“That is much better!” Bibulus announced with an invigorated tone after the slaves had patted him dry and helped him into a fresh tunic. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and then drew a chair near to Libo’s.
“More wine, my friend?” He filled Libo’s cup without waiting for an answer.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Someday, Libo, when this is all over, we will drink the good stuff, eh? But now we must be content with this.”
Bibulus’s countenance had changed completely, as if the scraping had stripped away the demonic part of him.
“I tell you Libo, I have not felt this rejuvenated in years. I have long waited for this day, when Caesar finally suffered beneath my boot. I have stopped that wicked man – nay, not I, but we – we have stopped him. You and I and the rest of this noble fleet. The tyrant will think twice now before summoning any more reinforcements from Italy, eh?”
“It was a great victory, sir.” Libo replied evenly. Of course, he did not really believe that. It had been a massacre – a one-sided, shameful massacre, but Bibulus was agreeable for the moment, and Libo did not wish to send him spinning off on another of his tirades. Hoping to exploit the admiral’s congenial disposition, Libo ventured to ask, “With the enemy smarting from this blow, my lord, would it not be an excellent opportunity to provision? Corcyra is only a good day's pull to the south.”
Bibulus shot him a wild look, but it only lasted for the briefest moment. “Indeed it would, my friend. But our task is not finished. We have but one more nail to drive home before we have affixed Caesar to his cross.”
“The Rhodian fleet, sir?”
“Precisely.”
“Has the Senate sent word of it?”
“Bah!” Bibulus spat. “I have my own agents, Libo, and I trust them far more than I do our idiotic Senate. The bumptious politicians do nothing but squabble amongst themselves and interfere in military strategies of which they are too incompetent to comprehend. Where have they gotten Pompey in all these months? Where have they gotten us? Indeed, their mismanagement has brought this fleet to the point of mutiny.” He smiled at the expression on Libo’s face. “Yes, I know about the grumblings, Libo. You needn’t look so surprised. You may also be surprised to learn that I understand the grumblings as well. Yes, I understand them, though I would not admit to such in the presence of anyone but you. A few scraps of smoked fish and a few cups of rainwater each day do little to calm a man’s irritable stomach. Such harsh conditions take a toll on the hardiest of men. Their loyalties break down when their bodies face malnutrition.”
It relived Libo somewhat to hear that the admiral was aware of the strain his edicts had placed on the fleet. The daily ration had been halved long ago. When the promised provisioning ships had not arrived, it had been halved again. The other squadron commanders were quick to blame the admiral for the shortage, but Libo knew better, for the Senate controlled the procurement of food and supplies for the fleet. Libo knew that letters of protest had been sent to Thessalonica, and all had been returned with curt replies and tiresome repetitions of how the army needed the food more than the fleet did. That was nothing new. For the fleet always got the last of the pickings. Libo could accept that explanation, if it were the true reason for the shortage.
Pompey’s legions were, at this moment, massed just north of the Apsus River, across from Caesar’s little army. Pompey claimed to be holding the tyrant in check while his own army trained and received more reinforcements, but Libo judged that the great general already had more than enough troops to crush Caesar’s little force. Libo had heard that Pompey was personally overseeing the training of this massive host himself, putting the ranks through drill after drill for weeks on end, until every man moved as one. The exiled Senate was calling it the finest army Rome had ever fielded, but Libo had heard other stories. That Pompey’s drills were more suited for the parade ground than for the battlefield. That warfare had changed in the last twenty years while the revered master strategist had not. Some said the real reason Pompey was personally drilling the troops was that his own legates and tribunes were spending more time looking for whores to populate the next evening’s debauch than they were preparing their own men for battle.
Libo surmised there was much truth to the tales. The officers of the Optimates army were the elite youth of Rome, whose slight regard for their aging commander was only matched by their indifference toward their outnumbered enemy. They put blind faith in their numbers and expressed little or no apprehension that they would soon be facing the hardened, veteran legions of Caesar’s army – an army that had spent the last ten years fighting the savage barbarians of Gaul and Britannia. And the young nobles had brought with them to Greece much more than their disregard for the enemy. They had also brought their silverware, their home furnishings, in some cases their pets, and any number of other unnecessary encumbrances that would do little to help win the coming battle. These high men all expected their camp lives to be like their lives back in Rome. Libo was certain that the provisions intended for the fleet were being headed off by fools such as these, without a single care as to the ramifications.
The hopes of Rome and her dying republic lay on the shoulders of Pompey, the great general of generations past, who had conquered the East when Libo was but a young man. Libo remembered attending one of the spectacular triumphs held in the great general’s honor. Pompey was in the prime of his youth then, bedecked in purple and gold and riding in a four-horse chariot polished to shine like the sun. Libo had looked on with marvel and envy, as the merest glimpse of the general set the hundreds of thousands cheering in a mind-numbing pandemonium that echoed across Rome’s seven hills. Libo remembered feeling as though he had beheld a warrior descended from the gods.
Now, nearly two decades later, Libo was bound to that same warrior he had so revered in his youth. In his own run up the cursus honorum, fortune had placed him in alliance with Pompey on many issues that had deeply divided the Senate. The old general, more than twenty years his senior, had taken a liking to him and had even befriended him, to the extent that Pompey’s youngest son Sextus had taken the hand of Libo’s pubescent daughter Scribonia in marriage. They were two fathers of disproportionate age, sealed together by the knowledge they would one day share the same grandchildren. Pompey had certainly remained loyal to him, even through several failures early on in Libo’s political career, and Libo knew that his present position was largely due to his ties to Pompey. In his heart, he wished nothing more than to return the many kindnesses and favors Pompey had extended him. He had desperately wanted to throw his full support behind the fifty-eight year-old general, but now….he hoped and prayed the Senate had chosen the right man to lead her armies.
Why had Pompey not yet attacked? When would his army be ready? It already vastly outnumbered Caesar’s. It was always a question of timing with Pompey, and the great general always needed more time.
“We cannot put into Corcyra, my friend,” Bibulus went on after taking a long drink. “You are right that we could expect to find at least some supplies there, since it is quite probably the only place not scoured clean by Pompey’s troops, but I would hardly expect to find enough to replenish a single squadron. And how could I send a single squadron to benefit from those stores, and let the others suffer? No, my friend, a sailor’s lot is always a bitter one. An admiral’s task is to choose the path that is least likely to provoke a mass uprising yet still accomplish the mission.”
“I understand, sir,” Libo said supportively.
“But be of good cheer, Libo, for the end is near. Pompey will attack soon, and when he does, we may all go back to our homes in Italy.” Bibulus eyed him, then rose and motioned for him to come over to the chart table. “We shall do our part in dealing with those Rhodian mercenaries who have allied themselves with the dictator. I have it on good account that they are heading for Brundisium as we speak. Thirty ships of war, fully manned and armed for battle. Any day now, they will attempt to cross the Ionian Sea. We must stop them.”