Near the beginning of March word came that the first army of the German legions had crossed the Alpine passes, under the command of Caecina. Orders given to the Danube legion based at Poetevio in Styria to intercept them had either gone astray or been ignored. So Otho found himself in a position similar to Pompey's at the opening of the campaign which led to Caesar's dictatorship. There were those who advised him to act like Pompey, abandon Italy to the invader, and carry his legions to the East, where they could join with those commanded by Vespasian and Mucianus, and so return, strengthened, in triumph.
Otho considered this advice and sought other opinions, hoping (I believe) to find that a majority of his advisers favoured this course. It was not that he was a coward, however effeminate and unsoldierly he might be in manner. But he doubted his abilities as a general; he detested the prospect of civil war; his sleep was made wretched by nightmares in which the ghost of Galba appeared to him; and he was temperamentally inclined to favour any course which would postpone the day of decision. In private conversation with me, he repeatedly bewailed his misfortune in being saddled with the load of Empire, and reverted to his favourite theme: that it had been forced on him by circumstance rather than by his own will. Everything in his speech was such as my Stoic upbringing had led me to condemn. And yet I could not do so. It was not merely that I was flattered (as any young man might be) by being singled out, as I supposed, to be the recipient of the Emperor's confidences. It was also that I responded to Otho's charm and vulnerability. Moreover, as I have said, my mother had always had a tenderness for Otho and this naturally inclined me in his favour.
Yet I did not abdicate my judgement to his fears or futile hopes. When he pleaded with me – with looks as well as words – to advise him that this course of withdrawal from Italy was wise and right, I could not, or would not, do so. On the contrary I pointed out that it had been fatal for Pompey, that it would be wrong – I may even have said 'unmanly' – to abandon Rome to the doubtful mercies of the Vitellian troops, all the more so because the Guard, whose duty it was to defend the city as well as the person of the Emperor, had committed themselves to his cause, and were reputedly loathed by the German legions. Then I added:
'Believe me, sir, I know Vespasian and Titus – the latter well, as you yourself know – and I have met Mucianus. If you abandon Italy and seek to unite your army with theirs, you will find that you have in reality surrendered the Empire to them. At best you will be the third or fourth man in the Empire. The only way in which you can maintain your position and make use of the friendship which Vespasian at least feels for you, and the good will which all three have expressed, is by meeting them in the character of a victorious general who has driven the German legions back beyond the Alps.'
'So young and yet so stern,' he replied. 'I'd like to get drunk, but I can't, however much wine I take. If I could get drunk, then I might sleep. And if I could sleep, my resolution might return.'
Otho's weakness and indecision were pitiful. It is therefore, surely, the more to his credit that he was able to overcome his fears, or at least to give his troops the impression that he felt none. Summoning up whatever resolution he could command, he gave the order to advance and seek out the enemy. As he buckled his armour on, he sighed. Then he wept a little, when he had dismissed the slave who had helped dress him as a man of war, and told me that he wished to keep me by his side throughout the forthcoming campaign.
You may bring me good fortune,' he said. 'I have a notion that you may.'
'I have read,' I said, 'that Caesar himself used to say that Fortune was the only goddess a commander should concern himself with.'
Having come to a decision Otho embarked on the campaign with the utmost urgency, lest, perhaps, he should have second thoughts, or his nerve should fail him again. The speed with which he now determined to move disturbed many. For one thing the shields had not yet been returned to the Temple of Mars after the annual procession; which, a centurion assured me, was 'traditionally a bad sign, sir, if that is you take any heed of such traditions. I don't meself of course. To my mind it's a lot of balls, but I'm bound to say many of the men don't like it, sir.' It didn't please them either that the order to move was given on the day when the worshippers of Cybele, the Great Mother, commenced their annual wailings and lamentations, as they mourned the death of her lover Attis, nor that the priest who took the auspices after a sacrifice to the God of the Underworld, found the victim's intestines were in prime healthy condition – just what they shouldn't be on such an occasion – in the opinion of the superstitious anyway. More to the point, as I saw it, was that the march north was delayed by floods in the vicinity of the twentieth milestone from the city, and that we then found the road blocked by the rubble from buildings which had collapsed as a result of the flooding. All this disturbed the nervous.
For my part, however, I was in a state of high but controlled excitement. All my life I had longed for the chance to emulate the achievements in war of my Claudian ancestors, and now this was being given me at an enviably early age. I sang as we marched, and the soldiers cheered to see an officer (even an honorary one) in such high spirits. But they could not fail to observe that the Emperor's face twitched and that he rode silent and seemingly indifferent to what happened around him. Since soldiers are as affected by the mood of their commanders as schoolboys are by their master's temper, this was an omen far more serious than any of those which had excited the fears of the superstitious.
Yet the news of the first actions was good. A detachment sent north to try to intercept the army which Valens was leading down the valley of the Rhone gained a victory near the colony of the Forum Julii. Then there were rumours of a mutiny in the camp of the enemy; these were premature, though in truth such a mutiny did break out in a few days, for reasons which I have never discovered. The word came to us that the advance of Caecina and his legions through north Italy was resented by the citizens of the towns where he quartered his troops, and that they were particularly angered by the conduct of his wife Salonina, who rode through their towns garbed in the imperial purple. Of course, the dissatisfaction of these citizens could be of little immediate benefit to our cause. Yet the unpopularity of an invading enemy is always to be welcomed. For one thing, it may demoralise the troops who, in a civil war, always hope to be received as liberators.
Then came the news that Caecina's assault on Placentia, which the Vitellianists considered of the first importance, had been repulsed after a desperate struggle, in the course of which the beautiful amphitheatre beyond the city walls was set on fire and utterly destroyed. The ardour of our troops within the city was however such that Caecina despaired of taking it and so raised the siege. And then, as we moved to concentrate our forces near Cremona, we learned that one of Otho's most able lieutenants Martius Macer had won a victory to the north of the city.
It seemed therefore as if success attended our arms everywhere, and I began to be anxious lest the Vitellianists should soon see the hopelessness of their position, and either surrender or withdraw beyond the Alps, and that I might therefore be denied the chance to add lustre to my family name in battle.
Yet, it was at this moment that Fortune first frowned on our cause. Having scattered the enemy, Martius Macer prudently checked the pursuit, for fear that the enemy might be strengthened by reinforcements, which spies had warned him they were bringing up. I say 'prudently', for by every law of war, his action was indeed prudent. And yet its consequence was evil. For there were those in our army who immediately described this act of prudence as a display of cowardice, while others said that it showed Martius Macer to be less than wholly committed to the cause, and even a traitor who had deliberately refrained from destroying the main army of the enemy. This was ridiculous, but good sense is an early casualty of any war.
The soldiers were disturbed. They did not know whom they could trust. They were uncertain whether the generals who gambled with their lives were determined on victory, or whether some at least were already preparing to defect to the enemy. Such was the evil consequence of the rumours circulated by his personal rivals concerning Martius Macer's conduct. So harsh things were said of the other generals, Annius Gallus, Suetonius Paullinus and Marius Celsus. The officers of the Guard who were guilty – or most guilty – of the murder of Galba, however that might have been prompted by the old man's arrogance and folly, were chief amongst those who now employed the wildest of language. They alone, in their own minds, were fully committed to Otho's victory, and, in their disordered state, were ready to accuse others of treason. In so doing they undermined the cause, the success of which offered them their only hope of security and future prosperity.
Otho could not fail to be affected by the mood of suspicion that surrounded him. Without good reason, he fell into distrust of some of his most able commanders. I cannot blame him altogether for this; the rumours of treason had thrown him into a state of perpetual alarm. He sat for hours in his tent, sipping the wine that failed to intoxicate him, but which nevertheless numbed his critical faculties. Time and again, I heard him bewail his unhappy lot. 'If you ever dream of wearing the purple, dear boy,' he said to me, with many heavy sighs, and on the verge of tears, 'wake from that dream. It is a crown of thorns, not of laurel, that presses on my brow.' Yet in public he strove, not always in vain, to appear cheerful.
There was a consequence of the dissension and the rumours still more damaging to his cause than their effect on his state of mind. That is not the best way of putting it, for the consequence was provoked by the distrust and dismay that clouded his judgement. Believing that if so many men spoke ill of his generals he could not know whom to trust, he resolved to hand over the management of affairs, and indeed the whole conduct of the campaign, to his brother Titianus, a man with neither experience of victory nor the capacity to inspire the soldiers with confidence. Of all Otho's mistakes, this was the most serious. Soldiers who trust their commanders will fight bravely, to the death, even when the cause is failing. Those who neither trust nor respect them will lose the battle in their hearts, even when the disposition of the forces may yet be in their favour. For the truth, Tacitus, is that morale is the determining factor in war; perhaps you have heard your father-in-law Agricola say so.
Yet on the ground things still appeared to go well. Caecina, perhaps because he was unnerved by the failure to take Placentia and his discomfiture in other lesser actions, perhaps because Valens was now bringing his untested army up and Caecina feared that he would gain the glory of the campaign, now made a rash attempt to regain the credit he had lost with his troops and with his imperial candidate, Vitellius.
He posted some of his veterans – auxiliaries as we later learned -concealed in the woods that overhang the road twelve miles from Cremona, at a place called Castors. Then he sent forward a cloud of cavalry, with orders to provoke a battle and then withdraw to lure our men into the trap he had laid for them. It was a pretty scheme, but dangerous in the circumstances of a civil war in which spies and deserters abound. No doubt, had he been engaged against a foreign enemy, his plan would have met with success. But in a civil war there are always many men whose commitment is wavering; they have friends and relations in the opposing army, and so there is habitually a communication between the armies of a sort which is not found in foreign wars. So his scheme was betrayed, or revealed to us.
Titianus was, fortunately, some miles in the rear, and neither Paullinus nor Celsus felt the need, or desire, to consult him. As it happened I was then in the front line, having been sent forward with a message from the Emperor. I was therefore in a position to observe the disposition of our troops and to admire the assurance with which this was made.
Paullinus commanded the infantry, Celsus the cavalry. The veterans of the 13th legion, men who had fought with Corbulo in Armenia before that greatest of generals was discharged, disgraced and destroyed by Nero on account of his jealousy of any other man's virtue and success, were drawn up to the left of the road. The raised causeway through the marshes was held by three cohorts of Praetorians, in deep columns, while the right was occupied by the 1st legion and a few hundred cavalry. Several troops of cavalry were sent forward, and more cavalry held in the rear. I myself, with the general's permission, sent my horse to the camp-lines and stood by Paullinus.
Paullinus was a general of the old stamp. His first care was to throw up defence works, so that he could secure himself against defeat before venturing in search of victory. So the first part of the battle was fought some distance ahead of us, and I know of its course only from hearsay.
The Vitellianist cavalry having provoked battle then withdrew. But Celsus, aware of the ambush, checked the advance. This caused some alarm, especially when a handful of Illyrian cavalry galloped back to our lines, calling out that all was lost. They would have inspired a panic, had Paullinus not quickly intervened, and ordered his men to stand their ground. Baffled, the Illyrians wheeled about, and for some time galloped to and fro in front of our line, neither seeing a way to safety nor daring to try to force the barrier we presented to them, forbidding their flight.
Meanwhile, the Vitellianists, believing that the battle was in their favour, surged from their concealed position to give battle to Celsus. He gradually withdrew, making an orderly retreat, the most difficult manoeuvre in war, especially for cavalry. But he moved too slowly, and so found himself surrounded. It was at this moment that Paullinus gave us the order to advance. I did so myself at the head of a cohort of the Praetorians, whose officer had been wounded by a stray javelin.
I have been in so many battles since this first one that I have learned to distrust all accounts of conflict. There is no narrative of a battle, rather a phantasmagoria of discordant impressions: the look of surprise on a dead man's face, the glint of a horse's hoof raised above you, the grunts of men thrusting with swords, sounds strangely like those emitted in love-making, the sudden face-twisting fear as a man struggles to free his weapon from the body of a fallen man which, holding it fast, renders the killer for the moment defenceless.
Most of all, though, it is the smells which linger vilely in your nostrils for days after a battle: the stink of fear, of sweat, blood and ordure, for terror can cause a man to defecate, and shit to rush down the wavering legs of even the victors. The idea of war has its beauty, but there is nothing pretty about battle.
As the infantry came together we thrust and slashed and pushed. Close combat gives you strength, adds also to fear, since there is no escape unless the hindmost ranks give way to panic and turn to flee. Then you find your back naked.
That morning the close fight lasted only a short time which, nevertheless, was endless. I had no notion we were winning, for at first we seemed to be pushed backwards, and I stumbled twice, thrice, over fallen comrades. Then I felt a weight behind us, a great press of men and, without warning, the soldier with whom I had crossed swords, each hacking at the other's shield, glanced over his shoulder. His mouth opened in a wordless cry and he took two steps backward, then, before I could launch myself at him, turned tail and ran. And I saw that the whole line of the enemy was in flight. We pursued them with cries for some half a mile, and then the trumpet sounded and a grey-haired veteran seized my shoulder, checked my attempt to free myself, and said, 'That's enough, young sir. That's the recall. Run on and you'll find yourself alone. And that'll be the death of you.'
Later, there was fierce criticism of Paullinus for halting the pursuit so abruptly. Men said that if he had not done so, we would have achieved a complete victory, that Caecina and his whole army might have been destroyed. The critics may have been right. There is no doubt that a general panic had spread through their ranks. I myself had heard many cries such as 'It's every man for himself.' But Paullinus justified his caution. He said that he did not believe that the whole army of the enemy had been engaged, and that their commanders might throw reinforcements forward, who, attacking our men after they had lost order in the pursuit, might reverse the decision of the day. In short, he asserted that it was enough to have inflicted so much damage on the enemy and that it would have been folly to risk throwing away the advantage we had won. No doubt there was much wisdom in what he said, and events might indeed have turned out as he feared. Yet his policy dismayed the army. They thought they had had a chance to settle the campaign in one afternoon, that the opportunity had been lost, that the enemy had been only bruised and would soon recover. So, instead of celebrating a noble victory, men talked more readily of what had been thrown away. Their mood was such that you might even have supposed we had lost the battle.
Nor was that all. Paullinus, though he had master-minded the victory, and shown such skill in the disposition of his troops, and such control over their movements, yet lost credit on account of his decision to halt the pursuit. Those who had already been putting it about that he was less than completely committed to Otho were confirmed in their suspicion. Some even went so far as to say that his halting of the pursuit was an act of treachery.
For a few days the war was suspended. This allowed the enemy time to repair the damage done. More significantly, it permitted the union of Caecina's army with that of Valens. Though our intelligence assured us that the two generals were now bitter rivals, each fearing that the other would become the chief man in the army, and indeed the State, when Vitellius was victorious (for nobody regarded the so-called Emperor himself or thought him anything more than a figurehead), yet the coming together of the enemy made it necessary for Otho to call a council to discuss strategy.
The question,' he said, fingering a piece of material merely to keep his hands occupied, and perhaps to prevent anyone from observing their tremor, which was occasioned not by fear, but by some nervous complaint that I had observed to afflict him in moments of excitement, 'the question is whether we should seek battle or wage a defensive campaign and so draw out the war longer, in the hope of exhausting the enemy.'
He invited Paullinus, as the senior commander – in years, that is -and as the victor of the most recent battle to give his opinion first.
Paullinus spoke with an old-fashioned formality. His conduct in the recent battle had won my respect, however I might think the prudence which had caused him to halt the pursuit to be ill-timed; and I was therefore displeased to observe that his manner of speaking gave rise to some amusement. In particular, the two ephebes who were customarily in attendance on Titianus, and who were assumed to be his catamites, though they were at the council in the capacity of secretaries, giggled and nudged each other, and smirked and pulled faces in imitation, as they thought, of Paullinus' grave manner. During the course of his speech I sidled round the room, and, coming up behind the two little beauties, jabbed each hard in the ribs with my knuckled fist; they yelped, and fell silent, rubbing themselves where I had struck.
Vitellius,' Paullinus said, 'has now assembled his entire army. He can hope for no further reinforcements. Nor has he any strength in his rear, for Gaul is restive (as I hear) and he can strip no more troops from the Rhine frontier lest the Germans break through. He can get no reinforcements from Britain either, unless prepared to abandon that rich province to the barbarism of its northern wilderness. There are few troops left in Spain. Narbonnese Gaul has been reduced by the action of our fleet. Italy, north of Padua, is confined by the Alps. It cannot be supplied from the sea where we still have mastery; and, lastly, his army has already stripped the towns, villages and farms of the last grain. He can get no more corn, and without supplies an army cannot be kept together. Then the German auxiliaries, who are among his finest fighting men, will suffer, should we drag the war out till the summer, from the heat of our climate to which they are unaccustomed.'
He paused, and cleared his throat. (It was at this moment that I silenced Titianus' catamites.)
'Many a campaign, beginning well in the fruits of its first impetuosity, has crumbled, become nothing, when subjected to delay. Was that not how the great Fabius Maximus wore down Hannibal, the most formidable enemy Rome ever faced? But our position is very different. We have Pannonia, Moesia, Dalmatia and the East, with armies that are fresh and ready for action. We hold Italy and Rome, the seat of Empire and of government. We have at our disposal all the wealth of the State and of countless private men. We control the corn route from Egypt and we have a vast supply of money at our disposal. Money may be a sharper and mightier weapon in a civil war than the sword. Did not Antony and the young Octavian, later the Divine Augustus, prove that when they moved against the Liberators, Brutus and Cassius?
'Our soldiers are accustomed to the climate of Italy and the summer heat. We have the River Po on our front, and strongly garrisoned and fortified cities, any of which will withstand a siege, as the defence of Placentia has demonstrated. Therefore, for us, the wisest course is delay. Let us protract the war or, at least, if there is to be a battle, let us compel the enemy to come at us. Then we shall fight in a prepared position, while they endure the hazard of open ground. In a few days, or weeks at most, the 14th legion, laden with battle honours, will arrive from Moesia. We shall then be even stronger than we are now and if, sir,' – he turned to Otho, who started, as if till that moment he had abstracted himself from the company and permitted his mind to wander through a world of dreams – 'if you are eager for battle,' Paullinus said, 'we shall fight with increased strength and a greater assurance of victory. For this is my final word: the wise general delays battle till the odds are overwhelmingly on his side. And with every day that passes the balance of advantage tilts towards Otho.'
Otho thanked Paullinus for his advice, and for speaking so frankly. Then he bit his nails while he waited to see who was eager to follow the first speaker. Marius Celsus got to his feet.
'I've had my quarrels with Paullinus in the past,' he said, 'and I still hold that he was wrong to halt the pursuit in the last battle. But what's done is done. You can never alter yesterday's course. Now Paullinus talks sense. Everything comes to he who waits, as the proverb says. All we have to do is sit tight, hold our position, and Vitellius will be like a rotten fruit that falls from the tree. Why risk defeat in battle when victory is ours if we do not do anything rash?'
A young blond legate, who had nodded to me approvingly when he saw me silence the catamites, and whom I now recognised as one whom I had been accustomed to see, years previously, in Lucan's company at the baths, now stood up. He wore the short military tunic and rubbed his hands down his thighs as if they were sweating. His thighs, I recall noticing, were shapely and free of hair. Not many men have the cool self-esteem to shave their legs on campaign. He addressed Otho in a dandified voice, with a note of haughty reserve.
'Permit me,' he said, 'to introduce myself, for few of you will know me, while those who do may be surprised to see me at this council. My name is Caesius Bassus, and I am attached to the staff of Annius Gallus. As you know, my general had a heavy fall from his horse a few days ago, and is presently laid up. Therefore he sent me here, that I might read to you a paper which he has written giving his views of what should best be done. I see no reason not to say straightaway that he is in substantial agreement with Paullinus. Nevertheless, since his reasons for advocating this course are not identical, which you may consider adds weight to the argument, I request your permission, sir, to proceed.'
As he read his general's document, a line of verse floated for a moment just out of reach. Domatilla had quoted it, I knew that, and named the author as Caesius Bassus, which meant nothing to me then. Now the three things came all at once together, Domatilla's lips framing the line as we gathered our things and looked round the garden before returning to the villa, the line itself – 'Stark autumn closed on us, to a crackling wind from the west' – and the image of the poet stretched out on a bench at the baths, caressing himself, as Lucan urged in a voice that grew sharper the more his friend ignored it, some wild course, but what I know not. How strange, I thought, to find him here, so untouched by war, untouched even by time, for he, who was several years older than myself, now appeared to me to be my equal in age.
He finished speaking made a curt bow towards the Emperor, and turned away, as if indifferent to the effect of his words which, I suspected, might have been written by him, for Annius Gallus was not reputed to have any skill in rhetoric or letters.
It seemed to me that the argument for delay was cogent, and I also believed it would accord with Otho's own predilection for postponing. But I had reckoned without the influence of his brother Titianus, who spoke up for immediate war. He was supported by the Prefect of the Praetorians, one Proculus, an ignorant and short-tempered man. Their chief argument was that delay in a civil war encourages desertions and that the troops should not be given time to consider whether they might find better fortune in Vitellius' army. This argument, though expressed inelegantly and without any attempt to appeal to reason, nevertheless prevailed. It did so because it played on men's fears, and fear is a more potent advocate than good sense. Even as Proculus spoke, I could see Otho begin to twitch; he had told me only that morning that he had dreamed of waking, naked but for a single sheet, in a vast desert; a cold wind was blowing and vultures hovered in the air. Poor man, he had no confidence in the loyalty of either his soldiers or their officers. Having won the Empire by an act condemned as treasonable by so many, he saw traitors lurking at every corner of the road he was compelled to travel.
Then Titianus, either because he sought to reserve glory for himself, or perhaps because he had a certain affection for his brother Otho, which I find hard to credit, proposed that the Emperor should not command the army in person – or rather should not remain with the army command of which he had surrendered to his brother – but should withdraw to Bedriacum some dozen miles to the rear. There, he said, the Emperor would be secure from danger and able to occupy himself with the administration of Empire.
Otho received this speech with a blank expression on his face. I don't think he knew what his brother had been going to propose; and the words pained him. They suggested that he was useless, an embarrassment to the troops, some of whom would have to die to maintain him as Emperor. He looked around as if seeking someone to oppose his brother's motion. His gaze fell on Caesius Bassus, who held it a moment and then lowered his eyes. Otho's mouth trembled. When he saw that no one was going to demand that he remained with his army, he gave a little shrug of his shoulders, clapped his hands, and called for wine for the council. Unusually, there had been none provided beforehand, perhaps because Marius Celsus was known to be intemperate.
The gathering broke up into little groups. I felt a hand laid on my shoulder. I turned to see Caesius Bassus.
He said, 'So we've made two bad decisions.' He smiled, as if making bad decisions was matter for indifference. 'You're attached to the Emperor's personal staff, 1 think,' he continued. 'So I'm afraid you will see no immediate action. But I hear you have already distinguished yourself. I congratulate you. To display virtue in war is all that is left to us, now that civic virtue has been outlawed. You must not be surprised that I know of your doings. It is not just that they have been much spoken of. I had my eye on you in any case. You were a friend of my friend Lucan, I think.'
'That does me too much honour,' I said. 'I was a mere boy. We were not equals. Therefore we could not be friends.' 'No?' he said, and smiled. 'At any rate, he admired you greatly.' 'I admired his verses,' I said. 'Yes, of course.'
'One of your lines ran in my head as you were reading your general's dispatch.' I quoted it to him.
'Do you know,' he said, 'I can't for the life of me remember the next line. A poet who forgets his own verses – not, I assure you, a being you are often likely to encounter.'
'I'm afraid it's the only line of that poem I know. It was a girl who quoted it to me. The girl I'm in love with actually.'
'Ah, yes, my verses appeal to lovely girls. And to some boys also, I'm glad to say, even some lovely boys.' He laid his hand on my shoulder again, and squeezed it gently.
'I often think I should have died with Lucan. I'm rather ashamed I didn't. Well, I don't suppose it will be long now. Not after the decisions taken here tonight. Take care of yourself, and remember me. Get your girl to recite the rest of the poem. It was rather good, I think. Sad that I've forgotten it myself
That night Otho dictated to me for a long time, letters to the commander of the 14th legion, to Vespasian and to Mucianus. He spoke confidently of his expectation of victory and of how he looked forward to their meeting to discuss the government of the Empire.
But, every few minutes, between phrases, his eyes shifted and he looked into the night.