by James Mace
“We should meet with those officers, centurions pilus prior and above, who are still with us,” Gallus observed. “They will know the disposition of our men. We should make ourselves aware before we set about negotiating terms of surrender.”
Contrary to Caecina and Valens’ intent, the Vitellian army had maintained its pursuit well past Ad Castores. Neither general attempted to stop their men. They reckoned exhaustion would bring the chase to a close long before they reached Bedriacum. This proved true, although not until they had come within five miles of the enemy stronghold.
“I think we’ve done enough for one day,” Caecina told the exhausted legates that night.
“We’ll establish camp here, and see if Otho still has any fight left in him tomorrow,” Valens added. “In the meantime, we need to shore up our own losses, get our men some food, and give them at least a day to rest and reconsolidate.”
There were no complaints from the senior officers nor from the men in the ranks. All were completely spent, having engaged in a savage battle which, unlike most of the era, had lasted at least a couple of hours. The further pursuit had taken them fifteen miles, with many of their soldiers maintaining some semblance of battle lines, marching cross-country rather than on the main road. None had eaten since breakfast, and it was now sunset.
Two cohorts had been left behind to see to their wounded and slain, while the Othonian casualties were left where they fell. All told, the army of Vitellius lost around seven thousand dead and wounded, while inflicting approximately ten thousand casualties upon their adversaries. Many of the latter were suffered after the Othonian lines collapsed, during the first couple miles of the pursuit. And while every legionary and auxiliary trooper under Caecina and Valens was convinced they had given Otho’s army a sound beating, until the flanks collapsed the issue had been an inconclusive stalemate. Such was often the case. Many times the most decisive battles recorded by historians had been very much in doubt, right up until the very end.
Given the relatively short distance between the Bedriacum and Brixellum, it did not take long for the emperor to hear of his army’s ignominious defeat. There was a somber yet defiant mood permeating the Othonian camp at Brixellum. That the Vitellians had not pursued them, but instead formed their own camp five miles from Bedriacum, told of their own state of exhaustion and crippling losses. Word had yet to reach the emperor of the pending surrender of the garrison at Bedriacum, and so his forces at Brixellum were determined to carry on the fight against the pretender. Those legates and senior officers who had taken part in the bitter fighting had a different point of view.
“I have here a dispatch from General Celsus,” Otho said, addressing a host of senators from his entourage. Also present was his other praetorian prefect, Plotius Firmus, as well as tribunes Martialis and Vergilio. “Our army has been resoundingly defeated, and he asks what instructions I may have. He further implores me, as emperor, to do what is right for the greater good of Rome.”
“Sire, we cannot give up now,” Firmus protested. “We’ve suffered a setback, but we still have a sizeable garrison here, praetorian guardsmen who will stand by you until the bloody end!”
The assembled senators remained silent, and even Vitellius’ brother, Lucius, remained completely impassive.
“The greater good of Rome,” Otho repeated, nodding his head slowly while ignoring his prefect’s pleas. What no one mentioned, though all clearly thought about, was the lack of any word at all from the emperor’s own brother.
No one, except perhaps Onomastus, knew that the emperor had already decided what he would do, should his army be defeated by Vitellius. And while one would expect him to appear disheveled and utterly devastated, much like Nero at the end of his days, Otho was surprisingly calm, almost serene. His very demeanor was one of profound relief, as if he were being saved from the burdens of ruling the empire.
“Sire, please,” Firmus pleaded once more, as the assembled senators were either indifferent or too cowardly to attempt to dissuade Otho from what they suspected his fatal intentions were. “We should not lose heart, not now, not when so many lives have been lost already. I’m begging you, do not desert the army when it has been so loyal to you. Do they not deserve your devotion in return?”
“It is my devotion, my love for them, that compels me to what I must do,” Otho replied calmly. He then gave an eloquent speech, one that would resonate down the generations and cause posterity to judge his end far more favorably than it would his life.
“To expose our men of spirit and courage to further danger is far too high a price to pay for my life. The more hope you hold out to me, the more glorious my death becomes. We have gotten to know each other, Fortuna and I, and you should not discount the shortness of my reign. For when one knows that they will not enjoy their good fortune for long, it is more difficult to show restraint. Vitellius began this civil war by forcing us to fight for the throne. I will end it, by ensuring that we fight no more than once. Let this be how posterity judges me. Let Vitellius take delight in his kinfolk, for I seek neither revenge nor consolation for my defeat.”
He then looked to his enemy’s brother.
“Lucius, note this well, how you and your family have been treated, and tell your brother that I ended my reign with dignity and grace. Others may have ruled longer, but none will relinquish power so bravely. It would be utterly selfish of me to ask the greatness of Rome’s youth to shed their blood for me a second time. Let me carry away with me the thought that you were ready to die for me, but survive you must. I must not endanger your safety nor will you impede my decision. To dwell on one’s last moments is a coward’s way. The ultimate proof of my determination is that I make no complaints. To find fault with gods or men is the behavior of one who would prefer to go on living. Let me then end this war, so that others may live, and may posterity say that I died with honor.”
The emperor made his way around the room, saying his personal farewells to his closest friends and colleagues. He briefly reminisced with each about happier days, and he urged them to leave at once, lest Vitellius prove far less merciful to his enemies than Otho had been. Last among these was a young boy of nearly twelve. He was Otho’s nephew and Titianus’ son, Salvius Cocceianus.
“Salvius, my boy,” Otho said, taking the lad by the hand. “I never told anyone this, but my intent, once the war was over, was to name you my successor. The gods denied me children, and you were the closest I have ever had to a son. By Jupiter, what a Caesar you would have been! Do not fear for your life, for as I have spared Vitellius’ family, his brother, an honorable man, will see to it that mine is shown clemency. And do not mourn for your uncle, but be grateful that our family has now become among the leading houses in Rome, even in our defeat.”
He embraced the boy and said his final farewells, before summoning Onomastus and a score of slaves to follow him. He took them into his private quarters and had them heft a small chest onto the table. Otho opened the lid. Inside was a mass of newly minted gold coins.
“For you, my loyal servants,” he said. “I have already drafted in my will that each of you is to be granted your freedom. And there is enough coin in here that none of you will have to toil ever again.”
He then addressed his freedman. “Onomastus, you have already earned your freedom, and the largest share of this gold and silver is yours. After I am gone and my ashes interred, I want you to leave Italia. Find yourself some place far away from the suffering and despair, take a wife, and raise lots of strapping sons and beautiful daughters. Know that I wish you nothing but happiness and peace in this life.”
The freedman fought to control his tears, for never had he witnessed such nobility and generosity from his master. Otho then dismissed the servants and had Onomastus bring him a pair of daggers. Selecting one which he felt was ideally suited for the task, he placed it under his pillow and bid his freedman to bring him a pitcher of cold water. Instead of drowning himself in wine or other mind altering substances,
he sat at his desk, drinking nothing but cold water, while writing a pair of letters. One was to his sister, telling her not to grieve, and that his fate was decreed by the gods, quite possibly in retribution for having usurped the imperial throne from Galba by force of violence. He assured her that his end was just and posterity would view him kindly.
The second letter, oddly enough, was addressed to Nero’s third and final wife, Statilia Messalina. Though he had planned to adopt young Salvius Cocceianus, he had always been fond of Statilia. After his betrothal to Vinia Crispina had to be called off, Otho had contemplated making Statilia his empress consort. The war had delayed this, like the adoption of his nephew, permanently.
After he finished, he undressed and went to bed. And there he slept more soundly than any night since he became emperor. He awoke refreshed, invigorated, and completely at peace. He offered a few prayers to the gods, that they might judge him with clemency in the next life. And while Roman society had no concept of redemption for past evils, he even went so far as to ask the soul of his departed predecessor to forgive him for his wicked crime of usurpation.
He took the dagger from under his pillow, opened the window, and gazed into the rising sun one last time. He closed his eyes and breathed in the early morning air.
“Three months,” he chuckled, with a shake of his head. “It has been exactly three months since I became Caesar. And with my last act in this world, I pray that other lives might be spared.”
He then placed the point of the dagger between his ribs, just over his heart. He took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he plunged the weapon into his heart with the last of his mortal strength. The ribs cracked, and he gave a loud groan as his heart burst. Blood gushed from the wound, and he fell face first onto the bed. Within less than a minute, Emperor Marcus Salvius Otho departed this mortal life, his soul bound for wherever the gods, in their judgment, saw fit.
Just over three hundred miles away, in Gaul, a still-slumbering Aulus Vitellius became undisputed ruler of the Roman Empire.
While Otho ended the war with the taking of his own life, which was still unbeknownst to any outside of Brixellum, Titianus and Celsus set about the unpleasant task of negotiating the surrender of their army. They left Bedriacum around dawn, taking only a small escort of cavalry troopers along with some freedman scribes and administrative assistants. The Vitellian camp was just a few miles from the city, and their scouting patrols were scouring the region. When the camp was well within sight, the Othonian delegation was halted by a section of Vitellian cavalry.
“Hold!” their decanus shouted, brandishing his spear. “What business brings you to the army of Rome’s true emperor, Aulus Vitellius?”
Before anyone could answer, a trooper suddenly shouted, “Here, I know this man!” All eyes turned to him, and his face was red with rage. “This is that filthy prick, Marius Celsus, who led the usurper’s cavalry at Ad Castores!”
“And Cremona,” Celsus added for him.
“Vile traitor!” the trooper spat. “I ought to spit you like a wild pig...”
“You will do no such thing!” a voice shouted, behind him. All were surprised to see that it belonged to none other than General Caecina Alienus. The trooper bowed his head and shouldered his lance, while the general apprised the contingent. “What brings you, friends?”
“The war is over,” Celsus stated. “We are here to negotiate the terms of surrender.”
“Then you are most welcome,” Caecina replied.
Titianus, Celsus, and their small entourage were escorted into the vast Vitellian encampment. The mood amongst their adversaries was an amalgam of triumph and complete exhaustion. Though they suffered a pair of rather decisive prior defeats with fearful losses of their own, in the end, they had gotten the best of the fighting. All mourned the losses among friends, while fretting over their wounded and missing comrades.
The camp extended two miles in each direction. Caecina explained that, while most of their forces were near Bedriacum, back near Cremona was their large hospital. Thousands of broken men lay strewn about there, with little more than a cloak to lie on. Some were missing limbs, others suffering fearful gashes and puncture wounds. What no one in the Othonian party realized was these were all Vitellian injured. Their own casualties had been left were they fell.
“May I offer you some refreshments?” Caecina asked, as the officers were escorted into his principia tent.
Servants brought in trays of wine and a few delicacies.
The general nodded towards his colleague, who rose from his chair. “I’m sure most of you know my co-commander, Fabius Valens.”
“It’s been a long time,” Titianus said.
“Indeed, it has,” the Vitellian general replied. “A pity war placed us on opposing sides, but I hope we can soon reconcile our differences.”
“I’ll get right to the point,” Celsus said, as the men sat around a large table. “We do not know the emperor’s intentions, for none of us have spoken to him since well before yesterday’s battle. However, as we are here to surrender all of our armed forces in northern Italia, it is safe to surmise the war is now effectively at an end.”
“And what terms are you requesting?” Valens asked.
“First, that no retribution be taken against our soldiers, whether they are officers or enlisted ranks,” Celsus replied.
Though Titianus had been commander-in-chief of his brother’s armed forces, he was now wisely acceding to the far more experienced general.
“That’s more than reasonable,” Valens conjectured. “Provided they renew their allegiance to Vitellius, most will be welcomed back into the fold as friends. I do suspect, however, that Vitellius will wish to deal with those centurions and junior officers of the Praetorian Guard who most voraciously supported his adversary, in particular, the very men who placed him on the throne.”
“Agreed,” Titianus spoke up before Celsus could answer. “We do ask, though, that our family be spared from any reprisals. Vitellius’ own brother will testify that he and his family were treated with both dignity and respect.”
“We cannot promise anything regarding your person,” Valens noted. “As commanding general of his enemy’s army, the emperor will wish to deal with you in person. As for your son, sister, and other family members, we can assure you of their safety.”
“Now, we must decide what to do with the legions and regiments under your command,” Caecina stated. “Legio XIII, Gemina, will remain in northern Italia where, as a penance for their actions, they will build a series of amphitheaters in the emperor’s honor. We intend to throw lavish games for him when he comes to see the battlefield for himself, and Thirteenth Legion will build the venues for this. As for the newly-raised First Adiutrix Legion, we respect their tenacity and, therefore, they will not be disbanded. Instead, they will be sent to Hispania. The Fourteenth Gemina Martia Victrix will be removed from their garrison along the Danube and dispatched to Britannia. They are familiar with the province and will be most useful in keeping the natives there quiet.”
“About First Adiutrix,” Celsus said. “Their commanding legate, Drusus Benignus, was killed yesterday. His soldiers carried his body all the way to Bedriacum.”
“An unfortunate turn of events that was,” Caecina remarked. “Benignus was a remarkable soldier, one who both armies held the highest respect for. Our men will no doubt wish to honor him, and so both armies will oversee his funeral arrangements.”
“We will send word to the Balkan legions at once,” Valens continued. “They need to be informed that the war is over, and they have a new emperor.”
While numerous logistical issues were discussed, Titianus kept quiet. He was fearful of what reprisals Vitellius might take against him personally. It would be another day before they learned that his brother, Emperor Otho, was dead.
The day after the battle had been an unpleasant one for Centurion Primus Ordo Spurinna, who still commanded the garrison at Placentia. Having sent two of his praetoria
n cohorts towards Cremona in support of Titianus, his forces now consisted of his legionary detachment and one cohort of praetorians. Word of Otho’s defeat and the surrender of their army reached them by late afternoon. All were somber as he unbolted the doors to the warehouse where the Vitellian prisoners had been housed.
“Time for our daily crust of bread?” Master Centurion Aetius asked. Though he had accepted Spurinna’s offer to be his guest at the palace, after a day he felt it more appropriate to remain with his soldiers. “There are about fifty shit buckets that need to be dumped as well.”
“Otho is dead,” Spurinna said, ignoring the remark. “The war is over.”
“Ah.” Aetius stood up. He turned to the other prisoners. “Come on, lads! Get your faces out in the sun again, but don’t go far.”
He then walked over to Spurinna, and the two made their way together towards the eastern gate. Behind them, Othonian soldiers were meeting with their former adversaries, bringing them food and drink. All the while, they bantered as if they were long lost friends which, in fact, some of them were.
“I am sorry I did not have better accommodations for you and your men,” Spurinna said. “Resources were limited, especially food. And now, I suppose my men will become your prisoners.”
“I doubt it,” the master centurion said, turning back to see the conglomeration of various soldiers fraternizing and laughing.
“Hard to believe they were in each other’s death clutches a week ago,” Spurinna remarked.
“With the war over, Vitellius will demand the legions swear their oaths to him and leave it at that,” Aetius stated. “If he were to punish the rankers like Galba did, they would turn on him once more. He may discipline some of the officers, but he needs his legionaries.”
The two walked in silence for some time. Near the eastern gate, Spurinna decided to ascend the steps from which they had a clear view of the open farmlands and the river just to the north. His face was pale, and he looked as if he had not slept in days.