Three's Company

by Alfred Duggan

  ‘If it was Antonius I’d say he had sent us the wrong map,’ said Gallus pettishly. ‘But Agrippa is a painstaking methodical ass. He must believe this thing represents the hills round Messana. I suppose a few scouts fudged it up in the canteen, and persuaded their innocent commander that they had ridden over these imaginary hills and valleys. Well, there it is. Titienus will get through, and Agrippa will lose himself. I suppose we must send out patrols to find him, before all his men fall over a cliff.’

  Lepidus was glad to agree. It was heartening to see that his own subordinates estimated the allied army so justly. If, during the coming interview with young Caesar, he was driven to the crudity of uttering threats, the attitude of his men would make those threats convincing. But it was unlikely that things would reach that stage. Caesar had been eight years in politics, and with that experience he would yield to overpowering force before a sword had to be brandished before his eyes.

  In the evening Eunomus crept in to talk over the future. Lepidus was feeling cheerful, after a good dinner and a good bath; and at last the weather was breaking, after the hottest summer within living memory. Thick cloud, laced with lightning, promised rain and blessed coolness.

  ‘That ambush out in the hills will get very wet,’ said Eunomus with a titter. ‘But I suppose all Caesar’s men are expert swimmers. They must be, to have survived so many shipwrecks. I shall sleep the sounder for thinking of them splashing about in the mud.’

  ‘It’s of no importance, only a small detachment,’ answered his patron. ‘But I want to go over with you what I shall tell Caesar when we meet. So listen carefully.

  ‘Now,’ he continued, lolling back on his couch and rubbing his hands, ‘I want to continue the Triumvirate, if Caesar shows himself reasonable. If I begin making changes at the top all sorts of obscure politicians will harbour absurd ambitions, and before we know where we are there will be another civil war. So Antonius, Caesar, and myself will continue to direct affairs. Antonius is the greatest soldier in the world, and if it came to fighting he would beat me. That’s the first stone of my foundation. But the second stone is that Antonius seeks plunder, not power. He can be bought, and I can afford to buy him. The third stone is that I am now more powerful than Caesar. Yet Caesar is still the much-loved head of the Popular party. So Caesar remains my colleague.’

  ‘You might give him Africa, my lord,’ sniggered Eunomus.

  ‘He can’t stay in Rome, certainly. But I would like to keep Africa as well as Italy. After all I did in Utica they will want me to stay. Caesar can have the barbarous provinces, Gaul and Spain. The Druids of Gaul practise human sacrifice, so they will like to be governed by the hero of Perusia.’

  ‘Ha ha, very witty, my lord. Mind you repeat it in the Senate. We must keep on reminding Rome that young Caesar is a savage. People forget these things very quickly.’

  He continued, in a wheedling tone: ‘Can you find some little corner in your government for Sextus Pompeius? He is a gallant young man, and the best sailor alive. Before this war began he had been promised a Consulship. If you made him proconsul in Cilicia he would get on very well with the inhabitants, and in Rome the surviving Optimates would be gratified to see the son of their old leader forgiven and prospering.’

  ‘He’s not the kind of man I could take for a colleague. He tried to starve his own City. There can never be a place for him in Rome. But there is no blood-feud between us. Let him make his peace with Antonius and live quietly in the east.’

  ‘Is that the best you can offer, my lord? Exile, without even a propraetorship to give him standing among the provincials?’

  ‘That’s all, and even then I am being generous. He has spilled too much Roman blood. I know you admire him, but I don’t. And in a few days I shall be supreme ruler of the world.’

  ‘Very well, my lord. You are just and merciful, and Sextus Pompeius deserves no more than bare life. I shall not intercede for him again. What will you do with Caesar? Will you order him to resign his command here in the island, or will you take him with you to Rome and get your new government confirmed by the Senate?’

  ‘You’ve got it in the wrong order, my Eunomus. I shall be more careful. My interview with Caesar must come before I crush Pompeius. Then, if Caesar proves awkward, I can combine with Pompeius against him. Even the most conceited young man must give way before that threat.’

  ‘Masterly, my lord! You will be a mighty ruler. When will you hold this interview with your unfortunate colleague?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably in a day or two. They tell me Caesar is about to visit Sicily.’

  Lepidus had been misinformed; Caesar was already in the island. He had himself led out the detachment which was to cut off Titienus. Thanks to the inaccurate map he had missed him, and was wandering with his men among the tangled hills. In an urgent message he asked his colleague to join him immediately, to concert further action against Pompeius.

  ‘What’s the weather doing?’ asked Lepidus, when at last he had been roused. ‘If it’s still raining I shall wait for the storm to pass. It’s five years since Caesar bothered to see me. He can wait a few hours longer.’ He turned over and went back to sleep.

  By mid-morning the sun shone from a blue sky, and the air was pleasantly fresh. Riding gently through a charming landscape, surrounded by his vivid escort of Numidian horse, Lepidus had to check himself from singing aloud. It was hard to keep a dignified gravity while the mastery of the world fell into his lap.

  He found the drenched Caesarians amid the rivulets of a streaming hillside. For lack of dry fuel, they were munching uncooked oatmeal from their haversacks. Their leader, that young coxcomb, affected to share the hardships of his troops as though he were a second Alexander. He sat on a wet boulder under the Capricorn flag which was his personal standard; except this standard and a couple of weary sentries, nothing indicated his headquarters. Even though his name was Caesar, he was just a young man sitting shivering in a bog.

  Yet his self-assurance was unimpaired. He sat calmly watching the approach of his colleague, and only at the last moment rose to greet the Pontifex Maximus. Then he slumped down again on his rock, leaving Lepidus to stand until a trooper brought the leather travelling chair that was stamped with Eagles.

  At last Caesar spoke. ‘I expected you at dawn. You are late, but here you are at last. Now we must plan a joint attack. It’s time your army did something. How soon can you mount an assault on the walls, to co-operate with my naval attack on the harbour?’

  With a great effort Lepidus controlled his rage, to answer quietly. It would be undignified to quarrel openly in the presence of the troops. ‘You abandoned three of your Eagles on Etna. If they were saved it was not by you. My army has conquered ninetenths of Sicily while your men were falling into the sea. But we are fighting for Rome, and must all do our best. If you try again I shall help you, as before. Perhaps this time your sailors will not run away from the pirates.’

  It seemed as though Caesar had not heard him. The cold young face remained unmoved.

  ‘Three days hence, on the 3rd of September, my new fleet will challenge the Pompeians to battle. Pompeius must come out and fight, because his men will insist on it. Soon Messana will fall, and they can escape only by sea. They dare not see the straits held by a hostile fleet. This time I think I shall win. Agrippa had to learn, like anyone else; but now he knows. There isn’t time to bring my legions to the landward walls of Messana. When we destroy the pirate fleet you must immediately assault the town.’

  He hesitated, said ‘Excuse me’most politely, and fell over in a faint.

  His orderly bustled up with a wine-flask. ‘Here, Imperator Caesar, drink this. Rub his hands. Get his head between his knees. There, that’s better. Pile on the cloaks and he’ll soon be sweating.’

  ‘You see, my lord,’ he added to Lepidus, ‘our Imperator has such a high fever he hardly knows what he’s doing. He’s not strong, and last night’s storm nearly finished him. There’s no shelter on
this hillside, and the ground was too wet for him to lie down. He stood right through the night, while we kept the rain off him by holding shields over his head. But he’s Caesar. He’ll be up again in a minute, and conquering Messana in a few hours.’

  ‘I am sorry to learn he is unwell. This is not the time to bother him with a conference, but of course I did not know that when I set out. Now I shall leave him, to recover at his leisure. As soon as I reach my headquarters I shall send out a litter with my personal physician, and a jar of really good wine.’

  As he rode back to camp Lepidus felt more joyful even than in the morning. The heat, the drought, the flies would be back again in a few days, long before the sick man could recover; Sicily was notoriously unhealthy, the grave of many great armies. It seemed unlikely that the butcher of Perusia would ever see Rome again.

  His self-confident elation lasted for two whole days, and then things happened so quickly all around him that he felt himself losing control of events. That had always been his weakness. If he had plenty of time he could reach a wise decision; but if people shouted into his ear, beseeching him to give orders at once, he was inclined to lose his head in the flurry.

  He was awakened at dawn on the 3rd of September with news that the pirate fleet could be seen putting to sea. The enemy might be planning to land behind his lines, and he prudently ordered his whole army to stand to before he snuggled down again among the pillows. By midday everyone in the camp knew that a desperate sea-battle was being fought to the northward. Look-outs on high ground could see squadrons of ships charging against one another, beak to beak, and single galleys crawling, crippled, out of the mêlée. For the last century and more there had been a standard pattern of warship. Though the pirates were said to be faster and lighter, and the Italian vessels more strongly built, at long range no one could tell them apart. If common gossip was to be believed even experienced seamen made mistakes, and a ship was nearly as likely to be rammed by a consort as by an enemy. The most shortsighted soldier could make out that a great battle was being fought; the best eyes in the camp could not tell who was winning.

  Two hours after midday the battle still raged. The legions showed themselves a little restive at being under arms for so long, and Lepidus gave orders that alternate cohorts might stand down for dinner, before mustering again to parade while their comrades ate.

  All this time damaged pirate ships struggled back into the harbour, and others, hastily repaired, put out to join in the fight. With this perpetual coming and going no landsman could see which side was winning; the sea, right up to the horizon, was filled with charging ships. There seemed to be very little boarding. This was a classic sea-fight, in which the weapons were oars and the ram.

  When only two hours of daylight were left the advanced picket sent back word that Plinius was leaving his camp. Lepidus was seated outside his headquarters, with his staff standing or sitting round him; they were all staring out to sea, and most of them had forgotten that there were still eight legions of foes encamped within a mile of them.

  ‘Marching out, is he?’ exclaimed Gallus. ‘It’s much too late in the day to offer battle, unless he is trying a sudden surprise attack. He can’t be doing that. If his men are capable of any sort of scouting they must know we have been under arms, waiting for them, for the last eight hours.’

  ‘A prudent precaution, that no sensible commander would neglect,’ said Lepidus, nettled at the legate’s tone. ‘If the men think it an infliction to be kept on parade while a great battle is fought under their very eyes, I don’t know what the modern soldier is coming to.’

  ‘Never mind the feelings of our men, Imperator,’ answered Gallus, too excited to be respectful to his superior. ‘It’s what Plinius is feeling that interests me. Where’s he going, if he isn’t coming out to fight? He can’t retreat without falling into the sea, and he won’t try to give us the slip in broad daylight; though I have been afraid he might try dodging round to the west again. Where else can he go? By Jove, I think I’ve got it! Pompeius is beat, and the pirates are running for the eastern sea. So Plinius thinks it time to dodge into Messana and negotiate his surrender from the cover of stone walls!’

  ‘That’s it,’ shouted a tribune. ‘Look, I can see his van. He is making for the town. Imperator, now’s our chance! Tell the trumpeters to blow “Hot Pursuit”. If we catch up with his rearguard we may win a gate before they can shut it, and sack Messana by nightfall.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. I command here,’ said Lepidus decisively. ‘We don’t want a lot of Romans killed after the war has been won. If the pirates are beaten the town must fall. We shall get just as much plunder if we let them negotiate a peaceful surrender. When Plinius has all his men inside the walls our legions may dismiss. Patrol forward, and pass back any envoys straight to this hut. We ought to be hearing from Agrippa also, if he has really won a victory. Keep a look-out for his messengers. I shall go and bathe before supper.’

  The messenger of victory arrived first. By sunset a salt-stained marine was telling his story to a group of interested senior officers. The written message he brought was short, but informative: Agrippa reported that he had sunk twenty-eight pirate ships, and captured no less than 163, for the loss of three Caesarian ships sunk and none captured. The victory was final and overwhelming, though Pompeius himself had escaped into Messana.

  ‘But it’s not over yet,’ said Eunomus, who was so excited that he had come to rub down his master after the bath as though he were still a slave valet and not a freedman secretary. ‘There is still a Pompeian army. Plinius leads eight legions. We don’t know Caesar’s strength on land, but we do know that his soldiers are most remarkably unsuccessful; they must be feeling discouraged. Pompeius might still attack the camp at Tyndaris and snatch a victory; he might even kill Caesar. Of course, if you combine with Caesar Pompeius won’t have a chance. But if you keep out of the battle you can make what terms you please with the victor.’

  ‘I shall fight if I must, and negotiate if I can,’ answered Lepidus. ‘That’s a good motto for the commander of any army. But Pompeius can never fill Caesar’s place. Remember their names, and what they stand for. Of course, as a Greek you can’t see that. I think Caesar will beat Pompeius single-handed, but if he is losing I must strike in to help him. The government needs Caesar’s name, to keep the troops in order; and thanks to his misadventures on this campaign young Caesar is now definitely below me. He will remain a Triumvir, but second to Aemilius Lepidus.’

  ‘Very well, my lord. I think you are missing a chance. You know I have a weakness for Pompeius, and not only because he used to bribe me. He is a better ruler of Greeks than most other Romans, the Romans who have been educated in Rome. But whichever colleague you choose I shall be secretary to the ruler of the world. I should be a fool if that prospect were not enough to content me.’

  ‘That’s so,’ Lepidus answered lazily, wriggling with pleasure as his skin tingled from the rubbing. ‘Whoever wins at Tyndaris must make his terms with Lepidus. A comforting thought. I wonder what in fact Pompeius will do next?’

  The whole army wondered, throughout the evening. On normal days the trumpets blew ‘Lights Out’an hour after dark, and except for sentries the camp slept. Tonight the men would be too excited to rest, and at any moment they might be called into action. Orders went out that every soldier was to remain fully armed, though the men might dismiss and sit round their cooking-fires.

  The senior officers remained at headquarters, lounging and drinking. After such a great sea-battle in the day, surely something would happen tonight? Pompeius was a man of quick decisions, adept at snatching victory from defeat. By all the rules he should have been finished when the Divine Julius smashed his army at Munda, ten years ago; and here he was, still the most dangerous adversary of the Triumvirate. He would beat all comers, or combine with one Triumvir against the other. Certainly he would not sit down to endure a hopeless siege of Messana.

  They lay on their couches, sipping
wine and exchanging conjectures, while Lepidus in the highest place let his thoughts wander to the improvements he would decree when he ruled in the City. About midnight, when Agrippa arrived, he was received with congratulations on his glorious victory. But there was a note of patronage in the felicitations. Agrippa was Caesar’s favourite, and that made him a very great man; but his hosts were the favourites of the mighty Lepidus.

  Agrippa brought news of Caesar, who seemed to be flitting about the theatre of war more like an onlooker than a commander. Of course the poor young man suffered from deplorably weak health; but it was odd, almost un-Roman, that he was always somewhere else when there was fighting to be done. He was now with the main body of his army at Naulochus. The object of Agrippa’s visit was to implore Lepidus not to negotiate with Pompeius until Caesar could join him.

  There had been hard fighting in the sea-battle, and a new type of fighting-castle, designed by Agrippa, had worked very well. There was plenty to talk about.

  They were still talking about it, or rather listening to Agrippa, when the envoys arrived. The callers were a deputation of Roman citizens resident in Messana, and they came properly dressed in their togas, bearing herald’s staffs. It would be more natural for Pompeius to send an officer, if he feared to trust his own person to the conventional immunity of a herald. At sight of these civilians every politician in the room began doing sums in his head.

  Agrippa seemed to expect that he would be included in this delicate negotiation; but Lepidus summoned the chief spokesman to confer with him privately in his office. There he came bluntly to the point. ‘Who sent you? Show your credentials,’ said he.

  ‘This document, my lord, bears the common seal of Messana. I come in the name of the town council, fully empowered to negotiate on their behalf. Here, in addition, is a tablet sealed by the legate Plinius; his military tribunes have scratched their initials on it. I speak for the garrison as well as for the citizens.’