by James Mace
“And before the treacherous Otho can compel any more guardsmen to take the path of suicidal insanity,” Galba remarked casually, “we will have several thousand troops standing firm in front of the imperial palace, ready to crush any traitors who dare defy me.”
Otho made certain that those praetorians who had escorted him from the Forum replaced the men on sentry duty at the barracks gate. The military tribunes had ridden on horseback had arrived in short order, only to be firmly rebuked by the guardsmen on the gate.
And while the tribunes were being told, in rather curt and unflattering language, to be about their business, the presumptive emperor addressed the mass numbers of praetorians encamped at the barracks. Of their own initiative, the guardsmen had brought all of their various cohort and century standards to be displayed in the massive parade formation. The speaker’s platform had a bust of Galba atop a six-foot pillar. Before Otho took to the stage, Guardsman Statius walked over to the column and kicked it over. The stone bust of the emperor crashed onto the wooden platform, many praetorians cheering the display.
“The stage is yours, sire,” Statius said quietly to Otho, as he ascended the platform. “Now convince these men as to why they should proclaim you ‘Caesar’.”
Otho nodded and turned to face the huge formation. He raised both his hands high and began.
“Men of the Praetorian Guard,” he said. “I stand before you, not as a man who seeks to bring down an emperor, but as one who, like you, was grievously wronged. That miserly old bastard has more than enough in his personal coffers to pay your promised donative ten times over! And if you hoped to have your miseries put to an end once he departs this world, his successor will only ensure that your sorrows continue. Licinianus was chosen not for his virtue, but for his meanness; his gloomy countenance makes him the emperor’s perfect counterpart. And, as you witnessed, the gods themselves have damned this succession, the storms and tempests announcing their extreme displeasure. But we must advance quickly, for we cannot afford to delay. The senate and people are of one mind, that Galba is little more than a petty and opportunistic tyrant who stole the throne at the first opportunity and bullied the senate into crowning him Caesar.”
Though he hated quoting anything previously spoken by Galba, his next words came straight from the man whom he now looked to depose. “But know this, my friends, I do not come here to simply purchase your loyalty. You are soldiers of the empire, and the personal guard of the Emperor of Rome. I only offer you that which is yours by right. All I ask in return, is will you grant me that which this noble body has given the emperors since the time of Augustus? Will you follow me and help us to rid Rome of the despicable oppressor?”
“Yes!” a chorus of voices shouted. Otho had no way of knowing the reception he received thus far was substantially more enthusiastic than the tepid acclaim Licinianus had been given by the duty cohort at the palace. What he did know was that all of the tribunes and centurions of the Praetorian Guard, being as the principia was very close to the drill field, were well within hearing of their soldiers’ ovations. Knowing that they would rather risk disgrace at the hands of Galba, rather than the swords of their own guardsmen, the leadership of the praetorians was now completely paralyzed.
“Then know this,” Otho said, raising a clenched fist up near his face. “The path for us is clear. If we falter now, all of you will face unholy retribution from the hateful bastard who dares to defile the imperial throne. All of us know what wickedness he is capable of. He has put to death many a great man, over the mildest of infractions and insults to his sullied ego. And while Galba prattles on about economic responsibility, his pedagogues have amassed greater fortunes in six months than all of Nero’s favorite courtiers combined in thirteen years! He’s even had the audacity to name Icelus, a former slave, as a member of the equites!”
These last revelations caused a chorus of boos and disparaging insults directed towards Galba and his favorites. Many were now calling for the heads of Laco, their own prefect, as well as Icelus and Vinius. Otho quietly hoped he could spare the consul, for even though Vinius had failed to convince Galba to name Otho his successor, he had acted in good faith and been one of the few who Otho could consider his friend.
“I can see that all of you know the situation will not improve, even after Galba mercifully departs this life,” he continued. “He has chosen a young man, not based on any sense of merit, but because they share the same level of miserly cruelty. Licinianus may be a charismatic man, but he is of the same bitter temperament as his benefactor. If you desire me as your emperor, know that I cannot serve you as Caesar while Galba still lives.”
“I will execute Licinianus, personally,” Guardsman Statius said, from the front of the crowd. The man’s eyes were steely and fierce.
Otho had met few with Statius’ sense of determination, and he knew the praetorian would be of much greater use to him than a simple guardsman.
“Just remember,” Otho added. “We are here to free the people of Rome, not to terrorize them. You are still soldiers of the Praetorian Guard not a rampaging horde. The people despise Galba; the senate despises Galba; and the soldiers despise Galba. But of those, only soldiers hold the capacity to act. Make ready, then, and before the day is done, we will usher in a new age for Rome, an age of freedom and prosperity. And while our enemies may call us traitors, I say this; if treason brings prosperity, then it is not treason at all!”
The throng of praetorians greeted this with another loud ovation while chanting Otho’s name repeatedly. As he descended from the dais, he was surprised to see one of the praetorian tribunes waiting for him. The officer drew his gladius, which he then held up in salute.
“Marcus Salvius Otho,” the tribune said. “The leaders of the Praetorian Guard will not oppose you. However, I will do something more. I hereby offer you my sword and pledge my fealty to you as Emperor of Rome.”
“What is your name, tribune?” Otho asked.
“Plotius Firmus, sire.”
“And you shall be one of my prefects of the Praetorian Guard,” Otho asserted. “Unlike the usurper, I will reward initiative not stifle it. And by your initiative and bravery, you have proven yourself worthy to lead the Guard.”
He then gathered some of his chief conspirators to him, while dismissing the rest of the guardsmen to await further orders.
“Tribunes from Galba’s loyalists came to the barracks,” a guardsman reported.
“No doubt he will send messages to all military forces within ten miles of Rome,” Firmus observed.
“Well, we must see how they react before we proceed,” Otho remarked. “I doubt that Galba holds the love of even a single legionary, yet we must not act foolishly.” He looked to two of his praetorians. “Guardsman Statius, Guardsman Atticus.”
“Sir,” both men said, instinctively coming to attention.
“I need you to scout the Forum and around the imperial palace. We need to draw Galba out into the open if we are to strike him down this day. Atticus, you will go to the palace under the pretense that I have been killed. Galba will have no choice but to come to the Forum and address the mob, who will be a confused mass.”
Onomastus spoke up. “Sire, I have received word from the Germanic cavalry regiments. They stated they received emissaries from Galba, and they drove them away with the points of their lances. They will be at the barracks within the hour, awaiting your orders. The same has happened with the Adiutrix Legion. Three of their cohorts are also headed this way.”
“Excellent,” Otho said, beating a fist into the palm of his other hand. “A wall of horsemen will clear a path through any crowd, with our praetorians and legionaries to follow. Alright then, Guardsman Statius, Guardsman Atticus, you have your orders.”
As the two men left, Otho ordered the armory opened. Praetorians rushed to kit themselves in their armor, arming themselves with both gladii and stabbing spear alike. Although Tribune Firmus had proclaimed for Otho, the individual guardsmen se
emed to take pleasure in the pained expressions upon the faces of those centurions and tribunes who were either loyal to Galba, or simply powerless to stop the tide of rebellion. Otho was glad for the ease with which this made the arming of his force and secretly decided then and there to sack the tribunes, while cashiering the centurions for their inability to maintain control over their soldiers.
Chapter XX: Strike, if best for Rome
The Forum, Rome
15 January 69 A.D.
Praetorian Optio
It was another hour before Statius and Atticus reached their destinations. The streets were crowded with citizens, many of whom were in a curious frenzy from the rumors they’d heard earlier, regarding an attempt to seize the throne. And when approached by a squad of their fellow praetorians, they stated that Otho was slain, before quickly moving on. They spotted Licinianus mounted on a great black mare, trying to force his way through the crowds en route to the praetorian barracks. The two soldiers avoided any contact with the imperial prince. At the Forum they split up, with Atticus making his way to the imperial palace. Passing by a butcher’s stall, he plunged his gladius into the carcass of a goat, covering the blade in blood. Crowds gathered, blocking the street that ran between the palace and the Circus Maximus.
Rumors of Otho’s supposed killing reached the palace even before Guardsman Atticus. Galba was meeting with his councilors, as well as several officers from the praetorians. Taking every precaution, despite his dismissive air, the emperor wore a breastplate over his toga. Among the praetorians present was Atticus’ commander, Centurion Densus, who scowled in anger when saw his errant guardsman burst into the throne room, a bloodied gladius in his hand. Crowds of citizens; senators, equites, and plebeians alike swarmed past him and surrounded Galba.
“The traitor is dead!” one voice called.
“Hail, Galba, Emperor of Rome and lord of the world!” another shouted.
“So you see, my friends,” Galba said, looking to his colleagues. “The crisis has passed before it even began.” He looked sternly at Atticus. “And who are you, who comes into the august hall wielding a bloody sword?”
“Guardsman Julius Atticus at your service, Caesar,” he replied, saluting with his weapon and bowing low. “It was I who killed Otho, and my blade is stained with his blood.”
“Indeed?” Galba asked, the corner of his mouth twisting into a partial frown. “And who gave you orders to slay the pretender?”
“I...I did so of my own initiative, sire,” Atticus replied, stunned. “Out of loyalty to my emperor!”
“A man, even a praetorian, who kills without orders from his commanding officer, is guilty of murder,” the emperor retorted, once more showing his complete lack of faith in his subordinates or their sense of ingenuity. He signaled to Centurion Densus, who walked over to his soldier.
“Guardsman Atticus,” he said. “You are under arrest for murder, as well as being absent from the ranks without permission.”
If he expected Atticus to comply, he was sadly mistaken.
Instead, the guardsman kneed him hard in the groin. “Go fuck your mother, sir,” he retorted, spitting on his centurion. Before any of the guards within the chamber could react, Atticus disappeared into the mass of people that continued to swarm the palace. Few even noticed the praetorian centurion down on one knee, gasping for breath as he struggled back to his feet. Neither the emperor nor his guards could control the mob, who were crying out prayers of thanks to the gods for their emperor’s deliverance.
Praetorians desperately tried to form a cordon between the mob and Galba, while others fanned out in order to prevent any would be looters from robbing the palace.
As Vinius watched the chaotic scene, he found it extremely undignified. Like Otho, he knew most of the people despised Galba and were only fawning about him because they thought Otho was dead, and they might win the emperor’s favor with their supplications. But as Guardsman Atticus could now attest, Galba showed favors to none, except for his pedagogues and now his heir.
What surprised all, was when Galba was suddenly lifted onto the shoulders of several men and placed into one of his traveling chairs. They were shocked that he made no protest, or any other attempts to stop the mob from carrying him out of the palace and onto the street. Tribune Vergilio reformed most of the duty cohort of the Praetorian Guard who surrounded the emperor, clearing a path through the throng.
“To the Forum!” he shouted, pointing forward with his gladius.
Out on the street, Atticus violently shoved his way through the mass of people, taking a mere ten minutes to reach the Forum. He found Statius standing outside the Temple of the Vestal Virgins on the eastern outskirts of the Forum.
“The crowds here are mostly quiet,” he said, to his fellow praetorian. “I think they are more inquisitive than anything at the moment.”
“Well, there is a rather voracious following headed this way carrying the emperor in his chair,” Atticus remarked, deciding not to waste time with the story of his near arrest by their own centurion.
“Alright,” Statius nodded. “I’ll head back to the barracks. You keep an eye on things here and wait for us to return. If, for some reason, Galba panics and barricades himself in the palace, return to barracks at once. I only hope our cavalry and legionary allies are ready to advance.” That he would give orders to one who was the same rank as he may have seemed strange to some, but Guardsman Tiberius Statius wielded far more power than any outside of the Praetorian Guard realized.
Atticus climbed the steps of the Vestals’ temple, lurking in the shadows near one of the columns. The last thing he wanted was for Centurion Densus to spot him, lest he send a host of their fellow guardsmen to apprehend him.
Statius knew the back streets of Rome better than most, and was able to avoid most of the crowds as he wound his way back to the praetorian barracks. He arrived half an hour after leaving Atticus to provide over-watch at the Forum. A full regiment of auxilia cavalrymen paraded in front of the barracks, with troopers standing next to their horses awaiting orders. Behind them were hundreds of legionaries, their freshly-painted, red shields bearing the winged horse, Pegasus, across the top.
The gate was quickly opened as men on the ramparts recognized their fellow conspirator. Statius found Otho at the principia, along with the cavalry commander and a handful of other officers from the legionary detachments.
“Crowds gather in the Forum,” Statius informed him. “They are silent spectators at the moment, but we fear they may have recourse to take up arms, should we hesitate. Their numbers, along with the horde that now bears Galba to the Forum, is in the tens-of-thousands. Our numbers are too few should the people side with the tyrant.”
“And I will not have my first day as emperor be stained with the blood of our citizens,” Otho asserted. He looked to the cavalry commander. “Deploy the vanguard forward and have them disperse the crowds posthaste.”
“Yes, Caesar,” the commander said, before saluting and departing.
Otho turned to Tribune Firmus and the legionary centurions. “Ready your men,” he ordered. “We march on the Forum to depose the tyrant. Onomastus, once Galba is dead you will take this message to the senate.” He handed his freedman a scroll, before steeling himself to join his soldiers and meet his destiny. Since his century was with Galba’s escort, Statius positioned himself at the back of one of the praetorian cohorts. He did not bother with his shield, as his duties this day did not involve fighting on a battle line.
Both guardsman and legionary alike left their javelins at the barracks, for they would be difficult to employ in confined spaces. They could also, potentially, inflict hundreds of unnecessary casualties. At the commands of their officers, the Germanic auxiliary cavalrymen mounted their horses, spears shouldered. As they cantered down the street with citizens lurching out of their way, the legionary and praetorian cohorts hefted their shields, formed into a large column twelve soldiers wide, and began to march at the quick step. All depe
nded now on the resolve of the people, as well as the duplicity of Tribune Vergilio and the praetorian’s duty cohort from the palace.
At the Forum, the remaining loyal cohort of praetorians stood in battle formation with the emperor’s litter carried between two of their centuries. Standing to their front was their commanding tribune, Attilius Vergilio. Thousands crowded along the shops that lined the Forum. Many more thronged the Gemonian Stairs, in hopes of catching a glimpse of what may come. The thought of a pitched battle in the Forum between rival cohorts of the Praetorian Guard was both horrifying and exciting, in equal measure.
Those who flocked to the palace and carried the emperor on their shoulders, now melded in with the hordes of spectators who came from every corner of the city. They expected Galba to step onto the city criers’ platform and give a speech; but instead, he remained in his chair behind a wall of praetorians whose blades were drawn, ready for battle.
“Cavalry approaching, Caesar,” a rider said, “lots of them. There appear to be cohorts of legionaries behind them.”
“Come to pay homage to their emperor, now that the usurper is dead,” Laco scoffed. “No doubt the rest of my praetorians will be flocking in next, anxious to prostrate themselves before us.”
Much to the surprise of everyone, the cavalry regiment sped into the Forum with the crowds fleeing in their wake. They split off in both directions, forming a cordon around Galba’s praetorians. As the troopers lowered their spears, the guardsmen closed ranks with gladii ready to strike. The cohorts of legionaries rushed in behind the cavalry. As they filed into the massive square, they kicked over stalls to form their own battle lines. Galba and his entourage could just make out the standards of the praetorian cohorts behind them.
“If they’ve come prepared for battle, then Otho is most certainly not dead,” Vinius said. He gritted his teeth, fearful of the pending clash.
On the praetorian line, guardsmen looked anxiously at one another. The cavalry and legionaries alone had them outnumbered almost three-to-one, and the praetorian cohorts behind them could only be thought of as hostile.