by James Mace
The two men shared a laugh, albeit a nervous one. Since the decision to have them split their forces and operate independently until they arrived in northern Italia, there was a growing sense of subtle rivalry between the two generals. While they had been strong political allies, they had never quite become friends. Now each was growing mistrustful, suspicious the other was wielding undue influence over their governor and soon-to-be emperor. None of this was lost on their peers. Every legate was concerned as to whether or not the two would even cooperate, or was each more concerned with trying to steal victory and glory for himself?
“I intend to recommend to Vitellius that we depart at once,” Caecina said, causing Valens to choke on his wine.
“Have you gone mad?” his fellow legate asked. “Have you not stepped outside? We are in the middle of bloody winter!”
“Precisely,” Caecina countered. “The Roman army never campaigns in the winter months, and no one down south will expect us to so much as budge from our camps until at least March. If we begin the advance now, we can be in northern Italia by then. And if the thought of going over the Alpes frightens you, old boy, I will lead my division over them, and you can take the long route through Gaul.”
“You can be an insufferable twat, do you know that?” Valens grumbled and shook his head, feverishly running his fingers through his hair.
Though he was feeling a lot less jovial than he was a few scant minutes before, he did not wish to get into an argument with Caecina. And his fellow general’s reasons for invading so soon did have merit. Each being given overall command of an entire wing of the Vitellian army granted them a vast amount of independence. Neither would have to answer to Vitellius directly, as the presumptive emperor would remain with a rearguard. And since they would be hundreds of miles apart, communication between divisions would be all but impossible. Valens knew the trek through Gaul would likely take three or four months. It would likely involve the suppressing of a large number of tribal peoples who, despite a hundred years under Roman rule, were still little more than barbarians. He would also be responsible for the entire army’s siege train, as catapults, heavy ballistae, and the numerous ammunition wagons would be hard-pressed to make it over the Alpes during even the best of conditions.
“Look at it this way, if I am wrong and my whole damn army freezes to death, then the glory will be yours for the taking,” Caecina conjectured.
This actually got a chuckle out of Valens, who looked at his fellow general and asked, “Do you really think you can get over the Alpes in the middle of winter?”
“The roads have been greatly improved since the time of Julius Caesar,” Caecina replied. “Besides, how much snow do you see on the ground here? It may be winter, but we have yet to see the waters freeze. And there is not a trace of snow to be had, just cold rain. I’ll grant you, it will be a miserable journey, and the Alpes passes may indeed be snowed in. But that is a risk I am willing to take, if it means catching Galba’s army before they’ve had a chance to rally a single legion.”
Caecina spoke of Galba, for no one in Germania knew the old emperor was dead and now replaced by Otho. Interestingly, Otho was a man who many of them had never even heard of. The bitter feelings towards Galba were still very strong, and had only intensified since the legions refused to swear allegiance to him on New Year’s Day. Furthermore, it was difficult for the forces on the Rhine to comprehend that any imperial soldier could feel so much as a shred of loyalty to the despicable tyrant. A man who had treated his own troops with such disdain could hardly expect them to defend him in the face of overwhelming numbers. So while the commanding legates prepared for a bitter fight, the rank and file legionaries were confident that their brothers-in-arms would lay down their arms, or perhaps even assist them in overthrowing the despicable despot. Caecina echoed such sentiments to his colleague.
“Who knows,” he said, “Perhaps by the time we reach Italia, the people will have already offered us Galba’s head on a spike.”
The following morning, Caecina and Valens approached Vitellius with their plan. Though it was really Caecina’s, he and Valens attempted to maintain the façade of unity in front of their governor and would-be emperor. Vitellius accepted their assessment and was almost giddy with excitement at the coming campaign.
“The only thing saving Galba at the moment is that massive obstacle known as the Alpes,” Caecina observed. “It is no doubt giving him a false sense of security at the moment. Yet, his forces are few in number. He has maybe two legions worth of professional soldiers, and one of those was only raised this last year. Their soldiers are little more than untrained and ill-equipped recruits. However, the longer we delay, the greater the chances of him bringing up more legions from places like Dacia and North Africa. If we want to end this war quickly and decisively, we must strike him down before he has a chance to even the odds.”
“Caecina will go over the Alpes,” Valens further explained. “I will take my division west and south into Gaul.” When Vitellius raised an eyebrow at this, Valens was quick to explain his rationale. “The three Gallic provinces are weak in their loyalties. Some of the regions are still very tribal, and they may need a bit of forcible persuasion in order to secure their loyalties.”
“There’s also the matter of coin,” Caecina stated. “There will be no taxes coming from Rome to pay the legions, and our auxiliaries are really little more than mercenaries to begin with. As you have already stated, sire, we need to secure not just the loyalty of the provinces in Gaul, but enough gold and silver to maintain the stability and loyalty of our forces.”
“Galba is a miserly skinflint, and everyone knows it,” Valens added. “If we are generous with our soldiers, without giving the perception of outright bribery, then the usurper’s legions may simply abandon him and come over to us.”
“A daring and ingenious plan,” Vitellius nodded. “And where do you recommend I place myself, while you two are converging on northern Italia?”
“We estimate it will take at least three months, maybe four, for Valens to complete his sweep through eastern Gaul,” Caecina told him. “You should maintain your headquarters camp near the base of the Alpes, close to Vindonissa. That way Valens and I can keep in constant communication with you, send our dispatches, and receive any strategic advice you may have.”
It was ludicrous, insinuating Vitellius would be in any position to advise his subordinate generals. And yet, it placated his ego perfectly and made him believe he was in command of this vast undertaking.
“Your plan is a bold one,” Vitellius said. “It is that type of bravery and audacity that will win us the empire.”
“Given the condition of the Alpes roads,” Valens remarked, “and how long my pacification of the Gallic tribes will take, we should plan on converging near Cremona around the first week of April. If all goes as intended, by summer the empire will be yours.”
As the most experienced general out of the emperor’s inner circle, Suetonius Paulinus understood how precarious Otho’s hold upon the empire was better than any. Most of the senate had reverted to their previous squabbling and petty politics. To them, the army of Vitellius was too far away to be of concern and obstructed by the Alpes Mountains. It would be spring before they could leave their strongholds, by which time many senators hoped the legions would lose their zeal for rebellion. By which time they suspected the soldiery would send Vitellius to the emperor, either in chains, or with his head on a spike. Only Paulinus and a handful of former legionary officers, including Senator Celsus, were convinced war was inevitable.
The recently pardoned senator stated, “If Vitellius marches with the Rhine army, even while leaving sufficient garrisons along the frontier, he will have us hopelessly outnumbered.”
“We should send word to the east and ask Vespasian for assistance,” Paulinus urged. “His army in Judea alone numbers over sixty thousand men. If he could dispatch even a third of these, combined with the legions in Syria and Egypt, he could smash
Vitellius in the flank while we hold a defensive line north of Rome.”
“The seas are still turbulent,” Otho noted. “And even if they weren’t, we have not enough ships to transport his army. He’d have to send the vast majority of his forces by land. At best, it will take six months for them to arrive.”
“And even if we should hold that long,” Titianus remarked, “what’s to stop Vespasian from declaring war on whoever wins between us and Vitellius? Once his forces are conveniently positioned on the borders of Italia, he could readily take advantage of the victor in their weakened state and name himself emperor.”
“You are too damned paranoid, consul,” Paulinus countered. “Vespasian is a loyal soldier of Rome. Unlike the traitors to the north, his men will swear their oath of allegiance to Emperor Otho. The Flavian sense of duty runs deep, he will not betray us.”
“Yes, I am certain that Vespasian’s loyalty runs so deep,” Titianus said with disdain. “Let us not pretend we don’t know how superstitious he is, and that he’s had delusions of becoming Caesar ever since he took that Jewish wretch, Josephus, captive.”
“Eastern mystics, and even Roman soothsayers, have foretold his rise,” Celsus remarked. “And while we do desperately need reinforcements, I admit I am hesitant to trust Vespasian.”
“Enough,” Otho interrupted. “Whether Vespasian has aspirations of becoming emperor is of no concern to me right now. Once we’ve dealt with Vitellius the eastern legions will fall into line. I’ll not send for Vespasian and sit on my ass waiting for him. Not because I fear him as a potential usurper, but because of how many months it will take for his legions to arrive. During that time our forces, as well as the Vitellians, will have swelled in number. It will mean a bloodbath, one that could cripple the entire imperial army. The empire will be terribly weakened, if all of our forces are caught in a bloody war against each other. We will look to the east, but not that far. The Danube is still a volatile frontier, even if it does not get the same amount of notoriety as the Rhine. Still, there are ample forces there we can call upon, and they are much closer to northern Italia than any of us.”
Flavius Sabinus sat quietly, listening to the deliberations. And while it may have seemed strange that it was Paulinus and not he, who came to his brother’s defense, the old prefect’s reasons were two-fold. Firstly, it would be too obvious, as well as patronizing, were he to verbally chastise any who spoke out against Vespasian. The more profound reason was that even he questioned what his brother’s motives were. Would Vespasian possibly declare war on the winner of this civil war? If Vitellius emerged victorious, the chances were more probable.
And while Vespasian had tried to keep quiet the predictions offered up by Josephus, as well as another renowned Jewish holy man, the rumors had traveled even quicker than imperial couriers. There were even soothsayers in Rome who foretold the Rise of the Flavians. With such portents, as well as a huge army behind him, it was not unexpected that there were those within the imperial court who feared Vespasian. Three emperors had already been proclaimed since the year began. Could there be a fourth on the horizon?
The morning dawned cold and rainy as Generals Valens and Caecina departed Cologne. Orders had been dispatched to all legates and regimental commanders. They would await their respective division commanders along the route of march. The already vast column stretched back along the road for miles would continue to get even larger, as the army absorbed more units into its fold. Near the base of the Alpes, there was a city called Vindonissa. Approximately two weeks’ journey from Cologne, it was the site of a legionary fortress that at one time guarded the Alpine passes against barbarian raiders from the north. Now it was home of Legio XXI, Rapax, also known as the ‘Predator Legion’. It was a few miles west of here that the army would split into its two divisions. Caecina’s forces, consisting of about one third of the total army, would head southeast into Raetia with the Twenty-First Legion joining their division. Valens, along with the remainder of the army and both divisions’ siege trains, would make his long journey southwest towards Gaul.
On the first day of this long trek, the two generals rode together huddled beneath their cloaks, as the freezing rain echoed off their helmets and made the magnificent plumes droop slightly. Vitellius and the detachments left under his ‘command’, would not be leaving for a couple of weeks. And even then, the emperor-in-waiting would be carried in a covered litter, rather than riding on a horse exposed to the elements. It was not the most dignified way for a supposed conqueror to ride off to war, but neither Valens nor Caecina particularly cared what Vitellius did. He was little more than their puppet, to be controlled by them once he was named emperor. There was now the growing disconnect between Valens and Caecina, each man’s concern as to who would wield the greatest influence over Vitellius.
“You couldn’t have picked a worse day for us to depart!” Valens shouted, trying to be heard over the sounds of rain beating down upon his helmet. “The sky is black, and the gods look upon us with disfavor.”
“On the contrary, General Valens, the gods smile upon us this day,” his colleague retorted. “The rain is cold and unpleasant, but it does not bring the impediments of snowfall. Why, Jupiter himself is washing the roads for us, cleansing our path to Rome!”
Though he was as cold, wet, and miserable as his companion, Caecina refused to let Valens even suspect his discomfort. There was a potentially grave issue which lurked in the back of Caecina’s mind, for it was not just the Othonians who were concerned about Vespasian and his huge army in Judea. He said as much to Valens, though his fellow general’s response was filled with both incredulity and outright hostility.
“Here we are, marching through the cold of Germania in the winter, and your concern is over a damned mule driver three thousand miles away in Judea?”
“Vespasian may have traded mules at one time,” Caecina admitted, “but I think he has the potential to play a very substantial role in this little game of ours. And he does have a lot of experience with commanding soldiers.”
“Oh, yes, the ‘Conqueror of Britannia’,” Valens scoffed disdainfully. “The hero-worshipping twats of his legions even had the audacity to call him ‘The War Master’. Sure, he can slap around a few mindless barbarians. And yet, he has utterly failed to retake Jerusalem after almost two years in that sliver of a province.”
“To be fair, those rebellious Jews are excellent fighters,” Caecina countered. “They did slaughter six thousand men, as well as capture the eagle of the Twelfth Legion, before Vespasian took command.”
“Whatever,” Valens grumbled. “Even if he were as great a general as Julius Caesar, which he is not, he is a political and bureaucratic disaster. He was so hated by the people of North Africa, they pelted him with rotten vegetables and stones when he was governor. Selling mules is the only thing that kept him from financial ruin, and he’s been exiled twice! Nero only recalled him because no one else was readily available, when he needed someone to take control of that little upheaval in Judea. Forgive me, if I don’t give much regard to such a pathetic figure—who is thousands of miles away—regardless of how many soldiers have fallen into his lap.”
The two rode on in silence. And while Caecina still had his concerns regarding Vespasian, he had to begrudgingly admit Valens was mostly correct. Whatever the size of his army, Vespasian was on the far end of the empire, and in no position to affect the outcome of the pending war. And while his brother, Sabinus, was an important senator and statesman, Vespasian himself was a political nobody. Caecina reckoned that the only things keeping him from being expelled from the senate altogether were his war record and who his brother was. Once he sorted out the rebellious Jews in Judea, he’d likely be back to selling mules or some equally undignified means of scraping a living.
Chapter XXIV: The Emperor Sends His Regards
Island of Lipari, North of Sicilia
February 69 A.D.
Island of Lipari
Cornelius Laco’s au
dience with the new emperor had been rather underwhelming. Otho had had the audacity to charge him with a variety of petty crimes, many of which were outright fabricated. Though Laco, while serving as praetorian prefect, had certainly killed or overseen the deaths of a number of Galba’s enemies, all had been completely within the law. No man who was following the orders of the emperor could be tried for murder. Laco’s only crime, as far as he could tell, was being too close to Emperor Galba, although he did hear that Senator Celsus had been given an imperial pardon. And though he was distraught, to say the least, over the deaths of Galba, Licinianus, and most of the dethroned emperor’s entourage, Laco counted himself fortunate he was being allowed to live. In fact, he was the last surviving member of Galba’s innermost circle. Vinius had taken a cavalryman’s spear in the back, and Icelus had lasted less than a day before succumbing to the agonizing death of crucifixion. The former prefect begrudgingly admitted to himself that exile was a far preferable fate.
Lipari was a small island, approximately two miles wide by four miles long, located just north of Sicilia. Consisting of mostly rolling hills, the small village located on its southeastern coast was predominantly a fishing community. For Cornelius Laco, this was to be his new home.
The small, single-decked ship lurched into the harbor, with mariners tossing ropes over the side, tying the ship to the extremely long dock. No one had spoken a word to the exiled nobleman during the two-day journey by sea from Roman port at Ostia. Even the praetorians—men he had once commanded—said nothing as they escorted him onto the waiting ship. Once aboard, the soldiers promptly left, and the sailors completely ignored him. The winter swells made the journey extremely uncomfortable, and Laco spent most of the first day leaning over the back rail of the ship, the contents of his stomach spewing forth into the colossal waves below. There were a few times he feared the small vessel might capsize, yet the crews had sailed these waters so often they skillfully managed to avoid the worst of the massive swells. Still, he was more than a little relieved to be off the ship once it docked.