Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians

by James Mace

  “Finally,” the optio muttered, not caring if it was an Othonian or Vitellian messenger. To him, any news at all, whether good or ill, was better than continued silence. “Stand to attention, lads.”

  The approaching rider wore a plain, muscled cuirass with a faded red cloak draped over his shoulder. His helmet bore a black plume which ran front-to-back. He rode at a quick canter, slowing to a trot as he approached the bridge.

  “Hold, sir!” Proculus said, saluting the officer he recognized as a tribune. “What news to you bring?”

  “Orders for the commanding officer of this division from Emperor Aulus Vitellius,” the tribune replied. The guardsmen were stunned, and quickly glanced around at each other. Proculus maintained his composure.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “That would be Centurion Novellus. I take it, then, that the war is over?”

  “You haven’t heard?” the tribune asked, perplexed as Proculus shook his head. “Otho was defeated somewhere between Cremona and Bedriacum several weeks ago. He took his own life soon after. Now, take me to your commanding officer.”

  It was a ten minute walk from the bridge to the house the praetorians had established as their headquarters. There were no guards posted outside the doors, and the only guardsmen in uniform were those at the bridge.

  “Where in Hades are the rest of your men?” the tribune asked, suddenly feeling rather irritated as he dismounted his horse.

  “Drunk or at one of the brothels, I suspect, sir,” the optio replied candidly. Proculus felt no loyalty whatsoever towards Novellus nor much of the Guard at this point, and he was disinclined to try and cover for his commanding officer’s incompetence.

  The foyer was empty except a large table in the center with a few documents strewn about. They heard the sounds of a bed creaking and a woman’s loud moans coming from the back room. The tribune banged on the door repeatedly, only to hear a very audible ‘fuck off’ from the other side.

  Before being assigned as one of the leading officers of this disastrous excursion, Centurion Novellus had only commanded troops on the praetorian parade field. The commanding tribune had been imprisoned within days and, with the other leading centurion dead, Novellus was left in command of what remained of the expeditionary force. In the absence of orders, he had done little since their arrival at Album Ingaunum, except drink and fornicate with whatever whores made themselves available.

  Now clearly irritated, the tribune threw open the door, which slammed against the wall, and shouted, “Centurion!”

  “I said fuck o …oh shit!” Novellus clumsily fell from the bed and stood at attention, completely naked and erect, his eyes wide in shock.

  His female companion tried to sink down into the bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin.

  “By Bellona’s cunt, it’s the middle of the day, man!” the tribune snapped. “You stink of wine and unwashed fucking. Get some damn clothes on at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” Novellus stammered.

  Proculus bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh out loud. No centurion of any worth would be caught balls deep in a prostitute during the duty day, nor would he take so kindly to being berated in front of a subordinate, regardless of the rank of the chastising officer.

  Novellus threw on a tunic and stumbled out into the foyer where the tribune was waiting impatiently. He handed the centurion a rather thick scroll.

  “The war is over,” the tribune said. “In his generosity, Emperor Vitellius is offering each of your men three thousand denarii, if they will turn in their weapons and armor and voluntarily leave the imperial service. And I use the word ‘voluntarily’ rather loosely. His highness has no more use for your men. They had best accept his magnanimity, otherwise things might get a little awkward. ”

  “I…I don’t understand,” Novellus fumbled.

  “Vitellius won the war,” Proculus quickly explained, before the tribune could lash out again. “He doesn’t want his personal guard to consist of men who served his overthrown predecessor in the same capacity. That he is offering them a donative is quite generous.”

  The centurion nodded and then glanced through the scroll once more. “What is this list of names for?”

  “Officers from your detachment who are to report to Lugdunum at once,” the tribune said. “The emperor wishes to address them personally.”

  “I don’t see my name on this list,” Novellus noted.

  “No,” the tribune said, with a smirk. “The emperor thinks you would be better suited to remain here and oversee the cashiering of your guardsmen.”

  “Half these men are either dead or missing, sir,” Proculus said, reading the note over the centurion’s shoulder. He winced when he saw his own name on the list.

  “We figured as much,” the tribune said smugly. “Those who remain will take ship at once to Lugdunum. I will be accompanying you. Any surviving members of the urban cohorts are ordered to return to Rome and report to their prefect, who will sort them out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Novellus said. He then asked awkwardly, “Am I among those to be cashiered from the ranks?”

  The tribune said nothing. He simply turned and left. Proculus took the list from the centurion and read through it. The names were mostly centurions and options who totaled about one third of those within the taskforce. He tried to wrack his brain, thinking what the men on the list could possibly have in common. The selection felt completely random. His stomach turned. He did not like the idea of being brought before the new emperor, but he had his orders.

  Chapter II: Suffer No Rivals

  Rome

  Late April 69 A.D.

  Praetorian Guardsman

  Guardsman Tiberius Statius had returned to Rome, uncertain what the future held for him. Abandoned for dead after their disastrous routing by Vitellian cavalry, he had rather painfully made his way to a nearby port city and, with a hefty bribe to the ship’s captain, made the return journey to the imperial capital. After news of Otho’s defeat reached the city, there was the awkward question of what should be done with those few guardsmen who remained in Rome.

  Statius had heard nothing about the fate of his fellow guardsmen from the ill-fated Maritime Alpes expedition. He half expected to find them returned to Rome, but their continued absence meant they were either holed up in one of the Othonian loyalist cities or captured by the Vitellians. If Vitellius elected to sack the entire Guard, most of them would likely be stranded in the small province. The emperor’s offer of an early reduced pension had yet to reach the city, and the few praetorians who remained in Rome feared for their futures. After all, Sabinus had administered the new oath to the remaining urban cohorts, but not the rear detachment of the Praetorian Guard.

  Statius was in his quarters one evening, pondering his next move over a light supper, when there was pounding on the door to the nearly deserted billets. He opened it to find a section of vigiles from the urban cohorts waiting for him. And while these men normally carried clubs, each of these men had a gladius slung over his shoulder.

  “Guardsman Statius?” one of them asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “You are to come with us,” the section leader directed.

  Alarmed by this, Statius first thought of reaching for his weapon. However, there were six of them, and he knew at best he could only get one, maybe two, before they cut him down. He had little choice but to take his chances and accompany them. Reluctantly, he followed the men, who escorted him about a mile across the city to the house of Flavius Sabinus.

  “What am I doing here?” the guardsman asked.

  The urban section leader said nothing as he knocked on the door. A slave soon appeared, the vigiles departed, and the guardsman was taken across the foyer and into a study where the urban prefect awaited. With him was a rather statuesque woman, who appeared to be in her early to mid-forties.

  “Guardsman Statius,” Sabinus said. He snapped his fingers, and a servant offered the praetorian wine.

  �
�Prefect,” Statius replied. “I, of course, know who you are, as does everyone in Rome. I am surprised you know me, for I cannot say we’ve ever met.”

  “It is highly unlikely, I’ll grant you,” Sabinus concurred. “And you may wonder what the city prefect wants with a praetorian guardsman.”

  “Or rather, what your friend here wants,” Statius surmised, casting his gaze at the woman, who grinned appreciatively.

  “This is Lady Triaria, wife of the noble senator, Lucius Vitellius,” Sabinus said.

  “My lady,” Statius said with a nod, his brain wracked with suspicions about her motives. “And how may this humble guardsman serve you?”

  “You may be a guardsman,” Triaria replied, “but I would never use the word ‘humble’ to describe you. I am certain you are well aware, now that the wicked usurpers, Galba and Otho, have been cast down into the pit of Hades, our new emperor will need his own men of quality to fill the ranks of the praetorians.”

  “Yes, we realize our services to the empire will no longer be needed,” the guardsman said flatly.

  “This is true for most of the Guard,” Triaria agreed. “But then, you’re not like most praetorians, are you? What would say if, on the emperor’s behalf, I was able to secure your position within the Guard? A centurion’s position even.”

  “No promotion,” Statius emphasized. He folded his arms across his chest. “Since you knew enough about me to attempt to hire my services, then you most certainly know I only accept jobs that are officially sanctioned, and therefore offer immunity from any repercussions. I also work for gold and silver, not rank.”

  Triaria nodded in agreement. “Very well. I can assure you that any service I may call upon has my husband’s, and therefore the emperor’s, blessing. The issue at hand is that the exiled nobleman and former general, Cornelius Dolabella, has returned to Rome.”

  “Yes, of course. Dolabella was a great military leader and imperial statesman. Otho only exiled him because he feared Galba might name him his successor. Those fears proved to be unfounded.”

  “Still, now that Otho is dead there are many who fear Dolabella might try to claim what he thinks is rightfully his,” Sabinus spoke up. “There are whispers that the general is gathering support from some of the military elements in and around Rome.”

  “If there was any truth to such rumors, I would know about it,” Statius countered. “The Praetorian Guard, what’s left of it, is still the largest military entity within the city, aside from your own urban cohorts. Please tell me you don’t put any faith in such rumors, sir.”

  Triaria shot Sabinus a sidelong glance as he opened his mouth to speak. He promptly shut it and deliberated as to what he should say.

  “Vitellius will suffer no rivals,” Triaria stated categorically.

  This caused Sabinus’ face to twitch. It was a backhanded reference to his brother, Vespasian, who Vitellius now feared.

  “I have here Vitellius’ order sending Dolabella from the city,” Sabinus replied. “As suffect consul for May and June, it is my duty to read this to the senate. A single escort is all that will be required to take the general from Rome to Interamna.”

  “So you want me to escort a former consul and one of Rome’s most respected generals to his place of house arrest at his estate, eighty miles from Rome.”

  “Not just escort,” Triaria said, with a sinister gleam in her eye.

  Sabinus cast his gaze towards the floor.

  Statius understood. “How much does this job pay?”

  Sabinus’ face was pale as he later escorted Lady Triaria to the front door. As soon as his fee had been negotiated, Guardsman Statius had promptly left to prepare for the journey. With their business complete, Vitellius’ sister-in-law prepared to leave.

  “A beastly undertaking, but necessary,” Triaria asserted, turning to face Sabinus. “Let us hope there are no more potential pretenders to be dealt with in such an uncivilized fashion.”

  “My lady,” was all Sabinus could manage in reply.

  In many ways he felt like a coward, having acquiesced to Triaria and her husband’s plan to eliminate what amounted to an imagined potential rival. But with those closest to Vitellius looking for any reason to declare someone a threat to the regime, Sabinus had very real cause to be concerned about his family. His sons were quickly coming of age, Flavius being eighteen and Clemens sixteen. And there was his nephew, Domitian, who Vespasian had placed in his care.

  While Cornelius Dolabella could be rather effortlessly disposed of, Flavius Vespasian was another matter entirely. Sabinus was now gravely concerned, for unless Vitellius proved to be a wise and strong ruler, conflict with Vespasian might prove inevitable. For his family’s sake, he had to give the Vitellians no cause to suspect him of treason. Lady Triaria understood this, which is why she was able to so easily manipulate the once proud general into carrying out this hateful task.

  That evening, Sabinus dined with his family, along with their recently returned guest, Aula Cursia Vale. Aula had taken on the unusual duty of serving as an imperial courier, in the employ of Sabinus. She had been away for a number of months, having journeyed all the way to Judea, with a series of dispatches for Sabinus’ brother, Vespasian. During that time, she had met an old childhood friend, Gaius Artorius, who was serving with the Tenth Legion. Though the reunion had been pleasant, and she was thrilled to have seen the famed port city of Caesarea, Aula was glad to have at last returned to Rome. Sabinus’ nephew, Domitian, was conspicuous by his absence, having been sent to live with the family friend, Cocceius Nerva, who was overseeing the later phases of his formal education.

  Sabinus was strangely quiet that evening. His sons assumed it was the stress brought on now that he had yet another emperor to serve.

  Aula suspected something more. “Something vexes you?”

  Sabinus kept his eyes on his practically untouched plate before finally answering. “I need you to return to Judea.” Aula said nothing at first.

  Sabinus’ younger son, Flavius Clemens, protested. “Father, please, she has only just returned to Rome. Surely you have someone else you can send.”

  “I wish I did,” Sabinus replied. “But my remaining official couriers are either up north with the new emperor, in Pannonia, or in Gaul. That leaves our dear daughter, Aula.”

  The young woman smiled at being addressed as such. Sabinus had become like a second father to her since she arrived in Rome, six years before.

  “Send Domitian,” his elder son, Flavius, said with a scornful laugh. “About time the family got some use out of him.”

  “He gets lost on his way to the brothel,” Clemens added. “I don’t think he could even find Judea on a map.”

  “A bit hard on your cousin, aren’t you?” Aula spoke up.

  “You’ve been around him enough,” Flavius replied. “You obviously know how awkward he is. And I think there was something unnatural about his fawning love for his sister.”

  “That’s enough,” Sabinus quickly rebuked. “I don’t want to hear such talk ever again.”

  “Yes, father,” Flavius said, his gaze falling to the table in embarrassment.

  Aula added, “That a younger brother should be devoted to his older sister, especially when he has no other immediate family around him, does not imply anything incestuous. To be fair, Domitian is twelve years younger than his brother, whom he practically worships yet almost never sees. And with Vespasian placing all his hopes and energies into Titus, Domitian cannot help but feel as if his father has forgotten him.”

  “Spending some time with Nerva will help,” Sabinus remarked. “The two share a mutual love for poetry and literature. But enough about my nephew. It is you who wears the courier’s signet.”

  “Yes,” Aula said, sitting upright on her couch. “When will you need me to leave for Judea?”

  “Soon,” Sabinus replied. “I need to compile some notes for my brother about our new emperor, as well as whatever information I can gather about the war in the nor
th.”

  “I suspect Antonius Primus has kept him abreast of the war,” Aula recalled.

  “Strangely, as paranoid as Vitellius is regarding potential threats, he left most of Otho’s generals in command of their respective legions. I suspect that half measures and confusion will dominate the reign of Aulus Vitellius.”

  The following morning, the senate convened to hear the first official correspondence from Vitellius in over five months. Ever since the refusal of the Rhine Legions to swear allegiance to Emperor Galba on New Year’s Day, the senate had heard nothing from the man whose armies had just won him the throne. Sabinus was one of the two suffect consuls for May and June, the other being a vaguely related distant cousin named Caelius Sabinus, so it was he who stood in the center of the senate floor, reading the first words of the triumphant usurper,

  To the senate and the people of Rome, greetings.

  Having dispatched of the tyrannical murder and usurper, Marcus Salvius Otho, and having subdued his armies into willful obedience once more, I am returning to take my rightful place among this august body.

  The impeccably loyal legions of the Rhine Army have brought me victory, and I know that, in your wisdom, you will sanction what they have decreed, that I, Aulus Vitellius, be named Emperor of Rome.

  Before it became used as a title, ‘Caesar’ was simply a man’s name, one that was passed down by the emperors of the Julio-Claudian Dynasty. As this is the start of a new era, and a new imperial line, I feel it would be inappropriate for me to accept such a title as my own. I am not Caesar, nor am I of his lineage; therefore, I respectfully refuse to be addressed as such. The title of Augustus is also one which, in my humility, I feel I cannot accept at this time. My legions have instead sought to grant me the title of ‘Germanicus’, though as the divine Claudius humbly refused the title of ‘Britannicus’, instead passing it on to his son, I too am doing the same with this auspicious honor. My son, your future emperor, will henceforth be known as Germanicus Vitellius, the Prince Imperial.