Was there still any hope? Maecenas attempted to analyse the situation objectively. Brutus’s soldiers boasted of having taken three eagles and having destroyed three of Octavian’s legions, but those of Antony were still intact, and the heir of Caesar had enough left to still be decisive in a new battle, as long as it was Agrippa leading them and not Rufus. On the other hand, Cassius too had suffered heavy losses, and the news that he had committed suicide provided some comfort to the Etruscan, who knew that he had been the best commander Caesar’s killers possessed. Of course, the numbers the sentries gave them were not encouraging: they spoke of sixteen thousand dead among those supporting Caesar’s cause and half of their own comrades, but it might merely be Brutus’s propaganda to console the soldiers for the half-defeat of their opposite numbers and to keep them motivated in view of the inevitable confrontation.
A confrontation – as he well knew – in which their opponents started from a position of great advantage. If the numbers going around the camp were true, in addition to their strategic and tactical superiority, they also had numerical superiority. Especially if the news that had been circulating in the camp for the last few hours, passing from mouth to mouth until it reached the pens holding the prisoners, was reliable. It seemed that the two legions Octavian had been expecting from Italy had run into Staius Murcus’s blockade at sea and that had been the end of them. The enemy admiral had captured thirty-five of Calvinus’s galleys and sunk many cargo ships, scattering the fleet and making it impossible for the legionaries to reach the eastern shores. If this was true, they had no way of making up the losses they had suffered in the battle.
It was not at all in Brutus’s interest, then, to do battle. He occupied an enviable location, on high ground and near sources of fresh water, and the attempts of Caesar’s avengers to block his supply routes had failed miserably. Conversely, the alleged victory of Murcus on the Adriatic prevented Octavian and Antony not only from obtaining supplies from Italy, but even from returning to the Peninsula if events took a turn for the worse. And he would have bet that they would get worse soon, what with the bad weather now on its way. Even before the battle, Maecenas had encountered difficulty in obtaining provisions in the surrounding areas, which had now been exhausted by the long bivouacking of the troops and the increasingly unhealthy autumn weather, which had forced the soldiers on the plain to wade through mud, swamps and marshes. And things were only going to get worse.
All in all, he admitted sadly to himself, there was nothing to be optimistic about. The situation was desperate and the only positive thing was the survival of Octavian, who had escaped thanks to his providential idea of sending him away before the battle. But then everything had gone wrong, and now he had ended up a prisoner of the enemy, able to do nothing except watch events play out. In all probability, Caesar’s avengers would have no choice but to attack, before hunger and hardship did Brutus’s work for him, and for an army forced to attack an opponent because it had no alternatives, there was no hope. Even he, who knew little of military tactics, realised that Brutus would simply have to wait, or at most repel any attempts to take his camp, to win a final victory with minimal effort.
Moreover, the internal situation of the Sect of Mars Ultor had already been extremely delicate when they had set off on the Greek campaign thanks to the disagreements, defections, fights, deaths, murders, the defeat of Rufus in Sicily… And since their initial confrontation with Caesar’s killers things had not improved at all, and had, in fact, gone as badly as they could have. Even he, who had great respect for his own resourcefulness, could think of no way to stop what appeared to be the inevitable decline of the group. He had believed in it, and had invested his time and his wealth in it, but now it seemed that all was lost.
When a guard called him over and escorted him out of the pen holding the prisoners, Maecenas realised that he had been thinking about the fate of the sect and of Octavian, but not about his own. Right now it was he, of all the members of the Sect of Mars Ultor, who was in the worst position and whose fate hung by a thread, and he grew even more convinced of this when he saw that they were taking him before Marcus Junius Brutus: as soon as he saw him, Maecenas knew that the man held his life in his hand.
He felt that he was being scrutinised and evaluated, but didn’t allow himself to feel intimidated: he knew that Brutus didn’t have the steely personality of Octavian, nor the intimidating one of Cassius or Antony, and had it not been for the situation he would not have been in the least awed.
“So you are the new tyrant’s most trusted lieutenant…” began Brutus, after studying him for a long time. He was surrounded by a dozen bodyguards and stood on the edge of the area reserved for prisoners. He was unprepossessing and uncharismatic to look at, and the fact that he had bothered to come to the prisoners rather than summon him to his tent spoke volumes about his lack of authority. His elusive gaze was testament to his shyness and, for a moment, the Etruscan had the impression of being before a man who had taken on more responsibility than he could manage. On the other hand, it was no secret that Cassius had struggled to convince him to lead the conspiracy against Caesar.
“Disappointed?” he said, smiling slightly. “Did you expect a brute like Agrippa, perhaps?” He knew the human soul well, and was certain that it would take much more than some silly provocation to make someone as composed as Brutus lose his calm.
In fact, he didn’t react. “And why ever would I?” he answered quietly. “I am very well aware that your mind is your greatest asset, and I’m glad to know that among the soldiers who have fallen into my hands there is one whose ideas would have been more damaging to me than his sword.”
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried…” said the Etruscan.
“All that need worry you is that you will not be able to provide assistance to your leader, if that re-assures you,” said Brutus, and his words cheered Maecenas a little. But only a little.
“Assuming that this time he actually appears on the battlefield,” continued the murderer of Caesar. “If he had been where he should have been, like a real commander, instead of fleeing the fighting, the reasons for contention between Antony and myself would vanish too, I’m sure. And you would be free. Free also not to submit yourself to the monarchy that your leader aims to establish.”
Maecenas, too, was certain that, were it not for Octavian, Brutus and Antony would already have come to some arrangement. That, above all, was why he had wanted to keep his friend away from the battle. Without his presence, however, he feared that the young triumvir might not be as wise next time. “As a representative of the descendants of Venus and defender of justice in Rome, Octavian has the gods on his side, and they warned him in a dream to stay away from the fighting until he had recovered,” he specified. “And anyway, it appears to me that you have little to brag about – everybody knows that your men went into battle of their own accord, which means you can claim no credit for the victory that you attribute yourself. It was coincidence, nothing more.”
“A coincidence? Perhaps this too is a sign from the gods, then!” said Brutus. “At least for those who do not want Rome ruled by tyrants. The same gods who have cut off your route for retreat and supplies, allowing Staius Murcus to prevail over Domitius Calvinus. You’ll see when the survivors of your army and your friends eventually die of starvation. And the first to go will be Octavian, whose health, I think, must be rather poor, especially in such trying conditions.”
“So you didn’t win six days ago and won’t win in the future either, but plan to simply reap the benefits of favourable circumstances…” said Maecenas, continuing to provoke him.
“I won’t send my men to die, if I can avoid it. You who have such a refined brain should know that. You’d do the same thing…”
Maecenas agreed, but he could not admit that to Brutus. Quite the opposite. An idea was forming in his mind. “Thank you for the compliment,” he replied. “But because I do have a mind capable of understanding the
human soul, I know that soldiers, in the long run, do not respect a commander who does not win them victories in the field. Especially if they have served in the past under the command of one such as Julius Caesar, the greatest leader who ever lived. And most of your men served under him. I doubt that you can afford to evade combat.”
Brutus finally lost his temper. Maecenas had hit the mark, he noted with satisfaction: the murderer was aware of his lack of total authority over his men. “And I will do it. I am their commander,” he replied testily. “Take him back to his quarters,” he said curtly, addressing the guards who had brought Maecenas before him.
Pleased, the Etruscan bade him farewell. He had identified the weakness of Brutus’s seemingly unassailable position. It was a small crack, but it might work, especially as the enemy commander was planning to let time pass. All in all, he could still be useful to the sect, he thought. Provided that the sect still existed.
There was one thing he was still curious about. As they led him away, he stopped for a moment, turned round and asked Brutus point blank, “You do not seem the type to nourish envy, jealousy, frustration or resentment, unlike the others who killed Caesar for their petty personal reasons. Why did you do it?”
For the first time, Brutus looked him in the eye. He remained silent a long time, and the guards remained immobile until he had responded. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said finally, “because you do not bear a name like mine, nor a rank which obliges you to do certain things. I am not proud of what I did to the person,” he concluded, turning and walking away, “but I am proud of what I did for myself and for Rome.”
*
Gaius Chaerea scrutinized the two soldiers dragging themselves toward him, drew his sword from its scabbard and looked around. The ship was enveloped in a dense fog, which made it impossible to understand where they were, and on the deck the other survivors watched the scene with lifeless, absent eyes. They would have liked to help, but he knew he could not count on them: the only ones who had the strength to move were those who were determined to get their hands on food. Whatever the cost.
“If you even attempt to violate your comrade, you will die,” he whispered.
“We will die anyway, just more slowly,” was the inevitable response.
Gaius remained crouched on his knees behind the body and waited for the attack. They didn’t have the strength to stand either, and that comforted him, but the two managed to proceed on all fours, sometimes with the help of their elbows when they lost their balance, and soon they were almost over their dead comrade. The first swung his dagger in the direction of Gaius, who dodged behind the corpse. The dagger sank into the rigid flesh, blocking for a moment the arm of the attacker. Chaerea was torn between the desire to strike his opponent or simply disarm him: he did not want to kill a man who had been entrusted to him and who he had not been able to save.
The other took advantage of his hesitation to free the blade with a movement which in other circumstances Gaius would have found ridiculously slow. He decided to try to knock him out, even though it occurred to him that he would then have to watch out for him all the time. For as long as they remained alive. The soldier lunged at him again, but his jab was predictable and Gaius managed to avoid it by moving a few feet. But then he saw the sword of the other coming at him. His survival instinct enabled him to block it with his own blade, metal against metal. His opponent was so weak that the impact knocked the weapon out of his grip, and Chaerea immediately dealt him a blow to the face with the pommel of his sword. He watched him out of the corner of his eye as he fell backwards, and decided he would have to tie him up as soon as he had dealt with the other assailant, who was moving forward, ready to strike.
In that moment, Gaius heard a roaring noise, and the ship rose and then fell back into the water with a mighty splash.
The centurion and his opponents were tossed across the deck, and Gaius was so devoid of strength that he was unable to seize hold of anything that would allow him to avoid smashing into the railing or being thrown into the sea. He heard a gurgling in the hold and the sound of splintering wood, and he realised that the ship was taking on water. They had struck something that he was unable to see, and were sinking.
In that moment, the boat tilted worryingly and then ground to a halt. He looked around him and saw only two soldiers on the deck with enough strength left to moan but not to react. They were destined to drown if he didn’t help them to get hold of something to cling to, quickly. But the ship had stopped, and, for the moment at least, wasn’t sinking. He dragged himself to the railing and looked overboard, where he made out a huge rock, behind which he seemed to see other rock formations through the thick fog. If the ship had run aground, that meant that the seabed was not far below them. He looked over the railing but saw only water: all the other survivors, apart from the two lying on the deck, must have fallen into the ocean and drowned.
He couldn’t stay on the ship. He felt the deck vibrating and creaking, and sooner or later it would split open, catapulting him into the water. He must be very close to the land, and so he decided to swim ashore. He gathered what was left of his strength and, dragging himself across the deck, went to urge the two legionaries to go into the water with him. One of them only shook his head and mumbled something unintelligible, however: he was done for. The other nodded weakly, although Gaius was not sure he understood, and let himself be pulled to his feet and heaved onto the railing. Chaerea threw a piece of broken planking into the water and told him to cling to it, pushed the soldier into the water, then dived in himself. The contact with the cold of the sea gave him a boost of energy, so he plunged beneath the surface to see how far down the seabed was and his feet touched something. He rose immediately, and drew in a lungful of air, looking around him for the planking he had thrown overboard. Seeing it was only a few strokes away, he began looking for the soldier, and saw him thrashing about just beyond the piece of wood, which the man had not even noticed. Gaius ordered himself to reach the man, and began to swim towards him. It was only a few strokes, but each one cost him a tremendous effort.
Exhausted, he arrived by the legionary who, semiconscious, was spending more time under the surface of the water than he was above it – and just as Gaius was about to grab him, he disappeared beneath the surface again. Gaius forced himself to dive down and grope about for him, seeing nothing even though he kept his eyes open. He thought he brushed against him once, but couldn’t get a grip on him. He touched him again, then lost him again, and, conscious that he was at the very limits of his strength now, tried to push even deeper towards the bottom, until finally he slammed against his comrade. He quickly wrapped an arm around him and pulled him back up to the surface, then began to swim, dragging the man’s dead weight behind him and deciding he would check on the condition of the soldier when he arrived at the piece of wreckage.
In a few strenuous strokes he reached his goal, seized it and pushed the legionary onto it, making sure that he was secure and supporting him with one arm. He examined him, and, seeing that the man was on the verge of drowning, hoisted him up onto the small piece of planking, climbed on himself and began to pump his chest until the man vomited sea water. He was unconscious but alive, at least, so Gaius focused on his next move. He peered into the mist, and seemed to sense that the shore was not far away, so he threw himself back into the water and began to push the makeshift raft with flailing legs, careful to avoid the rocks that occasionally reared up out of the sea.
Thanks to the assistance of the waves, they reached the coast just before his strength abandoned him altogether, and he made for a small cove where he could land without danger from the rocks. Gaius dragged himself up onto the shore, and pulled his still-unconscious companion up after him. The moment he was out of the water he was overcome by exhaustion, and he sank immediately into the warm embrace of the sand, drifting into unconsciousness almost without realizing it.
He could not say how long he had slept or had been unconscious when h
e opened his eyes, realising that a man had shaken him awake. He looked at the individual and decided he was harmless. The man, for his part, simply stared back at him curiously. Gaius looked around and noticed that there were nets piled up next to him. He must be a fisherman.
“You’re Romans, aren’t you?” said the man, smiling a little. He spoke Greek, and this comforted Gaius: he had ended up on the right side of the sea.
“We are Romans,” he replied in Greek, checking that his partner was still alive. He was, but he was either unconscious or asleep. “Where are we?” he asked the fisherman.
“You’re in Aetolia, opposite the island of Lefkada.” Gaius tried to remember. It was located about halfway along the western coast of the Hellenic peninsula. The front was on the other side, beyond Macedonia, at the height of the Thracian Sea.
Far, far away.
“Were you trying to get to Thrace? You’re late,” said the fisherman. “The battle between the Romans has already taken place. The news reached my village just this morning.”
Gaius stood up, in spite of his weakness, and instantly felt an icy hand grip his stomach. “A battle? Where? Who won?” he asked, unable to conceal his agitation.
“At Philippi. And nobody won.”
“What do you mean, nobody won?”
“Nobody. I know that Mark Antony defeated Cassius, while Marcus Brutus took Octavian’s camp. But the two armies were still fighting when the messenger departed from Philippi, six days ago.”
“Are any of the commanders dead?” urged Gaius.
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