Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  It was well after nightfall when Guardsman Tiberius Statius entered the port city of Albium Intimilium. Under the cover of darkness, he snuck aboard a docked merchant vessel. The ship’s captain had been terrified to see the bedraggled praetorian barge into his quarters, and was even more confused when Statius presented him with coin rather than his sword.

  “Ask no questions. Simply allow me the use of your cabin, and I will disembark as soon as you reach Ostia.”

  “B...but this ship isn’t bound for Ostia,” the captain protested, his hands still held up in surrender. “We are leaving for Carthago Nova in southern Hispania.”

  Statius chuckled and pulled out three gold aurei. “Now you’re headed for Ostia,” he said. “And for Juno’s sake, put your hands down! I’m not here to threaten you or anyone aboard this ship. Once we’re in Ostia and I am within walking distance of Rome, there will be ten more of those waiting for you.”

  The captain picked up one of the coins, noted the lack of scouring and the freshly-minted image of Emperor Otho, and simply said, “We will head for Ostia.”

  Statius was exceedingly wary during the journey, and he kept mostly to the cabin with the door barred. When he did go out onto the main deck, he kept his gladius on him and made certain to never allow anyone behind him, lest the crew hear about the ‘wealthy’ praetorian and attempt to mug him for the remainder of his coin. His fears were for naught. The captain had not so much as mentioned to anyone on his crew why they were first heading to Ostia. They, in turn, did not seem to have asked any further questions. And when Statius did come out of the cabin to check their progress, he noted the ship was heading southeast, taking the direct route towards Ostia and Rome rather than following the coastline, as was the norm.

  A normal coastal trek to Ostia would have taken four or five days. By taking the direct route, skimming close to the northern coast of Corsica, the ship arrived in three. Upon disembarking, the crew were somewhat surprised to see him in the full armor of a praetorian guardsman. Like most peoples, none of them had any stake in the current war. And as long as trade was allowed to continue unabated, they cared not who the populace called ‘Caesar’.

  “A promise is a promise, my friend,” Statius said to the captain, handing him a folded cloth.

  The captain discretely unfolded the top layer to find ten more gold coins beneath. He gleamed and extended his hand to the guardsman.

  “May Neptune guide you wherever your journeys take you, my friend.”

  Ostia, being the port city for Rome herself, was much friendlier ground for Statius. He was relieved to be back after the disaster in Maritime Alpes, yet he was not all that certain what he should do now. He supposed the right thing would be to report back to the barracks, and see if anyone had received word from the taskforce’s survivors. This entailed the risk of being labeled as a coward or deserter by those nefarious types who did not care for Caesar’s hired blade. Therefore he decided he should report to the emperor himself.

  It was late in the day when he finally made his way into the city. Though the city was bustling, the imperial palace was practically deserted. A pair of guardsmen stood outside the large doors, still partially smashed from the riot of drunken praetorians.

  “Looks like someone has returned from the dead,” one of the men said, with a grin of disbelief.

  “Bloody hell,” the other man said. “We’d written all of you off as lost.”

  “And, as far as I know, that may be true,” Statius replied. He nodded towards the door. “What in Hades happened here?”

  “You should ask Tribune Martialis,” the first guardsman replied. “He’s been left in charge of the few of us left here to make certain nobody loots the palace, while the emperor is away.”

  “So the emperor has gone north,” Statius said.

  “He has,” the second praetorian replied. “Though we’re all taking wagers on whether or not he returns.”

  Caecina was filled with feelings of elation and triumph. He accompanied his advance guard into the city of Cremona on the twenty-third of March. Located just north of the River Padus, it was one of the most crucial strategic strongpoints in northern Italia. The other was the city of Placentia, located approximately twenty miles to the west on the southern bank of the Padus, along the Via Postumia. Placentia was important, because it was also the major crossroads between the Via Postumia and the Via Aemilia, which was one of the main arteries leading to Rome herself. And whoever controlled both cities controlled most of northern Italia.

  The citizens of Cremona had readily opened their gates to the Vitellian army, though this had little to do with admiration or a desire to see Vitellius on the throne. In truth, most of the citizens in northern Italia had little to no knowledge whatsoever regarding the two rival Caesars. They couldn’t care less who ruled from Rome. Besides, these approaching forces were not foreign invaders but imperial soldiers. If they had wanted to take a stand against the pretender, there was very little their small garrison could hope to achieve, even against the couple thousand soldiers of Caecina’s advance guard.

  While the people had no desire to involve themselves in a civil war whose outcome would not affect them one way or the other, the city’s nobility was rather taken aback by Caecina’s manner of dress. The magistrates and city councilmen, having been informed of the imperial legate’s approach, donned their best formal togas. Yet, the general was seen wearing Gallic trousers, a ratty tunic underneath his tarnished breastplate, and a multicolored cloak. It had been the same during his journey, ever since his forces successfully negotiated the Alpes. They first passed through Bergomum, then Brixia, and finally down into Cremona. And while he treated the people of these cities with far more clemency and respect than he had the troublesome Helvetii, he was in no mood for formalities and niceties. But now that he had arrived at the city where he intended to make his base of operations, he knew he would have to play politician, as well as commanding general.

  “Welcome to Cremona, noble Legate of Rome,” the mayor said, bowing slightly as Caecina dismounted his horse.

  “I thank you most humbly on behalf of our esteemed emperor, Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus,” Caecina replied, with a short bow in return. He watched the mayor, gauging his reaction to the general’s assertion of Vitellius as emperor. The man seemed completely indifferent. Even calling Vitellius by the title of ‘Augustus’, something that could only be lawfully bestowed by the senate, caused no reaction from the magistrates.

  “I feel I must apologize for my manner of dress,” the legate said, deciding now was the time to begin playing diplomatically with the city’s leaders. “My army has traversed the fearsome Alpes and during such an arduous trek, we must be practical rather than formal regarding our attire. But if you will allow me to take my leave for the time being and have a bath, a shave, and a change of clothing, I think you will find me a more appropriate representative of the emperor.”

  “But, of course,” the mayor replied. “My freedman will take you to the governor’s villa, where my personal baths and all my slaves, will be at your disposal.”

  He was attempting to appear generous. Both parties knew he had little choice. A thousand cavalrymen and fifteen hundred legionaries now occupied the streets of Cremona, and these were just Caecina’s advance guard. The mayor had no idea just how large this army was nor was he aware of an even bigger force, approximately three weeks’ march to the west. What he did know was the Vitellians were here, while there had been no sign of Emperor Otho’s forces within fifty miles. As such, the mayor and his councilors knew which side they would be obligated to support in the coming conflict.

  “You are most kind,” Caecina said. He turned back and held out his hand towards his wife. She had accompanied him since Bergomum. “May I present my wife, the Lady Salonina.”

  A pair of female slaves quickly rushed over to help her from her horse, bedecked in purple trappings as was the noblewoman herself.

  “My lady, you are most we
lcome here,” the mayor said. “My wife will be honored to make your acquaintance.”

  “And I hers,” Salonina replied.

  It had been a happy coincidence for Caecina that his wife had been staying with family in Bergomum during the winter months. Being a native of Croton, one of the southernmost cities in Italia, the Germanic winters disagreed with Salonina immensely. They would enjoy what time they could together, and Caecina would decide on the safest place for her once the Othonian army was sighted. But for the time being, there was little for his division to do, except wait for Valens or Otho to arrive. The Vitellian general secretly hoped for the later.

  Nearly two weeks had passed since Otho departed Rome, at the head of his small band of loyalist soldiers and volunteers. Generals Paulinus and Celsus had arrived well before the emperor, having established the army’s camp outside of Brixellum, just south of the River Padus and about fifty miles southeast of Cremona. There, they met with another of their peers, Legate Annius Gallus.

  “Gentlemen,” Gallus said, riding out to meet the two men at the head of an escort of two cavalry regiments.

  “General Gallus,” Celsus said, noting the grave concern upon his face. “Why the trepidation? Surely the enemy hasn’t crossed into Italia already!” He was chuckling as he made this last remark. Gallus’ pale expression immediately sobered him. “No...they can’t have!”

  “They can, and they have,” Gallus said. “I took the liberty of posting scouts as far north as Comum and Bergomum and detaching a company of horsemen to Placentia. There has been no sign of the enemy’s main army to the west; however, an entire division has crossed over the Alpes from the north. Legionaries, cavalry, auxiliary infantry, they number at least twenty thousand men, maybe more.”

  “I was afraid this would happen,” Paulinus said with resignation. “The winter was incredibly mild, and there was a lot of speculation about the roads through the Alpes being passable. Still, even I did not think Vitellius would actually attempt it.”

  “And if twenty thousand have crossed over the Alpes, then there must be at least twice as many coming from the west,” Celsus speculated.

  “They wouldn’t have been able to coordinate with each other, since their departure from Germania,” Gallus noted. “For all we know, the larger Vitellian division could be three weeks, or even three months, from here.”

  “Still, this gives us absolutely no time to forge our jumbled mess of an army into a cohesive force,” Celsus grumbled.

  The other legates nodded in glum consensus. Two great impediments now faced them. The first was their rapport with their own troops. While the soldiers themselves were fiercely loyal to Otho, the men in the ranks would be prone to question whether or not their commanders felt the same. After all, loyalties among the patrician class were purchased more often than not. And how could individual legionaries and auxiliary troopers ever be certain they weren’t being set up for failure by officers who only just arrived? The best Roman generals were able, over time, to forge a bond between themselves and their soldiers. This was accomplished through mutual trust, strict discipline, and above all, the unwavering belief from the ranks that their commanders had their interests, and those of Rome, at heart. Even the divine Julius Caesar did not win the hearts and souls of his soldiers right away. Yet by the time they conquered Gaul, they were ready to march on Rome for their leader. The dilemma now facing the three senior generals of the Othonian army was that their soldiers simply did not know them.

  The other difficulty they now had to contend with was that their enemies were highly experienced and battle-hardened veterans, while their own army was full of raw, scarcely trained recruits. While a few of the former marines who made up Legio I, Adiutrix may have had some experience fighting aboard ship, not one of them ever served in open battle on land. They were essentially legionaries in name only, who had had barely enough time to complete rudimentary recruit training after their foundation. The praetorian guardsmen were far better equipped and trained, though even most of them lacked actual battle experience. The emperor had brought the more experienced officers from the Guard with him, whose discipline and leadership qualities far surpassed those of the incompetent lot who led the expedition to Maritime Alpes.

  As the advance guard made camp for the night, south of Brixellum, the three senior officers met in Gallus’ tent to discuss the overall strategic situation. Emperor Otho, and indeed the entire army, would soon be horrified to learn a large Vitellian army seemingly appeared out of thin air in northern Italia. It had been unthinkable that any Roman army would leave its barracks and march through the winter. Yet, according to General Gallus, that is exactly what happened.

  “At least now we know what we are up against, both internally and externally,” Paulinus observed. “If the enemy are advancing on Cremona, then we must immediately secure Placentia.”

  “We could readily detach three of the praetorian cohorts,” Celsus remarked. “And we have two cohorts from First Adiutrix, one of which is their eight hundred man First Cohort. Granted, these men are not experienced elite soldiers, like in most legions, but they are recruits who showed a lot of promise. And their centurions are veterans.”

  “Alright,” Paulinus nodded. “We’ll send the praetorians and a thousand men from Legio I, a full cohort, plus three of the double-strength centuries from their First Cohort. We can probably spare two regiments of cavalry as well, which will give the total force roughly three thousand men. The only question now is who to place in overall command.”

  “There’s a centurion primus ordo from First Adiutrix, Titus Vestricius Spurinna,” Gallus observed. “He has served in the legions for twenty-eight years and has a wealth of experience and tactical savvy. He may be the best candidate we have available. But, he will likely run into substantial difficulties when dealing with the rankers.”

  “What do you mean?” Celsus asked.

  “The legionaries of First Adiutrix are raw recruits. Their centurions and options came from other legions,” Gallus explained. “Centurion Spurinna came from the Rhine army, First Germanica, in fact.”

  “Bugger me,” Paulinus groaned, hanging his head for a moment. He then sat upright and called over his shoulder to a legionary standing guard. “Have him brought here at once!”

  “Sir!”

  “While we wait for Centurion Spurinna, there is something that’s been troubling me,” Celsus said. He held up his hands. “Now I know we have a very real war to fight against Vitellius, but my mind keeps wandering further east.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gallus asked.

  “He means Vespasian,” Paulinus answered. “According to his brother, Sabinus, his legions have sworn their allegiance to Otho. Should Otho lose, he is unlikely to take kindly to any demands of fealty from the usurper.”

  Gallus shook his head in confusion. “We’ve already had three Caesars declared since the first of the year, are we to now expect a fourth? And why should we concern ourselves with Vespasian? We have a far more immediate threat right in front of us.”

  “Because it is good to always be thinking a few moves ahead, especially in this dangerous game we play,” Celsus replied, his face breaking into a knowing grin. “Why do you think I’m still here? I was Galba’s most loyal and vocal supporter outside of his inner circle. And yet, I still live, whereas his closest advisors are all dead. Otho not only granted me full pardon in front of the entire senate, he named me one of his chief commanding generals for the war against Vitellius. How could this happen, you may ask? Because I know how to play the game and survive, even on those rarest of occasions when I lose. Trust me, I will pour my very soul into defeating Vitellius. But should we fail, I intend to be left standing: not exiled to a remote isle or strangled atop the Gemonian Stairs for the amusement of the mob.”

  “As do I,” Paulinus asserted. “But seeing as how the very idea of serving that lazy, rotund bastard turns my very stomach, let us hope Otho still holds the throne when this is over.�
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  What the old general wanted to say, though wisely refrained from, was he wished it was Vespasian, and not Otho or Vitellius who he was given the choice of serving. But, while that was all irrelevant for the time being, it was still something which remained ever present in the far reaches of his mind.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” a legionary said, opening the tent flap. “But Centurion Spurinna is here, as ordered.”

  “Show him in,” Paulinus said with an impatient wave, relieved to be back to the issues at hand.

  Titus Vestricius Spurinna was a big man. He stood at least two inches taller than Paulinus, and with his thickly muscled torso, legs, and arms, the general surmised the centurion was at least fifty pounds heavier. His hair was more of a dark sandy blonde, rather than the brown or black normally seen in Latin soldiers. This, coupled with his size and the assumption he had been born along the Rhine to a legionary father, told the generals he likely had Germanic roots on his mother’s side.

  “You sent for me, sir?” Spurinna asked, snapping off a sharp salute. Not knowing which of the three legates was the senior officer he addressed Paulinus. He was the oldest, as well as the officer the centurion was most familiar with.

  “We did, centurion,” Paulinus answered. “There is a task of great magnitude which we wish to entrust you with. However, there is a rather delicate issue that must first be addressed.”

  “However I can be of service,” the centurion replied. His face bore several scars, including a nasty pair that formed an ‘x’ near his left jaw. His right forearm also bore a wide, hideous scar from a past adversary.