Enemy of Rome (12 page)

‘
Your Emperor exhorts you to hold the strategic outpost at Aquileia and there maintain your position until the arrival of the legions commanded by our faithful friend and comrade Gaius Licinius Mucianus. This disposition and the steadfast defence of the city will deny our enemies the opportunity to meet our Pannonian and Moesian legions from a position of strength. Our command of the Egyptian corn reserves and the wealth of the East places the armies of Vitellius at a grave disadvantage. In time, his troops must be forced to capitulate for want of pay and provisions and in the face of the overwhelming combined forces at our disposal. Your Emperor understands that, in war, it is sometimes sweeter to advance in pursuit of glory than to take the road of prudence, but he is certain that you will accept his advice that the latter is the more fitting, and the most sensible, strategic option. In paying heed to this advice you will help bring about a great victory, one shorn of the usual accompaniment of blood, tears and penury, and you will have the thanks of Rome, its people and the Empire, and, of course, your Emperor, Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus.

Advice? Primus almost laughed aloud. He was soldier enough to know an order when he read one. But he was already beyond Aquileia and the agreement with Caecina had placed him in a position of paramount strength. One more effort and he would win the war before Vespasian was even aware it had been fought. Something wriggled its way across the inside of his skull and his euphoria faded. Were the gods reminding him of the price of defeat? But he would not be defeated. Before they marched he would sacrifice a white bull to Mars and ensure that the omens for victory were favourable in the extreme. He glanced at the map fixed to the wall. Three days’ easy marching and he would reach Cremona with a force of five legions against the city’s defence of two. When they heard that their commander had pledged his oath to Vespasian, the legates of Twenty-first Rapax and Fifth Alaudae would have no option but to surrender.

The rugged plebeian features of the Emperor swam into his vision; the face of a provincial butcher, but for the rather handsome aquiline nose. A quick victory and all would be forgiven. Defeat was unthinkable. Primus smiled. He had nothing to fear.

Because Aulus Caecina Alienus had placed victory in his hands as if it were ordained by the gods.

‘Wake up.’ Valerius felt a hand on his shoulder, but he decided he’d sleep for another hour. He deserved it after all those hours in the saddle. It was only when the hand shook harder that he sensed the motion beneath him and realized he was back on a horse. He opened his eyes and squinted into a low sun that shone from his left flank. ‘The general’s called a conference,’ Serpentius said quietly. ‘And you’re wanted.’

The Spaniard handed his friend a water skin. Valerius splashed a handful of the lukewarm liquid on his face and wheeled the mare back down the column to where Primus’s staff were setting up his command tent. Gradually, the details of the morning came back to him. The legions had worked through the night to be ready for a dawn departure. Their supplies and heavy weapons were part of a precisely structured train that crammed thirty miles of the Via Postumia. It had taken a gargantuan effort and the troops didn’t hide their bewilderment when a cohort from each legion was told to gather for the sacrifice of a white bull that would cost at least another hour. Primus, on the other hand, counted it time well spent when the wonderful omens for the coming battle filtered back to their parent units.

From the position of the sun Valerius estimated they must have been on the march for less than four hours. What would make Primus call a halt so soon, after all the urgency to get started?

He had his answer the moment he entered the tent, when Primus’s senior aide drew him to one side.

‘One of our patrols captured a courier on the way from Hostilia to Rome. At dawn this morning Aulus Caecina Alienus was arrested for treason. The legions at Hostilia are breaking camp and marching for Cremona. If they link up with Twenty-first Rapax and Fifth Alaudae they’ll outnumber us more than two to one.’

‘You are the backbone of my legions. The sword blade that runs through the cohorts and centuries of this great army.’ Aulus Caecina Alienus addressed the hundred senior centurions he had invited to gather in the
principia
of the Fourth Macedonica’s temporary camp. They were mainly men from the Rhenus legions he had led from Germania to win the Empire for Vitellius; men he had rewarded personally with crowns of grass and gold, torcs,
phalerae
, and other honours. They were also the greatest recipients of plunder from Placentia, when it had eventually fallen into Vitellian hands, and the other towns they had won along the way. Yet despite their allegiance to the man who now sat in the Golden House in Rome, they too had their grievances, for anything they won had been lost when Vitellius had announced his reforms to the army. Now the honorariums from selling leave tickets and dispensations from work details they had counted on to augment their pay were no more. Many of them had expected these extras to pay for the houses and land they planned to buy for their retirement, and were relying on another campaign to recoup their losses. Unfortunately, they had discovered that a civil war was a sad disappointment for a soldier when he fought on the side of the state. He’d plied them with substantial amounts of unwatered wine from his best vintages and they were ready to listen to anything he had to say.

‘We officers give commands,’ Caecina continued with his flattery, ‘but you are the guarantee that those commands are obeyed. You have fought well, given more than any man can be expected to give, and now I expect you to give more.’ He heard the muffled groans, interspersed with demands for silence, and took strength from them. ‘The legions of Germania are rightly hailed as the elite of the Empire’ – in the theatrical pause that followed the words were greeted with broad grins and shouts of hurrah – ‘and soon you must prove it again. The legions we will face in the coming days – Roman legions – are the Pannonian and Moesian legions who have held the line of the Danuvius for a generation. Only six months ago they destroyed the might of the Roxolani, leaving not one man alive to return to his homeland. For a generation they held back the Dacians and the Quadi, the Cotini and the Marcomanni. They too believe they are the elite of the Empire.’

‘Only five legions,’ a voice came from somewhere in the pack, ‘and some of them have marched six hundred miles.’

‘Who won at Bedriacum?’ another demanded.

Caecina raised a hand for silence.

‘You won at Bedriacum, and deserved your triumph,’ he paused again to let them bask in the glory of their victory, ‘but we fought only two legions. And yes, now we face only five legions when we number many more. But think on it, comrades: how many of your legions are at full strength? How many of you have been asking for replacements for months, but not received them? How many of your best soldiers now serve with the Praetorian Guard, your centuries and your cohorts weakened at the behest of the Emperor who now demands victory of you?’ He allowed the self-evident truths to make their mark and sensed the rumblings of discontent running through them. ‘Can that be right? Of course, we will win, but how many more must die because of the failings and jealousies of others? And when we defeat the five legions of Pannonia and Moesia, when the battle is over and we count our wounded and our dead comrades in the thousands and the tens of thousands, what then? Will your Emperor send you on leave to enjoy the fruits of victory or into retirement to reap the rewards of your long service? No. He will keep you in arms, because Titus Flavius Vespasian has already dispatched more legions to oppose us, the legions of Syria and Egypt and Cappadocia, the legions of Corbulo. Even that will not be the end, for Hispania and Lusitania and Gaul also stand against us.’

It was a blatant lie, but Caecina rationalized that if he prevailed it would become truth and no longer matter. He shook his head. ‘None of this would signify if we were led by a Caesar, or an Augustus. But we are not. The man who calls himself your Emperor sits in Rome counting the money that you, the legions of Rome, won for him, and feasting on the plenty that you, the legions of Rome, cannot enjoy. It is with a heavy heart, my friends, that I now tell you that the Ravenna fleet, which controls the seas to our rear and the supply convoys that use them, has pledged its allegiance to Titus Flavius Vespasian.’ There had been rumours of the defection; now he watched the shock of their confirmation ripple through them like a summer breeze on ripe corn. ‘Who knows how long our dwindling supplies last before we go hungry? What will we do once our javelins are spent and our
ballista
bolts fired? The man who now marches against us …’

‘I thought he was still in Alexandria?’ It was the same voice from the back. Caecina smiled as three or four of his supporters closed in on the potential troublemaker.

‘Yes,’ he nodded regretfully as if a favourite uncle had stolen the last piece of duck at a family dinner, ‘but that is only because he has pledged not to shed the blood of one Roman in his name. He wishes only to further the cause of the Empire.’ He sought them out with his gaze, the dark soulful eyes roving across the hardened soldiers arrayed in front of him. ‘Because he does not believe the man we follow is worthy of the name Emperor. Because he feels that Aulus Vitellius has undermined his legions and betrayed his soldiers. I ask you a question. Does any man here believe that if his legion is under threat, Aulus Vitellius will come to his aid?’

‘Only if I can’t finish my rations.’

Caecina waited until the laughter died down. ‘We have fought together and shed blood together. We have seen our friends die; or, worse, seen them live with wounds that no mortal man should be asked to bear. We have seen farms burned and families impoverished. Your homeland has been ravaged by civil war until it has nothing more to give. Who among you would ask it to suffer more if an alternative could be found?’

One man, a centurion on the brink of retirement, stood up and asked a question that had been carefully rehearsed hours earlier. ‘But what is the alternative, legate? What must we do to avoid more bloodshed and sacrifice?’

Caecina studied the speaker with a face lined by torment, while inside his heart soared at the perfectly choreographed opportunity he had created. He began softly, and like a true actor allowed his voice to rise with every word. ‘It grieves me to say, but I do it for my soldiers, and my people, and for the Empire which I hold so dear. Say it I must. We can ask ourselves who is more worthy of our trust. The man who has abandoned us, or the man who is coming to save Rome? The man who can barely hold a sword, or the man who carried his blade against the traitors of Britannia and Judaea? The man who has taken your money, or the man who has pledged to give fifteen thousand sesterces to every legionary who lays down his weapons in the cause of healing the wounds of the Empire?’ He saw instantly that he had them. ‘It is my sad duty, my friends, to tell you that Aulus Vitellius has proved unworthy of Rome. We must place our trust in Titus Flavius Vespasian to ensure that the Empire has a future.’

The room erupted as he reached his climax and he heard a startled yelp as the dissenter at the back was pounced upon and dragged through the curtained doorway. Centurions from the Fourth, carefully salted through the crowd, shouted ‘Down with Vitellius! Down with the traitor to the Empire!’ and matched their words with action, toppling the statues and emblems of the Emperor that lined the walls of the tent.

Caecina watched for a while, revelling in his power and wondering at the ease with which men could be manipulated, even strong men like these. Eventually, he raised his arms for silence. ‘Return to your legions, and relay my words and their import to your men. Supplies are low and the Ravenna fleet will no longer support us. Your commander believes it is in their best interests to pledge our oath to Vespasian and fifteen thousand sesterces to every man.’

Accompanied by growls of assent the men filed out and Aulus Caecina Alienus retired to his private quarters. He was tempted to slump on one of the couches until the shaking in his legs died down, but he knew he must inform Primus of his success, so he took his place dutifully at the desk.

Salonina glided through the curtained doorway to the sleeping area and their eyes met as she swayed towards him. He felt an overwhelming rush of desire that was multiplied as she approached and kissed him on the lips.

‘You were masterful, husband,’ she whispered, the front of her gown gaping to expose her breasts as she leaned towards him. He reached out to brush his hand against them. Tempted. She smiled, but her look said ‘Later’ and he returned to the letter. The sounds of the outer camp came to him, seemingly magnified by the blood rushing like lava through his veins. A moment of utter silence as if the man and woman in the tented room were the only people in the world, followed by a roar. He had won.

In the hour before dawn, Caecina was still working on the letter and Salonina emerged from the curtain to greet her husband with a kiss. As their lips met a disturbance erupted outside the tent, followed by a sharp cry much closer. They stared at each other, both mirroring the other’s puzzlement. Caecina leapt to his feet and motioned his wife to leave. Before she could move, the door flaps were thrown back and the tent filled with fully armoured legionaries, their short swords bared and glinting in the light of the oil lamps. Aulus Caecina Alienus slowly subsided into his seat.

He sat frozen as a tall man in the scarlet sash of a legionary legate pushed through the troops towards him. Caecina’s heart sank as he recognized Fabius Fabullus, the legate who had served him so well at Bedriacum and should have been with Fifth Alaudae at Cremona. Fabullus’s eyes bulged and his purple face was twisted into a grimace of almost apoplectic fury.

‘General.’ Caecina made to rise, but rough hands held him down. Fabullus stood two paces in front of the desk as if to advance any further would drive him to physical violence.