III
It was approaching dusk when Libo’s squadron reached the rendezvous. A few miles north of the seaport town of Apollonia on the coast of Illyricum, where the Apsus River empties into the sea, he found one hundred warships of all size anchored by squadron. They were the main body of the Optimates fleet, and the arrival of Aquila Squadron now brought them to full complement.
The winter sun had begun to sink into the shimmering expanse, and with its imminent departure came the inevitable offshore breeze, swinging the ships landward of their moorings. The tall masts and towers, bathed in the bright orange hues of the magnified sun, cast long shadows many times their size upon the rippling water.
Libo had expected to find the fleet here. It was the agreed assembly point, and though there was no sheltered harbor, the place had not been selected at random. The admiral had chosen it carefully, and one needed only to gaze beyond the distant rollers at the green slopes climbing up from the white strand to discern the reason. The freshly erected works and innumerable tents of an army were there, stretched between the crests of the two highest hills. Though Libo clearly recognized the distant legionary banners whipping in the wind, the encamped troops were not his allies. For this was not an Optimates army.
This army belonged to Caesar.
“The flagship has signaled, sir,” the mate reported to Libo after taking the message from the signalmen. “We are to bring our prize to the leeward side of the fleet to join the others.”
“Others?”
The mate pointed out a cluster of ships that were just coming into view beyond the bulks of the larger quinqueremes. They were transports, presumably Caesarian ships like the one in the Remus’s wake.
“Looks like the other squadrons were also busy this morning,” the mate commented with raised brows.
Libo nodded in agreement. The entire fleet had been hard at work, snatching up what appeared to be more than two dozen transports, most in a wretched state. If each was filled with legionaries, as Libo surmised, then several cohorts of legionaries had been stopped from reinforcing the dictator’s army. He watched now as the transport with the orange pennant obediently steered through a small gap in the capital ships to join her comrades in the center of the clustered squadrons.
“More signals from the flagship, sir,” the mate called. “You are ordered to report aboard, forthwith.”
An instant dread overshadowed Libo at the thought of meeting with the admiral, but he knew it was unavoidable. He quickly ducked into the aft cabin to don his ornamental helmet and sword, and gather up his log records. By the time he re-emerged on deck, the ship’s launch had been hoisted over the side and awaited him below the gangway.
“Commodore?” The mate stopped him before he could descend the ladder. “If there’s any hope of provisioning, sir, I’d be most grateful if you’d bring it up with Admiral Bibulus.” The mate looked skeptically at the crew, some of whom were waving to their comrades on the other ships. “They look and act the part, sir, when you or I are on deck, but I’ve heard rumblings. They need water, and fresh meat and bread to fill their empty bellies – and good wine to keep them warm on cold nights. Some of them haven’t the strength to climb the ladder, much less fight a battle. I hate to think of what might happen were we to fight a boarding action. The oarsmen are even worse off. Neptune knows how the overseers keep them rowing.”
“I am aware of all these things, my friend,” Libo patted his shoulder. “Rest assured, that will be my first item of business, if I ever – “
Libo stopped in mid-sentence. He was about to say, “if the mad admiral lets him get a word in,” but that would have been entirely inappropriate with the listening ears of a dozen crewmen close by. Admiral Bibulus’s tendencies were becoming infamous, and much harder to keep concealed from the men. A single glance from the mate told Libo he had understood.
“Anchor the squadron,” Libo said. “Once moorings are secured, have the crews stand down. Let them rest. I get the feeling we will not tarry here long.”
Libo studied the distant shore as he rode in the stern of his launch through the anchored fleet. The Caesarian camp on the hillside was alive with activity. Even from this distance, he could clearly see a mass of helmets poking over the palisade, gazing out at the gathered ships.
Were they mere curious onlookers, or had something grabbed their attention?
The Caesarian soldiers watched in silence, without the usual obscene gestures or shouted insults that accompanied close brushes between two opposing forces. They were far off, but Libo could swear that he felt an air of gloom hanging over them, as if the entire enemy camp was in expectation of something dreadful that was about to happen.
The launch rounded the high stern of a quinquereme, allowing the flagship to come into full view. Libo gazed upon her in awe, as he always did whenever he saw her. The Argonaut was a deceres, a capital warship, a master of the sea. With several decks of rowers and multiple engines mounted on her main deck, she was far superior to the Remus, or any other ship in the Optimates fleet. Four hundred slaves and freedmen manned her oars, two hundred marines defended her and worked her assorted engines, one hundred sailors worked her decks and rigging, while specialists and staff officers of every kind attended to her administration and that of the fleet. She towered over the lesser warships, like a lioness with her cubs, and though she was not nearly as maneuverable as the Remus, she flew like the wind once the momentum was on her. Her giant ram, three times larger than that of the Remus, did not simply penetrate hulls – it shattered them, grinding them to bits under the inexorable weight of the magnificent beast.
The admiral’s pennant fluttered at the masthead, and just the sight of it made Libo cringe. Admiral Bibulus was known for his oddities. He was an unusual sort of man, and Libo could not remember a face-to-face meeting with the admiral in which he had not been squirming within his armor to get away.
Faces peered over the Argonaut's high railing and watched as the launch touched near the great ship's ladder. Libo climbed up swiftly, and was received at the gangway by an anxious looking officer who smiled to greet him and then immediately motioned for him to keep silent as a ceremony of sorts transpired on the flagship's deck.
A cluster of officers stood by the far rail, their full attention directed at the stern deck. Bronze-helmeted marines and bearded sailors gawked, too, their stares more of a bewildered nature than a fascinated one. Libo knew that look well, and was not surprised to discover one of the admiral’s rituals, in full progress.
In the middle of the stern deck sat an iron cage, half the height of a man. Beside it, atop a neatly laid out white cloth, sat a small mound of olives. The olives looked fresh, as if they had just been placed there. A dark figure slunk in the far corner of the cage, appearing, to any casual observer, as nothing more than a ball of frayed hair. But upon closer inspection, one could see glimpses of tanned skin showing through the few bare patches, revealing that the creature was something more than an animal. This thing was what had the attention of every man on deck, and what had the ship gripped in complete silence, save for the lapping of the sea against the hull and the periodic whip of the pennant on the high masthead.
Libo sighed, knowing full well what was happening. He silently made his way over to a balding, middle-aged man who wore only a white tunic and who crouched somewhat near the cage with eyes fixated on the beast inside.