Rubicon rsr-7

by Steven Saylor

  Then their cheering abruptly ceased. Out of control, buffeted by the wind, the flaming ship suddenly listed toward the nearest stretch of Caesar's rafts, heading for the very tower which had been the intended target of the fireball. The men in the tower poured out like ants from a hill. Moments later, the ship crashed into the line of rafts. The mast shattered from the impact and fell onto the breakwater. The fleeing soldiers were trapped beneath the sail, which descended on them like a fluttering sheet of flame.

  Soldiers who had previously carried ammunition along the causeway now relayed buckets of seawater as they desperately tried to douse the fire and keep it from spreading. Pompey's assault ships might have taken advantage of the confusion, but they had already turned away from the enemy and retreated toward the city, escorting the transport vessels safe within the harbor.

  Night fell. The battle was over.

  XVII

  We made camp and dined that night with the man stationed at the overlook. I had thought Antony would be as eager to report to Caesar as I was to find Meto now that we had at last reached Brundisium. But Antony was not a man to be stinted of his supper, even if it consisted of nothing more than a soldier's ration of gruel, or of his wine at the end of three hard days of riding.

  We ate on the hillside beneath the open sky, seated on little canvas folding chairs. The wind died. The sea and the harbor grew as still as a black mirror, reflecting the mantle of stars overhead. The flames of the ship wrecked against the breakwater gradually died down. Within its high walls, the compact little city of Brundisium seemed to glow from the bottom up, as if the ground itself were illuminated. One by one, runners lit torches atop the towers and along the parapets, until the whole course of the wall was outlined like a coiled serpent. Outside the landward wall, Caesar's army was dotted with hundreds of twinkling campfires. Beyond the besieging army, farther west, the foothills of the Apennines brooded in darkness, the ridgeline faintly aglow with the last intimations of light from the setting sun.

  "Today we saw a battle!" said Antony, who seemed greatly cheered, despite the fact that Pompey's fleet had won through.

  "And tomorrow, we'll likely see a siege," noted Vitruvius. Antony had invited him to dine with us to continue explaining the feats of engineering involved in construction of the breakwater. Now Vitruvius fell to cataloguing, for my benefit, the various engines and strategies that might be deployed when Caesar threw his forces against the defenders of Brundisium- scaling ladders, wheeled siege towers, battering rams, sappers who would dig under the foundations to weaken the walls, soldiers who would advance in tortoise formations surrounded by shields and bristling with spears.

  I fell to wondering about Davus. Where was he, at that very moment? Did Pompey still keep him among his personal bodyguards? That was my hope, but who knew where he might have ended up, thanks to Pompey's whim or simple expediency. Perhaps Davus was guarding the city walls, striding even now among the tiny figures illuminated by the torches along the parapets, heavily cloaked for the night watch and anxiously counting the hours to dawn. Or perhaps he had taken part in the sea battle that day, manning one of Pompey's assault ships. Davus couldn't swim, Diana had said. Nor could I, for that matter. What terror could be greater than being trapped aboard a ship deliberately sailing toward danger? The sight of wounded men struggling in the waves that day had horrified me more than anything else, more even than the flaming transport ship. Had Davus been among those tiny figures, flailing and screaming amid the flotsam of the battle?

  And what of Meto? I saw again the flaming sail descending on the fleeing soldiers. Could my son have been among them? It seemed unlikely. Caesar kept him close at hand. Probably, at that moment, he was encamped with the main part of the army outside the city walls, dining in the commander's private mess, taking careful notes as Caesar discussed with his lieutenants the next day's strategy.

  Who was in greater danger, Davus or Meto? To judge from the surface of things, anyone would have said Davus, I suppose. I was not so sure.

  Long after his bowl of gruel was empty, Antony kept holding up his cup for more wine. Once he was properly drunk, he insisted that Vitruvius and the centurion of the night watch join him in a round of bawdy songs. Most were simply vulgar, but one was actually rather funny, about a mincingly effeminate officer who'd rather be at home trying on his wife's dresses, but who turns out to be the bravest fighter of all. So much for military humor, I thought. Men need a bit of nonsense to divert them, and wine to wash it down, after witnessing carnage such as we had seen that day.

  Antony was still singing lustily when I took my leave and went to the officers' tent, where I had been allotted a space. I fell on my pallet but couldn't sleep, fretting over Meto and Davus and wondering what the next few days would bring. When I set out from Rome, I thought I had a plan. Now, worn down by the journey and faced with the realities of the situation, it seemed to me that whatever vague notion I had in mind had vanished like morning mist. I was out of my element. I felt tiny and insignificant, overwhelmed by the forces around me. Now that the critical moment was fast approaching, I did not feel as brave as I had hoped.

  The flap rustled. Someone stole into the tent and moved uncertainly among the cots. I heard a whisper: "Gordianus?"

  It was Tiro. I rose from my bed, wrapped my blanket around me, and ushered him outside.

  "Can't you sleep, either? Isn't the baggage wagon comfortable enough?"

  "Lumpy," growled Tiro. "Fortex and I take turns dozing. I'm still not convinced that Antony hasn't recognized me."

  "Antony hasn't even looked at you. Nobody notices slaves, unless they're young and beautiful."

  "Still, each night, I expect to be strangled in my sleep."

  I thought of the wagon driver, strangled in his delirium, but said nothing.

  "What happens tomorrow, Gordianus?"

  "I don't know. If I'm lucky, I'll see Meto."

  "And Caesar as well?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Take me with you."

  I frowned. "I thought you came all this way to see Pompey, not Caesar."

  "So I did. This is my exit from Italy, Gordianus. I intend to be on Pompey's ship when he sets sail for Dyrrhachium."

  "You never told me that."

  "You didn't need to know. But before I go, as long as the opportunity presents itself, I should like to have a peek inside Caesar's tent."

  "So that you can assassinate him?"

  "Don't joke, Gordianus. I only want to have a look. One never knows what might be useful later."

  "You want me to help you spy on Caesar?"

  "You owe me a favor, Gordianus. Could you have traveled all the way from Rome this quickly, without me?"

  "Could you have survived the last four days without me lying for you, Tiro? I think we're even."

  "Then do this for me as a favor, and I'll do a favor for you. Isn't it your intention to get into Brundisium, to retrieve your son-in-law from Pompey?"

  "If I can."

  "How do you plan to get inside the city walls, with Caesar's army on one side and Pompey's on the other?"

  "I'm not sure," I admitted.

  "I can get you inside, alive and in one piece. You'll come with me and Fortex. But in return for that favor, I want you to take me along when you see Meto- and Caesar."

  I shook my head. "Impossible. Caesar is even more likely than Antony to recognize you. Caesar has dined in Cicero's house! He must have seen you many times, and not just taking shorthand in the Senate."

  "Seen me, yes, but never really looked at me. You said it yourself, Gordianus: nobody notices slaves."

  "Caesar notices everything. You're risking your head, Tiro."

  "Perhaps not. What if he does recognize me? Caesar is eager to be known for his clemency."

  "Clemency for senators and generals, Tiro, not for freedmen and spies."

  "I'll take my chances. If anyone asks who I am, you'll say I'm Soscarides, Meto's old tutor."

  "And what about Meto?
Is he supposed to go along with the lie as well?"

  "Do this for me, Gordianus! If you want to get into Brundisium before your son-in-law is dead on the ramparts or sailing off to Dyrrhachium, do me this favor."

  "I'll sleep on it," I said, suddenly very weary. I yawned. When I opened my eyes, Tiro had disappeared. I returned to the tent.

  Despite my worries, despite the horrors I had witnessed that day, sleep came swiftly, but not without dreams. It was not flames or drowning water, or mountain passes and forced marches I dreamed about. It was the girl Aemilia, Numerius's lover. I saw her with a baby in her arms, smiling and content. I felt a great sense of relief and stepped closer to have a look, but stumbled against something at my feet. I looked down to see the body of Numerius, which somehow was also the body of the wagon driver, a garrote twisted tight around his throat. Aemilia's baby had vanished. She shuddered and wept. The front of her gown was soaked with blood between her legs.

  I woke with a start. Antony loomed above me, his eyes bloodshot.

  "Dawn, Gordianus! Time for me to report to Caesar, and for you to see your son. Piss if you need to. Then round up those two slaves of yours and we're off."

  Before we rode down to the main camp, Antony wanted a last look at the breakwater from the hill. There were clouds overhead, but the horizon was clear. The rising sun in our eyes and its scintillating reflection on the water made it difficult to see, but the wreckage of the flaming ship appeared to have been removed during the night. Men were busy repairing the damage to the breakwater, and construction continued. "Vitruvius is down there now," said Antony. "He told me last night that he hopes to add another raft to each end of the breakwater by the end of the day, to further close the gap. The ships that sailed in yesterday will have a harder time sailing out!"

  We rode down onto the plain. Antony was attended by a small staff of officers. I was accompanied by Tiro and Fortex, for whom horses were found. The camp was like a city, probably more populous than the city being besieged and surely more orderly, with its row upon row of precisely spaced tents. Some of the soldiers stood in lines awaiting morning rations. Others, already fed and outfitted for battle, were marching off to man the trenches and earthworks and siege machines below the city walls.

  I was astounded by the speed with which Caesar had been able to move such vast numbers of men and equipment. Ten days before, the plain outside Brundisium had been empty; now it was home to thirty-six thousand men, every one of whom appeared to know exactly where he should be and what he should be doing at that moment. Thirty days before, not one of these men had been within two hundred miles of Brundisium, and Domitius still held Corfinium. Sixty days before, Caesar had only just crossed the Rubicon. The scale and swiftness of the operation was awesome. I pitied the Gauls who had confronted such a force. I despaired for Pompey.

  We passed a guarded checkpoint, where Antony vouched for me. As we drew closer to the center of the camp, he fell back beside me. I saw him cast a wary glance at Tiro and Fortex, as if seeing them for the first time.

  "You are sure, Gordianus, that you can vouch for your two slaves?"

  I barely hesitated. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason, really. It's only, ever since we crossed the Rubicon- before that, actually- there's been a rumor…"

  "What sort of rumor?"

  "A plot. To assassinate Caesar. Wild talk, of course."

  I felt a chill up my spine. "Does Caesar take it seriously?"

  "Caesar thinks he's immortal! But what man isn't made of flesh and blood?" He groaned from his hangover and massaged his temples. "It's only- you see, every time I vouch for you, I'm vouching for your slaves as well. Of course, you're above suspicion, Gordianus. That goes without saying. But the slaves who travel with you-"

  "I take complete responsibility for my slaves, Tribune." I kept my eyes straight ahead.

  "Of course, Gordianus. I meant no offense." He gave me a firm slap on the back, then rode up to rejoin his men. He didn't give Tiro and Fortex another look.

  I steadied myself with a deep breath, then looked sidelong at Tiro. It seemed to me that he clutched his reins too tightly, but his face betrayed no expression. He had overheard, of course; Antony was not the sort to lower his voice for the benefit of slaves. I thought of Daniel in the lion's den, a tale Bethesda told, handed down by her Hebrew father. Was that how Tiro felt, riding into Caesar's camp, led by a tribune who would gladly flay him alive? Yet here he was, despite his fear. I wondered if I could summon as much courage in the coming hours.

  We came to a large tent, more elaborate than the others, made of red canvas embroidered with gold and decorated with pennants. Messengers on horseback waited in a line outside the entrance. As we approached, a soldier stepped out of the tent, conveyed an order to the first messenger, and the man was off. Meanwhile, another messenger came riding up, dismounted, and rushed into the tent.

  "Morning reconnaissance," explained Antony. "Intelligence reports come in, orders go out. It's a beehive in there."

  "Perhaps I should wait outside."

  "Nonsense. Just mind that you don't get trampled." He climbed off his horse and offered me a hand. "Leave your slaves outside."

  I looked at Tiro and shrugged. I had done my part. He was not to see the inside of Caesar's tent after all. But I underestimated his persistence.

  Tiro jumped from his horse. "Please, Master! Let me come with you."

  "You heard the tribune, Soscarides."

  "But you brought me all this way to surprise Meto, to see the look on his face. If you talk to Meto first and let it slip that I'm here, where's the surprise? And the longer you wait, the more hectic the day may become. Even an hour from now, if there's to be a battle-"

  "The tutor is right," said Antony. " 'Swiftly done is best done.' Who said that, tutor?" He looked at Tiro keenly.

  "Euripides," said Tiro.

  Antony frowned. "Are you sure? I once heard Cicero say it on the floor of the Senate House."

  Tiro's face stiffened. "No doubt, Tribune. But Euripides said it first."

  Antony laughed. "Spoken like a true tutor! I suppose you're not a spy or an assassin, after all. Bring him along, Gordianus. Give Meto a surprise."

  "Yes, Master, please," said Tiro.

  "Either that, or have the slave beaten for his insolence," suggested Antony. He wasn't joking.

  I glowered at Tiro and seriously considered the option. I could see wheels spinning behind his eyes. "The date!" he suddenly said.

  Antony looked at him quizzically.

  "It's two days past the Ides," said Tiro. "Liberalia day!" I remembered Cicero and his wife arguing over the upcoming Liberalia and their son's toga ceremony. "You can't beat a slave for speaking his mind on the feast day of Father Freedom, Master. Letting slaves speak freely is part of the holiday." Tiro looked quite pleased with himself.

  "Is it Liberalia already?" Antony grunted. "I always lose track of holidays during a military campaign. We count on augurs to watch the calendar and make the proper sacrifices, and leave it at that. Well, I celebrated the god of the grape in my own way last night, and I'm all for parading a giant phallus through the camp and singing bawdy songs, though I doubt we'll have time for it. But the slave's right, Gordianus, you should indulge him. We must court the favor of all the gods, including Dionysus."

  Tiro looked at me archly. I looked back at him coolly. "Very well, Soscarides, come along. Fortex, you'll stay here with the horses."

  Inside the tent, messengers rushed about and the crowd of officers buzzed with conversation, but the scene was more orderly than I expected. Antony's metaphor was fitting: not the frenzied scramble of a stirred antbed, but the steady swarm of a beehive.

  Most of the officers appeared to be about Antony's age, in their early thirties or younger. A few I recognized, though I was more used to seeing them in senatorial togas. Outfitted in armor, they looked like boys to me. Their faces were radiant with excitement. I thought of the crippled old senator, Sext
us Tedius, dragging himself off to make a stand with Pompey. The contrast was devastating.

  A flash of red caught my eye. Through the crowd I glimpsed a bald head, singular amid so many full heads of hair, and spotted the king bee himself. Caesar was in the process of being strapped into a gilded breastplate even more elaborate than the one Antony wore. The flash of color was his cape. Caesar was famous for his red cape, which he wore on the battlefield so that he could always be seen, by his own men and those of the enemy as well. Even as he was being dressed, he appeared to be listening to three messengers at once. His deepset eyes stared straight ahead. He nodded occasionally, absently brushing his fingers over his brow, combing forward the thin hair at his temples. His expression was composed, determined, attentive but aloof. On his thin lips there was the faintest intimation of a smile.

  I was ten years older than Caesar, and by habit still thought of him in terms of his early reputation in the Senate, as an aristocratic, radical young troublemaker. He was a troublemaker still, but now in his fifties. To the ambitious, vibrant young men in that tent, he must have seemed a father figure, the brilliant man of action they all aspired to emulate, the commander who would lead them into the future. What appeal could musty relics like Pompey and Domitius hold for such young men? Pompey's conquests were all in the past. Domitius's glory was secondhand, inherited from a dead generation. Caesar embodied the moment. The fire in his eyes was the divine spark of destiny.

  I looked about. Tiro stood behind me, taking in everything, but Antony had disappeared. I spotted him across the tent embracing another man in nearly identical armor. When they relaxed the embrace, I saw that the man in Antony's arms was his fellow tribune Curio. The two had been lifelong friends. More than friends, some said. When their boyhood attachment became the stuff of gossip, Cicero had urged Curio's father to separate them, saying Antony was corrupting Curio. Antony was banned from Curio's house, but it did no good; he sneaked into Curio's bedroom through the ceiling. So the story went, and Antony had never denied it. Now they were seasoned soldiers, and in the last year both had been elected tribunes. When the crisis came, they fled from Rome together to join with Caesar before he crossed the Rubicon.