Revenge

by Andrew Frediani

  Soldiers raced between the tents, appearing fleetingly between them as they ran towards the praetorium. Whenever Maecenas saw the huge silhouette of some legionary appear round a corner, he jumped in fear that it was an enemy soldier. He hoped his soldiers wouldn’t notice. He tried to avoid the praetorian way, down which the enemy were pouring, and passed through the barricades to reach the square between the praetorian tent and the Principia. There he found Agrippa, who had deployed the men at his disposal in a semi-circle.

  “Fill out the ranks, come on!” he shouted. “We need to create a barrier from one side of the battlements to the other.”

  Maecenas was happy to be obeying orders again instead of giving them. He trusted Agrippa blindly, and was sure that his friend knew what he was doing. He went to post his men where he saw the line was weak and received into his ranks the fugitives that arrived, placing them in several rows, as though they were a unit deployed on the battlefield. He knew that the men expected him to be with them on the front line, and after some hesitation he resigned himself to the fact and took up the position to which he was entitled as a senior officer.

  Not far away he noticed several groups of enemy soldiers who, seeing the defenders arranged in formation, stopped throwing themselves against them and paused to wait for reinforcements. Meanwhile, however, they slaughtered some of Octavian’s men who were trying to reach the centre of the camp to join their comrades. Some of the fugitives managed to hide themselves amongst the tents to avoid being intercepted.

  The Etruscan and his men found themselves impotent observers of the desperate flight of many of their comrades, who were trying to escape the enemy at their heels. Slowly, shouts of encouragement rose from the line of Octavian’s men, and the cheering grew louder when a comrade managed to slip through the enemy’s grip and, breathless, reach his fellow soldiers, where he was greeted with congratulations and thumps on the back, before Maecenas ordered him into line.

  But they were also forced to witness summary executions: one legionary was stabbed in the back by a spear just when he seemed to have escaped the closest group of enemy soldiers, and another, who had valiantly swung his sword to fight a way through, earning himself loud applause from his fellow soldiers, was set upon by three other soldiers and fell under their swords. Two fugitives emerging suddenly from a tent found themselves surrounded, and their deaths were obvious from the number of swords they could see rising and falling at the point where they were intercepted. Another was dragged out of a tent and his severed head thrown towards the line of Octavian’s men.

  After a while no more appeared. Maecenas shuddered at the sight of the enemy ranks growing greater by the moment, and as the seconds passed, he considered it increasingly unlikely that they would be able to hold them off.

  The attack began almost immediately, with the enemy advancing close enough to be able to throw their spears, and then stopping.

  “Close ranks! All behind your shields!” cried the Etruscan. “Let’s throw some spears ourselves!” shouted a centurion. “No!” he answered. “The only hope is to maintain position. We’ll try to withstand their throw and then await the assault! They are among the tents, they won’t be able to build up much momentum.” At least he thought that was this tactic decided upon by Agrippa.

  Soon after, projectiles were thrown from the enemy ranks. It was worse than if the line of shields had been hit by a hail of stones. A series of violent impacts rocked the soldiers, and many were forced to take a step back, banging into those behind them, while others found themselves with their shields pierced and the tip of a spear in the shoulder or chest and fell to the ground, creating gaps in the line. Still others were unhurt, but without a shield, theirs having been rendered unusable after being penetrated by a spear.

  The throwing of spears could only be the prelude to the assault, which began shortly after, accompanied by the roared chorus of their slogan: “Freedom!”

  Maecenas saw among the enemy ranks armour of gold and silver which, it was said, Brutus and Cassius had made for their most deserving men by melting down the precious metals they had plundered from the occupied cities of Asia. Those must be the best warriors, and he hoped to avoid encountering any of them.

  He noticed, however, that one of those legionaries with the golden armour seemed to have targeted him, and it struck him that, as a tribune, he was prestigious prey for any particularly belligerent soldier. He saw the man coming closer and was at a loss as to what to do. Looking impressive in his shiny outfit, the legionary swung his sword about, and the Etruscan felt the emptiness around him: none of his men was going to stand up to a warrior like that, obviously. He realised that he was at the man’s mercy, and gave himself up for lost, but then, at his side, he saw on the ground one of the shields, with a spear still attached. He moved so that it was near his foot and, when his opponent was almost on him and ready to throw his first thrust, Maecenas kicked it up at him. The soldier stumbled and fell forward, right at the feet of the Etruscan, who hurriedly raised his sword and sank it into the gap between the bottom of his helmet and the edge of his armour before the man had a chance to get up, and the golden armour was instantly covered with a torrent of blood.

  His victory had been noticed by the nearest soldiers, who gave a cry of triumph, but they too were struggling with their opponents, and the line of defenders, already thinned out by the spears, was struggling. Using his shield and sword, Maecenas defended himself with a new aggression as he tried to assess the situation. The pressure of the enemy was overwhelming thanks to their superior numbers, and the gaps opened up by the spears had already allowed the first of them through. They would not last long. There was only one thing to do.

  He had to go and speak to Agrippa.

  XXI

  “Are you joking?”

  Agrippa could not believe his ears when Maecenas, who arrived breathless at his side, explained his idea. The young man blocked the sword of his closest opponent and with his shield pushed him towards a fellow soldier who finished him off, and then turned back to his friend. “It would be like admitting defeat,” he said, his breathing only slightly heavier than normal.

  “But don’t you see that we have already been defeated?” said Maecenas, keeping an eye on the battlefront, which was fluctuating ever more worryingly. The enemy had increased their pressure on the parts where several defenders had fallen, and Octavian’s men were being pushed back, leaving the flanks of those who resisted, exposed. The dam, therefore, was breaking and splitting into a series of pockets of resistance, and Agrippa had to admit that they would soon find themselves with enemies in front of, beside and behind them.

  “Pulling back and leaving by the decumana gate would allow us to save much of the army. This isn’t the decisive battle. And anyway,” said Maecenas, “even if Antony does defeat Cassius it will only be a tentative victory – it will take another battle to determine who will rule the Roman world.”

  “They’ll jump on us,” objected Agrippa. “They’ll never let us fall back in order. They’ll force us to crowd against the battlements and massacre us as we try to go through the decumana gate!”

  “I think not,” said Maecenas, more and more convinced. “Let me take the furnishings and Octavian’s property out of the praetorium, as though we were going to take them away. But then we will leave them there, as though we hadn’t managed to get it done in time. You’ll see that the first to break through will rush over to take possession of them, and the others will try to get the booty in the tents, especially in those of the officers, and won’t bother chasing us.”

  “Their commanders will call them to order. They’re Romans, not barbarians!”

  “Brutus won’t. He’s never been much of a commander.”

  Agrippa was baffled. His heart cried out at having to hand over to the enemy – to the men who fought for the killers of his friend’s father – many of the objects of which Octavian was most fond. It felt like a betrayal.

  “I understand you
r hesitation,” said Maecenas, sensing his thoughts, “but Octavian will be happier to save the soldiers with which to avenge his father and recover his reputation than his personal effects. And he will lose some men either way. Neither Rufus nor Antony are going to come to our aid, I am afraid, and sooner or later we’ll be forced to give in.”

  Agrippa thought. Even if he tried, Rufus did not have enough troops to help them, and Antony… Antony was probably was enjoying the situation his colleague had got himself into. It was only Octavian’s goading that had stopped him from making a deal with Caesar’s killers…

  He looked at his men. They were fighting with valour, battling to defend each tiny piece of the camp, but it was inevitable that more and more of the enemy would arrive from behind them, turning the camp into a cage from which they would never escape. Or at least, not alive.

  Yes, they had to break free while they still could.

  He looked at Maecenas and nodded. “Take some legionaries and empty Octavian’s tent,” he said. “I’ll pull back the line but keep a garrison around the praetorium to protect your retreat. See you at the decumana gate!”

  Maecenas rushed off with his characteristically awkward gait, immediately asserting his rank as tribune and dragging four legionaries off towards Octavian’s lodgings, where they disappeared rapidly behind the leather flaps of the entrance.

  Agrippa lunged forward and made his way past some soldiers until he reached a centurion. “Take your units over to the praetorium and cover Maecenas’s retreat when he leaves!” he cried, then, without waiting for an answer, he went over to the bucinator and ordered him to sound the retreat. After a moment’s disorientation, the men began to fall back, harried by the enemy as they went. Agrippa was in the front line, swinging his sword relentlessly to ward off their opponents and glancing occasionally towards the triumvir’s tent, around which the centuria who had been ordered to protect the Etruscan were taking up position.

  As his men gave ground, he saw that the enemies were increasing the pressure. Some were already beginning to rush inside the tents of the officers and the Principia, abandoning the battle, but there were still many of Octavian’s men who were in danger of being cut off, and on the far flank, towards the side rampart, several enemy legionaries were marching along the perimeter to form a barrier in front of the decumana gate. He took with him a half-centuria and rushed over to force them back. He was the first there, reaching the enemy column before they could get into formation and ramming his sword between the neck and shoulder of his nearest opponent. A moment later, the legionary’s head was dangling onto his chest, before his now inert body collapsed to the ground.

  The soldier just behind the victim was intimidated by the violence of the young man’s attack, and surprised in turn by a jab which struck him between the legs. Agrippa lifted him off the ground and threw him at his companions, who drew back in horror. Encouraged by their leader’s determination, Agrippa’s subordinates flung themselves as one upon their enemies, pushing them towards the rampart, and in the meantime, the groups of legionaries following them were able to proceed relatively undisturbed towards the decumana gate. The young man gave chase to the opponents who tried to escape his attack by climbing the stairs leading to the battlements. He stabbed one, pinning him to the wood, and with his shield parried another as he pulled his sword from the corpse, climbed a few steps and severed the other man’s ankle. Seeing that there was no one at the top, he turned and went back down the stairs, falling upon a soldier who had been forced to fight with his back against the fence. He chopped into his shoulder with a vertical stroke, and saw that the few survivors of the enemy column were, by now, interested only in getting away from them.

  He ordered his men to resume their retreat before other groups of opponents arrived, forcing him to continue to fight. Passing between the tents, he reached the rear fence and fell in behind the line that was funnelling through the door. He was among the last, and turned to look back at the camp, expecting to have to defend himself from an attack from the rear. But behind him he saw no one. And observing the camp, he noticed that most of Brutus’s men were busy looting the tents.

  All the tents.

  Maecenas had been right. The prospect of booty had made them give up the chase.

  After he had eventually managed to cross the threshold, his attendant handed him the reins of his horse and, once in the saddle, Agrippa walked along the entire column, evaluating the number of soldiers he had managed to save. He soon realised that it was most of them and that the officers were gradually re-grouping cohorts and centurie. He went back up to the front looking for Maecenas, but saw no sign of him anywhere. He spent the next hour looking for him and asking around for him, until he met a centurion, who said, “Those around the praetorium didn’t make it, tribune. I saw them surrounded almost immediately.”

  Agrippa was appalled, and had to stifle the urge to cry in front of his men. He had not only lost a friend, but also the principal brain of the Sect of Mars Ultor. Octavian would never forgive him, but in any case, he would never be able to forgive himself. With the loss of the Etruscan, he told himself, as he rode towards his lifelong friend, the defeat, already serious, began to take on the proportions of a debacle.

  *

  Ortwin surveyed the desolation that reigned in Cassius’s camp. The banners of Antony’s legions were raised to the heavens by the victors who, uncaring about what was happening only a few stadions away in Octavian’s camp or about chasing the fugitives in the gorges behind the camp, celebrated their victory by tormenting and teasing the prisoners, and continuing to scour one tent after another. They hadn’t bothered looking for the commander, who had time to escape the raid of Antony’s men inside the fortifications and who must have sought refuge in the surrounding mountains. The German would have liked Antony to give him a squad with which to go and flush him out, and was certain that this was what Octavian – and his staff – desired, but he couldn’t find the triumvir. And above all, he was extremely worried about what had happened to his comrades on the other side of the plain, and was angered that he had been part of the contingent lent to Antony for the work along the marshes. Even though things seemed to have gone very badly over in Octavian’s sector, he wanted to be there, helping his comrades. Instead, he was there with Antony’s men, in the company of the hateful Popillius Laenas. As he had expected, Laenas had simply given him a contemptuous look before unhesitatingly joining the other soldiers in search of plunder.

  Antony’s men had piled up the prisoners’ weapons and the worthless booty they had found in the soldier’s quarters and had made it into a trophy, around which many were busy getting drunk on stocks of wine found in the tents of the officers and the warehouses. Many legionaries clung to their loot, to the point where they looked more like porters than soldiers, and instead of maintaining discipline, the officers followed suit. As always, Antony did not bother to take advantage of his victories: the same old failing, ever since Ortwin had fought alongside him in Gaul during Caesar’s pro-consulate and at the great rebellion of Vercingetorix.

  He almost hoped that Brutus’s men would surprise them in that state and massacre them, but he knew it wouldn’t happen: their enemies were probably behaving in the same way in Octavian’s camp. Each winner was content with his own partial victory, and perhaps the commanders were already considering some agreement where they would not be thorns in one another’s sides too much in the future. He had to find a way to break up that festive atmosphere – Octavian was definitely still alive, part of his troops were still intact, and Caesar’s heir would certainly have wanted to get revenge.

  But to do that, he needed to track down Rufus. He and Veleda had separated in the hope that at least one of them would find him: he was wandering around Cassius’s camp among Antony’s men while she was searching the units which had escaped Brutus’s attack and were bivouacked, demoralised, outside the fort, and it was she who eventually found him and called Ortwin to come and speak to him �
� no minister of the sect would have gone to confer with, or justify himself to, a mere follower, much less Rufus. When Ortwin arrived, he found him in the midst of his men – who were ignoring him – sitting with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees, vexed by the shouts of joy and festive atmosphere in Cassius’s camp.

  Rufus looked distraught. And he had every reason to: if Octavian’s forces had been defeated, he had a share of the blame. He didn’t even raise his head – Ortwin had to solicit his attention. “Commander,” he asked, “do you know what the situation is in our camp?”

  Rufus slowly raised his head and took a moment to recognize him. Or maybe just gather his thoughts. “You can see for yourself. Or can’t you even see out of the one eye you’ve got left, you damned barbarian?” he mumbled, talking like a drunk, and it was only then that Ortwin realised that he actually was. He must have knocked back a bellyful of wine to console himself after the rout of his column.

  “I see the men Brutus defeated. And I wonder how many of our men were saved. Here with us we still have so many, and we could try to continue the battle and take back the camp,” he said, cautiously.

  Rufus looked at him as though he though he were insane. “Oh yes? You want to risk losing the troops that are left after Agrippa got all those others killed because of his incompetence as well? I have to save what’s left, if anything, and hand it over to Antony…”

  Ortwin found this criticism of Agrippa ungenerous. After all, Rufus had offered no support with his own troops, and anyone would have struggled to defend the area against superior forces. But he couldn’t afford to argue. In any case, Rufus did have a point: an attempt to regain the camp would very likely fail. But they couldn’t make themselves available to Antony, not that…

  “Well then let’s wait for Brutus’s men to leave the camp and see what’s left and what we can take back to Octavian,” was all he said.