Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants Page 32

  All he could do now was ruminate upon just how far his fortunes had risen, only to meet such an ignominious end. Born a slave, and having served Galba his whole life, he had been granted his freedom as a young man. After which, he had become his master’s most loyal servant. He even held greater influence over him than his wife or closest friends. Compelling the old emperor to elevate him into the equites following the deposing of Nero had been his crowning achievement. All of that now came to a disreputable end, as he met his death upon the cross.

  Otho’s rather violent usurpation of the imperial mantle had unnerved many. Oddly enough, Flavius Sabinus was not among these. While he certainly could not condone the manner with which Otho seized power, he at least understood why. The new emperor had been magnanimous thus far, having deferred to the senate as to the legitimacy of his actions. He had also restored Sabinus as Prefect of the City of Rome and gave him back his urban cohorts.

  Vitellius, the pretender from the north, had shown no inclination towards even trying to justify his claim to the throne. His soldiers refused to swear the oath of allegiance to Galba, yet what would happen once they knew the tyrant was slain? There was the very real fear that even with Galba dead they would march on Rome and install their own puppet on the throne. As an old soldier who knew many of the legates, Sabinus rightly suspected that Vitellius was little more than a marionette controlled by his inner circle of generals. They would fawn over him, shower him with flattery, and make him think he controlled Rome, while it would be they who ruled the empire. It had been similar with Galba and his pedagogues.

  And while Otho had yet to publicly state how he intended to deal with this latest pretender, Sabinus knew it was only a matter of time before the two emperors collided on the battlefield. Thankfully, it was winter, and the rebellious legions of the Rhine army would not be able to advance until spring.

  Sabinus was pacing in his study, contemplating these and other issues, when there was an anticipated knock at the door.

  “Come!” he said, turning to face the door, his hands clasped behind his back.

  A servant opened the door for Aula Cursia Vale, whose expression was one of both curiosity and deep concern.

  “You sent for me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the old senator replied. He waited until the slave closed the door before explaining himself. “No doubt you have heard about the mutiny on the Rhine.”

  “Of course,” Aula replied. “The city criers announced the treachery of Vitellius the day before Galba was overthrown, although the latest intrigues at the imperial court have drowned out most of the concerned talk about the Rhine.”

  “This rebellion is not confined just to the Rhine,” Sabinus observed. “Fortunately, the emperor still has control of the seas. And he has the loyalty of most of the legions. However, they are spread throughout the empire, while Vitellius’ forces are concentrated. His army is both vast and formidable. He has the loyalist forces, at least those readily available in and around Italia, badly outnumbered. The legions he commands are also some of the fiercest fighters in the whole of the imperial army.”

  “What can I do?” Aula asked, uncertain as to what Sabinus wished but knowing he did not summon her simply to scare her with tales of the pretender’s oncoming army.

  Sabinus held up one finger, signaling for her to wait a moment while he opened a large chest and pulled out a dark crimson tunic, leather belt, and matching cloak.

  “This is the garb of an imperial messenger,” he said, producing a small signet ring. “This ring signifies you are in service of the empire as an official courier.”

  “I did not know women could be imperial couriers,” Aula said, taking the items.

  “Women can often get in and out of dangerous places a lot more stealthily than a man,” Sabinus remarked. “During the dark days of the republic, powerful men would employ women to act as their messengers, simply because they could move about freely without drawing suspicion. None of the emperors have added a prohibition of this. Whether an oversight or because they think the fairer sex can serve them well, I cannot say. As Prefect of the City of Rome and a former consul, I can legally employ you to serve the empire in this dark time.”

  “I am at your service,” Aula said eagerly, with a short bow, for she had longed to serve the empire like her father before her. With a half grin, she made a rather bold prediction. “It is Judea where you need me.”

  “Indeed,” the senator acknowledged. “Through you, I will be my brother’s eyes and ears in Rome. Vespasian must be kept apprised of all that transpires within the capital and the war in the north. Whether or not Otho can hold against the Vitellian onslaught...well, let us just say my brother will decide his course of action in due time.”

  “I’ll have my horse made ready to ride at once,” Aula asserted.

  “You won’t need your horse for this mission,” Sabinus nodded. “I shall arrange transport for you to Caesarea by ship. As the seas are extremely rough this time of year, this will no doubt be a hazardous journey. Now, do you have a weapon?”

  Aula just smiled.

  Later that evening, she opened her personal trunk and retrieved the scabbarded spatha that had served her father for many years. A cavalry officer’s sword, it was similar in appearance to the infantry gladius, with a much longer blade. The scabbard was well-worn and a deep crimson color, adorned with brass accents, including laurel crests and a lion’s head near the top. The handle of the weapon itself was highly polished bone with a deep red wooden pommel and hand guard, both of which had brass accents.

  She drew the blade and let it rest upon her hand. Her father always kept it razor sharp. As the lamplight reflected off the metal, Aula could only guess where this weapon had been and what it had seen. Most of her father’s time as a cavalry officer was decades before she was born. And while he had taught her how to fight, both mounted and dismounted, she had never seen this particular sword until the day he presented it to her, just prior to her journey to Rome.

  “I hope you never have need to draw it,” Cursor told his daughter. His hands were trembling slightly when he gave it to her, and Aula thought she could see a trace of a tear in his eye. Clearly, the history of this magnificent weapon also symbolized a very dark chapter in her father’s past.

  Oil lamps were lit within the emperor’s dining hall, as he welcomed the senators and advisors who made up his inner council. His brother was there, as was the city prefect, Flavius Sabinus. Senator Celsus, looking much improved after a bath, shave, and change of clothes, was also present. Also in attendance was Suetonius Paulinus, who Otho had selected as his chief military advisor. This was despite his insulting the old general by stating Titianus, and not he, would be commander-in-chief of imperial forces when the time came to face Vitellius. Marcus Cocceius Nerva, who had no military experience but was more politically astute than any member of the senate, was also included in the inner circle.

  All the councilors were given wine, and it was Senator Nerva who opened the meeting.

  “Caesar, there are a few loose ends that need sorting out before we continue. I speak of the former praetorian prefect, Ofonius Tigellinus. I know the last thing you want is to start your reign with a series of executions, but there are many within the senate, and the equites for that matter, who are clamoring for his head.”

  “He used his influence with Nero to kill off any he felt were his personal enemies,” Celsus added. “The man is nothing more than a murderer, and he needs to be brought to justice.”

  “If we put him on trial,” Paulinus spoke up, “we draw attention to the less noble aspects of Nero’s later reign. It will also look like petty retribution to the plebs.”

  “Not only that, but it will stink of the old treason trials,” Sabinus added. “Mind you, Tigellinus must be dealt with, but we should be a little more subtle, persuasive even.”

  “He’s been hiding in Sinuessa, living at a bathing spa ever since he abandoned Nero,” Nerva stated. “He paid
a hefty bribe to Vinius, in order to be spared from Galba’s wrath. And now he spends his days drunk, with a circle of courtesans living with him.”

  “Doesn’t sound like such a bad existence,” Paulinus chuckled.

  “What say you, Caesar?” Nerva asked the emperor.

  “I think it would be fitting if Tigellinus was given the same sentence he meted out to so many,” Otho replied, after giving the matter a few moments’ thought. “More than likely, he knows he has been living on borrowed time. Hades is calling to him, and I think it is time he faced the justice of the gods.”

  The meeting was interrupted by the arrival of Prefect Proculus, who was still in full armor as he entered the hall.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Caesar,” he said, as he saluted the emperor.

  “Not at all,” Otho replied. “Please, feel free to join us. I take it you have news for me?”

  “Yes, Caesar. Cornelius Laco has been captured. Damned fool was found in the house of his sister, not five miles from Rome. And the freedman, Icelus, has been properly disposed of. Feeble bastard likely will not even survive a single night on the cross.”

  “Most excellent,” Otho said, clapping his hands together. He then refilled his wine cup and raised it in salute. “To the capture of the last of the tyrant’s pedagogues.”

  “Legally speaking,” Senator Nerva said, “Icelus’ status as a member of the equites should have saved him from the ignominy of crucifixion. However, as he was a former slave and should never have been eligible for membership within the lesser nobility, I don’t think anyone will lament his execution.”

  “Cornelius Laco is another matter completely,” the emperor’s brother, Titianus, added. “Caesar, you have already publicly stated your opposition to any further reprisals. However, the public will demand that Laco be punished for his culpability within the former tyrannical regime.”

  “Fortunately, Laco does not bear the same level of spite the people felt towards Vinius,” Nerva remarked. “No one, except perhaps his daughter, mourns his loss.”

  Otho’s face twitched slightly at the reference. He was surprised to realize he still had some feelings for Vinia, at least enough that he pitied her sorry predicament. The lone child of an executed traitor, there was little for her except shame and ignominy.

  “But while Vinius was regarded as the tyrant’s right hand,” Nerva continued, “Laco is nothing more than an incompetent imbecile.”

  “Because of his social status, the usual punishment for such offenses is exile,” Otho finally said. He looked into the faces of his advisors. “Am I to understand that this will not appease the people?”

  “Members of the army, as well as those whose kinfolk Galba mercilessly slew, will demand his death,” Nerva emphasized. “Although, if you execute him publicly your word and, indeed, your very honor will be called into question.”

  “I have a rather simple solution to this,” the emperor said maliciously. “Have Laco brought before me. Due to his rank and status as a member of the Roman senatorial class, he will be exiled to the Isle of Lipari.” He then turned to Proculus. “But first, send Guardsman Statius to me.”

  While the emperor and his inner council were making final disposition preparations of their former rivals, the sun cast its reddish glow along the Aurelian Way, where a private burial was taking place. A small cart, drawn by a single mule, made its slow trek along the cobblestoned road. A long trunk and a small box were covered by a leather tarp in the bed.

  Stone tombs were common along either side of the road, and this particular one had been purchased only that morning. The man who’d bought it was a simple freedman steward, one who, until two days prior, had been a member of the imperial household. He’d retrieved his master’s body and head, for which he paid a profligate sum to another freedman who purchased it from his master’s killers in hopes of selling it for profit.

  The steward did not care about politics, war, or any of the myriad of affairs that had consumed his master’s life. And, whatever the people now said about Servius Sulpicius Galba, to the steward he had been both master and friend. There was little left to do now, except try and give his master a decent burial.

  He slowly drug the trunk from the cart and hefted it into the tomb. The box which contained Galba’s mangled head was placed within as well. With great effort, the steward slid the stone slab into place and whispered a few quiet prayers, as the reddish sun cast its last light of the day upon him. He hoped that however tumultuous his life had been, in death Servius Sulpicius Galba, formerly Emperor of Rome, would at last know peace.

  Chapter XXIII: The Growing Crisis

  Cologne, Germania

  18 January 69 A.D.

  Legionaries conducting a winter march

  (Photo © Cezary Wyszynski)

  The army of Vitellius was huge, and continuously growing every day. He was unable to bring the full force of every single legion along the Rhine frontier, as that would leave the Roman provinces vulnerable to raids from the ever-hostile tribes across the river. Still, he mustered the bulk of seven legions, along with a comparable number of auxiliary regiments, both infantry and cavalry. In all, he had between thirty and forty thousand fighting men, ready to march on the Eternal City. Despite the vast numbers of legates, regimental commanders, as well as Vitellius himself, it was really two men who controlled the army and their presumptive emperor.

  “And it is not just the Rhine army that supports you, Caesar,” Valens said, while Vitellius ate his midday feast. His face was florid, and with the effects of wine it was difficult to say if he was in full control of his faculties.

  “Who else has decided to join us?” he asked after a few moments, his voice surprisingly crisp. His tolerance for drink was such that his advisors would soon come to speculate he could quaff an entire cask of vintage, and still be able to speak coherently.

  “General Manlius Valens, a distant cousin of mine,” Valens answered. “He is the commanding legate of First Italica, stationed in Lugdunum, Gaul. If we show up on his doorstep, he will surely feel inclined to support our cause.”

  “Very good,” Vitellius said approvingly. “Who else?”

  “Junius Blaesus, the governor of Gallia Lugdunensis.”

  “So most of Gaul and both Germanias have answered my call,” Vitellius said, nodding slowly.

  “And Belgica,” Valens added. “Of course, given Governor Asiaticus is your son-in-law, this can hardly be surprising.”

  “He’s a good lad,” Vitellius replied. His speech was clear, though his eyes were glazed and distant.

  “The Ligones and Treveri tribes in Gaul have pledged both auxiliary troops, as well as coinage to help pay for the war,” Valens noted.

  “Ah, yes, ‘the sinews of war’,” Vitellius responded, quoting the famous orator, Marcus Tullius Cicero. “At least no one is expecting me to fund this little venture out of my own coffers.”

  It was a light attempt at humor. Valens and Caecina were both well aware of their governor’s money troubles. Complaints from Vitellius’ numerous creditors managed to reach all the way into Germania. But with the Rhine legions declaring him emperor, these had fallen silent. This may have been out of fear, though it was equally likely they reckoned that, should Vitellius emerge victorious, his debts could be settled with the imperial treasury.

  One of the most difficult aspects of any large-scale army was feeding and paying its soldiers. Imperial legions and auxilia regiments were funded by the state; however, with the empire now facing civil war, the mutinous armies would have to be paid by other means. According to the aquilifers, each legion had enough coin in their treasuries to pay their legionaries for the next three months. And since it was almost a certainty that the crisis would not be resolved by then, other sources of revenue would have to be found.

  “Our army is huge, Caesar,” Caecina spoke up. “Logistically and strategically, it would make sense to divide into two columns and invade northern Italia from both the west and the nor
th.”

  Valens decided to add to this by addressing the financing issue. “If we advance through Gaul, we can secure the loyalty of the provinces, as well as the additional soldiers from First Italica. We can further compel the governors to part with some of their coin to pay our soldiers.”

  “Gaul is the wealthiest province in the west,” Vitellius noted. “We can simply coerce them to divert some of their taxation that would otherwise be sent to the capital, into our coffers. With their own soldiers now declaring for us, it’s not as if they will have much of a choice but to help finance this little venture.”

  “And speaking of which,” Caecina said, producing a battered piece of parchment. He grinned as he held it up. “It would appear Galba has summoned me to Rome to face charges of corruption and embezzlement.”

  “I suppose we should answer his summons,” Valens remarked with a chuckle. He was well aware of his colleague’s less-than-honorable acquisition of vast amounts of imperial coin. “But we will do so behind the blades of forty-thousand imperial soldiers.”

  Caecina and Valens were soon officially appointed by Vitellius as division commanders, with each given direct control over one of the two wings of the Vitellian army. They alone commanded every aspect of the campaign, and many felt they had complete control over Vitellius himself.

  “The fat old sod knows he’s in well over his head,” Caecina said, during a private dinner with Valens a couple days later. The two often supped alone, devoid of the company of even their fellow legates.

  “I don’t think he had ambitions to even be Governor of Lower Germania,” Valens surmised, “let alone being proclaimed emperor by the entire Rhine army.”