"At the moment, Libo," said Pompey through his teeth, "your senatorial census is not worth a fart in a flagon! Make up your minds to it: every last one of you is going to have to stick his fingers down his financial throat and spew up enough money to keep this enterprise going!"
Murmurs of outrage, mutters of such language, such language. Finally, from Lentulus Crus: "Rubbish! What's mine is mine!"
Pompey lost his temper, launched into his variation on the traditional diatribe of insults. "You," he roared, "are entirely responsible for the fact that we have no money, Crus! You ingrate, you leech, you ulcer on the brow of Jupiter Optimus Maximus! You pissed yourself in fear and shot out of Rome like a bolt from a catapulta, leaving the Treasury stuffed to the gills! And when I instructed you to go back to Rome and rectify that— that gross dereliction of your consular duty, you had the temerity to answer that you'd do so when I advanced into Picenum to meet Caesar and rendered him unable to touch your fat, pampered capon of a carcass! You, to tell me that I'm talking rubbish? You, to refuse to share in the funding of this war? I shit on your prick, Lentulus! I piss in your ugly face, Lentulus! I fart up your snobby nostrils, Lentulus! And if you're not very careful, Lentulus, I'll slit you up the middle from guts to gizzard!"
Of murmurs there were none, of mutters there were none. Frozen to stone, ears ringing at a saltiness few if any of them had ever heard from a commanding officer in the days of their military service, so sheltered and indulged had they been, the senators stood, jaws dropped, bowels gone liquid with fear.
"There's not one of you here apart from Labienus could fight a room full of feathers! Nor one of you has the remotest idea what waging war entails! Therefore," said Pompey, taking a long, deep breath, "it's time you found out. The major item you need to wage a war is money. Do any of you remember what Crassus used to say, that a man ought not to dare call himself rich if he couldn't afford to fund and maintain a legion? When he died he was worth seven thousand talents, and that was probably half what he was worth before he buried some where we'll never find it! Money! We need money! I've already started liquidating my assets in Lucania and Picenum, and I expect every man here to do the same! Call it an investment against the rosy future," he said chattily, a great deal happier now that he had them where any decent commander ought to have them—under his heel. "When Caesar is beaten and Rome belongs to us, we'll reap what we put in now a thousandfold. So open up the purse strings, all of you, and empty the contents into our communal war chest. Is that understood?"
Murmurs of assent, mutters of if only they'd known, if only they'd thought a little harder. Finally, from Lentulus Spinther: "Gnaeus Pompeius is right, Conscript Fathers. When Rome belongs to us, we'll reap what we put in now a thousandfold."
"I'm glad we sorted that out," said Pompey pleasantly. "Now comes the division of labor. Metellus Scipio is already on his way to Syria, where he will gather what money he can, and what troops he can. Gaius Cassius, once he returns from seeing what he can get from the Epirote and Greek temple treasures, will follow Scipio to Syria and there gather a fleet. Gnaeus, my son, you'll go to Egypt and commandeer a fleet, transports and grain from the Queen. Aulus Plautius in Bithynia will need a little prodding—it's your job to apply the goad, Piso Frugi. Lentulus Crus, you'll go to Asia Province and proceed to raise money, troops and a fleet. You can have Laelius and Valerius Triarius to help with the ships. Marcus Octavius, levy ships from Greece. Libo, levy ships from Liburnia—they're nice little galleys. I want fast ships, decked ships big enough to take artillery, but no monstrosities—triremes for main preference, biremes not bad, quadriremes and quinqueremes if they're trim and maneuverable."
"Who'll be commanding what?" asked Lentulus Spinther.
"That remains to be seen. First, round up the flocks. Then worry about the shepherds." Pompey nodded. "You can go."
Titus Labienus lingered. "That was very good," he said.
"Pah!" said Pompey contemptuously. "A more incompetent, addled lot I've never seen! How did Lentulus Spinther ever think he could lead an army to Egypt while he was governor of Cilicia?"
"There is no Trebonius, Fabius or Decimus Brutus, to be sure." Labienus cleared his throat. "We have to move from Dyrrachium before winter makes Candavia impassable, Magnus. Relocate ourselves somewhere on the plains near Thessalonica."
"I agree. It's the end of March. I'll wait out April to make sure Caesar does head west. Then it's off to a sunnier climate than rain, rain, rain in Epirus." Pompey looked gloomy. "Besides, if I wait here a bit longer, some better men might turn up."
Labienus lifted his lip. "I suppose you mean Cicero, Cato and Favonius?"
Pompey closed his eyes, shuddered. "Oh, Labienus, pray all the Gods, not! Let Cicero stay in Italia, and Cato and Favonius in Sicily. Or Africa. Or the land of the Hyperboreans. Or anywhere!"
This prayer was not answered. At the middle of April, Cato and Favonius, with Lucius Postumius in tow, arrived in Dyrrachium to tell of their ejection from Sicily by Curio.
"Why didn't you go on to Africa?" asked Pompey.
"It seemed better to join you," said Cato.
"I am ecstatic," said the commander-in-chief, secure in the knowledge that irony would pass straight over the top of Cato's head.
Two days later, however, a more useful man did turn up: Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, who had dallied in Ephesus on his way home from governing Syria until events shaped themselves enough for him to perceive a proper course. Not that he was any more deferential or understanding than Cato, simply that his resolution to oppose Caesar was allied to a strong desire to be genuinely helpful rather than needlessly critical.
"I'm so glad to see you!" said Pompey fervently, wringing his hand. "There's no one here apart from Labienus and me with any idea of how to go about this war."
"Yes, that's obvious," said Bibulus coolly. "Including my esteemed father-in-law, Cato. Put a sword in his hand and he does well. But a leader he is not." He listened while Pompey summarized his preparations, nodding approval. "An excellent idea, to get rid of Lentulus Crus. But what's your strategy?"
"To train my army to think like an army. Spend the winter and spring, possibly also the early summer, near Thessalonica. It's closer to Asia Minor, a shorter march for troops sourced there. Nor will Caesar deal with me until he's tried to deal with my Spanish army. After he loses in Spain he'll regroup and come after me—he has to, or else submit, and he won't do that until he's not got a man left. It's mandatory that I control the seas. All the seas. Ahenobarbus has set himself up to take over Massilia, which has told me that it respects its ties with our government. That will slow Caesar down and oblige him to split his forces even more. I want him to experience the old, familiar Roman headache—a shortage of grain in Italia. We must dominate the seas between Africa, Sicily, Sardinia and the Italian coast. I also have to deny Caesar passage across the Adriatic at whatever time he decides to come east."
"Ah, yes," purred Bibulus, "pen him in and starve Rome out. Excellent, excellent!"
"I have you in mind as admiral-in-chief of all my fleets."
That came as a surprise. Immensely gratified, Bibulus put out his right hand and clasped Pompey's with unusual warmth. "My dear Pompeius, an honor you will not find misplaced. I give you my word that I'll do the job properly. Ships are strange, but I'll learn. And learn well."
"Yes, I think you will, Bibulus," said Pompey, beginning to believe that this decision was the right one.
Cato was not so sure. "To love my son-in-law is a right act," he said in his usual hectoring tones to Pompey. "However, he knows absolutely nothing about boats."
"Ships," said Pompey.
"Things that float on water and are rowed. His nature is Fabian, not Marian. Impede, stall, delay, stalk, but never engage. You need a more aggressive admiral-in-chief."
"Like you?" asked Pompey with deceptive mildness.
Cato reared back in horror. "No! No! I was thinking of Favonius and Postumius, actually."
"
Good men, I do agree. However, they're not consulars, and the admiral-in-chief must be a consular."
"Yes, that is in keeping with the mos maiorum."
"Would you prefer that I appoint Lentulus Spinther, one of the Marcelli, or perhaps recall Ahenobarbus?"
"No! No!" Cato sighed. "Very well, it must be Bibulus. I'll spend a lot of time talking to him about developing considerably more aggression. And I must talk to Lentulus Spinther and both the Marcelli. And Labienus. Ye Gods, that man is dirty and untidy!"
"I have a better idea," said Pompey, holding his breath.
"What?"
"Hie yourself off—I'll have the Senate give you propraetor's imperium—to southern Asia Province and raise a fleet for me. I imagine Lentulus Crus, Laelius and Triarius will have enough to do in the north. Go to Rhodes, Lycia, Pamphylia."
"But—I won't be at the center of things, Pompeius. I'm needed at the center of things! Everyone is so disorderly! You need me here with you to smarten everyone up," said Cato, dismayed.
"Yes, but the trouble is that you're so famous in places like Rhodes, Cato. Who, other than the wise, incorruptible and much respected Cato, can persuade the Rhodians to back us?" Pompey patted Cato's hand. "I tell you what. Leave Favonius behind with me. Give him instructions. Depute him to do what you'd do."
"That might work," said Cato, brightening.
"Of course it will!" said Pompey heartily. "Off you go, man! The sooner, the better."
"It's terrific to be rid of Cato, but you've still got that fart Favonius around your neck," said Labienus, displeased.
"The Ape is not the equal of the Master. I'll sool him onto those who need a boot up the arse. And those," said Pompey with a huge smile, "whom I personally detest."
When the news came that Caesar was sitting before Massilia and that Ahenobarbus was confident he would get no further, Pompey decided to pull stakes and march east. Winter was upon him, but his scouts were confident that the highest passes through Candavia were still negotiable.
At which point Marcus Junius Brutus arrived from Cilicia.
Quite why the sight of that mild, mournful, singularly unwarlike face caused Pompey to throw both arms around Brutus and weep into his overlong black curls, Pompey never afterward knew. Except that from the very beginning this inevitable civil war had been a series of disastrous bungles, conflicting voices, unjust criticisms, disobedience, doubt. Then in walked Brutus, a completely unmartial and gentle soul—Brutus wouldn't rasp, wouldn't carp, wouldn't try to usurp authority.
"Do we have Cilicia?" he asked after he had composed himself, poured watered wine, ensconced Brutus in the best chair.
"I'm afraid not," said Brutus sadly. "Publius Sestius says he won't actively support Caesar—but he won't do anything to offend Caesar either. You'll get no help from Tarsus."
"Oh, Jupiter!" cried Pompey, clenching his fists. "I need Cilicia's legion!"
"You'll have that much, Pompeius. When word came that you'd left Italia, I had the legion in Cappadocia—King Ariobarzanes was very delinquent in his loan repayments. So I didn't send it back to Tarsus. I sent it on through Galatia and Bithynia to the Hellespont. It will be with you in winter quarters."
"Brutus, you're the best!" The level of wine in Pompey's goblet went down considerably; he smacked his lips and leaned back contentedly. "Which leads me," he said casually, "to another, more important subject. You're the richest man in Rome, and I haven't enough money to fight this war. I'm selling up my own interests in Italia, so are the others. Oh, I don't expect you to go so far as to sell your house in the city, or all your country estates. But I need a loan of four thousand talents. Once we've won the war, we'll have Rome and Italia to carve up between us. You won't lose."
The eyes so earnestly and kindly fixed on Pompey's widened, filled with tears. "Pompeius, I daren't!" he gasped.
"You daren't?"
"Truly, I daren't! My mother! She'd kill me!"
Mouth open, Pompey stared back, stunned. "Brutus, you're a man of thirty-four! Your fortune belongs to you, not to Servilia!"
"You tell her that," said Brutus, shivering.
"But—but—Brutus, it's easy! Just do it!"
"I can't, Pompeius. She'd kill me."
And from that stand Brutus would not be budged. He blundered out of Pompey's comfortable house in tears, colliding with Labienus.
"What's wrong with him?"
Pompey was gasping. "I don't believe it! I can't believe it! Labienus, that spineless little worm just refused to lend us one sestertius! He's the richest man in Italia! But no, he daren't open his purse! His mother would kill him!"
The sound of Labienus's laughter filled the room. "Oh, well done, Brutus!" he said when he was able, wiping his eyes. "Magnus, you have just been defeated by an expert. What a perfect excuse! There's nothing in the world will ever part Brutus from his money."
By the beginning of June, Pompey had put his army into camp near the town of Beroea, some forty miles from Thessalonica, the capital of Macedonia, and moved into the governor's palace in that great and heavily fortified city—together with his entourage of consulars and senators.
Things were going better. Apart from the five legions he had brought with him from Brundisium, he now had one legion of Roman veterans settled in Crete and Macedonia, the Cilician legion (very under-strength), and two legions the chastened Lentulus Crus had managed to raise in Asia Province. Forces were beginning to dribble in from King Deiotarus of Galatia, some infantry and several thousand cavalry; the debt-crippled King Ariobarzanes of Cappadocia (who owed Pompey even more than he owed Brutus) sent a legion of foot and a thousand horse; the petty kingdoms of Commagene, Sophene, Osrhoene and Gordyene contributed light-armed troops; Aulus Plautius the governor of Bithynia-Pontus had found several thousand volunteers; and various other tetrarchies and confederations were also sending soldiers. Even money was beginning to appear in sufficient quantity to ensure that Pompey could feed what promised to be an army containing thirty-eight thousand Roman foot, fifteen thousand other foot soldiers, three thousand archers, a thousand slingers, and seven thousand horse troopers. Metellus Scipio had written to say that he had two full-strength legions of surprisingly excellent troops ready to move, though he would have to march them overland due to a shortage of transport vessels.
Then in Quinctilis came a delightful surprise. Bibulus's admirals Marcus Octavius and Scribonius Libo had captured fifteen cohorts of troops on the island of Curicta—together with Gaius Antonius, their commander. Since the troops were all prepared to swear allegiance to Pompey, his army was even bigger. That sea battle in which Octavius and Libo destroyed Dolabella's forty ships was the first of many victories for Pompey's navy, swelling rapidly. And very ably commanded, as it turned out, by the inexperienced Bibulus, who learned ruthlessly and developed a talent for his job.
Bibulus divided his navy into five large flotillas, only one of which was still theoretical by the time that September came. One flotilla, commanded by Laelius and Valerius Triarius, consisted of the one hundred very good ships levied from Asia Province; Gaius Cassius came back from Syria with seventy ships to inherit command of them; Marcus Octavius and Libo controlled fifty ships from Greece and Liburnia; and Gaius Marcellus Major and Gaius Coponius took charge of the twenty superb triremes Rhodes had donated to the distressingly persistent Cato, who refused to leave without them. Anything to get rid of Cato! cried the Rhodians.
The fifth flotilla was to consist of whatever ships young Gnaeus Pompey managed to extract from Egypt.
4
Full of himself because his father had given him this hugely important job, Gnaeus Pompey set out by sea for Alexandria, determined that he would excel. Twenty-nine this year, had Caesar not intruded he would have entered the Senate as quaestor next year. A fact which didn't worry him. Gnaeus Pompey never for one moment doubted that his father had the ability and the strength to squash that presumptuous Julian beetle to pulp.
Unfortunately he had not been quit
e old enough to serve in the East during Pompey's campaigns there; his cadetship had been spent in Spain during a disappointingly peaceful time. He had, of course, done the obligatory tour of Greece and Asia Province after he finished his military service, but he had never managed to reach either Syria or Egypt. He disliked Metellus Scipio only one degree less than he disliked his stepmother, Cornelia Metella, thus his decision to sail to Egypt along the African coast rather than go overland through Syria. An insufferable pair of snobs was Gnaeus Pompey's verdict about Metellus Scipio and his daughter. Luckily his little brother Sextus, born thirteen years later, got on very well with his stepmother, though, like all Pompey the Great's three children, he had mourned the passing of Julia bitterly. She had made everyone in the family so happy. Whereas Cornelia Metella, Gnaeus Pompey suspected, didn't even manage to make his status-conscious father happy.
Why he was thinking these things as he leaned on his ship's poop rail watching the dreary desert of Catabathmos slide by, he didn't know, save that time dragged and thoughts winged their own airy passage. He missed his young wife, Scribonia, dreamed of her by day as well as night.
Oh, that ghastly marriage to Claudilla! Yet one more evidence of his father's insecurity, his determination to obtain none but the highest wives and husbands for all his family. A drab, sat-upon girl too young for marriage, so utterly devoid of the kind of stimulus Gnaeus Pompey had needed. And what ructions when he had set eyes on Libo's daughter, announced that he was divorcing Claudilla and marrying this exquisite little Latin partridge with the glossy feathers and plump contours his mind and body craved! Pompey had thrown one of his best tantrums. In vain. His oldest son stuck to his resolve with true Pompeian tenacity, and had his way. With the result that Appius Claudius Censor had to be given the sinecure of governing Greece for the government in exile. Where, if rumor was right, he had gone even more peculiar, spent his time probing the geometry of pylons and muttering about fields of force, invisible fingers of power, and similar claptrap.