by Peake, R. W.
I drew my sword, roaring to the men, “Let’s end this now! Follow me!”
Without looking back, I went running at the line of Antonian infantry.
This last gasp of Marcus Antonius was the most farcical, lopsided, and anticlimactic battle I, or any of the men of the 10th Legion, ever participated in. Even before we reached the first rank of Antonians, the rearmost men began melting away, turning to run before we even impacted. The men in front, sensing their comrades deserting them, were already beginning their own flight when we slammed into them. At first, our men did as they would have against any enemy, cutting men down, most of them with thrusts to the back, but after just a few moments, they lost their stomach for killing men who were making no real attempt to fight back. Instead, they started using the flat side of their swords, knocking men down or perhaps giving them a kick to sweep them off their feet. Antonius, seeing the utter collapse happening around him, did not stay long either, turning to gallop off with a few of his bodyguards and other retainers. The confusion and chaos was total, both sides intermingling, the cohesion breaking down when men spied friends in the mass of Antonians, breaking ranks to run to their aid. Some men, their bloodlust unleashed, were heedless to the cries of their comrades to spare friends on the other side, prompting blows, and in a couple cases, worse between Legionaries on the same side. Centurions and Optios were running about, blowing their whistles or shouting as they grabbed men by the back of the harness to pull them apart. I spotted Spurius, and like I had promised, I made my way to him where we clasped arms briefly.
“This is a fucking mess!” He had to shout to be heard as some of the more stubborn Antonians were trying to put up a fight, while others cried out for mercy, making it extremely confusing to tell who was willing to fight and who wasn’t.
“Stick with me,” I told him. “I need to get this sorted out.”
I called to Silva, ordering him to take the standard back to our original position, then had Valerius sound the recall, and he blasted the signal over and over, but to no avail. Men were either too carried away engaging with the diehards, or looking for friends, ignoring both the cornu and the shouts of their Centurions and Optios. I watched for several moments, my anger growing at the lack of discipline, frustrated with the Centurions for clearly being unable to rein the men in.
“Pluto’s cock,” I snarled.
Turning to Spurius, I pointed to the rear. “Go on back, and tell whoever asks you that you're under my protection. Tell them I'm holding you for ransom; that way they'll leave you alone.”
A look of alarm crossed his face. “You’re not planning on doing that, are you?”
“Maybe.” I grinned. “It depends on what kind of mood I’m in after I sort this out.”
Ignoring his spluttered protests, I headed for the swirling dust and mass of men, and then just began grabbing those that I recognized as belonging to the 10th.
“Get to the standard!” I would tell them, seeing their eyes widen at the sight of their Primus Pilus snarling at them.
Heading for the First Cohort, I found Balbus thrashing a man with his vitus, the man whimpering, trying to dodge and get out of the way.
“You stupid bastard, get on the standard or I’ll flay you,” Balbus was roaring.
“I’m trying, Pilus Posterior, but you keep hitting me,” the man wailed.
Balbus then relented in his thrashing, allowing the man to scamper back to our position, his arms and one side of his face striped from the blows.
“Get your signifer out of here and back to the line. Maybe they’ll follow him,” I ordered Balbus, who seemed at as much of a loss as I was.
I went to find Laetus, Celadus, and the other Centurions of the First to give the same orders. I passed by a small group, probably one tent section, of Antonians, their backs to each other and their shields up, looking over the rim at my men, who had surrounded them. Nobody was fighting; they were just standing there looking at each other, both sides waiting for the other to make a move. Seeing a Sergeant from Macrianus’ Century, apparently the ranking man, I called to him.
“Fulvius, either fuck those men or fight them, but either way, do something. You need to get back on the standard.”
“You heard the Primus Pilus, boys,” Fulvius called to the Antonians. “We don’t want to kill you, but we will if we have to because he’s telling us we have to get back on the standard. So what’s it going to be?”
I saw the eyes of the men shifting to each other behind their shields, and I understood that this was a situation where no man wanted to be the first to throw down his sword. This could last for some time, so not wanting to waste any more time, I strode over, pushed my way through my men to walk up to one of the men, who stared at me wide-eyed at my approach. I had sheathed my sword, but still carried my vitus, not having to drop it to pick up a shield since there was no real fighting going on, and I used it to rap on the rim of the man’s shield.
“You and I both know that you don’t want to die here,” I told the man, speaking loudly enough so they all could hear. “And you can see that the only men being hurt or killed are the ones putting up a fight. So do us all a favor, drop your weapons, and make your way to the rear.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, but still nobody moved.
“Now!” I roared.
Just as I suspected, the habit of obedience overcame whatever fear they had, the clanging of their swords as they dropped them and their shields together all I needed to hear. Without waiting, I resumed my original chore of finding the Centurions. As I walked, I continued to grab men by whatever purchase I could make, yanking them from what they were doing. In one case, one of my men was engaged with what I assumed to be an Antonian, but on getting closer, I saw that it was two of my own men, from the same section of the Second Century. They were not fighting with swords; they had sheathed them and dropped their shields to bash each other with their fists. One had blood streaming from his nose, the other clearly was going to have a black eye. Dropping my vitus, I reached out, grabbed both of them by the necks of their mail shirts, then bashed their heads together, shaking both of them like a dog shakes a rat.
I was still strong enough to lift both men off the ground, and I did so as I yelled at them, “What are you two idiots doing?”
Shaking their heads clear, they both began babbling while pointing at each other, making it difficult to tell exactly what, but I gathered that it had something to do with a woman, and that the feud had been simmering for some time. Shaking my head in disgust, I growled at them to stop the nonsense and get back to their spot in line. Moving on, I found other Centurions, and slowly order began to be restored. However, it was not before one man, thinking that I was another ranker trying to cut in on his looting of a dead Antonian body, one of the few men who had put up a fight, reacted to my grabbing of his harness by lashing out with a fist. I was quick enough to dodge the blow, while he was not so lucky, and I essentially kicked him all the way back to our lines. Finally, the men were formed back up in their original spots, the Antonians having fled or surrendered, leaving a surprisingly small number of dead and wounded behind. The final battle between Marcus Antonius and Octavian was over. All that was left was the capture of Antonius, and more importantly to Octavian, Cleopatra, but they had other plans.
We spent the rest of the day taking the parole of the men of Antonius’ army, which is essentially a nightmare of paperwork, since two copies of each man’s parole had to be recorded. That first day, however, paroles were taken by Century, with each Centurion being the only man actually to sign a document. After that, the men were disarmed before they were allowed to return to their own camp, having no room for them at the hippodrome. While this was being done, men from our army were going about the ranks of the Antonians looking for friends or relatives, checking to see whether they were safe. For the men of the second dilectus, they had seen this played out before, but for men of the replacement draft after the first Parthian campaign, this was a new experience. It
was brought home to me again how much time we had spent fighting each other, yet I truly believed that this was going to be the last time we would do so, at least during my career. There was no real rival to Octavian among the Romans of his, or any class for that matter, with the possible exception of Marcus Agrippa. However, Agrippa was as loyal to Octavian as it is possible for a man to be, so Rome lay before Octavian like a beckoning virgin, to be enjoyed at his pleasure.
Meanwhile, Antonius had retreated back to the royal palace. It would be learned from questioning the palace slaves afterward, he strode in shouting that he had been betrayed by Cleopatra. The queen, hearing the commotion and fearing that somehow Antonius had learned of her secret dealings with Octavian, ran to hide herself inside the tomb she was preparing before sending one of her servants out to face Antonius, who informed him that Cleopatra had already killed herself. It was at that moment I believe the numen that had inhabited the body of Marcus Antonius fled as well, leaving Antonius the Roman behind. Knowing that all was lost, and learning that his only reason for living was now dead, or so he believed, Antonius finally became Roman again by falling on his sword. Unfortunately, he botched the job, piercing his bowels instead of his heart, and was in horrible agony, begging anyone who ventured near the couch where he had fallen to put him out of his misery. Rats that they were, they scurried away rather than do the right thing and help ease him on his way. Cleopatra, hearing the commotion, sent one of her maids to investigate, learning what happened from the maid. Stricken with remorse, she ordered her maids to bring Antonius to her, since the eunuchs and male palace servants were making themselves scarce. The two women somehow managed to drag the wounded man to the crypt, which must have been excruciating for him, then tied a rope around his chest. They heaved his body up through the small hole that was left in the crypt to allow passage, and the terrified slaves later told how Antonius’ agonized screams could be heard almost the entire length of the palace. It was during this process that Cleopatra finally seemed to realize that she truly loved Antonius, leaning down out of the hole with outstretched arms, while Antonius did likewise, both of them reaching for each other in their last thirds of a watch.
The women managed to get Antonius into the crypt, where they tried to make him comfortable, then waited for what was to come next. While they hid inside the crypt, one of the few Antonians of the Brundisium Cohorts remaining, a man by the name of Dercetaeus, brought the bloody sword that had pierced Antonius’ bowels to Octavian as proof that he was dead. From one of Diocles’ contacts in the Praetorium, we learned that Octavian locked himself away in his quarters, crying for a full third of a watch. I was shocked when I heard it, and in fact did not believe, but Diocles insisted that his source was extremely reliable and would not exaggerate. I talked about it with Scribonius, who unlike me, not only found it easy to believe, but he was sure that it happened as had been described.
“He and Antonius have been intertwined for more than ten years. They're related both by marriage and blood. Octavian’s sister was married to the man, and she loved him deeply from everything I’ve heard.”
I understood that, but I could only recall all the acrimony and hatred they had shown each other, making it seem to me that the fall of such a bitter enemy would be cause for celebration, not anguish.
“Think about it this way,” Scribonius continued. “For almost as long as any of us can remember, Octavian has been striving to come out on top over Antonius, and now that moment has arrived. It has to be very strange now to be done with it all.”
I answered with a shrug, still not seeing why Octavian was so worked up, but I did not feel like arguing. When he regained his composure, Octavian sent one of his aides, an equites named Proculeius to treat with Cleopatra, who was still stuffed in her crypt. The problem was that nobody who was questioned knew exactly where the tomb was located in the palace, and it took Proculeius a fair amount of time to find the spot. When he did discover it, he saw immediately that there was no way to get in a position to be face to face with Cleopatra, since the hole in the wall was too high for him to jump and pull himself through, besides which Cleopatra warned him that if his head popped through the hole it would be chopped off. This convinced Proculeius to conduct his negotiations with the wall of the tomb between him and Cleopatra, whereupon he told the queen all the gentle lies that he had been instructed to by Octavian. Octavian’s goal was straightforward; take Cleopatra captive to display in his triumphal parade in Rome. If he was right about knowing the location of the treasury, and I believed that he did, he did not need her to disclose it. What he wanted, and in fact needed, was her humiliation, the sight of her draped in chains just like so many of Rome’s enemies in the past, in front of a jeering mob of people. I for one would have liked nothing better, but Cleopatra was as wily an enemy as had ever faced Rome, with the possible exception of Mithridates, at least from the stories I was told. Proculeius and Cleopatra talked for more than another third of a watch, but the queen did not show any inclination to put herself into Octavian’s hands. Frustrated, Proculeius left to return to Octavian, taking careful note on how to get back to the tomb. After discussing matters, Octavian sent both Gallus and Proculeius, but as usual, Octavian had something devious in mind.
Proculeius carried with him a scaling ladder, and did not announce his presence to Cleopatra when he and Gallius arrived at the tomb. Gallius began talking to Cleopatra, making the same false promises that Proculeius had, but while he did so, Proculeius quietly set the ladder against the wall underneath the hole. While the queen was distracted, Proculeius scaled the ladder, then dropped through the hole, running over to where Cleopatra was standing with her ear to the door, listening to Gallius talk. Her two women saw him, shouting a warning, whereupon she tried to draw her dagger to plunge it into her breast, but Proculeius was too quick for her, seizing her wrist. Admonishing her for trying to kill herself before Octavian could show his clemency and kindness, he searched her thoroughly, while her maids wailed and shrieked in despair.
With Cleopatra secured, Octavian turned his attention to the city of Alexandria, and we were ordered to form up late in the afternoon. We entered through the Canopus Gate, in a procession designed to awe the natives, which judging from their expressions, is exactly what we did. Octavian, however, did not want to completely terrify the inhabitants, so he had the philosopher Areius, one of Alexandria’s most notable inhabitants, accompany him at the head of the procession. Marching down the Canopic Way, headed for the gymnasium, I took a good look around. The people were clearly terrified, waiting to see whether Octavian would unleash us to ravage the city, but we had already been told beforehand that this would not be happening.
I was more interested in the city itself, and I was happy to see no sign of the damage we had inflicted with Caesar 18 years before. I had always felt badly about what we had done, although at the time there was little choice, because Alexandria is a truly beautiful city. I know that for a Roman to say such a thing is almost blasphemy, but I consider Alexandria more pleasing to the eye than Rome. The boulevard was as wide as I remembered it, still well swept and clean, the curbs lined with people eying us silently while we marched by, the only real sound the slapping of the hobnails of our boots against the paving stones.
The faces of the people, some brown, some black, but most of them the olive hue that bespoke their Macedonian blood, were neither hostile nor were they welcoming and there were no cheers greeting our passage. They were waiting and watching to see what happened, but I knew from bitter experience how dangerous these people could be when roused, and I hoped that Octavian kept the lessons that Caesar had learned in mind. Octavian certainly seemed to be thinking the same thing, explaining the presence of Areius, and when we arrived at the gymnasium, the men were ordered to wait in formation while Octavian entered, along with all of the Primi Pili. We filed in behind him and Areius, seeing that the building was packed with people sitting in the wooden tiers of seats. These Alexandrians were visibly
afraid, and on Octavian’s entrance, they prostrated themselves in the same manner that they did before Cleopatra. Mounting the rostra to face the audience, he said nothing for several moments. When he spoke, it was in flawless Greek, and he spoke so rapidly that it was hard to keep up, though I picked up the essentials. He assured the people that there would be no reprisals against the citizens of the city, immediately causing a stir of exhaled breath that sounded like a small wind had whipped up. Going further, he promised that the men assembled outside would not go on a rampage to sack the city. At this, their relief was even more expressive, some of the citizens even letting out a cheer for Octavian. He did this, he said, for the memory of Alexander, and because he was moved by the beauty of the city itself. Areius stepped closer to him, whispered something in his ear, to which Octavian listened before gravely nodding his head. Returning his attention back to the crowd, Octavian called out the names of a number of Macedonian nobles. I watched the stirring in the crowd, their fellow citizens betraying their presence among them by turning to look at the man whose name had just been called, whether they wanted them to or not. One by one the men stood then came forward, some clearly very reluctant. I could tell from their clothing and the peculiar objects adorning their bodies, in the form of a hat, or tunic with large sleeves that they were badges of office. Once the men were assembled before Octavian, some trying not to show any fear while others visibly quaked, the young Caesar surveyed them, his face giving nothing away. Then, with a sudden smile, he announced in a loud voice that thanks to the intercession of Areius, he was pardoning these men for their work for Cleopatra. The gymnasium erupted in cheers, while one of the men fainted dead away, causing snickers from the Primi Pili, myself included. After a few more remarks about what the next few days would hold, Octavian turned, signaling to us to follow him out of the gymnasium.
