by James Mace
“And how do we intend to pay for this?” Suedius asked. “We were not given a stipend to purchase rations.”
“Who said anything about payment? These people are Roman citizens who owe their continued existence to our protection. They should be grateful we don’t take everything and burn their homes, like we would filthy barbarians.”
The tribune’s rationale surprised even the more nefarious of his soldiers and filled the two centurions with trepidation. Neither man was exactly a strategic genius, nor very imaginative, though both understood that plundering from fellow Romans would not win much support for Emperor Otho in his war against Vitellius. However, as they were still two days from their destination and in need of food, they were left without choice.
The people plowing the fields were appalled at the sight of hundreds of armed soldiers descending upon their homes and shops. Doors were smashed in, as the praetorians and attached troops began to loot whatever food and other plunder they could find.
“What is the meaning of this?” a farm overseer shouted, running towards Tiberius Statius and his century, who were dragging a cart of vegetables away.
“Military rations for the war,” Centurion Veturius explained nonchalantly. “Now stand aside. We need food if we’re going to crush the Vitellians.”
“How dare you!” the man spat. “If the emperor wants food for his petty war then he can damned well pay for it, not send his thugs to steal from their own people!”
Veturius gave a bored sigh and nodded his head towards the farmer. Guardsman Statius drew his gladius and smashed the pommel against the side of the man’s head. The overseer’s eyes rolled back as he collapsed in a heap.
“Next time I’ll use the pointed end,” Statius snarled, at the horrified crowd that had gathered. He made a quick stabbing motion with his weapon, causing people to lurch backwards.
“Alright, let’s move,” the centurion said, concerned the people would soon recover from their shock and fear of the armed soldiers. The number of outraged citizens substantially outnumbered the praetorians, who were scattered and now encumbered with their stolen goods.
It was only as they boarded their ships that the people found their courage and came rushing towards the beach, shouting profanities while hurling rocks and cursing Otho’s name. Some of the guardsmen found the situation amusing. Others were disgusted by what they had just done. For most, it was simply a matter of indifference. Individual citizens meant nothing to them, and if they had to forage for food periodically, then so be it.
Some of the officers understood just how foolish their tribune’s actions had been. It was not just the theft from their fellow Romans, but more importantly Pacensis’ complete lack of prior planning for the expedition.
Centurion Veturius, whose century was aboard the same vessel as their commanding tribune, rather forcefully addressed the situation. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouted, slamming the palm of his hand into Pacensis’ chest, knocking the tribune back against the center mast of the ship.
“Easy there, centurion...” the tribune started to say, only to be slapped hard across the face by Veturius.
“Idiot!” he snapped. “Why in fucking Hades did you not make a plan for provisions? Are you trying to cause an uprising within Italia itself? We have enough to worry about without your gods-damned incompetence!”
Soldiers and sailors alike were staring at the enraged centurion. Veturius had only gone along with the sacking of the port because his soldiers did not have sufficient food stores for a lengthy campaign. But now he was horrified at the prospect of them pillaging their way up the coast of Italia, which would severely hamper their efforts in the war. Outraged citizens would turn their rage on Emperor Otho, who may have been oblivious to his soldiers’ crimes, but he was ultimately responsible for their behavior.
And while Pacensis may have been appointed commander of the expedition, he was still little more than a disgraced former urban cohort tribune. And since he had never been within the praetorians’ chain of command, none of the guardsmen felt any sense of loyalty towards him. Therefore, none came to his defense when Veturius gave his next order.
“Take this piece of shit away and chain him,” he directed his men. Optio Proculus and a squad of guardsmen surrounded the tribune, taking his weapon before dragging him away.
“Unhand me, damn you!” he shouted. “This is mutiny! You will all be crucified for this outrage!”
“Unlikely,” Proculus said, before punching the tribune in the stomach. “Once Otho hears about what you ordered us to do, you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t toss your rotting corpse into the Tiber.”
It wasn’t until late the following day when the flotilla docked at the city of Album Ingaunum that Veturius was able to inform the two senior-ranking centurions about what he had done.
“Pacensis is a pompous twat,” Suedius said, with a dismissive shrug, his arms folded across his chest.
“But with no senior officer to lead us, what will become of the expedition?” Novellus remarked nervously.
“You’re kidding, right?” the other centurion asked. “I always knew you were spineless! I will assume command, you can feel free sit there and do what I bloody well tell you to.”
It was a rather undignified spectacle. Novellus, surprisingly, took the berating from an officer who was actually his peer rather than his superior. Statius, who watched the entire debacle unfold, was disgusted though in no way surprised. Antonius Novellus was little more than a parade field soldier, who froze up any time he had to make a difficult decision. The only reason he had gotten as far as he had within the praetorians was because his father was a former prefect.
Of course, Titus Suedius was little better. More concerned about doing what was popular among the lads rather than being their leader, he would have burned the entire city to the ground if he thought it would make him more accepted. With such men as their senior leaders, the makeshift taskforce Otho sent to harass the Vitellians was in danger of falling into a complete state of undisciplined anarchy.
“A pity we can’t just throw those two into chains,” Optio Proculus grumbled, as his century made its way back to the ship for the night. The intent was to leave by ship in the morning, landing near Nicaea where they would commence operations against any Vitellian supporters in the region.
“Only one thing we can do under the circumstances,” Statius mused.
“And what’s that?”
“Stuff our packs with loot and make a little money off this farcical mission...oh, and try to not get killed in the process.”
Proculus shook his head in resignation. “Some days I wish Veturius had named you his optio, so you could bear some responsibility for this shit.”
“Who says he didn’t want to?” Statius grinned. “Between my years in the legions and my subsequent time with the praetorians, I have worn the uniform longer than either of you. But if you think for one moment I want so much as a shred of the responsibility you two have to now deal with, fuck that! Besides, I am more than able to supplement my income, which makes up for the difference in our wages.”
“Yes, I hear Otho paid you most handsomely for bringing him the head of Licinianus.”
“Better to have a nameless guardsman do his dirty work than ask someone of rank and respectability to do it,” Statius reasoned. He chuckled. “Besides, I did have to split the reward with that trooper from Britannia.”
“And what a coincidence that Otho later sent for you personally and dispatched you away for a couple of weeks. No sooner do you return, we hear that the body of Cornelius Laco was found smashed against the rocks near the cliffs of Lipari with his throat cut.”
“When one is willing to follow orders, especially those that are most unpleasant, the rewards can be substantial.” Statius’ justification was perverse, though Proculus privately understood it. “Besides,” the guardsman continued. “Unless something changes over the next year, Emperor Otho is our supreme commander. I find him
to be a rather generous employer, far more so than his predecessor.”
Maritime Alpes was a tiny province, one so small that it was often forgotten in the larger strategic picture. A narrow strip of land along the Mediterranean, it was, in Rome’s more hostile past, used as a buffer between Italia and Gallia Narbonensis. Its population was a race of people known as the Ligures, who were an ethnic mix of Gallic and Italian ancestry. Mostly fishermen or miners, the Ligures were also known to be rather fleet-footed, and during the days of the Roman Republic they often acted as skirmishers for the old consular armies.
The procurator of this sliver of a province was a lesser-nobleman named Marius Maturus. Having previously served as a military tribune with Legio I, Germanica, and once more with Legio XXI, Rapax, he required little coercion when it came to supporting Vitellius’ claim to the empire. Of course, he had also heard about Fabius Valens’ onslaught of terror through eastern Gaul. And while the numbers of noncompliant citizens killed was likely exaggerated, Marius knew his tiny garrison of a single urban cohort, along with maybe a thousand militia, could be effortlessly wiped out by Valens’ massive army of professional soldiers.
But now, he was facing a far more immediate threat from Valens’ opponents in this war between Caesars. Marius had just arrived at his headquarters that morning, when a lookout came sprinting up from the beach.
“Fleet approaching, sir,” the man reported. “At least a dozen warships.”
“The Vitellians don’t have any ships,” Marius noted. He quickly left his headquarters and followed the lookout to a high point that looked down on the long, sandy beach. There was, indeed, a large group of imperial warships heading straight for them.
“Shall we send word to the garrison at Cemenelum?” the lookout asked.
“No,” Marius replied. “They will be needed to defend the city. If I send one cohort against what is likely a force of several thousand, they’ll be cut to pieces. Alert the militias and all of our defense volunteers. Hopefully they can hold for at least some time on the beaches. And send our fastest rider to Fabius Valens. His army, I am guessing, is somewhere between here and Lugdunum.”
“Lugdunum is five hundred miles from here,” the lookout protested.
“Then we’d better hope his army has been marching south rather expediently,” the procurator said. “Now go!”
Despite the illusion of being relatively close to the shore, it was still another two hours before the Othonian flotilla was close enough to disgorge their assault troops. The waters became shallower, foaming waves splashing against the sides of each vessel.
“Looks like we’ve got a reception committee waiting for us,” Proculus said to Centurion Veturius, who grinned at the pitiful sight of a few hundred lightly armed militia.
Trumpets sounded from the command vessel of Centurion Suedius. This was followed by scores of praetorians scrambling over the sides of their ships, landing in the waves up to their chests. Shields and javelins were held overhead, to prevent them from dragging through the water. Guardsman Statius gritted his teeth as he jumped over the side.
A soldier’s greatest fear during an amphibious assault was that the ships were either too close to shore or too far away. Too close and the shallow water would be insufficient to break a heavily armored soldier’s fall, leading to snapped ankles or other injuries. Too far, and there was the very real chance of plunging into water well over one’s head and drowning. Fortunately for Statius and his companions, the water depth proved ideal as they each landed with a hard splash.
“Battle formation, four ranks!” Veturius shouted, as the mass of guardsmen attempted some semblance of order, while slogging their way through the sea.
The praetorian cohorts formed the leading assault elements, with the much smaller number of urban cohorts forming a reserve behind them. It was slow going, and as their adversaries on the beach became more visible, it was clear these were not soldiers from Fabius Valens’ army. These were militia from the surrounding villages, who were mostly equipped with round shields and crude stabbing spears. Less than half wore helmets, and only a small number any sort of armor. Much of what they did have were little more than the squared chest plates worn by hastati light infantry, during the old republic days.
“Javelins ready!” centurions ordered. The water was now down to their calves and ankles, and their foes less than fifty meters from them.
Though praetorians were predominantly parade troops, as well as the emperor’s personal guard, they were still required to drill the same formations and battle tactics as legionaries. During the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius, the intent was to fill the ranks of the Guard with worthy soldiers from the legions who had proven their merit in battle, as well as by their distinguished conduct. This practice had fallen into disuse over time. Most of the guardsmen were now either the sons of former praetorians, or young men whose families were well-connected either politically or monetarily. Tiberius Statius was among the small number who had actually served in the legions. So even while their status as ‘elite’ troops had become little more than a weak façade, each guardsman was better trained, equipped, and drilled than any who faced them on the beaches of Nicaea.
“This won’t last long,” a guardsman near Statius muttered. The praetorian was more correct than he knew, for no sooner had the Othonian contingent stepped out of the surf and onto the beach, panic ensued among the militia fighters.
“After them!” Centurion Suedius shouted, further down the line.
Veturius’ command was more measured. “Century!” he called. “At the double-time...march!”
Clods of wet sand kicked up as the praetorians raced up the beach after their fleeing adversaries. The Ligurians were not only naturally fast runners, but they were also unencumbered by heavy armor. A half mile from the beach, the militiamen fled into the safe haven of the walls of Nicaea. The praetorians and urban cohorts came to an awkward halt a hundred meters from the city gates. They were sweaty and out of breath from running in their armor, while wielding their javelins and shields.
“Bugger me!” one guardsman spat, thrusting the butt spike of his pilum into the ground.
“Those walls are only about ten feet high,” another reasoned. “Can’t we just scale the damn things and have at them?”
“Do you see any siege ladders lying about?” a third praetorian derided.
“At ease!” Centurion Veturius barked.
“That means shut the fuck up!” Optio Proculus snapped, when grumbles were still heard from the ranks.
Veturius and the other centurions walked over to where their acting commander stood. Suedius had set down his shield and was gazing in frustration at the walls of the town.
“I don’t suppose that idiot, Pacensis, thought to have any ladders or other siege equipment loaded onto the transports?” Veturius asked.
“He had about as much foresight there as he did regarding food stores,” the other centurion replied grimly.
“So what in Hades do we do now?” an officer from the urban cohorts asked. “This wasn’t exactly a mission of conquest in the first place. No one said anything about laying siege to any of the towns in this region.”
The scale of the folly of Otho’s plan was slowly becoming clear. Their numbers were too few to surround even the smaller towns, they lacked provisions, and had no siege equipment. And even if they were able to get the attention of Fabius Valens, they would be able to do little more than cause a minor delay in his journey east.
“Not that any of us even knows where Valens is,” a centurion remarked. “We have no actionable intelligence as to which route he will take into Italia, no reconnaissance, no cavalry. We’re completely blind.”
“Then we’ll have to draw him out,” Suedius said. “Maritime Alpes has clearly declared for the Vitellians, and they must be punished for it. And if none of you have noticed, we are only a few days away from Rome and already on the brink of a disciplinary crisis within the ranks.”
T
hough none of the assembled officers wished to admit it, praetorian guardsmen had a reputation for lapses in discipline, especially when left to their own devices. Though they were all fit soldiers and well-drilled in battle maneuver, there was a reason legionaries looked at them with disdain as pampered upstarts. And the lack of any officers of suitable rank had exacerbated the discipline problem from the start.
“What you’re saying is, we need to find a town or city to sack as soon as possible,” Veturius stated.
“Precisely. The Ligurians must be punished for their faithlessness, and a little plunder will help placate our soldiers. But we cannot take Nicaea. Even if we did fabricate sufficient siege ladders, any direct assault will be costly and undermine our chances of causing trouble for Fabius Valens, should he decide to grace us with his presence.”
“Where then?” a centurion asked. “Cemenelum is the capital of this province and only a couple of miles up the road. However, its walls are likely to be even higher than the ones here. Plus, they have at least one urban cohort in their garrison.”
“There is a place we can go that will be rich with plunder,” Veturius remarked. “We passed Albium Intimilium early this morning. It is a coastal fishing city much larger than Nicaea. It also lacks protective walls and will be easy to overrun.”
“Then that is where we will head,” Suedius concurred. “About how far is it from here?”
“I would say twenty miles,” Veturius answered. “The Via Julia Augusta would take us there, but then we will risk being exposed to ambuscades within the rocky passes.”
“That, and it will take us at least a day to march that far,” their commanding centurion added. “No, we will re-board our ships and attack by sea. The journey will likely take three to four hours, depending on wind and currents which means a late afternoon landing.”