by James Mace
“Guardsmen who are loyal to Rome’s lawful emperor, Servius Galba!” came the reply.
“By Victoria’s twat!” Nymphidius snarled. He then composed himself and called up, “I, too, am loyal to Rome’s true emperor. Now let your commander pass through these gates!”
A few unintelligible words were spoken by the sentry to his officers. After a few impatient moments, the cross brace was slid back, and the gates opened. The prefect was mildly surprised to see hundreds of his guardsmen, in full armor, waiting for him on the other side.
As he strolled confidently through the entrance to the large barracks, he was certain these men were ready to march with him to the senate. However, no sooner had he and a very small number of companions crossed onto the parade field, the gate was slammed shut behind them. Startled shouts resounded from the other side.
“Why in Hades have you...” Nymphidius’ words were cut short, as a spear was flung at him. It sailed over the heads of the guardsmen in the first few ranks, slamming into the gate a few feet from the prefect.
While Tribune Vergilio had not intended to simply slay Nymphidius in cold blood, the flung spear caused a chain reaction of events, as guardsmen quickly drew their blades. The prefect’s demeanor changed abruptly from supreme confidence to abject terror. He gave a cry of fear as he ran along the wall, hoping to find a means of escape. Dozens of guardsmen pursued him, although it was Tiberius Statius who intercepted him. The praetorian tackled him into the wall, knocking the wind from Nymphidius’ lungs. His gladius flashed from its scabbard as Statius plunged the blade into the prefect’s side. Nymphidius gasped and convulsed, as he tried to grab onto the guardsman’s armor.
Blood spurted onto Statius’ hand, and he twisted his weapon deep into his victim’s side. He growled into Nymphidius’ ear, “You were a shitty commander and an even more pathetic presumptive usurper.”
It was late August, when Caecina Alienus arrived in Mogontiacum to assume command of Legio IV, Macedonia. While he was glad to be given a legion command, he was even happier to be away from that nefarious fossil who now ruled the Roman world. When he reached the fortress, he found his legionaries were still in a foul state of mind regarding their new emperor. Caecina dined with his chief tribune that night, and the young man was rather direct in his assessment of their legion’s disposition.
“The lads hate Galba,” he stated. “And they hate him because our centurions despise him. The primus pilus, and at least one of the centurions primus ordo, served under Galba back when they were young legionaries. I know this must be difficult for you to hear, given you came from our new emperor’s entourage.”
“Only nominally,” Caecina replied. It surprised the chief tribune that his legate appeared indifferent as he asked, “And have you made any efforts to quell this seditious talk?”
“With no disrespect intended towards the emperor, I honestly see no reason to. We can tell them not to speak disrespectfully towards Galba, but that does not change how they actually feel. If I were you, I would speak with the master centurion about it. I’m certain he would tell you all sorts of stories about Galba’s tenure as governor.”
The chief tribune’s tone was contentious and almost insubordinate. Caecina knew the young man had hoped command of the legion would fall to him after Verginius was removed, and there was little doubt that he resented being passed over for the legate’s position. Still, what concerned him more was not the young man’s resentment, but rather what the resentment of the entire legion against Galba could lead to. He dismissed the chief tribune and decided he should visit some of the other legions, and ascertain the deportment of their soldiers.
It would be another week before Caecina made the journey from Mogontiacum to the fortress at Bonna, approximately one hundred miles to the north. He needed to make certain his own legion was in order before visiting any of his fellow legates. Surprisingly, the day-to-day duties of the Fourth Legion appeared to be rather routine. Legionaries conducted weapons drill and battle formations, paraded for their centurions daily, while conducting all the endless maintenance and upkeep of the fortress and the surrounding roads. Caecina heard no real grumblings from the ranks, and even the centurions acted as if all was normal.
On the day he left for Bonna, Legate Caecina took a small entourage of fifty horsemen from the legion’s cavalry, along with two of the staff tribunes, and his centurion primus pilus.
Master Centurion Titus Claudius Bulla was a lifelong career soldier with over thirty years in the ranks. His hair was still thick, though completely gray. His face was weathered from the years on campaign, and his rugged forearms bore numerous scars from adversaries who’d been dispatched to Hades decades before.
“I wanted to talk with you, master centurion,” Caecina said. “That is why I had you accompany me on this journey.”
“I thought as much, sir,” Bulla replied. He had been waiting for his legate to approach him, especially in light of the near mutiny that occurred between the death of Nero and the rise of Galba. Still he maintained his silence, offering nothing that Caecina did not specifically ask for. After all, he did not know where his legate’s loyalties lay, and as he did come from Galba’s entourage, Bulla regarded him with some suspicion.
“You have a history with our new emperor,” the legate stated.
“That’s putting it mildly, sir.” Bulla’s expression was unchanged, yet there was an air of tension in his voice.
“I know he had a reputation for being a harsh disciplinarian, though that should not trouble a battle-hardened centurion such as yourself.”
“There is a difference between being harsh and being cruel,” the master centurion countered. “I have ordered many floggings and have personally administered more than I can count. Three times in my career, I have had to oversee the carrying out of a death sentence against deserters. However, not once have I ever punished a soldier for offences they did not commit.”
Caecina suspected there was a story behind this assertion, and that it had to do with the time when Bulla was a young legionary. “Tell me everything,” he directed.
“As you well know, sir, a legate’s duties do not include the administration of most punishments. That is the charge of centurions and their subordinate officers. Only when a soldier commits a capital offense, such as theft, murder, desertion, or cowardice in battle, does it become the legate’s concern. Galba must not have been kept busy enough with his duties as governor-general, for he often meddled in the daily operations of the legions, in particular the dolling out of disciplinary actions, which he seemed to relish. His sentences went beyond that which was humane and acceptable. Soldiers feared and hated him, thinking he would have them beaten, demoted, or fined a month’s wages, simply for looking at him wrong.”
“And what did he do to you?” Caecina asked. “Don’t tell me you simply observed his cruelties. Hatred does not simmer for decades unless one has personally been grievously wronged.”
Bulla took a deep breath through his nose. Clearly the memories upset him greatly. Caecina could see his façade of impenetrable stoicism cracking.
“I was accused of insubordination and failure to follow orders,” he finally said. “The original charge of not following orders was when I was accused of failing to turn up for sewage maintenance duty. The thing is, I wasn’t even on the roster. It was another soldier, one whose name was very similar to mine. What’s more, he actually showed up to do his detail. There was no one absent. My tesserarius knew this, as he had filled out the duty roster. Galba happened to be conducting a random inspection of the century, and rather than asking for clarification, indicted me for shirking my duties. When I explained that he had read the roster incorrectly, he became enraged, berating me for calling him a liar. My centurion tried to intervene, stating that I was on immune status and, therefore, was exempt from fatigue duties. During the time in question, I was performing my immune duties as an armorer’s apprentice.”
“Let me guess,” Caecina said,
knowing where the story was going. “Galba was embarrassed that he’d made an ass of himself, and so he charged you with insubordination.”
“His reputation precedes him, I see,” the master centurion remarked. “Yes, I was found guilty of insubordination to the governor-general. My centurion protested, stating I had done nothing wrong. Unfortunately, his attempts to protect me led me to an even harsher sentence. Galba threatened him with reduction in rank and stated that I was to be given fifty lashes, in full view of the legion. And since Galba insisted on personally overseeing the punishment, there was no way the lashers could go easy on me. I spent three weeks in the infirmary after that. And if you think I’m the only one he treated so contemptuously, you should speak to all of the retired veterans who remember those dark days. I was just one among many.”
They continued to ride in silence for some time, while Caecina pondered the words of his master centurion. What was most telling, was that the legate was in no way surprised by what he heard. When he finally spoke, his words came as a sort of vindication for Bulla, and those who had been subjected to Galba’s cruelties.
“It would be difficult,” he said, “for me to demand my soldiers to swear allegiance to such a man and keep a clear conscience.”
Upon their arrival at the fortress of Legio I, Germanica, in Bonna, Caecina quickly realized they had a far more urgent matter to contend with in the province. There appeared to me much commotion from within the fortress, and there were sentries surrounding the principia, keeping away the scores of curious soldiers.
“What is going on here?” Caecina asked a decanus, who stood by the door.
“A terrible tragedy, sir,” the sergeant replied. He then nodded his head towards the door. “You can go in, but your men must remain outside.”
As Caecina entered the principia, he noted a large number of senior officers, many of whom were gathered by the door to the legate’s office. Caecina forced his way past them, and was shocked to see the body of Fonteius Capito laid out on a wooden stretcher. General Valens was present, as was the legate of Legio XV, Cornelius Aquinus. A handful of tribunes and other staff officers stood along the back wall, aghast at the sight of their governor’s broken corpse.
“Ah, General Caecina,” Valens said, “you’ve chosen to pay us a visit on a most tragic day.”
The first thing Caecina noted was the complete lack of any emotion in Valens’ voice. He walked over and inspected the body. The back of Capito’s head was completely crushed, a bloodied rag feebly tied in place to hold in the mangled brains and shattered bone. The side of his neck had a hideous puncture wound, which was covered in coagulated blood and dirt. The rest of the body was filthy and battered.
“What in hades happened to him?” Caecina asked, exacerbated. He had only left Galba’s entourage a few weeks prior, and already he had a damn-near mutinous legion to contend with. And now, upon his arrival in Bonna, he was greeted with the broken corpse of the governor-general of neighboring Lower Germania.
“Terrible accident, I’m afraid,” Cornelius said, his voice showing the same complete lack of concern that Valens’ did.
“It looks like his head’s been bashed in with a rock,” Caecina observed.
“Yes, nasty fall that was,” Valens explained. “The governor invited us to go hunting with him, and near a ravine, a damned boar spooked his horse.”
“Has anyone told his family?” Caecina asked.
“He was widowed four years ago, and his only son died as a child,” Valens replied. “We’ll give him the usual funerary rites and all that. The question now is, who will our illustrious new emperor replace him with?”
Caecina looked at the older legate and gave a knowing grin. He suspected there was more to Capito’s gruesome death than a simple riding accident, yet he honestly found he really did not care.
“Let us hope,” he said, “that it is someone as equally useless and easily manipulated as the new governor in Upper Germania.”
“We can only hope,” Cornelius concurred. Caecina ignored him, for it was General Fabius Valens whose attention he had.
He knew the older legate’s reputation well. He was a competent enough commander, when it came to battling hordes of barbarians. And while, like Caecina, he publicly expressed little desire above command of a legion, the younger legate suspected that they each shared similar ambitions.
Caecina then excused himself and took his leave, while accepting Valens’ invitation to join him for dinner that evening. He decided then to remain in Bonna for the time being. Caecina not only wished to learn of the demeanor of the other Rhine legions, but to see if, perhaps, Valens might prove to be a viable ally, in what he suspected would be a rather tumultuous reign from Emperor Galba. The young legate had his own ambitions; not for power of personal glory per se, but rather to increase the size of his fortunes by whatever means his position gave him. If Valens was of a similar mind, then the two would be of great use to each other.
Chapter XIII: The Bloody Gates of Rome
City of Arretium, one hundred and forty miles north of Rome
October 68 A.D.
***
The letter from Fabius Valens reached Galba when he was but a few days from entering the Eternal City. He now rode in his litter, only mounting his horse when they were a few miles from each city. Vinius lounged beside him this day, discussing a few matters before taking to his horse once more.
“Excuse me, sire,” Laco said, holding open the curtain while he walked beside the litter. “A message has just come from Lower Germania, but it does not come from Governor Capito. Rather, it is from General Valens of First Germanica.”
Galba raised an eyebrow, but simply held out his hand and accepted the scroll. Complaining about his vision, he handed it to Vinius and told him to read it to him. His expression remained unchanged as Vinius read the report from Valens, detailing the unfortunate death of Fonteius Capito, and the request that Galba dispatch a new governor as soon as possible.
“Poor Capito,” Vinius said, re-reading the message. “To have met his end so gruesomely, and after having just served out his consulship.”
“Yes, most unfortunate,” Galba replied, though his tone was indifferent.
The emperor and his ever-growing entourage soon arrived in Arretium, where the city governor planned a splendid banquet to commemorate the beginning of a new dynasty. Galba, given his simple tastes, found this to be absurd. Not only was his distaste for anything grandiose, but also he found it insulting that the governor would mention a dynasty, since both his sons were dead. It was Vinius who convinced him to accept the governor’s hospitality.
“A dynasty does not always infer bloodline,” he reminded the emperor. Furthermore, the man Galba had now promised the next year’s consulship to, was compelling him to accept some of the finery that came with becoming Caesar. And so, Galba dressed in his finest purple robes, donning the laurel crown that had become the emblem of Rome’s emperors, ever since the time of Augustus.
The hall was crammed with tables and dining couches. The guests numbered in the hundreds, including senators, lower-level magistrates, their wives, and numerous other dignitaries, both imperial and foreign. At Vinius and Laco’s urging, the emperor allowed the trumpets to sound in his honor as he entered the hall. Every guest stood and bowed, with Galba holding his hand up in salute.
“You honor us with your presence, Caesar,” the governor said, with an additional bow. “Know that all of Arretium celebrates your ascension on this auspicious day.”
Galba simply nodded and took his place at the head table. It was late in the day, and he was extremely tired. He wished for nothing more than to retire to his bedchamber; however, his closest advisors insisted that he needed as many strong allies as possible, especially as they got closer to Rome. Many senators, equites, and other magistrates had come up from the imperial capital, swelling the ranks of the emperor’s entourage, and it would not be insulting for him to forego the feast. Two cohorts of the
Praetorian Guard had also arrived and taken up their duties of guarding the emperor. A large number of these men lined the walls of the large hall, while the patricians ate and drank. The governor had elected to keep the entertainment low-key, using only a handful of musicians, who played softly in the background.
Among the guests at the banquet was a senator named Aulus Vitellius. The son of a prominent Roman statesman, his father, Lucius Vitellius, had held the consulship three times. The first of these came the year after Galba’s term, and the emperor remembered him fondly as a man who held to rigorous standards of discipline, much like himself. Among the first actions the elder Vitellius took as Governor of Syria, thirty-one years prior, was the sacking of the troublesome Prefect of Judea, Pontius Pilate.
Aulus Vitellius bore little resemblance to his revered father, who had crossed over to the afterlife eighteen years before. Now fifty-three years of age, he had served as consul during the reign of Claudius, and acquitted himself well as Proconsul of North Africa. While he did not lack in ability, and possessed a noble pedigree that Galba respected, his sloth and apathy led to an uninspiring political career after his term in North Africa. He was also known for his ravenous appetite and was extremely fat. And yet, it was his complete lack of ambition coupled with his family name that made him an immediate favorite of Galba.
“It has been many years since we last spoke,” the emperor said to Vitellius, whose couch butted up next to his.
Cornelius Laco stood close by, and it wounded him that Vitellius sat where he should. Galba had reminded him before the feast that, as he was now sole commanding prefect of the Praetorian Guard, he had duties to perform. Vinius sat on the other side of the emperor, engrossed in conversation with Marcus Otho, as well as a couple of other senators.
“I believe the last we saw of each other was at my father’s funeral,” Vitellius replied.
“He was a good man,” Galba asserted. “A three-time consul from a noble family, who died far too young.”
