Tiro sailed parallel to the wall, heading for the quay. The pursuers likewise turned and sailed parallel to us, keeping their distance, trying to edge close enough to shoot us with their arrows without being shot themselves by the archers on the wall. I lay back and crouched as low in the boat as I could, not only to avoid arrows but to give Tiro room to move as he struggled with the sail.
I heard a scream from the other boat and saw that one of the archers had been struck by an arrow in his shoulder. He lost his balance and fell into the water. I hoped our pursuers would turn about, but they left the man’s rescue to the boat that followed behind them.
We drew closer and closer to the port. A crowd had gathered on the quay to watch, cheering like spectators at a race. Gazing up from the bottom of the boat, I caught glimpses of the archers who trotted along the parapet, keeping up with us. They hooted and laughed whenever they paused to notch an arrow, take aim, and fire. They were above harm, in no danger of return fire from our pursuers. To them the exchange was a lark, a diversion. How different it felt to me, hunkering down in the boat, watching arrows fly overhead.
A hornet’s buzz was followed by a splintering crash, and I felt something tickle my nostrils. An arrow had pierced the side of our boat and stopped just short of splicing my nose.
Suddenly the skiff gave a lurch. We abruptly slowed and angled about. My first thought was that Tiro had been struck and had lost control of the sail, but he was still upright, almost on top of me. Then I saw Fortex. He still gripped the oars, his knuckles fish-belly white, but he had stopped rowing. His eyes were open. His lips trembled as if he wanted to speak, but all that emerged from his mouth was a bloody cough. An arrow had pierced his neck clear through. The metal point protruded from one side, the feathered shaft from the other.
Tiro was frantically working the sail and unable to see what had happened. ‘Row, Fortex!’ he yelled. ‘Row, damn you!’ The oars, dipped in the water and held rigidly in place by Fortex’s grip, acted as rudders, causing us to spin. Tiro cursed. A moment later the boat struck something with an impact that rattled my teeth. Tiro tumbled overboard. The splash stung my eyes and sent cold water up my nostrils.
I heard cheering, and realized it was the quay we had struck. I blinked and peered over the bow. Our pursuers had kept up the chase until the last possible moment. Now they turned about and headed back. A final, double volley of arrows followed after them, as the archers on the wall were joined by more archers firing from the quay.
I had reached the port of Brundisium, unscathed.
XX
Everyone in the crowd around us seemed to have an opinion.
‘He’ll probably die if you pull out that arrow.’
‘He’ll die for sure if you leave it in!’
‘Are you certain he’s still alive?’
Fortex lay flat on his back on the boardwalk, his eyes open and unblinking, his beard thickly matted with coughed-up blood. More blood coated the shaft of the arrow protruding from either side of his neck. His body was absolutely rigid, every muscle quivering with tension. His fingers remained curled in a white-knuckled grip. It had been a struggle to pry them from the oars. It had been a greater struggle to lift him out of the boat and onto the quay. The front of the tunic was smeared with blood.
I stood at his feet, gazing down, unable to take my eyes off him. Tiro stood beside me, shivering and soaking wet.
‘What do you think, Gordianus?’
‘He’s your man, Tiro.’ We were in Pompey’s domain now. I saw no point in maintaining the charade that Tiro was my slave.
Tiro replied in a whisper, his teeth chattering. ‘The merciful thing might be to put him out of his misery.’
Fortex gave no sign that he heard. His wide-open eyes stared up at heaven. The tension in his body was excruciating to witness, as if every muscle were defiantly clenched. Was it fear, or bravery, or simple animal instinct that caused him to hold on so desperately to life?
We had called for a physician, but none had come. I looked at the arrow and wondered what we should do about it. If we cut off one end, the shaft could be removed. But would that only cause more bleeding? Perhaps the arrow was the only thing preventing his jugulars from spurting fountains of blood onto the boardwalk.
It was impossible to watch him quivering in silent agony and do nothing. I made up my mind to remove the arrow. I reached for my dagger. I gritted my teeth, trying not to envision the mess I might make of it.
Before I could move, the crisis ended. The tension in Fortex’s body abruptly subsided. His fingers uncurled. His eyes rolled upward. A sigh escaped his lips, like a low note from a flute. He crossed his own Rubicon and departed for the River Styx.
The crowd relaxed with a collective murmur of relief. People went about their business. A living man with an arrow through his neck was something to see. A dead man was not.
‘Funny,’ said Tiro, ‘how sometimes a man lives precisely as long as he needs to, and no more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Fortex. It was his task to get me safely to Pompey. If he’d been shot a minute sooner, we’d never have made it to the quay. You and I would have died in the boat with him. Instead it happened just so, and here we are. As if the gods decreed it.’
‘You believe every man has a destiny, then? Even slaves?’
Tiro shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Great men have a destiny. Perhaps the rest of us have one only insofar as we cross their paths and play a part in their destinies.’
‘Is that what makes you so brave, Tiro? Belief in destiny?’
‘Brave?’
‘On the mountain, facing Otacilius. In Antony’s camp. In Caesar’s tent. In the boat, standing up to work the sail, with arrows whizzing past your nose.’
Tiro shrugged. I looked past him, to the gates that opened from the boardwalk into the city. A determined-looking centurion and a company of soldiers were marching directly towards us.
‘This journey we’ve taken together, Tiro – did I facilitate your destiny, or did you facilitate mine?’
‘It would seem to have been mutual.’
‘And the role of Fortex was simply to get us here?’
‘What else?’
‘I wonder if Fortex would have seen it that way. What about that nameless wagon driver?’
‘He got us over the mountains, didn’t he? It all worked out for the best.’
‘Not for him. Still, if you’re right, the gods have seen us safe thus far. If they intend for me to accomplish what I came for, then I shall live a little longer, at least. I shall try to be as brave as you’ve been.’
Tiro gave me a puzzled frown, then stepped forward to meet the soldiers. The centurion asked his name.
‘Soscarides. I expect you’ve been briefed to look out for my arrival.’
‘Quite a show, from what the archers tell me.’ The centurion was a grizzled veteran with a big homely face and a tight little smile.
‘I’m to report directly to the Great One himself and to no one else,’ said Tiro.
The centurion nodded. ‘Who’s the dead man?’
‘A slave. My bodyguard.’
‘And this one? Another slave?’
Tiro laughed. ‘Hold up your hand and show your citizen’s ring, Gordianus. Centurion, this man is also known to the Great One. He’ll come with me.’
The centurion grunted. ‘Well, you can’t report to the imperator as you are – you soaking wet, and this one with blood all down his tunic. I’ll see what we can do about a change of clothes.’
‘There’s no time,’ said Tiro. ‘You must take us to Pompey at once.’
‘Castor and Pollux, hold your horses!’ The centurion scanned the loiterers on the boardwalk and pointed to a well-dressed civilian. ‘You there! Yes, you, and your friend. Both of you, come here!’ When the two men hung back, the centurion snapped his fingers. Soldiers ran and fetched them by force.
The centurion looked the two men up and down. ‘Yes, you both look a
bout the right size. And your clothes aren’t too shabby. Strip!’
The men’s jaws dropped. The centurion snapped his fingers. The soldiers assisted the men in taking off their clothes.
‘Not so rough!’ yelled the centurion. ‘Don’t tear the tunics. Which one do you prefer, Soscarides?’
Tiro blinked. ‘The yellow, I suppose.’
‘Good enough. You who were in the yellow, take off your loincloth as well. Go on! My friend Soscarides here is wet to the balls and needs a dry one.’ He turned to Tiro and me. ‘Go on, fellows, take off those things you’re wearing and put on your new clothes.’
I pulled my bloody tunic over my head. ‘What is this predilection these military types have for making other men strip?’ I said to Tiro under my breath, thinking of our humiliation by Otacilius on the mountainside. Caesar had said that Pompey’s men had alienated the citizens of Brundisium. I could see how.
The centurion looked at our feet. ‘Shoes, too!’ he shouted at the two hapless civilians. They both gave a start, then obediently knelt and began untying the straps at their ankles.
‘I can bear to let my own shoes dry on my feet,’ said Tiro, standing naked for a moment as he exchanged his wet loincloth for the dry one.
The centurion shook his head. ‘Take it from me. I’ve marched men to the Pillars of Hercules and back. I’m an expert on feet. You’ll be glad of having a pair of dry shoes, once things start moving.’
‘Moving?’ said Tiro, slipping the yellow tunic over his head. It was an excellent fit.
The centurion squinted at the westering sun above the city skyline. ‘Sun’s sinking. Where do the hours go? Once it’s dark, things will start to move, fast and furious. Believe me, you’ll be glad you’re wearing clean clothes and dry shoes! Remember me then, friend Soscarides, and say a prayer for the centurion who looked after you as sweetly as your own dear mother!’
To slow the progress of Caesar’s men once they entered the city, Pompey had barricaded all the major streets at various points and had also laid traps. These were trenches dug across the width of a street, lined across the bottom with sharpened stakes, covered with wicker screens and concealed by a thin layer of earth. Our progress to the city centre was necessarily restricted to a course which meandered through secondary streets and alleyways. The centurion led the way while his soldiers formed a cordon around Tiro and me.
Officially, the townspeople had been confined to their homes, but in fact they were everywhere in the streets, yelling, frantically rushing about, wearing expressions of thinly suppressed panic. If Caesar’s camp had seemed a beehive abuzz with orderly movement, then Brundisium was an antbed turned by the farmer’s plough. I came to appreciate the calm determination of our centurion, who seemed unfazed by it all.
We finally emerged from the maze of narrow byways into the city forum, where civic buildings and temples faced an open square. Here there was at once a greater sense of order and a greater sense of chaos. Centurions shouted commands and troops stood at rigid attention in the square. At the same time, weeping women and ashen-faced men thronged the temple steps. From their open doors I caught the smell of burning incense and myrrh, and heard the echo of prayers wailed not in Latin but in the strange ululating language of the Messapians, the race that settled the heel of Italy at the beginning of time and built the city of Brundisium. The Messapians fought against Sparta in ancient days. They fought against Pyrrhus, who conquered them for Rome. The seafaring, cosmopolitan people of Brundisium worship all the deities worshipped in Rome, but they also pay homage to their own gods, ancient Messapic deities unknown in Rome, with unpronounceable names. Those were the gods they called on in their moment of despair, when the fate of their city hung in the balance.
We came to the municipal senate building on the east side of the forum, where Pompey had made his headquarters. The centurion told us to wait on the steps while he went inside. His soldiers maintained their cordon around us. Whether they were protecting us or holding us prisoner, I wasn’t sure. Exhausted, I sat on the cold, hard steps. Tiro joined me. The atmosphere of the city under siege had dispirited me, but seemed to have stimulated Tiro.
‘If Pompey can pull this off,’ he said, ‘he’ll truly be the greatest military genius of the age.’
I frowned. ‘Pull what off?’
‘A successful retreat from Brundisium. He’s already sent part of his army to Dyrrhachium, along with the consuls and the greater part of the senate. Now comes the tricky part. With Caesar ready to scale the walls and throw all his might against the city, can Pompey manage an orderly, organized retreat, through the streets, onto the ships, and out of the harbour entrance? The tactical challenge must be staggering. The risk is enormous.’
‘I see what you mean. How and when does the last defender climb down from the parapet, cede his ground to the invader, and board the last departing ship? It could turn into a stampede.’
‘Which could turn into a rout.’ Tiro gazed about the forum, with its jarring mixture of rigid military order and barely contained religious panic. ‘Then there’s the unknown, uncontrollable element of the civilian population. We know they’ve had their fill of Pompey. But can they be certain that Caesar won’t slaughter them for harbouring his enemy? The locals are liable to split into factions, divided by old grudges. Who knows how they’ll take advantage of the chaos? Some may unbar the gates and lead Caesar’s men safely around the barricades and traps, while others may throw stones at them from the rooftops. Some may panic and try to board Pompey’s ships. The sheer numbers of them could jam the streets and make escape impossible. A commander is judged by his success at surmounting challenges. If Pompey can get all his men safely out of Italy to fight another day, he’ll have earned anew his right to be called Great One.’
‘Do you think so? It seems to me he could have better demonstrated his genius by avoiding such a trap in the first place.’
‘Pompey did as well as any man could, considering the situation. No one foresaw that Caesar would dare to cross the Rubicon. That took Caesar’s own lieutenants by surprise. I think he surprised even himself, committing such hubris.’
‘And the disaster at Corfinium?’
‘Pompey had no control over that. He told Domitius to fall back and join him, but Domitius let vanity run away with his common sense, of which he has little enough to start. Compare Domitius to Pompey: in every decision since the crisis began, Pompey has acted strictly from reason. He’s never shown a trace of vanity or foolish pride.’
‘Some would say he hasn’t shown much nerve, either.’
‘It takes nerve to look an enemy in the eye and fall back step by step. If he can see this orderly retreat through to the end, Pompey will have shown that his spine is made of steel.’
‘And then what?’
‘That’s the brilliance of it! Pompey has allies all through the East. That’s where his greatest strength lies, and where Caesar is weakest. While Pompey rallies those reinforcements, from his stronghold in Greece he can blockade Italy and cut off all shipping from the East, including the gram harvest from Egypt. Let Caesar have Italy, for the time being. With Egypt closed to him and the East rising against him, with starvation looming in Italy and Pompey’s troops in Spam at his back, we’ll see how long Caesar can last as king of Rome.’
It was just possible, I thought, that everything Tiro said made sense. Did Caesar have any inkling of such a scenario? I thought of the infinitely confident man I had seen that morning, but perhaps that was only a part of his genius as a leader, never to show doubt or betray the nightmares that haunted him in the dark.
Perhaps it would all go Pompey’s way, in the end. But that could happen only if he successfully escaped from Brundisium. We had come to a nexus in the great contest. In the next few hours, Pompey would cast a throw sufficient to let him play another round, or lose the game altogether.
The centurion returned. ‘The Great One will see you.’ I started to get up, but he laid a hand on my shoulder. �
�Not you. Soscarides.’
I reached for Tiro’s arm. ‘When you see Pompey, ask him to grant me an audience.’
‘I’ll do my best, Gordianus. But in the midst of a military action, you can hardly expect –’
‘Remind him of the task he gave me in Rome. Tell him – tell him I know the answer.’
Tiro raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you should tell me, Gordianus. I can pass the news on to Pompey, and ask for Davus to be set free. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
I shook my head. ‘No. I’ll reveal the truth about Numerius’s murder only to Pompey, and only if he releases Davus first. If he wants to know what happened to Numerius, he must agree to those terms. Otherwise, he may never know.’
Tiro frowned. ‘If I tell him all this, and it’s only a ruse to gain you an audience –’
‘Please, Tiro.’
He gave me a last dubious look, then followed the centurion inside.
The sun dipped beyond the western hills. A chilly twilight descended on the forum, bringing a curious sense of calm. Even the shrill ululations from the temples seemed oddly comforting.
Torches were lit and passed among the troops. I understood now why Pompey waited for nightfall to make his exit. In the darkness, the barricades and pitfalls in the streets would be doubly dangerous. While the besiegers backtracked and stumbled over each other, Pompey’s men, drilled in the escape route, would be able to circumvent the hazards and quickly reach the ships.
The centurion returned.
‘Soscarides – ?’ I said.
‘Still with Pompey.’
‘No message for me?’
‘Not yet.’
There was a clanging of brazen doors and a commotion at the top of the steps. I got to my feet. A large group of officers poured out of the building and onto the porch. The centurion and his soldiers sprang to attention.
Pompey walked at the head of the group, dressed in full armour plated with gold. The precious metal glistened and shimmered, reflecting the light of the torches in the square below. Under his arm he carried a gold-plated helmet with a yellow horsehair plume. Below the neck, thanks to the muscular torso moulded upon his breastplate, he appeared to have the physique of a young gladiator. The illusion was belied by a pair of spindly legs which gold-plated greaves could not disguise.
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