Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series)

by R. Cameron Cooke

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bibulus caught sight of Postumus gripping the arms of his chair in anger, but the equable Flavius continued the questioning in a polite tone. “The scant details in your report, my lord, left us all wondering if you had encountered a ship flying a peculiar banner – an orange banner, shall we say?”

  Such tricksters they were, Bibulous thought, never taking his eyes from Odulph. They were vultures, all of them, just waiting for their chance to have him removed. They wished for him to fail, even tried to make him fail. They cared little if the tyrant was defeated, only about their own petty intrigues.

  He remembered now, the ship with the orange pennant, which Libo had chosen to save. But how did these bastards know about it, and what was their interest in it? If the ship was so important to them, why had he not been informed to be on the lookout for it? He knew that Postumus and his colleagues whispered about the state of his sanity behind his back. Perhaps they had excluded him out of that fear alone. Very well, he thought. If they wished to treat him with such disregard, expecting him to somehow know their wishes but withholding the critical information he needed to fulfil them, then he would play the part of the mad admiral they all believed him to be.

  “Come here, my pet,” he smiled and held out another almond for Odulph.

  “For Jupiter’s sake, Bibulus, stop playing with that ape!” Postumus said hotly, rising from his chair. “Did you find the ship with the orange banner, or didn’t you?”

  “You already know that, my old friend.” Bibulus smiled churlishly back at the irate senator. “Otherwise, you would not be here. Haven’t your spies ashore kept you informed? I’m sure you have enough of them in Caesar’s camp. I’m sure you even have agents hidden throughout my fleet. Don’t think I have not seen the mysterious pigeons taking flight from my ships at odd times of the day.”

  Postumus gazed back at him defiantly, but said nothing.

  “Well, then,” Bibulus said resignedly. “As I told you before, I burned the tyrant’s ships – every last one. They were all Caesarian scum. They’re all dead. The gods willed it, so it was done. There’s an end to it.”

  Postumus fidgeted, red-faced and obviously enraged, but Flavius placed a hand on his arm to steady him.

  “The orange-flagged ship, too, Admiral?” Flavius asked carefully. “No survivors?”

  Bibulus sensed that the aide already knew the answer, and it perturbed him greatly to have to give it. Who were they to question him so? He carried imperium at sea, not these impotent politicians. Damn them and all their subterfuge! Damn their orange-bannered ship! They made it sound so important, as if it had borne the vestal virgins, when it had probably carried nothing more than a shipment of personal luxuries for the lazy Senators in Thessalonica. It was well known that many of the exiles regularly corresponded with those left behind in Italy to keep tabs on their estates. Bibulus was tired of it, and he resented having to walk gingerly to accommodate the personal needs of those who contributed nothing to the advancement of the cause.

  “I respectfully ask you again, Admiral,” Flavius said after waiting several long moments for an answer. “Were there any survivors?”

  Bibulus smiled and fed another almond to the heavily breathing Odulph. “One only – a centurion – one chosen by the gods.”

  “Excuse me, my lord?” Flavius seemed confused.

  “He fought like a lion, that one,” Bibulus said distantly, gazing upon Odulph as if he were in a trance. “Like a wild tempest, he fought, like a storm unleashed upon his foe. He was savage, yet honed and refined, like the perfect edge of a sword, fluidly and naturally moving amidst the deadly points arrayed against him. He struck down his enemies as an artist weaves a fine embroidery.”

  Postumus seemed beside himself at this poetic indulgence, but Flavius ignored it and pressed on.

  “Was there not a noble aboard, Admiral, of legate rank?”

  “A noble?” Bibulus put a finger to his lips and pretended to consider, fully remembering the noble that Libo had begged him to spare. “Let me see…oh, yes, there was one. Of course, I caught sight of him only moments before he was slain. Had I been told that he was important, I might have intervened on his behalf. Sadly, no such word reached me.”

  “Do you play games with us, Bibulus?” Postumus said irritably. “Of course you knew of his importance. You were the one with which he intended to meet!”

  Bibulus did not understand what in Neptune’s deep blue sea Postumus was talking about, but it delighted him to see the senator so infuriated.

  “Alas, that is a meeting he shall not be able to keep now,” Bibulus said, wishing to enflame the senator more. “For, certainly, the beasts of the sea are having him for dinner.”

  “By Juno, Bibulus!” Postumus exclaimed like a heated kettle blowing its top. “You have really gone too far this time! Of all the imprudent deeds you have done in your life, this is far beyond anything –“

  “What of the centurion, Admiral?” Postumus was cut short by Flavius, who had remained composed throughout, staring directly across at Bibulus. “We wish to speak with him at once. Please summon him here without delay.”

  “Does the Senate now concern itself with the junior officers of our enemy?”

  “Not the Senate, you rascal!” Postumus snapped. “Enough of this foolery! Your little jest is up. You know why we are here. Now, have the centurion brought here at once that we may unravel this knot you have tied.”

  Bibulus could not imagine what these two fools might gain from talking with the centurion. In the week since the destruction of the transports, Bibulus could not remember setting eyes on him a single time. Presumably, the big warrior now stroked an oar on the lower decks with the hundreds of other slaves. The man’s fate had not been important to Bibulus, so he had quite lost track of him. It would have been a simple thing to send for him, to obediently do as they asked, but Bibulus did not wish to give Postumus, or his intrusive aide, the satisfaction of finding anything they had come looking for.

  “That is not possible,” he finally answered.

  “Why not, sir?”

  “The man was transferred to the Remus under Commodore Libo, and the Remus is now more than a hundred leagues from here.”

  “Do you mean to stand by that preposterous story, Bibulous?” Postumus asked incredulously.

  “I do.”

  Bibulus suspected the senator’s spies had already informed him that the centurion was aboard the Argonaut, but he had chosen to lie anyway. If the bastard wanted to speak to the centurion, then let him first admit to having agents aboard.

  “Neptune’s arse!” Postumus struck his hands together in frustration. “Neptune’s arse, Bibulus! Why do you force our hand so?”

  “Be careful not to mock the gods too often, Senator,” Bibulus replied, eyeing him coldly. “You are still at sea, and nowhere is a mortal more at the mercy of the divinities than on the high seas.”

  Postumus and Flavius exchanged uncertain glances, as if they were not sure whether they should take his words as a threat, or as more of his vain ramblings. They exchanged a few whispers before facing the admiral again.

  “When will Commodore Libo return?” Flavius asked.

  “Difficult to say. He has orders to stop the Rhodian fleet at all hazards before it reaches Italy. Neptune knows how long he may have to lie in wait for them, if they come at all.”

  “I must mention that I am somewhat concerned for your health, Marcus,” Postumus said, suddenly pleasant, his entire demeanor changed, as if the heart of the discussion was over and now only civilities and courtesies remained. “Your clothes hang on you like rags, my friend. I do wish you had not turned down the nourishment we offered. You carry a heavy burden on your shoulders, you know. And how is your daughter, Marcus? What would she be now, in her eighteenth year?”

  “Calpurnia is twenty,” Bibulus replied guardedly, the mention of his daughter sending a shudder of anxiety through him. Postumus had asked about her in an off-han
ded fashion, but Bibulus understood the true intent of the remark. The senator was coolly reminding him that any resistance on his part could have long-lasting or fatal ramifications to his family. The thought of it made his heart feel like it weighed ten stone, the pain over the loss of his sons returning like that of an old wound. Calpurnia was the only family he had left, his one weakness. He could not lose her. He must not lose her.

  “I have not laid eyes on her in many years,” Postumus continued. “I imagine she must be a beauty to behold now. Tell me, did she remain in Rome, as the dear families of so many of our colleagues were forced to do, or did she accompany you to Corcyra?”

  “She is in Corcyra, Senator. Neither of us has been to Rome in many years. She was with me in Syria during my proconsulship there. I will rejoice on the day when I can show her the ancestral home of the Calpurnii of which the poor child scarcely has a memory.”

  “I sympathize with you, Marcus. I, too, have children who have seldom seen Rome. Perhaps, soon, both of our families will return to the great city we both cherish.”

  Postumus continued the small talk. He made no more mention of Calpurnia, and his conversation carried none of the venom of his earlier remarks. He talked of the state of the army, of Pompey’s health, and many other happenings throughout the eastern provinces. It was not unpleasant, but it felt artificial, as that of a politician preparing to make a run up the cursus honorum. Throughout, Bibulus’s thoughts drifted to Calpurnia. It had been more than a month since he had last seen her, standing on the wharf in Corcyra waving to him and smiling sadly as his launch pulled away. The thoughts of his daughter filled him with regret and guilt. Regret over the years of her youth wasted in some remote eastern province, while she could have been happily frolicking with her peers in Rome. Guilt over the shame she might suffer someday should he not wipe the blight of his past failures from the memories of the political elite. And guilt over the anguish in her eyes which he could never escape. He could ignore the sidelong glances of the marines and sailors, the murmurings of his officers, even the ridicule of Senators like Postumus, but he could never ignore that grieving look from his devoted daughter, those pained eyes that were like a mirror to his inner soul, and which confirmed what he inwardly suspected about himself – that the man whom she called father truly was sinking into madness.

  After his guests had left, Bibulus watched through the portal as the sloop pulled away, Postumus and Flavius seemingly immersed in a heated discussion. They had not found what they had been looking for, that much was evident, and he swore never to let them bring his fleet to heel again. There was coastline to patrol, and this little diversion had already cost him several miles of headway. Antony’s armada could be driving east at this very moment.

  At the next opportunity, he would send a personal letter to his own allies in the Senate. Perhaps that bastard Postumus would be castigated, if not exiled, once they discovered that he had been trying to undermine the authority of the admiral of the fleet in the pursuit of personal business. Postumus and his cronies were not afraid to flex their political muscle. Well, neither was he.

  Bibulus strolled over to the table where a basket of figs had been placed by the senator’s bald servant, the one wearing the curved sword. The unspeaking man had remained outside during the entire conference, apparently standing guard over the figs, and preventing any sailors from touching them. This had been at the behest of Postumus who, as he departed, expressed his wish that Bibulus would break down and at least enjoy a portion of the sumptuous meal. It had been a kind gesture, perhaps a peace offering to make amends for all of the earlier insults.

  The aroma of the fruit caught Bibulus’s heightened senses and made his stomach churn. It had been easy to display pluck in front of his guests, but now that they were gone the hunger pangs were more intense than ever. The temptation was driving him to delirium. Before he realized it, he had reached for one of the figs and had taken a bite. It had been long since he had eaten such things, and his mouth went wild with the sensation, almost rejecting it. It tasted bitter, at first, but then the sweet flavor he remembered so well filled his mouth and he savored every bite. Within moments, he had eaten two more. But before he devoured a fourth, he regained control of his senses and cursed his momentary lapse.

  A sudden guilt washed over him. How would he know how far he could push his men if he did not suffer as they did? He knew that he must reject such pleasures.

  At that moment, Odulph began to protest in his cage, making animal-like grunts and pointing a gnarled finger through the bars at the basket. Presumably, he craved some of the figs, too, but the manner in which he protested was more violent than Bibulus had ever witnessed before. Odulph jumped up and down, shaking the cage like a wild beast, repeatedly pointing at the figs on the table. Bibulus would have none of this defiance. Deciding that even auguries needed to be disciplined at times, he swept up the basket, marched to the open portal, and dumped the remaining figs into the sea.

  He fully expected Odulph to erupt with anger over having been deprived of the morsels, but instead the creature drew strangely quiet, as if it was the presence of the figs that had disturbed him so.

  Suddenly, Bibulus felt a massive pain surge through his stomach, enough to make him double over. The ache was deep and severe, but it eventually abated, and he was able to stand upright again. It left him wondering how many in his fleet must be suffering from the same malady.

  Perhaps he had kept the fleet at sea for too long.

  Again, a shooting pain wracked his mid-section, but this time it did not subside. The room began to spin, and the next moment he was on the floor shivering, his body oozing a cold sweat from every pore. This was certainly beyond hunger, and between unconscious moments, he tried to cry out, but every gargling attempt only fouled his mouth and throat with a foamy mixture of saliva and blood.

  During one moment the pain eased enough for him to notice that Odulph was silently watching him, the one eye distinct amidst a mat of hair pressed against the bars. It was at that moment that everything became clear to Bibulus, as if a curtain had been lifted from his mind. He remembered now, the subtle movements of the slave who had brought the figs to his cabin. Postumus and Flavius were saying their goodbyes, and Bibulus had thought it odd when the slave lingered beside the table for a long interval after they had left. Bibulus had been about to dismiss the slave, but before he did, Postumus had re-entered the cabin under the pretense of forgetting his cloak. Bibulus had turned away from the slave at that moment, and certainly that was the moment when the slave tainted the figs with some kind of poison. The bald man with the sword was not a slave at all, but an assassin.

  As Bibulus fought to remain conscious, his mind reeling from both the poison and the sudden revelation that he had been murdered, his thoughts strayed to Calpurnia. What would become of her, poor child? Would she live the rest of her life in mourning? Would she be married off to some noble and live a life fitting her station, or did Postumus have an assassin arranged for her as well?

  As the pain intensified and his limbs began twitching nearly uncontrollably, Odulph still watched him with the single, wide eye, and Bibulus could see that it carried a look of sadness. Bibulus realized now that Odulph had surely seen the assassin’s movements, and he had tried to warn his master – a warning that Bibulus had misinterpreted as insolence.

  Odulph had remained loyal to the end, and that thought gave Bibulus some comfort. His spasm-wracked hand then suddenly clenched on something near his chest, something small and metallic. He realized that he had taken hold of the finely polished key on the gold chain that hung from around his neck.

  His numbed lips managed a smile. The game was not over.

  Bibulus now summoned every last measure of strength left in him. He crawled on his belly, pulling himself toward the cage, his heart pounding like a drum at ramming speed, the pain more intense with each movement. When he finally reached the bars he managed to pull himself to his knees and peer directly
into Odulph’s curious eye. A gnarled hand nervously stroked the overgrown trusses.

  "You, and only you, have been my loyal vassal," Bibulus gargled in a strained whisper, each breath less filling than the last. "Now, you shall be the instrument of my vengeance."

  Bibulus then held up the key in his trembling hands, and feebly inserted it into the lock that fastened the door to the cage. But lifting the key had consumed all of his remaining strength. All animation left his face. First his hand dropped to his side, and then his body slumped to the deck, lifeless before it came to rest, a mass of blood instantly oozing from his mouth and nose to find the cracks and pores in the weathered timber.

  The lifeless eyes of Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus – consul of Rome, proconsul of Syria, Admiral of the fleet – stared hollowly at the key that remained inside the lock, and the grimy, hair-covered hand that now reached for it.

  VIII

  The morning sun peeked over the sharp, ridge-lined finger of land. The storms of the previous days had passed, and now only a whisper of a breeze floated out over the glittering sea. Here, the rocky coast was too often lashed by wind and wave to attract human settlement, but the passing sailor must not be deceived by its unspoiled aspect, any more than he should by a chaste virgin lingering outside a bordello. For many a galley-borne hero of civilizations past had beheld these same towering white cliffs and foam-shrouded shoals over the course of a millennium. The Phoenicians, making their way to far off Africa to raise Carthage so valiantly from the dust, burgeoning its own culture and traditions, but now forgotten and returned to the dust. The wayward Trojans, under the fabled Aeneas, fleeing from their vanquished city, led by the gods to the land of the Latins to found a new empire that would rule the world. The mighty Athenian fleet, at the height of its greatness, under the reluctant Nicias, pointing their bows toward resolute Syracuse to sail unto ultimate tragedy. The mercenary fleet of King Pyrrhus, with war elephants trumpeting anxiously in their berths, eager to be afoot on Latin soil to crush out the lives of so many Roman youths. Might the generations of man intersect by an imprint of a memory, this sight that had endured through the ages, unmarred by time and tide, would have been a common thread.