XXXVI
Lucius watched Antony from amongst the mass of troops on the main deck. A smirk appeared beneath his centurion’s helmet as he saw the posturing general check his appearance in the mirror again, and then call for a barber, evidently deciding that his beard needed a quick trim. The general appeared to have put the attempt on his life behind him and was now anticipating his meeting with the Raven.
While the approaching beach and the strange pavilion consumed everyone else’s attention, Lucius turned to look out beyond the opposite side of the ship. He could see the bay stretching away for several miles, and the far-off shoreline of the promontory on the other side of the watery expanse. As he watched, a figure emerged from the distant surf – a slim, muscled figure with slight curves and long dark hair, which shook wildly once it was clear of the foamy sea. Lucius smiled. Such a swim might have killed most, but it had been no problem for her.
It had taken him very little time to reach the hold, where Marjanita had sat, shackled with several other prisoners that Antony had decided to bring with him to Greece for one reason or another. Lucius had used his rank, and the promise of a few denarii, to convince the guards to release the woman into his custody. Marjanita had then watched him with distrustful eyes as he laid the deal out for her. Tell him who had been with Antony that night, and he would look the other way when she jumped over the side. After exhibiting some trepidation, she had agreed, and had pointed out the flowing blonde hair of Orestes across the crowded deck, just as the eunuch had drawn the dagger to attack Antony. Lucius had shouted the warning that had saved Antony’s life, and then had melted back into the activity on deck.
True to his word, Lucius had let Marjanita go.
She had said nothing to him before diving into the sea, her perfect form leaving hardly a splash on the surface. But, before she had jumped, they had shared a silent interval, in which she had turned back to look at him, her captivating, brown eyes studying him in a long, reflective gaze. It had only lasted for the space of a few heartbeats, but in that moment he felt as though she were etching his face into her memory. Whether it was out of some trace of warmth, or to remember him that she might cut his throat should she ever cross his path again, he did not know – but he chose to think on the former.
Now, as he watched Marjanita’s slim figure in the distance dart nimbly from the surf to the concealment of the brush, he was sorry to see her go. She had played her part well and had done everything Lucius had asked of her. That morning in front of Antony, she had performed flawlessly, telling him everything Lucius had told her to say. She had convinced the ambitious general that her message was authentic – and it was, to a certain extent.
Turning his attention back to the other side of the ship, Lucius gazed upon the scarlet pavilion and drew in a deep breath of satisfaction, content with the knowledge that he had fulfilled the dying request of a man he had been forced to kill – and that Antony’s world was about to turn upside down.
XXXVII
The lumbering transports drove their keels to ground on the sandy slope like so many beached whales. Fifteen thousand armor-clad legionaries and auxiliaries spilled over the sand-wedged bows, dropping booted feet into shallow surf across a mile-wide front. With crossed spears held high, and bouncing kits across their backs, they came ashore, marching quickly up the steep slope to seek out their standards amidst clouds of the agitated powder. Behind them, quartermasters and engineers shouted above the surf as they drove thousands of protesting mules and horses down the steep ramps, each beast either overloaded with baggage or pulling artillery.
Antony strode up the beach amidst the assembling troops, magnificent in his gleaming plumed helmet and flowing cloak. He glanced once at the surrounding hills where a handful of his cavalry, mounted on the least traumatized of the horses, scouted for any sign of Pompey's army lying in ambush, in the event that this rendezvous was yet another ruse by the exiled Senate. But the cavalrymen's banners were upright and rigid, with no signal to indicate any threat was in sight.
The legate of the Thirteenth Legion broke into Antony’s silent reverie.
"But whose banner is that, General?" The legate asked curiously for the third time since they had debarked, pointing to the pavilion on the strand. "Who awaits us?"
Antony laughed. "Only the wealthiest and most powerful man in the empire, Fronto. Never fear. Stick with me and your service shall be rewarded ten-fold. Now, go and attend to your legion, General. Quickly, now. Let us put on a fine show for our distinguished host."
The legate appeared more confused than ever, but saluted and marched off briskly in the direction of his forming troops.
Antony was amused by the flustered expressions of his officers. They would know soon enough. They would all know.
Just up the beach before him stood the scarlet pavilion, the bodyguard posted outside as stoic as they had been for the last hour. Antony had to admit to himself that he was brimming with curiosity to discover the Raven's true identity. In just a few more steps, he would know. He had a few suspicions - a few of the less vocal senators who rode the back bench of the senate house and quietly observed from the shadows. Whoever the bastard was, he certainly had balls of bronze to travel with such a small escort and face a host that might wipe out his little band at a mere snap of Antony's fingers.
Antony did not consider doing this, of course. The potential rewards and power the Raven could yield for him far outweighed any gains he could achieve through treachery. There would be a time for that, later. Now, he would salute smartly and pledge his eternal allegiance and that of his army.
True, he felt a certain measure of shame for betraying Caesar, especially since Caesar had been so loyal to him through good and bad times. But this was Roman politics, and to survive in this game one must ally himself not with the man whom he called friend, but with the man who held the purse strings of the empire.
A nervous smile crossed Antony's face as the flap across the door to the pavilion was thrown back. He stood up slightly straighter and did his best to appear steadfast and confident. The next instant, a man ducked out of the darkened doorway and then stood to full height, his scarlet cloak whipping around his thin legs and boots. His eyes instantly met with Antony's, and it was all Antony could do not to audibly gasp, let alone keep from turning pale.
A solitary cry rang out from the beach as the figure was recognized. Others soon added their voices to the exultation, and still more, until the entire formation had come alive in a crescendo of elation that drowned out the curling waves and the beat of the wind. Then, like a concrete dam bursting into a thousand pieces all at once, the formations came apart. The legionaries rushed up the beach, many brushing past Antony as if he were not there. They surrounded the pavilion, their spear points twirling high above their heads, their faces scrunched into smiles beneath their constricting helmets as they cheered and cheered. Soon, they began chanting his name, the thrusts of their spears scraping the sky to the rhythm of their call.
As disturbing as was the jostling Antony had received from the maddened soldiers pressing in on all sides, restrained only by the outstretched, muscled arms of the bodyguard, the disruption had allowed him a brief interlude to properly compose himself before he once again faced the man whom his soldiers had lost all of their wits over. For, this was not the Raven that he had been so foolishly duped into believing, and the man’s name resounded in his ears, in his head, in his mind, as if each repetition accused him.
They chanted that name unceasingly, until he wanted to hold his hands to his ears. He wanted them to shut up. He wanted to order them all whipped and their units decimated. But he dare not let his face reveal such thoughts. So, he smiled warmly, returning the narrow gaze of the man before him who looked down on him with an all-knowing stare falling somewhere between contempt and complacency. But Antony only smiled wider, fully determined now to prove he was just as elated as the men around him.
Somewhere in the sea of buoyant faces, there
was one that was not cheering. Antony saw it, and was surprised to see that this face, unlike all the others, was looking directly at him. The face was crowned by the cross-plumed helmet of a centurion, and it was set in an expression of smug amusement. It was, of course, that of Lucius Domitius, and he stared back at Antony as if he knew every thought, every skipped heartbeat, every inward moment of panic that had overcome him since the unexpected figure had emerged from the pavilion – and he appeared to take great pleasure in it. And suddenly, it all made sense to Antony, as if a veil lifted from his mind. He felt like a mule's ass, a feeling only slightly overshadowed by the rage that boiled inside him as all of his dreams of power and glory vanished before his eyes.
But, there was nothing to be done about it now. Someday, he would see to it that Centurion Lucius Domitius got what was coming to him. Of that eventuality, there could be no doubt. But for now, he needed to put on an amiable expression, and be the loyal lieutenant once again. With a smile that could satisfy for apology, relief, or thankfulness – and he would choose which of these it was, once he had a measure of the consul’s mood – he raised one hand in salute to his old commander and echoed the chant that reverberated to the clouds.
“Hail, Caesar.”
XXXVIII
Calpurnia began to shiver as the icy waves revived her. She discovered the she was face down in the wet sand, and it took many long moments of choking and coughing up stinging grit and seawater before she could sit upright and survey her surroundings.
She sat on a white strand beneath a rocky coast. Her dress had been torn to rags and hung loosely on her bruised and chafed skin. Aside from the abrasions, the cold, and her unquenchable desire to gulp down fresh water, she appeared to be uninjured. The beach was strewn with wreckage. Splintered wooden beams, great clumps of cordage, and an assortment of other debris dotted the sand.
A stone’s throw away, several birds milled about the naked, outstretched body of a man. The man was dead, his skin pale blue and bloated. The body lay twisted and mangled, each limb bent unnaturally in two or three places, as if the sea and the rocks had worked together to snap every bone before depositing the wretched remains on the beach. The hollow, open-mouthed face was turned towards Calpurnia, and though it now bore little resemblance to anything human, she knew that it was Postumus. Whether the gods played tricks on her, or the ingested seawater now muddled her mind, she could not tell, but the dead senator’s face appeared to be frozen in the most horrified expression she had ever seen, as if he had been looking into the jaws of hell when he met his end.
There were other bodies on the beach, as well – probably sailors or marines from the Argonaut. They were all dead, drowned or dashed against the rocks by the tossing seas. Calpurnia could not guess how she had managed to survive, aside from the merciful grace of Juno. Her last conscious memory was of Postumus approaching her with murder in his eyes. The next thing she knew, she was here.
Was that all, or was there more?
Dreamlike images drifted through her mind, more feelings than tangible memories. She had the sense of being conveyed through the water by some force that was not her own, of a gnarled mouth with putrid breath huffing and gargling near her face, of being held across the body by a giant hand that squeezed her upper arm to the point of numbness.
She drew aside her rag of a dress to inspect her arm. Yes, a bruise was there! She could clearly see a ring of discolored flesh where the powerful hand had clutched her and had not let go for some time – not to injure her, but to hold her tightly amidst the violent waves as she was pulled to safety.
It had not been a dream. She had been saved, not by the gods, but by…
It was at that moment when she saw them. The moist sand all around her was riddled with the twig-like prints of countless sea birds, but there was one set of tracks that was not left by any bird. The prints of two giant hands appeared at regular intervals along the beach with two shallow trenches passing between them, where two stumps of legs had been dragged through the sand. The tracks climbed up the slope, and further on, until they were lost from sight in the rocky terrain.
Calpurnia tried calling his name, but her dry throat would not allow it. She tried to move. She desperately struggled to follow the tracks, but in her weakened state she could barely manage to crawl. After much exertion in vain, she collapsed from exhaustion.
She was still whispering his name when peasants from a nearby fishing village discovered her. The simple Illyrians knew from the poor woman’s ornate rag of a dress that she was a noble of some kind, and they treated her with all of the necessary proprieties. They surmised that she had survived a shipwreck and that she must be Roman, but none could understand the meaning of the word she incessantly repeated between her parched lips.
“Odulph…Odulph…Odulph,” she whispered, over and over again.
They tried to calm her and pleaded with her not to speak, but she was too delirious to hear them. With much compassion and gentleness, the villagers conveyed the incoherent woman away from the wind-swept strand. They took her to their community, where a warm home was found to start the slow process of nursing her back to health. There, they cared for the great lady and saw to her every need.
XXXIX
“My dear, Libo, is that you? We thought you dead. Come in, my dear friend. Come in and sit down.”
Pompey’s weathered, round face wore a welcoming expression as he met Libo at the entrance of the tent. He waved away the orderly who had been assisting Libo, and took Libo’s arm himself, gently guiding the trembling admiral over to a glowing hearth. Libo still wore the same wet clothing he was wearing when he had been plucked from the sea, several hours ago.
“You are injured,” Pompey said with concern, looking at the red contusion on Libo’s forehead.
“No, General,” Libo replied. “It is nothing, sir.”
“My physician will be the judge of that. By the gods, Libo, you look dreadful. You are liable to catch your death in that wind. Sit down here. Please my friend. Sit down, and warm yourself by the fire.” Pompey then ordered a nearby servant. “A blanket for the admiral. And some dry clothes.”
Libo accepted a cup of wine offered by Pompey, and eagerly drained it in a few quick gulps. When he finished, and he began to feel the warmth of the fire and the spirits restore feeling to his extremities, he noticed that Pompey was watching him patiently. The general of all Optimates forces had settled his large frame into a chair opposite him and had a genuine look of concern on his face. Suddenly the tent seemed very quiet, but perhaps that too was merely his senses coming back to him. He could hear servants in an adjoining chamber preparing Pompey’s supper. In the camp outside, someone was shouting in anger – probably some centurion scolding a recruit. He heard creaking wheels driving away, and knew it was the chariot that had just bourn him on the fifteen mile journey from the coast, where he had been deposited by the trireme that had pulled him from the sea, to Pompey’s camp.
“I must apologize, General,” Libo finally said when his lips had thawed enough. “I have not yet given you my report.”
“Do not exert yourself, my friend. Take your time. You have had a devil of a day.”
Libo’s eyes instinctively followed the platters of cooked meats and baked bread as they were carried in by a handful of servants and set out on a nearby table. Pompey immediately noticed his interest.
“Perhaps some food would be in order, first, Admiral. After what you’ve been through, you must be starving. You will dine with me, and then after we can discuss –”
“All is lost, General!” Libo heard himself spit out the words between his own gritted teeth. “Forgive me, great Pompey, but I have failed. The fleet is lost!”
Pompey showed no anger at the outburst, but instead stared into the fire blankly. “So, it is true then. The reports we have received are accurate?”
Libo nodded, bowing his head in shame.
“How many ships lost?”
“Thirty-three. More th
an twenty damaged to the extent that they will require a long interval in port.”
“How many, then, remain fit for sea?”
“A dozen, possibly,” Libo forced the words out while shaking his head. “I do not know for certain, General.”
“And what of Antony’s legions from Italy?”
“They are now afoot in this country, General, landed some twenty miles north of here, at Nymphaeum. Their videttes are already patrolling the hills. My chariot was nearly waylaid by them on the way here.”
Pompey said nothing, but simply closed his eyes, as if pausing to digest this new threat. There was a long silence between them, but Libo could not withstand it any further.
“As you see, great Pompey, it is a complete disaster. I have brought the republic to complete and utter ruin!”
Pompey’s eyes opened and once again he met Libo with a pleasant smile. “Nonsense, my friend. All is not lost. As with most campaigns, fortune has thrown obstacles in our path, but all is not lost.”
“The fleet is lost, General. You now face Caesar’s combined army. What could possibly save – ”
“Have some more wine, dear Libo,” Pompey interrupted gesturing for one of the servants to refill Libo’s cup.
When the wine was poured and the servant moved away, Libo saw the general place one finger in the air, and then cut his eyes to the cluster of servants preparing the meal. Libo understood his meaning instantly, and the reason Pompey had cut him off so abruptly. The servants had obviously heard every word of his pessimistic rant. Should word reach the camp that the admiral of the fleet was under the general’s tent blathering the portents of doom, there was no telling how many would desert. Libo suddenly felt embarrassed for displaying his emotions in such a fashion, but Pompey was soon smiling at him with much sympathy, once again.
Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 30
