Meanwhile, the remaining galleys were alongside Rufus’s ships, they too not hesitating to use their scorpios. One shot found its mark, hitting the sail of a quadrireme, which inevitably slowed, making it easy prey for the ram of its nearest enemy. It was struck in the stern, and Pompey’s trireme attempted to throw down its corvus, but the grappling hook missed the handrail by a whisker and the archers on the quadrireme began firing at the men who were trying to pull the boarding ramp back up, preventing them from making another attempt.
Pompey, however, did not want to sound the signal of retreat. Apparently, even that pirate – who had given shelter to many outlaws fleeing from Rome – knew the propaganda value of defeating a triumvir, and was holding out in the hope of finishing off Rufus’s fleet. And he would certainly be successful if the fire from the promontory of Scilla eased.
“Fire! Fire faster!” shouted Octavian. He was beginning to panic, and started to worry that he might have one of his coughing fits. The soldiers strove to intensify the pace of operations, and the projectiles continued to rain down on Pompey’s galleys. The problem was that most of them missed their targets and did not deter the determined pirate.
Another trireme was hit by two boulders, and the ship immediately took on water and began to sink. A little further along the same line, a ship’s deck caught fire and the helmsman lost control, and soon a sort of bottleneck had formed behind the two wrecks: triremes began to pile up and collide with one another. It was exactly what they needed.
“Concentrate the firing in that area!” shouted Octavian, with all the breath he had left in his lungs. After a few moments for targeting, dozens of projectiles flew over the battlements, converging on the tangle of ships just as some of them were starting to break away. This time, inevitably, many more projectiles struck home, and horns began to blow the signal to retreat on Pompey’s galleys. They veered toward the coast of Sicily, moving out of the range of Octavian’s weapons, but no longer in pursuit of Rufus. Even the few remaining triremes diverted their course and sailed towards Charybdis.
It was done. He had inflicted enough damage upon the fleet of Sextus Pompey to pass the battle off as a draw. After all, in his first clash with Pompey the Great, even Caesar had suffered a defeat which he had painted as a kind of stalemate in his memoirs. But in reality, the cult of Mars Ultor had simply wasted time, and would not have another opportunity to take on Sextus Pompey in combat before leaving for Macedonia.
He had failed.
*
And another legion had left in turn for Macedonia. Agrippa had managed to engage the blockade of Staius Murcus and allow Antony’s ships through. Thanks to the constant work of the archers he had been able to keep the enemies away from his ally’s fleet as well as from his own. Yes, he had lost two ships when he had slipped between Murcus and Antony, but the damage to the others was limited: they were all seaworthy, although some were in pretty bad shape.
However, it was not over yet. Two other convoys were due to depart for Macedonia, and they had to make sure that Murcus no longer caused trouble along the coastal route around the Adriatic. For this reason, as soon as he saw Antony’s ships reach the open sea, where they were now safely out of the blockade’s reach, he had ordered the hoisting of the flagship’s sails and headed for Murcus’s base, where he had already sent an advance guard to take control of the port. On his return, the enemy commander would have an unpleasant surprise, and would be forced to find another place to dock, far from Brindisi.
Agrippa would have felt safer if he had part of his fleet with him, but he would still have had Murcus behind him in any case. He sailed fast, keeping a constant lookout for any ships behind them, and soon came in sight of the port. As they approached, he noticed that there were two galleys docked in the little harbour: he could only hope that his men had already taken control.
He slowed down considerably as he entered the harbour and studied the few buildings arranged along the three sides which enclosed it, the boats docked on the wharf and the two warships. It was unusually calm, even for a little port like that. It was usually full of people, or at least fishermen, but he could see no one. The oarsmen slowed their pace until they were barely moving and the ship came in under its own momentum and coasted slowly toward the quay. In the prow, Agrippa was still unable to detect any movement.
Suddenly, a cry from the bulwark called his attention. One of his men pointed to the side pier, and the young man briefly saw two figures running between buildings before disappearing.
Another shout made him look the other way. This time he saw three men running along the pier, one of whom was being chased by the other two. In an instant they reached their prey, ran him through with their swords and threw him into the water. The ship was now almost behind the docked galleys, and Agrippa distinctly heard the sound of blades clanging from the deck. He peered at the two ships until he could make out armed men fighting. One jumped down from the boat onto the quayside and fled among the buildings.
And suddenly it was clear what was happening: his men were still struggling to take the port. There were no people around because all the civilians had fled after the start of the battle.
Things, therefore, were not going to plan. And if Murcus arrived, they would lose the opportunity to take the base and would be forced to repeat the same risky manoeuvre with the next convoy, but with less chance of success, because now the enemy would know their tactics.
They had to take that port at any cost.
Agrippa was unsure of the situation on the ground as well as that aboard the triremes, though, and had no idea how many of his advance guard had survived and how many of the defenders were still able to fight. But he had no time to find out: he had to take the chance, go ashore and back up his men. There was a possibility they would fall into a trap and waste all the good work he had done at the port of Brindisi, yet if didn’t act, he and Octavian’s fleet would continue to run huge risks over the following weeks.
He decided to dock, and ordered the navarch to bring them alongside the trireme aboard which there was fighting. The men on the deck noticed his presence and there were shouts for help, while some enemy soldiers threw themselves overboard and swam to the shore, quickly climbing onto the quayside. Agrippa ordered his archers to shoot them, and soon all those who had escaped from the ship were floating in the sea with arrows in their backs. On the deck of the moored ship there were cries of triumph and the fighting began anew, this time with renewed vigour.
Before ordering his men onto the wharf, Agrippa asked one of the fighters for information. “What’s the situation on the ground?” he shouted to him.
“There were more of them than we expected, sir!” replied the other man, breathing heavily from the effort of fighting. “But we’re hunting them down one by one. Just when we thought we had the port under control, others arrived from the village behind. They must have been on leave, and were enjoying themselves with the local women. They jumped us when we had just attacked the ships: we managed to take control of one right away, but the men in the other had time to react.”
Agrippa nodded and gave the order to disembark. By now, the success of his men seemed a foregone conclusion. They had to weaken any resistance on land immediately, to avoid being caught between two adversaries when Murcus arrived. He reached the pier with twenty-five of his thirty men, but at that precise moment the watchman shouted that there were ships on the horizon.
It could only be Murcus, curse him! Agrippa ordered ten men back on board to help the captain find a way to move all the galleys so that they blocked the mouth of the harbour, and then divided the remaining men into three squads. He scanned the horizon, attempting to estimate how long it would take Murcus to reach the port, and then said, “Each squad take one part of the dwellings and provide assistance to our men, but be back here with the men you find in half an hour – I want you deployed on the pier!”
Then he set off at a run, ordering his squad to follow him, and they entered the
narrow streets between the buildings. Once past the warehouses, they reached the houses of the small village and went straight towards the sounds of a struggle. In a small square, Agrippa saw two of his men trapped against the wall of a building, defending themselves against the same number of enemies. Agrippa rushed over, and the six of them swooped down on the two assailants, who found themselves surrounded with no time to flee, then impaled on more swords than their bodies could accommodate.
The two survivors thanked Agrippa for his providential appearance, and told him that they knew where another group of enemies were holed up. They took him to the edge of the little town where, outside a circular temple dedicated to Hercules and surrounded by a garden of olive trees, Agrippa found eight of his men.
“There are fifteen of them inside, sir,” said a soldier. “And there are too few of us to flush them out.”
There was no time to lose, and now there were fifteen of them too. Two went to take oil lamps from the nearest houses, others to pull branches from the trees to make torches. Hercules and his father Jupiter would forgive them for that sacrilege: killing Caesar – the divine Caesar – was a far worse outrage, and he was only doing it in order to punish the killers.
He motioned to the men with torches to advance with him and burn the trees around the building while he and another man headed for the entrance. Crouched behind his shield, he passed his torch to one of his men and lunged at the door in an attempt to break it down. After three violent impacts he felt the hinges give. He took back his torch and kicked at the door, which finally gave way, then immediately threw the burning brand inside before backing off through the burning trees. They paused at the edge of the garden and waited. It was only a few moments before the men in the temple came out in a disorderly rush. One was on fire, and another was trying to put out the flames on the hem of his robe.
Agrippa blocked their escape route, forcing them to fight. They were outnumbered now, and their eyes were filled with tears. Some fell immediately, while others stood firm. From the position of the sun Agrippa deduced that half an hour had already passed, so he intensified his action, cleanly slicing off the arm of one opponent without bothering to kill him, then the leg of another, who fell to the ground and was finished off by one of his men. The survivors, at that point, dropped their swords and surrendered. Agrippa ordered everyone to follow him and bring the prisoners with them.
When they returned to the dock, they found many of their men and some prisoners awaiting them.
The young man looked at the harbour mouth. His ships were obstructing it, but just beyond them Murcus’s triremes, with their pointed rams, were preparing to break through. Agrippa ran the length and breadth of the harbour, posting his men along all three sides: there were around two hundred of them, but if they spread out, it might look as though there were more.
They waited.
For a long time, nothing happened and there was silence, apart from the odd shout from behind him and the echoes of the fighting in the village. Murcus was clearly assessing the situation from aboard his ship. If he entered, he had easy game: his fleet, with all those armed men, was more powerful than the slim forces Agrippa had at his disposal, and Agrippa’s control of the port and of the town was not yet complete.
Agrippa realised that he was sweating. A cold sweat. He tried not to betray his anxiety so as not to further unnerve his men, who were already trembling with fear. He heard some commenting on his plan, saying it was crazy. Perhaps it was, he thought, but Caesar had had many crazy plans, like that of crossing the Rubicon with a single legion.
And after a wait that seemed endless, he saw Murcus’s flagship turn and leave, followed by the others.
He had won. For the second time that day, he had won.
XVII
In the distance, a great cloud of dust was rising in the middle of the plain. Soon afterwards another cloud appeared to its side, and yet another appeared along the ridge of the adjacent hill. Salvidienus Rufus looked at Mark Antony, then at Maecenas, and shook his head: the scene presaged the same outcome as that of the previous day.
Before long they were able to make out the shapes of the riders out on patrol, and along with them they could also distinguish two enemy squads who were converging on the column and about to trap it in a pincer movement.
“Send out the Velites, now!” cried Antony, addressing the tribunes with himself, Rufus and Maecenas in the battlements of the fortified camp. He should have done that yesterday, Rufus said to himself, but he had acted too late, and his scouts had mourned many losses. They watched the movements of the column, which suddenly swerved to the left, seeking an escape route towards the sea.
One of the two squads following them turned in the same direction, while the other continued as it was. In the background were the two hills upon which Marcus Brutus and Cassius Longinus had built their camps, and in the middle the trenches which connected the two forts until they seemed to be one, vast stronghold
Inside those fortifications there were nineteen legions, and their commanders had been able to comfortably choose the best position possible for an army as powerful and fierce as that of Caesar’s killers. If Brutus and Cassius decided to do battle now, Antony’s forces, outnumbered and in an infelicitous position, would risk ending up like his scouts.
Antony’s horsemen were not far from their fort. The triumvir had arrived a few days earlier on the plain of Philippi, just in time to reinforce the eight vanguard legions led by Norbanus and Decidius Saxa, before they were attacked by the enemy. If he had taken any longer to arrive, Caesar’s avengers would have been forced to confront their opponents with at least forty thousand less men: the legates were, in fact, starving and stuck in the plain, at the mercy of the enemy, who would easily have had the best of them.
And because Brutus and Cassius had taken the best positions, Antony had decided he could put pressure on by occupying the hill closest to them, fortifying it right under their noses, and challenging them to stop him. But his arrogance exposed him to great risks, and Rufus had been in a cold sweat since he had arrived in Macedonia with Octavian’s vanguard. Until the camp was completely fortified, their tactical inferiority was absolutely intolerable: Antony seemed to want to provoke the enemy into battle even before the other triumvir arrived to support them.
Suddenly, a realisation struck him: Antony wanted to cheat them, even if it meant being surprised by his opponents. Rufus looked over at Maecenas and was about to open his mouth when the Etruscan motioned him to be silent, indicating the battle taking shape before their eyes. Rufus made a gesture of annoyance: he could have seen what Antony was up to by himself, but instead Octavian, whom ill health had forced to remain on the coast of Epirus, had decided to send him there with that damn fop. As though that weakling understood anything about military tactics…
But he couldn’t help seeing what was happening beyond the fortifications. The manoeuvre Antony’s horsemen were executing to escape the pincer had forced them into the swamp that separated the coast from the land, and their movements had abruptly slowed. Perhaps they hoped that the marshes would dissuade their opponents from following them, but it did not seem to have that effect. Indeed, they too had entered the marshland. Rufus saw the first spears flying against Antony’s men just as the light infantry emerged from the fort to reinforce them. Two fell from the saddle and their bodies sank into the mud, disappearing instantly. The fugitives spurred their tired horses on, trying to get them back to solid ground, but their progress was painfully slow as they lurched and struggled through the swamp. One horse lost his footing and rolled over into the mud, trapping his rider beneath him. Two of the enemy approached them, the scout did not even have time to grab his shield: he drew his sword and tried to defend himself, but his opponents possessed spears and, after a few defensive swings, he succumbed to their lunges.
Meanwhile, the group were breaking up. The better mounted had managed to advance relatively quickly while others had been left behind, and i
t was upon them that the action of the pursuers was concentrated. The back of the column, now flanked on both sides, had resigned themselves to fighting: they turned their horses and began swinging their swords in turn, as they prepared for battle. But then they saw the slingers and spear throwers approaching on foot and paused, awaiting their arrival before counterattacking. Meanwhile, however, they were outnumbered, and Rufus saw many fall.
The slingers and spear throwers began hurling their projectiles at their opponents, many of whom were forced to slacken their pressure on Antony’s horsemen. Some of the enemy horsemen, however, charged them in an attempt to break their ranks: Rufus saw one knocked off his horse by a stone just as he was about to reach the line of slingers. His companions hesitated, giving way to Antony’s horsemen, who had finally joined the light infantry, to fight back.
At that point, the enemy were getting too close to Antony’s fortifications, and decided their work was done. Their decurion shouted the order to retreat, and the horsemen headed off quickly, but some were hit from behind by further projectiles, fell from their horses and were finished off by the spears of those who, moments before, had been at their mercy. A dejected Rufus was contemplating the backs of the enemy horsemen: their retreat could not hide from the eyes of an experienced soldier that they had nonetheless achieved their purpose and prevailed in the battle.
Just like the previous day.
He could no longer contain himself. “What kind of position is this, triumvir?” he shouted to Antony. “They can do whatever they like to us. I thought you were supposed to be a talented leader?”
Maecenas tried to shut him up, but Antony was already responding. “What, must I even be taken to task by that brat’s minions now? As though he himself weren’t enough! What is it that you want, boy?”
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