Steven Saylor - Rubicon

After a good night's sleep in Beneventum, Tiro decided that we should leave the Appian Way and strike out on an old mountain road that cut directly west to east across the Apennines. "A shortcut," Tiro called it. He insisted that we exchange our horses for a wagon and a slave to drive it. The stabler in Beneventum wrinkled his nose when he saw Pompey's seal on the document. He tried to resist the trade, but Tiro was in no mood to haggle. At last the man gave us a wagon with a canvas top and a toothless slave to drive it.

The wagon seemed unnecessary to me. Saddlebags were adequate for our provisions, and our progress on steep, winding roads would be faster on horseback. As we set out that morning, I said as much to Tiro. He shook his head and pointed toward the dull gray clouds that wreathed the mountaintops. Later that day, his judgment was confirmed. A few miles into the foothills, the sky opened and poured rain, then sleet, then hail. While we sat in the covered wagon, bundled in dry blankets, the miserable driver shivered and sneezed and urged the horses on.

The storm grew worse, until at last we had to stop at a little inn beside the road. We spent the night there- and the next three fretful days as well, as the storm continued to howl and bluster. Recriminations were pointless, but I still felt obliged to suggest to Tiro that we would have done better to stay on the Appian Way. He said the same storm would likely have trapped us no matter what route we took, and we were lucky to have found a snug place to pass the time. To combat the tedium, the innkeeper had a small library of well-worn scrolls (trashy Greek novels and dubious erotic poetry) as well as a supply of board games. After three days, I decided I could die happy if I never read another story of shipwrecked lovers. I envied Fortex and the wagon driver, who both seemed content to sleep day and night in the stable, like hibernating bears.

Occasionally, over a game of Circus Maximus or Pharaohs Down the Nile, I sensed that Tiro was trying to draw me out, following Cicero's instructions to discover my intentions and any secrets I might know about the death of Numerius Pompeius. As subtly as I could, I always deflected him and changed the subject.

At last, the storm passed. A full day of travel brought us to the eastern slopes of the mountains. We slept that night at an inn nestled amid rocky bluffs and pine forests. The following morning, watching the sunrise from the window of our room on the upper floor, I glimpsed a smudge of silver and blue in the distance that Tiro declared to be the Adriatic. It was our eleventh day out of Rome.

The sky was cloudless. We set out with the wagon uncovered. After an hour or so, descending through a narrow mountain pass, we encountered the soldiers.

We heard them first. The low booming of marching drums echoed up through the folds of the mountain. Tiro told the wagon driver to stop. I listened closely. Along with the drums I heard the stamp of feet and a muffled clatter of armor. Tiro and I left the driver and Fortex in the wagon. We climbed to the top of a rocky knob and gazed down.

Thousands of men were marching up from the coastal plain. Their helmets in the morning sunlight merged into a glittering ribbon that snaked sinuously up the mountainside, over crests, through saddles, around bends, filling the width of the road as water fills a river channel.

"Caesar's men, or Pompey's?" I said.

Tiro squinted. "I'm not sure. I know the insignia of every cohort and legion, but they're not close enough for me to tell."

"They soon will be, at the speed they're marching. There must be thousands of them! The column goes on for miles. I can't see the end of it." I looked back at the wagon. "I suppose we'll have to pull off the road as best we can and wait for the whole army to pass. That could take all day."

Tiro fretfully shook his head. "What does it mean? They don't have the look of a defeated army, that's for sure. Too disciplined. Too many of them! If they're Pompey's men, they can't have reached the mountains without encountering Caesar. That can only mean that Caesar's been defeated. Pompey's crushed him, and now Pompey and the senators who fled are heading back to Rome. The crisis is over- if this is Pompey…"

I nodded, wondering what that would mean to Davus, to Meto. The tramping and clattering grew louder moment by moment, booming and bouncing across the rarefied mountain air until it seemed to emanate from the empty sky like constant thunder.

"And if they're Caesar's men?" I asked.

Tiro shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe Pompey escaped from Brundisium before Caesar could reach him, and now Caesar has turned back, empty-handed. Or did Caesar trap him there, annihilate his forces, and then turn back toward Rome? But there can't have been time enough for a siege. It makes no sense. These must be Pompey's men…"

He sucked in a breath. "Numa's balls!" Tiro cursed so rarely that I stared at him in wonder. His face was ashen. "Of course! Not Pompey's men, and not Caesar's either!"

"Tiro, you're making no sense."

"There, do you see those advance scouts riding ahead of the rest? See the band of polished copper around their helmets?"

I squinted. "I can't quite-"

"I'm sure of it: a copper band. And the officers will have copper disks on their breastplates, showing a lion's head. Domitius owns copper mines. These are his cohorts, the men who betrayed him in Corfinium."

"Coming after Domitius to claim lost pay?" I suggested.

Tiro was not amused. "Perhaps they've turned against Caesar. But no, surely they'd be marching to join Pompey, if that were the case." He looked frantically back at the wagon, where the driver and Fortex stared up at us, perplexed. "Infernal Pluto! There's no way we can hide the wagon- the road's hemmed by boulders and trees, and we haven't passed a branch road for miles." He shook his head. "I should have traded the driver and wagon for horses this morning. On horseback, we might have had some chance to hide ourselves."

"Does it matter? We could simply be innocent travelers crossing the mountains."

"On this road, Gordianus, there are no innocent travelers."

He seemed close to panic. I tried to calm him. "We'll hide among the rocks, Tiro. The driver can stay with the wagon and tell them he's traveling alone."

"The driver would tell them everything at the first rattle of a sword."

"Take the driver with us, then."

"And leave an abandoned wagon by the side of the road? That would be even more suspicious. They'd be sure to search for us then, and they'd find us in minutes. How would that look- four men with something to hide, skulking in the woods?"

"You're right. We have no choice but to stay with the wagon. When the advance scouts arrive, we'll wave and smile and remark on what fine weather we're having."

Tiro took a deep breath. "You're right. We must simply brazen it out. You'll be the master and I'll be your slave. Why shouldn't you be heading for Caesar's camp? You have a son under his command."

"Yes, that's the story, all the better because it's partly true. First, I suggest we leave this hilltop. Peering down at them like this- it makes us look like spies, don't you think?"

He managed a crooked smile. "Start back without me. I need to relieve myself."

"Go ahead. Don't be shy."

He winced. "No, Gordianus, it's not my bladder. A fright like this- it goes straight to my bowels."

Tiro hurried into the woods. I cast a final look at the endless stream of men pouring up the mountain, then scrambled down the hillside and rejoined the others.

Tiro arrived at the wagon just before the first scout on horseback came through the pass. The soldier rode slowly toward us, warily scanning the trees and boulders behind us. He stopped several paces away.