“They are here to help us win against Caesar, Cato, and we do not have to pay for their upkeep. As far as I’m concerned, they are welcome to violate the female population of all Macedonia, and beat up the male population. Now go away!”
Next to arrive was Cicero, accompanied by his son. Exhausted, miserable, full of complaints about everyone from his brother and nephew, the Quintuses, to Atticus, who refused to speak out against Caesar and was busy smoothing Caesar’s path in Rome.
“I was surrounded by traitors!” he fulminated to Pompey, his poor oozing eyes red and crusted. “It took months to manage my escape, and then I had to leave without Tiro.”
“Yes, yes,” said Pompey wearily. “There’s a marvelous wisewoman lives outside the Larissa gate, Cicero. Go and see her about those eyes. Now! Please!”
In October came Lucius Afranius and Marcus Petreius from Spain, the harbingers of their own doom. With them they brought a few cohorts of troops, which was no consolation to Pompey, shattered by the news that his Spanish army was no more—and that Caesar had won another almost bloodless victory. To make matters worse, the advent of Afranius and Petreius provoked a frenzied fury in men like Lentulus Crus, returned from Asia Province.
“They’re traitors!” Lentulus Crus yelled in Pompey’s ear. “I demand that our Senate try them and condemn them!”
“Oh, shut up, Crus!” said Titus Labienus. “At least Afranius and Petreius know their way around a battlefield, which is more than anyone can say of you.”
“Magnus, who is this lowborn worm?” gasped Lentulus Crus, outraged. “Why do we have to tolerate him? Why do I, a patrician Cornelius, have to be insulted by men who aren’t fit to polish my boots? Tell him to take himself off!”
“Take yourself off, Lentulus!” said Pompey, close to tears.
Those tears finally overflowed at night upon his pillow after Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus sailed in with the news that Massilia had capitulated to Caesar, and that Caesar was in complete control of every land to the west of Italia.
“However,” said Ahenobarbus, “I have a good little flotilla, and I intend to make use of it.”
*
Bibulus journeyed late in December to find Pompey as his huge army plodded across the high passes of Candavia.
“Ought you to be here?” asked Pompey nervously.
“Calm down, Magnus! Caesar won’t be landing in Epirus or Macedonia in the near future,” said Bibulus comfortably. “For one thing, there aren’t anything like enough transports in Brundisium for Caesar to get his troops across the Adriatic. For another, I have your son’s fleet in the Adriatic as well as my own two under Octavius and Libo, and Ahenobarbus patrolling the Ionian Sea.”
“You know, of course, that Caesar has been appointed Dictator and that the whole of Italia is for him? And that he hasn’t any intention of proscribing?”
“I do. But cheer up, Magnus, it isn’t all bad. I’ve sent Gaius Cassius and those seventy trim Syrian ships to the Tuscan Sea with orders to patrol it between Messana and Vibo and block all shipments of grain from Sicily. His presence will also prevent Caesar’s sending any of his troops to Epirus from the west coast.”
“Oh, that is good news!” cried Pompey.
“I think so.” Bibulus smiled the restrained smile of real satisfaction. “If we can pen him up in Brundisium, can you imagine how Italia will feel if the countryside has to feed twelve legions through the winter? After Gaius Cassius gets through with the grain supply, Caesar will have enough trouble feeding the civilian populace. And we hold Africa, don’t forget.”
“That’s true.” Pompey lapsed back into gloom. “However, Bibulus, I’d be a far happier man if I’d received those two Syrian legions from Metellus Scipio before I left Thessalonica. I’m going to need them when and if Caesar manages to get across. Eight of his legions are completely veteran.”
“What prevented the Syrian legions reaching you?”
“According to Scipio’s latest letter, he’s having terrible trouble forcing the Amanus. The Skenite Arabs have taken up residence in the passes and they’re obliging him to fight every inch of the way. Well, you know the Amanus, you campaigned there.”
Bibulus frowned. “Then he still has to march the entire length of Anatolia before he reaches the Hellespont. I doubt you’ll see Scipio before spring.”
“So let us hope, Bibulus, that we don’t see Caesar either.”
A vain hope. Pompey was still in Candavia negotiating the heights north of Lake Ochris when Lucius Vibullius Rufus located him fairly early in January.
“What are you doing here?” asked Pompey, astonished. “We thought you in Nearer Spain!”
“I’m the first evidence of what happens to a man who, having been pardoned by Caesar—after Corfinium—goes off and opposes him again. He took me prisoner after Illerda, and he’s kept me with him ever since.”
Pompey could feel himself go pale. “You mean—?”
“Yes, I mean Caesar loaded four legions into every transport he could find and sailed from Brundisium the day before the Nones.” Vibullius smiled mirthlessly. “He never even saw a single warship and landed safely on the coast at Palaestae.”
“Palaestae?”
“Between Oricum and Corcyra. The first thing he did was to send me to see Bibulus on Corcyra—to inform him that he’d missed his chance. And to ask for your whereabouts. You see in me Caesar the Dictator’s ambassador.”
“Ye Gods, he has hide! Four legions? That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“What’s his message?”
“That enough Roman blood has been spilled. That now’s the time to discuss the terms of a settlement. Both sides, he says, are evenly matched but uncommitted.”
“Evenly matched,” said Pompey slowly. “Four legions!”
“They’re his words, Magnus.”
“And his terms?”
“That you and he apply to the Senate and People of Rome to set the terms. After you and he have dismissed your armies. That he requires within three days of my return to him.”
“The Senate and People of Rome. His Senate. His People,” said Pompey between his teeth. “He’s been elected senior consul, he’s no longer Dictator. Everyone in Rome and Italia deems him a wonder. Certainly no Sulla!”
“Yes, he rules through fair words, not foul means. Oh, he is clever! And all those fools in Rome and Italia fall for it.”
“Well, Vibullius, he’s the hero of the hour. Ten years ago, I was the hero of the hour. There are fashions in public heroes too. Ten years ago, the Picentine prodigy. Today, the patrician prince.” Pompey’s manner changed. “Tell me, whom did he leave in charge at Brundisium?”
“Marcus Antonius and Quintus Fufius Calenus.”
“So he has no cavalry with him in Epirus.”
“Very little. Two or three squadrons of Gauls.”
“He’ll be making for Dyrrachium.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then I’d better summon my legates and start this army moving at the double. I have to beat him to Dyrrachium or he’ll inherit my camp and access to Dyrrachium itself.”
Vibullius stood up, taking this as a dismissal. “What about an answer to Caesar?”
“Let him whistle!” said Pompey. “Stay here and be useful.”
*
Pompey beat Caesar to Dyrrachium, but only just.
The west coast of the landmass which comprised Greece, Epirus and Macedonia was only vaguely demarcated; the southern boundary of Epirus was generally taken as the north shore of the Gulf of Corinth, but that was also Grecian Acarnania, and the northern border of Epirus was largely anywhere an individual fancied. To a Roman general, the Via Egnatia, which ran from the Hellespont for close to seven hundred miles through Thrace and Macedonia to the Adriatic, was definitely in Macedonia. Some fifteen miles from the west coast it branched north and south; the northern branch terminated at Dyrrachium and the southern branch at Apollonia. Therefore most Roman generals clas
sified Dyrrachium and Apollonia as part of Macedonia, not as part of Epirus.
To Pompey, arriving in haste and disorder at Dyrrachium, it came as a colossal shock to discover that all of Epirus proper had declared for Caesar, and so had Apollonia, the southern terminus of the Via Egnatia. Everything south of the river Apsus, in fact, now belonged to Caesar. Who had ejected Torquatus from Oricum and Staberius from Apollonia without bloodshed and in the simplest way: the local people cheered for Caesar and made life for a garrison too difficult. From where he had landed at Palaestae, the distance along a poorly surveyed and built local road to Dyrrachium was a little over a hundred miles, yet he almost beat Pompey, marching the Roman Via Egnatia, to Dyrrachium.
To make matters more distressing for Pompey, Dyrrachium too decided to support Caesar. His local recruits and the townsfolk refused to co-operate with the Roman government in exile at all, and began a program of subversive action. With seven thousand horses and nearly eight thousand mules to feed, Pompey could not afford to sit himself down in hostile country.
“Let me deal with them,” said Titus Labienus, a look in his fierce dark eyes that Caesar—or Trebonius, or Fabius, or Decimus Brutus, for that matter—would have recognized instantly for what it was: the lust for savagery.
Unaware of the extent of the barbarian streak in Labienus, Pompey asked an innocent question. “How can you deal with them in a way others cannot?”
The big yellow teeth showed in a snarl. “I’ll give them a taste of what the Treveri came to dread.”
“All right, then,” said Pompey, shrugging, “do so.”
Several hundreds of shockingly maimed Epirote bodies later, Dyrrachium and the surrounding countryside decided it was definitely more prudent to cleave to Pompey, who, having heard the tales flying through his enormous camp, elected to say and do nothing.
When Caesar retired to the south bank of the Apsus, Pompey and his army followed to set up camp on the north bank immediately opposite; at this ford across the big river, the south branch of the Via Egnatia crossed on its way to Apollonia.
No more than a stream of water between himself and Caesar… Six legions of Roman troops, seven thousand horse soldiers, ten thousand foreign auxiliaries, two thousand archers and a thousand slingers— against four veteran Gallic legions, the Seventh, the Ninth, the Tenth and the Twelfth. Pompey’s was an enormous numerical advantage! Surely, surely, surely more than enough! How could a huge force like his go down in a battle against four legions of Roman foot? It couldn’t. It simply couldn’t. He’d have to win!
Yet Pompey sat on the north bank of the Apsus, so close to Caesar’s camp fortifications that he might have pitched a stone and hit some veteran of the Tenth on the helmet. And didn’t move.
In his mind he was back in the Spains facing Quintus Sertorius, who could march out of nowhere eluding every scout, inflict a terrible defeat on a relatively huge army, then disappear again into nowhere. Pompey was back under the walls of Lauro, he was back gazing up at Osca, he was back dragging his tail between his legs as he retreated across the Iberus, he was back seeing Metellus Pius win the laurels.
And Lucius Afranius and Marcus Petreius, who ought to have brought pressure to bear on Pompey, were back in Nearer Spain facing Sertorius too, remembering also how laughably easily Caesar had out-maneuvered them in Nearer Spain a mere six months earlier. Nor was Labienus there to deride Caesar in his customary way, stiffen Pompey’s failing resolve; Labienus had been left behind to garrison Dyrrachium and keep its people loyal. Together with those nagging couch generals, Cato, Cicero, Lentulus Crus, Lentulus Spinther and Marcus Favonius. No one actually in camp with Pompey had either the vision or the steel to cope with Pompey in a doubting mood.
“No,” he said to Afranius and Petreius after several nundinae of inaction, “I’ll wait for Scipio and the Syrian legions before I give battle. In the meantime, I’ll sit here and contain him.”
“Good strategy,” said Afranius, relieved. “He’s suffering, Magnus, suffering badly. Bibulus has almost strangled his seaborne supply lines; he has to rely on what comes overland from Greece and southern Epirus.”
“Good. Winter ought to starve him out. It’s coming early, and coming fast.”
But not early enough and not fast enough. Caesar had Publius Vatinius with him. The proximity of the two camps meant that some degree of communication went on across the little river between the sentries; this swelled to include legionaries with time on their hands, and was to Caesar’s advantage. His men, so lauded and admired for their valor and unquenchable determination during the Gallic War, became the target of many questions from the curious Pompeians. Observing this largely unconscious reverence, Caesar sent Publius Vatinius to the middle of the nearest fortification tower and had him speak to the Pompeians. Why go on shedding Roman blood? Why dream of defeating the absolutely unbeatable Caesar? Why didn’t Pompey offer battle if he wasn’t terrified of losing? Why were they there at all?
When he heard what was going on, Pompey’s reaction was to send to Dyrrachium for his chief problem-solver, Labienus, with a special request to Cicero that he come along as well in case counter-oration was necessary. With the result that every couch general decided to come (they were so bored!), including Lentulus Crus, who at the time was listening to a great deal of subtle persuasion in the form of offers of money from Balbus Minor, sent by Caesar to win him over. Praying that no one in Pompey’s camp recognized him, Balbus Minor perforce came too.
Labienus arrived on the very day that negotiations were scheduled to commence between Caesar and a Pompeian delegation led by one of the Terentii Varrones. The conference never happened, broken up when Labienus appeared, shouted Vatinius down, and then launched a volley of spears across the river. Cowed by Labienus, the Pompeians scuttled away, never to parley again.
“Don’t be a fool, Labienus!” Vatinius called. “Negotiate! Save lives, man, save lives!”
“There’ll be no dickering with traitors while I’m here!” yelled Labienus. “But send me Caesar’s head and I’ll reconsider!”
“You haven’t changed, Labienus!”
“Nor will I ever!”
While this was going on, Cicero was comfortably and cozily partaking of wine and a chat in Pompey’s command house, delightfully undisturbed for once.
“You seem very perky and chirpy,” said Pompey gloomily.
“With excellent reason,” said Cicero, too full of his joyous news—and too bursting with the compulsion of a wordsmith to communicate—to curb his tongue. “I’ve just come into a very nice inheritance.”
“Have you now?” asked Pompey, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh, truly, Magnus, it couldn’t have come at a better moment!” caroled Cicero, oblivious to impending disaster. “The second installment of Tullia’s dowry is due—two hundred thousand, if you please!—and I still owe Dolabella sixty thousand of the first installment. He’s sending me a letter a day about it.” Cicero gave his charming giggle. “I daresay he has iugera of time to write, since he’s an admiral with no ships.”
“How much did you get?”
“A round million.”
“Just the sum I need!” said Pompey. “As your commander-in-chief and friend, Cicero, lend it to me. I’m at my wit’s end to pay the army’s bills—I mean, I’ve borrowed from every Roman soldier I own, and that’s an unthinkable predicament for a commander! My troops are my creditors. Now I hear that Scipio’s stuck in Pergamum until the winter’s over. I was hoping to pull myself out of the boiling oil with the Syrian money, but…” Pompey shrugged. “As it is, your million will be a big help.”
Mouth dry, throat closed up like a sphincter, Cicero sat for long moments unable to speak, while the puffy, brilliantly blue eyes of his nemesis stared into his very marrow.
“I did send you to that wisewoman in Thessalonica, didn’t I? She did cure your eyes, didn’t she?”
Swallowing painfully, Cicero nodded. “Yes, Magnus, of course. You shall have the million.”
He shifted in his chair, drank a little watered wine to stroke that sphincter open. “Er—I don’t suppose you’d let me keep enough to pay Dolabella?”
“Dolabella,” said Pompey, rearing up in righteous indignation, “works for Caesar! Which makes your own loyalty suspect, Cicero.”
“You shall have the million,” Cicero repeated, lip trembling. “Oh, dear, what can I tell Terentia?”
“Nothing she doesn’t already know,” said Pompey, grinning.
“And my poor little Tullia?”
“Tell her to tell Dolabella to ask Caesar for the money.”
*
Well based on the island of Corcyra, Bibulus was faring much better against Caesar than the timorous Pompey. It had hurt badly to learn that Caesar had successfully run his blockade—wasn’t that typical of Caesar, to send a captive Pompeian legate to inform him of it? Ha ha ha, beat you, Bibulus! Nothing could have spurred Bibulus on more energetically than that derisive gesture. He had always worked hard, but from the time of Vibullius’s visit he flogged himself and his legates remorselessly.
Every ship he could lay his hands on was sent out to patrol the Adriatic; Caesar would rot before he saw the rest of his army! First blood was empty blood, but tasty blood for all that. Out on the water himself, he intercepted thirty of the transports Caesar had used to cross, captured them and burned them. There! Thirty less ships for Antonius and Calenus to use.
One of Bibulus’s two objectives was to make it impossible for Antony and Fufius Calenus in Brundisium to obtain enough ships to ferry eight legions and a thousand German horse to Epirus. To ensure this, he sent Marcus Octavius to patrol the Adriatic north of Brundisium on the Italian side, Scribonius Libo to maintain a station immediately off Brundisium, and Gnaeus Pompey to cover the Greek approaches. Whether Antony and Calenus tried to get ships from the northern Adriatic ports, or from Greece, or from the ports of the Italian foot on its western side, they would not succeed!
His second objective was to deprive Caesar of all seaborne supplies, including those sent from Greece through the Gulf of Corinth or around the bottom of the Peloponnese.
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