The men had not been gone for two hours when a frantic message for help came: Sertorius’s men were swarming everywhere, picking off the troopers one by one. Pompey sent a full legion to the rescue, then spent the next hours pacing up and down the ramparts of his camp looking anxiously northward.
Sertorius’s heralds gave him the verdict at sunset.
“Go home, kid! Go back to Picenum, kid! You’re fighting real men now! You’re an amateur! How does it feel to run up against a professional? Want to know where your foraging party is, kid? Dead, kid! Every last one of them! But you needn’t worry about burying them this time, kid! Quintus Sertorius will bury them for you, free of charge! He’s got their arms and armor in payment for the service, kid! Go home! Go home!”
It had to be a nightmare. It could not truly be happening! Where had the Sertorian forces come from when none of those who had fought on the battlefield, even the hidden cavalry, had moved from the siegeworks before Lauro?
“These were not his legionaries or his regular cavalry, Gnaeus Pompeius,” said the chief scout, shivering in dread. “These were his guerrillas. They come out of nowhere, they ambush, they kill, they vanish again.”
Thoroughly disenchanted with his Spanish scouts, Pompey had all of them executed and vowed that in future he~ ~would use his own Picentines as scouts; better to use men he trusted who didn’t know the countryside than men he couldn’t trust even if they did know the countryside. That was the first lesson of warfare in Spain he had really absorbed, though it was not to be the last. For he was not going home to Picenum! He was going to stay in Spain and have it out with Sertorius if he died in the effort! He would fight fire with fire, stone with stone, ice with ice. No matter how many blunders he made, no matter how many times that brilliant personification of anti—Roman evil might run tactical rings around him, he would not give up. Sixteen thousand of his soldiers were dead and almost all his cavalry. But he would not give up until the last man and the last horse were dead.
The Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus who retreated slowly from Lauro at the end of Sextilis with the screams of the dying city echoing in his ears was a very different one from the man who had strutted south in the spring so full of his own importance, so confident, so careless. The new Gnaeus Pompeius could even listen with a look of alert interest on his face to the stentorian voices of the Sertorian heralds who dogged his footsteps detailing to his soldiers the hideous fate in store for the women of Lauro when they reached their new owners in far—western Lusitania. No other Sertorian personnel even bothered about his footsteps as he hastened north past Saguntum, past Sebelaci, past Intibili, across the Iberus. In less than thirty days Pompey brought his exhausted, half—starved men into their winter camp at Emporiae, and moved no more that awful year. Especially after he heard that Metellus Pius had won the only battle he had been called upon to fight—and won it brilliantly.
It was after Metellus Pius had seen Balbus Senior and read Memmius’s letter that he began to think about how he might extricate Memmius from his incarceration in New Carthage. There had been changes in the man Sertorius dismissed as an old woman too, changes wrought by the crushing blow to his pride the Senate had dealt him in bestowing an equal imperium upon Kid Butcher, of all people. Perhaps nothing less than this monumental insult could have stripped away sufficient layers of the Piglet’s defensive armor to allow the metal inside to show, for the Piglet had been cursed—or blessed—with an autocratic father of superb courage, incredible haughtiness and a stubbornness that had sometimes amounted to intellectual imbecility. Metellus Numidicus had been cheated of his war against Jugurtha by Gaius Marius, cheated time and time again—or so he had seen it—by that same New Man. And in turn cheated his son of anything more than a reputation for filial devotion in piously striving to have his hugely admired father recalled from an exile inflicted by Gaius Marius. Then just when the son might have congratulated himself that he stood highest in Sulla’s estimation, along came the twenty-two-year-old Pompey with a bigger and better army to offer.
His punctilious attention to what was the proper thing for a Roman nobleman to do forbade Metellus Pius the satisfaction of trying to make his tormentor, Pompey, look insignificant by any underhanded means. And so without his realizing it a new and better general was busy jerking and tugging himself free of the Piglet’s tired old stammering skin. To make Pompey look small by winning more battles more decisively was unimpeachable, a fitting revenge because it emerged out of what a Roman nobleman could be when he was pushed to it by a Picentine upstart. Or an upstart from Arpinum, for that matter!
Having learned that particular lesson very early on, he chose his scouts from among the ranks of his own Roman men and the men of Phoenician Gades who feared the Spanish barbarians far more than they did the Romans. So it was that Metellus Pius had learned the whereabouts of Lucius Hirtuleius and his younger brother not very long after they had sat themselves down with the Spanish army in the neighborhood of Laminium, in south—central Spain. With one of his new sour smiles, the Piglet leaned back and appreciated this strategy to the full before flicking a mental obscene gesture in the direction of Laminium and vowing that ten years would not see him fool enough to venture up the headwaters of either Anas or Baetis. Let Hirtuleius rot from sheer inactivity!
He had ensconced himself on the Anas fairly close to its mouth, thinking that it was wiser to let the Lusitani see how well prepared he was to deal with them than to reside more comfortably along the Baetis, a hundred miles to the east. But he had busied himself to such purpose by June that he felt the defenses of his province were in good enough state to resist the wall of waiting Lusitani without his personal presence on the Anas—and without more than two of his six remaining legions to garrison his fortifications.
By now the old woman of the Further province knew perfectly well who were Sertorius’s informants; so he proceeded to put his new policies about intelligence into practice, and leaked in the most innocent way to these men the news that he was moving away from his position on the lower Anas. Not up the headwaters of the Anas or the Baetis—and thus into the arms of Lucius Hirtuleius at Laminium—but to relieve Gaius Memmius in New Carthage. He would (the informants were telling Hirtuleius not many days later) cross the Baetis from Italica to Hispalis, then move up the Singilis River toward the massif of the Solorius, cross it on its northwestern flank at Acci, proceed thence to Basti, and so down onto the Campus Spartarius through Eliocroca.
In actual fact this was the way Metellus Pius might have gone; but what was important to him was that Hirtuleius should believe it. The Piglet was well aware that Herennius, Perperna and Sertorius himself were thoroughly absorbed in teaching Pompey a much-needed lesson, and that Sertorius reposed full confidence in the ability of Hirtuleius and the Spanish army to pen the Piglet up inside his own provincial sty. But New Carthage was a way out of his own provincial sty that could possibly lead to a northward march from New Carthage to relieve Pompey at Lauro; the five legions the Piglet would have were a possible tipping of the balance from Sertorius’s way to Pompey’s. The march of Metellus Pius could therefore not be allowed to happen.
What Metellus Pius hoped was that Hirtuleius would decide to leave Laminium and come down onto the easy terrain between the Anas and the Baetis. Away from the crags in which any Sertorian general was likely to be victorious, Hirtuleius would be easier to beat. No Sertorian general trusted the peoples of the Further province east of the Baetis, which was why Sertorius had never attempted to invade that area. So when Hirtuleius heard the news of Metellus Pius’s projected march, he would have to intercept it before Metellus Pius could cross the Baetis into safe territory. Of course Hirtuleius’s most prudent course would have been to travel well to the north of the Further province and wait to intercept Metellus Pius on the Campus Spartarius itself, this certainly being country friendly to Sertorius. But Hirtuleius was too canny to make this logical move; if he left central Spain for a place so far away, all the Piglet had to do was to
double back and romp through the pass at Laminium, then choose the quickest line of march to join Pompey at Lauro.
There was only one thing Hirtuleius could do: move down onto the easy terrain between the Anas and the Baetis, and stop Metellus Pius before he crossed the Baetis. But Metellus Pius marched more quickly than Hirtuleius thought he could, was already close to Italica and the Baetis when Hirtuleius and the Spanish army were still a hard day’s slog away.
So Hirtuleius hurried, unwilling to let his prey slip across the broad deep river.
The month was Quinctilis and southern Spain was in the grip of that summer’s first fierce heat wave; the sun sprang up from behind the Solorius Mountains fully armed to smite lands not yet recovered from the previous day’s onslaught—and only slightly relieved by the breathless, humid night. With extraordinary solicitude for his troops, Metellus Pius gently inserted them into big, airy, shady tents, encouraged them to hold cloths soaked in cold spring water to brows and napes of necks, made sure they had drunk well of that same cold spring water, then issued each man with a novel item of extra equipment to carry into battle—a skin full of cold water strapped to his belt.
Even when the merciless sun was glinting off the forest of Hirtuleius’s spears rapidly approaching down the road from the north, Metellus Pius kept his men in the shade of their tents and made sure there were enough tubs of cold water to keep the cold compresses coming. At the very last moment he moved, his soldiers fresh and keen, chattering cheerfully to each other as they marched into position about how they would manage to help each other snatch a much-needed drink in the middle of the fight.
The Spanish army had tramped ten hard miles in the sun already. Though it was well provided with water donkeys, it had not the time to pause and drink before battle was joined. His men wilting, Hirtuleius stood no chance of winning. At one time he and Metellus Pius actually fought hand—to—hand—a rare occurrence in any conflict since the days of Homer—and though Hirtuleius was younger and stronger, his well-watered and well-cooled opponent got the better of him. The struggle carried them apart before the contest came to an end, but Hirtuleius bore a wound in his thigh and Metellus Pius the glory. Within an hour it was over. The Spanish army broke and fled into the west, leaving many dead or exhausted upon the field; Hirtuleius had to cross the Anas into Lusitania before he could allow his men to stop.
“Isn’t that nice?” asked Metellus Pius of his son as they stood surveying the diminishing dust to the west of Italica.
“Tata, you were wonderful!” cried the young man, forgetting that he was too grown up to use the diminutive of childhood.
The Piglet swelled, huffed. “And now we’ll all have a good swim in the river and a good night’s sleep before we march tomorrow for Gades,” he said happily, composing letters in his mind to the Senate and to Pompey.
Metellus Scipio stared. “Gades? Why Gades?”
“Certainly Gades!” Metellus Pius shoved his son between the shoulder blades. “Come on, lad, into the shade! I’ll have no man down with sunstroke, I need every last one of you. Don’t you fancy a long sea voyage to escape this heat?”
“A long sea voyage? To where?”
“To New Carthage, of course, to relieve Gaius Memmius.”
“Father, you are absolutely beyond a doubt brilliant!”
And that, reflected the Piglet as he drew his son into the shade of the command tent, was every bit as thrilling to hear as the rousing volley of cheers and the shouts of “Imperator!” with which his army had greeted him after the battle was over. He had done it! He had inflicted a decisive defeat upon Quintus Sertorius’s best general.
*
The fleet which put out from Gades was a very big one, and formidably guarded by every warship the governor could commandeer. The transports were loaded with wheat, oil, salt fish, dried meat, chickpea, wine, even salt—all intended to make sure New Carthage did not starve because of the Contestani blockade from land and the pirate blockade from sea.
And having revictualed New Carthage, Metellus Pius loaded Gaius Memmius’s legion aboard the empty transports, then sailed at a leisurely pace up the eastern coast of Nearer Spain, amused to see the pirate craft his fleet encountered scuttle out of the way. The pirates may have defeated Gaius Cotta in a fleet—to—fleet engagement several years before in these same waters, but they had little appetite for salt Piglet.
The Piglet was going, of course—exemplary Roman nobleman that he was—to deliver Gaius Memmius and the legion to Pompey in Emporiae: and if he was also going to crow a little and to be just a trifle too sympathetic about Pompey’s ignominious summer in the field, well… The Piglet considered Pompey owed him that for trying to steal his thunder.
Just after the fleet passed the great pirate stronghold of Dianium it put in to a deserted cove to anchor for the night; a small boat came stealing out of Dianium and made for the Roman ships. In it was the younger Balbus, full of news.
“Oh, how good it is to be back among friends!” he said in his soft, lisping Latin to Metellus Pius, Metellus Scipio and Gaius Memmius (not to mention his uncle, very pleased to see him safe and well).
“I take it that you didn’t manage to make contact with my colleague Gnaeus Pompeius,” said Metellus Pius.
“No, Quintus Caecilius. I got no further than Dianium. The whole coast from the mouth of the Sucro to the Tader is just boiling with Sertorius’s men, and I look too much like a man of Gades—I would have been captured and tortured for sure. In Dianium there are many Punic-looking fellows, however, so I thought it wiser to lie low there and hear whatever I could hear.”
“And what did you hear, Balbus Minor?”
“Oh, I not only heard! I also saw! Something extremely interesting,” said Balbus the nephew, eyes shining. “Not two market intervals ago a fleet sailed in. It had come all the way from Pontus, and it belonged to King Mithridates.”
The Romans tensed, leaned forward.
“Go on,” said Metellus Pius softly.
“On board the flagship were two envoys from the King, both Roman deserters—I think they had been legates commanding some of Fimbria’s troops. Lucius Magius and Lucius Fannius.”
“I’ve seen their names,” said Metellus Pius, “on Sulla’s proscription lists.”
“They had come to offer Quintus Sertorius—he arrived in person to confer with them four days after they sailed in—three thousand talents of gold and forty big warships.”
“What was the price?’’ growled Gaius Memmius.
“That when Quintus Sertorius becomes the Dictator of Rome, he confirms Mithridates in all the possessions he already has and allows him to expand his kingdom further.”
“When Sertorius is Dictator of Rome?” gasped Metellus Scipio, staggered. “That will never happen!”
“Be quiet, my son! Let the good Balbus Minor continue,” said his father, who kept his own outrage concealed.
“Quintus Sertorius agreed to the King’s terms, with one proviso—that Asia Province and Cilicia remain Rome’s.”
“How did Magius and Fannius take that?”
“Very well, according to my source. I suppose they expected it, as Rome is not to lose any of her provinces. They consented on the King’s behalf, though they said the King would have to hear from them in person before confirming it formally.”
“Is the Pontic fleet still in Dianium?”
“No, Quintus Caecilius. It stayed only nine days, then it sailed away again.”
“Did any gold or ships change hands?’’
“Not yet. In the spring. However, Quintus Sertorius did send the King evidence of his good faith.”
“In what form?”
“He presented the King with a full century of crack Spanish guerrilla troops under the command of Marcus Marius, a young man he esteems highly.”
The Piglet frowned. “Marcus Marius! Who is he?”
“An illegitimate son of Gaius Marius got on a woman of the Baeturi when he was governor propraetore of the F
urther province forty-eight years ago.”
“Then this Marcus Marius is not so young,” said Gaius Memmius.
“True. I am sorry, I misled you.” Balbus looked abject.
“Ye gods, man, it’s not a prosecutable offense!” said the Piglet, amused. “Go on, go on!”
“Marcus Marius has never left Spain. Though he speaks good Latin and was properly educated—Gaius Marius knew of him, and had left him well provided for—his inclinations are toward the Spanish barbarian cause. He has been, as a matter of fact, Quintus Sertorius’s most successful guerrilla commander—he specializes in the guerrilla attack.”
“So Sertorius has sent him off to teach Mithridates how to ambush and raid,” said Metellus Scipio. “Thank you, Sertorius!”
“And will the money and ships be delivered to Dianium?” asked Metellus Pius.
“Yes. In the spring, as I have said.”
This amazing piece of news provided food for thought and for Metellus Pius’s pen all the way to Emporiae. Somehow he had never considered that Sertorius’s ambitions extended further than setting himself up as a Romanized King of All Spain; his cause had seemed absolutely inseparable from the native Spanish cause.
“But,” he said to Pompey when he reached Emporiae, “I think it’s high time we looked at Quintus Sertorius more closely. The conquest of Spain is only his first step. Unless you and I can stop him, he’s going to arrive on Rome’s doorstep with his nice white diadem all ready to tie round his head. King of Rome! And ally of Mithridates and Tigranes.”
After all that purring anticipation, it had not proven possible for Metellus Pius to twist his own thin knife in Pompey’s glaringly obvious wounds. He had taken one look at the erstwhile Kid Butcher’s empty face and empty eyes and understood that instead of reminding him of his shortcomings, he would have to subject him to extensive spiritual and mental repairs. Numidicus the father would have said that his own honor demanded that the knife be twisted anyway, but Pius the son had lived too long in his father’s shadow to have quite such a rarefied idea of his honor.
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