Augustus

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.

The remaining captives were so disgusted by his behavior that while they were being led off in chains they courteously saluted Antony and shouted obscene insults at Octavian.

Antony knew how to win graciously, treating Brutus’ body with respect and laying over it his own general’s scarlet cloak. Octavian was less generous with the remains: he had the head chopped off and sent to Rome to be thrown at the feet of a statue of Julius Caesar.

Philippi, following hard on the heels of the proscription, marked the end of the Republic. Rome’s ancient ruling class was decimated, and surviving nobiles were scattered to all corners of the empire. In theory, the triumvirs’ task was to restore the old order of things, but this was evidently not their intention.

Many ordinary people will have heaved a sigh of relief, for the uncertainties, confusion, bloodshed, and, above all, ruinously high taxes brought about by eight years of civil war appeared to be over.

However, it was unwise to be too optimistic. How Rome was to be governed in the future was altogether unclear; government by three men did not promise stability. Two of them had been enemies and, although allies for now, were still rivals for Julius Caesar’s inheritance, and the love of the people and the legions.

As for Octavian, the coming months and years promised to be difficult. Since the Ides of March he had played his cards with great skill (no doubt advised by the clever men his adoptive father had gathered around him). He had acted unscrupulously, but his lies and killings were always for a carefully planned purpose. He had learned his politics from Caesar, and from the outset he aimed to reestablish an autocracy, not only out of personal ambition but also from a conviction that the Republic was incompetent and needed to be replaced.

But although Octavian had much for which he could congratulate himself, his position was subordinate and insecure. The real victor of Philippi was Mark Antony, whose generalship contrasted shamingly with his own performance on the battlefield. For the time being, Octavian had no choice but to accept his colleague’s predominance; he must seize each opportunity to advance his authority as and when it presented itself.

Antony and Octavian held a magnificent sacrifice for their victory. Then the living left the two hills, the plain, and the marshes of Philippi as soon as possible. The scarred landscape fell silent and the evidence of slaughter slowly disappeared, although to ensure a memory of what had taken place the town was renamed Julia Victrix Philippi (Victorious Philippi of the Julian Clan) and some soldiers settled there.

The unloving triumvirs parted company. Antony stayed in Greece for a while, where he attended games and religious ceremonies, and listened to the discussions of scholars. He soon had enough of that and moved on to Asia Minor, intent on having a good time.