[Gaius Valerius Verrens 05] - Enemy of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  For a moment they lay side by side in a daze of physical and mental exhaustion. The Spaniard’s eyes were closed and he breathed like a man who’d just swum the Strait of Messana.

  Valerius moved first. ‘This is no time to be lying around, unless you want know what a roasted chicken feels like,’ he said. Serpentius grunted and they hauled themselves to their feet and edged their way to the ridge to join the family. The wide eyes of the adults reflected not only the peril of their situation, but the horror done to their city. In every direction the smoke from a thousand fires smeared the sky, and they winced at the crackle and crash of burning buildings. Valerius had always known a price would be exacted for Cremona’s unflinching support for Vitellius, but he had never expected this. It was as if Primus’s legionaries wanted to wipe the city from the map.

  He dragged his eyes away from the destruction and surveyed their position. The insula occupied a corner site joined to the buildings around it. Behind them, the red tiles stretched away at the same height, but no route back to the ground presented itself. Billowing smoke confirmed the shops and apartments below were also well ablaze. The way to his left seemed to offer more opportunity. Here also the buildings were on fire, but the roof fell away in a succession of steps until perhaps two hundred paces away it was only two storeys high. In a courtyard behind the insulae he could see the upper branches of a large tree which might provide their escape.

  He made his decision. ‘This way,’ he said. ‘And stay together.’ He picked up Gaius and Serpentius took the girl by the hand, and they led the little group to the edge of the roof. It was a drop of twice the height of a man to the lower roof and would have been much more dangerous if Serpentius hadn’t retained the sword belts. The Spaniard went first and Valerius used the thin strip of leather to lower the boy, repeating the exercise with Julia. When he’d helped the adults descend, with the pregnant girl last, Valerius lowered himself and dropped like a cat on to the tiles below.

  Step by wary step they made their way to the next drop in the roofs, climbed down, and repeated the manoeuvre on to the lowest level. By the time Valerius followed, the others were already well ahead. It was only then that he realized the roof was shimmering with heat. As he walked forward he could feel it on his legs and through the soles of his sandals. The temperature was so high that some of the roof tiles had cracked. As he pressed cautiously forward he could hear others snapping and noticed small wisps of smoke seeping through gaps. He could only imagine what was happening beneath his feet.

  ‘Hurry,’ he called to Serpentius. The Spaniard was four-fifths of the way across, leading little Julia, and he raised his free hand to show he’d heard. Behind him came the father with Gaius in his arms, then Gaius’s mother with her baby. The pregnant girl walked hand in hand with her husband, but she’d slowed and they were clearly in difficulty. Valerius hurried forward to help them. Four paces from the couple he heard a loud crack, instantly followed by a moment when the world seemed to freeze. He watched in disbelief as the tiles fell away and, still clutching each other, the two young people dropped into a sea of fire. Valerius recoiled from the furnace blast of heat that erupted from the gaping fissure and stared at the place where they’d disappeared.

  ‘Valerius!’ The urgency in Serpentius’s voice brought him back to the present. The Spaniard had sent the rest of the refugee family away to the far end of the roof where they stood in a weeping huddle.

  ‘I …’

  ‘You must jump, now. Delay even a moment and it will be too late.’ Valerius contemplated the glowing barrier and shook his head at the impossibility of what the Spaniard was asking. He searched desperately for an alternative. Surely there must be another way?

  ‘Do or die, Valerius.’ Serpentius’s eyes met his and Valerius felt as if the Spaniard had read his mind.

  Before another negative thought could fix itself in his head, he backed up four paces and launched himself at the gap. How far was it? Four paces? Five? What if he lost his footing? He would burn to death in an instant. Better to have tried to climb down and broken his neck in the attempt. Too late. He fixed Domitia’s face in his head. Do or die. He picked a spot a pace back from the edge. When his front foot hit the mark, he threw his body forward and upwards, feeling the heat singe his lower body. He tried not to think about what was below as he stretched his legs in front of him. Was he going to make it? He was so close. A scream of frustration escaped him as he realized that though his feet were going to hit the first row of tiles he didn’t have the momentum to carry his body with them. Great Mars save me. His boots touched with a clatter of breaking tile and he tried to throw his torso forward. For a moment he hung in space before his weight inevitably pulled him back into the inferno. From nowhere a hand shot out and snatched the front of his tunic. Very carefully, Serpentius pulled him to safety.

  ‘Next time you decide to rescue somebody, please do it yourself.’

  ‘Very well,’ Valerius released a long groan of relief. ‘But can we get away from here? My backside appears to be on fire.’

  XXXI

  ‘Where in the name of Hades have you been?’ Marcus Antonius Primus contemplated the scorched, soot-stained figure who had just walked into the tent. ‘I expect my legates to be available when I need them, not gallivanting about collecting plunder. You have a staff who can do that for you.’ Valerius tensed and Primus looked up to see the dangerous light in his eye. The general waved a placating hand. ‘In any case, it is of no matter. I—’

  ‘It is of matter when Roman citizens are being slaughtered in your name,’ the younger man interrupted coldly. ‘Perhaps you did not notice, but the glow that allows you to write your reports without an oil lamp is the city of Cremona burning.’

  ‘An unfortunate accident,’ Primus said dismissively. ‘As to your so-called slaughter, there are bound to be a few casualties when a city declines to surrender immediately, especially one which treated its enemies so badly after defeat.’

  ‘A few?’ Valerius sounded incredulous. ‘Have you even been in the city? Hundreds, probably thousands of corpses lie in the streets of Cremona, or roasting in their burning houses. A tribute to the victorious Marcus Antonius Primus, whose name will come to be spoken alongside Nero’s as the great incendiary of his age.’

  Primus stiffened and his eyes went as cold as an executioner’s heart. His fingers twitched and Valerius knew they were itching for the dagger that hung on the tent post to his right. ‘You are very free with your words for a man who is still under sentence of death.’

  ‘A man under sentence of death has little to lose. I saw too many unwarranted deaths today to fear one more, even if it is my own.’

  ‘I never wanted it to be this way.’

  ‘You sanctioned it.’

  ‘Not this. I thought they would do a little looting, kill a few people who would probably have died anyway when we began to root out the biggest traitors.’

  ‘It has gone far beyond that.’

  Primus threw his stylus aside and called for his clerk. ‘A guard on all the gates of Cremona immediately,’ he ordered. ‘The looting and the burning stops now. No captives to be sold into slavery. Any legionary still inside the walls in the morning to be screened and the ringleaders apprehended.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘The great incendiary of his age …’

  ‘You—’

  ‘No, what is done cannot be undone.’ A bitter laugh escaped the general’s lips and he picked up a roll of parchment from the desk. ‘The latest missive from Vespasian. He believes I’ve over-extended myself. He rebukes me for “over-enthusiasm” and wishes me to hold my position, which he thinks is still at Aquileia. He sees the possibility for the war to be ended with no more civilian casualties.’ His eyes rose to meet Valerius’s. ‘You see my difficulty? Delicate negotiations are under way. Nothing further to be gained by forcing battle on the enemy. Mars’ arse, you’d think the man had never held a command. What does he think soldiers do? If you don’t let them fight the enemy th
ey will fight each other, aye and kill their commanders, too, for their cowardice or lack of enthusiasm. What choice did I have?’

  ‘You have your victory, despite all this,’ Valerius pointed out.

  ‘It is not enough because of all this,’ Primus insisted. He threw the scroll carelessly back on to the desk. Without warning his tone hardened. ‘There is only one answer. I must finish the war before Mucianus arrives and that means marching on Rome. But there will be no more massacres. I plan to send the defeated legions to Moesia under new legates. Messalla will be one. Vespasian has decided he cannot endorse his permanent appointment despite being one of my best fighting generals, but at least I can give him another temporary command. He will be replaced as legate of the Seventh Claudia by Lucius Plotius Grypus, a nephew of Mucianus, and no doubt one of his spies. I also intend to resume personal command of Seventh Galbiana.’ The general’s voice contained a certain sympathy, but Valerius felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. It had been foolish to think it would last, but he thought of the Seventh as his legion. ‘This does not reflect on your command of the legion, which has been exemplary, but releases you for a mission which may be even more important given my future plans. Vitellius is finished, we are agreed on that?’

  Valerius nodded warily. His old friend’s position was desperate and could only worsen. ‘It is only a matter of time now that you have destroyed the core of his army,’ he agreed. ‘The Batavian rebellion pins his reserve legions on the Rhine. He can hope for no more troops from Britannia. Hispania and Gaul have nothing to offer. Caecina is taken and is in custody in Verona. Valens is still missing. Sooner or later Vitellius must surrender or flee.’

  ‘Then I would be a fool to spurn this opportunity.’ Primus waved Valerius over to where his campaign map was pinned to its wooden frame. ‘Nothing but small garrisons between here and the Apennines.’ His finger swept down the coast from the Padus to Fanum Fortunae. ‘When they hear of Cremona’s fall and the army’s surrender, they will have no choice but to do likewise. The only substantial force between us and the capital is a detachment of the Praetorian Guard, here, at Narnia, perhaps equivalent to an understrength legion. Caecina tells me their commander’s faith in Vitellius is shaken and he may be favourable to an accommodation.’ Valerius listened with growing dismay. Experience told him where this was leading. Primus’s next words confirmed it.

  ‘I plan to negotiate with this Praetorian directly and from a position of strength. To do so, I need an emissary well versed in these arts. Nero recognized your talents in this direction, as did Galba and Otho; it would be unwise of Marcus Antonius Primus to ignore them. When we reach Fanum you will ride ahead and make contact carrying an offer similar to that which netted us Caecina. If he can persuade his forces to lay down their arms he will have his life, his liberty and an honoured position when Vespasian is formally declared Emperor.’ He must have seen the lack of enthusiasm in Valerius’s face, because the flow of words died. ‘You doubt your ability, Verrens? You feel that this mission is beyond your capacity?’

  Valerius had slept less than two hours in the last forty-eight. More than anything, he doubted his ability to stay on his feet for much longer. He was certain he could reach Narnia, and quite possibly make contact with the Praetorian commander. What happened then was much less certain. Who was to say the situation would not have changed when he reached the city? Turncoats were, by their very nature, fickle. Officers could be enthusiastic for one course of action and their men for another. For the negotiator – or, he could not deny it, the spy – caught in between, the outcome might be perilous indeed. The truth was that he was weary of intrigue. Weary of war. But if he concluded the negotiations successfully Narnia would fall without a life being lost. And if Narnia fell, the way would be open to Rome, and Domitia Longina Corbulo. He managed a tired smile.

  ‘It would be a poor sort of man who came here to rebuke you about what happened in Cremona and then refused your request to try to stop the same thing occurring again. A decent night’s sleep and some food and I will be at your service.’

  Primus nodded, and accepted Valerius’s salute. When the one-armed tribune had left he continued to stare at the doorway. A strange character. All that honour and duty tearing at the inner man: it seemed unlikely he would survive the war. A pity.

  The army that headed south on the Via Aemilia was very different from the one that had marched on Cremona with so much confidence. True to his word, Primus dispatched three of the Vitellian legions to Pannonia and Moesia to combat a growing threat from beyond the Danuvius. He also freed captured Vitellian officers and sent them to carry word of his victory to Germania, Britannia, Gaul and Hispania. Yet the aftermath of Cremona had created a rift between Primus and his legates. The commanders of the three legions which hadn’t been involved in the massacre were incensed at being tainted by the stench of burned flesh, rapine and looting that would for ever be linked with the victory. Aquila of the Thirteenth felt ashamed because he knew he should have done more to stop it. The result was that Primus’s authority was dangerously undermined and the commanders’ trust in their general, and his in them, badly eroded. Valerius witnessed the outcome when Primus sent substantial elements of the legions back to rest at Verona, along with their convalescent wounded. The cohorts and centuries he retained were all led by men in whom he had personal trust or interest. The legionaries understood what was happening and why. It was a moody and disunited force that formed up in order of march beside the Temple of Mephitis, the only building of any substance in Cremona left unscathed.

  The situation wasn’t improved with the arrival, when the column reached Bononia, of Plotius Grypus, the new legate of Seventh Claudia. An arrogant, opinionated patrician in his mid-thirties, Grypus used his connections to the full to further undermine Primus, who fumed, but could do little about it. Meanwhile, his army marched through a damp, often flooded landscape only recently ravaged by war. Primus had hoped to end the conflict without further bloodshed, but no one had informed his lately acquired allies, the marines of the Ravenna fleet. They had marched and countermarched across the flat coastal plain destroying Vitellian outposts and reserve units, including three cohorts of auxiliaries said to have accompanied Fabius Valens from Rome. Of Valens himself there was no sign. Primus’s greatest fear was that the victor of First Bedriacum might reach Gaul or Germania, but, for the moment, he could only concentrate on his current campaign.

  Primus incorporated the marines into his force and his cause was further boosted by the arrival of a new legion, the Eleventh Claudia, from Dalmatia. One by one, the towns of the Via Aemilia pledged their allegiance with little or no opposition. Only Fanum Fortunae put up much resistance, but the city’s defenders agreed to surrender after a week.

  With success, the general could have been forgiven for displaying his natural vanity, but whenever Valerius saw him the heavy brow was invariably lined with concern and the dark eyes troubled. Much of this was due to the stream of letters he received from Licinius Mucianus, a sign his successor was both not far away and very well informed. Fulvus, who still commanded the Third Gallica, revealed that they alternated between demands for more speed to take advantage before winter, and equally strident recommendations to delay so as not to outrun his supplies. The uncertainty made Primus uncharacteristically indecisive and was compounded by the conflicting advice he received from his legates, led by the smirking Grypus. The result was another week’s delay at Fanum. Meanwhile, Valerius could only polish his sword and conceal his frustration as he waited for word of his mission. It was a relief when he finally received the summons from Primus. He ordered Serpentius to prepare their horses and see to supplies so they could leave without delay.

  But when the guards showed him into the praetorium, the general looked up from his papers and said: ‘I have decided to change your orders.’

  Valerius barely had time to take in the general’s words before he noticed a third man standing in the corner of the tent. He was
dressed in a heavy cloak against the damp and his legs were spattered with mud as if he’d just completed a long ride. Primus’s ever-present campaign map had drawn his eye and he had his back to Valerius, but the thick dark hair and stocky build stirred a memory.

  ‘Quintus Petilius Cerialis brings news from Rome,’ Primus continued, and Cerialis turned with a grave nod, which Valerius returned.

  How long had it been? Nine years, now, since they’d stood in a tent just like this on a hillside in Britannia. It wasn’t an occasion Valerius cared to remind the newcomer of. Then, Cerialis had worn a legate’s sculpted breastplate and looked what he was: a man who had just lost half a legion. His face had been clouded by the shadow of defeat and the possibility of execution. Now, though dressed in a motley collection of armour and with an auxiliary’s cavalry spatha at his belt, he fidgeted with nervous energy. The dark hair was shot with grey and the waist a little thicker, but otherwise he seemed physically unchanged. He was Vespasian’s son-in-law, married to Titus’s sister.

  ‘The commander at Narnia has been replaced,’ Primus explained, ‘and the Praetorians reinforced with a further nine cohorts, including auxiliaries, and an unknown number of cavalry. Therefore I judge your negotiations unlikely to succeed …’

  ‘I agree,’ Cerialis interrupted, prompting a glance of irritation only a student of human nature would have noticed. Clearly, despite the affable introduction the general was not completely comfortable with his highly placed visitor. ‘The new prefects are loyal to Vitellius. You would be placing your head on the executioner’s block.’