Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  “That will still give the lads plenty of time to sack the city,” an urban cohort officer noted.

  “Alright, back to the ships!”

  For the first time in his twenty years in the ranks, Guardsman Tiberius Statius felt a trace of regret at never having accepted any of the numerous promotions offered to him. The officers in command of the maritime expedition were grossly incompetent, with their façade of authority over the rankers already cracking after just a few days. Even the leadership of his own century was severely lacking. Of course, his lack of rank was one reason why he had always been given such free reign to do as he pleased, including accepting contracts from both the emperor, as well as prominent senators who could afford his services. But now that they were campaigning on active service against an enemy of professional soldiers who would have them horribly outnumbered, Statius wished for nothing more than some solid leaders; men who would have put him in his place a long time ago.

  As he leaned over the rail of the ship, he watched as the rocky coastline rolled by and contemplated the next phase of what had become little more than a fiasco. Their so-called leaders had decided a port city would now be sacked, simply to appease their restless soldiers. How many atrocities would they commit this day, against Roman citizens no less?

  It was not as if Statius had anything close to resembling a clean conscience. And yet, when he killed, it was both legal and financially rewarding. True, he was little more than a hired sword in a uniform, but he had accepted this identity years ago. There was nothing lawful about this pending raid, however, nor would it be very profitable. Never mind the harsh reality that their actions would only drive more provincials into the arms of the Vitellians.

  Of course, Statius had no knowledge of the terror and atrocities being committed by both Valens and Caecina. The number of various Gallic tribesmen killed by Valens’ rampaging division was in the thousands. And Caecina had also terrorized the Helvetii and other Alpine tribes that did not submit outright. But on this day, all the guardsman knew was that he was trapped as part of an ill-managed expedition bent on committing savagery upon Roman citizens, and all without any compensation to be had!

  It was a cloudless day. The late afternoon sun beat down upon the armored soldiers, as the sea spray cooled those fortunate enough to be near the ships’ railings. The port of Albium Intimilium, whose name literally meant ‘White Cruising’, was positioned at the end of a long spur that jutted out from the mountains directly north. Three rivers ran into the sea nearby, with the city located between the westernmost two.

  “Looks like no one is waiting on the beach to greet us this time,” a guardsman chuckled.

  Statius could only grunt in reply. He held profound influence over many of his peers, but was still distant and cold towards most of them. He rarely spoke about his additional duties as a hired blade, though many of his kills were known to all. Indeed, much of his influence came from the perception that he was more than a mere guardsman, and that he held great sway at the imperial court. Statius’ self-important attitude towards his fellow praetorians only added to the mystique. Atticus had been the only one in recent years who Statius had truly called ‘friend’. Now he was gone, having been slain by the dying Centurion Densus during the violent overthrow of Emperor Galba.

  “Make ready, lads!” Centurion Veturius ordered his men. Many were already gathered by the prow of the ship. Within minutes, they were once more jumping over the sides of the ships, ready to attack.

  The hours that passed since their aborted attempt at taking Nicaea had only caused their collective anger to fester. The citizens of Albium Intimilium were an unfortunate lot. They had no defensive walls, and only a handful of militia that acted as more of a police force than defenders against any outside threat. And as the praetorian and urban cohorts advanced through the surf, the citizens along the bustling docks were confused at the sight of an armed force arrayed in battle ranks.

  Centurion Suedius ran in front of the formation with his gladius held high. “This city is now yours!” he shouted. “Take what you will, and kill any who resist!” The praetorians and urban soldiers gave a shout of sinister rage as they sprinted towards the city, all pretense at maintaining formation forgotten. The previously perplexed citizens were now horrified as guardsmen kicked over stalls, and smashed people with shield bosses and the pommels of their gladii. When one older man tried to protest the looting of his shop, a praetorian plunged his blade into his guts. Shrieks of terror followed, as people fled for the perceived safety of their homes. Volunteer militia and police, who were scattered throughout the city and therefore unable to form any semblance of an organized resistance, either threw down their weapons or were overwhelmed and slain by the rampaging mob of soldiers.

  As the praetorians spilled into the streets leading away from the docks, the people of the city attempted in vain to barricade the doors to their homes. Guardsmen either kicked them in, or in the more stubborn cases, took the beams from smashed vendor stalls and used them as makeshift battering rams. Anything of value was taken, and in a show of utter contempt, any woman unfortunate enough to appear in any way eye-catching was forcibly raped by the mob. Their screams echoed throughout the districts closest to the docks. Any men who tried to protect them were either severely beaten or killed. It was a surreal and horrific thing. Roman soldiers were now committing the very atrocities they perpetuated against barbarians and enemy nations. Only now, it was against their own citizens.

  Further into the city, the people were able to form a more organized resistance with homes barricaded from the inside, and every citizen arming themselves with whatever they could find. The praetorians were now scattered and disorganized, with only a handful making their way into the upper districts of the city. There was one group of five or six, who had discarded their helmets and shields and were already drunken with wine, who haphazardly made their way up one of the main thoroughfares.

  A young militia policeman climbed onto the stone wall of a nearby house, carrying a bundle of short throwing spears. His eyes were red and wet with tears of sorrow and utter hatred, as he hurled the first long dart towards the group of guardsmen. It wobbled in the air and skipped harmlessly off the armor of one of the men. The man looked around quickly, while his drunken companions found it amusing and began laughing at the militiaman. The young man took a deep breath and calmed himself as he flung his next short spear. This time it plunged down and into the side of his target’s neck, causing the guardsman’s eyes to widen in shock as he tried to cry out. The stricken praetorian fell to his knees, as dark red blood spurted from the gaping wound.

  The dying soldier’s companions had ceased in their mirth. One of them screamed as a large rock smashed into the side of his face, sending him sprawling onto the road. A crowd of about fifty people, both men and women, descended upon the praetorians, wielding clubs, axes, and anything else they could find. The remaining soldiers turned about and fled down the road from which they came. Their badly injured companion, the side of whose face was already covered in blood, cried out piteously for them not to leave him. This was followed by shrieks of pain and abject terror as the crowd fell on him with their clubs, hammering away in vengeful fury. His arms snapped under the onslaught, and within seconds an axe blade was smashed into his skull. The people gave a cheer of defiance, as they screamed profanities towards the fleeing survivors. It was a short-lived sense of triumph, though, as they could still hear and see much of the brutal pillaging the lower districts of the city were being subjected to.

  For Guardsman Statius, acquiring plunder from the locals was the only way for him to make good on his compensation for taking part in such vile barbarism. It was a twisted perspective, for his actions only compounded the greater evil. And yet, he reasoned he was essentially a blade-for-hire this day, for the expedition to Maritime Alpes had nothing to do with the Praetorian Guard’s duty of protecting the emperor. In fact, with the emperor hundreds of miles away in Rome, having sent his gu
ardsmen on this expedition rendered them as little more than hired mercenaries.

  And since the emperor will not pay me for my troubles, I will seek compensation elsewhere, he thought to himself.

  He spotted a large house near the offices of the harbor master. It was three stories high and surrounded by a tall stone wall. The outer gate had been smashed in. As Statius entered the courtyard, he saw a squad of praetorians using a stone statue as a ram. The head had been knocked off with the first few blows against the large double doors that were now starting to splinter. Optio Proculus was standing off to the side, shouting orders to his guardsmen.

  After several more blows the doors broke open, and the praetorians forced their way into the house. A lone servant stood in the entryway, and he was quickly punched in the stomach, and then grabbed by the back of the head and slammed face-first into a stone pillar.

  “Tear this place apart,” Proculus ordered. “Take what you wish, but find me the money! The owners of this house must be swimming in it.”

  Statius followed the men into the house. They all seemed oblivious to him, as they rushed about, taking valuables, tossing furniture about, trying to find where the owners stashed their coin. Statius went up to the third floor, which were servants’ quarters. Finding nothing of worth, he wandered down to the second floor where a pair of guardsmen were ransacking the rooms. There were many pieces of valuable art and sculpture, as well as a box full of jewelry in what he surmised was the master suite. Statius grabbed a handful of rings and earrings, reckoning they were at least worth something. All the rest he left, not wishing to be encumbered by the weight of things he would only attempt to sell later.

  He heard a woman’s scream from downstairs, and figured the lady of the house was now falling victim to the lusts of his companions. Statius took a deep breath and slowly descended the stairs to the ground floor. In the dining hall, he saw Optio Proculus and several guardsmen surrounding a long table. There was a woman stretched out on the table, though she was not being raped. Instead, praetorians had a grip on each of her four limbs. They held her stretched out, while another took the flat of his gladius and slapped it hard against her legs.

  “Where’s the money, you filthy bitch?” the man snarled, before slapping her again with his weapon. He took a lit oil lamp and started to pour dribbles of hot oil across the woman’s exposed midsection. This caused her to scream, though she gritted her teeth and forcibly regained her composure. Proculus shook his head and reached down and grabbed her gruffly beneath the chin.

  “You will tell us what we want to know,” he whispered sinisterly. “We can do this all night. And perhaps I will let all of my men have their way with you, should you refuse to cooperate.”

  “When we breached the house, I thought I heard her say something about hiding the fortune with her son,” one of the praetorians said. “If she’s protecting her child, then no wonder she hasn’t talked yet.”

  Statius’ face twitched as he watched the spectacle unfold. He was certainly no stranger to pillage, or even torture. As a legionary, he had once raped and then mercilessly beaten a priestess of the Germanic goddess, Freya, until she told him where their temple’s gold was kept. But that woman had been nothing more than a savage barbarian, protecting gold and silver given in the worship of a profane deity. This was different, and the guardsman found he admired this stricken woman’s bitter courage. He earnestly felt such bravery and devotion to protect one’s child could not be found among the men in that room.

  “Let her go,” Statius said, with a surprisingly calm voice.

  The other guardsmen only now seemed to notice him, and without waiting for orders from the optio, they did as Statius told them. He walked over to the woman and leaned down, so his face was close to hers.

  “You are exceedingly brave,” he said quietly. “Tell us where your son is, and I promise no harm will come to him.”

  The woman snorted in reply, her face twisted into a defiant sneer. She gulped as pain shot through her, while slowly rolling onto her side. She pointed to her womb. “He is in here,” she said with triumph, for in that moment she no longer cared what these wicked men did to her.

  “To hell with this!” Proculus snapped. “Statius!”

  As the guardsman looked over his shoulder, the optio placed his thumb up by his throat and ran it across. It was the same signal used in the arena when a victorious gladiator was ordered to slay his fallen adversary. Statius scowled in disgust, for he felt compelled to spare the woman out of respect for her courage. And yet, despite his feelings of superiority among most of the Praetorian Guard, as well as his utter contempt for most of the officers, he was still bound to follow orders. His eyes narrowing in anger, he glowered for a moment at his optio, before quickly drawing his gladius and turning to face the woman. She looked up at him, her expression one of near amusement at his predicament. Statius then grabbed her by the hair and sliced open the side of her neck.

  As the woman’s body thrashed on the table, with deep crimson gushing from the wound, Statius turned and shoved his way past Proculus. He whispered through gritted teeth, “Next time do your own killing, you fucking bastard!”

  Chapter XXIX: Mutiny’s Punishment

  The Praetorian Barracks, Rome

  8 March 69 A.D.

  ***

  It took some time for Otho to find the internal fortitude to go to the praetorian barracks. If he had known about the outrages being committed by cohorts of this same unit against Roman citizens, and all in his name, he would have had even greater cause for despair. Most likely, he would have sacked the entire Guard and had every officer thrown in chains. But for the moment, the expedition he had dispatched to Maritime Alpes was forgotten. He had a more immediate crisis of discipline to resolve, if he was going to take the vast majority of the Praetorian Guard north with him to fight the Vitellians.

  He had sent the two prefects on ahead to ascertain the disposition of the Guard, while the emperor himself waited at the palace. Even the duty cohort at the imperial palace was on edge this day, and Otho had accepted the risk of dismissing them back to their barracks as well, leaving only a small handful of what he considered well-vetted and reliable guardsmen as his protection.

  “Sullen, ungrateful bastards!” Plotius Firmus grumbled, as he stormed into the emperor’s chambers.

  “I take it the Guard has not been pacified?” Otho asked.

  “Oh, they’re pacified, now,” Firmus remarked. “I tried speaking to them as men while Proculus berated them sharply. Neither seemed to work, as most of the guardsmen simply sulked, muttering that their loyalty was to the emperor, and not to us.”

  “Hades damn them,” Otho said, in disgust. “How can I have a Praetorian Guard, supposedly loyal to me, when they won’t even follow the orders of the officers that I appointed?”

  “Maybe you should ask them, Caesar,” Firmus stated candidly. “It was only after we promised them the five thousand sesterce donative that they finally calmed down. Forgive me, if we invoked your good name in that assurance.”

  “No, you did the right thing,” Otho replied. “And I did promise them the payment which Galba denied. Still, it is a disgrace to think that only bribery compels their damned loyalty.”

  “I did manage to find out who the perpetrators from the other night were,” Firmus added. “I’ve taken their names; hell, none of them so much as hid their guilt from me, but rather gloated about it!”

  “Then it is time the praetorians were reminded of the importance of obeying orders.”

  The emperor was still reeling in embarrassment over the conduct of his guardsmen, and he declined to tell his brother, the consuls, or anyone else for that matter, about his leaving the palace to deal with the ungrateful upstarts. Otho, Firmus, a small entourage of select praetorians, and a number of men from the urban cohorts made their way to the praetorian barracks. The gates had been left open, and there was only one sentry manning the ramparts.

  “The emperor approache
s!” the man shouted over his shoulder.

  As Otho’s litter was carried into the wide open parade field near the camp’s entrance, guardsmen from every corner of the complex flocked to see him. He climbed from his litter, only to be immediately confronted by a slew of officers led by Tribune Julius Martialis, whose arm was now bound in a sling.

  “We have come to offer you our resignations, Caesar,” Martialis said.

  “All of us volunteered to put our lives on the line for you, but not to be threatened by our own ungrateful subordinates!” a centurion snapped.

  “Ill-disciplined trash, the lot of them,” another spoke up.

  Otho said nothing at first, but walked past the officers with his hands clasped behind his back. He then paced in front of the assembled mass of guardsmen. Most wore only their belted tunics, and many appeared to have been drinking. And while threats and bribes from the prefects had done little to sway their sulking demeanor, there was now an air of regret about them. That their officers would all resign their commissions over the conduct of their soldiers was a deep blow to the honor of the Guard.

  “Soldiers of the Praetorian Guard,” Otho began, as he paced along the line of men. “Rome is on the eve of war. Most of you will be coming north with me to face the pretender, Vitellius. You will be fighting alongside the imperial legions from the Balkans. How will it look to them, if they see their emperor’s supposed elite troops have degraded themselves into nothing more than a rampaging rabble of mindless barbarians?”

  “We acted as we did in defense of you, Caesar!” a guardsman protested. “The urban cohort of Ostia was raiding one of the armories, and we thought they were meaning to assassinate you.”

  “And for your bravery and devotion, I am ever grateful,” the emperor replied, his tone unchanging. “But did none of you even stop to think that perhaps I had given the orders to the Ostian cohort? That I had given them access to the armory? Or did you simply draw your blades and attack, without as much as a second thought to your actions? If you think for one moment that your emperor, or any of your officers, owes it to you to tell you about every single order, then you are mindless fools who have no place in the imperial service. What do you think will happen, should such wild and reckless behavior be repeated on the battlefield?” He gave a brief pause before answering. “The Vitellian army consists of some of the most battle-hardened legions in the whole of the empire. Any lapse in discipline, let alone the type of drunken fuck-up that led to the murder of one of my tribunes and several of his men, and the Rhine legions will rip you to shreds. And if I cannot rely on you to follow the orders of your officers, without question or complaint, then I may as well open my veins now and give the throne to the pretender!”