Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  Gaul also proved to be extremely wealthy, both in natural resources and farmable land. And while the cultural changes had come slowly, as generations passed the Gauls became more like their Roman overlords and less like the tribes that had stood against the invaders. During the one hundred and twenty years since Caesar’s final victory over Vercingetorix at the Siege of Alesia, only once had some of the old tribes attempted rebellion and secession from Rome. And now, forty-eight years after what was known as The Rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus, a whisper of treason was heard once more. This time, however, the Romanized Gauls’ enemy was a single man rather than Rome herself.

  The current governor, Gaius Julius Vindex, was a powerful Gallic nobleman whose size and stature made him fearsome to behold. He was only a third generation Roman citizen, though his status as a member of the indigenous nobility had prompted the Emperor Claudius to grant his family senatorial membership twenty years prior. Legally, this made him a peer of the old families that made up the Roman Senate; however, the origins of his birth caused many of his fellow patricians to view him with disdain and contempt. Such was the treatment of all non-Latin members of the patrician class.

  “There was a time,” he observed, as he sat over supper that evening with Vienne’s mayor, “when any man not born in Italia could not even stand for membership in the senate, regardless of his personal wealth or noble status.”

  “Our people rebelled against Rome almost fifty years ago over that very matter,” the mayor, Marcus Bradan, replied. Like Vindex, he was a Romanized Gaul, and their names were an amalgam of both Gallic and Roman.

  “Forty-eight, actually,” Vindex corrected. “The noble Julius Sacrovir and Julius Florus rose up in rebellion out of frustration over the way our people were treated. They were subjected to the same taxation and responsibilities as the Roman senators, yet they were denied membership and treated as little more than barbarians in togas. Their uprising, in which they fought to claim the rights of our people, happened exactly five years before I was born.” He gave a soft chuckle. “My father was a great warrior then and could ride a horse better than any. He served with the Roman auxilia under the command of Julius Indus, who himself feigned loyalty to Sacrovir, only to turn his cavalry regiment against him.”

  “Yes, I remember the stories,” Bradan replied. “Indus’ regiment was renamed in his honor by Emperor Tiberius. They have been stationed in Britannia these past twenty years.”

  “And as one of Indus’ officers, my father was rewarded immensely in land and slaves,” Vindex added. “He also managed to make himself very rich in the aftermath, in no small part by plundering the estates of the slain Florus. Ironic, that decades later Emperor Claudius granted our nobles what his Uncle Tiberius had fought a war to deny them.”

  “I sense a similar level of disdain from you towards the Roman patrician class, yet it is not senatorial membership that vexes you now,” Bradan noted.

  “Tell me,” Vindex replied, evading this last remark, “what are your thoughts on the latest tariffs imposed on export of goods?”

  “A bloody tyrannical act,” the mayor immediately responded. “Nero bankrupts the empire with his lavish and wasteful spending, and so to make up for it, he adds an extra tax on goods that we are sending to Italia! His customs people have also fixed the prices on our wares, so that it is the merchants, and not the noble Latins, who are required to make up the difference. We are being forced to pay to send our goods to Rome which they, in turn, benefit from. It is outright robbery.”

  “I have it on good authority that he intends to impose an added import tax as well,” Vindex added. “I’ve never complained about tariffs on goods coming in from outside of the empire; however, to levy these extra taxes on any trade coming from within the provinces will stifle commerce. Merchants will not be able to afford to transport their goods, and in the places where they are needed, great shortages will lead to mass inflation.”

  “It will cripple many of the small merchant houses,” Bradan concurred. “But what can we do about it?”

  “We can make a stand for the people,” the governor said plainly, causing his host to choke on his wine. “The senate is impotent and utterly worthless, having been beaten into submission by Nero’s damned praetorians. And our envoys to the emperor are sent away empty handed. In such circumstances, there is only one message that Nero will understand.”

  “Are you suggesting another uprising?” Bradan asked incredulously. “You must be mad. We were only just talking about the last time Gauls took up arms against Rome, and we know what happened there. Many sons of the nobility were slaughtered as part of Sacrovir’s vanguard. Damn it all, but your father fought for the empire!”

  “You mistake me,” Vindex said defensively. “I denounce neither the position of the emperor, nor the Roman imperialist state. Gaul is Roman, and has been for over a hundred years. I am Roman, though I was born in Gaul. Few, if any, would even think about trying to gain independence. No, my friend, it is one man and one man alone who holds my contempt. Nero’s selfishness and vice threaten to destroy all that Rome has built over the last eight hundred years. He must be compelled to see reason or replaced by an emperor who will not neglect his people.”

  “Would you attempt to overthrow Nero and claim the imperial throne for yourself?” Bradan asked.

  “I would have Nero deposed, yes, but I have no claims to the empire.” At the mayor’s confused expression, Vindex explained his rationale. “I am only a first generation member of the Roman patrician class. Despite my birth as both a Gallic noble and Roman citizen, the senate will never accept one they still view as both common and foreign to rule over them. No, my friend, my motives have nothing to do with personal gain.”

  “Who, then? Nero has pretty much exterminated every last branch of the imperial family, and he has no heir.”

  “I am not sure yet,” Vindex admitted. “However, I have sent letters to some of our neighboring provincial governors. If they are even half as despondent as we are, then surely some of them will join our cause.”

  “Whatever cause that may be,” Bradan replied. When the governor of Gallia Lugdunensis decided to pay a visit to Vienne, the city’s mayor would never expect Vindex would be taking him deep into dangerous waters. But as they were of one mind, all Bradan could do was hope the surrounding provinces were as ready as they to be done with Nero’s oppression.

  One of Vindex’s letters arrived in Hispania Tarraconensis, the largest of the three Spanish provinces. Its governor was a very old senator named Servius Sulpicius Galba. A man lacking in energy, yet with a mind still full of resolve, as well as admitted excessive stubbornness. Galba came from one of the oldest families of the Roman nobility. His father had attained the consulship during his decades in the senate and was one of the most renowned practitioners of Roman law during his lifetime. As for his own career path through the Cursus Honorum, Galba served as one of the sixteen praetors who oversaw financial administration within the empire, at the young age of twenty-three. This had been during the early years of the reign of Tiberius who, as a well-known financial conservative, had appreciated Galba’s almost miserly hoarding of imperial coin.

  Thirteen years later he rose to prominence, following in the footsteps of his father when he won the consulship. This had been one of his proudest moments. Adding to his good fortune was that his colleague, who attained the other consul’s chair for the year, was another renowned senator and close friend, Lucius Salvias Otho. This had come during Tiberius’ self-imposed exile on the isle of Capri, and two years after the overthrow of the traitorous Praetorian Prefect Sejanus. With the emperor involving himself less and less during the remaining years of his life, the consuls Servius Galba and Lucius Otho enjoyed power that had been unheard of since the end of the republic. Almost thirty-five years later, and now well past the age when most senators succumbed to retirement, Galba had spent the last seven years governing one of Rome’s larger provinces.

  As successful
as Galba’s political career had been, his personal life was wrought with tragedy. His wife, Aemilia Lepida, was the great-granddaughter of the triumvir, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, who briefly ruled alongside Antony and Octavian during the final years of the republic. She had born Galba two fine sons, but died after just ten years of marriage. Of their sons, the eldest perished following a horse-riding accident when he was fourteen. The younger, Servius, survived to adulthood and, in fact, had served as quaestor when he was twenty-eight. He died two years later of a severe bowel infection. A year after his passing, Galba was recalled from retirement by Emperor Nero and given the province of Hispania Tarraconensis. With his wife and sons long since departed from this life and with no grandchildren, Galba was the last of his family’s long and illustrious line. He was also very much alone, and he sometimes cursed the gods that he had lived so long. He carried on for the good of his family name, which he knew would die with him. He also had a subtle inclination that perhaps the fates were not finished with him yet, and the family name of Sulpicius, through Galba himself, was destined for greater things.

  It was now 31 December, the week following the winter solstice celebrations. The feast of Saturnalia had, coincidentally, also been Galba’s seventieth birthday. On this eve of the New Year, in contrast to the pouring rains and dark skies over Gaul, Galba had awoken to a warm, sunny, Spanish day, where his rather large and muscular black Numidian slave had just left his bedchamber. While others who preferred the male of their species often took young boys and adolescents as their sexual partners, Galba’s preference had always been inclined towards well-muscled, fully grown men. Galba had most certainly loved his wife, and while she lived he had been a doting and affectionate husband. His carnal preference towards men he always viewed as a mere matter of taste, as one may prefer oysters to snails. He further asserted that by keeping the intimate company of virile and strong men, he had extended his own longevity and vitality.

  “After all, how many even make it to my age?” he said to himself, rising from his bed. It was all a façade, though. While he had outlived most of his contemporaries, his advanced age, combined with the personal tragedies he’d suffered over the years, had sapped most of his good humor and spirits. Whenever colleagues suggested he remarry, lest he end up a bitter and dejected miser like Tiberius, Galba would immediately retort that women had been the downfall of Claudius.

  As he stood naked near the open window, a pair of servants brought forth his robes and helped dress him. There was a quick knock at the door, which was promptly opened by Galba’s freedman clerk, a Greek named Icelus Marcianus.

  “A most glorious and happy birthday to you, Excellency, even if I am a few days late in wishing it to you,” Icelus said with much enthusiasm, as he gave a short bow. “May you live another seventy years!”

  “You flatter me,” Galba replied. “You know I hate that.” Clapping his hands he dismissed his servants. He then turned to his freedman. “I trust you enjoyed your holiday over the Saturnalia?”

  “A week to remember, if not for the strong drink and strange substances which I consumed,” Icelus chuckled. “But, yes, a joyous time it was. And now I return once more to do your bidding...oh, and here is a message that came only just this morning.”

  Galba took the letter and noted the seal of the Governor of Gallia Lugdunensis. He placed the letter, unopened, within the folds of his robes. His freedman knew better than to become overly curious as to the contents of the message.

  “Now, as for my bidding,” Galba began, “I need you in Rome.”

  “Of course,” Icelus said. He let out a playful sigh. “A pity you did not send me a month ago to witness the Saturnalia in Rome herself, to say nothing of the emperor’s birthday festivities!” The freedman was grinning inanely, though his master did not match it. In the years that he’d been in Galba’s service, Icelus sometimes wondered if his master ever smiled.

  “You are to conduct a thorough inventory of all assets pertaining to my family’s vineyards, as well as the olive groves we own.” Galba’s expression was unchanged. And so, Icelus simply bowed and took his leave. He had ridden day and night following his brief coastal holiday to Valentia, and within five minutes he was being sent away once more.

  As Galba sat outside on his covered veranda, he ate his breakfast alone. After a light course of fruit and a boiled peacock’s egg, he finally broke the seal on Vindex’s letter. His expression remained unchanged as the governor of Gaul emphasized the outrageous tariffs and new taxes levied by the emperor. Of course, Galba was well aware of these, as they had caused him to receive many angry letters, especially from Spanish wine and wool merchants. It was the last paragraph where Vindex called for a ‘permanent solution’, to what he feared was a never-ending financial crisis for the empire.

  “Vindex has made a bold, though possibly foolish, gesture,” Galba muttered to himself. The way the letter was written, referencing the recipients as ‘my fellow governors’ or ‘brother Romans’ told Galba that Vindex had likely sent copies to every province in the western empire. How the recipients reacted would be telling. Some would send direct replies to Vindex, while most would likely turn the letters over to Nero, in hopes of some sort of reward. As for Galba, he decided that silence was his best option at this time.

  Two weeks after Galba read Vindex’s letter of treason, the people of Rome awoke to an overcast and gloomy day. And yet, Emperor Nero was in a cheerful mood. He had his face painted white with garlands of flowers in his hair. Nero laughed wistfully as an entourage of young men and women followed him through one of the many gardens of the imperial palace. The Domus Aurea’s enormous complex was simply used for entertainment, with the emperor still residing at the old palace.

  The new consuls, Silius Italicus and Galerius Trachalus, had been sworn in for their yearlong term. A number of suffect consulships were also designated for the year, consisting of anywhere from two to six month terms. The suffects’ primary purpose was to serve as consul whenever one of the two elected was unavailable, though in some years the senate had been run by a rotating series of suffect consuls. Of the previous year’s full-term consuls, Fonteius Capito was soon departing for the Rhine, and on this day he accompanied Nero in his gardens.

  “Ah, isn’t she beautiful?” Nero said, pointing to a cluster of women gathered near one of the fountains. However, it was not they to whom he referred, but rather the sight of what was, in his mind at least, his late wife reborn. The unfortunate young man, Sporus, had thus far survived the horrific mutilation he’d suffered at the Saturnalia feast, when Nero’s praetorians had castrated him. He now wore a woman’s stola with a blonde wig atop his head. Empress Statilia was with him, along with six of her best maidservants. She took great pity on him, and her hope was that they might help what was left of the poor creature to assimilate into his new life.

  “You’re very kind,” Sporus said to Statilia, careful to avoid eye contact with the emperor. He swallowed hard and looked the empress in the eye. “Forgive me for asking, your highness, but is all this to help me, or is it to help yourself?”

  For such impudence, he expected a severe berating from Statilia.

  She simply smiled. “For one who is so young, born a slave, and has now had his manhood ripped from him, you are surprisingly astute,” she admitted. “I pity what happened to you, as much as any decent person would. But, I would be playing you false if I did not confess that this is as much, likely more, about me than it is about you.” She paused briefly, glancing towards her husband before continuing.

  The emperor was now walking along the far side of the garden, deep in conversation with the consuls and his other advisors.

  “Nero is barely thirty years of age,” Statilia said. “And yet, two empress consorts have already come and gone before me, with each meeting a terrible end. I do not intend to allow the same to happen to me. If he believes you are his beloved Poppaea, then so be it. Keep him happy, play the part, and both of our lives may still be worth
living.”

  “Yes, lady,” Sporus said with a bow.

  Confusion and depression had consumed the poor lad since that terrible night. The humiliation at no longer being a man now hurt him as deeply as the terrible wound that had been left behind. Nero had told the guards to make Sporus into a woman, but he wasn’t really. His genitals may have been cleaved away, but it is not as if they were able to replace them with a woman’s. The only way Nero could have sexual relations with his new ‘Poppaea’ was no different than with a homosexual man. In which case, there had been no call for Sporus to be so horribly mutilated! There was no way for him to be truly made into a woman, but then neither was he a man anymore. His spirit had broken over the past few weeks, and Sporus had no idea what he was anymore. He had contemplated suicide many times, but simply could not bring himself to open a vein or drink a concoction that would make him sleep forever. All he could do was play the part, take to Nero’s bed, and allow himself to be cared for by the empress’ handmaidens.

  The emperor’s entourage soon made its way out of the gardens. Joining them was the new consul, Silius Italicus, along with the outgoing consul, Fonteius Capito. Capito had served as commanding legate of one of the legions in Lower Germania, returning to Rome to serve his elected term as consul. As a reward for his service, he was being returned to the province, this time as governor. It was these two men who broke away from the group and stopped the imperial courier, who had just arrived at the palace.

  “An urgent message for the emperor, from Lucius Verginius,” the messenger said.

  “Verginius?” Capito scoffed. “Has that incompetent twat lost control over his legions already?”