Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 34
His eyes lit up at the sight of the gifts, then he flushed, reluctantly shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Uncle Titus, I can't accept these gifts.”
“Why not?” I asked, not hiding my surprise.
“Because none of the men in my section have anything like these. It wouldn’t be right, and my friends might resent that you gave them to me.”
I nodded thoughtfully, realizing that he was right. Nevertheless, this was one time I was not going to worry about the appearance of favoritism, as the image of my sister’s face popped into my head, and I imagined what she would say.
“I understand, Gaius, but this isn't a gift, or a request. It’s an order, and if your friends give you any grief, you can tell them exactly that.”
I thrust the items at him. He took them reluctantly, but I could tell he was pleased. However, I was about to give him the harsh reality of what he was about to face.
“Gaius, you need to understand that this is going to be the hardest, most miserable experience of your young life,” I said, studying his face as I spoke, and I was happy to see that he was listening intently. “We have to cover 500 miles to Artaxata, and you can be sure that the Parthians are going to be dogging us every step of the way.”
He nodded in understanding, but I knew that he did not really comprehend, so I spoke more forcefully. “All it takes is one moment of inattention, where your mind wanders as you think about how cold you are, or how hungry you are and you lag behind a little, or you drop your shield a bit too far, and one of those Parthian horse archers will be watching and waiting for just such an opportunity. Then you’ll either be killed outright, or you’ll be wounded and that will be even worse because if you can’t continue to march, you’ll be left behind. And,” I finished grimly, “if that happens you need to kill yourself before the Parthians get you.”
I knew I was painting a bleak picture, but I wanted to ensure that my nephew did everything he needed in order to survive. I could see that he was indeed taking it seriously, his face mirroring my own.
Swallowing hard, he nodded as he replied, “I understand, Uncle Titus. I won’t let you down.”
“You better not,” I joked. “If you die, I'll kill you.”
Our conversation done, I sent him back to finish his preparations, while I continued my rounds. All over the three Roman camps, the same work was taking place, along with the camp where our cavalry lived. About a third of a watch before the appointed time, we pulled up our stakes, yet did not fill in the ditch as we normally did to reinforce the fiction that we would be coming back. Fortunately, there were no towers with our camps here so there was no need to burn anything. The Legions in the other two camps came marching to meet us since we were heading back to the north, then under the cover of darkness, we moved rapidly out of the valley, part of the Gallic cavalry leading the way. It was bitterly cold, though the snow was still wet, clinging to our feet and legs. I was thankful for the fur-lined socks on my feet, though I quickly realized that I would have to rotate the two extra pairs of socks that I had because it would not take long for them to become soaked. There was only a sliver of a moon, the eastern hills just beginning to be outlined as the sun came creeping up over the horizon, but even in the darkness we moved quickly, at least until the sun came up. As the world turned from black to gray, details becoming more visible, we saw just a short distance ahead what looked like a dark line coming across our path at an angle, before turning north so that it aligned more or less with our direction of march.
The sun finally peeked over the eastern hills to our right to illuminate the ground in front of us, and for the first time we could make out what had created the line. Stretching before us, on a front wider than ours, the ground was churned and chopped up, scarred by the thousands of hooves of the Parthian army. As soon as we reached this patch, men began stumbling over the furrows and holes in the turf, but as long as the ground remained frozen, it was not so bad. Unfortunately, that did not last long, as less than a third of a watch after the sun came up, the heat had completely melted the snow. Soaking the ravaged ground, it turned our path into a sticky quagmire, the mud sucking at our feet with every step. Since our goal was to close with the Parthians, we had no choice but to follow their trail, except where possible we tried to march parallel to it. However, we continued to move quickly despite the mud, though to compensate for our slower rate of travel, instead of our normal break we took only half that before setting out again.
It was just after midday when some of our Gallic cavalry came galloping back to the command group to report that the Parthian army had been spotted a few miles away. Antonius immediately gave the order for the army to form into an agmen quadratum, essentially a staggered series of four columns that form a huge square, with all of the Legion mules and slaves gathered in the middle between the columns. The advantage of this formation is that no matter what direction an attack comes from, the most that the men on the flanks have to do is to execute a right or left facing movement to meet the enemy head-on, while the Centuries and Cohorts at the head or rear of the column have to perform a pivot maneuver to get on line. But for every advantage there is a disadvantage, and there are a couple with the agmen quadratum; the first is that it requires a lot of room to execute properly. The second is the difficulty of maintaining the integrity of the formation, the correct spacing between the Legions being crucial in order to prevent a gap through which the enemy can drive to split the army, thereby threatening the baggage train in the middle. This was hard enough on open, level terrain, but stumbling over the choppy, muddy ground churned up by the Parthian horse meant that every man had to concentrate on each step taken.
Despite the challenge, we managed to march in good order, keeping our cohesion both within each Legion and the entire formation, although men stumbled while some fell heavily in the mud, giving their comrades a good laugh as they picked themselves up, covered in a combination of muck and horse manure. After another full watch, Antonius gave the order to halt and begin making camp, detailing two Legions along with the cavalry to place themselves as a screen between the rest of the army and the Parthians while the rest of us worked. The one blessing brought to us by the soft and muddy ground was that it made digging easier, the dirt flying as the men worked quickly to build the camp. As we worked, the Parthian army appeared as a black line on the horizon, slowly growing larger and more distinct until they drew close enough so that we could make out individual horses and riders. I know we had been told that the combined Parthian and Median army numbered no more than 60,000 men, but when you are looking at that many men just a few furlongs away, it is quite a daunting sight. The enemy made no overt move to attack us, in fact did not even send out their horse archers to harass us as we finished the camp. However, I believe that the presence of our slingers standing in loose array in front of the two Legions had everything to do with their inactivity. Instead, they seemed content to just watch us, clearly fascinated by how efficiently and quickly we built a marching camp in the face of the enemy, meaning that the ditches were wider and deeper than what we would construct if we were just on the march with no prospect of contact. The only thing missing from our camp were the towers, there being no wood available; in fact, there was not even enough for fires that night. Our work done, the men settled in to make themselves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, while the other Primi Pili and I made our way to the Praetorium to find out what Antonius had planned. Turning the corner of our street onto the Via Principalis, I got the answer, in the form of Antonius’ battle standard flying from the top of the Praetorium, the signal to all Romans that we would be offering battle.
“We're going to let these bastards think that all we want to do is go home,” Antonius announced. “So we're going to strike camp, but instead of continuing north, we're going to turn back to the southwest as if we’re heading back to Syria by the most direct route. The Gauls are going to act as a screen while we give every indication that we're heading home with our tails between our legs. But,” he smacked his fist into his palm, “we're going to give these scum the surprise of their lives. To that end, the men have to be in battle order, and ready to drop their packs the instant the order is given. They’re not going to sling their shields, they’re going to carry them, and they’re going to have their helmets on. I don’t think the Parthians will expect anything when they see the men like this because it makes sense that we'd be prepared.”
He paused to let us digest what he had said, then continued, “I expect that the Parthians are going to face across our direction of march in a crescent formation, at least that's normally what they do in these situations, with their cataphracts on the flanks and their archers in the middle. This is exactly what Hannibal did at Cannae, but this time, instead of us being sucked into the middle, when I give the signal, we're going to execute a facing movement, with half the Legions facing to the left and the other half to the right, and we're going to attack their flanks.”
Men began shifting on their stools, murmuring to one another as each made his opinion known to the man sitting next to him. I was sitting with Corbulo on one side and Balbinus on the other. The three of us exchanged glances, but none spoke. While it made sense to go after the cataphracts, given that they posed the greatest threat to us now that we had learned that slingers could neutralize their archers, executing a double attack against mounted troops is a risky proposition under the best of circumstances. When the signal was given, the men would be expected to instantly drop their packs, execute a facing movement, then move immediately into an all-out sprint, all in an attempt to close the distance before the Parthians and Medians had a chance to react. Our own cavalry, along with our slingers, would have to engage the horse archers to drive them out of range while we were pressing the attack. One thing that we did have going for us was the nature of the cataphracts themselves. As I have said, over a short distance, a man can outrun a horse, and that task is even more possible when it is a cataphract, because the heavy armor on both man and beast make them ponderously slow when taking off from a standing start. Once they get going, they are formidable, but it takes them two or three furlongs to get up to full speed, and even then, they cannot maintain it for very long. Ventidius had shown us that if we could close with the cataphracts, they were actually easy to bring down with a sword thrust to the belly. Of course, as is always the case in battle, such things are more easily talked about than accomplished. Nonetheless, we all knew that this was our best and probably only hope of salvaging something from this campaign, not to mention making it possible for us to get back to Syria with the army intact. After dispensing with a few more details, we were dismissed to prepare our men for the next day.
Even for veterans, the night before a battle is anything but a restful time, the mind dwelling on all manner of things; from trying to remember what needs to be done, to all the things that can go wrong. For a Legionary who has never faced battle, it is the fear of the unknown that is the worst. Remembering what that felt like, I sent for young Gaius so we could eat our evening meal together. In doing so, I broke with a tradition of many years when I would dine with Scribonius, Balbus, and Cyclops. I confess that while I am not overly superstitious, it was in the back of my mind that I might have been tempting the Fates to exact revenge on me, though I was not sure for exactly what. Young Porcinus was withdrawn and quiet, a far cry from his normally inquisitive self, picking at his food, concerning me enough that I scolded him for it.
“It’s bad enough we’re on half rations, but when you don’t eat what we do have, you’re not going to be strong enough to throw your javelin past the first rank.”
He managed a weak smile at my jest, but said nothing. Putting my piece of bread down, I studied him silently for several moments, trying to decide the best way to approach what I knew was bothering him. Finally, I opted for my favored tactic, the frontal assault.
“You’re worried about tomorrow,” I said, and after a moment, he nodded, looking away, red spots burning into his cheeks.
“You’re worried that you'll shame yourself, and that you'll let your friends down, that you’ll forget everything you’ve been taught to do.” I suppressed a smile at the surprised look on his face. “And you’re worried that you might die tomorrow,” I finished, the spots on his cheeks spreading to the rest of his face as his feet began shuffling back and forth.
“Yes,” he finally said in a quiet voice that clearly conveyed the huge burden he was feeling.
Leaning forward, I put my hand on his arm, causing him to look up and into my eyes. “Gaius, I would be much more worried about you if you said you weren’t worried about any of that, because then I'd know you were either a fool or a liar. And I know you're no fool, which would mean that you were lying.”
The look of relief on my nephew’s face encouraged me to go further.
“Tomorrow, you're going to learn firsthand why your Centurions have pushed you so hard, and why they smack you with their vitus when you do something wrong. It's going to be the most confusing, terrifying, and exhausting day of your life to this point, but I'll promise you one thing; if you rely on your training, if you keep your head, and do what you’re told, when you’re told, you will survive tomorrow.”
I grinned at him then.
“And you may find out that you actually love battle, like I do.”
“Do you really?” he asked me, his face intently serious, catching me completely by surprise. “Do you really love battle?”
I sat back in my chair as I considered his question carefully.
“Yes, I do,” I said slowly. “I’m obviously good at fighting. Nobody who’s been in the Legions as long as I have isn’t good at it, though I'll be the first to say that there’s a healthy dose of luck.”
“But did you always love it? And do you love it because you’re good at it? How will I know if I’m good at it?”
As he asked these questions, I was remembering back to an eight-year-old boy who followed me everywhere, realizing that these were almost exactly the same questions he had asked me back then.
I shook my head, my mind going back to the very first battle back in Lusitania, when I had seen my first weapons instructor and Optio Aulus Vinicius incinerated before my very eyes, and how my own hubris had almost gotten me killed.
“No,” I admitted. “I didn't always love it. In fact, after the fighting was over, I went and found a quiet corner and threw up my guts, and I was sure I never wanted to pick up a sword again.”
Gaius looked at me in open astonishment, then shook his head, clearly having trouble believing what I was telling him.
“But then,” I continued, “the next battle was easier, and I got better and better, because I kept practicing. Being made weapons instructor for my Century also helped because I would rather have died than let my friends down.”
“I’ll never be good enough to be a weapons instructor,” Gaius said miserably, and I laughed.
“Probably not,” I agreed. “But remember that I started training for the Legions when I was twelve years old. And just because you aren’t an instructor doesn’t mean that you can’t be a good, even a great Legionary. But first,” I reminded him, “you need to remember what I told you. Tomorrow is going to see you blooded, and the most important thing is that you shed the enemy’s blood, not your own. Keep your mouth shut, your ears open, do what you’re told when you’re told, and you'll be fine.”
I stood, then on impulse, I reached down to put my hand on Gaius’ shoulder.
“I know you'll do your duty, Gregarius Porcinus,” I told him, my voice gruff to try to hide my own swelling emotion.
Gaius looked up at me, swallowed hard, then responded in a clear, strong voice, “Yes, Primus Pilus. I will, I swear it.”
I made the rounds of the Legion after the meal, able to move undetected because of the lack of fires, the only light provided by torches placed at intervals around the rampart, listening to the men talking as each of them went through their own individual pre-battle rituals. From what I could hear, morale was good, the men optimistic that they would be able to close with and inflict heavy damage on the Parthians, the rasping sound of blades being sharpened punctuating the conversations. As I listened, I heard some of the men discussing what I thought to be a good idea, which I passed on to all the Pili Priores, ordering them to make sure all of their men did what the originators of the idea came up with. Antonius had ordered that the men carry their shields instead of strapping them to their backs as they normally did on the march, but this presented a problem. How did a man hold his furca with his left hand and his shield at the same time? In his right hand, he would be carrying both of his javelins instead of just one as he usually did, both of which he would carry into battle to hurl at the enemy. The solution that these men came up with was to tie one end of a leather thong around the handle of the shield, with the other end tied in a slipknot around shaft of the furca, so that the shield dangled at their side, but allowed their hand to be free and hold onto the furca. When the order to drop their furca and pack was given, they would reach over with their right hand, holding the shaft of the furca just long enough to grab the handle of the shield with their left hand, then pull the knot, letting the weight of the pack pull the furca off their shoulder and fall to the ground. Naturally, as in most things, it was not quite as simple as it sounded, and I watched several men either drop their javelins as they tried to grab the furca, or more commonly, get smacked in the head by the shaft as it flipped over backwards from the weight of the pack. However, after some practice, I was happy to see that the men were able to make the transition quickly and without any further damage to themselves. It would only save a few moments, but I knew that if this operation were to be successful, we needed every one of those moments to achieve surprise. I thought about passing the word to the other Primi Pili about this idea, but decided against it, which proved to be a big mistake.
