by Peake, R. W.
Later that day, another lone figure on horseback approached the walls of the hippodrome, carrying a flag of truce. Turbo, the Pilus Posterior of the Eighth, and his Century had the duty for that section of the wall, and he sent a runner to find me while sending another to Octavian. The runner informed me of the identity of the man on horseback; it was Spurius, who had chosen to go with Antonius when they sailed from Actium, leaving the youths of the 3rd Gallica under the command of Canidius. Those men had been discharged and scattered, but I was sure that Antonius had given him another Legion to command. When I hurried up the steps, I found him sitting on a horse. I saw that his free hand was out to the side, the other holding a white square of linen on a stick. Even from a distance, the fatigue and despair was clear to see in Spurius’ face and body, although he tried to keep his shoulders back and his demeanor confident
. He spotted me, raising his hand in greeting. “Salve, Pullus,” he called to me.
“Salve, Spurius,” I replied. “How go things?”
It was all I could think to say. The absurdity of the question struck us both immediately, and we simultaneously burst out laughing.
After a moment, he said, “Oh, well enough. Kind of boring, actually. We lounge about all day, fuck whores, and get drunk. It’s the best duty I ever had.”
“Sounds like it.” I grinned at him, trying to put out of my mind the possibility that we would be crossing swords in the coming days. Changing the subject, I asked him, “Did Antonius send you to ask after my well-being? I imagine he’s concerned that I'm getting enough to eat and adequate rest.”
This evoked another laugh, yet even from this distance, there was no mistaking the bitter edge, even if it was not aimed at me so much. “Your name has come up a time or two,” he admitted. “But I don’t remember him asking that, exactly.” In a lower voice, he said, “I just wish I had been smart enough to do the same thing you did.”
“That bad?” I asked, to which he answered with a grim nod.
“Worse than you can imagine. Antonius goes from exuberance to despair, almost moment by moment. Cleopatra is even worse, though in truth I haven’t seen much of her the last few days. The rumor is that she’s working on her and Antonius’ tomb. You know how these Egyptians are about that stuff.”
Hearing a commotion behind us, I turned to see Octavian coming, with Statilius and some Tribunes.
Before he arrived, I called to Spurius, “May the gods protect you, Vibius Spurius.”
“And you, Titus Pullus. Keep an eye out for me, will you?”
“I will,” I agreed, then stepped aside.
Octavian came to stand beside me, looking down coldly at Spurius. “Who are you and what do you want?”
His tone was abrupt, but if Spurius were surprised or offended, he knew better than to show it. “I'm Vibius Spurius, Caesar, bringing greetings and a message from Triumvir Marcus Antonius.”
“I knew of a Vibius Spurius that was the Primus Pilus of the 3rd Gallica, and a man loyal to Rome at one time. You're surely not him, since the Spurius I knew of would have fallen on his sword rather than betray Rome by fighting for the Queen of Beasts.”
Spurius stiffened as if he had been slapped, while I could hear the gasps of the men standing on the parapet at the insult, but if Octavian heard, he gave no sign.
Before Spurius could respond, he pressed on, “And there is no such man as Triumvir Marcus Antonius. That office was abolished, and the man known as Antonius, the Roman Marcus Antonius no longer exists. In his place is a numen that looks like Antonius, and may sound like Antonius, but is a minion of Cleopatra’s and is no more Roman than that abomination of a god of the Egyptians with the head of a dog.”
“Minion he may be, Caesar,” Spurius said, tight-lipped, his voice harsh with the fury that he clearly felt. “But that minion has sent me to challenge you to single combat, in the manner of the ancient heroes, to decide this question that lies between you once and for all. The victor will be First Man in Rome, and the vanquished will be carried from the field and will be interred with the highest honor.”
“Is he still going on about that?” I heard Statilius murmur. “I thought he would have given up on this by now since the answer has always been the same.”
This was the first that men in the ranks had heard that Antonius had challenged Octavian to single combat, despite most of the Centurions knowing, and Octavian was clearly unhappy that Statilius had just made this public, since it would be passing around the fires that night with the speed of a lightning strike.
“Quiet, Statilius,” Octavian snapped, his voice low so that only those within a few paces could hear him.
“I'm sorry, Caesar,” Statilius mumbled, but Octavian was ignoring him, turning his attention back to Spurius.
“Tell your master that I'll give him his answer in one third of a watch. You'll return then for my reply.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Octavian turned on his heel, motioning to Turbo and me. “Come with me,” he said, then bounded down the steps of the hippodrome, heading for the Praetorium.
“It’s unfortunate, but I'm going to have to take steps to ensure that word of this doesn't spread before I'm ready to let it be known,” Octavian announced.
“Caesar, too many men heard Spurius give you the challenge. There's no way to keep that from being known by the rest of the army,” I said.
“I wasn’t talking about today; I was talking about the previous challenges,” Octavian replied, shooting Statilius a withering glance, who looked thoroughly miserable. “It doesn't suit my purpose for the men to know that Antonius has been making these ridiculous challenges and I've been refusing them. To that end, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to send Turbo’s Century on detached duty, back to Pelusium.”
Turbo shot me an alarmed glance, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Caesar, you can't do that!”
Octavian gave me a look that chilled my blood, but his tone was even. “I most certainly can, Pullus. And I'm doing just that. There's a supply convoy that needs to be guarded, and Turbo’s Century is going to provide the escort.” Softening a bit, he continued, “This isn't a punishment, Pullus. But you know as well as I do how men talk, and we're at a very, very delicate point in this whole drama, and I can't afford to have any muttering about the fires right now. Surely you can understand that.”
He was right, and I could not deny it. I looked over at Turbo, whose mouth was hanging open.
I could only give him a shrug. “Caesar's right, Turbo. You're going to have to go, but it’s only for the period of time it takes to escort the convoy and come back. Isn’t that right, Caesar?”
I turned to Octavian, but he was clearly reluctant to commit himself. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “I believe that this matter between Cleopatra and me will be resolved in the next two or three days, but only the gods really know what lies ahead of us.”
Knowing this was the best I was going to get, I turned back to Turbo, giving him a false smile. “See? You’ll be back in plenty of time to share the booty.”
I knew that was at the heart of Turbo’s consternation at being ordered away, that he and his men would miss the chance of looting the dead and getting a share of the spoils.
Octavian, hearing my words, immediately realized the problem as well, so he said to Turbo, “Pilus Posterior Turbo, I assure you that any spoils your men would be awarded if they were present for the coming battle will still be there for you and your men when you return.”
He gave Turbo Caesar’s smile, which was all it took to melt the last of Turbo’s doubt.
Saluting both of us, he asked, “With Caesar’s permission, Primus Pilus, may I go get the men prepared to get started for the journey? They need to get their gear together and get something to eat before they're ready to march.”
“Pullus will have the Legion slaves gather their gear and bring it to them,” Octavian replied before I could say anything. “And unfortunately, I need to dispatch that convo
y immediately, so I'm afraid you'll have to eat on the march.”
Octavian was plainly determined to keep Turbo’s men segregated from the others, but I knew better than to keep arguing the point. I told Turbo to go to Diocles, telling him what was needed, since Diocles was the unofficial leader of all the slaves attached to the Legion. Turbo was not happy, but made no complaint, saluting again before leaving. Not being dismissed, I remained there, waiting for Octavian to give me leave to go, but he had other things in mind.
Turning his attention back to Spurius’ message, he drummed his fingers on his desk in irritation. “Will that man ever stop in this foolishness?” he asked, though it did not seem to be aimed at anyone in particular. “I, of course, am not going to accede to his demands. That would just be idiocy, with nothing to be gained on my part.”
Except the undying devotion and respect of your men, I thought, somehow managing to bite my tongue. I suppose Octavian was right, except that I could not help wondering what his adopted father would have done under the circumstances, although when it came to swordsmanship, there was no comparison between Caesar and Octavian. I had seen Octavian working the stakes; even a middling swordsman would have made short work of him. With someone of my abilities and experience, his life would have been measured by the span of a handful of heartbeats. Antonius, while not nearly as good as I was, would have chopped Octavian into bloody bits, making it understandable why Octavian had no intention of agreeing to meet Antonius. What I did not understand was why he delayed in giving Spurius an answer.
As if reading my thoughts, he looked up at me, asking suddenly, “You do know why I'm not answering his challenge immediately, don’t you Pullus?”
“No, I don’t, Caesar,” I replied frankly.
“Because while it's not overly important to me that the men think of me as a brave man, neither do I want to appear to be a craven coward to them. The rankers are simple creatures,” I bristled at this, but he was oblivious to my taking offense, “and to them it matters that I at least appear to think about taking this challenge. If I had declined immediately, oh how those tongues would be wagging about the fires tonight! That's the main reason I have to send Turbo and his Century away after Statilius’ unfortunate blunder.”
“I apologize, Caesar. I didn't think,” Statilius interrupted, but whatever rancor Octavian had held evidently evaporated, because he gave a careless wave.
“Don't worry about it, Statilius, and forgive my harsh words. The jug is broken; it can't be mended now and I know you didn't say it with any malice or thought. It's your nature to blurt whatever comes into your mind. It’s almost as if there isn't a brain in between your ears to stop words from coming out,” he joked, even if it was a barbed one indeed.
Statilius gave a dutiful laugh, the redness of his ears belying his real feelings. For my part, it made me feel a little better seeing Octavian belittle one of his peers in the same manner he spoke of men like myself.
Octavian, oblivious of all this, continued. “No, I have to make it appear like I'm giving his challenge due consideration, but we all know that it makes no sense for me to accept the challenge. Not to mention the fact that Antonius would skewer me like a pig,” he finished frankly.
I was still not sure why I was still there. Octavian solved that mystery when he turned to me. “We'll wait a bit longer, then you're going to go back to the wall and telling Spurius when he comes back that I decline the challenge. You'll tell him that I call on Marcus Antonius to do the honorable thing and fall on his sword now, although I'm not opposed to him committing suicide by other means. There are many ways for Antonius to die, and I leave to him the choice. As far as his wife, I call for Cleopatra to surrender herself and submit to my authority, as the duly elected representative of Rome. Now, repeat it back to me.”
I repeated back the gist of his message, not realizing that he had chosen his words very specifically, so that before I finished, he waved me to a stop. “No, Pullus, exactly as I spoke them.”
“You mean you want to include the part about Antonius having many ways to die?” I was confused, but he was adamant.
“That's the most important part of the message,” he replied, and while I did not understand why, I did as he commanded.
Satisfied, he offered me a cup of wine, then we chatted for a few moments, mostly about the weather and the quality of the wine, until Octavian was satisfied that enough time had passed. Then he sent me on my way to give his reply to Vibius Spurius.
Antonius was now out of options, and his time had come. He made the decision to make an all-out attack, combining the remnants of his navy that was penned up in the royal enclosure with the rest of his land forces. The night before the attack, on the last day of what is now named Julius, he held a feast, toasting his comrades and announcing that he did not expect to live through the next day. Sometime late, around midnight, there was a huge ruckus that we could clearly hear from the hippodrome, but to this day, nobody knows for sure what caused it. It was a cacophony of noise, music playing, men and women shouting as if at a great revel, the sound moving through the streets of Alexandria, making us think there was some impromptu parade. Just as quickly, and mysteriously, the noise stopped, not fading away but just coming to an abrupt silence as if on some unseen signal. It was not until days later that the story that is now the accepted version was uttered, that the sound was the result of Dionysus, the god whom Antonius claimed to be an incarnation of, with Cleopatra playing Aphrodite, deserting not only the city of Alexandria, but Antonius as well. I do not know exactly where it came from, except that I can assure you, gentle reader, that it almost undoubtedly started at some Legionary fire one evening. Whether or not it was the god deserting the city, Antonius’ cause, along with the man himself, were doomed.
The battle the next morning, if that is what it can be called, was merely confirmation of that fact. We were roused before dawn, deserters having warned us that Antonius was planning on his final attack that morning, and the men needed no urging to make their preparations. All through the hippodrome and camp, there was a feeling of anticipation, every man knowing that this was the final battle that would decide all. For men like Vellusius, Scribonius, and for me, this was an even longer road, one that started with Caesar crossing the Rubicon. My first trip to Egypt with Caesar and the 6th, the subsequent fight against the Pontics, and the forays with Antonius into Parthia and Armenia aside, the last 19 years, more than half of the time we had spent in the army, had been facing fellow Romans in one form or another. This upcoming battle would end all of that, for there were no other rivals to Octavian left standing. Looking back, I believe that it was this idea, that peace was finally at hand, that contributed to my desire to retire and live out the rest of my days without a sword in my hand. I still went through my normal pre-battle rituals, just like all the men did, then we were ready to march out of the hippodrome. Filing out in Legion order, we formed up in the clear space between the hippodrome and the houses hard up against the city wall. The 10th, in what I was told by Octavian was in homage to Caesar, formed up on the right, the spot that we almost always occupied in battle. We could hear the bucina of Antonius’ army sounding the various calls that signaled their approach, while our Centurions walked up and down in front of their respective Centuries, reminding the men of all the various things they would have to remember when it is not so easy to do.
“Remember to push off when you hear the whistle for the relief! Plautus, that means you, you stupid bastard!”
“Keep your spacing, boys! Don’t be the one who leaves a gap that gets your comrade killed!”
“A gold denarius to the first man to kill five of the enemy!”
These were the things being said up and down the line. Octavian had ordered us into a triplex acies, perhaps because his adoptive father had favored this above all other formations. This was awkward for the 10th, since we were now one Cohort short because of the loss of the Third, and I hoped that the men of the third line, which wou
ld be just the Eighth and Ninth, instead of the Seventh along with them, would not be needed. Trebellius’ Fifth was now on the far left of the first line of the 10th, but I had every confidence in the Quintus Pilus Prior and his men. Scribonius and his Second were in their normal spot next to us, and I looked over at my friend, giving him a wave and a grin, which he returned before facing back to the front. My only source of nervousness came from the knowledge that this would Gaius’ first time as Optio of a Cohort in the first line. While he had been in the Second for his time in the Legion up until his promotion, being a ranker with nothing to worry about other than listening for the whistle and staying alive is completely different from being an Optio. I would have been much more worried if the men of the 10th had been raw boys, but I still offered up a prayer for his safety.
“There they are, boys!”
The shout rang across the ranks, and I turned to see the leading files of Antonius’ men finally emerge from the clutter and shadows of the buildings next to the wall. I watched them advance, their spacing what it was supposed to be, in perfect step as they closed with us. Yet there was something about them that told me that their hearts were not in it. Perhaps it was in the slight slump in their shoulders, or the way the some men dragged their feet more than normal, churning up more dust than was usual for this number of men. I glanced over at Scribonius, who turned to look at me, a slight smile on his face.
“I don’t think this is going to take long,” he called to me, and I nodded in response, sure that he was right.
We waited for them to get aligned on a small rise of ground, which took them a bit of time, another sign that the men under Antonius were less than eager to cross swords with us. Men were beginning to shift nervously about, fingers tapping on shields while they waited for the cornu call that would unleash them into a frenzied assault. As it usually happens in such encounters, Antonius being the aggressor, we waited on him to make the first move yet there was no such on the part of Antonius. We could see him clearly, wearing his gold and silver armor, his paludamentum swirling in the air as he galloped his horse along the line, heading towards the end closest to the harbor, where he pulled up. Watching him, I could see that he was not facing us, instead staring out to the harbor. I turned to look, but my vision was blocked so I could not see what he was waiting for. What we learned later was that he was watching for the beginning of the naval portion of his planned attack, intending to coordinate his assault with his ships. Because of our position, what we could not see were his ships rowing out to face those of Octavian, who had lined up to face them. However, before they closed, on some signal, they raised their oars in a signal of surrender. Instead of fighting, the two sides then joined forces, after a shouted discussion by the ranking navarch from each side. Turning about, the now-combined fleet went sweeping into the larger harbor, heading for the city. Seeing this, the Antonian cavalry immediately turned about, frantically whipping their mounts to flee back into the city. We did not know why it happened; all we saw were the fleeing horsemen, and knew that we could not wait for a command at that point. This was the moment to attack, so I turned to Valerius and ordered him to sound the charge.
