“Hurry up. Why won’t you release me from my disgrace?”
He pulled his cloak over his head and bared his neck for the sword. Later Cassius’ head was found severed from his body. Pindarus, knowing better than to wait around for consequences, had vanished.
Cassius’ death is usually presented as the tragic result of a mistake. But if Appian is correct, he committed suicide after learning that the day had not been entirely lost. It seems that he died of shame. An experienced commander should have parried Antony’s eccentric and foolhardy onslaught. Cassius had not been able to do so; that Brutus, a lesser general, had succeeded when he had failed simply added to the disgrace.
The one commander of whom nothing had been seen or heard was Octavian. How did he pass the day of battle? This is rather hard to say. Still convalescent, he appears to have remained at the camp when the troops were marshaled. After it had been captured, a rumor went around that he had been killed, for the enemy riddled his empty litter with their spears. But he was very much alive; he must have left the camp shortly before it was attacked.
The question arises as to where Octavian went. According to one ancient commentator, he “gave orders that he should be carried into the fray on a litter.” When we recall that his troops were rapidly routed with serious loss, it seems implausible that Octavian would have risked himself in this way. How could he have survived, and why did no one mention such a brave exploit? In fact, at the time, word soon spread that the divi filius had spent three days skulking in the marshes, and even his friends Agrippa and Maecenas did not deny it.
The likeliest scenario is that when it became clear that there was to be a battle, Octavian was advised by his doctor that he was too ill to play an active part, and would be wise to withdraw to a place of safety. Not very admirable behavior, but understandable in a sick young man with little experience of battle. The damaging consequence, though, was that Octavian acquired a reputation for cowardice.
Both sides’ armies were in a bad way. Octavian and Antony’s camp had been thoroughly looted. The weather broke. The autumn rains fell in torrents, flooding everyone’s tents with mud and water, and the temperature dropped below freezing. Antony gradually outflanked Brutus by pressing forward past his southern wing; to avoid encirclement, Brutus extended his own lines with fortifications along the Via Egnatia. However, the triumvirs, short not only of food but of money, could not afford to recompense their men for property lost or destroyed.
Then some terrible news arrived. On the same day as the battle, a great sea fight had taken place in the Adriatic. A republican fleet had encountered a convoy conveying two legions to join the triumviral forces. A few transport ships escaped, but then the wind fell and the remainder drifted about in the calm to be rammed or set on fire with ease. The soldiers were helpless in the face of their destruction. Appian writes:
Some committed suicide when the flames reached them, some jumped aboard the enemy warships, to do or die. Half-burnt ships sailed about for a long time with men on board who were incapacitated by burns or by hunger and thirst. Some men even clung to spars or planks and were washed up on deserted cliffs and beaches.
The disaster was a grim reminder that the republicans controlled the seas. If the triumvirs failed to defeat them by land, they would find it difficult if not impossible to withdraw to Italy; they would be cornered in Greece and would soon run out of supplies. Unsurprisingly, morale among the troops was badly shaken, and Antony and Octavian determined to try to keep the news of the naval catastrophe from Brutus and his men, whom it would excite and reinvigorate.
Although living conditions were not so bad as down in the plain, the situation in Brutus’ camp left much to be desired. The mood among the republicans darkened. Some eastern princes and levies slipped away homeward and a local Thracian leader, who had been a firm ally, changed sides. The soldiers resented being cooped up “like women, inactive and afraid.” Against his better judgment, Brutus decided to take his officers’ advice and give battle.
Late in the afternoon of October 23, he led out his troops and combat commenced. There seems to have been little in the way of maneuver; the two sides simply slugged it out like tired boxers. Octavian’s troops fought bravely, and silence about his whereabouts suggests that their general was sufficiently recovered to lead them. Eventually they began to push the enemy back “as though they were tipping over a very heavy piece of machinery.” Retreat turned to rout. Antony led the pursuit until night fell. Octavian, still weak and doubtless now exhausted, was meant to guard the camp, but he delegated the duty to a deputy.
Brutus retreated into the wooded hills above Philippi with a sizable force, four understrength legions. His plan was to make his way back to his camp when night came, or perhaps escape to the sea, for through his navy he still ruled the waves. However, Antony had ringed his hideaway with guardposts and spent the night under arms on watch opposite him.
Hope was dying and Brutus began to consider suicide. It is hard to escape the impression that the defeated freedom fighter was consciously giving a public performance for the benefit of posterity. He quoted apt tags from the Medea of Euripides, and from another play about Heracles, who when dying said:
O wretched valour, you were but a name,
And yet I worshipped you as real indeed;
But now it seems you were but Fortune’s slave.
During the night it became clear that the four legions were no longer willing to obey orders and were planning surrender. For Brutus, this disloyalty was conclusive. At first light, someone said it was time for everyone to go and make their escape. Brutus jumped up and answered: “Yes, that’s right, but with our hands, not our feet!” He went round them all to bid them goodbye, saying that it was a great joy that not a single friend of his had failed him. He then walked a little distance with two or three companions. Grabbing one of their swords, he held the point to his left nipple and threw himself on it.
Marcus Junius Brutus was a man of contradictory qualities. In his arrogance and ruthlessness, he represented the worst of the old republican elite. Breaking the rule that senators should not engage in trade or moneylending, he practiced usury in the Middle East on a breathtaking scale. He turned coat after Pharsalus, and revealed to Julius Caesar that the fleeing Pompey’s likely destination was Egypt—a betrayal of trust, if ever there was one.
At the same time, Brutus was high-minded, an intellectual who took ideas seriously. He saw the assassination of Caesar as a sacrifice rather than a political act. He was a man with “a singularly gentle nature,” who feared civil war almost (although not quite) as much as tyranny.
Brutus lived long enough to see the dead Cato transcend history and enter legend, and the story of his own end suggests that he understood that the final contribution he could make to his cause was to be a martyr. Here his judgment was perfect. The image of Brutus as a defender of liberty has survived the ages.
After the battle, Octavian behaved extremely badly. This can be attributed in part to the fact that he was still ill. The previous four weeks had been the most testing of his short life and he must have been emotionally as well as physically prostrated. He may also have thought that retribution would be good policy. One way or the other, though, he was in the mood for blood. His conduct betrayed ice-cold anger.
The remaining units of the republican army surrendered. About fourteen thousand regular soldiers negotiated their surrender with the triumvirs in return for a pardon. Although many senior figures had died on the battlefield (among them Cato’s son), there were distinguished prisoners of war to deal with—the last defenders of the demolished Republic. Octavian decided that they should be put to death. He insulted the more distinguished of the captives who came before him for judgment. When one man humbly asked to be given a proper burial, Octavian merely replied: “That’s a matter for the carrion birds to decide.” It was reported that a father and son pleaded for mercy. Octavian determined that one of them would be spared. The decision would be made by casting lots or playing morra (a game in which one contestant thrust out some of his fingers, while his opponent simultaneously shouted the number of fingers thrust out; a correct guess won the round). They refused to play. The father offered his life for his son’s, and was executed. The son then committed suicide. Octavian watched them both die.