Enemy of Rome (31 page)

‘It has gone far beyond that.’

Primus threw his stylus aside and called for his clerk. ‘A guard on all the gates of Cremona immediately,’ he ordered. ‘The looting and the burning stops now. No captives to be sold into slavery. Any legionary still inside the walls in the morning to be screened and the ringleaders apprehended.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘The great incendiary of his age …’

‘You—’

‘No, what is done cannot be undone.’ A bitter laugh escaped the general’s lips and he picked up a roll of parchment from the desk. ‘The latest missive from Vespasian. He believes I’ve over-extended myself. He rebukes me for “over-enthusiasm” and wishes me to hold my position, which he thinks is still at Aquileia. He sees the possibility for the war to be ended with no more civilian casualties.’ His eyes rose to meet Valerius’s. ‘You see my difficulty? Delicate negotiations are under way. Nothing further to be gained by forcing battle on the enemy. Mars’ arse, you’d think the man had never held a command. What does he think soldiers do? If you don’t let them fight the enemy they will fight each other, aye and kill their commanders, too, for their
cowardice
or lack of enthusiasm. What choice did I have?’

‘You have your victory, despite all this,’ Valerius pointed out.

‘It is not enough
because
of all this,’ Primus insisted. He threw the scroll carelessly back on to the desk. Without warning his tone hardened. ‘There is only one answer. I must finish the war before Mucianus arrives and that means marching on Rome. But there will be no more massacres. I plan to send the defeated legions to Moesia under new legates. Messalla will be one. Vespasian has decided he cannot endorse his permanent appointment despite being one of my best fighting generals, but at least I can give him another temporary command. He will be replaced as legate of the Seventh Claudia by Lucius Plotius Grypus, a nephew of Mucianus, and no doubt one of his spies. I also intend to resume personal command of Seventh Galbiana.’ The general’s voice contained a certain sympathy, but Valerius felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. It had been foolish to think it would last, but he thought of the Seventh as his legion. ‘This does not reflect on your command of the legion, which has been exemplary, but releases you for a mission which may be even more important given my future plans. Vitellius is finished, we are agreed on that?’

Valerius nodded warily. His old friend’s position was desperate and could only worsen. ‘It is only a matter of time now that you have destroyed the core of his army,’ he agreed. ‘The Batavian rebellion pins his reserve legions on the Rhine. He can hope for no more troops from Britannia. Hispania and Gaul have nothing to offer. Caecina is taken and is in custody in Verona. Valens is still missing. Sooner or later Vitellius must surrender or flee.’

‘Then I would be a fool to spurn this opportunity.’ Primus waved Valerius over to where his campaign map was pinned to its wooden frame. ‘Nothing but small garrisons between here and the Apennines.’ His finger swept down the coast from the Padus to Fanum Fortunae. ‘When they hear of Cremona’s fall and the army’s surrender, they will have no choice but to do likewise. The only substantial force between us and the capital is a detachment of the Praetorian Guard, here, at Narnia, perhaps equivalent to an understrength legion. Caecina tells me their commander’s faith in Vitellius is shaken and he may be favourable to an accommodation.’ Valerius listened with growing dismay. Experience told him where this was leading. Primus’s next words confirmed it.

‘I plan to negotiate with this Praetorian directly and from a position of strength. To do so, I need an emissary well versed in these arts. Nero recognized your talents in this direction, as did Galba and Otho; it would be unwise of Marcus Antonius Primus to ignore them. When we reach Fanum you will ride ahead and make contact carrying an offer similar to that which netted us Caecina. If he can persuade his forces to lay down their arms he will have his life, his liberty and an honoured position when Vespasian is formally declared Emperor.’ He must have seen the lack of enthusiasm in Valerius’s face, because the flow of words died. ‘You doubt your ability, Verrens? You feel that this mission is beyond your capacity?’

Valerius had slept less than two hours in the last forty-eight. More than anything, he doubted his ability to stay on his feet for much longer. He was certain he could reach Narnia, and quite possibly make contact with the Praetorian commander. What happened then was much less certain. Who was to say the situation would not have changed when he reached the city? Turncoats were, by their very nature, fickle. Officers could be enthusiastic for one course of action and their men for another. For the negotiator – or, he could not deny it, the spy – caught in between, the outcome might be perilous indeed. The truth was that he was weary of intrigue. Weary of war. But if he concluded the negotiations successfully Narnia would fall without a life being lost. And if Narnia fell, the way would be open to Rome, and Domitia Longina Corbulo. He managed a tired smile.

‘It would be a poor sort of man who came here to rebuke you about what happened in Cremona and then refused your request to try to stop the same thing occurring again. A decent night’s sleep and some food and I will be at your service.’

Primus nodded, and accepted Valerius’s salute. When the one-armed tribune had left he continued to stare at the doorway. A strange character. All that honour and duty tearing at the inner man: it seemed unlikely he would survive the war. A pity.

The army that headed south on the Via Aemilia was very different from the one that had marched on Cremona with so much confidence. True to his word, Primus dispatched three of the Vitellian legions to Pannonia and Moesia to combat a growing threat from beyond the Danuvius. He also freed captured Vitellian officers and sent them to carry word of his victory to Germania, Britannia, Gaul and Hispania. Yet the aftermath of Cremona had created a rift between Primus and his legates. The commanders of the three legions which hadn’t been involved in the massacre were incensed at being tainted by the stench of burned flesh, rapine and looting that would for ever be linked with the victory. Aquila of the Thirteenth felt ashamed because he knew he should have done more to stop it. The result was that Primus’s authority was dangerously undermined and the commanders’ trust in their general, and his in them, badly eroded. Valerius witnessed the outcome when Primus sent substantial elements of the legions back to rest at Verona, along with their convalescent wounded. The cohorts and centuries he retained were all led by men in whom he had personal trust or interest. The legionaries understood what was happening and why. It was a moody and disunited force that formed up in order of march beside the Temple of Mephitis, the only building of any substance in Cremona left unscathed.

The situation wasn’t improved with the arrival, when the column reached Bononia, of Plotius Grypus, the new legate of Seventh Claudia. An arrogant, opinionated patrician in his mid-thirties, Grypus used his connections to the full to further undermine Primus, who fumed, but could do little about it. Meanwhile, his army marched through a damp, often flooded landscape only recently ravaged by war. Primus had hoped to end the conflict without further bloodshed, but no one had informed his lately acquired allies, the marines of the Ravenna fleet. They had marched and countermarched across the flat coastal plain destroying Vitellian outposts and reserve units, including three cohorts of auxiliaries said to have accompanied Fabius Valens from Rome. Of Valens himself there was no sign. Primus’s greatest fear was that the victor of First Bedriacum might reach Gaul or Germania, but, for the moment, he could only concentrate on his current campaign.

Primus incorporated the marines into his force and his cause was further boosted by the arrival of a new legion, the Eleventh Claudia, from Dalmatia. One by one, the towns of the Via Aemilia pledged their allegiance with little or no opposition. Only Fanum Fortunae put up much resistance, but the city’s defenders agreed to surrender after a week.

With success, the general could have been forgiven for displaying his natural vanity, but whenever Valerius saw him the heavy brow was invariably lined with concern and the dark eyes troubled. Much of this was due to the stream of letters he received from Licinius Mucianus, a sign his successor was both not far away and very well informed. Fulvus, who still commanded the Third Gallica, revealed that they alternated between demands for more speed to take advantage before winter, and equally strident recommendations to delay so as not to outrun his supplies. The uncertainty made Primus uncharacteristically indecisive and was compounded by the conflicting advice he received from his legates, led by the smirking Grypus. The result was another week’s delay at Fanum. Meanwhile, Valerius could only polish his sword and conceal his frustration as he waited for word of his mission. It was a relief when he finally received the summons from Primus. He ordered Serpentius to prepare their horses and see to supplies so they could leave without delay.

But when the guards showed him into the
praetorium
, the general looked up from his papers and said: ‘I have decided to change your orders.’

Valerius barely had time to take in the general’s words before he noticed a third man standing in the corner of the tent. He was dressed in a heavy cloak against the damp and his legs were spattered with mud as if he’d just completed a long ride. Primus’s ever-present campaign map had drawn his eye and he had his back to Valerius, but the thick dark hair and stocky build stirred a memory.

‘Quintus Petilius Cerialis brings news from Rome,’ Primus continued, and Cerialis turned with a grave nod, which Valerius returned.

How long had it been? Nine years, now, since they’d stood in a tent just like this on a hillside in Britannia. It wasn’t an occasion Valerius cared to remind the newcomer of. Then, Cerialis had worn a legate’s sculpted breastplate and looked what he was: a man who had just lost half a legion. His face had been clouded by the shadow of defeat and the possibility of execution. Now, though dressed in a motley collection of armour and with an auxiliary’s cavalry
spatha
at his belt, he fidgeted with nervous energy. The dark hair was shot with grey and the waist a little thicker, but otherwise he seemed physically unchanged. He was Vespasian’s son-in-law, married to Titus’s sister.

‘The commander at Narnia has been replaced,’ Primus explained, ‘and the Praetorians reinforced with a further nine cohorts, including auxiliaries, and an unknown number of cavalry. Therefore I judge your negotiations unlikely to succeed …’

‘I agree,’ Cerialis interrupted, prompting a glance of irritation only a student of human nature would have noticed. Clearly, despite the affable introduction the general was not completely comfortable with his highly placed visitor. ‘The new prefects are loyal to Vitellius. You would be placing your head on the executioner’s block.’

Primus resumed. ‘Cerialis escaped from the city three weeks ago, and put together an irregular cohort of cavalry, former legionary officers for the most part. He has been doing what he can to advance his father-in-law’s cause. He came over the pass this morning.’

Valerius looked up sharply. Cerialis had come from Rome. Domitia Longina Corbulo was in Rome. Could it be that Fortuna was favouring them?

‘You will travel to Rome.’ His heart beat like thunder in his chest as Primus confirmed his hopes. ‘Alone or with your servant, whichever is your preference. The situation in the capital is complicated, but we believe it has the potential to be exploited …’

‘When I left the city,’ Cerialis interrupted his host again, ‘Vitellius was discomfited by his generals’ lack of aggressive spirit. Only the strength of his wife Galeria and the ruthlessness of his brother Lucius keep his shaking hands on the reins of the Empire. By now he knows about the Batavian revolt on the Rhenus and, if he hasn’t already, he will soon hear of his legions’ defeat at Cremona. His world is crumbling. Only by giving up the purple can he save himself.’

‘And his family,’ Primus pointed out helpfully.

‘That is not the Flavian way,’ Cerialis sniffed. ‘His advisers – particularly his brother – will urge him to fight on while he still has hope, however unlikely, of a favourable outcome. We believe he is open to other possibilities. My kinsman, Titus Flavius Sabinus, retains his position as urban prefect and has already made approaches through an intermediary …’

‘These are the delicate negotiations of which Vespasian writes,’ Primus interjected. ‘But there is a question of trust. Put baldly, Vitellius would not trust Sabinus to clear out the city sewers.’

Cerialis smiled at the irony of this man preaching about trust and Primus had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Naturally, Vitellius would prefer not to have Sabinus as urban prefect with the
vigiles
and urban cohorts at his command, but he cannot afford to alienate my kinsman’s allies. He has given Sabinus every opportunity to leave the city and is suspicious of his motives for staying. The truth is that Sabinus is frightened to take the risk, but Vitellius would never believe that of a man who has led a legion. Whatever promises Vespasian makes are immediately viewed with suspicion because of their source. If, however, the same approaches were made by a man in whom Vitellius has trust, a man of patent honesty and integrity, perhaps even a friend, the result might be very different.’

Valerius felt the intense gaze of the two men on his back as he walked to the campaign map. He traced his finger from Fanum Fortunae, across the Apennines and down through the rugged valleys on the western side. All the way to Rome. ‘Vitellius once tried to have me killed. What makes you think I can convince him?’

Cerialis opened his mouth to speak, but the voice was that of Marcus Antonius Primus. ‘Because you are probably the only friend he has left.’

Valerius looked from one man to the other. He knew Primus was right, but he still had suspicions about his motives. ‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘But first you must convince me that Aulus Vitellius can trust Vespasian.’ He allowed his voice to harden. ‘I will not be duped into betraying him.’