‘Must be an officer. Might even be Bibulus. Let’s get the Tenth ready to receive him. Better warn Acilius and Murcus.’
* * *
By the time the two small skiffs were close to the beach, Fronto and Galronus were lined up, along with Sulla, commander of the Ninth, their tribunes and a small cadre of other officers. Two cohorts stood at attention on the beach, one drawn from each legion, all that could be spared. Acilius was in Oricum, in command of the walls, but Murcus had remained based at the landing site and he now stood with the other officers.
As well as the oarsmen, the boats contained two men wearing the uniforms of senior Pompeian officers and a number of heavy marine bodyguards. The two officers, their noses held high and haughty, almost tumbled into the water as the boats crunched into the beach, recovering themselves with difficulty, and their dignity not at all.
‘The scrawny one I don’t know,’ Fronto murmured, ‘but the one with the jowls is Bibulus.’
‘The scrawny one is Libo,’ Murcus replied. ‘An old comrade.’
Neither officer left the boats, and the Caesarians kept back from the shore. Forty paces of sand separated them.
‘Say your piece,’ Murcus shouted, taking the lead as was his right, given his command of the shoreline.
‘We starve,’ called the scrawny officer. ‘And you cannot be far behind. This situation is idiotic.’
‘Agreed. Cease your blockade and return to your base and then we can all relax.’
‘You know we won’t do that,’ snapped the fatter one. Fronto thought he did not look particularly well. Even at this distance he could detect a grey, waxy sheen to Bibulus’ skin.
‘Then we are at an impasse.’
‘Murcus,’ the smaller one called. ‘It’s me, Libo. Listen, man, the sailors are so thirsty they’re gathering the night dew from the leather covers on the ships for water. This is insufferable. We want to come to an agreement. We need to discuss matters with Caesar.’
‘Caesar is not here.’
Bibulus waved an angry arm. ‘Then send for him. And while we wait, have some pity on your fellow Romans and let our sailors have water. A little forage. A short landing.’
‘Have pity?’ Fronto bellowed suddenly, stepping forwards. ‘As you did on the empty transports and their crews? Sailors you burned and drowned just to make a point. You know how forgiving Caesar can be, but I wouldn’t expect much personally if I were you, Bibulus.’
‘Please,’ Libo said. ‘This is not war. We are not fighting. With luck we will not have to, and yet hundreds of good Romans are dying while we wait. A truce. A temporary truce to prevent too many unnecessary deaths. While Caesar can be summoned and a deal struck.’
Fronto gestured across to Murcus and huddled the officers a little further back up the sand. Keeping his voice low, inaudible to the boats, he addressed the man in command of the coastline.
‘You say you know this Libo?’
‘Of old.’
‘Would you trust him?’
Murcus shrugged. ‘In the days we served together I would have put my life in his hands. Obviously things are different now, but Libo is a good man. Noble sort.’
‘I’m of a mind to agree to a temporary truce and allow water to the ships.’
Salvius Cursor shook his head. ‘Fronto, that will undo everything we have achieved. We have them on their knees.’
Fronto nodded. ‘We do. But it’s easy to forget that those men are Romans. Caesar is prepared for a last attempt at verbal resolution. We may not have heard back from Vibullius, but if he were here, Caesar would grant them the opportunity to talk. Besides, granting them a little water is hardly going to bring them back up to strength. They will still be weak. But every death among his fleet will make Pompey that bit less inclined to come to an agreement.’
Murcus nodded. ‘I will have riders sent south. Buthrotum is only forty miles away. At a push Caesar can be back here in a day. Do we grant them water?’
Fronto nodded. ‘I say so. What about you, Sulla?’
The slightly equine features of the other legate, a nephew of Rome’s famous dictator of old, turned to him with a nod. ‘Give them water, but just enough to keep them alive. No more. One barrel per ship until Caesar confirms our next move.’
‘Agreed.’
Salvius Cursor was almost vibrating with irritation. ‘Let them die. Don’t pander to them.’
‘They are Romans, Salvius,’ Fronto snapped.
‘They’re still the enemy.’
‘But a Roman enemy.’
‘Caesar would not agree to this. You are taking matters into your own hands, sirs,’ he gestured at Fronto and Sulla, who regarded him coldly. ‘This should be Caesar’s decision,’ Salvius pressed. ‘One more day makes little difference. Even two. Delay giving them anything until the general comes.’
Fronto flashed a look at the tribune that suggested he had seriously overstepped the mark, which had about as much impact on the man as usual. ‘Salvius, a good commander relies on the men under his command. How do you think we fought across Gaul on such a grand scale for nine years? Caesar did not make every decision. He trusted his officers.’
‘And now half those officers have turned their back on him and serve Pompey.’
‘That is enough, Tribune. Return to the men.’
As Salvius Cursor turned with a sneer and stumped off across the sand, Fronto gestured to the shore.
‘Shall we?’
Libo remained in the prow of his boat. Bibulus had sat down, still looking exceedingly unwell.
‘Pass the word from ship to ship,’ Murcus bellowed. ‘If they send a boat to the shore, the legions based there will grant them one barrel of water for each vessel. This is a gesture of goodwill in anticipation of a full parley. I am sending a rider to bring Caesar here for a conference. With luck this can all be resolved tomorrow.’
* * *
The afternoon and evening passed swiftly, every ship in the blockading fleet sending a boat and receiving one barrel of water. It would not make a huge difference, but as a gesture it would worm its way into the heart of every thirsty sailor and it would at least prevent a few unfortunate deaths. The morning dawned without the ubiquitous damp chill, suggesting that spring might finally have sprung. Trouble started with the dawn, though, as ships sent out boats to the shore to collect a second barrel of water and were refused.
‘But your centurion said we’d get one a day,’ was a common argument, to which the standard reply was ‘it has not yet been a day.’ Scuffles broke out, though fortunately with no mortal consequences. In Fronto’s opinion, every officer did a sterling job of keeping control, from senior staff right down to the optios on the scene, and indeed most of the men too.
As noon passed and the incidents became fewer, the ill feeling along the coast growing, Fronto could feel trouble looming in the sweet spring air, and it came as a balm to hear that an outlying scout had spotted riders bearing Caesar’s banner. The man must have moved like Mercury himself to arrive so soon. But then if ever a man was capable of strategic and logistical miracles, it was most definitely Caesar.
Within the hour all the men available were assembled with the officers as a party of a hundred cavalry appeared at the beach’s edge and began to trudge through the fine white sand. Amid them were half a dozen men in senior officer’s uniforms, including the general himself. The consul, Fronto reminded himself. Moments later boats began to leave the ships once more. It would appear that the conference was imminent.
‘Thank the gods, Caesar,’ Fronto sighed as the general reached him and reined in ahead of the rest of the riders. The old man looked even more tired than usual, yet his ageing frame wore his uniform and cuirass well, and the legate doubted his old friend would baulk even now, with no sleep, at the need to dive personally into a fight.
‘I am informed that Bibulus wishes a meeting?’
Fronto and Murcus both nodded, the latter stepping forwards. ‘Their blockade weakens as they sta
rve. They requested a truce and to resupply. In the hope of still securing a full conference and potential peace we thought it prudent to agree, at least in part.’
Caesar’s head tilted in question.
‘We gave each ship one barrel of water to prevent deaths, but that is all.’
The old man nodded. ‘There will be no meeting beyond this.’
‘Sir?’
Caesar gestured with a drooping arm to the east. ‘Pompey is little more than a day away, according to my scouts, with a solid force. The simple fact that Vibullius has not returned and that Pompey is finally moving at speed suggests that he has little intention of considering a treaty. He knows his coastline is in danger and now races to occupy Dyrrachium. If he can do that, then he can field his forces with a good supply line and sea support and likely ever more reserves will arrive by the day from his training camps in Macedonia. The man has no desire for peace. You know him, Fronto. You know his soul.’
Fronto nodded sadly. That fire-hearted warmonger he had come to know in Rome would hardly be prepared to place his life in the senate’s hands, especially when he still held all the dice in this game.
‘No. We will see what these sailors have to say, but once I have assured myself that they are merely self-serving and attempting to secure their own survival, we will move. I will leave just enough men along the coast to deny the worst-hit areas of his fleet, such as this right here, and the rest of the army will move en-masse, meeting up with my forces returning even now, and combining. We will cross the Apsus River and block it against Pompey. We will deny him Dyrrachium. Only that way can we hope to hold him. If he reaches his supply base we might as well flee back to Rome, and that would be the end of us.’
Certainly of Caesar politically, anyway, Fronto mused.
‘Here they come,’ Murcus muttered, and the entire officer contingent stepped towards the beach, ready to address the boats. They came as they had before, two officers, each in a boat with marines and oarsmen. As they crunched into the sand, at least this time they managed not to fall over. It was only as they straightened themselves in preparation that Fronto realised the man in the left hand boat was not Bibulus, but some naval officer with a gorilla build and a face like a pomegranate.
‘Bibulus not well?’ he shouted in a jocular tone. Caesar gave him a look that was unreadable, but most likely bad.
The unknown officer cupped his hands to his mouth, somewhat unnecessarily given the huge voice that emerged. ‘The admiral is gravely ill and near his tomb, we think. Lack of water,’ he snapped accusingly.
‘Should have prioritised those ships from Dyrrachium better eh?’ Fronto prodded with a malicious smile.
Caesar gave him a warning glance, and Fronto nodded his acquiescence. He cared little how much Bibulus suffered, but he’d got in his barbed comments, so that was fine.
‘Say your piece,’ Caesar called to the boats.
Libo gestured oratorically. ‘Caesar, we have no wish in truth to fight against you. You are a consul of Rome. Pompey has lured us into a war no sane man would seek, against our brothers and countrymen. But you know the general. He is glorious and clever. Persuasive. You listen to him and do what he asks, even when you wonder at yourself for doing it. Pompey convinced his officers that Caesar had conquered Rome like some modern Brennus and that you would not stop until you were a new king.’
Fronto shivered. There was perhaps a little more truth in there than he’d expected. Right down to the monarchic reach. Libo coughed and went on.
‘He told us that you would never settle. That you would never enter into treaty. But the truth is now evident. It is clear that such words were lies. You are willing to entreat and settle. And so let us be the olive branch of peace. Let us, who know how to persuade him, talk to Pompey and bring him to the table. Then, perhaps, we can end this dreadful war and resolve everything.
‘He sounds surprisingly genuine,’ Sulla murmured. ‘And his arguments are persuasive.’
Caesar was inscrutable atop his horse. He gestured to Murcus, who hurried over, and then bent low to him. ‘You know Libo well, I believe.’
‘I do, Caesar.’
‘Has he ever suffered a critical injury to his arms?’
Murcus frowned. ‘I am not aware of such, General. Why?’
‘Because he holds his hands clasped at his side and they both quiver as though he has a palsy, and trust me, I know the symptoms. If Libo has not had a wound that might cause it, and he is hale and well, then he is suffering a great deal of tension. In fact, I would wager the contents of the Temple of Saturn that every word that passes his lips is a lie, and that it is almost killing him to do so. He is a good man?’
‘He is.’
‘And a good man hates lying. Libo is fabricating, probably at Bibulus’ behest. And you know why? If we agree, the fleet strengthens. And while we are busy dealing with them here, Pompey arrives from the east and occupies Dyrrachium. No. In fact, the very idea that they are willing to sink so low as false treaty suggests how important it is that we dally here with them. Pompey’s army must be closer than we thought. They are working to slow us and cripple us.’ He looked up at Libo. ‘My last messenger seems not to have reached Pompey.’
‘We will send messengers, Caesar. And while they ride to secure a future for us all, perhaps the great and magnanimous Caesar will permit us sustenance?’
Even Fronto could see now how the man was quivering with the stress of his position and argument.
‘No,’ Caesar said in a flat and far-carrying tone. ‘There will be no sustenance and no further water. Return to your ships and become cadavers, for better to end now with hunger than in the cataclysm that is coming. This meeting is over. There will be no further truce.’
He turned to the other officers and said loudly ‘At the count of sixty you will have your men gather their pila and hurl them at the boats unless they are already out at sea and heading home.’
Fronto almost laughed at the comic desperation as the sailors hurried to get their boats moving once more, the officers bellowing at them in panic. Once the boats were out on the water and far from earshot, Murcus gestured to Caesar.
‘They will become more desperate now, Consul, and they have no reason not to fight. They will send landing parties all along the coast to resupply.’
‘There will be no fights,’ Caesar replied. ‘Our army will not be there. We cannot fight every front of this campaign at once with the men we have. We have to relinquish the coast and hope that in weakening them we have done enough. We gather every ally we have and race to the Apsus. It is now utterly imperative that we secure the best crossings and prevent Pompey from linking up with Dyrrachium. We move now. Have every unit along the coast ordered to march to the Apsus with all haste and muster there. Pompey must be close, and I will hold that river against him.’
‘And Antonius?’ Fronto urged.
‘What?’
‘We might be able to hold Pompey at the Apsus, at least for a while, but without the rest of the army victory is a fool’s dream. It is critical to deny Pompey Dyrrachium, but it is all for nothing without the rest of the army. Any hope of success relies on Antonius arriving, and now we are allowing the blockade to begin their recovery.’
Caesar nodded. ‘Sadly we are not given the luxury of choice, Fronto. We fight a desperate campaign here and must deal with what dice the gods throw as they fall. If we finish the starvation of the blockade, we let Pompey consolidate. We’ll never beat him then. No, we race to the Apsus and we hold him there, with words if we can, and steel if not, until Antonius arrives with the reserves. And you know Antonius. Hades and Neptune might stand in his way, but he will find a way around them. He has never failed me.’
There’s always a first time, thought Fronto as he saluted and stepped away.
Chapter 4
Banks of the Apsus River, Martius 48 BC
Fronto reined in Bucephalus and threw out a finger, pointing into the misty middle distance.
/> ‘The scouts were right. Look.’
Galronus and Salvius Cursor followed his finger and peered myopically into the grey. Then they saw it. A lone rider looped out of the blanket of mist and circled wide, unhurried, until he saw the activity on the north bank of the Apsus. Then he turned and hurtled back into the mist.
‘How long do we have?’ Galronus murmured.
Fronto huffed. ‘Standard practice will have the riders anywhere up to a day ahead of the main column, but Pompey knows we’re out here somewhere and he’ll want regular reports. The column won’t be more than six hours ahead of the army at most.’
‘Considerably less,’ Salvius corrected. ‘When he’s facing someone dangerous, Pompey keeps his riders circling on no more than a two hour circuit and they rotate constantly. His army will be less than an hour away.’
‘Then I think we need to thank all the gods that we got here first,’ Galronus sighed. They turned in unison and peered at the enormous camp in the early stages of construction. Already legions were billeting in the enormous rectangle, putting up their tents in ordered blocks while the engineers and architects drew out the plan and pioneers worked on the one line of fortification already underway, facing the river, a rampart rising rapidly while other men cut timber in the woods nearby, the sounds oddly dulled by the mist.
‘It’s going to be something of a race, mind,’ Fronto muttered, turning back to the bridge. A few thousand men remained on the south bank, pushing hard to cross the Apsus to perceived safety, along with the artillery wagons and the meagre collection of supply carts. By Fronto’s estimate it would take roughly an hour to get them all across and into the camp. And if Pompey’s army was roughly an hour away…
His eyes drifted off to the southeast again. Somewhere behind that blanket of white was an army larger than their own, commanded by a snarling wolf. The enemy scout had vanished once more, but Fronto had marked a lone dead tree standing like some dreadful portent in the veil of mist as the direction from which the scout had arrived and whence he returned.
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 5
