus asked a legionary, who was on sentry duty at the camp.

  “Galba has ordered the raising of a new legion,” the soldier explained. “They will march with us when we seize the throne from Emperor Nero. That is, if we can ever find enough weapons, armor, and equipment for the lot of them!”

  Icelus simply nodded, saying nothing. He wanted no one to hear the news of Nero’s death until after Galba did. He found his master at the governor’s palace. It was midmorning, and the old man had just finished his breakfast. He was joined by a number of his entourage, including Vinius, Laco, Otho, and Caecina.

  “Master, I have returned!” Icelus said, with a deep bow. He was a frightful sight, having not shaved in weeks, his hair unkempt, and his clothes torn and filthy.

  “By Hades,” Galba said, standing from his chair. “Is it really you, dear Icelus? I thought for certain Nero would send me your head in a box.”

  “I feared the same,” the freedman replied.

  “How is it you’ve escaped?”

  “I didn’t,” Icelus answered. “I was set free by the praetorian prefect, Nymphidius.”

  “So he has betrayed Nero, then?” Vinius asked.

  “One could call it that,” Icelus shrugged. “But it does not matter. Nero is dead, my friends.”

  He spent the next few minutes telling what little he knew; that the senate had convicted Nero, declaring him an enemy of the state, and that the emperor had taken his own life. He did not know the senate only condemned Nero after he was already dead.

  “Your words fill me with joy,” Galba said, though he was not smiling. He placed his hands on his freedman’s shoulders.

  “The senate had not convened when I left Rome, but I think it is safe to presume you are now emperor, Caesar.”

  “And by my first action, I declare you are no longer a mere former slave,” Galba responded. “From this day forth, you are hereby a member of the equites, Rome’s most noble order of knights. And I appoint you a member of the new imperial council.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Icelus replied, with another bow.

  Galba dismissed him, ordering slaves to bathe and shave Icelus while finding him a proper toga with the narrow purple stripe of the equites. It was completely unlawful, for not even an emperor could promote a former slave into one of the ruling classes of Rome. No one protested, however, and all were still in a state of disbelief over what they had just heard. Galba was wasting no time in assuming the powers of emperor, and he had a few matters that needed to be settled before departing for Rome.

  “Caecina,” he said, after taking his chair once more.

  “Sire?”

  “You came to me from our small southern province of Hispania Baetica, and yet your governor did not.”

  “It is true,” Caecina confessed. “I took a great risk in diverting funds to your cause out from under the nose of Governor Obultronius.”

  “For which I thanked you by giving you command of a legion,” Galba noted. “Am I to understand that Obultronius will not approve of my assuming the role of Caesar?”

  “I’m afraid not. He is staunchly loyal to the Julio-Claudians, and I doubt even Nero’s death will change that.”

  “And for that, he must pay with his life,” Galba asserted. He then turned to Laco. “There is another senatorial magistrate who has caused me much grief, Lucius Cornelius Marcellus. See to it that he is dealt with in the same manner as Obultronius.”

  “But Caesar,” Vinius protested. “The killing of two senators, without trial or any sense of due process, is not how most of the senate will think you should begin your reign.”

  “The senate will think what I tell them to think,” Galba replied coldly. “I have been away from the senate for sixteen years, ten in retirement, and the last six as governor of this damned province. Not one of those simpering fools achieved his position by merit, but rather as cowering lapdogs, begging for whatever scraps Nero gave them. Such men are not even worthy of my contempt.”

  That his first acts as emperor, before the senate had even confirmed him, was to make a former slave a member of the equites, while ordering the immediate deaths of a pair of patricians was a bit unnerving. As Laco was being promised one of the prefectures of the Praetorian Guard, he knew that he would have to be the instrument of Galba’s brutal justice, just as Tigellinus was for Nero.

  While Galba continued to meet with his inner circle, Otho took his leave. There was a man he needed to see, one who had accompanied him to Lusitania and had been a member of his personal entourage. He was an older astrologer from Egypt, aptly named Ptolemy. A native Alexandrian, Ptolemy had been a practitioner of the controversial art his entire life. Otho had first met him when he was still married to Poppaea. She had been enamored with astrologers, and through her, Otho had become fascinated by the art. After their divorce, he had gone to see Ptolemy, who told him that he would outlive Nero. Otho had paid the man handsomely to keep this prediction private. Now that it had come to pass, the governor of Lusitania reckoned it was time for another of Ptolemy’s famous predictions.

  “Nero is dead,” the Egyptian said, as soon as Otho had opened the door to his quarters.

  “He is,” Otho confirmed. “And you know why I am here.”

  “Of course,” Ptolemy confirmed. “Although, one does not need to be able to read the stars in order to know your endless ambition.”

  “No great m
an has ever lacked in ambition,” Otho said, as a gentle way of countering what may have been a rebuke from the astrologer.

  “Quite,” Ptolemy replied. “Give me some time to draw up your star charts, and the heavens will give me the answers you seek.”

  “I can pay you your usual fee, both for the readings, and for your silence,” Otho stated.

  “I require no fee for my silence, at least not directly,” the astrologer replied.

  “Explain.”

  “Should the stars foretell the rise of Otho, the price of my silence will be a position within the imperial court.”

  “Of course,” Otho assured him. “If the gods will it, then you shall be the emperor’s personal astrologer, with your own suite at the imperial palace.”

  Despite the high volume of maritime vessels coming through Salamis, it still took another week for Gaius to obtain passage back to Caesarea. He remained near the port, though during the day, he would ride his horse along the coastline. Eastern Cyprus was beautiful country. The high mountains to the west gave way to the fertile plain of grassland, which led down to the beaches.

  He was thankful, in a way, that he no longer harbored any sort of affections for Verinia. He was, however, conflicted about how he should feel regarding his son. He supposed there should have been the unconditional love that a parent was naturally inclined to feel towards their child. And yet, he was disappointed to find those feelings were very faint, if they existed at all.

  “It’s all for the best,” he reasoned one evening, as he stared out at the sea while the sun set slowly behind him.

  The following morning, he was finally able to book passage back to the mainland. As he boarded the ship, he was unaware of another vessel which had just docked, bearing an imperial courier. The news the man carried would soon change the fortunes of all. As for Optio Gaius Artorius Armiger, the brief and disappointing reunion with the son, who was now no longer his, would abruptly dissipate in the turmoil that would soon shake the whole of the empire.

  That most of the Roman world knew within a month about Nero’s death, as well as the rapid ratification which the senate gave to Emperor Galba, was a testament to how efficiently the imperial messenger service worked. Roman naval vessels had departed to North Africa, Egypt, Greece, and Asia Minor, as well as Syria and war-torn Judea. Given the extremely powerful army which the commander-in-chief, Vespasian, wielded, it was crucial that the new emperor assert his authority, while gaining assurances as to the Flavian general’s loyalty.

  It was Vespasian’s son, Titus, who had taken the dispatch from the imperial messenger. He found his father having his midday meal with General Trajan, who had just returned from the short expedition to Idumea.

  “And so ends the Julio-Claudian Dynasty,” Trajan noted. He shrugged. “Well, I can’t say I’ll miss Nero. And neither will you, sir.”

  “I always had a feeling this day would come,” the commander-in-chief replied. “I suppose I should feel a sense of relief, but in truth, I feel great uncertainty. At least with Nero, I knew where I stood, and that I had to watch my back. I’ve never even met Galba. You’re from Hispania, Trajan. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s been a very efficient governor,” his legate replied. “Though he can be rather mean-spirited. I also know that when he was governor of Upper Germania twenty-five years ago, the legions thought he was a twat.”

  “Why is that?” Titus asked.

  “Apparently he was a little too strict and by-the-book, as it were. There was no grey area with him, everything was either right or wrong. A lot of soldiers got flogged, or worse, for what would normally be considered minor infractions. That he stuck his nose in the legions’ business upset the officers greatly, especially the centurions. Still, that was a long time ago. Very few, if any, from that time are still serving in the ranks.”

  “Well, the next question is, will Galba view me as a possible threat?” Vespasian thought aloud. “He’s already executed the governor of Hispania Baetica, on a whim it seems. I wonder if he will be another Nero, punishing those who do well, or executing random noblemen because he feels threatened by them. An old man’s paranoia can be a dangerous thing, when he is ruler of the known world.”

  “The Roman Empire has a total of twenty-four legions,” Trajan observed. “Twenty-five, if you count the new one that Galba just raised. You command three legions within Judea, plus at least five more that you could readily call upon between Syria and Egypt. That’s nearly one third of all legionaries within the empire. Combine that with an equal number of auxiliaries, as well as allied troops from neighboring kingdoms, and you conceivably have over a hundred thousand professional soldiers at your disposal.”

  “That’s far more than any single person within the Roman world,” Titus noted. “I would say that Galba is quite anxious, and rightly so, to know whether or not he can count on the loyalty of the Flavians.”

  “Who would have thought we’d be so damned important,” Vespasian chuckled. He then looked at his son. “Three years ago, you were in fear for your life following your former wife’s association with the Piso family. A year later, I was an outcast forced into exile because I fell asleep at one of Nero’s damned recitals. Now, everyone thinks we’re so bloody important.”

  “And dangerous,” Titus added. “If the senate has given legitimacy to Galba’s claim to the imperial throne, then it would be prudent for us to accept its decision. That is, unless we want to risk civil war.”

  “Galba’s a frail old man,” Trajan observed. “It will be a miracle if he survives the journey to Rome. And even then, I cannot foresee his reign lasting for very long. As he has no heir, I think we should be more concerned about who he names as his successor.”

  “Nero’s time grows short, and his heirs will not sit upon the throne for long,” Titus quoted aloud, in reference to a supposed prophetic vision that the captured Jewish general, Josephus, had made.

  “Do we need to start with that again?” Vespasian sighed.

  “It’s been a year since we destroyed Jotapata and captured Josephus,” Titus noted. “He was right about how long the siege would last, and I would say he was correct in stating Nero’s reign was growing short. Let’s see how long Galba sits upon the throne.” The broad grin he bore made it difficult to tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. Trajan decide upon the later.

  “Galba’s a frail old man, so it doesn’t count if he falls over from old age,” he said.

  “Fair enough,” Titus conceded. “But if his reign is short due to other influences...well, we should just wait and see. And let us not forget, general, it was on the first of July a year ago that that Jewish holy man, Yohanan ben Zakki, added his little prediction to that of Josephus. We have another year to see if it comes true.”

  “If I am declared emperor on the first of next July,” Vespasian said, allowing himself a chuckle, “I’ll take that damned Josephus back to Rome and adopt him into the family!”

  Rumors regarding the circumstances surrounding Emperor Nero’s death spread throughout the eastern legions. In coming weeks, conspiracy theories would abound, with many soldiers decrying the senate as a band of murders and usurpers who butchered their dear emperor in cold blood. And, while Vespasian most certainly had no love for the departed Nero, he made no attempts to quell the anger that was rising from the ranks of his legions. Such simmering rage would only endear the soldiers to him more. Doubtless this would unsettle Galba who, like Nero, viewed anyone of competence in command of a huge army as a threat to his regime. This would also create a very awkward situation for the new emperor. If he simply tried to sack Vespasian, there was the very real chance the commander-in-chief would simply ignore him, and such an attempt could conceivably drive the eastern armies to rebellion.

  It was nothing personal against Galba, for unlike the Rhine legions, the armies in Syria, Egypt, and Judea had no prior history with the new emperor. The vast majority of legionaries and auxilia troopers had no idea who he was,
what he looked like, his age, or anything about him for that matter. The soldiery was simply enraged with the senate and would feel little more than contempt for the new Caesar, regardless of who it was.

  The aftermath of Nero’s death created a rather chaotic atmosphere within the imperial capital itself. The senate and equites rejoiced at his passing, damning him as a despotic tyrant fit to be cast into the Tiber. The plebian classes, on the other hand, were terribly despondent to hear of their beloved emperor’s passing. Few understood that Nero’s fiscal ineptitude had led the empire to the brink of ruin. He may have rebuilt much of the city as a beautiful piece of art, but the cost had driven the empire to its breaking point. Still, to them he was the one who refused to abandon them, when the senate had said Rome should be left in ruins. Many openly mourned his death, though this was tempered by fear of reprisal from the new emperor, whom the people had little to no knowledge of.

  Within the legions, the attitude was definitely one of somber mourning. The army had loved Nero, and the legions of the Rhine were now filled with regret that they had failed to finish the rebels under Galba. The Germanic soldiers were further incensed by their own governor, Verginius, for refusing the mantle of Caesar when it was offered to him. Instead, they were begrudgingly forced to accept the rule of a man whom their hatred for extended back more than twenty years.

  As for Nero’s mortal remains, these were cremated in a very quiet ceremony. Instead of being interred at the Mausoleum of Augustus along with his imperial forbearers, Nero’s ashes were placed in the Mausoleum of his biological father’s family, the Domitii Ahenobarbi.

  Chapter XII: Galba’s Trail of Blood

  Hispania

  Late July 68 A.D.

  ***

  It was late in July when Servius Sulpicius Galba, Rome’s new emperor, finally began his long journey back to the capital. At the head marched his newly formed legion, which was known as Legio VII, Gemina. Though officially a legion of the empire, its soldiers bore only a scant resemblance to their brother legionaries. Each wore a red tunic, many of which were borrowed from the Sixth Victrix Legion. Sufficient gladii had also been procured, the armories of the urban cohorts being pilfered of any excess weapons available. There had been no time to obtain armor, helmets, or shields, and there were only enough tents for less than a third of the legion. Still, they marched with great pride at the head of the new emperor’s column with their freshly minted eagle standard held high.