Enemy of Rome

VI

Valerius swatted at the black flies that swarmed around his head and heard Serpentius laugh at the futility of the gesture. It had been like this for the last five days: endless mountain trails hemmed in by scree-scattered slope and sweaty airless forest, and always accompanied by the maddening, relentless buzz of a million insects. But rank had its compensations and at least they’d been in the van of the column and spared the choking dust that coated the eight regiments of Varus’s cavalry who followed. In the lead rode the Syrian archers of the First Augusta Ituraeorum: small, black-bearded men on light, sure-footed ponies, their green tunics and iron helmets now a uniform toneless brown. Behind them came two one-thousand-strong wings of wild, long-haired mounted spearmen from Germania of a type Valerius knew only too well from his adventures on the Rhenus a year earlier. Units from Hispania, Thrace and Gaul made up the rest. A strong force, but vulnerable until they were free of the mountain passes.

Valerius and Serpentius travelled with Varus’s headquarters staff and the Roman quickly discovered he’d misjudged the young auxiliary commander’s character. Varus might have been nervous when faced with four legionary generals, but in the field he proved the opposite: arrogant and opinionated, with seldom a good word to say about anyone but himself. He knew his business, though, sending out scouts ahead and on the flanking hillsides, with the column on constant alert and weapons always to hand. The reason for his professionalism became clear when Varus told the older man that he’d served with Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo in Armenia for three years.

‘A fine general and a man with a reputation for discipline.’ Valerius decided it was wiser not to reveal that he had led Corbulo’s cavalry.

‘I thought he was rather overrated as a commander,’ Varus shrugged. ‘Look at his record. Twelve years in the East and thousands of casualties and what did he have to show for it? Tiridates still on his throne in Artaxata, albeit with his wings clipped and his beard singed, and his brother with a mighty army at his disposal that still remains a threat to Syria and Judaea.’

‘I thought his first campaign in Armenia had been hailed as a strategic triumph?’

Varus looked back irritably as the sound of a trumpet blared out over the rhythmic thud of hooves and clatter of metal equipment, urging a lagging squadron to close up. He rapped out an order to an aide before turning back to his companion. ‘Oh, I’m not saying he wasn’t a competent general.’ A short laugh signalled the opposite. ‘But sieges were more in his line than great battles. He was no Caesar, you see. Much too cautious. Not a man to take an opportunity in both hands, like our General Primus.’

Valerius had listened to the impugning of his late commander’s reputation and record without reacting, but this fulsome praise for a man who had never witnessed a battle, never mind fought one, made him blink. He changed the subject, pointing to the flank guards on top of a nearby hill. ‘It is wise to prepare for trouble, but do you think we will meet the enemy this far east?’

Varus shrugged. ‘Not regular troops, but Vitellius’s agents have been active among the local natives. The tribes of Pannonia are more or less civilized,’ he said dismissively. ‘They might steal a few horses or rob a single supply wagon, but normally they’d never risk attacking a column of this strength. Our greatest threat is from the Marcomanni and the Quadi, who may sniff an opportunity and decide to cross the river.’ Valerius knew the Marcomanni were a tribe who ruled the endless pasturelands north of Noricum and the Danuvius, but he’d never heard of the Quadi. ‘Their Sarmatian cousins,’ the auxiliary explained. ‘Newly arrived from the East and one of the reasons they need to expand their territory. I doubt it will happen, though. The Roxolani tried it in Moesia six months ago. Nine thousand warriors crossed the river, but the Third and the Eighth made sure not a single one got back. Word of that kind of defeat spreads.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yes, we’re in good company with the Third and the Eighth. They know how to fight.’

‘They know how to fight barbarians,’ Valerius pointed out. ‘But do they know how to fight another legion?’

Varus frowned as if the thought had never occurred to him.

They broke free of the mountains next morning and reached the outskirts of Aquileia as the heat of the day reached its peak. Beyond the city the sapphire blue waters of the lagoons of the Mare Adriaticum had never appeared so welcoming, after a week sweating in the hills. Varus sent two regiments of his Syrian horse archers in a wide arc on the landward side to block any escape and advanced his remaining cavalry over the surrounding fields. As they approached, Valerius saw it was an extensive, thriving place filled with rich buildings, marble temples and terracotta-roofed tenements that shimmered in the afternoon heat. By the time Varus reached the scatter of houses on the outskirts a delegation of elders and merchants was already waiting behind a figure carrying the green branch that signalled his wish to discuss terms.

‘Tribune, will you join me?’ Varus slid from his horse, and Valerius did likewise, beating the dust from his clothes as they walked along the gravel road towards the group. ‘What do you think?’ Varus said quietly.

‘If they wanted trouble, we’d already know about it.’

As they reached the group, the man with the green branch stepped forward and bowed, while the others stood back fidgeting nervously and trying not to look threatening.

‘Marcus Annidius Ponticus, decurion of Aquileia’s council of leading citizens, and local magistrate, greets you and welcomes you.’ The magistrate’s toga hung on his narrow frame like a tent and he must have been eighty, with a wrinkled child’s face and a shining dome of a head. His voice was strong enough, with the power of a man accustomed to speaking in public, but it held a brittle edge of fear. ‘We have food and drink, and can provide entertainment for your men before … before they continue on their mission. If you wish to water your horses we have a fine stream on the far side of town, with a lush meadow for grazing close by.’

Varus stepped forward and knocked the branch from the decurion’s hand, eliciting a gasp from the men behind and a frown of distaste from Valerius. ‘I am Arrius Varus, prefect of cavalry, and I claim Aquileia for Titus Flavius Vespasian, rightful Emperor of Rome. Does any man here dispute that right?’ His words sent a stir of unease through the gathering and Ponticus darted a desperate glance back towards the others. ‘Do you deny me, old man?’ Varus filled his voice with the promise of bloody swords and rampaging licentious soldiery. ‘You will surrender this city or I will burn it to the ground and slaughter every living thing in it.’

A man in the tight-linked mail of an auxiliary officer advanced from the waiting group with his sword held across the palms of both hands in a gesture of surrender. He brushed past the old man and knelt before Varus. ‘Oppius Lucanus, commanding First Alpinorum, pledges his sword and those of his cohort to the rightful Emperor, Titus Flavius Vespasian.’

‘What is your strength?’ Varus demanded.

‘Four hundred and forty effectives, twenty-four sick.’

‘Very well, I may have need of infantry. Have the fighting men ready and supplied with whatever rations they can carry. We leave at first light tomorrow.’ He saw the momentary relief on the magistrate’s face and swiftly disabused him of any notion that his city and its contents were being overlooked. ‘They will be replaced by one of my cavalry cohorts. You will find stabling for their horses and provide food and drink for the men. From now on, all movement to and from the city, including from the port, will require the sanction of the commander. Is that clear?’ Ponticus bowed his head. ‘In addition, the people of Aquileia will supply fodder for six thousand horses and three days’ rations for the men of my column. Arrange it with my quartermasters. My officers will dine in the city tonight. Ensure that the hospitality and entertainment is the best Aquileia can offer.’ The old man backed away and the delegation moved off towards the city, casting wary glances back at Varus and talking animatedly among themselves. Valerius reflected that Marcus Antonius Primus didn’t seem to have passed on Vespasian’s preferred strategy of making allies of those who accepted his rule. Fear was all very well, but experience had taught him that fear was a transitory emotion, and when it faded it was all too often replaced by hatred and defiance. Shame could be a great motivator for a man who had bent the knee unwillingly. At best, Varus had ensured there would be resentment in this city that held the key to his supply line; at worst …

But the auxiliary commander seemed happy with the outcome. He turned to Valerius with a satisfied smile. ‘Well, that was simple enough.’

Later, Valerius and Serpentius stood on the city walls watching lines of carts rattle and squeak their way out towards the nearby auxiliary encampments, their beds forced low over the axles by the weight of fodder and provisions for the thousands of cavalry surrounding the city.

‘Poor bastards,’ the Spaniard grunted. ‘They’ll never see a bent sestertius for that, and there’ll be empty bellies this winter.’

Valerius only shrugged. ‘Aquileia got off lightly compared to some.’ He remembered the burned-out settlements they’d encountered in Raetia on their mission to contact Vitellius, the victims of Aulus Caecina Alienus’s terror policy.

‘And now we wait for the legions to catch up?’

‘Varus has orders to push ahead and scout towards the Padus.’ A shout from below distracted Valerius. He looked down to see two drunken cavalrymen fighting over a woman, rolling in a gutter as she raised her skirts to piss in it. Varus had sent two squadrons into the town to add weight to his quartermasters’ authority, but it appeared some of them had given their officers the slip. As the cries faded the scent of woodsmoke drifted in from the cooking fires that dotted the surrounding fields and they could hear some homesick auxiliary crooning a mournful ballad in his own tongue. ‘My guess is that we’ll probe along the Via Postumia until we either reach the river or come up against enemy cavalry. What I don’t understand is why Valens or Caecina isn’t already here. They’re not fools. If they’d garrisoned Aquileia with even one legion they could keep Primus bottled up in Pannonia indefinitely. It would give them time to bring up the rest of their forces and provide a secure base that could be supplied by sea if need be. We’d be outnumbered, the troops would soon become disheartened and our generals would look like fools. Every day Vitellius sits in Rome acting like an Emperor his validity grows and it makes Vespasian look like the usurper. Vespasian must act quickly, yet Vitellius’s generals aren’t doing anything to slow him down. It doesn’t make sense.’

They resumed their advance in the morning, the troops refreshed and resupplied, leaving a cohort of Syrian archers to hold Aquileia until Primus arrived with his main force. The column followed the Via Postumia west to the town of Opitergium, which declared for Vespasian as soon as they heard the sound of Varus’s trumpets. By mid-afternoon they had reached Patavium, a substantial city between the Via Postumia and the sea, and their first major challenge. Here, the residents were as willing to talk as those of Aquileia, but there was no rush to surrender. The town had a substantial garrison of Gaulish auxiliaries who would make the attacking of it a costly affair, particularly for cavalry without supporting artillery. Varus, confident as ever in his own abilities, was certain he could lure the city council to the Flavian cause, but it would take time and he was keenly aware they still hadn’t made contact with the armies of Vitellius. Valerius watched his growing impatience as the interminable negotiations continued at a requisitioned villa outside the city walls. He wasn’t surprised when the young cavalry commander drew him aside during a lull in the talks.

‘It is important that Patavium declares for Vespasian, but equally so that we discover the enemy’s strength this side of the Padus,’ Varus said with heavy emphasis.

‘You do not have to be so coy with me, Arrius.’ Valerius met the unsubtle hint with a wry smile. ‘If you want me to take a patrol ahead while you bore the Patavians to death all you have to do is say so.’

‘I just thought that Spanish wolf of yours needed some exercise,’ the prefect grinned. ‘I can let you have two alae, three if you think it necessary. That should be enough to make any opposing force you meet think twice before taking you on. If you make contact, don’t get involved. Withdraw here and we’ll wait for Primus to reinforce us.’

Valerius chose the spearmen of the First Cananefatium, a unit of heavy cavalry from the marshy wastelands of the Germania coast, and the First Hispanorum Aravacorum, recruited from the Arevaci, a warrior people of northern Hispania. These were alae miliariae, nominally a thousand strong, but in reality each cavalry wing could put fewer than eight hundred men in the saddle, so he bolstered his force with a wing of Thracian archers. They rode out in the early afternoon, skirting the mountains west of the city, and two hours later they approached Ateste, a colonia settled by retired veterans of Augustus’s legions fifty years earlier. Valerius reined in and studied the road ahead. He and Serpentius rode at the head of the Cananefates, with the unit’s red-bearded commander, Octavius. Valerius turned to the German. ‘What do you make of that?’

The town was little more than a shimmering blur in the distance, but the twinkle of the sun on metal betrayed what might be a military presence. ‘Could be trouble,’ the German agreed in a Latin thick with the guttural intonation of his native dialect. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’ Even as he spoke a scout galloped up and rattled out a report to his commander.

‘Soldiers,’ Octavius confirmed. ‘Infantry — auxiliaries or militia he thinks, judging by their war gear — but without cavalry support. No more than three centuries,’ he added, pre-empting Valerius’s question, ‘and they’re not in defensive positions. Arminus here says it looks as if they’re drawn up on parade.’

‘Then perhaps we should go and inspect them,’ Valerius suggested thoughtfully. ‘But we’ll send a couple of squadrons ready to flank them just in case they try anything foolish. I’ll take the first turma, you follow with the rest of the column.’

As he and Serpentius rode ahead with the squadron’s thirty-two troopers ranged warily behind them, the Spaniard produced a sour smile. ‘The German swamp rats think you’re an idiot who’s going to get them killed. Maybe I hit you on the head one too many times?’

‘Do you want to live for ever?’ Valerius laughed. ‘If I was baiting a trap, I wouldn’t have three full centuries on parade by the side of the road. I’d have them lounging about looking unprepared and waiting to be slaughtered.’ He gestured to the grape vines in the fields beside the road. ‘You could hide an army in those bushes.’

Valerius felt the tension grow in the men behind them as they approached the town. By now he could clearly see the lines of helmeted men arrayed by the roadside, the points of their pila glistening dangerously in the sunlight. His eyes searched the ground to right and left looking for the threat that could kill him, but saw nothing but vines fluttering in the soft breeze, and beyond, on the slopes of the hill, ranks of dusty green olive trees.

With a hundred paces to go, he allowed his mount to drift back to the unit’s commander. ‘At the first sign of trouble,’ he said softly, ‘we ride straight through them and kill any of the bastards who get in the way. When we’re clear, turn and join one of the flanking squadrons.’ The man grinned with the cavalryman’s time-honoured disdain for foot soldiers. His unit hadn’t had a proper fight for almost a year and he’d as happily slaughter them as not.

But as they approached the silent ranks ahead, the only movement was from a single officer who stepped out briskly into the centre of the roadway and the accompanying ripple along the iron-clad ranks as the men came to attention. Valerius and the auxiliary approached warily and the man in the road slammed his fist into his breastplate in salute.

‘Annius Cluvius Celer, praefectus of the Ateste cohort of evocati,’ he announced. Valerius took a moment to study the man, who must have been in his fifties. Celer had a thick beard flecked with grey and the uniform he wore had been patched and mended. The combination brought to mind Falco, commander of the Colonia militia, which wasn’t surprising, because that’s exactly what these men were: legionary veterans who had been given a land grant to settle here. The evocati were soldiers who had completed their twenty-five years’ service, but had volunteered to be ready for recall if the Empire needed them. Celer, their commander, was of equestrian rank, and his family probably originally came from the area. He would have invited the legionaries he served with to make their homes around the town when they retired. The men on parade looked well, still fit and hard, which told Valerius they weren’t long out of the legions. They looked up for a fight. The only question was, who with? Celer answered that with his next words. ‘The Ateste cohort of evocati declares for Titus Flavius Vespasian.’

Valerius relaxed and turned to the auxiliary officer. ‘Send word to Octavius that Ateste is ours and to bring the men forward. They can water their horses in the stream.’ He dismounted and walked with the prefect along the lines of men. ‘They look impressive.’

‘You mean they look impressive for militia.’ Celer produced a great belly laugh. ‘But don’t be deceived, tribune. Not that long ago these men were the toughest soldiers in the Sixth Ferrata, the toughest legion in the Empire.’ Valerius smiled at the boast. He knew it was no idle one. The Sixth Ferrata had been the rock on which Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo’s Armenian campaigns had been built, and Corbulo never accepted less than the best.

‘You know that the Sixth declared for Vespasian in Judaea?’

Celer nodded. ‘We’d heard that. It was one of the reasons we decided Ateste should support him, but not the only one. In the spring, when we should have been planting our fields, Vitellius’s bandits came this way, burning and looting, and killing anyone who didn’t support their man. Ateste stayed loyal to Otho, the rightful Emperor. We managed to get most of the people from the outlying farms into town and we looked dangerous enough to keep the enemy out.’ He spat. ‘They were only cavalry, after all. But,’ a shadow fell over his eyes, ‘a few of the outlying estates didn’t get word. I lost my son and his family. Many of these men lost people. All we want is the chance to avenge them.’

A muted rumble of agreement emerged from the throats of the men within hearing distance. ‘Shut up, you useless shower,’ Celer snarled. ‘Have you forgotten what it is to be a soldier?’

‘I’ll make sure General Vespasian hears of your loyalty,’ Valerius said.

The other man bowed his thanks. ‘Just give us a chance to fight.’

‘You’ll get your chance,’ Valerius assured him. ‘But first you should stay here and hold the city for Vespasian until the Danuvius legions secure the territory. I’ll leave word suggesting you be incorporated in Third Gallica.’

The Third had been another of Corbulo’s legions until they’d been sent to Moesia. Valerius knew they were the Sixth’s arch-rivals. Celer’s smile broadened. ‘They’ll enjoy showing that useless bunch of raw recruits how a real soldier acts.’

Valerius waited with the prefect while Octavius approached at the head of the main force. ‘Have you heard anything about troop movements in the Padus valley?’

Celer grimaced. ‘I apologize, tribune; it should have been the first thing I reported. Word arrived this morning that soldiers have been seen this side of the Athesis river opposite Forum Alieni.’

‘How far away is Forum Alieni?’ Valerius frowned. ‘Did your informant say how many?’

‘Half a day’s steady riding,’ Celer said. ‘As to numbers, I questioned him thoroughly, but he couldn’t say for certain. He is a civilian, sir, just a travelling hawker. He saw men in armour guarding a bridge, and a few horses. There was no bridge at Forum Alieni a week ago, so they must have built it themselves. That would have taken a sizeable force.’

Valerius called up Octavius and passed on Celer’s information. The big German cavalryman looked thoughtful. ‘If they have constructed a bridge, it would seem they plan a crossing. The prudent thing to do would be to withdraw and link up with General Varus at Patavium.’

‘That’s true,’ Valerius acknowledged. ‘But it would also mean giving up all the ground between the Athesis and Patavium on the word of one man who isn’t certain what he’s seen. It’s possible that the troops at Forum Alieni are only an advance guard sent to prepare the ground for a main force. We’d look like fools if we went back to Varus not knowing whether he was going to be facing four or five cohorts or four or five legions.’

Octavius could see the sense of that. ‘A probe in force then, to gauge the enemy’s numbers.’

Valerius grinned. ‘And if those numbers are in our favour?’

The big German’s yellowing teeth showed through his beard. ‘We slaughter the bastards.’