Pallas regarded Vespasian with a shrewd eye. ‘That’s in the hands of the gods.’
PART II
MACEDONIA AND THE ROMAN EAST, FEBRUARY AD 52
CHAPTER V
SNOW, DRIVEN BY a harsh easterly wind, lashed into Vespasian’s face. He pulled his hood lower and hunched his shoulders against the worsening conditions; his mount plodded next to a wagon creaking along the Via Egnatia pulled by a pair of rough-haired horses, their obvious reluctance to move forward into the wind punished by regular licks of Magnus’ whip. Hormus sat on the bench next to Magnus rubbing his hands and looking miserable with chattering teeth. Despite the knitted woollen mittens and socks, Vespasian’s fingers and toes were almost numb and he thought with envy of the relative comfort that Gaius must be enjoying in the covered rear of the vehicle and contemplated joining him.
‘I would if I were you, sir,’ Magnus said, giving his team another sharp reminder of their duty.
‘What?’
‘Get under cover. You’ve glanced over your shoulder three times since the last milestone.’
Vespasian looked up at the eleven lictors – the due of a man of proconsular rank on official business – marching in step in front of the wagon with their fasces on their shoulders and shook his head. ‘They’re having it far worse than I am; seeing as they’re the only protection we’ve got I want them well disposed towards me should I require them to risk their lives. Besides, it can’t be more than another four or five miles to Philippi.’
‘If that’s the case then we should be able to see a huge area of marshland to the south,’ Gaius called from inside.
‘We’re having trouble seeing the horses’ arseholes at the moment, sir,’ Magnus informed him, not quite truthfully. Gaius pushed his head through the flap in the leather wagon cover.
‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ Although the snow had only just started to fall thickly and was yet to settle in depth on the ploughed fields on either side of the dead-straight road, visibility was very limited. ‘Well, take it from me, Vespasian, that your grandfather on your father’s side and great-grandfather on your mother’s and my side were both here just over eighty-four years ago.’
Vespasian thought for a few moments and then remembered his history. ‘Of course they were, but on opposite sides of the field.’
‘Indeed, dear boy. My grandfather served with Augustus and Marcus Antonius in the Eighth Legion.’
‘And my grandfather, Titus Flavius Petro, was, if I remember rightly what my grandmother told me, a centurion of the Thirty-sixth Legion under Marcus Brutus’ command. She said that it was mainly made up of his old Pompeian comrades who had surrendered to Caesar after the Battle of Pharsalus.’
‘It’s a shame that we can’t see that far; between the two armies they fielded almost a quarter of a million men, which must have been quite a sight.’
‘On both occasions,’ Vespasian reminded Gaius. ‘Petro made it through the first battle and then his legion got badly mauled in the second, twenty days later when Brutus was crushed. He managed to escape and made it home to Cosa but he was amongst the couple of thousand equestrians that Augustus forced to commit suicide.’
‘Whereas mine was rewarded with the land of one of those men.’ Gaius chuckled. ‘And now here we are, all those years later, the products of either side of the argument in the breakup of the Republic, trundling across the site of the greatest battle between Roman citizens that’s ever been known, on our way to do the dirty work for two Greek freedmen who are the ultimate beneficiaries of that battle. It would seem that for all the cries of freedom issued by either side the end result has been domination of us all by a couple of ex-slaves. I wonder if Augustus, Marcus Antonius, Brutus or Cassius could have foreseen that and, if they could, would any of them have done things differently?’ He rubbed flakes of snow off his ruddy face, looked around quickly, his mouth pursed ruefully, and then disappeared back inside.
‘Course, it don’t make any difference for most of us, though, does it?’ Magnus stated with certainty. ‘If you was just a common legionary, whether you was on the winning side or losing side in that battle didn’t make a scrap of difference – if you survived, that is. Only a few legions were disbanded; the rest went back to business as usual. Whatever the political changes back in Rome, most of the legions just returned to their camps on the frontiers and guarded the Empire. The only change they noticed was that the oath was worded differently but everything else was the same: their centurions, their food, the discipline, everything was exactly as it was. So the whole exercise was purely for the benefit of a few vain men whose sense of honour meant that they had to be seen to have a say in how the Empire was run. If only they’d realised that most people couldn’t give a fuck. They could have dispensed with the armies and just had a nice scrap amongst themselves; a couple of hundred dead and the whole affair would’ve been sorted out and everyone would’ve been happy.’