As the doomed vessel rapidly filled with water, the two warships backed off, extracting their deadly rams. Spray shot high into the air as each hold and cavity collapsed. The dying vessel quickly rolled over, its slimy keel upturned, the two fatal wounds distinctly visible as sharp-toothed gaps in the otherwise smooth hull. Within moments it had sunk beneath the waves, leaving nothing on the frothy surface but a mass of shattered planks and bobbing heads.
The flagship of the pursuing squadron was a swift quinquereme of three banks of oars, called the Remus. She cruised near the center of the formation, where her signals might be seen by her companions, and where she might see theirs.
“Aurora and Pluto are signaling, commodore,” the first mate reported, as he leaned out over the Remus’s salt-encrusted foredeck rail and strained his eyes to make out the colored flags waving from the two warships that had just completed the kill. “They wish to know if they should pick up survivors.”
“Tell them, no.” The reply came from a bearded, helmetless Roman officer also standing by the rail. He was wrapped in a blue cloak stained with the salt spray of countless sea voyages. The wind periodically separated the weathered draping, affording a glimpse of the bronze corselet and leather sword belt adorning the sturdy, lean frame beneath. “There is enough driftwood around to keep the stouter ones alive. The tide is in their favor. There is a chance they might gain the shore. We must be after the other transports. Not one must be allowed to escape. Signal the squadron to continue the chase.”
“Yes, commodore,” the mate answered, and then relayed the orders to the waiting signalmen.
Scribonius Libo was forty-two years old. He was the commodore – or navarchus – of Aquila Squadron, the twenty-two warships whose bows now crashed through the rollers in pursuit of the fleeing pair of transports. He watched with approval as his warships surged forward, quickly regaining momentum, their synchronized banks of oars digging into the sea, each crew striving to be the fastest before the watchful eyes of their commander. It never ceased to amaze Libo, the level of devotion his captains exhibited towards him, and he was often humbled by it. Just over a year ago, when his captains had met him for the first time, they had greeted him icily, each concluding that his family name had secured for him the position coveted by them all. But they had soon changed their opinions, once they learned that their new commander was no novice, and that there was much more to him than a family pedigree. His mastery of seamanship, his proficiency at naval tactics, his composure as a leader – not to mention a string of victories – had quickly won them over. More important than his naval prowess, Libo was considered by most to be an honest man, and such a man was attractive to all political factions when selecting military commanders.
The seven hundred sailors, two thousand marines, and six thousand oarsmen that manned Aquila Squadron were the best in the Roman fleet. It was not a boast, it was simply the truth. For what other squadron had, in a matter of months, managed to hunt down and destroy every last ship in the East that had gone over to the side of Gaius Julius Caesar? What other Optimates force had fought and won so many battles against the pretender consul? Libo freely admitted that the one-sided nature of his squadron’s victories had a great deal to do with their superior numbers – but they were victories, nonetheless, and victories needed to be celebrated – for they had been too few of late.
Gaius Julius Caesar – that tyrant who called himself a legitimately elected consul, but who in actuality was a self-appointed dictator – had decided the great empire of Rome, which had taken so many wars and so many generations to mold, did not belong to the Senate and the people, but to himself. In a matter of months, Caesar had taken all of Italy, and then Spain. The Greek provinces were the next morsels marked for consumption to placate his ravenous appetite for power.
He had to be stopped. He would be stopped. And now, perhaps, the opportunity had come at last.
Caesar, in his brashness, had done the unthinkable. Lacking an adequate number of transports, he had divided his army and had crossed over from Italy to Greece with only half of his force – seven understrength legions. It was an arrogant, reckless, and foolish maneuver, and one on which Pompey and the exiled Senate hoped to capitalize. Caesar could not risk facing Pompey’s army with a mere seven legions, and so he must wait for his troops still in Italy to arrive before being drawn into battle. If Pompey could strike Caesar before those reinforcements arrived, the war would be won. Thus, Admiral Bibulus, the supreme commander of the Optimates fleet, had ordered his squadrons to seal off the coast of Greece. They were to prevent any transports from getting through, and buy Pompey the precious time he needed.
Now, the fleet had been at sea for nigh on six weeks, braving one winter storm after another, losing more men to disease and the elements than to the enemy. The ships were in dire need of an overhaul, their leaking seams admitting nearly as much water as their pumps could return to the sea. But Caesar’s first landing had taken Admiral Bibulus off his guard, and Bibulus was bound and determined not to suffer another such embarrassment. He drove his ships incessantly, from the Ionian to the Adriatic and back again, dealing severely with any captain that did not keep perfect station, and delving out punishment for the slightest protests from the crews.
Libo tried not to think of that as he watched the pursuit. The two remaining transports were making good progress, considering the damage they had suffered. One was large, and of Rhodian make. The other was smaller, probably of Athenian origin. The Caesarians had taken to hiring just about anything they could in recent days, and the quality of some of their ships often left something to be desired. There was nothing particular about the smaller vessel to catch Libo’s eye, but there was something about the larger vessel – something that seemed quite out of place. A long, orange banner streamed in wavy curves from the top of the one surviving mast. The rest of the ship was in tatters, but this pennant stood out bright and clear, seemingly without a single tear or blemish, as if it had been taken out and run up for just this occasion.
What could it signify? Was there someone important aboard, perhaps?
“What do you make of that flag?” Libo finally asked the mate.
The sea officer shrugged. “I do not know, sir. I have never seen it before. It’s a signal of some kind, for certain, but it must be particular to the Caesarian filth.”
Libo considered that that was probably true. Caesar had taken it upon himself to rewrite the laws of the land. Why not the laws of the sea as well? The traditions that had worked so well for so many generations of Romans had not been good enough for Caesar – neither had two consulships, nor an unprecedented tenure as the governor of three provinces. And what had Caesar done as governor of Gaul? Waged wars in the name of Rome. Slaughtered and enslaved peoples that had never raised a finger against her. Garnered more and more support from powerful barbarian tribes by helping to annihilate their longstanding foes. It had made for stirring accounts to be read out in the forum, but all that Caesar had done was so far from the will of the Senate.