He had heard a fantastic tale that Caesar, alarmed at his enforced isolation, had tried to return to Brundisium in a tiny open boat, and in the teeth of a terrible storm off Sason Island. In disguise to avoid alarming his men—so the story went—Caesar revealed his identity to the captain when a decision was made to turn back, appealing to the man to continue because he carried Caesar and Caesar’s luck. A second attempt was made, but in the end the pinnace was forced to return to Epirus and deposit Caesar unharmed among his men. True? Bibulus had no idea. Just like the man’s conceit, to make that appeal to the captain! But why would he bother? What did he think he could do in Brundisium that his legates— two good men, Bibulus admitted—could not?
Nevertheless, legends like this one caused Bibulus to push himself even harder. When the equinoctial gales rendered a breakout from Brundisium impossible, he ought by rights to have taken a rest. He did not. No one save the admiral-in-chief was available to patrol the Epirote coast between Corcyra and Sason Island. So the admiral-in-chief patrolled it, out in all weathers, never warm, never dry, never comfortable enough to sleep except in snatches.
In March he caught cold, but refused to return to Corcyra until the decision was taken out of his hands. Head on fire, hands and feet frozen, chest laboring, he collapsed at his post on his flagship. His deputy, Lucretius Vespillo, ordered the fleet to return to base, and there Bibulus was put to bed.
When his condition failed to improve, Lucretius Vespillo took another executive decision: to send to Dyrrachium for Cato. Who arrived in a pinnace much like the one in the legend about Caesar, tormented by the fear that once again he would be too late to hold the hand of a beloved man before he died.
Cato’s ears told him that Bibulus still lived before he entered the room; the whole snug little stone house on a sheltered Corcyran cove reverberated with the sound of Bibulus’s breathing.
So tiny! Why had he forgotten that? Huddled in a bed far too big for him, his silver hair and silver brows invisible against skin gone to silver scales from exposure to the elements. Only the silver-grey eyes, enormous in that sunken face, looked alive. They met Cato’s across the room and filled with tears. A hand came out.
Down on the edge of the bed, that hand enfolded between his own two strong ones; Cato leaned forward and kissed Bibulus’s brow. Almost he leaped back, so hot was the skin, fancying that as the slow tears trickled from the outer corner of each eye toward the temples, he would hear a hiss, see steam rise. Burning up! On fire. The chest was working like a bellows in loud dry rasps, and oh, the pain! There in the weeping eyes, shining through their liquid film with a simple, profound love. Love for Cato. Who was going to be alone again.
“Doesn’t matter now you’re here,” he said.
“I’m here for as long as you want me, Bibulus.”
“Tried too hard. Can’t let Caesar win.”
“We will never let Caesar win, even if by our dying.”
“Destroy the Republic. Has to be stopped.”
“We both know that.”
“Rest of them don’t care enough. Except Ahenobarbus.”
“The old trio.”
“Pompeius is a pricked bladder.”
“And Labienus a monster. I know. Don’t think about it.”
“Look after Porcia. And little Lucius. Only son I have now.”
“I will take care of them. But Caesar first.”
“Oh, yes. Caesar first. Has a hundred lives.”
“Do you remember, Bibulus, when you were consul and shut yourself up in your house to watch the skies? How he hated that! We ruined his consulship. We forced him to be unconstitutional. We laid the foundation for the treason charges he’ll have to answer when all this is over….”
That innately loud, unmusical, hectoring voice continued to talk for hours so softly, so tenderly, so kindly and even happily, gentling Bibulus into the cradle of his final sleep with the same cadences as a lullaby. It fell sweetly upon the listening ears, provoked the same rapt and permanent smile a child will maintain while listening to the most wonderful story in the world. And so, still smiling, still watching Cato’s face, Bibulus slipped away.
The last thing he said was “We will stop Caesar.”
This time was not like Caepio. This time there was no huge outpouring of grief, no frantic scrabble to deny the presence of death. When the last rattle faded away to nothing, Cato got up from the bed, folded the hands across Bibulus’s breast and passed his open hand across the fixed eyes, brushing their lids down and closed. He had known, of course, from the moment he got the message in Dyrrachium, so the gold denarius was there in Cato’s belt. He slipped it inside the open mouth, strained still by the effort of that last breath, then pushed the chin up and set the lips back into a faint smile.
“Vale, Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus,” he said. “I do not know if we can destroy Caesar, but he will never destroy us.”
Lucius Scribonius Libo was waiting outside the room with Vespillo, Torquatus and some others.
“Bibulus is dead,” Cato announced at a shout.
Libo sighed. “That makes our task harder.” He made a courteous gesture to Cato. “Some wine?”
“Thank you, a lot of it. And unwatered.”
He drank deeply but refused food. “Can we find a place to build a pyre in this storm?”
“It’s being attended to.”
“They tell me, Libo, that he tried to trick Caesar by asking Caesar to a parley in Oricum. And that Caesar came.”
“Yes, it’s true. Though Bibulus wouldn’t see Caesar personally. He made me tell Caesar that he didn’t dare be in the same room with him for fear of losing his temper. What we hoped was to get the wretched man to relax his vigilance along the coast—he makes it difficult for us to victual our ships by land.”
“But the ploy didn’t work,” said Cato, refilling his cup.
Libo grimaced, spread his hands. “Sometimes, Cato, I think that Caesar isn’t a mortal man. He laughed at me and walked out.”
“Caesar is a mortal man,” said Cato. “One day he will die.”
Libo lifted his cup, splashed a little of the wine in it onto the floor. “A libation to the Gods, Cato. That I live to see the day it happens.”
But Cato smiled and shook his head. “No, I’ll not make that libation. My bones tell me I’ll be dead first.”
7
The distance across the Adriatic Sea from Apollonia to Brundisium was eighty miles. At sunrise on the second day of April, Caesar in Apollonia entrusted a letter to the commander of a kind of boat he had grown very attached to during his expeditions to Britannia—the pinnace. The seas were falling, the wind out of the south no more than a breeze, and the horizon from the top of a hill showed no sign of a ship, let alone a Pompeian fleet.
At sunset in Brundisium, Mark Antony took possession of the letter, which had had a swift, uneventful voyage. Caesar had written it himself, so it was easier to read than most communications; the writing was scribe-perfect though distinctive, and the first letter of each new word was indicated by a dot above it.
Antonius, the equinoctial gales have blown themselves out. Winter is here. Our weather patterns indicate that the usual lull is about to occur. We may hope to enjoy as many as two calm nundinae before the next barrage of storms begins.
I would deeply appreciate it if you got yourself up off your overdeveloped arse and brought me the rest of my army. Now. Whatever troops you can’t squeeze into however many transports you have, you will leave behind. Veterans and cavalry first, new legions lowest priority.
Do it, Antonius. I am fed up with waiting.
“The old boy’s touchy,” said Antony to Quintus Fufius Calenus. “Sound the bugles! We go in eight days.”
“We have enough transports for the veterans and the cavalry. And the Fourteenth has arrived from Gaul. He’ll have nine legions.”
“He’s fought better men with fewer,” said Antony. “What we need is a decent fleet outside Brundisium to fend Libo off.�
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The most difficult part of it was loading over a thousand horses and four thousand mules: seven days and torchlit nights of brilliantly organized toil. Because Brundisium was a big harbor containing gulflike branches sheltered from the elements, it was possible to load each ship from a wharf, then push it off to anchor and wait. One by one the animal transports filled and were sent to wait with grooms, stablehands, harness hands and German horse troopers jammed into the spaces between hooves attached to equine bodies. The legions’ wagons and artillery had been loaded long since; getting the infantry on board was quick and easy by comparison.
The fleet put out into the roads well before dawn on the tenth day of April and turned into a stiff southwesterly, which meant sails could be hoisted as well as oars manned.
“We’ll be blown there too fast for Libo!” laughed Antony.
“Let’s hope we stay together,” said Calenus dourly.
But Caesar’s luck extended its reach to protect them—or so thought the men of the Sixth, Eighth, Eleventh, Thirteenth and Fourteenth as the ships scudded up the Adriatic on a following sea with the wind swelling the sails. Of Libo’s fleet there was no sign, nor did storm clouds darken the paling vault.
Off Sason Island another Pompeian fleet picked them up and started in pursuit, assisted by the same wind propelling Antony’s fleet steadily further away from any desirable destination.
“Ye Gods, we’re likely to be blown to Tergeste!” Antony cried as the promontory beyond Dyrrachium flew by. But even as he spoke—as if the Gods had required him to—the wind began to drop.
“Turn inshore while we can,” he said curtly to the captain, standing on the poop; the man nodded to the two helmsmen on the huge rudder oars, who leaned against their tillers as if pushing boulders.
“That’s Coponius’s fleet,” said Calenus. “He’ll catch us.”
“Not before we beach, if beach we have to.”
Thirty-five miles north of Dyrrachium was Lissus, and here Antony turned his ships bow-on to present smaller targets for the rams of Coponius’s war galleys, a scant mile from his stragglers and already rowing at close to ramming speed.
Suddenly the wind turned, blew a minor gale from the north. Cheering hysterically, everyone aboard Antony’s ships watched as the thwarted Pompeians dwindled and disappeared below the horizon.
All Lissus was on hand to welcome Caesar’s army, sympathies in line with those of every other settlement along that coast, and set to work with a will to help get the thousands of animals ashore in a place not nearly as well endowed with wharfage as Brundisium.
A very happy man, Antony paused only long enough to let his charges regain their land legs with a sleep and a meal, then, with tribunes and centurions and cavalry prefects harrying the men into marching order, he set off south to meet Caesar.
“Or Pompeius,” said Calenus.
Eyes rolling, Antony slapped one mighty thigh in exasperation. “Calenus, you ought to know better! Do you honestly believe that a slug like Pompeius will reach us first?”
*
Keeping watch on top of the highest hill in the area around his camp on the Apsus, Caesar saw his fleet in the distance and breathed a sigh of relief. But then, helpless to do anything about it, he had to witness the wind carrying it away to the north.
“Strike camp, we march.”
“Pompeius is readying to march too,” said Vatinius. “He’ll get there first.”
“Pompeius is a routine commander, Vatinius. He’ll want to choose his battle site, so he won’t venture north of Dyrrachium because he doesn’t know the lie of the land well enough. I think he’ll go to earth on the Genusus near Asparagium, a long way south of Dyrrachium—but on the Via Egnatia. Pompeius hates marching on bad roads. And he has to prevent my joining up with Antonius. So why not lie in wait at a point he knows—or thinks he knows—the rest of my army will have to use?”
“So what will you do?” asked Vatinius, eyes dancing.
“Skirt him, of course. I’ll ford the Genusus ten miles inland on that country road we scouted,” said Caesar.
“Ah!” Vatinius exclaimed. “Pompeius thinks Antonius will reach Asparagium before you do!”
“It’s true that Antonius marches my way—I trained him well in Gaul to move fast. But he’s no fool, our Antonius. Or put it this way—he has more than his share of low cunning.”
An accurate assessment. Marching on a minor road some miles to the west of Dyrrachium, Antony had indeed moved swiftly. Though not blindly. His scouts were scrupulous. Near sunset on the eleventh day of June they informed him that some local people had revealed that Pompey was lying in wait just north of the Genusus. Antony promptly stopped, pitched camp, and expected Caesar.
On the twelfth day of June the two parts of Caesar’s army combined, a joyous reunion for the veterans.
Antony himself was hopping up and down in glee. “I have a big surprise for you!” he told Caesar the moment they met.
“Not unpalatable, I hope.”
Like one of the magicians he so loved to include in his wild parades through Campania, Antony conjured his hands at a wall of his legates. It parted to reveal a tall, handsome man in his middle forties, sandy-haired and grey-eyed.
“Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus!” cried Caesar. “I am surprised!” He walked forward, wrung Calvinus’s hand. “What are you doing in such disreputable company? I felt sure you’d be with Pompeius.”
“Not I,” said Calvinus emphatically. “I admit that I’ve been a loyal member of the boni for years—until, in fact, March of last year.” His eyes grew flinty. “But, Caesar, I cannot adhere to a group of miserable cowards who abandoned their country. When Pompeius and his court left Italia, they broke my heart. I’m your man to the death. You’ve treated Rome and Italia like a sensible man. Sensible laws, sensible government.”
“You might have remained there with my good wishes.”
“Not I! I’m a handy man with an army, and I want to be there when Pompeius and the rest submit. For they will. They will!”
Over a simple dinner of bread, oil and cheese, Caesar made his dispositions. Present were Vatinius, Calvinus, Antony, Calenus, Lucius Cassius (a first cousin of Gaius and Quintus), Lucius Munatius Plancus, and Gaius Calvisius Sabinus.
“I have nine good legions at full strength and a thousand German cavalry,” said the General, munching a radish. “Too many to feed while we’re here in Epirus, and enduring winter. Pompeius won’t engage in this kind of country, nor will he engage in this weather. He’ll move east to Macedonia or Thessaly in spring. If there is to be a battle at all, it will be there. It behooves me to win Greece to my side—I’m going to need supplies as well as support. Therefore I’ll split my army. Lucius Cassius and Sabinus, you’ll take the Seventh and deal with western Greece—Amphilochia, Acarnania and Aetolia. Behave very nicely. Calenus, you’ll take the five senior cohorts of the Fourteenth and half my cavalry and persuade Boeotia that Caesar’s side is the right one. Which will give me central Greece too. Avoid Athens, it’s not worth the effort. Concentrate on Thebes, Calenus.”
“It leaves you very under Pompeius’s strength, Caesar,” said Plancus, frowning.
“I think I could probably bluff Pompeius with two legions,” said Caesar, unperturbed. “He won’t engage until he has Metellus Scipio and the two Syrian legions.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” said Calenus. “If he hit you with everything he has, you’d go down.”
“I’m well aware of it. But he won’t, Calenus.”
“I hope you’re right!”
“Calvinus, I have a special job for you,” said Caesar.
“Anything I can do, I will.”
“Good. Take the Eleventh and the Twelfth and see if you can find Metellus Scipio and those two Syrian legions before they join Pompeius.”
“You want me in Thessaly and Macedonia.”
“Exactly. Take a squadron of my Gallic cavalry with you. They can act as scouts.”
“Whic
h leaves you with another squadron of Gallic horse and five hundred Germans,” said Calvinus. “Pompeius has thousands.”
“Eating him out of house and home, yes.” Caesar turned his head to Antony. “What did you do with the three legions you left in Brundisium, Antonius?”
“Sent ’em to Italian Gaul,” mumbled Antony through a huge mouthful of oily bread. “Wondered if you mightn’t want some of ’em for Illyricum, so I told the Fifteenth and Sixteenth to march for Aquileia. Other one’s going to Placentia.”
“My dear Antonius, you are a pearl beyond price! That is exactly right. Vatinius, I’m giving you command of Illyricum. You’ll go overland from here, it’s quicker.” The pale eyes looked on Antony kindly. “Don’t worry about your brother, Antonius. I hear he’s being treated well.”
“Good,” said Antony gruffly. “A bit of a fool, I know, but he’s my brother.”
“A pity,” said Calvinus, “that you allowed so many of those wonderful legates from Gallic days to remain in Rome this year.”
“They’ve earned it,” said Caesar placidly. “They’d rather be here, but they have careers to get on with. None of them can be consuls until they’ve been praetors.” He sighed. “Though I do miss Aulus Hirtius. No one runs the office like Hirtius.”
After the meal ended only Vatinius and Calvinus remained to keep Caesar company; Caesar wanted news from Rome and Italia.
“What on earth got into Caelius?” he asked Calvinus.
“Debt,” said Calvinus abruptly. “He’d staked everything on your bringing in a general cancellation of debts, and when you didn’t, he was done for. Such a promising fellow in some ways—Cicero absolutely doted on him. And he did well when he was aedile—fought the water companies to a standstill and brought in some much-needed reforms.”
“I detest the aedileship,” said Caesar. “The men who hold it—including me in my day!—spend money they can’t afford to throw wonderful games. And never get out of debt.”
“You did,” said Vatinius, smiling.
“That’s because I’m Caesar. Go on, Calvinus. With the sea not mine to sail upon freely, I’ve heard little. Tell me.”
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