Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 54
“Hopefully we'll know when the moment’s right,” Scribonius answered, and I did not pursue the conversation any farther.
Fortunately, as we learned later, for the time being Octavian did not choose to make political capital out of our misfortune, indeed going along with the fiction perpetrated by Antonius, who declared that he had subdued both Media and Armenia. Antonius claimed that it had never been part of his strategy to conquer Parthia in this campaign, but to first ensure that the two kingdoms bordering our Eastern foe were pacified and not a threat. It was a sound strategy, except we all knew that it was nothing but a fiction, that it had never been part of Antonius’ plan to do anything about Media, while Artavasdes the Armenian had been a supposed ally, though none of us considered him as such. In fact, the rumor started circulating that we would be marching to chastise him with the next season.
Despite Octavian choosing not to challenge Antonius’ version of events, even when it became obvious to anyone with a set of ears that the Parthian campaign was anything but a success, neither was he willing to send Antonius any aid. He even went so far as to forbid Antonius from recruiting in Italia as was his right, Caesar’s heir sending a snippy letter saying in effect that seeing how Antonius had won the great victory that he claimed, he hardly needed to raise more troops. He also used Antonius’ supposed victory as an excuse not to hand over the four Legions he promised his colleague as part of the trade for ships called for by the Treaty of Tarentum. Antonius did not learn of this until early March, and when he called us together, he was livid, in my mind justifiably so.
“That sneaking, conniving little cocksucker Octavian is trying to stop us from rebuilding the army,” he snarled, throwing the scroll that I assumed contained that news down on his desk.
He leaned forward, his heavily muscled arms taut with his suppressed rage as he glared at each of us in turn, as if daring us to agree with Octavian’s perfidy. I could not help shooting a glance at Balbinus, yet he looked as angry as the rest of us, because Octavian had put us in a very difficult spot. We had already been informed that we would be doing things in the manner first practiced by Caesar, not reenlisting the Legion as a whole but instead finding replacements to fill the empty spots. However, we had planned on having boatloads of new tiros, preferably from Hispania like the bulk of the Legion, or at worst from Italia. Now we were being told that we would have to scour this side of Our Sea for Roman citizens, and we did not have a moment to lose in doing so. Although we are all on the same side, when it comes to recruiting, other Legions are viewed as the enemy, so I had to scramble to send recruiting parties out to the African provinces to find suitable men before the other Legions. That is why I wasted no time in selecting the men who would be in the recruiting party. Deciding that the best and only person to lead the dilectus was Scribonius, I invited him to dinner that night, making sure that it was only the two of us, with Miriam, of course. The minute he entered the apartment and saw the table set for just three people, he knew I was up to something, and his expression turned wary.
“I never could fool you,” I admitted, hoping that by being frank with him that this would ease the tension.
I had Diocles offer him some wine, then waited for him to take a few sips before I broached the subject.
“I need you to do something for the Legion, Scribonius.”
He gave me his thoughtful frown, saying nothing, clearly waiting for me to continue. I proceeded to explain what needed to be done, and he listened carefully, still not speaking. When I was finished, he considered, before giving a resigned shrug.
“When do you want me to start?”
“Tomorrow,” I told him, but before he could protest, I reached over to refill his wine cup.
“But tonight, let’s just drink and talk.”
I do not know what prompts such moments, whether it is the stars aligning in a certain order, or if the gods decree that this be the day when all mysteries are revealed. Neither do I know what force put the words in my mouth, or if I simply put the same words I had uttered so many times before in a slightly different order, thereby unlocking some door in Scribonius’ heart.
Whatever the case, when I asked as I so often had before for Scribonius to tell me of his background, treating it as something that had developed into a joke, I could have been knocked over by a breath when he set his cup down, gave a slight smile, then said simply, “All right.”
Of all the momentous events that happened that winter for me personally, that still ranks as one of the most memorable, the night that Sextus Scribonius told me where he was from and how he had come to join the army.
“I was the son of a knight, and we were members of the first class of the Claudii” he began. “The third son, but my father was very wealthy and had more than enough to set each of us up.” Scribonius’ gaze had turned inward, as Miriam and I sat spellbound, while out of the corner of my eye I noticed Diocles had crept into the main room where we ate our meals and was sitting in a dark corner, clearly as interested as we were.
Scribonius looked up, his eyes turned towards me, a sad smile on his face.
“He was like you in many ways, Titus. He was extremely ambitious to advance the fortunes of his family, and to that end, he spared no expense in our education. We three boys had our own tutors but naturally, it was my oldest brother Marcus who was being groomed for the Senatorial order. My father had done very well, and he was very close to the million sesterces needed to elevate the family into the Senatorial class. We would still have been plebeian of course, but nowadays there are mostly plebeians actually serving in the Senate anyway.”
He sipped from his cup before continuing, “Oh, how I looked up to Marcus! He was ten years older than I was, but he was a wonderful older brother. He didn't torment me the way so many older brothers do, and was always there to protect me from the older boys. He could do no wrong in my eyes.”
He heaved a great sigh.
“But then he fell in with Catiline. There were two types of men in the upper classes who flocked to that demagogue, one type being young idealists like Marcus who wanted to change things so that more people of the lower classes had a voice. And then there were the men heavily in debt who could have given a rotten fig about the poorer classes and only cared about Catiline’s promise to cancel debts. I was 19, and I never questioned Marcus, or any of his friends, for that matter, about what Catiline was really up to. He had made his reputation in the Social Wars militarily, and he was quite the figure in his toga as he walked about inciting the mob. Honestly, I didn't care about any of it. As long as Marcus was involved, I wanted to be part of it as well.
“So when Marcus said he was joining the army that Catiline was forming up, under that bastard Manlius, I made it clear that I was joining as well. Our family wasn't politically important enough for Catiline to use us for what he had planned in Rome; that was for men like Cethegus, Publius Cornelius Lentulus, and men of that stature. The young firebrands who hadn't yet made their name in the cursus honorum were all sent down to fill the ranks of Catiline’s army, which Manlius was commanding. He had been a Primus Pilus in one of Sulla’s Legion, or so he claimed. Now, as I look back, I'm sure that he was never higher than a third grade, and certainly had never even been a Pilus Prior. But he was a right mean bastard, and he had some of his veteran friends put us through training.”
He paused, shaking his head at the memory, while I had one of my own, as I remembered that Scribonius was one of the tiros like Vibius and me who clearly had some sort of military training. Ours came from Cyclops back in Hispania, but now I was learning how it had been for Scribonius.
“But when you’re young, it’s all a great adventure. Marcus was made a Tribune, but I was too young so I was in the ranks, though I didn’t mind because it wasn’t like a real army camp. It was like a big festival at night, where we were allowed to mingle freely with men who were supposed to be our officers. I have to laugh now at the idea, but the mess it created when the fighting started wasn’t funny at all. Yet at that moment, it was great fun, and we would spend the nights talking about what Catiline was trying to do. I suppose that’s when I started to see what this revolt was really about as far as most of the men were concerned, at least the men in the ranks. Most of them were Sulla’s veterans, and they were bored, or they were broke, or they were both. They laughed at the boys like me, but they weren’t cruel to us. The more I heard, the more I wondered if we had made the right decision, and one night I went to Marcus and suggested that perhaps we should reconsider, but he wouldn't hear of it.
“You see, when we had left Rome, Marcus and my father had a huge fight, and my father, as paterfamilias, forbade Marcus to go. He said that it would end badly, and that the family’s prospects would be ruined because Catiline couldn't win since too many powerful men were aligned against him. Cicero was only the most vocal, but there were men who were infinitely wealthier and more influential who felt threatened by Catiline. It wasn’t until I was older that I learned that in the end; it was all about money and the old order preserving itself. My father saw that immediately, but Marcus called him an old fool who was too bound to the past to see that change was inevitable.”
Scribonius gave a small, sad laugh.
“Marcus was half-right at least. Change was inevitable, but it wasn't going to be Catiline who brought it about. Anyway, my father told Marcus that if he left, he was disowned, but Marcus didn't care and he left that night.”
Miriam frowned. She had been listening raptly, but now she was moved to ask a question.
“What about you? What did your father say about you joining Marcus?”
Scribonius’ face took on a pained expression as the memory evidently stabbed at him like a dagger.
“He didn’t say anything because he didn’t know. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that I would disobey. He didn't forbid me because he didn't know I was interested or involved, and in truth to that point I wasn't, not really. But I sneaked out of the house that night, after Marcus left like the man he was. He made no attempt to hide what he was doing, announcing to everyone in the house that he was leaving to join Catiline. He even made the pronouncement that, like the men of Sparta, he would either return victorious with his shield or on it.”
I could see the tears forming in Scribonius’ eyes, but his tone was mocking as he raised his cup in a salute.
“But not me. No, I left like a thief, after my father had fallen asleep. I never said a word; I didn't even leave a note. I just...left. And met with Marcus, who was waiting for me with some friends at the Capitoline Gate where we made our way to the camp in Etruria. So when I went to Marcus to suggest that we should go back home, that maybe this hadn’t been the glorious undertaking that it had been made out to be, Marcus got very angry with me. I know now that it was his pride, because I could see in his eyes the same doubts that I had, but there was no way that he would admit that my father had been right, so we stayed there in camp.
“And there we played at soldier, waiting for word from Rome that Catiline’s part of the plan had begun. I never knew what the plan was, at least until later. If I had, or more importantly, if Marcus had, I don’t believe that things would have turned out the way they did for the both of us.”
Every time Scribonius’ cup looked as if it were empty, I would reach over to refill it, not wanting to break whatever spell had fallen over him. I had learned more about Scribonius’ past in the last few moments than in all the years I had known him, and I wanted to hear the whole story. Scribonius drank about as much as I did, but despite his consumption that night, he was not slurring or rambling as the drunk tend to do. It was as if he had decided that he needed to unburden himself at long last and he would not stop until he had.
He took another deep gulp before continuing.
“Then, word reached us of the letters to the Allobroges, and how Catiline’s offer to ally himself with Gauls, our ancient enemies, had turned the people against him. Well, you know the rest. Catiline barely escaped with his own life, but a number of the conspirators were sacrificed by Catiline to enable him to escape with his skin, at least that’s how I saw it. Catiline came to the camp, and he gave a rousing speech, I'll give him that, but out of the 10,000 men gathered there, all but about 3,000 of them left. Of course, Marcus was determined to be one of the 3,000, while a number of the friends we had come with went skulking back home. I wasn't going to leave Marcus’ side, but I wasn't happy about staying. Then Catiline gave orders to break camp, and we started marching. Supposedly, we were headed to Gaul to go into exile there, but when we heard that, almost all of Sulla’s veterans flat out refused to go, saying that they hadn't joined with Catiline to spend the rest of their lives with a bunch of smelly barbarians.”
He gave a rueful laugh.
“Little did I know that the first part of my career in the real army I'd be doing that very thing. Anyway, when Catiline learned that if he were to go to Gaul he'd do it by himself, he then resolved to avoid battle until conditions were more favorable. That's what he told us anyway, but now I know he was just stalling for time and praying for a miracle. Then the patricians finally got their forces together and they sent Caecilius Metellus and three Legions down from the north. We marched south, but Antonius’ kinsman Hybrida and Marcus Petreius were waiting for us. Well, you know, Hybrida and Catiline had been colleagues when they both ran for Consul so he hoped that Hybrida would be unwilling to face him, and even if he did, he wouldn't fight hard. He was wrong, but you know that too.”
Now Scribonius’ face tightened as he began reliving that day. I shot a quick glance at Miriam and Diocles, who were both sitting spellbound; Miriam with elbows on the table, chin in her hand, gazing at Scribonius with glistening eyes. Diocles had barely moved a muscle, still sitting in the darker corner of the room, but if Scribonius had even seen him, he gave no notice. My friend was now staring down into his cup, frowning in the manner he always did when he was thinking.
“They call it a battle, but it was hardly that. I know that now, having been in more than a hundred of them, but that day, I had never seen anything that confused, heard anything that loud, or witnessed anything so terrible. We couldn’t array ourselves in proper wings, not and have more than one line anyway, but Catiline did what he could with what he had, I suppose. I was put in the center, and Marcus was the Tribune in command of my Cohort, but you know how that is. One of Sulla’s veterans was really in charge, and I honestly don't believe that Marcus would have done a worse job. He either completely forgot or panicked and never blew the whistle for the relief, so the men in the first rank were forced to keep fighting until they were exhausted. The other side didn't have that problem; they had Centurions who knew their job, so they kept the shifts short and the men fresh. It was just a matter of a few moments before our men were so tired they couldn’t lift their shields, and you know what happens then. They were cut down, and in the confusion of men falling and the men behind them trying to get around their bodies, well, it was just a huge mess. I was fourth man back, and I was scared out of my wits. I kept looking over at Marcus, who was trying to rally the men, but he didn’t have any more experience than I did at that point. Oh, he had gone to the Campus Martius and done his exercises like I had, but you know, Titus, that it’s not nearly the same fighting as an individual as it is to command a Century or Cohort. It wasn’t a question of bravery, at least on Marcus’ part, but he didn’t have a chance. I watched as the men around him were cut down, and I tried to break free to get to him, but by that point we were all crushed together as we were being herded like lambs to slaughter.”
He stopped to take another huge swallow of wine. Now the tears were flowing freely, yet his voice was still steady.
“It happened like it was in slow motion, kind of like when they're first teaching us the movements by going through each motion one step at a time. I saw Marcus, his sword in his hand, and he was fighting a pair of men and they sucked him in, just like we're trained to do. The man he was engaged with started falling back, making a good show of being close to cracking, so Marcus pressed in, thinking he was about to make a kill. He didn’t even see the blade that cut him down from his unprotected side, but I did. I remember opening my mouth to scream a warning, but nothing came out. I watched him die and there was nothing I could do about it.”
I do not know why, but what affected me more were not Scribonius’ words; it was the matter of fact way that he was speaking, as a professional Centurion giving an after-battle report, except that I could see by his face how painful it was, and I felt tears coming to my own eyes. Without thinking, I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder, telling him gently that he did not have to continue.
“Yes, I do,” he replied calmly. “I’ve never told anyone about this, and it's time for me to let it out of my soul.”
I could only nod my understanding as he continued.
“I don’t remember the next few moments after Marcus fell. My next memory is suddenly running, along with the remnants of the men of the center as all we cared about was fleeing with our lives. Of course, that’s when the real slaughter begins, but I’ve always been fleet of foot and it served me well that day. I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I don’t know how far I had gotten by the time I stopped to take a breath, but I was in some deep woods, and I was all alone. Before I did anything else, I stripped off my armor, threw away my helmet, my javelin, sword, everything. I wanted nothing to do with armies or fighting or killing as long as I lived, I was sure of it. Once I was stripped to my tunic, I suddenly became very, very tired and all I could think to do was to lay down and sleep, but before I did I walked a short distance away, as I didn't want to be seen anywhere near my armor. I found a hollow in a large tree that was just big enough for me to curl up in, so I crawled in and went to sleep. I slept the rest of that day, and only woke up after it was dark when I heard men shouting. As I came awake, it took me a bit to remember where I was and how I had come to be in a tree hollow, which is when I remembered what happened to Marcus, how he was dead and that I'd never see him again. Somehow, I convinced myself that it had all been a dream and that I had managed to flee out of the camp, that if I returned I would find Marcus alive and well. I was about to head back in that direction, but then I saw a line of torches. I realized that they were from Hybrida and Petreius’ army and they were hunting down survivors, so I crawled back in my hole in the tree. As they got closer, I could hear them shouting when they flushed a man out from wherever he was hiding, and then I would hear a scream, and I knew that another man had been cut down. I hadn't thought it possible that I would be more scared than I was earlier that day, but now I was terrified almost out of my mind. Every muscle in my body was trying to force me to get up and run, yet somehow I managed to keep my head enough to realize that my best chance was to stay put in my spot. The line of men passed me by, and one of them was no more than ten paces away from me, but he never even looked in my direction.
