Lepidus answered without hesitation. His orders might be wrong, but it was better to be wrong with decision than to dither before coming to the right conclusion. Besides, in warfare you could never prove that any particular move was wrong, however disastrous its result.
‘Get the legions disembarked as soon as possible. They can have the plunder of the town, as a foretaste of what this campaign will bring them. Don’t let them make an orgy of it. Have them drawn up in column of route on the eastern road in an hour or so. The cavalry will disembark at the same time, and patrol to the east and south. The praetorian cohort remains under my personal command. As soon as I am on shore I shall myself storm that citadel.’
There, it was out, and now he could not alter it. Perhaps he was foolish to risk his life at the outset of the campaign. Long ago a stray roof-tile killed Pyrrhus of Epirus in just such a pointless skirmish; that would be a squalid end for Aemilius Lepidus the Triumvir. But while leading a charge he could not look foolish. Any Roman of good birth could attack a fortified wall; but the disembarkation of twelve legions and five thousand horse was a complicated affair which he could not manage. His legates had been trained for that sort of thing; let them get on with it. But in his excitement he was forgetting an essential preliminary.
‘Before fighting begins the gods must be served,’ he said gravely. ‘As Pontifex Maximus and proconsul I shall sacrifice on behalf of the whole army. There isn’t room on this poop to cut up an ox; but I must have some living creature, to inspect its liver. A goose will do. And I shall want three big goblets of wine, for the libations.’
His praetorian cohort crowded the deck to see their commander call down the favour of Heaven on this righteous war, undertaken to relieve Rome from famine. Veiling his head, the Pontifex intoned the ritual invocation as only a patrician, trained from childhood to the task, could pronounce those awesome words. He was unfamiliar with the normal appearance of a fresh gooseliver, but it would be absurd to suppose the omens anything but favourable. He declared them so, and then went on to pour the libations: to Neptune, because they were on his sea; to Jupiter, ruler of gods and men; to Mars, progenitor of the Roman race who had given his children dominion over all the world. Every soldier was familiar with the routine of sacrifice before battle; but to many of these veterans it was a new experience to hear it performed devoutly, by an eloquent speaker who believed in the value of his own ritual. Everyone felt braver when at last the Pontifex Maximus put on his helmet and became once more the Imperator.
A phaselus, a fast scouting-boat, nuzzled alongside the quay, and a patrol of skirmishers dashed ashore. Five banks of oars churned up the water as the great flagship crept stern-first to the harbourside. Then the gangway was down from poop to dry land, and the praetorian cohort disembarked, ready for action.
The praetorians were the bodyguard of the commander; their cohort, double the normal size, was kept at full strength even when the legions were below establishment. As Lepidus set himself to trudge up the steep deserted street to the main gate of the citadel a full six hundred men fell in behind him. Picked veterans, they marched composedly, without cheering or excitement. By evening a few of them would be dead, but this was not an especially hazardous operation.
Lepidus walked stoutly uphill, setting a pace that Crastinus could barely equal, burdened as he was with his great shield. All eyes were fixed on the closed gates of the citadel; perhaps the fortress was empty, despite its flaunting banner. Not a head showed above the wall. In shuttered houses a few women screamed and a child was yelling at the top of its voice; Lilybaeum had not been emptied of its civilian inhabitants. So far they had nothing serious to lament; praetorians did not break ranks to plunder while there was an enemy to be fought. The pillage, the rapine, the enslavement of free Sicilians, would come later in the day.
Lepidus was visited by a wild fancy that he was making this assault single-handed; for the women’s wailing drowned the thud of marching feet, and his followers kept silence. So strong was the absurd idea that he ventured a glance over his shoulder. It was a lucky move, perhaps inspired by some favouring god; for thus he did not duck like a raw recruit when the first flight of stones came from the engines of the citadel.
The swift, silent, determined advance had surprised the defenders, and most of their missiles flew over the heads of the approaching column. Lepidus heard and felt the wind of one sharp-edged chunk of granite, but it barely stirred the horsehair of his helmet-plume. Crastinus clucked his tongue in reproof of such sloppy marksmanship; then he spoke, through gasps of labouring breath.
‘Now then, Imperator, this is far enough. Draw your sword, if you like, and tap the gate with it. That’s supposed to encourage the men, though I don’t know why. But remember your age. Leave the scaling-ladders to youngsters of forty.’
It did not occur to Lepidus to rebuke his orderly for insolence. They were all in this exciting adventure together, and he felt himself the loving comrade of the hairiest ruffian in the ranks. As he walked he drew his sword. He was looking at the iron-studded gate only a few yards away, seeking a good place to strike it, when suddenly his view was cut off, all he could see was the inside of a shield.
Metal clanged all round him, and Crastinus swore urgently. ‘Your sword is in your hand, Imperator. Cut off the head of this javelin. You can reach it easily, and I can’t. They must be using those soft-nosed bastards. The point is twisted under the shield-rim, and I can’t get it free.’ The javelin hung quivering from the edge of the shield, whose leather centre had been ploughed by other missiles.
As Lepidus swung up his sword for the blow a large hand caught him by the back of his corselet. ‘Bend over, Imperator,’ a voice muttered in his ear, ‘or my javelin will carry away those fancy plumes. Now, boys, all together. Don’t give them time to wind their machines.’ Again the air was filled with the soft whisper of javelins.
Everywhere men were pushing, and he must stagger to keep his feet. But there was the gate, quite close; and he had not yet struck it with his sword. He knew how that should be done; he must turn his back on the foe, and wave his men on with a sweeping gesture of the left arm. The eager praetorians did not wait for his signal. As he reached the gate the end of a scaling-ladder caught him in the belly; he was swept aside by an urgent rush, and when he looked again the face of the gate was hidden by the wagging rumps of climbing soldiers.
‘Halt, Imperator. Stay here,’ shouted Crastinus. ‘They will hand you the keys of Lilybaeum on a silver platter, if they know where to find you. But you mustn’t go through the gate while that confetti is still flying about.’
A javelin, hurtling vertically from the top of the gate-tower, struck sparks from the pavement at his feet.
The orderly pressed on his commander’s shoulder, forcing him to a squatting position. Breathless and shaken after his dash up the steep hill, Lepidus felt his heart hammering with excitement and fatigue. He remained where he was, his back against the stone jamb of the gate, his knees drawn up to his chin. All he could see were the muddy greaves of Crastinus, as the orderly held the great shield over him.
Within the citadel there were confused noises, cries of triumph and cries of mortal anguish. In a surprisingly short time the gate was opened from within. In the entry stood a centurion, his helmet pushed back from his forehead, a bloody sword dangling carelessly from his fingers.
‘Imperator, deign to enter your fortress of Lilybaeum,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s not a bad place in its way. But we can’t find the pay-chest, and the garrison drank all their wine, to get up their courage.’
Lying within the gate was a wounded Sicilian. As the Imperator passed he plucked at a dagger. ‘Now then, you,’ said the centurion, ‘the fighting’s over. We’ll bury you properly, never fear.’ Casually he flicked his sword through the other’s neck-bone, and then stooped to wipe his blade on the mop of sweat-matted hair.
Victorious soldiers pressed round their commander. Then, visibly, the centurion remembered th
e responsibilities of his rank. Standing to attention, he glared fiercely. ‘Lepidus Imperator,’ he cried, dipping his sword in salute. Apparently without moving their feet, his men shook themselves into triple rank. ‘Lepidus Imperator,’ the salute rang out, as the lion banner was hoisted in place of the trident.
Limping happily down the hill, Lepidus felt his heart glow in his breast. ‘It’s easy,’ he thought, ‘and not even very frightening once you have begun. I was too busy to be afraid. Crastinus was frightened, though, or so I think. That only proves that I behaved with remarkable courage. I have displayed exemplary dash and determination. That citadel is notoriously one of the strongest fortresses in Sicily. I went straight at it, and overran it in half an hour. There are experienced veteran commanders who would have dug lines of circumvallation, and installed siege-engines, and sat there for three months before venturing an assault. Marcus Antonius could not have been more dashing. Caesar will be impressed when he hears of it. It was fun, but I musn’t do it too often. My life is precious, to Rome and to my family. I shall let the army win the next few battles without me. Only if things go badly will I lead another charge.’
As he rode at the head of his great army towards the eastern uplands he was not quite so happy. It was a pity that Lilybaeum had gone up in flames, so that in after years he would never be able to find the narrow street he had traversed at the head of the storming column. The sale of the captives had been another depressing experience. Until today these wretched men and women had been free burgesses, some of them Roman citizens; they had done nothing worse than pay taxes to Pompeius, and cower in their homes while the armies swept by. He would have preferred to spare them. But when he suggested it every senior officer had clamoured that the idea was quite impracticable. They had found very little treasure in the town, and the troops must not be cheated of their rightful plunder.
He must keep the allegiance of his troops. In this kind of war that was more important than anything else. He would have liked to win fame as the liberator of Sicily; but even if he was remembered by the islanders as a barbarous invader from Africa that was better than to see his army desert to the enemy, as once his army had deserted to Lucius Antonius. Thinking of that terrible betrayal, he rode out of ravaged Lilybaeum with unmoved countenance.
Two days later the Imperator, weary and saddlesore, dismounted with relief at the farmhouse where he was to spend the night. The heat, trying even to troops newly arrived from Africa, was made worse by the stinking haze of smoke which veiled the sunset; in every valley farms and villages were burning, and very often the ricks and granaries as well. The sound military reason for this destruction had been carefully explained to him; a column of smoke informed the main body that their scouts had reached that particular point, and gave notice that no enemy was near. He wished that his men could have used some other method of signalling.
This particular farmhouse stood untouched, only because it had been guarded all day by a detachment of praetorians. At least the Imperator’s bodyguard could be trusted to do their work efficiently. Spits turned in the kitchen and a sentry kept watch over half a dozen big clay jars of wine; there was even a bath of sorts, though the room was clouded with wood smoke and steam. Veterans might be skillful at plundering a friendly countryside, but they knew how to keep their commander in a good temper.
Lepidus longed for a bath, to take the stiffness out of thighs unused to riding. But a group of legates and military tribunes was waiting in the courtyard, and he knew that he must discuss the events of the day and issue orders for tomorrow before he could get out of his armour. The agents who kept watch on the morale of his troops had passed on the envious whisper that he was getting too old for active service, an obvious titbit of slander which of course his enemies were spreading through the ranks; he must not do anything to give currency to that spiteful lie. Though he felt old and tired and hungry he straightened his back, greeted his officers with a bright artificial smile, and swung out of the saddle with an energetic sweep of his right leg that made all his weary bones tingle.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. What news of the enemy? Do we fight tomorrow?’
‘We’ve picked up quite a bit of news, sir, and important news too,’ Gallus answered, speaking for his subordinates. ‘Not much concerning the enemy, but something about our allies. It’s so important that I think we ought to discuss it in private. If you approve, sir, the maps are spread in the dining-room, and I have rounded up stools enough for all of us.’
‘Very well, in the dining-room. With shutters closed and sentries posted, I suppose. Though it seems a pity to go indoors in this weather, just when we can hope for a cool evening breeze.’
Seeing Gallus frown at this unmilitary hankering after fresh air, Lepidus recalled that soldiers never thought of the weather except in terms of mudbound roads and flooded rivers; they hated the open sky, under which so much of their lives was passed, and even in the height of summer liked to make themselves snug in draught-proof cubby-holes. Of course they would want to confer in the dining-room, close to the baking-oven for choice.
As soon as all were seated in the stuffy room Gallus began to expound the large map of Sicily which covered the table. ‘I’ll begin by showing the position as it is tonight, Imperator. That’s for the benefit of tribunes who must return to their commands. They must know where the rest of our forces are camped, or we shall have false alarms all night. Now look, gentlemen. These lead blocks represent our twelve legions. Here we are, nicely closed up, heading across the plateau from Lilybaeum towards Messana. It’s very hot, the men have had a tiring day, and there’s no enemy in touch with us; so for tonight we shall not concentrate and entrench our camp. Tomorrow, unless the Imperator orders otherwise, we shall march by this road to about this point. Tomorrow evening we must dig in properly, with palisade and double ditch; for by then hostile legions will be within a day’s march of us. Any questions?’
He paused and continued.
‘These grains of sand scattered to the east represent our cavalry patrols. They have covered the ground thoroughly, and we can be sure they have left no ambushes undiscovered. All this patch is in our hands, with no enemy present. But late this afternoon our cavalry met some Pompeian horsemen; they were just about to charge when the strangers made it plain they were deserters, not hostile scouts. They are Greek mercenaries, long unpaid, who complain that Pompeius thinks only of his sailors. Had they been Roman citizens I would have held them on a charge of rebellion against the Triumvirs; but Greek mercenaries are entitled to follow any leader for pay. So I merely questioned them and set them free. They tell me there is a Pompeian army of eight or more legions about here, where I place this apple. The legate in command is Plinius Rufus, who had a sound military training under old Pompeius Maximus. His men are more or less Roman soldiers, hereditary followers of Pompeius or the last remnant of the Optimates. They are diluted with Sicilian Greeks, and with brigands and runaway slaves from all over the world. But on the whole it’s a Roman army, and will fight like one. They are short of cavalry, but they have plenty of food. They may offer battle in a strong position. It’s more likely they will retire before us, waiting to attack when we are entangled in the siege of some fortress. Is that clear?
‘Pompeius himself is with his fleet, at Messana. He is more of a sailor than a soldier, and unlikely to take command of his army. Messana itself is garrisoned, of course, and so is Panormus in the south; but in general the towns have been left empty of soldiers. They have walls, and the townsfolk can man them if they decide to resist. They are more likely to offer tribute to any army that marches against them. There it is. That is a pretty complete appreciation of the whole theatre of war in this island.’ As he sat down Gallus preened himself, like a rhetorician at the end of a lecture.
‘But that’s not nearly complete,’ cried Lepidus. ‘You have forgotten the other invasions. On the 1st of July, the day we sailed from Utica, two fleets sailed from Campania. One was led by Caesar in person,
the other by his legate Agrippa. Agrippa was to seek out the hostile fleet and destroy it in battle, while Caesar ferried his army over the straits. By now Pompeius may very well be drowned, and Caesar entrenched before Messana. What had the deserters to say about these other armies?’
Gallus bared his teeth in a sardonic grin. For a plain blunt soldier he had brought off a very neat oratorical trick.
‘The deserters knew all about those other expeditions. Nevertheless, such is the fame of the army of Africa, they decided to forsake the victorious Eagles of Pompeius. I said I had given a complete picture of the war in Sicily, and I told the truth. Neither of these invasions reached the island. Agrippa found the pirate fleet, as he intended; but in the battle that followed he was completely defeated, and his surviving ships fled back to Campania. Caesar tried to slip across the straits while Agrippa kept the pirates busy. A storm caught his transports, probably the storm that worried our sailing-master. Most of his men were drowned, and the rest felt very frightened. They also fled back to Italy. Caesar and Agrippa are out of the game. You, Imperator, must conquer Sicily alone.’
Only one answer was possible.
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