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

by R. Cameron Cooke

  “We, Senator?” Libo had asked surprised.

  “My adjutant and I will be accompanying you on this voyage, Admiral,” Postumus said candidly.

  “Does the Senate distrust me so much that first they deprive me of my squadron and now I am to have minders aboard?”

  Libo instantly wished he had not made such a bold, unabashed pronouncement of his thoughts, but Postumus did not seem to take any notice of his frustration.

  “Of course the Senate trusts you, my dear Libo,” Postumus said, smiling. “You would not have been given this command otherwise. Suffice it to say that I am on official business of the Senate, and my mission is critical to the future of the republic. Have no fear. You will be informed of all you need to know as the need arises. For now, your current orders are adequate. You must take this fleet, and me, to Brundisium.”

  Libo considered pointing out the fact that, while the document in his hand did direct him to blockade Brundisium, it said nothing about taking the senator along. “So, I am to be kept in the dark. Is that it, Senator? Is this the kind of treatment Admiral Bibulus received?”

  “Please do not construe this minor inconvenience as a personal insult to you, Admiral. I assure you, you will be given all consideration due your rank and title in matters concerning the fleet. My mission is of much grander scope and purpose. As to your predecessor, Jupiter bless him, his was a different circumstance entirely. Let’s just say Bibulus tended to have a mind of his own.”

  “As do I, Senator.”

  “But yours is not a mind gone mad, Libo. You would not exercise your own will to the point of disobeying orders. At least, I sincerely hope not. Your predecessor ignored the Senate, as if these ships and men were his personal toys to be thrown from one end of the sea to another to satisfy his wild whims.” Postumus then looked once around the deck as if looking for someone before adding, “And while we are on the subject of Bibulus, I wish to implore you, Admiral, to send Lady Calpurnia ashore before we sail. The poor child is obviously grief-stricken over the death of her father, but accommodations for the grieving can only go so far. She has no business aboard a ship of war sailing to confront the enemy.”

  “I cannot, Senator,” Libo had replied frankly. “I have already promised Lady Calpurnia a passage to Italy.”

  “You promised her what?” Postumus had seemed aghast. “But how can that be? You have only just come aboard. I was the first to greet you and I have not left your side for a moment. I believe the Lady Calpurnia has not yet even roused from her bed. How in Juno’s name could you have spoken with her?”

  “We did not speak, Senator. A launch met my squadron at the mouth of the harbor this morning as we were pulling in. One of Lady Calpurnia’s servants, a young eastern woman, came aboard the Remus and delivered a letter addressed to me. In it, Lady Calpurnia stated that, with her father now dead, she wishes to tie up some family business in Rome and visit with her solicitors to see that the family estate is properly distributed. The tyrant has not stooped to waging war on the families of his enemies, at least not yet, so I judged it a reasonable request. I sent my reply back with the messenger.” After seeing the senator’s disconcerted expression, Libo roguishly added, “Certainly, this will not interfere with your mission, will it, Senator? The fleet’s business shall come first, of course. Lady Calpurnia will only be sent ashore when the opportunity allows, and then in some protected cove where the enemy cannot interfere.”

  The senator had not been pleased, but there was little he could do about it. The fact that Calpurnia’s presence appeared to bother him to such an extent left Libo puzzled. What animosity could the old man possibly have for the poor, young woman, no matter his opinion of her late father?

  As to Postumus’s mission, no further explanation had been given, and Libo had chosen not to press the matter. Libo sensed something in Postumus’s demeanor, something that told him the senator’s mission went beyond state business. Ever since the fleet had gotten underway, the senator seemed to have been continually engrossed in quiet discussions with his adjutant. These did not appear to be casual conversations either, but very animated, as if the two were planning some intricate campaign that hung on a thread.

  Libo planned to keep an eye on both of them.

  Now, he gazed down at the main deck past a crew of marine artillerymen concluding an exercise of the amidships heavy ballista. Lady Calpurnia and her handmaid strolled nearby, watching with much interest as the muscled marines secured the engine’s canvas covering. Her face carried a somber expression, and Libo could only imagine how she must feel walking the decks where her father had walked in his final days.

  In all of the bustle involved with getting the fleet to sea that morning, he had only managed to speak with her briefly. He had expressed his condolences, assured her that she was welcome aboard the Argonaut as long as she wished to stay, and that he hoped to make her journey to Italy as quick and as uneventful as possible.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Calpurnia had replied endearingly. “My father always thought highly of you. Were he still alive, I know that he would have considered his daughter in good hands.” She had then averted her eyes before asking, “You will not be bothered, Admiral, if I wander throughout the ship from time to time? These decks and bulwarks seem familiar to me. They remind me of how much my father cherished this vessel.”

  “Not at all, my lady. Please go wherever you wish. If there is anything I or my officers can do to make your trip more comfortable, please do not hesitate to tell us.”

  Poor child, Libo thought, remembering how she had left him looking like a wayward dove. She had suffered much in this struggle to save the republic. Now she was alone in the world, with no one to care for her but that handmaid and the pair of female slaves that had come aboard with her baggage. She was to be smuggled into Italy, a most inglorious way for the daughter of a former consul, governor, and admiral to return to her homeland.

  Libo thought of his own family, and how his own daughter might have to return to Rome in such a manner, should this fleet not keep Antony’s legions locked in Italy long enough for Pompey to deal with Caesar.

  Perhaps it would not take that long. Before the fleet had put to sea that morning, welcome news had reached Corcyra that Pompey’s army was finally on the move. Pompey and Caesar had spent weeks staring at each other across the Apsus River, neither one making a move. While Caesar had watched his own troops dwindle from disease and desertion, across the river, Pompey’s army grew stronger every day. Pompey had assembled nine legions, all at or near full strength, along with a horde of fresh auxiliary and mercenary cohorts arriving from the eastern provinces – some forty thousand men in all. Outnumbered nearly three to one, and not wishing to find himself trapped against the sea, Caesar had left his positions on the south side of the Apsus. He had marched his legions inland, abandoning the coastal plain where he could be easily outflanked for the rocky hills and deep ravines of the interior. Pompey’s army was now in full pursuit, moving to confront the tyrant and bring him to battle.

  Within a few days, Libo thought, the war might be decided. The gods allowing, the tyrant would be slain and the republic secure once again. And then, at last, they could all return home.

  XVI

  The bridge over the rocky ravine had been hastily built by Caesar’s engineers, a patchwork of timbers that had turned an insurmountable gorge into a passage for his legions as they made their way into the heart of Illyricum. Caesar’s army had begun crossing over the creaking structure at the first light of dawn, and only now, in the late afternoon, were the last carts and mules of the baggage train finally trundling across.

  Although the bridge had only been erected on the previous day, its use was now finished, and the same engineers who had so swiftly and meticulously built it, now began tearing it down so that the enemy might not benefit from its use.

  “That’s the last of them, General,” Publius Cornelius Sulla, the legate of the Tenth Legion, commented from his mount as h
e and Caesar observed from a nearby hill. The tail end of the baggage train had exited the bridge and now followed the ambling cloud of dust left by the army as it made its way along the winding road into the hills to the north. “All of our men are across, and none too soon. It appears we are but one step ahead of Pompey.”

  The legate pointed to the hills beyond the opposite side of the bridge, where another cloud of dust hung in the sky. Both men knew that beneath that cloud a massive host came on at the forced march – nine legions, with the standards of Pompey at their head.

  “They cannot be more than ten miles away, General,” Publius commented. “They have gained a day on us, at least.”

  “The same obstacle that slowed us will slow them, Publius,” Caesar replied casually.

  At that moment, a mud-covered officer approached Caesar and saluted. He was a centurion of the engineer cohort now dismantling the bridge, and he was out of breath from climbing up the hill from the ravine.

  “The work is slow-going, General,” he reported. He was helmetless and had the look of exhaustion, as did his men. They had repaired the bridge three separate times that day, after portions of it had given way, sending several legionaries and several teams of mules to their deaths in the rocky crevasse below. “It will be well after sundown before we finish. Even then, sir, I doubt we can salvage all of it.”

  “You are the primus pila of the engineer cohort, are you not?” Caesar said, more like an accusation than a question.

  “Yes, General,” the tired man replied, standing up a little straighter at Caesar’s unsympathetic tone.

  “Who is the second centurion in line?”

  “Centurion Tertius Volcula, General.”

  “Then you shall carry a message to Centurion Volcula. Tell him he is now primus pila, and he is to disassemble and pack that bridge before the last light leaves the western sky.”

  The deflated centurion stared up at Caesar in disbelief, open-mouthed and unmoving.

  “If you are as poor at relaying orders as you are at building bridges,” Caesar said contemptuously after seeing that the man did not move. “Then I can certainly have one of my orderlies deliver the message.”

  “No, sir,” the centurion said quickly, snapping out of his trance and saluting again. “I shall carry the orders to Centurion Volcula without delay.”

  As the demoted officer struck off down the hill, Publius ventured to speak to the perturbed Caesar. “I would say he was a bit stunned by that rebuke, sir.”

  “What?” Caesar said looking up from a message that had been placed in his hands by an orderly. “It concerns me little, Publius.”

  “You did, by chance, see those medallions on his chest, Caesar? That man has fought in many battles. Indeed, I recognized some of those medals from your campaigns in Gaul and Britannia. It is quite possible that centurion has served under you for many years. Perhaps this injury to his honor is –”

  “Damn his pride, man!” Caesar snapped. “He’ll do what I bid him and there’s the end of it!”

  Publius paused. He knew that Caesar was on edge. Of late, the normally unflappable general had been irritable and prone to such outbursts. And who could expect otherwise, with men grumbling in the marching columns, and officers grumbling around the campfires, that Caesar had blundered by landing them on this foreign shore? What had he expected to accomplish with only half of his army? Had he not foreseen the massing of the Pompeiian legions, stirred from their winter quarters throughout Epirus and Illyricum? The cloud of dust dogging Caesar’s army grew larger with each passing day. Pompey’s army was strong, and well supplied from both land and sea. Caesar’s troops, on the other hand, could hope for no help from the sea, and had only to rely on the feigned love of the local magistrates in the towns they encountered for subsistence. Publius had even overheard some of the veteran centurions grumbling that Caesar had pushed Fortuna’s favor too far this time.

  Publius crafted his next words carefully. “I only wish to point out, General, that this man is undoubtedly a man of much valor. This army needs his sword. I have known some centurions, after such a reprobation, to instantly retire to their tents and commit suicide. I have seen some do it for lesser disparages.”

  “The man cannot build a bridge worth the urine in his pisspot, Publius. Jupiter knows, we have enough incompetent fools in this army. We have enough difficulties keeping the men on the march as it is. After today, how many do you think would willfully set foot on a bridge built by that imbecile? We’d have to goad them at the tip of the spear.”

  “I do see your point, sir. Still –”

  “Forget honor, Publius. Forget swordsmen. What concerns me more are those materials down there. This damnable country is so devoid of timber I doubt we could craft another bridge should we encounter a similar obstacle. We must salvage as much as possible.”

  Caesar had obviously moved on to a different matter, and Publius decided to abandon the unfortunate centurion of engineers to his fate. Down the hill, near the edge of the gorge, a long line of one hundred carts waited impatiently as pulleys and cranes methodically hauled the bridge materials up from the gorge. As soon as one cart was loaded to capacity, its drivers whipped the team down the path, and another cart took its place.

  Publius glanced at the southern horizon, beyond the ravine. A handful of mounted figures had appeared along the distant ridgeline several hours ago, observing the activities at the bridge, but now there were more. Now, as Publius watched, the cluster of horsemen filling the road began to grow in number until Publius could make out a large formation of lance-wielding riders, driving their horses at a strong gallop towards the bridge. They were Pompey’s advance guard, Galatian and Cappadocian cavalry – picked horsemen from the heart of Asia Minor – whom had sworn allegiance to the exiled Senate and to Pompey. They came on now with great swiftness. Several engineers and slaves were still working on the far side of the bridge, a few planks had been left across the main struts of the framework, allowing them to move back and forth between sides. They continued their work unaware of the approaching danger. A low hill just beyond the bridge hid the closing horsemen from their field of view.

  Publius waited as several of the staff officers behind him began to murmur to one another in silent alarm. Certainly Caesar had seen the danger, too, and Publius felt it was not necessary to point it out to the consul. But he noticed that Caesar had become transfixed by the letter in his hands, his face drawing more grave the more he read. Caesar seemed completely absorbed by the letter’s contents, and, if Publius’s eyes did not deceive him, the briefest moment of panic crossed the consul’s face.

  “Archers to the front!” Publius gave the order to one of the tribunes behind him. The armored officer saluted and galloped off in a stir of dust.

  The Tenth was assigned the rear guard, and were commissioned with the protection of the long train of impedimenta following behind Caesar’s army. Publius had four cohorts drawn up on this side of the bridge – nearly two thousand spears. He chose to keep these in place, for those few planks left on the bridge were too narrow to support cavalry, and the ravine was far too deep and far too wide for the enemy horse to get across otherwise. Those engineers working on the south side of the bridge, however, were in great peril. An auxiliary cohort of Cretan archers was attached to the Tenth, and it was these men, with bows strung, that now took up positions along the steep defile on the north side of the gorge. The archers would cover the inevitable retreat of the engineers – if Caesar ever gave the order.

  But the distracted consul kept his eyes transfixed on the message, as if staring at it longer might lead him to the solution of whatever problem lay therein.

  “Do you know what this letter contains, Publius?”

  “I do not, Caesar,” Publius responded, keeping his eyes on the rapidly closing enemy horse. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the enemy cavalry is less than a mile away. Would it not be prudent to pull the engineers –”

  “It is from that hesitan
t of all hesitants, Marc Antony,” Caesar interrupted, “whom, until recently, I believed to be a somewhat competent general and colleague. He writes, I await temperate weather and am desperately short of transports. That fool sits in Brundisium with our remaining legions, watching the sea, and no doubt the bottom of his goblet!” Caesar slapped the page with the back of his hand. “In this, he goes on in great detail to tell me that he believes the crossing to be too hazardous to attempt in the winter, and that he will make every effort to reach me in the spring! The spring, Publius! Does the fool not realize, I need more than just his legions? He is supposed to bring across the bloody treasury reserves. If we don’t have them soon, this army will mutiny before it ever sees battle. Doesn’t he understand that? The spring! Did you ever hear something so outrageous, Publius?”

  “No, Caesar.”

  A great shout of alarm echoed from the far bank as the thunder of the horse reached the ears of the working engineers. At nearly the same moment, the surging line of steaming snouts and twinkling bronze armor crested the last hill and were now visible to those still working on the south side of the bridge. Publius saw several centurions there look up at the approaching enemy and then back to the hill where Caesar and Publius sat, as if willing the consul to order the withdrawal. But when no such order came, the veteran field officers ordered their work parties to fetch their stacked arms and began forming a defensive line in the enemy’s path. Seeing this, the Galatian cavalry leveled lances and kicked their mounts into full stride. A horn sounded, and the enemy formation quickly lost its shape as every horse was pushed to its limit. Several slaves screamed in horror at the approaching fury and chose to leap to their deaths rather than face the enemy lances.

  Publius looked from the enemy to Caesar, aghast that the consul still kept his eyes glued to the letter.

  “Not to dismiss Antony’s sluggishness, Caesar,” Publius ventured, “but do you not think we should address the more immediate matters that require our attention?”