Barca’s whip cracked somewhere down the line again, followed immediately by a shriek of pain, stirring Lucius from his contemplation. His straining back and shoulder muscles returned to the forefront of his thoughts. With each stroke he muttered the name of Antony under his breath, swearing that, should he ever gain his freedom, he would see to it that the mule’s arse got what was coming to him. But for now, he would remain under the vigilant eye of the devilish overseer, one of hundreds doomed to stroke and pull, stroke and pull, stroke and pull the mad admiral’s flagship across the sea.
VII
With the Argonaut at its head, the fleet had pulled back out to sea, hoping to catch the next armada of transports attempting to reinforce Caesar. Libo’s two squadrons had pulled away and disappeared over the blue horizon to the south, on their way to the Ionian Sea in search of the Rhodian fleet.
For Admiral Bibulus aboard the Argonaut, the days were long and the sea empty, as if his fleet alone inhabited the world. As expected, his captains and squadron commanders made many requests for victualing and watering. All were curtly refused and the fleet pushed even harder to stay on station.
Men had already begun to die from disease and malnutrition. The slaves, with their cramped quarters and dismal conditions, were always the first to suffer from such shortages. Twelve on the Argonaut alone had already succumbed and had been cast over the side. Bibulus displayed no feeling for these losses, either emotional or logistical. He himself refused his own daily ration on many occasions, often imbibing only half of his daily water, to prove to the crew that any deprivation they suffered, he suffered, too. But nourishment of a different sort drove Bibulus on, in spite of the pangs in his belly and the cracks in his dry lips. Self-validation, proving to himself that he was Caesar’s superior, was more important to him than life itself, and it gave him an artificial impetus not enjoyed by the others.
Bibulus found himself more detached from his men with each passing day, including his own staff, who had learned to give him free-reign of the stern deck and not to approach unless called for. He had flown into a rage on more than one occasion at the merest suggestion that the fleet be rested, nearly choking to death one lieutenant after the young man had taken an observation on a nearby point of land and had announced that the fleet was off of her expected position by more than ten miles. The admiral wished to hear no other news than that the enemy's vessels had been sighted, and he grew more and more convinced with each passing day that his officers were plotting his downfall.
Did they not understand? Bibulus often wondered as he strolled the deck. Caesar must be defeated at all costs. The gods demanded his blood, for he was a demon, a curse on the Roman world, and he must be killed to preserve it. Could they not see? Nothing else mattered, not their puny lives, not his.
"Sail on the horizon, my lord!" a lookout called from Argonaut’s forward tower one clear morning as the weary fleet cruised on the southern end of its patrol area, just off the Epirus coast. "It's a small ship, sir, hugging the shore. A merchant sloop by the looks of her, a corbita, under all sails. She's pulling away from the coast now, heading directly for us. I see the standard of the Senate in her tops."
An hour later, Bibulus leaned his haggard form over the railing to look down into the sloop as it pulled alongside. He recognized the tall, round-faced, man with the gray hair who glowered up at him from the stern sheets as one Gaius Fabius Postumus, a senator belonging to a patrician family that could boast names etched into the distinguished list of consuls running back to the times of the great Scipio. The elderly Postumus was not the oldest man in the exiled Senate, but he was senior enough, and had enough auctoritas, to be chosen as their representative whenever they wished to communicate with senior field commanders. A young, dark-haired noble whom Bibulus knew to be Postumus’s adjutant stood beside the senator with documents tucked under his arm.
Bibulus nodded to them with a courteous smile, though he inwardly loathed their presence here. What business did the Senate have meddling in his affairs? He was the admiral of the fleet, just as Pompey was the general of the army, and he resented any such oversight. They came to him as if he were an errant schoolboy that needed to be nudged in the right direction. Damn them!
“Greetings, Marcus,” Postumus said cordially, as he ascended the ladder to the flagship’s main deck, followed by his aide and one other – a bald slave that wore a green tunic and appeared to serve no function other than to protect the senator, judging by the short, curved sword sheathed at his belt.
“Good morning, Senator Postumus,” Bibulus returned, with equal geniality. “What an honor to receive such distinguished guests this far out at sea.”
“Yes, Admiral, far out at sea, indeed. We suffered no small inconvenience finding you. We are fortunate to have caught up with you at all. Your fleet hardly remains in one place long enough for our scouts ashore to report on your whereabouts.”
“By design, my dear Senator,” Bibulus replied suspiciously, detecting the sarcasm in the old senator’s tone. “Such swift movements prove equally confusing to our enemy. I have sworn to keep any reinforcements from reaching that despicable tyrant Caesar, and that is precisely what I intend to do.”
Postumus seemed unimpressed by this. “One might also conclude that you were more concerned with evading your minders than with finding the enemy.”
Bibulus shot a scowl at the old man. He had never liked Postumus. The elderly senator had been one of those so overly critical of him during his shared consulship with Caesar, even going so far as to call him a coward for avoiding the forum. Postumus was like all the others, all born sipping from the golden cup and ever regarding him as their inferior in mind and station. And Bibulus had other reasons, too, for hating Postumus.
“We are diligent, Senator,” he finally managed to say through gritted teeth. “We aim to stop the tyrant’s ships from getting through, not to hang on every beck and call of the Senate-in-exile.” He emphasized the last word as if to remind Postumus that he and the rest of his pompous friends really had no power at all. They constituted a body of outcasts who no longer held any station in life, as long as Caesar retained control of Rome.
“We are glad to hear it,” Postumus replied insincerely. “For we would not want the fleet to repeat its earlier misfortune, when it was caught napping and let the tyrant’s ships through unscathed.”
“Perhaps, had the Senate-in-exile taken a few moments away from the comfort of their Greek villas, and had apportioned some of their abundant cuisine to the fleet, instead of to their own servants and the idling army, the fleet might have been at sea instead of in Corcyra napping, as you so erroneously claim!”
“Gentlemen, please!” Postumus’s young adjutant spoke up, stepping between them just as Postumus was about to retort with what certainly would have been a venomous reply.