‘But provisions …?’
‘Each unit has supplies for a three-month campaign. The order of march has been agreed. The men are ready. All it requires is your order.’ Valens produced a new sheet of parchment. ‘And your seal.’
Vitellius toyed with the newly crafted gold ring inscribed with the words Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator that the two generals had presented to him. Caecina had claimed it was the work of a famous Celtic craftsman and had come from Gaul, but he was such a dissembler, who knew? Like all the rest of this, the ring spoke of premeditation, much more so than he had realized. Only now did he understand the full extent of his manipulation. Every element of their plan was another bar to the cage that held him. Could there be a way out? He felt the hard eyes on him. The answer was no. Still he did not accept the parchment. ‘You say two columns? What part will your Emperor play in this?’
‘Naturally, Imperator, yours is the most vital role of all,’ Caecina bowed. ‘We will fight the battles, but it will be here at Colonia Agrippinensis that the war is won. The Lingones and the Treveri have already declared for you and promised materiel and funds, but there is more to do in Gaul. You must draft letters to the tribal leaders and seek their support. We have had word from Lugdunum that Manlius and the First Italica will not oppose us. From Belgica, Asiaticus sends his best wishes and regard, but warns of opposition from his procurator which will require delicate handling. The legions of Britannia will send men to fight for your cause. All they lack is your call. For the moment, your place is here, but when the time comes it is you who will lead us through the gates of Rome.’
Vitellius studied the two faces, the one hard and unyielding, the other with all the adaptability of an actor’s. Could he trust them? It didn’t matter. Their three lives – and possibly deaths – were as entwined as any love knot.
He took the parchment from Valens’ hand, held a finger of scarlet wax to the candle and dripped the molten sealant in the bottom corner and waited a moment for it to harden slightly. With only the slightest hesitation, he applied the signet that would launch his legions against Rome.
XXII
Serpentius looked back as the soft glow of sunrise painted the red-tiled roofs of Rome scarlet and the air above the city was split by smoke from the first cooking fires. ‘Do you think you can convince him?’
Valerius stifled a yawn. They’d been riding in the predawn gloom since the last hour of the fourth watch. The Spaniard’s question was the one he’d been asking himself since his meeting with Otho. ‘I have to try. Perhaps I could convince the Vitellius I knew in Africa. But the Vitellius I knew in Africa would never have risked a civil war to lay his hands on the purple.’
But he remembered the way Vitellius had looked at Julius Caesar’s sword in the tavern beside the Via Salaria. He had wondered even then whether his old friend had his eye on the great prize. But he had thought Vitellius hoped to be named as Galba’s heir; for him to have allowed himself to be hailed as Emperor some other factor must have come into play, something that had either tempted Vitellius beyond common sense or forced his hand.
‘Tell him it is not too late,’ Otho had insisted. ‘Tell him I will give him anything short of the crown. He can name his price. He may govern any province that takes his fancy. I will share the consulship with him. I will pay off his soldiers and his generals. I will do anything to save the Empire from the terror and the bloodshed that rides hand in hand with civil war.’
And Otho had meant what he said, Valerius was certain. The Otho who had given him the details of their mission was a new Otho, earnest and thoughtful, determined to hold what he had won, but desperate to do what was right. In the immediate aftermath of Galba’s death he had allowed the Praetorians to elect their own commanders, but had tightened his grip on the Guard by ensuring those chosen were his supporters. He had called a special meeting of the Senate while the corpses of the coup’s victims still lay festering in the Forum, with the result that no man spoke against him. Galba as Emperor had alienated all but those closest to him. Otho did everything to ensure that none had reason to fear his accession. In Rome, he was in a position of strength, with the support of the people, the Senate and the Praetorian Guard. But the man now reclining in Colonia Agrippinensis had seven full legions, perhaps eight, under his command. For the moment Marcus Salvius Otho had a single one. Until the Balkan legions he had summoned from Moesia, Pannonia and Dalmatia reached Italia, the only forces at his disposal, apart from the Guard and the almost worthless urban cohorts, were the sailors and marines of the new First Adiutrix. Valerius had watched them exercise on the flat ground beyond the city walls and had been impressed by their enthusiasm, but he knew that lack of proper training and the long-ingrained discipline that made a legion a legion would cost them dear in battle.