Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  At the top of the ridge, the assembled praetorians caught their breath, while their officers attempted to assess the situation. Though it appeared one of their ships was on fire, the rest looked to be untouched. Meanwhile, the survivors of the urban cohort had reformed on the large beach, trying to find some semblance of order amongst their ranks.

  As for the praetorians, it appeared most of their men had successfully withdrawn from the camp, though only about half managed to don any of their armor. Centurions Suedius and Novellas had also appeared, only showing their faces after the cohorts successfully reformed on the ridge.

  “Good work, men,” Suedius said. “They thought they got the best of us, but we showed them.” It was a rather bizarre attempt to encourage his soldiers, as if they had won another victory rather than narrowly escaped disaster.

  “Sir, the enemy is reforming!” a guardsman shouted.

  To their right the ridge sloped downward, with a modest open plain below, just north of the now ransacked camp. Here the Vitellian infantry was regrouping and making ready to assail the heights.

  “Time for a little reprisal,” Suedius said, with a grin. He then shouted to his men, “Praetorians! Action right, three hundred meters!”

  The guardsmen, all aware of this new threat, quickly turned to their right and advanced at a quick jog along the ridgeline. They then turned to their left, to face the advancing enemy auxiliaries. Centurions formed their guardsmen into four ranks, and while many lacked their armor, all at least had their shields and gladii. Many had also managed to retrieve their pila during the retreat.

  “A hell-storm of javelins will sort this lot out,” Centurion Novellas said, eager to win the day and finally earn the confidence of his men. Centurion Suedius had always been popular with their soldiers, yet his incompetent leadership was now severely hampering his standing within the Guard. Both were rather keen to defeat the Vitellians soundly and restore their reputations.

  Near the right-hand edge of the formation, Guardsman Statius stood with his second pilum resting on his shoulder. He was sweating and out of breath. Yet he kept his wits about him, while scanning the ranks of their advancing foes. He counted their numbers and quickly assessed how many were in the front line of each formation. He conjectured there were, perhaps, fifteen hundred auxiliary troopers total. That this was only a couple hundred more than the praetorians’ strength gave him a boost of confidence. The Vitellians may have caught them completely off-guard, but their lack of discipline and inability to finish them off would now come back to haunt them.

  “Javelins ready!”

  The Belgic soldiers were now within a hundred feet of the guardsmen, and spotting their raised javelins, their officers were frantically shouting orders to charge. The slope was negotiable, but still steep enough to prevent any except the best of runners from sprinting up it.

  Volleys of heavy pila soon rained down upon them, and the auxiliaries dropped down and raised their shields up protectively. Numerous javelins punctured through the hamata chain mail worn by most of the troopers. Others tore the shields from their hands. Scores of men lay dead. At least a hundred more were gravely wounded.

  “Gladius...draw!”

  The shouts of the guardsmen, as their blades flashed from their scabbards, completely unnerved the already badly bloodied auxiliaries. They attempted to maintain their discipline as the praetorians charged. The momentum of their adversaries rushing downhill proved overwhelming. Troopers were bowled over by ramming shields, as the praetorians continued to scamper down into their now disorganized ranks. The Belgic cohorts were now completely broken. They turned to run, all order completely lost. Guardsmen cheered in triumph, as they smashed and stabbed their way through their ruined foes. Their own formations were now breaking apart, as men began to scatter. It did not matter. All knew they had won a great victory, ripped from the teeth of defeat and despair.

  While the routing of the Belgica infantry cohorts should have caused much consternation for Tribune Julius Classicus, the Vitellian officer was sneering sinisterly as he watched the chaos unfold. The Othonian praetorians failed to anticipate that he still had most of his cavalry regiments, which had been further augmented by those companies which came up from Forum Julii. And while the tribune lamented for the excessive losses his infantry cohorts were suffering, they had inadvertently led their enemy right into Classicus’ trap.

  “Sound the advance,” the tribune ordered.

  Most of his troopers remained hidden behind the reverse slope. Only a few scattered officers were aware of the battle taking place less than half a mile in front of them.

  The rapid blasts came from the cornicen’s horn, and cavalrymen quickly mounted their horses and advanced up to the ridgeline. The enemy praetorians, so engrossed with the thrashing they were giving to the auxiliary infantrymen, were utterly oblivious to this new threat.

  “They have allowed their formations to fall apart,” a centurion said, as he rode up next to the tribune.

  “Time to smash them before they can reform,” Classicus said, drawing his spatha. “We should try and save our auxiliary cohorts while we’re at it.”

  With a subsequent blow on his horn, the cornicen signaled for the massed cavalry regiments to advance down the hill at a modest canter. The terrain was rough and uneven. Classicus did not wish to risk unnecessary injuries to his men or horses, nor have their mounts completely spent before engaging. The tribune leveled his sword as their foes grew closer. He gritted his teeth, ready to exact his retribution against the very men who had savaged his regiments barely a week before.

  That twelve hundred praetorians were completely oblivious to the wall of enemy cavalry threatening to envelope them, defied any sense of logic or reason. As they caught their breath, the shattered auxiliaries fleeing in their wake, the guardsmen were now scattered and completely exposed to the pending charge of horsemen.

  Tiberius Statius was among the first to spot them. He stood with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Sweat dripped down his face. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide as terror gripped him. A few others then spotted the charging mass, the thunder of their hooves now heard by all, as an enemy trumpet sounded the charge.

  “Oh, fuck,” Statius muttered, turning to face the wave of horsemen. It was far too late. Before he could get his balance a charger smashed into him, sending him flying backwards into a narrow ditch. He landed hard on his back and head. Were it not for his helmet, a large, jagged rock would have split his skull open. The force of impact was great. The wind was knocked from his lungs, his eyes rolled back, and darkness enveloped him.

  The remaining praetorians, who only moments before were celebrating another triumph, were now gripped with panic as over two thousand cavalry swarmed over them. And unlike their previous engagement, where shipborne missiles and a storm of javelins halted the horsemen’s charge, this time there was nothing to slow their momentum. Guardsmen were scattered in loose formations, unable to close ranks into any sort of a defensive line. The attacking cavalrymen, enraged at what had befallen their friends just days before, exacted their vengeance with lance and spatha. So many praetorians had failed to don their armor, it left them fairly easy to cut down.

  The slaughter lasted for about half an hour. Only those guardsmen on the far left of the formation were able to reform into battle lines. They stood behind a wall of shields and began to back quickly towards the camp they had vacated a couple of hours prior. None of them had any javelins left. All the while, they were harried by enemy horsemen, who tormented them with their lances. The Vitellian cavalry were now making full use of the superior reach of their weapons, keeping out of reach of the praetorian gladii.

  As the Othonian soldiers reached their camp, the Vitellian horsemen were recalled by their trumpets. Numbing shock overwhelmed the guardsmen, as they stepped into their wrecked campsite. Survivors from the urban cohorts were also seen returning, looking equally bedraggled and in total disbelief. The enemy horsemen were sh
outing in triumph, brandishing their weapons, and daring the Othonians to come at them. They made no attempts to retake the camp, however, and soon contented themselves to withdraw for the time being.

  As the midday sun beat down upon the camp and battlefield, the defeated praetorians were appalled. How had such a disaster befallen them? Centurion Novellas was beside himself with grief and astonishment. Suedius was missing and most likely killed. Several guardsmen had seen him knocked over and trampled by a score of horses. This left the inept Novellas in command of what remained of their taskforce. At least half their number had fallen during the Vitellian cavalry charge, and most of the rest were battered and bloodied.

  Officers had been specifically targeted by enemy lancers, with only one third of all centurions accounted for. Optio Proculus, who had numerous gashes about his face and arms, was now acting commander of his century. He had watched helplessly as Centurion Veturius was speared from behind, a lance bursting out through his chest as if the trooper who slew him were hunting wild boar. The reliable, albeit disagreeable Statius was also among the missing.

  “We will break down our camp and withdraw to the ships.” Novellas stated.

  “Agreed.” Proculus walked over to him. “But we need to send men out to try and retrieve our wounded. The Vitellian cavalry has withdrawn back to their ridge. I don’t suspect they wish to attack us again.”

  “There isn’t time,” Novellus replied. He was at his wits end and anxious to leave, before their triumphant foes returned. “Grab whatever provisions you can carry and head for the ships!”

  It was a terrible crime they were committing, one that completely destroyed whatever remained of the Othonian taskforce’s morale. The cries from hundreds of their badly injured companions could be heard echoing across the battlefield. Many were within but a few hundred feet of the camp, some of them calling to their friends by name. But sadly, panic gripped them. The survivors gathered up whatever food and supplies they could, ignoring the beckoning pleas of the wounded, and fled for the safety of their ships.

  The early evening sun glowed over the mountains to the west as Tiberius Statius slowly regained consciousness. His entire body ached, especially his cramped neck and the back of his head. He pulled himself upright, bolts of pain shooting down his back and legs. The deep gouge in his helmet had cut into the back of his head, and it was with great relief he pulled it off. He reached back and felt the gash. It covered in clotted blood and tender to the touch. He looked at his smashed helmet, and then down at the large jagged rock that should have killed him.

  “I guess the gods aren’t finished with me yet,” he grumbled, as he slowly stood and climbed out of the ditch.

  As he looked around he saw hundreds of bodies strewn about the plain. All were praetorians. He supposed the Vitellians, who were nowhere to be seen, had carted off their own dead and wounded. He could see movement among a number of the fallen, which meant his companions had failed to do the same for their brothers.

  Statius started to hobble towards the shattered camp, his left knee buckling. His right thigh twitched in a spasm, having been badly bruised in his fall. As painful as it was, none of his injuries were fatal or serious. As far as he could tell he had no broken bones, and the amount of blood lost from the various cuts and gashes was negligible. He purposely avoided walking near any of the fallen praetorians for fear many of them may still be alive. Any who had not managed to extract themselves from the battlefield by this time were certainly in a most sorry state. They whimpered incoherently. And though it shamed the guardsman, he knew there was nothing he could do for any of them, except hasten their journey into the afterlife.

  At the camp, there were even more bodies scattered amongst the fallen tents and wrecked equipment. These were a mix of men from the urban cohorts and the Vitellian auxiliaries.

  “I guess your friends forgot about you,” Statius said, as he looked down at the corpse of a Belgic infantryman.

  The right side of his throat was ripped away. Flies had already gathered in the pool of blood.

  Statius knew within a day the bodies would become the feasts of carrion beasts, while looters from the nearest towns would strip the bodies naked of anything that might be of value. To the guardsman, the only things of value at that moment were water and food. There were plenty of water bladders to be found among the slain. And since the Vitellians neglected to plunder the camp, he was confident he’d be able to find sufficient food stores.

  He built a small fire amongst the wreckage and cooked up some wheat porridge with pig fat. He took his humble supper and a bladder of water and left the camp out the south entrance. He sat atop a large rock outcropping that jutted out into the water. The ships were long gone. The vessel the Ligurians set alight had only partially burned, though it lost its main sails and had to be towed by another ship. The guardsman did not know the very place he sat was where their adversaries had launched their attack against the ships.

  As he ate his porridge and watched the evening sun dance off the waves, Statius felt surprisingly calm and relaxed. He had been badly bludgeoned and only narrowly escaped death. And like those poor souls left on the field, he had been abandoned by his comrades-in-arms. He supposed he should feel betrayed and abandoned. And yet he felt neither of these emotions. He was a pragmatic man. Given the overwhelming nature of the Vitellian cavalry charge, the surviving praetorians were fortunate to have escaped with their lives.

  If his friends escaped by ship, the Vitellians likely did not attempt any form of a pursuit. What he did not know was where they had gone or, for that matter, where he could now go. West was out of the question. Cemenelum was almost twenty miles away and most certainly hostile. East was risky, too. The Othonians had done little to ensure the loyalty of the people of Albium Intimilium. There was a chance the Vitellians occupied that town as well, but Statius knew he had to accept the risk. There simply was nowhere else he could go. The only road in the region was the Via Julia Augusta which ran east to west along the coast. To the north was nothing but mountainous wilderness for at least fifty miles.

  “No sense staying here,” he said to himself, as he tossed the empty bowl aside. The port city was only a few miles away, and he felt more secure approaching it at night. He had thought to rid himself of his armor, yet his scarlet tunic and weapon would still readily identify him as a member of the Praetorian Guard. He decided their protection was worth more than the added risk of being spotted by hostiles.

  And so ended the ill-fated, tragic, and utterly pointless excursion of the Othonians into Maritime Alpes. Unbeknownst to Guardsman Statius, the survivors of the praetorian and urban cohorts had withdrawn, not to Rome but to the coastal city of Album Ingaunum sixty miles to the east. Populated by Othonian loyalists, they offered their support to the emperor’s guard who regrouped and reestablished their presence from the port.

  As for the Vitellians, they were in a battered state despite their final victory. They had suffered terrible losses in both battles. And with so many wounded among their ranks, Tribune Classicus did not feel his men were in any shape to continue an offensive campaign. Instead, they withdrew to Antipolis, fifteen miles southwest of Cemenelum and halfway to Forum Julii. The tribune knew he would not be rejoining General Valens for the north Italia campaign. Still, he took some solace in that he had prevented Otho’s forces from causing even greater destruction within the province.

  In the coming week, Governor Marius would negotiate a truce of sorts between the two factions. No written agreement was ever reached nor any messages corresponded directly between the opposing forces, but it was informally agreed upon that the seventy miles between Album Ingaunum and Antipolis would act as a neutral zone between the Othonians and Vitellians. It amounted to nothing, though, as the crux of the war would be fought three hundred miles to the east.

  Chapter XXXIII: Into the Heart of Danger

  Northern Italia

  19 March 69 A.D.

  Imperial Legate

&nb
sp; While the Othonian and Vitellian forces in Maritime Alpes fought each other to an indecisive and utterly pointless stalemate. The rest of the Vitellian column under General Valens continued its long trek eastward. Having easily crushed a number of rebellious provincials, they now turned their attention towards northern Italia. His forces came mostly from Lower Germania consisting of the full complement of Legio V, Alaudae, along with roughly half the cohorts from First Germanica, Fifteenth Primigenia, and Legio XVI. The remainder of those three legions had been left to garrison the frontier against any barbarian incursions. Complimenting his division were roughly ten thousand auxiliaries. Among these were the eight cohorts of Batavian infantry who had prevented Legio XIV from coming to Nero’s aid during Galba’s insurrection. That they were unruly and had brawled with the legionaries who loathed their arrogance mattered little to Valens. Once they faced Otho’s main army in battle, they would at last have a viable enemy to face. After ten weeks of terrorizing the peoples of Gaul, they were at last marching into Italia.

  The rather pathetic and haphazard attempt by the Othonians to delay his forces by raiding Maritime Alpes had ended in a stalemate, and done little to impede Valens’ advance. He had dispatched less than three thousand men to deal with the incursion, which amounted to less than one tenth of his total force. And though the detachment under Tribune Classicus failed to drive the Othonians from Maritime Alpes, they had managed to render them combat ineffective. No more raids would come from the shattered remnants of Otho’s misguided praetorians.