XXXVII
The lumbering transports drove their keels to ground on the sandy slope like so many beached whales. Fifteen thousand armor-clad legionaries and auxiliaries spilled over the sand-wedged bows, dropping booted feet into shallow surf across a mile-wide front. With crossed spears held high, and bouncing kits across their backs, they came ashore, marching quickly up the steep slope to seek out their standards amidst clouds of the agitated powder. Behind them, quartermasters and engineers shouted above the surf as they drove thousands of protesting mules and horses down the steep ramps, each beast either overloaded with baggage or pulling artillery.
Antony strode up the beach amidst the assembling troops, magnificent in his gleaming plumed helmet and flowing cloak. He glanced once at the surrounding hills where a handful of his cavalry, mounted on the least traumatized of the horses, scouted for any sign of Pompey's army lying in ambush, in the event that this rendezvous was yet another ruse by the exiled Senate. But the cavalrymen's banners were upright and rigid, with no signal to indicate any threat was in sight.
The legate of the Thirteenth Legion broke into Antony’s silent reverie.
"But whose banner is that, General?" The legate asked curiously for the third time since they had debarked, pointing to the pavilion on the strand. "Who awaits us?"
Antony laughed. "Only the wealthiest and most powerful man in the empire, Fronto. Never fear. Stick with me and your service shall be rewarded ten-fold. Now, go and attend to your legion, General. Quickly, now. Let us put on a fine show for our distinguished host."
The legate appeared more confused than ever, but saluted and marched off briskly in the direction of his forming troops.
Antony was amused by the flustered expressions of his officers. They would know soon enough. They would all know.
Just up the beach before him stood the scarlet pavilion, the bodyguard posted outside as stoic as they had been for the last hour. Antony had to admit to himself that he was brimming with curiosity to discover the Raven's true identity. In just a few more steps, he would know. He had a few suspicions – a few of the less vocal senators who rode the back bench of the senate house and quietly observed from the shadows. Whoever the bastard was, he certainly had balls of bronze to travel with such a small escort and face a host that might wipe out his little band at a mere snap of Antony's fingers.
Antony did not consider doing this, of course. The potential rewards and power the Raven could yield for him far outweighed any gains he could achieve through treachery. There would be a time for that, later. Now, he would salute smartly and pledge his eternal allegiance and that of his army.
True, he felt a certain measure of shame for betraying Caesar, especially since Caesar had been so loyal to him through good and bad times. But this was Roman politics, and to survive in this game one must ally himself not with the man whom he called friend, but with the man who held the purse strings of the empire.
A nervous smile crossed Antony's face as the flap across the door to the pavilion was thrown back. He stood up slightly straighter and did his best to appear steadfast and confident. The next instant, a man ducked out of the darkened doorway and then stood to full height, his scarlet cloak whipping around his thin legs and boots. His eyes instantly met with Antony's, and it was all Antony could do not to audibly gasp, let alone keep from turning pale.
A solitary cry rang out from the beach as the figure was recognized. Others soon added their voices to the exultation, and still more, until the entire formation had come alive in a crescendo of elation that drowned out the curling waves and the beat of the wind. Then, like a concrete dam bursting into a thousand pieces all at once, the formations came apart. The legionaries rushed up the beach, many brushing past Antony as if he were not there. They surrounded the pavilion, their spear points twirling high above their heads, their faces scrunched into smiles beneath their constricting helmets as they cheered and cheered. Soon, they began chanting his name, the thrusts of their spears scraping the sky to the rhythm of their call.
As disturbing as was the jostling Antony had received from the maddened soldiers pressing in on all sides, restrained only by the outstretched, muscled arms of the bodyguard, the disruption had allowed him a brief interlude to properly compose himself before he once again faced the man whom his soldiers had lost all of their wits over. For, this was not the Raven that he had been so foolishly duped into believing, and the man’s name resounded in his ears, in his head, in his mind, as if each repetition accused him.
They chanted that name unceasingly, until he wanted to hold his hands to his ears. He wanted them to shut up. He wanted to order them all whipped and their units decimated. But he dare not let his face reveal such thoughts. So, he smiled warmly, returning the narrow gaze of the man before him who looked down on him with an all-knowing stare falling somewhere between contempt and complacency. But Antony only smiled wider, fully determined now to prove he was just as elated as the men around him.
Somewhere in the sea of buoyant faces, there was one that was not cheering. Antony saw it, and was surprised to see that this face, unlike all the others, was looking directly at him. The face was crowned by the cross-plumed helmet of a centurion, and it was set in an expression of smug amusement. It was, of course, that of Lucius Domitius, and he stared back at Antony as if he knew every thought, every skipped heartbeat, every inward moment of panic that had overcome him since the unexpected figure had emerged from the pavilion – and he appeared to take great pleasure in it. And suddenly, it all made sense to Antony, as if a veil lifted from his mind. He felt like a mule's ass, a feeling only slightly overshadowed by the rage that boiled inside him as all of his dreams of power and glory vanished before his eyes.
But, there was nothing to be done about it now. Someday, he would see to it that Centurion Lucius Domitius got what was coming to him. Of that eventuality, there could be no doubt. But for now, he needed to put on an amiable expression, and be the loyal lieutenant once again. With a smile that could satisfy for apology, relief, or thankfulness – and he would choose which of these it was, once he had a measure of the consul’s mood – he raised one hand in salute to his old commander and echoed the chant that reverberated to the clouds.
“Hail, Caesar.”
XXXVIII
Calpurnia began to shiver as the icy waves revived her. She discovered the she was face down in the wet sand, and it took many long moments of choking and coughing up stinging grit and seawater before she could sit upright and survey her surroundings.
She sat on a white strand beneath a rocky coast. Her dress had been torn to rags and hung loosely on her bruised and chafed skin. Aside from the abrasions, the cold, and her unquenchable desire to gulp down fresh water, she appeared to be uninjured. The beach was strewn with wreckage. Splintered wooden beams, great clumps of cordage, and an assortment of other debris dotted the sand.
A stone’s throw away, several birds milled about the naked, outstretched body of a man. The man was dead, his skin pale blue and bloated. The body lay twisted and mangled, each limb bent unnaturally in two or three places, as if the sea and the rocks had worked together to snap every bone before depositing the wretched remains on the beach. The hollow, open-mouthed face was turned towards Calpurnia, and though it now bore little resemblance to anything human, she knew that it was Postumus. Whether the gods played tricks on her, or the ingested seawater now muddled her mind, she could not tell, but the dead senator’s face appeared to be frozen in the most horrified expression she had ever seen, as if he had been looking into the jaws of hell when he met his end.