Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 55
“Once they passed by, I got up and made my way back in the direction of the battle. I had to stop and hide on several occasions as more men came by looking for survivors, so it was the middle of the night by the time I made it back to the spot. The bodies had all been stripped and looted, and they were in great piles waiting to be thrown in a pit, and I think it was at that moment that I realized that it had been no dream and there was no way that Marcus was alive. I couldn’t get close enough to try and find his body because there were men going through all the piles of clothes while others were gathered around fires, getting drunk. I could hear them bragging about how many men each of them had killed, and I was gripped by a terrible anger. It took everything I had to keep from charging at the nearest group and try to kill as many as I could before I was cut down. But there was something inside me that stopped me, and I'm glad I didn't. Seeing there was nothing I could do to retrieve Marcus’ body, I decided to slip away.”
He paused again, while his listeners sat there, trying to absorb what it must have been like to be in his place on that night, knowing his brother’s body was about to be defiled, for there is nothing worse to a Roman than to be buried in the ground. Even with many of the people that are now part of the Republic doing so, we consider it barbaric. We only did it to fellow Romans when there was no other choice, or to insult their memories, and it was clearly the second reason that the victors of the battle against Catiline had in mind with the enemy dead on the field.
Scribonius was clearly tiring, his voice growing hoarse, but he seemed intent on continuing, so we let him talk.
“I headed north, not really knowing where I was going, but not really caring.”
“Wait,” Miriam interrupted, clearly puzzled.
“Was not the battle north of Rome?”
Scribonius looked at her with a mixture of respect and amusement.
“I see that Titus has been teaching you about our geography,” he replied. “But to answer your question, yes, the battle was north of Rome, and I went north from that.”
“But why would you not return to Rome to your father to let him know you at least were safe, and what had happened to your brother?”
“For one thing, it wasn't safe,” he said quietly. “Up until Caesar, Romans were not much for forgiving her enemies, and I was afraid that if I returned to my family, I'd put them in danger. Besides, I was too ashamed.” He gave another sad shake of his head. “I couldn't face my father and tell him that I had been unable to protect my brother. So I didn't want to go anywhere near Rome. I lived by what I could steal from farms, but at first I wasn't very good at it, and I took a few beatings.”
He laughed at the memory.
“But it only took a few of those before I became very adept at sneaking into barns and granaries to grab the odd chicken and handful of grain. I got so good that I could actually get into a farmhouse, if there were no dogs, that is. I made my way to Cisalpine Gaul, and there I took a job herding cattle.”
He turned to me then, saying, “You know how the Gauls love their cattle. Well, I learned more about cattle than I ever wanted to know. It was brutally hard work. Remember, I had never done any kind of manual labor before, other than the exercises we took on the Campus Martius, and of course wrestling bouts and the like. Still, I survived and became stronger, but I knew that I had to keep moving, so I never stayed very long in one place. Then, I was hired to help move a herd from Cisalpine Gaul to Hispania, driving along the coast. When I got to Corduba, I decided I was far enough away from Rome that I was probably safe, and I decided to stay. I was there almost a year, where I was working as an apprentice to a metalsmith when the dilectus was announced.”
He shrugged.
“So I joined the 10th Legion, and that’s where I met this huge oaf.” He gave me a playful cuff on the arm, which I returned with a little more force, knocking him sideways. He rubbed his arm, glowering at me. “Must you always prove you’re stronger than everyone?”
“Yes,” I said simply, then we both began roaring with laughter.
Miriam watched us with a bemused expression, and I imagined that she was having a hard time understanding how Scribonius could go from so sad to laughing uproariously in the space of a few heartbeats.
She shook her head at the two of us, then asked Scribonius, “Did you ever let your father know that you were safe?”
Scribonius stopped laughing immediately, his face growing long again.
“Not for a long time, no.”
“So he thought you were dead as well?” she asked crossly.
My friend’s face reddened slightly as he replied defensively, “I can’t defend my actions. I was too ashamed to begin with, and besides, I wasn't exactly enlisted in the Legions in the most legal manner.”
He shot a mischievous glance at me.
“But then I wasn’t the only one, was I?”
I laughed as Miriam shot me a quizzical glance, and I told her I would explain later.
Scribonius’ statement had aroused my curiosity, so I asked him, “How did you get a member of your family to swear the affidavit to join?”
Scribonius shrugged.
“Same as you, I paid someone to lie for me. I had a long-lost uncle who did it for a hundred sesterces.”
I whistled; while that was not much money to either of us now, I could imagine how hard it was to scrape that together for someone like Scribonius who was probably making two sesterces a week. Then, another thought struck me, something that had been niggling at the back of my mind for many years that Scribonius’ story had awakened and brought to the forefront.
“Do you think Caesar had anything to do with the Catiline conspiracy?”
For that had been rumored for as long as I could remember, even before I joined the army. He certainly had not been shy about defending Catiline before he actually revolted, while at the same time he made what some would call mealy-mouthed, but was at the least half-hearted protests at his subsequent actions. Nothing was ever proven and it obviously did not damage Caesar’s political ambitions, yet much like his rumored affair with the Bithynian king Nicomedes, it had hung about him like a bad odor. Scribonius was clearly surprised by my question, not answering immediately, his frown returning.
Finally, he asked me, “Do you remember the day we were addressed by Caesar the first time, back in our training camp in Hispania?”
Indeed I did, clearly recalling the moment in my mind’s eye. It had been one of the biggest moments of my life to that point, though I did not think so at the time. I know that I have built it up that way in my mind over the years, given all that happened.
I nodded in answer to his question, so he continued, “I don’t suppose you remember our conversation, where I said that he looked familiar?”
I did, but just barely. “It was when he took us on our first long march, wasn’t it? He gave us a speech, then marched our legs off.”
We both chuckled at the memory, then Scribonius turned serious.
“Well, it took a while, but I finally remembered where I had seen Caesar before. Shortly before the battle, after Catiline came from Rome, Caesar came to meet with him. I had guard duty at the Porta Praetoria when he rode in and that’s the first time I laid eyes on him.”
While it was interesting, I did not see that it was damning and I said as much, but Scribonius shook his head.
“There’s more. Marcus was in the Praetorium and he told me about it later. He said that he heard Catiline arguing with someone who told Catiline that he had gone too far with what he had planned in Rome, that it wasn’t what they had agreed on. Marcus said that whoever it was sounded extremely angry, as if someone subordinate to him had botched his orders.”
“That sounds like Caesar,” I said. “Did Marcus see him?”
“No,” Scribonius admitted. “He just heard the argument and when it sounded like they were leaving Catiline’s quarters, he made himself scarce.”
“So you don’t know for sure that it was Caesar talking.” Even as I said it, I knew how weak it sounded, and honestly, I do not know why it mattered. Caesar was dead now nine years and was beyond any mortal man’s reach, but for some reason it seemed important that his name not be soiled any more than it already had been. I suppose that it was a mark of how much I was still Caesar’s man and always would be.
“No, I don’t know for sure, Titus. But truly, does it matter one way or the other? You asked the question. I’m sorry if I didn't give you the answer you wanted or expected.”
I could see that he was upset, so I let the matter drop.
Thankfully, Miriam still had her own line of questioning to pursue.
“So your father never heard from you again?”
Miriam was clearly not going to let go of this topic, as Scribonius heaved a sigh, shooting me a glance. All I could do was give a helpless shrug, smiling an apology.
“He never saw me again, that’s true. But I did let him know that I was well and was happy.”
He looked over at me. “Titus was with me, in fact.”
I could not hide my surprise.
It was on our first visit to Rome, when we had come to march in Caesar’s triumphal parades. Scribonius had taken me about the city, showing me the sights and given me a tour of the neighborhoods. When we reached the lower section of the Palatine, where the houses are spacious and well maintained though nowhere near the luxury of the mansions near the top of the hill, Scribonius had stopped across the street from one house in particular. He did not say anything, while at the time I just thought he had paused for a brief rest because we had been walking about most of the day. In truth, I was not paying much attention, being busy looking around, so I obviously missed him walking quickly across the street to place a small scroll in the tiny niche next to the postern gate that was used for messages. Only that night many years later did I learn he had done so, and that the house we stopped across from had been his childhood home.
“I wrote a letter to my father, telling him that I lived, that I was doing well, and that I was sorry for what I had done. I told him how Marcus had died, that he died well, facing his enemy, and I begged his forgiveness,” he said quietly to Miriam.
This clearly gave her some comfort, then she asked Scribonius, “Did you ever hear back from your father?”
Scribonius nodded. “I did. He told me that he forgave me, that I was welcome to come home, as by that time all the repercussions from the Catiline conspiracy had long since died down. But I had found a home in the army, and I was happy. Besides, my brother Quintus had stepped into Marcus’ shoes, so I would still be the third son. Quintus had not only filled in for Marcus, he also stepped into my shoes and clearly found they fit him perfectly, but that's a story for another time. Here in the army, everything I accomplished I did on my own, for myself and nobody else.”
He looked over at me. I found myself smiling, realizing how thankful I was that he had made that decision to stay, though I was curious about his remark concerning his brother and his role, but that could wait.
Scribonius, with five other Centurions and a half dozen Optios, left the next morning, boarding a coastal ship I had hired that would sail west to Egypt and the African provinces. Scribonius would go to Alexandria, our goal being to find Pompeian veterans who were bored, since the Legions left behind in Egypt by Caesar years before had fairly recently undergone a new enlistment. We needed men, which was certainly true, but because of Octavian’s refusal to allow the agents of Antonius that were left behind in Italia actually to do their job, we were now pressed for time if we were to renew the campaign as Antonius had planned. That meant that I only wanted raw youths as a last resort, so the men of the dilectus were under strict instructions to that effect. Scribonius would have one Centurion and Optio, while the rest would go to the African provinces to visit the small veterans’ colonies established by Pompey Magnus. These men would be long in the tooth for a full enlistment, but they would not be needed for a full term, and frankly, I was desperate. If given the choice between an older man, who may not be as strong and fit as a younger one, yet on whom I did not have to spend much of my Centurions’ time training, I would go for the more experienced men. That was in the future, however; until they returned there was not much to do, though I did begin a light training schedule for the men.
We set up the stakes, beginning with the basics, something that was met with much grumbling and complaining, but I did not care. The fact was that we had not fought once as a Legion in quite some time, only a few Cohorts seeing any real action, and like any skill working with the sword requires constant repetition. Even I had fallen off with my own training regimen, so the first few days back with my exercises were excruciating, as once again I was reminded of my age, remembering a time when I could take two or three weeks off then pick back up as if I had not missed a day. Most troublesome were my old wounds, particularly the one I suffered at Munda, making it so I could barely lift my arms above my head at the end of the day. My only consolation was watching men much younger than me staggering back to their huts, moaning and complaining about the aches, pains, and the bruises they had earned. I knew from long experience that the harder the Centurions pushed the men now, the better their chances were when the cornu gave the order to fight for real, while I also knew that behind all the grumbling the men understood that as well, and I was happy to see them work hard. The other Legions were beginning their own training regimens, meaning it was not long before the natural spirit of competition blazed openly between the men, each Legion trying to outdo their comrades in other Legions. The air was filled with the sounds of men working at the stakes or running around the camp singing, while other men, on punishment, alternately dug holes then filled them in or performed some other menial but unpleasant tasks. It was back to normal days in winter camp in all respects, and we were so busy that we barely noticed that Antonius and Cleopatra were packing up to leave.
My first indication that our general was departing was when the Primi Pili were summoned to the Praetorium and I saw the stacks of crates and baggage that signaled that a move was underway. I asked Corbulo but he was as mystified as I was; only after we went nosing about did we discover that Antonius and Cleopatra were taking her barge back to Alexandria. Ahenobarbus was stomping around, snarling at anyone nearby, clearly unhappy at Antonius’ decision.
“How we’re supposed to plan a campaign with him lolling about with his queen in Alexandria I have no idea,” he fumed.
I have to say that I agreed, though I knew better than to speak, even if it was in support of what Ahenobarbus was saying. I had learned the hard way that the upper classes always looked out for each other, so I pretended to study the stack of requisition forms I had brought with me. Fonteius emerged from Antonius’ private office, concern clearly written on his face as he called to Ahenobarbus, motioning him to a corner where they talked in whispers. I saw Ahenobarbus stiffen at whatever Fonteius was telling him, then after another exchange turn to walk off, head down as he absorbed whatever he had just heard. Fonteius then waved us into the office, so we filed in, then found seats in front of Antonius’ desk.
The general was looking better now that Cleopatra was attending to him, but I was somewhat taken aback by the appearance of the queen, who was sitting on Antonius’ right. She was dressed simply, for a queen at any rate, her hair pulled back in its usual style, though she looked as if she had lost weight, her face having a pallor underneath the cool olive complexion that I did not remember seeing before, and she looked tired. Nevertheless, she favored me with a bright smile that caused some surprised looks from the other Primi Pili, even garnering a sharp glance from Antonius, and I could feel the flush all the way to the roots of my closely shorn hair. I took a perverse pleasure in Antonius’ obvious irritation that his consort had shown me a sign of favor, but it also made me nervous, knowing that I would bear the brunt of my fellow Primi Pilis' rude conjecture once we left this office.
“I'm leaving for Alexandria in the morning,” Antonius told us, adding unnecessarily, “along with the queen. I have matters that must be attended to in the governing of the provinces of the East. I expect to find the Legions fully manned and trained when I return.”
Saying no more, he stood as a signal that we were dismissed, then before any questions could be asked we were ushered out by Fonteius. I looked over my shoulder and Cleopatra gave me a wave of farewell. For some reason, I was saddened by the thought that I would never see her again, which proved to be wrong. Now, after all that transpired, I wish I could have had a moment to speak with her privately, despite having no idea what I would have said. Perhaps I would have thanked her for listening to a poorly born soldier’s tale of woe, but more likely, I would have just mooned about. And even if I had, I know that it would not have altered all that was going to happen between us. I suppose that is why I have such fond memories of that moment, because it was the last time the queen and I would ever be on friendly terms.
