Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series)

by R. Cameron Cooke

  Postumus shook his fists in frustration, veins pulsing at his temples, but he eventually turned on his heel and left.

  Libo had lied, of course. The absence of one ship would not impact the effectiveness of the blockade, but he did not believe for one moment that Postumus wished to hurry back to expose the Raven. A veil of distrust had fallen between them in the week since the battle on Basada. The senator obviously suspected Libo had something to do with Flavius’s assassination, and Libo suspected the senator of colluding with the enemy without the true authorization of the Senate. Whoever got to Thessalonica first, with the most believable story, would garner the Senate’s favor, and to that end, Libo dared not let the senator go.

  Postumus had made similar requests over the past few days and had accepted Libo’s refusals politely and professionally, evidently not wishing to appear too desperate. But today, the mask of courtesy was falling away. And now, without his aide around to keep his brutish side in check, the loutish senator was resorting to personal slurs, openly dubbing Libo a failure on the deck of his own flagship within earshot of many of the crew.

  Libo sighed, glancing once at the position of the sun. Even when considering the source, he knew there was some truth to that sobriquet. The battle, though technically a victory, had cost him one bireme, its entire crew, and several dozen marines. In exchange for these losses, he was now lord over a tiny island that had no water and about as many bird droppings as granules of sand. Regardless, he had placed a small garrison of marines there, if only as a gesture, and in the week since the battle, they had done little but stare across the water at the helmeted figures on the walls of the enemy fort.

  The fleet had also accomplished very little. It had cruised aimlessly off Brundisium, watching and waiting for a move by Antony that never came. There had been no sign of activity, either in the harbor or against the wharf. The bulk of Antony’s transports were hidden inside Brundisium’s inner harbor, and they made no appearance. The green draped treasure ships that had escaped from the island had been beached on the harbor side of the promontory, under the lee of the fort, and had not moved since the day of the battle. They had remained there, as if daring Libo to send a raiding party to capture them. Postumus had suggested that such an attempt be made, but Libo had rejected the idea, certain that the seemingly helpless craft were bait for an unseen trap. He needed only point out the charred wreck of the Faun, slowly eroding with each flood and ebb of the tide, to remind the senator of the fort’s lethality.

  It had soon become apparent to Libo that Antony had decided to wait him out, perhaps guessing, or perhaps gleaning from prisoners taken from the Faun, that Libo’s fleet was perilously short of water. There had been a few rains, and many of the ships had used canvas awnings to catch some of the precious liquid, but it had not been enough, and Libo had found himself approaching a decision point.

  He had sent ships up and down the coast to scout out inland streams, but each had been met at the shore by the menace of Antony’s cavalry who shadowed the fleet at every turn. Many of these horsemen were Gallic auxiliaries, mounted on steeds raised in Gaul that could ride fifty miles in one day, and then do it again after a night’s rest. They were numerous, and sometimes it seemed as if the whole coast were alive with the wild riders. Even when Libo sent out individual vessels, sending them as far as twenty leagues down the coast, the whooping cavalry was there, brandishing a fearsome array of long swords and lances. Libo was near the point of ordering half of the fleet to return to Corcyra – an order that would surely have pleased Postumus – when, yesterday, a welcome report had been received from his scouting vessels.

  Antony’s cavalry had disappeared. The galloping columns that had adorned the seaside hills were nowhere in sight and appeared to be entirely absent from the coast. Whatever the reason for it, Libo had decided to capitalize on the blunder. He had ordered one squadron to cover the approaches to Brundisium, while the rest of the fleet made all speed for this isolated bay in which they now lay anchored, twenty leagues to the north.

  Now, the water crisis was over, and his initiative seemed to have paid off. Still, he felt uneasy.

  The hill-lined bay seemed eerily quiet. His squadrons had been there for most of the night. Now, it was nearing midday, and still, the only activity ashore was that of his own work parties and a few farmers who curiously observed the anchored fleet from the distant heights. The enemy was nowhere to be seen.

  There had to be a reason for it. Surely, word of the fleet’s movements had reached Brundisium by now, and Antony’s cavalry should have responded. Perhaps the cavalry had been sent to quell a revolt in some other part of Italy. But Libo shook his head, resisting the urge to hang onto the optimistic assessment. All of his instincts told him that it was too easy. This stroke of good fortune was too good not to have some devilment behind it.

  He heard a woman’s voice behind him and turned to see Calpurnia giving orders to a group of slaves. The slaves passed the lady’s baggage in a long line from the stern cabin to the starboard gangway where a launch awaited her.

  “It is a pity that you must leave us, my lady,” Libo said, approaching her. “The Argonaut and her crew will miss the joy of your company.”

  “You are most kind, Admiral,” she said affectionately. “My father would have been pleased with your generosity.

  “Are you sure I cannot send one of my officers ashore with you? Especially now that your handmaid has gone missing. You still have a long journey ahead of you.”

  “That will not be necessary. I have ample money to hire transportation to Rome. I shall miss your kindness, very much.” She looked past him. “I shall not miss others.”

  Libo turned to see that she gazed upon Postumus, who leaned against the foredeck rail, facing outward and brimming with irritation as he watched the slow craft moving to and from the shore. The senator’s one surviving bodyguard stood beside him.

  “You must watch the senator closely, Admiral,” Calpurnia said fervently. “He is most dangerous now that his plans have failed. Never trust him. Never turn your back on him.”

  Libo smiled appreciatively, and was about to respond, when a hail came from the masthead.

  “Ship there, sir!” The lookout in the tops pointed, his arm stretched out black against the blue sky. “At the entrance of the bay, sir! She’s heading this way! She comes on at the battle stroke!”

  Libo looked at the mouth of the bay to see a trireme approaching the anchorage at a rapid pace, her three banks of oars dipping and falling faster than a man’s heartbeat.

  “That’s the Genius, sir,” Naevius reported. “She belongs to Ursus Squadron.”

  Ursus Squadron had been left behind to watch Brundisium, and Libo somehow knew at that moment that his fears had turned into reality, that this ship bore some ill news, and that he had made a dire mistake in bringing the fleet this far north.

  As if to confirm his suspicions, a rash of signal flags ran up the yardarm of the approaching ship.

  “The Genius is signaling, sir,” Naevius announced. “Enemy fleet at sea. Sailing in the direction of the Illyrian coast!”

  “At sea, by Jupiter!” Postumus exclaimed, suddenly beside Libo. “Is the gold aboard, man?”

  “We don’t know, Senator!” Libo snapped angrily, more frustrated with himself, than with the senator’s question. “Get the boats in, captain! Signal all squadrons to prepare for sea without delay!”

  “Aye, sir,” Naevius saluted and then began barking orders.

  As the previously peaceful deck transformed into a maelstrom of rushing sailors, Libo realized that Calpurnia was still there. He looked at her apologetically, but the admiral’s daughter seemed to understand perfectly. There would be no time to send her ashore now. Naevius would need every last hand to get the boats aboard, the oars manned, and the ship ready to sail. With a simple smile, she retired quietly to the stern cabin with her slave girls close behind.

  “My lord Admiral,” the Genius’s captain reported
somewhat nervously, after his ship hove to and he rushed across to the flagship. “My lord, Commodore Sardus sends you his respects and apologies, sir. The enemy fleet has put to sea. They drive northeast, towards the Illyrian coast under all sail!”

  “What of the treasure ships?” Postumus asked impatiently. “Are they with Antony’s fleet?”

  “Not now, Senator!” Libo retorted, then turned back to the restless captain. “Tell me what happened. Give me a full report.”

  The captain looked at him with jittery eyes. It was obvious he had pushed his crew to the limit to get here. “Today started like any other, sir. The harbor was quiet, with nothing but a lugger or two pulling across every now and again, just as it’s been every day for the last week. But then, sir, just after the third hour, it was as if the very shore had come alive. Men were running everywhere, but to what purpose we couldn’t make out. There was a flurry of activity around those beached treasure ships moored under the lee of the fort, the ones with the green canopies. Then, before we knew it, they were underway, tearing across the harbor and making for the southern channel at all speed. They were moving fast, sir, with only a handful of biremes escorting them. Since our squadron was hanging off the northern channel at the time, the commodore figured they were making a run for it, trying to slip past us while we were at the top of our circuit. He understood what you said, sir, that those ships were likely loaded with gold and that they were to be watched closely, and seized if the opportunity afforded itself. Well, when they came out of the channel, the commodore made the decision to run them down. They turned south, following the coast, and that seemed odd at first, but then we just assumed they wanted to get away from our squadron before they headed out across the open sea. We made good speed, sir, but they led us on quite a chase. When we had nearly caught up with them, they turned their prows to the shore and the whole lot ran up on the beach as if they had reconsidered the whole voyage. The crews deserted the moment the keels scraped the sand, jumping into the shallows and scrambling over the hills faster than we could count them. We thought it was our lucky day, sir, for the crews had fled and there was no enemy around to contest our seizing the prizes.”

  “Well?” Postumus demanded. “Did you secure the gold?”

  The captain cast a doubtful glance at Libo, who nodded and then closed his eyes. For Libo understood everything now and did not need to hear the rest of the story. Postumus, on the other hand, had evidently not deduced what had happened and was growing visibly annoyed at the captain’s reluctance.

  “What’s wrong, man?” the senator barked. “Can you not speak?”

  “The ships were empty, my lord,” the captain said, averting his eyes to the deck.

  “What do you mean they were empty?”

  “When we searched them, my lord, the gold wasn’t there. The enemy must have taken it off in Brundisium. They must have done it in the night, when our garrison on Basada couldn’t observe them doing it.” The captain paused momentarily, distracted by Postumus who stared off into space as a man who had just heard that his house had burned down with all of his possessions in it. “Of course, we realized we had been duped, and beat a quick passage back to Brundisium, but only just in time to see the last ships of Antony’s fleet leaving the harbor under all sails bound for Illyricum.”

  “How many ships?” Libo asked, forcing himself to retain his composure.

  “At least sixty or seventy, sir. Transports of every size, stretching out over the horizon. There were a few warships among them, bringing up the rear. Enough to keep us at arms’ length. The commodore dispatched me here with the news, and I nearly killed my oarsmen getting here.”

  “Thank you, captain,” Libo said calmly. “Return to your ship and prepare to get underway with the rest of the fleet.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  As the captain marched off, Postumus turned to Libo with a look of disgust.

  “Antony’s legions are at sea, Admiral! No doubt, the treasury is, too! Never in my career have I encountered such complete and utter incompetence! You can believe that when I return to Thessalonica, I will tell the Senate –“

  “Tell them anything you like, Senator!” Libo interrupted. “Tell them if perhaps I’d had another squadron here, it would have made the difference! Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

  Libo stormed off, feeling Postumus’s piercing eyes on his back as he descended the hatchway. Libo inwardly cursed himself at playing directly into Antony’s hands. He also found himself cursing Lucius Domitius, for if that bastard of a centurion had not betrayed him, none of this would have happened. A glimpse of a thought came to his mind – the thought that Lucius might not have died aboard the Faun, that the treacherous centurion might have made his way to Antony, and might have been the one to inform Antony of the fleet’s dire need of water. Could it be that Lucius was responsible for this whole turn of events?

  By the time Libo reached his quarters and stretched a chart of the Illyrian coast across his desk, he had banished all such ridiculous thoughts from his mind. For he needed to think clearly now.

  He had a fleet to catch.

  XXXI

  It was a motley armada, Marc Antony considered as he studied the ragged column of ships stretching off for miles in both directions. He stood atop the swaying arrow tower of his flagship, the Vulcan, an aging quinquereme left over from the days of the Cilician pirates. He was surrounded by his advisors and legates, all bedecked in field armor, all watching with nervous eagerness as the fragile fleet negotiated the pitching seas, driving north along the rocky coast of Illyricum.

  “Wind’s holding steady, sir!” the Vulcan’s captain called up to him from the main deck, as if to reassure him that the breakers, clearly visible only a few miles off the starboard beam, would not present a threat.

  The Vulcan rode near the center of the convoy, where Antony had a good view of the ships ahead and astern, each one brimming with men and beasts. He had been keeping a mental note of which vessels also contained a portion of the thirty million sesterces from the aerarium. He had personally selected those vessels for their seaworthiness, and so far, all had made it across the Adriatic unscathed.

  He still marveled at the odd turn of events that had put him here, only a few miles from his final destination and the attainment of his ultimate objective – to be the sole ruler of Rome.

  One week ago, such dreams had seemed hopeless and lost. Postumus’s treachery on Basada had nearly scuppered his plans. The double-dealing old bastard had played him for a fool, and had nearly managed to kill him and make off with the treasury gold. The betrayal had enraged Antony, not because his own force on the island had been annihilated, but because he had sincerely led himself to believe that his agreement with the Raven was genuine, and that the shadowy leader of Rome’s underworld truly intended to designate him imperator of all Roman armies, making him the de facto ruler of the empire.

  After the disastrous battle for Basada, from which Antony had only just managed to escape with his life, he had gone straight to his headquarters in Brundisium, retiring to his chamber to stew for several long hours. He lost himself in a bottle of wine while wracking his brain for some way in which he would explain his dawdling to Caesar, should Caesar defeat Pompey, and, conversely, how he might excuse his allegiance to Caesar should Pompey and the Senate prevail. He fell into a dark, angry mood, and by the time sleep overcame him he had considered abandoning the army, Caesar, Rome, Italy – everything – not by committing suicide, but by fleeing over the Alps to disappear among the barbarian tribes of the north.

  Then, the next morning, after summoning his legates and the eunuch Orestes to begin mapping out a new plan, forcing himself to once again play the part of Caesar’s loyal lieutenant, everything suddenly changed.

  “Forgive me, General.” One of his guards interrupted the bleak consultation. "But a man and a woman are outside craving to be admitted. The man claims to be a centurion of the Tenth Legion, one Luc
ius Domitius.”

  Antony shot a panicked look at Orestes, who seemed just as perplexed by the news.

  “Allow him to enter,” Antony said after a few moments pause, and then smiled politely to the assembled legates. “Let us have a recess, gentlemen. Go fill your cups, while I hear what this mule turd wants to say.”

  The confused legates filed out of the room, leaving Antony and Orestes alone to receive the two visitors. A very drenched and very tired looking Lucius Domitius entered with a woman who was just as bedraggled. While the sight of Lucius shocked Antony, for the simple reason that he had given express orders to Marcellus to have the centurion killed once they reached Greece, it was nothing compared to his astonishment when he realized the woman was the Raven’s agent whom he had received four weeks ago, and who had delivered the message that had started this whole affair.

  “Your presence here surprises me, Lucius,” Antony said with forced joviality.

  “I’m sure it does, sir,” the centurion replied.

  Antony could not decipher whether the centurion’s manner was courteous or canny, but he continued to pretend that he was pleased to see him.

  “I’m shocked by your presence, Lucius, and your dreadful condition. Juno’s tight arse, man, you smell like a fish market! Where in Neptune’s dark crevice did you come from? And what are you doing with this strumpet?”

  “I believe you know this woman, sir.”

  “Indeed I do,” Antony replied, eyeing her narrowly. “And I am grateful to you, Lucius, for bringing her to me. She is a deceitful little witch who deserves nothing less than the poena cullei.” He glanced at the eunuch, then back at the woman sinisterly. “What say you Orestes? Shall we sew her up in the sack with a viper? No, that would be too quick. Perhaps we can get our hands on that rabid monkey you pointed out in the market the other day. Of course, we’ll let the auxiliaries have their way with her first.”

  Orestes nodded his concurrence but said nothing. Antony noticed that the eunuch seemed oddly uncomfortable in the presence of the other two. He dismissed it, knowing well that Orestes was a social idiot and tended only to impart his thoughts when discussing matters of state and strategy.