The Art of War

Chapter 59

Rome, 18–19 December AD 69

Geminus

Sleep was hard to come by that night. I lay in the dark on a thin mattress laid across the doorway of Vitellius’ small, stateless bedroom and counted again the number of men I had at my disposal, their dispositions, their morale.

The blockade of the hill was for show only, but Rome itself was effectively under military rule: my rule. Every road coming in had at least a half-century of men holding it secure, with trumpet signals arranged to call more at need and roaming units making sure the plebeians of the city were loudly on Vitellius’ side, and that the roads were kept clear where we needed them to be and blocked everywhere else.

Antonius Primus and his men were coming closer. I had no idea how fast or in what numbers, but besieging Vespasian’s brother had been an extravagant mistake that was only ever likely to bring him to us faster and in greater fury. I had known that since I had heard of it, but if the fates had dealt me a poor hand, it didn’t mean I had to play it badly. As far as I was concerned, as long as Lucius returned soon from Tarracina with his cohorts largely intact, we would be able to repulse the coming assault, and perhaps break Antonius Primus for ever.

Looking to the longer term, I had already sent men to Gaul, to Iberia, to Britain, where there were legions that would support our cause, asking for their aid, but in the short term all we had to do was hold out until Lucius came back.

All this I turned over in the half-sleep before waking. Dawn bled into the half-empty palace, building mountains of the shadows, filling them with enemy faces. I saw Pantera, Trabo, Vespasian, Sabinus, Lucius, the emperor’s dead mother. This last was by far the most frightening. The old harpy had died by her own hand the night before; the emperor had not wept at her death, but he had not been the same since.

The emperor was still asleep: I could hear the melodic snores that marked his peace.

In the half-dark, I rose, stepped past Drusus’ sleeping bulk and went to empty myself in the latrines. A sleepy slave stood in attendance, holding the sponge on a stick for me to wipe myself clean when at length I was done. I crossed the corridor to the baths and washed, quickly.

My clothes were ready folded as I stepped out of the hot pool. In the kitchens, the cooks had stoked the ovens and already the scents of honeyed wine and early baking filtered through the palace. Filching an anchovy-flavoured pastry on the way past I decided I could become used to living with this kind of luxury.

My footsteps echoed down the halls, announcing my presence to whoever chose to listen; there was no secrecy here. I reached the throne room and was surprised to find Vitellius there ahead of me. He had never been an early riser.

He was still dressed in his ash-strewn toga from the day before. Someone needed to tell him to change, that he was not about to have his throne removed and could dress normally, but I was not yet that man.

In any case, he was grey with fatigue and lack of sleep, and he had news, it was written on his face.

‘Sabinus sent a centurion. He was here, at the palace.’

‘What? Who?’ I had been in the baths for less than the time it took to finish a jug of wine and a man had been and gone?

‘Cornelius Martialis.’

The name was familiar. He was a primus pilus in Juvens’ legion, as far as I remembered. It was not a surprise that these men were beginning to congregate around Sabinus; depressing, but not surprising.

‘What did he want?’

‘That I honour my word and abdicate. What else?’

My throat had gone dry. ‘Is he dead, this centurion? Did Drusus kill him?’

‘No. We are civilized still. But he has left. I sent him out by the back route, so that the Guards might not kill him for his part in a concept they loathe.’

Vitellius had a dry, cool sense of humour, but once in a while it sparked, softly, like a pearl seen on the seabed. ‘I instructed him to take back to Sabinus my deepest regrets, and the news that I am no longer in control of the Guard. He left swiftly, as you might imagine. Which is just as well.’ Vitellius fell sombre again. ‘Because Antonius’ forces have attacked in the northeast of the city.’

‘ What? ’

‘Petilius Cerialis is attacking in the northeast with a thousand cavalry. They’ve come in just to the north of the barracks.’

‘Hades. I need to go-’

‘Juvens has gone already. He said to tell you that he can hold the route without difficulty. His men know every house, every alleyway, every small manor of the suburbs while Cerialis’ forces are from the Danube and may as well be attacking Parthia as Rome for all they know of it. They’re bogged down, confused, and half of them were loyal to us until ten days ago when he defeated them; these ones are not fighting hard. Juvens thinks this is a feint and Antonius Primus may stage a main assault up the Flaminian Way. He says if you go anywhere, go there.’

At least there was something concrete to be done. I looked around the throne room. Drusus was a solid, silent presence standing just inside the door. ‘Don’t let anyone in except me or Juvens. Not slaves, not the cook-’

‘No.’ Vitellius stepped into my path. ‘Don’t go. Juvens can manage this one small incursion. We need you here, to organize the defences. You’re a commander now. You don’t need to be in the front line.’

He couldn’t have ordered me; we both knew where lay the balance of power, but he was my emperor, and, more important, he was right.

To Drusus, I said, ‘Make sure any messages are brought straight to me. And send water to mix with the wine. We need clear heads.’

I sat on the emperor’s couch and tried to picture the entirety of Rome, and what forces we could muster to defend her.

And so the day started.