Douglas Jackson: Enemy of Rome

Vitellius looked to Caecina, expecting him to disagree, but the younger man only smiled. ‘I believe the general is correct in his dispositions, Caesar,’ he said.

‘Very well.’ The Emperor nodded decisively, setting his great dewlap jowls wobbling. ‘You, General Caecina, will rally our troops … here, at Narnia, before marching north to suitable positions in the Padus valley. You will also pick up whatever forces you can along the way.’

‘The marines of the Ravenna fleet?’ Valens suggested.

Caecina shrugged dismissively. ‘Is that really necessary? We have four full legions and the substantial elements of another six. What use are a few wetbacks?’

‘A few wetbacks of the First Adiutrix held the walls at Placentia.’ The younger man bridled at Valens’ unnecessary reminder of his failure. ‘And they took the Twenty-first’s eagle.’

‘You must do as you see fit,’ Vitellius said placatingly. ‘In the meantime, you, General Valens …’ Valens glared suspiciously and the Emperor hesitated, knowing there was no point in suggesting the old soldier take the rest he so patently needed, ‘will ensure that whatever forces are available are ready to march north, and aid my brother Lucius in creating a cavalry force that will hold the south against insurrection.’ He saw Valens’ frown deepen and cut him off with a smile. ‘Of course, you will complete your duties in time to re-join your legions before General Caecina departs from Narnia.’

Now it was Caecina’s turn to speak out. ‘So we are to fight as separate armies?’

‘You will have joint command and you will cooperate, as you did at Bedriacum,’ Vitellius answered smoothly. ‘As you said, consul, you have more than sufficient forces to defeat our enemies. Choose your ground with care and the outcome is not in doubt.’

‘And you, Caesar?’

Vitellius froze at Caecina’s question. Did he detect insolence? Perhaps, but the young consul’s smile seemed to rob his words of any slight. ‘I will remain in Rome to run affairs of state and ensure that the Senate keeps my victorious generals well supplied.’ He waved a plump hand towards the doorway to indicate the interview was over. ‘We will discuss the details later, but you have your orders.’

The two generals walked down the marble corridor and past the gigantic gold-leafed marble statue of Nero that still dominated the entrance hall of the Domus Aurea. Caecina stopped to stare up at the head, with its spiked sun rays forming a halo around the dead Emperor’s chubby features. He turned to face Valens. ‘Did you ever serve with Vespasian in Britannia?’

‘No. I was in Germania when Claudius invaded.’

‘But he’s a soldier, yes?’

‘I believe so.’

Caecina shook his head in mock despair as he marched towards the doorway. ‘And we follow a fat fool who will be counting wine barrels while we do the fighting and dying for him.’

Valens watched him go. He knew he should protest, would even be justified in shouting ‘Traitor’, but he was tired. In any case, Caecina was right.

Valerius woke to the distinctive bustle of a legion preparing for the march: the sound of centurions roaring at heavy-handed recruits as they struggled with the stakes that had protected the camp overnight, the flap of leather tents being dismantled in a light breeze, the clatter of cooking pots and spears piled for transport on the cohort’s mules. He had seen the signs over the past few days. Instead of the customary exercises with gladius and scutum the men had been allowed to sit outside their tents sharpening their short swords, mending uniforms, polishing their armour and replacing the iron hobnails in caligae . A legionary’s footwear was as important as his sword. He had to be able to march twenty miles a day and fight a battle at the end of it. A single nail out of place could leave the century a fighting man short, and they would need every man when they met Vitellius’s legions.

Serpentius appeared in the doorway of the tent. ‘It’s happening,’ the Spaniard confirmed with a shark’s smile of anticipation. ‘You’ve been called to a conference in the principia tent at the second hour.’

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Valerius grumbled. He reached for the small leather bottle that was always within reach of his bedding and oiled the mottled purple stump of his right arm before slipping over it the cowhide socket that held his wooden fist. Serpentius watched as, with teeth and fingers made nimble from habit, he tightened and knotted the leather bindings that fixed it in place.

The former gladiator shrugged. ‘I didn’t reckon a few more minutes would make much difference. Full dress uniform.’ He hefted the scuffed leather tribune’s breastplate Primus had grudgingly provided and waited while Valerius drew his tunic over his head and belted it in place. Serpentius helped the younger man strap on the armour, then the belt with its apron of studded straps that was designed to protect his groin and upper legs. Over Valerius’s left shoulder he draped the leather sling that would hold the decorated metal scabbard on his right hip, the sword ready to be cross-drawn. Only then did he slip into place the gladius he had spent an hour sharpening while the other man was asleep. Satisfied, he helped the one-handed Roman with the straps of his studded leather boots and finally handed him the polished iron helmet that had also belonged to the breastplate’s previous owner, an over-enthusiastic young officer who had died on the end of a Dacian spear.

Serpentius stepped back and nodded approvingly. ‘You’ll do.’

‘I specified full uniform.’ Marcus Antonius Primus looked up from the document he had been studying as Valerius entered. All the other senior legionary commanders were already assembled. Aquila, legate of the Thirteenth Gemina, sniffed disapprovingly when he recognized the newcomer. Valerius nodded to Vipstanus Messalla, the only other military tribune to attend, a scarred veteran who had fought his way up through the ranks to become temporary commander of the famous Seventh Claudia Pia Fidelis. Messalla met his look with a sardonic half-smile that didn’t bode well for the rest of the proceedings. A hollow-cheeked man at the far side of the table where Primus was seated nodded a greeting.

‘Numisius Lupus, Eighth Augusta,’ Primus grudgingly introduced his fellow commander. ‘And this is Aurelius Fulvus, Third Gallica.’ Fulvus needed no introduction. An old comrade, he had been one of Corbulo’s commanders and Valerius remembered him as a steady, intelligent soldier steeped, like his men, in the traditions of the East. ‘Arrius Varus, who commands our cavalry.’ All the men apart from Messalla and Varus wore the scarlet cloaks that signified their general’s rank. Those of Varus and Messalla were white and Valerius’s should have been the same.

‘I apologize, sir,’ he said. ‘If I’d realized I needed a cloak I would have had my servant steal one in time for the meeting.’

Messalla and Fulvus laughed. Primus’s nostrils flared at the insubordination, but he waved Valerius to a chair at the far end of the table, picked up a pointer and turned to a map pinned to a frame beside him. ‘When we are ready, gentlemen. Vespasian’s spies report that the enemy legions have begun to gather, but they will take time to concentrate. At the moment only two legions and a few detachments occupy the Padus valley, which we are agreed must be the first step on our way to Rome. Two legions, and we can muster four at the moment and five within a few days.’ He noted the look of concern that crossed Messalla’s face. ‘I am aware our leader has urged caution, tribune, but the Emperor is not here and cannot judge our situation. This is an opportunity that may not occur again. If we attack now, take Aquileia,’ he pointed to a black dot at the head of the Mare Adriaticum, ‘and open up the road to Cremona, we will be in a position to strike a decisive blow in this campaign while the enemy is still preparing for it. We-’