Rubicon rsr-7

by Steven Saylor

  The men shucked off their armor and set to work pitching tents, digging a pit for the latrine, kindling a fire. I went in search of the baggage wagon. A small knot of men surrounded it, looking down at something on the ground, talking.

  "The fever must have taken him."

  "It can happen that quickly, with a wound like that. I've seen stronger men bleed less and die faster."

  "He was just an old slave, anyway. And from what I heard, a troublemaker."

  "Ah, here's the tribune's friend. Let him through!"

  The crowd parted for me. I stepped closer and saw the body of the wagon driver on the ground. Someone had crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

  "He must have died during the day," explained a soldier who stood over the body. "He was dead when we came to unload the wagon."

  I looked about. "Where are the others? The two slaves who were in the wagon with him?"

  Tiro and Fortex stepped into sight. Neither said a word.

  The soldiers were summoned to another duty and dispersed. I knelt beside the body. In death, the slave's face was even more haggard than in life, his cheeks sunken around his toothless mouth. I had never even asked his name. When I wanted something from him, I had simply called him "driver."

  I rolled him over. Besides the wound at the shoulder, there were several others, where he had been poked and prodded during the march, but they appeared to be superficial. His shoes were thin, his feet blistered and bloody. The tether had worn the skin around his ankles. There appeared to be faint bruises around his throat as well; in the fading light it was hard to tell. Instinctively, I felt my own throat, where the tether had chafed it. But there had been no tether around the slave's throat.

  Tiro and Fortex stood over me. I looked up at them. I spoke in a low voice. "He was strangled, wasn't he?"

  Tiro raised an eyebrow. "You heard the soldiers. He died of fever, from his wound. He was old and weak. The march down the mountain killed him. That was his own fault."

  "These discolorations at his throat-"

  "Liver spots?" said Tiro.

  I stood and looked him in the eye. "I think he was strangled. By your hand, Tiro?"

  "Of course not. Fortex is trained for that type of thing."

  I glanced at Fortex. He wouldn't meet my gaze.

  "It had to be done, Gordianus," whispered Tiro. "What if he had recovered, and started talking again?"

  I stared at him.

  "Don't judge me, Gordianus! In times like these, a man has to do things against his own nature. Can you say that you wouldn't have done the same?"

  I turned away and walked toward the campfire.

  XVI

  Antony never questioned the untimely death of the wagon driver. He was used to seeing men die suddenly, from wounds that did not appear fatal. He had other things on his mind.

  The next morning, the soldiers threw the body into the latrine pit and covered it. The death of a slave merited no more ceremony than that.

  As we rode out, Antony's only comment was that I might contact the slave's owner when I had the chance, to let him know what had become of his wagon and driver. "If you suspect he's the litigious type, you could offer him a token settlement; the slave obviously wasn't worth much. And since the owner was honoring your courier's passport, technically you don't owe him anything. Let him sue Pompey!" Antony laughed, then shook his head. "Civilians always suffer losses in wartime- property ruined, slaves running off. In a place like Gaul, the locals have to patch things up for themselves. Here in Italy it'll be different. Once things get back to normal, there'll be a flood of litigation- suits for damages, pleas for reparations, petitions for tax relief. The courts will be jammed. Caesar will have his hands full."

  "So will advocates like Cicero," I said.

  "If Cicero still has his hands," said Antony.

  The coastal road was mostly straight and flat, but not in the best condition. Winter storms had damaged some sections, dislodging stones and washing out the foundation. Normally, such damage would have been repaired promptly by gangs of slaves working under a local magistrate, but the chaos in the region had prevented that. The recent passage of so many men, vehicles, and horses- first Pompey's army, then Caesar's- had aggravated the situation. But despite the mud and the muck, we traveled well over forty miles that day, and did the same the next day and the next.

  I had traveled with Antony a few years before, from Ravenna to Rome, and again found his company enjoyable. He was a notorious carouser, whether the arena was a battlefield in Gaul, a wild party on the Palatine, or the floor of the Roman Senate. He had plenty of stories to tell, and he enjoyed hearing mine, as long as they involved scandalous women, political chicanery, or trials for murder, or best, all three together. I hardly saw Tiro, who traveled in the baggage wagon and stayed out of Antony's sight.

  It was in the hour before twilight of the third day- one day after the Ides of March, one day before the feast of the Liberalia- that we arrived in the vicinity of Brundisium. We were spotted by lookouts posted atop a low hill east of the road. A centurion rode out to greet Antony. The man was flushed with excitement.

  "Tribune, you've arrived just in time!"

  "For what?"

  "I'm not sure, but the men posted on the other side of the hill are whooping and cheering. Something's happening down in the harbor."

  "Show us the way!" barked Antony. I hesitated to follow, uncertain of my place now that we had reached the theater of battle. Antony peered back at me. "Aren't you coming, Gordianus?"

  We rode to the top of the low hill, where several tents had been pitched and a sizable contingent of soldiers had been posted as lookouts. Toward the north, in the direction we had come, the site commanded a sweeping view of the beach and the coastal road for miles. The centurion had seen us approaching for hours.

  Toward the south, the site overlooked the city, the harbor, and the sea. The centurion led us to a vantage point with an unobstructed view. "They say this was the very spot where Caesar stood, when he planned the siege," he said proudly.

  The walled city of Brundisium is situated on a peninsula surrounded by a semicircular harbor. A narrow strait links this protected harbor to the Adriatic Sea. The easiest way to visualize the city, as it might appear on a map, is to hold up your right hand and form a reverse letter C. The space enclosed by your forefinger and thumb represents the peninsula upon which the city is built. Your forefinger and thumb represent the northern and southern channels of the harbor. Your wrist represents the strait through which ships must sail to reach the sea.

  From our vantage point, the city on the peninsula appeared as a cluster of tenements, warehouses, and temples crowded within high walls. Pompey's soldiers were clearly visible on the towers and parapets, their helmets and spears glinting in the westering sun. Along the landward western wall, which ran between the north and south channels of the inner harbor, the besieging army of Caesar was encamped. The force appeared to my eye enormous. Row upon row of catapults and ballistic machines had been assembled, along with several siege towers on wheels, which rose even higher than the city walls.

  But I saw nothing to cause a commotion among the watchers on the hillside. The siege towers and war machines were unengaged. No smoke rose from the city, and I saw no sign of fighting along the wall.

  "There!" Antony pointed away from the city, toward the entrance to the harbor and beyond. A fleet of large ships was approaching from the open sea. Several had already reached the harbor entrance and appeared to be maneuvering to sail through in single file. I found this curious, as I had sailed in and out of Brundisium myself in the past, and knew that the harbor entrance was deep and wide enough for several ships to sail abreast, yet these were apparently endeavoring to enter one at a time, keeping as close to the center as possible.

  As the first ship entered the straits, I saw the reason for such a course. The sight was so strange, I had trouble believing my eyes. At the narrowest part of the entrance to the harb
or, great piers of some sort had been built out from both promontories, extending far into the water. This breakwater very nearly met in the middle, or so it appeared at a distance, almost closing off the entrance to the harbor. Short towers had been built at intervals along both arms of the structure, and these were equipped with catapults and ballistic machines.

  "By my ancestor Hercules, what are we seeing?" muttered Antony, as puzzled by the sight as I was. He turned his head and scanned the other soldiers watching along the hillside. A bearded little fellow was standing atop a boulder nearby, viewing the scene intently with his arms crossed, mumbling to himself. Antony called out to him. "Engineer Vitruvius!"

  The man blinked and looked in our direction.

  "Engineer Vitruvius! Report!"

  The man scrambled down from the rock and came running. He saluted Antony. "Tribune, you've rejoined us!"

  "You state the obvious, Marcus Vitruvius. What's not so obvious is what we're witnessing down there. What in Hades is going on?"

  "Ah!" Vitruvius looked toward the harbor, but was so short that the tops of some trees down the hillside blocked his view. "If we may retire to higher ground, Tribune…"

  We followed him back to the boulder. He scrambled atop it, crossed his arms, and gazed down at the harbor. "Now, Tribune, if I may explain the situation…" His tone was typical of the condescending manner of builders and engineers even when dealing with superiors, if those superiors know less than they do of construction and mathematics.

  Vitruvius cleared his throat. "Seven days ago we arrived outside Brundisium. Caesar moved at once to encircle the city and the harbor, placing the greatest part of his six legions before the city wall but also securing the promontories north and south of the harbor entrance. Our commander hoped to trap not only Pompey but also the two consuls and the many senators with him, so as to force immediate negotiations and a settlement of the crisis."

  "But…" prompted Antony.

  "A bad sign: our advance intelligence indicated that Pompey had assembled a considerable fleet, yet there were only a few ships in the harbor. Where had the fleet gone? Alas, before we arrived, Pompey had already sent the consuls, senators, and a substantial part of his army across the Adriatic to Dyrrachium, out of harm's way. Always seeking peace, our commander endeavored to negotiate directly with Pompey. The Great One sent back word that no lawful settlement could possibly be concluded in the absence of the consuls. Hence, no negotiations."

  "Our intelligence from within Brundisium- Pompey has treated the locals with contempt and they're eager to help Caesar- informed us that Pompey kept twenty cohorts with him. Not to hold the city indefinitely- how could he, with only twelve thousand men against three times that number? — but long enough for his fleet to reach Dyrrachium, unload the first round of passengers, then return to Brundisium to pick up Pompey and his men."

  "Our commander, having pursued Pompey this far, had no intention of allowing him to slip away. He came to me. 'They must be stopped, Engineer Vitruvius! We must prevent Pompey's ships from reentering the harbor when they return, or if they manage to do so, we must prevent them from leaving. But I have no ships of my own, and my men cannot march on water. This strikes me as an engineering problem, Marcus Vitruvius. Can you blockade the harbor?' I said I could. 'Then make it thus, Engineer Vitruvius!' "

  The little man waved his arm in the direction of the harbor. "You can see the result from here. We began by building great breakwaters of earth and stone on either side of the harbor entrance, where the water is shallow. Unfortunately, as the work progressed and we reached deeper water, it became impossible to keep the earthworks together. At that point we built a raft, thirty feet square, at the end of each breakwater and moored each raft with anchors at all four corners to keep them still in the waves. Once these platforms were in position, we added more rafts, joined them firmly together and covered them with a causeway of earth, so that they were as steady as an actual breakwater, even though they float atop the waves. If you squint, you can see that screens and mantlets have been put up all along both sides of the causeways to protect the soldiers coming and going. On every fourth raft we constructed a tower two stories high, to defend against attacks by sea. The goal, of course, was close off the harbor completely."

  Antony grunted. "All this was your idea?"

  Vitruvius beamed. "Actually, if you believe the Greek historians, Xerxes the king of Persia did something like this when he bridged the Hellespont and led his army from Asia into Europe. I've always wondered how such a feat was accomplished. I suspect he must have used a similar technique, anchoring rafts and linking them together."

  Meto had often told me of great feats of engineering conjured by Caesar in his battles against the Gauls. Under Caesar's command, men bridged rivers and chasms, dug vast trenches and canals and tunnels, and constructed great towers and siege engines. But an attempt to close off a harbor was something new.

  Antony nodded, clearly impressed. "What was Pompey's response to all this construction? Don't tell me he watched idly from the city walls once he realized what was happening."

  "Of course not," said Vitruvius. "After he stopped gaping in wonder, the Great One commandeered the largest merchant vessels remaining in the harbor and outfitted them with siege towers, three stories tall. The ships have been making sorties out to the harbor entrance every day, trying to break up our rafts. They've managed to slow the work, but not destroy it. It's been a daily spectacle, watching our towers on the rafts and their towers on the ships fire missiles and fireballs and arrows back and forth. Blood on the water… trails of reeking smoke… explosions of steam!"

  Antony frowned. "But the blockade remains unfinished. The channel is still open."

  Vitruvius crossed his arms and assumed the impregnable expression of every builder whose project has fallen behind deadline. "Alas, we simply didn't have time to finish, especially with Pompey's ships hectoring us. But the idea was sound! Given another five days, or even three-" Vitruvius shook his head. "And now the fleet has returned. Those are Pompey's ships you see, lining up to enter the harbor. And there! See the commandeered merchant vessels with their towers, sailing out from the city to harass our men on the rafts and run interference for the incoming ships!"

  As the sun dropped behind the hills to the west, we watched the sea battle unfold. One by one Pompey's transport ships slipped through the gap in the breakwater and ran the gauntlet. Boulders flew through the air, hurled by catapults on the rafts. Most missed the mark and landed in the water, creating prodigious splashes. Some struck masts or prows, shredded sails and sent splinters flying. One catapulted stone landed squarely on the deck of a ship and appeared to break through, at least to the rowers' deck below, but the ship failed to sink.

  At the same time, atop the towers on the rafts, men loaded giant missiles into ballistics engines and sent them flying toward the ships. The missiles looked to me like arrows carved from entire tree trunks, and the machines to hurl them were like enormous bows with winches on either side to set the tension. Some of the missiles were set afire before they were shot, and went hurling through the air streaming flames and smoke. The aim of the ballistics engines seemed more accurate than that of the catapults. They caused more damage to the incoming ships, yet still failed to sink any.

  Meanwhile, the fighting vessels from the city returned the fire, hurling missiles and stones at the rafts and even attempting to board them, as they might an enemy ship at sea. Caesar's men on the rafts managed to repel these attacks, but in so doing were distracted from their own assaults on the transport ships. Unceasingly, soldiers ran back and forth on the causeway atop the rafts, toting fresh missiles to the ballistics engines and rolling boulders to the catapults. Archers on both sides choked the air with arrows, and the waves grew congested with a flotsam of spent missiles and bodies.

  From a distance, all this commotion seemed utterly chaotic, a great stirring together of earth, sea, fire, and smoke. Yet at the same time, it appeared to be
an orderly if hectic operation carried out by purposeful men using every ingenious device and method they could conceive and construct for the purpose of mutual destruction. It was thrilling to watch, as a lightning storm is thrilling. The battle proceeded with compelling inevitability. We seemed to be watching a single vast machine of many parts which, once set into motion, no power on heaven or earth could prevent from completing its manifold operations.

  As the sun went down and the reek of smoke and steam thickened, the battle became increasingly obscure. It appeared that every one of Pompey's transport ships would win through to the harbor. At the same time, Caesar's rafts had withstood the assault against them and remained in place.

  At last, only one transport ship remained outside the harbor entrance. The wind had risen, and the vessel was having difficulty maneuvering. There was a lull in the battle. I sensed the energy of both sides flagging. The operation of the catapults and ballistic machines grew more sporadic. The constant hail of arrows ceased. Perhaps both sides had run low on ammunition, or perhaps the increasing darkness made it difficult to take aim.

  Then there occurred one of those incidents which prove the madness of battle, which give the lie to any vision of warfare as an orderly operation. One of Pompey's assault vessels shot an incendiary missile from its catapult. To carry flammable material on board a ship must have been terribly dangerous, and none of the ships had hurled such a fireball before. Why did the captain hurl it then? As a flippant parting gesture? To use up the last of his ammunition before the close of battle? Or was it a calculated, last-ditch attempt to destroy the rafts?

  Whatever the intention, the result could not have been what the captain intended. The fireball greatly overshot the rafts. Like a comet it flew over the heads of Caesar's men, descended in a precipitous arc, and crashed onto the deck of the last of Pompey's transport ships waiting to enter the strait.

  Why did the ship catch fire so quickly and so completely, when its sisters had not, despite similar fireballs hurled by Caesar's catapults? Perhaps the flaming ball of pitch landed on a cache of something flammable. Perhaps it was the action of the rising wind. Whatever the cause, with stunning rapidity the whole ship was engulfed in flames, from the waterline to the top of the sail. Flaming bodies leaped off the deck. Even on the hillside, we heard the screams of the rowers trapped below the deck. Their cries were drowned out by the triumphant cheering of Caesar's men along the breakwater, who jumped up and down in their excitement.