Eunomus was most excited. He was sure that his talent for intrigue would speedily make his patron the greatest man in Rome. He pointed out that Lepidus also should suggest a peace conference; if he did not, one might be held without him.
Lepidus therefore wrote a public dispatch to the Senate, suggesting that Antonius might have grievances which would excuse his conduct; at least, before the fighting spread, these grievances should be investigated. The dispatch was a long document, for anyone with a sound rhetorical training could use a great many words to make the point that peace is better than civil war.
The answer was an insufferably patronizing letter from Cicero; who ordered Lepidus, in very few words, to take no further part in a project which did not commend itself to the Senate, or to the people, or indeed to any honest Roman. He might have been a patron writing to his client, and this was Tullius of Arpinum addressing Lepidus of Rome!
By now the spring was well advanced, and the Alpine passes open. But Lepidus dared not move towards besieged Mutina. He had never commanded in a serious campaign, and he was surrounded by famous generals. Just beyond his southern frontier the Antonius brothers were engaged with Decimus Brutus, Pollio hovered to the south-west, and Plancus to the north. Pollio was reputed to be a faithful Caesarian, though if young Caesar attacked Marcus Antonius no one could tell which Caesarian leader would enjoy his support; Plancus, though he had served the dead Dictator, was an unprincipled careerist who would fight for the most generous paymaster. If Lepidus should advance into Cisalpine Gaul these two chieftains might combine to attack his rear. He dared not move until one side or the other had been victorious in the fighting round Mutina.
He very nearly found himself committed against his will. Without orders, his legate and brother-in-law Silanus one morning harangued the troops to persuade them to join Antonius. Luckily the cohorts considered themselves very well off in Narbo, and no soldier was anxious to face an unnecessary crossing of the Alps. When he found that his men would not follow him Silanus rode off alone, deserting his commander on active service. Marcus Antonius gave him command of a full legion.
Lepidus wrote bitterly to Junia that the children of Servilia seemed bent on self-destruction; Marcus Brutus led the Optimates in Asia, and now Silanus had joined the outlawed wing of the Caesarians. However the war went, one of them must be on the losing side.
Junia’s answer was slow in coming, for Cisalpine Gaul was full of warring armies. When it arrived it contained important news. She omitted the usual political gossip, and after a formal greeting plunged straight into this new disaster.
‘I have just come back from the most terrible funeral in the long history of the City. Never before, not even in the year of Cannae, have both Consuls been burned at the same pyre during their term of office. The whole City watched their bodies carried to the burning. Afterwards there were no riots, for the sorrow is genuine; the toughest gangsters were in tears. It is said that the undertakers and the actors who impersonate the ancestors refused payment for their services. I gather that the Consuls were not killed in the same action; first one was wounded mortally; and on the day he died the other was killed outright. What makes it even more odd was that they were not killed in a rout. On the contrary, their armies were victorious.
‘This alters the whole situation, and you must move carefully. Hirtius and Pansa, though Caesarians, were faithful servants of the Senate. Now the Senate has no obedient general, except Decimus Brutus in Mutina. In the absence of other magistrates the City is ruled by the urban praetor; the constitution of our ancestors provides for all emergencies. But the loyal army outside Mutina has gone over to young Caesar. The troops were ordered to obey the senior magistrate in Cisalpine Gaul, who is Decimus Brutus; they refused to follow a murderer of Caesar.
‘One unexpected result of all this is that the fighting round Mutina has come to an end. The Antonius brothers were beaten; they are now in full retreat, presumably on the way to your province. Young Caesar has not pursued them, in spite of the Senate’s orders. Instead he is leading his men towards the City. At present he holds the rank of propraetor, but after his soldiers have occupied the Forum he can give himself any rank he chooses. The boy is the most dangerous politician in Rome. But the first adversary you will have to fight will I suppose be Marcus Antonius. He is a very good soldier. Be as cautious as you can.
‘By the way, while watching the funeral I heard a very odd remark. My litter was jammed against another most splendid litter. The crowd was so great that neither of us could move, even when I discovered that my neighbour was that awful Clodia, the woman they tell so many stories about. Perhaps she is more to be pitied than blamed; I think she is a little astray in her wits. As the procession defiled before us (neither Consul was very well born, but in a double funeral their combined ancestors made a respectable show) Clodia called across to me: ‘Please, lady Junia, which is Aemilius Lepidus? I have often heard about him, but I’ve never met him.’ Of course I pretended not to hear. I wouldn’t speak to that woman in public. Does she think I am a widow? Even so, how could your image be in the procession, since neither of the dead Consuls was an Aemilius? A strange affair.
‘It is most unfortunate that my brother Silanus distinguished himself in the fighting at Mutina. It is said that he was responsible for the death of one Consul, I forget which. So we can’t hush up his desertion of his lawful commander. All the Antonians have been declared public enemies. When they are captured it will be difficult to get a pardon for Silanus.
‘Our Quintus is a queer little character. When I got back from the funeral he asked me …’
Lepidus immediately published in orders the shocking news of the death of both Consuls. The army of Narbonnese Gaul was saddened and impressed, but Crastinus the orderly was also wounded in his professional pride.
‘You see, my lord,’ he explained that evening, ‘it may sometimes be the duty of a commander to fight on in a lost battle until he is killed. But for a commander to be killed while his men are winning can be nothing but bad management. I suppose these noble Consuls disregarded the advice of their orderlies. When I hold your shield, sir, you must stand where I tell you; then this army will not suffer such an unfortunate accident. It’s a bad business, and a reflection on the praetorian cohorts who should have been guarding them.
‘But it’s always a pity’, he went on, ‘when a noble commander, new to war, wants to impress veterans with his courage. It doesn’t encourage the troops, not a bit, sir. When you’re getting set for a straightforward attack, the kind of thing that’s all in the day’s work and that you won’t boast about afterwards, there’s nothing more annoying than to have some highborn gentleman wave his sword and exhort you to die gloriously. Of course there must be a speech before battle. It’s only good manners, like putting an extra shine on the helmet that will be dinted by evening. But our great Caesar usually told us nothing except that we were bound to win easily. He never told us to die gloriously. Come to think of it, sometimes he told us to go home and leave the fighting to our betters. That stuck-up Tenth Legion! They never got a dirty fatigue. Caesar didn’t draw his sword until he was going to use it. I remember one time, though. A young tribune told us the eyes of Rome were upon us. At the end of the day we had stormed a Gallic fort with the loss of two men, and the boys had been so rough with the women and children that Caesar hushed up the whole affair and Rome never heard of it. But that tribune was never allowed to forget it.’
He sighed. ‘Now two Consuls go and do the same thing. How long is it since both Consuls were killed in one siege? Not since the taking of Veii, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘No Consul was killed at the siege of Veii, though an ancestor of mine was wounded. These Consuls were not killed in one battle. One was wounded first. I understand they both died on the same day.’
‘A shameful business, all the same, sir. I hope someone remembered to hang their orderlies. Culpable incompetence I call it.’
‘It was a terribl
e catastrophe, but no one has been blamed. Gallant leaders must risk their lives.’
‘Not when they are winning, sir. But you will understand more after you have seen a battle. What happened to young Caesar? He is safe, I hope?’
‘Quite safe, I believe; and now commanding all the troops near Mutina. But he is not pursuing the Antonians. It looks as though the war will come our way.’
Letters arrived from the Senate, to say that the Antonians were crossing the Alps. Lepidus and Plancus were ordered to attack them. Lepidus marched eastward, for to ignore the Senate’s command would be a declaration of open revolt. But still he had not made up his mind. He summoned a council of war.
His officers, themselves Caesarians, laid stress on the appeal of Marcus Antonius to the common soldiers. Laterensis alone maintained that his colleagues underrated the pull of lawful authority.
‘Our soldiers are Romans,’ he said in the course of an eloquent speech. ‘For five hundred years they and their ancestors have obeyed the Consuls, the Senate, and the laws. If they are ordered to attack, they will be attacking an army which has already met defeat, vanquished by the heir of their old leader. Of course they are reluctant to draw their swords in civil war. I hope the same may be said of every gentleman at this council. If the Antonius brothers can be persuaded to seek refuge in exile, that will be the best outcome of this march. I can assure our noble Imperator that his army will obey him, as every Roman army has obeyed its lawful superior. You will agree, gentlemen, that I know my soldiers. I mix with them daily, and they regard me as a father.’
Laterensis, the only Senator among the officers, was also the only one of them trained in public speaking. In reply gruff veterans grunted and shrugged their shoulders; but to Lepidus, himself a trained orator, a lucid speech carried more conviction than the most heart-felt grunt. He decided to attack the Antonians as soon as those public enemies crossed the border of his province.
He led his army eastward to the left bank of the Rhône. He marched slowly, for he wished to keep his men well supplied; but he sent on his kinsman, the legate Culleo, with a light detachment to seize the Alpine passes. Approaching the foothills he received a shock which made him halt. Lucius Antonius was advancing westward at the head of the hostile cavalry; as soon as Culleo made contact he and his whole detachment went over to these public enemies of the Roman people.
At once Lepidus halted. Behind the little river Argenteus he fortified a strong camp. There he waited for Plancus to join him as promised; though a promise from Plancus was not the foundation on which a prudent leader would build a plan of campaign. But if he remained where he was Antonius would be compelled to attack, and surely his army would fight in defence of its own camp. He filled in the time of waiting by writing once more to Cicero. He pointed out that he was a faithful servant of the Senate; but was there any chance of a peaceful settlement?
He had reason to fear the impending war. Marcus Antonius was a famous soldier; the young veteran who had recently killed both Consuls was almost certain to get the better of a commander ten years his senior who had never seen a campaign. If he sat still in camp until reinforcements arrived his army would be much stronger than the enemy. But would it still be his army? Plancus was a pliant adventurer, who in dangerous times avoided decisive action. But Pollio was forceful, the intimate of the dead Dictator and the most beloved of the lesser Caesarians; the troops might desert their legitimate commander to follow his orders.
There was an obvious alternative: he might join Antonius. You might say that he was already linked to him by kinship, though the betrothal of young Marcus to Antonia was only a tentative step that might never end in marriage. But if he joined a public enemy of Rome he would himself become a public enemy, and then Junia and the children, living quietly in the Aemilian mansion, would be at the mercy of his foes.
To join Antonius would be fatal to his family; to fight Antonius would probably be fatal to his army. He ordered his men to deepen the ditch of his camp, and to fix extra stakes in the palisade; then he sat down to wait for something to turn up.
It was a spacious camp, for it held seven legions, the field-army of southern Gaul and eastern Spain; and it contained as many opinions as were to be found in Rome. Not long ago Antonius had commanded the Tenth Legion, and every man in it was fervently Antonian; but in other formations Laterensis had a following, and he had now come out openly as the agent of the Optimates. As in every Roman army, the cavalry were foreign mercenaries, in this case Gallic nobles. Their touchy barbarian honour ensured that they would not go over to the enemies of Rome; but they did not understand the civil dissensions of their new masters, and in their eyes any Roman commander was as good as another. During the campaign of Mutina Antonius had preserved his cavalry intact, and in horse he was stronger than Lepidus. The rumour that he offered rich bounties to every mounted recruit made some Gauls desert to seek him among the Alps; then Plancus, at last marching south, offered even larger bounties, and more Gauls deserted to this third party. It looked as though Lepidus would be left without cavalry; for he would not offer bounties to his own men, to pay them extra for doing what they had undertaken to do.
Behind the Antonius brothers Decimus Brutus toiled grimly at the head of a starving and threadbare force. But Brutus knew himself to be weaker than Antonius; he dared not attack until his adversary was already engaged with one of the provincial armies.
Lepidus wrote, urgently, to the Senate, to Cicero, to Pollio, to Plancus, to Decimus Brutus. He longed for someone to give him orders. But he was now one of the leading men in the republic,
and everyone waited for him to use his own initiative.
One morning towards the end of May he was roused from sleep to receive an excited scout. The man was one of the few remaining Gauls; his excitement, and his awe at speaking directly to the Imperator, made his Latin even less intelligible than was usual with these barbarians. But his message was clear, and it had long been expected. A great army, hungry and battered but strong in cavalry, was less than ten miles from the camp; by midday it would reach the river.
Trumpets pealed the stand-to as Lepidus hurriedly got into his armour, noting with annoyance that his waistline had increased until the moulded bronze corselet was extremely uncomfortable. There was no time for breakfast, no time even for the private libation to the genius of the gens Aemilia with which he had begun every day since he was old enough to hold a wine-cup. But he was Pontifex Maximus. He must perform the customary public sacrifice, to beseech the favour of Jupiter in this dangerous crisis. The fools of quartermasters tried to fob him off with a scrawny ox, and valuable time was wasted while they hunted through the ration-herd for a genuine bull; the animal they produced at last was horribly thin, and no bigger than a ram. Then in his haste he upset the barley-meal, and when at last the victim was dead and disembowelled its liver looked like nothing he had ever seen before. But the recognized bad omens were as absent as the good ones; he could proclaim to his army, without actually telling a lie, that the gods were not displeased with them.
Outside headquarters a zealous groom clutched the bridle of the showiest and most unmanageable war-horse in Gaul. Lepidus could ride well enough if he was put to it, but he did not choose to risk a toss before the eyes of his assembled army. He told the man to go away, and himself strolled on foot to the river-bank. His camp blocked the only bridge for many miles, and the enemy were not likely to ford a swift deep stream in the face of his skirmishers. Today there would probably be no fighting.
Every disciplined fighting-man was at his post, but a commander-in-chief attracts idlers as honey attracts flies. Soon a heterogeneous collection of hangers-on stood round him, discussing the situation and waiting to volunteer advice.
Crastinus was there, of course, because in action his post was beside the Imperator. Laterensis had turned up, ostensibly to receive final orders. Another legate was with him, one Caius Furnius; in theory he was travelling back to Plancus from Rome, whither he had been
sent with dispatches; but he had lingered in camp for several days, and it was easy to see that he was waiting to inform his own commander as soon as Lepidus took action. Besides these there were the mounted orderlies who forwarded routine dispatches, and the young Roman knights, beginning their military service, who would carry urgent orders in the danger of a general action. Altogether, it was a group of more than a score.
Eastwards across the river the country showed tangled and broken; it was hard to get a clear view of the road. But the approaching army disdained concealment. Soon Crastinus muttered in his lord’s ear: ‘Mounted patrol north of the road, mounted patrol south. There’s the point of the vanguard, on the road itself. That’s a little bit reckless, but their supports are close behind. Considering that this is the end of a long retreat I should say those cavalry are in very good order.’
The dark blobs of horsemen, with a cloud of dust above them, were unmistakable even to Roman nobles little experienced in campaigning. Laterensis muttered through clenched teeth: ‘Public enemies of Rome, men who fight to steal away our liberty! Here they come, in full retreat! And we are ready for them! This will be a day of glory, which my grandchildren will remember.’
‘Are you ready for them?’ asked Furnius, turning to glance back at the palisade. ‘I don’t see the battle flag.’
Reminded of his duty, the tribune of the praetorian cohort saluted and addressed his Imperator. ‘Sir, have you any orders for my signallers? They are standing by with the red flag. Shall the Eagles be removed from their shrine?’
‘Not yet,’ said Lepidus shortly. ‘I must see more of the enemy before I can give definite orders.’
The Eagles, sacred images as well as standards, were normally housed in the shrine of Mars beside headquarters. Not many proconsuls could sacrifice to as many as seven Eagles, and Lepidus felt a glow of pride whenever he worshipped them. To hand them over to the Aquilifers would be to tell his men that he expected battle before sunset. To hoist the red flag was an even more urgent signal. When they saw it the troops must remove the coverings from their armour, and parade in fighting order without haversacks or blankets. The same signal warned non-combatant followers to look to their own safety, it would send off every sutler and wine-seller by the westward road. The legionaries would be subjected to all the hardships of active service; if no fighting followed they would be very angry.
Three's Company Page 12
