On the parade ground he ran into Laterensis, who was delighted to learn his orders for the evening. There was a brave man and a competent soldier! What a pity that he was a bigoted Optimate; otherwise he would have been the ideal second in command.
The uneasy day wore on. Half the army manned the palisade, while the other half got on with the unending domestic work of a standing camp. That meant that no one was at leisure. There was all the boredom of a siege without the stimulus of danger. Meanwhile the Antonians frolicked just beyond javelin-range. Their cavalry, grazing the troop horses in the narrow meadow over the river, shouted in Gallic to the Lepidan camp-followers. The legionaries watched anxiously as their girls exchanged incomprehensible badinage with swaggering barbarian cavaliers who had been at the killing of two Roman Consuls; such heroes must prove dangerous rivals. The Antonian foot attempted to repair the bridge, desisting only when javelins whizzed past their ears, deliberately aimed to miss. Then, with the skill of veterans long in the field, they made a narrow footbridge a little way upstream.
By late afternoon there was a steady trickle of traffic across this bridge, though all the travellers appeared to be female. Laterensis, in great agitation, reported that some of these women were Roman soldiers, even officers, in disguise. He begged the Imperator to order a sortie; he volunteered to lead it himself, and to hew down the bridge or die in the attempt. Lepidus could not be persuaded to alter his plan. He had made up his mind to wait for night, when in the confusion of a skirmish at close quarters his men must fight their antagonists or be struck down unresisting; he explained that if he engaged by daylight his men might fraternize with the enemy before a blow had been struck.
That was the excuse he gave to Laterensis. In truth he would not change his plan because he would not begin an unpleasant task any earlier than he had intended. He had braced himself to bring on a clash about midnight; until then he might rest and calm his nerves. He felt about his legate’s eagerness as a criminal might feel who, prepared to die at dawn, sees the executioner come for him at sunset. It seemed unfair.
By evening the tension had affected his health. For the first time in his life (but then it was also the first time he had camped in an Alpine meadow in May) he was attacked by hay fever. His eyes watered until he could hardly see, his voice became a croak incapable of shouting orders. There was nothing for it but to go to bed, with a jug of hot wine by his pillow. On this eventful night he had intended to lie down in his armour; in his present condition such a hardship would be absurd. He undressed completely; because he felt feverish he put on a clean cool linen nightshirt.
He was dozing fitfully when Laterensis came to take leave. It seemed to Lepidus that the self-righteous young man disturbed him only to have another opportunity of boasting before a congenial listener; his excuse was that he wanted to run through his orders once more, to make sure that he understood his commander’s intentions. These were plain enough, and admitted of no misunderstanding. He was to bring on a clash in the dark, and make sure that his men killed at least one Antonian. Who was victorious in the skirmish did not matter in the least; in fact it might be useful, as likely to anger the troops, if the Antonians got away with the convoy. But by sunrise there must be shed blood between the wavering Tenth Legion and their old comrades outside the palisade.
At last the pompous young bore saluted and withdrew. Sneezing himself into exhaustion, the Imperator fell asleep. It seemed only a few moments later when he was awakened by his orderly.
‘My lord, get up at once,’ Crastinus cried. ‘The Imperator Marcus Antonius will be here in a minute. It would be a discourtesy if he found you sleeping.’
‘Eh? What’s that? Marcus Antonius? What’s he doing in my camp?’ Lepidus answered in alarm, and fell again to sneezing.
‘My lord, he comes as a friend. Please listen to me. He will be here in a moment, and you must understand. When the legate Laterensis marched those cohorts of the Tenth to the south gate the dirty dogs up and mutinied. They opened the gate, and hewed a breach in the palisade as well. Then they invited the Antonians to come in, and of course the brave Marcus was first to accept the invitation. He is now strolling through the camp, all unarmed and unguarded. He would have been here before me, but the men waylaid him on the parade ground, clamouring for a speech. Please, my lord, get out of bed.’
‘Where’s Laterensis?’ asked Lepidus sleepily. In this picture there seemed no place for the stubborn young Optimate.
‘One of the mutineers put a sack over his head, and they had a bit of fun with him. Then he went off alone to his hut, and the rumour is that he has fallen on his sword; but I haven’t seen the body. Please hurry, my lord.’
‘Very well,’ said Lepidus, at last fully awake. ‘Tell them in Rome that I met my fate without flinching. Before my body is burned get someone who understands the business to make a good death-mask. After all these generations it would be shameful to leave a gap among the Aemilian images.’
‘What’s all this about death and funerals?’ asked a jolly voice from the door. ‘This isn’t a wake, it’s a joyful reunion of old comrades. Come on, Aemilius Lepidus. Surely you remember me? Is there wine in that jug, or have you been drinking melted snow like me? It’s very lowering to the spirits, I can tell you. But now peace reigns, and we can celebrate.’
It was Marcus Antonius, though Lepidus had to look twice before he recognized him. The broken nose and confident, ingratiating smile were there as usual, but the general effect was new. Instead of scarlet cheeks, mottled with purple veins, his complexion was now a healthy brown; his throat was firm and muscular; the flabby jowl had gone, though a short beard hid the jaw; his hair hung raggedly on his shoulders, instead of lying in artificial ringlets. Presumably hair and beard had been permitted to grow in sign of mourning, ever since the defeat outside Mutina. But the biggest change was in his figure. Now he was slender, save where muscles bulged on thigh and arm; and he walked with a swagger of controlled energy. This was not the bloated and petulant lover of Cytheris who had scandalized respectable Senators in Rome. This was Antonius the dashing captain of horse, the leader who could trudge through Alpine snowdrifts or gallop over the sands of Egypt.
Lepidus tried to pull in his own belly. ‘Antonius,’ he said firmly. ‘I suppose peace reigns, since you have stolen my soldiers. Now finish what you have begun. Will you take my head here and now, or will you grant me time to settle my affairs before I open my veins in private?’
‘You are still asleep and dreaming, old boy,’ and the smile flashed even wider. ‘Why should I harm the father-in-law of my darling daughter? By the way, what a filthy cold you have. The Gallic climate doesn’t suit you. We must do something for that. Can’t have my daughter’s father-in-law sneezing his head off in the provinces. Let’s all go back to Rome and enjoy ourselves. That’s what I came to see you about. Of course I have not stolen your soldiers. Why should I? I have some quite good ones of my own. You are still Imperator of seven faithful legions, and I command only, three and a bit. So, though we are both Consulars, you rank before me. But now that our men have made friends we ought to act in concert. Let’s get back over the Alps as fast as we can, and scare the wits out of those fat Senators who are sitting on the keys of the treasury.’
‘You mean we are friends and allies?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Our men insist on being friends, so if we want to go on leading them we must be friends also. It was a silly war, anyway. What were you doing, you, Caesar’s old Master of the Horse, to help that murderer Decimus against Caesar’s old comrades? I know, old boy; you were bullied into it. Well, now I have freed you, and you can follow your true inclinations. If we Caesarians stick together we can rule the world; and we can have a very jolly time while we rule it.’
Lepidus was overcome with relief. A minute ago he had been expecting death, forcing himself to meet it with dignity. Now this really charming man (and a first-rate soldier too) was offering to make him joint ruler of the world. Antoniu
s would do the fighting, which was so frightening when your men awaited orders on the battlefield; while an educated Senator and patrician kept the republic in the ways of the ancestors, the ways that had made Rome great. What a splendid prospect, and how gratifying that this mere soldier had recognized the innate capacity of Aemilius Lepidus! But there were still obstacles in the way.
‘What about Plancus and Pollio?’ he inquired. ‘For that matter, what about Decimus Brutus and young Caesar Octavianus? Must we fight all their legions before we rule in Rome?’
‘Really! Plancus and Pollio! Do you think they will object? They are sound Caesarians, and friends of ours. Of course they will join us as soon as they hear of our alliance. Young Octavianus is more of a problem. We may have to move over a bit to make room for him. But he’s only a boy. Give him a splendid title and plenty of money, and he’ll leave the hard work to us. Poor old Brutus doesn’t matter any more. By the end of the month his soldiers will be under our Eagles. I have offered a reward for his head, and quite soon I shall have to stump up. It’s not a thing I do gladly; I’m all for clemency. But the actual murderers of Caesar cannot be permitted to die of old age.’
‘Yes, the actual murderers deserve execution. Even the other Brutus, my brother-in-law, can’t come back to Rome as though nothing has happened. But I expect he will die in battle, or kill himself. He’s not a man to ask for quarter. I suppose we must soon march into Asia to deal with him?’
‘I shall march, when we are ready. You leave all that sort of thing to me. Your job will be to rule Rome. You did it very well when Caesar was in Spain, and it will come easier the second time. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if you do it badly. Don’t you see, old boy? We are our own masters. We can do as we please. There isn’t even Caesar to give us orders.’
‘Our own masters, and masters of Rome! Well, why not? There are a lot of improvements I can make in the City, and I shall enjoy doing it.’
‘That’s the spirit! It’s settled, then. Not worth going to bed again, as late as this. It’s ten days since I tasted wine, and I’m due to get drunk. But before we send for the wine-skins you ought to show yourself to the troops, to prove that our interview passed off in a friendly way. No, don’t bother to dress. Just go out and say a few words as you are. This isn’t the Senate; they won’t call you to order for not wearing a toga.’
The lady Clodia leaned from her litter, her hand squeezing the shoulder of her handsome escort. ‘Isn’t this fun?’ she said happily. ‘There will be the most glorious crash in a moment, and with any luck one of those clumsy workmen will be caught underneath. I adore destruction. Since my poor brother died there hasn’t been half enough of it.’ ‘You can’t expect the Senate to compete with Clodius in
mere destruction. Look, there it goes. I’m afraid the workman
skipped clear at the last instant. Never mind, there’s a splendid
cloud of dust, and I think they have split the marble slabs of
the pavement.’
‘Poor bronze horse! How silly he looks, still prancing gallantly as he lies on his side. Who is the hero riding him? He seems on the chubby side. But I suppose if the Senate pulls down his statue he isn’t a hero any longer.’
‘The fat man riding it? Yesterday he was Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Imperator, Triumphator, Consular. Now he is merely one Lepidus, a public enemy with a price on his head. The Senate put up the statue in gratitude, when he brought Sextus Pompeius over to them. Now he has joined Antonius; so of course the statue must come down.’
‘How odd. They should put up another statue, showing him capering in his nightshirt while Antonius captures his camp single-handed. Still, he guarded my house on the night of Caesar’s murder. Now I know who it is, I’m sorry the statue was destroyed.’
‘Don’t worry, my sweet. It will be back again before the year’s out. Marcus Antonius is marching on Rome. Only little Caesar Octavianus stands between him and his goal. When the child has been beaten Antonius will rule us; and then of course his friends can have as many statues as they want.’
‘Good. I hope Antonius makes himself Censor. He’s just the man for the job. When the Caesarians occupy the City you must take me to see the statues of Brutus and Cassius overthrown. I can identify those heroes, you see. But then Brutus on a horse is unmistakable. Such a seat, such graceful carriage of the elbows! I suppose that is the old Roman manner of riding, one of the sacred customs of the ancestors.’
7. Three to Restore the Republic
43 BC
Northwards the flat plain of the Po stretched to the horizon; only at sunrise was it possible to make out the dim line of the Alpine foothills. Southward, beyond the little river Lavinius, the ground was more broken; ridges and steep sudden valleys led up to the confusion of the Apennines, and among those wooded crests a great army could be hidden. But the low sun of November shone from a cloudless sky, as though Jove himself was eager to offer a good omen; and Lepidus, as he peered across the stream, knew that a twinkle from helm or polished corselet would give early warning even to his eyes, untrained in tactical appreciation. He could see no troops but the small bodyguard whose presence had been stipulated in the preliminary negotiations. So far there had been no treachery; he turned to signal the reassuring news to his own forces.
Approaching the river he had felt his nerves crawl. But as he looked behind him his courage revived. The army drawn up on the north bank need fear no foe. Never, in all the seven hundred years since Rome was founded, had such a mighty force marched behind the Eagles. Besides his own seven legions there were six legions of Antonians, and these were reinforced by the field-armies of the most warlike provinces in the west, men led by Plancus from Further Gaul and Pollio from Further Spain. As Antonius had prophesied, those governors had rallied to the Caesarian cause as soon as Lepidus had shown them their duty. Save where the ambiguous and unpredictable Sextus Pompeius sat in disaffected Massilia, all the fighting Celtic west, the best recruiting-ground in the world, obeyed the Caesarians. Far off in Smyrna another great army was mustering, equipped by eastern gold and recruited from faint-hearted Asiatics. Presently there would come a clash, though the issue could be hardly in doubt. But today his business was with the levies of turbulent Italy: street-corner loafers underfed on the corn-dole, or surly veterans regretting their stolen farms in Picenum. Even if the boy had been flattered until he lost his head, his troops could not face in the field the disciplined, war-hardened cohorts of Antonius and Pollio.
Looking back, Lepidus could make out the encampment of his own seven legions. Even at this distance their huts showed better built and better aligned than the ramshackle bivouac of the slacker Plancus, or the flimsy shelters of improvident Antonians. Yes, his seven legions were the flower of the army, as brave and well-trained as their comrades and more efficiently administered. There was an advantage in being led by an industrious, conscientious man of business, too wealthy and too honourable to be tempted by the bribes of contractors. Yes, there was an advantage, and his men admitted it.
During the summer there had been times of anxiety. His gallant foolish veterans were impressed by the panache of those swaggering Antonius brothers; it seemed that they might desert their commander to follow the plundering Eagles of Mutina. Marcus Antonius had behaved really very well, though his brother Lucius was not quite so dependable. Marcus had gone out of his way to treat Lepidus with all the deference due to a general of greater seniority. Of course the position was irregular. At thirty-eight Marcus was Consular and Imperator, in normal times no Senator could attain the Consulate until his forty-third year at the earliest. By good behaviour the young man proved that Caesar’s undeserved favour had not so far turned his head.
As the army gathered strength, a magnet for every Caesarian warrior in the west, Lepidus had felt himself more and more out of his element. That Pollio, always making doubtful jokes on serious subjects, that Plancus, openly out to plunder his fellow-citizens, were not the colleagues with whom an Aemilius Lepid
us normally took counsel. They were so sure of themselves whenever it looked like fighting, and so shockingly ignorant of the protocol of negotiation with the Senate. They were capable of writing to the Senate and People of Rome, as though those two elements made up the whole republic. He, Lepidus, had politely shown them their mistake, addressing his own manifesto to the praetors, the tribunes, the Senate, the People, and the Plebs. The praetors, of course, were in place of the two Consuls, killed in action. But the separate addition of the Plebs reminded the ignorant that not long ago patricians alone had been reckoned among the Roman People; those other houses, even the gens Antonia, even the gens Junia, were immigrant foreigners lately granted the citizenship, not true children of Numa.
He had seen things that shocked him, as they marched over the Alps from the Narbonese to Cisalpine Gaul. This habit of levying contributions from friendly townships, or permitting the men to pillage unpunished; it was bad for discipline, and not in accordance with the custom of the ancestors. The generals excused any fault except cowardice in the field, because this was civil war and the men must be kept in a good humour. Worse than that, the generals themselves plundered.
They made a mock of religion, offering sacrifice only when their men needed fresh meat. The Pontifex Maximus did what he could by example, but even his own followers thought his careful daily ritual merely a personal eccentricity, not an essential safeguard against the enmity of the gods. At least he had prevailed on them to allow the spirit of Decimus Brutus to rest in peace. Lucius Antonius had wanted to set the wretched man’s head on a spear and use it as a standard. As he explained, it had been bought most expensively from the Gallic chieftain who had murdered his guest; a trophy which had cost so much silver should be used until it fell to pieces, not wastefully burned even before it began to stink.
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