By Terikel Grayhair






"Damn!" muttered Marcus Rutilius as he gazed out over the valley below.

Three nights ago, two Roman armies slaughtered each other down there in a bloodfeud. He had withdrawn deeper into the hills the afternoon after that great carnage to avoid the victorious and rampaging Flavian legions, but now he had returned to his previous encampment to see if they had departed. They hadn't. They were still pillaging what was left of the town of Cremona with a passion, or at least trying to. There was not much left to pillage- only a temple that was luckily outside the town walls remained whole- the rest of the town was burned to the ground, still seeping smoke even after four days.

The Flavian army had buried its dead in proper Roman fashion. But the dead of the Vitellian legions were simply heaped aside as a token of scorn to the legions of Gaius Licinius Mucianus when they finally arrive: do something useful- like cleaning up the mess, since you were far too late to help us make it. The token had a second effect- it would slow the Easterners down even more, ensuring the legions under Marcus Antonius Primus would reach the rich City of Rome first. Let the slow Easterners wield the spade- the victorious legions under Primus were out to rape a much bigger prize than just Cremona.

Rutilius instantly developed a strong dislike for the Flavian commander. Cremona was a Roman town, by the gods, and should not be subject to being sacked by Roman soldiers. In his mind, it was very clear- either the Flavian commander ordered the sacking, or allowed it to happen, or was powerless to stop it. No matter which was true, the man was proving himself a horrible commander, despite the brilliant victory he earned as a battle leader a few days before.

That deduction decided the next move. The Flavian victory finished Vitellius as a means to complete his quest, and the sacking of Cremona finished Marcus Antonius Primus as the one to whom he would make his plea. That left only Gaius Mucianus, rumored to be close by. So it was to Mucianus he was going, but not dressed as a Roman tribune- that would either get him killed by the Flavians as a deserter from the legions of Vitellius, impressed into the depleted ranks of Flavian legions, or sent East under guard to join the legionaries who had surrendered after the fall of their camp just outside Cremona. None of those promised a way to make his plea. So he would go as a German- a guise he was familiar with and one for whom he had been mistaken for many a time.

* * * * * * *

Mucianus was easy find, but hard to approach. He was a third of the way back in a long column of battle-hardened legionaries moving towards Cremona, a day’s ride away. Surrounding him was his corps of couriers- who doubled as bodyguards- and cast disparaging glances at a lone German passing the column. Rutilius felt that distrust as a physical force, and soon veered away from the road to allow the Flaviani to proceed unhindered.

That night he paid Mucianus a visit.


* * * * * * *

“Your security detail sucks, dominus,” he whispered, laying a bared dagger across the throat of the sleeping general. “Good for looking mean; horrible at actual protection. Had I intended to slay you, the deed would not have been discovered until the sun rose.”

Mucianus’s eyes flew open at the touch of steel and the whispered words. As the message sank in, he lifted a hand to gently push the dagger away from his throat. It left that vital region, and was returned to its scabbard on the belt of what appeared to be a German warrior. He sat up, and noticed at once the low slit in his tent wall beside his bed and knew immediately how the German had slithered in.

“Since you spoke instead of striking, I assume there is a reason for this intrusion,” he said lowly. Although the dagger was sheathed, and the hands of the intruder away from it, he did not want to call his worthless guards in until he knew the reason for this attention-getting stunt.

By using low tones, he also was giving Rutilius the respect he needed to continue. Had the general shouted or otherwise been stupid, he would have palmed his dagger and pummeled the fool back into the Land of Nod before anyone was the wiser. He had no worries about the guards. They were slumbering peacefully- ingesting a flagon of drugged wine will do that. A merchant caravan trailing the marching legions Rutilius had encountered after veering off was more than happy to accept his last forty denarii for the flagon, and to deliver it to the headquarters of the commander. The guards would not wake until morning- not for an earthquake, nor for an erupting volcano, and definitely not for screams from their commander.

Mucianus was unaware that his guards were out for the night. That made his respect for the intruder genuine. Rutilius nodded to himself and began.

“You know that Galba appointed Aulus Vitellius governor of Germania, lord, replacing Lucius Verginius who had crushed his ally Vindex. And that Galba was murdered by Otho. And that Vitellius took half the Army of the Rhein and made himself emperor a day’s march away at Bedriacum. Now Vespasian is coming to do the same, and his men won a victory over Vitellius upon the same field of battle that made Vitellius emperor.”

Mucianus nodded. He knew very well that crazed Nero had fallen upon his sword, that Galba was murdered, and Otho fell upon his sword after losing out to Vitellius. He also knew that Vitellius was a dead man who still walked, and that the victory of Primus five days ago guaranteed that Vespasian would be emperor before the Ides of December.

Rutilius saw that he understood so far. That was good. “What you do not know, lord, was that with half of Rome’s attention focused in the East fighting the revolt in Judea, and the other half focused on fighting itself, a German chieftain seized the grand opportunity to throw off the yoke of Roman rule. Germania is in flames, and when I left it a few weeks ago, the few remnants of two legions were bottled up under siege, three more were in dire straits, another shattered beyond recognition, and four legions worth of auxiliaries were slaughtered to a man. All Roman presence between Bonna north of Moguntiacum and west to the sea has been erased. We have been effectively evicted from the entire province.

“But we are Roman, and shall crush this revolt like we are currently doing to the Jews,” Rutilius commented. “But you do not know the cause of this revolt, and I would not see an innocent people slaughtered and enslaved for defending themselves.”

“Mars and Jupiter,” Mucianus muttered. “Civilis has taken all of Germania? And destroyed or shattered seven legions? Bastard!”

“So you know about Civilis?”

Mucianus scoffed. “Of course I know of him. Titus Vespasianus and his brother in law Quintus Petrillius Cerealis served with him in Britannia. They have high regards for him, and spoke of him in glowing terms. There was some talk in Syria about getting him to stage a revolt to tie up Vitellius’s supporters. But to drive Roman forces from the entire province? I think he exceeded his goal by a fair margin! Or the governor there must have been a total incompetent.”

“I do not like Marcus Hordeonis Flaccus much myself,” Rutilius admitted. “But he handled himself well and made decent plans. He knew the Batavians were up to something and put together a good plan to stop it. Forty cohorts of auxiliaries were raised by Titus Vorenus, off the books. A personal consular army of the old style, and trained as legionaries. They were to be stiffened by three cohorts of true Roman legionaries from the VIII Augusta, and act as a hammer, driving the revolting Batavians into the waiting anvil of Quintus Munius Lupercus and the V Alaudae and XVI Primigenia. The Batavians, when they finally revolted, were to be crushed. He planned well, Flaccus did.”

His eyes narrowed. “But Civilis was shrewd, and Vorenus greedy. Lupercus ordered his scouts to remain east of Batavodurum, so that they would not be caught and killed when the revolt broke out. This effectively isolated our anvil from the hammer. Then Civilis had his Batavians in Vorenus’s auxiliaries spread rumors of wealth among the plagued Cananefate- neighbors to the Batavi in the west. Vorenus could not withstand the thought of nearby wealth hoarded by starving tribesmen, and ordered all four of his personal legions to invade the Cananefate, who were our Friends and Allies. They were to plunder that wealth and sell the entire tribe as slaves to benefit Vorenus.

“We were slaughtered to a man by those fishermen and farmers. Our entire consular army, and the three cohorts from the VIII Augusta, all gone. Our hammer was destroyed, and the anvil knew nothing about it. When they did learn, they went to burn Batavodurum and got thoroughly trounced. Then besieged. We sent three legions north to rescue them, but one of them got trampled by the Batavian auxilia who headed home to defend their homeland.”

Mucianus yawned. “And you are telling me this... why?”

Rutilius dropped his hand to his dagger. “I am telling you this because every Roman commander I have told this tale to does not believe me, until after the disaster I warn them about came to pass. And that includes Quintus Munius Lupercus, now besieged in Castra Vetera by a hoard of Germans calling Civilis their king. When I told Lupercus of the death of our hammer, he had the temerity to throw me in prison as a deserter, to be sold to the arenas in Massilia.

“I escaped with the help of a Cananefate warrior who was likewise imprisoned. In exchange for my freedom to continue my mission of informing my superiors of the disaster befalling them, I promised to tell the powers in Rome that the Cananefate did not attack Rome. Rome attacked them. They defended themselves, and did it well at our expense, but we were the aggressors, not them. I would plea on their behalf, and spare them Rome’s retribution- for they do not deserve to be crushed, subjugated, or exterminated. You, as the right-hand man of the coming emperor, are that power. Thus I am here.”

Mucianus thought over all he had heard. “And why did you not take this plea to Primus? He must be closer than I to Rome, and with his victory, will stand in much higher favor than will I.”

Now it was the turn of Rutilius to scoff. “I do not trust that bastard, lord. After he defeated the legions of Vitellius, he either ordered his men to sack nearby Cremona, or did nothing to stop them. Four days, lord! For four days his men pillaged and raped a Roman town. He buried his own dead, but left the bodies of his foes to rot in the sun until your legions came up to bury them- evidently to allow them a better lead to get to Rome first. No, lord, Primus has lost all honor in my eyes. That leaves you.”

“Bastard!” Mucianus muttered softly. “He sacked a Roman town for four days? Imbecile!” He rose, confident and strong, and called for his couriers. “Guards!”

“They are sleeping deeply, lord,” Rutilius replied lowly. “They will wake in the morning with awful headaches, but are otherwise unharmed.”

Mucianus sat back down. “You are very clever, German. And your Latin is excellent. As is your story. A fantastic tale.”

Rutilius stood, unbuckled his sword belt, and handed it to the general. “I am Marcus Rutilius, tribunus laticlavius, formerly of the II Vorena. I was among the very few survivors who escaped the Cananefate. I saw the Germani elect Civilis their king, and escaped from the dungeon of Castra Vetera. I have survived the death of our cohorts upon the Rhein, and traveled many many leagues through hostile territory to bring word of what has happened to our commanders. I have been jailed, ignored, and jeered by all, until what I foretold has come to pass. I was at Bedriacum, and threw the leading elements of Primus back across the valley before being relieved. I watched the battle, lord, and the destruction of Cremona afterwards. And I snuck into your camp, and into your tent, to tell you of all that has transpired.

“I am tired, and my quest is complete. I have informed the powers that will be of these events, and pled for the sparing of the Cananefate. You may have me killed now, or later, or sent to join the prisoners taken at Bedriacum. It no longer matters.”

The man was a Roman! Mucianus’ head reeled. Mars and Venus! A tribune, and obviously one who rose through the ranks to be able to do all he claimed. He studied him closer in the very dim light of the tent- blonde with red highlights, straight back, thick wrists. Scarred. He looked like a German, yet did indeed speak as an officer. If he survived and experienced all that he claimed, such a man was worth more than a legion.

That thought sparked a solution to a problem that had vexed him for weeks now.

“You have done well, tribune,” he said, handing the swordbelt back to Rutilius. “I too would not have trusted Primus. He is too Antonian for my blood- a savage beast pretending to be a man. Answer me this, Rutilius- do you still support Vitellius, or have you switched allegiance to Vespasian?”

“I care not who is emperor,” Rutilius replied evenly and truthfully. “I serve Rome.”

Mucianus considered the man’s reply, gave a short laugh, and came to a decision. “I give you my word of honor, young Rutilius, that I shall present your plea to Titus Flavius Vespasianus myself, and see to it that he agrees to spare the Cananefate the wrath of Rome. In return for this favor, I would have you do something for me.”

The sincerity of the general was not lost on Rutilius. He agreed immediately.

Mucianus laughed again, with true mirth this time. “You have not even heard the favor.”

“It does not matter, lord,” Rutilius replied. “I serve Rome. It is not in her interests to bring her wrath upon a tribe that is a Friend and Ally. If the cost of serving Rome is a favor for you, I will do it. It is as clear as that.”

“I like you, Marcus Rutilius,” Mucianus replied. “We need more who think as do you.”

“The favor, lord?”

“Ah yes,” Mucianus continued. “Vespasian has a son beside Titus, who has now taken over the war against the Judeans. He is also named Titus, but called Domitian. He is currently in Rome, with his uncle, Titus Flavius Sabinus- brother of Vespasian. When Primus reaches Rome, all hell will break loose. I want you to ensure that Domitian survives the coming Fall of Vitellius. If he does, I will present your plea to Vespasian. Should Domitian be killed, we will have a hard enough time and will spare nobody. Do we have an agreement?”

Rutilius cursed to himself, but presented a contemplative demeanor to the general. After a few seconds that felt like years, he nodded. “Yes lord, I will safeguard this wayward son, in exchange for your support.”

“Good. Primus will probably take his legions straight down the Via Cassia, as that is the fastest way to Rome. He will be marching at twenty five to forty miles per day, as the road is a proper Roman road and he will not be making a castra every night in Roman territory. If you take the Via Aemilia Scaura, you can ride past his forces along the Via Aurelia and reach Rome before him. That will give you maybe a few days to find Domitian and get him out before Primus arrives. Take him up the Via Flaminia to safety in Ariminum, and some of our forces will pick him up there.”

Rutilius saluted, thumping his fist over his heart. “Yes sir. I will need money, though, and a letter of passage to obtain new mounts as needed.”

A sack of coins and a messenger’s baton with imperial markings were promptly handed over. Rutilius stored the items away and saluted again.

Mucianus laid back upon his cot. Before he had even closed his eyes, his visitor was out the front door of the tent and gone.

May you ride with the speed of Mercury, young man, Mucianus thought as he drifted off. And thank you for letting me know my bodyguards were drunken fools. You may end up being my chief bodyguard, when this mess is over. Sleep came and Gaius Mucianus slept well for the first time in weeks.

* * * * * * *

Rutilius rode like the wind, but stopped often- at every traveler’s inn and postal waystation, where he tried to keep up on the progress made by Primus and events in general. Travelers heard or saw things, and when they stopped at inns or stations, they spoke of these things. Rutilius kept abreast of developments in this way, and thus knew more about what was happening than anyone else involved.

There were rumors that Vitellius had paid a fortune to Primus to accept his surrender, on the premise that Vitellius could live with his family in exile somewhere outside of Italia. Others had Vitellius arming the citizens of Rome and raising new legions to retain his position. Rutilius thought most of the rumors were just that- idle talk. But by comparing the rumors to each other, he discerned the commonalities- Primus had made good headway after crossing the Padus, but spent some time clearing away Vitellian forces in the Apennines. Mucianus was closing on him, driving Primus into a frenzy. Mucianus was the senior commander- any fame, glory, or above all plunder would belong by rights to him if they joined forces. So his only chance at eternal fame and its attending wealth was to beat his boss to Rome.

But most of the long ride he spent in the saddle, thinking. Titus Flavius Sabinus the Elder was a hell of a man who had come from nothing to become a high official. His son, the father of Vespasian, had gone even higher, marrying into the wealthy and prominent gens Vespasia. He honored his father by naming both sons after him, adding the cognomen Vespasianus to his young son to distinguish him from the elder Titus Flavius Sabinus. Vespasian carried on the tradition by naming his two sons Titus Flavius and adding a cognomen. The elder was Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasianus and was fighting in Judea, while the younger was cognomated Domitianus after his mother Domitilla of the gens Domitia. Rutilius thought future historians were going to have one a hell of a time separating one Titus Flavius from another.

To safeguard Domitian from Vitellian harm, he would need to get him out of the city before Primus arrives. To get him out of the city, he would have to find him. To find him, he would need help, and lots of it. And he had less than a week to do all of this.

Cacat, he thought grimly.

* * * * * * *



Rome was huge, Rutilius thought in awe as he gazed over his birthplace. Almost a million residents, and somewhere in that morass of humanity was a single boy whose life was in his hands. He would definitely need help, or at least knowledge of the city. So, his first thought was to go to his old neighborhood and talk with the caretaker of the crossroads shrine whose son used to be his playmate back in the day.

Publius Salvius was a bear of a man, even with one leg reduced to a shriven peg and an arm missing, souvenirs of service with Claudius in Britannia. Salvius had been a decorated centurion, and as a reward for his service and grievous wounds, he had been appointed caretaker of the shrine, a civil service job since he owned no land and could not farm it if he did. His son Marcus Salvius was the same age as Rutilius, and the two grew up together. If either of them still lived, they would know- and more importantly, would tell him- what he needed to know and be quiet about it. So he went at once to the crossroad shrine where the Clivus Suburanus met the Clivus Pullius.

Publius Salvius was still there in the tavern overlooking the shrine, though much older looking than he had been when Rutilius had joined the legions ten years ago. Rutilius looked around to see if Marcus Salvius was about, and that caught the attention of the ex-centurion.

“Get out, you,” the old man wheezed. “We serve no barbarians here. Go back to the port district if you need some of that awful pisswater you savages drink.”

Rutilius smiled. Same old geezer, still a hard-ass at half a man though with twice the age. But his smile did not change the man’s demeanor at all.

“Raus!” roared Salvius, pulling up a cudgel, “Raus, jetzt! Oder opfen ich dein Kopf mit meinem Freund hier!”

“You still speak German after all these years. Amazing, ” Rutilius said by way of admiration, though he replied in Latin. “I am most impressed, uncle.”

The term he used for his friend’s father as a child went totally unregistered and actually angered the man more.

“Ich bin nicht deine Onkel, schweinhund!” !” he shouted. “The likes of you are not family, barbarian! Though I may have sired a few like you in my day, after slaying your fathers and raping your mothers...” Suddenly his shouts ceased as his eyes focused. He recognized his antagonist at last. “Marcus? Marcus Rutilius? Is that really you?”

“Ave, uncle, it is I,” he replied with a laugh. “I am in town for just a few days and have much to do. I need help. Maybe Marcus can help me, for old times’ sake?”

“I’ll help ya, boy,” the ex-centurion replied, then added as his voice dropped an octave, “but my son will not be able to. He ran off to the legions right after you did.”

Rutilius gave a sudden shudder. “Which legion was he in, uncle?”

“X Gemina, based in Spain. Last I heard he was going to make optio, thanks to you teaching him to read.”

Rutilius sighed in relief. “Then he is not involved in all of this foolishness.”

“Romans fighting Romans?!?!" Publius cried in disbelief. “I would like to think I raised the boy better than that! Steel is for slicing the guts of foreign devils, not our own flesh.”

“I am glad you think that way, uncle. I feel the same.” Rutilius looked about, and saw they were alone in the tavern. “I serve Rome, as you taught both of us to do. And in Rome’s interest, I must find Titus Flavius Domitianus and get him from the city before the week is out.”

“That spoiled brat?” Publius cried. “To Hades with him! He is known in every dive between the Subura and the Campus Martius, drinking unwatered wine and seducing wenches unhindered. He ought to be ought on the Campus training for service like the rest of the boys his age. Instead, he parties. Bah! Leave him be, Marcus- he is not worth your efforts.”

“Antonius Primus sacked Cremona after defeating the Vitellian legions there, uncle,” Marcus told him. “For four long days. Now that bastard is heading to Rome. What do you think he will do when he takes Rome? And what do you think Vitellius is going to do to the Flavii here in town when he hears of it? I am sure he knows of the battle, but does he know of what happened afterward? No Flavii is safe, and Domitianus is the son of Vespasian.”

“Old Aulus is a good-hearted man,” Salvius scoffed. “His father, Lucius, was three times consul, and both Aulus and his brother were fine consuls when their time came. Aulus was always loyal- to Caligula, even after he went nuts, to that slug Nero, and to that parsimonious old fart Galba. And when Otho murdered Galba, Aulus avenged him. Now this upstart opportunist Flavius wants to make himself emperor by having his cretinous little lackeys sack Roman towns. So why should I care what happens to them?”

“If Domitian is killed by Vitellius, or by his henchmen, Vespasian will punish Rome hard as a whole for the deed,” Rutilius retorted. “Maybe even by appointing that cold bastard Primus as consul. But more importantly, I would have failed in keeping my end of a deal I made with Mucianus. I spirit the boy out of the city to safety; Mucianus supports me in a pledge I made to a Friend and Ally. It is about honor, uncle, something you taught me well.”

“Hmmm,” the old man pondered. “Well, if it is about honor, I will help you. I may only be half a man, but I am still an honorable one.”

Rutilius smiled. “You may be only half a man, but you are still twice the man of any half your age that I have met. I gladly accept any aid you can offer me.”

* * * * * * *

Salvius returned around midnight.

“Vitellius is losing it, all right,” he muttered. “He is throwing feasts one minute, then scrambling for the city gates the next. He tried this afternoon to offer his sword to people in the Forum Romanum after failing to find a senator to take it, but he was talked out of it. Then this evening he decreed that any man joining and serving in his new legion would be granted veteran status upon completion of this campaign- with all the benefits me and my boys had after twenty-five years under the Eagles. His own henchmen are going nuts.”

“Domitian, uncle?” Rutilius reminded him gently.

“The winesop is staying with his uncle, another Titus Flavius. This one is Sabinus, brother to Vespasian. They seem wary, but not overly so. No guards on the walls or anything. You should be able to walk right up to the door and knock.” He finished with giving the address.

“Any other ways in?”

“Not unless you can fly,” Salvius replied. “Only the one gate- stupid in these times. And no tunnels that any of my friends know about.”

“Thanks.”


The next morning Rutilius donned a plain tunic and boots, and put his dagger into his boot, just in case. Nobody in Rome walked about with a sword strapped on unless he was a soldier, and he had no desire to call attention to himself just yet. He wandered across the Carinae and over the Mons Palatinus to the Aventine, where the Flavii had their household. He did nothing more than walk past, a typical Roman on a typical stroll, and then returned through the Forum Romanum to see if any worthy news were being spread about.

Vitellius was on the rostra again, holding out his sword to the people while his Praetorians and advisors begged him to cease. As expected, nobody dared take the sword, but Rutilius did finally get a good look at the governor-turned-emperor. He was unusually tall, had a flushed face and a great belly. No wonder people think him a glutton, he mused, then noticed that one of his legs was badly off. Ah, that explains the belly- the fool cannot exercise like he used to, but refused to fit his diet to his condition, as had Salvius who was still strong and lean.

And then Vitellius held up his son to the crowd, a boy of but six. The toddler looked lost and confused at this act, but his father continued holding him up and blubbering about something before kissing the boy and trying to hand his sword back to the senate, as if he could abdicate his office by surrendering his sword.

Salvius was right, Rutilius thought. Vitellius is losing it. Outside of Rome, rumors of men killed by his decree flourished, and most said he laughed or feasted as he condemned them. He was a glutton who feasted four times a day, and sent the navy off to find rare and exotic foods for these banquets. And he threw parties for dead Nero, and applauded when the flutist played songs of Nero.

Rutilius saw no evidence of any of that, just a frightened and lost man who was actually loved and pitied by the people. As he watched the man blather and blubber to the crowd, he thought over what Vitellius had done. Facts, not fiction. He had been a good praetor, then a better consul. He quickly swore himself to Galba to quell a civil war before it was born, and upon his murder, avenged him by destroying that cretin Otho and those worthless praetorians who had murdered Galba before firing the rest of them. Valens and Caecina won his battles for him, and probably pushed him to seek the throne. They were probably the ones behind his slackening of discipline that had so hurt the legions left upon the Rhein as well, the bastards. All for politics!

As emperor, he banished the contemptible practice of allowing centurions to sell furloughs and exemptions to their men. And he opened the ranks of imperial civil servants to all men, not just those freedmen of the Imperial Household. In all, he seemed a decent bloke, though one who was weak and too good-natured for his own good but until recently had surrounded himself with good advisors. Now he was alone and quivering with fear as the marauding army of Antonius Primus approached the gates seeking his blood, and he was desperately trying to avoid the fate of Cremona.

Rutilius pitied the man. He was a pawn of others, and wanted nothing more than getting out of this mess to retire peacefully with his family. Rutilius knew that was not going to happen if Primus took the city. Vitellius, his wife, and his stuttering son were all going to be slaughtered, despite the clemency he showed the relatives of Galba and Otho. All for politics. Bah!

What is this? Rutilius thought when he saw a delegation approaching the emperor. Two togate men, evidently praetors by their number of lictors, and another man were walking towards Vitellius. The men were indeed powerful, Rutilius saw, as he watched the Praetorians part to allow the men passage to the rostra.

“Hey buddy,” Rutilius whispered to the man next to him. “Who are those blokes?”

The man did not even turn, merely spoke out of the side of his mouth, ”They are today’s consuls, Gaius Quintus Atticus and Gnaeus Caecilius Simplex, together with Sabinus- the city prefect and a relative of Vespasian. This ought to get interesting!”

Damned right, Rutilius thought, and began maneuvering his way through the crowd towards the streets. There is no way that Sabinus- brother of Vespasian- is going to turn down the symbol of Vitellius’s surrender when he can end the civil war before it gets to Rome by taking it. Sure enough, Vitellius offered the sword. And just as surely, Sabinus reached forward to take it.

And all hell broke loose.

The Praetorians- men from the Rhein Army who had taken over the jobs after Vitellius kicked out Otho’s murderers- roared in disbelief. As one, they surged forward to surround their beloved emperor. One of them drew his own sword and with it, sought to strike off the offending hand that molested the grip of the Sword of Vitellius.

Sabinus dropped the sword and clutched his shattered arm with his whole one. It was not severed, but the slice was deep and one of the bones broken. He rebounded away from the charging Praetorians, seeking refuge behind the lictors who moved forward to protect their magistrates. Not a few were knocked down, though few were killed outright, and the party retreated with the Praetorians in hot pursuit.

During the commotion, Vitellius was whisked away, bloody sword in hand, by the remaining Praetorians.

In the Forum, Pandemonium reigned as men jostled and trampled each other to escape the violence. The Praetorians were savage beasts after serving on the borders against the Germans, and no man in that crowd wanted such animals coming after him.

The Praetorians chasing the consuls and Sabinus disappeared up the Clivus Capitolinus. Rutilius, who had almost reached the edge of the crowd when the blood began to flow, raced now down the Via Sacra towards the Subura and Salvius.

* * * * * * *

“It erupted now, uncle!” Rutilius cried as he ran through the door. “Blood in the Forum again. Sabinus tried to take Vitellius’s proffered sword, and the Praetorians went apeshit."

“You had better run to the Aventine, then,” Salvius replied, tossing Rutilius his lorica.

Rutilius batted aside the useless armor and began donning his Batavian chainmail shirt. “Now I am a German, uncle. Too many Romans will be killing each other before sunset- but none will dare tangle with a Germani.”

“Good thinking, Marc,” replied the old warhorse, and tossed a swordbelt, which Rutilius caught and belted on. He held up a brace of francisca, souvenirs from his day. “You might want these as well.”

Rutilius smiled. “Good idea. I lost mine at Bedriacum.”

“What?!?” roared the ex-centurion.

“I’ll tell you about it later, uncle,” he called, snatching up the axes and racing out the door.


* * * * * * *

Rutilius made his way up the Aventine, cursing in German and bodily throwing aside panicked men who got in his way. Soon he was before the doors of the Flavian house, and stopped in his tracks.

The doors to the house stood wide open, and no guard was in sight.

Cacat, he thought. I am too late. He drew his gladius and entered the house anyway. He had to make sure- his honor depended upon it. Maybe the fools had not killed the drunken fool- thinking him already dead as he lay in a wine-soaked stupor.

But the house was empty of life. Almost.

A shriek greeted him after he penetrated the atrium. A serving wench, clad in a gray linen dress and with the dark hair of the East. She dropped the water urn she was carrying and damned near fainted from the sight of the ‘German’ ransacking the house.

“Shut up, you fool,” Rutilius ordered, using Latin so that he was sure she would understand and see he was not a true German. But what does a serving wench from Tarsus know of Roman accents? She screamed again. Rutilius grabbed her and shook her senses clear.

“I am looking for Domitian,” he explained rapidly. “To rescue him from the Praetorians. Have they...” He looked around. Nothing seemed disturbed, all in its place. Thus no Praetorian had come through these doors, yet. Soldiers would have robbed the place as well as killing everyone. “Where did they go?”

The wench cried out again and wailed hysterically.

“I need to get him out of the city, silly woman!” Rutilius shouted. “His life depends on it, as does my honor! Now where is he?”

The girl fainted. Rutilius dropped the silly wench to the floor amid the shards of the pottery from the broken urn and cursed roundly and soundly.

“They have fled to the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, dominus,” called a voice from the hallway. A Greek steward approached. “Lord Sabinus has been injured, and badly, so everyone left these unsafe grounds for the easier-defended Temple.”

Rutilius sheathed his sword and thanked the man. Then he departed, cursing himself. The Capitol! Of course! They went to the Capitoline to where the other Flavii had fled, and were probably now under assault by the Praetorians.

There was only one road leading to the summit of the Capitoline, and the Praetorians were occupying it while they readied for an assault. Rutilius thought better of trying his disguise to pass them- they were all veterans of the borders and knew the Germans as well as he did. They would see at once he was Roman and a fake. That would get him killed. So he had to find another way. He would need a way of finesse, not brawn or gall, or his goose was cooked.

Of course- the cliffs! Centuries ago, the Gauls had attacked Rome, whose garrison retreated to the Capitol. The Gauls scaled the cliffs, and silenced the wardogs with scraps of meat. But the geese cackled at their approach, which roused the garrison, which repulsed the Gauls. Since then, dogs have been scorned but the geese have been elevated to Sacred Geese. All he had to do now was find a way to scale the cliffs.

There was some construction going on near the foot of the Capitoline before this whole mess erupted. Gantries and scaffolding clad a rising building, and that was enough of a supply depot for him. He ran to the site and gathered what he would need. The he climbed to the top of the scaffolding.

He tied his franciscas together, and added a hammer he had found on the site to make a grapnel. Binding it tight to a rope, he now had a means to ascend. The top of the scaffolding was still far from the top, but not so far that he couldn't try. That was when he saw the buttressing towers.

Thank you, Jupiter, he prayed as he moved onto the tower. It was lower than he was, yet closer to the Capitoline cliff. And even better, an anchor rope of the tower was fastened to something above on the Capitol. He had a way up! He freed his franciscas and returned them to his belt, but kept the hammer and rope just in case. Then he shimmied across the rope and set foot upon the besieged Capitoline.

He was near the temple of Juno Moneta, where even now Roman coins bearing the likeness of Vitellius were still being minted. Across an open area was the massive Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, where he could make out several men in tunics and togas moving about on the colonnaded portico. Just down the road leading to the capitol, he could see several guards setting up a makeshift barricade. A bloody trail from them to the Temple of Jupiter told him exactly where he could find Sabinus and Domitianus.

The men on the portico noticed him when he was a little over halfway to them. Squawking in terror, the men bolted inside while armed soldiers rushed out to see what the noise was about. The two groups collided in the great entrance and both went down sprawling.

Marcus covered the last few paces to them and glanced them over. No man sprawled before him was under twenty-six, most over thirty-five. Thus Domitian was not among them.

“Six men floored by the very sight of a German,” he laughed. “What kind of fight are you fools going to put up when those hardened praetorians break your little roadblock? No wonder Mucianus sent me here to rescue you- you fools cannot do anything right.”

“We can ask you how you intend to rescue us,” came a calm, young voice from beyond the door.

“You must be Sabinus the younger,” Rutilius retorted. “No evidence of alcohol slurring your words. I am looking for Domitianus, rumored to be soaking drunk at all occasions. It is he whom I am to rescue. I’ll take as many others as possible.”

“I am Sabinus, the younger,” the man affirmed. He came forward into the fading light of the setting evening sun.

“And I am Domitian,” called another voice, mockingly sober. “And this day I have taken no wine. So much for rumors. Where will you take us, if we are not safe here in this ready-made fortress?”

“You are not safe where your enemies know you are; the praetorians know you are here,” Rutilius announced. “The praetorians are readying an assault. Your pappa really ticked them off by taking Vitellius’s sword. They will kill everyone here.”

“I was accepting the man’s surrender!” boomed a man on the floor. Blood still seeped through the dressing on his arm, evidence of a very deep and nasty cut indeed. “Doing so would end this war and spare Rome the fate of Cremona!”

“You are a fool,” Rutilius cursed. “And an opportunist, like your brother. One does not accept the surrender of a terrified emperor surrounded by madly-loyal guardsmen in front of a sea of people! One does it in private, and shows mercy, not demagoguery!”

“You obviously do not like us much,” Domitian observed. “Yet you are here to rescue us. Why?”

“A deal I made with Mucianus- I rescue you, he spares a Friend and Ally. Since I serve Rome, and know it is in Rome’s interest not to destroy a Friend and Ally as we would never gain another, I accepted.”

“We serve Rome as well,” the elder Sabinus said, rising in great pain.

“You serve the Flavii, not Rome,” Rutilius retorted bitterly. “Your brother heard Galba had risen against Nero, then became emperor after him. He rose in revolt to make himself emperor in the aftermath of Galba’s murder- but Vitellius beat him to it, being closer. Thus your brother comes against Vitellius, a good-hearted but empty-headed fool, to sweep him aside and take the throne himself. Vespasian has two grown sons- the makings of a stable dynasty. Vitellius has only a small boy, who stutters at that. Vespasian does not serve Rome- he serves Vespasian!”

A tremendous clashing rumble came from below, silencing all on the summit. Another resounding clash, and Rutilius was grabbing the boys and pushing them towards the Temple of Juno.

“Go, you fools! Move!” he ordered. “Anyone else wishing to live, come with me now!”

The battering ram Marcus saw being built and now heard being used ceased its rhythmic pounding. Marcus dared not wait any longer- he brutally dragged a kicking Domitian by his carefully-made curls and callously pushed the screaming Sabinus towards the temple.

“Go on, son,” Sabinus the Elder called out from the Temple of Jupiter. “I will catch up when I can.” With that, he turned back into the temple and the great doors swung shut.

Rutilius now had the boys under control. He hurried them to the rope he used to get there and pushed them towards it.

“I am not going to climb down that thing like some Tintaglian ape!” Domitian announced haughtily.

“No time for that anyway,” Rutilius snarled. He used his francisca to cut some of the excess rope into short lengths. “Wrap this end around your hand, then over the rope and wrap the other end, like this,” he demonstrated. “Do it and follow me, if you want to live. The praetorians will be here in minutes. Your choice, boy- live or die.” And with that, Marcus Rutilius threw himself off the Capitoline cliff.

The rope he had grasped groaned under his weight but held, and he slid down the steep anchor rope to the scaffolding tower. Sabinus the younger followed, and after the sounds of the praetorians ramming the door of the Temple of Jupiter reached him, Domitian followed.

Domitian was not as strong as he imagined, and almost died. He winced as the rope bit into his hand during the wild slide down the rope, and opened his hands to relieve the pain of constriction. Luckily for him and Rutilius, he did so near the end of his ride. Rutilius caught him by the scruff of his tunic's collar and hauled him bodily to safety upon the tower.

"Now follow me," he ordered, leading the boys down the tower to where the construction crew had hastily abandoned their site during the panic. He looked about, then at the boys, and smiled.

"Have either of you ever heard of Isis?" he said with a grin. "No? Good, neither have many others, though they may recognize the garb of her worshippers. Put this on," he ordered, handing the boys sheets covered in plaster dust. Then he reached into the dead brazier and pulled from it a chunk of charcoal.

He smeared the plaster about to whiten their complexion, and against their will, held up the charcoal. "Hold still, brats!" he ordered as he began outlining their eyes with the stuff. It was not pretty, but when he was finished, he had two very ugly Egyptians in his entourage.

"A German escort for two visiting Egyptians," he muttered. "Well, these days anything can happen. Now follow me, and speak not a word of Latin. If you must speak, use Greek or say something in gibberish. Your lives depend on it. Do you understand?"

Sabinus nodded, but Domitian glared cruelly. Rutilius glared back, harder, and Domitian looked down before nodding.

"Good," he said. "Now follow me as if you are kings of your lands and I but a simple guard. You ought to be able to do that well- you act like it already."

Rutilius led the boys around the Aventine where they might be recognized despite their disguises and around the old Tullian walls before circling back towards the Subura and Salvius. He and his entourage received many strange glances and stares, but the disguise was not penetrated. They were foreigners lost in Rome- happens all the time. In this manner, the boys reached the tavern as darkness fell. Salvius was not in, but Rutilius knew the way to the apartments above.

"Now you stay here," he ordered curtly, lighting an oil lamp to light the small room. "And I mean stay. I need to go out to see what is happening, and to arrange for our journey to Ariminum."

"Ariminum?" the boys croaked. "That backwater hole? Why should we go there when forces loyal to us are just up the Via Cassia?"

"Antonius Primus is just up the Via Cassia," Marcus informed them. "Though he fights for your fathers, he also fights for himself. He would cut both of your throats and blame it on Vitellius, with nobody the wiser, giving him the perfect excuse to sack Rome mercilessly and seek high office when Vespasian gets here. I would not put much faith in your safety in his hands. Mucianus has people waiting for us in Ariminum."

"Antonius Primus was among the first to support my father," Domitian replied. "He would go further with our good will than he would avenging our deaths."

"Galba set an evil precedent- might makes right. He became emperor by force of arms. Otho became emperor by murder. Vitellius also by force of arms," Rutilius replied. "Now your father is doing the same. What is to stop Primus from doing it as well? His legions are here, those of your father far away. His ancestry is grander than yours- men of his family were consuls even in the Republic, while yours were toiling away hawking produce in the markets of the Fourth Class. You figure it out."

Domitian gulped loudly as his mind worked out the line of thought Rutilius had proposed. It was indeed viable, and most likely. "We will stay here, then follow you to Ariminum," he decided.

"Smart lad," he said, exiting the room and leaving the foolish boys safe and secure from roaming supporters of Vitellius.

Below, Salvius was still out, and the tavern dark. He lit the lanterns and lamps, then gazed out the open window. Seeing naught but the apartment building across the way, he decided to check on the boys from outside. He went out, and saw little light escaping the room. Then he gazed westward toward the Forum Romanum.

The Forum, being lower, was obscured from view, but he saw the streets were empty for the most part. Whew, he thought, The panic subsided, and Rome is going about her business as usual. Until he caught sight of a plume of backlit smoke.

He raced down the road a bit until he could see the source. The Capitol was ablaze, well, just the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Praefectus Urbi Titus Flavius Sabinus, the consuls, and their party were now dead in those flames. He sighed. There would be no mercy now, not for Vitellius nor for his family. Blood demanded blood.

He caught sight of Salvius hobbling full-speed down the street lit by the flames of the Temple and ran to join him.

"Uncle!" he called, catching the older man's attention.

"You were right," he wheezed, catching his breath. "Horsemen attacked the west gates, led by Cerialis- brother in law to Vespasian. They were handled wonderfully by Vitellius, forced to withdraw or face destruction. Old Aulus himself was there, and refused to let his men press the horsemen to their deaths, but instead allowed them to escape."



"He doesn't want any more blood on his hands," Marcus mused.

"No," Salvius contradicted. "I think he wants Cerealis to report that he could have been killed, but was allowed to escape. Aulus is showing mercy, so that he might receive some himself."

"No chance, uncle," Marcus corrected, pointing to the Capitoline. "Flavius Sabinus was killed by the praetorians- they set ablaze the temple where he was forted up. Vespasian's brother is dead. There will be no mercy. For anyone."

"That explains why Cerealis so stupidly attacked with cavalry into narrow terrain," the ex-centurion reasoned. "He was trying to break through to rescue Sabinus. Tough luck, all around."

"Come, uncle," Rutilius called. "I need supplies and horses arranged before Primus and his infantry arrive."

* * * * * * *

Quintus Petilius Cerealis was having a bad evening. He hadn't lost many men in the desperate push into Rome, but his easy escape confounded him. Blast! Those damned spearmen had him and his entire command dead to rights, yet simply maneuvered him back to the gates and out.

His black, curly hair flopped lifelessly across his high forehead as he wrestled with this event. Why? Why spare him and his men, while his brother-in-law Sabinus and his nephew Domitian burned in the Capitol? He wiped the sweaty locks aside when his slave announced visitors for him.

""Enter," Petilius commanded. He rose, and adjusted his armor to avoid discomfort. He had no idea who was calling on him at his ungodly hour and in his grief, but for them to annoy him at this moment, it had to be important.

A party of six togate senators entered, accompanied by six women clad in the robes of Vesta entered the chamber. He knew at once this was a delegation from Vitellius.
He bid them sit upon the couches framing his pacing area and resumed his seat by the table.

"I am here on behalf of the City of Rome, " an elderly senator announced. "I come freely, under no pressure, to seek a peaceful resolution to this conflict."

"Go on," Cerealis ordered.

"None wish a repeat performance of a Roman Army pillaging Rome, as had happened when Galba came, or when Otho's men put him on the throne," the old man continued. "Vitellius entered the city peacefully and deprived none of house, life or property during his entrance. He would like you to do the same, Quintus Petilius Cerealis. He offers his surrender and abdication, and upon receipt of this, his sword of state. He will retire to Tarracina and leave Rome and Roman politics forever. You have my word that those are his words."

Cerealis sat straight up at these words. Images of his brother-in-law burning to death floated across his mind's eye. Following them were the memories of his horsemen, pinned and panicked against spearmen in the streets, then images of young Domitian, his nephew, performing immoral acts to gratify the lust of Vitellius. "Vitellius will find naught but the peace of the grave, senator. His actions this past day have earned him a quick death, nothing else."

"You refer, of course, to the unfortunate events of this past afternoon," the senator acknowledged. "I myself had personally witnessed the beginning, and the end. Vitellius had not ordered Sabinus slain. In fact, he was offering Sabinus his surrender, as I am now. And he was shocked, lord, utterly shocked by the rabid response of his guards."

"So he has no control over his guardsmen?" Cerealis laughed. "He had plenty of control over them when he kicked my sorry ass out of Rome this evening!""

"He gave the orders to the praetorians to return to the palace, dominus. I heard this myself. Then he went to attend to the breach you were making. I assumed, as had he, that the praetorians would obey. I went to the Curia Julia for a meeting of the Senate to discuss today's actions, and when I emerged, I saw the flames upon the Capitoline. "

"So?"

"So I was aghast, lord," the senator continued. "Aghast and appalled. More blood spilled in Rome! I hurried to Vitellius, and found him devoid of his wits, grieving over this event. He truly tried to avoid such a fate- by the gods, lord, Sabinus was his Praefectus Urbi! Had he wished the man dead, he could have had him condemned for treason, by the many acts of Sabinus in support of your brother-in-law! Yet Sabinus lived, and was even valued as Praefectus."

"And now he is dead, burned to ash in the ruins of the Temple to Jupiter Optimus Maximus," Cerealis retorted. "Burned and wounded- by men loyal to Vitellius! There will be no peace as long as he lives, senator, for even if he wishes a peaceful end, his men do not! Now be gone!""

With that, the interview ended and the delegation ejected. Cerealis sat back down quivering in anger. How dare that fat fool try to seek peace with blood on his hands. The man was once a decent fellow, a good consul, and a man of honor. But no more. Now he was hogwash, not fit to be scraped from the bottom of one's foot.


Outside the camp of Cerealis, the senator shook with anger. He had told the truth, and was rejected. The Flavii do not seek peace, they seek blood and glory. He thought hard for a moment, and looked about. The cavalrymen were cleaning their horses and tending their weapons, while others scrounged the area for food. Then he smirked.

"These men do not have a chance at storming Rome," he sneered. "Look at them- horsemen! We need fear naught from them. They seek our blood, but have not the means to take it. Let us take our offer of peaceful surrender to one who can make us bleed- let us see if Antonius Primus would like History to recall him as the man who took Rome without spilling a drop of Roman blood!"


Primus accepted the delegation, listened to their offers and words, and smiled. The senators and Vestals returned to Rome, content that peace had been granted and that Reason had won. Vitellius would hand over the throne peacefully, and Marcus Antonius Primus would accept it on behalf of Vespasian. And life would go on.

* * * * * * *

Rumors of the peaceful resolution flew like wildfire through the city. All remembered the actions of the soldiers of Galba and Otho when those emperors died- the city was still recovering from the rioting and pillaging. They did not want a repeat with the fall of Vitellius, and would not have it as the emperor had made it very plain and clear that he no longer wished to be emperor. His supporters, if they were loyal to his wishes as well as to the man, would refrain from violence, and the changeover would proceed bloodlessly.

Vitellius himself was relieved at the news. He had his litter carry him to his home on the Aventine to prepare it for sale and supervise the packing of his goods for transport to Tarracina, where he and his family could forget all this nonsense.

Though the imminent threat to his mission had passed, Rutilius still could not find horses for the journey he planned in the morning. Food was another matter, but the house of Sabinus on the Aventine was still stocked though abandoned. A quick visit there solved that problem, leaving only the transportation.

Enough, he thought. We will get the horses in the morning, one way or another. Thankful to Vitellius for surrendering so peacefully, and to Antonius for accepting it so readily, he found a good night's sleep for the first time in a long time.

* * * * * * *

Primus attacked with the sunrise.

His forward cohorts entered the city in close order, wary of Vitellian treachery, and marched toward the palace. The close order formation fooled the guardsmen at the gates into thinking they were entering peacefully as agreed, thus the fools opened the gates and stood aside. The streets were lined with men and women watching the entrance of the army of the new emperor, each watching silently as yet another Roman army occupied the Eternal City. At least it was a peaceful entrance.

The true nature of the Flavian advance came to the surface a few blocks later, when the lead centuries observed a maniple of spear-armed troops lounging off a side road near the palace.

"Sir," called a legionary to his centurion. "Those Vitellian troops in the clivus there. Do you think they are merely too stupid to hide, or are they planning something?"

"Let's end their anguish before they decide," the centurion replied. "Cohort! Action right!"




The Flavian legionaries reacted to the command with perfect unison. They stopped, turned to their right, and let fly a volley of pila that impacted on the startled Vitellians before any could think to sling his shield off his back. The Flavians followed up their volley with a short rush, which ended with the opposing force lying hacked and stabbed in the dust.

The crowd exploded in horror at the bestial murder of the XII Centuria Urbi, the vigiles who was stationed in that clivus to help direct the Eastern legions of Primus towards the Forum Romanum where Vitellius was waiting to hand over his insignia of office. As a school of fish attacked by a shark, the bystanders scattered in all directions to avoid the fate of the unlucky. Some ducked inside houses of friends, others ran pell-mell towards the Forum Romanum, and still others found themselves trapped in alleyways too small for cats to pass. Above this chaos, a great wail went out through those watching from the apartments above the streets.

The Flavians reformed and marched on, ignoring the dead and panicking. But they did not get far. Four blocks later, they encountered the first of Vitellius's soldiers, who were hastily forming ranks and throwing on their armor.

The Flavians launched another volley, but the Vitellians had shields on their arms and thus were ready. Their own volley caught the Flavian in mid-rush, dropping enough of them to make the cohort hesitate. A second volley completed the carnage, and then it was hand-held steel which would decide the day.

More and more soldiers appeared as the alarm was spread. To this mass of men contesting steel-on-steel at ground level were added missile of clay, as the civilians above began raining roof-tiles upon the heads of the Flavians below. First one, then several, and then many pelted the forces of Primus with whatever they could find- tearing apart their own homes if it helped keep his animals out of the city.

The Battle for Rome began in earnest.

* * * * * * *

Marcus Rutilius was drawn toward the sounds of battle, as a bee is to honey. He could not help it, it was ingrained in him. Move towards the sound of battle. And thus he did. First laterally, then vertically, climbing upon a roof to get a view of what was happening.

He saw the Flavians bunched in close-order in the streets, their progress blocked by a cohort of soldiers mingled with a press of civilians, each armed with dagger or stick, or gladius from the old days. Above, he saw multitudes of ordinary men and women bombarding the Flavian ranks with pottery and night soil, and anything at hand. The very numbers of civilians fighting the invaders was astounding- civilians, especially Roman civilians, do not challenge armed legionaries and expect to win, or even survive. Yet these men and women did, and many fell as expected.

The magnitude of the civilian response overwhelmed him. He had expected something like this from the die-hard soldiers, but never had it crossed his military mind that the sheep of Rome, the lowly man too poor to own a single household slave would stand up to armed men with naught but an eating knife or cudgel. All of this sacrifice, for a man rumors have it was universally despised. Something was not quite right. Vitellius may have his faults, but these people see death as a better alternative than life under another.

That decided him. The will of the People of Rome was clear, and ever did Marcus Rutilius serve Rome. He returned to the streets. Within minutes, he had the leaderless mob formed into an army of kittens, supporting the leopards of the Vitellian legionaries against the dogs of Antonius.

Some were sent to scavenge missiles for the men above, others to build barricades to block up the Antonian legionaries where others could kill them easier. And yet others were sent to the barracks of the praetorians. Those tigers would be more than a match for the canine troops of Primus.

Kittens may not be dangerous in and of themselves, but an army of them could shred the living hell out of a lot of things- including armored men.

* * * * * * *

The Flavian advance faltered in the face of such surprisingly determined opposition. Men collapsed as their heads were smashed into their chests from the rain of tilestones above, and those pila that had not broken upon impact had been straightened the kittens beyond and sent back by the strong arms of hardened legionaries.

Primus himself rode to the head of his men, dodging tilestones and pila alike in his rage.

"Clowns!" he roared. "The Pride of Syria! My ass! You cannot even force a handful of soldiers and civilians from your rightful path- how can you expect to earn the respect of true warriors? Now push those morons aside and find me Vitellius! Or at least his head!"

Chastised in front of the People of Rome whom they supposedly served while slaughtering them, the legions reacted with rage and fury. The barricades were broken, and the Flavians began streaming through. Primus watched with pride and satsifaction, then whipped his mount about to leave this cursed city. A broken tilestone impacted upon his chest, doing little physical damage through his cuirass, but it destroyed his reason.

"Centurion!" he called. "Get your men upon those rooftops! Kill every living thing up there. I care not whether you use your swords or merely heave them onto the streets below, but make this hard rain stop."

* * * * * * *

Rutilius noticed the rain of tiles diminishing, and the rain of bodies starting. He knew immediately the Flavian commander did what he himself would have done- sent men to clear the roofs, though he would not have done so by pitching the civilians headfirst onto the streets below.

"Junius!" he cried to the commanding Vitellian tribune. "Give me a century! I need to clear the roofs of Flavians, or the rain that had pestered them will fall upon us!"

Gaius Junius Capito looked about him, pleased with the progress his small cohort had in stopping the Flavian advance. Then a falling body blocked his vision, and he glanced up to where the German was pointing. Understanding, he detailed a centurion to peel off and follow the man in the Batavian cloak upwards.

The civilians were mostly gone from the roof on the right side of the street, killed or fled from the Flavian legionaries. On the left side, where Rutilius was ascending, the one-sided battle was still raging. Rutilius's legionaries exploded into the Flavian formation like a fireball, catching them totally unawares. One moment they were joyfully tossing unarmed men to the streets below, the next they found themselves facing steel in the hands of men who knew how to use it.

Rutilius had no shield, thus was thought an easy target by Flavian after Flavian who had never faced a German warrior. He parried aside their strikes with his gladius and chopped into their necks with his francisca, often alternating with parrying with the francisca and stabbing with his sword. His armor deflected more than one slicing blow without failing, and his foot kicked more than one heavily-armored man over the edge. Soon, the Vitellians were alone upon the roof.

Marcus stopped to take in the view and see the battlefield with a commander's eyes, but the centurion with him had other thoughts. He led his men across the roof and down another stairwell to hit the lead Flavians from behind. Rutilius knew that was suicide- his view of the battlefield proved it.

While the Flavians were stopped here, there were pillars of smoke arising from elsewhere in the city. The Flavians had broken through in other sectors, and that meant the city was lost- there were not enough Vitellian cohorts to stop the army of Primus, no matter how many civilians joined the fray. And the civilians were paying for their support- not a few young women were screaming in houses and alleyways were Flavian soldiers were invading their bodies, while older women wailed mournfully over the bodies of their husbands while Flavian legionaries ransacked their homes for valuables.

Rome was lost. If the actions against the civilians was this brutal, worse awaited Vitellius and his family. The man himself was lost- nothing anyone could do would change that. His only option was to die well. But if Primus got a hold of his wife and son... The wife would be passed from soldier to soldier to satisfy their lust, while the son would be slain out of hand as a potential threat to the reign of Vespasian and his sons.

That fate, however, could be avoided. Rutilius hurried down to the street below and began making his way around the fighting towards the great Golden House of the emperor.

He passed the bodies of dead praetorians intermingled with those of Flavian legionaries, and knew the enemy was close. He kept to the shadows where possible, and broke through the front door of houses and out the back where he could not. In this manner he bypassed most of the fighting and made it to an area of relative peace.

A cheer erupted ahead, followed by hoots and screeches. A group of soldiers were coming. Rutilius hid in the house he had recently left, peeking out from behind the window. What he saw made his heart sad.

Aulus Vitellius had been captured. He was stripped to his waist in order to expose that massive belly of his, and his hands tied firmly behind his back. A noose was around his neck, and it was by this noose the laughing Flavians dragged him through the streets back towards the gates.

Several civilians, evidently supporters of Flavius Vespasianus, came forward to pelt the captured emperor with filth, rotten fruit, and scornful names. Not as many as had fought for him, but enough to encourage the soldiers to continue. They heaped their own scorn upon their former emperor by pulling him from his feet- an easy thing with his mangled thigh- and rubbing the rotten food laying about into his abused face.

Rutilius had seen enough. When the Flavians passed the house in which he was hiding, he reached out and caught the last one by his neck and hauled him bodily into the house where he pummeled the man unconscious with his francisca. Then he looked up and about- but his actions went unnoticed by the man's colleagues, so intent on humiliating their prize were they that an elephant could have run through them without their notice- had it not stepped on Vitellius, of course.

Rutilius took the legionary's water gourd and emptied it in a single gulp. "Sorry about this," he whispered as his dagger slit the man's carotid artery, "but I need to get a message to Vitellius."

The man's eyes flew wide open at the incision, then closed as his brain lost blood pressure. While the man died, Rutilius kept the man's gourd pressed tightly against the wound, filling it more with every lessening beat of the man's heart. When it was full and the soldier dead, he closed the gourd and secreted it under his shirt but over his armor.

Now he had to hurry. He raced through the alleyways toward the gates until he was ahead of the Flavians. A glance around the wall revealed his fears were realized. As he thought, more and more had joined the capturing party. There was no chance of rescue, but a small one of giving the man some peace. A smaller chance of survival, but a chance was a chance. He broke his dagger in half between two stones in the brick wall and sighed. It had been a good dagger, now it would serve him best halved.

He bolted onto the street where Vitellius was being abused and humiliated, his sudden appearance catching the laughing and triumphant Flavians by total surprise. Racing to the emperor with dagger in hand, he cried out with the worst accent he could, "I will help you in the only way I can."

With those words, he dove upon Vitellius and stabbed with his dagger. A brief shudder, then he lay still.

The Flavians, taken aback by the sudden assault that was not an assault, rolled the lifeless form off of their prisoner, who was sobbing. Unwounded, but sobbing.

The German was dead. He lay there unmoving, a dagger deep in his chest, blood everywhere, and more oozing out from beneath the ghastly wound.

As he was no longer a threat, but the escape of Vitellius a major one, the dead German was forgotten by legionary and civilian alike as the former emperor was dragged toward the camp of Primus, paraded like an ape for the amusement of the few Flavian supporters and a symbol of failure to the Vitellian supporters.

As the soldiers passed from sight, the civilians came forward to rob the body of the German. They recoiled in horror when he rose and pulled the half-dagger from his chest- where it had pierced the blood-filled gourd and lodged in the chainmail below. Rutilius gave a passable imitation of a Germanic warcry to scatter the fools, then ran toward the imperial palace.

Along the way he saw where Vitellius had been taken- there were dead praetorians littering the street, obviously a scene of great fighting. Not a few civilians were laying about either, dead or getting that way. Aside from the bodies, the place was as silent as a tomb.

Rutilius searched the dead, looking for anything that could help. He found people coming slowly forth, howling and wailing in grief, and pulling their dead into their homes for proper mourning. Among the dead being dragged off was a young boy, his throat cut by a gladius, though whether it was a praetorian or Flavian sword, only the gods know. Marcus shouted his Germanic warcry again, sending the people screaming and fleeing back to whence they came. Smiling for the first time in what felt like ages, he scooped up the young boy's body and ran off.

He secreted the body in an alley then climbed a roof to examine the situation. The main fighting was over to the north and west, in the vicinity of the palace, though the environs of that great structure itself seemed serene enough. He saw what he needed. He dropped to the ground below, scooped up the dead boy, and raced for the palace.

The palace was unexpectedly deserted of fighting men. Then again, with Rome under attack and Vitellius missing, all praetorians would be going mad trying to find him. None would be in the palace- a blessing for Rutilius. He entered the house Nero had built and ignored the grandiose environs, his grey-blue eyes searching for living decorations. He found one in a cowering slave, and ordered him to take him to the empress.

The slave was terrified. Rome was under assault, and a blood-covered German carrying a dead Roman boy was bellowing at him. His bowels opened, soiling the air and his loins with filth while driving all sanity from the man. Rutilius kicked him to get some sense back into the man, but it was an exercise in futility.

"Cacat," he muttered, leaving the cringing maniac to continue trying to claw his way through the stone wall. "Is everyone in this marble barn insane?"

Two men charged him, brandishing cudgels. He threw the boy at one and dodged the other, then dropped his gladius to grab the heads of the men and slam them together. They were brave men, but not warriors, and crashed into each other with a sickening thud. They dropped to the floor.

Rutilius picked up his gladius and the body, and continued into the palace. It was called the Golden House, and everywhere he looked he saw evidence of the glory of Rome. Eventually he found a chamber where a woman stood before a large bed, a dagger held in her hand and a small boy hiding behind her robes.

"If you come any further, barbarian, you will find only death. I may not be able to kill one such as you, but I will slay both my son and myself before I let you molest us."

"Your bravery is admired, lady Galeria," Rutilius replied in his native Latin. "But misplaced. I mean you no harm."

"Then why do you carry upon your shoulder the body of a dead boy, and wander the halls of my home covered in blood and terrifying my slaves?"

Rutilius put the dead boy down and sheathed his gladius. "We have little time. You husband has been captured by the legions of Primus. Primus is an animal- when his men get here, they shall slay the both of you- raping you for their pleasure, slaying your son to avoid any future contenders for the throne. I promised your husband I would do what I could for him."

"A little late for that, barbarian," she scoffed.

"He was already captured when I made the pledge, my lady. I had to die to escape, thus the blood. If you do not want that of your son to join his blood to this blood, give him to me. I will get him out of the city, alive."

She was startled, and scared. Any idiot could see that. "How can you do that? Primus and Cerealis have us surrounded and are storming the city. You say my husband has been captured, yet no praetorian has come to escort us to safety."

"The praetorians are mostly dead, or soon will be. I fought against them yesterday, and this morning I fought at their side. This afternoon I pretended to die to make my promise to your husband. I will do what I can for him, but he himself is lost. The only thing I can do is to prevent you and your son from dying as well."

"Antonius Primus will not harm me, though I fear you are correct about my son's fate. What do you propose?"

Rutilius pointed to the body. "I will leave him here and take your son to my home. Dress the body in your son's clothes, and have slaves grieve over him as if he were your son. When Primus comes- and he will- he will assume this dead lad is your son and that will be the end of it. If you survive, come to Bovillae. Your son will be there, waiting for you, though he may have a new name. I suggest you keep it. The name of Vitellius is going to be scorned and soiled over the next twenty years, to help justify the blatant opportunism of Flavius Vespasianus."

Galeria blinked, twice, and hard. "You are no German, not with speech like that."

"No, my lady, I am not. I am Marcus Rutilius, tribunus laticlavus, of the Army of the Rhein. I serve your husband my lady, though I appear as a blood-soaked devil. It keeps the riff-raff away."

Galeria laughed. "Marcus Rutilius of Bovillae, the beasts of Primus will indeed not know my son upon sight. But since my husband has held the boy up to the crowd on many an occasion, many do indeed know him. They will see through this charade and hunt him down as you say, for he is indeed a threat to the usurper Vespasianus."

Rutilius drew forth the hammer he stole from the construction site by the Capitoline. With it, he smashed the face of the body several times.

"With all due respect, my lady, I doubt anyone will recognize him now. "

Chilled by the callous display yet sensing the wisdom of his words, Galeria was forced to agree. Time was running out, and if her son was to live, he had to get out of Rome now.

"Take my son, Marcus Rutilius," she commanded regally, "and see to it that he leads a good life, away from Rome, and away from the politics that killed his father."

Rutilius nodded, and promised. "Have your slaves ransack the palace, stealing what they can. When Primus arrives, tell him his men had slain your son and robbed your house. He might take pity on you and let you live on, unmolested."

He took the live boy gently from his mother and led him back through the palace. In their wake, he could hear Galeria calling for slaves to dress her 'son' for burial. Rutilius smiled. Another promise fulfilled. He began winding a circuitous route through the city to avoid the Flaviani, and for the most part was succeeding.

He lost his smile near the Forum Romanum. The Flaviani had subdued most of the city by now, with the capture of Vitellius and the collapse of praetorian legionaries. Crowds of Flavian supporters had formed, and were jostling each other for better views of something coming. That was enough for Rutilius, who sought to go the other way immediately.

More legionaries were coming from behind, moving to meet the ones coming from ahead. Rutilius sought refuge in a doorway, and turned partially away from the approaching soldiers. He looked down and cursed- his chest was still covered in blood. Then his eye fell upon the boy. He lifted him up and held him close as any father would his son, and the body of the boy effectively covered the worst of the blood.

Vitellius was being dragged through the streets again, this time to the heckling and jibes of civilians who came out to join in the taunting of the highborn brought low. Where he stumbled, he was viciously dragged by his massive neck a few paces before brutally hauled to his knees again. When he held his weary head low, it was drawn up again by his hair. Finally, a Flavian legionary had enough. He wanted Aulus Vitellius to see how much he was hated by Rome. Therefore he placed a dagger under the chin of Vitellius- if the man lowered his head one more time, he would impale himself.

But the action had an entirely different effect. It forced Aulus Vitellius to look up, as intended, and see his own son in the arms of a German- which was not intended. He also saw more Flaviani moving up behind the German. He realized that the crazy German who had tried to end his pain earlier was actually shielding his son from the Flaviani- rescuing him from their clutches. And that he was about to be caught and killed as well.

Vitellius raised his head, then stood up regally. He was doomed, and knew it, but with this act, he would allow that German warrior a chance at escape with his son. It was a sacrifice any father would make. The humiliations heaped upon him by the growing crowd made it easier.

"And yet, I was once our emperor," he said to the crowd, and the soldiers degrading him.

The words had the desired effect. Howls of indignation echoed through the streets, and the soldiers pummeled him to the ground. The soldiers behind Rutilius hastened forward, all eyes on the spectacle ahead. Vitellius was being mauled, and taking it like a man. Rutilius used the man's sacrifice to good effect and bolted the other way.

He was almost in the Subura now, Rome's armpit. Here the legions of Primus had been utterly rapacious. Rutilius stepped over many dead, yet kept the boy's face pressed firmly into his bosom. Tonight the lad's father died, or will die, but he would live.

On the Clivus Suburanus he ran into a group of Antonians he could not avoid. They were twelve, and he but one, and they were intent on mayhem. One of them called to the others and they began coming at him.

Rutilius put the boy down by a doorway and drew his weapons. He was so close- the Clivus Pullius was but a stone's throw away. He had promised Mucianus to safeguard Domitianus from Vitellius, and Vitellius that he would safeguard his son from Flavius. Now he was to die with one promise fulfilled and another failed.

"Wotan!" he bellowed loudly. "Wotan and Mars! Watch this warrior die bravely!" And then he charged.

The Flavians laughed as this fool charged, until one of them fell. The rest wheeled about, ignoring the comic display to their front to face the deadly peril to their rear. Two more fell, but these were not harmed by weapons, they had collapsed in laughter, for assaulting these valiant heroes of the empire was an old rock-throwing half-man accompanied by two stripling youths.

"I am Titus Flavius Domitianus!" one of the boys yelled, "and by my side stands Titus Flavius Sabinus, my cousin. Sheath your swords, those who claim to serve my father. And you too, Rutilius. Cease and desist."

The three fallen legionaries now rose, one bloodied by the rock which had hit him, the other two recovering from the laughter. Two more almost fell, so loudly they were laughing. Rutilius was forgotten as the Flaviani took in the sight of the great Domitian haughtily commanding them to stop the pillage that was their right by conquest- a boy in dainty curls pretending to be a man.

The fact that the German behind them stopped, and was sheathing his sword and belting his francisca gave them pause. Could it be? Domitian was rumored to have died on the Capitoline, with his uncle and cousin.

Domitian came closer, allowing the soldiers to inspect his signet. One by one, they lowered their weapons and sheathed their swords. Domitian ordered them to guard this area, while he himself went over to Rutilius.

"Is that who I think it is?" he asked, pointing to the terrified lad in the doorway.

"It is my son," Rutilius lied, then corrected. "At least he is now. Vitellius let you live, and slew no relatives of either Galba or Otho when he came to power. Your uncle was made his Praefectus Urbi, by Mars. Why should this boy suffer for no fault of his own, simply to justify the theft of his father's throne by yours? Or for simple bloodlust? The boy is innocent, far more innocent that you, yet I saved you and will do the same for him."

Domitian looked into the angry eyes of Rutilius and saw the burning light of true justice within. Shamed and scolded, he nodded. "The boy shall live, Marcus Rutilius, if only you promise me that he will never- and I mean NEVER- pose a threat to my father or my family."

"I so swear. The boy shall be raised as my own flesh and blood, and nevermore will he hear of his past. Only you and I, and his mother, will know he yet lives. To all others, he perished. Good enough?"

Domitian scrutinized the tribune for any sign of falsehood. Finding none, he nodded. "Done. We are even now, tribune," he said, turning to the soldiers. Remembering the warning Rutilius had given him earlier concerning the ancestry of Antonius versus his own, he grinned. "Soldiers! Take me to the camp of Quintus Petilius Cerealis. I would have my uncle see that I have survived the Fall of Vitellius intact, thanks to this brave man. "

Rutilius nodded and the stress of the near-battle left his body. Publius Sulvius led him and the boy back to the shrine, while Domitian and Sabinus left with their escort for the camp of Cerealis. The long night was over, and two missions fulfilled.

* * * * * * *

Mucianus reached Rome three days later, and could not recognise his home. Primus had ruled for three days, and for those three days the Roman troops of Antonius Primus had enjoyed the way of the conqueror in Rome itself. The Eternal City was subject to an orgy of bloodletting not seen since the days of Sulla.

The Subura and the Quirinal were spared most of the horrors, as the people living there were relatively poor. On the Aventine and Palatine hills, where the wealthy lived, soldiers stormed into houses searching for Vitellian hold-outs, seizing what wealth they could carry and slaying any who resisted. In those three days, fifty thousand Roman citizens perished, more than half fighting the Antonian assault that first day.

Vitellius had died during the first night. After his incendiary statement before his son, he was dragged to the Gemonian Stairway where traitors were executed and suffered there the Torture of the Little Cuts at the hands of the enraged Antonian troops. He found peace at last, when Marcus Antonius Primus himself severed his head, fulfilling an old prophecy that Vitellius would fall to the blade of a Gallic rooster- for Primus was born in Tolosa, and in his youth was nicknamed Becco- cock's beak. His headless corpse was dragged off by an iron hook to the Tiber, where it was unceremoniously thrown in.

During those three days of terror, not a few Romans had looked back upon Vitellius with sadness. For though the man was touched in the head and did indeed live large, at least his men did not subject Rome itself to the sword as the Flavians now did. In his few months as emperor, he had confiscated no property from his opponents, and the only men he proscribed were those who had petitioned Otho in their own hands for payment for their part in the murder of Galba. Nor did he contest any wills of those who fell fighting against him- indeed, if sums were owed to those fallen foes, he had it paid to their survivors. If Galba, Nero, or Otho bestowed a gift or monies upon a person, Vitellius held that up as valid and did not demand its return.

Most recall with delight his decree forbidding senators and knights from participating in the arena as gladiators or the podium as musicians- effectively freeing the people from the likes of another Nero. Though his reign had been abruptly shortened in a dramatic way, he had done some good as well. That was now remembered even as his headless body floated down the Tiber.

Rutilius and Salvius spent those three days an abandoned apartment across from the shrine, drilling it into the thick skull of the boy that he was now Publius Rutilius, son of Marcus, of the gens Rutilia, of the tribus Esquilinus, and grandson of Lucius Rutilius. They always did their drilling one by one- one doing the talking and telling, the other watching the shrine and their former apartment, in case Domitian should have a change of his flighty heart. But the street remained empty except for the brave few who ventured out for personal business. No Antonian troop set a sandaled foot into the Subura.

* * * * * * *

Things changed once Mucianus took command. The soldiers were restrained, ordered under pain of death to keep the peace, not break it. Order returned, and with it some semblance of normal life.



It was during the second day of Mucianus's reign that Rutilius felt it was no longer hazardous to move about. He had Salvius check in with the tavern for news, while he himself, now in Roman garb, arranged for horses and gear. That night, the three of them left the City of Rome by the Via Appia. By the fifth milestone, Rutilius stopped and looked back. They were not followed.

"Our paths divide here, uncle," he announced. "Take my son to my parents in Bovillae, just down this road."

"Where are you going, lad?" the old man asked. "Your emperor is dead, and your quest of honor fulfilled- twice. You deserve to raise this son of yours yourself."

"I have unfinished business in the north, uncle," Rutilius replied. "My comrades are fighting for their lives in Germania, and I cannot stand idly by while good men perish."

"I have seen enough evidence of that, Marcus. You are indeed a good man. Go to Germania. I will ensure young Publius here is welcomed by your folks."

"Thanks, uncle." With that, Rutilius rode north, back to Rome and Mucianus.

* * * * * * *

He was admitted to the inner sanctum of Mucianus's praetorium a day later. Dressed in Roman armor with his gold phalerae proudly displayed, Mucianus at first did not recognize the tribunus who once held a sharp dagger to his throat.

"Domitian lives, dominus," he reported. "Vitellius is dead by the hand of Primus, and Titus Flavius Sabinus the Elder by the hands of the praetorians, but both Domitian and Sabinus the Younger survived. I upheld my end of our bargain."

Mucianus nodded sincerely. "Indeed you have, tribunus. And I shall uphold mine." He looked directly at the young tribune, searching his eyes for something- hatred, loyalty, or bitterness. He found nothing. "Have you ever heard of Cassandra?"

Rutilius was taken aback by the question.

Mucianus barked a short laugh. "She was a Greek prophetess, doomed by the gods to always speak the truth yet cursed never to be believed. She predicted the death of the Trojans because of the Wooden Horse, among other things. Due to the curse, she was ignored. You suffered from the same curse for a long while."

"Explain, dominus." Rutilius was baffled.

"The situation in Germania has become a catastrophe."

"I told you that it was a disaster in the making, and you did not believe me," Rutilius finished for him, seeing the connection.

Mucianus shook his head. "Almost. You indeed did tell me it was a disaster in the making, and indeed I found it hard to believe. But now the situation has gone past that to a full-fledged catastrophe. I am therefore ordering you, Marcus Rutilius, to report to your new commander, Quintus Petilius Cerealis. He will be leading an army north. You will be going with it, as my personal legate."

Rutilius saluted. He had wanted to return to Germania to see his promise fulfilled, and now he had the chance.

To be continued....


Other chapters in this series:

1- They Come
2- Vengeance at Traiectum
3- Betrayal on the Border
4- Batavia Rises
5- Homeward Bound
6- The Long Road to Castra Vetera
7- Sunrise at Bedriacum
8- And yet, I was once our emperor
9- Midwinter Misery and Madness
10-Prophecies Fulfilled
11- The Little War
12- The Broken Bridge

[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 11-15-2009 @ 05:25 AM).]