Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  He knocked on the rickety door for almost a minute, before it was finally answered. A bleary-eyed woman, who appeared to be in her late thirties, opened the door. Her name was Lucilla, and she was a widowed seamstress who spent her days making blankets and clothing.

  “Where is she?” Statius asked.

  “She’s sleeping,” Lucilla replied. She ushered the praetorian into her flat. “Really, Tiberius, you could come to visit during the day, you know.”

  “I come when it suits me,” he replied coldly. He walked over to a tiny side room, which was really no bigger than a supply closet. Curled up on a wobbly bed was a young girl of eight or nine years.

  “She keeps growing,” Lucilla replied with a smile. “Thankfully, I am able to make her sufficient new clothes to keep up.”

  “She needs a new bed,” Statius remarked quietly. He reached into his money pouch, while keeping his eyes fixed on the young girl. “Here’s fifty denarii, get her a new bed and some fresh blankets that aren’t riddled with holes.”

  “I...I never see silver coinage,” Lucilla stammered. “I will be able to buy her the finest bed in all of Rome with this.”

  “Then do it,” the guardsman said sternly. He stepped from the room and produced a single gold aureus; the sight made Lucilla gasp. “Here, this is for your troubles. I know I have never said this to you before, but I am truly grateful for what you are doing.”

  “Melina was my sister,” she replied sadly. “It is only right that I care for her daughter.”

  “I am leaving Rome soon,” Statius said.

  Lucilla understood. All of Rome knew about the pending Vitellian invasion, and the emperor’s intent to ride north to face the pretender. She had also heard about the seaborne expedition and wondered in which Statius was taking part.

  “If I do not return,” the guardsman continued, “you are to take this to a lawyer named Titus Vorenus. He is employed by the imperial mint and will be easy to locate. This is to only be opened by him, and only in the event of my death. Are we clear?” He handed Lucilla a rather thick scroll, which was sealed with the emblem of the Praetorian Guard.

  “As always,” the woman replied, taking the scroll. “You know...you are more than welcome to stay here tonight, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, but I have to rise early tomorrow. Take good care of her. You have been the mother she was denied.”

  Though Statius’ voice sounded cold and distant, Lucilla was still flattered by his words. She had known the guardsman for many years and remembered a time when he used to smile, when he actually felt a sense of joy within this life.

  “Let us hope when this is over, she still has a father.”

  Lucilla’s words managed to bring a sad smile to Statius’ face. He went back into the girl’s room and kissed her gently on the forehead. She whimpered but did not wake.

  After he left, Lucilla stared at the gold and silver coins he had given her. They were all freshly minted, and each bore the image of Emperor Otho. She knew nothing of the sinister, and rather savage, additional duties Statius had performed in the service of the emperors. What she did know was that the amount of coin he had given her, especially as of late, far exceeded the normal wages of a praetorian guardsman. She placed them in a small leather pouch, her hands trembling slightly. She had decided a long time ago to never question, or even speculate, as to where Tiberius Statius acquired his extra coin. Although, if these newest coins—whose value exceeded what she could earn in half a year—already had the new emperor’s image upon them, then his ‘additional duties’ most certainly came from the highest authority.

  Chapter XXVII: Bloody Allegiances

  Rome

  March 69 A.D.

  ***

  While Guardsman Statius was away on his personal visit, a number of his fellow praetorians spotted what they thought was suspicious activity in the vicinity of the urban armory. What none of them knew was that Otho had ordered the Seventeenth Urban Cohort from Ostia to load up their arms and equipment from the armory. Because the cohort’s primary duties revolved around firefighting, their weapons were all kept at a central armory in Rome. Under the command of a praetorian tribune named Varius Crispinus, they had elected to wait until nightfall, in order to alleviate any fuss and confusion. Supervising the detail with Crispinus were a pair of centurions. Twenty or so of their men were gathered around four wagons and in the armory.

  “What the fuck is the meaning of this?” one of the approaching praetorians asked. There were at least thirty of his mates with him and, as they were off-duty, most were drunk.

  “None of your damn concern!” one of the centurions barked.

  “Oh excuse us, sir, if we question why twenty men are breaking into one of the armories at night!” the praetorian snapped back at him.

  Tribune Crispinus angrily walked over to the men, grabbing the insubordinate man by the tunic. “You men are not on duty, you are drunk, and you have just committed gross disrespect towards a superior officer,” he growled. “You will report to the prefect tomorrow for punishment. But for now, get the fuck away from here, and do not let me see your drunken asses around here again.”

  “Hang on,” one of the other drunkards said. “They’re loading weapons onto these wagons, and it’s a lot more than for just twenty men. What do you suppose this is for?”

  “Can’t you fucking listen?” one of the centurions said, walking over and cuffing the man behind the ear.

  “They’re bloody traitors!” another man shouted. “They mean to arm the slaves at the palace and murder our emperor!”

  “What?” the first man screeched.

  In their mind-altered state, none of them realized the absurdity of this accusation. Instead, they all drew their blades and descended upon the men working the detail. Before Tribune Crispinus could say another word, the praetorian whose tunic he still held, plunged his gladius into his guts. The tribune screamed in pain, and his soldiers fled in terror as their centurions were overwhelmed and brutally slain.

  “To the palace!” one of the men shouted. “We must find who is behind this plot and defend the emperor!”

  The drunken enraged mob grabbed the torches the urban cohort detail had been using and ran through the streets, towards the palace. Carts and vendor stalls were upturned. People fled in terror as the praetorians shouted drunken curses and threatened to kill anyone who impeded them. As they reached the palace, they saw a pair of their fellow guardsmen hurriedly closing the large doors at the top of the stone steps. With renewed cries of ‘Defend the emperor!’ the maddened praetorians stormed up the steps and started to kick the doors, while beating on them with the pommels of their gladii.

  Within the palace, Otho was hosting a dinner for eighty senators and their wives. Most of these were former Galbian supporters, as well as some who had political connections with Vitellius. His intent was to bring together and win over any potential adversaries who might otherwise oppose him. Among them was Lucius Vitellius, who had been surprisingly amicable in his dealings with the emperor. Otho briefly contemplated inviting Vitellius’ wife and mother, who he knew were living in the city. His advisors compelled him to change his mind, thinking the gesture of goodwill could be interpreted as Otho taking his rival’s family as hostages.

  “A pity that,” the emperor said to Lucius, after explaining his original intents. “Your mother, Sextilia, is a noble and virtuous Roman matron, and I have heard many wonderful things about your sister-in-law, Galeria.”

  “Yes, her cousin is very fond of her,” Lucius said, in reference to the previous year’s consul, Galerius Trachalus. “He is old enough to be her father and always doted on her, as if she were one of his daughters.”

  It was still early in the evening as the guests dined on fruits and nuts. It would be at least another hour until the next course. The wine was already flowing, musicians playing their pipes and lyres in the background. One of the main reasons for this particular banquet was so Otho could reassure the former G
albians, as well as any potential Vitellians, of his good intentions.

  “I still have hope that war can be avoided,” he said earnestly. “However, thus far your brother has rejected my entreaties for peace. I do not envy you, for I know this must put you in a rather awkward position.”

  “It is a difficult thing for all Romans,” Lucius replied, carefully choosing his words. “Had the senate shown greater courage, unseated Nero, and immediately appointed a worthy Caesar, we would not be facing the catastrophe of civil war. Instead, they allowed Galba to assume the throne by force, which has plunged the empire down into the abyss.”

  “If Galba had not been so deeply hated, perhaps his means of coming to the throne would have, in time, been forgotten.”

  “As I’m sure you hope yours will be.” Lucius bit the inside of his cheek, knowing he had just deeply insulted the emperor. “Forgive me, Caesar.”

  “Nothing to forgive when one speaks the truth.” Otho replied. “My biggest shortcoming is that the people do not know me. I was not raised within the imperial household like the Julio-Claudians. Nor am I so old that everyone in the empire knows who I am, like Galba.”

  “And my brother is scarcely more well-known than you are,” Lucius observed. “To be brutally honest, Caesar, this is unlike the conflicts between Julius Caesar and Pompey Magnus or Octavian and Marc Antony. In those cases, each rival was both famous and popular, with significant numbers of the populace voraciously supporting them.”

  “For them, victory was decided as much by who could win favor with the people, as it was on the battlefield,” Otho replied.

  “And if I may speak plainly, Caesar,” Lucius said. “The unfortunate truth is that neither Otho nor Vitellius holds great sway with the masses. The people’s indifference is as much your enemy as my brother’s army.”

  Otho found he very much appreciated Lucius Vitellius’ blunt and honest assessment. His thoughts were now on how he could win the people over and convince them to stand against the pretender. They were interrupted by the echoing sound of loud banging on the main doors to the palace. The musicians ceased playing, and all of the guests sat upright on their couches.

  “Sounds like a damned riot out there,” a senator remarked nervously.

  Tribune Julius Martialis was the commanding officer of the praetorian’s duty cohort that night and, though a guest of the emperor, he had maintained his sobriety while keeping his weapon close. He slowly got to his feet, careful not to cause alarm among the already nervous guests. Before he or any of the guardsmen in the hall could react further, the sound of the doors breaking had the senators and their wives jumping to their feet.

  “Where are they?!”

  “Where are those filthy bastards who would threaten our emperor?!”

  Martialis drew his blade and briskly walked over to the open archway that led out of the dining hall. Several guardsmen stood on either side of him, while others ran to get help. Another went to fetch Prefect Proculus. Prefect Firmus was in the hall, and he stood close to Otho.

  “There they are!”

  A mob of at least fifty drunken and enraged men burst into the hall. Two attacked Martialis. One slashing the tribune’s upper arm while another kicked him hard in the stomach, sending him sprawling backwards onto the floor. The other guardsmen, who only had their gladii to protect themselves, quickly backed away, knowing their numbers were too few.

  “Where is the emperor?” the man who had slain Tribune Crispinus shouted. “And where are his would-be assassins? Kill every slave and any person with a weapon and find the emperor!”

  “What in the bleeding fuck is the meaning of this?” Prefect Firmus screamed at the men, forcing his way through the crowd of terrified guests. “My own guardsmen, drunk and causing a riot? I’ll have the whole lot of you flogged and castrated for this!”

  “Piss on that!” their leader shouted back. “Where is the emperor? We found men looting the urban armory with the intent of arming the slaves, so they could kill our beloved Caesar. What’s worse is they were led by one of our own sodded tribunes! Now where is the emperor?”

  “Gods damn it, I’m here!” Otho shouted from behind the crowd. He climbed up onto a couch, though this was terribly undignified. However, as he was barely of average height, the rioting praetorians could not see him behind the mass of terrified guests.

  “Juno be praised!” the leading rioter said, sheathing his weapon. “At least we took care of the conspirators before they could arm the palace slaves.”

  The sounds of shouted orders came from the side halls. Within moments another twenty guardsmen, fully armored with shields and gladii at the ready, spilled into the dining hall. They quickly formed a battle line between the guests and their drunken brethren. Two of them stepped off to the side to help Tribune Martialis to safety.

  “By Bellona’s cunt,” Prefect Proculus swore as he entered the hall from the main arches with another dozen guardsmen.

  “What do you mean you took care of the conspirators?” Firmus asked accusingly.

  “We slew the treacherous tribune and his centurions,” the man said proudly. “No one will harm the emperor on our watch.”

  “You fucking idiots!” Firmus snapped. “That was Tribune Crispinus. He was sent to open the armory so the Ostia urban cohort could retrieve their weapons and equipment for the maritime expedition. You men have all committed murder!”

  “Like Hades we have, sir,” the rioter retorted indignantly. “We acted in defense of the emperor, and that is who we serve, not you.”

  “Enough of this!” Otho shouted.

  He had quietly told several of his guardsmen to escort the senators and their wives away, for there was a great fear the drunken praetorians would attack them all once more. Guests were now fleeing for the side entrances to the palace, terrified there might be more rioters than those who had stormed in.

  “As you can see, there is no threat to my person,” Otho said imploringly, as the rioters looked at him unconvinced. “And if this is just some ploy to get paid the promised donative, we’ll sort that out. But this is not how I expect my guardsmen to act. You have disgraced yourselves, as well as the Praetorian Guard. Now back to barracks with you.”

  The mutineers were now sulking, their faces full of resentment at what they perceived as Otho’s ingratitude. Their leader spat at the feet of Prefect Firmus, before waving for his companions to follow him. It took at least another ten minutes for the last of them to be escorted off the palace grounds. And while a slave bandaged Martialis’ badly gashed arm, Firmus chastised him thoroughly for not having sufficient guardsmen posted near the palace entrance.

  “If that had been a mob that wanted the emperor dead, they would have run right through you and cut him down,” Firmus said with rebuke.

  “Apologies, sir,” the tribune said, wincing as the bandage was tightened around his arm. “There have been no seditious grumblings from the people. How could any of us know that our own guardsmen would get drunk and riot this way?”

  The emperor stepped down from his couch, his expression one of horror and bewilderment. “How indeed,” he said quietly.

  Otho was filled with a deep sense of shame and embarrassment over what had transpired that evening. Eighty senators, many of whom were possible adversaries that he’d hoped to win over to his cause had, instead, been terrorized by his own drunken praetorians. To make matters worse, these same men had murdered one of their own tribunes, along with two of his centurions. And if the armory was left open, who knew if the weapons and armor inside had been pilfered by thieves?

  “Discipline must be restored to the praetorians at once,” Proculus said firmly.

  “Yes,” Otho replied with a nod. “But we will not be like my predecessor, who would likely decimate the entire Guard. Over ten thousand men serve in the praetorians, and most are loyal and dependable. They will not be held accountable for the actions of fifty or so drunkards. But they will know that breaches of discipline will not be tolera
ted.”

  Otho walked over to the dining table nearest his couch. He picked up an upturned wine chalice, which had drops of spilled wine still dripping from its rim. He dropped the cup onto the floor with a loud clatter and silently left the room. He found he was suddenly very tired.

  Chapter XXVIII: Otho’s Maritime Folly

  Northwestern Coast of Italia

  March 69 A.D.

  The route of Otho’s maritime expedition

  Despite the horrible and embarrassing debacle that had taken place at the palace, two days later the expedition for Maritime Alpes was underway. The initial phase in the active campaign between Otho and Vitellius would not take place in the north, but rather along the western coast of Italia and the south of the Gallic provinces. It was only a four day journey by sea from the port of Ostia, to the coastal city of Forum Julii where the Misene fleet was headquartered. Trouble began before the expeditionary force had even made it out of Italia.

  Otho had made no provisions regarding food and logistical resupply, instead trusting in his delegated subordinates. Once they were away from Rome, Tribune Pacensis quickly proved to be every bit the inept renegade Sabinus had warned the emperor about. On the second day of travel, he decided to raid the Port of Delphine, east of Genoa. As the flotilla of a dozen warships anchored in the harbor, the handful of citizens waved at them while giving the occasional friendly ovation. It was only when the taskforce came ashore, that the tribune informed his centurions of his wicked intentions.

  “What exactly are we doing here, sir?” Centurion Suedius asked, making no attempt to mask the irritation in his voice.

  “Resupply,” the tribune replied, without so much as acknowledging the centurion’s insubordinate tone. “Novellus, you will take a detachment and acquire all the fish you can carry. Suedius, your men will come with me. The people are working their fields, and no doubt there is plenty of surplus grain left over from the last harvest.”