by Peter Tonkin
‘And,’ said Quintus, ‘a reliable pathway from the causeway to the new camp site. One that will stand the pressure of all those hobnailed caligae quick-marching across it.’
‘Very well,’ said Antony. ‘Set them to looking. But remember, the path eastwards has to be protected by the Larks and then by Bassus’ men – I would not like to risk anything else. This whole manoeuvre is designed to get Brutus out of his camp – but I don’t want him to come charging out too soon…’ He flicked a glance at Octavian, his expression unreadable. ‘And the camp site you discover needs to be at the far side of the marsh. Once the legions are established there I want areas farther east scouted too. I’m planning to hold the Sixth and the Seventh – with their new Legate – here to protect the camp but in the final analysis I’ll want to send them as far east as I can manage. As close to the Via as possible, in fact. I will want the Sixth and the Seventh as the strongest legions left to me in a position to cut Brutus’ supply route. Or, rather, I have to make him believe that I will do so because nothing else will bring him to battle when and where I dictate. However – and this is crucial – I do not want to commit so many legionaries so totally that I cannot get them into battle order and face him when he finally breaks and his legions come out ready for a fight.’
‘Then we will need to scout the northern margin of the swamp, General, because it may well be that when Brutus does come against you, the main battle will be there – between the remains of Cassius’ camp with the extension to the palisade stretching eastward and the causeway you built before the battle against Cassius on his birthday.’
v
‘You see the simple cunning of this?’ asked Quintus as the entire crypteia walked in a tight bunch along Antony’s causeway, heading eastwards.
‘I see it as being pretty clever on several levels,’ answered Artemidorus quietly. ‘What had you in mind?’
‘He’s setting it up so that we’ll end up fighting here.’
‘As I said to him myself. The battleground will almost certainly be between the swamp and what’s left of Cassius’ camp. The Libertores’ situation is like a letter ‘L’. We have fought a battle along the tall upright – all five miles of it. Now he wants to fight a battle along the shorter foot. Between the foot and the marsh.
‘That’s right! Think it through a little further, boy,’ nodded Quintus. ‘What went wrong last time?’
‘Well, obviously the fact that after the Spartans were destroyed and the Fourth slaughtered, Octavian’s other legions ran,’ answered Artemidorus.
‘That’s it…’
‘So,’ Ferrata chimed in, ‘Antony’s worried they might do the same again.’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ asked Furius. ‘Half of the legions only survived because they ran away.’
‘Moreover,’ added Quintus, who was far less patient with young Caesar’s weak constitution than the others, ‘if the battle is fought down here, no-one will have the excuse that they have to go and clear their chests well away from the main battlefield, will they?’
‘So…’ said Hercules.
‘So,’ snapped Felix, clearly tiring of this game, ‘Antony’s planning to put Octavian’s legions in the one place that they can’t run away - not if he leaves the Larks on the causeway with orders to execute anyone they find retreating. And, as Quintus observes, neither can Octavian step back this time…’
‘With their backs to the marsh and the Larks on the causeway,’ agreed Artemidorus. ‘There’s no escape except onto swamps and quicksand. Freezing or not, they’re still deadly. They fight or drown. Win or die.’
‘Precisely,’ said Quintus. ‘Whereas Brutus’ legions have all the space in the world to run away into. The new palisade isn’t much of a barrier to them. They can retreat and hide back in what’s left of Cassius’ camp – unless we find a way to stop them – or in Brutus’ original camp up near Philippi if they can get that far. Or they can head for the Temple of Dionysus, where Cassius ended up. Or even Philippi with its nice safe forests all around…’
‘The sly bastard!’ said Kyros, who, like Notus had been relieved of his secretarial duties by Antony’s decision that his secretariat would be more useful wielding swords than styli. ‘That’s really clever!’
‘Simple!’ said Voadicia with a dismissive toss of her head. ‘But of course if you all stay very close friends with Hecate and me, we’ll guide you to a nice safe hiding place in the middle of the marsh whenever you want to run away and hide yourselves.’
‘There’s even a nice big lake in there,’ added Hecate. ‘If it was summer, you could swim in it, but it’s frozen solid now…’
‘That’s an interesting point,’ said Artemidorus. ‘How can we make it work in our favour?’
‘What is?’ asked Ferrata, surprised that Septem seemed to be taking Hecate’s ironic joke seriously.
‘If the lake’s frozen, the ground will be frozen too. If we’re careful, surely we can find pathways that would be risky to follow in the summer which are much safer now because everything underfoot is turning to ice.’
*
It took the better part of a week for the crypteia to find a solid, relatively dry, area large enough to accommodate Antony’s legions and their support units and to guide them safely through the marsh to this new camp-site. Antony kept the Tenth Equestris because mounted units would have been of limited use in the marsh but they were exactly what he needed to patrol the ground between his camp and Brutus’ palisade. He also kept the Sixth and the Seventh, his strongest legions now that the Martia and the Fourth had been lost, just as he had said he would.
The Seventh in particular had stood by him in the dark days after Divus Julius’ slaying and kept Rome quiet – until he had chosen to unleash the vengeful mob against the murderers. They held him in almost as much affection as the other legions held Caesar Octavianus, so he felt they were the least likely to knife him in the back. He kept the Sixth back for much the same reason, preferring to send Caesar’s legions into the marsh. With his usual affinity for killing as many birds as possible with one stone, therefore, he ordered the crypteia to guide Octavian himself – together with his closest advisors - along the causeway past the redoubts manned by the Legio V to the camp where the young man’s legions were camped, where the air was clear enough for his lungs.
‘Now that the little rat’s out of my hair I can really focus on my primary aim,’ he said as the end of the third week in October arrived. ‘There must be a way to tempt Brutus out of his safe shelter and onto my battlefield!’
‘Well, until we moved the legions into the marsh, the fact that they paraded every day and shouted insults or challenges didn’t have the effect this time that it had last time,’ said Legate Enobarbus.
‘Two things about that,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Firstly, Brutus, his legates and centurions must have been shaken rigid by the lack of control. They must realise that the wild charge without form, structure or orders should have been sheer suicide. The fact that it wasn’t was a gift from Fortuna that she’s not likely to repeat. Secondly, the legions themselves will have been shocked by their actions. They went against every hour of training that they’ve ever had. I’d bet you could actually parade their womenfolk naked in front of them now - and they wouldn’t stir a muscle without orders.’
‘I think Septem’s right,’ said Antony, ‘Any other comments?’
As there were none, Artemidorus continued. ‘So the main target has to be Brutus and his senior command. We have to do something that really worries them, then say something that will bolster their confidence so much that they’ll be willing to take the risk.’
‘Very well,’ said Antony. ‘That sounds like an excellent plan. What do you think we ought to do in the first place?’
‘You have two legions left, General – the Sixth Ironsides and the Seventh. Now’s the time to send them through the marsh, under the protection of the Fifth on the causeway, of Bassus’ legions in Cassius’ camp, and onward, using you
ng Caesar’s legions further east as a stepping stone. Settle them in striking distance of the Via. Don’t make a secret of the manoeuvre. On the contrary, let Brutus know what you’re doing. He’s in Cassius’ old camp on the hill north of Bassus and his four legions, so he’ll be able to get a good idea what you’re up to.’
‘Very well, you’ve given your team yet another task. And in the mean-time, what can we tell Brutus that might prompt him to take decisive action in the face of this threat to his supply routes?’
‘Well, General…’
A little before noon the next day, Artemidorus presented himself at the gate into Brutus’ section of Cassius’ old camp, disguised in battered armour, filthy and scarcely recognisable. ‘My name is Clodius,’ he called, allowing his native Achaean accent to colour his Latin. ‘I was with the Spartans who broke during the battle on the third of the month. They blame me for the loss of the Fourth Legion. They starve me, beat me, throw me in the mud. I cannot bear their cruelty any longer. I wish to join you instead.’
‘Why should we let you in?’ demanded the optio on charge of the gate.
‘I have news for General Brutus. He will find what I have to tell him extremely valuable. Let me in so I can tell him.’
The secret agent knew for a fact that other defectors had been allowed into both camps. Some genuine; some working undercover. Truth to tell, both the Libertores’ camps and the Triumvirs’ were increasingly ill-guarded, their defensive lines dangerously porous.
‘Very well, in you come,’ said the optio as the gate opened a foot or two. ‘Tell your tale to my Centurion and if he likes it, he’ll pass you on up to the Tribune or the Legate. That’s the way it goes.’
A few moments later, Artemidorus was face to face with a centurion he, thankfully, didn’t recognise; especially as his badges showed him to be from the Twenty Seventh Legion. ‘Well?’ snapped the centurion, slapping his vinestock impatiently into the palm of his left hand. ‘What do you have to tell us, Clodius?’
‘There’s been a terrible tragedy,’ gabbled Artemidorus. ‘Antony’s tried to keep it from General Brutus for fear it will precipitate an immediate attack.’
‘I see. And what is this news?’
‘A fleet of Antony’s transport ships was sunk around the time of the battle nearly three weeks ago. Everything and everyone aboard was lost. All the supplies he’s been waiting for – not just food but weapons, armour. Several units of cavalry and three entire legions into the bargain. Including the best legion of all, the legion he’s been praying for and relying on… The Martia…’
‘The Martia!’ Even the hard bitten centurion was taken aback at the enormity of legionary Clodius’ news. ‘You’re sure? The Martia!’
‘Dead and gone. All of them. Burned or drowned or fallen on their swords to escape a more terrible death. Every single soldier in the Martia! Not a legionary left alive. The news has upset all of Antony’s plans. He simply doesn’t know what to do…’
But suddenly an icy voice was raised over Artemidorus’. ‘Don’t believe a word this man says. I know him. He is Antony’s chief spy and assassin.’ As he spoke, praefactus alae Vedius Pollio stepped out of the shadows, the survivors of his little cavalry unit close behind him.
XVI - Death at Philippi
i
The eagle left her nest, swooping low above the inland slopes of the coastal hills which were the heart of her territory. The terrain beneath her changed almost immediately from forested gradients to flat marshland. The great bird sailed lower still, her golden eyes busily searching the reeds for prey that could be taken back to her chicks sitting hungrily in the high, coastal pines. Waiting for a victim to present itself in a clear space large enough to dive into without risk of injury. But her attention was distracted almost at once by the clouds of lesser birds seeking carrion amongst the rotting corpses that packed the reedbeds and the half-burned ones on the open slopes away beyond the pinions of her left wing. These scavengers were invading her territory but she disregarded them; they were far beneath her notice.
Then something unusual presented itself. As the edge of the marsh vanished beneath the great bird, line after line of armed men stood, still and silent. Men in five straight ranks, each rank ten men deep, reaching almost as far on either side as she could see. They were all in full armour, helmets gleaming, crests seeming to burn though the afternoon was overcast; shields held steady and still. Some carried bright standards of cloth and of gold, some wore lionskins with great hooped horns wrapped around their chests, some sat on horses. All were looking upward, all watching her as she watched them from on high, godlike. One huge, gaping army facing another, equally vast, astride a space so narrow that the eagle could have crossed it with a few casual flaps of her wings.
She would have done so, had she not abruptly been challenged by a second eagle winging down from the inland hills behind Philippi: a young male seeking to set up home on her domain. Screaming a warning that was at once a challenge, the eagle spread her pinion feathers like claws and climbed the busy air, the lesser carrion seekers scattering as the new arrival did the same. Right at the upper limit of their range the two huge opponents crashed together, breast to breast, talon to talon. The first eagle grasped her opponent’s claw in a death-grip. From the moment of impact, neither of the combatants could continue to fly. The two birds simply tumbled out of the sky, whirling downward with ever-increasing speed, hooked feet linked, wings reaching helplessly. The ground rushed at them, the ribbon of grass immediately below, lined with rank after rank of upturned faces, sped upwards as they fell. What had been pale ovals attained form, wide eyed, open mouthed. What had been sodden brown ground became grassland. Even the individual blades became visible.
The invader was fighting to get loose now, but the eagle knew her terrain to within a hairsbreadth. She released him at the last possible moment, knowing to a heartbeat when to spread her wings and let the air lift her once more, mere feet above the ground. The young male was lucky to survive. Little more than a ball of vivid feathers, he just managed to save himself from crashing to the earth and went limping through the lower air, back towards the hillsides by Philippi, utterly defeated. The victorious female soared along the ribbon of grass, above the cheering faces, until she found a convenient resting place where she could preen.
She settled on the Seventh Legion’s standard, between their gilded legionary eagle and their newly elevated Legate as one of the soldiers on horseback approached.
‘You see?’ bellowed Antony, augur as well as general, swinging the head of his pure white steed so he could face his legions. ‘Our eagle has defeated Brutus’ eagle and blesses the Seventh now! It is a message from Jupiter, King of the Gods, himself! A certain sign of victory! Let us proceed with the lustrations then go to battle knowing that triumph is certainly ours!’
*
Domitius Enobarbus, newly promoted Legate to the Seventh, stood between the two eagles, surrounded by his staff, his tribunes and centurions as Antony cantered away and the rituals of sacrifice continued. As was typical of him, Antony had decreed that each legion should perform the full lustration ceremony – not only to cleanse the troops spiritually and send them into battle ready to enter the Elysian Fields, but also because they were sacrificing pigs, sheep and bulls taken from Cassius’ camp three weeks ago during the first battle. The Libertore legions opposite were doing the same with the diminished store of livestock they still possessed. The process was long and laborious, following the already lengthy ritual of the donative. A good part of the morning had passed before one ceremony was succeeded by the other and it looked as though there would be no serious engagement until well into the afternoon.
The Sixth and the Seventh had not needed to cut Brutus’ supply route along the Via between Neapolis and Philippi, even though they had the ability to do so - with the Fifth guarding the causeway behind them. But their presence this far east was enough to call Brutus’ legions out although Enobarbus had a strong feeling th
at the Libertore army was moving against its general’s wishes. There was a rumour that whereas Antony was urging his men to follow his lead when the moment came, Brutus was telling his legions that they were going into battle in spite of his wishes and that whatever happened today was on their heads – not his. This speech had disturbed his men rather than heartening them and they looked shame-faced and irresolute. Especially as they were parading on a new field of battle, which did not suit them nearly as well as the first one had done and, so it was rumoured, a swarm of bees had settled on the Twenty Seventh’s standard – a terrible omen for the entire army. Almost as bad as having their eagle lose the airborne battle just now. So Antony’s force now had the upper hand. He had chosen the battlefield. He was keen to lead men who were keen to follow him. Jupiter himself was looking favourably on them and, perhaps most tellingly of all, Antony was able to use the enemy’s supplies against them, especially in such a vital matter as appeasing the gods.
As the ritual lustration proceeded, Antony rode up and down his lines, his general staff close behind, urging his men on. The victorious eagle and the proposed full lustration helped, even though the donative that had come into their possession with the watch-word Hercules earlier was almost as paltry as it had been last time. Antony’s inspiring leadership combined with his inspired battle-plan both served to conceal one inescapable truth, Enobarbus thought: except for the Fifth on the causeway, Antony had committed his entire force along the northern edge of the marsh and left his castrum almost entirely unguarded simply because there was nothing in the camp worth taking or defending. If the Triumvir armies did not win today then the war was lost. The legions would vanish like smoke into the wind, Antony, young Caesar and their most senior officers would either be dead on the battle-field or would fall on their swords by sunset.