The Sword and the Throne

by Henry Venmore-Rowland

  Totavalas reined in alongside me. He whistled. ‘That’s the biggest city I ever saw.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, no big fortresses in Hibernia either!’

  ‘We have forts, but as no one has catapults like yours, we don’t need the expense of stone walls. A few ditches on a hillside, ringed by a palisade and a good bunch of men with stout shields, that’s all the defence you need back home.’

  ‘Then pray my people never invade Hibernia,’ I said.

  ‘I do, more often than you think. How long should it take for you to capture this city?’

  ‘A day, maybe two,’ I said nonchalantly.

  ‘A day? But would you look at the size of the place?’

  ‘You forget, we have three legions’ worth of artillery with us, and my twenty thousand men face a bunch of gladiators and palace guards.’

  ‘Doesn’t the prospect of gladiators scare you a little bit?’

  ‘They’re slaves, Totavalas. They have no discipline, no stomach to defend a town that isn’t their own.’

  ‘I was a slave once,’ Totavalas reminded me gently. I did not reply.

  When we came within a reasonable distance of the walls I gave the order to halt.

  ‘Have the men cook their midday meal,’ I told my staff.

  ‘In front of the city walls, sir?’ Pansa queried.

  ‘Yes, Pansa. Let the garrison see that we’re so confident of taking the city that we stop to eat under their very noses. They’re not going to sally out. There are too few of them, and they want to keep us sitting here while Otho’s army marches to relieve them. We can spare an hour or so.’

  ‘Do you want the men eating in any particular order, sir?’ one of the staff officers asked.

  ‘Why can’t they all eat together?’

  ‘The cooks can’t feed eighteen thousand men at one sitting, General. We have to stagger the mealtimes, dish up the food from all the cooking pots as quickly as possible, find new fuel for the fire…’

  I raised a hand for silence. ‘Spare me the details, man. Just get the men fed, I’ll give you the honour of deciding who can eat first. Now, someone find me a white flag.’

  ‘Sir?’ one of them asked.

  ‘You heard me, a white flag. I know it’s not exactly our custom to surrender, but there must be a white flag somewhere in our column.’

  An orderly scuttled off to find the flag, while Publilius opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it.

  ‘You think we shouldn’t parley with the enemy, Publilius?’

  ‘Otho sent these men from Rome, General. Do you really think they’re going to abandon the strongest fortress in the north?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to avoid bloodshed.’

  The flag was found, hiding in the depths of some baggage cart, in among the farriers’ supply of spare horseshoes if you’ll believe it. One of the junior tribunes offered to carry the flag and accompany me to the parley, but this was something I had to do alone.

  ‘You can have the honour of leading the first assault on the city, if you like?’ I joked.

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I’d rather carry the flag!’

  ‘Understood! Have someone tie the flagstaff to my saddle so I don’t have to worry about holding it while I’m negotiating.’

  The first cohorts were sitting down to lunch by the time my ceremonial armour was strapped on and Achilles’s coat had been scrubbed clean of the dust from the road. A groom knelt down to act as a mounting block, and I bounded into the saddle. Achilles was nervous. The flagstaff hadn’t been properly secured to the saddle and the strong winds from the north were making the flag flutter wildly. The groom saw this and yanked down hard on the staff to fix a tighter knot. Achilles screeched in pain and reared up high, his front legs flailing in the air as though kicking some imaginary enemy. I was flung from the saddle; there was a sickening crack as my shoulder hit the hard surface of the road.

  At once there were men surrounding me, all eager to help me up.

  ‘I can get up by myself,’ I snarled. At first there was no pain, but as I attempted to rise, it hard me hard. It was like the time when Quintus and Lugubrix had cauterized the stump of my severed finger with a brazier of burning coals, except that was only my finger. Now my entire shoulder was on fire, and every so often my whole arm would spasm uncontrollably as the muscles protested.

  The men backed off as I staggered to my feet, leaning my body weight on my left side and using my good arm to lever myself off the ground.

  ‘Someone go find a surgeon,’ I said through gritted teeth, before turning to see what was the matter with Achilles. A stream of blood trickled gently down his flank, and my eyes travelled upwards, seeking the source. There, about a hand’s span behind the saddle, was a sore-looking gash, and alongside it lay the flagstaff. Out from the staff itself jutted the end of a nail, the point red with blood. Achilles was quivering, and I stroked his neck tenderly, trying to calm him down. The groom was quivering more than the horse was, his gaze fixed on the ground.

  ‘Look at me,’ I said to the boy. The boy looked upwards, his body trembling like a hound desperate to run but too well trained to strain at the leash. As he looked into my eyes I knew he wouldn’t see my fist coming. The bad hand on my good arm crashed into his jaw. The boy crumpled in an instant, out cold before he even hit the road. Behind me someone coughed gently and I spun round. It was the surgeon, with Totavalas standing beside him.

  ‘May I look at your shoulder, General?’

  Together the men gingerly extricated me from my armour to get a better look at the injury. I had no control over the arm at all, and it had to be delicately lifted and guided through the straps of the breastplate, though every movement hurt terribly. Once it was free, the arm hung limply and heavily at my side. The surgeon prodded and probed at my shoulder; sometimes it hurt, and sometimes it was excruciating.

  ‘It looks like a simple dislocation. I can’t find any evidence of broken bones,’ he began. But a shrill blast interrupted him, the call of our tubae. But why would they be sounding while the men were having their meal? Up ahead, the city gates were opening. Out came a solitary rider who also carried a white flag. I watched him ride towards us at an easy trot to a point about halfway between us and the city walls. The surgeon was saying something to Totavalas, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was still watching the rider when the Hibernian slipped behind, put an arm over my good shoulder and grabbed my arm and body in a vice-like grip, leaving only my injured limb free.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hold still, General, let the surgeon do his job.’

  I felt a strong hand on my bicep, another perched on my shoulder. The rider sat there, watching. ‘One, two, three!’

  I screamed in pain and rage as the man thrust my arm back into its socket. Totavalas and the surgeon hurriedly stepped back in case they received the same treatment as the groom. Instead I took out my anger on the stiff leather of Achilles’s saddle, punching it hard and hurting myself even more in the process. It was as though the fire in my arm was as fierce as Vulcan’s forge, and my shoulder was the white-hot core of the furnace. I was seething, and my chest rose up and down as I tried to control my breathing. I was not going to faint in front of my men, or that solitary rider.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to the surgeon, the words not coming easily to me.

  ‘If you’ll wait a minute I’ll put that arm into a decent sling,’ the man said, fumbling in his bag for some of the heavy cloth.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t want the men to see I’m hurt, or the man from the city.’

  This time Totavalas cupped his hands and gave me a leg-up, and I made sure that Achilles was happy to have me ride him.

  ‘If I’m not back in ten minutes, send a search party!’ I called out, wincing as I turned in the saddle.

  Achilles’s hooves gently clip-clopped along the road. I deliberately had him walk steadily forward, not wanting
to urge him into anything quicker after his fright, and to show the rider that I was in no hurry to meet with him. The man wore no helmet, his head covered instead with closely cropped black hair with streaks of grey at the temples. The face was stern, his posture unbending, a nobleman of the old school, I guessed. He was the one who spoke first.

  ‘I take it you are the Legate Severus?’

  I bridled at the veiled insult. ‘General, actually.’

  The man smiled wearily. ‘I was told by the emperor to address you as “Legate”. After all, that was your official rank.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Until you committed treason,’ he said, as coolly as if he were discussing the weather.

  ‘Otho was never one for subtlety. As you see, I am the general of this army, the one that stands before your city, and if these negotiations are to get anywhere I would consider it a courtesy for you to address me as such.’

  ‘Very well, General,’ he said with the air of a man indulging a small child.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name’s Spurinna. I believe we share a mutual friend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Tacitus, your governor in Hispania.’

  ‘And how is the old man? Still the same world-weary soul I knew in Corduba?’ I asked, smiling pleasantly despite the throbbing pain in my shoulder.

  ‘He’s back in Rome now, and much the same. But he made sure to tell me all he knew about you before I left the city.’

  ‘All good, I hope?’

  ‘Enough to know that there is little chance of persuading you to lay down your arms and declare your allegiance to Otho.’

  I smiled. ‘Very little. But don’t think for one moment I want to spill any more Roman blood than is necessary. I will have Placentia, nothing can change that. But will you not join us against Otho?’

  ‘Why should I break my oath to my emperor?’

  ‘Because Otho, like Galba before him, is not fit to lead Rome.’

  ‘And Vitellius is?’

  ‘Vitellius isn’t a whore-loving murderer.’

  ‘But he is an idle, drunken layabout who will be ruled by his lieutenants,’ Spurinna said pointedly.

  ‘All emperors rely on trusted men to advise them.’

  ‘And you would call yourself trustworthy? The man who betrayed both Nero and Galba?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that Nero was destroying the empire, and Galba betrayed me before I even thought about supporting Vitellius.’

  ‘Tacitus says differently,’ the man shrugged.

  ‘Well, Tacitus wasn’t there,’ I said forcefully. Spurinna smiled a fraction, and I cursed myself for letting this man get to me.

  ‘So,’ I continued, ‘each of us is loyal to his master. But we are practical men, are we not?’

  ‘Are we?’ he said, simply.

  ‘You know that I have nearly twenty thousand men under my command, the veterans of the Rhine, and you won’t find better men in the whole empire, not even the legions in Syria. And what do you have?’

  Spurinna was too old a campaigner to rise to the bait and tell me his strength, and said nothing.

  ‘Two thousand gladiators,’ I answered for him, ‘some militia and a few cohorts of praetorians, men whose only military experience for the last five years has been the occasional tavern brawl. You really think your men can withstand mine?’

  ‘I have a duty to my emperor to hold this city, and taking it will be harder than you think.’

  ‘You wouldn’t surrender for the sake of the women and children of Placentia then?’ I said casually.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The women and children. I have no quarrel with them, but as for my men… we both know that our soldiers are less forgiving to the inhabitants of a fallen city than we are. If you will not surrender, will you at least allow the innocents to leave the city before we besiege it?’

  Spurinna looked at me doubtfully. ‘You would spare them all?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? It’s only the presence of your garrison that puts their lives at risk. They are free to leave by the western gate, my men won’t touch them.’

  After a moment’s pause, Spurinna smiled grimly, appreciating the cleverness of my offer. ‘If I allow the families to leave, the militia won’t have anything to fight for. They’ll throw down their arms and surrender if your men get into the city.’

  ‘You mean when,’ I said.

  ‘I mean if. So, with regret, I must decline your offer.’ He gave a sharp tug at his reins, urging his horse to turn back towards Placentia.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I called out after him. ‘Many good men will die today because of your choice.’

  Spurinna looked back at me, his face full of contempt. ‘I am defending Italia from an invading army. If you do take the city, killing innocent women and children, all to put an undeserving man on the throne, I hope the Furies hound you for the rest of your life.’

  XI

  The men looked at me expectantly as I rode back towards them. I had struggled to mask my pain from Spurinna, but now that he was heading back to the city I could try rolling my shoulder and wince as the muscles protested without losing face.

  Pansa was the first to speak, which was his right as my second in command. ‘What did the rider want, sir?’

  ‘Our allegiance to Otho,’ I replied. The men laughed derisively.

  ‘I hope you told them where to go, sir.’

  ‘Not quite. It would have made things easier if they had decided to join us, but their commander has sworn himself to Otho, and wouldn’t shift. He refused to surrender, but we will take Placentia from him before the day is out!’

  The officers cheered their support, while further back in the makeshift camp some of the men turned at the noise and began to cheer too, happily joining in a chorus of soldiers applauding their general.

  ‘Publilius, where are you?’ I called out.

  ‘Here, General,’ the prefect replied from among his fellow auxiliary officers.

  ‘I want your auxiliaries to lead the assault. Take all the ladders and overwhelm them, at once, you hear?’

  ‘Yes, General.’ The man saluted sharply, smiling his enthusiasm.

  ‘Any orders for my men, sir?’ the chief engineer asked.

  ‘Hopefully we won’t have any need of your machines today. You can relax and enjoy the battle from afar!’

  There was a hint of organized chaos as men scurried back and forth to pass on orders, find ladders, set the men up in formation. I had an officer take what little cavalry we had to the north-western and south-western corners of the city to keep an eye out for any men who tried to sally out of the city. Not that I expected Spurinna to do that; his garrison was already thinly stretched and I doubted he’d risk losing precious men in a surprise attack. But the whole city had to be covered, and the cavalry weren’t going to be of much use in the assault on Placentia’s high walls.

  Within minutes the first auxiliaries were ready for the assault. The German tribesmen were spoiling for a fight. They had arrived too late to play any part in our assault against Alpinus in the mountains, and if any people are born to revel in the carnage of war, it is the fractious tribesmen from beyond the Rhine. Hundreds of them were already gathering around the great scaling ladders needed for the siege. Their centurions marshalled them into some semblance of order and the first of them were off in a wild charge.

  Each ladder took about twenty men to carry it at a pace, with the rest of the century jogging along behind, ready to start climbing as soon as the ladders were against the walls. The groups went forward in twos and threes, all heading for the walls either side of the eastern gate. I could hear the occasional twang of bowstrings as arrows flew down from the walls, often driving into the ground but occasionally finding their mark, checking a man in mid-gallop. But each time a man fell another was there to take his place.

  Soon the first ladders were against the walls and the men began to climb. Quickly the defenders tried to push the ladder
s back in the hope that they would tumble to the ground, but the more men who climbed upwards, the more effort it would take to dislodge them. Once the ladders were secured the handful of bowmen could fire into the seething mass on the ground, waiting their turn to climb, and these arrows were unlikely to miss. Screams began to echo off the walls and back towards us about 300 paces away. But the first men were beginning to reach the top of the walls, only to find the deadly swords and robust shields of the praetorian guardsmen waiting for them.

  I barked orders at the next wave of auxiliaries, small swarthy warriors from Lusitania. Otho had been governor of their province when Nero had exiled him from court, but these men had been serving on the Rhine before Otho had even fallen from favour; their loyalties were not in question. I told them to make for the southern and northern walls. They would be within range of the archers for longer, but by assaulting a larger area I hoped to stretch the enemy defences. Up ahead I saw two Germans halfway up their ladder struck by more arrows, so that the strength to climb deserted them and they tumbled off. Three men were higher up the ladder, but with the loss of the dead men the defenders brought their full weight to bear. The thing teetered backwards slowly, inevitably, then tottered over with a mighty crash. I watched as one of the climbers sailed through the air, only to land head first on the hard earth.

  Publilius was directing new batches of men as they arrived, his face ash-white.

  ‘Publilius, we have to overwhelm them or your men will drop like flies.’