The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  “This isn't a play,” replied Sabinus. “Someone must succeed. And if both sides are Roman, it will be up to the gods to choose a victor.” With that, he bid farewell to his sons. After refusing to let them join this idiotic war, he'd expected them all to be furious, but it was only cousin Domitian who balked and cursed. Tertius and Clemens saw this engagement, not as a noble sallying forth, but as the inevitable debacle it would surely be. There would be no honour in it. Not from Roman fighting Roman.

  * * *

  The Vitellians had two armies marching from Germania, one under Caecina, the embezzler, the other under Valens, the murderer.

  Valens was the more natural military man, and had done well under Nero, becoming a legionary legate in Germania Inferior. He had no love for Galba and, like his men, he was eager to rebel. His commander had refused, so Valens had murdered him and blamed the dead man with the treason Valens himself had tried to perpetrate. But the men still desired a new Caesar to challenge Galba. Having neither the desire nor the blood to be made Princeps, Valens redirected his men towards the newly arrived Vitellius.

  In only a few short months, Vitellius had made himself immensely popular with the German legions. He was recklessly lavish with his money, perfectly willing to buy his men's affections. He also enjoyed rubbing shoulders with them, belching at table and winning their love with wry and scandalous humour. Listening to their complaints of onerous duties, he allowed discipline to grow slack. Yet he himself had shown considerable – and utterly surprising – activity in his early days. Having longed to become a general, he was determined to prove to the world, and especially the astrologers, that they were wrong.

  Under such conditions, Valens had no trouble convincing the legionaries to accept such a generous gentleman as the next ruler of the world. He'd had a harder time convincing Vitellius himself. Though the trappings of power were attractive, the many-chinned gourmand was not interested in stirring himself to do anything to achieve them. Vitellius was too aware of his many failings, having had them hammered into him by his harpy of a mother. If honours fell on him, well enough. But he was not going to lift a finger to gain them. He had command of a legion, a goal he'd long despaired of achieving. He was perfectly content to stay in Germania and do nothing.

  Shouldering the responsibility for making Vitellius the next Caesar, Valens found a surprising ally in Aulus Caecina Alienus. Young and hungry, Caecina had joined Galba early and been rewarded with command of the Sixth Legio Macedonica in Germania Superior. So why he sided with Vitellius even before Galba was murdered was puzzling – until it was revealed he had been embezzling public money, and Galba planned to prosecute.

  Together Valens and Caecina convinced the German legions to refuse the New Year oath of loyalty to Galba, and proclaim Vitellius as Imperator, Princeps, and Caesar. Thus Vitellius' treason against Galba predated Otho's by two weeks. Only, due to the winter snows, no one knew of it.

  Unexpectedly facing a wholly different foe made no difference to Valens and Caecina. If they did not place Vitellius in Rome's curule throne, their careers were finished, quite possibly their lives as well. So at the start of February, as planned, Valens and Caecina both set out for Italia, but by separate routes. Valens would travel through Gaul, gathering more men as they went. Caecina's path was shorter, but more treacherous, passing over the snowy Alps. They intended to meet up in April and use their combined forces to devastate whatever men Otho had gathered.

  But thanks to an unusually mild alpine winter, Caecina emerged much sooner than anyone expected. He was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall, with ambitions just as high. Born in Vicetia, to the north-east of Verona, he was just twenty-six years old. Fast-talking, gregarious, and likeable, he was given to throwing himself into the winds. Despite the fact that Galba had been his patron, encouraging him and promoting him to legionary legate, the moment it looked as though his patron might condemn him, Caecina threw one master over in favour of another. It was just his nature.

  Hoping to win the war in the instant and thus keep the laurels for himself, Caecina seized the north bank of the Padus River and set up camp at the city of Cremona. His scouts discovered that the only forces Otho had sent this far north were the legion of singing marines Nero had drafted (and Galba had decimated), five cohorts of Praetorians, and two thousand gladiators drafted into military service.

  The professional legionaries in Caecina's army were scornful of all three groups, but especially of the Praetorians, whom hard-bitten soldiers viewed as fancy-dress ponces.

  The only troubling factor was their commander. They had a real general at their head, for Otho had given command of his forward army to Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, the man who had beat Boudica of Britannia. But the Vitellians laughed when they heard that Otho's men didn't trust their commander, and were refusing even the simplest orders if they were counter to Otho's perceived interests.

  Yet when the bold-hearted and young Caecina assaulted the city of Placentia, where the bulk of the marines and Praetorians were stationed, he received a nasty shock. The disorder of Otho's forces did not extend to their fighting, nor hamper their enthusiasm for this war. Paulinus was brilliant in his dispositions, placing his unruly men in perfect position to ward off the attackers. Overconfident, and having breakfasted too well on Germanic beer, bread, beef, and cheese, Caecina's men were driven off with heavy losses.

  Caecina tried again the next day, sending his most experienced legion, the Twenty-First Rapax. But again Otho's Praetorians defended the walls with such vigour and brutality that the Vitellians had to retreat to Cremona with their tails between their legs.

  This early victory for the Praetorians was almost a disaster. The men were desperate to give chase and demolish Caecina's army entirely, but Paulinus prudently refused to meet a larger force in the open. The Praetorians viewed this as either sheer cowardice or final proof that senators did not want Otho to win. There came rumbles of mutiny.

  A second success led to a similar problem. The two thousand gladiators had been given to a senator called Martius Macer to patrol the south bank of the Padus River, just to be certain that the Vitellians did not cross. Macer exceeded his orders and made a daring raid across the river, where he caught Caecina's men napping. His gladiators killed a few dozen and sent the rest running for safety inside Cremona's walls.

  Knowing his force was too small and inexperienced to hold the position, Macer wisely withdrew to the southern bank to resume his patrols. But when the Praetorians in Placentia heard of this retreat, they rioted. The lives of all the commanders were threatened, with shouts that their leaders had no desire to wage this war, much less win it. A full mutiny was staved off only by the arrival of Otho himself.

  Camping nearby at Bedriacum, Otho found himself in a cleft stick. To appease the men, he had to remove the generals. But so far his generals had shown good military sense. So he compromised, appointing his closest friends to be co-commanders with the more experienced generals, marrying sound martial knowledge to true devotion. He summoned his brother Titianus to take overall command – no one would challenge his loyalty to the new Caesar. As his second-in-command, Otho appointed his Praetorian Prefect, Licinius Proculus. A parade-ground soldier, but also loyal. Paulinus was made a legate, as was another solid senatorial soldier, Aulus Marius Celsus.

  The hardest knot to untangle was Macer. There was no question of his continuing his command by the river. But who to put in his place? The post was vital, yet not important enough to warrant two men in command – the real fighting would not take place along the river banks, but in the open. He needed a man of good sense, well-liked by both soldiers and senators, who could be trusted not to muck things up.

  “Tell Titus Flavius Sabinus that Caesar wishes to see him.”

  XX

  PAPHOS, CYPRUS

  Despite his claim of seasickness, Titus traveled by ship whenever possible. Time was essential. In two months he had visited all the major military and civilian Roman enclave
s from Greece to Bythinia. His cheerful nature charmed soldier and citizen alike. He told everyone that his father was not taking sides in the current conflict, far too busy winning a real war to be bothered by trumped up ones.

  “Pater supports neither Vitellius nor Otho,” repeated Titus in each place. “How can he, when neither were chosen by the Senate and People of Rome? They've never even fought a war, never had their mettle tested. Nor are they old enough to be wise. Besides, the title of Caesar is not a prize to be won. It is a great honour, a sacred duty, and a terrible burden. Can such men as Otho or Vitellius measure up to such a name?” If he left unsaid who would measure up to such a burden, his meaning was not mistaken.

  Titus had not intended to visit Cyprus. The governor was a senatorial non-entity, and it contained no legions to woo. But a message from Queen Berenice brought him winging across the water.

  He found his royal lover waiting in state in the governor's guest quarters. As ever, Queen Berenice of Cilicia was a ravishing sight. She had eschewed her Eastern maquillage, leaving her oval face to its resplendent natural beauty. Shorn for ritual penance before the war, her hair had grown long in the last two years, creating a dark and mysterious curtain for her deep brown eyes. Her dress did nothing to conceal the curves of her sensual body. In fact, it was so thin as to be nearly translucent. He could see the pert tips of her nipples and the deeper coloured flesh around them. He could also just see the dark thatch between her legs. All Titus wanted in that moment was to throw her to the marble floor and ravish her, make her laugh, make her cry his name.

  But he had not come for a tryst. “My queen. You are looking well.”

  “Am I? It must be that I am restored to your presence, Titus Flavius.”

  Titus grinned. “That's the kindest thing I've heard this fortnight. But what's the matter, that you had to see me?”

  “Nothing.” Smiling, she pressed herself against him. “I missed you.”

  Titus felt a distinct cooling to his ardour. Had she summoned him for a tryst after all? Now, when there was work to be done? Was he so little to her, a plaything, a child at her beck and call? “That's sweet. But, my dear one, I'm very busy.”

  Berenice leaned her head back, a pouty moue on her face. “Too busy to see me?”

  “Never. But time is a factor…”

  “As it happens, I had a reason for meeting you here of all places. I know Mucianus is devoted to Basilides. But the best seer in the world is here on Cyprus. He has agreed to see you.”

  Though gratified, Titus was also a trifle suspicious. “Have you seen him?”

  She made a face. “I am Hebrew, and a queen. We cannot consult outside of our faith, except through intermediaries.”

  “And is that what you believe I am?”

  Shrugging her shoulders so that her thin dress fell open, she exposed her breasts. “I believe you're the most powerful man in the world.” She let the whole dress fall to the floor and stood naked before him. “Now prove me right.”

  * * *

  LOCUS CASTRORUM, ITALIA

  Sabinus departed for the southern bank of the Padus with the uneasy sense that he was fighting in the wrong cause. Not that he wished to support Vitellius – anything was better than that. But as he had confided to Titus, fighting against a thing was not the same as having something to fight for.

  Still, his Stoic nature would not permit him to give any endeavor less than his best. Despite having done his time as a cadet and a junior tribune, Sabinus had never commanded men before. Knowing this, Old Sabinus had cleverly detached his best centurion from the urban cohorts to act as his son's advisor. Mamercus Cornelius Martialus was a hirsute, beefy man made hard by years fighting the German barbarians on the northern border. Sabinus knew Mamercus from his sons' time on the Campus Martius, where the man spent time training young noblemen. He was an excellent teacher, having earned his cognomen, Martialis, in honour of his lengthy service to the god Mars.

  Though Sabinus was grateful for the centurion's presence, he owned one concern. “You once served with the Twenty-First, and they're on their way to attack us. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Mamercus shook his head. In a bizarre incongruity to his extreme swarthiness – hairy arms, hairy legs, hairy chest – he kept the hair on his head close-cropped. “When the war is over I'll crush a cup of wine with the survivors like nothing happened. It's you nobles that get caught up in revenge and the like. Us grunts can't afford to. Besides, your uncle is fighting to get an eagle back. I figure if I keep you alive, the gods might notice it and give him their favour.”

  Nodding, Sabinus smiled wanly. “That's as good a cause as any to fight for.”

  * * *

  PAPHOS, CYPRUS

  At dawn, Titus called upon Soastrus, chief priest of the Temple of the Paphian Venus. A bland looking fellow, he was considered one of the luckiest men in the world. Unlike Basilides, this was a man who enjoyed all the trappings of his profession. He was surrounded by nubile young women, none of whom were virgins. This was a cult of Venus, after all, not Diana. Each of these young women had given up her maidenhead upon the altar of the goddess, the only blood sacrifice Venus would accept.

  Today Soastrus was not called upon to perform his main duty. Instead he peered into Titus' face, traced the lines of his hand, watched him walk, and had him spit into a bowl of ashes. Soastrus took some time over his results. Then he told the assembled watchers, “The omens favour a great undertaking. The rest is for the ears of Titus Flavius alone.”

  Soastrus led Titus into the temple, and his smiling face became grim. “What's the matter?” demanded Titus. “You said the omens were fair.”

  “They are, and more. But there is also destruction. The very soil weeps at your touch. One day you will be the greatest man in the world, but first you will be the most terrible. I see not one but two eternal monuments to you, but both are linked to death. Your name will never be forgotten, but you may not approve of how you are remembered. Your legacy will be as much Hebrew as Roman – if not moreso.”

  My legacy? Does he mean children? Will I have children with Berenice? I had thought her too old. But her God is mysterious, powerful. Perhaps I shall unite our two peoples in our bloodline!

  He speaks of monuments as well. A physical legacy, lasting forever. Marvelous. But all this talk of destruction. The earth weeps at my touch…

  Never one for introspection, Titus shrugged these concerns away. “Without Mars pouring blood into the fields, Ceres would have no crops. Great men do not count the cost, and infamy is better than indifference.” He wrung Soastrus by the hand. “Thank you. Expect a large bequest. Not in my father's name, but mine.”

  Soastrus watched Titus walk away, grateful that the Roman had not inquired about his future with Berenice. There the signs were also of destruction, but of a most personal nature.

  * * *

  LOCUS CASTRORUM, ITALIA

  Aware that his partner Valens was soon to arrive, the young and ambitious Caecina tried again to filch the glory for himself. He sent out a small force to lure Otho's army into broken ground, where the Rapax would be lying in wait.

  It was an old stratagem, reportedly used by Romulus himself. But Caecina's use of it was foiled by an older one – spies within the enemy camp. The Germanic legions had hated Galba, but were indifferent to Otho. Several were therefore willing to accept money in exchange for information. Caecina's trap was a failure, magnified by his refusal to retreat. When he finally withdrew, he'd suffered huge casualties. There was nothing now for him to do but wait for Valens.

  Who almost didn't arrive. A mix of proud Romans and boastful Batavians led to raucous internal squabbling that almost turned into an insurrection. Valens barely managed to calm his unruly men enough to join Caecina in Cremona.

  Now both armies were full of malcontents. Anything might happen.

  Still a day's ride from his new command, Sabinus heard these tales in disbelief. “Is it something in the air? Are the gods playing
tricks on us? There has to be some reason!”

  “There is,” replied Mamercus easily. “Order is gone. Soldiers like order, and order starts at the top. There's no clear Caesar, so there's no order. And now that they think they can choose their Caesar, I'm afraid there'll never be order again.”

  A wise answer, and terrifying. “Well, Otho is trying to settle the matter. He's called for a general council to plan for a great battle.” Sabinus pulled a face. “While I'm stuck patrolling the wrong side of a river.”

  The urban centurion clucked his tongue. “Orders is orders. If we don't obey, we're no better than those you're complaining of. Besides, you never know how a war can turn. Maybe you'll see some excitement after all.”

  This prophetic statement came true the next morning when they reached Macer's camp along the Padus River, near the village of Locus Castrorum. The village was small, famous only for the temple from which it took its name. The tiny shrine was devoted to the twin gods Castor and Pollux, though everyone forgot Pollux. In Rome and all across the world, all such temples were simply referred to as 'Castor's temple.' Yet it was said that both Castor and Pollux would never forget to come to the aid of soldiers in need.

  It seemed the twins had forgotten this morning. All was in chaos. Burning and sinking vessels littered both banks, and the camp rang out with the screams of the wounded and dying.

  Racing into the camp, Sabinus learned that Macer was in chains and thrown into a tent by his own men. He made for the tent at once.

  “Who be you?” demanded one gladiator-cum-legionary.

  “Titus Flavius Sabinus, senator and consul of Rome.” Technically he was not to be consul until the thirtieth of the month, but he felt the need to awe the man.

  Mamercus knew a better way. “Vespasian's nephew. Otho asked him to take charge of this army. Asked him personally.”

  The combination of Vespasian and Otho worked where senator and consul had not. In seconds Sabinus went from reviled to adored. Men came flocking to greet him and hail him as Otho's choice.