Publius looked from the enemy to Caesar, aghast that the consul still kept his eyes glued to the letter.
“Not to dismiss Antony’s sluggishness, Caesar,” Publius ventured, “but do you not think we should address the more immediate matters that require our attention?”
“What?” Caesar looked up and glanced across the ravine, seemingly seeing the enemy for the first time.
“The engineers, sir. They are in great peril. They await your order to withdraw.”
“Well, of course, they should be withdrawn,” Caesar answered as if he was surprised it had not yet been done. “What are you waiting for, man?”
“But you wished the bridge to be salvaged, sir – ”
“Does your hand need holding, too, Publius, as it seems Antony’s does? Get the men out of there!”
“Yes, General.”
Publius barked orders to his tribunes and then watched with suppressed irritation as they rode up and down the north bank shouting for the engineers on the south side to abandon the bridge and hasten back across. But it was too late. The shouting centurions had already formed the engineers into an orbis as was expected when hopelessly outnumbered, the last ditch circular formation bristled with outward pointing spears. It was often the last terrifying thing a charging horseman beheld before the angled pila impaled his horse and he found himself flying into the rear ranks to be savaged by a dozen waiting gladii. Several of the Galatian and Cappadocian riders met this fate as the lead squadrons crashed into the formation with a clap like that of thunder. The beasts whinnied as they were driven onto the planted pila, but several horses broke through the line and, with blazing eyes and stomping hoofs, began spinning wildly inside the Roman ranks, crushing ribs, limbs and skulls in their paths. One rider threw a javelin at an unseen man beneath, and then began slashing wildly with a curved sword. Two bloody hands grasped this rider’s leg and yanked him off of his mount, pulling him down into the fray where he was lost from view. Another Galatian cried in alarm as a legionary climbed onto his mount behind him, wrapped one arm around the horseman’s neck, and brutally wrenched him from the saddle. The Galatian fell kicking amongst the stabbing gladii below. Other legionaries fought bravely, and bravely met their ends transfixed by the deadly lances.
As the orbis was slowly torn apart and lost from view by the swirl of horsemen, one centurion, helmetless and separated from the rest, stood poised with a bloody pilum, fending off one horseman after another. With every thrust that felled an enemy rider, he let out a lusty “Hail, Caesar!” At every pause in the attacks arrayed against him, he turned to face across the gorge, staring up at the hill upon which Caesar and his staff sat, and again shouted out “Hail, Caesar!” The words were distinct and clear above the din of the melee.
What madness! Publius thought. Then, it suddenly occurred to him that the battle-crazed centurion was none other than the man Caesar had demoted only moments ago. The centurion was berserk now, blood streaming from his temples, a cluster of twitching bodies at his feet, and no other Roman anywhere nearby that could possibly come to his aid. He was doomed, yet even now, his last devotion was to Caesar, or so it appeared. Perhaps the madness of battle had simply overcome him. Either way, Publius marveled at the influence the master politician turned general had over the rank and file. Even those who had reason to hate him, in the end, would go to their deaths to please him.
It was not long before the centurion’s fortune ran out. From all sides, more leveled lances closed in. When one of the centurion’s parries missed a thrusting shaft, the unfettered lance tip buried itself deep within his exposed neck. A sudden crimson spout dressed the manes of the nearby horses, and the centurion fell dead without another sound.
The entire staff had watched the centurion’s final moments, and many commented to one another on his gallantry. Publius himself was quite shaken by it. He turned to Caesar, expecting the consul to be equally as moved, but Caesar had already turned his attention back to the letter.
“Damn, Antony!” Caesar said. “If my army was not afoot in two lands separated by fifty miles of boiling seas, what I wouldn’t do to Pompey!”
“Pompey comes on brazenly, General,” Publius replied half-heartedly, still thinking of the centurion. “He hounds our heels at every turn. It seems he does not fear us.”
“He does not fear us, Publius, because he outnumbers us. Pompey is a wise old soldier. As archaic as his battle tactics tend to be, he is a fair strategist. He knows I cannot feed my army in this land. He has seen to it that the countryside was scoured to deprive me of forage. Now, he forces me away from the sea, my only source of reinforcement.”
“The map shows that we will encounter a river on this road, Caesar. Without materials to build a proper bridge, we will have no choice but to fight.”
“Wrong, Publius,” Caesar said in a lighthearted tone. “There is another option. We can simply float down the river back to the sea and bid the men swim for Italy.”
A cheer rang out from the far side of the bridge. Bloody lances were held aloft as the horsemen celebrated the massacre. All of the engineers and slaves had fallen. Now, with no Roman left alive on the south bank, the Cretan archers on the north bank stepped up and threw back their cloaks to reveal quivers brimming with feathered shafts. As one man, they notched their arrows, and within moments, wave after wave of deadly missiles were sailing over the expanse and into the jumbled squadrons of reveling cavalry. The revelry turned to panic as riders began to fall, and injured horses began running frantically in every direction. Soon the mounted squadrons retreated back up the road, leaving several of their number behind.
“Pompey’s infantry will be up before nightfall,” Publius said. “I believe we can salvage no more, General.”
Caesar nodded, Publius issued orders, and the surviving engineers assembled to fire the remnants of the bridge.
“Pompey will not cross here,” Caesar said. “He will worry that we might try a quick march to Dyrrachium. He will move closer to the coast and shadow our movements, staying between us and the sea.” Caesar’s face then lost all expression as he stared at the burning bridge, as if a thought had suddenly crossed his mind.
“What is it, General?”
“Pompey will stay between us and the sea,” Caesar said distantly, staring at the fire for a few more moments before suddenly wheeling in the saddle to face Publius. “He will stay between us and the sea! That’s it, Publius!”
“I am not sure I understand, sir.”
“Hand me that map, Publius.” Caesar took the map and stretched it across the neck of his horse, hurriedly tracing out several lines with a bony finger. His face lit up with joy when he found whatever it was he was looking for. “Yes, yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?”
“Think of what, my lord?”
“We need Antony, Publius,” Caesar said vigorously, ignoring the question. “Damn him for his timidity, but we need him now! I must go to Italy at once. I will ride for the coast tonight. I’ll find something to get me across – a fishing boat, a skiff, anything that floats, for Jupiter’s sake – but I will get across!”
“Please, Caesar,” Publius pleaded. “That is madness. Even if you could avoid Pompey’s patrols and reach the coast, the seas are too treacherous this time of year. We cannot risk you. Not to mention what the men might do, should they hear you’ve gone back to Italy.”
“Antony’s message reached us here without problem,” Caesar said optimistically. “Why should it not be the same with me? It will only be for two or three days at the most, Publius.”
“I think I speak for the rest of the legates, Caesar, when I say we cannot allow it for fear of your safety.” Publius exchanged glances with Caesar and saw that the consul comprehended his true fear, which was the prospect that Caesar might choose to remain in Italy and abandon the army. “There must be an alternative solution, my lord.”