by James Mace
“He does have a point,” the legate replied. “You’ve even said so yourself.”
“That may be, but he also praised Mucianus to the ends of the earth, as if it were he and not us who won the greatest battles of the war thus far.”
“Yes, well…” Aquila paused, unsure of how to phrase his next words.
“Well, what?” Primus persisted. “Don’t hold back on me now, not after all we’ve been through.”
“Your own letter to Vespasian was rather…heavy-handed, to say the least.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know he is your friend,” Aquila explained. “But if he is as we have declared, Emperor of Rome, then a certain propriety in speech must be observed. To be blunt, you chastising of Mucianus for his delay while praising your own actions in this war was rather boastful and self-centered.”
“Hmm, I admit I can be a little headstrong,” Primus confessed.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Aquila replied. “It was egocentric to say the least, and it will not win you any additional praise from Vespasian.”
“So what should I have done?” the commander-in-chief asked indignantly. “Just sit back and let my own legates and fellow commanding general berate me to the emperor?”
“Not at all. But in your position, I would have let our victories speak for themselves. After all, whatever the difficulties and tactical errors made, you still won the battle and in one stroke eliminated Vitellius’ entire northern army. Such actions don’t require self-gratification or boasting.”
Primus hated to admit it, but it was true. His headstrong demeanor had won him few friends during his tenure in the senate, never mind all his questionable financial practices. The truth was, he was ideally suited for leading a single legion into battle. As commander-in-chief of an entire army, he found himself wanting. Not that he lacked strategic or tactical skill, but his oftentimes autocratic nature and abysmal political savvy created a number of enemies within his own army. And every last man, from the legates to the lowest legionaries, knew an improbable series of fortuitous events had won the Battle of Bedriacum for them. Were the gods not so overwhelmingly favoring the Flavian cause, then they most certainly should have lost. To boast directly to Vespasian about such a victory, instead of simply letting Vitellius’ loss of most of his army speak for itself, was the worst kind of grandstanding.
The commander-in-chief sighed and nodded in acknowledgment. To Aquila he suddenly looked very tired. “The sooner we get to Rome and end this the better.”
Marcus Vettius Bolanus found his brief tenure as Governor-General of Britannia to be fraught with adversity. The previous governor, Marcus Trebellius Maximus, had been essentially overthrown by a mutiny within his own legions. Foremost leading this coup had been Legate Caelius of Legio XX. A devout follower of Vitellius, he had wished to see all of the Britannic Legions sent to the emperor’s aid.
“I cannot simply uproot all of our forces, seeing as how the frontiers have become far more volatile,” the governor stated with irritation. He was spending several weeks in Londinium, overseeing the reconstruction efforts.
Though eight years had passed since Boudicca and the Iceni razed the city, it felt as if the area was still healing from a terrible wound. Among the projects the governor was overseeing was the erection of the first of a series of bridges over the River Tamesis. These would help connect the city to the southern reaches of the province.
“The Flavians are rampaging through Northern Italia,” Caelius protested. “If we are loyal soldiers of the empire, then we must come to the emperor’s aid. Vitellius named you governor of Britannia; you owe him your allegiance.”
“I owe Vitellius nothing,” Bolanus retorted. He handed the legate a crumpled scroll. “This came this morning, delivered by one of Valens’ own tribunes.”
“But…this makes our expedition even more urgent!” the legate stressed, as he read the account of the Vitellians’ defeat.
“Have you forgotten the issues we already face here?” the governor said, with an irritated sigh. “Our most loyal ally, Queen Cartimandua, has been usurped by her former husband. The Brigantes are the largest tribe in Britannia, and now they are our enemies. And the only reason we could not aid Cartimandua is because our damned emperor demanded nearly half of my legionaries for his little war against Otho. Most of them have yet to return and are still dispersed throughout Germania and Gaul. The Fourteenth Legion was supposed to have arrived here, yet they are scattered between Atrebates and across the sea in northern Gaul. Vitellius’ spats with Otho and Vespasian have undermined our defenses, while costing us our most powerful allies in this land.”
Caelius was about to offer his own retort when the sound of cornicens’ horns alerted them. Two companies of auxilia cavalry could be seen riding in from the northwest on the main road from the bridge, through the city, and eventually to Ratae. Bolanus recognized the standards as belonging to the regiment known as Indus’ Horse. Towards the head of the column, near the commanding tribune, rode a Britannic woman and a few of her bodyguards.
“Queen Cartimandua,” the governor said, as the contingent halted near him. The tribune saluted before dismounting.
“Governor Bolanus.” She slid off her mount. The two had never met, but Bolanus had heard tales from one of his predecessors, Suetonius Paulinus, regarding the Brigantes queen’s striking beauty and strong nature. And while Cartimandua was still an attractive woman of above average height, with a body that had never felt the ravages of childbirth, to Bolanus she looked weathered and tired. Uncertain as to her age, he guessed she was in her late fifties. It seemed the grey in her hair and the stress lines that creased her face had come upon her over a very short time period.
“A pity we could not have met under more favorable circumstances,” Bolanus said.
“Yes, tragic that both my kingdom and the empire should find themselves in the throes of civil war at the same time,” the queen observed. “I fear no matter who wins in Rome, my kingdom is forever lost to me.”
As a means of courtesy, the governor introduced his legate. “This is General Caelius of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix Legion.”
“Your highness,” Caelius said respectfully. The queen bowed her head in acknowledgment. The legate then excused himself. He knew his conversation with the governor was at an end. And seeing Queen Cartimandua in person was a harsh reminder of the losses felt within Britannia. The civil war between Vitellius and Vespasian may have been fought in Italia, but no corner of the empire would be spared its repercussions.
Hopeful that Fabius Valens could bring reinforcements from Gaul and Hispania, and that Legate Festus would send his own Legio III, Augusta from North Africa, Emperor Vitellius had been surprisingly proactive. He came to realize the full magnitude of the disaster at Cremona. With the first wave of Flavian troops scarcely three weeks’ journey from the capital, he had called for a massed mobilization to defend Rome. Both praetorian prefects, Julius Priscus and Alfenus Varus, had been dispatched with fourteen cohorts from the Guard and a picked force of nine thousand marines from the Misene fleet.
“Defenders of Rome,” Lucius said.
He and his brother watched the large columns depart from the Circus Maximus.
“A pity we did not have time to better equip the marines,” Vitellius remarked.
The praetorians were equipped almost identically to legionaries with large scutum shields and lorica segmentata plate armor. The marines had only their issued gladii and small buckler shields from the fleet. Despite the protestations of Flavius Sabinus, the urban cohort armories had been raided. Almost half of their mail shirts were handed over to the mariners. Sabinus had insisted his men needed their armor for the defense of the city; however, as the next phase of the war would take place at Narnia, fifty miles north of the capital, priority on armament fell to the expeditionary force.
“The marines declined any armor heavier than hamata chain or larger shields,” Lucius replied. “Their comma
nding officers insisted their light armor and smaller bucklers were better suited to fighting from the ramparts of a fortified city.”
“Regardless, Primus is in for a nasty surprise when he reaches Narnia and thinks he only has to contend with a handful of survivors from Valens’ army,” the emperor remarked.
Lucius had been very thorough in rallying men to his brother’s cause. The trek to Narnia would only take the contingent three or four days. For the first time since news reached them about Cremona, Aulus Vitellius felt a modicum of hope for final victory. The emperor would depart in a few days, along the remaining cohorts of the Praetorian Guard and a large number of newly raised volunteers. Lucius and the consuls had urged, if he was to be an emperor during a civil war, his soldiers needed to see him act like one.
The Flavian Army advanced from Ariminum on a brisk late November morning. Near many of the towns and villages, throngs of cheering supporters lined the roads hailing General Primus and shouting ovations to Emperor Vespasian. It was highly probable this was done more out of fear of reprisal from the thousands of imperial soldiers who had destroyed Cremona, rather than any sense of loyalty to the Flavian Caesar. The army’s advance through Italia went mostly without incident. The occasional flogging of legionaries and auxiliary troopers for bad behavior notwithstanding. By the Calends of December, they encountered the first real threat posed by the Vitellians since Cremona.
“Well, there it is,” Primus said, as the city of Narnia came into view. “The last viable holdout of Vitellius.”
“The city is a damned fortress, sir,” Master Centurion Vitruvius said appreciatively.
Narnia was a fortified city located in the mountains, a week’s march from Ariminum. Antonius Primus hoped he had not committed another strategic blunder by leaving so much of his army up north. His intent was to travel as light and fast as possible, making certain he maintained a large enough force to smash any Vitellian holdouts that continued to oppose them. If the remnants of Valens’ army were reinforced at Narnia, they could pose a substantial obstacle to the Flavians. Legio XI had bolstered their forces considerably, but he had far fewer soldiers under his command than he did at Cremona and Bedriacum.
“The last thing I wish to do is send back for more legionaries and our siege train,” he explained.
“To be honest, sir, you may have misstepped by not bringing more of the army with you,” Vitruvius replied.
Primus found that he appreciated the master centurion’s sense of candor and honesty. Especially when it echoed his own thoughts. “Depending on the defenses they have, we may have to send back for the rest,” he noted sullenly. The terrain around the city was mountainous and extremely steep. The ramparts of the city walls weren’t that high only about twenty feet high in most places. Given the rugged and nearly unassailable terrain, they didn’t have to be. Primus’ fears were confirmed when his scouts returned.
“The garrison is very large, sir,” a decurion reported. “They were massed on the walls, and they let us get very close.”
“Clearly they want us to see what their defenses are like,” Legate Aquila noted.
“Did you see any of their standards?” Primus asked.
“We did, sir,” the scout replied. “No legionaries, but a lot of praetorians. There were also plenty of men in hamata armor, devoid of helmets, and looked to be carrying small bucklers for shields.”
“Marines,” Aquila conjectured. “Probably from the Misene fleet. They are the only ones left who are loyal to Vitellius.”
“Fuck me,” the commander-in-chief swore. “I expected no more than three or four thousand survivors from Valens’ division. I had no idea Vitellius would send the entire damned Praetorian Guard here.”
“He knows we cannot go around,” Bassus spoke up. “Even if we could, it would leave our flanks and supply lines completely exposed.” The legate of Legio XI made another grim assessment. “I don’t think I can get my heavy weapons within range of their walls. The slopes are just too damned steep. Even the lowest points of the walls are well out of range. I can maybe get my scorpions close enough, but not a chance of deploying onagers or siege ballistae.”
“If they are heavily reinforced direct assault would be suicide,” Aquila remarked. “Our only options are to wait for Mucianus or go back the way we came, follow the coastline south, and take the Via Valeria into Rome.”
Primus sat in silent contemplation. He and his senior officers scanned the formidable defenses. To be so close to Rome, only to find the way impassibly blocked, was maddening.
Finally he shook his head. “No. To go all the way around will take us a month. Meanwhile, we give the Vitellians time to gather more reinforcements, plus we’ll have this lot crawling up our asses. As soon as we head south along the coastal road, they’ll cut our supply and communication lines behind us. Waiting for Mucianus will not help either. Even with the strength of both armies, their defenses will be too difficult to break without senseless bloodshed from our soldiers. No, these Vitellian fucks are playing for time, nothing more. I am only lacking one piece to this puzzle. Once we have it, we can end this pointless standoff without any losses.”
“Impertinent bastard,” Mucianus swore, as he read the dispatch from Grypus.
“What is it, sir?” one of his legates asked.
He was then handed the rather biting dispatch from Antonius Primus, asking when he might see his fellow Flavian general on the battlefield. “Bugger me.”
“That idiot does not realize the troubles we’ve had to face while he blindly marches on,” Mucianus grumbled. “He took most of the Danube army with him and left the entire frontier exposed. Damned barbarian raiders have upset the whole province. Primus doesn’t understand. We’ve had to leave our prime legion, Sixth Ferrata, to reinforce the Danube. Meanwhile, that self-righteous shit is determined to win this war all by himself.”
“And if he should succeed?” the legate asked.
Mucianus guffawed. “I’ll give him credit where it is due. But Jupiter help him if he should fail.”
The seas had been hellish. If not for the skill of the sailors and oarsmen, Aula was certain she would be a bloated corpse on the bottom of the sea. A journey that normally took ten days to two weeks during the summer had taken almost a month. The citizens of Ariminum told her of the Vitellian Army’s retreat. The Flavian forces under General Primus had passed through almost a week prior. It was near the city of Narnia, fifty miles from the imperial capital, where Aula at last caught up with Primus’ army.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the commander-in-chief laughed, as he read the message from the emperor. “It would seem I am to act as Vespasian’s regent, at least until that boy-fucker, Mucianus, arrives.” He saw Aula blushing slightly. “Apologies, Lady Vale. It is not every day I see the daughter of a patrician acting as a humble imperial courier.”
“No apologies necessary,” Aula replied. “I have witnessed what your legions are capable of, and believe me, a few profane words do little to shock me.”
“Be glad you did not come in from Bedriacum.” His expression was one of sober reflection. “You undoubtedly saw that our numbers are much fewer than before. Had your journey taken you past the battle site, you would have seen the terrible price we paid. The entire town has become nothing more than a massive field hospital, filled with thousands of badly wounded soldiers.”
A loud cheering outside interrupted their conversation. They and Primus’ staff officers stepped out into the open. The sky was grey, with the late fall rains threatening. This gloom was offset once the general saw that which caused his soldiers to break into spontaneous celebrations.
Fabius Valens was filthy and had been beaten severely by his captors. Yet, there was no mistaking his handsome, godlike face, which age had done little to mar. His hands were bound. He rode in the middle of a section of six cavalry troopers, at the head of two companies of horsemen.
“Compliments of Admiral Flavianus and Governor Valerius Paulinus,” a cava
lry tribune said, with a salute.
“Tell the governor he has helped ensure our final victory in this war,” the commander-in-chief replied, with much relief and elation. He then ordered food and his best vintage to be brought to the tribune and his men.
Valens was gruffly pulled from his horse by a pair of legionaries and made to stand before the Flavian general.
“Fabius Valens,” Primus said, with a smirk. “You are indeed a most welcome sight.”
“Go fuck your mother, filthy traitor!” Valens snapped back at him.
This was met with a hard fist to the stomach by a legionary guard. The old general laughed, despite the pain, and stood back up. Primus waved his legionaries away.
“Come now, Valens, is that any way for a noble Roman to behave?” he asked.
“And what would a turncoat like you know about nobility?” Valens retorted. “Not that it matters. I’m a dead man and we both know it. So piss off with your flattery and supposed sense of honor. For you, sir, have none!”
“Take him away,” Primus ordered his soldiers.
They dragged the laughing, cursing Valens to the prisoner stockade. “See to it that he’s fed and take those bonds off his wrists. He won’t be going anywhere.”
“This will serve us well,” Legate Bassus of Legio XI noted. “The Vitellian holdouts at Narnia are convinced that General Valens is bringing reinforcements to them. Now we can put an end to their vain hope.”
“A pity he must die for it,” Primus added. “As long as Fabius Valens lives, his soldiers have hope; even if he is in captivity. Valens is the last bastion of defiance the pretender has left. We show them his head on a spear, and we will bring this war to a fitting end.”
“If you do not need me, general, I will take my leave,” Aula said.