Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar

by Colleen McCullough

  As for Sulla, at Veii he divided the five legions he had left between himself and Publius Servilius Vatia. Vatia was to take two of them and march into coastal Etruria, while Sulla and the elder Dolabella took the other three up the Via Cassia toward Clusium, further inland. It was now the beginning of May, and Sulla was very well pleased with his progress. If Metellus Pius and his larger section of the army acquitted themselves equally well, by autumn Sulla stood an excellent chance of owning all of Italy and all of Italian Gaul.

  And how were Metellus Pius and his forces doing? Sulla had heard little about their progress at the time he himself started up the Via Cassia toward Clusium, but he had a great deal of faith in this loyalest of adherents—as well as a lively curiosity as to how Pompey the Great would fare. He had quite deliberately given Metellus Pius the larger army, and deliberate too were his instructions that Pompey the Great should have the command of five thousand cavalry he knew he would not need in his own maneuvers through more settled and hillier terrain.

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  Metellus Pius had marched for the Adriatic coast with his own two legions (under the command of his legate Varro Lucullus), six legions which had belonged to Scipio, the three legions which belonged to Pompey, and those five thousand horse troopers Sulla had given to Pompey.

  Of course Varro the Sabine traveled with Pompey, a ready and sympathetic ear (not to mention a ready and sympathetic pen!) tuned to receive Pompey’s thoughts.

  “I must put myself on better terms with Crassus,” said Pompey to him as they moved through Picenum. “Metellus Pius and Varro Lucullus are easy—and anyway, I quite like them. But Crassus is a surly brute. More formidable by far. I need him on my side.”

  Astride a pony, Varro looked a long way up to Pompey on his big white Public Horse. “I do believe you’ve learned something during the course of a winter spent with Sulla!” he said, genuinely amazed. “I never thought to hear you speak of conciliating any man—with the exception of Sulla, naturally.”

  “Yes, I have learned,” admitted Pompey magnanimously. His beautiful white teeth flashed in a smile of pure affection. “Come now, Varro! I know I’m well on my way to becoming Sulla’s most valued helper, but I am capable of understanding that Sulla needs other men than me! Though you may be right,” he went on thoughtfully. “This is the first time in my life that I’ve dealt with any other commander-in-chief than my father. I think my father was a very great soldier. But he cared for nothing aside from his lands. Sulla is different.”

  “In what way?” asked Varro curiously.

  “He cares nothing for most things—including all of us he calls his legates, or colleagues, or whatever name he considers judicious at the time. I don’t know that he even cares for Rome. Whatever he does care for, it isn’t material. Money, lands—even the size of his auctoritas or the quality of his public reputation. No, they don’t matter to Sulla.”

  “Then what does?’’ Varro asked, fascinated with the phenomenon of a Pompey who could see further than himself.

  “Perhaps his dignitas alone,” Pompey answered.

  Varro turned this over carefully. Could Pompey be right?

  Dignitas! The most intangible of all a Roman nobleman’s possessions, that was dignitas. His auctoritas was his clout, his measure of public influence, his ability to sway public opinion and public bodies from Senate to priests to the Treasury.

  Dignitas was different. It was intensely personal and very private, yet it extended into all parameters of a man’s public life. So hard to define! That, of course, was why there was a word for it. Dignitas was … a man’s personal degree of impressiveness … of glory? Dignitas summed up what a man was, as a man and as a leader of his society. It was the total of his pride, his integrity, his word, his intelligence, his deeds, his ability, his knowledge, his standing, his worth as a man.... Dignitas survived a man’s death, it was the only way he could triumph over death. Yes, that was the best definition. Dignitas was a man’s triumph over the extinction of his physical being. And seen in that light, Varro thought Pompey absolutely correct. If anything mattered to Sulla, it was his dignitas. He had said he would beat Mithridates. He had said he would come back to Italy and secure his vindication. He had said that he would restore the Republic in its old, traditional form. And having said these things, he would do them. Did he not, his dignitas would be diminished; in outlawry and official odium there could be no dignitas. So from out of himself he would find the strength to make his word good. When he had made his word good, he would be satisfied. Until he had, Sulla could not rest. Would not rest.

  “In saying that,” Varro said, “you have awarded Sulla the ultimate accolade.”

  The bright blue eyes went blank. “Huh?”

  “I mean,” said Varro patiently, “that you have demonstrated to me that Sulla cannot lose. He’s fighting for something Carbo doesn’t even understand.”

  “Oh, yes! Yes, definitely!” said Pompey cheerfully.

  They were almost to the river Aesis, in the heart of Pompey’s own fief again. The brash youth of last year had not vanished, but sat now amid a branching superstructure of fresh, stimulating experiences; in other words, Pompey had grown. In fact, he grew a little more each day. Sulla’s gift of cavalry command had interested Pompey in a type of military activity he had never before seriously considered. That of course was Roman. Romans believed in the foot soldier, and to some extent had come to believe the horse soldier was more decorative than useful, more a nuisance than an asset. Varro was convinced that the only reason Romans employed cavalry was because the enemy did.

  Once upon a time, in the days of the Kings of Rome and in the very early years of the Republic, the horse soldier had formed the military elite, was the spearhead of a Roman army. Out of this had grown the class of knights—the Ordo Equester, as Gaius Gracchus had called it. Horses had been hugely expensive—too expensive for many men to buy privately. Out of that had grown the custom of the Public Horse, the knight’s mount bought and paid for by the State.

  Now, a long way down the road from those days, the Roman horse soldier had ceased to exist except in social and economic terms. The knight—businessman or landowner that he was, member of the First Class of the Centuries—was the horse soldier’s Roman relic. And still to this day, the State bought the eighteen hundred most senior knights their horses.

  Addicted to exploring the winding lanes of thought, Varro saw that he was losing the point of his original reflection, and drew himself resolutely back onto thought’s main road. Pompey and his interest in the cavalry. Not Roman in manpower anymore. These were Sulla’s troopers he had brought from Greece with him, and therefore contained no Gauls; had they been recruited in Italy, they would have been almost entirely Gallic, drawn from the rolling pastures on the far side of the Padus in Italian Gaul, or from the great valley of the Rhodanus in Gaul-across-the-Alps. As it was, Sulla’s men were mostly Thracians, admixed with a few hundred Galatians. Good fighters, and as loyal as could be expected of men who were not themselves Roman. In the Roman army they had auxiliary status, and some of them might be rewarded at the end of a hard—won campaign with the full Roman citizenship, or a piece of land.

  All the way from Teanum Sidicinum, Pompey had busied himself going among these men in their leather trousers and leather jerkins, with their little round shields and their long lances; their long swords were more suitable for slashing from the height of a horse’s back than the short sword of the infantryman. At least Pompey had the capacity to think, Varro told himself as they rode steadily toward the Aesis. He was discovering the qualities of horsemen—soldiers and turning over the possibilities. Planning. Seeing if there was any way their performance or equipage might be improved. They were formed into regiments of five hundred men, each regiment consisting of ten squadrons of fifty men, and they were led by their own officers; the only Roman who commanded them was the overall general of cavalry. In this case, Pompey. Very much involved, very fascinated—and very determined to lead the
m with a flair and competence not usually present in a Roman. If Varro privately thought that a part of Pompey’s interest stemmed from his large dollop of Gallic blood, he was wise enough never to indicate to Pompey that such was his theory.

  How extraordinary! Here they were, the Aesis in sight, and Pompey’s old camp before them. Back where they had begun, as if all the miles between had been nothing. A journey to see an old man with no teeth and no hair, distinguished only by a couple of minor battles and a lot of marching.

  “I wonder,” said Varro, musing, “if the men ever ask themselves what it’s all about?”

  Pompey blinked, turned his head sideways. “What a strange question! Why should they ask themselves anything? It’s all done for them. I do it all for them! All they have to do is as they’re told.” And he grimaced at the revolutionary thought that so many as one of Pompey Strabo’s veterans might think.

  But Varro was not to be put off. “Come now, Magnus! They are men—like us in that respect, if in no other. And being men, they are endowed with thought. Even if a lot of them can’t read or write. It’s one thing never to question orders, quite another not to ask what it’s all about.”

  “I don’t see that,” said Pompey, who genuinely didn’t.

  “Magnus, I call the phenomenon human curiosity! It is in a man’s nature to ask himself the reason why! Even if he is a Picentine ranker who has never been to Rome and doesn’t understand the difference between Rome and Italy. We have just been to Teanum and back. There’s our old camp down there. Don’t you think that some of them at least must be asking themselves what we went to Teanum for, and why we’ve come back in less than a year?”

  “Oh, they know that!” said Pompey impatiently. “Besides, they’re veterans. If they had a thousand sesterces for every mile they’ve marched during the past ten years, they’d be able to live on the Palatine and breed pretty fish. Even if they did piss in the fountain and shit in the cook’s herb garden! Varro, you are such an original! You never cease to amaze me—the things that chew at you!” Pompey kicked his Public Horse in the ribs and began to gallop down the last slope. Suddenly he laughed uproariously, waved his hands in the air; his words floated back quite clearly. “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”

  Oh, you child! said Varro to himself. What am I doing here? What use can I possibly be? It’s all a game, a grand and magnificent adventure.

  *

  Perhaps it was, but late that night Metellus Pius called a meeting with his three legates, and Varro as always accompanied Pompey. The atmosphere was excited: there had been news.

  “Carbo isn’t far away,” said the Piglet. He paused to consider what he had said, and modified it. “At least, Carrinas is, and Censorinus is rapidly catching him up. Apparently Carbo thought eight legions would be enough to halt our progress, then he discovered the size of our army, and sent Censorinus with another four legions. They’ll reach the Aesis ahead of us, and it’s there we’ll have to meet them.”

  “Where’s Carbo himself?” asked Marcus Crassus.

  “Still in Ariminum. I imagine he’s waiting to see what Sulla intends to do.”

  “And how Young Marius will fare,” said Pompey.

  “True,” agreed the Piglet, raising his brows. “However, it isn’t our job to worry about that. Our job is to make Carbo hop. Pompeius, this is your purlieu. Should we bring Carrinas across the river, or keep him on the far side?”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” said Pompey coolly. “The banks are much the same. Plenty of room to deploy, some tree cover, good level ground for an all—out contest if we can bring it on.” He looked angelic, and said sweetly, “The decision belongs to you, Pius. I’m only your legate.”

  “Well, since we’re trying to get to Ariminum, it makes more sense to get our men to the far side,” said Metellus Pius, quite unruffled. “If we do force Carrinas to retreat, we don’t want to have to cross the Aesis in pursuit. The report indicates that we have a huge advantage in cavalry. Provided that you think the terrain and the river will allow it, Pompeius, I would like you to spearhead the crossing and keep your horse—troopers between the enemy and our infantry. Then I’ll wheel our infantry on the far bank, you peel your cavalry back out of the way, and we’ll attack. There’s not much we can do in terms of subterfuge. It will be a straight battle. However, if you can swing your cavalry around behind the enemy after I’ve engaged him from the front, we’ll roll Carrinas and Censorinus up.”

  No one objected to this strategy, which was sufficiently loose to indicate that Metellus Pius had some talent as a general. When it was suggested that Varro Lucullus should command Pompey’s three legions of veterans, thereby allowing Pompey full license with his cavalry, Pompey agreed without a qualm.

  “I’ll lead the center,” said Metellus Pius in conclusion, “with Crassus leading the right, and Varro Lucullus the left.”

  Since the day was fine and the ground was not too wet, things went very much as Metellus Pius had planned. Pompey held the crossing easily, and the infantry engagement which followed demonstrated the great advantage veteran troops bestowed upon a general in battle. Though Scipio’s legions were raw enough, Varro Lucullus and Crassus led the five veteran legions superbly, and their confidence spilled over onto Scipio’s men. Carrinas and Censorinus had no veteran troops, and went down without extending Metellus Pius too severely. The end result would have been a rout had Pompey managed to fall upon the enemy rear, but as he skirted the field to do so, he encountered a new factor. Carbo had arrived with six more legions—and three thousand horse to contest Pompey’s progress.

  Carrinas and Censorinus managed to draw off without losing more than three or four thousand men, then camped next to Carbo a scant mile beyond the battlefield. The advance of Metellus Pius and his legates ground to a halt.

  “We will go back to your original camp south of the river,” said Metellus Pius with crisp decision. “I would rather they think us too cautious to proceed, and I also think it behooves us to keep a fair distance between us and them.”

  Despite the disappointing outcome of the day’s conflict, spirits were high among the men, and quite high in the command tent when Pompey, Crassus and Varro Lucullus met their general at dusk. The table was covered with maps, a slight disorder indicating that the Piglet had been poring over them closely.

  “All right,” he said, standing behind the table, “I want you to look at this, and see how best we can outflank Carbo.”

  They clustered around, Varro Lucullus holding a five-flamed lamp above the carefully inked sheepskin. The map displayed the Adriatic coastline between Ancona and Ravenna, together with inland territory extending beyond the crest of the Apennines.

  “We’re here,” said the Piglet, finger on a spot below the Aesis. “The next big river onward is the Metaurus, a treacherous crossing. All this land is Ager Gallicus—here—and here—Ariminum at the northward end of it—some rivers, but none according to this difficult to ford. Until we come to this one—between Ariminum and Ravenna, see? The Rubico, our natural border with Italian Gaul.” All these features were lightly touched; the Piglet was methodical. “It’s fairly obvious why Carbo has put himself in Ariminum. He can move up the Via Aemilia into Italian Gaul proper—he can go down the Sapis road to the Via Cassia at Arretium and threaten Rome from the upper Tiber valley—he can reach the Via Flaminia and Rome that way—he can march down the Adriatic into Picenum, and if necessary into Campania through Apulia and Samnium.”

  “Then we have to dislodge him,” said Crassus, stating the obvious. “It’s possible.”

  “But there is a hitch,” said Metellus Pius, frowning. “It seems Carbo is not entirely confined to Ariminum anymore. He’s done something very shrewd by sending eight legions under Gaius Norbanus up the Via Aemilia to Forum Cornelii—see? Not far beyond Faventia. Now that is not a great distance from Ariminum—perhaps forty miles.”

  “Which means he could get those eight legions back to Ariminum in one hard day’s march if he
had to,” said Pompey.

  “Yes. Or get them to Arretium or Placentia in two or three days,” said Varro Lucullus, who never lost sight of the overall concept. “We have Carbo himself sitting on the other side of the Aesis with Carrinas and Censorinus—and eighteen legions plus three thousand cavalry. There are eight more legions in Forum Cornelii with Norbanus, and another four garrisoning Ariminum in company with several thousand more cavalry.”

  “I need a grand strategy before I go one more inch,” said Metellus Pius, looking at his legates.

  “The grand strategy is easy,” said Crassus, the abacus clicking away inside his mind. “We have to prevent Carbo’s recombining with Norbanus, separate Carbo from Carrinas and Censorinus, and Carrinas from Censorinus. Prevent every one of them from recombining. Just as Sulla said. Fragmentation.”

  “One of us—probably me—will have to get five legions to the far side of Ariminum, then cut Norbanus off and make a bid to take Italian Gaul,” said Metellus Pius, frowning. “Not an easy thing to do.”

  “It is easy,” said Pompey eagerly. “Look—here’s Ancona, the second—best harbor on the Adriatic. At this time of year it’s full of ships waiting on the westerlies to sail for the east and a summer’s trading. If you took your five legions to Ancona, Pius, you could embark them on those ships and sail to Ravenna. It’s a sweet voyage, you’d never need to be out of sight of land, and there won’t be any storms. It’s no more than a hundred miles—you’ll do it in eight or nine days, even if you have to row. If you get a following wind—not unlikely at this time of year—you’ll do it in four days.” His hand stabbed at the map. “A quick march from Ravenna to Faventia, and you’ll cut Norbanus off from Ariminum permanently.”

  “It will have to be done in secret,” said the Piglet, eyes shining. “Oh, yes, Pompeius, it will work! They won’t dream of our moving troops between here and Ancona—their scouts will all be to the north of the Aesis. Pompeius, Crassus, you’ll have to sit right where we are at the moment pretending to be five legions stronger until Varro Lucullus and I have sailed from Ancona. Then you move. Try to catch up to Carrinas, and make it look serious. If possible, tie him down—and Censorinus as well. Carbo will be with them at first, but when he hears I’ve landed at Ravenna, he’ll march to relieve Norbanus. Of course, he may elect to stay in this neighborhood himself, send Carrinas or Censorinus to relieve Norbanus. But I don’t think so. Carbo needs to be centrally located.”