‘Very well, if you say so. What a pity there never seems to be a stage in political life where you can sit back and close your career. In the old days a man could be Consul, perhaps Consul more than once, and then live at home with his family until he died of old age. Perhaps my dear Caesar was wrong to cross the Rubicon. Since then, every statesman must go on until he kills himself after defeat, or until his friends grow tired of him and kill him.’
‘Perhaps. The world grows worse every year. All the same, as I said just now, I am not chasing supreme power. I may yet be the only statesman of this generation to die peacefully of old age.’
‘That’s hopeful. But I still think it is running an unnecessary risk to lead your whole army in person. There are so many veteran commanders, and you are not among them.’
‘That would be sound advice if I were trying to compete with Antonius. I’m not. In Sicily there will be no veteran commanders. Caesar and his friend Agrippa are young and untried. Pompeius may be a good sailor, unless his freedmen do it all in his name; but he has never commanded in a campaign on land. We start equal, all beginners. At least I have long experience as a quartermaster and trainer of troops. I won’t be frightened by the enemy’s reputation, as I was frightened of Marcus Antonius while he marched to the Argenteus. I may find that I am a very good general. There is no way to know until I fight a battle.’
‘If you are set on going there’s no more to be said. After you have won a great victory Caesar must treat you as an equal, so I suppose the risk is worth taking.’
‘And this time my soldiers will fight for me. All our troubles began when those three cohorts changed sides at the Capua gate. In a way I can’t blame them. Then there was really nothing to fight about; I still don’t know what Lucius and Fulvia were after. This time we are the army of Rome, fighting to free our City from famine; and our enemies are foreigners, pirates or Sicilian Greeks. The men will be as keen as if they marched against Hannibal.’
‘That is a point in our favour. It makes it all the more important that you should really co-operate with Caesar. I hope you will allow him to plan the campaign. He speaks for the Senate and People of Rome; he’s young, but there’s nothing derogatory in taking his orders.’
‘Caesar is the leader of our party, now that Antonius won’t leave the east. I can do nothing without his fleet. He will plan the invasion, and I shall comply with his instructions. That is, at least until we are safely landed in Sicily.’
The lady Clodia grumbled to her steward, going over the household accounts. ‘The cost of living is beyond all bounds, and I can’t get ostrich-feathers for any money at all. I’ve a good mind to leave Rome, to get right away from young Caesar and his misfortunes. The east sounds amusing, but I can’t compete with Queen Cleopatra; I would look like a poor relation. Then there’s Sicily, of course. But even the Optimate refugees can’t stomach the airs of young Sextus; they are coming home as fast as they can. What about Utica? Perhaps Junia would not receive me at first, but once I was good friends with Tertulla; and they say the place is just like Rome nowadays.’
‘Not Utica this year, my lady, I beg you. The Triumvir Lepidus is gathering his army to fight Pompeius, and Africa is most unsettled.’
‘Lepidus gathering an army? How ridiculous, at his age. Oh well, until he’s been beaten Africa will be dangerous. I shall stay in Rome after all, at least until the next civil war reaches the gates.’
11. Victory
36 BC
It was the first day of July, the month named in honour of the Divine Julius, a day propitious for Caesarians; though rather late in the season to open a campaign. When the Imperator embarked the transports were already clear of the harbour, hoisting sail and shipping their oars in the open sea; but a squadron of fast war-galleys manúuvred smartly in the confined waters of the port, and marines stood at the salute as the Triumvir’s banner fluttered on the flagship. This banner bore a red lion against the yellow background of the African desert. Lepidus had been born under the sign of Leo, and he used this badge, instead of the ancestral elephant of the Aemilii, to match the Capricorn of young Caesar and the Bull which had been the device of the Divine Julius. It was reported that the Pompeian rebels fought under the golden trident of Neptune. Since every legion in every Roman army used Jupiter’s Eagle as its main standard, these lesser flags, displayed by each cohort, were needed as identification.
Trumpets pealed, at the quayside the lady Junia scattered incense on a little altar, the crowd cheered, and the Pontifex Maximus poured a libation. Then the flutes on each quarterdeck shrilled to mark time for the rowers, and the great invasion of Sicily was under way. As his flagship passed the end of the mole Lepidus went down to his cabin, to get rid of the ornamental corselet which bathed his whole body in sweat.
On a war-galley there was only one cabin. It was revoltingly hot and stuffy, too near the waterline for portholes; and filled with the reek of sweating galley-slaves, whose benches, just beyond the leather curtain that served as door, were on the same level. Lepidus must keep his bedding there, for dignity’s sake. But he knew that if he remained below he would be sea-sick. As soon as he had changed into a light tunic he went up to breathe the fresh air of the poop.
It was early, and not yet unbearably hot. Since the poop was the only free space on a crowded galley he found his senior officers already there. As much to pass the time as for any other reason, they were soon conferring in an impromptu council of war.
The sailing-master, Cleonas, began it, coming up to his commander to complain of the weather. ‘I told you before, sir. We ought to wait a few days. That sky looks unsettled. There may be no wind now, but I’ll eat my sea-boots if we don’t get a norther tomorrow.’
Gallus, the senior legate, answered brusquely. ‘I never yet met a sailor who was satisfied with the weather. It’s always “Wait a few days. Today it looks fine, but a storm may be coming.” If we waited for sailors to give the word, no army would ever cross the sea.’
‘Cleonas understands the weather, and we don’t,’ said Lepidus mildly. ‘He is right to warn us, though we are right to disregard his warning. Menas and his pirates are more dangerous to us than any storm, and by sailing on the appointed day we make sure they will be too busy to attack us.’
‘I suppose they are a danger,’ the legate murmured doubtfully. ‘I’ve never fought at sea, but it’s hard to grasp what a handful of Greek pirates can do to twelve legions of well-trained Roman foot.’
‘They can do anything they choose, if they catch us,’ Cleonas said angrily. ‘They don’t fight with swords, they fight with the beaks of their ships. It’s a crazy idea, to arrange the date of sailing months in advance, without making allowance for the weather. Perhaps Pompeius could do it, if he is really the son of Neptune. But Caesar knows nothing of the sea.’
‘No one knows anything of the sea,’ Gallus answered with equal heat, ‘and that goes for sailing-masters as well as Imperators. You creep from headland to headland, running for shelter whenever you see a cloud. If you happen to blunder into the enemy you all charge at random, like a pack of Gallic barbarians, instead of fighting in due order like civilized men. Your silly war-galleys are so crowded with rowers that you can’t carry drinking-water for more than six days, and no one can sleep properly unless the ship is drawn up on shore. We’d be better off on decent merchant ships, with water-tight cabins and a smell of grain and leather; instead of curling up on the open deck of this galley, suffocated by the stink of the rowing-slaves.’
Cleonas shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m doing what I can, Imperator. I wasn’t allowed to pick the date of sailing, I’m not allowed to choose our course, and here is a sample of the cargo I am expected to carry. I’ll get you to Lilybaeum, or I shall drown with you. That’s all I can promise.’
‘I didn’t choose these things either,’ said Lepidus. ‘You mustn’t mind Gallus. He crossed the Rhine with the Divine Julius, and the Rubicon too. He may not know much about seafaring, but we sh
all all be proud of him when we get ashore. You understand why we must sail today, and why we must make for the western corner of Sicily? It’s because today that dangerous pirate fleet will be busy at the other end of the island. At this very moment Agrippa will be engaging Menas, while Caesar ferries his army over the straits. The plan is ambitious, but it can’t fail if we all keep faith. Perhaps the weather will harm us; we know the enemy can’t.’
‘Then we are luckier than our allies,’ said Cleonas, mollified by his commander’s courtesy. ‘The gale that’s breeding will come from the north, and the mountains of Sicily will shelter us. If three great fleets are manúuvring north of the island, there won’t be room in Neptune’s locker for all the sailors drowned today.’
‘That’s upsetting. Agrippa’s men can fight, but in bad weather the pirates are the better sailors,’ Lepidus said gloomily. ‘I hope Caesar carries out his invasion as promised. Otherwise this army alone will have to take on all the rebels.’
‘I’m not worrying over that,’ said Gallus. ‘We have twelve legions, first-class material, well trained and well equipped. If that freedman of yours was telling the truth when he gave us the Pompeian order of battle the Sicilians have only ten legions in all. Pompeius must know we are going to land in the west, because in a harbour town like Utica you can never keep a military secret. But he must hold back a reserve to defend his main base, Messana. We ought to have a superiority of two to one; and our men are Romans, not Sicilian Greeks.’
‘Yes, two to one is comforting odds,’ admitted Lepidus. ‘But I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple as that. We must capture a harbour as soon as we land, or see our fleet sail back to Africa, leaving us cut off. If they hold the strong walls of Lilybaeum we may have trouble turning them out.’
‘There are ways into Lilybaeum. I’ve never been there, but there’s no secret about those walls. Our map must be reasonably accurate, even if Pompeius has dug more earthworks. With your permission, Imperator, I’ll get the map up on deck, and go over the plan of assault once again.’
As they knelt to move leaden blocks about the map Lepidus wished he had Eunomus leaning over his shoulder to whisper his fluent advice. Leaving his secretary behind had been a wrench. But no one else could be trusted to bring on the four other legions when the empty transports returned to Utica.
That night the sea got up, and by dawn all the ships in the fleet were wallowing most uncomfortably. But as yet there was no wind, and the air was clear; the squadrons could keep formation. Africa was a line of cloud on the southern horizon, and Cape Lilybaeum was not yet in sight to the north. If Menas disregarded the threat from Italy, or divided his fleet, this was where the Sicilian pirates might be expected to pounce. At every mast-head a look-out scanned the waves, but until midday no enemy appeared.
Lepidus was munching biscuit and bacon in the cabin (you could not call it ‘dining’), when the look-out shouted the warning for ‘enemy in sight’. In a moment he was on deck, barefoot and wearing only his tunic; but by the time Crastinus arrived with his sword the alarm was over. Those were certainly pirate galleys in the offing, sleek craft very low in the water and much handier than the standard Roman warship. They were painted light blue, without ornament, so as to be hard to discern in the distance; and each flew the blue flag, bearing a golden trident, of Sextus Pompeius the son of Neptune. But there seemed to be only six of them, and they kept well away from the invading fleet. Cleonas said they were signalling with flags to another ship, a mere blob on the northern horizon. They were only scouts, keeping in touch with the invasion.
‘If the weather holds well get to land without fighting,’ said the sailing-master. ‘But there’s a storm raging now, not far to the north; and if it reaches us we shall be in for a troublesome day. For all their low freeboard, those pirates are handier in a seaway than our broad-bottomed transports; and their crews never feel sea-sick. If we lose formation they will be in among us like wolves in a sheepfold. Oh well, it might be worse. Here I am, on the flagship, with a cargo of heroes to guard me. The Pompeians will go for the store-ships; they want booty, not fighting. Unless they know we are carrying the pay-chest they won’t attack the best-armed warship in the fleet.’
He seemed prepared to go on talking for ever, without pausing for an answer. Lepidus left him, to walk along the raised gangway between the rowing-benches until he stood in the prow. If you did not mind getting wet, he realized, this was the most comfortable place in a war-galley. There was a pleasant smell of spray, instead of the sickening stench of unwashed, sweating rowers; and the play of foam round the beak gave an impression of purposeful speed which was lacking on the poop. Best of all, the prow was a narrow platform; there was no room for officers to come and grumble in his ear. In this crowded ship here was the only place where he could be alone.
He had not been alone since he left Utica, yesterday morning. For the first time since setting out on this voyage he had the leisure and the solitude to think. Very soon he was going to command a great army in his first action. If Cleonas was right he might be fighting in an hour or two; certainly he would fight before tomorrow’s sunset. Was he frightened at the prospect?
He was nervous, but that was not quite the same thing. He was within a few days of his fifty-fourth birthday, and he could not expect to enjoy the careless equanimity of youth. For a year he had trained with his army, he knew his men were fit and disciplined, and he was accustomed to giving orders without hesitation to large bodies of troops. He had firmly fixed in his mind’s eye the most difficult technical accomplishment of the veteran commander; he could look at a stretch of empty ground and calculate without conscious effort exactly how much of it a cohort would fill. He sweated slightly when he remembered the occasion last autumn when he had ordered two legions to defile across one narrow footbridge; that sort of mix-up would not happen again.
He was a Roman of noble birth who for more than thirty years had practised the normal drill of the parade ground. The conquerors of Hannibal and Antiochus had been men of the same stamp. The Roman army was a machine, complicated yet certain in its operation. Such a machine worked all the better if it was managed in the routine fashion of the ancestors; a commander of eccentric genius might puzzle the troops.
There was no need for him to lead a charge in person, unless the battle was going very badly. Crastinus had impressed on him that the proper station for an Imperator was behind the third line of reserves. Centurions fought in the front rank, in a crisis a military tribune might wave his sword and run ahead to encourage his followers; but the supreme commander must stay at the back, where he could take in the whole fight at a glance. That was comforting. Nowadays fast movement in full armour made his heart thump unpleasantly, and he was afraid of tripping head over heels if he ran over rough ground.
It meant that if the army was beaten and the soldiers ran away he would be left behind, to die gallantly where he stood. That was on the whole an advantage. Even to save his life he could not lead a disgraceful retreat. Was he afraid of death? Carefully he examined the question.
He was afraid of pain. Who isn’t? Even in imagination the prospect of a wound on the elbow, or in the groin, made him wince; he had seen ugly things in the amphitheatre. But death, unconsciousness merging into extinction, ought not to worry a noble patrician with two fine sons to carry on his line. Perhaps he was not actually afraid; he was only reluctant to terminate his career. Life was very good just now, with his family united and Africa flourishing under an enlightened government. Besides, he was not yet a grandfather. Antonia seemed a sickly girl, for all the notorious potency of her sire. He would be wronging his family if he risked his life before Marcus had achieved paternity.
He stumped back to the poop. He was worrying himself about nothing. Of course life was good, and he was reluctant to leave it. He was not going to leave it for many years to come.
Darkness fell on a heaving sea, but even a landsman could tell that the storm was diminishing. The wind had dropped,
and the rowers were getting to the end of their strength; the whole fleet huddled round the lights of the flagship, hardly moving except to the roll of the waves. There was no hurry. They were very near Sicily, and for landing on a hostile shore they needed daylight.
What with sea-sickness and nervous anticipation, Lepidus could not sleep. When they roused him at first light he felt like nothing on earth; but a cup of strong wine settled his stomach, and as they reached the shelter of the land the rolling lessened. By sunrise he was standing on the poop, fully armed, ready to lead even the most desperate attack that would get his feet back on dry land.
High ground to the eastward left the shore in shadow; but the sun caught the rock of Lilybaeum, the ancient Carthaginian fortress which had cost so many Roman lives. The officers, clustering by the rail, gazed at those steep walls crowning the hilltop; but Cleonas, whose eyes never seemed to leave the sky except to glance at the waves, was the first to notice something significant.
‘The town’s yours, Imperator,’ he called cheerfully. ‘The Pompeians are not even trying to hold it. Look, the harbour’s empty; not so much as a fishing-boat. There may be a garrison in the citadel; that’s the business of your flatfooted legionaries. But the waterfront is clear. We can anchor within the mole, and perhaps draw up some of the galleys on the strand. My sailors will sleep tonight. I might put even the rowing-slaves ashore, if I can find a safe lock-up for them.’
‘There’s a banner on the citadel,’ Gallus put in. ‘Yes, it’s the trident. But the sailing-master is right, they are not holding the lower town. Pompeius himself will be farther east, near Messana, to face Caesar. I wonder who commands for him in the west? If he knows his job he will hold back his main force, to attack while we are in the middle of disembarking. And yet I don’t know. There may be no Pompeian army within miles of us. Lilybaeum is our obvious target, but they can’t be certain we will land here. Their field-force may be miles inland, waiting until the invasion has fully developed. I see signal-flags going on the citadel. That looks as though their high command is a good distance away. What shall we do, Imperator? Keep our legions on shipboard until the cavalry have done a bit of scouting? Or take a chance and get ashore as quick as possible?’
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