‘So it’s civil war either way,’ I concluded.
‘Let’s just pray it’s as short as possible.’
* * *
Augusta Praetoria was a small town that nestled deep in the valley that wound its way east and then south-east towards the great towns of the Transpadana, the land north of the Po. It was the first day of Martius; two months to the day since I had led two legions into a mutiny against Galba. Now Galba was dead, the scoundrel Otho was emperor, and I was following in the footsteps of Julius Caesar and Hannibal by leading a hostile army into Italia. One was Rome’s greatest enemy, the other had been made a god. I have an inkling which of the two I will be likened to in the years to come.
It was approaching sunset by the time our column reached the town. Salonina had left the comfort of her wagon to ride alongside me at the head of my army, in a crimson dress under a fur shawl to complement the scarlet of my military cloak. The gates of the town were open and a small deputation stood outside, waiting to welcome us. As more and more of the army came into view, the old men shifted nervously, whispering to each other.
‘You look like a conquering hero, Caecina.’
‘Thank you, but that’s not exactly the image I’m after.’
‘You’re supposed to say how beautiful I look,’ Salonina reproached me playfully.
‘That too.’ I smiled; my presents seemed to have been a success.
There were three men waiting for us, wearing their ceremonial togas for the occasion, the cloth as white as the snow they stood in, shivering. It was only when we came up close that I saw how old they were. The youngest of them couldn’t have been under seventy; another had a face shrivelled with age and walnut-like grooves etched into his skin. The third man produced a scroll from the folds of his robe and began to read, welcoming us into their town.
‘I thank you, citizens, but you must be cold. If you want to go through this rigmarole, my wife and I would be more than happy to do so indoors.’ I gestured towards Salonina and the dignitaries, seeing her condition, were effusive in their apologies for keeping the noble lady out in the open for a second more than was necessary. I signalled to the party of officers behind us, then followed the old men into the town. The youngest of the three glanced nervously at the army, and the party of horsemen following us.
‘Will your whole army be requiring our hospitality, General?’
I chuckled. ‘Your daughters and your storehouses will be safe from us, citizen. My officers would be glad of some bedding in the town, and we have enough gold to buy the supplies we need.’
Their eyes lit up at the mention of gold; we had prepared well, Germania’s taxes would pay for the campaign and the sweeter we could keep the locals the easier time we would have. Living off the land means doubling the guard on forage parties, men who would be taken from the main body of the army. It looked like most of the town had gathered to see us. In front of the rustic temple the great and the good of Augusta Praetoria had assembled. Most of them would be lucky if they made a handful of gold coins a year in the frozen north, and it would be politic to pay our way.
But the dignified silence was broken. People in the crowd began to mutter and point. Some wore expressions of shock, others of disgust. I looked down at the men of the deputation to see what the matter was. The three of them were red with embarrassment, but what was there to be embarrassed about? I noticed some of the younger men giggling at my barbarian trousers; it was still winter and we were still in the Alps, I would rise above any sniggers, but my legwear couldn’t be the reason for the horrified expressions among the respectable men of the equestrian class. It was Salonina they were staring at. She looked at me quizzically, and then I saw. In the dying light of the sun, the crimson of her dress could easily have passed for purple, the colour reserved for the imperial family!
‘Salonina, your dress!’ I whispered.
‘What about it?’
‘It looks purple.’
‘It’s not purple, it’s crimson.’
‘It may be crimson, but it looks purple.’
‘Well, what do you suggest I do, take the dress off and ride naked around the town?’ she hissed.
I scrabbled at the gilded brooch that secured my cloak, my fingers fumbling in the cold. At last it came free, and quickly I whirled the cloak around Salonina, covering her dress. She held it together with one hand at her shoulder, the other holding tightly to her horse’s reins. There were a few final titters from the crowd, who had been treated not only to a visit from a general of Rome, but also to the spectacle of a general and his wife’s loss of face in front of the common citizenry.
‘General,’ the old man gestured towards the crowd.
‘Yes?’
‘Your speech of thanks,’ he said expectantly.
‘It’s the next item on the agenda for the ceremony,’ the younger one said, his dull nasal tones betraying him as the town’s bureaucrat and pedant-in-chief. ‘Followed by our speech of welcome, the sacrifice to the gods to read the omens for your journey, and then the feast in your honour.’
‘Go on, Caecina,’ Salonina said in mock seriousness. ‘Give them your speech.’
She knew full well I hadn’t prepared a speech, she was just amused at seeing me put on the spot. I gently squeezed Achilles’s flanks and he took a few steps forward so that I didn’t have to shout myself hoarse to be heard by the assembled crowd.
‘Good people of Augusta Praetoria,’ I began, ‘I would like to thank you for a welcome as warm as the mountains have been cold!’ That brought a few appreciative smiles from the audience. ‘I see before me the sons and grandsons of veterans settled here by the Divine Augustus, the greatest of all the Caesars. But the house of Caesar has failed, fallen; Nero had plumbed the depths of depravity, milking the empire to pay for his art and his vanity. Then came Galba: a sour, ruthless, heartless old man who hoarded his wealth as if it were his son. But you, citizens, you are the sons of the empire. You deserve an emperor who will look after all his subjects. I lead this army in the name of Aulus Vitellius Germanicus, a man who deserves to be emperor, not the murderer Otho who drank and whored with Nero, and even shared his wife with him! We will march south and present our case in Rome, and then let the Senate and People of Rome decide who is to be our new emperor.’
Not my best speech ever perhaps, but for one given on the spur of the moment I was fairly pleased with it. The people before me were of good equestrian stock, professional men and po-faced wives who shared a strong moral code. They disapproved of lechery and the low morals of Nero’s court, and painting Vitellius as a caring father figure for the empire was more likely to win them over than the truth. He would probably spend an entire province’s taxes on food alone, but at least he would not damage the empire as Nero had done. These fine citizens would probably have warmed more readily to Galba’s penny-pinching ways, but Otho had ended Galba’s rule with a bloody coup. So the assembled townspeople rewarded my speech with a polite round of applause. There was a ripple among the crowd as the priest made his way forward. Behind him a boy, his son perhaps, held a chicken under his arm. It was just as well the bird didn’t know what was coming, or else I doubt it would have been quite so docile.
The priest beckoned for the three men, clearly the senior men in that godforsaken town, to follow him into the temple. I slid easily out of the saddle and landed on the smooth surface of the stone road. The four of us climbed the steps leading to the small temple, a humble-looking structure, built not of stone or marble but largely of wood. Inside too the place was threadbare, but the gold ring on the priest’s hand and his fur boots suggested that the locals were generous in their patronage. Up ahead was a pedestal, and on it stood a large stone bowl. The young boy nervously handed the chicken to the priest, who grabbed the bird by the neck and held it aloft. He raised the other hand high and called to the gods to guide his hand and to give favourable portents.
There was a sharp crack as the fowl’s neck was wrung, and the body was lai
d in the bowl. Next the priest drew the ceremonial dagger that hung from his waist, and with a quick slash slit open the stomach. A stream of blood and guts poured out of the bird, and we all stepped forward to watch closely. The priest, who smelled like an old wineskin I should add, rummaged in among the entrails for signs from the gods.
‘I see battles. Many battles. I see a general far away, a general who does not fight but will win a throne. An army crossing mountains, led by a man who rides with Nike, the goddess of victory. This man will never know defeat.’
I was stunned by the words, as were the dignitaries who would no doubt spread this marvellous prophecy round the town like a forest fire, and inevitably it would fire the imagination of the army too. However, I was less stunned when I spotted Totavalas surreptitiously giving the priest a few golden coins when he thought nobody was watching…
IX
The town elders had organized a huge feast in our honour. Well, it was at least officially in our honour. This feast had been planned days beforehand to celebrate the reopening of Hannibal’s Pass, meaning that the trade route from Italia to eastern Gaul and Germania was open for business again, and of course to thank the gods. They just hadn’t expected an army to march out of the pass, at least that’s what I heard from a drunk man a couple of places down from my seat at the high table. Only the highest ranks were invited. The first-spear centurion from each cohort, the tribunes, Pansa, Quintus and the rest, but any more and we would have had to ration the diners to little more than a mouthful each.
The members of the council had honoured my family with seats at the high table, and Pansa as well since he was my second in command. The rest were evenly spread out among the townspeople in Augusta Praetoria’s great hall. As you might have guessed from a region that relied upon mountain pastures for farming, mutton was the order of the day. The high table had salt and expensive luxuries to add some flavour to the meal, but underneath the meat was as tough as leather. But of course you had to smile as the chewing wore away at your jaw muscles, and compliment the locals on their exquisite meal. On the other hand, at least it wasn’t salted beef, the hard tack that we’d been living on since leaving Vindonissa back in the depths of winter. We were almost out of the Alps and spring was coming to meet us. We were even treated to olive oil and, more importantly, wine from the Po valley, the richest belt of land in Italia. As you know, the vital grain to feed the mob in Rome has long since come from the wider empire. Hispania, Africa and of course Egypt are the real bread baskets of Rome, but it would be a fool who ignored the revenue that the Transpadana brought into the imperial treasury.
As the night wore on, the venerable elders bored us rigid with tales of poor harvests and lessons in how to maintain a good profit margin on arable and dairy estates. Salonina turned a yawn into a cough while Aulus, who we’d treated to two cups of wine, was very red-faced and almost nodding into his food. The rest of the men were enjoying themselves though; the hall echoed with raucous laughter and drinking songs. The stuffy councillors looked almost apologetic that their younger folk were partly to blame for the racket. But the noise grew louder and louder, particularly from one direction. The songs had turned to shouting, there was the scraping of wood on the floor as benches were shoved back. My men were in among the locals, but the fight wasn’t between them, they were trying to prise two figures apart. They grabbed one man in civilian clothes by the arms and held him back; some of the locals had caught the other, but he slipped from their grip and scrabbled to get at the other man. It was Quintus, arms flying before he was hauled back once more and held more firmly.
Hurriedly I apologized to the elders either side of me and got up. The murmurs of interest in the hall died down and turned to expectant silence as I strode down the hall. Quintus was panting heavily, a look of pure murder on his face. The other man had his back to me.
‘Quintus,’ I barked, ‘explain yourself.’
‘Ask him,’ he said, gesturing at the other man. I turned to look into the face of Totavalas, whose nose was broken, and he had a cut on his lip that dribbled blood down his chin.
‘Outside,’ I said. No one moved a muscle. ‘Now!’
The night air was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the hall. Quintus swayed slightly like a young sapling in the wind, and while Totavalas’s lip was stained with blood, Quintus’s was stained with liquid of a different sort. I made sure that no one was listening; the street was empty but for a feral cat.
‘What in the name of all the gods were you two doing?’
‘Fighting,’ said Totavalas.
‘One more wisecrack from you and you’ll get another kink in your nose. Why were you fighting?’
‘He called my father a bastard.’ This from Quintus.
‘No, I called him a dopey bastard.’
‘You see?’ Quintus said, appealing to me.
‘I wasn’t calling him an actual bastard. There’s a world of difference between calling your father a bastard and mocking him for being a proper idiot.’
‘Why did you call him a b—? Why did you call him that?’ I asked.
‘Some of the locals were talking about Vindex and the rebellion, saying that was a civil war but at least they didn’t get caught up in it, and now they’ve got an army marching through their lands, and I said that it was never a civil war. It was some dopey politician who got ideas above his station, and all of a sudden your boy here comes at me with his fists flying.’
‘I’m an officer and a nobleman, and no jumped-up freedman is going to slander my father in public,’ Quintus slurred.
‘Would you prefer I slandered him in private?’ the Hibernian shot back. Quintus swung again but hit nothing but air, Totavalas neatly side-stepping the punch. ‘Let me remind you my father was High King of my homeland. If you’re going to brag about your lineage, remember who you’re talking to!’
‘Enough, Totavalas. Go back and finish the feast.’
Totavalas smiled smugly before heading back inside, leaving Quintus and me alone in the squalid street.
‘Will I be digging the latrines for a month? Or perhaps ten lashes at dawn? What is the punishment for striking a freedman?’
‘Quintus…’
‘Oh yes, there isn’t one!’
‘What happened to you, Quintus? Where’s the gentle man I left behind in Gaul?’
‘You killed him. You, Galba, my father; when did I ever have a choice to do what I wanted to do?’
‘You could have stayed behind in Germania,’ I said.
‘When my general commands, I must obey,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Do you remember that day I arrived in Mogontiacum? Of course you do, it was the day you turned a small army into a band of traitors. Did you even think for one moment that I might not have wanted to join another bloody rebellion? Did you?’
‘I didn’t think…’
‘No, you didn’t think. You just did it and thought I’d follow you blindly like Totavalas and the rest. You and I know the only reason you rebelled was that Vitellius could offer you more power than Galba. Where’s the gallant, merciful general I knew in Gaul, eh? You can lie to yourself, pretend that Galba forced you into rebelling, but I bet you can’t look into my eyes and tell me this is more than a naked grab for power.’
I looked into his eyes, and I saw nothing but indignation and contempt.
‘I think you’d better get back to your billet and sleep this off, before you say anything else you’ll regret.’
Quintus said nothing. He just snorted in derision before turning around and making his way, ponderously and precariously, to his bed on the other side of town. I stood there, watching him go. Had he really meant what he said? Perhaps I had taken him for granted. He had done a lot for me, it was true. But then if the campaign went as planned we would be in Rome within months, maybe even weeks. Then I would be able to reward Quintus properly for his loyalty. I decided for my friend’s sake to put his insolence down to the drink. Pulling my cloak close around me, I went back in to fini
sh the feast.
* * *
The army was in excellent spirits as we marched south. Hannibal’s Pass was widening and levelling with every step we took. Granted, we had almost emptied Augusta Praetoria of its winter stores, but spring was fast approaching and we had paid good money for the supplies. It was imperative that we were seen as a disciplined imperial column, not an army of invaders from beyond the mountains. As the miles went by, the white of the high passes gave way to the green of the foothills. Trees began to adorn the hillsides, mighty firs and spruces that were taller than their north-facing cousins on the other side of the pass. One day we even had rain; a mixed blessing, for it showed that the worst of our journey was over, but it also turned much of the remaining snow into slush. The men’s socks were sodden and all paths but the paved road became a mass of mud.
A few days out of Augusta Praetoria, however, the army rounded one final bend, climbed that last foothill and was greeted with a glorious sight. There before us lay Italia. The great Po valley stretched out as far as the eye could see, mile after mile of bounteous farmland that met the horizon in a golden haze. There in the distance lay the first of the Transpadana towns that the Silian cavalry had given to us, Eporedia. Looking back on that day, with hindsight I can say that it was probably the happiest moment of the entire campaign. I commanded an army composed of the finest troops in the world, our struggles through the mountains were over, and the sight of that bustling town in the distance, an island of houses and temples and taverns in a sea of plentiful countryside, reminded me of my own town of Vicetia, only two weeks’ march to the east. I was home.
Like Augusta Praetoria before it, the people of Eporedia were keen to know the army’s intentions. Relief washed over their faces as I told them all we required was food and shelter.
The Sword and the Throne Page 11