by James Mace
“What of the enemy wounded?” Veturius asked. His own helmet had been smashed, and his sword arm was bleeding from a deep gash near the shoulder.
“Leave them,” Suedius replied. “They’re not my problem. But since they are fellow Romans, we will not kill them. If Valens wants them back, he can come claim them. As for us, I doubt the people of Albium Intimilium will welcome our return, so we will pull back just two miles and camp there. And at least now we have procured enough rations and other essentials to last us a while.”
It was a terrible thing leaving the enemy wounded where they fell. For though they had just fought a hellish death struggle against each other, they were still their countrymen. Unless the Vitellians returned to the field, many of those with non-fatal, yet crippling injuries would likely die of thirst within a few days. And while Suedius felt that not going around and finishing them off was mercy, in reality he was condemning them to a slower and far more agonizing demise.
“We cannot accept defeat,” Classicus said emphatically, while his wounds were bandaged. There was a deep cut from his shin all the way around to the back of his calf, and another on his right wrist.
“From what our scouts have reported,” a centurion replied, “the enemy has withdrawn from the field, leaving our dead and wounded where they fell.”
Marius was silent. He sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, his gaze on the campfire. While his Ligurum Cohort had not taken the same amount of savaging the hapless cavalrymen had, he had still lost around twenty dead, with another sixty wounded. And while he was no military expert, Marius understood that suffering almost twenty percent casualties in a single engagement was tantamount to disaster.
“We’ll send back for reinforcements from Forum Julii,” Classicus told his assembled officers. “It’s my fault, I should not have underestimated our foes. We have three cohorts of Tungrian auxilia infantry and several companies of cavalry at the port. I should have brought them up once we knew there was no threat of it being taken by the enemy. I will not make the same mistake twice.”
Chapter XXXI: Heading North
Rome
13 March 69 A.D.
***
For Emperor Marcus Salvius Otho, the time had come to begin the journey north and face the pretender. He had heard nothing from the maritime force he dispatched a couple of weeks prior, nor did he expect to for some time. In fact, as he made his final preparations to leave Rome, he had all but forgotten about the expedition, except to curse himself for not having those extra soldiers available to him now.
Knowing he needed to incite the people’s loyalty and devotion to him, he met with a renowned statesman and orator named Publius Galerius Trachalus. Having served a full term as consul the year before as colleague of Silius Italicus, Galerius was also the first cousin of Vitellius’ wife, Galeria. He met with the emperor in one of the banquet halls at the unfinished Domus Aurea, which Otho had ordered construction to continue on.
“It doesn’t trouble you, that I’m asking you to help me rally the people against your cousin’s husband?” Otho asked the former consul.
“My dear cousin was just a little girl when I first came to the senate,” Galerius replied. “Our fathers may have been brothers, but even they had almost fifteen years between them in age. Given that our family can trace its noble line back to the earliest days of the republic, Galeria was a good match for Vitellius. He has been scarcely an adequate match for her, despite who his father was. I’ve kept a protective eye on her for years, albeit from a distance. I regretted not speaking up more strenuously when she was betrothed to that worthless, lazy bastard. I asked my uncle if he was sure Vitellius was a good match for his daughter. He was so dismissive in his response, that it seemed he didn’t care that Vitellius was a lackluster husband for Galeria. As strange as this may sound, Caesar, I feel if I can help you rally the people, thereby garnering enough of their support to cast down the pretender, then perhaps I will somehow make amends for my failure to better protect my little cousin all those years ago.”
It was an earnest and rather intriguing response from Galerius. And though it reassured Otho as to the former consul’s personal loyalty, it posed even more questions.
“It seems as if Vitellius has few, if any, friends,” the emperor observed. “I wouldn’t say he has any real enemies, yet not once have I heard anyone speaking well of him. He’s like that fat, good-natured, simpleton of an uncle that no one wants to talk about. I feel like I must be missing something. After all, he has the entire Rhine army marching against Rome. Our forces in Belgica and Gaul appear to have sided with him. And I fear the Twenty-First Legion will abandon their post of guarding the Alpes and march under his banner. If Vitellius is nothing but a fat, lethargic fool, then how has he managed to turn so many of our finest legions against us?”
“You’re not missing anything,” Galerius replied. “At least not when it comes to Vitellius himself. He is, in fact, little more than a fat, lethargic fool. He also has a deep longing for glory and renown, yet has never known how to go about getting it. I personally know many of the legates of the Rhine legions, and most are political nobodies with little imagination or ambition. It saddens me to think that in another age, such men would have been cast out of the senate as incompetents. And now we appoint them to the prestigious post of legionary legate because of their mediocrity.”
“So, if Vitellius is not really in control of his army, and his legates are nearly as lackluster as he is, then who is leading this revolt?”
“I can’t say for certain,” Galerius answered. “But I do know of at least two legates who are a measure above their peers. Fabius Valens and Caecina Alienus are two of the most devious and cutthroat men to have ever cursed the senate with their presence. But Caecina has not been with the Rhine army for long, so I suspect Valens is primarily the one leading the rebellion for Vitellius. I’ve always despised Fabius Valens. The only man who I feel an equal amount of disdain for is that money-grubbing thief, Antonius Primus. To think Galba gave him command of Rome’s newest legion!”
“Primus has at least remained loyal,” Otho pointed out. He knew a little about Primus’ financial schemes, including the one which got him expelled from the senate. He did have a reputation as an aggressive and highly competent general, however, and at that moment, the emperor needed every capable soldier he could find.
“For now,” Galerius said, “Antonius Primus is loyal to whomever can buy him off. But I will give him credit, in that he can fight. Honestly, he is little good for anything else, but if he remains true in his loyalty to you, then he will be a viable asset on the battlefield. However, I digress.” He took a drink of wine before continuing. “As for Valens and Caecina, they seek power rather than wealth. Neither of them will risk his neck by attempting to become emperor. Rather, they found themselves the perfect puppet. A few words of flattery, as well as handing over the credit for defeating our armies, and Vitellius will give these men anything they want. They will rule the empire through him. For them, it is simply a matter of gaining all the rewards without assuming any of the risks, political or otherwise.”
“And what of the soldiers themselves?” Otho asked. “How is it so many professional soldiers, legionaries at that, can be goaded into declaring war on the very emperor they swore to serve?”
“Ah, but therein lies your answer,” the senator remarked. “The Rhine army refused to swear allegiance to Galba. Ever since they heard about their beloved Nero’s demise Caecina and Valens, and I’m sure a few others, started creating discord among the ranks. Discipline is fierce in the legions. But when mutinous feelings come from the top, how are common soldiers supposed to react? And let us not kid ourselves, the average legionary is an illiterate peasant who joined the army for a steady wage, the promise of adventure, and above all, so he wouldn’t ever go hungry. I’m not saying they’re all simpletons, though a great many are. Those with a brain, who can read and write, are the ones that become officers and eventuall
y centurions. Centurions are the brutal enforcers of discipline, yet they spoke the loudest against Galba.”
“Of course,” Otho said, remembering something he had heard before. “Galba was once governor in Lower Germania. His supporters always said he was strict, yet fair. I never had reason to think otherwise.”
“Whether he was as cruel as his detractors said, or if it was simply Caecina and Valens purchasing the loyalty of the senior centurions, many of these lifelong officers spoke of Galba’s despicable behavior and abject meanness back when they were young legionaries. And mind you, these were savage, battle-hardened centurions saying this. I think the current issue at hand was simply a matter of timing. The Rhine legions refuse to swear obedience to Galba, and in the meantime you overthrow him. It could simply be a matter of the events already being set in motion, with everyone involved thinking it’s too late to turn back. We must convince the legions otherwise...or rather, you must convince the people, and hope the army follows suit once they see the people of Rome will not stand with the pretender.”
Otho could not sleep at all the night before his departure from Rome. His brother had even sent a pair of rather expensive courtesans to relax him. And while an evening of pleasure was certainly appreciated, the emperor could not stop his mind from racing, even after his body was completely spent. Around two hours before dawn, he left his slumbering companions and summoned his personal servants to him, as well as his freedman, Onomastus.
“Couldn’t sleep either, sire?” the freedman asked knowingly.
“No,” Otho replied. “Our soldiers will be rousing themselves right about now, so they can be ready for my inspection at dawn. Come, help me into my armor.”
That he left his hair disheveled and his face unshaven was completely out of character for the emperor. Onomastus suspected he wanted to look the part of a soldier, rather than the pretty nobleman he had strived to be his whole life. Instead of an ornate, muscled cuirass, which was so common for consular generals and emperors to wear, Otho elected to wear a praetorian guardsman’s segmentata. He still retained his purple cloak, and instead of a helmet he wore the imperial laurel crown.
The armor was heavy, and as Otho made his way down the marble steps towards the main doors to the palace, he could not help but wonder how his soldiers could march twenty-five miles a day while so encumbered.
He had ordered his forces to assemble at the Circus Maximus, which was, conveniently, just across the street from the imperial palace. Otho decided to take the underground route, one normally used by senators and dignitaries who wished to pass back and forth between events without being assailed by the public. It was in this very passage that Emperor Gaius Caligula had met his end, twenty-eight years prior. He was murdered by disgruntled members of the Praetorian Guard and a couple of senators. Otho mentioned this to Onomastus, as they approached the large double-doors near the spot were Caligula was stabbed to death.
“Fortunately for you, sire, your guardsmen are a little fonder of you than they were of him.”
It was a macabre attempt at humor, though Otho still managed a chuckle. His freedman pointed to the paving stones. “If one looks closely, they can almost see the stains from where ‘Little Boots’ met his ignoble end.”
Otho grunted at Caligula’s silly nickname. He had been a boy of nine when Caligula was savagely slain and replaced by his ill-prepared, albeit benevolent, Uncle Claudius.
“Gaius Caligula ruled for only four years,” Otho noted, pausing to stare at the otherwise nondescript paving stones in the torchlight. “Tomorrow marks two months since I became Caesar. I can only hope my reign is not cut short in such a manner.”
Onomastus said nothing, but gave a look of understanding. The doors were opened, and as Otho stepped into the imperial box, the crowd which overflowed the stands of the large arena gave a voracious cheer, with many chants of ‘Caesar!’ Hundreds of senators were gathered in the seats or private boxes closest to the emperor. His army was in a massive parade formation that encompassed the chariot racing track.
For his army, Otho had Legio I, Adiutrix, seven cohorts of the Praetorian Guard, a force of one thousand marines, and two thousand volunteer gladiators. In all, approximately eight thousand men lined the arena floor. And while they were an impressive sight, the emperor hoped to triple their numbers, or more, with the legions from the Balkans.
“People of Rome,” Otho said, his hands held high. “Tomorrow your armies begin their journey north, to rid us of the threat of the pretender. The legions of the Rhine are guilty of gullibly believing any entity outside of the senate can proclaim a man emperor. They must now be shown the error of their thinking, and that the senate and people of Rome stand together as one. I ride north, not just as your emperor but as your humble representative. Your noble generals, Marius Celsus and Suetonius Paulinus, have already departed with our advance guard. By the time we all reach northern Italia, I hope the Germanic legions will display the sanity and sense of duty we all know they possess. And whatever happens in the coming days and weeks, know that we all stand together as Romans!”
With Galerius’ advice, Otho had kept his speech short, deliberately not mentioning his adversary by name. He wisely tempered his descriptions of the mutinous legions, proclaiming they were misled rather than rebellious traitors. The ovation he received was deafening, and perhaps a bit overdone, given the emperor knew the people’s affection for him was tepid at best. Still, if he could defeat the Vitellians, either by diplomacy or force, while bringing about an end to the crisis, he would return to Rome a hero of the people. As he raised his right hand in salute, he prayed that by summer he would have stability and order restored to the empire.
Hundreds of miles away, and fresh from the string of conflicts that plagued their march, Caecina’s army was slowly making its way into northern Italia. Their quashing of the troublesome Helvetii, soon after leaving Vindonissa, had been a blight on their journey, though the commanding general thought it a good way for his troops to bloody their weapons before the real fighting commenced.
It was a little over two hundred miles from Vindonissa to the city of Bergomum on the southern edge of the mountains. A distance that on flat ground with good roads could be covered in a week to ten days. It was now six weeks later, and the division was still negotiating its way through the mountains. Freezing rains had plagued them for much of their trek. Many of his soldiers suffered various ailments from the effects of constantly being soaked, the cold hindering their ability to dry their clothes. Even those soldiers who were originally from Germania were miserable. This and the steepness of the mountains slowed their pace to a crawl.
While traversing the steepest passes, the army sometimes could travel no more than five miles in a day. But for all the difficulties, the roads remained clear of snow. Only the peaks of the mountains were covered in white, and though the cold and incessant damp bit into every man in the army, not once did the rains turn to ice.
Around the third week of March, the Vitellian army encamped at a crossroads near the point where the River Addua flowed into the enormous and forked Lake Como. The area offered about a five mile stretch of flat and fertile land, which was a reprieve for the weary legs of the marching soldiers. The sun was also out this day, and while the army set about erecting its various camps, both legionaries and auxiliaries hung their soaked tunics and cloaks off their javelins and palisade stakes.
Caecina walked down to the bridge over the river where he could gaze out onto the large lake. Like his men, he was cold, wet, and tired. He had to remind himself he was well ahead of schedule and would easily beat Valens to the rendezvous point.
“What do you think, sir?” Master Centurion Bulla asked, as he joined his commanding legate. “Another day, maybe two?”
Since assuming command of the entire division, Caecina had had to delegate the administration of Legio IV, Macedonia, to his laticlavian tribune and centurion primus pilus.
“I believe the worst is over,” the gen
eral answered. “I figure we’re about forty miles from Bergomum. At which point, we will be completely clear of the Alpes Mountains. This road here skirts along Lake Como. We should have a much easier journey than we have these past six weeks.”
“We definitely felt a change in the weather this day,” Bulla observed. “The lads may finally be able to get some feeling back into their hands and feet.”
Caecina chuckled, while flexing his own fingers in emphasis.
“Tomorrow we should be able to make it as far as Leucerae,” he said. “And the day after we will press on to Bergomum. From there, we will take some time to refit and gather what intelligence we can as to the disposition of the region. I just hope the cities welcome us, and don’t compel us to launch a series of sieges while waiting for Otho’s army to arrive.”
“Rider approaching, sir!” a member of the vanguard called back. Caecina sighed and nodded to his master centurion before taking to his horse.
The rider was dressed in the armor of an auxiliary centurion, and he was promptly escorted back to where General Caecina sat astride his horse near the bridge.
“General Caecina?” the man asked.
“I am.”
“Centurion Titus Liberius, acting commander of the ala Siliana regiment of cavalry, sir.” He saluted sharply.
“Acting commander?” Caecina asked. “Should there not be a tribune of the equites in command?”
“There was, sir,” Liberius replied. “But he has gone over to the Othonians. My regiment served in North Africa when Vitellius was governor. We know nothing of Otho, but we know Vitellius treated us well. I have come to offer our swords and our lances to him.”
“Then you are most welcome,” the legate said. “Our ultimate destination is near Cremona. What can you tell me about the towns and cities around the River Padus?”