Augustus

XIV

SHOWDOWN

32–31 B.C.

In early 32 B.C., it became obvious to everyone that Antony and Cleopatra had made an important and highly controversial decision. She was to accompany Antony on the campaign, in which she meant to play a full part. In no small measure as a result of Octavian’s propaganda, the queen had become very unpopular among Romans, who disapproved of a foreign potentate interfering in their affairs. Her emergence as the co-general, in effect, of a Roman army further alienated opinion.

When Ahenobarbus and the others arrived from Rome, they were irritated by what they found. The consul cordially disliked Cleopatra, refusing to address her as queen and calling her simply by her name. He strongly advised Antony to send her back to Egypt to await the outcome of the war. Herod the Great of Judea, a bitter enemy after years of merciless bullying by the queen, gave Antony some confidential and cruel advice: Cleopatra’s continuing presence would damage his chances; the path to success was to put her to death and annex Egypt. At one point Antony did order her back home, but then relented, taking the line of least resistance, and let her stay. There were even reports that he was growing frightened of her.

In April 31 B.C., the multitudinous military machine set off on its slow journey to Greece.

Octavian’s strategy was to sit and wait. It was obvious that Antony was heading for Greece, but, although it would have been in Octavian’s tactical military interest to get there first, it was not in his political interest to do so. This was because he did not wish to be seen as what in truth he was: the aggressor, and the invader of his onetime partner’s agreed territory. That would neither harmonize with his new emphasis on legality nor win a war-exhausted public to his side. Antony must be left free to move westward, so that he might receive the opprobrium for opening hostilities.

In the meantime, Octavian had to maintain and enlarge his army and fleet. There was no alternative but to raise additional taxes. An unprecedentedly severe income tax was levied (25 percent of an individual’s annual earnings) and riots immediately broke out. Octavian became as unpopular as he had been ten years earlier, when the Triumvirate had been forced to raise money for the war against Brutus and Cassius.

In this climate of fear and rage, he took a bold step. At some point during 32 B.C., he held a kind of personal plebiscite, in which people were required to swear their loyalty to him. Later, he wrote proudly: “The whole of Italy [and the western provinces] voluntarily took an oath of allegiance to me and demanded me as its leader in the [forthcoming] war.” He claimed that half a million citizens bound themselves to him. We do not need to accept this suspiciously round number when conceding that the exercise was a surprising success.

It was still less than fifty years since the War of the Allies, when the peoples of Italy rose up against Rome to claim their rights and were granted full Roman citizenship. Octavian was a provincial, as were many of those who managed his regime. Italians were now getting their own back after centuries of Roman dominance. They liked the new status quo and did not want Antony and his eastern queen to threaten it. Anger over the new taxes was cooling off; something more than simple self-interest guided a growing Italian self-consciousness, a new patriotism.

Then came an extraordinary stroke of luck.

Lucius Munatius Plancus had been one of Antony’s closest advisers ever since defecting to him after Mutina in 43 B.C. He threw himself into the spirit of things at Alexandria. He flattered the queen shamelessly and, if an unfriendly commentator is telling the truth, was willing to humiliate himself to please. Sometime in the early summer of 32 B.C., however, Plancus began to get very worried about the situation in which he found himself.

In May or June of that year, Antony finally divorced Octavia and told her to quit his house in Rome. Octavia seems to have been an affectionate and maternal woman, for when she left the family home she took with her all of Antony’s children, except for his eldest son by Fulvia, the teenaged Antyllus. He left Rome to join his father in Greece, where he delivered the embarrassing news that Octavia had looked after him with great kindness.

The impact of the divorce on Roman opinion was serious for Antony. It was not simply that he had behaved cruelly to a loving wife, but that he had done so in favor of a foreign queen. The decision to send her away drew awkward attention to Cleopatra.

At this delicate juncture, Plancus came to a new judgment. This was that in the imminent contest Antony was more likely to lose than not. It was time to pack bags. Plancus slipped out of Athens, where Antony and Cleopatra were spending some time before taking the field, and made his way as inconspicuously as possible to Italy.

What was the basis of this change of heart? Octavia’s dismissal was not enough in itself to power his defection, even if it supplied a pretext. Plancus noticed the corrosive effect Cleopatra’s presence in the campaign was having on Antony’s Roman supporters, and gauged that it would blunt the thrust of Antony’s military strategy: it would hardly be feasible for a foreign queen to help to lead an invasion of Italy.

Having arrived in Rome, Plancus presented himself to Octavian and announced that he knew most of Antony’s secrets. One of these was tempting to exploit: at some point in the past few years, Antony had lodged his will with the Vestal Virgins at the little round Temple of Vesta in the Forum.

Although Octavian was trying hard to present himself as a standard-bearer for traditional values, here was an opportunity too good to be missed. He sent a message to the Vestal Virgins asking them to hand over the document. They refused, saying that if he wanted it he would have to come himself and seize it, which he proceeded to do. Before making any public announcements, Octavian read through the document in private and marked the passages least to Antony’s credit; these he read out to the Senate. He drew special attention to Antony’s wish to be buried in Alexandria. Octavian’s former brother-in-law also left legacies to his children by Cleopatra and reasserted that Caesarion was Julius Caesar’s child.

These revelations had a dual effect. Many senators thought Octavian’s action in taking the will was “extraordinary and intolerable.” However, the document was cast-iron evidence that the great Roman general had somehow been transformed into an easterner. Such a bad impression was created that even Antony’s supporters in the Senate voted to deprive him of the consulship that had been planned for him in the following year. Octavian felt he was now in a position formally to declare war.

But the opponent had to be Cleopatra. This was partly because Octavian needed to avoid an accusation of restarting the civil war he claimed to have ended; also, he did not want to make official enemies of Antony’s Roman supporters, some of whom might wish to follow Plancus’ example.

The Romans had an antique ceremony for declaring war. Octavian went to the Temple of Bellona, goddess of war, in the Campus Martius. On a strip of land in front of the temple that was officially denominated as foreign territory stood the small columna bellica, or column of war. Bellona’s priests, called fetiales, threw spears, smeared with the blood of a sacrificed pig, into this ground.

Once the ritual was complete, Rome was officially at war with Egypt.

In its basic essentials the promontory of Actium on the coast of western Greece, and the inland Ambracian Gulf it guards, look today much as they did two thousand years ago. A low scrubby sandy tongue of land, lying only a few feet above sea level, Actium stretches northward toward a larger and hillier two-fingered peninsula. Between them, a half-mile-wide strait squeezes its way from the open sea into the gulf, twenty-five miles long and from four to ten miles wide.

It would be a dull, even slightly dreary place, but for the spectacular mountains that crowd the distant skylines; like the steep seating of an open-air Greek theater on a colossal scale they look down on the stage of Actium. Twenty miles to the west looms the towering rock of the island of Leucas, lying almost close enough to the mainland to touch it.

Today Actium bustles in the summer. Young tourists arrive at the small airport and crowd the sea with yachts. Actium boasts three marinas; one of these is the Cleopatra Marina, which occupies a position on the strait from which two thousand years ago an observer would have been able to watch the queen of Egypt in her splendid galley sail by into open waters and her destiny. There are boatyards, and numerous tavernas and bars line the waterfront. A tunnel is planned to join Actium to the northern promontory and the pleasant harbor town of Preveza.

In the first century B.C., things were quieter. Actium was a center for pearl fishing and a small village on the headland made a useful jumping-off point for travelers. Nearby, on the shore where the strait was narrowest, there stood an old temple and a grove of trees sacred to Apollo, founded five hundred years previously.

By the end of 32 B.C., the main body of Antony’s fleet was based in the safety of the Ambracian Gulf. At the narrowest part of the strait leading to the sea, two towers were constructed (probably where today’s Venetian towers stand), from which catapults could hurl missiles and fireballs at any passing galleys.

The ships had spent much of the summer and autumn ferrying the army to Greece and then establishing a defensive line down its Adriatic coast. A squadron guarded Leucas, the Actium roads, and the islands in the south. It protected the entry into the Corinthian Gulf and the port of Patrae (today’s Patras), where Antony and Cleopatra had established their headquarters. A garrison guarded the Methone promontory. Another force was placed on the headland at Taenarum. In addition, there were Antonian troops on Crete, and four legions held the province of Cyrenaica next to Egypt.

During the winter of 32–31 B.C., Antony’s army was distributed among these strongpoints on the western coast from Corcyra to Methone, with the largest part gathered at Actium.

At first sight Mark Antony’s strategy is hard to fathom. On the two most recent occasions when Greece had been the theater of operations, the opposing generals had focused their attention on the north of the country and the Via Egnatia, that strategically important route to Byzantium and the east. That was where Pompey the Great had based himself in 49 and 48 B.C.; Brutus and Cassius had marched west along it to meet their doom at Philippi.

By contrast, Antony placed no defenses at all north of Corcyra, a hundred miles south of the great highway. Had Octavian wished to do so, he might have sailed from Brundisium to Epirus in the expectation of an easy landfall. Some have argued that Antony’s purpose was to cover the route to Egypt. However, it is highly unlikely that Octavian would have risked his army and fleet on a long journey to invade Egypt, assuming that Antony remained in Greece. An Egyptian foray would have left Italy defenseless against invasion. The most that can be said is that Antony’s deployment would protect an escape to Egypt if that was ever to become necessary.

A more convincing explanation can be hazarded. The safest, shortest, and most sensible crossing point from Greece to Italy was from northern ports, for instance Dyrrachium and Apollonia. By occupying southern Greece, Antony may have wished to make it clear to all that he had no intention of invading the Italian peninsula. Many people, including his own supporters, would have opposed such an enterprise so long as Cleopatra accompanied him. The thought of a foreign queen marching into Rome at the head of an army was universally and totally unacceptable.

Antony’s plan can only have been to tempt, or at least allow, Octavian to transport his army into Greece. The fleet at Actium could then move north and mount a general blockade, preventing provisions and reinforcements from coming to Octavian’s assistance. Once the trap was closed, the Roman empire’s leading commander would delay offering a set-piece battle. With his safe supply route from Egypt, Antony would have all the time in the world, whereas Octavian, whom he knew already to be short of money, would soon also be short of food. Bottled up and desperate for an encounter, Octavian and his army would be easily finessed into a weak defensive position and routed.

On January 1, 31, Octavian, now aged thirty-two, resumed an official constitutional role when he entered on his third consulship. His colleague was a onetime republican, the talented Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, in place of the excluded Antony. The consuls set off for Brundisium, accompanied by seven hundred senators and many equites.

Octavian had the smaller of the two armies, eighty thousand soldiers to the enemy’s one hundred thousand. The difference was mainly accounted for by the number of Antony’s auxiliary or light-armed troops. Octavian’s legions were more experienced than Antony’s mainly eastern levies, having been blooded in the Illyrian campaign.

Octavian made it clear that he expected senior personalities at Rome to accompany his army. The independent-minded Pollio, now more or less retired from politics, boldly refused, telling Octavian: “My services to Antony are too great and his kindnesses to me too well-known. So I will steer clear of your quarrel, and will be a prize for whoever wins.” Maecenas stayed behind to watch the political situation at Rome.

Bitter experience had taught Octavian to respect his own limitations as a commander. He appointed Agrippa to take direct charge of the fleet, and of the design of the campaign as a whole. Once they had learned Antony’s dispositions, the two men agreed on a plan that employed speed and surprise to turn the tables on Antony and trap him.

The first blow was to be struck at the earliest possible date. Even before the end of the stormy winter break, if at all feasible in early March, Agrippa would sail south more than five hundred miles to the Peloponnese, the southern half of Greece. His objective was to attack and capture the strongly defended fort of Methone. From this base he would then try to pick off Antony’s other garrisons along the Greek coast.

Two outcomes from this raid were envisaged. First, the supply line to Egypt would be cut and Antony’s soldiers and sailors would soon be short of food. The time pressure would be reversed. Second, Antony would have to send warships against Agrippa and in doing so would weaken his naval garrisons.

The next step would be for Octavian to transport his forces from Brundisium to somewhere near the Via Egnatia in the north, then to march south at once with all speed to corner Antony and prevent him from moving his army out of the confined area of Actium into central Greece, where he would be free to harass and perhaps outmaneuver Octavian.

This was a hugely daring plan, for it meant moving a fleet across open seas (presumably, if it was not to be detected it could not hug the coast) and risking the catastrophe of a Mediterranean storm. As it turned out, the enterprise was crowned with total success, although we do not have the details or the exact sequence of events. Methone fell and Octavian immediately, and without any kind of trouble from either the enemy or the weather, transferred the main part of his army across the Adriatic Sea, landing somewhere between the Via Egnatia and Corcyra—perhaps at Panormus (today’s Palermo in Albania).

The first news of these events to reach Antony and Cleopatra at their headquarters was that the enemy held a small place some miles north of Actium called Toryne, the Greek word for ladle. It was a sign of the nervousness of the high command at Patrae that the queen cracked a seriously bad joke to mask the general consternation: “What is so terrible about Caesar Octavian having got hold of a ladle?”

When Octavian arrived at Actium, he made camp on the northern promontory. He found an ideal spot, a hill today called Mikhalitzi about five miles north of the channel into the Ambracian Gulf. Four hundred feet high, it commanded good views all around. Immediately to the south lay enough flat ground for a battle, should that be called for.

The site had two disadvantages. First, it had no weatherproof harbor, only the nearby bay of Comaros, which was open to western gales even after a protective breakwater was constructed (traces of which survive). Walls were built down to the beach from the camp to guard against surprise attack by land. Second, water had to be brought in, either from the river Louros, a mile and a quarter or so to the northeast, or from a couple of springs on the southern plain.

Soon after his arrival, Octavian drew up his fleet in open water and offered battle, but the enemy, undermanned and performing poorly, wisely declined to come out of safe anchorage. Antony was having trouble recruiting oarsmen and retaining them. Plutarch claims that he was so short of men that his warship captains were “press-ganging travellers, muledrivers, reapers, and boys not yet of military age from the exhausted provinces of Greece.”

Antony arrived from Patrae in a couple of days, together with Cleopatra, who lived with him in the camp. He transported his army from Actium to the northern peninsula—this may have been at the end of April—and built a new camp facing Octavian’s. He was ready and eager for battle.

But Octavian was no longer looking for a fight, for the indispensable and indefatigable Agrippa had captured the island of Leucas, giving him a safe harbor on Antony’s doorstep and making it extremely difficult for supply ships from Egypt—which would already have run the gauntlet up the west coast of Greece—to gain entry to Actium.

This was a terrible blow. Provisions ran very short and Antony had to break the stranglehold. The longer he waited, the stronger Octavian, with safe logistical support from Italy, would become; by the same token, Antony’s position could only deteriorate. He needed to deprive the enemy of water. He took control of the springs in the plain beneath Mikhalitzi without difficulty and sent a strong force of cavalry on the long trek around the Ambracian Gulf to establish itself above the enemy camp and thereby cut off access to the Louros. But Octavian’s able general Titus Statilius Taurus launched a sudden, vigorous counterattack and drove off Antony’s horse. One of the eastern client kings took the opportunity to desert.

As time passed, the health of the soldiery at Actium began to deteriorate. The almost nonexistent tides of the Mediterranean failed to wash away the detritus of a large army and fleet occupying a crowded space with few facilities. During the long, hot summer months an epidemic ravaged Antony’s camp—perhaps dysentery or malaria. Men died and morale fell.

After weeks of squabbling about what to do next, Antony led a determined attempt to break out by land, probably in early August. At the same time his fleet, commanded by Sosius, sailed under cover of a thick mist and routed the small enemy squadron that was blockading the exit from the straits of Actium. The plan was probably for Sosius to meet up with Antony and his land forces at some convenient point on the coast.

Unfortunately for Antony, by pure chance Agrippa arrived on the scene with the rest of the fleet and drove Sosius back into harbor. Antony then engineered another cavalry engagement (perhaps by attacking Octavian’s water supply again), but was repulsed. This precipitated the defection of King Amyntas of Galatia with two thousand cavalry.

Loyalty everywhere decayed. Client kings and Roman senators alike followed in Amyntas’ footsteps, slipping away to the camp on the hill at Mikhalitzi. The most wounding betrayal was that of Domitius Ahenobarbus. Suffering from a fever (doubtless he was infected by the sickness raging at Actium), he put out in a small boat and sailed the few miles north to the bay of Comaros. According to Plutarch, “Antony, although he was deeply grieved by his friend’s desertion, sent not only his baggage but all his friends and servants after him, whereupon Domitius died almost immediately, as if he longed to repent as soon as his treachery and disloyalty became public knowledge.”

Antony’s magnanimity was short-lived, however; as usual when rattled, he grew cruel. He caught two distinguished deserters and, pour encourager les autres, awarded them unpleasant deaths. An Arabian client king was tortured before execution and a hapless senator was tied to horses and pulled apart.

Despite these displays of self-indulgence, Antony understood that something had to be done, and soon, if disaster was to be averted. He withdrew his troops from the northern promontory back to Actium and called a council of war.

Looking down from his camp, Octavian saw smoke billowing up from the anchorage where the Actium channel turned left and then right before entering the Ambracian Gulf. There Antony’s fleet was based. Flames were consuming the smaller galleys and all the transports.

It was obvious what was happening. Antony was preparing for an engagement of some kind. He did not have enough oarsmen to man the entire fleet, and, so that they might not fall into the hands of the enemy, was destroying the ships he could not use. It looked as if the final encounter was approaching.

A deserter named Dellius (the man who had advised Cleopatra on how to attract Antony) gave Octavian a full account of the enemy’s intentions: Antony meant to attempt a breakout by sea. This was not a stupid decision. Taking a demoralized army through the steep passes of the Pindos mountains would be no easy task, whereas it was a reasonable bet that a good part of the fleet would escape, manned with the pick of Antony’s legionaries. They could join the eleven or twelve legions in Egypt and Cyrenaica, and live to fight another day. So it might be hoped.

The question facing Octavian—or, more precisely, Agrippa—was how to react. In a sense, the issue was largely moot. What was about to happen might look and sound like a battle, but in truth (they told themselves) the war’s outcome had already been decided. Most people now knew this, and were acting accordingly; hence the avalanche of high-level desertions. Whether Antony and Cleopatra made their getaway mattered little; to catch and kill them on the spot would save time, that was all.

History does not record exactly what Octavian and Agrippa planned to do, but we can make a good guess from the facts of the situation and what we know actually took place. They lost no time deciding that if Antony offered battle at or near the mouth of the Actium strait, they would hold back. This was for the obvious reason that they would lose the advantage of numerical superiority if they fought in confined waters.

Octavian and Agrippa agreed not to let Antony’s fleet through the blockade without opposition; it might be difficult to catch up with the fleet, and its escape scot-free would give Antony the initiative and have a damaging impact on opinion among the armed forces and in Italy. But if they waited in the open seas, sooner or later Antony would be forced to come out and meet them on waters of their choosing. When that happened, they would try to outflank him in the north (the obstacle of Leucas prevented that maneuver in the south). They would then either surround his smaller fleet, or force him to elongate and thin his line of ships, which would make it easier for their galleys to surround individual enemy ships and pick them off.

The balance of forces at sea decidedly favored Octavian. Although Antony’s fleet had numbered about five hundred when it mustered at Ephesus, it is unlikely that he now had enough rowing crews for more than 230 ships, and he may have been able to man far fewer; whereas Octavian disposed of more than four hundred ships. Antony’s galleys were larger than Octavian’s and had more oarsmen, but they were probably no less maneuverable; this, of course, was in his favor.

Antony was forced to delay whatever move he planned, for on August 29 the fine weather broke. Four days of storm followed, and inactivity. On September 2, the weather cleared and the morning came up blue and sunny. The fleets took to the water.

Agrippa, to whom Octavian had wisely delegated tactical command, loaded eight legions and five praetorian cohorts onto his ships (that is, about forty thousand men, approximately ninety per galley), which he deployed about one mile off the headlands Parginosuala and Scylla, which marked the entry into the Actium narrows. There Agrippa waited to see what the enemy would do.

Antony divided his fleet, which was carrying twenty thousand legionaries and some archers, into four squadrons. One of these was Cleopatra’s, with sixty ships in total, including some merchantmen. The queen herself was on her flagship, the Antonias, together with vast quantities of gold and silver coin, ingots, and other valuables. The personal safety of the queen was important, of course, but it was absolutely essential that the war chest did not find its way to Octavian or to the bottom of the sea.

The remainder of the army, totaling about fifty thousand men, was under the command of Publius Canidius Crassus, a long-standing partisan of Antony who had campaigned with great success in Armenia. If the fleet managed to make a getaway, he was to march to Macedonia, if possible, and then the east.

Before setting off, Antony gave his ships’ captains the unusual order to take their sails with them, claiming this would help to ensure that not a single enemy ship escaped capture. Sails were seldom if ever used in battle (they took up too much room when stowed and reduced maneuverability when set); his men, seeing through Antony’s flimsy rationale, realized with dismay that he was not confident of victory, indeed that he anticipated flight.

Dellius had briefed Agrippa about Antony’s arrangements, including the decision to load the sails. Also, the men from the two armies who were not with the fleets lined the shores to watch events at sea. Octavian’s soldiers were able to see exactly what Antony was doing in the strait and may very well have kept their commanders informed, by small boat or some form of signaling.

As anticipated, the ships emerged from the strait, rowing in file, and deployed in two lines that stretched between the headlands. There they halted. Cleopatra’s squadron hung behind the lines, and did not look as if it was going to play an active part in the battle.

Antony waited hopefully for the enemy to accept the bait, sail toward the opening of the strait, and give battle. The ploy failed, for Agrippa sensibly refused to move. A very long pause followed that lasted all morning. The two fleets, perhaps a mile apart, rested on their oars.

Agrippa waited for Antony to accept that his bluff had been called, move his ships forward, and leave the comparative safety of the strait for the open sea. This he eventually did, stationing himself with the squadron on the right. The command of his left wing was given to the competent Sosius.

At this point our sources are blinded by the fog of battle and we have only the broadest and vaguest view of what happened. Plutarch gives a good general impression:

The fighting took on much of the character of a land battle, or, to be more exact, of an attack on a fortified town. Three or four of Octavian’s ships clustered around each one of Antony’s and the fighting was carried on with wicker shields, spears, poles, and flaming missiles, while Antony’s soldiers also shot with catapults from wooden towers.

Having a greater number of war galleys, Agrippa could draw up his fleet in two lines, and probably did so, while Antony was restricted to one. Fairly early in the engagement, Agrippa began to feel his way around the enemy’s northern flank. Antony’s ships responded by edging northward themselves, perhaps swinging around from a north/south to a west/east axis. This had the effect of weakening Antony’s center, and to a lesser extent Agrippa’s.

The battle had been going on for a couple of hours. Although Antony’s ships were putting up a good fight, Agrippa must have been feeling well pleased. There was no way the enemy line would be able to break through.

Then an astonishing thing occurred. In the early afternoon, the wind shifted (as it regularly did every day) toward the north. Cleopatra’s squadron, lurking in the background and taking no part in the fighting, suddenly hoisted sail and plunged through the weakened center, where there was a fair amount of empty sea between groups of embattled galleys. The queen’s own ship was easy to distinguish because it had a purple sail.

The change in wind direction meant that once Cleopatra’s squadron had rounded Leucas, it could speed south with a following breeze in its sails and make its escape, easily outrunning Octavian’s sailless ships. Antony immediately extricated some vessels from his position in the north. His flagship being too heavily engaged to escape, he transferred to another and made after the queen with a small flotilla.

The ancient sources wrongly suppose that Cleopatra lost her nerve and fled out of cowardice, and that Antony followed her because he was besotted by love. Quite clearly, this was not the case. The stowing of the sails, the order of battle (with the queen’s ships kept in the rear, fresh and clear of the fighting), and the timing of the breakout to catch the afternoon wind indicate that the couple were acting out, with complete success, a carefully laid plan. While Agrippa was aware (thanks to Dellius) that a general breakout was intended, he was not expecting Cleopatra to make a getaway while the rest of Antony’s ships kept him occupied. He had played unknowingly into her hands by sailing north to outflank Antony’s right and so thinning his line.

Antony presumably hoped that other ships of his would also be able to break away, but they were fully engaged trying to fend off Octavian’s larger fleet. After about an hour, the wind strengthened. Some of Antony’s ships began to give up the unequal struggle and surrendered. Others withdrew into the Actium strait.

It is often difficult at the height of a battle for generals or admirals to know what is going on around them. Had Octavian won, or had he lost? He suspected he was the victor, but could not be absolutely sure. The light was failing. There was a swell. It was not always easy to distinguish enemy ships from those of friends. If he received any reports from across a battlefront that was probably not less than four miles long, he could not rely on them. As he was somewhere in the center of his line, he would have witnessed the queen’s departure under full sail, but could have had no idea that Antony had left the scene with her.

What Octavian did see was some sort of retreat by enemy ships. During the wars against Sextus Pompeius he had learned the hard way that admirals were often obliged to spend a sleepless night after a battle at sea. Now that he and Agrippa had probably succeeded in bottling up what remained of Antony’s fleet, they wanted to avoid any risk of it slipping away under cover of darkness or at first light. So, uncomfortable and dangerous though it was, they kept their ships at sea in the Actium roads throughout the hours of darkness.

At daylight Octavian, now back on land, could assess the outcome. He saw now that he had won at least a partial victory. About thirty or forty enemy galleys had been sunk and about five thousand of Antony’s troops killed. The commanders of the remaining one hundred thirty or one hundred forty ships briefly considered their position, realized it was hopeless, and surrendered. However, a sizable army of up to fifty thousand men was holding together under Canidius Crassus, who started leading it toward the Pindos mountains and the relative safety of Macedonia. Unless that force could be neutralized in some way, the battle of Actium would simply be a passing incident in the war, not its decisive encounter. So he marched after Antony’s legions.

As things turned out, he did not need to worry. Until the day after the battle, the soldiers had no idea that their commander had abandoned them. The men longed to see him and were sure that he would soon turn up from somewhere or other. But the days passed with no sound or sight of him, and their confidence collapsed. The time had come for them to do a deal with the victor. In essence, the soldiers demanded to be treated as if they had been on the winning side. After a week of tough negotiations, Octavian agreed to keep the legions in being instead of disbanding them and, most important, he promised to give them the same rewards as the victorious army.

The deal done, Canidius and other senior officers wanted no part of it. One night they left camp secretly and made their sad way to Antony.