Of course a commissioned centurion would not miss an opportunity of reporting in person to the Emperor; equally, he would want to look his best at this important interview. The principalis in charge came out from the guard-room and signed for the message-bag, which was left at my feet so that the Emperor might see it as soon as he left his chamber. The officer strode rapidly away.
Afterwards police agents badgered me to describe him, and the principalis who let him go was charged with culpable neglect of duty; though events moved so rapidly that he never stood his trial. But you will see from my account that the whole transaction was quite normal. Even if we had wished to detain the messenger, a principalis must get hold of another commissioned officer to make the arrest of a commissioned centurion.
I stood for the best part of an hour with the bag at my feet. It was a large bag filled with some round object, too big to be a dispatch. From the buzzing of the flies I guessed that this was a severed head; such things are brought to an Emperor fairly frequently. It was sad that Bassianus, that beautiful boy, would never attain manhood. I wondered idly whether his severed head would still retain its astonishing beauty.
Then the Emperor bustled out of his chamber. He was in more than his usual bad temper, as happens when elderly men rise from a midday nap. When he saw my bag he ordered his valet to cut the strings, without waiting for the principalis to report in due form. I was standing rigidly at the Present, so that I could not move my head; but he was directly in front of me, and I could see him.
Groping in the bag, the valet first fished out a message. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘this bears the personal signet of the Praetorian Praefect. He writes as follows: From the victorious Praefect Ulpius Julianus to his august Emperor, greeting. I enclose with my greeting the head and front of all these troubles.’
‘Now which will that be?’ muttered the Emperor to himself. ‘Little Bassianus, or that legate who went over to him? Julianus should have been more explicit. Well, what are you waiting for? Pull out the head and let me see it.’
The head that came out was so battered that at first no one could recognize it. ‘It’s Julianus himself!’ the Emperor gasped, and fainted.
The guard turned out, valets came running; the Emperor was carried off and the ante-room cleared. Then the secret police took over. Luckily they concentrated on the guard-commander, not on the ranker who happened to have been sentry. Their reasoning was sound as far as it went. A plotter may know in advance who will command the guard on a particular day, he cannot guess which sentry will be on duty. What the police could not grasp was that any serving soldier would know the routine for the reception of a message while the Emperor is resting, and that any centurion with calm nerves could get away without being identified.
A tribune at the head of a double guard took charge of the imperial apartments, and we were marched back to our huts with a black mark on our records. In theory we were confined to quarters until the police had finished with us; but since the whole army was getting ready for battle we were no worse off than our comrades. The canteens were closed, and everyone was standing by.
Within an hour all the Praetorians knew the story; and all regarded it as a very good joke. Julianus had not been our commander long enough to earn popularity, and anyway a Praetorian Praefect without a head seems funny in himself, at least to Praetorians. We admired the enemy’s audacity. We were delighted to recall that the Emperor Macrinus, that civilian lawyer, had fainted from terror in his own anteroom, in the midst of his mighty army.
All the same, we were willing to fight for our Emperor. It is the privilege of Praetorians to bestow the Purple; we might have chosen a second-rate leader, but it was not for mere legionaries to overrule our choice. That night we sharpened our swords and the heads of our javelins.
Now that it had come to open war we heard the story of the beginning of the revolt, a story hitherto hushed up by the secret police. On the day of the eclipse Bassianus, or rather his advisers, had made the first move. An eclipse ought to be a bad omen for the Sun, but at least it makes people think of him. The boy visited the camp of the Third Gallican Legion; the legate in command, one Eutychianus, recognized him as son and heir of the Divine Caracalla and therefore rightful Emperor. The boy needed to do nothing more than show himself to the soldiers; overcome by his divine beauty, they clamoured to fight for him.
Then the army of Julianus changed sides, winning the trust of their new leader by the traditional method of offering him the head of his predecessor. That gave Eutychianus four legions, a formidable force; in addition he had a host of Syrian volunteers of little military value.
Soon we would meet in head-on collision, as the increasing rebel army marched against imperial headquarters at Antioch. It was unusual for a rebel leader to take the initiative in this way, instead of recruiting more troops in the districts he occupied, until the Emperor in possession marched against him, according to the normal pattern of civil war.
Perhaps the pattern was broken because the last serious civil war had ended so long ago. In the deserts of Africa or the mountains of Asia bands of insurgents are hunted every year; but the last campaign in which either side had a chance of victory had been the clash between Severus and Albinus which destroyed my family. That was more than twenty years ago; even among the Praetorians no one had fought in it, except a few elderly craftsmen who no longer took the field, armourers and farriers. These historical landmarks went about telling the soldiers that to meet trained Roman troops was a very different matter from chasing undisciplined barbarians; our enemies would use the same tricks of fence, learned from the same instructors, and we would be confused by trumpet-calls taken from our own drill-books.
No Praetorian felt apprehensive; we picked veterans must easily overcome common legionaries. At the beginning of June we left Antioch in high spirits, ready to destroy any presumptuous Syrians who would not obey the master we had chosen to rule the Roman world.
The Emperor led his troops in person; which was perhaps a pity, for he was no soldier. But now that the head of Julianus was with one army and his body with the other there was no experienced professional officer to take command in his name. We knew that the legate Eutychianus led the rebels, a veteran who had risen from the ranks, a man of low birth (which did not disqualify him in our eyes), a sound regimental officer who had never held an independent command. Unless he was a tactician of genius, and there was no reason to suppose so, our army of picked men ought to beat his army of common legionaries. We thought of Eutychianus as our adversary; he had used a pretty boy to win local popularity, but if he managed to keep his troops together the child would soon disappear.
We did a full march, and camped in the open plain near a village named Immae. The heat of a Syrian June was appalling, but that would affect our enemies even more severely. We marched light, leaving our heavy baggage in Antioch; they had brought their train 130 miles from Emesa. The Emperor had chosen a featureless plan for the engagement, I suppose because an inexperienced soldier finds it easier to control troops on a field as much like a parade ground as he can find. The enemy had collected rather more of the untrustworthy local horse than we had been able to hire, so we would have been better off with our flanks protected by some obstacle. But unless we sheltered behind the walls of Antioch (and for the reigning Emperor to stand on the defensive would be a confession of defeat) there was no strong position in the neighbourhood; or if there was, our civilian Emperor lacked the skill to find it.
Our camp was fortified very sketchily. The rampart would never have done on the frontier; but the heat made us lazy and our officers thought only of keeping us in a good humour. Anyway, in such a campaign a strong camp would be wasted; if we won, the rebellion must collapse, and if by some unlikely chance we were checked, we would fall back into Asia to gather reinforcements.
We had only a light train, but supplies were plentiful. We ate a good breakfast, after a night made unpleasant by the intense heat. Then, at our leisure, we fo
rmed line of battle.
The Emperor attempted no tactical finesse. He formed his whole army in line; Praetorians in the centre, legions on either side, and beyond the legions our irregular horse. He himself with his battle standard took post behind the centre of the line, where messengers could quickly find him; but he led only a small mounted bodyguard, not a reserve which might influence the battle. By mid-morning, with the sun high and the heat worse than ever, we could see the enemy approaching under a dense cloud of dust.
My century happened to be posted in the front line, and as a new recruit I was of course in the front rank. It seemed odd that at my age I should be considered a novice; but most Praetorians have passed forty, and at thirty-five I was in fact one of the youngest men in the corps. I would have a very fine view of the action, but before sunset I would have earned every penny of my daily pay.
Eutychianus brought on his army in the normal order, with his four legions in the centre and his Syrian auxiliaries on the wings. He had a great mass of cavalry, and Arab lancers mounted on camels; we disregarded them, for Arabs are dangerous only to a flying foe.
The Praetorians were calm and businesslike; it is comforting to know that your corps is the finest fighting-machine in the world, even if there is a chance that you personally will be killed before the inevitable victory. We stood on the defensive; but we were forbidden to plant stakes, or dig a trench, since we were to counter-attack as soon as we had brought the foe to a halt.
Our worst trouble was the heat. It was a still, windless day, and dust rose in clouds even over the foot; round horses and camels it billowed like smoke from a burning city. Once battle had been joined in the centre we should be unable to see the flanks. That did not matter. We were Praetorians; we could protect ourselves even if our cavalry were driven from the field.
The enemy horse charged from 200 yards, the distance laid down in the manual. Their centre advanced at a walk until they were within long javelin-throw. Then they too charged, all together, in a level and well-controlled line. This battle would be fought according to the drill-book; and naturally, since the Emperor was a civilian and Eutychianus a promoted ranker.
I was still trying to see the action as a whole, wondering why men who considered themselves worthy to rule the Republic could not think up some stratagem instead of colliding like two angry bulls, when a javelin struck the ground at my feet. Now I must guard my head, not look about me.
We cast our javelins just as the lines met, so that nearly every one told; steady veterans can wait until it seems too late, knowing that the enemy will falter as they receive the volley and leave time for swords to be drawn. The attacking legion checked even before we cast; they were empty-handed, after losing their volley at long range, and they flinched as they saw our arms come up. As soon as our swords were out we jumped forward; the two lines clashed with equal impetus.
It was very nicely done, though I say it myself. Only Praetorians could have waited so long, and then moved so swiftly.
I killed a rebel with a brisk one-two, a cut at his head to bring his shield up followed by a thrust to the belly. Then I stood my ground, so as not to get in advance of our line. My comrades on either side also halted, and the battle was at a standstill. Every man in both armies had got over his beginner’s nerves. We fenced cautiously, shields well forward and hilts low.
I tried to hear what was happening on the flanks, where the noise indicated that the enemy were driving back our horse. But noise can be misleading. Anyway, it did not matter; we could cope with the legionaries on our front.
Then the rebels put in their supports; much too soon, for the engagement had lasted barely half an hour. Our second line moved up to help us, and we held our ground.
Now there was no room for fencing. Two dense lines of overlapping shields faced one another, and cautious prods brought few casualties. Long training kept us in formation; but our opponents, also well trained, still pressed us. At moments the rigid lines drew apart to reform, and during one of these I looked round me; dust rose far behind our flanks, and I could hear war-cries in the rear. Evidently our wings had been routed. The Praetorians, alone in our original position, were in danger of encirclement.
Then I was thrusting at a sweaty dust-stained face that grinned at me over a legionary shield. With a lucky blow I dislodged his helmet, and then instinctively cut at the white forehead (in a dozen skirmishes on the frontier I had rallied beside a white forehead, the mark that distinguishes a helmet-wearing Roman from a barbarian). Before the edge could land I turned it, for the man before me looked curiously familiar. He was the double of an old comrade who had once helped me to build a fire during a Caledonian snowstorm. No comrades of mine would be serving in the Third Gallican, who had been stationed in the east for a generation. But the likeness may not have been an accident; sons follow their fathers into the army. Anyway, even if he was a stranger he was a fellow-soldier, a man whom I would instinctively ask for help if ever I got lost in another snowstorm. Why on earth should I kill him now, just because he had lost his helmet in fair fight?
The man saw I had spared his life. Lifting his sword in mock-salute he gasped: ‘Thank you, Praetorian, but don’t drop your guard. Bassianus Augustus!’
‘Macrinus Augustus!’ I answered, parrying his clumsy thrust. The young man, probably seeing his first battle, was terribly excited, and he pranced about so energetically that he was on the verge of exhaustion. For a few more passes our swords rattled together; then, because it was his life or mine, I beat down a weak parry and got my point into his throat. He looked more than ever like my old comrade as he fell.
Our third line came forward to our support just at the right moment, when the troops already engaged were fought out and the next push must decide the battle. This third line was made up of the veterans of the veteran Praetorians, grizzled stiff-moving men who for thirty years had lived by the sword; their skins were as tough as the average cuirass, and though they bent their knees with difficulty an elephant could not have knocked them off balance. Quietly and methodically, without losing their breath or hurting the bunions on their gnarled feet, they set about breaking that legion.
But they could not follow up swiftly. In a moment a widening gap showed between the hostile fronts. The Third Gallicans, a very good legion, had disengaged to reform. As they picked up their dressing and closed in over the fallen they passed their ensigns to the front, and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the great legionary Eagle, twelve feet of gleaming brass and silver. From the position of the Eagle I knew what would come next. As we charged the Eagle-bearer would hurl it among us; then he and all his comrades would go down fighting in a last desperate bid for victory.
Three mounted leaders galloped up to encourage the failing rebels; or rather, as I saw at a second glance, two camel-riders and a horseman. They were such curious figures that for a hundred yards on either side the victorious Praetorians paused in their advance to look at them.
A tall white dromedary bore an elderly lady wrapped in gorgeous silks; but she wore also a helmet of oriental design and carried a curved scimitar studded with jewels. Under the helmet her face showed black rather than brown, so weatherbeaten was it; but the proud, curved nose, the obstinate chin, the abundant white hair were familiar. Less than a year ago I had seen her at Emesa. She was the lady Maesa, sister to the Empress Julia Domna.
A smaller camel carried an open litter, and in it a most beautiful woman. Her arms were bare, and a flimsy jewelled breastplate left most of her bosom exposed; her skin gleamed white, for all her life she had been careful to keep in the shade. None the less she also wore a queer little apology for a helmet, and waved a tiny sword. I knew her also. She was the lady Soaemias, the lady Maesa’s daughter.
The horse was a black stallion of the tall Nisaean breed from the far side of the desert. His rider, the child Bassianus, wore the gilded cuirass and purple cloak of an Emperor, and waved a genuine sharp sword as big as himself. He was bare-headed, his
golden curls waving with the speed of his gallop. He smiled happily amid the dust and blood; handsome, confident, gay, he looked like Cupid wearing the armour of Mars.
He looked also remarkably like the Divine Caracalla; or rather, he looked like the Caracalla we veterans remembered, the dashing young soldier we had raised to the Purple in Britain, before hard living and ruthless suspicion had lined his face with cruelty.
I was suddenly ashamed of myself. We old men, with no joy left in us, dully did our duty, fighting bloodily and craftily for an Emperor we despised; and in doing our duty we would crush these vital, energetic aristocrats, this kindred in which grandmothers rode to battle, this stock of the fairest race on earth. Why should we kill them, just to earn a few more gold pieces from the civilian Macrinus? At that moment I trod on something squashy; it was the belly of the young legionary I had killed, but after he was down someone had made sure of him by ripping him from collarbone to navel. His face, unscarred by some freak of chance, smiled up at me as though he would answer my greeting; he looked more than ever like the comrade with whom I had shared a fire in the snowbound north. An absolute knowledge of where my duty lay came into my mind, as suddenly and mysteriously as though the Ladies whispered into my ear what I must do.
I took five paces to the front, then turned to shout to my astonished comrades. ‘Praetorians,’ I yelled, ‘here is the Emperor we fight against. Isn’t he a better man than the Emperor we fight for? Once you took oath to the Divine Caracalla. Look, here is Caracalla come again! My sword and my life for Bassianus Caracalla Augustus!’
Rufus was the first to follow my lead. Sentimental Germans are easily swayed by male beauty. ‘Bassianus Augustus!’ he shouted, and the man on his left took up the cry. Then my whole century moved forward in line, turned about, and gave a shout of ‘Bassianus Augustus!’
That was the end of the battle. For a few minutes longer the two sides faced one another, while the handsome young horseman made his steed caracole between them. Then a Praetorian tribune banged his sword into its scabbard with an emphatic thump, and led his whole cohort to join the Third Gallicans. The Praetorians faced about in a body. As we stood still the dust began to settle.
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