by James Mace
His last remark caused both men to laugh appreciatively.
“You always were the worst kind of senator, Antonius,” Valens remarked. “Perhaps we are kindred spirits. A shame we ended up on opposing sides…in both conflicts no less.”
“You must understand the conundrum I face,” Primus said, serious once more. “Most of those men defending the ramparts of Narnia are praetorian guardsmen. And I know they came from your legions in Germania. They are not only fiercely loyal to Vitellius but also to you. There is nothing I can say that will compel them to throw down their arms and surrender. If I am forced to unleash the legions, it will be a bloodbath. The steep terrain coupled with the city’s ramparts means I will lose a lot of men getting into the city. But, as more reinforcements arrive, I will have the numbers to do so. And given the losses my legions will suffer, neither your praetorians nor the people of Narnia can expect any mercy. You know what happened at Cremona. I would rather that not happen again.”
“And you think I can stop it,” Valens stated. He shook his head. “As long as I live, those men will never capitulate. And if I were to try compelling them to surrender, I would be labeled a traitor just like Caecina.”
“Then I will do what I must.”
“Just grant me one request,” Valens urged. “The master centurion of my First Germanica Legion, do you know if he lives?”
“Of course,” Primus replied. “He is with our entourage.”
“I want him to carry out my sentence.”
Despite the stalwart resistance offered by the praetorians in Narnia and the designated ‘People’s Army’ in Rome, Vitellius was still assailed by doubts. Several times a day he swung from defiance to dejection and sorrow. At least two couriers had brought messages directly from Antonius Primus, urging him to abdicate and put an end to the fighting. Vitellius had sent back a pair of responses, each showing his wildly changing demeanor. In the first, he asked a slew of questions. How many slaves would he be allowed to keep? What sort of donative he could expect? Would Vespasian be willing to absolve him of his personal debts? Conversely, the second response was filled with defiant rhetoric, stating Vitellius was the rightful Emperor of Rome, and no ‘mule driver’ would take the throne from him.
Word of these messages had not been kept secret. In small numbers, members of the senate became emboldened to speak out against the Vitellian regime. It was Vespasian’s brother, Sabinus, who these patricians looked to for guidance. Still ostensibly the Prefect of the City of Rome, the elder Flavian was kept under close watch. His nephew, Domitian, had several personal guards assigned to him, supposedly for his own protection. Vespasian’s son-in-law, Cerealis, was also kept under guard at the Flavian villa. Late on the evening of 14 December, a pair of senators, Suetonius Paulinus and Cocceius Nerva, paid a visit to Sabinus.
“At least I managed to get my daughter away from this,” Cerealis said.
The men met in Sabinus’ private study. “Gods know, Vitellius may have the lot of us disposed of should Primus launch a direct assault on Rome.”
“Vitellius’ emotions sway from one extreme to the other,” Nerva added. “If he cannot be persuaded to give up the throne, then it must be taken from him.”
“Yes, that is what Antonius Primus is attempting to do,” Sabinus remarked sarcastically.
“I don’t mean Primus,” Nerva said. “I mean you.”
“What in Hades are you talking about?”
“You command the urban cohorts,” Paulinus spoke up. “Vitellius has the praetorians, but almost half of them are in Narnia. If we call up the citizens’ militia we can overwhelm the praetorians, possibly even compel them to give Vitellius up.”
“You forget,” Sabinus said, “most of my men were replaced by Vitellian loyalists after Otho’s maritime expedition. They’d hang me as a traitor if I tried to convince them to turn on Vitellius. I am sorry, my friends, but it has been too long since I wielded a sword. Diplomacy is the one weapon I have left, and I will use it to see if Vitellius can be made to see reason. I will speak with Italicus. The two are close friends.”
“I will fight,” Cerealis stated. “I cannot do a damn thing while trapped within the city. If I can escape from Rome, I will return with my blade drawn for battle.”
“I can get you out of here,” Paulinus assured him. “I have a servant who is about your height and build. Let your face remain unshaven for a day, and I will have him do the same. I will then pay a visit to our friend, Sabinus, and bring him with me. You will then take his clothes and depart with me later that evening. A horse will be waiting for you at my house.”
Nerva and Paulinus were disappointed in Sabinus for his refusal to mobilize the urban cohorts against Vitellius. If they were, however, still firmly loyal to the pretender, then they could scarcely blame him for his caution.
Dawn greeted the 15 th of December with overcast skies and a stiff wind coming up from the south. Fabius Valens stepped out from the tent Primus allowed him to use and took a deep breath in.
“Rains will come later,” he said. “A pity I shall not see it.” His countenance was one of calm acceptance as legionaries led him to the small open space along the nearest ridgeline.
Master Centurion Aetius was waiting for him. For the primus pilus of Legio I, Germanica, this was a hateful day. “I had hoped my days of killing in this war were over, sir,” he said quietly.
“And I am sorry for what I have asked you to do,” the Vitellian general replied, “but I know your blow will strike true.”
“I’ll make it quick, sir,” Aetius reassured him. His hands rested on the pommel of Valens’ spatha, the point of the scabbard pressed into the earth.
Valens looked across the valley to the ramparts of Narnia, then turned his gaze to Antonius Primus and his assembled officers. He thought, perhaps, the entire army would want to witness his execution. But given the rugged terrain, a large audience was simply not practical. Instead, there was a single century of legionaries and some mounted troops from one of the legions’ cavalry squadrons.
“Please tell me you don’t have a grand speech prepared,” Valens said. “I would like to get this over with.”
Primus nodded without a word.
Valens knelt down, hanging his head and silently praying Aetius’ blow struck true. He was breathing deeply in an attempt to remain calm. Any movement could disrupt his executioner’s strike. As he stared at the ground, he saw a baby mouse scurry up to him, gazing up at his face with an inquisitive expression. Valens smiled and then closed his eyes. He heard his spatha being drawn from its scabbard, which fell to the ground with a soft thump. He took his last breath and held it. Aetius was true to his word, and Valens scarcely felt the blow.
It had taken two strikes to cleave Fabius Valens’ head from his shoulders. The first had split his neck and spine, and buried itself deep in his throat. Aetius wrenched the blade free as the thrashing body slumped onto its side, blood spilling onto the ground. The second blow was a hard downward chop. The body rolled to its back, leaving the head where it lay.
The master centurion gritted his teeth and glared at Antonius Primus. He dropped the weapon next to Valens’ corpse and quickly strode away.
“Wipe the blood off the head,” Primus ordered. “His men must see that it is him.”
The commander-in-chief then donned his helmet and called for his horse. An auxilia cavalry lancer impaled the severed head on his long spear and held it aloft. A contingent of senior officers, including Legates Bassus and Aquila, accompanied Primus as he rode towards the city gates. A single company of cavalrymen acted as their escorts.
Along the ramparts, sentries were seen scurrying about, shouting to their companions that the enemy commander approached. By the time Primus and his entourage reached the gates, the walls were crawling with Vitellian soldiers. The Flavian general took a deep breath and hoped his men would not have to storm these formidable walls.
“It’s over!” he shouted, to the men above the gate. “Fa
bius Valens is slain. There is no help coming to you. If you surrender now, you will be treated with clemency. If not, there will be no mercy, either to yourselves or to the people of the city that offers you refuge.”
There was a series of mutterings heard from the ramparts. The defenders talked rapidly amongst themselves.
One voice was heard saying, ‘How do we know that is General Valens?’
Another said something about knowing him personally, and he would verify for himself. After a minute or so, the loud creaking of the cross brace being slid back from inside the gate was heard. It slowly opened, and a lone praetorian centurion emerged. He walked over to the cavalry trooper, who lowered his lance so Valens’ head could be clearly identified. The centurion halted abruptly and removed his helmet. He hung his head for a brief moment.
“Where is your commanding officer?” Primus asked.
“You’re looking at him, sir.” His voice betrayed his sense of defeat. “Prefects Varus and Priscus took a number of our lads and departed for Rome two days ago.”
“Then you have been abandoned,” the Flavian commander-in-chief attested. “Open the gates, have your men disarm and parade in front of the city. I will accept your formal surrender then.”
“Yes, sir,” the dejected praetorian officer acknowledged. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and he refused to look up at Primus.
The Flavian legates were relieved to avoid what would have been an extremely bloody assault on the city. Many of their soldiers did not share this sentiment. As word spread of the garrison’s surrender, Aula walked through the camp and was appalled to hear the bitter grumblings from many of the soldiers. While direct insubordination was avoided, there was still plenty of hateful speech about being denied their share of plunder in this war. Aula eventually found Gaius, whose century had just been dismissed by Centurion Nicanor, following their notification that the siege was over.
“I thought the soldiers would be relieved none of them would have to die here,” Aula said.
Gaius’ limp was still somewhat pronounced, but he did seem to be getting some usage back in his leg.
“Instead, they think of nothing but looting and fucking every woman within the city.”
“It’s the way they are,” the optio observed. He noted the horrified expression on Aula’s face. “I wouldn’t read too much into it. The simple fact is, soldiers are not happy unless they are complaining.”
“What a horrific thing to complain about, being denied the opportunity for theft and rape,” she said.
“You should see the peoples we fight against on the frontiers,” Gaius remarked, sighing quietly.
“I suppose I am being a little naïve.”
Though both had been raised in Britannia, as children they had never witnessed the horrors men were capable of inflicting upon each other.
“There were barbaric peoples not far from where we were raised, who not only looted and raped but would take survivors and cut them up as human sacrifices to their foul gods. It is the same along the Rhine, the Danube, and anywhere else on the frontiers where our legions are posted. I suppose in that regard, I should give the rebellious Jews in Judea a bit of credit. Their god does not call for human sacrifice. And since some of them can actually read and write, that does make them more civilized than the unwashed hordes in Germania and Caledonia.”
“So what will happen now?” Aula asked, as they stood along the earthen ramparts of the camp.
Down below they could see hundreds of Vitellian soldiers marching from the city. The Eleventh Claudia Legion had been tasked with overseeing the surrender, and their cohorts stood on either side of the road, while their adversaries marched between them.
“You’re part of Primus’ entourage, you tell me,” Gaius replied, with a chuckle. “We won’t linger here, that’s for certain.”
“Rome is only fifty miles away,” Aula observed.
“Meaning we can be there in two to two-and-a-half days.”
Chapter XXVII: All Roads to Rome
Along the Via Flaminia, Twenty Miles from Rome
17 December 69 A.D.
The Via Flaminia
Much to the dismay of the Flavian Army, General Primus had strictly prohibited his soldiers from entering the city of Narnia. Traders and prostitutes had been given a single night to ply their trade within the various military camps. But on the day following the surrender, the Flavians were on the march once more. On the second night, they encamped outside a mining community called Malborghetto, twenty miles from the imperial capital. Feeling the endgame was close, Antonius Primus called for a council of war.
“Vitellius has to know he’s beaten,” the commander-in-chief surmised. “Our scouts are less than ten miles from Rome, and they have met no resistance.”
“What, then?” Legate Bassus asked. “Do they intend to make us fight them on the very streets of Rome?”
“A direct assault would be disastrous, sir,” Master Centurion Vitruvius added. “Legionaries rampaging the streets of Rome would be catastrophic, no matter who wins.”
“I agree,” Primus acknowledged. “Yet, I am afraid that a direct assault is something we must plan for…”
“Excuse me, sir,” the voice of a legionary at the tent entrance interrupted. “Forgive me, but there’s this fellow who rode up to the camp and demands to see you. He claims he’s an imperial general, but he’s dressed like a slave.”
“Interesting.” Primus curiosity got the best of him. “Show him in.”
The man the soldier escorted into the tent was filthy and disheveled, with a face bearing two days’ worth of scruff.
Primus recognized him outright and burst into a fit of laughter. “I’ll be buggered.” he said. “Quintus!”
“Antonius,” Quintus Cerealis replied.
The two men embraced, and Primus ordered food and drink be brought to their guest.
“But what are you doing here?” Primus asked. “And what is with your rather beastly appearance?”
“It was the only way I could escape from Rome,” Cerealis explained. “Vitellius had me placed under house arrest and left under guard at the home of Flavius Sabinus.”
“Sabinus?” Aula asked, her ears perking up. “I take it he is well, then?”
“As well as can be expected, my lady. But I come for two reasons. Firstly, to let you know Vitellius has raised an army of volunteers from within the city. There is rumor he intends to arm a number of slaves.”
“Slaves do outnumber free citizens in the capital,” Primus noted. “Gods only know who they will fight for once the killing begins.”
“Quite,” Cerealis remarked. “And my other reason for coming is to offer you my services in battle. I would offer you my sword, but I do not have one available at the moment.”
The assembled legates chuckled.
“I’m sure we can find you some weapons and kit,” Primus said. “I will be glad to have your services, general . I am sorry I do not have a legate’s vacancy, but I think you would be well-suited to lead a wing of our cavalry.”
“Does this mean he’s taking over my corps?” Arrius Varus asked. Despite the large number of soldiers under his command, he was still a member of the equites, whereas Cerealis was a patrician and former legate.
“I don’t want your entire corps,” he reassured him. “Nor do I want a legion. But I will ask for a wing consisting of mainly reconnaissance troopers, that I may be your eyes within Rome.”
“Granted,” the commander-in-chief approved. “And after you’ve had a meal, a wash, and a proper shave, we can continue in our plan of attack. I hope to avoid bloodying the streets of Rome, but we must be prepared, should it come to that.”
Disastrous news seemed to assail Vitellius from all sides. While his brother had successfully quelled the dissidents in the south, every other dispatch told the emperor his entire empire was turning against him. Legate Festus had refused to leave his fortress in North Africa, nor would so much as a single auxiliary sol
dier be crossing over to Italia. What was worse was the news from Bolanus in Britannia. The very man who had for years professed to be one of Vitellius’ surest friends, whom the emperor directly appointed to govern the province, had declared for Vespasian. But the most terrible news of all came from the city of Narnia.
“Valens is dead,” Vitellius lamented. He sat on the imperial throne in his audience chamber, the dispatch crumpled in his lap. It was dark. Night had fallen and only a few oil lamps cast light within the pale gloom. “I am truly alone.”
Surprisingly, his wife had elected to spend the evening with him. While there had never been anything resembling love between the two, in this moment of her husband’s despair, Empress Galeria pitied him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He reached back and clasped it with his own. No words were said, for what could she say? Would he listen if she implored him to surrender for the good of their children? No. Despite his previously hopeful messages to Antonius Primus, Emperor Vitellius was determined to see this tragedy through to its bitter end. Galeria could only hope that she could save her children.
The hour was late, and most of the Flavian Army slept. Antonius Primus and his senior officers were making preparations for an attack on Rome; one which they hoped they would not have to implement.
“We are all in agreement,” the commander-in-chief said. “We will only launch a direct assault if we have no other options. With that in mind, we must strike hard and fast.” He pointed to a roughly drawn map of Rome on a large piece of parchment. “General Aquila, you will take our right wing and attack from the west. Your objective will be to seize the Forum and Capitoline Hill. Cerealis’ cavalry wing will form your vanguard.”
“Understood,” the legate of Legio XIII acknowledged.
“General Bassus, you will take charge of our center column and attack from the north. The Milvian Bridge is where I expect the stiffest resistance, so in addition to the Eleventh Legion, I am attaching most of our auxiliaries, along with Arrius and the largest division of our cavalry. Once over the bridge, you will head for the Temple of Venus and blockade the north side of the palace district.”