Sword of Rome (25 page)

Every dispatch he received from Valens and Caecina contained less information than the one before, and the intelligence from his spies had dried up. If only he knew what was happening.

Gaius Fabius Valens, commander of the western arm of Vitellius’s forces, spat to try to rid himself of the taste of roasting flesh that seemed to coat his tongue and infuse the very air he breathed. The stink of freshly shed blood would stay with him much longer. Damn those Batavian
savages. The mounds of burning wood and thatch around him had two hours earlier been the city of Divodurum, capital of the Mediomatrici, a Celtic tribe who had cheerfully prospered under Roman rule for more than a hundred years, but had been momentarily confused as to where their loyalty should lie. Valens had no doubt it could have been negotiated in Vitellius’s favour. What he had not known, and what he should have been informed of, was that a long-standing quarrel between the Mediomatrici and their Batavian neighbours had never been properly resolved. When the chief of the tribe hesitated on being faced with a choice between Otho and Vitellius, the eight Batavian cohorts attached to Valens’ column had swarmed through Divodurum like a pack of hungry wolves. Now the chief’s head was on a spear planted in the city’s main square and his people, men, women and children – four thousand at least – were either roasting in the glowing embers of their homes or lying in bloody pieces on its streets. He felt a clenching in his guts and gave a little grunt of pain. This atrocity could have one of two outcomes. Either the rest of the tribe would take their revenge on the Vitellian column – ambushes and delaying tactics, which would cost him casualties he could not afford and time he could afford even less – or word would spread of the terrible consequences of defying Vitellius, with the effect of hastening his passage.

He decided he would sacrifice to Mars for the second outcome. Until now, the gods had been kind. He had marched from Castra Bonnensis on the Rhenus to Divodurum at the headwaters of the Mosella in five days with the Fifth Alaudae at his back. They’d been followed by almost three thousand men apiece from his own faithful First Germanica, the Fifteenth Primigenia and the Sixteenth legion. For three of those days a large bird had been seen shadowing the column and the cry had gone up that it was an eagle, an omen of the greatest consequence because every man here followed the eagle standard of his legion. Valens thought it more likely to be a carrion bird of some sort searching out the inevitable detritus left by twenty-odd thousand men, but he kept his opinion to himself. He considered the journey that still faced him. From the Mosella they would go south to Cabillonum and from there take ship down the Rhodanus to Lugdunum; a veritable highway of
rivers. If Fortuna smiled there would be no need for another bloodbath like this, but one way or another he had resolved that an example must be made. He looked towards the south gateway of the city, which had somehow survived the incendiary ravages of the Batavians.

‘Septimus!’ His chief of staff saluted and Valens gave his order in a low voice. ‘Choose three ringleaders from each of the Batavian cohorts. I want them tried and condemned and hanged from the gate by noon. We have no more time to waste on this.’

When the tribune had marched off shouting his orders, Valens reflected that he would give the Batavians the honour of leading the column from the city. When they marched through the gateway they would have plenty of time to contemplate the dangling consequences of their victory. Speed, he thought; I must make more speed. I must cross into Italia before that untrustworthy whoreson Caecina emerges from the Alps. And what is Galba doing to oppose us? I would have expected confrontation, or at least to have seen scouting patrols.

He had his answer the next day. An exhausted courier rode up to the headquarters tent on a blown, foam-flecked horse. It took him three attempts before he could deliver his message in a voice made breathless by the enormity of it.

‘The usurper Servius Sulpicius Galba is dead. Marcus Salvius Otho has been declared Emperor.’

The news hit Valens like a hammer blow. Had it all been for nothing? Just for a moment his mind was overwhelmed by dread, before the fear subsided and he could see clearly again. No, there was hope yet. The tortoise had been replaced not by the hare, but by the rabbit.

Speed. He needed more speed.

Aulus Caecina Alienus stared out over the battlefield. It was not meant to be like this. He had ridden ahead to brief the commander of the elite Legio XXI Rapax, which would form the core of his army, on his duties. Instead, he had discovered that the legionaries of the Rapax had already started a war. At first he had experienced near panic at this loss of control before the campaign had even started, but gradually he
rediscovered calm. Caecina was a reluctant rebel, driven to insurrection by his fear of the deranged Valens, and the unfortunate discovery by Servius Sulpicius Galba of his borrowings from the treasury of Baetica. He had been brought up to believe that it was a Roman patrician’s duty to use the blood and sweat of his province to become a rich man. How was he to know that this only applied to governors and proconsuls, not a lowly
quaestor
made drunk by the fumes of his own power and led astray by hands as venal as his own? Galba it was who had raised him to the heady heights of legionary legate at the unheard-of age of twenty-nine. Galba it was who had been about to strip him of his command, bring him before the courts and destroy him. Now he had gambled his career and his life on a fat man who thought a hero’s sword made him a great general and whose only merit in Caecina’s eyes was the gullibility that made him so pliable. A curse on Emperors and may Jupiter’s arse rain down bolts of lightning on the head of Servius Sulpicius Galba.

‘Send in the First and Second cohorts.’ The trumpeter winced at the savagery in his commander’s voice and put the curved brass horn to his lips. Caecina allowed himself a grim smile. Let the bastards fear him. The stupidity of the First and Second cohorts had begun this; they could finish it. Rather than wait for the supplies from Moguntiacum, they had demanded provisions and gold from the peaceable Helvetii. With their shamans telling them the worst of the winter was still to come, the tribe who had defied Caesar a century earlier refused, and kidnapped a supply column as hostages. A village burned in retaliation. A patrol was butchered. And now the might of the Helvetii stood on the far side of the river, cornered after a fortnight of bloody hide and seek along the Aarus valley. In truth they were a sorry sight in their furs and their rags, defeated before the battle had even begun. But he could not leave a potential enemy in his rear to ambush or delay the men of the Fourth Macedonica and the Twenty-second Primigenia who followed.

‘No prisoners,’ he ordered. ‘And no old men. Take the women and children as slaves.’

A pity. He was not a cruel man, not like Valens, but a lesson must be taught.

He could have led them, proving to himself as much as his men that
he was capable of being a soldier. But he told himself a commander’s job was to direct, not to place his person at risk. He watched as the unbroken lines of the First cohort waded through the shallows to the far bank, heard the growl as the tribesmen tried to mask their fear with sound and fury. The first spears flew and fell short, thrown too soon by panicking youngsters. They had chosen their position well, so he could not use his cavalry to outflank them, but also badly, because they had left themselves nowhere to retreat. A faint command and a ripple along the Roman line. A momentary shadow in the sky, followed by the first screams as the heavy, weighted
pila
plunged into the packed ranks of the Helvetii warriors. He saw the glitter as more than a thousand swords were unsheathed and imagined fists tightening on the grips of the big curved shields with the boar insignia, bull-muscled shoulders hunching behind them; the muttered curses and whispered prayers. He urged his mount into the middle of the stream, feeling the instant chill as the freezing waters reached his feet and lower legs, staying just out of arrow range. He was close enough to hear the grunts now, as the legionaries punched the triangular-pointed
gladii
into the men in front of them. The slaughter had begun.

An hour later it was over and he stood outside his command tent listening to the sound of wailing widows and orphans waiting to be placed in chains and the splashes as the dead and the dying were stripped of clothing and weapons and thrown into the river. They would drift downstream to the great lake where their bloated, rotting presence would be a warning to anyone who stood in the way of Aulus Caecina Alienus and his legions.

‘A courier, lord Alienus.’ An aide drew his attention to a dust-caked cavalryman in a wolfskin cloak. ‘From the south.’ The man blurted out his story, and the aide led him away for refreshment.

Galba was dead. Caecina felt a molten surge of exultation. Galba was dead. Without the old fool there would be no prosecution and no shame. He was free. But a moment’s reflection allowed the burning to cool. What did it really change? His flattery had bounced off Otho like water off a goose. Otho despised him. He was still trapped. More important, would Vitellius stay firm? There was only one answer to
that. The bars that held the fat man in his gilded cage were stronger than those imprisoning Aulus Caecina Alienus. So it would continue. Only the name of the enemy was different.

The courier had brought other important news. It appeared the cavalry of the Ala Siliana were holding the Padus valley for Vitellius and harrying any of Otho’s forces they could find. It meant the road to Italia was clear and opposition weak.

He saw it in a flash as blinding as a sword blade in the sunlight. If he could reach Italia before Valens the glory would be his. He would wipe Otho’s loyalists away and open the road to Rome. The fat man needed an heir. Caecina had planned to use charm to ensure that he was chosen. With a solo victory, the succession was guaranteed. He saw himself in the purple with a crown of golden laurel leaves twisted in his hair.

Was there anything he could do to ensure success? He tried to think like a commander, like a great general. Corbulo perhaps. What would Corbulo do? He would create a diversion to make victory all the more certain. Yes, he would draw the opposition away from his line of march.

He called his cavalry commander. ‘Send the Ala Gallorum Indiana into the eastern passes. They are to carry out diversionary attacks on any forts and harry any patrols. Do not risk casualties, but ensure their presence is known.’

The tribune repeated his orders and rode back to send five hundred Celtic cavalrymen towards Curia, Bilitio and Novum Comun – and an unwitting Gaius Valerius Verrens.

‘He says we cross here.’

The road turned east after Bilitio and continued on through the high passes to Curia, from where a man could find his way to the Danuvius and distant Noricum and Pannonia. Valtir had reined in beside a ford where the river tumbled melt-green and foaming, knee deep, over the rocks. Beyond the ford a valley with a faint track at its centre cut through the otherwise unbroken wall of mountains to the north-west. Valerius studied the narrow opening in the iron half-light of the predawn. They had discussed this during the night. The traditional route was the safer and more reliable option. With half the normal levels of winter snow even the highest passes would be crossable. It was a well-travelled path and if they lost their way they would be able to find some outpost or village to set them back on the road. If it had not been for the unrest among the mountain tribes, Valerius would not even have considered the second option. The other road meant they would be entirely dependent on Valtir and entirely lost without him. With a nod and a prayer to Jupiter, controller of wind, snow and storm, Valerius urged his mount into the river.

At first the valley was relatively broad, making the going easy, but soon it narrowed and divided into two at a place where they passed a small settlement. Valtir didn’t even acknowledge the right-hand
path, which appeared the more inviting, but carried on unerringly. Now the valley walls closed in and the mountains seemed to grow higher with every step. Snow capped the peaks and it began to fall in silken nuggets from leaden clouds that seemed to touch the mountain tops. Valtir led, followed by Valerius, Dasius and the four Thracian troopers, with Serpentius, ever alert, in the rear. One of the Thracians, Laslav, who couldn’t be more than seventeen, whooped and reached out to catch as many of the gently falling flakes as he could and cram them into his mouth before they melted. Soon, though, what had been a pretty diversion was transformed into a threat as a white curtain dropped between the riders and the world around them. Valerius darted a glance at Valtir, but the Celt barely seemed to notice the change. If a track existed, only he could see it, and they followed carefully in the hoofprints of his little pony. Eventually, he turned off the road and led them through a clump of scrub to a low shelter carved from the hillside by some long-dead optimist hoping to find gold, tin or lead. They tethered the horses close to the cave mouth, made a small fire and spread their bedding on the cold, hard rock. After a long day in the saddle Valerius slept the sleep of the dead.

He woke shivering, to be confronted by a world of black and white. Valtir stood at the entrance of the cave, silhouetted against the ankle-deep snow that blanketed everything outside. Valerius knew the mountain man would be evaluating the conditions, and everything depended on his decision. Dasius had spoken to the little Celt before they bedded down and he had warned of hard climbing ahead. The Roman suppressed a shiver at the thought of the jagged peaks that had formed an honour guard for their progress and imagined what the words ‘hard climbing’ would entail. ‘Dasius? Ask him if this changes anything.’

The Thracian dragged himself away from the tiny fire and joined the slight figure at the cave mouth for a whispered conversation. When he returned Valtir remained in the entrance as if his presence alone was keeping an enemy at bay.