Maecenas. Maecenas the traitor.
*
Agrippa saw Octavian stiffen as soon as Maecenas became identifiable on the plain that separated them from the enemy camp. And considering how he had heard his leader speak of him in the previous days, he knew that there would be trouble. As if the troubles they already had were not enough. For his part, he was convinced that Maecenas had nothing to do with the betrayal of which Etain had been victim, especially since during the battle he had shown a spirit of sacrifice as well as plenty of courage. He had tried to explain all this to Octavian, but his friend, just as he had done when Agrippa had acted impulsively after Etain had been raped, wouldn’t listen to reason and refused to change his mind. Agrippa, however, had no reservations and was overjoyed to see the Etruscan alive and back with them, so he raced down from the battlements to meet him, ordering the gate opened after he had checked that there were no enemies nearby.
He met him at the threshold, his joy visible in his face. “By the gods, Maecenas, I never thought to see you again so soon! Indeed, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again! How did you escape? Or did Brutus release you?” he asked breathlessly, patting his fragile shoulders powerfully.
Meanwhile, from above Octavian called to a centurion to send out a contingent of cavalry to reinforce the retreating legionaries.
“No time for that now,” said Maecenas, panting and out of breath, “I need to talk to Octavian, straightaway!” And practically dodging around him, he headed for the battlements where the triumvir was standing, Agrippa at his heels.
“Don’t send anyone out, Octavian. You’ll need the cavalry soon enough for battle!” cried Maecenas, to the young commander as soon as he was within hearing distance.
But Octavian’s hard expression didn’t change. He turned to the primus pilus centurion to whom he had given the order, and who, baffled, was now hesitating, and repeated, “Did not you hear what I said? Hurry up!”
But Maecenas grasped the officer’s arm and said, “Don’t do it, I tell you! We’ll defend the retreating infantry with the scorpios! They are going to attack all together. There’s going to be a battle! Brutus can no longer control his men!”
“Why should I believe you?” hissed Octavian, in an icy voice. “You re-appear out of nowhere after fifteen days – spent who knows where, and with who knows who – and you expect me to believe you?”
Dumbfounded, Maecenas stopped. It was clear, thought Agrippa, that he had not expected such a reaction from the one he considered his dearest friend. Even the nearby soldiers looked shocked by the intransigence of Octavian, who should have been jumping for joy at the re-appearance of one of his closest lieutenants.
Agrippa stepped between the two, trying to ease the tension.
“Octavian, perhaps Maecenas has good reasons for his suggestion,” he ventured. “Perhaps we should listen to him…”
“Oh, I’m sure he has…” replied the triumvir sarcastically. “Good reasons for him and his friends, whoever they are.”
Maecenas began to press him once more. “I don’t understand what you mean, but I know what I saw and what I managed to stir up in Brutus’s camp. We will have the battle we need, and I think it will happen at any moment: did not you see the enemy soldiers making sorties? Their commander is no longer able to keep them under control… Rather like yourself, I see,” he added, peering at those who were near the enemy camp, although the tortoise was now retreating.
“Or perhaps you are simply passing on to us what Brutus has told you to say. Why would he have allowed you to come here otherwise? Soldiers, arrest this man! And you, primus pilus, send out those damn cavalry!” spat Octavian, purple in the face, making those around him flinch. But no one moved – his behaviour would have seemed absurd in any context. Agrippa moved closer and tried to reason with him, whispering, “Octavian, please, don’t let your anxiety overwhelm you. Not in front of the soldiers, at least… Let’s hear what he has to say before making a decision.”
But Octavian was beside himself. He had not yet recovered fully from his relapse of a few weeks before, and the fatigue of the campaign was putting him almost as much to the test as was his frustration at seeing all of his hopes dashed. He had become a shadow of the brilliant and determined young man that Agrippa had come to know and appreciate over the years – even more so since he had learned he was Caesar’s heir and had become increasingly aware of his qualities. He was losing control, and this was the most obvious sign of how much he was struggling.
Not surprisingly, the triumvir made a dismissive gesture with his hand and did not deign to reply. At that moment the primus pilus centurion called to him, announcing the arrival of a messenger from Antony, and the scorpios went into action to curb the momentum of the pursuers, who were now approaching the fortifications, without Octavian having given the word. The young commander noticed, and walked toward the nearest scorpio, shouting, “Who told you to pull?”
“But, triumvir…” said the soldier, afraid of his reaction, “our men need cover.”
Octavian’s reaction was immediate. He launched a slap at the man, and shouted for all the others to stop, then began coughing convulsively. It was a full-blown attack, Agrippa realised, and he rushed over to support him before he passed out. He imagined that his friend’s nerves, rather than his health, had succumbed, and that his body no longer had the support of that powerful mind: there were too many problems to deal with, and the collapse of confidence inside the sect had undermined his resistance. The tragic loss of his mother and his cousin had clouded his judgment, and now Maecenas was paying the price.
“Antony needs you to deploy immediately. They are attacking!” The messenger sent by the other triumvir, who everyone had forgotten about, had decided to speak without being invited to.
“What do you mean?” asked Agrippa, turning to him while still supporting a staggering Octavian, who was coughing and cursing everything and everyone.
“Yes, tribune. You know that hill along the swamp we seized days ago when Marcus Brutus left it?” said the envoy, excitedly. “Until yesterday we couldn’t defend it: the enemy was throwing everything they had at us, and there was no way to maintain a garrison. Then the triumvir had the idea of building screens with animal skins, and tonight he sent four legions to occupy it. And the screens worked! At that point, the enemy must have got scared that we were going to cut off their lines of communication with the sea and reacted. An hour ago Brutus began to send out units for battle, but only on our side. On your side he just sent out a few troublemaker units to make them split up their deployment. Well, Antony asks that you deploy quickly, otherwise Brutus will be able to attack not only to the front, but also at the side.”
Agrippa looked at Maecenas. The Etruscan had been right. The prayers of Caesar’s avengers had been answered and the only chance of survival – a pitched battle – was materializing. The soldiers had forced Brutus to attack but, once again, Octavian’s legions were unprepared, and the triumvir himself was in no condition to encourage the legionaries. Indeed, in that moment the physical collapse he had suffered many times before had been joined, for the first time, by a nervous one: a spectacle that occurred under the eyes of the soldiers, inevitably undermining the already low morale.
It was a complete disaster. He did not see how it could be worse.
Agrippa turned to Octavian to try and encourage him to give some sensible orders, but his friend ignored him and turned to Maecenas, who was standing a few feet away from him. “We’re doomed… They’re attacking us… And it’s your fault, you damned Etruscan!” he said, brandishing his sword and advancing on him with the tip pointing to his throat. He swung before Agrippa could stop him, cutting through the wire mail with which the Etruscan’s torso was covered. Maecenas moaned softly and sank to his knees, while in the distance the trumpets of Brutus’s legions about to leave their camp were audible.
Agrippa rushed to support Maecenas before he fell from the battlements, at a complete loss as t
o what to do.
*
The second horse he had requisitioned on the shores of Aetolia was exhausted. Gaius Chaerea had been riding for six days, alternating between the two, but a day and a half ago, one of them had collapsed to the ground with a broken leg, and he had to abandon it on the plains of Thessaly, and was forced to take frequent breaks so as not to ride the other to death. But once he was in view of his goal, once he had entered Thrace, he could wait no longer. For all he knew, the battle might have already taken place, but there was still a chance of participating and of providing the sect with new motivation and cohesion – he did not want to leave anything to chance, so he began spurring on his horse even more frequently, drawing from him all the strength he had left.
By now, however, the poor animal could take no more. His breathing was increasingly laboured, and he was stumbling with fatigue as his hooves dragged in the mud that covered the road, which was in an atrocious state thanks to the autumn weather and poor maintenance. Gaius tried to work out how far he was from Philippi. The night before, at the last village where he had stopped to take refreshment, they had told him it was a few hundred stadions away, so it couldn’t be far: he had only to continue to follow the coastline and soon he would come upon the two armies.
If they were still there, facing one another.
He couldn’t help spurring his horse on even more, although his legs seemed increasingly glued to the muddy ground, and when he saw in the distance the unmistakable silhouettes of Roman camps he knew he had arrived. He banged his heels yet again against the belly of his horse and tried to throw himself towards that familiar image, but the animal was struggling in the increasingly thick mud and moved with excruciating slowness. The crushing feelings of guilt which had been growing in Gaius throughout the weeks in which he had distanced himself from the sect and from military life had him in a state of intolerable frenzy.
His desire to take part in what was happening grew by the second, and it comforted him see that the camps were still there. Moving closer, he noticed other fortifications on higher ground in the background and, still further behind, the profile of a city, which must be Philippi. But just then his horse stopped, exhausted, and all efforts to make him move proved fruitless. And when the poor animal crumpled to the ground, sinking into the mud, Gaius realised that he would have to walk. He tried to run, and quickly saw what an immense effort he had forced his steed to make: for after just a few steps he already felt tired, and the marsh seemed to be trying to pull off his boots, as though some infernal demon wanted to prevent him from doing what he must.
He trudged on and on, and as he grew closer began to make out a mass of people just beyond the camps. They were clearly troops who were lining up. Could he possibly have arrived after the battle had started? He tried to hasten his pace, but his frustration and sense of helplessness increased with every step. When he saw that the right flank had already started fighting, he cried out in despair and began to crawl through the mud.
He arrived at the gates of the camp in the plains completely bedraggled. The gates were closed, and he deduced that the soldiers involved in the fighting must have come from the other camp. He asked himself why, while waving to attract the attention of the sentries on the towers.
They opened up after he had stated his name and rank, and he soon ascertained that this was Octavian’s camp. He immediately asked for the commander and was escorted to the battlements, where he saw a scene which he almost took for a vision caused by his exhaustion: there was Octavian, staggering as though during one of his attacks, while next to him Agrippa held up Maecenas, who was slumped against the fence in a pool of blood. Rufus tried to climb the ramp, pushing his way past the cordon of Germans commanded by Ortwin and Veleda. There in the stands, close to Octavian, was that detestable Popillius Laenas.
The sect were all there, apart from Pinarius, who was confined to the rear, at Amphipolis.
But it was not a pretty picture.
When Ortwin saw Gaius, he widened his one eye in surprise. “Let me pass. I have urgent news for Octavian,” said Chaerea.
“Does he look in any state to hear it?” replied the German.
“It doesn’t matter. It might help him get better.” With a gesture of resignation, Ortwin ordered his Germans to let the muddy centurion pass. Gaius climbed the ramp and found himself behind Rufus, who was trying to attract the attention of Octavian, and alongside Agrippa, who looked even more surprised than Ortwin. He was holding Maecenas in his arms and calling for a doctor, and the Etruscan appeared to be unconscious.
“What are you doing here?” the young man asked him.
“Octavian, we have to attack!” cried Rufus to the triumvir, who briefly appeared not to recognise him.
“I… I’m afraid. I no longer have the support of the gods,” muttered a trembling Octavian, between one cough and the next.
“Yes, you do!” ventured Gaius, stepping forward alongside Rufus. “Listen to what I have to tell you, Caesar!”
“Well look who’s here…” said Rufus, icily. “And how come you’ve deigned to join us?”
Gaius ignored him, even though, being a minister of the sect, he should not have. All the more so with Rufus, rancorous and vindictive as he was.
“Caesar, please, your sister sends me. I have to tell you something in private,” he insisted, and dared to grab Octavian’s arm.
Octavian looked at him with rage, then shouted, “How dare you? Get out, traitor! You are not worthy to stand with us, you who have spent months away from your duties! Begone, unless you want me to have you whipped!”
“Did you hear what he said?” asked Rufus, turning to Chaerea. “I will whip you, and personally.” Then he pushed him away, almost sending him falling from the battlements. As soon as he recovered his balance, Gaius turned desperately to Agrippa, who had finally found a doctor for Maecenas. “Tribune, you will listen to me, at least,” he whispered. “I came from Italy and I survived the disaster of the fleet, of which you have heard, only because Octavia asked me to give this news to her brother – the person behind the treachery which cost the lives of his mother, as well as Etain, is her husband. I was present when the senator confessed and I can confirm it. The domina believed that the information was important, and that is why I am here. For this, and to do my duty in the battle.”
“Still here?” shouted Rufus, taking him by the edge of his filthy tunic and trying to throw him down to the ground below, but Agrippa blocked his arm. “Stop. He absolutely must speak to Octavian,” he said, addressing his friend with an expression more determined than any Gaius had ever seen on his face.
Even Rufus noticed, and remained silent for a moment before saying: “Try it, then. Though I doubt he’ll be able to understand anything at the moment.”
Agrippa left Gaius where he was and approached Octavian, who was looking out over the parapet at the plain where the armies were getting into formation. He grasped his belt and whispered at length into his ear. At first, the triumvir, still wracked with coughing, shook his head, and even tried to push him away, but gradually his expression grew thoughtful and pensive and his coughing began to abate until it had disappeared almost completely. Eventually, he turned his gaze upon Gaius, then upon Maecenas, and then back to Gaius.
Octavian approached the centurion, placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Gaius Chaerea, I can only thank you for the heroism and dedication that you have shown in coming here. I can barely begin to imagine what you have been through to get here and to do your duty to the end. Have no fear, you will be given the chance to show all of your qualities, which are immense.”
The triumvir then went over to Maecenas, whose wound the doctor was industriously dabbing. “My friend, I hope that I can earn your forgiveness, whatever it requires. I am unworthy of you, who has shown me the most total devotion. But now I intend to earn your esteem, and if you will excuse me, this time I will not listen to your advice.” He stroked the cheek of Etruscan, then said to the d
octor: “Save him, at any cost. If he dies, it is though I had killed myself too.”
Then he stood up and turned towards the interior of the fort, where to the sides of the praetorian gate were massed hundreds of soldiers and officers, looking perturbed by what was happening outside the camp and intrigued by what was going on up in the battlements. He stood at the top of the access ramp and waved his arms to the soldiers to stop their murmuring and let him speak.
“Legionaries of Rome!” he began. “Tribunes! Centurions! Optiones… The time has come! The battle we have been awaiting is finally here. We have the opportunity of proving our superiority over those who have taken advantage of our confusion and of my absence to seize an interim victory. Our fate will be decided today, and this time I will lead you into battle! The gods have sent me a signal that has convinced me I can dare anything without the risk of falling under an enemy sword – a sign of our victory, just as they had previously warned me to stay away from the battlefield! The gods are with us, and therefore we cannot lose. There are less of us than there are of our foe, it is true, and we are more hungry and desperate. But it is exactly with this illusion that the gods have bewitched our enemy, convincing him that he will be able to swallow us up in a single mouthful and urging him to go into battle carelessly. We, however, are motivated by our despair, and by the knowledge that we are risking everything, and this will triple our strength, you will see! Even mine! Did you not see that only a few moments ago I was sick? And now, after having received a divine message, I feel like a lion who can lead you to victory! We are in a position of inferiority, but so was Caesar when he went against Pompey at Pharsalus, and he won a clear victory. I too, am the son of Caesar, descended from Venus like him, and the goddess wants to avenge him, using me as her tool! And you, choose not to fight against hunger, against which we have no hope, but against the walls and the bodies of our enemies! Officers, prepare your men and let us go out to assist Mark Antony, who is already committed on the other flank. And let us ensure that posterity judges our action as decisive!”
Revenge Page 36
