Antony and Cleopatra

by Colleen McCullough

  It was more than a good battle; it was a sweet one, an ideal blooding for legionaries who had never set eyes on a cataphract before. The mailed horsemen looked more fearsome than experience showed they actually were, and responded to the barrage of insults with a rage that overcame all common sense. Up the stump-spidered hill they came, shaking the ground, screaming their war cries, some of the horses falling needlessly as their riders crashed into stumps or tried to hurdle them. Their mail-clad opponents, tiny by comparison, issued out of the forest to either side of the camp and danced nimbly into a forest of equine legs, hacking, chopping, turning the Parthian charge into a frenzy of squealing horses and floundering riders, helpless against the blows that rained on faces and stabbed at underarms. A good thrust with a gladius penetrated belly mail, though it wasn’t very good for the blade.

  And, much to his delight, Ventidius discovered that the lead missiles flung by his slingers punched rents in the Parthian mail and went on to kill.

  Sacrificing a thousand of his infantry to fight a rearguard action, Labienus fled down the Roman road into Cilicia, thankful to be alive. Which was more than could be said for the Parthians, cut to pieces. Perhaps a thousand of them followed Labienus, the rest dead or dying on the field of the Cilician Gates.

  “What a bloodbath,” said an exultant Silo to Ventidius when, six hours after it began, the battle was over.

  “How have we fared, Silo?”

  “Oh, excellently. A few cracked heads that got in the way of hooves, several crushed under fallen horses, but all up—I’d say about two hundred casualties. And fancy those lead glandes! Even chain mail can’t stop them.”

  Frowning, Ventidius walked the field, unmoved by the suffering all around him; they had dared the might of Rome, and found that a fatal thing to do. A number of legionaries were passing through the heaps of dead and dying, killing horses and men who would not survive. Few who stayed were lightly injured, but those who were would be gathered together and kept for ransom, for the cataphract warrior was a nobleman whose family could afford to ransom him. If no ransom came, a man would be sold into slavery.

  “What do we do about the mountains of dead?” Silo asked, and sighed. “This isn’t country with topsoil beyond a foot or two, so it’s going to be hard to dig pits to bury them, and the wood’s too green to burn as pyres.”

  “We drag them into Labienus’s camp and leave them there to rot,” said Ventidius. “By the time we come back this way, if come back we do, they’ll be bleached bones. There’s no habitation for many miles, and Labienus’s sanitary arrangements are good enough to ensure that the Cydnus won’t be polluted.” He huffed. “But first, we search for booty. I want my triumphal parade to be a good one—no Macedonian imitation triumph for Publius Ventidius!”

  And that remark, thought Silo with a secret grin, is a slap at Pollio, waging the same old war in Macedonia.

  In Tarsus, Ventidius discovered that Pacorus had not been present at the battle, perhaps one reason why it had been so easy to work the Parthians into a furore. Labienus was still fleeing east across Cilicia Pedia, his column in wild disarray between the leaderless cataphracts and a few mercenary grumblers with the influence to stir up trouble among more placid infantrymen.

  “We have to keep on his tail,” said Ventidius, “but this time it’s you can ride with the cavalry, Silo. I’ll bring the legions on myself.”

  “Was I too slow getting to the Cilician Gates?”

  “Edepol, no! Confidentially, Silo, I’m getting too old for long rides. My balls are sore and I have a fistula. You’ll fare better, you’re much younger. A man nearly fifty-five is doomed to use his feet.”

  A servant appeared in the doorway. “Domine, Quintus Dellius is here to see you, and asking to be accommodated.”

  Blue eyes met green in another of those glances only close friendship and similar tastes permit; it spoke volumes, though not a word was said.

  “Send him in, but don’t worry about the accommodation.”

  “My very dear Publius Ventidius! And Quintus Silo too! How nice to see you.” Dellius settled himself in a chair before he was offered one, and looked significantly at the wine flagon. “A drop of something light, white, and bright would be good.”

  Silo poured, handed the goblet over as he spoke to Ventidius. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be about my business.”

  “Tomorrow at dawn for both of us.”

  “My, my, so much earnestness!” said Dellius, sipping, then pulling a face. “Ugh! What is this piss, third pressing?”

  “I wouldn’t know because I haven’t tried it,” Ventidius said curtly. “What do you want, Dellius? And you’ll have to put up at an inn tonight, because the palace is full. You can move in tomorrow and have the place all to yourself. We’re off.”

  Bridling indignantly, Dellius sat up straight and glared. Since that memorable dinner when he had shared Antony’s couch two years ago, he had become so used to deference that he expected it even from crusty Military Men like Publius Ventidius. Now, to find it missing! His fawnish eyes encountered Ventidius’s, and he went red; they held contempt. “Well, really!” he cried. “That is the outside of enough! I have a propraetorian imperium and I insist that I be accommodated immediately! Throw Silo out if you’ve no one else to throw.”

  “I’d not throw the meanest contubernalis out for a crawler like you, Dellius. My imperium is proconsular. What do you want?”

  “I bear a message from the Triumvir Marcus Antonius,” Dellius said coldly, “and I expected to deliver it in Ephesus, not in a rat’s nest like Tarsus.”

  “Then you should have moved faster,” Ventidius said without sympathy. “While you’ve been bobbing around in a boat, I’ve been doing battle with the Parthians. You may carry a message from me to Antonius—tell him that we beat an army of Parthian cataphracts at the Cilician Gates, and have Labienus on the run. What’s your message? Anything that exciting?”

  “It isn’t wise to antagonize me,” said Dellius in a whisper.

  “Ask me do I care. Your message? I have work to do.”

  “I am instructed to remind you that Marcus Antonius is most anxious to see King Herod of the Jews placed upon his throne as soon as possible.”

  Incredulity was written large on Ventidius’s face. “You mean Antonius sent you all this way just to tell me that? Tell him I will be glad to put Herod’s fat arse on a throne, but first I have to eject Pacorus and his army from Syria, which may take some time. However, assure the Triumvir Marcus Antonius that I will bear his instruction in mind. Is that all?”

  Puffed up like an adder, Dellius lifted his lip in a snarl. “You will rue this conduct, Ventidius!” he hissed.

  “I rue a Rome that encourages suckers-up like you, Dellius. See yourself out.”

  Ventidius departed, leaving Dellius to simmer. How dared the old muleteer treat him like that! For the time being, however, he decided, abandoning the wine and getting to his feet, the old nuisance would have to be suffered. He’d beaten a Parthian army and chased Labienus out of Anatolia—news Antony would love as much as he loved Ventidius. Your comeuppance will wait, Dellius thought to himself; when I see my opportunity, I’ll strike. But not yet. No, not yet.

  Commanding his Galatian troopers with valor and shrewdness, Quintus Poppaedius Silo penned Labienus in halfway through the pass across Mount Amanus called the Syrian Gates, and waited for Ventidius to bring up the legions. It was November, but not very cold; the autumn rains hadn’t come, which meant the ground was battle hard, battle worthy. Some Parthian commander had brought two thousand cataphracts up from Syria to aid Labienus, but to no avail. For a second time the mailed horse warriors were cut to pieces, but this time Labienus’s infantry perished as well.

  Pausing only to write a jubilant letter to Antony, Ventidius went on into Syria to find the Parthians absent. Pacorus had not been at the battle of Amanus either; rumor had it that he had gone home to Seleuceia-on-Tigris months ago, taking Hyrcanus of the Jews with
him. Labienus had escaped, taken ship for Cyprus at Apameia.

  “That will profit him nothing,” said Ventidius to Silo. “I believe Antonius put one of Caesar’s freedmen in Cyprus to govern on his behalf—Gaius Julius—um—Demetrius, that’s it.” He reached for paper. “Get this off to him at once, Silo. If he’s the man I think he is—my memory grows muddled about anyone’s Greek freedmen—he’ll search the island from Paphos to Salamis very efficiently. Diligently, in fact.”

  That done, Ventidius scattered his legions in several winter camps, and settled to wait for whatever the following year would bring. Comfortably ensconced in Antioch and with Silo in Damascus, he spent his leisure dreaming of his triumph, the prospect of which became ever more alluring. The battle at Mount Amanus had yielded two thousand silver talents and some nice works of art to decorate the floats in his parade. Eat your own arse, Pollio! My triumph will eclipse yours by miles.

  The winter furlough didn’t last as long as Ventidius expected; Pacorus returned from Mesopotamia with every cataphract he could find—but no horse archers. Herod turned up in Antioch with the news, apparently obtained from one of Antigonus’s minions who had soured about the prospect of perpetual Parthian rule.

  “I’ve established an excellent rapport with the fellow—a Zadokite named Ananeel who yearns to be High Priest. As I don’t intend to be High Priest myself, he’ll do as well as any other, so I promised it to him in return for accurate information about the Parthians. I had him whisper to his Parthian contacts that, having occupied northern Syria, you intend to lay a trap for Pacorus at Nicephorium on the river Euphrates because you expect him to cross it at Zeugma. Pacorus now believes this, and will ignore Zeugma, travel on the east bank all the way north to Samosata. I imagine he’ll take Crassus’s shortcut up the Bilechas, isn’t that ironic?”

  Though he couldn’t warm to Herod, Ventidius was fully shrewd enough to realize that this greedy toad of a man had nothing to gain by lying; whatever information Herod disgorged would be the truth. “I thank you, King Herod,” he said, feeling none of the revulsion Dellius inspired. Herod wasn’t a sycophant, for all of his obliging guise; he was simply determined to eject Antigonus the usurper and king it over the Jews. “Rest assured that the moment the Parthian threat is no more, I’ll help you get rid of Antigonus.”

  “I hope the wait isn’t too long,” said Herod, sighing. “My women-folk and my betrothed are marooned atop the most hideous crag of rock in the world. I’ve had word from my brother Joseph that they’re very low on food. I fear I can’t assist them.”

  “Would some money help? I can give you enough to travel to Egypt and buy supplies and transport there. Can you get it to this hideous crag without being detected leaving Egypt?”

  Herod sat up eagerly. “I can escape detection easily, Publius Ventidius. The crag has a name—Masada—and it’s a long way down the Palus Asphaltites. A camel train going overland from Pelusium would avoid Jews, Idumaeans, Nabataeans, and Parthians.”

  “A fearsome list,” said Ventidius with a grin. “Then while I deal with Pacorus, I suggest you do that. Cheer up, Herod! This time next year will see you in Jerusalem.”

  Herod managed to look humble and diffident, no mean feat. “I—er—how do I—ah—apply for this grant of money?”

  “Just see my quaestor, King Herod. I’ll tell him to give you whatever you ask for—within reason, that is.” The bright blue eyes twinkled. “Camels are expensive, I know, but I’m a muleteer by trade. I have a fair idea what anything with four feet costs. Just deal honestly with me, and keep the information coming.”

  Eight thousand cataphracts emerged out of the northeast at Samosata, and there crossed the Euphrates while it was at its winter ebb. Leading in person this time, Pacorus struck west for Chalcis along the road that led to Antioch, through verdant country that offered him no challenge, country he knew well from his previous incursions. It had water and grass aplenty, and apart from a low mountain named Gindarus, the terrain was easy, relatively flat. Comfortable because he knew that every minor prince in the area was on his side, he approached the flank of Gindarus with his horsemen stretched out for miles behind him, grazing their way toward Antioch, which they didn’t know was now in Roman hands again. Herod’s agents had done their work well, and Antigonus of the Jews, who might have been expected to keep his channels to Pacorus open, was too absorbed in subjugating those Jews who still felt rule under the Romans was less alien.

  A scout came galloping to inform him that a Roman army sat upon Gindarus, well dug in. A relief to Pacorus, summoning his cataphracts into battle order; he hadn’t liked not knowing where the new Roman army was.

  He repeated all the mistakes his subordinates had made at the Cilician Gates and Mount Amanus, still imbued with contempt for foot soldiers faced with mailed giants on mailed horses. The mass of cataphracts charged uphill and into a rain of lead missiles that pierced their mail at a range beyond arrows; thrown into disorder, horses screaming from balls that crashed between their eyes, the Parthian vanguard foundered. At which moment the legionaries waded fearlessly into the fray, dodging among the milling horses to hack at their knees, drag the riders down to die with sword thrusts through their faces. Their long spears were useless in such a melée, their sabers still mostly sheathed. With no hope of getting his rearguard through the confusion in front of them and no way to find the Roman flank, Pacorus watched in horror as the legionaries drew ever closer to his own position atop a small mound. But he fought, as did the men around him, defending his person to the last. When Pacorus fell, those of them who could rallied around his body on foot and tried to contend with genuine foot soldiers. By nightfall most of the eight thousand were dead, the few survivors riding hard for the Euphrates and home, leading Pacorus’s horse as proof that he was dead.

  In actual fact he wasn’t when the battle ended, though he bore a fatal wound in his belly. A legionary finished him off, stripped him of his armor, and took it to Ventidius.

  “The ground was ideal,” Ventidius wrote to Antony, in Athens with his wife and her brood of children. “I will have Pacorus’s golden armor to display at my triumph; my men have hailed me imperator on the field three times, as I can testify should you require it. There was no point in fighting a holding action at any stage in this campaign, which progressed naturally into the series of three battles. Of course I understand that the conclusiveness of my campaign is no cause for complaint from you. Simply, it has given you a Syria safe and sound wherein to marshal your armies—including mine, which I will put into winter camp around Antioch, Damascus, and Chalcis—for your great campaign against Mesopotamia.

  “However, it has come to my ears that Antiochus of Commagene concluded a treaty with Pacorus that yielded Commagene to Parthian overrule. He also gifted Pacorus with food and provender, a fact that enabled Pacorus to drive into Syria unaffected by the usual problems besetting a large force of cavalry. Therefore in March I intend to lead seven legions north to Samosata and see what King Antiochus has to say about his treachery. Silo and two legions will proceed to Jerusalem to put King Herod on his throne.

  “King Herod has been a great help to me. His agents spread misleading information among the Parthian spies, which enabled me to find myself that ideal ground while the Parthians were in full ignorance of my whereabouts. In him, I believe Rome has an ally worth his salt. I gave him a hundred talents to go to Egypt and buy provisions for his family and the family of King Hyrcanus, which he installed in some mountain retreat incapable of being taken. However, my campaign has yielded ten thousand silver talents in spoils, which are on their way to the Treasury in Rome even as I write. Once I have held my triumph and the spoils have been released, you will profit considerably. My own share, from the sale of slaves, will not be great, as the Parthians fought to the bitter end. I did collect about a thousand men from the army of Labienus, and have sold them.

  “As regards Quintus Labienus, I have just had a letter from Gaius Julius Demetrius in Cyprus,
who informs me that he captured Labienus and put him to death. I deplore this last fact, as I do not think a mere Greek freedman, even one of the late Caesar’s, has sufficient authority to execute. But I leave the final judgment in that to you, as I must.

  “Rest assured that when I reach Samosata I will deal hard by Antiochus, who has forfeited Commagene’s status as Friend and Ally. I trust this finds you and yours well.”

  12

  Life in Athens was pleasant, especially since Mark Antony had patched up his differences with Titus Pomponius Atticus, the most treasured Roman in Athens, witness his cognomen of Atticus, which meant Athenian at heart. Lover of Athenian boys would have been more to the point, but that was discreetly ignored by every Roman, even one as homophobic as Antony. In much earlier days Atticus had developed the discipline never to indulge his taste for boys anywhere save in homophilic Athens, where he had built a mansion and been very good to the city over the years. A man of great culture and a noted literatus, Atticus had a hobby that eventually earned him a lot of money; he published the works of famous Roman authors from Catullus to Cicero and Caesar. Each new opus was copied in editions that varied from several dozens to several thousands. A hundred scribes chosen for accuracy and legibility were comfortably housed in a building on the Argiletum near the Senate, busy these days on the poetry of Virgil and Horace. Tacked onto this scriptorium were premises that functioned as a lending library, a concept that had actually been invented by the Brothers Sosius, his rival publishers next door. Their career in publishing predated that of Atticus’s, but they lacked his immense wealth and had to hasten more slowly; recently the late Brothers Sosius had produced political hopefuls, one of whom was attached to Antony as a senior legate.