Sword of Rome(71)

‘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.’