Augustus

by Anthony Everitt

  During 37 B.C. and the spring of 36, Agrippa continued with his preparations in the lake of Avernus and the Lucrine lake. At last, the armada was ready. The plan of campaign was complex but potentially devastating. Three fleets were to set sail simultaneously for Sicily. Lepidus had been roused from his torpor in Africa; he would come with a thousand transport ships, seventy warships, sixteen legions, and a large force of Numidian cavalry, make landfall on the south of the island, and capture as much territory as he could. Another fleet, including Antony’s donated ships, would sail from Tarentum, and Octavian himself from Puteoli.

  To counter this formidable convergence of military and naval power, Sextus could muster no more than three hundred ships and ten legions. Unlike his opponents, he did not have an inexhaustible supply of manpower. Nevertheless, his successes to date gave him every reason to suppose he could maintain his mastery of the seas.

  To begin with, fortune favored Octavian. Lepidus succeeded in landing twelve legions—a large part of his army—on Sicily and immediately invested the port of Lilybaeum on the island’s western tip. If there was one way in which he could be depended on, though, it was that his loyalties were undependable. He seems immediately to have opened a line of friendly communication with Sextus, so that he would be ready to profit from any eventuality.

  On July 3, disaster struck. The skies opened and the fleets were all overwhelmed by another terrible storm. The ships from Tarentum returned to port as soon as the wind began to rise. Octavian took refuge in a well-protected bay on the west coast of Italy, but then the wind veered to the southwest and blew straight onto the shore. It was now impossible to sail out of the bay, and neither oars nor anchors could hold the ships in position. They smashed against one another or the rocks. The tempest lasted into the night. Many ships were lost. It would take a month to rebuild the fleet.

  It was probably now that, in a combination of defiance and despair, Octavian cried out, according to Suetonius, “I will win this war even if Neptune does not wish me to!”

  Unfortunately, the end of summer was already in sight. A wise commander would call it a day until the following spring, especially after such a mauling. At Rome the popular mood was swinging against the triumviral regime and in favor of Sextus. A current lampoon demonstrated the scorn with which the people now regarded Octavian:

  He took a beating twice at sea

  And threw two fleets away.

  So now to achieve one victory

  He tosses dice all day.

  The criticism was unfair; Octavian did indeed like to gamble in his leisure hours, but he was not idling now. He sent Maecenas to Rome to try to quiet his critics, while he himself rushed around Italy talking to settler veterans and reassuring them. Strenuous efforts were made to refurbish the damaged ships and lay new keels.

  For Octavian was going to take a gamble, one of the riskiest of his life. He could not afford a long winter of discontent at Rome, so he would stake everything on one last throw of the dice. The war against Sextus was to resume.

  Now that Lepidus was safely established on Sicily, Octavian and Agrippa saw that their best tactic was to find a way of landing more troops on the island so that they could bottle up Sextus in Messana. With massively superior land forces, it would then be a relatively simple matter to crush him or drive him into the sea. To attain this objective, they would have to draw most of Sextus’ navy into an engagement in the seas off northern Sicily. While he was so distracted, the legions in the toe of Italy would have an opportunity to slip across to Tauromenium (Taormina), south of the straits of Messana, unchallenged, perhaps even unnoticed.

  That was the idea. It did not work. Lepidus ferried his remaining four legions from Africa, but unfortunately one of Sextus’ squadrons came upon them. In the misapprehension that the flotilla was friendly, the transports sailed up to it and many were destroyed. Two legions drowned.

  While Octavian sailed down the western coast of Italy, the fleet at Tarentum set out for the port of Scolacium (today’s Squillace), on the “sole” of the Italian boot. It was accompanied by an army marching along the coast beside the ships.

  Seeing a large number of enemy sails in ports on the northern seaboard of Sicily, Octavian correctly judged that Sextus must be present, and that the moment was ripe for the army at Scolacium to embark for Tauromenium. He handed over command of the fleet to Agrippa and sailed to Italy to join his legions.

  The following day, Agrippa engaged the enemy fleet off the northern port of Mylae and gained the upper hand. However, the Pompeians withdrew in good order and, with evening coming on, Agrippa decided it was too risky to give chase. Sextus cleverly guessed that Agrippa’s activities were a blind. Immediately after supper, he set off for Messana with his main fleet, leaving a detachment of ships to deceive Agrippa into thinking he was staying where he was. Hiding in port, he would await the triumvir’s arrival and catch him unawares.

  Octavian, having climbed to a high point to survey the sea and finding no sign of the enemy, loaded as many legionaries as he could onto troopships and sailed from Scolacium to Italy’s toe, the cape of Leucopatra. Vulnerable to attack because of the troopships, he had thought of crossing the straits under cover of night, a dangerous stratagem in the days before radar, but safer than risking interception by Sextus. However, when he received news of Agrippa’s success at Mylae, Octavian decided, in Appian’s words, not “to steal over like a thief in the night but to cross in daylight with a confident army.” The war was drawing to a triumphant close, Sicily would soon be in his hands, and Sextus’ days as the last republican in arms were numbered.

  Octavian made landfall on Sicily south of Tauromenium and disembarked his troops. Suddenly, before the army had even finished making camp, Pompeius appeared over the northern horizon with a large fleet. Riding in parallel on the shore was his cavalry. Then up from the south marched Sextus’ infantry. The surprise was total. The cavalry harried the soldiers still at work on the fortifications, but both Sextus’ fleet and infantry held back. This was a serious error, for they missed the opportunity not only to win a decisive victory but also to capture the triumvir.

  Nightfall should have afforded some rest, but Octavian’s soldiers had to complete their defenses; when dawn came they were sleepless, exhausted, and unfit for battle. It was a desperate situation. Octavian knew he had to save the fleet; if it was not to be picked off at will on the beaches or at anchor, it must sail away as soon as possible, even if doing so meant risking battle with Sextus. So he handed command of the legions to Lucius Cornificius, an early follower of his who had prosecuted Brutus in 43 B.C. for Julius Caesar’s murder and was one of the new breed of politicians from outside the magic circle of great families.

  Octavian himself put out to sea with his fleet, making the rounds of the ships in a fast, light trireme, called a liburnian, to encourage his sailors and raise their morale. Once he had done this, he stowed his admiral’s standard, presumably because he believed himself to be in extreme danger and anonymity would increase his chance of survival. Evidently he did not expect to win any encounter.

  Sextus sailed out of Messana on the attack. There were two fiercely fought engagements, in which the triumvir’s ships came off worse. Numerous galleys were captured or set alight; some made off without orders to the Italian mainland. Other crew members swam to the Sicilian shore and were either caught and killed by Sextus’ cavalry or scrambled up to Cornificius’ camp and safety. Eventually darkness drew a veil over the catastrophe.

  Octavian did not know what to do. He spent most of the night among his fleet’s small auxiliary craft, wondering whether to risk sailing back to Sicily through all the wreckage to find Cornificius, or to seek out his troops on the mainland. He decided on the latter course. Setting off in a single ship, he was hotly chased; it was probably now that, believing he was about to be captured, he asked a loyal aide, the eques Gaius Proculeius, to be ready to kill him.

  However, Octavian just managed to elude his pursuers
and reach the shore, where he disembarked. He was out of immediate physical danger, but found himself completely alone except for his armor bearer. Apparently he hid for a time in a cave. When he thought of his army isolated and under siege on the Sicilian coast, he was, according to Dio, “terribly distressed.” The war was about to be lost and his glittering career was in ruins.

  His travails were not over. Octavian was walking on the coast road in the direction of Rhegium when he saw a flotilla of biremes heading for the shore. He went down onto the beach to greet them, only realizing in the nick of time that they were Pompeians. As he made his lucky escape by narrow, winding paths, he encountered a new and completely unexpected danger: an attack by the slave of an officer on his staff whose father he had proscribed. No more details of the attempt on his life are known, except that he survived.

  Some people from the mountains came down to see what was going on and found Octavian nearing the limits of mental and physical endurance. They transferred him from one small boat to another to evade detection and at last brought him to his waiting legions.

  Octavian gave another immediate and characteristic display of sangfroid. Food and sleep could wait; first, he dispatched a liburnian to Cornificius in Sicily to brief him on what had happened, and sent messengers around the mountains to let everyone know he was safe. Thorough-minded as always, he was not going to allow any administrative slipup or communication failure to nullify this new opportunity for a comeback.

  The situation looked more difficult than it really was. Two immediate things had to be achieved if momentum was to be regained. First, somehow or other Octavian’s legions had to get themselves to Sicily. This seems to have presented few difficulties now that Agrippa, profiting from his sea victory, had occupied some ports on the island’s northern coast. A successful transfer was soon effected.

  Second, Cornificius, pinned down by Pompeius’ troops near Tauromenium, had to extricate himself and join Agrippa. This was accomplished too, although it entailed a painful march across an arid expanse of old, cooled lava near Mount Etna.

  Only a few days had passed since Octavian’s debacle, but the tables were turned. He was master in Sicily of twenty-three legions, twenty thousand cavalry, and more than five thousand light-armed troops. His forces were overrunning the island, and Sextus recalled his army in the west to the northeastern enclave, which was all that was safely left to him of his island realm.

  Sextus realized that the only way he could retrieve a rapidly deteriorating situation was to provoke a confrontation at sea. On September 3, his fleet sailed north out of Messana, rounded the cape of Pelorum (today’s Cape Faro), and met Agrippa’s fleet in the sea between the ports of Mylae and Naulochus.

  Octavian appears to have played little part in the battle. If we are to believe Suetonius, he was suffering some sort of psychological crisis—a relapse to his state of mind at Philippi.

  On the eve of the battle he fell so fast asleep that his staff had to wake him and ask for the signal to begin hostilities. This must have been the occasion of Antony’s taunt: “He could not face his ships to review them when they were already at their fighting stations; but lay on his back in a stupor and gazed up at the sky, never rising to show that he was alive until his admiral Marcus Agrippa had routed the enemy.”

  The surviving descriptions of the encounter say little about the opposing fleets’ tactics; maybe this grand mêlée of about six hundred warships was little more than a multitude of individual encounters, trireme against trireme, while from the land the infantry of both sides looked on apprehensively.

  As time passed it began to appear that Sextus was losing more ships than his adversary (thanks in good part to Agrippa’s harpax). Some of his galleys began to surrender, and Agrippa’s men raised the paean, or victory shout, which was picked up and echoed by the soldiers onshore. A setback became a rout. One of Sextus’ admirals killed himself, the other surrendered to Agrippa. Only seventeen warships survived.

  Sextus was so stunned by what had taken place that he omitted to give any orders to his infantry, with the result that they, too, immediately surrendered. He rushed to Messana and changed out of his commander in chief’s uniform with its blue cloak into civilian clothes. He loaded everything of any use, including all the money he had, into the poor remainder of his fleet, embarked with his daughter and some of his entourage, and sailed eastward, intending to apply to Mark Antony for help. Yet again, unconsciously no doubt, he was following his father’s example, who, when shocked by his defeat at Pharsalus, fled to seek safety in the east.

  The battle of Naulochus, as it was named, was over, and with it the Sicilian war.

  Lepidus was feeling extremely pleased with himself. Sidelined by Antony and Octavian, he had found the last few years less than satisfactory; but now he was having an excellent war. As commander of a great army, he was the master of Sicily. The chance of a lifetime presented itself. It was time for him to flex his muscles. He laid claim to the island on the grounds that he had landed there first and received the largest number of surrenders by cities.

  Octavian, enraged, took action typical of him, at once careful and bold. He sent out some agents, who discovered that Lepidus’ soldiers thought little of him, admired Octavian’s courage, and were exasperated by the prospect of another civil war.

  Once the ground had been prepared, the moment came for a bravura display of personal heroism. Octavian rode up to Lepidus’ camp with some cavalry, which he left by the outer defenses. Then, unarmed and dressed in a traveling cloak, he walked with a handful of companions into the camp—as one contemporary commentator put it, “bringing with him nothing but his name.” It was a striking piece of political theater, repeating his earlier forays into potentially hostile crowds. As he walked through the lines, the soldiers he met saluted him.

  As Naulochus had shown, Octavian still found it hard to cope with the experience of battle, but when stung by opposition to him personally he did not hesitate to place his life at risk. For him, bravery was not an assertion of collective defiance and solidarity among colleagues but a solitary, obstinate act of will.

  Lepidus, alerted by the uproar that something was amiss, rushed out of his tent and ordered that the intruder be repelled by force. Suddenly Octavian was in mortal danger. According to Appian, Octavian “was hit on the breastplate but the weapon failed to penetrate to the skin and he escaped by running to his cavalry. The men in one of Lepidus’ outposts jeered at him as he ran.”

  It was a painful humiliation. Yet in the next few hours Lepidus’ men began to desert him. He went out and pleaded with them to remain loyal. He caught hold of a standard, saying he would not release it. “You will when you’re dead!” one of the standard-bearers said. Now it was Lepidus’ turn to be humbled. Frightened, he let go: the game was up. Seeing that this was so, he changed out of uniform and made his way to Octavian at top speed, with spectators jogging along beside him as if at a public entertainment.

  Octavian was well able to be ruthless and cruel when opponents fell into his hands; his performance to date had been an implicit criticism of his adoptive father’s policy of clemency. But now he made a decision that presaged a change of approach.

  At this very moment, for the first time since leaving Apollonia eight years previously, he faced no visible threat to his position. He knew that what everyone wanted was peace and a return to the rule of law. As a demonstration that this was his desire, too, he stood when Lepidus came up to him, and prevented the suppliant from falling to his knees as he intended. He administered no punishment and sent Lepidus to Rome dressed as he was, as a private individual.

  Most significantly of all, Octavian did not strip him of his highly prestigious position as pontifex maximus, where his predecessor had been Julius Caesar. He was, however, deposed as triumvir; he left public life and spent his remaining twenty years in comfortable retirement at Circeii, a seaside resort about fifty miles south of Rome.

  The town was built on the side of
a steep crag, crowned by a temple of the sun and a lighthouse; it was originally an island, and the malarial Pomptine Marshes lay on its landward side. According to legend, in one of the numerous caves on its slopes the witch Circe had once lived, she who changed visitors into swine. It was not an inappropriate spot for one of Rome’s least appealing politicians to end up in.

  When he gathered together all the various armies, Octavian found that he had under his command a grand total of forty-five legions, twenty-five thousand cavalry, about thirty-seven thousand light-armed troops, and six hundred warships. It was impractical to demobilize them all at once, for to acquire land on which they could settle would take time and money. Instead he paid part of the promised donatives, distributed honors, and pardoned Sextus’ officers.

  The soldiers, especially his own, mutinied, demanding full payment of everything owed and immediate discharge. In response, Octavian announced a campaign against the Illyrians (in today’s Albania), for which he would need legions, and increased the number of awards to officers and men. He also made some conciliatory gestures, discharging those who had fought at Mutina and Philippi and offering an additional donative of two thousand sesterces. Calm returned to the camp.

  After Naulochus, Sextus Pompeius made good speed to the eastern Mediterranean and, in another uncanny echo of his father’s flight in 48 B.C., put in at Mytilene. Only sketchy accounts survive of his next moves. He seems to have been well provided with cash, for he crossed over to the province of Asia, where he managed to raise large numbers of troops. Soon he was in command of three legions.