Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants

by James Mace

  “As you are well aware,” Celsus spoke up. “Our enemy consists mainly of soldiers from the Rhine army. Your own former legion, First Germanica, is among those.”

  “That they are, sir,” Spurinna acknowledged. He then smirked mirthlessly, realizing why he was called before the three senior generals in the Othonian army. “You want to know if I will fight against my former comrades or defect and join them. No disrespect intended, sirs, but isn’t that a question that should have been asked long before we marched three hundred and fifty miles from Rome?”

  “No disrespect taken,” Paulinus reassured him. “General Gallus tells us you are an officer of much experience and tactical skill. That is why we intend to send you to Placentia with a force of three thousand men under your command. Of course you understand our concern, given you will be responsible for defending one of the most important strategic strongpoints in all of northern Italia.”

  “And you want to know if I will stay true to my oath or hand the city back to my former legion,” Spurinna remarked. “I have served in the ranks for twenty-eight years, since my seventeenth birthday. My first oath of allegiance was to Emperor Claudius, and I have since kept my vow to him, Nero...and yes, even Galba, despite the terrible atrocities he committed towards those who now make up my legion. I accepted the transfer from First Germanica in order to serve Rome and my emperor. My allegiance firmly belongs to Otho, and Vitellius can only have it if Otho is dead and the senate confirms him as Caesar. Until then, he is nothing more than a pretender and a usurper, and I’ll shove my gladius up his ass, should our paths cross.”

  “I like him,” Celsus said.

  “Alright,” Paulinus concurred. He ordered one of his scribes to write a set of orders for the centurions from each cohort, to be sent to Placentia.

  “Have your men ready to depart by midmorning,” he told Spurinna.

  In Caesarea, the same question which troubled Suetonius Paulinus was now being echoed within the governor’s palace. Ever since word reached the east that Vitellius had declared himself emperor at the start of the New Year, rumors ran rampant that Rome’s most venerable general would refuse to bow before the usurper. The prediction of the Jewish general, Josephus, had also resurfaced in recent months.

  “Otho still sits upon the throne,” Vespasian asserted, during a dinner he hosted for his army’s senior officers. Vitellius has not usurped him just yet.”

  “And if Otho triumphs, do we overthrow him?” Trajan asked. “Are we then any better than the Vitellians, or are our oaths just as worthless as theirs?”

  “The words of your brother are clear,” Placidus emphasized. “The people in Rome have no love for Otho or Vitellius, finding it unseemly to go to the temples to pray for the safety and triumph of either.”

  “No one vying for the throne can claim proper lineage or constitutional rights,” Vespasian said slowly. “And with the Julio-Claudians now extinct, whoever wins in this violent game has to provide some sense of rationale as to why the people should accept him as Caesar. The fact that Vitellius continues to march on Rome, even after Galba’s demise, tells me Otho has failed to win the people over.”

  Titus thought for a moment, then added, “I think Vitellius would continue to try and stake his claim, regardless of who currently rules in Rome.”

  “It’s true,” Trajan said. “Vitellius is little more than a fat patrician who loves banquets more than anything. However, he is no fool. I think he realizes, even if he should renounce his claim, Otho will still view him as a threat and have him disposed of in time. Besides, I doubt his legions will allow him to back down, not after they’ve come this far. True, they rebelled against Galba; however, Otho is simply an added obstacle to them, who happens to be standing in their way.”

  “You know,” Vespasian remarked, “I cannot fault Vitellius for his actions, nor could I expect him to simply demand his soldiers lay down their arms and swear fealty to Otho. And given the phrasing of my brother’s latest dispatch, my instincts tell me both factions view us with suspicion.”

  “Well, thank the gods we have Uncle Sabinus as our eyes in Rome,” Titus emphasized. “I suspect most of the empire has been left completely blind to what is transpiring in the capital. Hell, it would not surprise me if many of the provinces don’t even know Galba is dead, let alone anything about the civil war now threatening to tear the very fabric of Rome to shreds.”

  “So we watch and wait,” Placidus remarked. “Just as we continue to wait for the rebellious Jews to kill each other off in Jerusalem, so must we wait and see which Roman faction is left standing after they’ve finished bleeding each other.”

  As a centurion primus ordo, Spurinna had achieved one of the most exalted ranks a plebian soldier could ever hope to attain. He was iron-fisted when it came to discipline, and never shrank from administering floggings or other punishments to insubordinate legionaries. At the same time, he was quick to praise both valor and initiative. During his years with First Germanica, his tactical skill and situational awareness had led his men to decisive victories when battling the seemingly endless hordes east of the Rhine. He had been decorated for extreme personal bravery no less than six times. But that was a long time ago, in a different legion, and in a region of the empire completely foreign to most of those who now served under his command.

  Discipline, command, and overall control of his soldiers was now far trickier than in any other time in his nearly three decades in the ranks. The centurion was keenly aware that he faced the same quandary as their generals. His soldiers had a certain level of inborn misgivings. After all, they knew him scarcely any more than they did their legates. Since his previous legion would be among those opposing them, it was no small wonder they were suspicious about his intentions. Gaining their trust would take time. And thanks to Caecina’s unexpected winter advance over the Alpes, time was something they did not have.

  Spurinna had ordered his taskforce paraded just after dawn. All officers would conduct final inspections of their men and pack animals and report to him when complete. They had a modest journey of approximately ten miles to complete this day, southwest to the city of Parma. After which, they would head northwest along the Via Aemilia, reaching Placentia in approximately two days.

  “All infantry cohorts are ready to advance, sir,” a praetorian centurion said, riding up and saluting.

  “Very good,” Spurinna said, returning the gesture. “Half our cavalry will screen the front as a vanguard, the rest will cover our flanks and rear. First two praetorian cohorts will take the lead, followed by the legionary cohorts, and finally the last of the praetorians.”

  It was a matter of appeasing the pride of the imperial guardsmen that Spurinna allowed them to march at the head of the column. And though they lacked actual campaign experience, at least they were not completely raw and untrained.

  The trek to Parma was without incident, even though there were grumblings from some of the ranks that they were “going the wrong way” and “the enemy was to the north, not the west”. Still, the pace of the journey was brisk. The taskforce arrived at the city gates by midafternoon. Spurinna gave his men leave to partake in refreshments and entertainment with a strict curfew of nightfall. The evening passed with only a few disciplinary issues, and by the following midmorning they were on the move again. On this day, they advanced to the northwest along the Via Aemilia. The road, a high-use thoroughfare between northern and central Italia, was wide and well maintained. This time they took refuge in an old auxilia fort near a road station known as Ad Florentiola. The mood of the soldiers was now one of eager anticipation. They knew once they crossed the River Padus, they would at last come face-to-face with the hated traitors.

  The third day of their journey involved a twenty-five mile trek to the city of Placentia, where Centurion Spurinna intended to establish a defensive stronghold. The praetorians and legionaries were lustily anticipating closing with their enemy. They set such a brisk pace, their hobnailed sandals clattering on t
he cobblestones in such a rapid cadence, that they reached their destination in just over six and a half hours. It was barely noon, and though the men were tired, they were driven by their ever-growing bloodlust and thirst for martial glory. As the column stopped for a short rest, a couple miles from the city, such excited talk could be heard in a myriad of conversations amongst the Othonian soldiers.

  “Most of these men have never attacked anything with their gladii except training stakes,” Spurinna said to one of his legionary centurions, also a hardened veteran. “They do not yet understand there is no glory to be had in killing other men, especially when they are fellow Romans.”

  “They’ll learn soon enough,” the other centurion remarked, “once they see their first man laying screaming on the ground, his guts splayed open.”

  A cavalry scout was soon spotted riding from the direction of the city.

  “What news?” Spurinna asked.

  “The city’s walls are twenty feet high,” the trooper reported, “enough to make a viable defense from.”

  “Very good. And no sign of the enemy?”

  “No, sir. Though we did hear that a Vitellian division under Caecina Alienus has occupied Cremona.”

  “Well, that can’t be helped,” the centurion replied. He turned to several of his subordinate officers. “Placentia is the other most viable strategic point in the region, aside from Cremona. As long as we control it, they cannot utilize the River Padus nor the Aemilia Road.”

  “Hang on...hang on!” a praetorian guardsman spoke up, interrupting the officers. “I thought we were taking the fight to the Vitellians, not coming all this way just to sit on our asses!”

  Guardsmen and legionaries were soon gathering around, many of them making similar remarks. It irritated Spurinna to no end that such gross insubordination was being accepted and, in some cases, encouraged. In his previous legion, the impudent guardsman would have been beaten with the centurion’s vine stick and docked a week’s pay for such an outburst. But with every last man in the ranks suspicious of their officers’ loyalties, Spurinna was, for the moment, powerless to resort to harsh disciplinary measures.

  “How do we know you’re not going to confine us all to the city, so you can defect to the pretender?” a legionary added, albeit with uncertainty.

  Spurinna looked to his cohort commanders and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Alright,” he said. “Do you wish to take the fight to the enemy?”

  “Yes!” a chorus of voices shouted back.

  “Very well,” the centurion replied. “We will bypass the city and continue along the Via Aemilia, towards the road station of Ad Padum. Once we cross the River Padus, we’ll conduct an armed reconnaissance east towards Cremona.”

  This elicited a series of cheers and battle cries, as the men hoisted their packs. Centurion Spurinna looked at his perplexed officers and gave a subtle wink. One of the praetorians understood his meaning and gave a nod of understanding.

  The Othonian taskforce continued to march until nightfall. They reached an open plane near a bridge that lead over the River Padus. The soldiers were now utterly spent, and many wished to lie down and sleep.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Spurinna shouted to a group of legionaries, who had dropped their packs and were starting to remove their armor.

  “Bunking down for the night, sir,” a legionary said, surprised at the question.

  “Across that bridge is enemy territory,” the centurion said, pointing over his shoulder. “And there are at least two or three passable fording points within a few miles. We are out in the open with no knowledge as to where the enemy might be, and you’re going to lie down and let him cut your throat in the middle of the night? Get up, all of you! Grab your entrenching tools and start fortifying this camp!”

  The legionaries and praetorians looked at each other in confusion. Another centurion stepped forward and began to berate them. “You stupid shits! Are you all so eager to face the enemy, on open ground, who outnumbers you ten-to-one? And since you dare to question the loyalty of your own officers, you are at risk of being wiped out before we’ve even crossed the fucking river!”

  Spurinna continued, “You men of First Adiutrix, if you are going to be legionaries, you’d best learn how to establish a fucking camp! Six foot deep trench all the way around with earthen palisade atop. Latrine trenches will need to be dug, all tents erected, and a sentry list established.”

  Both the praetorians, as well as the Adiutrix legionaries had either bivouacked within cities or set up their tents near the walls, during their journey north. None of them had anticipated having to establish a regulation marching camp each night. Men started fumbling for their tools, forlorn that this was going to take half the night.

  Their commanding officer held up his hand.

  “My colleague here is correct,” he said. “You are all a bunch of stupid shits. Under most circumstances, I’d have the lot of you flogged! And if there are any further breaches of discipline, or any outbursts or seditious talk that questions the loyalty of your officers, I will beat the offenders myself, and they will be docked a month’s wages. Now, we have two options. You can attempt to learn how to set up a proper army camp in the middle of the night, while praying enemy scouts have not reported back to their main body that their adversaries are a bunch of confused little boys, trying to play soldier. Or, we can heft our packs, make the trek back to Placentia, and camp within the safety of its walls. If we leave now, we can make it back by midnight.”

  The thought of marching another two hours back to Placentia was hateful, but it was still preferable to trying to establish a marching camp in the middle of the night. By the time the exhausted contingent reached the city, all the while looking for enemy soldiers over their shoulders as their centurions berated them, they had marched a mind and body numbing thirty-five miles since morning. Never again would they doubt Centurion Spurinna or any of their officers.

  Chapter XXXIV: Storming the Walls

  Placentia, west of Cremona

  28 March 69 A.D.

  ***

  As his forces marched back into Placentia, Centurion Primus Ordo Spurinna summoned his subordinate commanders to him. Discipline may have been restored, but now there was the matter of making preparations for the coming Vitellian onslaught.

  “At least that little stroll will teach those insubordinate bastards to obey orders,” a centurion pilus prior muttered.

  “We will need those insubordinate bastards if we are to defend Placentia,” Spurinna noted. “We’ll let them rest tonight, but tomorrow we begin preparations.”

  The centurion scaled the stone steps to the top of the wall and gazed towards the east. Under the moonlight, he could just make out the Via Postumia, as well as the River Padus which ran just north of the city. Near the intersection was a large wooden amphitheater. Many locals claimed it was the largest of its type in the western empire. It was also located uncomfortably close to the wall, and could make for a viable staging platform for enemy archers.

  “We should tear down the amphitheater,” he said to one of his centurions. “It’s only two hundred feet from the wall. And while it makes for a poor defensive position for us, it would give enemy archers a far greater vantage point from which to engage us.”

  “That theater is over a hundred years old,” the centurion observed. “I grew up in Veleia, about thirty miles to the south of here. We used to come up to watch plays and gladiatorial matches here. It is a great source of pride for the locals. If we attempt to dismantle or destroy it, they’ll cast us out and hand the city over to the Vitellians.”

  It was not the answer Spurinna wanted, but he knew the centurion was right. “Then we’ll place two of our scorpions here,” he said. “I want them to keep the enemy from making any use of that structure.”

  The nearby amphitheater aside, Centurion Spurinna was quite pleased with the defensive capabilities of the city. The walls were just high enough to make assaults with ladders rathe
r difficult, while the defensive ramparts were thick enough to withstand much of the impact from catapult shot. He suspected the enemy would be overconfident and impatient, thereby reducing the probability of them attempting a lengthy siege.

  The remainder of Caecina’s division had arrived at Cremona, and he now met with his legates and other senior officers to plan the next phase of their campaign. As there had been no contact with General Valens in over three months, they had no way of knowing where exactly he was. For all they knew, he could still be stuck in Gaul. Or, he could have crossed over the western Alpes and be well into Italia.

  “I don’t plan on waiting for Valens,” Caecina asserted. “At least not until after we have taken Placentia. Once that city is in our hands, we will control most of the northern and southern regions around the River Padus. Only Verona, to the east, is still loyal to Otho. And it is from that direction I suspect the Balkan legions to come.”

  “If we take Placentia, we can have the usurper beaten before they even arrive,” a legate stated. Like most of the senatorial officers, they longed for a chance at personal glory, and were in no mood to share any of the honor or spoils with Valens’ division.

  “As we understand it,” Caecina continued, “Otho has only committed a few thousand men to the defense of the city. These are mostly pretty-boy praetorians and former marines from that legion Galba raised a few months ago. Our veterans will roll right over them.”

  “So you do not intend to lay siege to the city?” another officer asked.

  “A siege will take too long,” the commanding general answered. “Right now, we need a quick and decisive victory. Placentia is approximately a day’s march from here. If we get an early start, those impetuous fools can watch as their doom approaches along the Via Postumia. If they have any sense, they will surrender the city and, perhaps, decide to join us. After all, no one likes fighting for a losing cause.”