by Peter Tonkin
But, to be fair, thought Enobarbus, everything looked pleasingly positive. After the lustration, the men would be fed, then, ready for battle, they would engage the enemy with everything possible on their side. Except for one element that distracted the Legate not only from his immediate thoughts and responsibilities, but also cast a shadow over all the preparations going on around him, especially as the crypteia were split between his command here in the Seventh and back in the marsh on the causeway with the Fifth.
Septem had vanished. He had gone into Brutus’ camp late yesterday in disguise and had never come out.
ii
Artemidorus opened his eyes, black and swollen though they were. All he could see was the surface of a vertical wooden beam – unless he turned his head. Which was, at the moment, too much trouble to do. In any case there wasn’t a lot to see on either side other than his shoulders and his outstretched arms. And, if he strained, an occasional glimpse of Vedius Pollio and his two largest companions. The ones with the vinestocks which they had been using on him off and on all last night and most of today.
He tried, with no success at all, to remember the name of a famous centurion who was working undercover somewhere in Gaul who had allowed himself to be whipped in public to convince the barbarians he was spying on that he was not a Roman. For, as everyone knew, no true Roman would bear such an indignity as submitting to the lash. A true Roman would fall on his sword first. Yet another benefit of being Greek, perhaps, thought Artemidorus.
The secret agent was bound to a cross, facing inwards rather than outwards. From the nape of his neck to the small of his back his flesh felt as though it was on fire. He suspected that if his ribs were not yet broken then they soon would be. He wondered whether the plan was to beat him to death in an attempt to learn everything he knew but then dismissed the idea. Pollio didn’t appear to be seeking information at all – he had asked no questions, seemingly caring nothing for Antony, his legions, dispositions or plans. He had simply larded insult upon insult, promised torture after torture. And yet, when the torturer feared too much damage was being done to his victim, he called a halt; ordered a rest-period. It seemed most probable to the spy that he was being kept alive for one simple purpose – to replace Voadicia in the eel pit. As soon as a pit could be dug and filled with water. As soon as eels could be acquired.
‘He’s awake,’ said one of Pollio’s men. ‘Time to start again, Praefectus?’
‘No,’ answered Pollio. ‘Cut him down. There’s something I want him to see before we proceed.’
Artemidorus pretended to be weaker than he was – careful not to make the deception too obvious. But, from the way his back felt, he could have let Pollio’s men carry him and no one would have been any the wiser. As it was, he stumbled after the vengeful praefactus alae, held upright by his guards. Although his head hung down, his eyes were busy. He was being hurried through the heart of Cassius’ old camp as requisitioned by Brutus - a camp that was obviously preparing for battle. Brutus’ headquarters – empty now - sat on top of the northern hill. On one side of it, a roadway ran to the eastern gate then out towards the south-running Via – behind and parallel to the newly extended palisade. On the other, a road led down to the main gate which opened out through the massive palisade onto the field of the first battle.
The three men and their prisoner went onto the down-slope towards the north wall of the camp. And it was here that what Pollio wanted Artemidorus to see was revealed. A great trench stretched away on either hand, full to the brim with dead bodies, some still bleeding, most stripped. ‘Prisoners,’ said Pollio. ‘Men captured during the first battle, mostly from young Caesar’s camp. Legionaries from the Fourth. Spartans. Executed now because Antony has already done the same to the prisoners he took from us. And because we are preparing to face him and can’t risk holding so many of the enemy at our backs.’
Or spare the men to guard them, thought Artemidorus. As they had been with Antony, the brutal executions were an admission of weakness.
‘See any friends?’ jeered Pollio, pushing him to the very edge.
‘I don’t know,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ll take a closer look.’ He tore himself free of the Pollio’s men and jumped into the corpse-filled pit.
*
Artemidorus floundered across the tight-packed bodies, heading for the low bank on the far side, nothing much in his mind apart from the slimmest chance of escape. He did not look down. He just prayed that the legionaries whose corpses he was desecrating with his hobnails would forgive him. Behind him, Pollio was bellowing, ‘Get after him you clowns!’ But it was obvious that the guards were reluctant to do so, fearful of disturbing the dead and angering their ghosts. Suddenly the prospect of immediate escape – no-matter how brief – seemed within his grasp. The opposite lip of the pit came closer and closer still. Then it was within reach. Artemidorus pulled himself up the low bank - and ran straight into another unit of guards. ‘What have we here?’ asked their commander. ‘A very lively corpse?’
‘Don’t kill him!’ called Pollio. ‘He’s mine! He’s a spy, spreading Antony’s lies hoping to fool General Brutus! They call him Septem…’
‘Septem?’ echoed the leader and Artemidorus suddenly realised he recognised the voice. It belonged to another acquaintance he had been hoping to avoid. This one was called Marcus Velarius Messalla Corvinus. If anyone could have been said to lead the charge that destroyed the Spartans, the Fourth and the Triumvirs’ camp three weeks ago it was Messalla Corvinus. Which was embarrassing, because Artemidorus had been the man who saved him and his brother in law Lucius Bibulus from death during the proscriptions and smuggled them out of Rome. Messalla Corvinus’ hand took the secret agent’s chin and raised his battered face. ‘Septem,’ he said. ‘It is you! Now here’s an interesting conundrum!’
Pollio inserted himself into the conversation once more throwing his voice across the pit full of corpses. ‘He’s been spreading lies designed to fool General Brutus! He said the Martia has been lost at sea. The entire legion! The Martia!’
‘He says that, does he?’ said Messalla Corvinus softly. ‘Now what did you hope to gain by spreading rumours like that, Septem? Especially as my most recent intelligence suggests that they are true and the Martia is lost.’
‘We were hoping to provoke Brutus into attacking,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Stop him hiding here behind his palisades and get him out onto the battlefield.’
‘You needn’t have worried,’ said Messalla Corvinus. ‘His senior officers and the council of centurions have done that for you. We’re off to battle now in spite of General Brutus’ wishes and advice. As he is loudly, if ill-advisedly, pointing out on every possible occasion.’
‘That makes this spy our enemy more than ever,’ shouted Pollio.
Messalla Corvinus laughed. ‘We have, at the last count, nearly nineteen legions of enemies, Pollio. All waiting impatiently outside the camp walls with their shields up and their swords sharp. I don’t suppose one centurion more will make a difference.’ He turned to his men. ‘Take him, tend him, dress him and give him a horse. I can’t possibly execute the man to whom I owe my life. So I’m sending you back, Septem, after which our accounts will all be squared.’
iii
The ninth hour since dawn. The third after noon. All the ceremonies were finished and an air of tension lay across the battlefield such as Enobarbus had never felt in all his years with the legions. The Seventh, immediately behind him, were straining to be in action, like hunting dogs with a scent in their nostrils, leashed and forbidden to run. The Legate looked to his left. All along the line as far as he could see, legion after legion of Antony’s army stood ready. Waiting. Brutus’ troops stood opposite them, seemingly only a stade six hundred feet away. Hesitant. Listening for their reluctant general’s order, which continued not to come.
Why doesn’t Antony give the word? Enobarbus wondered. But deep in his mind he understood. Antony knew his men were ready. They would move at his least co
mmand but the longer he held them the more obvious it became that Brutus’ men were diffident – almost fearful. The Libertore cavalry sat, opposite the Legio X Equestris away on Antony’s right flank. But they looked to the legions for a lead. While the legions looked to the cavalry to make the first move. Which they refused to do – until the legions stepped forward. ‘They’re going to run away,’ said Quintus’ voice, carrying forward from the third row immediately behind Enobarbus where he stood with Ferrata, Hercules, Notus and Furius. Kyros, Hecate and Voadicia were with Felix and the Fifth on the causeway.
‘Much more of this and they’ll be off like rabbits without raising a sword,’ agreed Ferrata. The others grunted their agreement.
‘Silence in the ranks!’ snarled a centurion.
‘Tension’s getting to him as well,’ observed Quintus.
‘Poor lad.’
But even as Ferrata spoke, things changed. A figure came galloping out of the ranks of Brutus’ cavalry and headed straight for Antony’s lines, waving as he came and shouting, ’Hercules!’ A great cheer greeted him as he wheeled and galloped along the line until he reached Antony at whose side he paused.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Quintus.
‘I dunno,’ answered Ferrata. ‘Some poor sod coming over to our side by the look of things.’
‘Looks like Camulatus,’ said Furius. ‘A good man. I served with him under Pompey. Looks like his horse at any rate.’
The lone rider left Antony and galloped across the ranks of the army, past the Sixth until he reached the Seventh and its newly appointed Legate.
‘Septem!’ said Enobarbus in relief as he recognised the rider’s battered features. ‘I thought we’d lost you! Quintus, Ferrata and the others are in the third row – unless they’re with the Fifth on the causeway. Quintus brought your daggers, sword and axe, just in case; you’ll have to pick up a shield wherever you can. Nice armour, though.’
‘The best Brutus’ camp had to offer. No swords or daggers available there, however. I’ll tell you about it later.’ He would have said more but there was no time. The apparent defection of that one rider had burst the stasis like a pin pricking a bubble. Brutus’ cavalry charged. His legions began to move, shields raised as they roared the barritus battle-cry. ‘Here we go,’ bellowed Ferrata.
‘And about bloody time,’ agreed Quintus.
They raised their shields and began the guttural howling in return. At the mounting roar, the eagle took flight and even the glutted carrion crows headed for safety. The barritus, roaring from one hundred and fifty thousand throats, amplified by one hundred and fifty thousand shields and contained within a battleground little more than a mile wide from edge to edge and perhaps three from end to end, attained a volume only the King of the Gods could match with the greatest of his thunderstorms. Artemidorus slid off his horse and joined the triarii. Quintus paused in his bellowing for long enough to hand over the familiar weapons.
*
If the sound of the barritus had been overwhelming, thought Artemidorus as he fell into line, sword and daggers in his belt, hefting his battle-axe, it was nothing compared with the sound of the two armies coming together, shield against shield. It was the noise he imagined the Symplegades of legend must have made – the mountainous clashing rocks that so nearly destroyed Jason and the Argonauts in their search for the Golden Fleece. Despite the state of his back, he was at the shoulder of his replacement as primus pilum, commander of the first maniple of the Seventh Legion’s deadly triarii. Neither of them was standing still. They were charging forward with the rest of Antony’s army. The front ranks of the opposing forces came together at a run, each rank ten men deep, with the second and third close behind also ten men deep, offering support to keep the momentum of the charge going. Thousands of Libertore shields crashed against thousands of Triumvirate shields. The second and third rows smashed into the backs of their comrades driving forward. Not one man of the one hundred and fifty thousand wanted to be the first to step back.
Stasis. Each line ten men deep, straining to move forward, neither willing to fall back. ‘Time for a little sword-work,’ announced Quintus. He was right about that, thought Artemidorus. And the sword work would be brutal. Not only were the armies equally matched in equipment, weaponry and training, they were each also motivated by the justice – as they saw it – of their cause. And every soldier there was acutely aware of the fate that had overtaken the prisoners in each camp during the last few days. It was not just the leaders who would have to fall on their swords if they lost – it could well be every man there.
Artemidorus and his opposite number led the triarii tight up against the backs of the second rank. Even though they hadn’t engaged yet, there was still work to do – beyond pushing forward, refusing to give an inch. The legionaries all along the front line were stabbing their swords relentlessly through tiny gaps in the shield-wall, seeking the unprotected parts of the enemy – who were doing the same from behind their shields. Inevitably, as time flashed by, men on each side began to fall. As men in the Seventh’s front line began to crumble, the legionaries behind them pulled the dead and wounded back, stepping forward to take their places. The triarii took the crippled and dying, pulling them further back still, stepping forward to join the men from the second rank who were now moving towards the front. Artemidorus paused and stooped to snatch up a shield, thrusting his left forearm through the leather straps and clutching his gladius in his left fist behind the leather-covered curve of it, still hefting the battle axe in his right. Then he was with the others once again, the forward pressure relentless.
Behind the tiarii was a space then more lines of legionaries in ranks ten men deep. Along this break between the lines ran legionary slaves and other non-combatants who had just enough breathing space to hand the wounded to the legionary doctors and their assistants to be carried off the field before the fourth line too moved forward, stepping over the dead, to add their weight to the front ranks.
iv
It was unlike any battle Artemidorus had ever fought in – and yet, in essence, it was like them all. You fought opponent after opponent until you were too tired to stand – and prayed that you could stay upright longer than the men ranged against you. That was all there was to it: if you were last man standing, you had won. But this time, unlike almost every other engagement, there was no clever strategy, no clash of cultures and styles – as there had been with Caesar in Gaul and Albion – as there had been, indeed, with Caesar in Egypt. As there had been, he’d been told, with Crassus in the Servile War against Spartacus and the fatal campaign against the Parthians that led to the bloodbath at Carrhae; which he had been lucky to avoid. It was nothing like Antony’s other battles at Forum Gallorum or Mutina.
It was most like Pharsalus, he supposed – that too had been legion against legion. But there was no elbow-room in this. Hardly any space for Antony’s beloved cavalry or the chariots favoured by the warriors in Egypt and Albion with the great scythes on their wheels. No opportunity for semi-independent units to find each-other out and settle matters on a smaller scale; not yet at any rate. There was nothing but that relentless push which could not hesitate or vary as the front rows chopped each-other to bits.
Brutus’ officers had clearly learned the bitter lesson of Pharsalus, that ordering your troops to stand still and accept your enemy’s charge could be a fatal error. That was one of the two mistakes which had destroyed Pompey in the end; the other was allowing his troops to go into battle against their General’s experience and inclination because of the impatience of his senior officers, legates and centurions. But Antony had been in command of the Eighth and the Ninth legions on Caesar’s left wing back at Pharsalus and had learned both lessons well. Better than Brutus and the senior officers who had forced him into this battle against his will at any rate.
Then the time for speculation was suddenly over. Quintus and Ferrata dragged a body back along the blood-slick grass beside him and he thrust forward into the gap.
His mental world, which had comprehended the whole battleground and other battles from the past, closed down at once. He seemed to step out of a dream into an overwhelming reality. The noise swept over him. The shouting, screaming, animal howling was supplemented by the clang of blade on blade, on shield-edge, on armour. Disturbingly, beneath the clashing, the snakelike whisper of sharp points probing unprotected flesh, sharp blades slicing skin and bone. The rhythmic hiss of arterial blood fountaining from throat, armpit, groin. There was the stench, too. The iron stink of blood, compounded by the smell of hot armour and hotter blades. Of breath soured by fear.
The first enemy who presented himself – no more than a helmet, a pair of narrow eyes and a shield – was covered with blood so fresh it was steaming. He’d been fighting hard, the thought flashed through Artemidorus’ mind. He’d be slowing down and tiring. As they all would if this kept going for long. The Libertore’s gladius thrust round the edge of his shield, seeking any part of Artemidorus’ body that was unprotected. It wavered infinitesimally in a weary fist. Missed its target. Slid past Artemidorus’ ribs. Instead of answering in kind, the centurion, fresh to the front line and full of fight despite his back, moved his shield a hand’s breadth aside – just enough to knock his opponent’s sword further off line and allow his battle-axe to come over his shoulder. Down it came, splitting the helmet in half – and crunching into the skull beneath it. He jerked the blade free, pulling the dead man hard against his shield before he fell. The enemy corpse disappeared, adding further to the stench as he voided his bladder and bowels in death.