"Of course," Calpurnia replied in a much more conciliatory tone, willing herself to suppress her own emotions. "Forgive me for my naive and hasty words, Senator. I am not myself, this day."
"Say no more, my dear." He reached out and took her hand in his, patting it several times. She fought back the urge to withdraw it. "You have my forgiveness, and my gratitude for your own contributions. One could never visit the house of Marcus Bibulus without taking notice of his devoted daughter, nor of her striking beauty."
Calpurnia’s stomach churned at the remark, but she smiled politely as she had been accustomed to doing on such occasions.
She saw Postumus cut his eyes at the surrounding crowd, and then he oddly raised his voice as if to ensure that those nearby might hear his next words. "Have no fear, my dear Lady Calpurnia. Your sacrifices, and those of your father, shall not be in vain. Soon, Caesar and those few troops he's managed to get across will be crushed once and for all. Then the Senate will resume its rightful place again, at the head of our empire. Of course, our friends will be rewarded. Our enemies, however,…those who conspire with the dictator…those who are in league with him…well, let's just say, they will find themselves cursing the day they came into this life."
He smiled as he spoke, and looked directly at her, but Calpurnia knew the guileful politician’s words were more for the benefit of the nearby Greek magistrates than for her. Such talk would certainly resound with them, since many Greek towns and villages were even now teetering between the vying factions of Rome. They were faced with a vexing decision. Should they ally themselves with the self-exiled Senate and the Optimates? Or should they ally with Caesar who claimed to represent the only legally elected government of Rome?
Calpurnia watched as the senator left the square with his entourage. The other senator was no longer with him, and she briefly wondered where he might have disappeared to. But Postumus quickly returned to the center of her thoughts. A notion had crossed her mind, one that made her catch her breath.
What are you up to, Senator? She thought as she watched his party retreat through the rain. Why are you here? Why, among all of the exiled Senators in Thessalonica, were you sent here to Corcyra to attend my father's funeral? Are you the one I have been seeking for so long?
"Follow him, Marjanita,” she said quietly. “I wish to know the comings and goings of Senator Postumus. I wish to know every last detail. Where he eats, where he sleeps, where he bathes, even how many times he relieves himself each day. I wish to know with whom he speaks."
"Yes, mistress," the handmaid said, her voice heavily accented with tones of the east. "It would be no trouble to cut his throat in the night, my lady. Did you see how his eyes examined me? He would take me to his bed without hesitation."
Calpurnia thought for a moment before answering. "No, Marjanita. We must know for certain before we act. We must know if he truly is the one. Now, go."
“Yes, my lady.”
As the handmaid walked off briskly with arms tucked inside her cloak, Calpurnia’s eyes rested again on the smoldering pile of ashes. Her father had been very troubled in life. She hoped now, as his spirit entered the afterlife, that it would find some kind of comfort – some kind of peace.
What had gone wrong? She did not believe the claims made by the captain of the flagship – and now by Postumus, too – that her father’s heart simply gave out, that he had worked himself to death. She feared there was more to it than that, perhaps even foul play. But she feared even more what she might discover should she go searching for answers. Was her father’s death a consequence of her own actions, as she now suspected?
“Forgive me, father,” she whispered before tossing a handful of sprigs on the blackened remains. “I vow to your eternal soul that I will find your murderers, and avenge you. I swear it upon my life.”
She would find out the truth – even if she had to wrench it from Neptune himself.
II
Three weeks earlier…
The maelstrom had passed. The dark clouds parted to reveal a dissipating mass of wind-swept waves and churning troughs. Though subsiding, the great sea still boiled in anger, as it had after the great tumult that swallowed Atlantis, when it cast the flecks of humanity upon a thousand shores seeding fresh empires to vie for its very control.
The probing rays of the morning sun revealed three craft rolling amidst a mass of flotsam and corpses, the remains of more than a dozen ships that had not withstood the storm. The three surviving vessels had fared little better than their unfortunate sisters. Their decks were strewn with wrecked masts and twisted canvas. Their oars were snapped into pieces or missing entirely. One ship heeled to windward, a jagged hole just above her waterline. A mass of men crowded against one rail in an effort to keep her from capsizing. Another ship bore a splintered stump where once had jutted a high prow.
Like the three vessels, the crews had been worn ragged by the night’s thrashing. Exhausted and moving like the walking dead, they fought to keep their ships afloat – carpenters cutting fresh plugs, sailors hacking at dragging cordage, others toiling on the pumps in the deep shadows of the hull – all working against the dreadful sea that might still claim them at any moment.
But there were other fears, besides the sea, hanging over the heads of these ill-fated mariners.
The clouds lifted to reveal a gray band on the eastern horizon, which soon took the shape of a jagged coastline. After such a disastrous night at sea, one might expect these sailors to welcome the sight of land, to run up the tattered sails, to man the salvageable oars, and make for the safety of the coast. Indeed, the wind now favored such a course, wafting gently at an angle to the shore, ideal for landing the damaged vessels on the sandy beach. But the three storm-ravaged vessels made no such move. In spite of their wretched condition, they did not hoist a single foot of canvas, nor did they point their bows toward the coast. Instead, they ran out their remaining oars and quickly began pulling in the opposite direction, back out to sea. The drums began a steady beat, bringing unity to the dip and sway of the long sweeps. Whenever any oar fell out of line, a crack of the whip instantly brought it back into conformity. There was a haste in their pace, and though the blades smacked against floating debris as often as water, some snapping in the process, they did not stop. As the lingering squalls cleared away, the reason for their haste came into view.
A fleet of two dozen warships emerged from behind a point of land, banners streaming, pitch pots smoldering, oars stroking at full speed. It was a squadron of quinqueremes and triremes and they steered straight for the beleaguered craft.
Panic gripped the decks of the three battered ships as the experienced hands saw that escape was not possible. The oncoming fleet was well-drilled and surged through the water at twice their speed, but the three ships kept flying, with prayers to Neptune whispered on many murmuring lips throughout their leaking hulls.
The hunters came on, their oars in perfect synchronization, their bronze rams gliding like blunt-nosed porpoises beneath the water's surface. They drew a sharp contrast to their prey, whose frantic oarsmen were beginning to lose the cadence in their desperation. One of the fleeing vessels, listing badly, peeled away from the other two, her captain deciding that the disunity of his oars presented as great a danger to his teetering ship as the pursuing fleet. He ordered an about turn in an attempt to face his pursuers. It was a bold and brave maneuver, but not suited to the qualities of his vessel. The ship turned sluggishly, nearly capsizing at the first dig of the steer oar, and succeeded only in placing its beam directly in the path of the attacking fleet. The warships changed course ever so slightly, an organized movement that looked more like pageantry than battle. Then, two ships separated from the rest, aimed their bows directly at the exposed ship, and then accelerated in the final moments before impact. The rams struck simultaneously on the same side, driving deep into the weakened hull and exacting carnage below decks. Screams exuded from the ship’s bowels, and her seams burst with a crimson-laced foam. Her mast snapped and crashed over the side, flinging men into the air.