by James Mace
“Then you must search for favorable omens,” Galba remarked plainly. He knew if he allowed such ill portends to be made public with no good tidings to counter them, it would cause needless unrest among Rome’s all-too-superstitious populace. He then added, “I will stay as long as I must, until the gods choose to look upon us with favor.”
Umbricius simply bowed and called upon a servant to bring him a sacrificial bird, that they may study its entrails and divine the gods’ will in this manner.
“Forgive me if I must leave you, Caesar,” Otho said, in a low voice. “I came to pay my respects, but I have urgent business with my housing contractors.”
Galba simply nodded, likely glad to be rid of the insufferable hanger-on, for that is how he now viewed Otho. The younger man’s tirade over the emperor’s choice for successor had only verified Galba’s suspicions about him. That Vinius had given such flattering recommendations of the former Governor of Lusitania, now caused the emperor to doubt the council of his consular colleague.
As Otho left the Temple of Apollo, he was both eager and confident. Being more prone to superstitions than Galba, he felt that Umbricius’ auspices, as well as Galba’s total disregard for them, only ensured his success. His freedman, Onomastus, was waiting for him just outside the palace gates.
“The master-builder and the contractors are ready,” he said. “They have all their necessary tools and have agreed to meet at the Temple of Saturn.”
To allay any suspicions, Otho and his freedman took the long route to the Roman Forum, following along the Circus Maximus, then taking a side street through a residential area. At Capitoline Hill they turned north, entering the Forum on the southwest corner by the Temple of Saturn.
As usual, the Forum was crammed with citizens conducting their midmorning affairs. People crowded around the various vendor stalls, while others gathered to hear the latest news from the city crier, who himself was waiting to hear the omens from Galba’s augurs. Amidst the great masses of humanity, Otho and Onomastus spotted a group of men in red tunics and cloaks waiting for them. Otho had expected a much larger gathering of his ‘contractors’ and was taken aback to see only twenty-three present. He then recognized Optio Veturius and Guardsman Statius amongst the small assembly.
“Veturius!” Otho shouted, now full of apprehension. “Where the fuck is everyone else?”
“They will come,” the optio said confidently. “But now we must get you to the praetorian barracks.”
“You have to trust us, sire,” Statius added, noting Otho’s anxiety at the paltry number of guardsmen with them. “The pieces are in place. Galba will fall before the day is done.”
“And speed is now key,” Veturius emphasized. “Remember, Proculus, myself, and several of the lads are supposed to be on duty at the palace right now. The absence of guardsmen like Statius and Atticus can be concealed for a short time. An optio and tesserarius, however...” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.
Otho immediately understood. Prefect Laco had likely already been informed that a number of guardsmen, including a pair of officers, were absent from duty. And, unless Statius and his conspirators completely misjudged the lack of loyalty to Galba amongst the praetorians, their barracks was now the safest place for Otho to establish his temporary stronghold.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Not sulking like a criminal, sire,” Veturius said. He pointed to an ornate chair which four slaves stood around. The optio then shouted to his guardsmen, “Praetorians...gladius, draw! Protect the emperor!”
The commotion caught the attention of numerous bystanders, who were puzzled to see not Galba, but a much younger man being hoisted up in a chair and surrounded by the emperor’s personal guard. Even when not wearing their armor, praetorian guardsmen were always readily noticeable by their deep crimson cloaks and distinctive signet rings, as well as being one of the only bodies of men who were legally allowed to be armed within the city.
“Make way for the emperor!” Veturius shouted at the crowds, who quickly parted before the column of armed soldiers briskly walked through them.
Thousands of faces gazed up at Otho, as he was rapidly paraded through the Forum and onto the Via Sacra with confusion running rampant. While many knew of Otho, as he was the former governor of Lusitania and a member of the emperor’s court, very few even knew what he looked like. The now ‘would be usurper’ was only recognized when the entourage passed within a few feet of Senator Italicus, the consul from the previous year. The two men shared a glance. While Italicus remained stoic, as soon as the praetorians had marched past him, he hastened to the imperial palace.
Less than an hour had passed since Otho’s hasty departure from the Temple of Apollo, and Galba still patiently waited for some favorable omens from his chief augur. Prefect Laco watched from a respectful distance, quickly growing both bored and anxious. He noticed one of his centurions walking hurriedly towards him from the direction of the palace.
“Centurion Densus reporting to the commander, sir,” the officer said, with a sharp salute.
“Yes, what is it?” Laco said with irritation. All reports usually came to him from the tribune of the guard, not one of the subordinate centurions.
“I regret to report that several of my men are absent from the ranks,” Densus replied. “They include both my optio and tesserarius.”
“And did you report this to Tribune Vergilio?”
“I did, sir,” the centurion responded. “He instructed me to find you, while he gets a count of the rest of the duty cohort. I fear, sir, a number of our men are missing.”
“I see,” the prefect replied. He was now alarmed, especially since two of those absent were officers. Usurpation and treachery never even crossed his mind. He feared some unforeseen disaster must have befallen his men. Either that or they were still drunk from a previous night’s debauchery. He ordered the centurion, “Return to your men. Have Tribune Vergilio find me as soon as he knows how many men from the duty cohort are missing.”
Densus saluted and left his commander to ponder over what was transpiring. Laco’s thoughts were interrupted a few minutes later by a group of four city officials, who were walking with all haste to where Galba still waited for the gods to deliver better portends to him.
“Hold!” the prefect snapped at the men. He stepped in front of them and refused to let them pass. “Do you not see that the emperor is engaged in his sacred duties to the gods? Would you dare interrupt him?”
“We would not,” one of the men replied, “except that we must inform him the empire is no longer his; it belongs to another.”
“What was that?” Galba said, turning quickly to face them.
“You have been betrayed, Caesar,” another magistrate said. “A number of your own praetorian guardsmen have proclaimed another man emperor. They did so right in the middle of the Forum, before hoisting him up on a chair and spiriting him away. Most likely, they are headed for the praetorian barracks.”
“Did you see who it was?” Licinianus spoke up. He was clearly far more vexed than Galba, whose expression alone told of his doubts regarding the veracity of their story.
“We did not,” the first man replied. “The Forum was crammed with people, and we did not get a good look at his face. He appeared to be fair-haired with a lighter complexion.”
“I saw him!” a voice shouted, from across the courtyard.
“Senator Italicus,” Galba acknowledged. “And what news do you bring? Who is this wanton wretch who would dare betray me?”
“It was Otho, Caesar,” the senator answered, bowing his head for a moment. “There were not many guardsmen with him, perhaps twenty, but I suspect more are involved. They would not have made such a bold display otherwise.”
Laco knew he could not conceal the embarrassing absence of a number of his guardsmen now that he recognized it was treachery, rather than misfortune, causing their absenteeism.
“I’ve just been informed that a
handful of praetorians from the palace duty cohort were absent from formation, Caesar,” he said, gritting his teeth at the awkwardness of the admission.
“If that is the case, then we must quickly confirm the fealty of those that remain,” Vinius said, speaking for the first time since their arrival at the temple.
“Are you daring to question the loyalty of the Praetorian Guard?” Laco snarled, taking the remark as a personal insult. His relationship with the consul had grown strained since they arrived in Rome. “You were always so fond of Otho. I doubt you are in any position to question loyalties!”
“By your own admission, some of your guardsmen have declared Otho emperor,” Vinius snapped back. “And if you cannot control them, then perhaps we need a prefect who can!”
“Enough!” Galba barked. He took a deep breath and composed himself. “A handful of renegade praetorians is no reason to raise panic within a city of one million people. Yes, we will make certain the cohort on duty is loyal, and then we will deal with the conspirators.”
“Forgive me, Caesar,” Vinius said. “But I recommend you not address the duty cohort directly. If they are, in fact, part of the plot, then they could simply cut you down in the courtyard.”
“I will go,” Licinianus said emphatically. He looked to Galba. “If I am to be your heir, and one day emperor, then I need to be seen as one.”
“Very well,” Galba agreed, though his motives had little to do with the perceived threat which he still viewed as negligible. “Get the guardsmen to swear their fealty, and then we can deal with our former friend, Otho.”
Licinianus then spoke to Laco. “Prefect, have your men assembled on the parade field. I will address them in ten minutes.”
It had taken the better part of an hour to reach the praetorian barracks. Just outside of the Domus Aurea, where the unfinished colossal statue of Nero stood, another thirty guardsmen joined their procession. As they wound through the streets of Rome, they spotted a handful of praetorian patrols. These men, while they did not join Otho’s entourage, made no effort to stop them or ask what in Jupiter’s name they thought they were doing.
At the praetorian barracks, the officer on duty was Tribune Julius Martialis. He was conducting a check of the southern watch towers when a squad of guardsmen, who had been on patrol in a nearby neighborhood, burst through the half-opened gate.
“Tribune, sir,” the decanus leading the men said, saluting sloppily while trying to catch his breath. “One of our companies approaches carrying a man who they claim is the emperor.”
“What do you mean ‘who they claim’ is the emperor?” the tribune asked. “I was not expecting Galba to be paying us a visit this day, let alone this early in the morning.”
“It’s not Galba, sir,” the decanus replied. “I’m not sure who it is, but I did recognize Optio Veturius among those proclaiming this man as ‘Caesar’.”
“Company approaching!” a guardsman on the nearest tower shouted down.
“Shall we bar the gate?” another man asked.
Martialis, though a competent officer, was keenly aware of the fact that neither Galba nor Laco appreciated any form of initiative from their subordinates. He was also in such a state of disbelief he simply shook his head. And before any of the praetorians could have even attempted to close the gate, the large procession stormed through with the men in the entourage giving shouts of, “Hail, Caesar!” The slaves, who were red-faced and completely out of breath, set the chair down. Martialis did not know Otho, but he recognized him as a member of the senate, given the broad purple stripe on his toga.
“Senator,” he said.
“Not ‘senator’, sir,” Optio Veturius corrected. “Emperor.”
Otho raised his hand, signaling for all to be silent.
“My name is Marcus Salvius Otho,” he explained. “I need you to gather all tribunes and centurions in the principia. All will be explained then.”
“Yes, sir,” the tribune said, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about them,” Guardsman Statius said, as soon as the tribune was out of earshot. “Given how badly Laco keeps his thumb on the praetorians, no one above the rank of decanus will so much as issue an order to take a shit without permission from the prefect or emperor.” He glanced over at Optio Veturius. “Beg your pardon, sir.”
The optio snorted and shrugged. “I only hope that whoever you choose as new prefect will not stifle initiative among his subordinates, Caesar.”
“We’ll sort that out when the time comes,” Otho replied. “But right now, I need to see as many of the guardsmen as possible. Have them paraded on the drill field at once.”
The attitude of the duty cohort at the imperial palace was a mix of confusion with traces of hostility. Many knew the reasons why Optio Veturius and a number of his men were absent. And even if the rest of the cohort had not flocked to Otho’s banner, there was little enthusiasm among them for Galba. The centurions were either indifferent or contemptuous of the man they had been forced to acknowledge as ‘Caesar’. Only Densus, a man whose oath was a sacred bond of more value than his life, remained steadfast. What he failed to take into account was that not all of his guardsmen placed the same value on their oaths. That his optio, whom he had personally chosen as his second-in-command, was now a traitor, was a crushing blow to the centurion.
Densus was not naïve, and he understood why so many people, especially among the soldiery, hated Galba. His actions, particularly those at Milvian Bridge, gave credence to his reputation as a bloodthirsty tyrant who placed no value on the lives of others. His mean-spiritedness had only further alienated him from much of the Roman public. And yet, for all that, he was still the emperor. Densus reasoned it was not for him, or any soldier—be they praetorian, legionary, or auxiliary—to decide who did and did not have the right to be emperor. Galba had been proclaimed ‘Caesar’ by the Senate of Rome. And therefore, as a praetorian guardsman, Densus was duty bound to protect the emperor with his life.
The centurion, along with the rest of the cohort, paraded in front of the reviewing platform where Licinianus now stood. Few knew the young man, though all had hoped he would be a more benevolent, not to mention generous, emperor than his predecessor. And as word quickly spread of Otho’s usurpation and the defection of an unknown number of their fellow guardsmen, all knew why the imperial prince stood before them.
“Members of the Praetorian Guard,” Licinianus began. “My friends and comrades.” He paused for a moment after this brief introduction, the use of the word ‘comrades’ confusing the men slightly. It was normally only used to address the guard during times of war. Despite the lack of support for Galba, many of the guardsmen thought the defection was a small number of conspirators and nothing more. Was the heir to the throne now insinuating that a state of war existed within Rome herself?
“I speak to you now, regarding matters of both honor and shame,” Licinianus continued. “The very honor of the imperial house rests in your hands, as it has since the days of Augustus. And while legionaries have been known to mutiny, the Praetorian Guard has always stood steadfast behind the emperor. In the dark days that preceded the rise of Emperor Galba, it was Nero who deserted you; the Guard did not desert him. But know this, honor will be blackened and a great shame cast upon the Guard, should you allow an effeminate despot such as Otho to seize power from your rightful emperor. Will we allow a handful of lower enlisted guardsmen, whose renegade leadership is comprised of a couple of junior officers, to determine the fate of the Roman world? If you choose to follow Otho, the result will be civil war with much needless strife and loss of Roman lives. Galba came to the throne by rights of merit rather than bloodshed. Should the guard side with Otho, then Rome will be cursed with another Nero!”
While his speech had been received thus far with respectful silence, this last remark brought a handful of grumblings from the ranks. Everyone present knew it was all a farce, and thousands had been brutally slain along G
alba’s bloody journey from Hispania to Rome. It was also unwise for Licinianus to invoke the name of Nero in such a disrespectful manner. The guardsmen had been devoted to the Julio-Claudian emperor, and many revered his name still.
“Oh, piss on this!” a voice snapped, from the crowd.
A couple of guardsmen were seen breaking formation and sulking away towards the gatehouse. Such a gross breach of discipline would normally warrant swift disciplinary action, in the form of either a serious fine or flogging. Yet, none of the centurions or options lifted a finger or raised their voices to stop the men. Licinianus decided there was nothing he could do, except continue to implore those who still stood on the field to remain steadfast in their loyalties.
“My friends,” he continued. “Many of you are disgruntled, because the donative promised you by Nymphidius has not been paid. I understand your disappointment, but know that your emperor intends to reward you fully and to make good on all promises. Once the finances of the empire, which have been left in disarray for some time, are secure, you shall have all that you asked for.”
His speech, while earnest and full of sound reasoning, felt rather flat and uninspired when it was over. There was no formal call to dismiss the praetorians, and as Licinianus waited, they simply milled about, confused and insipid.
“At least they are not calling for your head,” the young prince said, as he returned to Galba a short time later.
“You have done well, my son,” the emperor replied. “I have dispatched three military tribunes to the praetorian barracks, though I think we should follow this up by sending my heir to them. The urban cohorts have been cantoned within their camp as well, and while I have taken direct control of these men from their prefect, we must verify their allegiance.”
“We’ve sent dispatches to the Germanic auxiliaries posted near the Atrium Libertatis,” Laco added. “There are cohorts from the Illyrian legions that are camped in Vipsanian Portico, as well as First Adiutrix Legion, that we’ve sent word to.”