Enemy of Rome

XIV

The mood was sombre when Valerius gathered with the army’s legionary commanders in the headquarters tent hastily set up by the Via Postumia. Sweating in their thick cloaks and leather breastplates the officers stood disconsolately around the general’s campaign table debating the consequences of the grave news from Hostilia. As the legates argued, their soldiers waited on the road in that resigned, wary, but thankful of the opportunity to rest way that soldiers do.

‘We should withdraw to Aquileia and form a defensive perimeter.’ Numisius Lupus, legate of the Eighth Augusta, spoke with a quiet intensity, and his words were greeted with a murmur of approval. ‘We cannot hope to prevail against a force of forty thousand and probably more.’

‘There is no disgrace in a tactical withdrawal.’ Agreement came from Vipstanus Messalla, the most experienced soldier among them. He looked to his commander for some reaction, but Primus continued to stare at the map spread across the scarred oak surface of the table. The tribune belatedly tried to remove the taint of defeat from his words. ‘Your original strategy was sound, but circumstances have changed. If the enemy combines then our whole enterprise is placed in jeopardy.’

Valerius looked to his old friend Fulvus, who commanded Third Gallica, but the other man answered with a shrug. The dark-jawed features of Vedius Aquila, the legate who two months earlier had been so keen to execute Valerius, twisted into an expression of almost pained frustration. He opened his mouth to speak before clamping it shut again as if he believed his words might condemn him. As the tense silence in the tent lengthened the only sound was a loose flap fluttering in the wind and the faint buzz of insects making the most of a late-blooming oleander.

Eventually, Primus looked up from the map. ‘This changes nothing.’

‘But …’ Lupus looked as if he’d been struck. Messalla stared at Primus as if he wasn’t certain what madness was coming next. Aquila’s only reaction was a tiny involuntary groan. Aurelius Fulvus met Valerius’s look of dismay with a grim smile.

‘It changes nothing,’ Primus repeated, his eyes roving from each man to the next and filled with challenge. ‘There are still only two legions at Cremona,’ he continued. ‘The legions at Hostilia are between three and four days’ march away, and that over poor roads or rough ground. We have the advantage by a day and a half and the Via Postumia provides good marching all the way. It is my intention to defeat the Twenty-first Rapax and Fifth Alaudae at Cremona and swing round to await the arrival of the Hostilia legions in a strong defensive position, here,’ he pointed to a spot on the map midway between Cremona and Hostilia, ‘at Ad Castores.’

‘Even so,’ Lupus persisted. ‘There is no guarantee we can reach Cremona first.’

‘Then let us ensure it,’ Primus growled. ‘Gentlemen, we will abandon our baggage train and our heavy weapons here, to follow us as they can. Issue your men with three days’ rations and tell them they will soon be feasting from the storehouses of Cremona. We will force the pace, use every minute of daylight and meet the enemy while his forces are still divided. You have your orders.’

There could be no doubt of his determination, but Valerius sensed the hesitation before the legionary commanders saluted and saw that Primus felt it too. After a moment’s thought, the tension faded from the general’s face as he decided this was a time for explanation not confrontation. ‘The men are fractious and starting at shadows,’ he said quietly. ‘You saw what happened at Verona when the picket guards of the Seventh Galbiana mistook our own cavalry for the enemy’s. Cries of betrayal and a near mutiny. The Moesian legions would have torn Governor Saturninus apart if I had not ordered him back to Naissus, and all because he was slow to join them. They are up for a fight and they need a fight. If I turn back now what message would that send? That their commander is cautious? That he fears the enemy?’ Once more he met each eye in turn. ‘The sacrifice was good. The gods have spoken. We will fight and we will win.’

Valerius remembered Titus Vespasian’s entreaty to rein in Primus’s rashness, but as he opened his mouth to speak he felt a hand on his arm and a voice whispered in his ear. ‘You would be wasting your breath. He will not be moved on this.’

Aurelius Fulvus pulled Valerius aside as they left the tent with the general’s headquarters staff already dismantling the table and rolling up his maps. They walked to where the horses waited. ‘Our commander is very decisive.’ The legate of Third Gallica smiled. ‘Some might say impetuous. We may go a little hungry, but with the gods’ will we could yet win a great victory.’

‘I remember another general who was in a hurry to meet the enemy,’ Valerius pointed out as he heaved himself into the saddle. ‘And it didn’t end well.’

Fulvus frowned at the reminder of Otho’s defeat at Bedriacum. ‘Well, we must hope that whoever has taken command of Caecina’s legions is less prone to impulse than the general. He appears to have forgotten that the enemy is just as able to abandon his baggage and heavy artillery as we are. All it would take is two days of forced marches and Valens to appear …’

Valerius had a vision of air misted with blood, and his mind’s ears filled with the sound of clashing swords and screaming men. If what Fulvus spoke of happened, the five legions of Marcus Antonius Primus would be walking into an ambush by troops who outnumbered them two to one and were commanded by a general who had learned his business on the Rhenus frontier. It would be a disaster.

The question was: where was Valens?

Gaius Fabius Valens hunched low in the saddle and cursed the bastard pain eating into his guts, the bastard Emperor who’d roused him from his sickbed in a fit of panic, and above all the fornicating whoreson bastard Aulus Caecina Alienus who had caused that panic. Of course, it would take a one-eyed halfwit offspring of a donkey and a sheep to have ever trusted the whoreson in the first instance, but Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus had done just that. He’d given Caecina his legions — the legions Valens had led all the way down the Sauconna and the Rhodanus; the legions whose might ensured that the people of Gaul would have no doubt who their true Emperor was; the legions he’d led to overwhelming victory at Bedriacum. All his legions, even his beloved First Germanica, of which he was, and let no man deny it, still legate. Aulus Vitellius had trusted the whoreson Caecina with every fighting man east of Hispania and west of Pannonia, and the whoreson Caecina had faithfully promised not to move from Narnia until Gaius Fabius Valens rose from his sickbed and travelled north to take joint command.

But here Valens was in Narnia and the legionary camps outside the garrison town on the Via Flaminia north-west of Rome were empty. The best information he could get said the whoreson was already two hundred miles away, either at Cremona or Hostilia.

Another gripe of searing pain tore through his lower stomach and he suddenly felt very old. What to do? The only force available was the three cohorts of auxiliaries and a cavalry squadron Vitellius had reluctantly agreed to give him as escort. As an attacking force it was worse than useless. Too large to hide and too small to fight, even if their morale was any good. Yet what choice did he have? Vitellius, for all his failings — and he had many — had placed his trust in him.

‘We go on,’ he told the senior prefect of auxiliaries. ‘Perhaps there will be more intelligence of our comrades when we reach Fanum Fortunae.’

It took three days to cross the spine of the Apennine mountains and wind their way through the foothills to the flatlands by the coast. By the time they reached the busy port of Fanum, Fabius Valens was exhausted to the point of delirium. As if his words had been prophetic, there was indeed intelligence. But not the kind he wanted.

‘Word came yesterday that the Ravenna fleet has declared for Vespasian.’ The young tribune commanding the city sounded wary as he briefed Valens while he recovered from the journey. ‘The prefect, Lucilius Bassus, can field at least one full legion of marines, possibly more. It is likely that he has already cut the Via Aemilia to the north.’

‘What word of Caecina?’ Valens demanded.

‘The last we heard he was still at Hostilia, but that was a week ago. Since then, nothing.’

Valens released an audible groan. He needed up-to-date information, not rumours.

‘There is more.’ The tribune saw the general wince but continued remorselessly. ‘A cargo ship arrived this morning claiming to have escaped from Aquileia. The captain told anyone who’d listen that Primus passed through with his legions a week ago and would even now be crossing the Padus.’

‘The man is clearly spreading sedition,’ Valens snapped, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I was of a similar opinion, legate. I had him arrested. An Illyrian trader out of Spalatum, a man long suspected of being a pirate. We executed him as a spy and his crew is on the way to the slave pens at Ariminium.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to have silenced them all permanently?’

‘I am responsible for the security of this city, sir, but I am not a murderer …’

‘You are a soft fool.’

‘… and in any case they know that if one of them speaks out of turn all six of them will have their tongues cut out.’

Valens had a moment to change his opinion of the young officer before his world seemed to turn upside down. He would have fallen if the man hadn’t caught him. ‘Slave,’ the tribune called. ‘Watered wine for the legate. You should sit, sir.’

‘No time,’ Valens muttered, his mind drifting as if he was on the edge of sleep. ‘Must make a decision. Send me my aides.’

But when the legate opened his eyes again it was already dark and he was lying on a soft bed. Another day lost, he raged inwardly. A servant came into the room with fresh water and he snapped, ‘Why did you not wake me?’

‘We tried, sir,’ the servant said nervously. ‘They … they thought you were dead.’

‘Get me your master, and tell him to bring my officers.’

He heaved himself out of the bed and waited until they had gathered under his acid stare, the trusted members of his staff in their fresh uniforms and the auxiliary commander’s leathery features locked in a scowl as if someone had stolen his breakfast. It had come to Valens as he lay asleep. No chance of reaching Caecina by the direct route now. The fool must fight his own battles for the moment.

He turned first to the auxiliary prefect. ‘You will advance your men as far as Ariminium and reinforce the garrison against any attack from the north. The Ala Petriana’ — the commander of the cavalry squadron bowed — ‘will act as your eyes and ears and warn of any incursions by the marines of the Ravenna fleet.’

‘You will wait here and send for reinforcements from the Guard?’ The tribune’s voice didn’t hide his concern. ‘Surely the Emp-’

‘I will re-cross the mountains with my headquarters and either take the coast road north or make for the port of Pisae, depending on the enemy’s dispositions. We will outflank the Flavians or, if necessary, sail north and land at Genua. From there it is only two or three days to Cremona. With the gods’ help we will reach Aulus Caecina Alienus before it is too late.’

He closed his eyes and listened to them filing past him towards the door. If he had kept them open he would have seen the doubt on their troubled faces.

Marcus Antonius Primus studied the men repairing and rebuilding the earth defences of the camps originally created by Otho’s army at Bedriacum six months earlier. He wiped dust from his mouth and spat. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘This will do as a base for the attack. You disagree with my decision to continue, Verrens?’

Valerius shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘It’s not for a soldier to agree or disagree, but to obey.’

The careful words drew a grin from the legate. ‘That is not what your friend Titus would say. He and his father would urge caution as always. But when did caution ever win a man glory?’ His eyes drifted to the road leading west. ‘We are, what? Fourteen miles from Cremona? Very well, I intend to lead a cavalry reconnaissance in force towards the city while our auxiliaries forage among the farms and villages to the north. The farmers have been supplying the Vitellians for long enough; now they can feed us.’

Valerius reckoned it unlikely Twenty-first Rapax and Fifth Alaudae would leave much to forage, but he kept the thought to himself. ‘You seem to enjoy placing your life in danger. Don’t you think the legions at Cremona will respond to your reconnaissance?’

Primus shrugged, but his smile was almost companionable. ‘Life without danger is a life only half lived. You of all people should know that. I will be safe enough, Gaius Valerius Verrens,’ the big moon face split into a grin, ‘for you will ride at my side and advise me, after which your insubordination may make you expendable and I’ll give you the opportunity for a glorious end.’ When Valerius didn’t rise to the bait he continued: ‘How far to the battlefield?’

‘Perhaps half a day’s ride. Closer to Cremona than to Bedriacum. The fighting spread across a wide area on both sides of the road.’

‘When we reach the site you will tell me exactly how it happened.’

Primus’s reconnaissance in force consisted of four cavalry cohorts. Two cohorts rode in columns of fours on the Via Postumia while the others took up positions on the flanks, providing outriders and scouts. Every trooper was protected by a vest of chain link armour that hung to the waist, over a leather shirt and woollen tunic, and wore an iron helm of the style traditionally favoured by his tribe. Unlike the legionaries’, their legs were covered by trews, for that was the preference of the northern tribes. They carried seven-foot iron-tipped spears and the heavy spatha, the standard weapon of the auxiliary cavalry.

Riding at the centre of a cavalry column produced a mesmerizing effect, even in the midst of a war zone. The constant movement of the horse and the familiar jingle of brass and harness competed with the scuff of hooves on the gravel surface of the road to lull the brain. Occasionally a trumpet sounded in the distance and heads would come up, but there was no sense of urgency. Valerius preferred to be up ahead where Arrius Varus had nominal command of the expedition and he could see the horizon. Instead, Primus had insisted they ride in the centre of the column with his headquarters staff. The one-handed Roman found himself hemmed in by the bodyguard section and unit standard-bearers, their brightly coloured banners twitching with each step. They passed through a village with a small shrine to the twins Castor and Pollux.

Valerius moved to the general’s side and explained how Otho’s senior commander, Suetonius Paulinus, had wasted the opportunity to gain a decisive victory against Caecina. ‘You spoke of Ad Castores? I was not present during the fighting, but the way it was told Paulinus had the Vitellians surrounded. If he’d used his reserves he could have annihilated them. Instead, they were allowed to retreat back to Cremona at their own pace. If Paulinus had attacked, Caecina would never have ventured from Cremona, your Pannonian and Moesian legions would have reached Otho in time and the whole outcome would have been different.’

‘So Paulinus was too cautious,’ Primus said pointedly.

Valerius nodded. ‘Otho thought so.’

‘You liked him?’

Valerius felt a twinge of regret as he remembered how Otho had changed in a few short months from a young man tortured by ambition to a wise one wearing the purple. ‘He was certain of his right to rule. A man who didn’t fear difficult decisions. But he didn’t have the heart for this.’ Valerius waved a hand to his right, where columns of smoke from burning farms dissected the horizon. ‘I think if he’d known how much blood would be spilled in his name he would have handed the throne to Vitellius and gone into exile.’

Primus shot him a look of amused disbelief that any man, let alone a Roman patrician, would give up power out of conscience.

From Bedriacum to Cremona the Via Postumia ran arrow-straight on a raised causeway over land that had been a swampy quagmire until the Gallic ancestors of the region’s inhabitants drained it for agriculture. Now it was rich and fertile, and provided the people with a good living — until the armies came. Armies had been coming this way for centuries. The Carthaginian Hannibal, with his elephants, from the west. Wild Raetian hillmen from their mountain fastnesses in the northern Alps. And, in the distant past, the forefathers of the Pannonian and Moesian auxiliaries who accompanied Primus had raided far into Italia along this very route. As Valerius surveyed the road ahead he experienced a moment of revelation, as if part of him had separated and was looking down upon his own body from above. Broad ditches flanked the road and he pulled his horse to the left, down the slope and up the slight incline on the far side. When he reached the rough fields he drew up and looked back to where Primus was staring at him with a look of bewilderment.

‘You wanted to know about the battle?’ he shouted. ‘This is the best position from which to see the field.’

The general kicked his horse into a trot and rode to join the younger man. Serpentius and a bodyguard squadron of cavalry followed, but Primus ordered the decurion in charge of the escort to take his men out on the left flank towards the grey line of distant trees that marked the Padus. Serpentius ignored the order and rode up to take station at Valerius’s shoulder, but the general didn’t object.

Valerius studied the terrain ahead. Directly to his front, perhaps eight miles distant, lay Cremona, and he couldn’t understand why the column’s scouts hadn’t yet clashed with patrols from the city. The bulk of Primus’s gaudily clad auxiliary cavalry were massed on the Via Postumia’s hard-packed gravel surface, their ability to manoeuvre constrained by the ditches. On the road’s southern flank, where Valerius and his companions rested their horses, a flat expanse of fields stretched into the distance. Valerius pointed to where the escort cavalry were galloping along the line of the Padus.

‘Between here and Cremona a maximum of four miles separates the river from the road,’ he informed Primus. ‘You can’t see them, but these fields are cut by streams and man-made irrigation channels. The land to the north of the road is much the same, except it’s also covered in olive trees strung with grape vines. Marcus Salvius Otho’s greatest mistake,’ Valerius’s voice contained a cold edge that told of the dark memories this place held, ‘was to put his generals in a position where they were forced to fight three separate battles, and only one of them with any room for manoeuvre. On the right, Aquila and the Thirteenth faced the elite of Fifth Alaudae, but could make no use of their artillery. It was less a battle than a mass brawl and the officers lost control of their men among the trees. In that kind of fight every soldier must be his own general, but for legionaries trained to instant obedience it was the worst kind of nightmare.’ He directed Primus to the causeway. ‘In the centre, six Praetorian cohorts softened by garrison duty in Rome met the entire First Italica. Only the stronger would prevail because their movements were restricted by the ditches.’

He nudged his mount through the long grass and the spindly growth of plants and weeds that no farmer should ever have allowed to flourish in this rich earth. The reason became clear to him a few moments later. These fields weren’t harvested because the local people feared the spirits who inhabited them. Marcus Salvius Otho’s defeated legionaries still lay where they had fallen. Shattered skulls grinned ghostly pale out of the red earth and bones, thousands of them, littered the flat ground. Grass and weeds sprouted through the bleached ribcages of man and mount alike. Valerius guided his horse through the carpet of white and green. Let Primus make what he would of the First Adiutrix’s battle. Here they had stood and died. He noticed a pile of bones that seemed larger than most, the head missing. Was this Juva, the giant Nubian, optio of the first century, Fifth cohort, the man who had broken the ring of spears to take a legion’s eagle? He lay somewhere out here, along with the crew of the Wavedancer who had volunteered to serve Otho. And old Marcus, the lanista who had taught Valerius to fight like a gladiator. Did he not deserve a better memorial than a bunch of stinging nettles? They sat there for a moment, Valerius lost in his own memories and Primus pensive and thoughtful. The only sounds were the wind whistling through the grass and the distant cry of a soaring buzzard.

Serpentius finally broke the silence. ‘They’re among friends and they died with a sword in their hand. What more could a man ask?’ He looked up sharply, disturbed by something carried invisibly on the breeze. ‘Like as not we’ll be joining them soon enough.’

A moment later Valerius and Primus noticed a dust cloud in the far distance and the tiny figure of an auxiliary messenger driving his horse up the flank of the cavalry column. Without a word, Primus kicked his mount back towards his headquarters in the centre of the four cohorts. The enemy was coming, and, in his eagerness for action, Marcus Antonius Primus had become separated from his army.