Emperor of Rome Read online

  Vitellius turned his eyes to Sabinus as Paulinus looked at him, willing him to agree. ‘Well, consul? Did he?’

  Deciding that it would be better to have a live Paulinus and Proculus in his debt than dead ones owing him nothing, Sabinus nodded. ‘Yes, Princeps, he did. I thought it strange at the time but he was insistent upon it; I now understand why. His heart was with you; as was mine, for I didn’t argue.’

  Vitellius grunted, thinking things over. ‘Very well, Paulinus and Proculus. I believe your protestations of treachery and clear you of all suspicion of loyalty. You shall take me on a tour of the battlefield and show me just how this treason took place.’

  It was a field of corruption; stench hung heavy in the air. In the forty days since the battle nothing had been done about the dead; Othonian and Vitellian decomposed together in the mangled heaps. Carrion-feeders had gorged themselves, stripping the corpses of man and beast alike, but now the remaining flesh was fit only for the maggots that writhed in their millions, in and out of cadavers, growing fat before metamorphosing to produce the swarms of flies whose endless buzzing was impossible to ignore.

  Sabinus hid his rage at the sight of so many citizens left untended in death, doomed to roam dark paths that did not lead to the Ferryman. Seeing a pile of bodies, little more than skeletal, against the wall of a hut where they had been cornered and butchered, he swore to himself that, should his family one day be in the position to do so, they would take vengeance on Cremona whose citizens had lined the road to cheer Vitellius. No doubt they had stripped the dead of anything of value, indeed there was hardly even a helmet to be seen, but then they had been derelict in their duty to care for the bodies they had robbed.

  Vitellius never once took his eyes from the piles of corpses as Valens and Caecina guided him across the field with Paulinus and Proculus in attendance as if it were a tour of a newly laid-out garden.

  ‘It was here, Princeps, that the First Italica retrieved the Eagle that the First Adiutrix had managed to capture in their enthusiasm to prove themselves in their maiden battle,’ Valens informed the Emperor as they approached the sector of the field that had been Sabinus’.

  Vitellius surveyed the twisted bodies of the former marines who had been formed into a legion by Galba and had fought and died for Otho. With ostentation he sniffed the air. ‘One thing smells better than a dead enemy and that is a dead fellow citizen.’

  Tense, sycophantic laughter greeted this crass remark but even Valens and Caecina, Vitellius’ most ardent supporters, could not completely conceal their unease. Noticing a shared look between them, Sabinus sensed their horrified realisation that Vitellius had no deference for these brave fellow citizens who had captured an Eagle only to lose it in a counter-attack. Vitellius had just lost all respect.

  It was the moment his father had ordered him to watch for. ‘Princeps,’ he said, stepping from the crowd following the Emperor.

  Vitellius turned, still chuckling at his weak and tasteless joke. ‘What is it, consul?’

  ‘Now that we have surveyed the scene of your triumph, I feel that it is time for me to return to Rome and prepare the city for your welcome.’

  Vitellius’ huge frame swelled even more at the thought of his Triumphal entry into Rome. ‘Yes, yes, so you should, my dear Sabinus; and I look forward to seeing your father and thanking him for securing the city for me. We are old friends, you know; we go back a long way. But don’t you want to show me the section of the field where your command lost the battle for Otho first?’

  ‘I think it would be only right for Paulinus and Proculus to have the honour of showing you the gladiator dead; I take no joy in stealing other men’s plaudits.’ He glanced across to the losing generals and, by their countenances, understood that they fully acknowledged the debt they owed him. As Vitellius dismissed him back to Rome, Sabinus knew that he had made two important recruits for his family’s cause.

  It was the same enthusiasm with which they had acclaimed the previous two Emperors that the people of Rome welcomed Vitellius: as if he were the answer to their prayers, the Emperor they had always desired. Ten, twelve deep, and waving their racing faction colours, they lined the streets as Vitellius, mounted upon a straining horse, his unmartial frame incongruously clad in a general’s uniform, led his legions onto the Campus Martius two days after the ides of July, two months after the younger Sabinus had taken his leave of him.

  ‘He’s not going to lead his troops right into the city, is he, Father?’ the younger Sabinus asked as they stood, with the Senate, outside the Theatre of Pompey waiting to welcome the victorious Emperor with the sacrifice of two white bulls.

  ‘Why not? Galba did and billeted them here.’

  ‘But they caused carnage: fights, rapes, murders; they thought they could get away with anything.’

  ‘They did. But don’t forget: Vitellius wasn’t here to witness that; Galba sent him to govern Germania Inferior before he arrived in Rome so he doesn’t know what a burden billeted troops are on the citizenry. Even if he did, I doubt he would care enough to do anything different.’ The elder Sabinus took on an overly solemn expression. ‘It’s a shame, it really is.’

  His son understood. ‘And I’m sure that as the prefect of the city you’re not going to do anything to alert him to the dangers of upsetting the people by allowing their daughters to be gang-raped by ill-disciplined legionaries.’

  ‘It is not my business to tell the Emperor what he should or shouldn’t do.’

  The younger Sabinus suppressed a smile. As he and the rest of the Senate began applauding Vitellius who was drawing close at the head of his martial column that would bring misery to his subjects, he reflected on the dangerous game that he and his father would be forced to play over the next few months: living in the city with an emperor that they were seeking to undermine.

  As the thought went through his head a man caught his eye, working his way amongst the senators towards him; he knew the man well for he was his uncle Vespasian’s freedman, Hormus. He signalled Hormus to wait where he was until the end of the ceremony. With a nod, Hormus moved back into a doorway.

  ‘Well, Hormus,’ the elder Sabinus asked as they greeted the freedman once the prayers and sacrifices were complete.

  Hormus grasped both their forearms in turn. ‘It’s happened, masters: Julius Alexander, prefect of Egypt, had his two legions proclaim Vespasian emperor on the calends of this month, seventeen days ago; Vespasian’s legions did the same in Caesarea, two days later, as soon as they heard. My master sent me straight here to bring you the news and ask you to prepare the city for his army. Mucianus, Governor of Syria, and Cerialis, Vespasian’s son-in-law, are marching overland to Italia, hoping to pick up the disaffected Moesian legions on the way.’

  ‘Mucianus and Cerialis!’ the elder Sabinus exclaimed. ‘Why them? Why not Vespasian at the head of his army?’

  ‘He plans to take Rome without a war by using the threat of one in conjunction with a greater menace. He’s gone to Egypt to take control of the grain supply there and, also, if he can, in Africa. He’ll threaten to starve Vitellius out; only if he refuses to go will he revert to war.’

  Sabinus looked at his son. ‘Let’s hope that my fair treatment of Vitellius’ family will stand us in good stead; it looks as if we may be hostages for some time.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we just leave and go to Vespasian?’

  ‘I’m more use to him here.’

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘When the time comes, I’ll take Rome and hold it until Vespasian’s army arrives.’

  ‘What do you mean: the people wouldn’t let him abdicate?’ The elder Sabinus slammed the palms of both hands down onto his study desk.

  The younger Sabinus gestured helplessly. ‘Just what I say: the senior consul refused to take the knife he offered in token of giving up his power; then the mob blocked him from going to the Temple of Concordia to deposit his Triumphal Regalia and, instead, forced him to return to the Palatine
where he remains. He’s technically still emperor, although he would rather take that private villa in Campania and the guarantee of a peaceful retirement that you offered him in Vespasian’s name.’

  Another double-handed palm slam. ‘The weak-willed, fat glutton! Medusa’s dry dugs, he’s been pressured by rabble who know nothing of politics or what’s best for them. I know the Saturnalia started yesterday but spare us from the poor playing “king for the day”.’

  ‘It’s not just the Head Count; it’s his friends and the remnants of the Praetorian Guard. They claim that what you offered Vitellius in the Temple of Apollo was a bluff. They think that you and Vespasian won’t keep your word; they don’t see how you can let Vitellius and his son live, and, frankly, I don’t blame them.’

  ‘Just over a month ago his army was defeated and three days ago the remnants surrendered and Valens was executed! I’ve more troops with the three Urban Cohorts under my command than he does – not forgetting the Vigiles. What harm can he possibly do?’

  ‘He can be a focus for dissent,’ the third person in the room said, stepping away from the scroll-case against which he had been leaning. ‘They’re right not to trust the offer; I’ll have him killed along with the brat as soon as I can.’

  ‘You’re not going to be the Emperor, Domitian,’ the elder Sabinus snapped.

  ‘Not in name; but I will be the Emperor’s son. With my father in Egypt and my brother in Judaea, I would say that gives me a great deal of authority.’

  ‘You’re eighteen! You have as much authority as a whore-boy with a cock in either end. Now shut up and listen; perhaps you may learn something.’ Sabinus turned back to his son. ‘What about the Germans?’

  The younger Sabinus grimaced. ‘That’s a bit of a problem, Father: the Germanic Imperial Bodyguard is also remaining loyal to Vitellius.’

  ‘That’s still only five hundred men. I’ll send to Vitellius once more, saying that if he doesn’t accept the offer he really is a dead man and he’ll die having seen his boy’s throat cut in front of him. Let him take that chance if he wants but he’d be a fool, whatever Domitian—’ A knock on the door interrupted him. ‘Yes!’

  Hormus stuck his head around the corner. ‘There’s a delegation to see you; they’re waiting in the street.’

  ‘Tell them to come in and wait in the atrium!’

  Hormus winced at the unexpected ferocity of the reply. ‘I would do, sir, but they wouldn’t all fit in.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do, Nerva?’ Sabinus asked the head of the delegation as he took in the magnitude of the crowd waiting for him outside; over a hundred senators, thrice as many equites and the best part of the Urban Cohorts and the Vigiles, all crying out for Sabinus to lead them. ‘Lead you where?’

  ‘The Palatine; we have to force Vitellius out.’

  ‘He’s right,’ the young Sabinus agreed, ‘the longer we wait the more polarised the city will become and the more lives lost. Back in July, you said you would take the city for Vespasian when the time comes. Well, it’s now December and that time has come.’ He indicated to the armed troops of the Urban Cohorts and the club-wielding Vigiles of Rome’s night-watch. ‘And there’s your army.’

  ‘I don’t want to be the one who brings violence to Rome, as it would be said that Vespasian came to power on a tide of blood.’

  Domitian stamped his foot. ‘It doesn’t matter what people say; the important thing is to secure my father as emperor. Vitellius must die along with anyone who hinders that objective.’

  ‘Hold your tongue, whelp!’ The older Sabinus did not even look at his nephew. ‘Vitellius is not going to die if he goes peacefully.’ His eyes hardened into resolution. ‘Right! We go, but no one’s to offer violence unless provoked; understood?’

  It was a single javelin that commenced hostilities; slamming through the head of the Urban Cohort centurion marching in front of the elder Sabinus, it lodged in the shoulder of the standard-bearer next to him. The standard toppled as its bearer staggered with the impact and was then dragged down by the dead weight of the man with whom he was coupled.

  And then, as they approached the Fundane Pool towards the lower Quirinal, came the volley; scores upon scores of javelins rained down from the rooftops and upper-storey windows on either side of the street, in a well-set ambush. The younger Sabinus looked up and around him but could see only civilians on the roofs or in the windows, no one in uniform, as tiles and bricks began to pitch down in lieu of javelins. All about him his father’s small army scattered for cover, those without shields taking shelter, if possible, with Urban Cohort troops as the improvised missiles continued to cause injury and death. Bodies paved the road and shrieks echoed off the walls, but these were suddenly drowned by a savage cry that rose like thunder rumbling in from a distance. And then they hit; hundreds of bearded, betrousered and chainmailed warriors with long, hexagonal shields, legionary helmets and the slashing spathae swords favoured by tribesmen in Rome’s service over the shorter gladius. The Germanic Imperial Bodyguard thundered out of a dozen side streets, striking the column at multiple points with the force of forked lightning, irresistible and shocking. Down went those nearest to the strikes whilst others struggled to flee, as the hail of improvised missiles intensified; Germanic war cries filled the senses of all as the killing began in earnest.

  ‘Come, Father!’ the younger Sabinus shouted, pulling his father’s toga. ‘I’d say that we’ve just been provoked.’

  The elder Sabinus raced forward, holding his arms over his head against the deadly rain. ‘Keep going!’ he shouted as he ran. ‘We’ll take the Capitoline and hold out there until help comes. Keep going!’

  A chill rain had fallen with the night but that did not deter people from making their way to the Capitoline: senators, equites and common people joined Sabinus and his small, much-weakened army holding out on Rome’s sacred hill. Even some women came to endure the siege, which, due to the conditions, was not yet impenetrable.

  ‘Arulenus Rusticus, my so-called husband, is hiding under the bed,’ Verulana Gratilla informed the elder Sabinus, as she pulled back the lank strands of hair from her face. ‘There are many who’d say that my place is with him. But I think: let them say what they will. I’ll fight for an emperor whom I can respect; not a sluggard whom I despise.’ Her dark eyes fixed Sabinus, daring him to send her back to the husband under the bed.

  ‘You can throw a javelin or a stone as well as anyone, Gratilla,’ Sabinus said, trying not to look at the way the wet stola clung to full and inviting breasts. ‘I’ll treat you no differently.’ Admiring the contours of her posterior as she walked away, he knew that was not the truth. He turned to his son to clear his mind of the possibilities the well-formed buttocks had conjured. ‘Still no sign of Domitian?’

  ‘No, Father; he was last seen dragging a shield from a wounded Urban Cohort man and then running away.’

  ‘The little shit never did show any spunk; he’ll turn up, once it’s safe, with tales of personal glory.’

  ‘Two of them,’ Domitian asserted, ‘both with slashed throats.’ He grinned at his cousin, showing the blood on his hand as proof.

  The younger Sabinus knew better than to believe anything his cousin claimed but never to show his incredulity. ‘You did well to get back; where were you since the ambush?’

  Domitian frowned as if the question was beyond stupid. ‘Getting supporters to join us, of course. Whilst you’ve been hiding safely up here, I’ve been around the city in disguise, urging people to support our cause.’

  Hiding until night fell and it was safe to make a dash for the Capitoline, Sabinus thought as he clapped his cousin on the shoulder. ‘Did you get a look at how many are down in the Forum?’

  ‘Hundreds; all the Germanic Bodyguard and a good deal of the Praetorian Guard.’

  Unless they had arrived undercover of night, Sabinus knew this to be a gross exaggeration. ‘And what about behind us, on the Campus Martius?’

  Domitian shrugg
ed. ‘I didn’t come in that way.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope that there are fewer than in the Forum and that our messenger got through. With luck, Vespasian’s army could be here in two days; his cavalry could even be here tomorrow evening. We can hold out until then.’

  Domitian sensed Sabinus’ unease. ‘Will they attack?’

  ‘Who knows? My father’s sending Centurion Martialis to Vitellius at first light to complain about him breaking his agreement to abdicate. If he still refuses then I think … well, I think if they do attack, it won’t be just a matter of a few lives being lost.’

  *

  ‘He says that he’s too unassuming to cope with the overpowering impatience of his supporters,’ Cornelius Martialis, the primus pilus centurion of the Second Urban Cohort, reported in a clipped tone.

  The elder Sabinus widened his eyes in astonishment. ‘Unassuming? The fat slob is one of the least unassuming men I know. If he thinks he has a chance of remaining as emperor with just the support of his bodyguard, a couple of Praetorian Cohorts and the rabble then he’s seriously mistaken. Vespasian’s army will be here within a couple of days.’

  ‘If the messenger got through,’ the younger Sabinus pointed out.

  ‘Of course one got through; I sent a dozen.’ The elder Sabinus turned back to Martialis. ‘Did you point out that we agreed he should abdicate, and that if he goes back on that then he’ll most certainly die along with his son and brother?’

  ‘I did, prefect; and he seemed to be more interested in his breakfast than the danger he was putting himself in. He said it’s out of his hands and then bade me leave by a secret passage in case his supporters decided to kill me because I’m an ambassador for peace.’

  ‘It sounds as if he’s emperor solely in name and has completely lost control,’ the younger Sabinus said, looking out over the Forum Romanum to the far end where a body of troops was congregating near the Temple of Vesta. ‘And here come the worst sort of soldiers: leaderless ones.’