Sword of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘A pity.’ He sighed. ‘With you at my side it would all have been different.’

  The hurt was painful to witness and for the first time Valerius realized how much Vitellius had invested in his offer. With a true soldier like Valerius at his side, he could have cast off the chains forged by Valens and Caecina. With an ally he could trust and a legion in capable hands, he would have had the power to rule Rome as it should be ruled. Valerius felt like a man tied between two horses being whipped in opposite directions. Had he placed pride and honour above his duty to Rome? He had given his oath to a man who had taken Rome by force; a man so degraded he had allowed his wife to be used by Nero to ensure his political advancement. Did that man deserve to be Emperor? He felt Vitellius’s eyes on him. All he had to do was place his hand on the sword and repeat the words and he would have his legion. Their time in Africa had proved that Vitellius was a good administrator and a good man. Given the right support, he could be a good Emperor. His hand edged towards the spun gold of the sword hilt. But he could not free himself of Corbulo’s reproving stare and now it was Otho’s words that rang in his head. An honest man, who is sometimes too honest for his own good. A man whose loyalty to his Emperor is not in question.

  No.

  He stood up. ‘I am sorry.’

  Vitellius cast off his disappointment with a shrug and replaced it with a mask of geniality. ‘Very well.’ He nodded. ‘It is your right. I will provide you and your servant with horses and a pass that will allow you transit through my armies without hindrance. I said I had a message for Otho, and you can do me a service by delivering it. Tell him I must regretfully decline his offer, but I will make him one of my own. There is only one rightful Emperor of Rome. If he relinquishes his claim to the purple, gives up command of the Praetorian Guard and hands over the keys of state to the representatives of Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator, he may retire to Sardinia and live the rest of his life without fear.’ He reached across the table and in a show of genuine affection took Valerius’s left hand in both of his. ‘I must ask you to leave without delay, Valerius, for once it becomes known that you have been here it could place us both in danger. We must say goodbye now, but know this. Whatever has happened, and whatever will happen, does not affect our relationship. You will always be able to call Aulus Vitellius friend.’

  The words, so unexpected and so welcome, made something grow in Valerius’s chest. He drew himself up to his full height and rapped his walnut fist to his left breast in a salute fit for an Emperor of Rome. As he walked from the room he felt a wellspring of pity for his old friend and wondered if he would ever see him alive again.

  If he had stayed, he would have seen Vitellius ring a small bell to summon Asiaticus. While he waited, he picked up the ornate gladius. Divine Caesar had never shirked difficult decisions. A shuffle of feet announced the former slave’s arrival, but Vitellius didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

  ‘Send me Claudius Victor.’

  XXXIII

  Rome

  Marcus Salvius Otho paced the long balcony of the great Golden House Nero had created to ensure his name would for ever be linked with the greatest of his divine forefathers. Unlike the late Emperor Galba, Otho had no reservations about living amid the luxurious trappings that the man who sent him into exile had gathered from the four corners of the Empire. The balcony overlooked a beautiful park where deer and antelope roamed by a shimmering lake and he watched the animals for a while, until he could delay the decision no longer. Returning to his desk, he picked up the letter and read it for the fourth time. Otho knew he had no choice. The clamour for the man’s death had grown irresistible, and even though Gaius Valerius Verrens had advised clemency he was not yet in a position to defy the mob. He nodded and his secretary dripped hot wax on a corner of the parchment. Reluctantly, he marked it with his seal and handed it to the man.

  ‘See that it is delivered immediately. Warn the messenger that he will attempt bribery, offer flattery and any other means he can think of to delay the inevitable, but he is to be informed that there is no escape from his duty.’ So ends Offonius Tigellinus, and a decade of fear becomes a mere story to scare children to their beds, he thought.

  In truth, Tigellinus was a distraction. But then there were so many distractions to divert him from his task that they caused a flutter of panic every time he sat down to consider them. Despite a lifetime following the cursus honorum, the ordered progression that steered a young Roman through the foothills of bureaucracy and discipline and prepared him for rule, he found himself ill prepared for the mountain of detail that seemed designed to crush an Emperor. First there had been the problem of the Praetorians, who had carried him to office on a tidal wave of enthusiasm and – there was no denying it – blood. He had made the normal donative of an incoming Emperor, enough to satisfy them, and make them forget the absurd bribe Nymphidius had promised on Galba’s behalf. Then there had been the appointment of the new prefects to replace those who had died with Galba. He had promised that they could vote in their own candidates, but by subtle diplomacy and some questionable manoeuvring by Onomastus he had succeeded in having his clients Firmus and Proculus nominated. And yet there had still been some misunderstanding that had brought them rampaging to the Senate threatening to slaughter the entire house after some rumour spread that he was being held there against his will. It had eventually been resolved, but it had taken time he could ill afford and shaken the senators’ faith in his ability to control the Guard. The finger of blame pointed unerringly at the Prefect of Rome. If Otho had been stronger he might have acted, but, like Galba, he could not afford to alienate Vespasian in Judaea, so the general’s brother Flavius Sabinus would continue in the role he had held under Nero.

  The thought of Sabinus made him frown and he called for a document that had arrived the previous day. The prefect was demanding the arrest of Gaius Valerius Verrens on a charge of murder. Some story of a young relative, that useless scrub of a boy Domitianus, attacked, and one of his bodyguards killed. With Valerius out of the city Otho could afford to put the matter aside, but it would have to be dealt with in time. The dark eyes and scarred features swam into his vision. A capable man in any situation that required violence or guile, but with a fierce intelligence that made him doubly useful. Valerius’s inflated sense of personal honour made him predictable, but somehow he always managed to overcome this handicap and get the job done. Well, useful or not, there might come a time when Gaius Valerius Verrens would have to be sacrificed on the altar of political gain.

  He picked up another report and an involuntary groan escaped his lips. Flood water from the Tiber had inundated thousands of riverside properties, drowning dozens and making many hundreds homeless. Worse, it had demolished granaries and warehouses packed to bursting with grain to see Rome through the winter and supplies for the troops who would inevitably take the field in the spring. Most had been lost, and a bread shortage would bring the mob on to the streets, which he couldn’t afford. There was no question of replacing the supplies in the short term, but should he increase subsidies to appease the poor, or use the money to ensure a supply for his army? The thought of the great shadow spilling from the north answered his question. He closed his eyes. He must have more troops.

  ‘One hour until the parade, Caesar.’

  ‘Very well. Summon my military advisers and my brother Lucius.’

  When Galba and his cabal had been got rid of that should have been the end of it. No more bloodshed and an orderly return to normality. But he hadn’t bargained for the unlikely ambition of Aulus Vitellius and his hold on the German legions. Galba had appointed Vitellius to Germania Inferior because he was harmless and could be relied on to stay that way. Everything Otho knew about the man confirmed his predecessor’s evaluation. He had never met a lazier or less likely candidate for revolt. Otho did not want a war, would do anything he could to prevent it. Yet Vitellius’s armies were marching on Rome and he must bring together a force capable of defeating
them. Valerius was not his only diplomatic weapon, but it was becoming clear from the increasingly belligerent tone emerging from the Vitellius camp that diplomacy wasn’t going to work. A few days earlier, his spies had intercepted a pair of assassins who admitted under torture that they had been sent from Colonia Agrippinensis. Alas, he had missed his opportunity to respond in kind. Even now, Valerius might be in a position to wield the knife. Of course, the one-handed nobleman was much too honourable for that, but Otho was human enough to regret not encouraging his murderous-looking Spanish freedman to do the job if the chance arose. Still, what was done could not be undone.

  Marcus Salvius Otho recognized that vanity had always been one of his failings, but personal vanity was one thing, political vanity very much another. Political vanity had killed Galba as surely as if it wielded the blade that removed his head. Political vanity had convinced him that every thought that came into his head was correct, and his every decision irrefutable, whatever the evidence to the contrary. Political vanity had led him to ignore the counsel of more prudent, more experienced men, and Otho had resolved he would not make the same mistake.

  The three men his aide ushered into the room could not have been more different, yet each was vital to his plan to defeat Vitellius. His elder brother, Lucius Salvius Otho Titianus, grave and stolid, wearing his usual expression of frowning resolve; a man of little imagination, but one who could be entrusted with holding Rome while his Emperor took the fight to the rebels. In the centre, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, well into his sixties now, still gaunt from his time under house arrest on the orders of Galba, the reward for being consul in the last days of Nero. A hardened survivor who had all but destroyed the province of Britannia in revenge for Boudicca’s excesses, been brought low by his over-enthusiasm and then resurrected thanks to the allies who hailed him as the greatest general of his day. It was that generalship Otho needed now, but the question that had occupied the Emperor’s thoughts for the past hour remained unresolved. Could Paulinus be trusted? That was why the third man was here. Marius Celsus was one of the few people in Rome Marcus Salvius Otho counted as a friend. It had been Celsus who had steered him through the difficult and depraved years in Nero’s court, Celsus who had convinced him that Poppaea must be sacrificed, and, in the end, Celsus who had persuaded the Emperor that Otho could be left alive, albeit in his Lusitanian fleapit. He could trust Celsus and that was why Celsus, who had the added advantage of having commanded a legion, would share control of the army Otho led north. Yet, and there was that flare of panic again, how many men would they lead?

  ‘Welcome.’ He ushered the trio to the map table his aides had prepared. ‘The latest positions of the Vitellian forces are as you see them.’ He pointed a jewelled forefinger at the upper-left quadrant of the chart. ‘Valens is still beyond the western Alps. Caecina has not yet reached Mediolanum. Our spies say Vitellius has yet to join either. The only troops in northern Italia loyal to the usurper are the cavalry of Tiberius Rubrio. We know that Rubrio has forced at least four cities to acknowledge Vitellius, but doesn’t have the numbers to garrison them.’

  ‘Then we must act now, before either force has the opportunity to reinforce the cavalry, or, worse, to combine with each other.’ Paulinus’s voice reminded Otho of a cart wheel skidding on loose gravel and contained a hint of censure he didn’t care for.

  ‘We didn’t expect them to march so early in the season.’ Titianus came to his brother’s defence.

  ‘I have already sent for the Balkan legions,’ Otho pointed out. ‘The advance guard of the Thirteenth Gemina should reach Italia in just over a week, and they will be followed a few days later by the Seventh and the Fourteenth.’

  ‘We can only get stronger.’ Celsus smiled. ‘While the enemy relies on a network of disgruntled officers to provide reinforcements, the Emperor has the support of the governors of Dalmatia, Pannonia, Moesia, Syria, Judaea, Egypt and Africa. The armies of Vitellius must live off the land, while we can count on the entire resources of the Empire.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Paulinus growled. He loomed over the map like a hawk hovering on the wind. ‘But the incontrovertible fact is that the enemy already has at least four legions, possibly as many as six, in the field, while we have, by my count, precisely none.’

  Celsus’s face reddened and Titianus opened his mouth to speak, but Otho raised a hand for silence.

  ‘I congratulate the consul on his command of arithmetic, but that will change within the next few hours. The Praetorian Guard is at this very moment preparing to march north. They will be joined by First Adiutrix and every cavalry unit that can be spared from south of the Padus. It is my intention that they converge on …’ he sought out a point on the map, ‘Bedriacum, here, sweep Rubrio’s cavalry out of Transpadana, defeat the first rebel column to reach Italian soil, and then turn and confront the other, by which time our Balkan reinforcements will have joined us.’

  He smiled, seeking the grizzled general’s approval, but Paulinus only frowned and studied the map all the more intently.

  ‘A fine plan,’ said Celsus, who had helped Otho form it.

  ‘Not enough troops.’

  ‘General?’

  ‘We do not have enough men to be certain of defeating either of Vitellius’s armies.’ Paulinus’s granite-chip eyes searched the room seeking dissent. ‘The Praetorian Guard may be the Emperor’s elite, but they are garrison troops and will take time to become campaign-hardened. The men of the First Adiutrix were pulling oars and climbing ropes not four months ago. They may be strong and they may be brave, but they cannot hope to match any of the legions which march against them. I would advise a strategy of manoeuvre, avoiding an all-out confrontation while simultaneously preventing the Vitellian columns from combining. If I can achieve this until the Balkan legions are under my command you will have your victory. But we still need more fighting men.’

  ‘The urban cohorts?’ Titianus suggested nervously.

  Paulinus grunted. He would take them, for all the use they were likely to be. ‘We need fighters.’

  ‘I have called up every soldier in southern Italia,’ Otho pointed out.

  ‘Not soldiers. Fighters.’ Paulinus produced a savage smile. ‘Gladiators.’

  ‘Gladiators?’ Celsus didn’t bother to hide his derision.

  ‘Yes, gladiators. Within this city you have some of the best-trained fighting men in the Empire. How many in the ludi, one thousand? Two? They are not soldiers, but they are killers and they will fight if you give them something to fight for.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ Titianus demanded. ‘They are foreigners; slaves, barbarians and criminals. It matters not to them who sits on the throne of Rome, since it is their destiny to die in any case.’

  ‘Then give them an alternative destiny,’ the former consul insisted. ‘Offer them their lives and their freedom if they fight for the rightful Emperor of Rome.’

  ‘Unthinkable.’

  Paulinus ignored Celsus’s intervention and turned to stare at Otho. ‘If you wish to continue wearing the purple, then I suggest you be prepared to think the unthinkable.’

  Otho studied him for a long moment before he nodded. ‘Titianus, make it so. Every gladiator prepared to fight for his Emperor will have his freedom on the day Vitellius is defeated and captured … plus a reward equal to a year’s pay for a legionary.’ He turned to the other two men. ‘Then we are agreed? The advance guard will march at dawn and I will follow with the rest of the force within the next two days. But first …’ Onomastus appeared in the doorway holding the Emperor’s cloak of Imperial purple, ‘I have a welcome duty to perform.’

  Juva’s chest swelled as he stood among the massed ranks of the First Adiutrix, an optio of the first century, Fifth cohort, second in command to the centurion. It had been an exhausting few weeks since the fateful day Otho had given the legion its name and its eagle, the training hard and the discipline fierce. Day after day they had marched and counter-marched, learned to
form line, column and defensive circle, and eventually to move between the three with the deceptive ease of a true legion. Only then had they been issued with their weapons and their armour. It had been the legion’s wish that they keep the blue tunic that identified their naval origins. The Emperor had gladly agreed, and because of the special circumstances of their formation the First wasn’t expected to pay the usual five denarii cost of the equipment. Over the tunic they now wore the lorica segmentata, the flexible jointed plate armour which protected the shoulders and chest. Thirty-four separate pieces of iron that Juva, like every other man, had discovered were so difficult to keep polished, oiled and clean of rust that it took up every moment of the little free time they had. Each man had been issued with a new pair of caligae, the leather hobnailed sandals that had allowed the legions to march the length and breadth of the Empire. On his dark head, Juva wore the heavy brass helmet that was a legionary’s curse on the march and his saviour in battle. It was one of the most modern types, with a reinforced cross-brace on the brow to stop a direct sword blow, a wide neck protector and detachable cheek-pieces. He’d been fortunate to get one with a good fit that needed a minimal amount of padding. From the belt at his waist hung the scabbard that held his gladius, the twenty-two-inch, triangular-pointed sword that made the legions so deadly. He had spent countless hours perfecting the lightning-swift stabbing technique and the brutal, twisting withdrawal that created the terrible wounds that made it feared. At rest in front of him he held his scutum, the big leather-covered shield that would protect him in battle. Constructed of three layers of oak, close to four feet tall and three wide, it was heavy enough to make even a giant like Juva struggle initially to hold it for any length of time. Yet every man understood it could be the difference between life and death in a fight. None complained when their centurion, a veteran who resented being transferred to ‘a useless shower of sailors’, insisted on hour after hour of shoving matches between units, or individual contests where the men battered each other into bloody, exhausted submission. No pilum for this parade, though the Nubian prided himself on his skill with the heavy, weighted javelin. Four foot of ash, topped with two and a half of iron, tipped with a pyramid-shaped point, and he could throw it further and more accurately than any man in the legion.