by James Mace
As for Galba himself, he insisted on riding his horse, rather than in a litter. He wore a polished breastplate with a purple cloak over his left shoulder. He also wore an ornate cavalry officer’s sword on his hip. As frail as Galba was, for it took several men to help him on and off his horse, his being dressed as a general armed for battle was rather comical to many of his soldiers. Still, he was their emperor, ratified by the senate, by the grace of the gods.
Most of his entourage also accompanied him, with the exception of Caecina Alienus, who had departed for Lugdunum. He was to relieve Verginius of his command of Legio IV while ordering the Rhine legions back to their billets. An old senator named Hordeonius Flaccus, who was even older than Galba and stricken by gout, was named the new governor of Upper Germania. Verginius was not being sacked for any sort of misconduct or wrongdoing, and Galba was fully aware of the reality that he owed his position to the general, who stayed the hand of his legions. However, Verginius’ extreme popularity with the legions, despite their anger at his refusal to accept the crown, made him potentially dangerous.
Vinius rode next to the emperor, wearing his old general’s armor and cloak. Laco had donned a simple riding tunic, for though Galba had promised him command of the Praetorian Guard, it would only be after they arrived in Rome that he could outfit himself properly. As he had yet to be invited into Galba’s inner circle, despite the monetary donatives made and support from neighboring Lusitania, Otho resigned himself to riding with the growing entourage of patricians and equites, who seemed to materialize from out of nowhere following news of Nero’s death. He still continued to meet privately with Vinius, so at least he had an inside voice within the emperor’s council.
It was a week later, around the first of August, when a deputation from the senate arrived to greet their new emperor. It was at the large crossroads city of Nemausus, in the province of Gallia Narbonensis, that the consuls and senators got their first glimpse of Emperor Galba.
“Hail, Caesar!” Consul Italicus said with a deep bow, as Galba was helped from his horse.
“The senate welcomes you, sire,” Consul Galerius added, “and urges you to return to the capital with all haste. Rome longs to meet her new emperor.”
“And for that, the senate has my gratitude,” Galba said, with a modest bow. He then extended his hand towards his large principia tent. “Come, join me for refreshments. There are some serious matters to discuss.”
“Of course, sire,” Galerius said, as the entourage of senators accompanied their new emperor into the vast tent.
Inside, the furniture consisted of modest wooden chairs and simple couches. Prefect Nymphidius, in an attempt to win favor with Galba, had sent a small caravan of wagons laden with various pieces of furniture from the imperial palace. Galba, who was always of more stoic and simplistic tastes, returned the furniture with a firm rebuke to Nymphidius about wasteful spending, further demanding that he pay for the costs of returning the shipment out of his own coffers. Even the ornate chair, which served as the emperor’s imperial throne while on campaign, was returned.
“You’ll be happy to know, Caesar, that the senate has ratified your ascension,” Italicus said, once the men were all settled.
“I am simply returning to Rome to assume my duties,” Galba replied, somewhat curtly. “There is no joy to be had in my becoming emperor.”
“And it is a heavy burden you bear,” Italicus noted. His face twitched as he saw Galba scowling, at what he perceived was a bit of forced flattery. The consul decided to simply continue. “There is some concern among the senate, regarding the two nobles you had put to death in Hispania...”
“They were guilty of treason. There is nothing to discuss,” Galba interrupted. He clapped his hands, and a bevy of slaves entered, bearing trays of figs, nuts, and cups of wine. “Please, enjoy some of the humble delicacies brought from Hispania.”
It was a baffling paradox for the senators and magistrates. The emperor was certainly treating them kindly enough, while proving to be an affable host. However, when it came time to discuss any sort of imperial business, he came across as very much the autocrat. His word was law, and the senate was expected to do his bidding without question.
“And when can the people expect you in Rome, sire?” Galerius asked.
“In due time,” Galba replied. “By the Augustan Games, at the latest.”
“Caesar, that isn’t until mid-October, more than three months from now,” Galerius noted.
“Is the senate incapable of ruling in my absence?” the emperor asked, his words biting into the consuls. “There are matters that I must attend to in Gaul before I travel to Rome. Betuus Cilo, the governor of Aquitania, had the audacity to ask that I send him auxilia cohorts with which to fight against my own martyred ally, Julius Vindex. He will pay for his impudence with his life, though I will grant him the option of suicide as opposed to execution.”
“And what do you propose doing with me?” a voiced asked, from the back of the assembled mass of senators.
Galba was quite surprised to see that it was none other than General Verginius, still in his armor.
“Am I to meet the same fate as Governor Cilo?” the general persisted. There was a trace of defiance in his voice. Yet, he would accept whatever fate came to him.
“You would do well to watch your tone with me,” Galba retorted, though his voice carried a distinct sense of indifference. “As you are no longer legate of Legio IV, you will remove that uniform at once and return to the senate. After that, I don’t give a damn what you do, as long as you stay out of my sight.”
Verginius gave a curt nod and left the tent. Most of the senators were shocked Galba had let him go after demanding Governor Cilo be put to death. That Cilo had requested troops long before Galba decided to support Vindex’s revolt was immaterial. He had acted like any other governor would have in the face of rebellion. And now, it was costing him his life. And while Verginius had committed the far greater ‘crime’ in Galba’s eyes, his popularity with the legions made him essentially untouchable. All the emperor could do was sack him and send him back to the senate. Further retribution would risk enraging forty thousand legionaries, who had already demonstrated the wanton destruction they were capable of when unleashed. Italicus and Galerius both reckoned this irritated the emperor immensely, as it was a limit to his power over the senate.
In Rome, Nymphidius was growing impatient with Galba’s delays in returning to the capital. He had effectively relieved Tigellinus from his duties and was now in sole command of the Praetorian Guard. His onetime colleague had left the city and fallen into a perpetual drunken stupor since the death of Nero. The sooner Galba returned to Rome, the sooner Nymphidius could assert his control over him.
The prefect had risen early this morning and was intending to pay a visit to the senate chambers later that day. He had sent several letters to Galba, along with the various pieces of furniture from the imperial palace, and yet he had heard nothing. He knew of the senatorial delegation, which had departed the capital nearly a month prior, and was anxious to hear some word from them. Many within the senate assumed that Nymphidius would become the most powerful member of the emperor’s circle, much like his praetorian predecessors. Instead, a single message changed everything.
“Excuse me, sir,” a voice said behind him.
The prefect turned to see one of his praetorians marching quickly over to him, a scroll clutched in his hands.
“Guardsman Statius, is it?” Nymphidius asked, questioning the man as to his name.
“Yes, sir,” the praetorian replied. “I served in your cohort before you assumed command of the Guard.”
“Ah, yes, I do remember you. You’re the guardsman who has shown a knack and willingness for more...unorthodox missions the emperor requires.”
“Meaning I’m willing to put my sword in whomever he deems necessary,” Statius replied bluntly.
Guardsman Tiberius Statius Doro was among the increasingly rare prae
torians who had been promoted from the legions. He was also willing to take on any tasking, no matter how unpleasant. Of course, this had always come with additional compensation, which Nero had been more than happy to pay. It had been Statius’ blade that procured the previous emperor a number of estates from convicted senators, who balked at the thought of taking their own lives. A man of such cold and utterly merciless scruples unnerved Nymphidius slightly, for from what he had witnessed, Tiberius Statius simply did not care who his blade struck, as long as the orders came with the emperor’s authority and the compensation was adequate. On this day, however, he was simply performing his daily duties as a praetorian, and one of those involved bringing messages to his commanding officer.
“You’ll want to read this, sir,” Statius said, handing the scroll to the prefect. The seal was broken, as it had initially been addressed to the senate and had been read to the assembly by Flavius Sabinus. The prefect quickly read the message, his face growing red with anger. For not only did it entail Galba’s biting rebuke, regarding the shipment of imperial furniture, but an additional directive that threatened to undermine all of Nymphidius’ plans.
“That filthy fucking bastard,” he growled under his breath. “He means to replace Tigellinus with one of his own lapdogs!”
“A pity, sir,” Statius replied, his voice unchanging. “I know you had hoped to assume sole command of the Guard.”
“Thank you, guardsman, that will be all,” Nymphidius said, brusquely dismissing the praetorian.
Guardsman Statius was a very private person, keeping mostly to himself. Many of his fellow praetorians maintained their distance from him when not on duty together. No one knew anything about his past, except that he had spent ten years in the legions. He was literate in both Latin and Greek, yet it was unknown where he had been raised or how he acquired his education. Stranger still, he had been offered promotion numerous times, yet he always declined, although whenever he spoke his fellow praetorians listened. He seemed to prefer a sense of anonymity, but his reputation as a hired blade for the emperor had grown in the years since the Great Fire. He was relatively tall and powerfully built, maintaining a rather cold and distant demeanor. He made his superiors nervous, yet he always followed orders and had never once been subject to any disciplinary issues in more than a decade with the Guard. About the only person within the praetorians he considered a friend was another guardsman named Atticus. Atticus was a few years younger, in his mid-thirties, with an affable and good natured humor. Popular with the other guardsmen, it seemed strange to them that he and Statius were practically inseparable.
Statius found Atticus soon after delivering the message to the now irate Commander Nymphidius. His fellow guardsman had just come off duty and was enjoying a pitcher of wine at a small tavern, located within the walls of the praetorian barracks. It was one of many perks the Guard enjoyed, having a private watering hole for only themselves and select female companions who suited their fancy on any given day.
“And how did our esteemed prefect handle the news that he now has a colleague?” Atticus asked, as Statius took a seat across from him.
“About the same as a spoiled patrician’s brat who gets his favorite toy taken from him,” Statius replied, causing his friend to laugh appreciatively.
“A less inspiring wretch has yet to command the Praetorian Guard,” Atticus said, shaking his head. “I don’t know who he bribed, blackmailed, or fucked to get the position, but ever since he assumed command, he’s done nothing except plot to improve his own political standing. He seeks to control the emperor, like Sejanus did to Tiberius, while using us as his weapon for keeping the senate and plebs in line.”
“He’s treading in dangerous waters,” Statius remarked. “He’s already sent Galba a number of damned near hysterical reports, which make it seem like the empire is falling apart. It is true that Clodius Macer, in North Africa, has refused to fully accept the new emperor, but that does not mean he is planning a rebellion. Nymphidius further asserts that the situation in Judea is precarious when, in fact, General Vespasian has cornered those Jewish pigs to Jerusalem.”
“Perhaps he is hoping that all these alarmist dispatches will somehow make him indispensable to the new regime,” Atticus replied. “These are uncertain times for Rome. Whether or not the coming days will be of stability or crisis depends on what kind of ruler Galba proves to be. Will he be another strong and benevolent emperor, like Augustus, or will he be a vicious tyrant, like Caligula?”
The two men finished their wine and made their way out into the courtyard, taking in the morning sun.
“I’ll be glad when I rotate off the night watch,” Atticus remarked. “I find it damn near impossible to sleep properly during the day.”
“Find some of last night’s leftovers from the brothel, and I’m sure they’ll help you sleep just fine,” Statius offered.
“Guardsman Atticus! Guardsman Statius!”
It was their tesserarius, Proculus, calling to them, walking very briskly in their direction, While Statius found most praetorian officers to be worthless and self-serving, Proculus was one of the few he had at least a modicum of respect for.
“Please tell me this isn’t another meeting of the entire century,” Atticus grumbled. “I haven’t gotten shit for sleep in over a week since you transferred me to night patrol.”
“Not just the century,” the tesserarius replied, “but the entire damned cohort. Tribune Vergilio seemed pretty rattled when I heard him ordering Densus and the other centurions to summon everyone.”
This alarmed the two guardsmen. Vergilio was the type of patrician officer known for his lackadaisical ‘come what may’ attitude, who never so much as raised an eyebrow, even during the gravest of crises. That something had rattled him to the point he felt he needed to hold an emergency formation with the cohort meant grave news indeed.
Centurions were still getting accountability of their soldiers when Proculus, Statius, and Atticus returned to the parade field. Many of the night patrol guardsmen, who had only just gone to sleep, were now stumbling onto the field in various states of undress, with many curses being muttered.
“This better be good,” one guardsman grumbled. “The services of that Achaean acrobat I left in my bed cost a fortune.”
Vergilio paced back and forth in front of the growing mass of guardsmen. In a structural change from the legions, where cohorts were commanded by senior ranking centurions, within the Praetorian Guard these billets were filled by tribunes from the equites.
“Men, I bring grave news from the senate,” Vergilio said, once satisfied that enough of his praetorians were present. “It pains me to say this, but our own commander, Prefect Nymphidius, appears to have gone completely mad. Even as we speak, he is addressing the senate, having proclaimed himself the rightful heir to Emperor Nero.”
This assertion brought a number of baffled gazes and utterances of disbelief from the assembled ranks. Even the centurions were aghast at what they had just heard. All knew that Nymphidius was a power-hungry and greedy despot, yet no one could have predicted this maddening, and likely suicidal, display of arrogance.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” Centurion Densus spoke up. “But how, exactly, is Nymphidius justifying his right to be Nero’s heir?”
“He claims to be the illegitimate son of Gaius Caligula,” Vergilio explained. “He has even taken the castrated boy, Sporus, and paraded him as his wife, calling him ‘Poppaea’, like Emperor Nero did.”
“They should just leave that poor creature alone,” Proculus muttered in disgust.
“Whatever his claim,” the tribune continued, “The senate has already proclaimed Servius Galba as our new emperor. It would be to our deepest shame should the Guard change allegiances yet again, especially since Galba has not committed the same crime of abandonment that was used to justify forsaking Nero. However, if we strike down our commander it will not only reaffirm our loyalties to Emperor Galba, but in our own way, we will avenge the d
eath of Emperor Nero.”
It was an impassioned plea, one that was very much out of character for Vergilio. It also caused a flurry of curses towards Nymphidius, whom the praetorians had little love for anyway. It was a bit surreal, that while the other cohorts at the barracks went about their daily duties as if nothing unusual were transpiring, the men of Vergilio’s cohort armed themselves for battle.
Nymphidius claim to the imperial throne was both bizarre, as well as completely ludicrous. While it was actually true that his mother, an imperial freedwoman named Nymphidia, had had an affair with Emperor Gaius Caligula, it was common knowledge that this began well after her son was born. Still, there were enough who either believed the claim or, in the very least, were enemies of Galba and therefore willing to take their chances with the praetorian prefect. Galba’s refusal to grant Nymphidius sole command of the Guard, coupled with his rebuke of the prefect’s attempts at gaining favor, had given rise to the fear that Nymphidius would simply be cast aside, once the emperor returned to Rome. Convinced that he could simply seize the imperial throne by force, he headed toward the barracks, certain his guardsmen were ready to march on the senate with him at their head.
A large mob followed the prefect. A few of these were senatorial patricians, along with a handful of equites, and a large number who were simply curious onlookers. As the band approached the barracks, Nymphidius was shocked and angered to see the gates were closed.
“Who dares to shut my own gates on me?” he shouted up to a sentry on the wall.
