Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians Page 2

  The day following the parade marked the first of games that were to last the next week. And with a celebration feast that night, Vitellius’ advisors convinced him that now was the time to deal with the defeated enemy generals. Though none were chained, and in fact all had been treated like honored guests since their arrival, there was little doubt that they were now prisoners to the man who was emperor in all but name. He had summoned them all to the large temporary throne room he’d established within the governor’s palace.

  Vitellius sat in his chair, his purple robes crumpled and unkempt, and failing to hide his protruding belly. He replaced the gold laurel crown, complaining it cut into his scalp, and instead wore one made of leaves. Caecina and Valens sat on either side just behind him. That both men were seated underscored their positions of prominence within the new order. Numerous senators, magistrates, and members of Vitellius’ imperial court were on hand to witness his judgment.

  “Licinius Proculus and Suetonius Paulinus!” the porter shouted, banging his staff on the tiled floor.

  Both men stepped forward and while Proculus bowed, Paulinus simply nodded in acknowledgment.

  “You both fought well,” Vitellius began. “Especially you, General Paulinus. You caused my soldiers much grief during this conflict.”

  “I did my duty,” the general replied stoically.

  “I also have it on good authority that your loyalties to my predecessor may not have been as strong as he would have believed.”

  “It’s true, Caesar,” Proculus spoke quickly. “General Paulinus and I recognized the usurper’s shortcomings, and therefore sought to undermine his armies when it came time for battle.”

  It was an absurd and cowardly statement, which many of the assembled entourage muttered was completely undignified coming from a noble Roman.

  Vitellius clearly did not believe Proculus’ statement, yet he persisted in asking, “General Paulinus, is there any truth to this?”

  “I have won battles when outnumbered ten-to-one,” the general asserted, his pride getting the best of him. He then attempted to deflect the question. “And I defeated General Caecina, rather soundly, just days before the climactic battle.”

  It was a non-answer, and Paulinus could not commit himself fully to the lie which Proculus spouted, that they had deliberately lost the battle. Nor could he publicly acknowledge the humiliating truth, that Otho had relieved him of his command immediately after his victory over Caecina. Caecina himself was incensed by this revelation, and he fought to hold his tongue as his face burned red in anger.

  Whatever the truth, Vitellius was not interested. “You both bore and disappoint me,” he said. “I would have thought you, General Paulinus, would understand the dignity and honor of standing behind ones oath, no matter how misplaced. Neither of you are worth the hassle of trial or further punishment, so I acquit you both of loyalty to the usurper. Now out of my sight.”

  As the two started to quickly leave the hall, Vitellius called out, “And Proculus! You understand, of course, that your services and those of your colleague, Plotius Firmus, are no longer needed within the Praetorian Guard.” It was obvious, since the death of Otho, that the prefects would be immediately sacked, yet Vitellius could not help but give Proculus this last biting insult.

  “Lucius Salvius Otho Titianus!” the porter then called, banging his staff once more.

  As he made his way across the floor, Titianus looked like a man who was completely lost. His brother was dead, and his decades-long political career completely undone. The only saving grace of the entire nightmare was that his son had, thus far, been spared from any retribution by Vitellius.

  “Caesar…” Titianus started to say, while bowing.

  “Shut…up,” Vitellius interrupted. “You were the elder brother of my late rival, and you were commander-in-chief of his armies. However, I feel I should grant you pardon, simply out of respect to your loyalty to your brother. That alone would normally not be enough to save you, were I to fear you as a threat. But as my generals have made it quite clear, you are the most pathetic excuse for a military leader within the last hundred years. The war between our factions was bitterly contested, and I lament the defeats suffered by my armies. It seemed for a time that Fortuna was favoring the usurper. But then, in one idiotic blunder, you handed me the imperial throne. I suppose I should thank you for this.”

  It was a bitter piece of irony, and while Valens grinned broadly, Caecina appeared to be as uncomfortable as the humiliated Titianus. He felt as if the emperor were somehow scorning him as well, given it was he who was defeated by Paulinus in the engagements that led to the Battle of Bedriacum. That Valens’ division had been delayed and Caecina brazenly attacked without him gave the appearance to some that Valens had saved the day for the Vitellians.

  “Ironic,” Vitellius continued, “that your complete and utter incompetence has saved your neck from the noose. Now off with you, and not a word, unless you care to provoke us into rethinking our clemency.”

  Titianus, though unreservedly disgraced was, nonetheless, relieved to know his life was being spared. He bowed quickly and made due haste out of the hall. There was only one general left to deal with and for this, Vitellius sat upright and folded his hands in his lap.

  “Publius Marius Celsus!” the porter called, banging his staff one last time.

  Celsus boldly strode forward. He was perhaps the only one of Otho’s former military leaders that appeared neither disgraced nor humbled by what had transpired. Unlike his defiant friend, Paulinus, his was almost an air of indifference.

  “General Celsus,” Vitellius said, with a nod of respect. “Of all my deceased rival’s former commanders, you are the only man among them with any real sense of honor or integrity. Just as you served the tyrannical Galba with absolute fealty, so too did you give total devotion to his usurper. You are a man who gives his word and then keeps it, without hesitation or apology to anyone. I hear that you fought well at Ad Castores, as well as Bedriacum. You were a worthy enemy, but I would prefer to have you as an even nobler friend.”

  “If the senate confirms you as emperor I will be at your service, but not before,” Celsus asserted.

  This led to gasps from the assembly at the perceived impudence.

  Vitellius simply smiled. “Ever noble to the last. You know, of course, the senate has little choice but to confirm me as your emperor. But I will respect your wishes, and not ask you to swear your allegiance until then. And the only punishment you will receive is really not a punishment at all, but rather an unfortunate administrative matter. You were slated to hold the suffect consulship from July through the end of September of this year.”

  “Yes, sir,” Celsus confirmed, remaining cordial, while refusing for the moment to acknowledge Vitellius as emperor.

  “You understand my desire, my compulsion if you will, to reward my loyal generals, Caecina and Valens,” Vitellius continued. “The very least they deserve is a two-month suffect consulship for this year. Therefore, you will still receive your appointment, out of our respect for your pronounced loyalty and service to the empire; however, it will only be for the months of July and August. Caecina and Valens will assume the suffect consulship for September and October.”

  “I thank you for your generosity,” Celsus said. “And I hope that, once confirmed by the senate, you will be both fair and just in your rule.”

  These last words were almost an admonishment towards the emperor, yet Vitellius simply nodded and dismissed the general. His speech to all of the former Othonian commanders had been both forceful and well-spoken. Those with the most intimate knowledge of their new ruler surmised that they had not been his words at all, but rather written for him by his senior generals, who helped him rehearse them in depth prior to the meeting. Among the senators present, who many expected to get called before Vitellius was Galerius Trachalus, Otho’s former advisor and speechwriter. But because his cousin, Galeria, was Vitellius’ wife and empress consort, and be
cause she had spoken strongly in his defense nothing more was ever said.

  The formalities of dealing with the Othonian generals was now complete. Vitellius decided to bathe before the night’s magnificent banquet, one the governor assured him would be worthy of an emperor.

  Outside the palace, Marius Celsus found the bitter and disgraced Suetonius Paulinus saddling his horse, making ready to leave the city.

  “Not staying for the celebration feast?” Celsus asked, with more than a trace of sarcasm.

  Paulinus could not help but chuckle at the remark. “Vitellius will consume enough this night to feed an entire village.” It was only a moderate exaggeration. He ceased packing his saddlebags for a moment and looked at his friend. “I probably should not say this, because it may get me the strangler’s noose, but I predict our esteemed ruler will not last long upon the imperial throne.”

  “There is no one else to stand against him, at least not at the moment,” Celsus noted.

  “I think there will be,” Paulinus said. He added cryptically, “One far stronger than any who has yet laid claim to the empire.” Celsus suspected who he meant but chose not to ask further, so Paulinus asked him, “And what about you? Will you serve this third Caesar as well as the previous two?”

  “If the senate confirms him, what choice do I have?” Celsus questioned back. “I will do my duty to the best of my abilities. However, I will not draw my sword again, not for him. And if you are right, and a stronger claimant does come forward…well, I can only hope that Rome will not be subjected to the level of bloodshed we’ve already witnessed.”

  “Vitellius set a dangerous precedent by using the army to seize the throne,” Paulinus noted. “I am in no way defending Otho, whose methods were scarcely better, but what is dangerous is that the unthinkable has happened; a third emperor has been crowned from outside the imperial family, only this time by means of a military coup. Before this year, no Roman legion would have ever dreamed of trying to make one of their own emperor. Until a year ago, never had a Caesar come from outside of the Julio-Claudian family. Now we have had three in a period of less than a year. If my suspicions are correct, and one does come forward to seize the imperial mantle, it will be because Vitellius has proven himself incapable of ruling. Mind you, I could be completely wrong, but I fear the strife brought on by the reign of the tyrants is far from over.”

  The weeklong celebration passed in a drunken blur for the new emperor. But before he could depart Lugdunum, Vitellius had a few loose ends he needed to attend to. While the Othonian legions had been given their orders, there was still the matter of what to do with the former emperor’s praetorians. Despite casualties and natural attrition, there were still fifteen thousand armed men who were fiercely loyal to the man deposed by Vitellius.

  “We cannot simply sack the lot of them,” Caecina stressed. “And I doubt any of them would simply hand over their weapons, if we tried. Most likely, they would riot, and we could anticipate renewed bloodshed.”

  “We took the liberty of dispatching two of their cohorts to Turin,” Valens noted. “And we have dispersed others to various locations, under the premise of keeping peace in Northern Italia, while the people await their new emperor.”

  “That is good,” Vitellius confirmed. “But…while I have no issue with the dispersing of the legions, I know the praetorians were very eager to continue the fighting. I cannot expect the personal guard of the usurper to have a shred of the same loyalty towards me.”

  “This is true,” Caecina conceded. “They are docile now but may cause trouble, once we depart the region. There is only one language universally spoken amongst all of our armed forces, and that is money.”

  “What is the pension of a praetorian guardsman?” Vitellius asked.

  “Roughly five thousand denarii, sire,” Valens answered.

  The emperor raised an eyebrow.

  Vitellius was a walking contradiction in terms of fiscal conservatism. While he preached prudence and moderation in all areas of spending, the lavish banquets he insisted upon were nearly bankrupting every town and city he visited. Yet he cringed at the thought of the cost of retiring with full pension the entire Praetorian Guard.

  “Offer them three,” he said at last. “That should satisfy their lust for coin, especially the younger guardsmen. Once we return to Rome, we’ll rebuild the Guard from the ranks of our own legions. It will mark a proper return to what Augustus intended for the Praetorian Guard in the first place.”

  “Very good, sire,” Valens said, with a bow. “There is, however, the issue of what to do with the centurions and their subordinate officers, who most voraciously sought to continue the fight against you. I think all of us can agree it is not the tribunes, nor even the prefects, who command the men’s loyalties. A charismatic centurion can compel his men to strike down their own emperor, as was exhibited by the fall of Galba. It was not the tribunes that brought about his violent end, but a handful of centurions, options, and other lower-level officers.”

  Caecina was clearly uneasy about this assertion by his colleague, though Vitellius did not seem to notice. Caecina knew what the older general had in mind and, while not as savage as Galba’s acts of decimation, the principle was still the same. He did not like what Valens was insinuating.

  “We can tolerate no threats to our person,” Vitellius said thoughtfully. “Very well, the most voracious praetorian officers, holding the ranks of tesserarius to centurion pilus prior, will be brought before me to face imperial justice.”

  “And what of those praetorians still in Maritime Alpes?” Valens asked.

  “The same applies to them,” Vitellius replied. “Bring their more troublesome officers to me and pay off the rest.”

  It was a sizeable sum to cashier the entire Praetorian Guard, and Vitellius was still as impoverished as he had been when he left Rome, while being pursued by creditors. It was only due to the generosity of the governor, Junius Blaesus, that the new emperor even had the proper purple and gold trimmed robes. Vitellius was running up a great deal of debt with Blaesus and would have to ask for yet another loan, in order to pay off the Guard. Yet the governor was confident he would be repaid, both monetarily and politically, once the emperor returned to Rome.

  For Optio Proculus and the survivors of the praetorians’ ill-fated maritime expedition, the past few weeks had been wrought with uncertainty. Terrible atrocities had been committed by his guardsmen during the initial landings at Albium Intimilium, for which the optio felt there would surely be a reckoning. And while they had won the initial clash with the Vitellian forces sent to subdue them, they were decisively routed a week later. At least half their men were either dead or missing. And with the death of Centurion Vetutius, Proculus was now in command of what remained of his century.

  After their terrible defeat, the small taskforce, along with their ships, had retreated fifty miles east to Album Ingaunum. Such was the haste of their flight that their wounded, along with most of their supplies, had been abandoned. The port city had proven loyal to Otho, though ever since their arrival they had met with silence from the rest of the empire. They knew nothing of the battles in Northern Italia or the fate of their fellow guardsmen, including their prefect, who bore the same name as Proculus, but was in no way related.

  “I still wonder who survived among our lads,” a guardsman asked, for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  A small number were keeping watch near the docks, which lay just off the road known as the Via Julia Augusta. They had established a checkpoint near the bridge, which crossed over a small river that ran into the sea. Until they received countermanding orders, or until they heard some word about how the war was progressing, there was little else for them to do. And, as Album Ingaunum was a loyalist city that spurned the Vitellians, the guardsmen treated its citizens marginally well, although they still took many liberties regarding drink and women.

  “I’ll bet Statius made it,” another praetorian surmised. “I don’t thin
k even a thunderbolt from Jupiter could strike him down.”

  “You overestimate him,” the first guardsman chastised. “Tiberius Statius was little more than a hired killer who would murder anyone, if the price was right. No doubt his years in the legions barbarized him.”

  There were many, especially within the Praetorian Guard, who viewed legionaries as less-than-civilized, though much of this stemmed from the inherent rivalry that had long existed between the two forces. Praetorians would assert that because legionaries spent their careers on the frontiers of the empire, they shared more in common with the barbarians they lived among than their own countrymen.

  “The actions of the Guard during this campaign were anything but civilized,” Proculus muttered to himself. The optio, who had come to the guard post to check on his men, had kept quiet so far. There had been a somber change in his demeanor, even more than the rest of the guardsmen. All had been grief-stricken at the deaths of so many of their friends, yet nervous boredom had replaced their sorrow during the subsequent weeks.

  “Statius always followed orders,” Proculus said at last, “even the ones that most of us would find unsettling.”

  “Always did have a rather cold and calculating nature about him,” one of the praetorians observed. “I think Atticus was his only real friend.”

  “Oy!” a guardsman shouted, pointing his javelin towards the far side of the bridge. “Rider approaching, sir! Looks to be an officer of some sort.”