* * *
Thus it was that three days later Fronto eyed a boat suspiciously, but grudgingly acknowledged that even he was unlikely to vomit his organs out in a distance of a little over two miles. Brutus had done an admirable job as always, acquiring any vessel large enough to carry a century of men or a turma of horse, and the better part of a hundred ships and boats now bobbed at the jetties of Callipolis or out in the water just beyond. An odd haze had settled on the region, born perhaps of a combination of heat and moisture, and the air was not as clear as it should be and smelled damp and slightly cloying.
Off to the southern edge of the harbour the first load of vessels were already moving out into the channel, full of eager legionaries, while others moved into their place, ready to load the first consignment of cavalry.
Fronto climbed up the plank onto the sleek yet heavy liburnian, one of few military ships that had been acquired, and felt his guts churn even at the motion of the ship at the dock, swaying slightly with the strong currents of the Hellespont. This ship held Caesar’s praetorians, the First century of the Sixth, and Fronto, Brutus and Galronus. If this weird fleet could claim a flagship, this was it.
On Brutus’ advice they waited a while, as the first cavalry transports were loaded, and once all the ships were occupied they moved out into the water. It was better planning Brutus had said, since they did not know what might await them ahead, to land in full force and move on from there.
Fronto moved off to the rail, his accustomed position on board ship, where he could unburden himself of his stomach contents with the minimum of fuss. As they pulled out into the middle of the Hellespont, where the current was strongest and ships were known to be torn apart in bad weather, the captain angled his ship along the channel, with just a slight angle to cut across, making little headway. The other ships behind did the same, and slowly they pulled their way across the dangerous stretch of water.
It was purely due to his position there that Fronto saw them first. The officers and most of the men and the sailors were amidships or to the rear, or below with the horses. Fronto, very much on his own at the port rail near the bow, looked up from his latest culinary evacuation and peered unhappily at the horizon, despite the many times he had been told that this only made it worse.
The Bosphorus stretched away northeast towards Byzantium, green and grey slopes to each side, making it even more forbidding. The surface of the blue water looked deceptively calm. It didn’t feel it. Less than a mile up there, he could see the narrow channel opening out into a wide stretch of water: the Sea of the Propontis. It was hard to make out a lot of detail at this distance because of the haze. Then, suddenly, shapes began to coalesce. He stared. Ships. And not just any ships… warships.
‘Shit,’ he shouted, wiping his mouth and staggering back away from the rail. A moment later he was battering his way between angry sailors and waving at Caesar, who was deep in conversation with Brutus.
‘What is it?’ Caesar said.
‘Warships,’ he gasped. ‘A fleet. Cassius at a guess.’
Caesar huffed and rubbed at his temple. ‘How far?’
‘Less than a mile.’
‘Then we will not get our troops disembarked before he is upon us, and half the army will remain cut off on the north bank. This could be a disaster. He cannot yet know who we are. Perhaps he will ignore us and think us a merchant fleet.’
‘No, sir,’ Brutus replied. ‘Too many. And we’re clearly crossing the straits. We cannot go in disguise.’
‘Have we got one of Pompey’s flags with us?’ Fronto said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Any flag that could be of Pompey’s allies? Maybe if we display it we can slip past them as friends?’
Caesar nodded. ‘We have several vexilla that bear simply an eagle and SPQR.’ He turned to one of the praetorians. ‘Fetch an eagle flag and have it displayed prominently at the prow. Quickly, now.’
As the man hurried off about the task, Caesar spat out further orders. ‘Get the First Century up on deck, but without their shields or vexillum. Nothing that gives them away as mine. Let’s look like one of Pompey’s ships.’
‘What if he wants to know what we’re doing here?’ Galronus said.
‘Then we’re in for a fight,’ Fronto replied. ‘We can only do what we can, eh?’
He hurried along the rail towards the bow once more, where a sailor was stringing the flag. Behind him, he could hear the jangle, clunk and clatter as the legionaries made their way up onto deck and fell into lines.
Fronto watched the approaching ships. There were only twelve visible. He’d expected more. It had to be Cassius’ fleet, or at least part of it. There would be no other naval forces in the region. Perhaps the rest were further away, invisible as yet in the haze? They were coming on, straight for the flotilla crossing the channel. Of course, that same haze would make identification more tricky until they were close, but they had to be at least interested now. The lead vessel began to pull out in front, slightly faster than the others. Fronto could see a flag fluttering on that ship, a crimson one with… yes an image of Hercules. Definitely Pompeian ships.
They were coming fast. Fronto knew his eyesight to be far from the best, but even a below-average lookout on that ship must have seen the flag by now. What were they doing? They were clearly too interested to simply leave the flotilla alone, else they would not have picked up pace. But they were not coming armed for war, for the rest of the ships simply ambled along behind.
What did they think: friend or foe? He fumed and turned to the flag, which was now fluttering and waving in the strong mid-channel wind. It snapped straight momentarily and Fronto stared in horror. The damn soldier had picked up the wrong flag. The golden ‘Taurus’ bull emblem of Caesar gleamed in the sun above the ‘VI’ that identified its legion owners.
‘Oh, shit.’
He turned and ran to the officers. Caesar had retreated inside and left Brutus in rather nondescript armour as the senior officer on board. The general himself was, after all, fairly recognisable.
‘General, the daft sod sent up the wrong flag. We’re displaying the Sixth’s bull.’
Caesar leapt up and stepped out of the shade. ‘Gods, but what a mistake. They are close enough to see, yes?’
‘Beyond a doubt.’
‘Are they arrayed for war?’
Fronto frowned. ‘Oddly, not. What do we do?’
‘Our ruse is blown, Marcus.’ He turned to the rest. ‘Issue the standards and shields to the men. Fly all our flags and have the order given to the other ships. If we have announced who we are, then let us meet these men in the open. Perhaps we can persuade him that we are more than we truly are.’
Moments later the insignia was being raised on standards above the men of the Sixth and flags rose on the various other ships of the fleet, all displaying Caesar’s bull. Fronto took a deep breath. The general was quite right. They had failed to sneak past, so they must brazen it out.
They kept to almost the same course, steering very slightly into the current, almost head-on with the approaching warship. With men lined up in gleaming ranks and banners snapping and fluttering, they waited for the ships to close. As they neared, the lead Pompeian ship began to slow, oars back-watering and then, as the trireme slipped to a stop, barring the pull of the current, the oars were shipped.
Fronto glanced back at the other officers and shrugged. Caesar gave the order to come to a full stop, and the liburnian slid close to the lead warship, similarly back-watering and then shipping oars. Fronto joined the others, trying to look much more impressive and much less ill than he felt.
A figure in a senior officer’s uniform approached the bow of the other ship and stopped at the rail. He looked familiar, but it was only as Caesar’s voice rang out that Fronto realised why.
‘Gaius Cassius Longinus, well met.’
Fronto frowned. This was Cassius, who had been the only officer to leave the field of battle at Carrhae with his
men when Crassus fell to the Parthians. This was Cassius the war hero, supporter of Pompey and former tribune of the plebs. But what surprised him more was that Cassius had both arms extended, palms up and his sword laid across them.
‘On behalf of my sailors and officers and the ships of the Euxine Fleet, Caesar, I surrender all to you and seek only your clemency for those deserving men who have done nothing more than serve both Rome and their conscience.’
Fronto stared, but Caesar was less taken aback, clearly, for he strode across to the rail and threw up his hands in greeting. ‘Gods, but it is good to see you, Cassius. Your brother, who as you know has served me faithfully as proconsul, has been worried about you. Perhaps now the pair of you can retie your familial bond.’ He smiled easily. ‘Never has it given me more pleasure to grant clemency, to the entire fleet and every man therein. Come, Cassius, sheath your blade, for I have need of men of your wit and skill. Join us.’
Fronto shook his head in wonder at it all. Caesar bowed only truly to Venus, while Fronto spent his life honouring Fortuna, yet it was the general who the goddess continually threw her cloak about. Would the man’s luck never fail?
* * *
They arrived in Cyprus on a sunny late afternoon to find more ships and the cohorts of Calenus encamped near the port, awaiting their general. Caesar’s small army had travelled down the coast of Asia, with Cassius and his ships keeping pace out to sea. They had called at Mytilenae only to discover that Pompey had been there a short time, gathered a small flotilla at great expense and then left, heading south once more, bound, it was said, for Cyprus. That critical island being the logical stop before Syria, it made a lot of sense. The army had paused in places down the coast, often encountering signs of Pompey’s passing or influence. At Ephesus, Pompey’s creature Ampius had attempted to strip the Temple of Diana of all its wealth to hire men in Pompey’s name. He had failed, though largely due to the news of Caesar’s approach that set the whole city against him, so that he fled south in fear. And so the Caesarian force had moved on, bound for Cyprus.
The ships docked swiftly, and the army disembarked, the Sixth and the cavalry combining with the Twenty Seventh to create a much more formidable force. Fronto heaved his usual sigh of relief as he stepped onto dry land, still dimly and uncomfortably aware that Cyprus was just a very big island and that the only way off it was once again by ship. At the dock, he mounted and joined Caesar, Brutus, Galronus and the now-trusted Cassius, and made for the camp of the Twenty Seventh.
They were greeted at the gate of the camp by a tired-looking tribune, a centurion and an honour guard of legionaries. The tribune threw a salute out at the approaching officers, and Caesar waved the niceties aside.
‘Tribune?’
‘Sir. Titus Orfidius Bulla, commanding a vexillum of the Twenty Seventh. We have eagerly awaited your arrival.’
Caesar nodded impatiently. ‘Thank you, Tribune. What news of Pompey?’
The man sagged a little, and Fronto knew then that they’d missed him again.
‘Pompey came to Cyprus and spent some time here, sir. According to my information, the Cypriot cities closed their gates to him as a whole, but he roved the countryside with his men, causing trouble. He managed to waylay and steal a considerable amount of money from the local tax collectors and used it to recruit a small mob of criminals, refugees and the disaffected. Before the local authorities could put an end to him, and they assure me that they tried, he took ship from a harbour near Kourion.’
‘Syria?’ Fronto muttered, but the tribune shook his head. ‘Our last intelligence has him bound for Aegyptus, sir.’
‘Good work, Tribune,’ the general said, straightening. ‘Pompey has links with Aegyptus and with the ruling family. He was close to the previous king, Ptolemy the Twelfth. Ptolemy had five children and I gather there is something of a complicated civil war going on at the moment, but that could be just the sort of situation that plays to Pompey’s strength. Likely he will ingratiate himself with a favourable faction and begin to build his reputation and strength once more.’
He turned and peered back out to sea, then his gaze slid to Fronto. ‘Do not bother with a hearty meal, Marcus, for your digestive system’s issues are not yet over. Gather the entire fleet. We take ship for Aegyptus in the morning.’
Chapter 27
Aegyptus, October 48 BC
Fronto greeted the approaching line of green and gold shore with the last of his stomach contents, hurled out into the water with gusto. He was fairly sure that if the sea remained calm enough, a good ship could track Caesar’s passage by the copious trail of vomit all the way from Cyprus. His relief at seeing the approaching city was muted somewhat by the churning pain in the pit of his stomach.
‘Magnificent, isn’t she?’
He turned to see Salvius Cursor standing beside him at the rail, looking well and happy.
‘Who?’
‘Alexandria, Queen of Cities. I cannot say what awaits us there, but I have a love of this place.’
Fronto frowned. ‘You’ve been here before?’
‘I’ve been over quite a lot of the east under Pompey. I had a lot of friends here.’
‘You might find more enemies now, especially if Pompey has been here for some time insinuating himself into court circles.’
‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Salvius. ‘We are making for the Great Harbour, for that is where the royal palace complex lies at the landward end of the Diabathra – the long breakwater you can just see end-on. We shall pass between that and the great lighthouse and make directly for the Royal Harbour, a walled sub-port of the Great Harbour.’
‘Aren’t you just a fountain of information,’ grunted Fronto.
‘Fountain is a poor choice of word, I think, since that more or less describes you for the last few days.’
Fronto lifted his eyes to glare witheringly at the tribune.
The two men fell silent and Fronto shifted slightly as Galronus arrived and leaned on the rail at his other elbow. ‘I am intrigued,’ the Remi murmured. ‘I have become used to the parched landscapes of Italia, Hispania and now Achaea after the lush green of home, but what I have heard of this place makes it sound like nothing I have ever imagined. Like a beach that extends forever.’
Salvius leaned across Fronto, gaining another glare. ‘Actually, you’ll find it reasonably green here,’ he said. ‘The city will be hot and dry, but it has a lake on one side, the sea on the other, and it is bordered by the green delta of the Nile River. The sands of the desert are far from here.’
Galronus managed to conceal his disappointment quite well, and the three men watched one of the world’s greatest cities slide towards them. At the head of the small fleet, they slipped between the famous lighthouse and the breakwater into the harbour. Despite himself, Fronto was intrigued. The huge oval of the harbour was subdivided, with three individual ports lined up to the left and shipyards and slipways to the right. There were relatively few ships he could see in the ports, and their own vessel seemed to be heading for the shipyards for some reason.
‘Why are we going this way, and where are all the ships?’
Salvius smiled. ‘We have to curve wide with the wind three quarters astern and then turn sharp and row for the ports. There are hidden reefs, you see.’
‘Reefs in the port?’
‘Yes.’
‘Typically Aegyptian planning,’ grunted Fronto.
‘Macedonian. These were built by the Ptolemies. And the lack of ships is because this is the harbour for the military only. With the current political situation many of them will be at sea somewhere across the delta or up the river. The other harbour off to the west is the commercial one.’
Another grunt issued from Fronto, and he watched as they turned, bringing fresh waves of nausea, and made for the easternmost docks. This sub-harbour lay beneath the walls of a huge complex of rich golden stone and white marble, sporting defensive ramparts and grand colonnades, obelisks jutting up and great stone lions
and sphinxes regarding the sea with cold disdain. It was the oddest mix of Greek and Aegyptian Fronto could have imagined.
Most of the navy might be absent, but they had been here recently and were regular visitors as was evidenced by the condition of the quaysides. The warship that bore the general, his senior officers, his praetorian guardsmen and two centuries of the Sixth pulled towards the left most free jetty, which sat below a great gate with a carving of some broad-winged bird above it, vividly painted in bright colours. The gates themselves stood open, though a few native soldiers were on guard at the sides. Beyond, as the ship slid to a halt, Fronto could see a lush green garden and a wide, white square with the palace buildings rising behind it.
Caesar gave the orders and by the time the ship was stationary and the sailors were throwing out ropes and securing the vessel, the passengers were lined up and fully equipped, ready to disembark. All along the port, any jetty not being occupied by a Ptolemaic ship was now host to one of Caesar’s small fleet, legionaries lining up by ranks to disembark.
A huge ramp was run out and Fronto noted with amusement Caesar’s lictors lining up to move out first. The general, of course, was often preceded by his lictors in public as was traditional, especially when in Rome, since they proclaimed the status of the man who followed. On campaign, those men went about other duties, for it simply was not practical for the general to prosecute a military campaign with a dozen men in togas bearing their bundles of rods in front of him wherever he went. The fact that he was to be preceded by them here announced that this was a political and very official visit.
The twelve men traipsed off down the ramp and reassembled on the dock, hefting their heavy bundles of rods and axes. Next came Caesar himself, followed by his officers. Then, the praetorians and finally the First century of the Sixth. The other century was to remain on the ship, partially so as not to flood the city with soldiers, which might send entirely the wrong message, and partially to protect the vessels from harm.
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 40
