Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 50
The next morning, nothing was said, by anyone, yet for the rest of our march to the Aras, although we had wood for fires, they were only used for cooking and lighting the camp perimeter and streets in the normal manner, the men disdaining them for any other purpose. The only exception was for the wounded, who were brought out of the hospital tents on their litters, arranged around the fires for a few thirds of a watch, including those frostbitten men who had lost all of their toes. Their howls of pain could be heard throughout camp as feeling returned to their extremities. I think this contributed to the men’s resolve in helping their less fortunate comrades who were still mobile to stay away from the thawing heat until we were at a point where they could go through the excruciating process without the threat of being left behind on the next day’s march.
Men were still dying, succumbing to the harsh conditions, some still dropping dead on the march, particularly among the auxiliaries. As little as I cared for the auxiliaries, with the exception of the slingers and cavalry who had proved their value, it was still disheartening to see how they had just melted away. There were little more than 500 men from each nation’s contingent left, the survivors looking more dead than alive, staggering as they put one foot in front of the other, their heads down. I could not blame them for not being conditioned to such hardships as we were. Being fair, I know that they did the best that they could and that Antonius treated them poorly in many respects, but they were not my concern. If it came down to a choice of feeding Romans or feeding auxiliaries, to me it was and is a simple choice. We do the bulk of the fighting, while we also do most of the work when building camps, roads, and anything else that a general can dream up during a campaign. To my mind, that gives us the right to the lion’s share of everything; food, wine, women and loot. However, there was no plunder on this march. In fact, most of the men had lost money, since each Legion’s savings fund had been locked in strongboxes on one of our designated wagons in the baggage train. All that money was now in the purses of the Parthian army, another reason we hated them so passionately. I had lost a fair amount of money as well, and while I normally did not think much about such matters, believing that the gods would either give or take away whatever I accrued as they saw fit, it was worrying nonetheless. I was fairly certain that I still had the requisite 400,000 sesterces deposited with Caesar’s old bankers that would elevate me to the equestrian order, and I had sent a good sum to Valeria for safekeeping. I suppose it was a natural progression that I began thinking about whether it was time to retire after this campaign, and it was this idea that occupied me for the rest of the march to the Aras River.
Perhaps the only thing that Antonius got right in the entire campaign was his prediction of how long it would take to reach the Aras once we crossed the river where the Parthians stopped pursuing. A week to the day, we topped a ridge to look down at a silvery ribbon crossing our path, while men began shouting for joy as the word that the sight before our eyes was indeed the Aras. As a river it was not much, but what it represented could not be of greater importance, and as we drew nearer I could see a small group of horsemen just on the other side of the river, clearly waiting for us. A halt was called, the order being met by groans and cries of frustration, but Antonius had experienced enough Eastern treachery to be cautious, so he sent one of his lower-ranked and less valuable Tribunes galloping down to the riverbank to determine the reason for this party waiting for us. A few moments later, he came galloping back and the march resumed, so I sent Diocles up to find out what he could. He returned to tell me that the party had been sent by Artavasdes of Armenia, with the usual flowery assurances that we were honored guests and how overjoyed Artavasdes was to see that we had marched out of the wastelands of Media.
“I would love to gut that bastard,” I growled, and Diocles laughed.
“That’s exactly what Antonius said.” He turned sober. “But he also said that he can’t do that, not yet. We need Artavasdes’ good will, and we can’t afford to fight our way through another country in the shape that we’re in.”
I knew Antonius was right, but it did not sit well, so instead I grumbled about Armenians in particular and Easterners in general.
The army crossed the river, and as men reached the far bank, many of them fell to their knees to give thanks to the gods, while others actually kissed the ground. As relieved and happy as I was that we had reached the river, there was a nagging suspicion in the back of my mind that somehow we were not done yet, so I restrained my enthusiasm. The wounded and sick were transported across first, where they lay in their litters watching as men clasped hands, hugging each other. If there had been wine and food, it could have been a festival day judging by the way men were acting. Antonius gave the order that we would settle in for the night, despite having a few thirds of a watch left in the day. We made camp, and as we were working, a train of animals led by the same party that was waiting at the river arrived laden with grain and wine. The Armenians said that this was just the beginning, that more supplies would be coming, and these would be carrying olive oil, dates, fodder for the livestock, along with all manner of delicacies. This actually presented more problems than it solved, because there was not enough in this first train to feed the whole army, but after a quick discussion, it was decided that there would be enough for the sick and wounded, the men having no objections when they were told. The only decision made that was not popular was the joint one about continuing to keep the frostbitten men away from the fires.
“Not until we reach Artaxata,” Antonius declared. “It’s just a few days more and there we can rest before we head for Syria.”
We all understood his reasoning, but none of us particularly liked it. Neither did the men, though they obeyed readily enough. Fortunately, enough good things had happened that the Centurions did not have to sleep with one eye open that night, as the men just grumbled about the order. The smell of baking bread, made with real wheat and not barley, was more of a torment, as men found excuses to suddenly go visit a sick or wounded comrade. There was a crowd of men around the hospital area just standing there, taking deep breaths through their noses, sucking in the aroma and salivating. I did not see the point in torturing one’s self, but there was no harm in it, and most men did not begrudge their wounded and ill comrades this luxury, probably because they knew that the next day, or day after at the latest it would be their turn. As further events transpired, I was always somewhat puzzled how we did not receive any warning about what was coming, but I suppose it was because the medical staff knew what they were doing and did not allow the sick and injured men to gorge themselves, so they had no ill effects.
The Armenians were good to their word, as that first train was just the beginning, while the next days as we moved towards Artaxata saw a seemingly endless procession of trains carrying food, forage, medical supplies, and even warm clothing arriving to meet us on the march.
“Where was all this when we were starving in Media?” Balbus asked as we watched the third train of the day arrive to join us.
“Sitting in Artavasdes’ warehouses,” I said grimly. “Waiting for the moment when we needed it most, but also when he could deliver it without risking anything.”
“I really want to gut that bastard,” Balbus replied, and I laughed, slapping him on the back.
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
It was about a day out of Artaxata that things started going badly for some of the men. Their bodies, having become accustomed to deprivation, now reacted violently to the surfeit of food in their systems. Unlike our medical staff and the wounded, none of the Centurions had the knowledge to supervise their consumption. This meant that men who had been surviving on a quarter of barley bread a day, with no oil to go with it, suddenly had full loaves of wheat bread and all the oil they could consume with it, their bodies almost immediately rebelling because of it. I believe that the dates in particular did not help, but men were starved for anything sweet, their time in Syria making them fancy dates as one of their favorite sweet things. At first, it was more a source of amusement for comrades who had not yet been afflicted, as men suddenly bolted from the formation to run to some spot a distance away to relieve their aching bowels. However, it quickly stopped being a laughing matter; by the time we were in Artaxata more than a quarter of the men were stricken, while it quickly became apparent that trying to prevent the men from gorging themselves was a task beyond the capacity of the Centurions to control. It became so bad that a number of men died, literally shitting their guts out, or so it seemed, and only after seeing men who had survived a march as horrific as this one die from essentially eating too much did the men start to restrain themselves.
Artavasdes was waiting for us in Artaxata, greeting Antonius as a long-lost comrade, a greeting that Antonius was no less effusive in returning, though he had described in graphic detail what he wanted to do to Artavasdes at some point in the future. Watching the two, one would never believe that either had a hateful thought towards the other, but I suppose that this is just part of what it means to be high born. It was at Artaxata that Antonius finally allowed us to honor our dead properly, holding a formation, both to remember them and to award decorations to the living. When on the march, there are seldom opportunities to view the army in its entirety, so it was not until that formation that the true scope of our losses was plain for all to see. The army was 24,000 men fewer, 20,000 gone from the ranks of the Legionaries and auxiliaries, and 4,000 from the cavalry. Those were the dead; there were still half that number bed-ridden and a fair number of these men would die as well in the coming days and weeks. More than half of the men who had died did so from illness and not battle, and given the fact that we had never had a widespread plague sweep through the army, it was this number that was most disturbing.
It was not all a sad occasion, since I was able to witness Legionary Gregarius Gaius Porcinus win the Grass Crown for his actions in saving Secundus Pilus Prior Sextus Scribonius in the eighteenth and final action against the Parthians at the river. I had never experienced the surge of pride that ran through my body as I watched him stand at intente while Antonius and I, acting in my capacity of Primus Pilus, made the award. I held the simple grass crown, woven together using the tough, dried strands of the local grass, on a silken cloth of Tyrian purple, standing to Antonius’ left, who took it, then placed it gently on Gaius’ head after reading the citation describing his actions. Gaius stood with his helmet under his left arm, as custom dictates that the grass crown be placed on a bare head, but then he was entitled to wear it around his helmet the rest of the day. From now until he dies, he is allowed to wear it on all official occasions in which he participates. His eyes were shining, clearly as proud as I was, a far cry from the shaking, hollow-eyed boy who sat in my tent the night that it had happened, and I was reminded how resilient the young truly are. Servius Gellius also received a set of phalarae for his actions that disastrous day when the Tenth Cohort was lost and Nasica was killed. No number of decorations could completely erase the sour taste in our mouth of how the campaign turned out, but with full bellies and warm fires, the mood of the men was considerably improved.
After a week at Artaxata, Antonius released the client kings, along with the remnants of their auxiliaries, who began dispersing to their respective countries. Artavasdes, still trying to ingratiate himself back into Antonius’ good graces, invited Antonius and the army to winter at Artaxata, but Antonius, sensing the mood of the army and I am sure having had his own fill of Eastern duplicity, instead demanded that Artavasdes open his granaries to us so that we could stock up for the remaining march back into Syria. In a rare moment of foresight, he also demanded that the citizens of Artaxata surrender their supplies of firewood they had lain in for the oncoming winter. Artavasdes was not happy, yet he also knew better than to argue with an army that hated him planted just outside his walls, so with his most false Eastern smile he graciously agreed to that which he had no choice in anyway. He also offered up his entire supply of rolling stock so that supplies and men who could still not walk could be transported, though very few of them were the solid Roman wagons that we were accustomed to, but lighter carts. While they were better suited to travel through the rugged terrain of Armenia, they could also transport only two men lying side by side, or a few barrels and bags of supplies. Still, compared to what we had on the march out of Media, it was a huge improvement. All of these additional luxuries; the supplies, the wood, and the carts, put the men in relatively good spirits for the final leg back to Syria. Also, while we were in Artaxata, Antonius sent a message to Cleopatra, urgently ordering that she come with supplies and most importantly, money to Syria. Having done all he could do to continue our march in the best possible manner, Antonius gave the order to break down camp, load the sick and wounded, to begin heading for Syria. We all felt that we had survived the worst that could be done to us as far as the enemy and the elements, and we were right, but only on one count.
To get back to Syria, we first had to cross through the mountain range of which Mount Ararat is the central feature. The rock of the mountain itself was barely visible, so covered in snow and ice all the way down its slopes that the original shape of the mountain as we saw it earlier in the year was hidden. The lower ridges that flank Ararat and run in an east-west direction were equally covered, although there the snow was not so deep. Antonius, determined to take the shortest route possible back to Syria and believing that the men were inured to the hardships of winter at this point, ordered us to cross over the series of ridges, using the passes of which our guide knew. Artavasdes had offered his own guide, but Antonius was not about to trust that Armenian snake, so Cyrus was paid handsomely to continue to lead us on our journey. We originally viewed those small carts supplied by Artavasdes with some disdain, but on the rough terrain, climbing through the icy patches that covered what was barely more than a goat track that they called a road in this part of the world, they proved their value. Still, the footing was treacherous, so that we began losing men who made a careless step, or who walked a short distance away to relieve themselves thinking they were walking on solid ground, only to find in the last heartbeats of their life that they had chosen a snowdrift with nothing to support it underneath, whereupon they would plunge, screaming, hundreds of feet to their death. There would be a shout of alarm, the column would stop for a few moments before resuming, the comrades of the men cursing and weeping at the loss. As often as we warned the men not to trust the appearance of the ground around them, deaths of this nature were a regular occurrence, happening several times a day. Despite the fact that we had recuperated somewhat during our time at Artaxata and the men were stronger now with regular rations, this last section of the march was brutally hard, the sounds of men panting for breath as they climbed up the seemingly endless series of ridges, drowning out any attempts at conversation, save for a quick order or warning.
Then, the first blizzard struck while we were still negotiating a particularly difficult pass that only the vanguard and the command group had passed through. In moments, the visibility was so bad that men could only see the rank immediately in front and in back of their spots, the wind blowing what felt like icy needles into our faces, howling so loudly that a man could only be heard if he bellowed at the top of his lungs. The medici tried desperately to keep the wounded protected, but the wind was so fierce that it ripped the coverings that had been rigged over each cart into shreds, or they were blown away completely, disappearing into the swirling white. I was as blind as any of the men, forced to feel my way back along the column, keeping my footing, trying to avoid stepping off into the void by keeping a hand on the rock wall that lined one side of the road, as I yelled at men to do the same. Having them do so meant that it destroyed the integrity of the marching formation and that men would be crowding each other in their move to grab the rock wall, but at that moment, it seemed like the lesser of two evils. I would rather have had the men milling about like cattle than see more of them fall to their deaths trying to march in a straight line. Even with my scarf tied tightly around my face, the small area of exposed skin around my eyes burned from the blast of icy snow, as if my skin was being scoured by a piece of lava stone. With every passing moment, the track we were following was becoming more obscured, the progress of the men slowing to a few shuffling steps, followed by a pause as someone tripped and fell. If they were lucky, they fell straight down and were able to struggle to their feet. However, if they took a stumbling step in the wrong direction, there would be a shrill scream that briefly pierced the din of the howling blizzard before things returned to what had become normal, men continuing to grope blindly forward. For one part of the watch, then two, we struggled through the pass, knowing only when we reached the top by the change in direction of the slope. Ice had crusted on my eyebrows, the weight of it threatening to close my eyes. Yet after several swipes to clear it away, only to have it return in moments, I finally gave up, just enduring it, even as it dangerously limited my vision. The men were similarly covered, looking like icy apparitions, every particle that struck them seeming to cling to their cloaks, scarves, and bare skin as they continued to struggle to keep moving. I kept shouting at men that stopping meant death, yet their fatigue mounted, the Centurions forced to begin using the vitus, striking some men repeatedly before they roused themselves to take another step. The time for a break came and passed, because we knew that we could not allow the men to rest as long as the blizzard continued unabated, so we struggled on. Men like me, mostly veterans of Gaul, who were lucky enough to bring at least one pair of bracae, the leggings made of wool worn by the Gauls obviously fared better than men who did not, clumps of ice forming on their bare legs, and I knew that we would have more cases of frostbite before we were done. Finally, the wind began to abate, the visibility becoming slightly better, enough so that I could have the Centurions perform a head count, starting with the Third Cohort, which on this day was directly behind us. I held a brief meeting with the Centurions of the Cohort, learning that every man was accounted for.
