There were other bodies on the beach, as well – probably sailors or marines from the Argonaut. They were all dead, drowned or dashed against the rocks by the tossing seas. Calpurnia could not guess how she had managed to survive, aside from the merciful grace of Juno. Her last conscious memory was of Postumus approaching her with murder in his eyes. The next thing she knew, she was here.
Was that all, or was there more?
Dreamlike images drifted through her mind, more feelings than tangible memories. She had the sense of being conveyed through the water by some force that was not her own, of a gnarled mouth with putrid breath huffing and gargling near her face, of being held across the body by a giant hand that squeezed her upper arm to the point of numbness.
She drew aside her rag of a dress to inspect her arm. Yes, a bruise was there! She could clearly see a ring of discolored flesh where the powerful hand had clutched her and had not let go for some time – not to injure her, but to hold her tightly amidst the violent waves as she was pulled to safety.
It had not been a dream. She had been saved, not by the gods, but by…
It was at that moment when she saw them. The moist sand all around her was riddled with the twig-like prints of countless sea birds, but there was one set of tracks that was not left by any bird. The prints of two giant hands appeared at regular intervals along the beach with two shallow trenches passing between them, where two stumps of legs had been dragged through the sand. The tracks climbed up the slope, and further on, until they were lost from sight in the rocky terrain.
Calpurnia tried calling his name, but her dry throat would not allow it. She tried to move. She desperately struggled to follow the tracks, but in her weakened state she could barely manage to crawl. After much exertion in vain, she collapsed from exhaustion.
She was still whispering his name when peasants from a nearby fishing village discovered her. The simple Illyrians knew from the poor woman’s ornate rag of a dress that she was a noble of some kind, and they treated her with all of the necessary proprieties. They surmised that she had survived a shipwreck and that she must be Roman, but none could understand the meaning of the word she incessantly repeated between her parched lips.
“Odulph…Odulph…Odulph,” she whispered, over and over again.
They tried to calm her and pleaded with her not to speak, but she was too delirious to hear them. With much compassion and gentleness, the villagers conveyed the incoherent woman away from the wind-swept strand. They took her to their community, where a warm home was found to start the slow process of nursing her back to health. There, they cared for the great lady and saw to her every need.
XXXIX
“My dear, Libo, is that you? We thought you dead. Come in, my dear friend. Come in and sit down.”
Pompey’s weathered, round face wore a welcoming expression as he met Libo at the entrance of the tent. He waved away the orderly who had been assisting Libo, and took Libo’s arm himself, gently guiding the trembling admiral over to a glowing hearth. Libo still wore the same wet clothing he was wearing when he had been plucked from the sea, several hours ago.
“You are injured,” Pompey said with concern, looking at the red contusion on Libo’s forehead.
“No, General,” Libo replied. “It is nothing, sir.”
“My physician will be the judge of that. By the gods, Libo, you look dreadful. You are liable to catch your death in that wind. Sit down here. Please my friend. Sit down, and warm yourself by the fire.” Pompey then ordered a nearby servant. “A blanket for the admiral. And some dry clothes.”
Libo accepted a cup of wine offered by Pompey, and eagerly drained it in a few quick gulps. When he finished, and he began to feel the warmth of the fire and the spirits restore feeling to his extremities, he noticed that Pompey was watching him patiently. The general of all Optimates forces had settled his large frame into a chair opposite him and had a genuine look of concern on his face. Suddenly the tent seemed very quiet, but perhaps that too was merely his senses coming back to him. He could hear servants in an adjoining chamber preparing Pompey’s supper. In the camp outside, someone was shouting in anger – probably some centurion scolding a recruit. He heard creaking wheels driving away, and knew it was the chariot that had just bourn him on the fifteen mile journey from the coast, where he had been deposited by the trireme that had pulled him from the sea, to Pompey’s camp.
“I must apologize, General,” Libo finally said when his lips had thawed enough. “I have not yet given you my report.”
“Do not exert yourself, my friend. Take your time. You have had a devil of a day.”
Libo’s eyes instinctively followed the platters of cooked meats and baked bread as they were carried in by a handful of servants and set out on a nearby table. Pompey immediately noticed his interest.
“Perhaps some food would be in order, first, Admiral. After what you’ve been through, you must be starving. You will dine with me, and then after we can discuss -”
“All is lost, General!” Libo heard himself spit out the words between his own gritted teeth. “Forgive me, great Pompey, but I have failed. The fleet is lost!”
Pompey showed no anger at the outburst, but instead stared into the fire blankly. “So, it is true then. The reports we have received are accurate?”
Libo nodded, bowing his head in shame.
“How many ships lost?”
“Thirty-three. More than twenty damaged to the extent that they will require a long interval in port.”
“How many, then, remain fit for sea?”
“A dozen, possibly,” Libo forced the words out while shaking his head. “I do not know for certain, General.”
“And what of Antony’s legions from Italy?”
“They are now afoot in this country, General, landed some twenty miles north of here, at Nymphaeum. Their videttes are already patrolling the hills. My chariot was nearly waylaid by them on the way here.”
Pompey said nothing, but simply closed his eyes, as if pausing to digest this new threat. There was a long silence between them, but Libo could not withstand it any further.
“As you see, great Pompey, it is a complete disaster. I have brought the republic to complete and utter ruin!”
Pompey’s eyes opened and once again he met Libo with a pleasant smile. “Nonsense, my friend. All is not lost. As with most campaigns, fortune has thrown obstacles in our path, but all is not lost.”
“The fleet is lost, General. You now face Caesar’s combined army. What could possibly save – ”
“Have some more wine, dear Libo,” Pompey interrupted gesturing for one of the servants to refill Libo’s cup.
When the wine was poured and the servant moved away, Libo saw the general place one finger in the air, and then cut his eyes to the cluster of servants preparing the meal. Libo understood his meaning instantly, and the reason Pompey had cut him off so abruptly. The servants had obviously heard every word of his pessimistic rant. Should word reach the camp that the admiral of the fleet was under the general’s tent blathering the portents of doom, there was no telling how many would desert. Libo suddenly felt embarrassed for displaying his emotions in such a fashion, but Pompey was soon smiling at him with much sympathy, once again.
“Now, young Libo, while it is true that I would have much preferred to crush Caesar in the field before Antony could arrive, and while it is true that these new legions on my flank will force me to go on the defensive – temporarily, I might add – all is not lost. Dyrrachium is an excellent port. We can fortify her to suit our needs, I assure you. And do not forget, we have more food in Dyrrachium than Caesar and Antony will be able to find in all of Greece. Should we require more, we can resupply from the sea.”