by James Mace
As he sat making his notes, Vespasian laughed as he mused about one of his strongest supporters, Marcus Antonius Primus. A political firebrand with a dismal record in the senate, he was one who most patricians would cringe at referring to as a friend and ally. A deceitful opportunist who played loosely with morals and ethics, he was a surprisingly loyal friend to Vespasian. This was puzzling, for the two had little shared history, given Vespasian was twenty years older than the thirty-eight year old Primus.
Like most of the legates in the east, Primus was a veteran of the Armenian wars. A pugnacious, highly intelligent tactician and strategist, he had proven himself to be as brilliant a leader in battle as he was wretched an administrator in peace. Primus was also politically safe, because he had little ambition beyond command of a legion. He had told Vespasian on several occasions that plundering unruly barbarians just beyond Rome’s frontiers was a far more direct way of making oneself rich, rather than trying to squeeze the provincials for higher taxes. Vespasian had later told him he would not trust him to properly invest a single sestertius. Yet in battle, he would trust Primus with his life. And while he was a self-professed horrible senator, by the gods he could fight!
Vespasian smiled and nodded in satisfaction as he finished his notes. He knew he had one of the strongest foundations of support, not just in terms of military strength, but highly skilled, dependable, and loyal commanders leading them. He was, therefore, rather disturbed when a week later he received word from Primus. Having been recently given command of Legio VI, Ferrata, in Syria, he was unexpectedly being recalled to Rome.
Chapter XVI: A New Legion
The Imperial Palace, Rome
Mid-November 68 A.D.
Marcus Antonius Primus
It had taken him two weeks by sea to reach Rome, though for Marcus Antonius Primus, his return to the Eternal City felt strange. Six years had passed since the senate exiled him from the city. And while he felt a certain level of resentment, he privately admitted that he could scarcely blame his colleagues. A few of them had lost a great deal of money during one or another of Primus’ bad business ventures, while he himself had always walked away unscathed and wealthier. In one instance, a horde of slaves from the east, which the buying senators had paid for in advance, had turned out to be so riddled with disease that the few who did survive the journey to Rome had been of no use to their new masters. And, of course, there had been the incident where Primus had attempted to help a friend forge an aged relative’s will for a share of the profits. While this had been the act which got him expelled from the senate and exiled from the city of Rome, many within the senate suspected it was not his only underhanded scheme; but rather the one time he was caught.
About the only business venture that Antonius Primus found he was good at was wine making. His three vineyards near Ephesus, in Asia Minor, had made him a sizeable fortune during the six years in which he had lived in exile from Rome. Ironically, many of his clients were the same senators who had so voraciously demanded his expulsion. And while it was tempting to make an appearance at the senate to announce his return, he thought better of it. Instead, he made his way to the imperial palace, having donned his legate’s armor with his polished breastplate gleaming in the sunlight, and deep crimson cloak over his left shoulder.
He carried his helmet tucked under his left arm, as he ascended the steps leading into the palace proper. He had only been inside the home of the emperors twice before. Once was when he was fourteen, during the early reign of Claudius when he accompanied his father to a formal ceremony honoring the returning conquerors of Britannia. It was then that he first met Vespasian. The second time had been for a raucous banquet and orgy, which Emperor Nero hosted prior to the war in Armenia. Primus had been scarcely able to walk the next day, and felt it was no small miracle that he had not caught any sort of infectious disease from his debauched escapades. His visit to the palace on this day was far more subdued.
“The noble legate, Marcus Antonius Primus!” the porter’s voice boomed.
Surprisingly, there was no one else within the audience chamber, except for a handful of slaves who stood with their hands folded. The emperor sat upright on the throne, something which appeared to take great effort. Primus had never seen Galba before, and the first thing he noticed was just how old he appeared. At nearly seventy-two years of age, he was almost thirteen years older than Vespasian. Primus privately mused that Galba appeared old and decrepit enough to be his friend’s grandfather.
“General Primus,” Galba said, reading a scroll as he leaned against one of the arms of his chair. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Caesar,” Primus replied, his puzzlement showing in his face.
“You wonder why I have summoned you,” Galba noted.
The legate replied with his usual candor. “I came as quickly as I could. Thankfully the seas were fair, and I managed to arrive in just two weeks’ time. Still, I do not think you would recall me to Rome to simply wish me well. Am I correct to assume that I will not be returning to command of the Sixth Ferrata Legion?”
“You will maintain a command,” Galba replied, “but not of the Sixth. I’ll speak plainly. Your exile from the city was due to your financial irregularities, as well as your attempts to manipulate both your peers, as well as their relatives, so that you could expand your fortunes. You are the worst kind of senator; however, your skills as a soldier are exemplary.”
“I would have to agree with both of those assessments,” Primus replied with a grin which he immediately dropped, once he saw the emperor did not share in his sense of humor.
“As you know, during my march to Rome I felt it necessary to raise a new legion,” Galba continued. “But as I am now Caesar, the Seventh Gemina Legion is in need of a new legate. The chief tribune thinks command should naturally fall to him. However, he is just a boy with little to no experience. I need you to take command, and build the Seventh into a legion worthy of our great empire and the emperor who founded it.”
“I am honored,” Primus said, with a respectful nod. “Where is the legion posted now?”
“They are en route to Pannonia,” the emperor answered. “I have tasked them with building their fortress on the Danube, protecting our frontier against the Dacians.”
“Does the legion have a master centurion?” the legate asked, after taking a moment to comprehend what was being asked of him.
“No,” Galba replied. “Most of the officers were volunteers from the western legions, who only requested transfer because it meant a promotion. If you have a primus pilus you wish to reassign, by all means take him.”
“I’ll leave at once,” Primus said. He gave a quick salute and exited the hall.
While he loved the imperial palace for all of its splendor and art, something about the new emperor unnerved him. Though he knew nothing about Galba’s covert attempt at killing off his friend, Vespasian, Primus was very much aware of Galba’s bloody march to Rome. Rumors further abounded that he had proven himself to be rather mean-spirited since his arrival. At least Nero had been affable, if somewhat mad and highly unpredictable. After six years away from the imperial capital, Marcus Antonius Primus remained for just two days before departing for the Danube.
While Primus had been unnerved by his audience at the palace, Marcus Salvius Otho found he was right at home. His influence over the emperor was growing, and he had furthermore expanded his circle of political allies exponentially. Though technically still Governor of Lusitania, he had left his deputy to maintain the province. Meanwhile, he continued to insert himself deeper into the court of Emperor Galba. Foremost among his political allies was the consul-designate, Titus Vinius. It was he who Otho chose to host at a private dinner, in one of the staterooms which he had procured at Nero’s Domus Aurea.
“This is a wonderful place for entertaining!” Otho said, with enthusiasm. “A pity it has fallen into disuse since Nero left us.”
That Otho had been one of Nero’s court favorites
was no secret to anyone, hence his less-than-damning language when speaking of the deceased former emperor. Nero’s memory had been condemned by the senate. Although, they had stopped short of issuing the formal damnatio memoriae, in light of the people’s lingering love for him.
“The emperor views this complex to be a lavish waste of imperial resources,” Vinius replied. “I expect it will fall into disrepair and, possibly, be demolished in the coming years.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Otho concurred. “Hence, I reckon we should enjoy its magnificence now, before it falls apart over our heads.”
“Agreed,” the prefect said, holding up his wine chalice in salute. “But tell me, now that we are firmly established in Rome, how can I be of further service to you?”
“What makes you think I need something else from you?” Otho asked, feigning insult. “Thanks to you, I am now one of Galba’s more trusted advisors, particularly on his sacred topic of finances. Can I not simply ask a friend to dinner?”
“So now we’re friends?” Vinius asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I know what you want, you haven’t exactly been secretive about it.”
“Galba is an old man,” Otho stated. “He is also as frail as he is stubborn and callous. He won no friends among the plebs or patricians during his bloody trek to Rome. And let us not kid ourselves, the people see him and can only speculate on how long it will be before he falls over dead.”
“A rather bold choice of words, wouldn’t you say?” Vinius asked.
“I’ll go a step further and state that my words are reckless,” Otho added. “But let us be honest. Galba has no friends, and were he a younger man his actions thus far could have incited rebellion. I still worry they might, which would greatly complicate my plans. As it is, the people are simply watching and waiting for his demise. What is most troubling is that he has no successor. Both his sons died years ago, and they left him no grandchildren. The empire needs a stable line of succession, otherwise it will invite other pretenders to try and claim the imperial throne. You know what that would do. There will be no Galbian Dynasty unless he adopts a successor, sooner rather than later.”
“And you think it should be you,” Vinius said, popping a date into his mouth, a knowing grin crossing his face. “You know, I often suspected that your ambitions went as high as the imperial throne. You’ve hinted at it, less than subtly I might add, with all your talk of ‘our plans’. I must say, you do not disappoint.”
“Can you think of anyone else more worthy?” Otho replied, with an equally knowing grin. “Perhaps you, too, have aspirations to become Caesar?”
“The Julio-Claudian Dynasty may be dead,” Vinius remarked. “However, aristocratic pedigree is still crucial to the senate. That his family is one of the oldest in Rome was chief among the reasons why the senate was so accepting of Galba as their new emperor. That he has no sons, or other living relatives for that matter, is unfortunate. I, however, do not have the necessary nobility within my own ancestry to be considered a viable candidate. And besides, regardless of how old and frail Galba may be, the senate will demand an heir that is far younger than I.”
“So, you agree then, that I am as suitable a potential successor as any?” Otho emphasized.
Vinius fixed his stare upon his silver wine chalice which he turned around slowly in his hands, while he formulated his words. He had been expecting this for some time, and he had mentally prepared himself well for his meeting with the man who hoped to inherit the greatest empire the world had ever seen.
“That you were one of Nero’s favorites at court will endear you to the masses,” he said at last. “No one in the senate will ever admit to it, but Nero was loved by the plebs. And I must admit, your administration of the province of Lusitania was admirable. In fact, I think it surprised practically everyone. You appreciate beauty and extravagance enough to keep the people’s minds occupied, while also being prudent enough financially so as to not bankrupt the imperial coffers. You do lack in military experience, but then, so did Augustus. Let me ask you this, how old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Hmm,” Vinius continued. “You’re not some young, inexperienced boy; and yet, you’re not a feeble old man, either. If you are named Galba’s heir—and provided the trappings of ultimate power do not drive you completely mad—you could conceivably have a long and glorious reign. However, if I am to support you in your claim to be the emperor’s proposed heir, then I will need something in return.”
“But of course,” Otho agreed, already knowing what the price would be.
“I do not want wealth,” Vinius said, “for I have plenty to spare. What I want is a direct link to the new imperial dynasty. You are quite right to voice concern over the fact that Galba has no living heirs. But then, neither do you.”
“This is true. We all know about my previous wife being unfortunate, in that she became infatuated with Emperor Nero. Personally, I think it was power and the thought of becoming empress that she truly lusted after. A lot of good it did her in the end.”
Otho’s cold words regarding Poppaea may have seemed callous, especially since many speculated that it was he who encouraged her affair with Nero in the first place. That Otho so willingly divorced her, so that she could become his consort, had secured his place as one of the favorites at court. It had also gained him his governorship of Lusitania.
“Well, unlike Galba, you are still young enough to sire an heir,” Vinius emphasized. “And you know my daughter is unmarried and ready to find a suitable husband. I also understand you are quite fond of each other. You’ve told many people that you intend to marry her, though you have yet to ask me for my permission.”
Otho simply shrugged at this observation. “Vinia is a young and attractive woman, and an absolute delight.”
“I am going to be rather presumptuous and state that that was your plan all along; to court my favor with the emperor, and to use marriage with my daughter as a means of securing your position as Galba’s heir.”
“The daughter of the former proconsul of North Africa, as well as the emperor’s colleague during next year’s consulship is more than an ideal match,” Otho replied smoothly. “Help me to secure my rights as Galba’s successor, and you will find yourself as father-in-law to the next emperor. I’ll even name the new dynasty after both our families.”
The two drank and talked well into the night, and by the time Vinius left the Domus Aurea, Otho was brimming with confidence regarding his future. Vinius had known of his ambitions for some time, and understood his family would reap the ultimate rewards if Otho became Caesar. He would become father of the empress, with his future grandchildren becoming imperial princes and princesses. The Julio-Claudians, after the brief interlude of Galba’s reign, would give way to what Vinius hoped would be known as the Otho-Vinian Dynasty.
It would be several weeks before Primus arrived at the fortress of his new command. Inexplicably, Master Centurion Vitruvius, who had served as his primus pilus with Legio VI, had arrived just before him.
The principia building was still under construction, much like the rest of the fortress. The offices on the ground floor were still able to be used, since the top floor protected them from inclement weather. Inside the foyer, the centurion primus pilus was holding a meeting with the legion’s cohort commanders.
“Men,” he said, “We have a number of pressing issues which continue to plague this legion. Firstly, I have recently become aware of the fact that we have at least twenty decani who cannot read or write. While their attempts at stepping forward into leadership positions is admirable, an officer is completely useless if he cannot decipher written instructions or dispatches. These men are to be reduced in rank back to legionary. It is up to you to check your subordinate centuries to make certain this shit doesn’t happen again. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the cohort commanders replied in unison.
“Armament,” Vitruvius continued, moving on to their next issue.
“Getting sufficient armor for our men will be a fucking nightmare. Our new emperor seems to think we can simply shit out fully trained and armed legionaries, yet our soldiers are still completely raw, and they are bloody useless to us if we cannot equip them properly.”
There was a single knock on the door, followed by Primus stepping into the room. All of the pilus priors immediately stood.
Master Centurion Vitruvius snapped to attention. “General, sir.” “At ease,” Primus replied. He then addressed the assembled officers. “Armor...armor is indeed a problem that every new legion is plagued with. We are also well understrength with only thirty-five hundred men on the roles. I managed to get my hands on the quartermaster’s reports before I came to Pannonia. As of six weeks ago, we had less than three hundred sets of segmentata plate armor, with about twice as many sets of hamata chainmail that had been scrounged from various sources. A lot of it is garbage, rusted and pitted, and only good for scrap. I sent word to every legion and auxilia regiment within two hundred miles, as well as called in a few favors from a handful of former legates. It will likely take a few months, but I think we can at least get most of our lads into hamata chain.”
“Can we not get more suits of segmentata made?” one of the centurions asked. “And what about helmets?”
“The reality we have to face is that we simply do not have enough smiths and armorers, not to mention the vast amounts of iron necessary to forge sufficient segmentata for all of our legionaries,” the legate answered.
“Segmentata is also tedious to construct properly,” Vitruvius added. “It’s not just the plates, but all the hinges, clasps, and rivets. And every set needs to be custom fit to each soldier. It may provide better protection than hamata, but until we can get more sets of plate produced, we’ll simply have to make do.”