Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part II-Cleopatra

by Peake, R. W.

  The Armenian camp was about five miles away, the ground in between gently rolling, with a number of gullies and dry streambeds cutting across our line of march. These features served as obstacles, making it difficult to keep our cohesion and alignment and forcing us to stop at regular intervals. While the scouts assured us that the ground ahead was not as broken, it was a worrying prospect, this type of terrain negating our advantage with our own cavalry forces. As we advanced, I walked over to Scribonius’ Cohort, marching next to the First Century, to voice my concerns, but he did not seem worried.

  “The Armenians aren’t likely to choose ground like this, because their entire force is composed of cataphracts and archers,” he pointed out. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I could immediately see the logic in this, so I returned to my spot more confident. Of course, Scribonius was right; the Armenians still a dark line on the horizon when the ground began to level out. Drawing closer, the enemy army became more distinct, until we could begin to make out individual men and horses. Once we got to that point, Antonius ordered a halt to allow the men to catch their breath while the Centurions dressed the line, making sure that the men were ready. He came galloping in our direction on Clemency, his paludamentum swirling behind him, wearing his golden lion armor, but still with his helmet strapped to his saddle so that his face was clearly visible. The weather was mild enough that he bared his arms, except for his arm braces, made in the same decorative style as his armor, his biceps rippling and defined, again sparking a pang of envy at his physique. Pulling up in front of our wing, he began his pre-battle speech by pointing over at the array of banners and glittering standards that marked the position of the Armenian king.

  “There is Artavasdes of Armenia. Our ally.” His voice dripped with contempt as he spat the last word out. “He left us, he left you, and he left men who are missing from our ranks because of his betrayal.”

  He paused to let his words sink in, and a low growl of hatred began issuing from the men behind me.

  “Now we've come to set matters to rights,” he continued, his voice rising in pitch so the words rang out to the last rank of the last line. “We are here to collect a blood debt owed to us by that faithless, gutless bastard. But I need you, each and every one of you to do your duty to me, to Rome and to your friends who are no longer here. And after we've killed every last piece of scum, we will march to Artaxata and take that city, which I will give to you as payment for all that you lost. How does that sound?”

  The growl turned into a full-throated roar, men shaking their fists or bashing their javelins against their shields, shouting their approval as Antonius galloped away to deliver the same message to the other two wings of the army. I glanced over to where the Medians sat their horses, watching our demonstration impassively, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time when the moment came what they would do. Neither the other Primi Pili nor I would have been surprised if they refused to fight, while in the back of my mind was the possibility that they might even turn on us, and Spurius, since he commanded the Legion closest to them had gone as far as warning his men to be wary for such treachery.

  After a short while, Antonius returned to his spot at the center of the army, where he would signal the advance before moving to his spot behind us on the right wing. Ahenobarbus commanded the left wing, Canidius the center, and I was just happy that I would not have to cross paths with the latter during the battle. Antonius turned to his staff, ordering the cornicen to sound the signal to advance, its heavy bass note thumping through each man’s chest. In kind, I turned to Valerius, who gave the Legion signal as my aquilifer, Aulus Paterculus, dipped the eagle forward. This was then repeated by every signifer carrying the Cohort and Century standard. An instant later, the entire army stepped off towards the enemy. Now, I thought, we’ll see what the Medians do.

  To my cautious relief, the Medians began moving along with us, but I could not spend too much of my attention on what they were doing, instead turning to watch the 10th moving towards the enemy. The ground was level, but was more broken than it appeared to the casual glance, some men stumbling when their foot caught on a rock, causing a sharp reaction from those around the offender and a shouted curse from their Centurion or Optio. Seeing that most of these were new men, I knew that it was a sign of nerves as much as clumsiness. The tramping of our feet began to raise the inevitable film of dust, the thrumming sound of every step accompanied by the clanking of metal bits against each other, the creaking of leather harnesses, all punctuated by the count of the Optios, whose job it is to call out a rhythmic count to keep the men in step. Squinting into the glare of the sun, now low in the sky off our right quarter since we were headed in a northeasterly direction, I watched for any sign that the Armenian host was beginning their own advance. It was inconceivable that they would stand waiting for us to close with them, yet that appeared to be exactly what they intended on doing, their lack of movement forcing Antonius to call a halt to our advance. The three wings came crashing to a stop, dust slowly settling at our feet while Antonius called the commanders of the mounted troops to attend to him. The Galatians and Medians came trotting over as we stood watching idly, giving me the opportunity to walk through the ranks to talk to the new men. This was one of those times when I had to appear to be a father figure, reassuring nervous boys with my presence, joking with one man, while chiding another for some transgression they had committed in the past. I never started by addressing a new man directly, instead choosing to start a conversation with the veteran standing next to him, but I would surreptitiously watch the face of the youngster to measure what effect I was having on him. I knew Centurions, and I had a couple of them in my Legion, who would sneer at any display of nerves by one of these men, openly mocking his fear or threatening him in some way in an attempt to get the man to focus on their duty, or their hatred for their Centurion, instead of their fear. Their logic is sound, as far as it goes; by making the men fear something more than what they are about to face, or by humiliating them, they get the youngster’s mind off what lays ahead, even if it is through his anger at his Centurion for ridiculing him in front of his friends and comrades. Personally, I did not see the point in cluttering their mind with yet one more source of worry. Thinking back to my own early experiences, I recognized that I always performed best when my mind was not on other matters. In fact, I did best when I did not think, and I had talked to enough veterans to know that most of them felt the same way. Therefore, I attempted to take the burden off a new man’s mind, though I knew approaching them directly in the moments before their first battle would just rattle them further. Instead, I worked indirectly, and this was how I passed the time while Antonius was conferring with his cavalry commanders, until Balbus called to me that something was happening.

  Trotting back to the front, I saw both the Medians and Galatians resume the advance, despite no signal sounding for the army to move forward. Instead, the order was sent that the contingent of slingers would now move to the front while shaking out in a loose formation in front of us, prepared to send their lead missiles buzzing at the enemy. The sun had risen to an angle where there was not as much of a glare, allowing us to see the Armenian army more clearly, and I noticed two things that I had missed before. The ground we would have to cross was actually more sloped than it originally appeared, with the Armenians sitting on what now was clearly the crest of a small hill, explaining their reluctance to move. Also, the other item was more one of proximity; we had not been close enough to distinguish between archers and cataphracts, at least with my old eyes. Now I could see that in fact there were relatively few cataphracts, that it was mostly archers. I was not the only one to recognize the proportion, and there were muttered curses rippling through the ranks at the sight.

  “There goes another shield,” a man muttered. “By the time they’re through, it'll be ruined.”

  Our cavalry forces were swinging wide out on either flank of the Armenians, forcing Artavasdes to spread h
is own lines to meet the threat. The black line of men and horses blurred into motion, becoming less dense as we watched, then a few moments later, the signal was given to resume our own advance. Very quickly, the ground tilted upwards and we climbed the gentle slope, each of the Centurions watching very carefully to make sure that our spacing stayed as precise as it was possible to be given the terrain. While it was true that the Armenians had more archers than cataphracts, there was still a formidable number of the heavily armored cavalry, so that a ragged gap in our lines because of a lapse could be just the kind of mistake on which battles turned. I was mindful that if and when the cataphracts charged, they would be coming downhill, whereas in our other battles the situation had been reversed, and I found myself questioning Antonius’ decision in choosing battle on this day. However, I did not know whether Antonius had been informed of the lay of the ground by our scouts. Whatever the case, he and the army were committed now so I kept moving my attention from the ranks to the enemy to Antonius as we continued forward. Men were breathing more heavily, the combination of nerves and slope seeming to work together to suck the air from our lungs. Finally, the enemy began moving in our direction, with two prongs containing archers heading down the hill towards us. We were still well out of bow range, but we all knew that it would not take long for them to close the distance. At the sight of the Armenian archers advancing, almost simultaneously a large group of Median archers and Galatian cavalry wheeled about from their respective sides, spurring their mounts into a gallop, converging on the Armenians.

  I do not know if the Armenians were expecting this, though they should have, but judging from their reaction they were caught by surprise, each group of Armenians turning to face the nearest oncoming threat, completely ignoring the army marching slowly towards them. Arrows began flying through the air, crisscrossing the sky as the Armenians and Medians began firing at each other as fast as they could pull their bowstrings back. The sky filled with black streaks as the missiles flew, though it was hard to tell which arrows found their target. Men were falling from their horses and, across the distance, the shouts of pain carried to us over the sound of our own advance. The Galatians, not armed with bows, were forced to move at a full gallop to try closing with the archers in order to use their long swords. However, the Armenian horses were too fleet, their riders too skilled, making it almost seem as if they were dancing away. Despite this, the Galatian commander was not through; while he could not close with his group of archers, he could herd them down the hill towards us and most importantly, within range of our slingers. Suddenly veering slightly uphill, he led his force parallel to the Armenian line of battle, between the main force and the archers, who were now isolated. In order to maintain a safe distance, the Armenian archer commander led his force down the hill, not realizing his mistake until our slingers' arms were already in motion, whirling their leather thongs above their heads.

  Now the air was filled with the distinctive buzzing sound of the lead missiles, followed by a wet thud as the piece of lead hit flesh, flattening out. In a matter of a few heartbeats, men and horses were down and screaming, the horses’ hooves flailing as they fought the pain of their wound. When a horse was hit and lost its footing, throwing its rider, a number of slingers would aim at the archer before he could be snatched up by one his comrades and thrown behind his rescuer’s saddle, cutting the man down. Those archers whose mounts fell closer to the Galatians proved to be too tempting a target for our cavalrymen, who would swoop in, chopping down with their long swords, the blades flashing in the sun before sweeping down. While all this was happening, we continued marching up the hill, closing the distance, using the fighting to our front as a screen. The dust churned up by the hooves of the horses helped obscure our actions as well, although it started to fill my nose and mouth. Coughing, I spat out a brown glob of mud, hearing the men behind me doing the same. The slingers were slowly moving forward, but they were now taking casualties, their lack of armor the sacrifice they made for their mobility. The Armenians engaged with the Medians had broken off and since the Median cataphracts had not done as the Galatians to move in between them and their lines, they were able to flee back to safety. In doing so, they exposed our wing, letting Artavasdes see how far we had closed the distance, perhaps 200 paces away from javelin range. Now that we were exposed without the second prong of archers between us, the enemy wasted no time in launching a swarm of arrows.

  “Shields up!”

  I bellowed the command, as did every Centurion along the front line. The rustling, bumping sound behind me told me that the men had brought them up over their heads, but I could not afford to look back, keeping my eye on the feathered missiles that were now streaking downward from their highest point of flight. You can dodge an arrow if you can track it with your eye, yet when they are coming as thick as they were at that moment, it is mostly a matter of luck.

  “Jupiter Optimus Maximus, protect this legion, soldiers all!”

  The first wave of arrows began striking, thudding into the upraised shields with that solid, thumping sound as the metal head struck the wooden surface, though occasionally there was a sharp twang as a missile struck the metal boss. Sometimes there would be a yelp of pain, a lucky shot finding an opening between shields, but I was too occupied to see how many men and how badly they were hit. I had just hopped to the side to avoid an arrow, feeling the whisper of air as it passed over my shoulder when I was struck by what felt like a hammer blow to the left side of my helmet. My vision suddenly exploded in a burst of stars, my knees buckling for a moment before I regained the use of my limbs. Reaching up, I felt the crease in my helmet where I had suffered an obviously glancing blow, yet to my relief there was no blood trickling down the side of my head. I would just have a headache for the next week, with occasional spells of blurry vision, though the gods took pity on me and my sight was clear for the rest of the battle. Even as I paused to examine my close call, another arrow whistled down to strike the ground directly between my two feet, so I decided to take the risk of turning around to find a shield from a man who had fallen and been dragged off by the medici. The men of the front rank had shields already pierced with several arrows apiece, and it took a few moments for me to find a discarded one that was largely undamaged. Grabbing it, I trotted back to the front, feeling much better about my chances of surviving the battle.

  Closing the gap between our two lines, it became apparent that Artavasdes was counting on the massive volleys of arrows to stop us short and pin us in place to allow his cataphracts to break our formation. However, he could not commit his cataphracts without exposing his flanks to his Median counterparts, who continued to patrol to our right, or allow the Galatians to do the same on the left. Additionally, the Galatians could take the opportunity to try to force their way through the remaining force of archers to overwhelm the royal bodyguard and take the king himself. It was possible that the battle could be won without the Legions committing themselves and Artavasdes, had he been a prudent commander, would have recognized this and withdrawn with his forces largely intact. He had picked decent ground, but the impetuous rush of the two prongs of archers, combined with the bold response of both Galatian and Median commanders as ordered by Antonius, had largely negated that advantage. The Legions, sensing there was a possibility that the despised cavalry arm of the army would win the battle without their help, began shouting for the order to be released to finish the advance at the run. I looked over to Spurius to my right, who shrugged helplessly since no order was immediately forthcoming. We were less than a hundred paces from javelin range now before there was finally the signal releasing us, but it came from an unexpected quarter. It was not the command group cornu, which is used to signal the whole army, but from one of the Legions. I looked over to see Spurius shouting the advance to the 3rd Gallica, realizing that he had taken it on himself to give the order, and while I mentally saluted his initiative, I hoped that his status as Antonius’ favorite would be enough to let him escap
e serious retribution. Knowing that we could not allow a single Legion to charge unsupported, especially on the wing that did not have the advantage of the melee still going on to our left, I ordered Valerius to give the same signal, hearing that Corbulo was doing the same at about the same time, as well as Balbinus of the 12th, the Legion at the end of our line. It was a ragged charge, the 3rd gaining several paces on us before we began our own charge, but I quickened the pace at the front to close the gap. That meant we were winded when we stopped even with the 3rd to prepare our launch of javelins, and I wondered if Spurius, Corbulo or Balbinus would pause a few heartbeats between volleys to give the men a chance to catch their breath. With our position in the center of the right wing, I could not afford to give the order to charge unsupported on either side, since I would be vulnerable on both flanks if I moved forward without their help, but neither did I want to lag behind and have them do essentially the same thing. Deciding that I would just follow Spurius’ lead, I hoped that Corbulo and Balbinus would do the same.