Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians

by James Mace

  It would take another three days for the Vitellian Army to ready itself for its grand entrance into Rome. But at long last, three months after the defeat of Otho, Emperor Aulus Vitellius at last entered the Eternal City. Heeding the advice of his closest advisors, he wore his simple toga with no cloak, although he did don the laurel crown. Flanked by a handful of his personally selected guards, he marched at the head of his massive force, while the mobs numbering in the tens-of-thousands cheered him. The plebs cared little for the political turmoil or the extravagant cost of Vitellius’ gluttony. All that mattered was they now had an emperor and peace had returned to the empire.

  Directly behind Vitellius marched all of the legates, tribunes, and master centurions from each of the legions. Like the emperor, all wore formal togas instead of armor. And while a centurion primus pilus was not officially named a member of the equites until after his retirement from the legions, they were still allowed to wear the purple stripe on their togas as a sign of respect for their rank and achievements.

  The standard bearers of his units all marched together, about fifty feet behind the emperor and senior officers. The eagles of his four legions that had marched at full strength, First Italica, Fifth Alaudae, Twenty-First Rapax, and Twenty-Second Primigenia marched at the head. Directly behind them were the vexilation flags from the four Germanic legions, as well as the detachments from Britannia. Behind these were the mounted standard bearers from twelve auxilia cavalry regiments who served the Vitellians. Behind them, musicians played their trumpets while drummers beat a rhythmic cadence. Next came the vast columns of the soldiers themselves. Legionaries came first, led by their centurions whose armor gleamed in the sunlight, all of their decorations proudly displayed. They marched shoulder-to-shoulder with red cloaks draped over their left. Behind them rode the various cavalry regiments, thousands of horsemen representing the various tribal peoples that served as imperial auxiliaries. And finally came the various auxilia infantry cohorts, or at least those Vitellius had not dispersed back to their homes. There were thirty-four cohorts of these particular soldiers, which was equal to roughly three and a half legions’ worth of troops. So vast was this column of military might, that though the soldiers marched ten abreast with minimal intervals between ranks, it stretched back nearly five miles.

  The urban cohorts had been tasked with keeping the streets clear and the cheering crowds at bay. The Roman Forum was crammed with thousands of spectators, as the emperor and his senior officers broke off from the parade to ascend the steps of Capitoline Hill. The location of the Temple of Concord, as well as the infamous Gemonian Stairs, it was dominated by the massive and extravagant Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, which cast its shadow over the Forum. Measuring two hundred feet by two hundred feet and nearly sixty feet tall, it dwarfed all other buildings on the hill, creating its own skyline that could be seen for miles.

  Vitellius’ face was red and dripping with sweat, as he slowly climbed the long stairs. He was completely out of breath by the time he reached the top, though he quickly composed himself to greet the delegation that awaited him by the steps of the temple. Leading these was his former enemy, Suffect Consul Marius Celsus, along with the emperor’s brother, Lucius Vitellius. Twenty or so leading members of the senate were with them, to include former Consul Italicus, and even his peer and former Othonian speechwriter, Galerius Trachalus. Vitellius’ wife and children stood with the senators as did his son-in-law. But it was his mother, Sextilia, he greeted first.

  “Ave, Augusta,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. “I hail you as mother of the empire and of the Roman people.”

  “You honor me, sire,” Sextilia replied, with a bow. Her demeanor was very formal and distant, and not what one would expect from a mother greeting her son on his greatest day of triumph.

  Vitellius chose to ignore her coldness, and instead moved on and embraced his wife. “And you, my loving wife,” he said, “Galeria, Empress of Rome.”

  “Caesar,” she said, causing her husband to wince. Was it deliberate that she called him by the name he was trying so hard to shun? Unlikely, but still, her demeanor was almost as indifferent as his mother’s.

  “We welcome you to Rome at last, sire,” Italicus bowed. “The senate has looked forward to your return, as well as your guidance and leadership.”

  Such fawning was seen as undignified by Celsus and some of the other senators, but they also knew Italicus was a personal friend of the emperor’s. It was to be expected. Vitellius had prepared a grandiose speech as a means of self-congratulation, yet forgot most of the words. Those he did manage to say sounded self-serving and completely flat. Still, though they were almost immediately forgotten, the assembled senators gave the courteous applause before ushering the emperor away. Only his brother and mother remained. Sextilia’s gaze was fixed on the Forum below, with its throngs of spectators and continuously marching columns of soldiers.

  “It is a magnificent parade,” Lucius Vitellius said approvingly.

  “Yes,” Sextilia concurred, then added coldly, “Worthy of any emperor not named Aulus Vitellius.”

  “You are being unfair, Mother,” Lucius chastised. “Neither you nor Father may have had any use for him, but Aulus has won the empire and is now master of Rome. Like it or not, his is the greatest triumph for our family.”

  Sextilia’s perpetual scowl turned into a smirk of defiance, as she and her eldest son continued to watch the seemingly endless process of imperial soldiers marching past the Forum below.

  “He has won nothing,” she said defiantly. “Those two vile creatures, Valens and Caecina, won the empire for him. And they only did so because Otho was foolish enough to let his idiot of a brother command his armies. Had a general of competence commanded them, it would be Otho who would be leading this triumphant parade rather than your brother.”

  “You seem to be an expert on military strategy and tactics, Mother,” Lucius muttered reprovingly. While most certainly closer to their parents than Vitellius was, ever since his brother was named emperor by the legions of the Rhine, Lucius had been engaged in a perpetual quarrel with his mother.

  “No one may say it to your brother’s face, or that of his generals, but everyone in Rome knows that Caecina lost both battles he fought before Bedriacum. And I have it on good authority that even their great victory was only narrowly won. They likely would have lost, had Otho been supported by the Balkan legions. No, my son, I may not understand actual military tactics, but I do know that Aulus’ victory was not the decisive triumph he makes it out to be, nor was it even his to begin with. Your brother may wear the laurel crown, but it is Caecina and Valens who now rule the empire. So forgive me, if I have my doubts about the future of Rome.”

  Lucius said no more. He was tired of squabbling with his mother. He knew her fears were well-founded; however, he wished just once, on his day of triumph, she could pretend to be proud of her son.

  While the senior Flavian officers and political magistrates met in Beirut, the armies of Vespasian were already making preparations for the coming conflict. At the headquarters of the Tenth Legion, the master centurion had taken the initiative to sort out which cohorts would remain in Judea and which would take part in Mucianus’ expedition to Rome. Centurion Galeo was practically glowing with excitement when he summoned his centurions and options that afternoon.

  “We are to be part of the expedition,” he said, bringing a plethora of excited remarks from his officers. “The Eighth and Tenth Cohorts are already posted to the east of Jerusalem, blockading the road across the River Jordan so they will stay put. And the Fourth and Seventh Cohorts are the most understrength right now, so they will be left to garrison our sectors north and east of the rebel capital. The rest of us will march within three weeks’ time, if not sooner.”

  There was an air of anticipation throughout the camp, as centurions informed their subordinate officers and legionaries of the upcoming campaign. There was deflated disappointment among those who would re
main, with an equal measure of excitement from those who would march to Rome.

  “The lads are definitely enthusiastic,” Tesserarius Julius said, as he joined Gaius for his evening meal.

  “Well, they should be,” the optio replied. “They are helping restore peace and stability to the empire. I hope their enthusiasm is treated with a measure of caution. This will not be a stroll into Rome with the gates flung opened for us. I daresay, we will be engaged in some of the harshest fighting any of us have ever seen.”

  “Agreed,” Julius acknowledged. “Our soldiers are used to fighting armor-less barbarians who lack training and discipline. Battling against brother legionaries will be much different. Still, a lot can happen between now and then. Unless Vespasian manages to conjure up a fleet of warships to take us across the sea, it will be late winter or early spring of next year before we even get to Italia.”

  As the two sat and ate their supper of wheat porridge and strips of cooked pork, Gaius found that, while he certainly had a lot of trepidation over the coming conflict, he was glad to be back where he felt he belonged. The time he spent in Caesarea, following his stint of leave, had allowed him to live quite comfortably, especially when compared to life in a legionary camp. And he was also grateful to have seen dear Aula. His affections for her helped mask the feelings of loss over never seeing his son again. For all that, he knew his place was with neither Aula Cursia Vale nor with his son, whose mother had taken him away to Cyprus. Here was where he belonged, with his century and cohort, under the eagle of the Tenth Legion. And on that Judean summer night, there was nowhere else he would rather have been.

  “I’ll never understand what would compel someone to join the Imperial Navy,” Aula muttered, as she slung her satchel over her shoulder and disembarked down the wobbly gangplank.

  The seas had been reasonably calm. A solid wind allowed the ship’s journey from Caesarea to Ostia to be completed with relative speed. Two weeks had passed. As the imperial warship gently rose and fell, bumping against the long dock, Aula grumbled, hoping never to set foot on another seaborne vessel again. Since accepting Flavius Sabinus’ offer to serve as an imperial courier, she had spent more time at sea than she had on land. She’d naively expected a bit of thrill and adventure. Most days, especially those aboard ship, were filled with tedious boredom. That men voluntarily enlisted into such a dreary life, all for roughly five sesterces a day, was baffling.

  Roughly sixteen miles separated the harbor from the city of Rome, and while she could have readily acquired transport aboard a merchant cart for a few pieces of copper, she decided to walk. It was almost midday. The sun shone brightly, reflecting off the stucco buildings and painted stone columns. Aula squinted, attempting to shield her eyes with her hand. So before leaving Ostia, she found a clothing vendor and purchased a large brimmed hat, much like those seen in Greece and among the peasant farmers.

  “Fashionable can wait,” she reasoned to herself with a laugh. “Right now, what I need is practical.”

  While Aula took the long walk towards the city, Rome’s newest emperor had committed a terrible gaffe. The date was the 18 th of July, a day of ill omens due to marking the anniversary of a pair of ignominious defeats for Rome in the remote past. As such, marriages and religious ceremonies could not be performed, nor were official edicts to be published. Vitellius instead decided to produce a slew of these, including a number which grandiosely exalted him for his victory over Otho. As he was now supposed to be Pontifex Maximus and, therefore, head of the official Roman religion, this was viewed by some to simply be a matter of poor taste. Others took it as a dire omen of things to come. Despite all their advances in science, engineering, and rational thought, Romans were still notoriously superstitious. The perception of Vitellius’ actions marking an ill omen and an affront to the gods caused much consternation, especially after Aula arrived to deliver her dispatch to the senate.

  She did not wish to cause any sort of disturbance nor answer any uncomfortable questions from Vitellius’ staunchest supporters, so she waited outside the chambers until the senate convened.

  “Consul Celsus,” she said, hailing the former Othonian general.

  “Why, it’s Lady Vale,” he said with a smile, before apprising her fully. “By Juno, I did not know you were acting as an imperial courier.”

  “It’s my own little way of serving,” she explained for what felt like the hundredth time. She handed him the scroll from Vespasian. “I’ve just come from Caesarea. The senate needs to know about this as soon as possible.”

  Celsus’ face tightened as he read the message. He could not say he was surprised by its contents. He lamented that Rome was sliding once again towards civil war. That hideous affliction, which they had been spared since the days of Antony and Octavian, was now rearing its ugly head for the third time in a year.

  “Now I must take my leave,” Aula said, with a respectful nod. She hastily made her way from the senate chambers.

  Celsus did not even see her go. He read the message two or three times before deciding it would be best if his colleague read it to the assembly. Most senators were making ready to depart for their homes, and were rather put out by being hastily called back into the chamber for an emergency session. There was much grumbling. But as Celsus and his co-consul read the message, they understood the grave importance of informing the senate at once. The porter beat his staff on the floor, silencing the disgruntled mutterings.

  To the Noble Senate of Rome, greetings,

  I have just received word of the death of our noble emperor, Marcus Salvius Otho, at the hands of an unlawful usurper, Aulus Vitellius. It wounds me deeply to see that our brothers, fathers, and sons have made war upon each other. No good has ever come from Romans spilling the blood of their countrymen. As much as my heart breaks, I am filled with even greater revulsion that our rightful emperor was deposed and driven to commit self-slaughter. All was brought about by a vile pretender, who seeks nothing more than to engorge his coffers and his bloated stomach.

  What good has come to Rome, to have her lawful ruler and protector cut down to make way for a usurper? What has Vitellius brought to our beloved nation? Only swaths of Roman dead, and the arrogance that comes from being placed on the throne by rebellious soldiers who have forsaken their oaths. Understand that the armies of Egypt, Syria, Judea, and Asia Minor have refused to forsake their honor by swearing allegiance to such a vulgar despot. Rome was freed from one tyrant by the death of Galba, and she will not stand the reign of another.

  I come to Rome not as a pretender who seeks to gratify his own indulgent excesses, but rather as a loyal soldier, duty bound to serve the empire. It is with great reluctance that I find myself compelled to retrieve the crown of laurels from the gutter of wretched ignominy into which it has been tossed. I seek the blessing of the senate to grant me, unworthy as I may be, the ratification of my claim to become Emperor of Rome. Unlike the pretender, I will honor the decision of the senate once the matter between Vitellius and myself is brought to a conclusion. It is time to rid ourselves of usurpers and, once and for all, put an end to the Reign of the Tyrants.

  Your humble servant,

  Titus Flavius Vespasian

  The words of Vespasian’s damning letter were read aloud in the senate chamber by Celsus’ colleague, Suffect Consul Gnaeus Arrius Antoninus. The senate was deathly quiet as its members contemplated the horrors of having yet another civil war thrust upon them. Vitellius would expect the senate to openly condemn the Flavians for their treason. Yet, if the senate had learned anything, it was not to choose sides too quickly. After all, should Vitellius be defeated and deposed by Vespasian, it would not do to have so publicly supported the losing side. Consul Celsus was glad it was his colleague, and not he, who read the defiant dispatch from Vespasian.

  “A pity,” Senator Italicus said, “that we should again suffer the dark days of civil war.”

  While the senate pondered the ramifications of Vespasian’s message to them, Vi
tellius held a meeting with his two closest advisors to decide what should be done about reconstituting the Praetorian Guard.

  “Since we sacked practically the whole lot of them, we need to find replacements from our own loyal forces,” the emperor stated.

  “And to start with, Valens and I each have our own candidates for the two prefect vacancies,” Caecina remarked. “I nominate Publilius Sabinus for one of the positions. No relation to our city prefect, he was previously a cavalry officer who commanded one of our regiments at Bedriacum.”

  “Fair enough,” the emperor said, with a nod. He asked Valens, “And what of you?”

  “One of my centurions,” Valens answered. “His name is Julius Priscus, and until recently he was a centurion primus ordo with Legio XXII, Primigenia. True, it may be a bit irregular to promote a man from the ranks into the most exalted position a member of the equites can strive for; however, Priscus is a staunch loyalist who the new guardsmen will obediently follow.”

  “And since I am the emperor, I can elevate whomever I wish into the next order of the social hierarchy,” Vitellius said, with a forced chortle. “But now we must decide where the actual guardsmen will come from. The city’s urban cohorts were also depleted during that unfortunate affair in Maritime Alpes. I want sixteen new praetorian cohorts with four more for the urban units. And I want these to hold a thousand men each.”

  Caecina almost choked on his wine when he heard this. “And where do you propose we get twenty thousand new soldiers?”

  “We have upwards of sixty thousand men encamped throughout the city,” Valens reasoned. “That’s more than enough to fill the ranks of the praetorian and urban cohorts.”

  “The army we brought here is not a permanent garrison for Rome,” Caecina countered. “Sooner or later, they will have to return to their barracks. Do we wish to return them to the hostile frontiers with their ranks so grossly depleted?”