Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 16
“Tribune, do you see that?” I demanded, and he did sit up in his saddle to peer off in the direction where I was pointing.
“They didn’t extend their lines enough,” he said quickly, then before I could say more, he finished. “Carry on. I’ll report back to Antonius and explain that you did the right thing.”
“Thank you,” I called after him as he galloped off, giving a wave of his hand as he went to find Antonius.
There are some good Tribunes in this army every once in a while, I thought, then turned back to the job at hand myself. The fighting was still at a fever pitch, men snarling and spitting at each other over their shields, bashing and thrusting, while I blew the whistle every few moments to give the men a break. About a sixth part of the watch into the fight, there was a roar from the far right of the line, and I looked over to see the entire left wing of Brutus’ force collapsing, the men streaming up the hill back to their camp, with Octavian’s men in hot pursuit. Men were being cut down from behind as they struggled up the slope. Very quickly, the hill was strewn with bodies, most of them belonging to Brutus. Once the support of their comrades to the left melted away, the center collapsed, most of the men suffering the same fate as the enemy left. Octavian’s men went streaming into Brutus’ camp, so before long, only the right wing of the enemy force was left on the field, but we had them surrounded. We were whittling them down, the outcome inevitable, but these men were going to go down fighting, it was clear. Some of the men from our center had now wrapped around the diminishing force of Brutus’ right wing, so that we were now compressing them from all sides. They had formed an orbis, though their ranks were only three and in some places four deep, not enough to give men sufficient time to rest before they had to move back into the fight. I could see a couple dozen Centurions’ crests bobbing about among the enemy, each of them working frantically to plug gaps in their line. There was no more wild shouting, from either side, men conserving as much energy as possible, the only sound now being the clanging of blade on blade or rim of shield, along with the dull thudding noise of shield boss smashing into flesh, punctuated by grunts and short, sharp screams as men fell.
“Kill these bastards,” I kept roaring over and over, grabbing men to push them into gaps in the line.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement among the enemy, and to this day, I do not know why it arrested my attention. It was a Centurion who was moving quickly across our front to a trouble spot in his line. As I focused on him, I felt a sudden weakness in my knees, recognizing the bandy legs and muscular arms, arms that I had clasped and wrestled against since a day so long ago when I had pulled him from a bucket of cac.
Without thinking, I began moving parallel to our line, following Vibius as he ran to some trouble spot, seeing him step in over one of his men who had fallen, a blur of motion as he thrust his blade into the man who had knocked his down. Immediately, he moved again, this time in response to a shout for help from another of his men. I continued following him behind our own lines, shoving men out of the way to keep pace with him. We were still pressing against the pocket, which was growing smaller every moment, then after Vibius had dispatched another of our men, I saw him turn to look about, surveying the situation. He still had not seen me, or at least I did not think so, but I could tell he now saw the hopelessness of his situation. Then, obviously making a decision, he turned and, spotting a point in our lines where there was less depth, he grabbed a number of his men, making straight for it. Where he headed was on the far side of where I was standing, so it was not defended by my men, yet I was so focused on Vibius that again I pushed my way through the crowd of men to make my way to him.
As I moved past the Second Cohort, I heard Scribonius yell, “Where are you going?”
I pointed at Vibius, hearing Scribonius utter a string of oaths, finishing with, “Titus, don’t!”
But I was oblivious to everything except the need to reach Vibius. Making my way through the mass of men and closing the distance, I saw that Vibius was leading a substantial number of men to press the thin spot in our line hard, and looked close to breaking out. I began running, knocking men down in my haste to get to Vibius before he could escape, intent on stopping him. Somewhere, as I was running, I had made the decision that I was going to finish what I had been unable to at Pharsalus; I was going to kill Vibius.
Reaching what was now a breach in our lines, it was just as the first of the men with Vibius began to start running for their lives, leaping over the fallen men who they had cut down to open the gap. They did not look back, knowing that this was really the only way to escape, not wasting any time to see if there was someone hot on their heels. They ran off to the north, apparently heading for Brutus’ old camp. Vibius was staying put, pushing men through the gap like a good Centurion, his back slightly towards me as I approached. Some of his men saw me running towards them, calling a warning to Vibius, who turned around, his blade up and ready in the first position, legs shoulder-width apart and slightly bent. Seeing him face to face brought me up short, and when our eyes met, it was as if a knife were plunged into my vitals. His eyes widened as he recognized me, but he had the presence of mind to snap an order over his shoulder, telling the rest of the men to keep moving to make good their escape. He turned back to face me, his face unreadable, though he did not drop his guard in any way. As quickly as it had come, my resolve to finish him here and now disappeared. It was as if the strength drained from my arm, and I dropped the point of my sword. Time seemed to stop, the sounds of the fighting going on all around us drowned out by the sound of my own breathing as Vibius and I looked into each other's eyes, neither of us seeming to know what to say.
Finally, I jerked my head in the direction of his fleeing men, then said quietly, “Go.”
He turned and started to head after his men, then he stopped to look back.
“Tell Juno I said ‘hello,’” I called, surprising both of us, and he laughed.
“I will,” he replied, then turned serious. “May the gods keep you safe, Titus. You're still my oldest and best friend.”
And with that, he turned away to run off. That was the last time I ever saw Vibius Domitius, my oldest friend. I heard a cough behind me, and turned to see Scribonius standing there, panting for breath.
“You did the right thing, Titus,” Scribonius told me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You would never have been able to live with yourself if you had killed him.”
“I know,” I said, then turned to give him a tired smile. “Let’s finish this so we can get some rest.”
The Second Battle of Philippi, unlike the First Battle, was a complete success for the army of the Triumvirs, with The Liberator army effectively ceasing to exist after that day. That is not to say that most of the men marching for Brutus were killed, though a substantial number were, but many of them scattered to the four winds, never to be heard from again as far as being an army. Most of those men returned to their homes to pick the plow back up, although some of them made their way east to become mercenaries for the Parthians. A substantial number volunteered to serve in the army of the Triumvirs, the offer being accepted by both Octavian and Antonius. Vibius was not one of these men. Brutus had watched the disaster unfolding and when he saw that his cause was lost, made haste to escape, prevailing upon one of his freedmen by the name of Lucilius to don his armor and cape to pass himself off as his master. As Octavian’s men, led by Agrippa, were tearing down the front wall of the camp, Brutus and a small party escaped by the back gate, heading up into the Sapaean Pass, where Brutus quoted some Homer, then killed himself. With his death, the Triumvirs were now the undisputed masters of Rome and most of the known world.
However, that did not mean that the strife was ended, because things were still unsettled between Octavian and Antonius. One might think that their shared victory might have led to a little amity between them, at least for a short period of time, but almost immediately the squabbling began again. This time it was over the disposition of Brutus’ body, which was found by a cavalry patrol, who brought it to Antonius, the Triumvir planning on a full military funeral with all honors. However, Octavian would have none of it, so there was another blazing argument between the two. By the time the proverbial dust had settled, neither of them were happy, which is a sign that a true compromise was reached, though I imagine Brutus would not have seen it that way. Antonius got the body to burn, while Octavian got the head to defile. Personally, I was with Octavian on this, not believing that Brutus deserved anything but to be carrion for the dogs. The other piece of good news was that our food problem was solved for some time to come, as The Liberator camps was stuffed with supplies of all sorts. Brutus’ head was sent to Rome in advance of the army, but the ship carrying it sank in a storm, so Octavian never got the chance to put it up on a spike on the Rostra of the Forum. While most of the rest of the assassins of Caesar either chose to fall on their swords or were killed, a few had escaped, some of them going to join Sextus Pompey, while others went to seek their fortune in the east, along with the men who hired themselves out as mercenaries. Antonius had announced that he would be going to Parthia, to fulfill Caesar’s dying wish to subdue what was considered as one of the last great threats to Rome. I was summoned to the Praetorium to be informed that the 10th would be going with Antonius to Parthia.
“You’ve been to that part of the world, as I recall,” Antonius said.
I confirmed that I had, with the 6th, and he replied, “Which is one of the reasons that I want the 10th, because you have experience in that part of the world.”
I tried to point out that while I had faced the Parthians, the 10th had not, but Antonius waved a dismissive hand.
“Same difference,” he declared. “You and the 10th are going.”
I recognized that there was no point in arguing, so I saluted, then went to tell the men that we would be heading east. I was not happy about being assigned to Marcus Antonius, but I did not feel any real conflict at that point, knowing that I had no choice in the matter.
Chapter 4- Ventidius’ Men
Before we would land to march into Parthia, Antonius had to raise money, a lot of money. Taking a ship from Greece and heading east, we made a number of stops, none of which outdid his entrance into Ephesus, where he announced that he was Dionysus incarnate, and as a god demanded recompense worthy of his status. The howls of the citizens could be heard over the walls and in our camp, where we were waiting in case there was trouble. I could certainly understand their feelings. It had only been the year before when Brutus and Cassius had come parading through here demanding ten years’ tribute, which Antonius demanded be matched. Finally, he relented somewhat, accepting a total of nine years’, but giving the citizens two years to pay. We traveled overland from Ephesus, marching through Asia Minor, Syria, and Palestine, with Antonius demanding tribute from those provinces that had sided with The Liberators, no matter how unwillingly. He rewarded the Lycians and Rhodians, for they had resisted The Liberators, namely Cassius, at great cost to themselves. He gave Cappadocia to a man named Archelaus, whose mother Glaphyra Antonius lusted after, at the expense of the late king’s son Ariarathes, who seemingly had a more legitimate claim to the throne. From there we went to Cilicia, where he tied up the last of his business by summoning a puppet monarch who had supposedly agreed to supply Antonius with money, ships, and troops. When I heard who it was, I resolved to do everything I could to be present when the two met, knowing that Antonius was about to meet his match in Cleopatra. I was right, but not necessarily in the way that I thought.
She arrived in all the pomp and panoply befitting the queen of a kingdom much more ancient than our republic, even when it was run by kings, wearing the same outfit I had seen when I was in Alexandria and a guest at her banquet. She came up the river Cydnus (Berdan) on her massive barge, reclining on her couch in plain sight, while being attended by young girls dressed as Graces and Nymphs, the little boys adorned as Cupids. I must admit that I felt a bit smug, letting it be known that I had personally been on that barge. We were standing on the bank, watching the approach of the massive vessel, and Scribonius shot me a look that I like to think was a mixture of respect and curiosity.
“Really?” he demanded. “When was this?”
I told him about the trip up the Nile, and Caesar’s holiday, most of it spent in the arms of Cleopatra.
He shot me a grin.
“One thing I’ll say for Caesar. The old boy knew how to live.”
I could only agree, then without warning, I felt a twinge of grief as I thought of the man who had given me so much. Fortunately, Scribonius did not notice, his attention drawn back to the barge, which was now mooring at the dock. Cleopatra rose from the couch, as once more I tried to figure out how such a small woman could move at all with the enormous contraption on her head, let alone make it seem so easy. The dock was lined with onlookers, most of whom were cheering her, yet she gave no sign that she heard them, such a display not being seemly for a monarch, I suppose. However, she did survey the crowd, her head turning slowly, which I was sure was due to the height and weight of her great hat. When she came to where Scribonius and I were standing, I saw her stop for a moment. Even if she had given a sign of recognition, her face was so heavily made up that I doubt that I could have seen it, though I still found my hand about to raise to give a wave. Thankfully, I stopped from making a complete fool of myself, pulling my hand down. Still, I was sure that she had seen me, and recognized me. It did not take long to discover that I was right.
Only a few thirds of a watch later, I received a summons, brought to me by one of those creatures that were such a part of the palace scene in Alexandria, requesting me to attend to the queen in her quarters that evening before dinner. I am afraid I wore poor Diocles out making my uniform and decorations presentable, while I was as nervous as a virgin bride on her wedding night. I followed my escort to the residence that Cleopatra had commandeered, he taking a roundabout way that avoided going through the forum, a precaution for which I was thankful, with good reason as it turned out. I was announced, and I was both flattered and more than a little disconcerted to see that there were no other guests present. The queen was reclining on a couch, wearing another of her diaphanous gowns, this one a deep and rich blue chased with golden thread, her hair plaited in the manner that I had seen her wear for Caesar, the back tied with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. The eunuch that I supposed was in charge of such things announced me. She rose to her feet, favoring me with her most dazzling smile, and once again I was reminded that despite her plainness, there was something absolutely captivating and alluring about her.
“Primus Pilus Pullus, how wonderful to see you again.” She offered me her hand, which I remembered I was supposed to kiss and not shake. As I bent down, I could feel the heat rising to my face.
“I had quite forgotten how large a man you are,” Cleopatra said.
Although it was true that I towered over her, she was one of the smallest women I had ever met, yet I was still more flattered than I probably should have been.
“It's wonderful to see you again, Highness. You're as lovely as ever.” I congratulated myself for sounding as if I said such things all the time, my reward the sound of her laughter as she playfully slapped me on my arm.
“Spoken like a true courtier, Primus Pilus. If I didn't know better, I would say that you’ve been spending time in some other queen’s palace. Should I be jealous?”
She assumed a sly expression, giving me a wink. Despite not thinking it possible, I felt a second rush of heat and I knew that my face was even redder. I stammered that this was not the case at all, as Cleopatra laughed even harder at my obvious discomfort. She turned to wave to one of her slaves, who moved to a door at the other end of the chamber I had been escorted into, opening it so I could see that it was a dining room, the table set for two.
“I was hoping that you would join me for dinner, Primus Pilus.” Cleopatra spoke as if it was a request, but I was no fool. I had seen her temper and had no wish to bear the brunt of it, so in answer I offered her my arm, wondering what she had in mind.
“Tell me about Antonius.” Cleopatra stared at me over the rim of her cup after we were seated. There it is, I thought, the reason revealed, and I would be lying if I said I was not somewhat disappointed. I considered the question, wondering how far to go.
“He’s no Caesar,” I said carefully, to which she gave a snort.
“I know that, Pullus,” she replied with more than a trace of impatience. “But tell me why you think he summoned me here, and what he’s after.”
“To squeeze you for every last sesterce, chickpea, kernel of wheat, and ingots of iron he can get from you,” I replied.
I was happy to see that my answer had pleased her.
“Now you’re telling the truth, and truth, no matter how ugly it may be, is what I need right now, Pullus. His creature Quintus Dellius has been whispering honeyed words into my ear about how much regard Antonius has for me, but then I am summoned here like a vassal!”
She was clearly angry now, making me extremely uncomfortable.
