by Peter Tonkin
As this conversation was going on, Antony’s slaves were erecting the atrium of his much larger command tent – the part of it he clearly used as a makeshift office. His Praetorians were forming a guard around it, his standard bearers were lining up by the door and his musicians with their trumpets were at attention, awaiting his order to communicate with the legions marching past. The speed and efficiency of the process was breath-taking.
‘Better come in, then, and make a full report,’ said Antony. He turned and led his staff into the tent. Artemidorus and his men handed the reins of their horses to Antony’s slaves and followed the general into his tent as well, like them, passing their headgear to slaves beside the door. The inside of the tent was crowded but a miraculous combination of comfort and practicality. As the tent went up, so carpets had been laid to floor it. A map table and chairs had been unfolded and erected. A map had been unrolled and laid on the table ready for use. Amphorae of wine had appeared together with food suitable for a long march – identical to the supplies Artemidorus had brought. No matter how excessively self-indulgent his lifestyle in Rome might be, when Antony was on campaign he became a soldier amongst soldiers. Or so he was proving currently – the lion-drawn chariots and bare breasted mistresses had been consigned to the days before Divus Julius died; before the rout at Mutina and the nearly fatal retreat across the Alps. Time and adversity had hardened him; made him more calculating, decisive and ruthless. As the heads in the Forum proved, Cicero’s major among them.
He stood behind the table now, hands clasped behind his back, looking at Artemidorus as he and his little command formed up, Felix beside him, then Quintus on one side and Ferrata on the other, the others close behind. Lucius, Pinarius, Asinius, Bassus and the rest closing in around their General.
*
‘Start at the beginning,’ ordered Antony. ‘Tell me about Cleopatra and the fleet I commissioned you to demand that she sent to me.’
‘She built it and sent it, General…’
‘Really? I don’t remember seeing it. Was it a very small fleet? One she could play with in one of her endless baths of asses’ milk?’ Antony glanced around Bassus and the rest with a smirk but only brother Lucius sniggered.
‘It was a huge fleet. Full-sized and well manned. She commanded it herself and sailed to your aid – just as you ordered.’
Antony was gruff but not insensitive. He picked up the silent disapproval of his legates and the defensive tone in Artemidorus’ voice. ‘Very well, Septem,’ he capitulated. ‘She built a fleet and brought it to my aid. What happened to it?’
‘It was all-but destroyed in a storm, General. I understand they were lucky to survive and get home.’
‘We only just made it back to Alexandria, General,’ said Quintus, by no means cowed by the elevated company he was keeping. He had attended briefings like this with Antony before and knew the rule – if you were in the room you could say your piece. ‘The damage was terrible. The loss of life…’ he shook his head. ‘It was as though we’d been in a battle with the gods themselves.’
‘You made it back to Alexandria?’ said Antony pensively. ‘Are you saying Septem did not make it back?’
‘No, General,’ answered Quintus. ‘Septem went overboard at the height of the storm.’
The sharp brown gaze rested on Artemidorus like the point of a gladius. ‘So, Septem. It seems you are either a ghost – or you have quite a story to tell!’
‘I have a story to tell, General, but more importantly, I have a full and detailed report arising from it.’
‘A report you need to hear, General,’ added Felix. He glanced around the men at the table, no more overwhelmed than Quintus had been. ‘And you need to hear it immediately.’
‘Very well,’ said Antony decisively. ‘Septem, let’s have your report but not your story. And bare bones please. As you will have noticed, I am in a hurry!’
‘Well, General,’ began Artemidorus, his mind racing. ‘It’s like this…’
‘Right,’ said Antony a short while later. ‘The first thing I need to do is to warn Saxa and Norbanus that I’m on the way. I think I can guarantee to be there the day after tomorrow at the latest – or certainly by the ides.’ He looked up. ‘Where’s my secretary? Write that message. Don’t bother with code. Send for a messenger…’
‘I can take it if you’ll allow me, General,’ offered Felix. ‘I have two fast horses and I’m ready to go at once.’
‘Good idea. But don’t go alone. Septem who can you spare? I need to finish debriefing you and Quintus here. Can you spare the rest to go with the Centurion?’
‘Of course, General.’
‘Good. You’re off as soon as I’ve sealed the message,’ he said to Felix. Then he turned back to Artemidorus. ‘Then we’ll go out and resume our march with the men. Can anyone tell me which legion is coming past next?’
‘The Third and the Fifth Alaude the Larks, have gone on ahead. The Sixth is passing now. The Seventh will be next, General,’ came the answer from someone near the tent’s door.
‘Perfect. We’ll join your old legion, Septem, and march with the Seventh for the rest of the afternoon while I finish our debriefing. My staff will accompany us and try to remember the details we discuss so that the secretaries can make an accurate record when we stop for the night.’
iv
Felix, Ferrata, Hercules and Furius galloped off along the side of the Via as soon as Antony sealed his message, planning to move back onto the road once they were past the leading legions. Artemidorus and Quintus gave their horses to Antony’s slaves to be added to the mounts of Legio X Equestris or one of the cavalry units. As the Seventh approached, Antony and his senior officers, their entourage, Artemidorus and Quintus fell in immediately behind the eagle. The legion gave voice to a great cheer as they did so. ‘I wonder, Septem,’ said Antony as soon as he could make himself heard, ‘Are they cheering the arrival of their beloved General at the head of their column – or the return of their wandering Centurion and his trusty triarius?’ He paused for a heartbeat and then continued, ‘Now, tell me all about Amphipolis. I was planning to fortify the town and use it as my base. To begin with at least.’
‘No need, General. Saxa and Norbanus are there with the eight legion expeditionary force you sent on ahead of you all intact. Not only have they fortified it already, they are adding to the fortifications in case Brutus and Cassius decide to attack them.’
‘And are Brutus and Cassius likely to do that?’
‘Not in my opinion, General, but better safe than sorry. The Libertores will have brought their seventeen legions to Philippi by now and certainly have the power and opportunity to take Amphipolis if they want to but they would be foolish to do so. If they stop at Philippi…’
‘I’ve already assessed that as a strong possibility. Discussed it with Tribune Enobarbus as well as my staff hetre…’ said Antoy.
‘If they stop at Philippi as you assessed they might,’ continued Artemidorus smoothly. ‘And they fortify their position there, they will have found the best situation possible to await your arrival and to make the choice either to attack you with their superior numbers or to wait you out and let you starve as your supplies dwindle and winter comes on.’
‘Their numbers are only superior to mine until that bloody boy arrives.’
‘And when are you expecting young Caesar, General?’
‘Not for a week at least. He’s still sick by all reports. Stuck somewhere in Dyrrachium. I was hoping the Martia would arrive immediately behind him and give him a boot up the backside but I haven’t heard anything about whether that has happened yet.’
Antony stopped the march early, while the sun setting behind them was still gilding the peaks astride the mountain pass ahead but down at the lakeside the shadows were already gathering. His legions spread out into various encampments along the lake shore and on the hill-slopes overlooking the Via. The general sent his scavengers up into the town of Apollonia to see what could
be gathered there – and the answer was ‘not much’. But the legions had brought supplies with them. The lake provided water for washing, cooking and drinking. The reeds and scrub along the shore provided kindling for camp-fires and some enterprising legionaries managed to catch a fish or two for supper. Quintus went off to the mess tent set up for the triarii of the Seventh Legion but rather than joining the centurions, Artemidorus found himself loosely attached to Antony’s staff.
This was no great surprise as he realised that, in spite of their intensive discussions on the road this afternoon, Antony still had more that he wanted to get clear in his mind. As he sat at Antony’s table watching as the food was brought in from the camp bakeries and cooking fires, he turned over in his mind everything he expected Antony to be asking about Cleopatra. But Antony surprised him – as Antony often did. While the food was being prepared and laid out, the general himself was dictating the day’s details, tomorrow’s orders and yet more messages to his secretaries. Divus Julius had done that sort of work daily, riding in his covered carriage on the march, remembered Artemidorus. But Antony was marching with his men, so the paperwork had to wait until evening. Marching towards a momentous battle was all very well – but he still had a Republic to run, in consort with the sickly Caesar, the distant Lepidus, his co-Consul Plancus and the still unreliable senate. When he had finished, he turned to the food piled on the table, pausing only to rinse his hands in the bowl of water one of the slaves was holding for the purpose. ‘Let’s eat,’ he said and with no further ado they all began to fill the platters in front of them with fresh-baked bread, roast pork and chicken and some of the best frumenty savoury trail porridge Artemidorus had ever tasted. ‘It’s all about the quality of the wheat I believe,’ said Antony when the secret agent remarked upon it. ‘Though the care with which it is ground and mixed with water are also important. But, Septem, tell me…’
Here it comes, thought Artemidorus, Tell me why Cleopatra just gave up and ran home instead of coming to help me as I asked…
*
But once again, Antony surprised him. ‘Tell me about Brutus and Cassius. Can you estimate where they are and what they’re doing if they’re not attacking Amphipolis?’
‘They’ll be there at Philippi by now, General, as you suggested. They will have been there for several days if my estimation is accurate. By the time we arrive, on the ides of this month as you plan, they will almost certainly have established their castrum. If they’re wise they will have established one large camp astride the Via with earthworks running northwards to the steep slopes around Philippi and southwards to the swamp. Centring their camp on the Via will allow them easy access to the southern arm running down to Neapolis port and their supply-store on Thasos Island. The ground at the top of the ridge there should be easy to work with even though it’s dry. They’ll have dug ditches and thrown up walls. Used the timber from the wooded slopes near Philippi for palisades and watch-towers. They’ll have positioned themselves so that they have the benefit of the terrain, at the top of the long slope I’ve mentioned – which they can use to support their attacks as they charge down-hill, up which your legions will have to slog, tiring themselves out unless you pitch your castrum immediately in front of theirs, a couple of stades away.’
‘You think I could get away with that?’ mused Antony. ‘It would be a risk, especially if I do it before the bloody boy arrives with his legions including the Fourth and the Martia – they’re my two best legions after all. With due respect to the Seventh of course.’
‘You’ll know how much of a risk it would be the moment you arrive, General. If they haven’t made a move on Amphipolis, then they’re not too likely to move against you either. I think their plan will be to dig in, secure their supplies, sit safely and wait you out.’
‘The question of supplies! I know its importance all too well. That’s where my flighty Egyptian queen has really let me down.’
‘It’s more than a question of supplies, General. They might be in a strong position, but they don’t have things all their own way.’ Artemidorus began to count off the Libertores’ problems on one finger after another. ‘They have seventeen legions – but what do those legions actually consist of? Many of them are under-strength or recently recruited and therefore untested. The legions and cavalry they have from the local kings and so-forth are largely weaker than properly-trained Roman units and will soon be restless, wanting to go home for the winter. The command structures keeping them all under control at once must be a nightmare.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ admitted Antony, brightening up and gesturing to a slave for a refill from an amphora. ‘So, centralised command may be a problem for them…’
‘One compounded by the situation they find themselves in.’ Artemidorus glanced round the table and raised a second finger. ‘Whereas your command corps consists of well-tried, battle-hardened officers like the men gathered here, who are used to working together under your command, theirs consists of general officers, legates and tribunes, many picked up en-route at Athens like young Horatius Flaccus, or who have gained their rank because of their families like young Lucius Bibulus, the son of Brutus’ late wife by her first husband, or his friend and relative Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus. Patricians and Equestrians – the nobility of Rome. Or that’s what they see themselves as. Many of them hold their rank as a social right, not as a responsibility earned through experience and ability. A good number of them, true, were with Pompey or Caesar. Or with Crassus - like Cassius. But they are used to following strong, decisive – and generally lucky – leaders. They are not used to holding things together in face of hesitation, disagreement or ineptitude.’
‘So their army might well find it hard to stand or move as a unified fighting force with a clear direction and a distinct objective.’
‘It already is, General. And the problems start right at the top.’
v
Artemidorus’ third finger went up. ‘You know as well as I do that although they are brothers-in-law, Brutus and Cassius could hardly be more different,’ he said. ‘They do not get on. At times they hardly speak to one-another. To be frank, you are only still alive because the first thing they did after they murdered Divus Julius was to start squabbling. Had Brutus listened to Cassius then, you’d be long dead. And Cassius can never forgive Brutus for that enormous error of judgement. Not that Brutus seems to have learned much from his mistake. He sees everything as a moral problem – nothing practical at all. He’s a philosopher while Cassius is a pragmatist. Which explains why Brutus chose a would-be poet he picked up in Athens as a legate perhaps. Horatius Flaccus publishes under the name of Horace, I understand.’
‘And if the generals can’t agree together, what hope do they have of unifying the disparate sections of their army?’ Antony shook his head.
‘Precisely, General. But it goes further than that – and more to your advantage.’ The fourth finger went up. ‘Cassius is the more experienced soldier of the two – he led his men safely out of the blood-bath at the battle of Carrhae when Marcus Licinius Crassus and almost his entire army was slaughtered by the Parthians. He did well against the Parthians himself and defeated them in several skirmishes. He also served Pompey well as an admiral and was one of Caesar’s Legates in Egypt. But he has never actually commanded an army of this size in the field. Brutus is even less experienced – he’s little more than a jumped-up secretary turned tax collector in terms of his military service. And again, he’s a philosopher not a pragmatist. In any battle situation, he’s likely to let ideas and beliefs get in the way of action. And, as your continued existence outside the Elysian Fields and on this side of the River Styx proves, he is just as stubborn when he’s wrong as he is when he’s right.
‘You describe their problem eloquently, Septem,’ nodded Antony. ‘However, you also describe our situation. The bloody boy is no more amenable to my hard-won, widely experienced advice than Brutus is to Cassius’! In an ideal world, when we actually c
ome to blows, we’d find some way of getting the bloody boy and that bastard Cassius out of the picture: let me wipe the floor with Brutus alone and take it from there!’
*
Antony’s army arrived at Amphipolis, as planned, on the ides of September. Pre-warned by Felix, Ferrata and the rest, Norbanus and Saxa were expecting them and had not only completed their further improvement of the defensive works but made what provision they could for the General, his staff and their legions. Impatient as ever, Antony would have been content to leave his army resting there and take a horse so he could assess the accuracy of Artemidorus’ assessment, what progress Brutus and Cassius had made, the strength of their defences and the situation they had chosen to put themselves in. But Philippi was more than thirty miles from Amphipolis, much of the way over hills and through valleys – too long and arduous a journey to be easily accomplished there and back in a day. However, knowing him well – having served with him and under him for some years now, Saxa and Norbanus recognised how impatient he would be and had arranged things accordingly. Felix and his team of messengers had reported in, told them of Antony’s estimated arrival time and the size of the army following him, then been ordered to ride on eastwards and return with as detailed a report as possible on what Cassius and Brutus were up to by the time Antony came into view.
‘Do you know the area at all General?’ asked Felix as he prepared to start his briefing.
‘Not as well as I’d like to,’ answered Antony. ‘Not as well as I will by the end of the week.’ He glanced around his staff, the other legionary commanders and Artemidorus’ crypteia, all of whom were in attendance.