Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  “What the fuck do we do now, sir?” one guardsman nearest to Tribune Vergilio said, in a low voice.

  “I don’t want to die for that belligerent old bastard,” another muttered.

  The officer did not reply, but held his hand out towards the standard bearer who carried the staff with Galba’s image atop. The two men stepped in front of their formation, ready to parlay with the mutinous soldiers.

  “Hold!” a legionary centurion shouted, stepping in front of his men and raising his fist. He addressed the tribune. “What now, friends? There is only one man among you who is an enemy of the people of Rome. We approach the rest of you in friendship, as fellow soldiers of the empire. You can stand with your rightful emperor, Marcus Salvius Otho, or you can die protecting that cruel and feeble old bastard. What say you?”

  To the thousands of spectators, it was quite the impassioned, albeit very short and direct, speech. However, Tribune Vergilio’s next actions almost made one wonder if it had all been rehearsed beforehand.

  He snatched the emperor’s standard from its bearer and smashed it repeatedly onto the ground. He then drew his gladius and faced his cohort. “Hail Caesar, hail Otho!” Weapons flashed high in salute, and this same ovation was shouted by the last remaining cohort that appeared loyal to Galba.

  Vergilio then shouted, “About face!”

  In a sharp turn, accented by the slamming of their hobnailed sandals onto the paving stones, the last remnants of Galba’s guard now turned their blades on him. The slaves, who bore the now-deposed emperor, panicked and dropped his chair roughly to the ground. It spilled onto its side, sending him tumbling to the ground.

  “No!” screamed Licinianus, as he stared in disbelief.

  A fist from one of his escorts smashed him across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground. Centurion Densus, the only man not to turn on the emperor and his heir, kicked this man hard in the stomach before drawing his weapon.

  “Vile traitors!” he shouted, swiping his gladius towards the mob, trying to keep them at bay.

  Legionaries now formed ranks on either side of the praetorian cohort, with a wall of guardsmen creating a second battle line. While most of the crowd focused on the deposed Galba, Densus knew he had to act quickly. He reached down and gruffly grabbed Licinianus by the toga and pulled him to his feet. The side of the young man’s face was already starting to swell, and he appeared to be dazed.

  “We have to get you out of here,” the centurion said, placing himself between the heir and about twenty of his own soldiers. “Make for the Temple of Vesta. You’ll be safe there.”

  Licinianus fled towards the far side of the vast Forum.

  As Densus faced the hostile crowd of soldiers, it filled him with revulsion to see his own men had turned on him. Whether they had been part of the conspiracy or only now joined the usurpers out of fear, he did not know. All he knew was he had one last duty to perform. He had to give his charge a few moments to escape, and he backed up slowly, keeping his weapon ready to strike. As seven of his guardsmen stalked towards him, he felt the stabbing pain of a gladius plunged into the small of his back. The centurion gave a yell of pain and fell to his knees, as the rest of the conspirators rushed him. With a last bit of strength and fury, Densus thrust his gladius deep into the stomach of one of his attackers, before the rest fell upon him with vicious stabs and bloody slashes. As his eyes clouded over, Densus gained one last bit of satisfaction. He saw Guardsman Atticus, who lay convulsing on the ground with the centurion’s gladius protruding from his guts. Atticus failed to don his armor this day, and it cost him his life. Densus gave a final expression of defiance, as a sword plunged deep into his heart.

  With his escorts dead or run off, soldiers now swarmed around the emperor, their eyes filled with hate, weapons ready to strike. Galba’s face bled from where his forehead had smashed against the cobblestones. Unable to rise to his feet, he got onto his hands and knees and gazed up into the faces of his assailants. Some thought he would beg for his life, offering the long promised donative if they would spare him. Instead, his expression was one of cold acceptance.

  “Strike,” he said, “if this be what is best for Rome.” The last words of a vicious tyrant, whom these soldiers despised beyond measure, added a sense of dignity to what had been a short and terrible reign as Emperor of Rome.

  As to who actually struck the killing blow, none could say for certain. More than a hundred men would later try and take credit for the slaying. Regardless of who it came from, a gladius was plunged into the side of Galba’s neck, bursting the jugular and tearing clean through his throat. As his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted in horrific pain, he wished for death to hurry itself along. Deep crimson gushed from the hideous wounds, and as the convulsing body slumped forward, a pair of hands grabbed onto the sparse strands of hair on the sides of his head. Gouts of blood were erupting from Galba’s mouth. Another blade then swung down in a hard chop against the back of the neck. Within three blows, the usurped emperor’s head was cleaved from his shoulders. The corpse lay twitching. Blood flowing and pooling between the paving stones.

  “The tyrant is dead!” one of the men shouted, hoisting the head up high for all to see.

  Soldiers cheered and brandished their swords and cavalry lances in the air.

  During the few seconds it took for Galba to be slain, dozens of renegade soldiers fell upon the rest of his entourage. Laco and Icelus’ courage failed them, and as soon as they saw the emperor’s litter toppled over, they fled for their lives. Vinius’ eyes were wide with abject terror, and he paused for a moment to watch the killing of Galba unfold. His brief delay would cost him dearly. As he attempted to flee towards the Gemonian Stairs, he cried out, “Not me, I am to be spared! It was promised!”

  A cavalryman rode up behind him and, either oblivious to his pleas or uncaring, plunged his lance deep into the consul’s back. The weapon punctured through his lung, ripping out of his chest as he cried out in agony. The man who once commanded legions, and with his undue influence had arguably been the most powerful man in Rome, now lay in a twisted heap at the base of the Gemonian Stairs, gasping for breath over the next few minutes it would take him to expire.

  As Laco escaped through the crowd of horrified onlookers, Icelus was tackled to the ground and beaten by a squad of praetorians. He was gruffly pulled to his feet, his hands bound behind his back. Despite the horror, as well as sadness at the brutal death of his master, the former slave tried to console himself with the thought that it had been the praetorians who captured him. He assumed that, had it been legionaries who fell upon him, they would have simply killed him right then and there. As he would later discover, such a fate would have been mercy.

  Without looking back to see his adoptive father’s slaying, or the death of the brave centurion who’d protected him with his own life, Licinianus sprinted as hard as his legs could manage. His breath was coming in short gasps. He expected, at any moment, to feel the agonizing pain of a legionary gladius or cavalryman’s lance in his back. Instead, he reached the steps to the Temple of the Vestal Virgins unharmed.

  “Sanctuary, please!” he cried out, as he burst through the large double doors that led into the outer sanctum.

  A pair of vestals rushed to his aid as he fell to the ground, gasping and sobbing. They placed their hands on his shoulders and gently helped him into a nearby chair, where he sat covering his tearstained eyes with the palm of his hand.

  “What is the meaning of this commotion?” an older priestess said, as she strolled quickly into the chamber. She then recognized Licinianus and was immediately consoling. “By Vesta, it’s the imperial prince! My child, what has happened to you?” She knelt next to him, placing a maternal hand on his shoulder.

  “The emperor is dead,” Licinianus answered, fighting back his tears and regaining his composure. “Senator Otho has usurped the throne. He wants me dead.”

  “Rest easy,” the priestess assured him. “They will not touch you
here. You are safe with us. Even the most despicable of tyrants would not dare violate the sanctity of these walls.”

  The priestess then sent two of her acolytes to ascertain what had transpired within the Forum. It would take some time for them to find a suitable position away from the carnage that had unfolded. An hour later they reported to the priestess, who by this time had escorted the prince to a guest room.

  “We saw the emperor’s body,” one horrified, young woman said. “The soldiers were parading his head on a spear, as if it were some sort of trophy. And there were others, scores of others, who lay dead around him. It was awful...”

  The priestess dismissed the acolytes, as she tried to contemplate how she could help the deposed prince. Granted, there was very little she could do besides try and give protection to Licinianus, lest he fall victim to the new emperor’s reign of murder.

  Chapter XXI: The Sanction of Regicide

  The Praetorian Barracks, Rome

  15 January 69 A.D.

  ***

  Tribune Vergilio, having assumed control of all military forces that converged upon the Forum, dispatched Guardsman Statius back to their barracks soon after Galba was slain. An auxiliary trooper named Faelan who, ironically, had only the week prior been granted Roman citizenship by Galba, offered the guardsman use of his horse.

  “Take the tyrant’s head with you!” a centurion shouted, holding aloft the blood-soaked head of the slain emperor.

  The eyes were shut, and the tongue protruded between his teeth. Steady trickles of blood streamed from the stump that remained of the neck. The entire head was slick with blood. The centurion holding it up had to grasp it by the ears, as Galba’s hair had been so sparse it was impossible to hold on to.

  “With honor, sir,” Trooper Faelan said, jamming his lance up into the gaping hole that had once been Galba’s neck.

  As he and Statius mounted his horse, the cavalryman held the lance high, shouting with vengeful glee at the sight of the slain emperor’s bloodied head.

  The two rode together back to the barracks, though the once congested streets had cleared out considerably as citizens fled in the wake of the violence. Faelan held his lance upright, though tucked it into his arm, leaving Galba’s head just a couple feet above theirs. They rode quickly, splatters of blood splashing the praetorian’s armor and face. As they approached the gates of the barracks, they loudly proclaimed ‘The tyrant is dead’ to those soldiers who remained on sentry duty. This was met by voracious cheers from the men on the ramparts. Whether their motives were from genuine hatred for Galba, or because they reckoned they would at last be paid the donative promised by Otho, was anyone’s guess.

  Otho could hear the shouts of exaltation coming from the courtyard, as he sat in a large chair the principia’s foyer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of relief. The doors were then thrown open.

  Trooper Faelan presented Galba’s head on his lance, while dropping down to one knee before their new master. “The tyrant is dead!” he proclaimed. “Hail, Caesar!”

  Guardsman Statius was more measured in his response, and given the amount of blood he was covered in, Otho wondered if it was he who struck the killing blow. In truth, Statius had been at the back of the praetorian formation and not even in a position to witness the killing.

  “It is done, sire,” he said, with a salute of his weapon. “Now you are emperor!”

  “While it fills me with joy to see Rome freed from a monster,” Otho said slowly, “it is the head of Licinianus I want.”

  “Give us the order, Caesar, and we will bring it to you,” Statius declared. “He may have escaped the initial purging, but he cannot have gone far.”

  “As Augustus once said, ‘there can be only one Caesar’,” the new emperor said. “Licinianus was named as Galba’s heir, and he could easily raise a rebellion on these grounds. He is, therefore, a threat to the state. Bring me his head so no more Romans need die. But what of the others?”

  “Laco has escaped, for the moment,” Statius replied. “Icelus was captured by members of the Guard.”

  “And Vinius?”

  “He was brought down by one of our lancers, sire,” Faelan answered, still holding Galba’s head on his spear. “His body lies at the foot of the Gemonian Stairs.”

  Otho waved for the men to leave him. He sat in his chair in the main antechamber of the praetorian barracks, his chin resting in his hand. It was all so surreal. Galba was dead, and for all intents and purposes, he was now Emperor of Rome. He was filled with pangs of doubt, and perhaps some remorse, especially over the death of the faithful Vinius. However, he understood that sacrifices would have to be made in order for the despicable tyrant to be overthrown. But for now, he needed to convene the senate at once.

  The new emperor stepped out into the midday sun which had broken through the dark clouds of that morning. Ever seeking the sanction of the gods, Otho took this to mean that they viewed his usurpation of the imperial throne with favor. The outer gates of the camp were opened, and the large column of soldiers entered, all singing and chanting Otho’s name. They were a mix of praetorians, legionaries, and auxiliary cavalrymen. At their head, marched Tribune Vergilio and the newly designated praetorian commander, Prefect Firmus.

  “Hail, Caesar!” Firmus said, with a sharp salute.

  This was echoed by the assembly of soldiers.

  Otho returned the courtesy and addressed the men. “Soldiers of the empire, you have done your duty, as painful and ghastly as it may have been. By your actions, you alone have saved Rome from the plight of tyrannical despotism. But now, with the oppressor executed, I will not have any more Roman lives lost on my account. The only man whose life remains forfeit is the pretender prince, Lucius Calpurnius Licinianus.” He then nodded to the two soldiers who brought him Galba’s head. “Guardsman Statius and Trooper Faelan will carry out the imperial warrant. After which, no more freeborn followers of Galba will be put to death. And now, my right and honorable companions, I must convene the Senate of Rome.”

  “Your freedman, Onomastus, is at the senate now,” Firmus replied. “The entire body is, no doubt, awaiting their new emperor. Come, Caesar, two centuries of your Praetorian Guard will escort you to the senate.”

  While many senators had yet to come to the senate chambers out of fear of reprisals from Otho, at least three hundred of its members filled the great hall. Dozens of conversations were ongoing, with no one attempting to control the assembly. Both consuls’ chairs remained vacant, as their respective occupants, Galba and Vinius, were now dead. No suffect consuls were named for this time period either, leaving the senate leaderless.

  Among those present was the former general, Suetonius Paulinus, who sat with the previous year’s consul, Italicus. The two could scarcely be called friends, yet there was a measure of professional respect between them, and each knew the other would be a valuable ally should the crisis deteriorate further. Also seated with them was the affable Senator Marcus Cocceius Nerva, as well as Lucius Verginius, the very man whose armies had smashed those of the rebel, Julius Vindex.

  Verginius was in a somewhat awkward position. While he had destroyed one rebel army, his subsequent passivity had allowed Nero to be overthrown and the now-hated Galba to be installed on the throne. And yet, having refused to allow himself to be named emperor, despite the backing of the fearsome Army of the Rhine, had endeared him to both plebian and patrician alike. His subsequent resignation of his command had been a noble gesture, one which placated any who suspected him of grand ambitions. However, it inadvertently flung the empire into an even graver crisis. For while the emphasis for the moment was on the death of Galba, Verginius was consumed by thoughts of Vitellius, who was leading the Rhine legions in a rebellion, while proclaiming himself emperor.

  “Vitellius has become the latest player to enter into this dangerous game,” he said. “The slaying of Galba was just the latest move, not the end.”

  In another part of the large chamber sat Oth
o’s brother, Titianus, who was, unsurprisingly, being courted by a large number of Galba’s former supporters. Though as fearful as their absent colleagues, they felt perhaps they could find safety by ingratiating themselves with the usurper’s brother.

  The sound of marching feet and shouted orders of praetorian officers came from outside, bringing a hush upon the senate floor. Porters opened the doors, and Otho slowly walked into the chamber. He took a brief moment to look upon the hundreds of faces. All eyes were fixed on him. He wore his senator’s toga; no formal robes, no laurel crown, nothing which would denote him as anything other than a member of the imperial senate.

  Otho said nothing as he walked the marble floor, and up the short steps that led to the consuls’ chairs. He remained standing as he addressed his peers.

  “Noble senators of Rome,” he said, his voice calm and composed despite the extreme violence which had overthrown his predecessor just hours before. “I come before you not as a conqueror, but as your peer, as well as your humble and obedient servant. I cannot ask you to condone what has transpired this day, for no good comes through violence, least of all usurpation. Galba did not die so that Otho could become emperor, but rather that Rome might be freed from a merciless and cruel tyrant.”

  He gave a measured pause, allowing his words to sink in. Most of the senators held expressions of neither support nor accusation, but merely profound inquisitiveness as to what Otho’s intentions were.

  “The praetorians have seen fit to declare me emperor,” he continued. “However, it is not within their powers to do so. The man who succeeds Emperor Galba must be lawfully endorsed with the full support of the senate. We are an empire of laws, and the respect for those laws, as well as the Roman constitution, are what separate us from filthy barbarians and eastern despots. I have, therefore, ordered the Praetorian Guard to honor whatever decision the Senate of Rome makes, whether you support my right to become emperor, or another candidate is found more worthy of becoming Caesar.”