The Gods of War (10 page)

“I should have kept the afternoon for you,” he said, taking her hands. “Shall I send them away, Servilia? We could take horses out to the racetrack, or sit by the Tiber and enjoy the sun. I could teach you to swim.”

It was an effort not to fall under the charm of the man. Despite all that had happened between them, Servilia could still feel the glamour he cast.

“I can already swim, Julius. No, you see your men and go to Ostia. Perhaps you will still have a chance to visit your young wife tonight.”

He winced at that, but they could both hear the clatter of his officers as they came into the main house. His time for her was coming to an end.

“If there were two of me, it would not be enough for all I have to do,” he said.

“If there were two of you, you would kill each other,” she retorted as Domitius came into the room. He beamed at seeing Servilia and she acknowledged him with a smile before excusing herself. In a moment, only her fragrance remained in the air and Julius was busy welcoming the others and calling impatiently for food and drink.

         

In her own house, Servilia relaxed, the soft footsteps of her slaves hardly interrupting her thoughts.

“Mistress? The man you wanted is here,” her slave announced.

Servilia rose from her couch, her gold bracelets chiming gently in the silence. The slave retired quickly and Servilia regarded the man she had summoned with careful interest. He was not richly dressed, though she knew he could mimic any one of the classes of Rome if he chose to.

“I have another task for you, Belas,” she said.

He bowed his head in response and she saw that he had grown bald on the crown. She remembered when he had worn his hair down to his shoulders in heavy blond locks, and she grimaced at the unfairness of it. Age touched them all.

“I am playing Dionysus for three more days,” he said without preamble. “The performance has been described as sublime by those who know the theater. After that, my time is yours.”

She smiled at him and saw to her pleasure that he was still a little in love with her. It may have been that he saw her through a gauze of memory, but he had always been faithful in his adoration.

“It will not be difficult work, Belas, though it will take you out of the city for a while.”

“Out? I do not like the towns, Servilia. The peasants would not know a fine play by Euripides if it ran around them shouting vulgar obscenity. I haven't left the city for almost twenty years and why would I? The world is here and there are some who come to every performance that has a part played by Belas, no matter how small.”

Servilia did not laugh at his vanity. Though he claimed a genius as yet unrecognized, he could be a hard and cunning man and he had been reliable in the past.

“Not even the towns, Belas. I want you to watch an estate outside the city for me, a woman there.”

Belas took in a sharp breath. “Is there a tavern near this place? Surely I am not required to lie in stinking ditches for you? Dionysus should not be reduced to such a level.”

“There is no tavern, my fox, and I suspect you have already guessed the place I will send you. As I remember the play, Dionysus would lie anywhere for a few good pieces of gold as well.”

Belas shrugged and his face changed subtly, his features a mask for the man within. “It can only be this new wife of Caesar's. The whole city is talking of the girl. No courtship, I noticed, or poems bought from the writers of such lines, not for him. He must have spent her weight in gold, judging by the estate her father is suddenly looking at buying.”

He watched her closely as he spoke and could not resist smiling smugly as her face showed the accuracy of his chatter.

“It has been a month since the hasty ceremony and still no announcement of a swelling belly,” he went on. “Did he not sample her before the wedding? Pompeia comes from a fertile family and I have been waiting for the happy news and more free wine to drown our envy. He may be bald under those leaves, but he has had a daughter before, so perhaps she is barren?”

“You are a malicious little gossip, Belas, did I ever tell you?” Servilia replied. “He is not bald yet and not every marriage is blessed with children from the first night.”

“I have heard he tries valiantly, though. Stallions have done less with mares in heat, from what I—”

“Enough, Belas,” she said, her expression growing cold. “An aureus a week, until the army leaves for Greece. Will you tell me you can do better in a playhouse somewhere?”

“Not better than the payment, but my public will forget me. I may not get work as easily afterwards. They are fickle, you know, in their affection, and prices have risen with all the gold Caesar brought from Gaul. Two gold pieces a week would keep me alive long enough to find work, when you are finished with old Belas.”

“Two it is, but I will want your eyes on that house at all times. I do not want excuses from you, or one of your wild stories about gambling games that dragged you in against your will.”

“My word is good, Servilia. You have always known that.” His tone was serious and she accepted it.

“You have not said what I am looking for,” he went on.

“She is very young, Belas, and the young can be fools almost as much as the old. Watch she does not stray or be tempted by some fine boy in the city.”

“And your interest in this, my beautiful queen? Could it be that you are hoping she will be tempted? Perhaps I should put temptation in her path for her to stumble over. Such things could easily be arranged.”

Servilia bit her lip as she thought, before shaking her head. “No. If she is a fool, it will not come through me.”

“I am curious to know why you would spend gold on another man's wife,” Belas said, tilting his head as he watched her reactions. To his astonishment, spots of color appeared on her cheeks.

“I . . . will help him, Belas. If to be useful is all I can have from him, then I will have that.”

At her words, his face softened and he approached her, taking her in his arms. “I have been as hopeless, once or twice. Love makes fools of great hearts.”

Servilia pulled free of the embrace, touching at her eyes.

“Will you do it then?”

“Of course, my queen. It is done, as soon as I put the mask of beloved Dionysus back in the box and the crowds have sighed their last at my lines. Would you like to hear the climax? It is a rare piece.”

She glanced in gratitude at him for the chatter that smoothed over the moment of sadness. “Let me summon the girls, Belas. You are always better when there are pretty women listening to you,” she said, relaxing now that their business was over.

“It is my curse to have them inspire me,” he said. “May I choose a favorite when I am done? An actor of my quality must be rewarded.”

“Just one, Belas,” she said.

“Two? I thirst for love, Servilia.”

“One,” she said, “and a cup of wine for the thirst.”

         

Caecilius shivered as the cold sea spattered over the bows of the tiny boat in the darkness. He could hear the hiss and slap of waves, but on the moonless night it was as if he were floating through absolute darkness. The two rowers never spoke as they guided the craft, and only the stars glimpsed through drifting clouds kept them on course for the Greek shore. The sail had been brought down some time before, and though Caecilius was no sailor, he guessed the act had some significance.

“In my favor, two knives and an assortment of Greek coinage, value as yet unestablished at current prices,” Caecilius murmured to himself. One of the rowers shushed him between strokes and Caecilius went on in silence with his mental list. In times of discomfort, he had found that it helped him to see his way more clearly if he could take the most formless of situations and add a little structure.

“A gold ring of Caesar's tied into a pocket of a good leather belt. A pair of stout sandals with wool to pad the feet against blisters. A little food in case I have to hide for a few days. Salt and oil to add taste to the food. A waterskin that appears to have a small leak.”

These were the things he had brought to spy on Pompey's army, he thought miserably. It didn't seem like a great deal in the circumstances. As another spray of cold water crossed his seat, Caecilius took a better grip on his plummeting morale.

“A fine mind, a good knowledge of Greek that can pass as a peasant, at least. Sharp eyes. Experience and some wisdom picked up along the way.”

He sat a little straighter in the boat as he listed those accomplishments, feeling better. After all, he had been recommended for the task and Caesar would not have sent a fool. All he had to do was gauge the strength of the legions and the numbers of galleys Pompey had assembled. With his Greek, he thought he would probably get work in one of the camps until it came time each month to head back for the coast and deliver his reports. Eventually, whoever came to meet him would tell him the task was finished and he could jump in and be carried back home.

“Will it be you coming for me?” he whispered to the closest oarsman.

The man hissed an angry reply before he had even finished his question. “Keep your mouth shut. There are galleys in the water around here and voices carry.”

It was not much of a conversation and Caecilius tried to settle back and ignore the water that seemed to delight in leaping over the bows and greeting him like an old friend. No matter how he tried to shelter himself, another splash would find him and work its way into his most intimate crevices.

“On the other side,” he thought to himself, “I have a right knee that hurts whenever I put weight on it. Two fingers that ache when it rains. A strong desire not to be here. I do not know what I will be facing and there is a chance that I will be captured, tortured, and killed. And surly companions who care nothing for my troubles.”

As he finished his list, both rowers paused at some instinct and sat absolutely motionless in the boat. Caecilius opened his mouth to whisper a question, but the nearest pressed a hand over his face. Caecilius froze and he too looked around into the darkness, his ears straining.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear the soft hiss of waves on a pebble beach and he thought that was what had stopped their progress. Then, from the dark, he heard creaking and a noise like fish leaping from the water. He squinted into the blackness and saw nothing at first, until a moving shadow loomed up on them, a white flower of foam at the bow.

Caecilius swallowed painfully as the little craft began to rock in the swell from the galley. As it closed on them, he could see the huge oars that dipped into the water and hear the muffled thumping of a drum somewhere close. The galley was going to smash them into splinters, he was sure of it. It seemed to be heading right at them and he knew he did not have the courage to sit and let the keel slice through the boat, taking him down along the slick green spine to be thrown out nicely bloody for the sharks. He began to stand in panic and the oarsman gripped his arm with the casual strength of his profession. A brief, silent struggle ensued before Caecilius subsided. The galley was a towering black mountain over them and he could see the dim light of lanterns on the deck above.

His companions lowered their blades into the water with infinite care, using the noise of the galley's passage to hide their own. With a few strong pulls, they were out of range of the crushing keel and Caecilius swore the galley oars had passed over his head on the upsweep. It was a moment of pure terror to imagine them coming down on the boat, but the oarsmen knew their business and the galley moved on without an alarm being sounded.

Caecilius realized he had been holding his breath and panted in the bow as the two men resumed their steady stroke without a word. He could imagine their scornful glances and once again went through his lists to calm himself.

It seemed forever before they brought in the oars once again and one of the men leapt out into the surf to hold the bobbing craft steady. Caecilius looked down at the black water and clambered out with enormous care, causing the man in the water to swear softly with impatience.

Finally, he was clear of the boat, with gentle waves up to his waist and cold sand pressing between his unseen toes.

“Good luck,” one of the men whispered, giving him a gentle push to start him on his way.

Caecilius turned and his companions seemed already to have vanished. For an instant, he thought he heard the sound of their oars and then they were gone and he was alone.

                                                      
CHAPTER
9
                                                      

P
ompey enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his armor as he waited, his horse whinnying softly to itself. The parade ground at Dyrrhachium had been built after his arrival in Greece and the walls and buildings enclosed a vast yard of hard red clay. The breeze lifted bloody swirls of the dust and overhead, seabirds called mournfully to each other. Three shining legions stood to attention in his honor, their ranks stretching into the distance. Pompey had completed his inspection and wished Caesar could see the quality of the men who would end his pretension to rule Rome.

The morning had passed with pleasurable swiftness as Pompey watched their formal maneuvers. The cavalry units were particularly impressive and he knew Caesar could not match more than a quarter of their number. Pompey had thrilled to see them gallop the length of the great yard in perfect formation, wheeling at a signal and sending stinging swarms of spears to destroy the practice targets. These were the men who would win Rome back from the usurper. Caesar was just the name of a traitor to them and Pompey had been warmed by the earnest support of their commanders as they gave their oaths of loyalty.

Ten legions had marched across Greece to join the evacuated Senate on the west coast, and he had found them well led, disciplined men with high morale. He basked in their indignation at his having been forced from their home city. There was no political weakness to be found in the legions of Greece: he had given the order and they had come. They were hungry to meet the enemy and Pompey had been amused to find that the reports from Gaul had rankled with these professional soldiers. They relished the chance to destroy the vanity of Caesar's veterans, feeling it to be unjustified arrogance. They were good men with whom to go to war.

The quality of the Greek forces helped to diminish the constant irritation Pompey faced from the senators and their families. More than once he regretted bringing them at all, despite the weight of law they gave his position. They complained about the water, claiming it loosened their bowels; about the heat; about their accommodation in Dyrrhachium and a thousand other small gripes. Few of them appreciated how little use they were to Pompey now that he was in the field. Instead of giving him a free rein, they sought to influence his decisions and remain a force in an area for which they were poorly suited. Pompey had been tempted to ship them to one of the Greek islands for the duration. Only the fact that such a decision might undermine his authority prevented him giving the order.

Every eye was on him as he kicked his Spanish charger into a gallop and raced toward the target. He felt the warm Greek air whistle past his ears, and the thunder of hooves merged into a drumming vibration that heightened his concentration. The bag of straw sewn into the likeness of a man seemed to grow, and he thought he could see every stitch of the thread that held it together.

With the lines of soldiers watching, it had to be perfect, but he did not make a mistake. As the spear left his hand, he knew it would strike. The eyes of professional men followed the path of the spear and there were many who knew it was good before the straw figure jerked, twisting around with the impact. They cheered and Pompey raised his hand in salute, breathing hard. His face was pouring with sweat and his right shoulder ached terribly, answered by a blooming spot of pain in his gut. He had felt muscles tear as he released, but that did not matter. Romans respected strength and the demonstration would give them pride in their commander.

Pompey turned and rode along the line of men, noting their fierce faces and discipline. Only their commanding officer, Labienus, met his eyes and saluted as Pompey reined in.

“I am pleased with them, Labienus,” Pompey said, loud enough for the legionaries to hear. “Dismiss them to eat, but not too much on each plate. I want them lean and hungry.” His voice dropped to a more conversational tone. “Accompany me to the temple, General. There is much still to discuss.”

“Yes, sir,” Labienus replied. His sharp eyes noted how Pompey favored his right arm, but it would be disrespectful to mention it if Pompey chose not to. Labienus was pleased to see no sign of discomfort on Pompey's flushed face. The Dictator was a hard, proud man and he cut a fine figure on a horse, even at his age. “They are always hungry, sir,” Labienus added. “They will not disappoint you.”

“No, they will not,” Pompey told him grimly. “They will scatter Caesar's raptores like seeds on the wind.”

Labienus bowed his head in response, his eyes cast down. It was no hardship to show honor to such a man. What he had seen of Pompey had impressed him since his arrival. The Dictator carried his authority with an ease and dignity the men respected. Labienus knew the legionaries were confident and in truth many would welcome the chance to fight against a traitor. Greece had been peaceful for too long for some, especially those who hoped for a bright career. As the lowest spear-carrier knew well, war brought promotion far faster than peace. The very least of them would be hoping to make his name against Caesar, to become a centurion and a respected member of the officer class.

Pompey waited while Labienus mounted his own gelding and was pleased to find nothing to fault in the man or his manner. The general was physically unremarkable, with hair shaved close to his head and dark eyes in a face of hard planes. His record was excellent and Pompey had felt no qualms about including him in his councils. There was a solidity to Labienus that he appreciated, almost an antidote to the poisonous intrigues of the Senate. Officers such as he could be found in every port and city that bowed its head to Roman law. They took no bribes, nor wavered in their loyalty. Their iron discipline kept posts for years, and when they went to war, they knew no equals in the field. They were the hard bones of Rome. Pompey nodded to Labienus, showing his pleasure.

Under that benign eye, Labienus gave the order and the lines of men dissolved as they fell out to head for the barracks. The smell of hot food was already wafting through the air and Pompey remembered Labienus would be as hungry as they were after such a long morning. He would have the best meats brought for the general. Labienus would understand the compliment without more having to be said.

As they rode toward the temple Pompey had taken as his base, Labienus cleared his throat. From experience, Pompey knew the man would not speak without permission. He was a fine example to his men.

“Speak, General. Tell me what is on your mind,” Pompey said.

“I would like to send a galley to watch Ostia, with your permission. If we know when they sail, we will be prepared to receive them. Our fleet could very well sink the enemy ships before they are even in sight of Greece.”

“You would regret that, Labienus, I imagine? It would deprive us both of the chance to beat him here,” Pompey replied.

Labienus lifted his shoulders slightly. “A little, sir, but I would not ignore a chance to end it, even so.”

“Very well, use my seal on the orders, but tell the captain to stay well clear of the coast. I have a spy in the port there to tell me when Caesar assembles his legions. We will not be surprised by them.”

“I expected as much, sir,” Labienus said. The two men glanced at each other and both smiled.

The temple of Jupiter in Dyrrhachium had nothing like the opulence of the one in the forum in Rome. It had been built for Greek gods before its current role, and Pompey had chosen it for its space and central location rather than any religious significance. Nonetheless, it seemed fitting to have the head of the pantheon watch his preparations, and Pompey had noticed his servants and soldiers were subtly awed by their surroundings. There was no coarse language heard within its walls and it was rare that their voices were raised above murmurs. Pompey had made a large donation to the temple priests and it came as no surprise that they approved his choice. Jupiter Victor was a military god, after all.

Leaving their horses in the hands of legion grooms, both men strode inside through the high white columns. Pompey paused for a moment on the threshold, his eyes watching for signs that the men within were not busy at their work.

The air of quiet bustle was exactly as he had left it that morning. More than two hundred officers, clerks, and slaves were there to administer his new legions, and the clacking sound of hurrying sandals echoed in the space. Pompey had brought in heavy tables for his maps and at each of those were senior officers, their heads bent as they made marks and discussed the positions. Silence spread as they stood stiffly to salute. Pompey returned the gesture and the work resumed without ceremony.

Labienus gave his helmet and sword to a waiting slave and Pompey ordered food brought for them as they walked down the central aisle together. The main map had been hung on the wall and Pompey went straight for it, already considering the problems of the campaign. As tall and wide as a man, it was painted onto squares of soft calfskin, smoothed to velvet with pumice stones. The whole of Italy and Greece lay there, rendered in perfect color and detail.

Pompey checked his hands were free of dirt and touched the key ports of the western coast of Greece.

“I would appreciate your views, Labienus. If the fleet does not stop Caesar, he will have hundreds of miles of coast to choose for his landing, north and south. If I gather our army in any one place, he can avoid the area we control and establish his camps in perfect safety. Yet even with fifty thousand men, I cannot guard every single mile of Greece.”

Labienus looked up at the map, his hard face resembling a man at prayer.

“We must assume all seven of his legions survive the gauntlet of our ships,” Labienus said. “It is not likely, but we must plan for it. They will need a huge amount of supplies each day and he will not be able to wait for us to come to him, unless he lets them starve. I have found that food and water win battles as readily as strength of arms.”

“I have prepared,” Pompey replied. “Dyrrhachium will be our main store. The city is bursting with grain.” He expected a compliment and was surprised when Labienus frowned.

“Perhaps it would be better not to leave such a resource in one single town. I do not say it can be done, but if he were able to cut us off from Dyrrhachium, where would we be? Eleven legions need even more meat than seven.”

Pompey called a clerk and dictated an order. In the months since their first meeting, he had come to realize that Labienus had a mind for such details and a quick grasp of the problems of a long campaign. Simply gathering eleven legions in one place caused immense difficulties of supply. Labienus had first come to his attention as he had created lines from the farms and cities of Greece into the west. As far as Pompey knew, not a single man had been short of rations from the first month. It was an awesome achievement.

“If he avoids our fleet and lands in the east,” Labienus continued thoughtfully, “he will have been at sea for more than a month and be running low on freshwater. His men would have to march hundreds of miles just to reach us. If he were not given to the sort of innovation you have described, I would ignore the east completely. Far better for him to make for one of the main ports in the west, though our galleys are swarming here. Dyrrhachium in the north, Apollonia, or Oricum would be my estimate. I would bet on those three, or some stretch of the coast in between. He will not want to be at sea longer than he has to, with our galleys ready to attack.”

“Of those, which would be your choice?” Pompey asked.

Labienus laughed, a sound like chopping wood that disappeared as quickly as it came. “I can only guess at his choice, sir. If I were running his campaign, I would choose Oricum, knowing your legions will be spread around the cluster of ports further north. At least then I would not have to fight on two fronts.”

The sound of loud footsteps interrupted them and Pompey looked down the length of the temple, his good humor evaporating. Brutus.

Having one of Caesar's most trusted men come over to him should have been a cause for rejoicing, Pompey knew. When Brutus had stepped ashore with his cohorts, the Greek legions had buzzed with the news and excitement. He had even saved the loyal members of the road guards from Caesar's anger and the younger soldiers walked in awe of the Gaul veteran. Brutus had given up a great deal to risk his life with Pompey and he deserved to be honored. If it were only so simple.

Pompey watched coldly as Brutus strode up the central aisle toward him. The silver armor had been burnished till it glowed. He saw Brutus had removed his sword as ordered, and took a deep breath as the general came close. He could feel Labienus's eyes on him, noting his reaction even as he tried to mask it.

Brutus saluted. “I am at your orders, sir,” he said.

Pompey frowned at him, unable to remember if he had arranged a meeting, but unwilling to admit such a thing in front of either man. There had been a time when his mind was as sharp as that of anyone in Rome, but age had taken the edge off his memory as much as his physical strength. His shoulder seemed to ache more fiercely as a reminder. Some of this irritation could be heard in his tone as he replied.

“I have decided not to confirm your command of the Fifth legion, Brutus. Your cohorts will make up the numbers there and you will accept the orders of the Legate Selatis. I will watch you closely and if you do well . . . if I find you loyal, you will be quickly rewarded. You are dismissed.”

Not a trace of disappointment showed on Brutus's face. It was almost as if he had expected the answer.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, saluting and spinning on his heel.

Pompey saw that every eye in the temple followed the silver general as he left, and he sighed to himself. The man was a thorn in his side, but he was also a legend. “What would you do with that one, Labienus?” he said. “Would you trust him?”