The Last Caesar

by The Last Caesar (retail) (epub)

  After a week, Rufus decided that the threat of insurrection was over, so he could send his troops their separate ways. The German auxiliaries would march west to join with the First Italica at Lugdunum, to help control the region. The detachments from the lower Rhine legions, Valens included, would march due north, while Rufus himself would take the Fourth and the Twenty-Second north-east, by way of Argentorate, to his headquarters at Mogontiacum.

  I would have liked to join the Germans and head back into the heart of Gaul, and to stay with Quintus while awaiting further developments. However, Galba’s reply was sure to go directly to wherever Rufus was, so that meant another long march, but this time to the Rhine. It would take about a week for the two legions to reach Argentorate, and then another five days or so to Mogontiacum. I prayed that I would hear from Galba soon, so that I might be spared the boredom of almost a fortnight’s march.

  We broke camp at dawn the following day, and 20,000 men spilled from the hilltop in different directions. The Germans retraced the steps Vindex’s army had taken before the battle, through and beyond the valley that was now empty of corpses. A large and levelled mound of earth marked the mass grave dug for the remains of my erstwhile comrades.

  Valens and the lower Rhine contingent marched through Vesontio and took the northward road, while Rufus’s two legions turned eastwards. Our route was not particularly arduous, just long. It would be several days’ march through fairly hilly country until we reached Argentorate, and then followed the river north to Mogontiacum. Every day was a torment, and it was all I could do to stop myself from turning in the saddle and scanning the horizon every ten minutes for signs of a messenger. Six interminable days passed, six days of plodding the miles that drew us nearer to the Rhine, hemmed in by the hills that dominated the skyline. At least I was spared having to walk the thirty or so miles every day, and was relatively comfortable on the nag that Rufus had lent me. She was an ageing beast, and nowhere near as splendid as Achilles, who was waiting for me in the stables back in Corduba. Nonetheless I was grateful for a horse at all; it would hardly have befitted my rank to trudge on foot like a common soldier.

  It was as we approached Argentorate that the news finally came. Rufus and I were up with the van, and the young tribunes were scurrying around, preparing to oversee the construction of that night’s camp. Then behind us came a chorus of whistles and murmurs of appreciation. Both of us turned to find out what was causing the commotion. At first all we could see was a man riding along the road towards us, and leading another horse by the reins. And what a horse. It was built like a proper warhorse: a long, dark mane, a head that was proud and high, and a frame so thick and powerful that, if there were a contest between the beast and a sturdy stable door, you’d have to consider the odds very carefully before placing your bet. It was only when the horseman had cleared the column that I saw the white sock on one of the rear legs. It was Achilles, or else a twin that the messenger had found on his travels!

  The young tribune Saturninus, whom I had dispatched to Galba all those days ago, looked a shambles. His once fiery-red cloak was hidden beneath a cake of mud, he was unshaven, and, judging from the way he walked after dismounting, had spent many hard hours in the saddle. Considering the distance he had covered, he could have looked a damned sight worse.

  The young man gave a smart salute nevertheless, and with the formalities over he recounted his news. ‘General Rufus, sir, have you heard? Nero has been overthrown! I heard it down in Massilia, from another courier,’ he gabbled. ‘Everyone’s talking about it. The Senate…’

  ‘Whoah! Slow down, Tribune. What do you mean, the emperor’s been overthrown?’

  ‘The Senate declared him a public enemy, sir, they want him gone.’

  ‘Is Nero still alive, then?’ the general asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, at least that’s what I heard. There are some wild rumours around. Some say that the emperor marched to Ostia with the Praetorian Guard, and was going to sail to his loyal troops in the East. Others say that he disguised himself as a slave and escaped from Rome. I heard a fantastic one in Lugdunum, that he—’

  Rufus waved his hand impatiently. ‘Spare me the gossip, please.’

  ‘Is there any word from Galba?’ I asked.

  Saturninus nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I have a letter for each of you. Senator Galba was explicit, sir. He said that General Rufus’s was to be read immediately, and the message for you could be read at your leisure. But I don’t know how useful these will be – word from Rome about Nero had not reached Tarraco when I left.’ He dug into the folds of his cloak, where the precious vellum had been stashed away to protect it from the elements, and proffered a letter to Rufus.

  The general snatched it up, and broke the seal with his manicured fingernails. I watched his face closely as his eyes devoured the missive. He paused for a moment and stole a glance at me. What had he done that for? I was aching to see my letter from Galba, but the old fox must have had a good reason for making me rein in my curiosity. My imagination was wild with theories. Why was Nero still alive if Nymphidius Sabinus was near at hand? Galba had all but said that the Praetorian Prefect would kill Nero when the time came. Had the plan gone awry?

  ‘It seems that your lord and master’s ears are everywhere. He commiserates with me for the loss of one of my legates during the “unfortunate incident at Vesontio”.’ He stressed those words. Galba’s words, not his. ‘Yes, Cotta was one of those poor bastards who died in that cavalry charge on the flank. As the legate of the Senate and People of Rome, Galba…’ He paused here, searching for the right word. ‘…recommends that I appoint you in his stead, Severus.’

  I was taken aback, I can tell you. Me? Command a Roman legion? I was far too young for such a rank. Even the best connected men barely ever became legate before they were approaching forty, and I was still some months away from my thirtieth birthday.

  Rufus continued, ‘I am happy to recognize Galba’s authority in this matter. It would be different if you were incompetent, but you are clearly not. In the circumstances, I would suggest that you make your own way ahead of the column to Mogontiacum, and then you can have a proper introduction to your command, not here on the roadway. You can return that horse to me once the army has caught up.’

  ‘No need, sir,’ I grinned. I slung myself out of the saddle, and took both my letter and Achilles’s reins from Saturninus’s hands.

  ‘You mean to say that this is your horse?’

  ‘Oh, just a little something I picked up in Corduba,’ I said. ‘Thank you for sparing the horse, Tribune. I’ll forgive you for keeping us in suspense for the last few days.’

  Rufus looked affronted, and no wonder: his own warhorse was no match for Achilles. He composed himself.

  ‘Severus, you’d better take this.’ He rootled around in one of his saddlebags, and handed over what looked like a small wooden cylinder. ‘It is my seal, so that you can prove who you are when you arrive at the barracks in Mogontiacum.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but won’t you need it?’

  He raised his left hand with the back of it facing me. A large golden ring enclosed his little finger. ‘Not when I have this too.’

  In the excitement I’d forgotten that no self-respecting Roman would be seen dead without his family ring. I raised my right hand and flashed my own signet ring (normally the ring is worn on the smallest finger of the left hand, but after my encounter with Albanos in Vienne, practicality demanded I break with convention). I smiled meekly, acknowledging my stupid mistake.

  ‘Permission to leave the army, sir?’ I asked cheekily.

  ‘Get on with you.’

  I mounted my horse, dug my heels in and Achilles sped off down the road. A thought struck me, and I gave a sharp tug on the reins. Achilles reared up at the sudden command to halt, his front legs beating the air. I called back to the general, my new commander: ‘I forgot to ask which legion, sir!’

  ‘The Fourth,’ came the reply. ‘The Macedonica.’

>   * * *

  It was only as I rode through the streets of Argentorate that it even occurred to me that I should read Galba’s letter; I was that overwhelmed by my sudden promotion. Of course it was a massive step up, I must have been the youngest legate for decades, but the joy had for the moment clouded my judgement. Hadn’t Galba promised that I should accompany him to Rome, as client and patron? Command of a legion normally lasted around four years, effectively tying me to my post, which meant that I was to be tethered to the Rhine until I reached the next rung on the political ladder. This was why I had come to Argentorate itself, instead of hurrying northwards to settle in before Rufus and the army arrived. I had to write to my wife.

  My beautiful Salonina. I am somewhat ashamed to write that I had not thought of her over the last few months as much as I should have. I had left Rome in the winter of the year before to take up my position in Corduba, only to find myself caught up in a whirlwind. Assuming that I would be returning to Rome soon, I had expected to be reunited with her in a couple of months at the most. Now that my fate for the next few years appeared to be settled, I decided to summon her to my side.

  I sleep alone nowadays. Well, practically most days. But still, hardly a night goes by when I do not think about her. My memory brings back images of a waif-like thing, standing with her proud father on the day of our wedding. We were both very young. It is twenty years ago now, that late summer’s day in Pompeii. I was nineteen, and she was only a few months past her sixteenth birthday. But my family was in desperate need of ready money, and as the only son it was my duty to add to the coffers with a rich bride’s dowry. Our home in Vicetia, lovely as it was, did not have the grandeur or the atmosphere that Salonina’s villa did, standing near the golden shores of the bay. The double peaks of Capri could be made out on the horizon, while the lush slopes of Vesuvius were only a few miles away. The place was perfect, the dowry very reasonable, and I was about to be shackled to a slip of a girl whom I had never laid eyes on.

  I was prepared for the worst. The rule of thumb is that the larger the dowry, the uglier and older the bride. I was steeling myself for some porcine creature with a limp and a stammer to shuffle into sight, and then I saw her. Sleek tresses of chestnut-brown hair were arranged fashionably around a headdress, discarding the loose style of an unmarried woman. But it was the eyes that caught me. Deep blue eyes that fair sparkled with life. A slight, willowy figure betrayed the fact that she was only on the cusp of womanhood, but she was beautiful nonetheless.

  Two years later she bore me a son, just a month or so after I had been posted to Britannia, so I missed many of those precious moments that a father cherishes as long as his memory permits. I left at home a pregnant wife and returned when little Aulus was nearly three years old. Three years in which the boy had never known his father, and had walked and talked while I rode and fought for the empire. I no longer cared what my pompous ancestor said about family in the provinces. It was time to see them again. Maybe if I had followed his advice things would have been different…

  But before I wrote home, I needed to see what Galba had to say. Still in the saddle, I eagerly tore open the wax seal, stamped with Galba’s crest of a wild boar, and pored over the contents.

  To Au. Caecina Severus

  Let me first congratulate and thank you for all the work that you have carried out in Gaul; considering the circumstances, I could not have wished for a better man to act on my behalf, nor for a better outcome. I hear that you suffered a wound to your hand during the campaign. Such loyalty and dedication is to be highly commended.

  I know that you had entertained hopes to ride with me all the way to Rome, but circumstances dictate otherwise. Do not think that I have not valued your service; indeed it is because of your success that I have decided that it would be better for you to remain in Gaul.

  As you mentioned in your report, the Rufus situation is a thorny one. This is why I have ordered him to appoint you legate for the Fourth Legion. If I am to be emperor, I will need trustworthy men in key positions, and I can think of no better candidate to serve as my eyes and ears on the Rhine. Therefore I have arranged for your splendid horse to accompany this letter north, so that you may have him with you in Mogontiacum.

  I am sure you are aware that the command of a legion is a lengthy one, so the likelihood of my being alive on your return is not great. You may be sure I shall commend you to my successor, whoever he may be. Furthermore I will try to make sure that Rufus’s successor as governor of the province will be sufficiently weak-willed to give you more of a free rein. I am afraid this is all that I shall be able to give you, but I am sure you will agree that your hard-earned reward is more than fair.

  Please keep me informed of any major developments, and my thanks once again.

  S. Sulpicius Galba

  I won’t pretend that I wasn’t disappointed. After that little chat I’d had with Otho in the baths at Tarraco, I had honestly thought I was in with a decent chance of Galba choosing me as his successor one day. I was even prepared to bet a large sum that Otho himself had convinced the old man to leave me to rot on the Rhine, while he remained close at hand. But I wasn’t bitter. Yes, I’d been through some difficult times and deserved my reward, but my ambition was sated. Galba had given me command of my very own legion before I was thirty, a high honour indeed. No man in my position would complain.

  Perhaps I had been over-excited during those days in Tarraco. After all, Galba had watched my career with interest over the years, and my mother and I owed everything to him. But it was when Vindex had told me of Galba’s promise to make him High King of Gaul that I realized Galba trusted me only up to a point. In his eyes, I had served my purpose, and now that everything was in place for him to become emperor, he would expect me to dutifully obey his commands. So it was with a fairly contented heart that I continued my search for the way station, to send a letter to my beautiful wife.

  XVI

  Mogontiacum is a dismal place. It seemed dreary enough on first inspection, but in my merry mood I had decided to reserve judgement until I was properly acquainted with my new posting. But there was no avoiding the fact: the town reeked of tedium. Drusus, the Emperor Tiberius’s brother, had chosen this place to construct a large fortress that would guard this stretch of the Rhine.

  But that had been decades ago. The small town that had been founded to provide for the legions had grown since then, sprawling along the river bank year after year, until someone decided it was big enough to become the provincial capital. You wouldn’t know it was the administrative centre of the province if you happened to be strolling along its gloomy streets. Yes, they were paved, and the city was laid out in a regular fashion, but these facts revealed nothing but the city’s youth. Although Mogontiacum was young, it was lacking in vigour.

  As I rode through the city, I was met by a sea of miserable faces – a crowd of hairy, smelly plebs were going about their business. Perhaps I am being too harsh; the city was not completely without individuality or culture. They were in the throes of building a brand new theatre. Carts came and went, carrying great loads of stone to the building site. Teams of slaves fetched and carried, while the more skilled hewed at the vast lumps, fashioning them into seats. The cleanest, best-quality stone was reserved for the front rows, where the local nobility would sit. I sat in the saddle and watched for a time as a mason set about one of these blocks with a chisel, cutting an elaborate border around one of its faces.

  When asked about the building, the obsequious craftsmen bobbed their heads comically, like apples in a water barrel, and boasted that it would be the largest theatre north of the Alps.

  ‘It should be able to hold twelve thousand men,’ I was assured.

  ‘But this place can’t have anywhere near twelve thousand citizens, and I don’t expect the soldiers will want to spend their wages here!’

  ‘Ah, but you’re just thinking about today, sir. This city is only ever going to get bigger. Look over there.’ One of
them pointed to the northern horizon, where the murky shadows of stone and bricks had begun to eat up the skyline.

  ‘The city keeps growing and growing,’ said another. ‘Ever since this was made the capital, the Gauls have flocked into the slum quarter. Even a few barbarians have crossed the Rhine to settle here peacefully. All these people need food, clothes, jobs and all the rest of it; the city’s flourishing.’

  Wanting to be on my way, I asked for directions to the barracks and left them to bask in each other’s civic pride. Cantering through the western quarter of the city, I could not fail to notice the influence that the legions had while the place was taking shape. While you would think that all the market stalls, taverns and the like would be close to the harbour, near all the traffic that sailed from the Alps to the sea, the merchants had established themselves much closer to the barracks. Any off-duty legionary could tumble out of the barracks and find himself spoilt for choice in ways to spend his wages. Whorehouses, normally confined to seedy back alleys in the older cities of the empire, stood tall and proud on the streets that led into the heart of Mogontiacum. I even saw patches where rival taverns stood on adjoining plots, so desperate were the proprietors to set up shop close to their main source of trade.

  The only respectable building I came across in these shady suburbs of the city was a large shrine. Not to Jupiter, Mars or even a local Gallic god, mark you, but to General Drusus himself. Of course it is right and proper that our past emperors are worshipped as gods, worthy of a seat in the heavens. But Drusus was no emperor. He could have been one, being the brother of Tiberius and, through his mother, Livia, Augustus’s stepson. However, he had retained his father’s love of the Republic, and I gather that the imperial family were somewhat relieved, privately of course, when he died of wounds when on campaign against the barbarians beyond the river.

  But he was not only a Claudian but also the city’s founder, and citizens and soldiers alike came to the shrine, praying and sacrificing so that the noble Drusus’s spirit might watch over them. I made a mental note to pay a visit once I’d settled in properly. It was only after I had ridden past the shrine that I caught my first glimpse of the fort. So far the trees and buildings had blocked the view, but now the road sloped up a slight rise that led to a flat-topped hill. The huge stone fortress loomed over the city like an assassin, dagger in hand, standing over his sleeping victim. Looking up at that mighty gatehouse, with its sturdy towers and high battlements, I couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of trying to assault it. This, I might add, from a man who has served against some of the most savage tribes known to the empire.