‘You know that Caesar won’t accept a deal in which he comes out wanting?’
‘Fronto, I’m not a complete idiot. Caesar has made his terms clear all along. A mutual laying down of command and a mediated settlement between them in which both men can return to Rome without losing honour, position or power. It sounds impossible, but believe a man who has spent half his life arguing in the forum, it isn’t. There are ways this can be achieved still, ending the conflict, no matter what anyone says. But it requires cool heads in charge. I imagine that Pompey would have quite intended to attend any meeting, but that Varro has argued him into not going. Pompey would take offence at something and negotiations would fall apart. Similarly, Caesar can display a temper, and so I will persuade him not to become personally involved. We must make sure our parties are formed of the most reasonable, even-tempered and peace-seeking men among the command. And the bodyguard too – all veterans with an outstanding record. No hot-heads. We have a real chance here, Fronto, so long as we can keep things amicable. Varro and I can seal a deal, with appropriate input from an able council of wise minds.’
‘Do you object to me being one of them?’
Varro raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve not the most calm and accepting of reputations, Fronto.’ He chuckled. ‘Still, I know you for a man who seeks peace. By all means join me. You may very well be the most grounded of us.’
Fronto felt Salvius Cursor almost vibrating with tension beside him. He turned with a flat expression to address his senior tribune as the other officers walked on. ‘No, Salvius. Before you even ask.’
‘But I know Pompey and his army, Fronto. I know them well. I have insights that will be of use.’
‘You heard Vatinius. Cool heads. I have never in my life met a man more prone to fits of insane violence and angry outbursts than you. Don’t get me wrong. I think we see eye to eye sometimes now, and I know you have a solid place in this army. But that solid place is at the leather-grip end of a sword, coated in someone else’s blood and screaming curses.’
‘You’re soft, Fronto.’
‘And you are more dangerous than a lunatic with a blade. What am I saying? You are a lunatic with a blade.’
‘Fronto…’
‘No. Besides, I doubt anyone below the level of legate will be in attendance. Now go and stick a sword in something and calm down.’
Salvius Cursor flashed him a nasty glare, then stumped off towards the camp of the Tenth.
‘That one is still going to cause you trouble,’ Galronus noted.
‘Undoubtedly. But I was serious about his place in things. I don’t want to rely on him thinking or talking, but if things all go to shit, I will be more than happy to watch him screaming, covered in blood, and pushing forwards to tear Pompey a new rectum.’
* * *
The following day, the mist had dissipated, and there was spring in the air once more. The officers gathered at the forwards command post, between the camps of the Tenth and Eleventh. Vatinius, Calenus, Fronto, Sulla and Canuleius. Galronus watched them from a short distance away. Fronto had been tempted to try and argue for his friend’s inclusion, as a holder of a rather unique viewpoint, outside Roman life, and as a senior cavalry officer. Galronus had not been remotely concerned at the lack of invitation, though, unlike Salvius Cursor, who had already thrashed three soldiers for minor infractions due to his intense irritation. The bodyguards, Fronto noted, were all formed from Caesar’s own praetorians, including Aulus Ingenuus himself, his three fingers circling the pommel of his sword quietly.
‘I half expected Caesar’s presence.’
Vatinius looked up at Fronto’s comment. ‘He did expect to come – took some persuading otherwise, in fact. I fought him down with the argument that if Pompey leaves it to his officers and Caesar does not, the matter would weigh in Pompey’s favour in the minds of the staff. He seemed to accept that. It is entirely true, of course.’
‘Of course,’ smiled Fronto. ‘Shall we?’
Moments later they were striding through the opened gate in the rampart and towards the ancient, heavy, stone bridge across the sluggish grey waters of the Apsus. Right on cue, the horns across the camp blew the second hour’s call, followed two heartbeats later by the same from Pompey’s camp. A small party of men emerged from the Pompeian gate and walked down to the bridge.
Fronto felt the weight of history crushing down on his shoulders. He’d been in many a tight spot in his military life, but only once before, at the Rubicon, had he felt that he was part of something that might either make or break the republic. Despite his and Caesar’s misgivings, if Vatinius was right, this next half hour could heal the republic and avert a cataclysm, or at least begin to do so.
The two groups of officers came to a halt on the bridge, facing one another, with Varro and Vatinius at the fore. Fronto’s eyes danced across the other officers in the Pompeian party. He was grateful that Ahenobarbus, that vile dog, was not among them. Clearly Varro had done the same as Vatinius, selecting the best men for the job. He recognised the aristocratic lines of Marcus Junius Brutus’ face, of Afranius, the man they had faced at Ilerda the previous summer, of…
Labienus.
Titus Labienus, once Caesar’s trusted right hand. A good friend of Fronto’s in his time. One of the ablest, most sensible commanders he had ever met. But something about Labienus unsettled him. Gone was that calm demeanour of the old days. This Titus Labienus had eyes like pools of tar and a face not given to laughter.
‘It is clearly the desire of all worthy men to see this war averted and a reconciliation of our opposing forces,’ Vatinius said first. ‘As such, I believe we can come to a sensible agreement that is acceptable to both sides in short order and have it in writing on the desks of the two generals for ratification before we pause for the noon meal. What say you all?’
Varro lifted his hands, preparing for oratory, but Fronto felt a chill of the blood as the man was rudely sidestepped by Labienus, who took the fore.
‘You believe you can deliver terms here that are acceptable to Pompey?’ Labienus snapped. ‘I am not convinced. And more importantly, I am mystified as to how you can propose terms acceptable to me.’
Fronto noted the horrified look on Varro’s face. He had clearly miscalculated in bringing the great commander with him, for Labienus did not look remotely like a man planning for reconciliation.
‘Titus…’
Labienus swung round and held up a warning hand to Varro. Since the older man fell silent instantly, Fronto could instantly see how things stood in the Pompeian camp, and remembered Salvius telling him something about this once – how officers in that army worked in a strict chain of command with little give and take. Labienus was senior to Varro, and had instantly suborned control of the conference. Damn it. Fronto wondered if there was any way he could somehow side-track Labienus and take him away from the meeting.
No. Labienus turned back to Vatinius with a cold sneer. ‘The problem is that I have seen Caesar’s handiwork first-hand for a decade. I know what the man is capable of. I served him as loyally as I could, but the consul is intent on shattering the republic and wrapping himself in a monarch’s robes. I for one will accept no terms unless one of them is that Caesar stand trial in a neutral court of law for his many crimes and injustices. And we all know, no matter how you might try and fool yourself, how that will end. So I do not see you agreeing to it. Tell me, then, how terms can be reached?’
Fronto felt ice forming in his stomach. The conference was doomed as long as Labienus had any input. He had to do something. He locked eyes with Vatinius, who clearly thought the same, and in desperation, Fronto hurried forwards with a friendly smile, hand raised ready to place it reassuringly on Labienus’ shoulder. The moment he moved, though, the guards flanking the Pompeian party bellowed warnings. A pilum swished through the air and clattered across the bridge stones, miraculously missing everyone. The guards thought he was making an aggressive move! And now, with missiles flying, anyone c
ould be wounded or killed. Fronto hit Labienus in the midriff, ploughing him to the ground just as two more missiles swept through the air where the angry officer had been standing.
‘Betrayal! Treachery!’ bellowed the Pompeian guards, and rushed forwards. Fronto heard Vatinius and Varro both shouting orders to hold back, but now arrows and stones were clattering against the bridge sides, launched by men from both armies believing their officers to be under attack. Chaos erupted, and the officers dropped to the ground, some taking glancing blows from stray missiles.
Fronto was suddenly thrown back as Labienus roared ‘Get off me,’ and rose like the ascent of some Tartaran monster.
‘Shoulder weapons,’ Labienus bellowed, so loud that it cut through the noise and amazingly reached even the men on the banks. The missile shower died away, a last arrow clacking against stone and falling into the water with a ‘plop’.
Fronto rose and stepped back, taking in the situation. Two officers were clutching wounds among the Pompeians. One among the Caesarians. Shit, but that was not good. A peace conference with three woundings was hardly an ideal starting point.
‘Everyone stay calm,’ Fronto said, stepping into the middle of the chaos and holding up both hands in a gesture of peace, but Labienus stepped out again to meet him. Varro protested, though Labienus pushed him away and thrust an accusatory finger at Fronto.
‘Cease then to talk about a settlement,’ the furious officer bellowed, ‘for there can be no peace for us until Caesar's head is brought forth!’
With that, he turned and thundered away. The guards and most of the officers hurried after him, though Varro lagged for a moment. He said nothing, but the apologetic expression on his face said everything. Fronto turned to Vatinius, who was aghast.
‘That’s it, then,’ Fronto sighed. ‘We’re at war.’
Chapter 5
By the Apsus, Late Martius 48 BC
Nothing had happened for days. Following that dreadful, abortive conference on the bridge, Pompey’s officers had returned to their camp, as had Caesar’s, but the atmosphere had changed entirely. Gone was the shouted camaraderie across the river, to be replaced by gloomy mistrust. Each camp’s ramparts bristled with men and weapons.
War loomed, yet no move had been made.
Caesar’s army, lacking the desperately needed reinforcements from Antonius, had insufficient strength to even consider launching a campaign without an expectation of awful loss. Pompey’s army might have vast numbers, but any attempt to press Caesar across the river would be extremely costly, and the old bastard was wily enough not to try it. So the two armies sat glowering across the Apsus. Pompey’s army continued to resupply with wagons from the east, and also with ships from the coast. The fleet was now thin enough that they were no longer suffering their own supply problems, but was also weak enough that a wily or strong admiral might be able to rout them and break through.
Yet still Antonius had not come and the army continued to grow hungry, rations becoming ever scarcer.
Fronto sighed and turned to Galronus. The two of them stood on the shoreline, watching the shapes of the enemy ships out there across the water.
‘I worry that he’s starting to lose it,’ he said with a sigh.
Galronus nodded as both their gazes dropped to the small jetty at the mouth of the river. They were far enough from the main camp that there was little fear of a stray missile coming their way, even if the enemy suddenly decided to begin the violence. A few of Pompey’s scouts remained in position on the far bank, bored and listless. Nothing could easily be done unobserved, but at night…
That was where Caesar’s lunatic idea had taken root.
‘Something must be done,’ the general had said. And he was right, of course. The army was weakening through starvation and not strong enough to attack either the city to their north or the army to the south. They were pinned and fading. Something had to be done. But Fronto had not been convinced this was the answer. Oh, it wasn’t the only bowstring Caesar had. The general had also sent Quintus Tillius and Lucius Canuleius off with a small highly mobile unit. They had gone east, far enough to circumvent even Pompey’s pickets, with orders to then turn and race south for the allied lands around Buthrotum and gather in any supplies they could. It was a desperate measure, for there would not be much, and the escapade was extremely hazardous. But it was still better than this.
At the jetty sat two small boats, one a native fisherman, the other a merchant of the sort used by smugglers who wanted to appear legitimate but also favoured a vessel with enough speed to outrun the majority of larger ships. It was this sleek, fast vessel upon which Caesar had set his sights. And he would personally take charge. With local sailors at the helm and steering oars and a couple of his own guard for safety, the general had conceived of the idea of setting sail suddenly and silently at night, slipping past the watchmen and out to sea. There, with this vessel and good sailors he hoped to slip through the Pompeian blockade and out onto the Adriaticum. He would race for Brundisium and find out what had happened, perhaps manage to bring over the fleet himself. And he would trust no other to the task. He would do it himself.
It was an insane idea, of course, conceived in desperation, and it had the unusual merit of uniting the entire, commonly disagreeable, staff in one opinion: against the plan.
‘Would that boat even make it across the sea?’ Galronus asked, eyeing the smuggler vessel warily. Fronto smiled. He hated sea travel more than almost anything, for every wave and dip brought fresh nausea, but Galronus was of the Remi. The closest his land-locked tribe ever really came to sea travel was small fishing boats on wide rivers. It had only been since Caesar had turned their world upside down that men like Galronus had experienced a voyage across the sea. He had no ill effects from it, but he clearly still mistrusted it as a method of transport.
‘With good sailors, fine weather and sufficient supplies, yes. If he doesn’t get attacked by pirates. If there’s not a storm and the water is calm enough. If he can slip out past the ships out there.’
Fronto’s finger jerked up at the blockading fleet and their gaze followed it.
He frowned.
‘What’s that?’
They peered past the ships. A smudge on the horizon was gradually resolving into a smattering of black shapes.
‘Ships.’
Fronto chewed his lip. ‘But what do they mean?’
Galronus threw him a nonplussed look.
‘Ours or the enemy’s, I mean.’
‘It must be Antonius,’ Galronus said with confidence.
‘Perhaps. But Libo left here with fifty ships or so. And another smaller fleet returned to Dyrrachium. And there are still parts of his huge fleet in the east. It could be anyone.’
‘It’s Antonius,’ the Remi said again.
‘I wish I had your confidence.’ He turned and waved to one of the pickets nearby. ‘Ride back to the camp as fast as you can and get Caesar. Ships sighted.’
The man saluted and mounted the single horse that had been grazing happily on lush grass. At least the beasts weren’t starving here. Putting heels to flank, he raced off for the camp less than a mile upriver.
‘It will be maybe a quarter of an hour before we can make out anything useful,’ Fronto muttered.
They stood, tense, watching as the line of black dots grew until the vague shape of ships could be made out.
‘Are they big warships or merchants?’ Fronto said irritably, ‘My eyesight’s not that good.’
‘I can’t really tell the difference until I’m on one,’ Galronus replied.
Fronto’s fingers climbed his front until they found the twin figurines hanging on the leather thong around his neck. He grasped the shape of Fortuna and brought her up to his lips, kissing her reverently. Let them be ours, he prayed fervently.
The shapes grew, closing. Fronto had not felt quite so tense in some time, and even Galronus was fidgeting.
Slowly, things began to move. A motion caught
Fronto’s eye and his gaze dropped to the Pompeian warships. He grinned.
‘It is. It is Antonius.’
‘I know,’ Galronus said confidently.
‘The warships are preparing to stop him, so it must be him.’
They watched nervously as a dozen heavy triremes with upper fighting decks manoeuvred and turned, beginning slowly to come about and form up.
‘Will they make it?’ Galronus said suddenly.
‘There’s a lot of ships out there. But if they are Antonius’, then most of them will be merchants with no armaments, built for capacity, not speed or strength.’
‘Then you know what’s about to happen.’
Fronto nodded unhappily. If the fleet just came on as it was, many vessels would be sunk before the first few broke through and reached the shore. The thought of just how many soldiers would drown in the process was not a nice one.
‘Our reinforcements might not end up as numerous as we thought.’
A thunder of hooves announced the arrival of others and Fronto’s head snapped round to see Caesar, Calenus and Sulla dismounting.
‘No, Antonius,’ Caesar said as he strode forwards and stopped next to Fronto. ‘He cannot be that foolish. Where are the warships, my friend?’
Fronto nodded. If Antonius had any hope of breaking through to the shore with an intact fleet, he needed to put his few warships out front to engage the Pompeian triremes and buy the merchant ships time to slip past and unload the army. Yet there was no such move.
‘Who has good eyes?’ Caesar said. ‘Tell me what you see out there?’
Sulla peered into the distance. There was a long pause. ‘Thirty two ships, by my count, and not a warship among them.’
Caesar took a deep breath. ‘Then something drastic has occurred. I had wondered why he delayed so. But if he attempts to land with no warship support, we will lose half the ships and men at least. And with only thirty two ships, that cannot be the whole army, and certainly no supplies.’
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 7
