Emperor of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Well, I think that should flatter and reassure in equal measure, my love,’ Vespasian said as a body slave finished washing the dust from his feet. ‘You were right to start it with such praise on his past achievements and how fitting it is for him to have been elevated to the Purple. You are also absolutely right to make no mention of Vitellius. And as for asking his advice on the campaign: that was fawning in the extreme; Uncle Gaius would have been proud. Have the clerk draw up a fine copy and I’ll sign it and it can go tomorrow.’

  Caenis rolled up the scroll and tied it with a ribbon. ‘Are you sure that restarting the campaign without the express permission of the Emperor is wise?’

  Vespasian held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness as the slave removed the basin and began to dry his feet. ‘What can I do? If we are assuming that at some point I have to send an army west to stake my claim then I can’t afford to leave a simmering Judaea behind it, especially as I don’t yet know Vologases’ intentions.’

  ‘Malichus should be back very soon; he’s been away for nearly four months.’

  ‘I hope so. No, I have to start the campaign again now; I haven’t got time to wait until Otho authorises it. And anyway, if Vitellius marched early enough, he could be through the passes in the Alps as soon as the snow melts, which, if the weather is kind to him, could be very soon. There may well be the first battle of this war in April, my love, sometime around the time that this letter will reach Otho; in fact he may never read it – he may well be dead by then.’

  Caenis nodded slowly in agreement whilst thinking. ‘And if Titus doesn’t come back to join you, what then?’

  Vespasian eased his feet into the slippers that the slave held in front of each foot. ‘Then I’ll have the problem of who to leave in charge of Judaea and complete the destruction of Jerusalem. It may even be that I can’t risk leaving until I have done it myself, if that’s the case.’

  ‘Would that be too bad a thing? The Emperor proclaimed in the East putting down the rebellious Jews, destroying their Temple. The fighting Emperor; a man of action.’

  ‘I would prefer to secure Rome by making Egypt mine and sending an army north and on into Italia. Assuming that I do make a play for the Purple, that is.’

  ‘Of course you will; with all that Sabinus told you it’s obvious that you have to.’

  ‘So you say, and so I’m coming around to believing; but it is still a terrifying prospect, and with Titus’ loyalty being suspect, well, it makes my position less certain. I need him with me.’

  ‘The Fifteenth Apollinaris are refusing to form up until you’ve received a delegation from them,’ Silius Propinquus informed Vespasian at dawn the following morning in a tone that implied it was no concern of his.

  Vespasian restrained himself from rising from his desk and slapping the imp. ‘And how have you allowed it to come to the brink of mutiny, tribune? What is it about command that you don’t understand? You order, they obey; I would have thought that was quite straightforward.’

  Propinquus’ jaw muscles tightened as he was forced to swallow the insult from a man whom he considered to be from a family far beneath his. ‘It is not mutinous; they just wish to speak to you before they form up.’

  ‘Well, tell them that I won’t speak to them until they form up.’

  ‘Marcus Ulpius Traianus is here to see you, master,’ Hormus said, putting his head around the door.

  ‘Show him in,’ Vespasian snapped, venting his anger on his freedman and immediately regretting it.

  Traianus walked in and gave a leisurely salute.

  Vespasian half returned it. ‘Well?’

  ‘The Tenth Fretensis have asked me to request that you admit a delegation into your presence.’

  ‘And they have refused to form up as well?’

  ‘I haven’t given them the order to form up, general; I thought it prudent not to as, with the mood they’re in, I could see that they would have refused and I didn’t want to create a confrontational situation.’

  Vespasian looked at Propinquus. ‘There; learn from your betters. Traianus won’t have to punish any of his men but you will have to.’

  Propinquus’ expression showed that he clearly did not see the Ulpii as being a better family than his.

  Vespasian sighed and, slapping both his palms on the desk, leant back in his chair, looking at his two senior officers. ‘How many are in these delegations?’

  ‘Ten from my legion,’ Traianus replied. ‘One from each cohort.’

  ‘And the same number from the Fifteenth,’ Propinquus confirmed.

  ‘Have you any idea what they want?’

  Traianus and Propinquus shared a quick look and then both shook their heads.

  Vespasian could tell that they had just formed a conspiracy of silence and decided that it would be better not to force the issue. ‘Very well. I’ll see them in the praetorium; alone.’

  ‘I want one of you to speak for you all,’ Vespasian said as he walked into the praetorium where twenty legionaries waited; not one, he noticed, was a centurion, optio, or even a standard-bearer; they were just rank and file mules. ‘Be quick about it and I might just forgive your impertinence.’

  Vespasian sat at a desk and waited as the delegations had a hurried and muffled discussion amongst themselves.

  Eventually one man, tanned, broken-nosed and bull-necked in the mid-term of his service, stamped forward, stood to attention and saluted. ‘Opius Murena, sir! First century, first cohort of the Fifteenth Apollinaris, sir!’

  ‘Well, Murena, what seems to be so important that you refuse an order to form up until you have spoken with me? I could have you executed for refusing an order, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  Murena’s expression did not change at the implied threat. ‘It’s all of us, sir! Both legions here as well as the Tenth in the south, and all the auxiliaries, sir!’

  Vespasian smiled inwardly and wondered how this man was not a centurion, with the deft manner he had pointed out that the whole army of Judaea was equally guilty and all risking execution. ‘And what is it that has upset all of you, Murena?’

  ‘It’s like this, sir. We all knows what’s going on in the West. Yesterday you made us swear to Otho but we knows them cunts on the Rhenus have declared for Vitellius and we knows why.’

  ‘How do you knows why?’

  ‘We knows because it’s common knowledge: any of the lads who have been back to Rome recently will tell you, sir.’

  ‘And you have been back, I take it, Murena.’

  ‘I was there on leave six months ago, sir! And, like every one of the lads who goes back, I drinks with lads from other legions also back in Rome on leave. Well, it was always the same with them cunts from the Rhenus, they keeps on saying that it’s only a matter of time before their legions are transferred to the East and it’s our turn to freeze our bollocks off keeping an eye on them hairy-arsed savages which lurks in the dark forests on the other side of the river. And we don’t wants that, sir; no, we don’t wants that all.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t, Murena; but what’s that to do with me?’

  ‘Well, sir, we knows them Rhenus cunts will try to make Vitellius really emperor and we knows that they’ll ask him for a reward, and we knows just what they’ll ask, and we reckons that he’ll say yes. And we don’t wants to go; we don’t likes the forests and we prefers to fight the Jews not them hairy-arsed Germanic savages – although we have heard their women are worth closer scrutiny. But we got women out here in the East and this is where we wants to stay. So why should our lives be ruined by them Rhenus cunts? Why should we let them declare an emperor and then get the reward? Why shouldn’t we have the reward? And we thinks that if you—’

  ‘That’s enough, Murena,’ Vespasian cut in, knowing exactly what the man was about to suggest. ‘Be careful before you add treason to mutiny.’

  ‘It ain’t treason, sir!’

  ‘It is; we have all taken the oath to Otho.’

  ‘But we
ain’t taken one to Vitellius and them Rhenus cunts are hard cunts and they’ll knock the shit out of Otho’s Italian turds and Praetorian piss-drinkers and then the fatman will be emperor. And we heard that the Moesian arseholes and the Pannonian pricks have crossed the Danuvius to deal with the horse-fuckers that have just appeared from the East, so who’s going to come to the Italian turds’ aid once the Praetorian piss-drinkers have run away, sir? Fuck all, that’s who; and fuck all never helped anyone.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Murena.’

  But Murena was in full flow. ‘It’s only us eastern lads what can deals with the Rhenus cunts, even if the Britannia bastards comes with them; and don’t forget we could rely on the Egyptian wankers to throw their lot in with us and maybe even the Moesian arseholes if they manage to get their fingers out and deal with them horse-fuckers; and, who knows, maybe even them African buggers will pull their boys off their cocks for long enough to join in; they weren’t impressed by Clodius Macer getting his and they might fancy a nice ruck.’

  Vespasian concealed his surprise as to just how well informed Murena was, and therefore no doubt the whole army too. Vespasian had heard of the arrival of the Sarmatian Iazyges and Roxolani tribes on the Danuvius the previous year but had not heard that a campaign had been ordered against them; by whom, he wondered, Galba or Otho? Not that it mattered, for the result was the same if it were true: the Moesian and Pannonian legions were busy and could not be expected to come to Otho’s aid. This man, Murena, was right in his assessment that fuck all was going to come to help Otho and he did not have the benefit of the Oracle of Amphiaraos to predict that Vitellius would be emperor before very long. ‘I can’t help you, Murena.’

  ‘The Hispanic cock-suckers chose Galba; the Italian turds and Praetorian piss-drinkers chose Otho and now we wants our choice of emperor, not the Rhenus cunts’ choice. Why should they choose and then nick our billets and condemn us to the freezing north? I’ve heard the Rhenus cunts even have to wear trousers under their tunics because it’s so cold in the winter.’ The look of outrage on Murena’s face was palpable. ‘Trousers, sir! How can you air your balls if you’re wearing trousers? It ain’t right.’

  ‘They’re not trousers, Murena,’ Vespasian informed him, enjoying the man’s indignation, ‘they’re knee-length britches.’

  ‘Well, we don’t wants them. We don’t wants them at all; we wants to stay here where we’re happy killing Jews. We knows you’re a fair man, sir. We knows that you leads us from the front. We sees that you looks almost like us, sir, no fancy uniform or nothing; we hears that you eats the same tuck and drinks the same slurp. We likes you, sir; and we chooses you. What do you says?’

  ‘I says, Murena, that we haves had enough of this conversation. I know that it is your right to bring grievances to me and I am obliged to hear you out, but in this case there is nothing that I can do. I know what you are asking of me and at the moment the time is not right.’

  Murena’s face lit with hope as his comrades behind him muttered to one another. ‘So you’re saying that there may be a time that is right, sir?’

  ‘Murena, I’m not saying anything. Now, I’m willing to put behind us this insubordination of the Fifteenth Apollinaris refusing to form up, if you deliver one man from every century for punishment before we march, which will now have to be tomorrow. Each man will receive a dozen strokes of the vine-stick.’

  Murena saluted. ‘Yes, sir. And I shall be proud to be one of them.’

  The other nine delegates from Murena’s legion also snapped to attention and volunteered their backs for punishment.

  ‘Dismissed!’ Vespasian ordered.

  As he watched the delegation file out, Vespasian wondered how long it would be until the fact that he had not entirely rejected the men’s demands out of hand got around the rest of the army. He felt his throat constrict as he realised that he was slowly approaching the point of no return.

  He shook his head to clear his thought. ‘Traianus and Propinquus!’ he shouted at the open door.

  His two senior officers marched in quick enough for it to be obvious that they had been listening.

  ‘We will not be marching today,’ Vespasian informed the two men. ‘By the time we’ve formed into an order of march it will be at least the fourth hour, which means that we won’t stand a chance of coming to Herodium in two days. We’ll leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Traianus and Propinquus replied in unison.

  ‘Propinquus, have your legion formed up to witness punishment an hour before sunset. Sixty poles to be set up. And remember, every stroke administered is because of your ineptitude. Dismissed.’ Propinquus, looking as if he smelt a particularly virulent fart, saluted and sauntered out.

  Vespasian looked at Traianus. ‘Can we trust him?’

  ‘You mean with what the men asked of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  Vespasian sucked the air through his teeth, his countenance more strained than usual. ‘I’ll keep a watch on him and have his correspondence intercepted.’

  ‘A wise precaution, general.’

  ‘And you, Traianus, what do you think?’

  Traianus pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Thank you, general,’ Traianus said, sitting. He paused as he arranged his thoughts and then looked Vespasian in the eye. ‘I think it is your patriotic duty to do this, general. They may come from families of great lineage but neither Otho nor Vitellius have the temperament, the self-control, to be emperor; you, on the other hand, you have that self-control, that reserve that it takes to wield power responsibly.’

  ‘Without having the lineage.’ Vespasian smiled to show that he had not taken the implication as an insult.

  ‘Speaking bluntly, no; but then I don’t make judgements like that as my family, the Ulpii, is not exactly venerable. We’re both New Men, general, and I say it is the time for the New Men; the old families have had their time and now it must be ability that is the deciding factor. You have the ability and you have a son with the same qualities; a combination that could ensure at least thirty years of stable rule, which, after the profligacy of Nero and the expense of the ongoing civil war, is what the Empire needs.’

  ‘Patriotism?’ Vespasian mused. ‘That’s a new approach. Self-preservation has always been my main motivation.’

  Traianus nodded and leant forward in his seat. ‘Supported by the self-interest of others. Mucianus, for example, he can sniff power but knows he can never hold it in his own right because he hasn’t earned the respect; he’ll support you to get as much from you as possible. He’s no different from the delegation who came to see you; they don’t care who has the Purple as long as he’s their choice and he’ll reward them and it just so happens that you seem to them to be that man; pure self-interest, but useful for the right cause. I, on the other hand, look further ahead and I realise that the Empire may not survive long enough for my fifteen-year-old son to thrive in and take the Ulpii further than I have, unless the right man takes control now. And so I agree with Murena and his mates, but for different reasons: that man, general, is you.’

  Vespasian leant his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his clasped hands. ‘You make a powerful case, Traianus: patriotism? Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Think on it, general. I imagine that you must be in some turmoil as you weigh in your mind the risks of bidding for power and the chances of success. It is not just you and your family who would suffer if you fail, it’s every citizen; Rome’s very existence could even be threatened and I believe that it is your duty to heal her and it is my duty to help you, whatever the personal risks.’

  ‘One!’

  The crack of vine-sticks thumping down onto the backs of sixty men tied by their wrists to posts, with their hands above their heads, reverberated along the frontage of the XV Apollinaris. Silent, the legionaries stood and watched the volunteers from each century receive punishment on t
heir behalf.

  ‘Two!’ the primus pilus roared.

  Sixty of his brethren in the centuriate brought their sticks down in unison onto their victims’ exposed backs, this time just a fraction above the new welts of the first impact; none of the men cried out as their bodies tensed with the pain and their wrists pulled against the leather binding them to the posts.

  ‘Three!’

  Vespasian sat on a dais before the XV Apollinaris, with Propinquus standing at his side, watching the sticks come down and making sure that there was genuine effort in each blow. He had sent a message to the primus pilus that there was to be no leniency with the punishment as he wanted the legion to understand in no uncertain terms that they could not refuse an order, even if it was to send him a delegation pleading for him to make a bid for power. If that were to happen, Vespasian had reasoned, it was even more important that the legions at his back should be of the highest discipline. One rogue legion out of control and sacking a town or committing other atrocities would ruin his reputation before he had even achieved his goal. Discipline was all.

  ‘Ten!’

  Now the strikes were almost up to the shoulder blades; blood was flowing from the wrists of those men who could not help but strain on their bindings.