Sword of Rome(54)

Otho smiled. ‘Good advice, and I’ll take most of it. Laco, Vinius …’ He read something in Valerius’s eyes and a pained expression crossed his face as he realized his prospective father-in-law was dead. ‘No, not Vinius then, but Laco is sitting in the carcer waiting for the strangling rope. He can be packed off to some dusty little island where he can be fat and idle for the rest of his days. Piso, though? That would be a sign of weakness. As Galba’s heir he probably thinks it’s his turn to be the Emperor, and we can’t have two Emperors, can we? He’s hiding out somewhere, but they will hunt him down soon enough and by nightfall he will be reacquainted with his adoptive father here.’ An aide entered with a document. Otho read it quickly and signed with an assured hand. When he looked up his eyes had turned serious. ‘I may have work for you, Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome, but first I require something from you.’

‘You hold my life in your hands. What more can you want?’

‘This is something that must be given freely. Your oath.’

For a moment the air seemed to be sucked from the room. In his mind, Valerius counted the days since he had made his sacred pledge to another man. But that man was dead and his head lay between them on the table, the pale features already dulled to a soft grey by the first signs of corruption. He brought his right hand with the wooden fist across his chest in salute and tried to ignore Galba’s accusing stare as the words emerged from between cracked lips.

‘In fulfilment of my vow I gladly pledge my loyalty to Marcus Salvius Otho Caesar Augustus, Emperor of Rome.’

Otho nodded gravely. ‘What should I do about Germania?’

Again, the question caught Valerius off balance. ‘The legions of Germania Superior mutinied against Galba, not the Empire. They have no grievance against you. When they find out he’s dead they will take the oath.’

The Emperor shook his head. ‘No, you misunderstand the situation. Galba was not entirely honest with you. While he has been showing off his new son, things have changed for the worse. That is why you are here and why you still have your head.’ In the silence the manicured nail of Otho’s forefinger nervously flicked the rim of the glass cup he held in his right hand. ‘You see, Valerius, the Rhenus legions have declared Aulus Vitellius Emperor and they are preparing to march on Rome.’





XXI


Colonia


In the comfort of his personal quarters in the governor’s palace in Colonia Agrippinensis, Aulus Vitellius reflected on the dilemma he faced and the opportunities his position offered. How could it have happened? In all honesty, he had no idea. One moment he had been enjoying the unlikely pleasures of this city, the next he had been confronted with their grim faces and their ultimatums. Perhaps he had been too gentle with Flaccus. Perhaps he should have done more to placate the legions of Germania Superior. But Valens had been so certain. And now? Now he understood that Valens was not quite the simple soldier he had believed. Valens had been clever, and he had not. Valens had tricked him.

When word came that the Twenty-second Primigenia and the Fourth Macedonica had refused to take the oath to the new Emperor and taken the governor into custody, Valens had persuaded him that the only course of action was to march on Moguntiacum with as much strength as he could muster. When they saw the forces against them and the situation was explained at spear point, the legionaries would see sense. They had made their grievances known. If Galba was clever, he would accede to a few of their demands and quietly see that the ringleaders eventually ate the wrong kind of mushroom.

Vitellius had pondered the question overnight and concluded his general was probably right. He had ordered the four legions under his command to provide six cohorts each and such auxiliaries as they could spare – in all, the equivalent of three full legions – and given Valens command. But Valens insisted that the expedition would only have the Emperor’s authority if the Emperor’s representative led it.

That was how he had ended up shivering on the flat plain west of Moguntiacum as he reviewed a parade of twenty-five thousand legionaries, with the eagle standards of the former mutineers from Twenty-second Primigenia and Fourth Macedonica arrayed to his right, and the men of First Germanica, Fifth Alaudae, Fifteenth Primigenia and Sixteenth Gallica to his left. Twenty-five thousand. The equivalent of five full legions, the finest fighting troops in the Empire, and that took no account of the cohorts of auxiliaries who would march with them. His heart had swelled at the sight of that vast swath of scarlet and silver, the polished iron of their armour glittering bright in the low winter sun. It was odd that Flaccus had not joined him, but perhaps not so odd. The governor of Germania Superior was not the man he had been a few months earlier. The creature freed from the guardroom had been broken in spirit and mind. Valens was proved right, the mutinous legions came to heel, and Caecina Alienus, the personable young man Galba had appointed as legate of Fourth Macedonica, had been most cooperative, given the cloud hanging over his career.