The flagship of the pursuing squadron was a swift quinquereme of three banks of oars, called the Remus. She cruised near the center of the formation, where her signals might be seen by her companions, and where she might see theirs.
“Aurora and Pluto are signaling, commodore,” the first mate reported, as he leaned out over the Remus’s salt-encrusted foredeck rail and strained his eyes to make out the colored flags waving from the two warships that had just completed the kill. “They wish to know if they should pick up survivors.”
“Tell them, no.” The reply came from a bearded, helmetless Roman officer also standing by the rail. He was wrapped in a blue cloak stained with the salt spray of countless sea voyages. The wind periodically separated the weathered draping, affording a glimpse of the bronze corselet and leather sword belt adorning the sturdy, lean frame beneath. “There is enough driftwood around to keep the stouter ones alive. The tide is in their favor. There is a chance they might gain the shore. We must be after the other transports. Not one must be allowed to escape. Signal the squadron to continue the chase.”
“Yes, commodore,” the mate answered, and then relayed the orders to the waiting signalmen.
Scribonius Libo was forty-two years old. He was the commodore – or navarchus – of Aquila Squadron, the twenty-two warships whose bows now crashed through the rollers in pursuit of the fleeing pair of transports. He watched with approval as his warships surged forward, quickly regaining momentum, their synchronized banks of oars digging into the sea, each crew striving to be the fastest before the watchful eyes of their commander. It never ceased to amaze Libo, the level of devotion his captains exhibited towards him, and he was often humbled by it. Just over a year ago, when his captains had met him for the first time, they had greeted him icily, each concluding that his family name had secured for him the position coveted by them all. But they had soon changed their opinions, once they learned that their new commander was no novice, and that there was much more to him than a family pedigree. His mastery of seamanship, his proficiency at naval tactics, his composure as a leader – not to mention a string of victories – had quickly won them over. More important than his naval prowess, Libo was considered by most to be an honest man, and such a man was attractive to all political factions when selecting military commanders.
The seven hundred sailors, two thousand marines, and six thousand oarsmen that manned Aquila Squadron were the best in the Roman fleet. It was not a boast, it was simply the truth. For what other squadron had, in a matter of months, managed to hunt down and destroy every last ship in the East that had gone over to the side of Gaius Julius Caesar? What other Optimates force had fought and won so many battles against the pretender consul? Libo freely admitted that the one-sided nature of his squadron’s victories had a great deal to do with their superior numbers – but they were victories, nonetheless, and victories needed to be celebrated – for they had been too few of late.
Gaius Julius Caesar – that tyrant who called himself a legitimately elected consul, but who in actuality was a self-appointed dictator – had decided the great empire of Rome, which had taken so many wars and so many generations to mold, did not belong to the Senate and the people, but to himself. In a matter of months, Caesar had taken all of Italy, and then Spain. The Greek provinces were the next morsels marked for consumption to placate his ravenous appetite for power.
He had to be stopped. He would be stopped. And now, perhaps, the opportunity had come at last.
Caesar, in his brashness, had done the unthinkable. Lacking an adequate number of transports, he had divided his army and had crossed over from Italy to Greece with only half of his force – seven understrength legions. It was an arrogant, reckless, and foolish maneuver, and one on which Pompey and the exiled Senate hoped to capitalize. Caesar could not risk facing Pompey’s army with a mere seven legions, and so he must wait for his troops still in Italy to arrive before being drawn into battle. If Pompey could strike Caesar before those reinforcements arrived, the war would be won. Thus, Admiral Bibulus, the supreme commander of the Optimates fleet, had ordered his squadrons to seal off the coast of Greece. They were to prevent any transports from getting through, and buy Pompey the precious time he needed.
Now, the fleet had been at sea for nigh on six weeks, braving one winter storm after another, losing more men to disease and the elements than to the enemy. The ships were in dire need of an overhaul, their leaking seams admitting nearly as much water as their pumps could return to the sea. But Caesar’s first landing had taken Admiral Bibulus off his guard, and Bibulus was bound and determined not to suffer another such embarrassment. He drove his ships incessantly, from the Ionian to the Adriatic and back again, dealing severely with any captain that did not keep perfect station, and delving out punishment for the slightest protests from the crews.
Libo tried not to think of that as he watched the pursuit. The two remaining transports were making good progress, considering the damage they had suffered. One was large, and of Rhodian make. The other was smaller, probably of Athenian origin. The Caesarians had taken to hiring just about anything they could in recent days, and the quality of some of their ships often left something to be desired. There was nothing particular about the smaller vessel to catch Libo’s eye, but there was something about the larger vessel – something that seemed quite out of place. A long, orange banner streamed in wavy curves from the top of the one surviving mast. The rest of the ship was in tatters, but this pennant stood out bright and clear, seemingly without a single tear or blemish, as if it had been taken out and run up for just this occasion.
What could it signify? Was there someone important aboard, perhaps?
“What do you make of that flag?” Libo finally asked the mate.
The sea officer shrugged. “I do not know, sir. I have never seen it before. It’s a signal of some kind, for certain, but it must be particular to the Caesarian filth.”
Libo considered that that was probably true. Caesar had taken it upon himself to rewrite the laws of the land. Why not the laws of the sea as well? The traditions that had worked so well for so many generations of Romans had not been good enough for Caesar – neither had two consulships, nor an unprecedented tenure as the governor of three provinces. And what had Caesar done as governor of Gaul? Waged wars in the name of Rome. Slaughtered and enslaved peoples that had never raised a finger against her. Garnered more and more support from powerful barbarian tribes by helping to annihilate their longstanding foes. It had made for stirring accounts to be read out in the forum, but all that Caesar had done was so far from the will of the Senate.
Now, as Libo’s ships pursued the transports whose decks teemed with legionaries loyal to the dictator, he wondered how so many fools could be convinced to follow the delusions of such a man. Of course, he knew the answer. Rumor had it that Caesar had sacked Rome’s treasury reserves to fund his war of take-over. All of these so-called Romans that now marched in Caesar’s army were in actuality nothing more than mercenaries. Men, who were devoted to one loyalty, that of money, and who cared little who ruled Rome, as long as the exorbitant pay kept coming their way.
The thought made Libo fume inside, and any embers of sympathy still burning within him were quickly snuffed out.
“I grow weary of this chase,” he said at once. “Signal them to heave to, or they will be shown no mercy.”
The signals were sent up the masts, but no answer was returned. The oars of the two craft continued to dip and sway to the beat of the drums.
Libo sighed, and then commanded, “Make battle speed!”
The ship’s master relayed the order to the overseers, and instantly the Remus began sprinting through the water. Like a school of porpoises, her consorts mimicked her movements, keeping perfect station in two lines abreast.
“Ready catapults!” the mate ordered.
A pair of sailors lugged a pot of smoking pitch between them and cautiously doused the ready missile with the burning paste. As the dead
ly projectile smoked and threatened to set the entire engine aflame, the catapult crew made final adjustments and then waited for the command.
“Let fly!”
The straining hemp was released, and the flaming missile took to the sky. It sailed with a low trajectory toward the nearest transport, a trail of smoke marking its path. It seemed to hang in the air for a long moment before finally splashing into the sea just off the vessel’s bow. The close call stirred a new vibrancy among the transport’s rowers, the prospect of a fiery death driving them to pull with a vigor that was more in time with the panicked beating of their hearts than with the beat of the drum. This had the exact opposite effect from that which was intended, and the oars quickly fell out of rhythm. From the deck of the Remus, Libo could clearly see the pilot on the transport’s stern, shouting with mad gesticulations for his steer oarsmen to drive her straight, but there was little they could do. The transport began to answer to its stroke oars rather than its steer oars, wallowing this way and that, as a honey bee vainly struggles on the water’s surface by frantically moving its useless legs. Two more burning projectiles sizzled overhead, raising the panic on board her to a new height.
Libo could make out several soldiers on her deck. They were Roman legionaries, all Caesarian troops, bedecked in full battle regalia, evidently making ready for a boarding action. How many of them knew the futility of their preparations? How many knew that their ship would never come within a sword’s stroke of the Remus, nor any other ship in Aquila Squadron?
“Let fly!” the mate shouted again.
This time, the flaming missile did not miss. It soared over the narrowing space of water, the wind nearly extinguishing its flames. But when it crashed through the ports serving the larboard side bank of oars, leaving a jagged hole to mark its passage, the flames suddenly rekindled. Burning pitch splashed amongst the rower benches, promptly starting fires that could be seen as twinkles of orange flame through the remaining ports. Screams resounded from the belly of the transport, a crescendo of inhuman sounds as men were burned alive, as if the cry came from deep within the mammoth lungs of a giant water beast.
A high, arcing missile from one of the other warships landed amidst a crowd of legionaries in the center of the deck, instantly setting tunics, hair, and helmet plumes alight. Another struck the high prow, and then ricocheted back onto the foredeck, the burning mixture incinerating all who had stood there. Soon, more missiles hit than missed. They struck again and again, until the whole ship was ablaze from stem to stern. Such precision was unheard of in most fleets, especially when contending with tossing seas, but Libo’s squadron was different. Libo had taken special care to give his ships an advantage by placing a master of artillery on each of his vessels. They were hand-picked engine craftsmen from the east, Parthians mostly, each skilled in the delicate arts of artillery. They had come at a prodigious price – a price Libo had paid from his own purse – but their proficiency in battle had proven crucial to the squadron’s success on more than one occasion.
The burning transport’s mast now toppled, and her abandoned oars fell blazing into the sea. Blackened and naked figures ran blindly over the side, their tunics and hair burned off. Others still ablaze searched in vain for the quenching sea, but ultimately crumpled to the deck to die. Sickened by the sight, and once again feeling a thread of empathy for his foe, Libo glanced at the mate.
“Let your arrows fly,” Libo ordered. “Put the poor devils out of their misery.”
“Once shot, I cannot recover those arrows, commodore,” the mate protested. “They will be badly needed if we are to remain on station as we have for so long. Those men over there will die, either way.”
“Your point is well taken,” Libo said sullenly. “All the same, let them fly. I will not stand by and watch fellow Romans suffer in such a manner.”
The mate nodded reluctantly, and then motioned to the marine centurion on the Remus’s forecastle, where a score of archers stood with bows at the ready. Soon the bows were twanging in unison, the volleys of arrows flying in rapid succession, wave after wave, until the burning ship’s deck and structure bristled with feathers and everything was still. By the time the squadron had pulled past the transport, she was an indiscernible burning mass.
The remaining ship, seeing the fate of its consort, surrendered to the inevitable. She hove to at once, shipping her oars and running up the appropriate signals of surrender. Her captain undoubtedly hoped such an action would bring mercy.
“I’d rather not expend any more pitch on this riffraff, commodore,” the mate said, still smarting at the waste of perfectly good arrows. “Shall we ram them? Aurora and Pluto have taken a turn. Perhaps we should allow one of the other ships to have a go. It will give our boys practice, and keep their minds off their empty bellies.”
Libo said nothing, but stared out at the surrendered vessel, the orange pennant at the masthead once again catching his eye. It made him exceptionally curious, and he found himself straining his eyes to discern the figures walking about the distant deck – Greek sailors, Roman legionaries, oarsmen and slaves. Many stared back at him, but none appeared out of the ordinary. Several of the legionaries were heaving over the side, their stomachs evidently unaccustomed to the roll of the sea. Last night’s blow had been an exceptionally powerful one and would have incapacitated all but the stoutest of them.
But what in Juno’s name was the significance of that orange pennant?
Libo looked at the position of the sun. The day was running on, and he had a rendezvous to keep.
“Signal the transport to follow,” Libo said. “She is to travel in the center of our formation. Tell them, any deviation off course and they will be sunk.”
The mate was obviously unhappy with his commodore’s decision, but nodded obediently and relayed orders to the signalmen.
Soon, the transport was moving again. She took a long time to come about and move up behind the flagship, but once their prize was on station, signal flags flew, and the combined fleet made a sharp turn to the north, heading up the Greek coast under the clearing skies, leaving smoldering wreckage and floating bodies cresting and sinking amidst the waves.
III
It was approaching dusk when Libo’s squadron reached the rendezvous. A few miles north of the seaport town of Apollonia on the coast of Illyricum, where the Apsus River empties into the sea, he found one hundred warships of all size anchored by squadron. They were the main body of the Optimates fleet, and the arrival of Aquila Squadron now brought them to full complement.
The winter sun had begun to sink into the shimmering expanse, and with its imminent departure came the inevitable offshore breeze, swinging the ships landward of their moorings. The tall masts and towers, bathed in the bright orange hues of the magnified sun, cast long shadows many times their size upon the rippling water.
Libo had expected to find the fleet here. It was the agreed assembly point, and though there was no sheltered harbor, the place had not been selected at random. The admiral had chosen it carefully, and one needed only to gaze beyond the distant rollers at the green slopes climbing up from the white strand to discern the reason. The freshly erected works and innumerable tents of an army were there, stretched between the crests of the two highest hills. Though Libo clearly recognized the distant legionary banners whipping in the wind, the encamped troops were not his allies. For this was not an Optimates army.
This army belonged to Caesar.
“The flagship has signaled, sir,” the mate reported to Libo after taking the message from the signalmen. “We are to bring our prize to the leeward side of the fleet to join the others.”
“Others?”
The mate pointed out a cluster of ships that were just coming into view beyond the bulks of the larger quinqueremes. They were transports, presumably Caesarian ships like the one in the Remus’s wake.
“Looks like the other squadrons were also busy this morning,” the mate commented with raised brows.
Libo nodded in agreement. The entire fleet had been hard at work, snatching up what appeared to be more than two dozen transports, most in a wretched state. If each was filled with legionaries, as Libo surmised, then several cohorts of legionaries had been stopped from reinforcing the dictator’s army. He watched now as the transport with the orange pennant obediently steered through a small gap in the capital ships to join her comrades in the center of the clustered squadrons.
“More signals from the flagship, sir,” the mate called. “You are ordered to report aboard, forthwith.”
An instant dread overshadowed Libo at the thought of meeting with the admiral, but he knew it was unavoidable. He quickly ducked into the aft cabin to don his ornamental helmet and sword, and gather up his log records. By the time he re-emerged on deck, the ship’s launch had been hoisted over the side and awaited him below the gangway.
“Commodore?” The mate stopped him before he could descend the ladder. “If there’s any hope of provisioning, sir, I’d be most grateful if you’d bring it up with Admiral Bibulus.” The mate looked skeptically at the crew, some of whom were waving to their comrades on the other ships. “They look and act the part, sir, when you or I are on deck, but I’ve heard rumblings. They need water, and fresh meat and bread to fill their empty bellies – and good wine to keep them warm on cold nights. Some of them haven’t the strength to climb the ladder, much less fight a battle. I hate to think of what might happen were we to fight a boarding action. The oarsmen are even worse off. Neptune knows how the overseers keep them rowing.”
“I am aware of all these things, my friend,” Libo patted his shoulder. “Rest assured, that will be my first item of business, if I ever – “
Libo stopped in mid-sentence. He was about to say, “if the mad admiral lets him get a word in,” but that would have been entirely inappropriate with the listening ears of a dozen crewmen close by. Admiral Bibulus’s tendencies were becoming infamous, and much harder to keep concealed from the men. A single glance from the mate told Libo he had understood.
Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 2