• • •

We camped that night half a mile off the road, in a shallow valley amid low hills. Antony pointed out the site's defensibility.

"Is there really any danger of attack, Tribune?" I asked. "The mountains are to our right, the sea to our left. Behind us is Corfinium, securely garrisoned by Caesar's men. Before us is Brundisium, which I presume to be surrounded by Caesar's main force. I should think we're as safe as a spider on a roof."

"Of course we are. It's all my years in Gaul. I can never pitch camp without thinking something unseen might be lurking in plain sight."

"In that case, could I have my dagger back? The one that Otacilius confiscated? He took daggers from my slaves, as well."

"Certainly. As soon as we've made camp."

The men shucked off their armor and set to work pitching tents, digging a pit for the latrine, kindling a fire. I went in search of the baggage wagon. A small knot of men surrounded it, looking down at something on the ground, talking.

"The fever must have taken him."

"It can happen that quickly, with a wound like that. I've seen stronger men bleed less and die faster."

"He was just an old slave, anyway. And from what I heard, a troublemaker."

"Ah, here's the tribune's friend. Let him through!"

The crowd parted for me. I stepped closer and saw the body of the wagon driver on the ground. Someone had crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

"He must have died during the day," explained a soldier who stood over the body. "He was dead when we came to unload the wagon."

I looked about. "Where are the others? The two slaves who were in the wagon with him?"

Tiro and Fortex stepped into sight. Neither said a word.

The soldiers were summoned to another duty and dispersed. I knelt beside the body. In death, the slave's face was even more haggard than in life, his cheeks sunken around his toothless mouth. I had never even asked his name. When I wanted something from him, I had simply called him "driver."

I rolled him over. Besides the wound at the shoulder, there were several others, where he had been poked and prodded during the march, but they appeared to be superficial. His shoes were thin, his feet blistered and bloody. The tether had worn the skin around his ankles. There appeared to be faint bruises around his throat as well; in the fading light it was hard to tell. Instinctively, I felt my own throat, where the tether had chafed it. But there had been no tether around the slave's throat.

Tiro and Fortex stood over me. I looked up at them. I spoke in a low voice. "He was strangled, wasn't he?"

Tiro raised an eyebrow. "You heard the soldiers. He died of fever, from his wound. He was old and weak. The march down the mountain killed him. That was his own fault."

"These discolorations at his throat-"

"Liver spots?" said Tiro.

I stood and looked him in the eye. "I think he was strangled. By your hand, Tiro?"

"Of course not. Fortex is trained for that type of thing."

I glanced at Fortex. He wouldn't meet my gaze.

"It had to be done, Gordianus," whispered Tiro. "What if he had recovered, and started talking again?"

I stared at him.

"Don't judge me, Gordianus! In times like these, a man has to do things against his own nature. Can you say that you wouldn't have done the same?"

I turned away and walked toward the campfire.

XVI

Antony never questioned the untimely death of the wagon driver. He was used to seeing men die suddenly, from wounds that did not appear fatal. He had other things on his mind.

The next morning, the soldiers threw the body into the latrine pit and covered it. The death of a slave merited no more ceremony than that.

As we rode out, Antony's only comment was that I might contact the slave's owner when I had the chance, to let him know what had become of his wagon and driver. "If you suspect he's the litigious type, you could offer him a token settlement; the slave obviously wasn't worth much. And since the owner was honoring your courier's passport, technically you don't owe him anything. Let him sue Pompey!" Antony laughed, then shook his head. "Civilians always suffer losses in wartime- property ruined, slaves running off. In a place like Gaul, the locals have to patch things up for themselves. Here in Italy it'll be different. Once things get back to normal, there'll be a flood of litigation- suits for damages, pleas for reparations, petitions for tax relief. The courts will be jammed. Caesar will have his hands full."

"So will advocates like Cicero," I said.

"If Cicero still has his hands," said Antony.

The coastal road was mostly straight and flat, but not in the best condition. Winter storms had damaged some sections, dislodging stones and washing out the foundation. Normally, such damage would have been repaired promptly by gangs of slaves working under a local magistrate, but the chaos in the region had prevented that. The recent passage of so many men, vehicles, and horses- first Pompey's army, then Caesar's- had aggravated the situation. But despite the mud and the muck, we traveled well over forty miles that day, and did the same the next day and the next.

I had traveled with Antony a few years before, from Ravenna to Rome, and again found his company enjoyable. He was a notorious carouser, whether the arena was a battlefield in Gaul, a wild party on the Palatine, or the floor of the Roman Senate. He had plenty of stories to tell, and he enjoyed hearing mine, as long as they involved scandalous women, political chicanery, or trials for murder, or best, all three together. I hardly saw Tiro, who traveled in the baggage wagon and stayed out of Antony's sight.

It was in the hour before twilight of the third day- one day after the Ides of March, one day before the feast of the Liberalia- that we arrived in the vicinity of Brundisium. We were spotted by lookouts posted atop a low hill east of the road. A centurion rode out to greet Antony. The man was flushed with excitement.

"Tribune, you've arrived just in time!"

"For what?"

"I'm not sure, but the men posted on the other side of the hill are whooping and cheering. Something's happening down in the harbor."

"Show us the way!" barked Antony. I hesitated to follow, uncertain of my place now that we had reached the theater of battle. Antony peered back at me. "Aren't you coming, Gordianus?"

We rode to the top of the low hill, where several tents had been pitched and a sizable contingent of soldiers had been posted as lookouts. Toward the north, in the direction we had come, the site commanded a sweeping view of the beach and the coastal road for miles. The centurion had seen us approaching for hours.

Toward the south, the site overlooked the city, the harbor, and the sea. The centurion led us to a vantage point with an unobstructed view. "They say this was the very spot where Caesar stood, when he planned the siege," he said proudly.

The walled city of Brundisium is situated on a peninsula surrounded by a semicircular harbor. A narrow strait links this protected harbor to the Adriatic Sea. The easiest way to visualize the city, as it might appear on a map, is to hold up your right hand and form a reverse letter C. The space enclosed by your forefinger and thumb represents the peninsula upon which the city is built. Your forefinger and thumb represent the northern and southern channels of the harbor. Your wrist represents the strait through which ships must sail to reach the sea.

From our vantage point, the city on the peninsula appeared as a cluster of tenements, warehouses, and temples crowded within high walls. Pompey's soldiers were clearly visible on the towers and parapets, their helmets and spears glinting in the westering sun. Along the landward western wall, which ran between the north and south channels of the inner harbor, the besieging army of Caesar was encamped. The force appeared to my eye enormous. Row upon row of catapults and ballistic machines had been assembled, along with several siege towers on wheels, which rose even higher than the city walls.