Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants Page 21

  “I would have thought your brother would be selected for this posting,” the old woman said. “At least he can ride a horse and knows a few things about leading men into battle.”

  “Are you displeased with me yet again, mother?” Vitellius asked. “Or are you still the slave of astrologers, even after all these years?”

  Like her husband, Sextilia had few kind words for their eldest son, and advanced age only made her more irritable and crass. There was little doubt that she loved both of her sons, yet the horrific astrological readings from Aulus’ birth still plagued the superstitious old woman.

  “Galba fears the strength of the Rhine legions,” Sextilia replied. “And, in his paranoia, he has appointed a man who he feels is least likely to threaten his position.”

  “So I am to be insulted by the emperor’s trust in me?” Vitellius replied, his expression betraying his exasperation. He hated fighting with his mother. Yet, after decades of being treated as a failure, his patience was wearing thin. “I may not have held three consulships like Father, but I have held the position, and I was Proconsul of North Africa for six years. And now that I am being given the honor of leading the armies on the Rhine, my own mother thinks it an insult? What will it take for me to ever earn your love and respect?”

  “You have always had my love,” Sextilia asserted. “That is something that only a complete monster would ever deny her child. But respect? No, my son. As much as it has pained me to admit these past fifty years, you have proven yourself to be all that your father and I had feared; well-meaning, yes, but easily controlled and manipulated. To say nothing of lazy and slothful.”

  Though it stung his heart to hear his mother speak so candidly, Vitellius could not deny the truth behind at least some of what she was saying. His physical appearance, coupled with the fact that he banqueted at least four times a day, confirmed much of this. Yet, it was her statement about his being easily controlled that wounded him most.

  “I know the reputation of the legates commanding the Rhine legions,” Sextilia continued, not allowing her son a moment’s respite to defend himself. “Fabius Valens, whom you know well, is among the most despicable of men to ever infest the patrician class of Rome. I have little doubt that he and his cronies will court and flatter you to no end. All the while they will be molding and manipulating you into doing their bidding. You may be their governor, but when all is said and done, you will be their servant and they the masters.”

  Suetonius Paulinus immediately suspected why Galba had summoned him. And as the new emperor had insisted upon the old general coming before him at the imperial court, he knew this was no friendly meeting.

  Galba sat rigid upon the throne, on a short dais. The consuls, Italicus and Galerius, stood on either side. Resolved to accept whatever the fates had decided, Paulinus strode forward, his shoulders back and head high, stopping a few feet before the throne and saluting. It baffled the consuls that he said nothing, for ‘Hail Caesar’ was customary.

  “Senator Paulinus,” Galba said, once he realized the former general was not going to speak first. “I have summoned you here to answer a rather disturbing rumor that, if proven true, would be tantamount to treason.”

  “If I am to be accused of treason, then I demand to know on what grounds and who my accusers are.”

  Paulinus’ bold words startled most of those assembled in the chamber.

  The emperor glowered at him. “Your accusers are sources loyal to our person.”

  A glance to Italicus told Paulinus all he needed to know. He did not care. Since being proclaimed Caesar, Galba’s brief reign thus far had been one tainted with violence. His march to Rome had been strewn with corpses, and if Paulinus was damned to join them, he was not about to lower himself to undignified groveling.

  “As for the rumor,” Galba continued, “it involves a rather bold statement that you are supposed to have said while your emperor was marching towards Rome...”

  “May the gods help us if we should suffer a usurper on the throne,” Paulinus interrupted. “Yes, I said those exact words, and under the same circumstances I would say them again. For when spoken, it was Nero who sat upon the throne, not Galba. But as the senate has proclaimed Nero an enemy of Rome and legitimized your assumption of the imperial mantle, then that does not make you a usurper, does it? And should another pretender lay claim to the empire, you can expect me to utter those same words again on your behalf.”

  The two consuls noted that not once did Paulinus address Galba as ‘Caesar’, and they were certain the emperor had as well. Only Otho, who stood deliberately in front of the gathered handful of senators, was smiling.

  “Your candor, as well as your previous exemplary service to the empire, is why you will be allowed to keep your head,” Galba said, his expression unchanged. “I called you before me to let you know, in no uncertain terms, that such slanderous talk will not be tolerated, even by the Hero of Britannia.”

  “So we are returning to the days of treason trials, is it?” Paulinus asked. His voice dripped with contempt, and he knew he was playing a very dangerous game at this point. However, he did have one last thing to say, consequences be damned. “Before he was corrupted by the traitor, Sejanus, Emperor Tiberius once said, ‘In a free state there should be freedom of speech and thought.’. I have spent many years in the imperial armies so that Rome might be such a free state. I hope my service has not been in vain.”

  Galba’s face turned red in anger. Before he could speak, Galerius attempted to mollify the situation. He held Paulinus in the highest regard, and did not wish to see him succumb to the same fate as Varro, Cilo, Mithridates, and the poor lot the emperor had massacred at Milvian Bridge.

  “As a former general, you should know well when to be aggressive and when to be prudent. The emperor is showing clemency for your former speak, but he will not be so merciful in the future.” There was a tone of desperation in his voice, and his eyes pleaded with Paulinus not to aggravate Galba any further.

  “Are we done here?” Paulinus asked. “Very well.” Without waiting for an answer, he came to attention, saluted, and briskly left the hall.

  Galba was incensed. He had called him in to berate him for his seditious talk, and instead, the old soldier had humiliated him in front of both consuls, as well as most of the imperial council. Were he to strike Paulinus down, it would be perceived as a tyrannical outburst for what amounted to little more than a petty rebuke. Otho, who had to fight to contain a fit of laughter, discreetly made his way towards the exit, while a hundred other voices grumbled aloud about Paulinus’ insolence and how the emperor should make an example of him. This was all nothing more than grandstanding by those who hoped to show the most loyalty, and would thereby be rewarded for it. All it did was irritate the emperor more so, and Galba simply rose from his chair and left.

  “General Paulinus!” Otho’s words stopped him, and he turned to face the young senator.

  “Please,” Paulinus said. “You do not have to address me as such. I have not commanded troops in over seven years.”

  “True,” Otho conceded. “However, your victory over Boudicca and those Iceni barbarians is still the greatest triumph of our time. Any man born of the patrician class can be a senator. It takes a special kind of leader to be a general.”

  “You did not follow me to shower me with flattery, especially after I just insulted the emperor in front of the council.”

  Otho chuckled and held up his hands in resignation. “Guilty!” When Paulinus sighed in irritation, he quickly explained himself. “Look, general, I know you loathe false flattery, so please understand that I meant every word I said. But if you will give me a few moments, there is something I need to speak with you about.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The senate may fawn over him now, mostly out of fear or hope of reward, but we both know Galba’s reign as Caesar will not be for long. I mean, look at him, you saw how frail he is. The gods also cursed him, by allowing him to outlive h
is sons. And it’s not as if he is likely to produce more, even if he were to inexplicably remarry.”

  “Yes, the matter of the succession has been an issue much-discussed since the senate first legitimized his seizure of the throne,” Paulinus noted.

  “Galba has no sons, and only very distant living relations,” Otho observed. “Therefore, he can literally adopt anyone he wishes to be his heir without fear of reprisal.”

  “And you think you might know who it will be.”

  There was an accusing tone in the old general’s voice, though Otho decided it best not to hide his intentions.

  “Without a doubt,” he asserted. “My father served as Galba’s colleague during their respective consulships, plus I was practically his neighbor when I was governor of Lusitania. We spent numerous festivals in each other’s company, and I understand him better than most. And without sounding like a braggart, my record as governor speaks for itself. I have also made myself an indispensable member of the imperial court since coming to Rome.”

  Otho paused for a moment. He was clearly exaggerating when he said he was an indispensable member of the court. In truth, he was little more than a hanger-on that Galba had yet to find a use for, aside from occasional advisor. However, as he had become very close to one of the pedagogues, that counted for far more than being a member of the council. And so, Otho decided it was time to let Paulinus know his full intentions.

  “I have recently come to an agreement with Consul-elect Vinius,” he said. “I will marry his daughter, in exchange for his supporting my claim to the throne. Galba listens to him more than anyone else in court. I am also young enough to sire plenty of grown sons by the time the gods come for me. By naming me his heir, Galba not only ensures someone worthy succeeds him, he also founds a stable dynasty. Stability is what Rome needs...you know this.”

  “Since you already have the empire all but handed to you, what do you need of me, an old general who our current emperor despises?”

  “I’m no fool,” Otho emphasized. “I can handle bureaucracy, financial troubles, matters of law, what have you. But for all that, I am no soldier. I have never so much as donned the uniform of a laticlavian tribune. What I will need, more than anything, is strong military leaders. I also need men who not only know how to lead men into battle, but understand the strategic and logistical needs of an empire. Unfortunately, Nero, dear friend that he was to me, damned near crippled Rome with his appointing only weak and unimaginative patricians to govern most of the provinces where our legions are posted. Just look at Germania, and you’ll know what I mean. That fat, corpulent twat, Vitellius, couldn’t lead his way out of a canvas sack, and yet he arguably wields the most substantial military power in the whole of the empire. You, my friend, were one of the few exceptions, as was Vespasian.”

  “Well, to be fair, he only received his command because the Jewish rebellion was threatening to envelope the entire eastern empire,” Paulinus conjectured. He had allowed himself to crack a half smile, which was reassuring to Otho.

  “Quite,” Otho stated. “Nero despised Vespasian. But in an emergency he needed someone who could fight, and wasn’t clear on the other edge of the empire. And trust me, I intend to enlist Vespasian’s assistance. Once I become Caesar, the days of appointing the weak and unimaginative to governorships and legion commands will be over. I don’t need anything from you now, only your promise to serve me when the time comes.”

  Paulinus folded his arms across his chest in contemplation and apprised the younger man. There was a lot of merit and truth to what Otho said. Sure, he was an egotistical and self-serving man, but these were not exactly uncommon traits among the Roman patrician class. Humility did not get one very far in the world of imperial politics.

  “If you should become Caesar,” Paulinus said, slowly and with much emphasis on the ‘if’, “my sword will be yours.”

  Chapter XV: Stalwart Allies

  Caesarea

  November 68 A.D.

  ***

  Since his return from Cyprus, Optio Gaius Artorius had remained in Caesarea. It had been his own legate, General Trajan, who assigned him temporarily to the army’s headquarters staff. The legate reassured him he would inform Gaius’ centurion and cohort commander that this posting was only temporary, and he would be returned to his unit well before any campaigns in Judea recommenced. Though he longed to return to his century and his friends, Gaius found the billets in Caesarea far preferable to living in a soldier’s campaign tent. For a start, he had an actual room to stay in. Granted, it was little more than a servant’s quarters, but it had a real bed, the food was plentiful, and there was a private bath. He was also given ample off-duty time, and Caesarea was a fantastic city for a young, unmarried soldier.

  On this particular day, Gaius was in command of a guard detail assigned directly to Vespasian. He had only met the commander-in-chief once before. That had been during the Siege of Jotapata, when Centurion Nicanor, who had been a childhood friend of the rebel commander, Josephus, offered to help Vespasian convince their adversary to surrender. Gaius had nothing to offer to that particular conversation or plan of action, he had simply used his position as Nicanor’s optio as an excuse to accompany him. Surprisingly, Vespasian not only remembered the meeting, he even recalled Gaius’ name, likely because his grandfather served with Vespasian in Britannia.

  Gaius was making his rounds of the guard posts, when one of his men approached and told him there was a messenger to see the commander-in-chief.

  “Very well,” the optio said. “I’ll escort him back.”

  The sight of the messenger puzzled Gaius, for he did not look like a normal imperial courier. His tunic was deep crimson and lined with gold trim. The pommel and scabbard of his gladius were also rather ornate, with brass designs of laurel leaves, as well as a lion’s head on the scabbard. Neither of these necessarily meant anything. One would naturally wish to don their best tunic when meeting the commanding general of all imperial forces in the east. Plus, it was not unheard of for soldiers to decorate the scabbards of their gladii. However, it was the ring on the man’s right hand that stood out to Gaius. It was a simple brass ring, the wide face inlaid with amber. And though he could not actually see the faintly etched design, he knew it was the silhouette of a praetorian guardsman. Without a word, he signaled for the man to follow him down the long corridor. His mind was filled with questions, as to why a praetorian guardsman had come to Caesarea, under the guise of being an imperial courier.

  “Wait here,” he said, before knocking.

  “Come!” a voice shouted from inside.

  “Sir, there’s a messenger here to see you,” the optio said, quickly shutting the door behind him. His brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Well, what is it?” he asked.

  “He’s not an imperial courier, sir,” Gaius replied. “He’s a praetorian.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw his ring and everything.”

  “Well, then,” Vespasian replied, suddenly curious. “It must be frightfully important. Send him in.”

  The optio saluted and went back into the hall. He decided to remain, along with the pair of legionaries who stood on either side of the door.

  As the guardsman entered the room, Vespasian stood and assessed him. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with hair that was a mix of black and grey, and a face that was quite weathered. He was a bigger man, and even with his cloak wrapped close, it was plain he possessed a powerful chest and shoulders.

  “I bring a message from Rome,” the man said, as he saluted.

  “And what message could the Praetorian Guard possibly have for me?” Vespasian asked.

  The man lowered his head and chuckled. He then held up his right hand with its distinctive ring. “I’ve worn this for so long, I forget to take it off,” he replied. His demeanor became deadly serious. “I bring a message, not from the praetorians but from the emperor.”

  “And that is?” Vespasian p
laced both hands on the table, his gaze fixed on the guardsman, whose brow was sweating as he swallowed uncomfortably. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his spatha leaned up against the far end of the table and wondered how quickly he could reach it.

  The guardsman took a step forward, threw back his cloak, and drew his gladius. His palms were sweating, his hand shaking. Vespasian knew this was a hardened soldier who faced him, and yet he was clearly afraid. Surmising that the man would not strike, he remained where he stood.

  “So this is Galba’s message to me,” Vespasian said, his gaze boring into the man.

  “I...” the praetorian started to say. He then shook his head and threw his weapon onto the table with a loud clatter. “I can’t. Gods damn me, but I can’t.” He placed his hands over his eyes for a moment, as the door was quickly thrown open.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Gaius voice said, as he stepped in. “I heard a clatter, and I wanted to...oh, fuck! Sentries, to the commander!”

  Before another word could be said by anyone, the two legionaries swarmed into the room, gladii drawn. They quickly surrounded the praetorian who did not move, but instead looked at Vespasian with sorrow. Gaius grabbed him from behind by the shoulder, the point of his weapon pressed into the man’s lower back.

  “Forgive me, sir,” the guardsman said, his voice cracking.

  “Easy, lads,” Vespasian said, holding his hand up. He signaled for his soldiers to back away from the man. “What is your name?”

  “Marcus Octavianus,” the man answered. “Formerly of Legio II, Augusta, and now a centurion with the Praetorian Guard.”