Before he left, Lucius cast one look at Antony, who was still conversing with the distracted eunuch. The general caught his gaze and smiled back at him, but the earlier twinkle of merriment was now gone from Antony’s eyes. The smile was artificial and the eye malevolent, as it had looked years ago when Lucius crossed ways with him in Gaul.
Two days later, Lucius and Marcellus stood on the wharf in Brundisium Harbor waiting to board the galley that would carry them on the day-long journey across the sea to the Epirus shore.
"It should be a simple thing, Centurion." The legate assumed a stalwart tone, but it was a poor attempt to hide the trepidation he still felt. "Just over there, and then a day's ride, perhaps two."
The seemingly nerve-wracked Marcellus was garrulous, as if he still needed further convincing to go through with the mission. It made Lucius curious enough to probe.
"Quite a few ships fitting out for this, sir," Lucius said, gesturing at the activity in the harbor, where four dozen vessels of varying size were being loaded to the gills with troops, pack animals, and equipment – four cohorts from the Thirteenth Legion.
"Oh, they are not part of this," Marcellus was quick to say. "General Antony wishes to reinforce Caesar as soon as practicable. We are merely along for the ride."
More likely, Lucius thought, Antony needed a good story in case this venture went awry. Lucius surmised that Caesar knew nothing about it, and Antony was playing a dangerous game, using the pretense of sending a resupply convoy just to deliver his private message to ...who? Jupiter only knew. Was he in communication with the Senate-in-exile? The message had not been written down and had existed only in Marcellus’s head.
Now, only a day later, Marcellus was dead. And now, the message Marcellus had been entrusted with lived only in Lucius’s head. As Lucius pulled and pushed on the oar, his brute strength added to that of four hundred others to thrust the Argonaut along on the dark sea, he pondered the meaning of the words Marcellus had whispered in his final breaths. In those last moments, the legate had revealed two items, one of which was perfectly logical, and the other perfectly meaningless, but Lucius was certain that neither had been mere gibberish brought on by loss of blood.
“I rejoice… at this change of events, Centurion,” Marcellus had said between lips painted red, as the gore-covered Lucius had knelt beside him on the corpse-laden deck. The legate had struggled to talk with the Greek captain’s javelin buried in his chest. “You are an upright soldier, Centurion, and I did not wish any harm to come to you… Upon my life, I did not… Forgive me, will you?”
Lucius had held the legate’s head in his bloody hands, hoping to glean more before the observers on the Optimates flagship had a chance to interfere. “Say on, sir.”
“Antony is a traitor… I leave it to you to carry my message… to whomever you deem worthy of it.”
“What message, sir?”
“Basada on the Ides, Centurion,” Marcellus strained to whisper.
Lucius leaned in closer, unsure that he had heard the words correctly. “I’m sorry, sir. What did you say?”
“Basada on the Ides,” he whispered again. “Tell him that, Centurion... Tell him.”
“Tell who, sir? To whom do I give this message?”
“The Raven.”
Marcellus smiled at the confused expression on Lucius’s face, and then violently coughed up a mixture of blood and saliva before his eyes rested on Lucius again. “Do not be deceived… Antony bears you ill will... You are a mighty warrior, my young friend. You have fought so valiantly to protect me today... but that is not the reason you were chosen for this task.”
“What was the reason?” Lucius demanded hurriedly, seeing that the legate was slipping away. He wanted to grab Marcellus and shake him, but he was afraid such an act might send the legate to the afterlife sooner. “And what is this Raven you speak of?”
“I bore instructions… to have you slain… once we reached Epirus... forgive me, Centurion... forgive me…”
The legate had said no more. His next breath had been his last, his hollow eyes staring into Lucius’s as one who had just touched another in a game of tag.
Lucius was not shocked to learn that Antony had wanted him dead. The bastard had been acting too amiable, considering their past. Years ago, Lucius had saved a Gallic slave girl from becoming another of the lecherous general’s conquests. The incident had caused Antony some embarrassment under the eyes of Caesar, and though Antony had never exhibited any outward signs of hatred toward Lucius over the slight, rumors had reached Lucius’s ears more than once that the general, in his drunker moments, cursed Lucius’s name. Lucius was only surprised that Antony had chosen to get his retribution now, in such an elaborate manner, and as a sideshow to what appeared to be an intrigue of much larger proportions.
Antony was clearly communicating with someone in Greece, but what exactly did Marcellus mean when he said that Antony was a traitor? Had he been referring to the plot against Lucius, or something much larger? A betrayal of Caesar, perhaps? Who, or what, was this Raven who waited in Epirus for the message Basada on the Ides? Lucius had never heard of any man that went by such a name.
After the storm, when Marcellus had lain sick in his hammock from the tossing seas, he had summoned Lucius and had given him a brightly-colored orange pennant which he instructed Lucius to have run up the transport’s mast. Lucius had complied, and had given the confused captain the same explanation Marcellus had given him, that the flag would ensure them safe passage should they run into any Optimates ships. Evidently, it had not worked. Whatever agreement Marcellus believed existed had not been communicated to the ships that had captured the transport. That was why Lucius had bristled when the naval officer in the blue cloak, the one who called himself Libo, took such an interest in him. There was something there, and Lucius suspected this Libo knew the significance of the orange flag, and thus something of the message Lucius carried in his mind. Was the message intended for him? Was he the one called the Raven? Perhaps, had this Libo succeeded in taking Lucius aboard his own ship, Lucius might have used the message to bargain for his freedom.
Barca’s whip cracked somewhere down the line again, followed immediately by a shriek of pain, stirring Lucius from his contemplation. His straining back and shoulder muscles returned to the forefront of his thoughts. With each stroke he muttered the name of Antony under his breath, swearing that, should he ever gain his freedom, he would see to it that the mule’s arse got what was coming to him. But for now, he would remain under the vigilant eye of the devilish overseer, one of hundreds doomed to stroke and pull, stroke and pull, stroke and pull the mad admiral’s flagship across the sea.
VII
With the Argonaut at its head, the fleet had pulled back out to sea, hoping to catch the next armada of transports attempting to reinforce Caesar. Libo’s two squadrons had pulled away and disappeared over the blue horizon to the south, on their way to the Ionian Sea in search of the Rhodian fleet.
For Admiral Bibulus aboard the Argonaut, the days were long and the sea empty, as if his fleet alone inhabited the world. As expected, his captains and squadron commanders made many requests for victualing and watering. All were curtly refused and the fleet pushed even harder to stay on station.
Men had already begun to die from disease and malnutrition. The slaves, with their cramped quarters and dismal conditions, were always the first to suffer from such shortages. Twelve on the Argonaut alone had already succumbed and had been cast over the side. Bibulus displayed no feeling for these losses, either emotional or logistical. He himself refused his own daily ration on many occasions, often imbibing only half of his daily water, to prove to the crew that any deprivation they suffered, he suffered, too. But nourishment of a different sort drove Bibulus on, in spite of the pangs in his belly and the cracks in his dry lips. Self-validation, proving to himself that he was Caesar’s superior, was more important to him than life itself, and it gave him an artificial impetus not enjoyed by the o
thers.
Bibulus found himself more detached from his men with each passing day, including his own staff, who had learned to give him free-reign of the stern deck and not to approach unless called for. He had flown into a rage on more than one occasion at the merest suggestion that the fleet be rested, nearly choking to death one lieutenant after the young man had taken an observation on a nearby point of land and had announced that the fleet was off of her expected position by more than ten miles. The admiral wished to hear no other news than that the enemy's vessels had been sighted, and he grew more and more convinced with each passing day that his officers were plotting his downfall.
Did they not understand? Bibulus often wondered as he strolled the deck. Caesar must be defeated at all costs. The gods demanded his blood, for he was a demon, a curse on the Roman world, and he must be killed to preserve it. Could they not see? Nothing else mattered, not their puny lives, not his.
"Sail on the horizon, my lord!" a lookout called from Argonaut’s forward tower one clear morning as the weary fleet cruised on the southern end of its patrol area, just off the Epirus coast. "It's a small ship, sir, hugging the shore. A merchant sloop by the looks of her, a corbita, under all sails. She's pulling away from the coast now, heading directly for us. I see the standard of the Senate in her tops."
An hour later, Bibulus leaned his haggard form over the railing to look down into the sloop as it pulled alongside. He recognized the tall, round-faced, man with the gray hair who glowered up at him from the stern sheets as one Gaius Fabius Postumus, a senator belonging to a patrician family that could boast names etched into the distinguished list of consuls running back to the times of the great Scipio. The elderly Postumus was not the oldest man in the exiled Senate, but he was senior enough, and had enough auctoritas, to be chosen as their representative whenever they wished to communicate with senior field commanders. A young, dark-haired noble whom Bibulus knew to be Postumus’s adjutant stood beside the senator with documents tucked under his arm.
Bibulus nodded to them with a courteous smile, though he inwardly loathed their presence here. What business did the Senate have meddling in his affairs? He was the admiral of the fleet, just as Pompey was the general of the army, and he resented any such oversight. They came to him as if he were an errant schoolboy that needed to be nudged in the right direction. Damn them!
“Greetings, Marcus,” Postumus said cordially, as he ascended the ladder to the flagship’s main deck, followed by his aide and one other – a bald slave that wore a green tunic and appeared to serve no function other than to protect the senator, judging by the short, curved sword sheathed at his belt.
“Good morning, Senator Postumus,” Bibulus returned, with equal geniality. “What an honor to receive such distinguished guests this far out at sea.”
“Yes, Admiral, far out at sea, indeed. We suffered no small inconvenience finding you. We are fortunate to have caught up with you at all. Your fleet hardly remains in one place long enough for our scouts ashore to report on your whereabouts.”
“By design, my dear Senator,” Bibulus replied suspiciously, detecting the sarcasm in the old senator’s tone. “Such swift movements prove equally confusing to our enemy. I have sworn to keep any reinforcements from reaching that despicable tyrant Caesar, and that is precisely what I intend to do.”
Postumus seemed unimpressed by this. “One might also conclude that you were more concerned with evading your minders than with finding the enemy.”
Bibulus shot a scowl at the old man. He had never liked Postumus. The elderly senator had been one of those so overly critical of him during his shared consulship with Caesar, even going so far as to call him a coward for avoiding the forum. Postumus was like all the others, all born sipping from the golden cup and ever regarding him as their inferior in mind and station. And Bibulus had other reasons, too, for hating Postumus.
“We are diligent, Senator,” he finally managed to say through gritted teeth. “We aim to stop the tyrant’s ships from getting through, not to hang on every beck and call of the Senate-in-exile.” He emphasized the last word as if to remind Postumus that he and the rest of his pompous friends really had no power at all. They constituted a body of outcasts who no longer held any station in life, as long as Caesar retained control of Rome.
“We are glad to hear it,” Postumus replied insincerely. “For we would not want the fleet to repeat its earlier misfortune, when it was caught napping and let the tyrant’s ships through unscathed.”
“Perhaps, had the Senate-in-exile taken a few moments away from the comfort of their Greek villas, and had apportioned some of their abundant cuisine to the fleet, instead of to their own servants and the idling army, the fleet might have been at sea instead of in Corcyra napping, as you so erroneously claim!”
“Gentlemen, please!” Postumus’s young adjutant spoke up, stepping between them just as Postumus was about to retort with what certainly would have been a venomous reply.
Bibulus could not place the adjutant’s name, but he could not remember a time when the young man was not by the senator’s side, and had seen him oftentimes interjecting himself into Postumus’s conversations, as if his sole purpose was to stand ready as the voice of reason to offset the senator’s short temper. He had the polished disposition and intelligent features of one who had mingled among the circles of Rome’s political elite for most of his life, and although there were flecks of gray in his black hair, Bibulus guessed he could scarcely be over thirty years of age.
“It serves little purpose to bicker in this fashion, gentlemen,” the young man said agreeably. “And, Senator, please forgive me if I remind you that we have important business with the admiral that requires immediate attention.”
“Yes, yes. Quite right, Flavius,” Postumus said, then glancing at Bibulus, made the introduction. “I believe you know my aide, Gallio Flavius Albinus.”
“Yes, indeed. I am pleased to see you again, Flavius.”
“No less than I am to see you, my lord.” Flavius then gestured down at the sloop where several men waited at the base of the ladder amongst a vast number of sacks and amphorae. “We have brought nourishment with us, Admiral. Smoked meats, bread, nuts and figs, wine and garum. May we bring it aboard, and would you honor the senator as his guest as we feast in your cabin?”
“It appears you have enough to supply several feasts, young man.” Bibulus said, examining the plentiful cargo.
“Please forgive the supposition, my lord, but the senator did not want to impose on you, knowing the state of your own stores.”
Bibulus could nearly feel the gaunt faces of the Argonaut’s crew glaring at him. Was it his imagination, or had a hush suddenly descended on the deck? Perhaps his men waited to hear if he would accept the invitation while they continued to cope with quarter rations.
“You may indeed bring it aboard, Flavius,” he finally said. “Argonaut’s captain will see that the hoist is rigged out for you. But do not take it to my quarters. It serves our cause better if it goes to my crew. It shall all be laid out here on deck, and the captain shall then select forty of his best men to fill their bellies. While they are enjoying your most generous gift, we shall retire to my cabin.”
This drew a look of brief puzzlement from the aide and an annoyed sigh from the senator, who had obviously been looking forward to the meal. The crew, however, instantly put more vigor in their work, each man hoping that he might be chosen as one of the forty.
“As you wish, my lord,” Flavius shrugged, and then motioned for the men below to do as the admiral had directed.
Not long after, Postumus and Flavius sat in Bibulus’s quarters, sipping the admiral’s diluted wine and watching with disgust as he fed a handful of nuts to the caged Odulph, who belched after noisily chewing and swallowing each one. A shaft of sunlight cut across the room from the leeward portal, as if to act as a symbolic division between the admiral and his guests.
“I assure you, gentlemen, this fleet is ready to
thwart any crossing,” Bibulus said, relishing the knowledge that Postumus sat there hungry while his sailors outside feasted. “To any man who claims otherwise, I point to our recent victory. The Senate did receive word of it by now, I assume? I sent a packet with the glorious news in my last dispatch.”
“Yes, indeed we did,” Postumus replied stiffly.
“Then perhaps you bring with you a commendation from the Senate? Perhaps that is the reason for your presence here? It certainly is warranted, I –”
“How presumptuous you are, Admiral,” Postumus interrupted curtly. “Of course, we have brought no such thing. You have our thanks, and that of the rest of the Senate, for doing your duty as any commander would, but we are here for other reasons, as you must well know.”
Bibulus seethed inwardly, wishing to have the arrogant buffoon thrown to the sharks for minimizing his victory, but he bit his tongue and continued tossing almonds to Odulph. Bibulus made himself take a deep breath before he spoke again. “Was the report not clear, Senator? Did you not read that thirty-one of the tyrant’s vessels now lie on the sea floor, and this without a single loss of our own?”
“The report was clear enough on that account, my lord,” Flavius said guardedly. “Unfortunately, the senator found it – shall we say – lacking in other areas.”
“Such as?”
“You included the tally of ships destroyed, but you failed to provide any details about them. Nowhere did you mention the types of vessels, nor any particularities, such as their names, their markings, and so on. You do understand why such details are important to us, do you not?”
“They were all burned. I am too busy to distract myself with such notions. Let Neptune sort them, eh? I only wish to sink them.”
Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 8