by Craig Smith
I did not waste my breath whispering to the gods, but at the sight of young Caesar I did pray to whatever daemons inhabited the forest and marsh that I might have one more chance at the coward. But of course the perverse spirits of that great marsh at Philippi had teased me with the only opportunity I was ever going to have.
The fight lasted less than an hour, time enough for Brutus and the rest of the nobility to escape. They took with them our camp guards and the two legions holding the marsh. And of course the money. Once we knew what he had done, those of us left behind threw down our weapons.
The remainder of the day was spent sorting out the officers from the rank and file. Our camp was plundered. Nothing we owned stayed with us, even the hardtack tied to our belts. Half of us, those belonging to the southern camp, had been living without tents for the better part of a month; so another few nights in the open was no more onerous than usual. Those officers at or above the rank of a centurion were held in the new camp Antony had built. The rank and file were taken into the armies of Caesar or Antony after swearing an oath of loyalty. Men were happy to serve Antony. Those obliged to join Caesar made a brave face of it. All the same not a soul had any regrets leaving the armies of Cassius or Brutus, the one a fool, the other a coward. As for the auxiliaries, most were relieved of their property and set free.
We stayed on that field until news came that Brutus had committed suicide. He did this not in shame for his cowardice but to escape capture. After his death his staff turned themselves over without a fight. The day after these men arrived, the officers were all taken to the battlefield. First in line were the great men. After that, no one bothered sorting us out by ranks; they only insisted we stand in an orderly fashion. Scaeva stood before me, Horace behind. The three of us had been together as prisoners since our surrender. This was a consolation for me, for I counted them as my friends.
Caesar and Antony waited at the front of the line. They were seated and wrapped in robes, for the day was quite cold. They were attended, naturally, by friends and counsellors who might help them make their choices. Antony had fortified himself for the occasion; Caesar was cold-bloodedly sober. The captives stepped forward to receive judgment. Many of these men were known. If Antony or Caesar did not recognise them, one of their friends usually did. Men who were known on sight were generally proscribed. Their property was already gone. It only remained to take their heads. Others were sons of proscribed men. These men Caesar thought might be quite dangerous in the future, and so he took their lives while he had the opportunity. That is to say, he nodded his golden locks like Homer’s Zeus atop Mount Olympus, and a bloodied centurion stepped up to execute the man. The stroke was with a gladius. Properly aimed, the sword slipped under the ribs and into the heart. The heads of the proscribed nobility were removed at a distance from our party and placed in wine jars for the long journey home. Once in Rome the heads would be set up on the speaker’s platform in the Forum. Nobility had the right to speak before their execution, but any fellow giving a political speech was taken down at once. Most men asked a favour for their families; these appeals were always directed at Antony’s party, where one of Antony’s slaves took notes.
Those not recognised were asked to identify themselves. This involved giving a name and home, a declaration of citizenship, and of course past military experience. Caesar took the lead in these interrogations, chiefly because Antony soon grew bored with the whole spectacle. He remained only that he might cull out old friends or a bright young officer of reputation; otherwise, if he did not bother to speak up for a man, Caesar usually killed the fellow.
As we got close to the front of the line I expected I would die and only cared to do it with dignity. It was difficult in the circumstances. I could hear Caesar’s petulant voice as we came slowly forward. In Rome, young Caesar had been playing the role of an outraged prince denied his inheritance. At Philippi, he was a mighty imperator dispensing justice. In both instances he sounded like a boy out of his depth.
To those not related to a proscribed man, Caesar held out hope as he interrogated them; he even pretended kindness. In fact, he let a few of the young officers of no importance walk away with impunity so that the others might hope. With many he played games of chance. Some of the wagers involved dice, but the ones I witnessed were far stranger. A young officer with no political coin had the chance to guess the direction a certain bird would fly when it left its perch. ‘Quick now. Tell me where it goes!’ The fellow pointed, and all present, even Antony, waited curiously until the bird finally departed. Down went the man, for the bird had not flown in the direction he had indicated. This game hadn’t gone quite fast enough, so the next victim had to guess the number of fingers Caesar held behind his back. ‘You can trust me. I’ll play fair.’
‘Three!’ the poor youth cried, trembling at the prospect of one-in-five odds.
‘On your life, you wager it is three and not four or five?’
‘It is four!’
Caesar pulled his hand from behind his back, ‘Too bad for you. Three was the right answer.’ The flash of the gladius. The sound of another body hitting the muddy field.
‘What is your name?’ This to Scaeva.
Scaeva gave his name.
‘Cassius Scaeva? Are you a relative of the assassin Cassius Longinus?’
‘I have relatives who were freed by his ancestors.’
Caesar nodded, and the executioner stepped forward. The blade of the gladius swept into Scaeva’s side. As the blade withdrew Scaeva fell to his knees with a heavy grunt and rolled forward, nearly touching Caesar’s feet.
‘What is your name?’ Caesar was speaking to me, but I had no voice. I could hardly breathe, for I had thought Scaeva, of all men, would earn Caesar’s mercy. ‘Do you have a name?’ The voice seemed to come from a great distance. I heard him without quite understanding that Caesar was talking to me. I was watching the body of a man I counted my friend dragged away.
‘His name is Quintus Dellius.’
Caesar glared at Horace, who had spoken up for me. Of course Horace had not been asked to speak; for his impertinence he was now in mortal danger.
‘Mine is Horatius Flaccus – Horace,’ he added, though Caesar had not asked his name.
Mark Antony opened his eyes and blinked, for he had dozed off as we approached. His face became drunkenly animated as he cried out, ‘By the gods, Horace! What are you doing here?’
‘I really don’t know, Antony! Brutus got me so drunk I was an officer before I knew it. I have never been so drunk in my life.’
‘That is saying a good deal. Tell me, did our friend Brutus by chance promise you undying glory?’
‘He promised me the glory of Achilles.’
‘Achilles died young, Horace.’
‘It seemed only a small detail at the time.’
‘I expect so. I’ll take this one, Caesar. Horace promises me he will never again lift a sword in anger. Don’t you, lad?’
‘I swear it, Antony! But will you bring Dellius with you as well?’ Antony looked in my direction without seeming at first to recognise me. ‘He is really the most amazing man with a sword! The bravest man I have ever known – after you, that is. And Caesar, of course. You won’t regret it. I swear to you he is a fine and honourable man as well.’
‘What is the name?’ Antony asked, for I apparently now looked vaguely familiar.
‘Quintus Dellius, Imperator,’ I answered.
‘Dolabella’s creature? The mathematician?’
‘I served Dolabella, Imperator.’
Antony looked at Caesar. ‘I’ll take Dellius as well.’
Caesar shrugged indifferently, then turned his gaze to the man behind me. ‘What is your name?’
XVI
HORACE’S WAGER
Philippi to Athens: Autumn, 42 BC
Caesar returned with his legions to Italy, where a great many were disbanded. Antony took his army as far as the Hellespont. Horace and I were both temporarily assigned t
o Antony’s Guard, but this did not mean very much. In fact, neither of us had any responsibilities. We simply moved in Antony’s entourage. One morning, however, Antony showed up quite drunk and called Horace into his carriage. This of course is a singular honour for any man, especially so for a junior tribune of the auxiliaries. A man of my rank watched Horace enter the carriage and muttered something about Antony needing a morning blowjob.
I took the fellow down from his horse and set upon him with a flurry of punches. I knew Horace was fine entertainment on a dreary trip; if there was something more to it than conversation I wasn’t ready to admit it of my friend and certainly would not allow anyone else to comment on the matter. Antony of course had a famously voracious sexual appetite, but unlike Dolabella I never knew him to use a citizen of Rome as a female. Not when he was sober enough to notice, I mean.
At the Hellespont several of our legions crossed into Asia, where they made their winter camps. The remainder sailed to Athens. Horace was assigned a secretarial post at the palace where Antony resided. I joined the junior tribunes at one of the armouries in Athens. We hadn’t any duties and a great many of the young officers spent most of their time pursuing the pleasures of the city. As I had no money, none at all until the first payday, I remained at the armoury and used the entire day for training.
I would see Horace when he had time off from his duties. On these occasions Horace assured me he was a tireless promoter of my talents. I would not languish forever in the lower ranks, not if he had anything to say about the matter. I answered these promises as nobly as I could. I was content, I said, to make my way by my own merits. This of course speaks plainly to my youthful folly. Fortunately, Horace did not listen to such nonsense.
Athens: Winter, 42 – 41 BC
Antony was enjoying himself that winter. He really had no reason to be on the lookout for talented officers. After Philippi, he expected the next year to be relatively quiet. So Horace’s relentless promotion of Quintus Dellius no doubt left him irritated. Nor could Antony imagine that Horace knew enough about war to recommend someone. So at first he ignored Horace; then he said he would have a look at the boy, meaning me.
He was insincere in this; he only wanted Horace to shut up. When Horace pressed again, Antony decided to teach the poet a lesson about real fighting men. If Quintus Dellius was so remarkable would Horace be willing to place a wager on him in a fair fight – one-on-one?
Horace said he would wager a fortune on Quintus Dellius, if he only had one. Antony arranged for loans to be extended to him; then he set the entire amount before Horace. Would he really wager it all? Against any fellow Antony might choose? Horace answered him that he would do it gladly, so long as Mark Antony himself was not the opponent.
I knew nothing of these matters; I simply spent my days running, riding, and fighting. Once or twice I noticed a stranger watching us train at the arena, but I thought nothing of it. As for Antony himself he never trained with us, nor did he bother visiting our armoury. I only saw him when he mounted a litter or walked in the streets surrounded by his clients and flanked by his Guard, of which I occupied the outer perimeter.
One morning, however, Antony arrived at the armoury with his entourage, including freedmen, secretaries, legates, old friends, and a few of the Athenian nobility. Horace was in this crowd too, though it was a while before I noticed him. Our training centurion spoke briefly with Antony’s freedman then called us from the sand. He arranged a duel between two of the better tribunes and after these two he arranged another. The men used heavy wicker training shields and wooden practice swords. Like the shield, the training gladius is quite a bit heavier than a real sword. After these two duels the centurion called the two winners back to fight me.
I picked up my wicker shield, placed one training sword in my belt and took another in hand. The arena was covered in hard-packed sand and ringed about with heavy marble markers. The space was sufficient for as many as a dozen fights at once. Horace shouted heartily at my appearance, standing and clapping his hands. He was the only one in Antony’s entourage who appeared to support my cause.
I slammed into one of my opponents, careful to slide away from the second man as he charged at me for any easy hit. When the second fighter had gone a step too far, I bounced away from the first opponent with a hard push. I wasted no time in play but with a sweeping motion of my shield knocked the shield of the second man away from his body and reached over for a thrust into his head. The blow was hard enough for the call of a kill but not quite enough to put him down with an injury.
Our centurion judged it a mortal wound, and the young man so struck retired from the fight, even as I turned against his partner. This one came charging at me in the hope of catching me while I still attended to the other man. I gave ground because he had the momentum, and for a moment we made a decent fight of it for Antony’s sake. Still, I did not care to play the incompetent and at first opportunity struck my opponent’s ribs with a gentle thrust.
‘Well done, Dellius!’ Antony called. ‘Are you up for another?’
‘I’m ready for as many as you care to watch, Imperator.’
Antony whispered something to one of his attendants, who turned and left the training area. All waited curiously until he returned in the company of a veritable giant. The fellow was a blond-haired Celt, who, I later learned, came from lands to the north of the Black Sea. In his mid-thirties, he was a head taller than I and perhaps half-again as heavy. He wore the skullcap of a freedman, and I guessed him to be a retired gladiator.
‘Let’s make it interesting for you, Dellius,’ Antony said. ‘Beat this man in combat, and I will give you five thousand denarii.’ The prize on offer was equal to a first centurion’s annual salary, a very enticing sum to someone who had recently been stripped of all he owned. But of course the amount of the prize intimidated me nearly as much as the giant himself. I could not imagine Antony expected to pay out a sum of that magnitude. For such a grand offer he had certainly acquired a champion. Still, I could not help but think what the money could buy.
We were each given a legionary’s pilum and military-grade shields. The pilum, with a thin, barbed point, is a mortally dangerous weapon. Its more practical purpose, however, is to pierce and then hang upon an opponent’s shield, thereby ruining its efficacy. Of course it is always possible to keep fighting with a spear dangling from one’s shield, but the pilum is heavy by design and makes any movement with a shield awkward. The main fight would be with practice swords. These were decidedly non-mortal weapons. As per my custom, I carried a second gladius in my belt. My opponent could see no advantage in a second sword and refused the offer.
The legionary’s shield is considerably lighter than the wicker shields used for practice; it is also a weapon in its own right, having the potential to cut a man if the edge comes into play. I appreciated the relative lightness of the shield; I had been carrying weighted wicker shields for a few weeks, but I did not care to fight with real weapons against a giant. I frankly expected to be beaten and really only wanted to come away with my skin intact.
We began at opposite ends of the arena and ran towards one another on the training centurion’s signal. We both heaved our spears at about the same moment. By a deft turning of his shield the Celt caused the pilum I threw to slide away and scoot across the sand to the far reaches of the arena; his spear however pierced my shield. We kept racing forward, each of us drawing his sword. The collision jolted me as if I had run into a galloping horse. I stayed on my feet but reeled away, scrambling for balance.
I had hoped the collision would clear my shield, but the pilum remained dangling from it. The tip was now hopelessly bent, something more like a fishhook than the barbed point of a spear. Having no time to pry it free, I tossed the shield to the side of the arena and pulled my second training sword. I am quite sure the Celt had several reports on my fighting skills and may even have watched me without my noticing, for he stayed close but would not charge me.
W
hen I came at him with a wild swatting of both swords against his shield, he stood his ground in a defensive posture. Had he not set himself in this manner, I meant to parry his first thrust and then go under his shield with a blow to the back of his leg. When he refused to do anything more than fend off my assault, I settled with beating his shield with my weapons, three strokes with each sword, then backing away. I retreated to my right, away from his sword hand.
He scooted towards me as I charged again, left foot forward, right bracing. He still held his gladius close to his hip, covered by his shield. I cracked his shield in the same rhythm as before, but on my last stroke, with my right hand, I reached around it as I fell away. Had he been pushing into an attack, as men will do when an opponent is about to back away, I hoped to catch flesh; instead, he swatted my gladius away with his shield.
I advanced again with the same dance, repeated the same series of hard blows and then retreated as before; but this time I did not reach in. I only feinted it. His shield swept before me as before. Reversing course, I stepped in suddenly, swatting his gladius aside. I lunged forward with a killing thrust, but the giant leapt nimbly away before I could touch him.
So long as his right leg was planted, the Celt’s reach was insufficient for a killing stroke. The moment he stepped forward with his right leg it would be to strike at me, whether low or high I could only guess. A man may try to disguise his intentions but the feet will expose him every time. That is the trick I had learned from Scaeva. Moreover, with two swords in play I did not need to brace and lunge. I might strike with either foot forward, whenever the opportunity presented itself. The Celt, on the other hand, must step forward with his right leg when he attacked. So he came shuffling forward, feet braced to receive an attack, always waiting for his chance in the same posture.
