Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 43
“How much water do your men have left?” he asked each of us.
When it came to my turn, I informed him that most men were down to perhaps a quarter skin each, while the Legion reserve was less than two barrels. Most of the other Legions were in the same shape, and from that information, Antonius made his next decision.
“We’re going to steal a march on the Parthians, since I believe Mithradates that they haven’t given up yet,” he announced, hands on his hips as he stared at the parchment on which a rough map of the area had been drawn.
“Cyrus says it’s a day’s march to this river.” He pointed at a line on the map. “We’re going to march through the night and take advantage of the Parthians’ reluctance to fight or move at night.”
I was not watching Antonius as he spoke; I was concentrating on Mithradates, wanting to see how he reacted as Antonius talked. I thought a saw the faintest glimmer of a smile on his face when Antonius reached the part about the Parthian reluctance to operate at night. It was true that this was accepted as an article of faith among all levels of the army and that to this point they had never given any indication that it was anything but the truth. I wondered what this oily, tricky Eastern nobleman had up his brocaded sleeve, but the decision was made and I did not speak up.
The men were nearing the end of their tether, so that telling them to break camp just a matter of a full watch after they finished it created a tense situation throughout the army. The men of the 30th in particular had to be physically encouraged to break their tents down and pull up their stakes, while there were scattered outbreaks of similar behavior, even in my Legion. My Century obeyed with alacrity, and without the sullen attitude that some of the others’ displayed, but I cannot take credit for it. My actions with Vellusius, when I had chosen to take action unofficially over such a serious offense, turned out to have benefits I did not expect, not least of which was that it was Vellusius who was enforcing discipline among his comrades. He had avoided me after our run-in, while truthfully I had other things on my mind, but finally he worked up the courage to approach me as we finished packing for our night march, encouraged no doubt by the darkness. Standing awkwardly at intente, he waited while I ignored him for several moments as I dictated something completely unimportant to Diocles. The truth was that I was still angry with him because he had inflamed my old wound even worse than before, but Vellusius, knowing the game, made no move or sound. Finally, I grudgingly rewarded his patience with a curt nod.
“Well?”
Clearing his throat, he began shuffling as he searched for words, but I was not in the mood for hemming and hawing.
“Pluto’s cock, Vellusius, you’ve been standing there for half a watch and you haven’t thought of what you want to say?”
Despite the gloom, I could see his head drop in what I assumed was embarrassment, then he said quietly, “I'm sorry, Primus Pilus. I was just thinking of Atilius.”
The mention of that name from our shared past froze me. I turned slowly to face him, not sure what direction his thoughts were taking, but sure that I would not like it.
“What about Atilius?” I asked, hoping that my tone conveyed what dangerous waters he was swimming in, but I was not prepared for what came from his mouth.
“I was just thinking that by rights I should have joined him.”
I confess that I had forgotten that he and Atilius had been close comrades, it was so long ago. He continued speaking, his voice having that dreamy quality when someone is looking back through the years.
“I suppose that would have been appropriate, seeing how he . . . you know.”
I did indeed know, but saw no need to say anything.
“Pullus, I've known you as long as any man in this army.” He said this with the pride a man takes in seeing one of his close friends who had achieved success so I did not begrudge the use of my name. “And I know how much your career means to you. I know that you not only had the right by regulations, but you had the right by what I did to do a lot worse than you did to me.”
I saw his few teeth gleam in the moonlight as he reached up to touch his jaw gingerly.
“I still can’t chew. Not that there’s anything to chew on.”
Unbidden, a laugh escaped from me, secretly pleased to hear that I had not lost my punch.
“Anyway.” He turned serious. “I just wanted you to know that I'll never forget what you did for me, and I won’t let you down again.”
“See that you don’t,” I replied softly, then leaned over him, using my favorite trick of my height to reinforce my point. “Because I expect more from a man trained by Gaius Crastinus.”
Clearly relieved, he smiled at me, took a step back, giving me a perfect salute.
“I will not, Primus Pilus. I swear by Mars and Bellona.”
I had many, many troubles with the men of the 10th for the remainder of my time with the Legion, but never again did I have a problem with the First Century, because of Vellusius, and that first night was an example of his influence over his comrades.
We began the march with only the moonlight shining down on our path. In anticipation of fresh water, I ordered that the Legion reserve be distributed among the men, but it was so small that it was less than a cup per man. We could not move as quickly as we did during daylight, but the moon was full that night, so we were able to march at close to the same pace as during the day. Even during the short time we were in camp, men had died for one reason or another, and as I looked back I could see their pale, naked corpses almost glowing in the moonlight and I wondered if the vultures came at night. There is no way for an army of the size of this one, even as shrunken as it had become, to move with any stealth at all, but so confident were our officers in their belief that the Parthians would not march at night, they gave no orders to muffle our march, so there were no bits of cloth wrapped around clinking pieces of metal, nor did the horses have their hooves muffled. We were near the front of the column this night, just behind the vanguard and the command group, so Antonius was a frequent visitor as he trotted up and down, exhorting the men to march as if they were with Caesar, as he put it. The only time he mounted Clemency was to go farther to the rear, but the rest of the time, he marched on foot, making his rounds, talking to the men, but his magic was not as powerful as it had been. The men were exhausted, they were hungrier than most of them had ever been; we had gone on barley rations the day before, running out of even raw wheat to chew on, and now they were thirsty as well. All of this added up to an army that would not be mollified by Antonius’ jokes or pretense that he was one of them. While the men appreciated his sharing of the hardships on the march, none of them were unaware that when camp was made, he slept under fur, and was still eating better than the rankers.
Mile after mile passed under our feet, despite the rugged terrain, figuratively flogged on by Antonius, who I must admit was a paragon of energy and courage that night. Men were staggering, their normal load now becoming almost too heavy for them to bear, while I was doing little better. A few days before, Diocles made a surreptitious visit to the doctors attached to Antonius’ staff, and with my gold had paid a pretty price for a small stoppered bottle that supposedly contained an elixir that gave a man energy and vitality under the direst circumstances. The Greek doctor claimed that it was a concoction developed by one of Cleopatra’s court physicians to be used by Antonius himself, and was supposedly the reason he was the seemingly inexhaustible fount of energy he had been on this campaign. I had to admit that he did seem to be indefatigable, yet to that point I had not used the elixir, for a variety of reasons. However, that night found me in the baggage train looking for Diocles who, as if reading my thoughts, had kept the bottle with him instead of packing it in my baggage. Without a word being spoken, he handed it to me, and I drank some of the contents, almost gagging on the vile taste. Trotting back to my spot in the column, for some time nothing happened and I was cursing the Greek for cheating us. Then, I noticed that it seemed to have gotten brighter, as if the moon’s light had somehow increased itself, while my legs did not seem to be as heavy as they had been. More importantly, the pain in my chest eased, in fact almost disappearing as the miles went by, the army rumbling along. The moon was sinking towards its resting place, the men now clearly staggering, many of them falling and more than one not getting back up. Their comrades would stagger over to check on them, sometimes able to revive them, pulling them to their feet, then taking their pack while the stricken man recovered, but all too often they would check the man’s pulse, shake their head, say a brief prayer, then immediately go through their friend’s belongings to take everything of value. They also would strip the man of his cloak, tunic and whatever other piece of warm clothing he might have been wearing. After we had one incident where it turned out the man was not dead, that he had just fainted and then was left to die, I forced the Optios and Centurions to stand over each man to ensure that he was beyond hope.
The disintegration that I had been concerned about was happening, as men stopped worrying at all about their comrades to focus on their own survival, to the exclusion of everything else. While I was feeling better than I had felt in weeks, the army was falling apart around me. The sky was just turning pink when our scouts reported back that the river was in sight and without needing any urging, the men picked up their pace, finding last reserves of energy to close that final bit of distance to water. The horses and mules, smelling the river, began fighting their riders and the men driving them, so that it was not much longer before the baggage train threatened to push the army into the water as animals obeyed their own inner voice that demanded they survive. The vanguard reached the river and men, despite the cold, went plunging into the water, which ran clear and deep, looking as inviting as any water I had ever seen. Just as they were doing so, a series of cornu calls came relaying from the rear, announcing that the Parthians were attacking.
Disproving the long-held belief that the Parthians did not operate at night, they had in fact been stalking us when, just before the sun rose, at a point where they judged that our men were at their most exhausted, a force of horse archers came dashing out of the gloom. It was Corbulo and the 4th that had the rearguard during that march and I have no doubt that the attack was repulsed because that crusty old bastard was the man holding the line. Despite their fatigue, after marching what turned out to be 30 miles through the night, the men of the 4th held off the Parthian attack, taking not insignificant losses in the process. After perhaps a half-dozen attempts, the Parthians broke off their attack, but the myth of Parthians not fighting at night was destroyed forever. While Corbulo was involved with the Parthians, the men in the front of the column were drinking their fill of the water, whooping with delight, smiling for the first time in weeks. The men of the 10th were pushing their way towards the water when one of the first men to take a drink suddenly clutched his stomach, then began violently retching, the recently ingested water spewing from his mouth along with the rest of his stomach contents. Within a matter of moments, every other man who drank from the river was violently ill, but still my men pushed forward, oblivious to the obvious danger. Before I could stop them, some of them dropped to their stomach to begin drinking. It was utter chaos until Antonius came galloping up on Clemency, leaping down to begin dragging men away from the riverbank. Between the general and the Centurions, we were able to establish some semblance of order but not before we had dozens of men violently ill. In between bouts of vomiting, they complained that their thirst was worse than ever. There was no chance of continuing the march, and while we were worried that both man and beast would be driven mad by the presence of water they could not drink, we had to take the risk, hoping that the example of men stretched out holding their guts and moaning would be enough to deter them. Orders were given to erect the tents, without building a full camp to allow the men someplace to rest out of the wind. The medici did what they could for the men taken ill by the water and, while most recovered, about a half-dozen men, probably already weakened, died. Then, Mithradates came to Antonius, saying that there was another river not much farther along, that this river would not only provide water that he swore was potable, but Phraates had been forced by his men to promise not to pursue beyond it. I cannot speak with any assurance as to Antonius’ frame of mind at this point, yet I think he was so desperate to believe this ordeal was coming to an end that he accepted what Mithradates said with such pathetic thankfulness that he gave the Parthian some of his golden dinner plates, with which the Parthian skulked off as his reward. Some of the men saw him leaving loaded down, and I am sure that is what gave them the idea for what was to follow, with Antonius’ decision providing the spark.
I was called to the Praetorium not a third of a watch after I lay down on my cot and I was as unhappy as the rest of the Primi Pili, all of whom looked in a similar state as I felt. Antonius and his generals were waiting for us, Antonius looking impatient while his generals looked as grumpy as I imagined as the rest of us.
“Mithradates has given me information that changes things quite a bit,” he said bluntly. “I know the men are tired, but I also know they’re thirsty and being camped next to a river that they can’t drink from isn't making things any easier.”
I shot a glance at Corbulo, who was standing next to me. He eyed me back, then shook his head, clearly not liking what he was hearing either.
“So we're packing up and we're going to continue on the march to the next river. Once we're across that, not only will there be water, but the Parthians won't pursue across the river.”
Even knowing it was coming, it was no easier hearing the order. Nevertheless, none of us disputed it, knowing that when Antonius was this way, there was no arguing. We dispersed to our Legion areas to rouse the men.
Aside from that dusty day at Pharsalus those many, many years ago, that day was the closest I ever had men under my command come to mutiny. It started with the Centurions, who I summoned all together. What I had to say was met with a sullen silence, the men refusing to meet my gaze, none of them moving for several moments. I scanned the faces, at first trying to gauge where each man stood, then with more and more inner desperation, I started looking for a friendly face, but there were none to be found. Even Scribonius, Balbus, and Cyclops refused to meet my gaze. I had never felt so isolated and alone as I did at that moment.
Then, feeling the slow coil of anger tightening in my stomach I took a step forward, saying softly, but loud enough to be heard by all of them, “I just gave you an order. I don't like it any more than you do, but those are the orders we’ve been given. Are you really going to shame yourselves and the 10th Legion by refusing to obey this order?”
None of them answered, but I saw some heads drop or turn away as I looked their direction. Then, Scribonius stepped forward, and without saying a word, walked towards his Legion area, Balbus turning a moment later to where his Century was located. Whatever resistance was left melted away, as the rest of the Centurions turned to walk to where their men were laying in an exhausted stupor, with the shouting beginning, though the challenges were not over. Rousing Valerius, I commanded him to give the signal formally for the Legion to break camp, then Lutatius and I began walking through our Century, opening the flaps of the tents when the men did not show themselves quickly, and they were exceedingly slow to get up and start the business of packing up. Some tents I had to go back to twice and when I did, I used the vitus, but still the men moved slowly. They began packing in sullen silence, which was unnerving, making me extremely nervous, though I was determined to act as if nothing was amiss. Then I saw Vellusius circulating among the men as they were packing, exchanging a whisper here and there. As if by some magic, the men suddenly began working at their normal pace. While they were not bantering and complaining as they normally did, they were moving in a manner that no Centurion could find fault with, and I silently thanked my old comrade. Unfortunately, things were not going so smoothly in the other Cohorts, and it was Pilus Posterior Gnaeus Aureolus of Glaxus’ Ninth Cohort who came running.
“Primus Pilus, Pilus Prior Glaxus requests your presence in his Cohort area. Some of the men are refusing to break camp.”
“How many?” I asked.
I could see him gulp, before he said, “Almost all of them.”
Hurrying with Aureolus, I found Glaxus along with the other four Centurions standing facing a group of men who were congregated in their Cohort street. Significantly, none of the men were doing what they were supposed to be doing, while the Centurions were looking nervously over their shoulder for my arrival. Glaxus was snarling curses and threats at the rankers when I walked up, but while none of the men were saying anything back to him, neither were they showing any inclination of changing their minds. Walking past Glaxus so I was between the Centurions and the men, I stood with Glaxus standing just off of my left shoulder. I was facing my second showdown in less than a third of a watch, yet this had the potential to be much more serious business than with the Centurions, because this was a Cohort of some 400 men at that point. If they succeeded in their refusal, it was a sure bet that there would be other Cohorts who would follow their lead, and I would have the full Legion in a mutiny. Scanning the men, who were now beginning to shift nervously, I was able to identify what was bothering me. There were at least three Optios standing with the men and as I turned back towards the Centurions to look more closely, I saw that there were at least two Centurions who had slightly separated themselves from the others. The Hastatus Posterior of the Ninth was a man named Laberius, and he and the Princeps Prior, Voconius was his name, were the two who seemed to be trying to send a signal to the men that they were on their side.
