by James Mace
“That is our district, sir,” the centurion explained. “The River Padus flows through most of northern Italia, and I can promise you the northern towns of Eporedia, Vercellae, Novaria, and Mediolanum have all declared for Vitellius.”
“And whoever controls the Padus controls northern Italia,” Caecina said. He took a deep breath and smiled. He now had an additional cavalry regiment who was already scouting the region for him. “Thank you, centurion. Return to your regiment and await my orders.”
“Sir!”
Chapter XXXII: The Price of Excess
Praetorian Camp, west of Albium Intimilium
17 March 69 A.D.
***
It took several days for Julius Classicus’ auxiliary infantry cohorts to make the trek from Forum Julii to the Vitellian encampment fourteen miles east of Cemenelum. The tribune sent details forward to retrieve any of their wounded from the field, once they saw the Othonian ships had departed. The dead were placed onto large pyres, the smoke and flames from which were seen for miles.
And yet for the victorious Othonians, there was a sense of lackadaisical carelessness. The Vitellians had been soundly beaten, and in the absence of any subsequent orders they contended themselves with drink and leisure. Not knowing whether the emperor had departed Rome, or what was happening with the pending Vitellian invasion of northern Italia, Centurion Suedius showed a rare touch of initiative when he decided to send word to Rome.
“It will give us a chance to let them know of our victory,” he reasoned. “Plus, we can send that incompetent twat, Pacensis, back to Caesar.”
“The towns in Italia that we ransacked will likely have sent deputations to the senate already,” his colleague, Centurion Novellus, added. While Novellus was of little use in battle, he was once more attempting to assert himself as deputy commander of the expedition.
“Yet another reason to let Otho deal with Pacensis,” Suedius replied. “And once the emperor hears we drew first blood for him, he’ll likely forget any of our little indiscretions along the way. I doubt that he, or the senate, will give a damn about our sacking of half a city in a sliver of a province that has declared for the pretender.”
“If our mission here is done,” an officer from the urban cohorts spoke up, “should we make ready to return to Rome ourselves?”
“All in good time,” Suedius said. “Besides, the lads are enjoying the ‘fruits of victory’, and I say we should indulge them for the time being.”
For Tribune Julius Classicus, the only thing he wished to indulge his soldiers in was retribution. The humiliation of defeat weighed as heavily upon him as the cries of the dying. Whatever the greater causes fought between Otho and Vitellius, the tribune did not care. All that mattered to him was making certain the sacrifices of his slain troopers would not be in vain. Having rested and refitted his cavalry regiments and allied cohorts, which were now reinforced by the three cohorts of the Belgic infantry from Forum Julii, Classicus was ready to go on the attack once more.
“This time we will be both calculated and brazen,” he explained to Marius, on the eve before battle. The injury to his calf and shin made walking difficult, yet he found he could ride easily enough.
A full moon glowed bright that night, with nary a cloud in the sky. Classicus and Marius, along with their cohort and regimental commanders, followed their scouts to a vantage point that looked down upon the small valley and inlet below.
“Those damned fools,” Marius said, as he spied the campfires and torches that illuminated the enemy camp. “They’ve positioned themselves at the very bottom of the valley. We could almost walk right up to them and not be seen!”
“And that is what we shall do,” Classicus stated. “The Belgic infantry are anxious to get into a scrap, seeing as how they missed the last battle. They can also get in a lot closer than our horsemen can.”
“Their ships are rather close to land,” a cavalry centurion noted. “There’s a large outcropping of rocks on their right. If one could remain hidden there, they could swim right out to those ships with little difficulty.”
Classicus scanned the row of ships and the rock outcropping, trying to determine just how far apart they were. He looked at Marius. “How good are your men at swimming?”
The governor beamed. “Ligurians are excellent runners, but even better in the water,” he proclaimed. “We’ll wreak havoc on their ships.”
“Good,” said the tribune. He then turned to the centurions who commanded the Belgic auxiliaries. “There is a long ravine that runs east to west. It will take you right up to the enemy’s camp. They’ll likely have a few lookouts posted, but you should be able to overrun them and get at their sentries before they can sound the alarm.”
“Where will the cavalry be, sir?” one of the officers asked.
“Off to your left, in reserve,” Classicus answered. “These praetorians are led by simpering fools, but they appear to have fortified their position readily enough. Our horsemen will be ineffective at attacking the camp head-on. They will need to be drawn out into the open.”
As the Othonian camp was sheltered between the hills, it would be late morning before the sun shown directly on the sleepy taskforce of praetorian and urban cohorts. The imperial marines had returned to their ships, while the handful of local volunteers dispersed back to their homes.
The camp stunk of the remnants of excess from the past week. Soldiers consumed copious amounts of wine and local spirits each night, and those who drank beyond their limits filled the camp’s protective trench with vomit and piss. Sutlers and prostitutes came and went as they pleased in vast numbers. Any occupying military force, even one that had been overtly hostile, was still regarded as a prime source of revenue for those willing to trade with ‘the enemy’. To the average citizen, particularly those who struggled to make a living, the war between rival emperors was completely meaningless. They would swear fealty to whoever won, if for no other reason than they could be left alone to live their lives as they saw fit. In the meantime, it was universally known that Roman soldiers, especially praetorians, always had plenty of spare coin to offload.
At the western gate to the camp a wine merchant was making ready to haul away a large number of empty wine amphorae, which he boisterously promised would be returned full by that evening. At least a score of prostitutes were making their bleary-eyed way to the entrance, their hair disheveled and money pouches full. Early morning dawn made for the perfect time to strike.
The centurion commanding the center cohort of Belgic infantry watched as guardsmen worked to help the wine merchant finish loading his wagon. Since it took up most of the path, the wagon was an obstacle that needed to be moved before the attack could be launched. There was one cohort on their right, hidden behind a defilade. The left cohort was skulking near the northwest corner of the camp, where they would assault the north entrance.
“Come on, damn you,” the centurion whispered impatiently, waiting for the wagon to move. He did not wish to commence the assault with that massive obstacle in the way. Yet he knew both the left cohort and the First Ligurum were waiting for them, before initiating their own attacks. After what felt like an eternity, the wine merchant boarded his wagon. And with a fond wave back to the guardsmen, he cracked his short whip, and the pair of draught animals pulled his wagon away from the gate.
The centurion drew his gladius and nodded to the officers behind him, as well as the soldiers from his own century, on his left. There were no trumpets sounded, no shouted orders, simply the appearance of hundreds of armed soldiers within a hundred feet of the Othonian encampment.
The sentries on duty were in disbelief. For a moment, they were uncertain as to who these men actually were. As far as any of them knew, the Vitellians were beaten and had fled all the way back to Lugdunum. That a large force of them had materialized suddenly, and were attacking the camp, was incomprehensible.
“Sound the alarm!” one of the men shouted.
It was too late. Swa
rms of auxiliary troopers pushed through the entrance, as the sentry was stabbed through the neck by a long spear.
Numerous women, in the process of leaving the camp, screamed in terror, alerting the Othonian force. Vitellian soldiers cut the support ropes of the enemy tents, bringing them down upon their occupants. As startled guardsmen tried to scramble out from underneath the fallen shelters, they were hacked to pieces by the assaulting troopers.
The western half of the Othonian camp, which was now fully engulfed by Belgic auxiliaries, was mostly urban cohorts. The praetorians occupied the eastern half of the camp. And while they were now under attack from their adversaries, who came at them from the north entrance, they had been given just a few moments more to rouse themselves for battle.
Guardsman Tiberius Statius had spent part of the night with a lady of pleasure, before assuming his shift as a sentry along the northern rampart to the right of the entrance. He heard the faint cacophony of cries and shouts from the west, immediately alerting his tired senses.
“Here they come!” another sentry to his left shouted, pointing his pilum towards a group of enemy soldiers emerging from behind a low ridgeline.
Statius grimaced and raced the short distance to Centurion Veturius’ tent. He threw open the flap and found his commander asleep with a naked woman lying on his arm.
“The Vitellians are attacking!” the guardsman shouted, making sure he was loud enough to rouse the semi-drunken officer.
“You have got to be fucking kidding,” the centurion stammered, as he fell from his bunk. He then gave himself a couple of quick slaps across the face, attempting to wake up.
“The north rampart is under attack,” Statius continued. “And it sounds like the enemy has already breached the west entrance.”
Without waiting for his centurion, Statius left and returned to the earthen ramparts. The enemy auxiliaries were rushing the entrance, rather than attempting to navigate through the spikes and trip hazards that lined the ditch beneath the palisade. Approximately twenty praetorians had formed a hasty battle line and unleashed their javelins. A handful of auxiliaries had fallen, killed or wounded. The rest now attacked with fury, smashing into the wall of guardsmen.
Statius hefted his pilum and flung it towards their assailants. It sailed high before slamming through an enemy soldier’s shield. While not the killing or crippling strike he wanted, the javelin still had its intended secondary effect of rendering an enemy’s shield useless. He drew his gladius and fell in behind the front rank. To his left, more praetorians were joining him, as they braced against the attacking auxiliaries. Gladius and stabbing spear beat against the wall of praetorian shields, as the guardsmen responded with stabs and slashes from their own weapons. The auxiliaries hoped to use the weight of their numbers to break the line, yet the praetorians resolutely held firm. And while each side hammered away on the other’s shield wall, it was difficult for anyone to strike a killing blow.
Vitellian auxiliaries in the back of the formation were now breaking off and braving the hazards of the Othonian trench and earthworks. Several were tripped up by tangle-foot obstacles, falling painfully onto the plethora of spikes that lined the deep trench. Despite this, a small number were seen climbing over the palisades, in between the long stakes that lined the top.
Optio Proculus saw this and shouted a series of orders to confused guardsmen still emerging from their tents. Proculus then looked back to his centurion, who was tying the cords of his helmet beneath his chin.
“It looks to be a single enemy cohort attacking the north,” the optio observed. “But we have no way of knowing just how many have breached the west entrance. Our friends from the urban cohorts have been overrun.”
“If the camp is breached, we cannot make a feasible stand here,” the centurion noted, “not with all these damned tents in the way.”
“The east entrance butts right up against the side of this hill,” Proculus said. “There’s no one coming at us from there. We should withdraw from the camp and reform on the high ground.”
“Alright.” Veturius acknowledged. “Pull our men back. If that incompetent bastard, Suedius, has any sense, he’ll withdraw the rest of the cohorts with us.”
“Not much we can do for the urban cohorts,” Proculus stated, as he saw the chaos of their allies and the rampaging enemy soldiers engaged in a savage frenzy. “Those poor bastards are on their own.”
Guardsman Statius was shocked when he heard his optio shouting orders for them to withdraw. He suddenly realized the western half of the camp had been overwhelmed, leaving their left flank completely exposed.
“Withdraw in order!” Proculus called out. “Do not break formation!”
As they stepped slowly back from the camp entrance, they were joined by guardsmen from various parts of the camp. They came from various centuries, and even from different cohorts, yet they found their discipline. By maintaining a strong front, they could withdraw even under the most determined pressure from their enemies.
The Belgic auxiliaries, now unimpeded from entering the camp, teemed through the north entrance. Most ignored the praetorians, instead focusing on plunder or assisting their comrades in the routing of the urban cohorts.
The camp was large enough to house over two thousand men, and it took the guardsmen nearly twenty minutes to back their way to the east entrance. All the while, they had to negotiate their way around the tents, weapons and armor racks, and campfires. The merchants and women who still remained in the camp were fleeing for their lives in every direction. Those who sought safety within the ranks of the praetorians were beaten back with blows from shields. Some were slain by auxiliaries or panic-stricken urban soldiers. Most were simply ignored, left to create an obstacle of chaos and terror.
Centurion Veturius was relieved to see the eastern entrance clear of enemy soldiers. He had yet to see either of their commanding officers, and the other centurions present seemed only too happy to let him take the initiative.
“Withdraw by ranks,” Veturius said, his parade field experience now becoming useful. “Once each rank clears the entrance, the next will follow. Maintain formation and head for the top of the ridge. Now move!”
Much to the dismay of Tribune Classicus, who observed the battle from a hilltop to the west, the praetorian withdrawal went largely unopposed. The ridge the enemy was advancing up was inaccessible by his cavalry, so while they had taken the Othonian camp, the bulk of their best fighters appeared to have escaped.
“Damn it all,” he swore under his breath.
“It’s not all a loss, sir,” one of his staff officers reasoned. “Those foolish bastards had our infantry outnumbered, yet they probably didn’t even know it. And look, the Ligurians have brought chaos to the enemy ships!”
Classicus followed the man’s excited pointing, as he made out the plumes of smoke coming from the nearest Othonian vessel.
“Good,” he said, with a wicked grin. “Let those fuckers burn and leave the praetorians here to rot.”
Though an administrative governor with no real military experience, Marius felt obligated to accompany his cohort on their raid of the ships. The low light and the distance between the vessels and the camp made it difficult for anyone on board to know what was happening, even if they had been alert and paying attention.
All was still as the Ligurian auxiliaries swam up to the nearest ship. Marius had told the largest number to concentrate on this vessel, though he’d also dispatched two hundred men to assault the next two ships further down the line.
Armor was left behind, and each man carried either a gladius or short spear with his shield strapped across his back. One of the more nimble fighters had a rope tied around his waist, and he attempted to make his way up the back of the ship. Others grabbed onto a few of the oars, carelessly left drooping into the water. They attempted to remain as quiet as possible, ever fearful of rousing the sailors before they could get aboard.
One of the Ligurians pulled his way into the si
de portal, where an oar had been left hanging. They knew that the mariners had been partaking in wine and women, much like the praetorians on shore. Each Ligurian prayed they were still in a drunken slumber as the climbed up the side of the ship.
It was dark beneath the decks, and as the first fighter waited for his eyes to adjust, he soon realized there was no one on the bottom deck of the ship. In addition to his short sword, he also carried a small pickaxe, which he wielded, ready to strike, as he slowly made his way up the steps. He was soon followed by about twenty of his companions. The second deck was also empty, and they figured most of the sailors were asleep atop. It was only when they reached the first of the oar decks that they saw a handful of enemy mariners. These were mostly oarsmen, with the marines most likely on the top deck.
As the fighter with the pickaxe crept along barefoot, he heard the planks creak with almost every step. Near the steps leading to the top deck was an oarsman with an empty wine cask next to him. He had his gladius lying beneath him, making the Ligurian hesitant to step over him. Instead, he took a deep breath, raised his pickaxe high, and smashed it into the man’s chest. The spike ripped through bone and lung, becoming imbedded between the broken ribs. The sailor jerked upright trying to cry out, only managing a groan of agony as blood gushed from the hideous wound. The Ligurian drew his sword and raced up the stairs.
The clamor from below deck alerted a number of sailors and marines, crowded together with a handful of their lady companions. Shouts of surprise echoed above and below as mariners scrambled to find their weapons, all the while nearly three hundred assailants attempted to board the vessel.
A brutal struggle soon followed. And with neither side wearing any sort of armor, they were far more susceptible to blows from both sword and spear. An intuitive Ligurian located a barrel of oil used to ignite the catapult’s flaming shot. Using his sword, he pried open the lid and kicked the large barrel over, spilling its contents all over the deck. As fighters assailed the captain’s quarters, the Ligurian snuck past the battling combatants and found a lit oil lamp on a table. Grabbing it, he raced back onto the open deck. As he did so, an enemy gladius was plunged into his back. He gave a loud cry as his body jolted, the lamp flying from his hand. The dying man landed face down in the slick oil. The lamp landed on its side, the flames licking at the flammable liquid. The Ligurian’s body was twitching. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flames growing larger, racing towards him. The price of his clever initiative was to be burned alive, before his grievous injuries could claim him.
