by Michael Foss
It would be absurd for Antony [wrote Plutarch, commenting on the advice that Antony received] who was as experienced a general on land as any living, to throw away the advantage of his numbers and his strength and to weaken himself by putting his soldiers in the ships. But despite these sensible words from Canidius, Cleopatra chose to fight at sea and she prevailed on Antony.
And Plutarch added darkly, though there was as yet no evidence for his statement:
The truth was that in her thoughts she was already contemplating flight, and the real purpose of her battle order was not victory but to help her escape in the event of defeat.
Cleopatra had remained by Antony’s side, which was no small matter for a queen used to luxury in that bad summer of short rations, sickness and desertions in the camp. If she had cared only for her own safety, she could easily have followed the pleas of the advisers and retreated with dignity. But she was impatient for action and could not bear the thought of a strategic retreat with many long weary marches into the mountains of Thrace. She wanted a quick resolution and her Egyptian instinct was to trust to the fleet, for she could not believe that Octavian would defeat such an armada. At last, Antony’s disordered judgement agreed with her and she had her way.
When he finally decided to fight at sea, Antony burned all but 60 of the Egyptian ships, then he manned the best and largest of them, those with three to ten banks of oars, and put into them 22,000 heavily armed men and 2000 archers. As he was doing this, one of his centurions, scarred and hacked in many a battle under Antony, cried out to him as he passed, ‘Imperator, how is it that you trust these miserable ships? Do not my sword and my wounds speak to you? Let Egyptians and Phoenicians fight by sea, but give us land to stand on foot by foot, to conquer or to die.’ Antony passed him by without a word but only made a gesture of his hand, as if wishing him to be of good heart, yet he showed no great confidence himself. For when the captains proposed to leave their sails behind, Antony ordered them to be taken aboard since they might be needed, or so he said, to run down an enemy in flight.
To take the sails was suspicious, for the usual practice was to leave them behind when ships grappled at sea. Nor would the fighting-men have been encouraged if they had known that the war-chests had been loaded in secret on to certain of Cleopatra’s transports. The most charitable explanation was that Antony if he saw the fight going against him, would clap on all sails and break away with the treasure and the Egyptian squadron to Egypt, where he could regroup and continue the war on better terms. But these acts, however they were viewed, were those of a general who expected defeat. Octavian, however, was ready and full of confidence. On the day before the engagement he met a countryman driving a donkey. In a friendly spirit he asked the man his name and received the reply, ‘My name is Eutychos, the Fortunate, and my donkey is Nikon, the Conqueror.’ This answer so pleased Octavian, who saw in it nothing but a good omen, that when the battle was done he put up a bronze statue on the spot to the man and his donkey.
The morning of 2 September 31 BC began with fitful winds that subsided into a calm. Antony’s fleet stood in the mouth of the gulf but made no move. Opposing but well out to sea were the galleys under Agrippa’s command, with Octavian in a light Liburnian roving among them. The rowers rested on their oars, waiting to see what the wind would do. About noon a breeze arose, blowing from off the sea.
By this time [Plutarch wrote in his report of the battle] Anthony’s men were impatient at the long wait, so they advanced the left wing of the fleet, thinking that the size and weight of their ships made them invincible. At once Octavian gladly responded, commanding the rowers of his right wing to back water, so as to lure the enemy from the narrows of the gulf into the open sea where his agile galleys might surround and harass the undermanned giants.
When the battle lines met Antony’s heavy ships had not yet got up sufficient speed for ramming. Octavian wished to avoid these shocks, for he feared those massive armoured plates with their wicked beaks of bronze. Nor could he afford to ram amidships himself, or his own beaks would break off against the squared timbers bolted with iron. So the battle took on the character of a fight by land, or more exactly like an attack on a fortified town.
Small ships snapped at each great hull, firing arrows and darts and flaming brands, using Agrippa’s device of the harpax (grapnels shot from a catapult) to bind fast the ships so that soldiers could board from all sides. From high turrets on poop and foredeck Antony’s men fought off the swarm of attackers with fire and shot of their own. The moment was indecisive, the battle swaying back and forth.
Then Cleopatra’s squadron of 60 ships was suddenly seen to hoist sail and make off from the very midst of the fight. Stationed behind the heavy ships, this squadron plunged through their line and threw them into disorder, but with straining sails before the following wind her ships set course for the Peloponnese. Now Antony, no longer a commander nor a brave man nor even one of judgement, proved the truth of that old saying, that a lover’s soul dwells in the body of another, for he allowed himself to be dragged after that woman, flesh of her flesh to go wherever she would.
Unable to pull his own flagship out of the line, Antony, when he saw Cleopatra flee, transferred as quickly as he could to a smaller boat and fled after her. He came up to Cleopatra’s ship and went aboard, though he neither saw her nor looked for her. Instead, he sat silent in the bows with his head in his hands. For three days he stayed there, alone and grimly silent, as the ship sped to the southern point of Greece. Weary from flight they dropped anchor at Taenarum, by Cape Matapan. Shamed past anger and too lost for recriminations at last Antony was persuaded to look on Cleopatra. They began to talk, ‘and later they ate, and so went together to their sleep’.
At Actium, when the leader had fled, Antony’s fleet still fought on until a half-gale rising in the afternoon broke the formation of the big ships and let the marauders in among them. At about 4 pm the fleet surrendered. The losses for such a large battle were inconsiderable, though Octavian captured some 300 warships and transports. Most of them were burnt, according to Roman practice, and the bronze beaks were used to raise a monument where Octavian’s camp had stood.
The news reached Cleopatra’s ship that the fleet was utterly routed, but it was said that the army still held together. When he heard this Antony sent messengers to Canidius to withdraw as quickly as possible through Macedonia into the East. As for himself, Antony said he would sail to Libya. Then he chose one of the transports of Cleopatra’s squadron that carried great quantities of money and precious things, and vessels of silver and gold that belonged to the royal household. This ship he presented to his loyal friends, urging them to divide the treasure and save themselves. His friends refused with tears in their eyes, but Antony comforted them with all imaginable warmth and kindness, and still pressed them to accept his gift. Then he sent them away with a letter to Corinth, ordering his steward there to give them safe refuge until they could make their peace with Octavian.
Canidius tried to march the army away, though it was only a half-hearted attempt and after a week the army surrendered to Octavian. Canidius himself escaped to join Antony in Egypt. Octavian’s victory was overwhelmingly complete. Now, in the Roman view, Antony was beneath contempt, a soldier who had sold himself into slavery to a woman, a general fit only to take orders from a wrinkled eunuch of a debauched oriental court. Octavian, the embodiment of Roman virtue, was hailed as Imperator for the sixth, final and unassailable time. Antony, the would-be emperor of the East, was brushed from the path of history. ‘The Imperator whose duty it was to punish deserters’, wrote the historian Velleius, ‘himself became a deserter from his own army.’
Antony sailed from Greece leaving the ruins of his ambition and reputation behind him. He landed at Paraetonium on the border of Cyrene, to wander the desert and play the malcontent. But Cleopatra put a bold face on disaster and returned to Alexandria with flags flying as if for victory. It was an astute move, well up to her usual st
andard for intelligence, for it allowed her to take control of the city before the disappointed and fickle populace could turn on her. She had managed to rescue a good part of her treasure in her war-chests; she had intact many of the ships of her Egyptian squadron; her country was still at peace and was productive, and she was still the royal Ptolemy, queen of the richest kingdom of the Mediterranean world. But Antony was the puzzle. Should she hand the defeated general to Rome, as the price for Egypt’s safety? Or was there still enough of their joint dream left to make a new beginning based on the wealth of Egypt? She was only thirty-eight, young enough for a fresh start. But where was Antony for the grand plan, whatever it might be?
In Cyrene, with the defection of his troops to Octavian, Antony saw his cause die in North Africa as it had died in Asia Minor. He attempted suicide but was prevented by his friends. Then he returned to Alexandria; there was nowhere else to go. Wild plans were invented. The lovers would go to Spain, or better still to India, beyond the arc of the Roman sun. Cleopatra ordered ships of her Mediterranean fleet to be dragged across the narrow land isthmus to the head of the Red Sea. But Malchus of Nabataea, who had lost land to Cleopatra in Antony’s settlement of 37 BC, intercepted the ships and burnt them.
Since all efforts were frustrated, nothing more seemed worthwhile. Feverish plans gave way to passivity. The eastern world was waiting for Octavian, and Egypt marked time. Antony, never very stable in his emotions, sank into despondency, but even in misery his conduct was arranged for grand effect.
Antony abandoned the city and the company of his friends [Plutarch wrote] and built himself a little house looking towards the isle of Pharos, on a breakwater running into the sea. There, he shut himself off from human society, and asked for nothing better than to follow the example of Timon, whose fate was so like his own. Antony too, like Timon, had been wronged by the ingratitude of his friends, and for this reason he was angry with all and would trust none.
Octavian gave Antony and Cleopatra in Alexandria almost a year of grace. He needed money urgently and expected to find it in Egypt. He knew also that the fate of Antony awaited his decision, but he judged that Antony was a broken man bereft of his army and he was no danger for the moment. In the meantime, there were pressing problems in the Roman world. Immediately after Actium, Octavian went to Athens, to begin a provisional settlement in the lands that had owed allegiance to Antony. Athenians, realists in politics, poured on him the honours once so freely given to Antony and Cleopatra, those who had been the New Dionysus and his Isis-Aphrodite. The client-kings of the East, shocked by the finality of Octavian’s triumph, quickly made their peace. But in Italy the renewed attempt to find rewards and landholdings for the discharged veterans of the legions, and the general impoverishment from the war, led to many disturbances. There was a vicious mood of discontent that so often follows the celebration of victory.
Silver coin depicting Cleopatra, c. 30 BC, the year of her death.
When Agrippa and Maecenas were unable to hold back this swell of ugly feeling they sent quickly for Octavian. He sailed at once for Brundisium, risking his life on dangerous seas that drowned his own physician. With patient skill and much juggling of resources, with some payments now and many promises for the future, Octavian capped the well of Italian discontent. But he saw clearly that he could not make good his promises without a sudden gush of extra riches, and this was to be found nowhere else but in Egypt. In the spring of 30 BC he was back in Asia Minor, eyeing Egypt and putting together an army to march the well-trodden path from Syria to Pelusium.
Antony soon tired of his Alexandrian hermitage and crossed the Great Harbour to the better comforts of the Brucheion palace. He heard from Canidius that the remnants of his army were dispersed or had gone over to Rome, and his eastern hopes melted as quickly as the loyalty of the client-kings. Plutarch took up the story:
By this time such news no longer troubled him, for he seemed content to forego all hope and so to rid himself of care and woe. He left his solitary retreat by the sea, which he had called the Timoneum, and was welcomed by Cleopatra into the palace. And once again they set all the city to feasting and drinking, and he began to distribute lavish gifts. He caused Caesarion, son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, to be enrolled in the young company of ephebes, according to the usual manner, and gave the toga virilis of manhood, the one without the purple border, to Antyllus, his own son by Fulvia. In celebration of these events there was dancing and feasting in the city for days on end. He and Cleopatra dissolved their old riotous company of Inimitable Livers and instituted a new companionship called the Order of the Inseparable in Death, a company in no way less elegant and extravagant than the former. In this gathering all swore to end their lives together, and until that time they charmed their days with a succession of glorious banquets.
Whatever solace it might give to Antony, this round of pleasure was not enough for Cleopatra. To her, Octavian was still a great unknown and she was ready to sound out his intentions. It was said that her Egyptian subjects were eager to rise against Rome on her behalf. But a premature uprising would only invite disaster, and she refused to let her people act, at least until she could make some judgement of Octavian. She had already sent Antyllus to Octavian with a large sum of money. Octavian kept the money but sent Antyllus back. Now Cleopatra sent a delegation to Syria with the insignia of her royal house, offering to surrender her crown so long as her children might inherit the throne. This was a normal practice in the changeable world of the client-kings, and Rome had usually permitted it, as Octavian did with Herod, once Antony’s most ardent supporter. As for Antony, he surrendered all rank and authority and merely asked to exist as a private citizen, if not in Alexandria then at least in Athens. Though Antony was not even worthy of a reply, Octavian now began to set his wits against Cleopatra. Two consummate politicians tried to match each other in cunning and intelligence.
Octavian sent word to Cleopatra that he would grant any request within reason so long as she would execute Antony or banish him from Egypt. The freedman Thyrsus bore Octavian’s message, for he was a shrewd man, one well able to bring soothing, persuasive words from a young lord to a noble lady very conscious of her powers of enchantment. Cleopatra received this man graciously and gave him so long an audience that Antony grew suspicious. So he had the freedman seized and whipped and returned to Octavian, to tell him that the insolence of his messenger enraged a man whose fortunes were so low. ‘If this displeases you,’ said Antony, ‘you have my freedman Hipparchus as your hostage. Hang him if you please, or scourge him at will, and then we shall be quits.’ After this, Cleopatra took care to calm Antony with tenderness and affection. Her own birthday she kept very meanly in keeping with her misfortune, but his she celebrated with great solemnity and extravagance, so that guests who came poor to the feast went away rich.
There was spirit in Antony yet, and when the old lion was provoked he could still roar. But her meeting with Thyrsus had taught Cleopatra what she already suspected, that Antony, despite his bravado, was hurt beyond repair in mind and reputation, and Octavian was not to be trusted. She would not be a traitor to her lover but he was too wounded to help her, and Octavian would only use Antony as a means to her treasure. She began to remove the wealth of the Ptolemies, the stores of gold and silver and jewels and precious metals, into her incompleted mausoleum near the temple of Isis. In the upper part of this monument were rooms for herself and her waiting-women. The treasure was below surrounded by a great mass of combustible material ready to be set on fire. Octa-vian’s real aim was the wealth of Egypt and the possessions of the queen. Her treasure was Cleopatra’s last good bargaining counter.
In July 30 BC Octavian marched into Egypt, quickly overran Pelusium and arrived at the edge of Alexandria on the last day of the month. Summoned for one last action, Antony put on his well-worn armour and filled his lungs once more with the sharp air of conflict. Momentarily he was his old self, and in a skilful little engagement he routed the cavalry a
dvance-guard of the Roman army It was not enough, for the military strength of Octavian was overwhelming. Antony retired into the city as if in triumph. Smiles returned and Antony seemed something like his old tremendous figure, issuing a challenge to Octavian to meet him in single combat. Octavian retorted coolly that he had other ways to die than at the hand of such a desperado.
With this answer Antony knew that his most honourable end was now to die in battle, and he prepared to attack next day by land and sea. At dinner that night he bade his servants treat him kindly and with all consideration, for who knew what man they might serve tomorrow, when Antony was only a dead body? Then seeing that men were weeping to hear him say so, he told his friends that he would not lead them to battle for victory or safety, but rather for the sake of an honourable death.
In the night, at about the hushed hour of midnight, men said there was a noise of music in Alexandria, and the ghostly wailing of choirs, and a hubbub of people as if revellers were leaving. The sound went along the main street of the city to the eastern Canopic gate nearest the Roman camp, and then it stopped. To the augurs, the meaning of the omen was clear. The god Dionysus, whom Antony had striven all his life to follow and to imitate, was abandoning him. It was the moment beyond self-deception and fantasy, for Antony to look upon his life and see himself for what he was. Alexandria, city of subtlety and strange understanding, gave him this hard gift at the final moment, as Cavafy, most Alexandrian of poets, so movingly described:
When at the hour of midnight
an invisible choir is suddenly heard passing
with exquisite music, with voices -
Do not lament your fortune that at last subsides,
your life’s work that has failed, your schemes that have proved illusions.