After a wary glance at the centurion, Bibulus's face again transformed to a smile. "No. He shall remain aboard the flagship. We have need of oarsmen, too.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Libo knew he could not protest any further without giving away his true intents. And then he noticed the centurion cast an oddly perceptive glance in his direction before being led away, as if the man had read his thoughts and knew precisely the reason for the request.
“I would have you come to my quarters, Libo,” Bibulus said, smiling in an oddly genial manner, after the centurion had been taken below. “There is a private matter we need to discuss.”
"I will be honored to join you, Admiral."
As the officers retired, the broken transport was cast adrift, her scuppers trickling blood like crimson tears, as if she were cognizant of the fate that awaited her. Once the distance had opened, several balls of burning pitch were launched into her, and the hulk of death was quickly transformed into a raging inferno. Her decks burned from stem to stern, the stench of roasting human flesh carrying thickly across the water. At some point, the flames crawled up the masts, too. The last victim of their withering attack was the lonely orange pennant, which fluttered one last time before the silk caught a spark and was instantly consumed in a brilliant light, its blackened remnants carried off in the next gust.
V
The stern cabin of the Argonaut was not spacious by any means, but it far surpassed anything enjoyed by the captains and commodores in the rest of the fleet. Libo sipped at the wine he had been offered, enjoying the warmth of the crackling brazier, and contrasting the accommodating quarters of Admiral Bibulus to his own cramped cabin aboard the Remus. How many nights he had spent at sea, shivering in his damp hammock, as the Remus cruised in some remote corner of the empire, dreaming of a time when he might rate such a cabin, or such a ship.
The wine was watered down much more than he liked, but he was thankful for any kind of drink after the death and destruction of this day. He had to keep reminding himself that it had all been for the good of the republic. He sat patiently in one corner while Bibulus was attended to by a pair of slaves who were swiftly and proficiently rubbing down his naked body with oil. When they had finished, they produced two bronze strigils and proceeded to vigorously scrape him clean with the small, curved instruments. Finally, the bath was concluded with a conservative washdown from a bucket of rainwater.
As Libo waited for the cleansing ritual to conclude, he could not help but cast eyes at the opposite corner, where the creature’s cage now sat, borne there by four burly slaves after Bibulus had retired to his quarters. The creature skulked against the bars on the opposite side, and gave no sign of consciousness, save for a labored breathing that seemed to fill the room. Libo could not see its face, but he felt an unnerving certainty that the one piercing eye watched him from beneath the mat of tangled hair.
“That is much better!” Bibulus announced with an invigorated tone after the slaves had patted him dry and helped him into a fresh tunic. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and then drew a chair near to Libo’s.
“More wine, my friend?” He filled Libo’s cup without waiting for an answer.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Someday, Libo, when this is all over, we will drink the good stuff, eh? But now we must be content with this.”
Bibulus’s countenance had changed completely, as if the scraping had stripped away the demonic part of him.
“I tell you Libo, I have not felt this rejuvenated in years. I have long waited for this day, when Caesar finally suffered beneath my boot. I have stopped that wicked man – nay, not I, but we – we have stopped him. You and I and the rest of this noble fleet. The tyrant will think twice now before summoning any more reinforcements from Italy, eh?”
“It was a great victory, sir.” Libo replied evenly. Of course, he did not really believe that. It had been a massacre – a one-sided, shameful massacre, but Bibulus was agreeable for the moment, and Libo did not wish to send him spinning off on another of his tirades. Hoping to exploit the admiral’s congenial disposition, Libo ventured to ask, “With the enemy smarting from this blow, my lord, would it not be an excellent opportunity to provision? Corcyra is only a good day's pull to the south.”
Bibulus shot him a wild look, but it only lasted for the briefest moment. “Indeed it would, my friend. But our task is not finished. We have but one more nail to drive home before we have affixed Caesar to his cross.”
“The Rhodian fleet, sir?”
“Precisely.”
“Has the Senate sent word of it?”
“Bah!” Bibulus spat. “I have my own agents, Libo, and I trust them far more than I do our idiotic Senate. The bumptious politicians do nothing but squabble amongst themselves and interfere in military strategies of which they are too incompetent to comprehend. Where have they gotten Pompey in all these months? Where have they gotten us? Indeed, their mismanagement has brought this fleet to the point of mutiny.” He smiled at the expression on Libo’s face. “Yes, I know about the grumblings, Libo. You needn’t look so surprised. You may also be surprised to learn that I understand the grumblings as well. Yes, I understand them, though I would not admit to such in the presence of anyone but you. A few scraps of smoked fish and a few cups of rainwater each day do little to calm a man’s irritable stomach. Such harsh conditions take a toll on the hardiest of men. Their loyalties break down when their bodies face malnutrition.”
It relived Libo somewhat to hear that the admiral was aware of the strain his edicts had placed on the fleet. The daily ration had been halved long ago. When the promised provisioning ships had not arrived, it had been halved again. The other squadron commanders were quick to blame the admiral for the shortage, but Libo knew better, for the Senate controlled the procurement of food and supplies for the fleet. Libo knew that letters of protest had been sent to Thessalonica, and all had been returned with curt replies and tiresome repetitions of how the army needed the food more than the fleet did. That was nothing new. For the fleet always got the last of the pickings. Libo could accept that explanation, if it were the true reason for the shortage.
Pompey’s legions were, at this moment, massed just north of the Apsus River, across from Caesar’s little army. Pompey claimed to be holding the tyrant in check while his own army trained and received more reinforcements, but Libo judged that the great general already had more than enough troops to crush Caesar’s little force. Libo had heard that Pompey was personally overseeing the training of this massive host himself, putting the ranks through drill after drill for weeks on end, until every man moved as one. The exiled Senate was calling it the finest army Rome had ever fielded, but Libo had heard other stories. That Pompey’s drills were more suited for the parade ground than for the battlefield. That warfare had changed in the last twenty years while the revered master strategist had not. Some said the real reason Pompey was personally drilling the troops was that his own legates and tribunes were spending more time looking for whores to populate the next evening’s debauch than they were preparing their own men for battle.
Libo surmised there was much truth to the tales. The officers of the Optimates army were the elite youth of Rome, whose slight regard for their aging commander was only matched by their indifference toward their outnumbered enemy. They put blind faith in their numbers and expressed little or no apprehension that they would soon be facing the hardened, veteran legions of Caesar’s army – an army that had spent the last ten years fighting the savage barbarians of Gaul and Britannia. And the young nobles had brought with them to Greece much more than their disregard for the enemy. They had also brought their silverware, their home furnishings, in some cases their pets, and any number of other unnecessary encumbrances that would do little to help win the coming battle. These high men all expected their camp lives to be like their lives back in Rome. Libo was certain that the provisions intended for the fleet were being headed off by fools such as these, witho
ut a single care as to the ramifications.
The hopes of Rome and her dying republic lay on the shoulders of Pompey, the great general of generations past, who had conquered the East when Libo was but a young man. Libo remembered attending one of the spectacular triumphs held in the great general’s honor. Pompey was in the prime of his youth then, bedecked in purple and gold and riding in a four-horse chariot polished to shine like the sun. Libo had looked on with marvel and envy, as the merest glimpse of the general set the hundreds of thousands cheering in a mind-numbing pandemonium that echoed across Rome’s seven hills. Libo remembered feeling as though he had beheld a warrior descended from the gods.
Now, nearly two decades later, Libo was bound to that same warrior he had so revered in his youth. In his own run up the cursus honorum, fortune had placed him in alliance with Pompey on many issues that had deeply divided the Senate. The old general, more than twenty years his senior, had taken a liking to him and had even befriended him, to the extent that Pompey’s youngest son Sextus had taken the hand of Libo’s pubescent daughter Scribonia in marriage. They were two fathers of disproportionate age, sealed together by the knowledge they would one day share the same grandchildren. Pompey had certainly remained loyal to him, even through several failures early on in Libo’s political career, and Libo knew that his present position was largely due to his ties to Pompey. In his heart, he wished nothing more than to return the many kindnesses and favors Pompey had extended him. He had desperately wanted to throw his full support behind the fifty-eight year-old general, but now....he hoped and prayed the Senate had chosen the right man to lead her armies.
Why had Pompey not yet attacked? When would his army be ready? It already vastly outnumbered Caesar’s. It was always a question of timing with Pompey, and the great general always needed more time.
“We cannot put into Corcyra, my friend,” Bibulus went on after taking a long drink. “You are right that we could expect to find at least some supplies there, since it is quite probably the only place not scoured clean by Pompey’s troops, but I would hardly expect to find enough to replenish a single squadron. And how could I send a single squadron to benefit from those stores, and let the others suffer? No, my friend, a sailor’s lot is always a bitter one. An admiral’s task is to choose the path that is least likely to provoke a mass uprising yet still accomplish the mission.”
“I understand, sir,” Libo said supportively.
“But be of good cheer, Libo, for the end is near. Pompey will attack soon, and when he does, we may all go back to our homes in Italy.” Bibulus eyed him, then rose and motioned for him to come over to the chart table. “We shall do our part in dealing with those Rhodian mercenaries who have allied themselves with the dictator. I have it on good account that they are heading for Brundisium as we speak. Thirty ships of war, fully manned and armed for battle. Any day now, they will attempt to cross the Ionian Sea. We must stop them.”
Libo nodded, looking at the spot on the chart where the admiral had placed a finger, the seventy mile stretch of open water that separated the western Greek islands from the Calabria Peninsula in Italy. Should the Rhodians manage to get across, they would be in a position to coordinate with Antony and assist the Caesarian general in getting his troops over to Epirus. Thirty warships could not defeat Bibulus’s combined fleet, but they could certainly create diversions that would open large gaps in the blockade, large enough for Antony to exploit.
“I cannot risk moving the entire fleet that far south. Antony would surely send his transports across the moment he discovered the Adriatic was clear. But, I will risk two squadrons on such an errand.” He turned to face Libo and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You are my most skilled commander, my young friend, and you have never failed me. You have been loyal throughout, and I trust you implicitly – even as I do my own sons.”
A moment of uneasiness suddenly descended between them, and Libo hoped that his own brief confusion was not betrayed by his expression. For it was well known that the two sons of Bibulus had been murdered more than two years ago, during the admiral’s tenure as proconsul of Syria. Libo saw the admiral’s eyes register embarrassment at the slip of the tongue, and then the pain of that tragedy that must still haunt his soul.
“I am entrusting this task to you, Libo,” Bibulus said formally, after a few quiet moments spent composing himself. “You will leave at once. Take Aquila and Equo squadrons, and destroy the Rhodian fleet. I will leave the specifics to you. Destroy them, and return to the Adriatic as fast as you can.”
VI
The oarsmen cast uncertain glances at the newcomer in their midst, the tall man with the broad shoulders whom the overseer had chained to oar twenty-eight. If they did not see the rippled forearm extending from the torn tunic, they could not miss the many scars that told of a violent past. He said nothing as the lock was fastened to his ankle, as a wild beast might accept its captivity, but only for a little while.
"Deploy, oars!" Came the command from aft, and four hundred rowers on two decks, thrust out the forty-foot oars, as if the Argonaut were a giant mosquito preparing to take flight.
"Cruising speed!" Came the next order. A heartbeat later, the drums began their ceaseless cadence, the oars rose from the strain of four hundred glistening backs, and then dipped into the water in perfect unison, immediately putting way on the giant flagship.
The stranger rowed, too, in spite of the discomfort of his new surroundings. The dank air, the stench of hundreds of confined men, and the dim lighting seemed to have no effect on him. In fact, he appeared more in his element with every stroke of the oar, and quickly impressed upon those around him that he was a man more accustomed to discipline, hardship, and order than to freedom. This was most apparent to those sharing his oar when they felt their own loads lighten considerably, the newcomer's strength easily surpassing that of two men.
The mass of arms and backs moved in synchronicity, and though every man felt the tilt of the hull as steer oars dug into the water to steady her on her new course, they had no comprehension of where they were going. They simply stroked and pulled, stroked and pulled, in an endless monotony, an endless rhythm that quickly brought each struggling man to a state of mindless oblivion, the only way to remain sane under the excessive labor. Some snuck a glance at the stranger mid-stroke, expecting him to tire quickly, but he did not. His thousandth stroke had the same vigor as his first. And so there was no reason at all for the overseer, who walked along the platform between the rows of sweating men, to strike the newcomer across the back with his whip. It was a stinging strike, and it came without the slightest warning.
"That's to teach you respect, no?" the overseer, a Greek man, said laughing, as he looked down into the eyes of the tall man who now glared back at him balefully. The whip had cut through his tunic and had left a deep gash running across his broad back from one shoulder to the other.
"I am called Barca," continued the Greek. "But you will never use my name. You will never speak unless told to. You are no longer a soldier. You are like all the others now, a slave, nothing more." The Greek then leaned over so that the tall man could hear him clearly. "They tell me you were a centurion, with many battle honors, that you are accustomed to giving orders, and that you might be hard to break. Hear this now, tall man. You will give no more orders. You, all that you are, all that you will ever be, now belong to this ship and to Barca. You will sit in that spot, on that oar, eighteen hours of every day, and you will spend the other six in the pens." The Greek then smiled. "I leave it to you to decide which is better, no? You can forget about who you were. That man no longer exists. Ah, but you look at me now with those defiant eyes, as if I am the fool and you the master. You do not believe me, no? But it is true, tall man, so very true. Your former life has ended. Your sword and armor have been distributed to others. Your battle decorations have been thrown over the side."
At this, the newcomer turned to face him with a hateful scowl, and looked as if he might sp
it in his face. Although he did not, the move made his oar miss the stroke. Instantly, Barca drew back and let fly with the whip, bringing it down sharply across the backs of the newcomer and the other men on the oar. He whipped them again and again, until they had resumed the proper rhythm, each man cringing and cursing at the sting of the fresh wounds on his back, but not daring to let the oar falter again. All except for the newcomer, whose eyes did not show pain, only hate, as he stared back at the overseer.
"Do not forget, tall man," the bemused Barca said before moving along. "You serve me, now."
Lucius Domitius, Centurion of the Tenth Legion stared straight ahead as he pushed and pulled on the polished wood that had been held by countless doomed hands before his. A grim countenance overshadowed his tanned and chiseled face. He ignored the reproachful glances from the men beside him, as he ignored the drops of blood that now crept down his back to merge with the sheen of perspiration. The other rowers were mere galley scum, criminals and the condemned, and whether they received a lashing due to his own negligence, he cared little. Though he was surprised to see how sickly they all looked, and it was evident from their rib-lined bellies and their yellow eyes that they were not being fed their proper ration.
"Row, you bilge scum!" the overseer shouted to the mass of straining backs from further down the line. "You think you'll get special treatment, just because you got half-rations this morning? I've got a ration for you!"
The whip cracked several times, and men cried out in pain.
Lucius very much desired to strangle this crowing Barca with his own whip, and vowed that he would do it before long. But, for now, he would comply.
Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 6
