In one last ditch attempt – though more for the look of it than out of any real intention in Fronto’s opinion, Caesar sent Caninius to the gates of the city with a proposal that Pompey and Caesar meet and try to agree terms to save the republic from further fracture. Pompey’s answer was short and sharp and not entirely unexpected. There could be no agreement without the consuls, and they were away overseas. So that was that.
Work on the floating platforms was slow at best, with the constant harassment of Pompey’s hastily refitted ships, and it slowed even further as they had to move further out into the channel and away from the land, where Pompey’s marine artillery could do the most damage, not having to fear the Caesarian weapons on the shores.
Nine days passed in such a state, the tension biting at the nerve ends of every man. Even those like Trebonius, usually so calm and studied in his approach to anything, began to become taut and angry, itching to do something about the enemy. It was as though the entire officer corps was beginning to emulate the blood-hungry Salvius Cursor, which made Fronto nervous.
The ninth day saw something new.
‘Fronto, get up.’
Fronto’s eyes shot open where he’d dozed off in the chair in the tent’s corner following a larger than usual repast.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a fleet on the horizon.’ Galronus looked somewhere between worried and excited as he gesticulated at the tent door.
‘Surely not the consuls come back with their army? That would be idiotic with them untrained and green.’ Fronto blinked away his grogginess as he rose, wondering what time it was. About sunset, he would guess.
A moment later the two of them were out of the tent into the last of the sun which dipped below the western horizon, odd scudding clouds too few and far between to threaten rain. The ever-alert equisio had Bucephalus and Eonna, Galronus’ bay mare, saddled and ready by the time they reached the shed, and the two mounted and rode off southeast. At the edge of the camp they could see in the gathering gloom Trebonius, Salvius and Curio also ahorse and making for the coast.
Riders from the regular cavalry under the command of an enterprising decurion caught up with them as they rode across the springy green turf, staying out of ballista shot of Brundisium’s towers and off around the shorter, southernmost, of the harbour branches.
Fronto’s heart sank as he glanced left and could see the silhouetted dark ships departing Brundisium’s port, black shapes against wine dark water. A thought occurred to him and he narrowed his eyes, peering up at those ballista towers they had skirted around so carefully. They were distant, and it was almost dark, but he was fairly sure they were extremely undermanned, and could hardly hope to loose a shot. Indeed, there were precious few figures along the walls.
‘If Pompey’s left anyone at all guarding Brundisium, then it’s a pitiful handful,’ he shouted to the men riding alongside him.
‘What?’ Curio yelled back.
‘Hardly anyone on the walls, and I’ll bet they’re sympathetic locals and not his own troops. Pompey’s men are in those ships making a break-out.’
‘Rubbish,’ snorted Salvius. ‘Pompey has two full legions in Brundisium. Even with the biggest warships he would need probably twenty five ships to carry two legions and their mounts. Even without artillery and supplies and everything. There are just twelve ships there.’
Fronto nodded. ‘There are, but they’re merchant ships, not military ones. Fat bottomed cargo ships built to transport huge amounts of goods. Yesterday those ships were covered in artillery and palisades to cause trouble for our engineers. Today that’s all gone. Why? To make room for the men. Pompey’s on the run.’
Salvius frowned, then glanced at the ships again and nodded. ‘Minerva, but you’re right. How can they hope to make it across the Adriaticum like that? One big wave or a strong wind and they’ll lose thousands.’
Trebonius shook his head. ‘They don’t need to. They only need to get out to sea. The consuls have sent their fleet back for Pompey. He gets out to sea and he can diffuse his men across the whole fleet and sail east comfortably.’
‘And leave us no ships with which to follow him’ Curio sighed. ‘I heard that no new traders had come in to Tarentum while we were there. Pompey’s been snatching every ship on the coast of southern Italia for his fleet. He gets out and puts to sea it will take us half a year of scavenging and shipbuilding to follow him.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ grumbled Fronto as they raced on, closing on the narrow spithead where two legions maintained their fortification and were constantly attempting to close the gap. The camp was visible mostly as the twinkling of torches and campfires in the increasing gloom, the flickering orange reflecting on the surface of the harbour water. The riders outpaced the ships, though only by a narrow margin and, as they raced along the coast to where the channel narrowed, Fronto could see that the ships had all been fitted with new, outsized iron and bronze rams meant for much larger ships of war. Their purpose was painfully obvious.
As they closed on the channel, Fronto could see a small group of officers standing on the shoreline, black statues against a purple sky, directing matters frantically. He and his companions ran over to find, unsurprisingly, Caesar leading them.
‘It’s Pompey,’ Fronto shouted as they ran in.
‘I had guessed,’ said Caesar. The fleet awaits him less than a mile out. We did not manage to seal the channel, so we cannot hope to stop them all. Brutus is doing what he can.’
Fronto could see the younger officer down on the newly built mole, shouting to men on the far side. Small rowing boats had been repeatedly used to connect the two sides, and now, hurriedly, they were being used to string long ropes across, attempting to create some kind of net using the cables and the floating platforms. It was an effort doomed to failure, which Fronto could see, and was sure Caesar could too, but there was in truth little else that could be done.
The officers stood on their observation point and watched with sinking spirits while Pompey’s ships changed formation as they neared, moving into a narrow spearhead, with the largest and heaviest, affixed with the most powerful ram, to the fore.
The ship hit the feeble net.
The various towers and palisades on the floating platforms had been filled with archers, and a few of the smaller artillery pieces had been placed on the moles where they could reach their targets. These opened up on the vessels as they hit, tearing into timber and flesh with equal ease, occasionally catching one of the Caesarian legionary workers by mistake in the growing darkness.
The first ship’s ram punched into a floating platform, shredding the timber frame and ploughing the earth and turf atop it like a Titanic farmer with giant oxen, shattering the defences built on it and sending those men loosing arrows from it into the dark cold water to drown. And then the ship was through, barging aside the next two platforms and toppling a third with its wake.
In its lee came the other vessels, swatting aside Caesar’s unfinished works like towers of sticks and straw. There was a moment of excitement when one ship’s helmsman misjudged his course and the vessel struck the mole instead of a floating platform in the darkness and confusion. The ship foundered and began to sink, its occupants screaming and desperately trying to climb up from the hold to jump to safety. The mole shook under the impact and one of the artillery pieces slipped into the water, men knocked from their feet. Another ship found itself unexpectedly snagged in ropes before slamming into the far mole and being boarded by the legionaries there.
But they were the minority. Two of the smaller ships stopped, while the other ten were even now racing out across the black water to rendezvous with the fleet awaiting them. And no one among the officers believed remotely the possibility that Pompey himself had been aboard one of the collisions.
Their great enemy had escaped with the bulk of his force to join the consuls and their army in Illyria. And with precious few ships available there was simply no hope of following. Any pu
rsuit would require marching back along the length of Italia, around the top of the Adriaticum and back down the Illyrian coast.
Fronto sighed.
‘We should have seen it coming. He was never going to stay and fight it out with you until he knew he stood a chance, and he was always going to have a sneaky plan to escape. You can guarantee also that he’s left lots of unpleasant surprises for us in Brundisium.’
Caesar nodded, his expression unreadable, his eyes glinting in the dark.
‘And he will strengthen and train his forces in the east,’ Curio muttered. ‘Then he will be ready to march on Rome in strength like Sulla did half a century ago.’
Fronto remembered the day the great dictator had stormed into Rome like the charge of gods. He’d been a boy at the time, but that kind of thing stuck in the memory. It had been that damned war that had started his father’s decline. ‘We have to stop him,’ he said suddenly.
‘What? How?’ Trebonius said looking up.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Fronto, deflating a little.
‘There is no stopping him for now,’ Caesar announced finally, turning and folding his arms. ‘For the time being we are done with Pompey.’
‘You’ll leave him to strengthen, General?’ Pollio asked.
‘We are left with little choice. We cannot follow him. And there is much to do elsewhere. Rome needs to be settled and calmed, the senate restored to position and authority, my own legitimacy to take care of, and thereby all of yours too. And we must secure what we can from those rebels who have gone east. For they may call themselves the consuls, but in abandoning Rome and fleeing east they forfeit that right in my eyes. Pompey, Lentulus and Marcellus are enemies of the Roman peace now, not us.’
‘So what do we do, Caesar? March on Rome?’ Trebonius looked sour at the thought.
‘Hardly. I am no Sulla and I will not bring violence to the city. I will come to Rome in peace and not cross the pomerium as long as I remain proconsul. The fleet from Gaul and the west can be brought to give us access to Pompey, but not this summer. It will be too late. No. We must secure the lands against further influence from those enemies we have identified. The west is closed off to them by Cisalpine Gaul and Italia, where we shall raise new legions and post a smattering of veteran units to deter approach. Quintus Valerius Orca knows Sardinia. He has governed there. He can take a legion to Sardinia and wrest control from Cotta, the pro-Pompeian governor there, which will secure the west coast of the peninsula. Curio, you will take three legions to Sicilia where Cato sits strong and resistant. You will remove Cato from power, and when you have consolidated Sicilia you will cross to Africa and secure the grain supply for Rome.’
Fronto nodded. This was the Caesar he knew, taking charge with energy even when faced with potential disaster.
‘But General,’ Salvius breathed, ‘can we afford to leave Pompey the east?’
Caesar shrugged. ‘Focus west. Once Rome is at peace, we have another force to deal with. Pompey’s province was Hispania, and he has seven legions there loyal to him. All veterans, remember. The last thing we can afford is for some enterprising officer or official over there to decide to impound the fleet and shipping and move those seven legions to Illyria to join Pompey and the consuls. That would sound the death knell for our entire campaign. We need to deal with Hispania before Pompey calls upon them. We go to Rome, and then on to Hispania. First we deal with an army without a general. Then we can deal with the general without an army.’
Fronto felt a faint lurch of nerves. His family were supposed to be safe in the villa at Tarraco. Even though it was Pompey’s province, there had been little chance of trouble there, with Pompey and Caesar set to face off in Italia. Now they could be caught in the vice between Pompey’s veterans and Caesar’s Gallic legions.
‘Give me a command,’ Fronto said suddenly.
‘Marcus?’ Caesar turned to him.
‘I’m a legatus and a good one, and you know that, Caesar. You’ll need good men against Pompey’s veterans. Give me a legion.’
Caesar appeared to be studying him curiously.
‘I will think on it, Marcus. First, though, we have business in Rome. And I may have a task or two for you there. For you and our Remi friend, in fact.’
* * *
For three days Caesar sent out letters and messages, commands and requests. Legions departed with new commanders to consolidate Italia’s territory. Marcus Antonius was dispatched with great haste for Rome where he would gather together as many senators as remained in the city and call for a meeting of the senate on the Kalends of the next month. Finally, with everything progressed as far as possible, the general rode for the capital with a cadre of officers and his ever faithful bodyguard under Aulus Ingenuus. The army was dispatched the same day and would make their slower way north, past Rome and on toward Cisalpine Gaul and then to Narbo where the legions would gather against Hispania.
Caesar’s route was direct, up once more onto the great road that traversed the peninsula’s spine, and passing into the fertile lands of eastern Campania, tantalisingly close to Fronto’s home ground. Past Capua, faced with a choice of roads, Caesar unexpectedly chose the western, coastal one, and the reason became clear the next day when they arrived at the coastal town of Formiae and made a stop at a luxurious seaside villa. At first Cicero would not emerge to speak with them, but Caesar persisted and finally wore down the man’s resolve.
Cicero, while vocally critical of Caesar and supportive of Pompey, had been one of the few leading lights in Rome who had not actively sought to destroy the proconsul, and had not run off in support of his enemy. In fact, he had stayed in the city as long as he dared, and then retired to his villa to avoid the inevitable conflict.
The orator had finally emerged from his house and confronted Caesar in a formal garden overlooking the sea. It had not been a comfortable exchange for any of them. Caesar was no mean speaker himself, and he seemed entirely genuine in his admiration for the villa’s owner and his desire that Cicero join him and attend the meeting of the senate in a few days’ time.
Cicero, however, was perhaps the most glib, silver-tongued orator of their age, and when he put forth his reasons for refusing, they were so well constructed it was almost embarrassing to be part of Caesar’s retinue. Caesar began to sound imploring, noting that Cicero’s constant refusal was as good as any condemnation from his enemies. If Cicero refused, many moderate men would not attend purely on that point. The debate had then swiftly devolved into argument, and then bile, into which spat Cicero:
‘Well if you insist so and intend to force my presence in the senate, then I shall have no choice in my course of action other than to deplore what you have done to Pompey and to refuse you the right to take an army either to Hispania or Illyria against his legions. I cannot condone civil war, Gaius, and you will gain no words of support from me.’
Caesar had deflated, fixing the orator with his steely gaze one last time and exhorting him to think on it. Then they had mounted once more, and in gloomy silence ridden on up the coast for Rome. Caesar, true to his word, maintained the letter of the law and remained outside the sacred boundary of Rome itself, for Antonius had made every arrangement in advance. He had secured an estate belonging to his own family on the far bank of the Tiber for them all during their sojourn, and had arranged the senate meeting to take place two days hence at the temple of Janus atop the Janiculum hill close to the estate, outside the pomerium so that Caesar could legally attend and, curiously, the very spot where Caesar had met with Pompey and Crassus seven years ago.
The morning of the Kalends of Aprilis dawned chilly but cobalt blue, and Fronto awoke and dressed and wandered out into the atrium to stumble upon one of the more amusing scenes he had encountered in some time. Galronus was standing in the centre of the room, by the decorative impluvium pool, with a look of baffled fascination. A slave stood in front of him with a pile of white material.
‘That?’ Galronus said in disbelief.
‘Yes, Domine.’
Fronto sauntered across, yawning and stretching, and looked from one to the other. Galronus was hardly identifiable as Remi these days. It had been years since his hair touched the nape of his neck, and he had likewise been clean shaven for a long time. His clothing was that of a Roman nobleman, and if any man caught an accent to his Latin, they would assume him to be a rural Italian.
The slave was of Greek extraction, or possibly Levantine. And in his arms he held a new and neatly folded toga. Fronto grinned. ‘They’re hard to wear the first time. I remember mine. Of course I was a few decades younger.’
‘I do not want a toga,’ Galronus said flatly.
‘Senators wear togas, Domine,’ the slave said patiently. ‘Especially on the senate floor.’
‘I am not a senator,’ snapped Galronus.
‘The proconsul said otherwise, master. He said that with the censors and the consuls all absent in foreign climes with Pompey, he had as much right as anyone else to appoint a senator.’
Galronus turned a frown on Fronto. ‘Don’t I have to consent or something? Isn’t there a ceremony?’
Fronto chuckled. ‘Right now, given the strikingly low number of senators in Rome, I wouldn’t be surprised to see dogs and chickens in togas flooding the Janiculum. Just let the man put the toga on for you.’
Galronus narrowed his eyes, sending waves of resentment at Fronto as the slave began his work, draping and tucking, tweaking and pulling as Fronto grasped an apple from the bowl and watched while he chewed. Every now and then, Fronto would put down his apple, step in and interfere with a grin, much to the irritation of Galronus. Finally, the slave was satisfied with the results and Fronto stepped back, gesturing with his apple core.
‘Mighty Jove, but you are the very embodiment of Coriolanus himself. A pillar of the Roman republic.’
‘A pillock of the Roman republic,’ muttered Galronus shrugging his shoulder blades to resettle the heavy, itchy garment.
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