Vespasian surveyed the rows of hardened faces, crowned with burnished-iron helmets reflecting the weak sun, staring straight ahead over shields, for a few moments relishing his feeling of pride.
‘Legionaries of the Second Augusta,’ Galba thundered in a voice that Vespasian thought barely louder than at his interview the previous evening, ‘the Emperor has seen fit to appoint Titus Flavius …’ He quickly looked at a wax tablet in his hand. ‘… Vespasianus as your new legate. You will obey him in all things.’ With a curt nod of his head to the assembled legion he turned and re-presented the Emperor’s mandate to Vespasian.
Vespasian stood on the dais and raised the mandate in salute to the men now under his command; the light wind picked at his scarlet legate’s cloak and the white horsehair plume on his helmet. With a massive roar the legion hailed him as he displayed his mandate from right to left so that each man could see his symbol of authority as their rightful commander.
With a dramatic sweep he lowered his arm and the men fell silent. He took a deep breath so that his chest swelled against his muscled bronze cuirass and placed his left hand on the purple sash tied about his waist. ‘Men of the Second Augusta, I am Titus Flavius Vespasianus and I am charged by the Emperor to command this legion. You will come to know me well, as I will you. I will not make long speeches praising your courage or bravery. If you deserve praise you will get it with a word or two; and if I find you lacking then you will know with a word or two.’
‘You should flog them,’ Galba growled, sotto voce so that only half the men present could hear.
‘I will always make time to hear your grievances; bring them to me and do not take matters into your own hands. We are bound in a mutual bond of discipline and it is that bond that will ensure that we live in harmony and fight in unison; if anyone breaks that bond then that man lets down every man in the legion and he will be punished.
‘However, I have no doubt that the words of praise that I will give you will far outweigh the words of reprimand. I know that as citizens of Rome and soldiers in her glorious Second Augusta you will do your duty with honour and diligence; I place my trust in you and I ask in return for your loyalty and obedience. I commend myself to you, legionaries of the Second Augusta!’
Primus Pilus Tatius swept his sword from its sheath and held it aloft. ‘The Second Augusta welcomes Legate Vespasian. Hail, Vespasian!’
With a thunderous cheer that sent the crows scattering from their trees, the whole legion waved their pila in the air, following their senior centurion’s lead. The cheers quickly turned into a chant of ‘Vespasian’; the legionaries punched their weapons above their heads, marking the beat.
Vespasian knew better than to let the chorus continue for too long — many a legate had been removed from his command by nervous emperors jealous of any man gaining too much acclaim; spies were everywhere. Sweeping his outstretched arms across his chest, he again signalled for silence; the effect was immediate. The legion brought their pila thumping back down to the ground, rippling from the front rank to the rear, and awaited their legate’s words.
Vespasian paused, wishing again that his father could see him and wondering how to best phrase the last part of what he needed to say. The crows, circling overhead, began to return to their nests now that peace had returned. ‘This is a short first meeting as I will be absent for the next month or so on the Emperor’s business. I will leave my senior tribune, Mucianus, in command supported by the prefect of the camp, Maximus. You will obey them as if I were in command.’
To Vespasian’s left the crows that had barely settled since their last disturbance suddenly rose in a cacophony of cawing into the air. From beneath them came the thunder of massed hoofbeats. Vespasian turned to see a unit of almost two hundred cavalry galloping, in a column, four abreast, towards them. As they got closer he could make out the long beards and trousers favoured by the German tribes. At their head rode a young Roman officer. At fifty paces from the dais the officer let go of his reins and raised both arms in the air then extended them down to point left and right. He took up the reins again and began to slow his mount; the troopers behind him proceeded to fan out to either side, starting from the rearmost and only reducing speed once they had drawn almost level with their officer.
As he brought his horse to a walk, without looking behind the young officer raised his right hand and after a few steps brought it down; his troop halted immediately in two perfect lines of ninety. ‘Lucius Junius Caesennius Paetus, prefect of the First Batavian Cavalry Ala, reporting on Legate Vespasian’s orders.’ Paetus snapped a salute and then looked around before asking innocently with a white-toothed grin: ‘I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?’
‘He’s been nothing but disrespectful and impertinent in all the dealings that I’ve had with him,’ Corbulo informed Vespasian as they watched Paetus supervising the Batavians loading their horses up ramps and into the river transports in the pale, late afternoon sun. ‘Just because his family can boast over ten Consuls he thinks that he can treat anyone how he pleases. He’s even criticised my leadership and questioned my judgement; can you imagine it?’
‘Really? That’s disgraceful.’ Vespasian, however, found himself more than able to imagine it. Although Corbulo’s branch of the Dometii had had senatorial rank for a couple of hundred years, Corbulo had been the first to achieve the consulship. Vespasian could quite understand how Paetus, coming from a far older and more noble family, would see someone as stiff and formal as Corbulo as a bit of a jumped-up joke. He refrained from mentioning this.
‘Well, good luck with him; I hope he never crosses my path again,’ Corbulo muttered as the object of his indignation came up to them.
‘Your four horses and the spares will be loaded on last, sir,’ Paetus reported, ‘just before we go. My chaps’ mounts are used to boats so won’t mind the wait.’
‘Very good, prefect.’
Paetus looked quizzically at Corbulo. ‘I don’t seem to have a horse for you; are you planning on coming too, ex-legate?’
Corbulo snorted in outrage and, with a curt nod of farewell to Vespasian, turned on his heels and stormed away down the quay.
‘There will be less flamboyance and more decorum whilst you’re serving with me, Paetus,’ Vespasian informed him as they watched Corbulo go.
‘More decorum, got you, sir,’ Paetus replied, giving Vespasian the distinct impression that he had not ‘got’ him.
Vespasian decided not to pursue the matter for the present as, despite himself, he had taken a liking to his old friend’s son. With his open, amiable, round face and humorous blue eyes he was the image of his father when he and Vespasian had first met in Thracia; that, plus the guilt that Vespasian felt at not keeping his promise to take some interest in his upbringing, was enough to make him feel that he owed him some latitude in his behaviour. He could see why Corbulo, with his aristocratic reserve and prejudices, has taken a dislike to him, but he felt that he could not judge him until he had seen how he performed leading his men. Although Paetus was young to be a prefect of auxiliary cavalry it did not surprise Vespasian, as patrician families such as the Junii, with their long line of Consuls, could expect rapid promotion; his father had achieved the same rank at roughly the same age.