Tiro looked chagrined. "Gordianus, I—"
"You should read more Greek novels, Tiro, and less of that insipid poetry Cicero produces."
Within moments we were in the skiff and away from the beach. Tiro unfurled the white sail. Fortex pulled hard at the oars. I sat in the prow, shivering. I had wet my feet getting into the boat. The water was colder than I expected.
I watched the shoreline. The centurion suddenly appeared at the doorway of the hut, looking dazed and rubbing the back of his head. I waved to him and returned the smug smile he had given me earlier. He staggered out of the hut, shook his fist, and yelled something I couldn't make out.
Fortex laughed. "I should like to have cut his throat. I've never killed a centurion. Ah well, perhaps another time."
The wind was with us. So was the current. We skimmed across the smooth water. The shoreline receded and the walls of the city loomed higher. Our course was a bit ragged— Tiro was not quite the sailor he made himself out to be— but despite some zigzagging we kept heading in the general direction of the port. It seemed almost absurdly easy, considering how daunting the task of getting into Brundisium had appeared to me the previous night.
The other skiff was upon us so quickly that it seemed to materialize from thin air. Tiro was busy with the sail. Fortex was rowing with strong, steady strokes. It was I who saw the skiff first, but not until it was almost within arrowshot of us. It was a long sleek boat, larger than ours, with two rowers and two archers, both of whom already held their bows aloft with arrows notched, aimed in our direction.
I looked to see where the skiff had come from, and noticed a strip of shoreline directly across from the port. A considerable contingent of soldiers was gathered there, along with a few small boats. Another skiff was heading out to join the first in pursuing us.
I nudged Tiro and pointed. Just as he turned to look, one of the bowmen released an arrow. We both flinched, but the arrow fell well short, into the water. It was a test shot to gauge the wind and measure the distance. The second bowman released a shot that came substantially closer. Meanwhile, with two rowers to our one, the skiff steadily gained on us.
"By Hercules, Tiro, can't you keep to a straight course?" I shouted. "If you keep zigzagging back and forth, they're bound to catch us before we reach the quay!"
Tiro made no answer. Perversely, it seemed to me, he veered off course, heading directly toward the city wall, instead of continuing at a more oblique angle toward the port. The skiff gained on us rapidly. I heard a noise like a hornet's buzz and ducked. An arrow flew over my head and tore into the sail, where it snagged and caught, the shaft flapping against the taut canvas. We were at their mercy, with no way to defend ourselves. I gazed at the cold water, bracing myself for the moment we would have to abandon the boat, debating whether drowning was preferable to death by arrows.
Suddenly I heard shouting above our heads and looked up to see soldiers manning the harbor wall. I saw the strategy of Tiro's navigation, to bring us close enough to the wall to put our pursuers in range of arrows from the city's defenders. The fact that we were pursued by Caesar's men was enough to bring Pompey's soldiers to our defense.
With a whoosh like carrion birds taking flight, a hail of arrows descended from the wall. Some fell closer to us than to the pursuing skiff. The water was dotted with little vertical splashes. None of the arrows struck a target, but the point was made. Caesar's men stopped closing in on us.
Tiro sailed parallel to the wall, heading for the quay. The pursuers likewise turned and sailed parallel to us, keeping their distance, trying to edge close enough to shoot us with their arrows without being shot themselves by the archers on the wall. I lay back and crouched as low in the boat as I could, not only to avoid arrows but to give Tiro room to move as he struggled with the sail.
I heard a scream from the other boat and saw that one of the archers had been struck by an arrow in his shoulder. He lost his balance and fell into the water. I hoped our pursuers would turn about, but they left the man's rescue to the boat that followed behind them.
We drew closer and closer to the port. A crowd had gathered on the quay to watch, cheering like spectators at a race. Gazing up from the bottom of the boat, I caught glimpses of the archers who trotted along the parapet, keeping up with us. They hooted and laughed whenever they paused to notch an arrow, take aim, and fire. They were above harm, in no danger of return fire from our pursuers. To them the exchange was a lark, a diversion. How different it felt to me, hunkering down in the boat, watching arrows fly overhead.
A hornet's buzz was followed by a splintering crash, and I felt something tickle my nostrils. An arrow had pierced the side of our boat and stopped just short of splicing my nose.
Suddenly the skiff gave a lurch. We abruptly slowed and angled about. My first thought was that Tiro had been struck and had lost control of the sail, but he was still upright, almost on top of me. Then I saw Fortex. He still gripped the oars, his knuckles fish-belly white, but he had stopped rowing. His eyes were open. His lips trembled as if he wanted to speak, but all that emerged from his mouth was a bloody cough. An arrow had pierced his neck clear through. The metal point protruded from one side, the feathered shaft from the other.
Tiro was frantically working the sail and unable to see what had happened. "Row, Fortex!" he yelled. "Row, damn you!" The oars, dipped in the water and held rigidly in place by Fortex's grip, acted as rudders, causing us to spin. Tiro cursed. A moment later the boat struck something with an impact that rattled my teeth. Tiro tumbled overboard. The splash stung my eyes and sent cold water up my nostrils.
I heard cheering, and realized it was the quay we had struck. I blinked and peered over the bow. Our pursuers had kept up the chase until the last possible moment. Now they turned about and headed back. A final, double volley of arrows followed after them, as the archers on the wall were joined by more archers firing from the quay.
I had reached the port of Brundisium, unscathed.
Everyone in the crowd around us seemed to have an opinion.
"He'll probably die if you pull out that arrow."
"He'll die for sure if you leave it in!"
"Are you certain he's still alive?"
Fortex lay flat on his back on the boardwalk, his eyes open and unblinking, his beard thickly matted with coughed-up blood. More blood coated the shaft of the arrow protruding from either side of his neck. His body was absolutely rigid, every muscle quivering with tension. His fingers remained curled in a white-knuckled grip. It had been a struggle to pry them from the oars. It had been a greater struggle to lift him out of the boat and onto the quay. The front of the tunic was smeared with blood.
I stood at his feet, gazing down, unable to take my eyes off him. Tiro stood beside me, shivering and soaking wet.
"What do you think, Gordianus?"
"He's your man, Tiro." We were in Pompey's domain now. I saw no point in maintaining the charade that Tiro was my slave.
Tiro replied in a whisper, his teeth chattering. "The merciful thing might be to put him out of his misery."
Fortex gave no sign that he heard. His wide-open eyes stared up at heaven. The tension in his body was excruciating to witness, as if every muscle were defiantly clenched. Was it fear, or bravery, or simple animal instinct that caused him to hold on so desperately to life?
We had called for a physician, but none had come. I looked at the arrow and wondered what we should do about it. If we cut off one end, the shaft could be removed. But would that only cause more bleeding? Perhaps the arrow was the only thing preventing his jugulars from spurting fountains of blood onto the boardwalk.
It was impossible to watch him quivering in silent agony and do nothing. I made up my mind to remove the arrow. I reached for my dagger. I gritted my teeth, trying not to envision the mess I might make of it.
Before I could move, the crisis ended. The tension in Fortex's body abruptly subsided. His fingers uncurled. His eyes rolled upward. A sigh escaped his lips, like a low note from a flute. He crossed his own Rubicon and departed for the River Styx.
The crowd relaxed with a collective murmur of relief. People went about their business. A living man with an arrow through his neck was something to see. A dead man was not.
"Funny," said Tiro, "how sometimes a man lives precisely as long as he needs to, and no more."
"What do you mean?"
"Fortex. It was his task to get me safely to Pompey. If he'd been shot a minute sooner, we'd never have made it to the quay. You and I would have died in the boat with him. Instead it happened just so, and here we are. As if the gods decreed it."
"You believe every man has a destiny, then? Even slaves?"
Tiro shrugged. "I don't know. Great men have a destiny. Perhaps the rest of us have one only insofar as we cross their paths and play a part in their destinies."
"Is that what makes you so brave, Tiro? Belief in destiny?"
"Brave?"
"On the mountain, facing Otacilius. In Antony's camp. In Caesar's tent. In the boat, standing up to work the sail, with arrows whizzing past your nose."
Tiro shrugged. I looked past him, to the gates that opened from the boardwalk into the city. A determined-looking centurion and a company of soldiers were marching directly toward us.
"This journey we've taken together, Tiro— did I facilitate your destiny, or did your facilitate mine?"
"It would seem to have been mutual."
"And the role of Fortex was simply to get us here?"
"What else?"
"I wonder if Fortex would have seen it that way. What about that nameless wagon driver?"
"He got us over the mountains, didn't he? It all worked out for the best."
"Not for him. Still, if you're right, the gods have seen us safe thus far. If they intend for me to accomplish what I came for, then I shall live a little longer, at least. I shall try to be as brave as you've been."
Tiro gave me a puzzled frown, then stepped forward to meet the soldiers. The centurion asked his name.
"Soscarides. I expect you've been briefed to look for my arrival."
"Quite a show, from what the archers tell me." The centurion was a grizzled veteran with a big homely face and a tight little smile.
"I'm to report directly to the Great One himself and to no one else," said Tiro.
The centurion nodded. "Who's the dead man?"
"A slave. My bodyguard."
"And this one? Another slave?"
Tiro laughed. "Hold up your hand and show your citizen's ring, Gordianus. Centurion, this man is also known to the Great One. He'll come with me."
The centurion grunted. "Well, you can't report to the imperator as you are— you soaking wet, and this one with blood all down his tunic. I'll see what we can do about a change of clothes."
"There's no time," said Tiro. "You must take us to Pompey at once."
"Castor and Pollux, hold your horses!" The centurion scanned the loiterers on the boardwalk and pointed to a well-dressed civilian. "You there! Yes, you, and your friend. Both of you, come here!" When the two men hung back, the centurion snapped his fingers. Soldiers ran and fetched them by force.
The centurion looked the two men up and down. "Yes, you both look about the right size. And your clothes aren't too shabby. Strip!"
The men's jaws dropped. The centurion snapped his fingers. The soldiers assisted the men in taking off their clothes.
"Not so rough!" yelled the centurion. "Don't tear the tunics. Which one do you prefer, Soscarides?"
Tiro blinked. "The yellow, I suppose."
"Good enough. You who were in the yellow, take off your loincloth as well. Go on! My friend Soscarides here is wet to the balls and needs a dry one." He turned to Tiro and me. "Go on, fellows, take off those things you're wearing and put on your new clothes."
I pulled my bloody tunic over my head. "What is this predilection these military types have for making other men strip?" I said to Tiro under my breath, thinking of our humiliation by Otacilius on the mountainside. Caesar had said that Pompey's men had alienated the citizens of Brundisium. I could see how.
The centurion looked at our feet. "Shoes, too!" he shouted at the two hapless civilians. They both gave a start, then obediently knelt and began untying the straps at their ankles.
"I can bear to let my own shoes dry on my feet," said Tiro, standing naked for a moment as he exchanged his wet loincloth for the dry one.
The centurion shook his head. "Take it from me. I've marched men to the Pillars of Hercules and back. I'm an expert on feet. You'll be glad of having a pair of dry shoes, once things start moving."
"Moving?" said Tiro, slipping the yellow tunic over his head. It was an excellent fit.
The centurion squinted at the westering sun above the city skyline. "Sun's sinking. Where do the hours go? Once it's dark, things will start to move, fast and furious. Believe me, you'll be glad you're wearing clean clothes and dry shoes! Remember me then, friend Soscarides, and say a prayer for the centurion who looked after you as sweetly as your own dear mother!"
• • •
To slow the progress of Caesar's men once they entered the city, Pompey had barricaded all the major streets at various points and had also laid traps. These were trenches dug across the width of a street, lined across the bottom with sharpened stakes, covered with wicker screens and concealed by a thin layer of earth. Our progress to the city center was necessarily restricted to a course which meandered through secondary streets and alleyways. The centurion led the way while his soldiers formed a cordon around Tiro and me.
Officially, the townspeople had been confined to their homes, but in fact they were everywhere in the streets, yelling, frantically rushing about, wearing expressions of thinly suppressed panic. If Caesar's camp had seemed a beehive abuzz with orderly movement, then Brundisium was an antbed turned by the farmer's plow. I came to appreciate the calm determination of our centurion, who seemed unfazed by it all.