How Ulamhala's Words Came True
I
The sentries were going their rounds; the camp-fires were burning low.
Over on the western hills bounding the Thessalian plain-land lingered
the last bars of light. It was oppressively warm, and man and beast
were utterly fatigued. Quintus Drusus stripped off his armour, and
flung himself on the turf inside his tattered leather tent. Vast had
been the changes eighteen months of campaigning had made in him. He
had fought in Italy, in Spain, in the long blockade of the Pompeians
at Dyrrachium. He had learned the art of war in no gentle school. He
had ceased even so much as to grumble inwardly at the hardships
endured by the hard-pressed Caesarian army. The campaign was not going
well. Pompeius had broken through the blockade; and now the two armies
had been executing tedious manoeuvres, fencing for a vantage-ground
before joining pitched battle.
Drusus was exceedingly weary. The events of the past two
years,--loves, hates, pleasures, perils, battles,--all coursed through
his mind; the fairest and most hideous of things were blended into
buzzing confusion; and out of that confusion came a dull consciousness
that he, Quintus Drusus, was thoroughly weary of everything and
anything--was heavy of heart, was consumed with hatred, was chafing
against a hundred barriers of time, space, and circumstance, and was
utterly impotent to contend against them.
The Imperator--how he loved and adored him! Through all the
campaigning nothing could seem to break the strength of that nervous,
agile, finely strung physique. Sleeping in carriages or litters; ever
moving; dictating continually books and letters to a secretary if for
an hour there was a halt; dictating even while on horseback, in fact,
and composing two letters at the same time; riding the most
ungovernable horses fearlessly and without a fall; galloping at full
speed with his hands clasped behind his back,--these were the mere
external traits that made him wonderful among men. Worthy of all
praise was the discipline by which the Imperator had held his troops
to him by bonds firmer than iron; neither noticing all petty
transgressions, nor punishing according to a rigid rule; swift and
sure to apprehend mutineers and deserters; certain to relax the tight
bands of discipline after a hard-fought battle with the genial remark
that "his soldiers fought none the worse for being well oiled "; ever
treating the troops as comrades, and addressing them as
"fellow-soldiers," as if they were but sharers with him in the honour
of struggling for a single great end. Drusus had known him to ride one
hundred miles a day in a light chariot without baggage, march
continually at the head of his legions on foot, sharing their fatigues
in the most malignant weather, swim a swollen river on a float of
inflated skins, always travelling faster than the news of his coming
might fly before him. Tireless, unsleeping, all providing, all
accomplishing, omniscient,--this was what made Drusus look upon his
general as a being raised up by the Fates, to go up and down the
world, destroying here and building there. The immediate future might
be sombre enough, with all the military advantages falling, one after
another, into Pompeius's lap; but doubt the ultimate triumph of Caesar?
The young Livian would have as readily questioned his own existence.
Some one thrust back the flaps of the tent, and called inside into the
darkness:--
"Are you here, Drusus?"
"I am," was the wearied answer. "Is that Antonius?"
"Yes. Come out. We may as well dispose of our cold _puls_ before the
moon rises, and while we can imagine it peacocks, Lucrine oysters, or
what not."
"If sight were the only sense!" grumbled Drusus, as he pulled himself
together by a considerable effort, and staggered to his feet.
Outside the tent Antonius was waiting with a helmet half full of the
delectable viand, which the two friends proceeded to share together as
equally as they might in the increasing darkness.
"You are over sober to-night," said Antonius, when this scarcely
elaborate meal was nearly finished.
"_Perpol!_" replied Drusus, "have I been as a rule drunken of late? My
throat hardly knows the feeling of good Falernian, it is so long since
I have tasted any."
"I doubt if there is so much as a draught of _posca_[176] in the
army," said Antonius, yawning. "I imagine that among our friends, the
Pompeians, there is plenty, and more to spare. _Mehercle_, I feel that
we must storm their camp just to get something worth drinking. But I
would stake my best villa that you have not been so gloomy for mere
lack of victuals, unless you have just joined the Pythagoreans, and
have taken a vow not to eat fish or beans."
[176] A drink of vinegar and water very common among the soldiers.
"I do not know that I am especially gloomy to-night," replied Drusus,
a bit testily. "I know little whereon to make merry."
"The arrows of Amor," hinted Antonius, "sink deep in the soul, and the
god is unfair; he shoots venomed darts; the poison ever makes the pain
greater."
"I would you could endure your own troubles," retorted the other, "and
let me care for mine!"
"_Perpol,_ friend," replied Antonius, "don't be vexed! I see it is a
case of your wanting little said on a sore point. Well, keep silent, I
won't tease you. Doesn't Theognis declare:--
"'Caress me not with words, while far away
Thy heart is absent and thy feelings stray'?[177]
[177] Elton, translator.
And doubtless you would reverse the saying and put 'my heart' for 'thy
heart.' Forgive me."
But Drusus, now that the ice was broken, was glad to talk.
"Now, amice, I won't harbour any ill feeling. I know that you don't
look at women the way I do. If you had ever fallen in love with one
like Cornelia, it would have been different. As it is, you can only
stare at me, and say to yourself, 'How strange a sensible fellow like
Drusus should care for a girl from whom he has been parted for nearly
two years!' That's why I doubt if your sympathy can be of any great
solace to me."
"Well," said Antonius, washing down his _puls_ with a draught of water
from a second helmet at hand, "I can't say that I would be full of
grief two years from the day my beloved Fulvia was taken from me. But
there are women of many a sort. Some are vipers to sting your breast,
some are playthings, some are--what shall I call them--goddesses? no,
one may not kiss Juno; flowers? they fade too early; silver and gold?
that is rubbish. I have no name for them. But believe me, Quintus, I
have met this Cornelia of yours once or twice, and I believe that she
is one of those women for whom my words grow weak."
"Then you can sympathize, can feel, for me," said Drusus, as he lay
back with his head on the dark green sward.
"Yes, as a poor man who has always possessed nothing can feel for a
rich merchant whose whole fortune is about to founder at sea. Do not
spurn my feeble sort of pity. But do you know nothing of her, not a
word, a sign? Is she alive or dead? Much less, does she still care for
you?"
"Nothing!" answered Drusus, and the sense of vexation and helplessness
choked his utterance. "She vanished out of sight at Baiae, as a flash
of lightning passes away in the sky. I cannot imagine the cause of her
disappearance. The pirates, indeed, might have wished to take her for
ransom; but no, they bore her off with never a demand for money from
any friend or relative. I have tried to trace them--the Pompeian ships
on every sea make it impossible. I have questioned many prisoners and
spies; she is not at the Pompeian camp with her uncle. Neither can I
discover that her kinsmen among the enemy themselves know where she
is. And to this is added that other mystery: whither has my Aunt Fabia
vanished? How much of the account of those who followed her to the
river dock is to be believed--that pirates saved her from Gabinius,
and then abducted her? Upon all, my clever freedman Agias is
gone--gone without ever a word, though I counted him faithful as my
own soul!"
"And what then do you expect?" asked Antonius, not without friendly
interest.
"What can a man, who dares to look the situation in the face, expect,
except something too horrible to utter?" and Drusus groaned in his
agony.
"You mean--" began his friend.
"That the pirates have kept Cornelia and perhaps Fabia in their vile
clutches until this hour; unless, indeed, the Fates have been merciful
and they are dead! Do you wonder at my pain?"
"_Phui!_ we will not imagine any such disagreeable thing!" said
Antonius, in a sickly effort to make banter at the other's fears.
"Don't speak again unless you want me your enemy," threatened Drusus,
springing up in fury. Antonius knew his own interests enough to keep
quiet; besides, his friend's pain cut him to the heart, and he knew
himself that Drusus's dread was justified under the circumstances.
"Do you think there will be a battle to-morrow?" demanded Drusus,
after some interval of gloomy silence.
"I would to the gods it might be so," was his answer; "are you
thirsting for blood?"
Drusus half drew his short sword, which even in camp never left the
side of officer or private during that campaign.
"Thirst for blood?" he growled. "Yes, for the lives of Lucius
Lentulus, and Domitius and his accursed younger son. I am hot as an
old gladiator for a chance to spill their blood! If Cornelia suffers
woe unutterable, it will be they--they who brought the evil upon her!
It may not be a philosophic mood, but all the animal has risen within
me, and rises more and more the longer I think upon them and on
_her_."
"Come," said Antonius, lifting his friend by the arm, "and let us lie
down in the tent. There will be toil enough to-morrow; and we must
take what rest we may."
II
On that same night, in a very sumptuous tent, fresh from an ample
dinner and a season over choice wines, the high and the mighty of
Caesar's enemies were taking counsel together. No longer were they
despairing, panic-stricken fugitives, driven from their native land
which they had abandoned a prey to the invader. The strength of the
East had gathered about them. Jews, Armenians, and Arabians were among
their auxiliary forces; Asia Minor, Greece, the Archipelago, had
poured out for them levies and subsidies. In the encampment were the
vassal kings, Deiotarus of Galatia and Ariarathes of Cappadocia,
allies who would share the triumph of the victorious Pompeius.
For none could doubt that the Magnus had proved his right to be called
the favoured child of Fortune. Had not Caesar been utterly defeated at
Dyrrachium? Was he not now almost a fugitive in the interior of
Greece,--liable at any moment to have his forces cut to pieces, and he
himself to be slain, in battle like a second Catilina, or to die by
the executioner's axe like another Carbo? Had not several delighted
Pompeians just hastened away to Lesbos, to convey to Cornelia, the
wife of the Magnus, the joyful tidings that Caesar's power was broken
and the war was over?
Throughout the Pompeian camps there was feasting and revelry, soldiers
trolled low songs deriding their opponents, and drank themselves
stupid, celebrating in advance the return of the victorious army to
Italy. Their officers were looking forward even more eagerly to their
reinstatement in their old haunts and pleasures at Rome. Lucius
Ahenobarbus, who was outside the tent of the Magnus, while his father
was taking part in the conference, was busy recounting to a crony the
arrangements he was making.
"I have sent a freedman back to Rome to see that my rooms are
furnished and put in order. But I have told him that I need a suite
near the Forum, if possible, so as to be convenient for the canvass
when I sue for quaestor at the next election, for it is time I began on
my 'round of offices.'" (A "round of offices" being, according to this
worthy young gentleman, an inalienable right to every male scion of
his family.)
Within the debate was waxing hot. Not that any one had the least
doubts that the Caesarians were at their last gasp; rather it was so
extremely difficult to decide how the spoils of victory were to be
equitably shared, and what was almost equally important, how the
hostile and the neutral were to be punished. The noble lords were busy
settling amongst themselves who should be consuls for several years to
come, and how the confiscated villas of the proscribed Caesarians
should be divided. As to the military situation, they were all
complaisance.
"There is no need for a real battle," Pompeius was saying. "Our
superior cavalry will rout their whole army before the infantry join
the attack."
And Labienus, the only officer who had deserted Caesar, protested that
the opposing legions had long since been thinned of their Gallic
veterans, that only raw recruits composed them now.
Loudly the councillors wrangled over the successor to Caesar's
pontificate; Scipio, Domitius, and another great noble, Lentulus
Spinther, all had their claims. Domitius was clamouring against delay
in disposing of Caesar, and in returning to Italy, to begin a general
distribution of spoils, and sanguinary requital of enemies and
neutrals. The contest over the pontificate grew more and more
acrimonious each minute.
"Gentlemen," broke in Pompeius, "I would that you could agree amongst
yourselves. It is a grievous thing that we must thus quarrel with
bitterness, when victory is within our grasp."
But the war of words went on hotter and hotter. Lentulus Crus noticed
that Pompeius looked pale and worried.
"You look careworn, Magnus," he whispered; "it will be a relief for
the burdens of war to be off your shoulders!"
"I know not how this all will come out," said the general. "All the
chances are in our favour. We have numbers, the best position,
cavalry, the prestige of victory. Labienus cannot be mistaken in his
estimate of Caesar's men; yet I am afraid, I am almost timorous."
"It is but the natural fear lest some slight event dim your
excellency's great glory. Our position is too secure for reverse,"
remarked Lentulus, soothingly.
"Great glory--" repeated Pompeius, "yes, that makes me afraid.
Remember Ulamhala's words,--they haunt me:--
"'He that is highest shall rise yet higher,
He that is second shall utterly fall.'
Lentulus, I _know_ Caesar is greater than I!"
Before he could continue, Labienus had risen to his feet in the
council.
"An oath! an oath, gentlemen!" cried the renegade legate. "Swear all
after me! 'By Jupiter Capitolinus, Optimus, Maximus, I swear not to
return from the battle until victorious over Caesar!'"
All the council rose.
"We swear!" cried a score of tongues, as though their oath was the
lightest thing imaginable.
"Bravely done!" shouted Labienus, while the two Lentuli and Domitius
and Scipio and many another scion of the great noble houses joined in
the oath. "_Hem!_ Most excellent Magnus, you do not have confidence
enough in your own cause to join us. Do you doubt our loyalty or
soldierly qualities!"
"_Perpol!_" replied Pompeius, with a rather ill-concealed effort to
speak gayly, "do you think, good Labienus, that I am as distrustful of
you as Caesar ought to be of his men?"
And the Magnus also took the oath.
Outside the tent the sentries were exchanging their challenges. It was
the end of the second watch of the night.[178]
[178] Midnight.
"It is late, gentlemen," said Pompeius. "I believe that I have given
my orders. Remember our watch word for to-morrow."
"Hercules Invictus!" shouted one and all.
"Unconquerable' we shall be, I trust," continued the
commander-in-chief. "Good-night, gentlemen; we meet to-morrow."
The council broke up, and filed out of the tent. Lentulus Spinther
paused to cast a look of savage anger at Scipio, who lingered behind.
The contest over the pontificate still rankled in his breast. That
four and twenty hours hence both of these aristocratic gentlemen might
have more pressing things to think of seemingly entered the head of
neither. Lentulus Crus, Domitius, and Scipio waited after the others
were gone.
"I have been wondering all day," said the genial Domitius, when the
tent had emptied, "how Caesar will comport himself if he is taken
prisoner and not slain in battle. I give him credit for not being
likely to flee away."
"I trust he will die a soldier's death," replied Pompeius, gloomily.
"It would be a grievous thing to have him fall into my hands. He has
been my friend, my father-in-law. I could not treat him harshly."
"Doubtless," said the ever suave Lentulus Crus, "it would be most
disagreeable for you, Magnus, to have to reward such an enemy of the
Republic as he deserves. But your excellency will, of course, bow to
the decrees of the Senate, and--I fear it will be very hard to
persuade the conscript fathers that Caesar has earned any mercy."
"_Vah!_ gentlemen," retorted Pompeius, pressing his hands together,
and walking up and down: "I have been your tool a long while! I never
at heart desired this war! A hundred times I would draw back, but you
in some way prevented. I have been made to say things that I would
fain have left unsaid. I am perhaps less educated and more
superstitious than you. I believe that there are gods, and they punish
the shedders of innocent blood. And much good Roman blood has been
shed since you had your way, and drove Caesar into open enmity!"
"Of course," interposed Domitius, his face a little flushed with
suppressed anger, "it is a painful thing to take the lives of
fellow-countrymen; but consider the price that patriots must pay for
liberty."
"Price paid for liberty," snorted Pompeius, in rising disgust,
"_phui!_ Let us at least be honest, gentlemen! It is very easy to cry
out on tyrants when our ambition has been disappointed. But I am
wasting words. Only this let me say. When, to-morrow, we have slain or
captured our enemy, it will be _I_ that determine the future policy of
the state, and not _you_! I will prove myself indeed the Magnus! I
will be a tool no longer."
The three consulars stared at each other, at loss for words.
"Time wastes, gentlemen," said Pompeius. "To your several commands!
You have your orders."
The Magnus spoke in a tone that admonished the three oligarchs to bow
in silence and go out without a word.
"His excellency is a bit tempted to play the high tragedian to-night,"
sneered Domitius, recovering from his first consternation. "He will
think differently to-morrow. But of all things, my good Lentulus (if
it comes your way), see that Caesar is quietly killed--no matter what
fashion; it will save us endless trouble."
"_Mehercle!_" quoth the other, "do I need that advice? And again
remind me to-morrow of this. We must arrange the dividing of the
estate of that young reprobate, Quintus Drusus, who gave us some
anxiety two years ago. But I imagine that must be deferred until after
the battle."
And so they separated, and the two armies--scarce five miles
apart--slept; and the stars watched over them.
III
The sun was climbing out of the dark bank of clouds that pressed down
upon the eastern horizon. The green plain of Pharsalus lay spread out
far and wide under the strengthening light; the distant hills were
peering dimly out from the mist; the acropolis of Pharsalus
itself,--perhaps the Homeric Phthia, dwelling of Achilles,--with its
two peaked crags, five hundred feet in height, frowned down upon the
Caesarian camp. The Enipeus and one or two minor streams were threading
their way in silver ribbons down toward the distant Peneus. The
fertile plain was green and verdant with the bursting summer. The
scent of clover hung in the air, and with it the fragrance of thyme.
Wild flowers were scattered under the feet. The early honeybee was
hovering over the dew-laden petals. Wakeful thrushes were carolling
out of the thickets. A thin grey fog was drifting off of the valley,
soon to vanish in the blue of a perfect day. Clear and sweet the notes
of the trumpets called the soldiers from their camp. The weary men
shook the sleep from their eyes. There was a hurried pounding of grain
in the stone mortars, breakfasts even more hurried. Then again the
trumpets called out their signal. Busy hands tore up the tent pegs,
other hands were folding the coverings, gathering up the poles and
impedimenta, and loading them on the baggage animals.
The soldiers were grumbling as soldiers will. Drusus, who emerged from
his own tent just as it was about to be pulled down about his ears,
heard one private growl to another: "Look at the sun rising! What a
hot day we shall have! _AEdepol!_ will there never be an end to this
marching and countermarching, skirmishing and intrenching,--water to
drink, _puls_ to eat,--I didn't take the oath[179] for that. No
plunder here, and the sack of Gomphi, the last town stormed, amounted
to nothing."
[179] The military oath of obedience.
Drusus would have rebuked the man for breeding discontent in the army,
but at that moment he and every other around him for once relaxed that
stringent discipline that held them in bands of iron. A third trumpet
call cut the air, quick, shrill, penetrating.
"To arms!" Every centurion was shouting it to his men. The baggage
animals were left unladen. A cohort that was about to leave the camp
in marching order halted, and began to throw away its impedimenta,
when Caesar himself rode up to them.
"Fellow-soldiers," said the Imperator, smiling as though he had to
reveal a great piece of good fortune, "we can postpone the march. Let
us put our hearts into the battle for which we have longed, and meet
the foe with resolute souls, for now or never is our opportunity!"
"_Io! Io!_" cried a thousand hoarse throats.
Out of confusion came the most perfect order. Drusus ran to the horse
that he had yielded for a pack animal on the march, saddled, mounted,
flew away to Caesar's side, his heart pounding in his breast.
"Pompeius is leading out his men!" soldier was shouting to soldier.
Legion after legion filed forth from the camp. Caesar, sitting with
easy grace on his own favourite charger which he himself had bred,
gave in calm, deliberate voice the last orders to his legates. Drusus
drew rein at the general's side, ready to go anywhere or do anything
that was needed, his position being one of general aide-de-camp.
Caesar was facing east; Pompeius, west. Five miles of mainly level
country had extended between the camps, but Pompeius had pitched on a
hill site, with a river and hills to flank him. There he might safely
have defied attack. But he had come down from the eminence. He had led
his army out into the plain, and the camp was a full mile behind. The
long ranks of the Pompeians were splendid with all the bravery of war.
On the right wing by the river lay his Cilician and Spanish cohorts,
led by Lentulus Crus,--the flower of the Pompeian infantry. Scipio
held the centre with two Syrian legions. On the left, Domitius was in
command and Pompeius accompanied him. Seven cohorts were behind in the
fortified camp. A great mass of auxiliaries and volunteers, as well as
two thousand reenlisted veterans, gave strength to the lines of fully
recruited cohorts. Out on the left wing, reaching up on to the
foothills, lay the pride of the oligarchs, seven thousand splendid
cavalry, the pick and flower of the exiled youth and nobility of Rome,
reenforced by the best squadrons of the East. Here Labienus led. The
Pompeian ranks were in three lines, drawn up ten deep. Forty-five
thousand heavy infantry were they; and the horse and light troops were
half as many--Spaniards, Africans, Italian exiles, Greeks,
Asiatics--the glory of every warlike, classic race.
Slowly, slowly, the Caesarian legionaries advanced over the plain.
Drusus knew that one of the most crucial hours of his life was before
him, yet he was very calm. He saw some wild roses growing on a bush by
the way, and thought how pretty they would look in a wreath on
Cornelia's hair. He exchanged jokes with his fellow-officers; scolded
a soldier who had come away without his sword in his sheath; asked
Antonius, when he came across him, if he did not envy Achilles for his
country-seat. It was as if he were going on the same tedious march of
days and days gone by. Yet, with it all he felt himself far more
intensely excited than ever before. He knew that his calm was so
unnatural that he wished to cry aloud, to run, weep, to do anything to
break it. This was to be the end of the great drama that had begun the
day Lentulus and Marcellus first sat down as consuls!
Slowly, slowly, that long snake, the marching army, dragged out of the
camp. The sun was high in the sky; the last cloud had vanished; the
blue above was as clear and translucent as it is conceivable anything
may be and yet retain its colour--not become clear light. The head of
the column was six hundred paces from the silent Pompeian lines which
awaited them. Then cohort after cohort filed off to the right and
left, and the line of battle was ready. On the right was the tenth
legion, on the left the weak ninth, reenforced by the eighth. There
were eighty cohorts in all, to oppose one hundred and ten. But the
ranks of Caesar's cohorts were thin. The numbers were scarce half as
many as in those of the foe. And to confront Labienus and his cavalry
Caesar had but one thousand horse. His army stood in three lines,
facing the enemy's infantry; but, though it weakened his own legions
dangerously, there was but one thing to do, unless Labienus was to
force around the flank, and sweep all before him. Six cohorts Caesar
stationed at the rear of his right wing, a defence against the hostile
cavalry. The third line of the legions the Imperator commanded to hold
back until he ordered them otherwise, for on them lay the turning of
the battle.
Antonius commanded the left, Publius Sulla the right, Calvinus the
centre. Caesar himself took post on his own right wing opposite
Pompeius. Then, when the lines were formed, he rode down before his
men, and addressed them; not in gaudy eloquence, as if to stir a
flagging courage, but a manly request that they quit themselves as
became his soldiers. Ever had he sought reconciliation, he said, ever
peace; unwillingly had he exposed his own soldiers, and unwillingly
attacked his enemies. And to the six chosen cohorts in the fourth line
he gave a special word, for he bade them remember that doubtless on
their firmness would depend the fate of the battle.
"Yes," he said in closing, while every scarred and tattered veteran
laughed at the jest, "only thrust your pila in the faces of those
brave cavaliers. They will turn and flee if their handsome faces are
likely to be bruised." And a grim chuckle went down the line,
relieving the tension that was making the oldest warriors nervous.
Caesar galloped back to his position on his own right wing. The legions
were growing restive, and there was no longer cause for delay. The
officers were shouting the battle-cry down the lines. The Imperator
nodded to his trumpeter, and a single sharp, long peal cut the air.
The note was drowned in the rush of twenty thousand feet, the howl of
myriads of voices.
"_Venus victrix!_" The battle-cry was tossed from mouth to mouth,
louder and louder, as the mighty mass of men in iron swept on.
"Venus victrix!" And the shout itself was dimmed in the crash of
mortal battle, when the foremost Caesarians sent their pila dashing in
upon the enemy, and closed with the short sword, while their comrades
piled in upon them. Crash after crash, as cohort struck cohort; and so
the battle joined.
* * * * *
Why was the battle of Pharsalus more to the world than fifty other
stricken fields where armies of strength equal to those engaged there
joined in conflict? Why can these other battles be passed over as
dates and names to the historian, while he assigns to this a position
beside Marathon and Arbela and Tours and the Defeat of the Armada and
Waterloo and Gettysburg? What was at stake--that Caesar or Pompeius and
his satellites should rule the world? Infinitely more--the struggle
was for the very existence of civilization, to determine whether or
not the fabric of ordered society was to be flung back into chaos. The
Roman Republic had conquered the civilized world; it had thrown down
kings; it had destroyed the political existence of nations. What but
feebleness, corruption, decay, anarchy, disintegration, disruption,
recurring barbarism, had the oligarchs, for whom Pompeius was fighting
his battle, to put in the place of what the Republic had destroyed?
Could a Senate where almost every man had his price, where almost
every member looked on the provinces as a mere feeding ground for
personal enrichment--could such a body govern the world? Were not
German and Gaul ready to pluck this unsound organism called the
Republic limb from limb, and where was the reviving, regenerating
force that was to hold them back with an iron hand until a force
greater than that of the sword was ready to carry its evangel unto all
nations, Jew, Greek, Roman, barbarian,--bond and free? These were the
questions asked and answered on that ninth day of August, forty-nine
years, before the birth of a mightier than Pompeius Magnus or Julius
Caesar. And because men fought and agonized and died on those plains by
Pharsalus, the edict could go from Rome that all the world should be
taxed, and a naturalized Roman citizen could scorn the howls of the
provincial mobs, could mock at Sanhedrins seeking his blood, and cry:
_"Civis Romanus sum. Caesarem appello!"_
How long did the battle last? Drusus did not know. No one knew. He
flew at the heels of his general's charger, for where Caesar went there
the fight was thickest. He saw the Pompeian heavy infantry standing
stolidly in their ranks to receive the charge--a fatal blunder, that
lost them all the enthusiasm aggression engenders. The Caesarian
veterans would halt before closing in battle, draw breath, and dash
over the remaining interval with redoubled vigour. The Pompeians
received them manfully, sending back javelin for javelin; then the
short swords flashed from their scabbards, and man pressed against
man--staring into one another's face--seeking one another's blood;
striking, striking with one thought, hope, instinct--to stride across
his enemy's dead body.
The Pompeian reserves ran up to aid their comrades in the line. The
odds against the Caesarian cohorts were tremendous. The pressure of
shield against shield never abated. Woe to the man who lost footing
and fell; his life was trampled out in a twinkling! The battle-cries
grew fewer and fewer; shouting requires breath; breath, energy; and
every scruple of energy was needed in pushing on those shields. There
were few pila left now. The short swords dashed upon the armour, but
in the press even to swing a blade was difficult. More and more
intense grew the strain; Caesarians gave ground here and then regained
it. Pompeians did the like yonder. The long reach of the line swayed
to and fro, rippling like a dark ribbon in the wind. Now and then a
combatant would receive a mortal wound, and go down out of sight in
the throng, which closed over him almost ere he could utter one sharp
cry.
Caesar was everywhere. His voice rang like a clarion down the lines; he
knew, as it were, each soldier by name--and when a stout blow was to
be struck, or a stand was needed to bear up against the weight of
hostile numbers, Caesar's praise or admonition to stand firm was as a
fresh cohort flung into the scale. Drusus rode with him, both mounted,
hence unable to mingle in the press, but exposed to the showers of
arrows and sling-stones which the Pompeian auxiliaries rained upon
them. Caesar's red paludamentum marked him out a conspicuous figure for
the aim of the missiles, but he bore a charmed life.
Drusus himself did what he could to steady the men. The contest in the
line of battle could not continue long, flesh and blood might not
endure the strain.
"Imperator," cried Drusus, riding up to his chief, "you see that this
can last no longer. Our men are overmatched. Shall I order up the
third line? The centurion Crastinus, who swore that he would win your
gratitude living or dead, is slain after performing deeds worthy of
his boast. Many others have gone down. What shall I do?"
Caesar drew rein, and cast his eyes down the swaying lines.
"I dare not order up the third line so early," he began; then, with a
glance to the extreme right, "Ah, _Mehercle!_ we are at the crisis
now! Our cavalry have given way before the enemy's horse. They are
outflanking us!"
"The six cohorts!" cried Drusus.
"The six cohorts--ride! Make them stop those horse, or all is lost! On
your life, go!"
And away went Drusus. The supreme moment of his life had come. The
whole act of being, he felt, he knew, had been only that he might live
at that instant. What the next hour had in store--life, death--he
cared not at all. The Caesarian horse, outnumbered seven to one, had
fought valiantly, but been borne back by sheer weight of numbers. With
not a man in sight to oppose them, the whole mass of the splendid
Pompeian cavalry was sweeping around to crush the unprotected flank of
the tenth legion. The sight of the on-rushing squadrons was beyond
words magnificent. The tossing mass of their panoplies was a sea of
scarlet, purple, brass, and flashing steel; the roar of the hoof-beats
of seven thousand blooded coursers swept on like the approaching of
the wind leading the clouds in whose breast are thunder and lightning
unfettered. Behind them rose the dun vapour of the dust, drifting up
toward heaven,--the whirling vortex of the storm. It was indeed the
crisis.
The six cohorts were standing, resting on their shields, in the rear
of the extreme right flank of the third line. They were in an oblique
formation. The most distant cohort extended far back, and far beyond
the Caesarian line of battle. The hearts of the soldiers were in the
deathly press ahead, but they were veterans; discipline held them
quiet, albeit restive in soul.
On swept the roar of the advancing Pompeians. What must be done must
be done quickly. Drusus drove the spurs into his horse, and approached
the cohorts on a headlong gallop.
"Forward! I will lead you against the enemy!"
No need of second command. The maniples rushed onward as though the
men were runners in a race, not soldiers clothed in armour. Drusus
flew down the ranks and swung the farthest cohorts into alignment with
the others. There was not a moment to lose.
"Now, men, if ye be indeed soldiers of Caesar, at them!"
Drusus was astounded at the resonance of his own voice; a thousand
others caught up the shout.
"_Venus victrix!_" And straight into the teeth of the galloping hosts
charged the thin line of infantry.
The line was weak, its members strong. They were rural Italians,
uncorrupted by city life, hardy, god-fearing peasants and sons of
peasants, worthy descendants of the men who died in the legions at
Cannae, or triumphed at the Metaurus. Steady as on a review the six
cohorts bore down into action. And when they struck the great mass of
horsemen they thrust their pila into the riders' eyes and prodded the
steeds. The foremost cavalrymen drew rein; the horses reared. The
squadrons were colliding and plunging. In an eye's twinkling their
momentum had been checked.
"Charge! Charge!" Drusus sent the word tossing down along the cohorts,
and the legionaries pressed forward. It was done. The whole splendid
array of horsemen broke in rout; they went streaming back in
disordered squadrons over the plain, each trooper striving to outride
his fellow in the flight. Pompeius had launched his most deadly bolt,
and it had failed.
Now was Drusus's chance. No further order had been given him; to
pursue cavalry with infantry were folly; he needed no new commands.
The six cohorts followed his lead like machinery. The crash of battle
dimmed his voice; the sight of his example led the legionaries on.
They fell on the Pompeian archers and slingers and dispersed them like
smoke. They wheeled about as on a pivot and struck the enemy's left
wing; struck the Pompeian fighting line from the rear, and crushed it
betwixt the upper and nether millstone of themselves and the tenth
legion. Drusus drove into the very foremost of the fight; it was no
longer a press, it was flight, pursuit, slaughter, and he forced his
horse over one enemy after another--transformed, transfigured as he
was into a demon of destruction, while the delirium of battle gained
upon him.
Drusus saw the figure of a horseman clothed, like Caesar, in a red
general's cloak spurring away to the enemy's camp. He called to his
men that Pompeius had taken panic and fled away; that the battle was
won. He saw the third line of the Caesarians drive through the Pompeian
centre and right as a plough cuts through the sandy field, and then
spread terror, panic, rout--the battle became a massacre.
So the Caesarians hunted their foes over the plain to the camp. And,
though the sun on high rained down a pitiless heat, none faltered when
the Imperator bade them use their favour with Fortune, and lose not a
moment in storming the encampment. They assailed the ramparts. The
Pompeian reserve cohorts stood against them like men; the Thracian and
other auxiliary light troops sent down clouds of missiles--of what
avail? There are times when mortal might can pass seas of fire and
mountains of steel; and this was one of those moments. The Pompeians
were swept from the ramparts by a pitiless shower of javelins. The
panic still was upon them; standards of cohorts, eagles of legions,
they threw them all away. They fled--fled casting behind shields,
helmets, swords, anything that hindered their running. The hills, the
mountain tops, were their only safety. Their centurions and tribunes
were foremost among the fugitives. And from these mountain crests they
were to come down the next morning and surrender themselves prisoners
to the conquerors--petitioners for their lives.
Not all were thus fated. For in the flight from the camp Domitius fell
down from fatigue, and Marcus Antonius, whose hand knew no weariness,
neither his heart remorse or mercy, slew him as a man would slay a
snake. And so perished one of the evil spirits that hounded Pompeius
to his death, the Roman oligarchy to its downfall.
Drusus sought far and wide for Lentulus and Lucius Ahenobarbus. The
consular had fought on the most distant wing, and in the flight he and
his mortal enemy did not meet. Neither did Drusus come upon the
younger son of the slain Domitius. Fortune kept the two asunder. But
slaying enough for one day the young Livian had wrought. He rode with
Caesar through the splendid camp just captured. The flowers had been
twined over the arbours under which the victory was to be celebrated;
the plate was on the tables; choice viands and wines were ready; the
floors of the tents were covered with fresh sods; over the pavilion of
Lentulus Crus was a great shade of ivy. The victors rode out from the
arbours toward the newly taken ramparts. There lay the dead, heaps
upon heaps, the patrician dress proclaiming the proud lineage of the
fallen; Claudii, Fabii, AEmilii, Furii, Cornelii, Sempronii, and a
dozen more great _gentes_ were represented--scions of the most
magnificent oligarchy the world has ever seen. And this was their end!
Caesar passed his hand over his forehead and pressed his fingers upon
his eyes.
"They would have it so," he said, in quiet sadness, to the little knot
of officers around him. "After all that I had done for my country, I,
Caius Caesar, would have been condemned by them like a criminal, if I
had not appealed to my army."
And so ended that day and that battle. On the field and in the camp
lay dead two hundred Caesarians and fifteen thousand Pompeians.
Twenty-four thousand prisoners had been taken, one hundred and eighty
standards, nine eagles. As for the Magnus, he had stripped off his
general's cloak and was riding with might and main for the seacoast,
accompanied by thirty horsemen.