by Craig Smith
Neither of us was willing to give the other an opportunity to retrieve the loose spear at the end of the arena, so we stayed within a few steps of one another, turning in a wide circle. I used my gladii in brief, furious attacks, striking at various angles, searching for a chance to slip one of the blades past, then backing away a few steps. I would take a moment to watch him then charge in a second time. On the second retreat I always went a few steps farther back. This forced him to follow me, lest I get away from him and run for the pilum at the end of the arena. But that was all I could do. I could not tempt him to lunge at me with his sword.
So I danced, harassing him, backing off, coming in a second time. The rhythm never changed. Finally, as I returned for a second assault, I saw his right foot move forward. I sprang away suddenly, swinging my gladius at full extension. This time I struck his bare arm. I fended off his attack by retreating and circling, then looked toward the training centurion for a call. A cut must be deep enough to stop a real fight; tapping the flesh is not sufficient. The centurion shook his head. At least he had seen the blow. It was a fair call, I will give him that, but for five thousand denarii I could have hoped for a more generous one. I circled back in the direction of my spear and the Celt moved to intercept. I attacked again, tempting him with my sudden assault. He feinted a lunge, and I fell away as before, reaching behind his shield as I did. He was waiting for me this time and swung his shield at my hand. This left a deep groove in my sword and might well have ruined my hand had we been only slightly closer.
I changed nothing in my step, though I slowed the tempo, as if tiring of the game. He let me repeat my dance a few times then, suddenly, as I came at him, I saw his right foot leave the sand. I went down, rolling under his shield and snapped my gladius across the back of his sandal at the Achilles tendon. I rolled away and then jumped up, my arms extended overhead. This was always judged a maiming stroke, which is the same as a kill. With a sharpened blade my opponent would have gone to the sand with his tendon cut.
I looked at the training centurion and saw him raise his hand calling it a victory. No matter. The Celt, in his fury, charged me. The match was over, or at least it ought to have been. Of course I had no interest in getting battered by a shield and a wooden sword. I took a defensive posture, giving ground as he pushed his shield at me like a battering ram. I stepped aside but did not bother with another stroke across his arm. The training centurion was in the arena now, still signalling a victory, but Antony called from the benches: ‘They fight until one of them asks to stop.’
I saw the Celt breathing hard, and I knew his best days on the sand were behind him. Too many drinking bouts, too many long mornings in bed with adoring fans. I stepped into range again, confident now I could wear him down. He rushed at me again. If a wound counted nothing, he meant to use his size against me. He swung his shield at me as I backed away and very nearly cut me. Then he gave a savage lunge of his gladius that was all fury and no art. I parried it and reached around his shield with my right hand, driving the dulled point of my sword into his jaw with all the force I could muster. It was a solid hit and ought to have taken him down, but it seemed to have no effect, except to enrage him. Again he came at me artlessly, this time trying to club me with his gladius. As I retreated from his mad charge, he turned back suddenly, moving to the side of the arena where my ruined shield and the bent pilum lay. He dropped his sword, stepped on the shield, and pried the pilum free with a ripping screech of wood and steel. The tip may have been curled, but it was steel against two sticks.
I moved back and to my left, always left now. This forced the Celt to keep turning the spear out from his body if he wanted to keep aiming it at me. He could throw it, but that only gave me the weapon if he did not take me down with it. Better simply to keep it in hand and force me to keep backing and spinning away. I swung my swords at the point of his pilum but that was only to frustrate him; it gave me no advantage. Nor could I move in close. So I circled him, swatting at his weapon. There was no way under him, no way through. Always to my left, always forcing him to turn. I was breathing hard now. After another of his lunges I backed away several steps and stopped as if desperate to catch my breath. Thinking I was too beat to resist him, the Celt charged me.
That was when I took off at a sprint, heading for the spear at the end of the arena. He was on my left, three paces behind. I let him come within half-a-stride; he could not yet reach me with his pilum, but when I bent down to pick up the spear he would be on me, driving his weapon hard into my back. Still a few steps away from the undamaged spear, I broke stride, closing the gap between us. At the same time, I swerved into him, batting the pilum away with the sword in my left hand and rolling into his legs.
I hit the side of his knee with the weight of my entire body. I heard the crack of bone, a scream of pain. When he was down I rolled away and came back to my feet. Tossing both swords away I grabbed the good pilum and held the weapon over him, threatening him with it until he cried for mercy.
I turned from the Celt, still holding the spear, and looked at Antony, who sat within range of my weapon. I was seething in rage for having been played the fool, and I thought about challenging Antony himself, which would have been bad business. Then I thought about the money. Walking away from the giant I dropped my weapon, my arms extended overhead, as if a mob cheered me. In fact my training mates were crying out enthusiastically, for they had all been beaten by me and were happy to see there was a good reason for it. From the benches where Antony sat I heard only my friend Horace howling and clapping his hands. I didn’t know it, but he had just become a very rich man. The others in Antony’s entourage, all with heavy wagers against me, stared down at me with sullen faces. So, too, Antony.
Without a word of congratulations or a glance at the fallen Celt, Antony finally stood up and departed. His entourage followed until only Horace remained at the benches. He was still clapping his hands and shouting the salute one might offer a victorious gladiator. Finally, he left too, scurrying after the nobles like one of their servants. As for the fallen Celt no one came for the poor fellow. We had to summon a few legionary slaves to carry him off to a doctor – for all the good it would do; he would walk with a crutch for the rest of his life.
I went for a bath afterwards, long before the usual hour. I wanted no company; I was angry at Antony and at the Celt, whom I had been forced to cripple. It was better than getting run through by a spear, I can tell you, but I did not like hurting a man in the practice arena. Nor did I care to be treated like some low-rent gladiator.
I cooled down that evening when my fortune arrived. I expected a note of congratulations from Antony, but no, only the coins, a great mass of them of every description. Most of the money though came in the form of a letter of credit over Mark Antony’s signature.
A week or so later, Antony called me to his palace in the city. We met where Antony routinely received his clients each morning; I was first through the door. ‘Come in, Dellius.’ Antony left his chair and walked toward me. As he was my commander I stood to attention. He was then a very heavy man but still tremendously powerful and wonderfully handsome. He walked around me I think to compare his physique with mine, or perhaps he meant to compare my build with that which he had possessed at my age. I was no Hercules but I was strong enough to hold my own against one.
‘I thought we should have a talk about how you managed to lose four of Dolabella’s legions in Judaea.’
‘They were not Dolabella’s legions but mine, Imperator. They were a gift from Claudius Nero, on condition that Dolabella and you would arrange for Nero to be elected the urban praetor.’
‘Nero enjoyed his praetorship, but Cassius Longinus received the legions. Without a fight as I understand it. I want to know why that happened.’
‘I failed to act as Caesar would have done, Imperator. The real Caesar I mean.’
‘Don’t let our new Caesar hear talk about the real Caesar, Dellius. He’s rather touchy about his shortcomi
ngs.’
‘I only meant…’
‘I know what you meant. What happened? Did you lose your nerve? I’ve asked several people, but no one tells the same story.’
I began my tale with my arrival in Egypt. I hardly cared to confess to murdering Gaius Trebonius for the sake of taking his head to Allienus. From Egypt to Judaea and there my meeting with the sons of Antipater.
‘I had the Queen of Egypt waiting for me if I turned back and Cassius Longinus ready to oppose me in Syria. Once I had learned that Dolabella was dead and that your army had been destroyed, I sought to negotiate with Cassius through the auspices of Antipater. Antipater seemed ready to help me, but of course he was poisoned on the very night we met.’
‘And what do you imagine Caesar would have done in your place?’
‘With four legions ready to fight? He would have marched through Judaea, slowing down only long enough to persuade another two or three legions of auxiliaries from the Greek cities to join him. In fact, Cassius had nothing like the eight legions he advertised. What few legions he did have were spread across the whole of Syria and Asia Minor. Caesar would have understood that. He would have doubled the speed of his march and arrived at Antioch before Cassius could defend it.’
‘So why didn’t Quintus Dellius do that?’
‘I let the sons of Antipater deceive me with promises.’
I told him the full story of Phasael’s betrayal, how he let me imagine I might serve in Judaea and keep command of my legions. ‘Two weeks after leaving Egypt, Imperator, I could have been lord of Antioch had I only stopped for a moment to consider what Caesar would have done.’
‘You may be right. Then again Cassius might have defeated you as he did Dolabella.’
‘Better to go down fighting than lose four legions without lifting a sword.’
‘On that we agree, and I have to tell you my chief concern with respect to you is that you lost those legions without a fight. You see, I’d like to offer you a commission as a senior tribune in my guard. More to the point I want you to take command of those men closest to my person all recruited and trained by you. We will be travelling through Asia Minor and Syria next spring,’ he added. ‘There will be crowds and meetings with dignitaries, sometimes quite a tumult of bodies. I do not expect any trouble, but it is the perfect venue for an assassin to strike, and I cannot think of any man I should like to have closer to me than you.’
I nearly jumped at the chance, but my instincts told me I could have more. ‘I will require a prefecture, Imperator. If I am responsible for your safety, I want to have your entire guard under my authority.’
‘I already have a prefect of the Guard, lad.’
‘Promote him.’
Antony blinked at my impertinence, then surprised me. ‘Done,’ he said.
‘I should like a bonus, as well.’
‘Count your five thousand denarii as quite enough bonus, Dellius. Don’t ruin good fortune with too much greed.’
‘I won that money at considerable risk to my skin, Imperator. I want the bonus as a courtesy.’
‘How much courtesy do you require?’
‘I should like to have the horse Cassius Longinus rode at Philippi, the tall red stallion with the narrow blaze and one white sock; you brought the animal to Athens and keep him presently in your stable.’
‘That horse and no other?’
‘That and no other.’
‘But I like that horse.’
‘No doubt you do, but the horse was mine before Dolabella stole him from me.’
‘Dolabella a horse thief? You can’t be serious.’
‘It was more of a prank, actually, but of course once Dolabella was dead, Cassius took the horse as his own. When I wrote to Cassius to say that the horse was my property and provided information on how he might confirm the sale of the animal to my father, Cassius ignored my letter. Now you have won the animal by right of conquest, but I want him as a gift from my new patron – that I may know you value me as you ought to do.’
Antony turned to one of his staff. ‘Draw up papers for the prefect’s command and get him that damn horse – the tall red one I call Cassius.’
At some point in the following days Horace found me in my new apartment inside Antony’s palace. He was anxious to give me my share of the winnings. This came in the form of a slave he had purchased on my behalf. As a prefect I would need someone to attend me, he said, and he feared I might be cheated at market, if I went looking on my own for an educated Greek. This one Horace had tested in Greek and Latin. I might trust his grammar as being nearly perfect, only a small issue with the Latin ablative, but he was working on that. I could also count on him to train me in Greek pronunciation, which, Horace told me as kindly as he could, I needed to improve. I was astonished by the generosity of my friend until I learned the amount he had won in his wager, two hundred thousand sesterces from Antony alone, and smaller though quite handsome sums from the others on Antony’s staff. Not a bad hour’s wage for sitting on a bench. Of course he had risked bankruptcy if I had lost; so I could not complain that he had assumed no risk at all.
Horace reported to me that he would be leaving Antony’s service at the first breath of spring, when the sea was open again to traffic. Antony had agreed to award him an honourable discharge owing to a non-existent injury. With this document my friend hoped to get secretarial work with the government in Rome and afterwards begin running in circles where his poetry might help him make a name for himself. He had money now and, possessing good relations with Antony, hoped for patronage either from one of Antony’s friends in Rome or, as it actually turned out, someone in Caesar’s circle.
I arranged to send money with Horace to give to the patriarch of the Tuscan family with whom I had lived when I first went to Rome. This gentleman, as I mentioned earlier in my history, had assumed responsibility for a debt I had foolishly incurred, and I was happy finally to discharge my obligations to him and even supply a bit of interest in my gratitude. As it turned out, the man had perished in the proscriptions, but the money I sent with Horace went to his heirs, who were understandably rather desperate for it.
XVII
BACCHUS
Asia Minor: Spring, 41 BC
A few weeks after Horace sailed for Italy, Antony’s court departed for the orient. Antony’s entourage moved through the very provinces that had opposed him only six months earlier, though it was impossible to imagine it by the way people turned out to receive him. One would have thought Bacchus himself had come back to life. Kings and nobles vied for his affection and bandied about the term ‘divine’ so often that Antony began to believe it. Standing close to him after these great shows of affection, I heard his drinking companions laughing at the oriental’s fondness for sycophancy. Antony laughed too, but a month into it one of these rude fellows made a mockery of the elaborate adorations Antony had lately received with a vague reference to one of their debauches in Rome. It was one of those occasions when Antony had ended up vomiting over something or someone of high repute. Antony laughed cheerfully at the memory, but when the fellow had departed he instructed his freedman that he wished never again to see the man.
Antony had come to Asia for money, but of course Cassius had robbed the land of its wealth. No matter: kings found something to give, even if they had to steal it from their neighbours. They wanted Antony happy, for no man, not even Pompey Magnus, excited more terror in the orient than Mark Antony in the wake of Philippi. There were chests full of money instead of the wagonloads of former times. When Antony took his gifts he did not fail to grumble at the miserly offerings. To compensate for their lack of fortune the potentates of Asia recruited fresh dolls from the mountains to play the bride of Bacchus for a single evening. For a season I believe Antony slept only with virgins, sometimes two or three at a go and sometimes only the solitary princess of a local monarch. Wives were offered when there were no suitable virgins available, even sons in a pinch. Theatre, banquets, lectures on the arts,
and then a long night of drinking and debauchery. Dionysus himself could not have played the role with more gusto.
My duties were to arrange my men to best advantage and to worry even when there was obviously no danger. Antony let me go about my business as I pleased, but he was watching and judging my abilities. Of course he did not worry over my good opinion of him: he had not concerned himself with the opinion of his fellow senators; why bother with his lowly prefect of the Guard? I am sure, however, he assumed I was impressed by his magnificence. To be honest I found the man too pleased with himself to feel much admiration. I could not help recalling the manner of the divine Julius Caesar, who was sober and abstemious, lest he must begin a march at midnight. A lover of women, yes, but not as the satyr loves them. I could imagine Caesar had been interested in their conversation and quite charming in his seductions. With Antony it was the scream of a torn hymen, then the girl abruptly shoved from his bed.
No, it took me quite a long time to discover the virtues of Mark Antony.
Syria: Summer, 41 BC
Antony received a number of ambassadors from Jerusalem. These men were quick to note the crimes of Phasael and Herod in their roles as procurators of Judaea and Galilee, respectively. They knew the amount of money given to Cassius and complained about the brutal efficiency of Herod, whose mercenary army had fought in defence of Cassius and Brutus. When he had collected all the information he could, Antony told these visitors he fully intended for Phasael and Herod to answer for their actions; he also assured them he would rid both provinces of Roman procurators. This pleased the ambassadors greatly and they returned to Jerusalem in the certain belief that they would have no more dealings with the hated sons of Antipater.
Phasael and Herod, like all the rest of the potentates of the East, had spent all they possessed in support of Cassius; nevertheless, they dug about their palaces for a few talents of gold. They also dished out the usual platitudes concerning Antony’s magnificence, only falling short of calling him a god, as all the rest were so happy to do. Antony apparently did not mind. He knew Jews are loath to call any man a god.