To make matters more distressing for Pompey, Dyrrachium too decided to support Caesar. His local recruits and the townsfolk refused to co-operate with the Roman government in exile at all, and began a program of subversive action. With seven thousand horses and nearly eight thousand mules to feed, Pompey could not afford to sit himself down in hostile country.
"Let me deal with them," said Titus Labienus, a look in his fierce dark eyes that Caesar—or Trebonius, or Fabius, or Decimus Brutus, for that matter—would have recognized instantly for what it was: the lust for savagery.
Unaware of the extent of the barbarian streak in Labienus, Pompey asked an innocent question. "How can you deal with them in a way others cannot?"
The big yellow teeth showed in a snarl. "I'll give them a taste of what the Treveri came to dread."
"All right, then," said Pompey, shrugging, "do so."
Several hundreds of shockingly maimed Epirote bodies later, Dyrrachium and the surrounding countryside decided it was definitely more prudent to cleave to Pompey, who, having heard the tales flying through his enormous camp, elected to say and do nothing.
When Caesar retired to the south bank of the Apsus, Pompey and his army followed to set up camp on the north bank immediately opposite; at this ford across the big river, the south branch of the Via Egnatia crossed on its way to Apollonia.
No more than a stream of water between himself and Caesar ... Six legions of Roman troops, seven thousand horse soldiers, ten thousand foreign auxiliaries, two thousand archers and a thousand slingers— against four veteran Gallic legions, the Seventh, the Ninth, the Tenth and the Twelfth. Pompey's was an enormous numerical advantage! Surely, surely, surely more than enough! How could a huge force like his go down in a battle against four legions of Roman foot? It couldn't. It simply couldn't. He'd have to win!
Yet Pompey sat on the north bank of the Apsus, so close to Caesar's camp fortifications that he might have pitched a stone and hit some veteran of the Tenth on the helmet. And didn't move.
In his mind he was back in the Spains facing Quintus Sertorius, who could march out of nowhere eluding every scout, inflict a terrible defeat on a relatively huge army, then disappear again into nowhere. Pompey was back under the walls of Lauro, he was back gazing up at Osca, he was back dragging his tail between his legs as he retreated across the Iberus, he was back seeing Metellus Pius win the laurels.
And Lucius Afranius and Marcus Petreius, who ought to have brought pressure to bear on Pompey, were back in Nearer Spain facing Sertorius too, remembering also how laughably easily Caesar had out-maneuvered them in Nearer Spain a mere six months earlier. Nor was Labienus there to deride Caesar in his customary way, stiffen Pompey's failing resolve; Labienus had been left behind to garrison Dyrrachium and keep its people loyal. Together with those nagging couch generals, Cato, Cicero, Lentulus Crus, Lentulus Spinther and Marcus Favonius. No one actually in camp with Pompey had either the vision or the steel to cope with Pompey in a doubting mood.
"No," he said to Afranius and Petreius after several nundinae of inaction, "I'll wait for Scipio and the Syrian legions before I give battle. In the meantime, I'll sit here and contain him."
"Good strategy," said Afranius, relieved. "He's suffering, Magnus, suffering badly. Bibulus has almost strangled his seaborne supply lines; he has to rely on what comes overland from Greece and southern Epirus."
"Good. Winter ought to starve him out. It's coming early, and coming fast."
But not early enough and not fast enough. Caesar had Publius Vatinius with him. The proximity of the two camps meant that some degree of communication went on across the little river between the sentries; this swelled to include legionaries with time on their hands, and was to Caesar's advantage. His men, so lauded and admired for their valor and unquenchable determination during the Gallic War, became the target of many questions from the curious Pompeians. Observing this largely unconscious reverence, Caesar sent Publius Vatinius to the middle of the nearest fortification tower and had him speak to the Pompeians. Why go on shedding Roman blood? Why dream of defeating the absolutely unbeatable Caesar? Why didn't Pompey offer battle if he wasn't terrified of losing? Why were they there at all?
When he heard what was going on, Pompey's reaction was to send to Dyrrachium for his chief problem-solver, Labienus, with a special request to Cicero that he come along as well in case counter-oration was necessary. With the result that every couch general decided to come (they were so bored!), including Lentulus Crus, who at the time was listening to a great deal of subtle persuasion in the form of offers of money from Balbus Minor, sent by Caesar to win him over. Praying that no one in Pompey's camp recognized him, Balbus Minor perforce came too.
Labienus arrived on the very day that negotiations were scheduled to commence between Caesar and a Pompeian delegation led by one of the Terentii Varrones. The conference never happened, broken up when Labienus appeared, shouted Vatinius down, and then launched a volley of spears across the river. Cowed by Labienus, the Pompeians scuttled away, never to parley again.
"Don't be a fool, Labienus!" Vatinius called. "Negotiate! Save lives, man, save lives!"
"There'll be no dickering with traitors while I'm here!" yelled Labienus. "But send me Caesar's head and I'll reconsider!"
"You haven't changed, Labienus!"
"Nor will I ever!"
While this was going on, Cicero was comfortably and cozily partaking of wine and a chat in Pompey's command house, delightfully undisturbed for once.
"You seem very perky and chirpy," said Pompey gloomily.
"With excellent reason," said Cicero, too full of his joyous news—and too bursting with the compulsion of a wordsmith to communicate—to curb his tongue. "I've just come into a very nice inheritance."
"Have you now?" asked Pompey, his eyes narrowing.
"Oh, truly, Magnus, it couldn't have come at a better moment!" caroled Cicero, oblivious to impending disaster. "The second installment of Tullia's dowry is due—two hundred thousand, if you please!—and I still owe Dolabella sixty thousand of the first installment. He's sending me a letter a day about it." Cicero gave his charming giggle. "I daresay he has iugera of time to write, since he's an admiral with no ships."
"How much did you get?"
"A round million."
"Just the sum I need!" said Pompey. "As your commander-in-chief and friend, Cicero, lend it to me. I'm at my wit's end to pay the army's bills—I mean, I've borrowed from every Roman soldier I own, and that's an unthinkable predicament for a commander! My troops are my creditors. Now I hear that Scipio's stuck in Pergamum until the winter's over. I was hoping to pull myself out of the boiling oil with the Syrian money, but..." Pompey shrugged. "As it is, your million will be a big help."
Mouth dry, throat closed up like a sphincter, Cicero sat for long moments unable to speak, while the puffy, brilliantly blue eyes of his nemesis stared into his very marrow.
"I did send you to that wisewoman in Thessalonica, didn't I? She did cure your eyes, didn't she?"
Swallowing painfully, Cicero nodded. "Yes, Magnus, of course. You shall have the million." He shifted in his chair, drank a little watered wine to stroke that sphincter open. "Er—I don't suppose you'd let me keep enough to pay Dolabella?"
"Dolabella," said Pompey, rearing up in righteous indignation, "works for Caesar! Which makes your own loyalty suspect, Cicero."
"You shall have the million," Cicero repeated, lip trembling. "Oh, dear, what can I tell Terentia?"
"Nothing she doesn't already know," said Pompey, grinning.
"And my poor little Tullia?"
"Tell her to tell Dolabella to ask Caesar for the money."
Well based on the island of Corcyra, Bibulus was faring much better against Caesar than the timorous Pompey. It had hurt badly to learn that Caesar had successfully run his blockade—wasn't that typical of Caesar, to send a captive Pompeian legate to inform him of it? Ha ha ha, beat you, Bibulus! Nothing could have spurred Bibulus on more
energetically than that derisive gesture. He had always worked hard, but from the time of Vibullius's visit he flogged himself and his legates remorselessly.
Every ship he could lay his hands on was sent out to patrol the Adriatic; Caesar would rot before he saw the rest of his army! First blood was empty blood, but tasty blood for all that. Out on the water himself, he intercepted thirty of the transports Caesar had used to cross, captured them and burned them. There! Thirty less ships for Antonius and Calenus to use.
One of Bibulus's two objectives was to make it impossible for Antony and Fufius Calenus in Brundisium to obtain enough ships to ferry eight legions and a thousand German horse to Epirus. To ensure this, he sent Marcus Octavius to patrol the Adriatic north of Brundisium on the Italian side, Scribonius Libo to maintain a station immediately off Brundisium, and Gnaeus Pompey to cover the Greek approaches. Whether Antony and Calenus tried to get ships from the northern Adriatic ports, or from Greece, or from the ports of the Italian foot on its western side, they would not succeed!
His second objective was to deprive Caesar of all seaborne supplies, including those sent from Greece through the Gulf of Corinth or around the bottom of the Peloponnese.
He had heard a fantastic tale that Caesar, alarmed at his enforced isolation, had tried to return to Brundisium in a tiny open boat, and in the teeth of a terrible storm off Sason Island. In disguise to avoid alarming his men—so the story went—Caesar revealed his identity to the captain when a decision was made to turn back, appealing to the man to continue because he carried Caesar and Caesar's luck. A second attempt was made, but in the end the pinnace was forced to return to Epirus and deposit Caesar unharmed among his men. True? Bibulus had no idea. Just like the man's conceit, to make that appeal to the captain! But why would he bother? What did he think he could do in Brundisium that his legates— two good men, Bibulus admitted—could not?
Nevertheless, legends like this one caused Bibulus to push himself even harder. When the equinoctial gales rendered a breakout from Brundisium impossible, he ought by rights to have taken a rest. He did not. No one save the admiral-in-chief was available to patrol the Epirote coast between Corcyra and Sason Island. So the admiral-in-chief patrolled it, out in all weathers, never warm, never dry, never comfortable enough to sleep except in snatches.
In March he caught cold, but refused to return to Corcyra until the decision was taken out of his hands. Head on fire, hands and feet frozen, chest laboring, he collapsed at his post on his flagship. His deputy, Lucretius Vespillo, ordered the fleet to return to base, and there Bibulus was put to bed.
When his condition failed to improve, Lucretius Vespillo took another executive decision: to send to Dyrrachium for Cato. Who arrived in a pinnace much like the one in the legend about Caesar, tormented by the fear that once again he would be too late to hold the hand of a beloved man before he died.
Cato's ears told him that Bibulus still lived before he entered the room; the whole snug little stone house on a sheltered Corcyran cove reverberated with the sound of Bibulus's breathing.
So tiny! Why had he forgotten that? Huddled in a bed far too big for him, his silver hair and silver brows invisible against skin gone to silver scales from exposure to the elements. Only the silver-grey eyes, enormous in that sunken face, looked alive. They met Cato's across the room and filled with tears. A hand came out.
Down on the edge of the bed, that hand enfolded between his own two strong ones; Cato leaned forward and kissed Bibulus's brow. Almost he leaped back, so hot was the skin, fancying that as the slow tears trickled from the outer corner of each eye toward the temples, he would hear a hiss, see steam rise. Burning up! On fire. The chest was working like a bellows in loud dry rasps, and oh, the pain! There in the weeping eyes, shining through their liquid film with a simple, profound love. Love for Cato. Who was going to be alone again.
"Doesn't matter now you're here," he said.
"I'm here for as long as you want me, Bibulus."
"Tried too hard. Can't let Caesar win."
"We will never let Caesar win, even if by our dying."
"Destroy the Republic. Has to be stopped."
"We both know that."
"Rest of them don't care enough. Except Ahenobarbus."
"The old trio."
"Pompeius is a pricked bladder."
"And Labienus a monster. I know. Don't think about it."
"Look after Porcia. And little Lucius. Only son I have now."
"I will take care of them. But Caesar first."
"Oh, yes. Caesar first. Has a hundred lives."
"Do you remember, Bibulus, when you were consul and shut yourself up in your house to watch the skies? How he hated that! We ruined his consulship. We forced him to be unconstitutional. We laid the foundation for the treason charges he'll have to answer when all this is over...."
That innately loud, unmusical, hectoring voice continued to talk for hours so softly, so tenderly, so kindly and even happily, gentling Bibulus into the cradle of his final sleep with the same cadences as a lullaby. It fell sweetly upon the listening ears, provoked the same rapt and permanent smile a child will maintain while listening to the most wonderful story in the world. And so, still smiling, still watching Cato's face, Bibulus slipped away.
The last thing he said was "We will stop Caesar."
This time was not like Caepio. This time there was no huge outpouring of grief, no frantic scrabble to deny the presence of death. When the last rattle faded away to nothing, Cato got up from the bed, folded the hands across Bibulus's breast and passed his open hand across the fixed eyes, brushing their lids down and closed. He had known, of course, from the moment he got the message in Dyrrachium, so the gold denarius was there in Cato's belt. He slipped it inside the open mouth, strained still by the effort of that last breath, then pushed the chin up and set the lips back into a faint smile.
"Vale, Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus," he said. "I do not know if we can destroy Caesar, but he will never destroy us."
Lucius Scribonius Libo was waiting outside the room with Vespillo, Torquatus and some others.
"Bibulus is dead," Cato announced at a shout.
Libo sighed. "That makes our task harder." He made a courteous gesture to Cato. "Some wine?"
"Thank you, a lot of it. And unwatered."
He drank deeply but refused food. "Can we find a place to build a pyre in this storm?"
"It's being attended to."
"They tell me, Libo, that he tried to trick Caesar by asking Caesar to a parley in Oricum. And that Caesar came."
"Yes, it's true. Though Bibulus wouldn't see Caesar personally. He made me tell Caesar that he didn't dare be in the same room with him for fear of losing his temper. What we hoped was to get the wretched man to relax his vigilance along the coast—he makes it difficult for us to victual our ships by land."
"But the ploy didn't work," said Cato, refilling his cup.
Libo grimaced, spread his hands. "Sometimes, Cato, I think that Caesar isn't a mortal man. He laughed at me and walked out."
"Caesar is a mortal man," said Cato. "One day he will die."
Libo lifted his cup, splashed a little of the wine in it onto the floor. "A libation to the Gods, Cato. That I live to see the day it happens."
But Cato smiled and shook his head. "No, I'll not make that libation. My bones tell me I'll be dead first."
6
The distance across the Adriatic Sea from Apollonia to Brundisium was eighty miles. At sunrise on the second day of April, Caesar in Apollonia entrusted a letter to the commander of a kind of boat he had grown very attached to during his expeditions to Britannia—the pinnace. The seas were falling, the wind out of the south no more than a breeze, and the horizon from the top of a hill showed no sign of a ship, let alone a Pompeian fleet.
At sunset in Brundisium, Mark Antony took possession of the letter, which had had a swift, uneventful voyage. Caesar had written it himself, so it was easier to read than most communications; the
writing was scribe-perfect though distinctive, and the first letter of each new word was indicated by a dot above it.
Antonius, the equinoctial gales have blown themselves out. Winter is here. Our weather patterns indicate that the usual lull is about to occur. We may hope to enjoy as many as two calm nundinae before the next barrage of storms begins.
I would deeply appreciate it if you got yourself up off your overdeveloped arse and brought me the rest of my army. Now. Whatever troops you can't squeeze into however many transports you have, you will leave behind. Veterans and cavalry first, new legions lowest priority.
Do it, Antonius. I am fed up with waiting.
"The old boy's touchy," said Antony to Quintus Fufius Calenus. "Sound the bugles! We go in eight days."
"We have enough transports for the veterans and the cavalry. And the Fourteenth has arrived from Gaul. He'll have nine legions."
"He's fought better men with fewer," said Antony. "What we need is a decent fleet outside Brundisium to fend Libo off."
The most difficult part of it was loading over a thousand horses and four thousand mules: seven days and torchlit nights of brilliantly organized toil. Because Brundisium was a big harbor containing gulflike branches sheltered from the elements, it was possible to load each ship from a wharf, then push it off to anchor and wait. One by one the animal transports filled and were sent to wait with grooms, stablehands, harness hands and German horse troopers jammed into the spaces between hooves attached to equine bodies. The legions' wagons and artillery had been loaded long since; getting the infantry on board was quick and easy by comparison.
The fleet put out into the roads well before dawn on the tenth day of April and turned into a stiff southwesterly, which meant sails could be hoisted as well as oars manned.