Caesar returned with his legions to Italy, where a great many were disbanded. Antony took his army as far as the Hellespont. Horace and I were both temporarily assigned to Antony’s Guard, but this did not mean very much. In fact, neither of us had any responsibilities. We simply moved in Antony’s entourage. One morning, however, Antony showed up quite drunk and called Horace into his carriage. This of course is a singular honour for any man, especially so for a junior tribune of the auxiliaries. A man of my rank watched Horace enter the carriage and muttered something about Antony needing a morning blowjob.
I took the fellow down from his horse and set upon him with a flurry of punches. I knew Horace was fine entertainment on a dreary trip; if there was something more to it than conversation I wasn’t ready to admit it of my friend and certainly would not allow anyone else to comment on the matter. Antony of course had a famously voracious sexual appetite, but unlike Dolabella I never knew him to use a citizen of Rome as a female. Not when he was sober enough to notice, I mean.
At the Hellespont several of our legions crossed into Asia, where they made their winter camps. The remainder sailed to Athens. Horace was assigned a secretarial post at the palace where Antony resided. I joined the junior tribunes at one of the armouries in Athens. We hadn’t any duties and a great many of the young officers spent most of their time pursuing the pleasures of the city. As I had no money, none at all until the first payday, I remained at the armoury and used the entire day for training.
I would see Horace when he had time off from his duties. On these occasions Horace assured me he was a tireless promoter of my talents. I would not languish forever in the lower ranks, not if he had anything to say about the matter. I answered these promises as nobly as I could. I was content, I said, to make my way by my own merits. This of course speaks plainly to my youthful folly. Fortunately, Horace did not listen to such nonsense.
Antony was enjoying himself that winter. He really had no reason to be on the lookout for talented officers. After Philippi, he expected the next year to be relatively quiet. So Horace’s relentless promotion of Quintus Dellius no doubt left him irritated. Nor could Antony imagine that Horace knew enough about war to recommend someone. So at first he ignored Horace; then he said he would have a look at the boy, meaning me.
He was insincere in this; he only wanted Horace to shut up. When Horace pressed again, Antony decided to teach the poet a lesson about real fighting men. If Quintus Dellius was so remarkable would Horace be willing to place a wager on him in a fair fight – one-on-one?
Horace said he would wager a fortune on Quintus Dellius, if he only had one. Antony arranged for loans to be extended to him; then he set the entire amount before Horace. Would he really wager it all? Against any fellow Antony might choose? Horace answered him that he would do it gladly, so long as Mark Antony himself was not the opponent.
I knew nothing of these matters; I simply spent my days running, riding, and fighting. Once or twice I noticed a stranger watching us train at the arena, but I thought nothing of it. As for Antony himself he never trained with us, nor did he bother visiting our armoury. I only saw him when he mounted a litter or walked in the streets surrounded by his clients and flanked by his Guard, of which I occupied the outer perimeter.
One morning, however, Antony arrived at the armoury with his entourage, including freedmen, secretaries, legates, old friends, and a few of the Athenian nobility. Horace was in this crowd too, though it was a while before I noticed him. Our training centurion spoke briefly with Antony’s freedman then called us from the sand. He arranged a duel between two of the better tribunes and after these two he arranged another. The men used heavy wicker training shields and wooden practice swords. Like the shield, the training gladius is quite a bit heavier than a real sword. After these two duels the centurion called the two winners back to fight me.
I picked up my wicker shield, placed one training sword in my belt and took another in hand. The arena was covered in hard-packed sand and ringed about with heavy marble markers. The space was sufficient for as many as a dozen fights at once. Horace shouted heartily at my appearance, standing and clapping his hands. He was the only one in Antony’s entourage who appeared to support my cause.
I slammed into one of my opponents, careful to slide away from the second man as he charged at me for any easy hit. When the second fighter had gone a step too far, I bounced away from the first opponent with a hard push. I wasted no time in play but with a sweeping motion of my shield knocked the shield of the second man away from his body and reached over for a thrust into his head. The blow was hard enough for the call of a kill but not quite enough to put him down with an injury.
Our centurion judged it a mortal wound, and the young man so struck retired from the fight, even as I turned against his partner. This one came charging at me in the hope of catching me while I still attended to the other man. I gave ground because he had the momentum, and for a moment we made a decent fight of it for Antony’s sake. Still, I did not care to play the incompetent and at first opportunity struck my opponent’s ribs with a gentle thrust.
‘Well done, Dellius!’ Antony called. ‘Are you up for another?’
‘I’m ready for as many as you care to watch, Imperator.’
Antony whispered something to one of his attendants, who turned and left the training area. All waited curiously until he returned in the company of a veritable giant. The fellow was a blond-haired Celt, who, I later learned, came from lands to the north of the Black Sea. In his mid-thirties, he was a head taller than I and perhaps half-again as heavy. He wore the skullcap of a freedman, and I guessed him to be a retired gladiator.
‘Let’s make it interesting for you, Dellius,’ Antony said. ‘Beat this man in combat, and I will give you five thousand denarii.’ The prize on offer was equal to a first centurion’s annual salary, a very enticing sum to someone who had recently been stripped of all he owned. But of course the amount of the prize intimidated me nearly as much as the giant himself. I could not imagine Antony expected to pay out a sum of that magnitude. For such a grand offer he had certainly acquired a champion. Still, I could not help but think what the money could buy.
We were each given a legionary’s pilum and military-grade shields. The pilum, with a thin, barbed point, is a mortally dangerous weapon. Its more practical purpose, however, is to pierce and then hang upon an opponent’s shield, thereby ruining its efficacy. Of course it is always possible to keep fighting with a spear dangling from one’s shield, but the pilum is heavy by design and makes any movement with a shield awkward. The main fight would be with practice swords. These were decidedly non-mortal weapons. As per my custom, I carried a second gladius in my belt. My opponent could see no advantage in a second sword and refused the offer.
The legionary’s shield is considerably lighter than the wicker shields used for practice; it is also a weapon in its own right, having the potential to cut a man if the edge comes into play. I appreciated the relative lightness of the shield; I had been carrying weighted wicker shields for a few weeks, but I did not care to fight with real weapons against a giant. I frankly expected to be beaten and really only wanted to come away with my skin intact.
We began at opposite ends of the arena and ran towards one another on the training centurion’s signal. We both heaved our spears at about the same moment. By a deft turning of his shield the Celt caused the pilum I threw to slide away and scoot across the sand to the far reaches of the arena; his spear however pierced my shield. We kept racing forward, each of us drawing his sword. The collision jolted me as if I had run into a galloping horse. I stayed on my feet but reeled away, scrambling for balance.
I had hoped the collision would clear my shield, but the pilum remained dangling from it. The tip was now hopelessly bent, something more like a fishhook than the barbed point of a spear. Having no time to pry it free, I tossed the shield to the side of the arena and pulled my second training sword. I am quite sure the Celt had several reports on my fighting skills and may even have watched me without my noticing, for he stayed close but would not charge me.
When I came at him with a wild swatting of both swords against his shield, he stood his ground in a defensive posture. Had he not set himself in this manner, I meant to parry his first thrust and then go under his shield with a blow to the back of his leg. When he refused to do anything more than fend off my assault, I settled with beating his shield with my weapons, three strokes with each sword, then backing away. I retreated to my right, away from his sword hand.
He scooted towards me as I charged again, left foot forward, right bracing. He still held his gladius close to his hip, covered by his shield. I cracked his shield in the same rhythm as before, but on my last stroke, with my right hand, I reached around it as I fell away. Had he been pushing into an attack, as men will do when an opponent is about to back away, I hoped to catch flesh; instead, he swatted my gladius away with his shield.
I advanced again with the same dance, repeated the same series of hard blows and then retreated as before; but this time I did not reach in. I only feinted it. His shield swept before me as before. Reversing course, I stepped in suddenly, swatting his gladius aside. I lunged forward with a killing thrust, but the giant leapt nimbly away before I could touch him.
So long as his right leg was planted, the Celt’s reach was insufficient for a killing stroke. The moment he stepped forward with his right leg it would be to strike at me, whether low or high I could only guess. A man may try to disguise his intentions but the feet will expose him every time. That is the trick I had learned from Scaeva. Moreover, with two swords in play I did not need to brace and lunge. I might strike with either foot forward, whenever the opportunity presented itself. The Celt, on the other hand, must step forward with his right leg when he attacked. So he came shuffling forward, feet braced to receive an attack, always waiting for his chance in the same posture.
Neither of us was willing to give the other an opportunity to retrieve the loose spear at the end of the arena, so we stayed within a few steps of one another, turning in a wide circle. I used my gladii in brief, furious attacks, striking at various angles, searching for a chance to slip one of the blades past, then backing away a few steps. I would take a moment to watch him then charge in a second time. On the second retreat I always went a few steps farther back. This forced him to follow me, lest I get away from him and run for the pilum at the end of the arena. But that was all I could do. I could not tempt him to lunge at me with his sword.
So I danced, harassing him, backing off, coming in a second time. The rhythm never changed. Finally, as I returned for a second assault, I saw his right foot move forward. I sprang away suddenly, swinging my gladius at full extension. This time I struck his bare arm. I fended off his attack by retreating and circling, then looked toward the training centurion for a call. A cut must be deep enough to stop a real fight; tapping the flesh is not sufficient. The centurion shook his head. At least he had seen the blow. It was a fair call, I will give him that, but for five thousand denarii I could have hoped for a more generous one. I circled back in the direction of my spear and the Celt moved to intercept. I attacked again, tempting him with my sudden assault. He feinted a lunge, and I fell away as before, reaching behind his shield as I did. He was waiting for me this time and swung his shield at my hand. This left a deep groove in my sword and might well have ruined my hand had we been only slightly closer.
I changed nothing in my step, though I slowed the tempo, as if tiring of the game. He let me repeat my dance a few times then, suddenly, as I came at him, I saw his right foot leave the sand. I went down, rolling under his shield and snapped my gladius across the back of his sandal at the Achilles tendon. I rolled away and then jumped up, my arms extended overhead. This was always judged a maiming stroke, which is the same as a kill. With a sharpened blade my opponent would have gone to the sand with his tendon cut.
I looked at the training centurion and saw him raise his hand calling it a victory. No matter. The Celt, in his fury, charged me. The match was over, or at least it ought to have been. Of course I had no interest in getting battered by a shield and a wooden sword. I took a defensive posture, giving ground as he pushed his shield at me like a battering ram. I stepped aside but did not bother with another stroke across his arm. The training centurion was in the arena now, still signalling a victory, but Antony called from the benches: ‘They fight until one of them asks to stop.’
I saw the Celt breathing hard, and I knew his best days on the sand were behind him. Too many drinking bouts, too many long mornings in bed with adoring fans. I stepped into range again, confident now I could wear him down. He rushed at me again. If a wound counted nothing, he meant to use his size against me. He swung his shield at me as I backed away and very nearly cut me. Then he gave a savage lunge of his gladius that was all fury and no art. I parried it and reached around his shield with my right hand, driving the dulled point of my sword into his jaw with all the force I could muster. It was a solid hit and ought to have taken him down, but it seemed to have no effect, except to enrage him. Again he came at me artlessly, this time trying to club me with his gladius. As I retreated from his mad charge, he turned back suddenly, moving to the side of the arena where my ruined shield and the bent pilum lay. He dropped his sword, stepped on the shield, and pried the pilum free with a ripping screech of wood and steel. The tip may have been curled, but it was steel against two sticks.
I moved back and to my left, always left now. This forced the Celt to keep turning the spear out from his body if he wanted to keep aiming it at me. He could throw it, but that only gave me the weapon if he did not take me down with it. Better simply to keep it in hand and force me to keep backing and spinning away. I swung my swords at the point of his pilum but that was only to frustrate him; it gave me no advantage. Nor could I move in close. So I circled him, swatting at his weapon. There was no way under him, no way through. Always to my left, always forcing him to turn. I was breathing hard now. After another of his lunges I backed away several steps and stopped as if desperate to catch my breath. Thinking I was too beat to resist him, the Celt charged me.
That was when I took off at a sprint, heading for the spear at the end of the arena. He was on my left, three paces behind. I let him come within half-a-stride; he could not yet reach me with his pilum, but when I bent down to pick up the spear he would be on me, driving his weapon hard into my back. Still a few steps away from the undamaged spear, I broke stride, closing the gap between us. At the same time, I swerved into him, batting the pilum away with the sword in my left hand and rolling into his legs.
I hit the side of his knee with the weight of my entire body. I heard the crack of bone, a scream of pain. When he was down I rolled away and came back to my feet. Tossing both swords away I grabbed the good pilum and held the weapon over him, threatening him with it until he cried for mercy.
I turned from the Celt, still holding the spear, and looked at Antony, who sat within range of my weapon. I was seething in rage for having been played the fool, and I thought about challenging Antony himself, which would have been bad business. Then I thought about the money. Walking away from the giant I dropped my weapon, my arms extended overhead, as if a mob cheered me. In fact my training mates were crying out enthusiastically, for they had all been beaten by me and were happy to see there was a good reason for it. From the benches where Antony sat I heard only my friend Horace howling and clapping his hands. I didn’t know it, but he had just become a very rich man. The others in Antony’s entourage, all with heavy wagers against me, stared down at me with sullen faces. So, too, Antony.
Without a word of congratulations or a glance at the fallen Celt, Antony finally stood up and departed. His entourage followed until only Horace remained at the benches. He was still clapping his hands and shouting the salute one might offer a victorious gladiator. Finally, he left too, scurrying after the nobles like one of their servants. As for the fallen Celt no one came for the poor fellow. We had to summon a few legionary slaves to carry him off to a doctor – for all the good it would do; he would walk with a crutch for the rest of his life.
I went for a bath afterwards, long before the usual hour. I wanted no company; I was angry at Antony and at the Celt, whom I had been forced to cripple. It was better than getting run through by a spear, I can tell you, but I did not like hurting a man in the practice arena. Nor did I care to be treated like some low-rent gladiator.
I cooled down that evening when my fortune arrived. I expected a note of congratulations from Antony, but no, only the coins, a great mass of them of every description. Most of the money though came in the form of a letter of credit over Mark Antony’s signature.
A week or so later, Antony called me to his palace in the city. We met where Antony routinely received his clients each morning; I was first through the door. ‘Come in, Dellius.’ Antony left his chair and walked toward me. As he was my commander I stood to attention. He was then a very heavy man but still tremendously powerful and wonderfully handsome. He walked around me I think to compare his physique with mine, or perhaps he meant to compare my build with that which he had possessed at my age. I was no Hercules but I was strong enough to hold my own against one.
‘I thought we should have a talk about how you managed to lose four of Dolabella’s legions in Judaea.’
‘They were not Dolabella’s legions but mine, Imperator. They were a gift from Claudius Nero, on condition that Dolabella and you would arrange for Nero to be elected the urban praetor.’
‘Nero enjoyed his praetorship, but Cassius Longinus received the legions. Without a fight as I understand it. I want to know why that happened.’
‘I failed to act as Caesar would have done, Imperator. The real Caesar I mean.’
‘Don’t let our new Caesar hear talk about the real Caesar, Dellius. He’s rather touchy about his shortcomings.’
‘I only meant…’
‘I know what you meant. What happened? Did you lose your nerve? I’ve asked several people, but no one tells the same story.’
I began my tale with my arrival in Egypt. I hardly cared to confess to murdering Gaius Trebonius for the sake of taking his head to Allienus. From Egypt to Judaea and there my meeting with the sons of Antipater.
‘I had the Queen of Egypt waiting for me if I turned back and Cassius Longinus ready to oppose me in Syria. Once I had learned that Dolabella was dead and that your army had been destroyed, I sought to negotiate with Cassius through the auspices of Antipater. Antipater seemed ready to help me, but of course he was poisoned on the very night we met.’
‘And what do you imagine Caesar would have done in your place?’
‘With four legions ready to fight? He would have marched through Judaea, slowing down only long enough to persuade another two or three legions of auxiliaries from the Greek cities to join him. In fact, Cassius had nothing like the eight legions he advertised. What few legions he did have were spread across the whole of Syria and Asia Minor. Caesar would have understood that. He would have doubled the speed of his march and arrived at Antioch before Cassius could defend it.’
‘So why didn’t Quintus Dellius do that?’
‘I let the sons of Antipater deceive me with promises.’
I told him the full story of Phasael’s betrayal, how he let me imagine I might serve in Judaea and keep command of my legions. ‘Two weeks after leaving Egypt, Imperator, I could have been lord of Antioch had I only stopped for a moment to consider what Caesar would have done.’
‘You may be right. Then again Cassius might have defeated you as he did Dolabella.’
‘Better to go down fighting than lose four legions without lifting a sword.’
‘On that we agree, and I have to tell you my chief concern with respect to you is that you lost those legions without a fight. You see, I’d like to offer you a commission as a senior tribune in my guard. More to the point I want you to take command of those men closest to my person all recruited and trained by you. We will be travelling through Asia Minor and Syria next spring,’ he added. ‘There will be crowds and meetings with dignitaries, sometimes quite a tumult of bodies. I do not expect any trouble, but it is the perfect venue for an assassin to strike, and I cannot think of any man I should like to have closer to me than you.’
I nearly jumped at the chance, but my instincts told me I could have more. ‘I will require a prefecture, Imperator. If I am responsible for your safety, I want to have your entire guard under my authority.’
‘I already have a prefect of the Guard, lad.’
‘Promote him.’
Antony blinked at my impertinence, then surprised me. ‘Done,’ he said.
‘I should like a bonus, as well.’
‘Count your five thousand denarii as quite enough bonus, Dellius. Don’t ruin good fortune with too much greed.’
‘I won that money at considerable risk to my skin, Imperator. I want the bonus as a courtesy.’
‘How much courtesy do you require?’
‘I should like to have the horse Cassius Longinus rode at Philippi, the tall red stallion with the narrow blaze and one white sock; you brought the animal to Athens and keep him presently in your stable.’
‘That horse and no other?’
‘That and no other.’
‘But I like that horse.’
‘No doubt you do, but the horse was mine before Dolabella stole him from me.’
‘Dolabella a horse thief? You can’t be serious.’
‘It was more of a prank, actually, but of course once Dolabella was dead, Cassius took the horse as his own. When I wrote to Cassius to say that the horse was my property and provided information on how he might confirm the sale of the animal to my father, Cassius ignored my letter. Now you have won the animal by right of conquest, but I want him as a gift from my new patron – that I may know you value me as you ought to do.’
Antony turned to one of his staff. ‘Draw up papers for the prefect’s command and get him that damn horse – the tall red one I call Cassius.’
At some point in the following days Horace found me in my new apartment inside Antony’s palace. He was anxious to give me my share of the winnings. This came in the form of a slave he had purchased on my behalf. As a prefect I would need someone to attend me, he said, and he feared I might be cheated at market, if I went looking on my own for an educated Greek. This one Horace had tested in Greek and Latin. I might trust his grammar as being nearly perfect, only a small issue with the Latin ablative, but he was working on that. I could also count on him to train me in Greek pronunciation, which, Horace told me as kindly as he could, I needed to improve. I was astonished by the generosity of my friend until I learned the amount he had won in his wager, two hundred thousand sesterces from Antony alone, and smaller though quite handsome sums from the others on Antony’s staff. Not a bad hour’s wage for sitting on a bench. Of course he had risked bankruptcy if I had lost; so I could not complain that he had assumed no risk at all.
Horace reported to me that he would be leaving Antony’s service at the first breath of spring, when the sea was open again to traffic. Antony had agreed to award him an honourable discharge owing to a non-existent injury. With this document my friend hoped to get secretarial work with the government in Rome and afterwards begin running in circles where his poetry might help him make a name for himself. He had money now and, possessing good relations with Antony, hoped for patronage either from one of Antony’s friends in Rome or, as it actually turned out, someone in Caesar’s circle.
I arranged to send money with Horace to give to the patriarch of the Tuscan family with whom I had lived when I first went to Rome. This gentleman, as I mentioned earlier in my history, had assumed responsibility for a debt I had foolishly incurred, and I was happy finally to discharge my obligations to him and even supply a bit of interest in my gratitude. As it turned out, the man had perished in the proscriptions, but the money I sent with Horace went to his heirs, who were understandably rather desperate for it.