‘Not enough troops.’
‘General?’
‘We do not have enough men to be certain of defeating either of Vitellius’s armies.’ Paulinus’s granite-chip eyes searched the room seeking dissent. ‘The Praetorian Guard may be the Emperor’s elite, but they are garrison troops and will take time to become campaign-hardened. The men of the First Adiutrix were pulling oars and climbing ropes not four months ago. They may be strong and they may be brave, but they cannot hope to match any of the legions which march against them. I would advise a strategy of manoeuvre, avoiding an all-out confrontation while simultaneously preventing the Vitellian columns from combining. If I can achieve this until the Balkan legions are under my command you will have your victory. But we still need more fighting men.’
‘The urban cohorts?’ Titianus suggested nervously.
Paulinus grunted. He would take them, for all the use they were likely to be. ‘We need fighters.’
‘I have called up every soldier in southern Italia,’ Otho pointed out.
‘Not soldiers. Fighters.’ Paulinus produced a savage smile. ‘Gladiators.’
‘Gladiators?’ Celsus didn’t bother to hide his derision.
‘Yes, gladiators. Within this city you have some of the best-trained fighting men in the Empire. How many in the ludi, one thousand? Two? They are not soldiers, but they are killers and they will fight if you give them something to fight for.’
‘And what would that be?’ Titianus demanded. ‘They are foreigners; slaves, barbarians and criminals. It matters not to them who sits on the throne of Rome, since it is their destiny to die in any case.’
‘Then give them an alternative destiny,’ the former consul insisted. ‘Offer them their lives and their freedom if they fight for the rightful Emperor of Rome.’
‘Unthinkable.’
Paulinus ignored Celsus’s intervention and turned to stare at Otho. ‘If you wish to continue wearing the purple, then I suggest you be prepared to think the unthinkable.’
Otho studied him for a long moment before he nodded. ‘Titianus, make it so. Every gladiator prepared to fight for his Emperor will have his freedom on the day Vitellius is defeated and captured … plus a reward equal to a year’s pay for a legionary.’ He turned to the other two men. ‘Then we are agreed? The advance guard will march at dawn and I will follow with the rest of the force within the next two days. But first …’ Onomastus appeared in the doorway holding the Emperor’s cloak of Imperial purple, ‘I have a welcome duty to perform.’
Juva’s chest swelled as he stood among the massed ranks of the First Adiutrix, an optio of the first century, Fifth cohort, second in command to the centurion. It had been an exhausting few weeks since the fateful day Otho had given the legion its name and its eagle, the training hard and the discipline fierce. Day after day they had marched and counter-marched, learned to form line, column and defensive circle, and eventually to move between the three with the deceptive ease of a true legion. Only then had they been issued with their weapons and their armour. It had been the legion’s wish that they keep the blue tunic that identified their naval origins. The Emperor had gladly agreed, and because of the special circumstances of their formation the First wasn’t expected to pay the usual five denarii cost of the equipment. Over the tunic they now wore the lorica segmentata, the flexible jointed plate armour which protected the shoulders and chest. Thirty-four separate pieces of iron that Juva, like every other man, had discovered were so difficult to keep polished, oiled and clean of rust that it took up every moment of the little free time they had. Each man had been issued with a new pair of caligae, the leather hobnailed sandals that had allowed the legions to march the length and breadth of the Empire. On his dark head, Juva wore the heavy brass helmet that was a legionary’s curse on the march and his saviour in battle. It was one of the most modern types, with a reinforced cross-brace on the brow to stop a direct sword blow, a wide neck protector and detachable cheek-pieces. He’d been fortunate to get one with a good fit that needed a minimal amount of padding. From the belt at his waist hung the scabbard that held his gladius, the twenty-two-inch, triangular-pointed sword that made the legions so deadly. He had spent countless hours perfecting the lightning-swift stabbing technique and the brutal, twisting withdrawal that created the terrible wounds that made it feared. At rest in front of him he held his scutum, the big leather-covered shield that would protect him in battle. Constructed of three layers of oak, close to four feet tall and three wide, it was heavy enough to make even a giant like Juva struggle initially to hold it for any length of time. Yet every man understood it could be the difference between life and death in a fight. None complained when their centurion, a veteran who resented being transferred to ‘a useless shower of sailors’, insisted on hour after hour of shoving matches between units, or individual contests where the men battered each other into bloody, exhausted submission. No pilum for this parade, though the Nubian prided himself on his skill with the heavy, weighted javelin. Four foot of ash, topped with two and a half of iron, tipped with a pyramid-shaped point, and he could throw it further and more accurately than any man in the legion.