Morituri Te Salutant: Those Who Are About to Die, Greet You

By Jurgen W Schulze

Peter Scott, an insurance investigator with his own agenda, pursues a potentially fraud-tainted claim. Stepping on the toes of a New York Mafia boss and becoming involved with former IRA procurers, he leaves a trail of death behind him as his investigations progress. The chase takes Scott to Europe, Africa and Hawaii, and Scott has to learn that his success comes at a very high price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 22, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469724492

Jurgen W Schulze

Jurgen W Schulze read law at the University of Hamburg, and was admitted to the Bar in 1979. He moved to London later in the same year, working as a claims adjuster. From 1983, he practiced law in London. He has worked since 1998 as an Insurance Consultant in New Jersey and Florida. His earlier publications include numerous articles published in Marine, International Law and Insurance periodicals, including Lloyd's List.

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All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Jurgen W Schulze

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Even though this book is based on certain historical events, I have taken frequent liberties by adding purely fictitious characters and changing some historical facts and events for the benefit of the storyline. All of the (added) characters are purely fictitious, and any similarities with real living or dead persons are unintentional and purely coincidental.

All views and opinions expressed are mine, and I accept full responsibility for any inaccuracies, historical or otherwise.

ISBN: 0-595-26784-X

ISBN: 978-1-4697-2449-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Foreword

PROLOGUE

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 23

C H A P T E R 24

C H A P T E R 25

C H A P T E R 26

C H A P T E R 27

C H A P T E R 28

C H A P T E R 29

C H A P T E R 30

C H A P T E R 31

C H A P T E R 32

C H A P T E R 33

C H A P T E R 34

C H A P T E R 35

C H A P T E R 36

C H A P T E R 37

C H A P T E R 38

C H A P T E R 39

C H A P T E R 40

C H A P T E R 41

C H A P T E R 42

C H A P T E R 43

C H A P T E R 44

C H A P T E R 45

C H A P T E R 46

C H A P T E R 47

C H A P T E R 48

C H A P T E R 49

C H A P T E R 50

C H A P T E R 51

C H A P T E R 52

C H A P T E R 53

C H A P T E R 54

C H A P T E R 55

C H A P T E R 56

C H A P T E R 57

C H A P T E R 58

C H A P T E R 59

C H A P T E R 60

C H A P T E R 61

C H A P T E R 62

C H A P T E R 63

C H A P T E R 64

C H A P T E R 65

C H A P T E R 66

C H A P T E R 67

C H A P T E R 68

C H A P T E R 69

C H A P T E R 70

C H A P T E R 71

C H A P T E R 72

C H A P T E R 73

C H A P T E R 74

C H A P T E R 75

C H A P T E R 76

C H A P T E R 77

C H A P T E R 78

C H A P T E R 79

C H A P T E R 80

C H A P T E R 81

C H A P T E R 82

C H A P T E R 83

C H A P T E R 84

C H A P T E R 85

C H A P T E R 86

C H A P T E R 87

C H A P T E R 88

C H A P T E R 89

C H A P T E R 90

C H A P T E R 91

C H A P T E R 92

EPILOGUE

As we wander along the path of life, there will always be someone joining us for part of the way. Some will become friends, some will remain acquaintances, and there will also be some who may become very special to us. This is the time and moment to thank all of those who joined me on my path, and invariably left their mark. I shall always be indebted to my parents who have stood by me with their love and support. My gratitude extends to Dr. Karl-F. Puchta, whose guidance, patience and personality have been a beacon in my earlier life. However, this short list would not be complete without mentioning M.F.P. She has provided me with the missing link of the jigsaw puzzle of life, and her occasionally involuntary contributions and inspirations not only made this book possible, but also have been a great comfort throughout.

Foreword

Thou art the Great Chief, the first among thy brethren, the Prince of the Company of the Gods, the stablisher of Right and Truth throughout the World, the son who was set on the great throne of his father Keb. Thou art the beloved of thy mother Nut, the mighty one of valour, who overthrew the Sebau-fiend. Thou didst stand up and smite thine enemy, and set thy fear in thine adversary. Thou dost bring the boundaries of the mountains. Thy heart is fixed, thy legs are set firm. Thou art the heir of Keb and of the sovereignty of the Two Lands.

—Hymn to Isis, The Egyptian Book of the Dead, The Papyrus of Ani, translated by E.A. Wallis Budge

Not long before, she had built for herself a number of high monuments and tombs of great beauty near the temple of Isis, and she now collected here all the most precious items of the royal treasures, gold, silver, emeralds, pearls, ebony, ivory, and cinnamon—and also a great quantity of firewood and tinder. Octavian became alarmed at these preparations, and as he drew nearer to the city with his army he continued to send her messages and hints of generous treatment, for he was afraid that Cleopatra might set fire to all this wealth in a fit of despair.

—Plutarch, Life of Anthony

PROLOGUE

I am not feeling too well today. The New Jersey air does not really agree with me, but my doctors say that I should enjoy it whilst I can, and that I should stay here for the rest of my days. They do not give me much time to live, maybe a month or two. Aged 51, I believe that my moment has not yet come, but my doctors are adamant that I will not last much longer. At least, that is what they are certain of. Not that they have any idea what is actually wrong with me. Over the last two years, I must have undergone more tests and examinations than several generations of laboratory animals will ever experience. As a result of all this, even my medical insurance is looking anxiously forward to my demise. I said it before, and I shall say it again: What has mankind achieved if one can send human beings to the moon or any other stars, planets or galaxies, but cannot cure or even find a name for my illness, let alone offer me some treatment. This obviously assumes that one does not subscribe to the conspiracy theory that no American ever landed on the moon, and all the films and photos were just studio shots and fakes—but that’s another story.

Yes, I admit to intense bitterness. I am physically and mentally exhausted, and there is no real hope left in me. To distract myself, and purely upon the advice of my doctors, I have taken up writing. There is a lot to tell, although I sometimes wonder who will want to read what I put down on paper. I cannot pass on a pirate’s treasure map or pearls of wisdom; I never cracked the art of becoming wealthy; neither was I ever a managerial genius, shaking the very foundations of modern economy, raising a small corporation to unknown heights. The bottom line is: I am very much like you, my dear reader (well, in some respects). There were ups and downs in my life (it should be pretty obvious where I am now); there were good days and bad. I enjoyed life, or to be more accurate: the good days in life, taking the bad ones as the price one has to pay.

You must think of me as being very rude. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Peter Scott. I know that this does not mean anything to you, but believe me, there will be a time—provided you have the heart and stamina to plough through the pages that follow—when you will say to yourself: Let me never have the same experience. I do not refer to my illness. I do refer to the experiences of the few months before my illness started. After a lot of deliberation, I resolved to tell you of these events. You should have the chance to see and read what happened to me. More importantly, I want to get it off my chest, hoping that it will afford me some relief. I fear that this may well be a vain hope, but once you come to the point where I am now, you clutch at every straw. I am not seeking forgiveness for the wrongs that I have committed, nor am I trying to extract from you a degree of sympathy. What’s done, is done, and cannot be undone. I shall be judged upon the basis of what I did.

Now, where shall I start? Perhaps I should ask you to meet Marcus Sepulius Gato, a legionary foot soldier of the Second Cohort in the Legion IV Macedonia. Yes, you guessed correctly: he was a Roman (at least, that is what he claimed to be), and lived just a tick over two thousand years ago. I never had the pleasure of shaking his hand (the way I feel at the moment, I probably would have cut it off instead), but he is what you could describe loosely as the trigger-man. His very life is the beginning of a chain of events, which ends, as you will see if you are patient enough, in New Jersey (of all places), about two millenniums later. You could even pass him off as a unique Y2K bug, if you permit the metaphor. That is, one of the few bugs that actually materialized.

I will not make any apologies for the gaps in the account that follows. Sometimes, the thread simply broke, and I could not piece together all the parts of the mosaic that I had stumbled across. This will merely convince you, I hope, that what I am telling you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, meaning my truth; the way I figured it out and put it together in my mind.

We shall meet Marcus Sepulius Gato for the first time on September 1 of the year 31 BC. The location is Actium, on the eastern side of the Adriatic Sea, in the borderlands of the provinces of Macedonia and Achaia (that is Greece for those of you who were ill during your geography lessons at Junior School). Yes, you guessed correctly: It is the day before the famous battle between the Roman forces led by Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, general of Gaius Octavian (better known as Augustus or Richard Burton of Hollywood fame), and the mixed Roman-Egyptian forces under the command of Marcus Antonius aka Marc Anthony. I should add that on this day the wind blew from a northwesterly direction, and the consuls for the year were Octavian Thurinus and Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus.

C H A P T E R 1

Let me tell you, Rufus, I’m not looking forward to this battle. You know that I am not a coward, but on these so-called ships, we are just sitting ducks. Whatever gave our great leader the idea to order parts of our cohort to act as support forces for the Navy? We fight our battles on land, not water.

Marcus Sepulius Gato faced his friend and co-legionnaire Rufus Terrantus Valeria. He knew that the feeling he had just expressed was commonly shared amongst those in the main camp (adjacent to Octavian’s anchorage) as well as the advance camp, which had been built close to the Gulf of Ambracia where most of Marc Anthony’s naval forces sought shelter from the perils presented by the Ionian Sea.

Now, here is an idea: why don’t you go up to Agrippa’s command post and tell him just that? I’m sure that he will be fascinated to hear your views on the military strategy he should employ. You know where it is: Just walk down to the foot of the hill, and tell the guards that you want to have a word with him. Man to man, Roman to Roman, Rufus mocked.

Thank you very much for your advice. Since I cannot be reduced in rank any further, I am tempted to do just that.

Marcus, perhaps you should think about your pension. You can still get kicked out of the army and loose your land allocation as well as your cash praemia. From the 225 Denari, which we are supposed to get per year—thank you again, Gaius Julius Caesar for having doubled our pay—you cannot provide for the rest of your miserable life, get a wife, impregnate her, bring up children, and have some fun—although not necessarily in that order. You know as well as I do that, what makes the difference, is a fat bounty and the praemia at the end of the service, provided that there is enough money available to whoever happens to be in charge. Obviously, it helps if you are still alive by that time as well. Anyway, you were only kidding, weren’t you?

Rufus was never quite certain when Marcus Sepulius Gato was joking or being serious. They had served nearly fifteen years together, lately in the Legion IV Macedonia, and experienced quite lively times, for their beloved Rome, of which they saw little, underwent one of the dramatic changes that were to influence the Ancient World for at least the next two centuries. Life in the army was rough, but in Agrippa they had found a leader and general who knew what he was doing. Deep down, Agrippa was no different from the legionnaires he commanded, and it was this understanding that had created a strong bond between him and the troops who were willing to follow him to hell. And often, that’s exactly where he led them.

Neither Rufus nor Marcus had been in Rome for several years, always attending trouble spots far away from their beloved city. After Julius Caesar’s untimely death in 44 BC, Rome had been given to turmoil. Brutus, one of the chief conspirators against Julius Caesar, had been hunted by Marc Anthony and Octavian (who at the time still shared the command of the empire), and eventually defeated during the battle at Pharsalus in 42 BC, later committing suicide. Rufus and Marcus had been in that battle, and were now at the eve of the next decisive conflict, since Marc Anthony and Octavian had fallen out with each other.

The presence of the Legion IV Macedonia in Actium was not entirely without irony since, having been formed by Gaius Julius Caesar in 48 BC, it originally supported Marc Anthony. But the legion defected to Octavian at the Battle of Forum Gallorum in 43 BC, and was now one of his staunchest supporters. Historians have occasionally doubted whether IV Macedonia participated in the Battle of Actium—this is, of course, complete nonsense as Marcus Sepulius Gato and all the other legionnaires would be able to confirm if anybody bothered to ask them.

Rufus, I am not stupid enough to risk my praemia. As matters stand, the odds against me getting killed tomorrow or during our battle with Marc Anthony are 2:1. I say that because, as our great leader told us the other day, we are full of fighting spirit for the glory of Rome, whereas the troops, on which Marc Anthony relies, are comprised of degenerates and frightened imbeciles. They are deserting him and his cause at a rate, which our supplies cannot support for much longer. However, those comedians who stayed with him have to be taken seriously because they know what is going to happen to them if they are defeated. That’s why I give it 2:1. Do you really believe that I am going to reduce my chances of getting the praemia even more by telling our great leader what he should do? Get real.

Marcus gave Rufus a friendly slap on the shoulder. Both were dressed in the standard linen undergarment, over which they wore their short-sleeved woolen tunic that extended to the knees, displaying the Bull and Capricorn, their legion’s emblem. The body armor they would don during marches or battles had been left in their tent, which they shared with six other legionnaires.

Fine, I hear what you say, Marcus, and I am delighted. I would hate to loose a friend at this time. Anyway, changing the subject, any idea what the order of the day is?

Well, at about noon, our great leader and supreme general, the very esteemed Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, is going to render his speech before battle, for which we are supposed to show up in full battle dress and armor. I suppose that, revealing character that he is, he will tell us where we are, why we are engaging in battle with Marc Anthony, that we are the greatest and best thing Rome has ever seen, that Rome is relying on us, and that he is going to kick our asses personally if we loose.

Don’t be so cynical, Marcus. You know as well as I do that it is part of his job to lift our spirits and give encouragement, Rufus admonished his comrade-in-arms, sporting a cheeky grin.

True, but I am really getting sick of this ‘get-up-and-go’ rubbish. Man, we are in the army, and going into battle is our job. Since it is our bad luck if we get killed, there is really no need to tell us that we better stay alive, be it for the glory of Rome or just for the feeling of hope that one fine day, we might actually get paid, Marcus said rather seriously.

Agreed, but you have to bear in mind that this battle is slightly different from what we experienced in the past, Pharsalus excepted. Tomorrow, we shall be engaging in combat with other Roman troops, brother against brother, in a manner of speaking.

Like always, it’s just a question of power. Octavian, as the adopted son of Julius Caesar, obviously feels that he should be the man in charge, and ever since Marc Anthony fell for this Egyptian tart, he lost his brains as well as his balls. She must be pretty good in bed to twist so many heads. I still don’t understand how she managed to conquer the old fox Caesar. That wicked man could outsmart a whole legion before breakfast, and there he goes to Egypt and his brain goes soft. Never mind his what’s-its.

Well, Marcus, same story all along: Old man, young woman. If she had offered you her pearl flat in your face, would you have said ‘no’ to that? Come on, you randy old fart, you would have had her even before she said ‘jump me’, correct?

A broad grin spread over Marcus’ face. His friend knew him well.

Point conceded. But, and here is the difference, I am a soldier, and women are in a way part of my pay. Since we only have three paydays per year and you cannot rely on that in every sense either, I have to make do with whatever comes my way. Caesar, on the other hand, was the man in charge of Rome and our empire. If some juvenile female spreads her legs and invites him into her bedchamber, one would expect him to be a statesman first, and a randy bastard second. But, Rufus, I accept that there must be something about her because I would have thought that Marc Anthony could have been a bit more selective than dropping his wife for this pre-owned chariot. Still, Rome needs to be governed from Rome and not from an Egyptian bed. I have to say that I am a bit disappointed with Marc Anthony. He seemed to be somewhat more with it after Julius’ death.

Yes, that’s true, but he went for the Egyptian whore with body and soul. The only Roman thing about him is his exterior—in spirit, he deserted us.

That is a good phrase. You should ask Agrippa to include that in his speech.

Marcus gave his friend another slap on the shoulder, and turned away to discharge his bowls. He had learned over the years that when it came to attending a pre-battle speech, it was a good idea to do so with clean bowls and an empty bladder. Some of the generals had the habit of speaking for hours, tiring the troops out before they even raised their spears and swords against the enemy. Marcus liked short and sharp speeches. Caesar had been the greatest culprit in this regard. Marcus could recall one occasion when Caesar went on for nearly three hours—the man just liked the sound of his own voice, even more than Cicero. There was a vicious rumor that the crossing of the Rubicon had nearly been delayed by a day because—contrary to general perception—the famous words alia jacta est were not the only ones Caesar had uttered on that day, and the sunlight was nearly beginning to fade by the time he had finished his speech of resolve, encouragement and determination.

At noon, the troops assembled outside the general’s tent. Agrippa, clothed in the same manner as the men he was about to address apart from a slightly more ornate gilded belt plate, walked erect from his command post to a grass covered elevation from which he could see his men and look them directly in their eyes.

I am Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, your general, he started with a full voice that carried afar. We are gathered here together as an army to engage an enemy of Rome in battle who once was our friend and trusted fellow leader. He has turned traitor to Rome, to what Rome stands for, the Roman people, and most importantly, he has betrayed you, the Roman army. Marc Anthony and his juvenile bed companion Cleopatra, who calls herself Queen of Egypt, have turned away from Rome and abandoned the people of Rome to indulge in their lust for power and each other. When Julius Caesar was murdered, we faced troubling times. We relied on men such as Octavian, his son, and Marc Anthony to lead us to glory, power, and strength.

Here we go again, Marcus whispered to Rufus who stood next to him. A brief Roman history, Chapter I.

Marc Anthony went off to Egypt, and allied himself with the Egyptian whore, forgetting the duties he owed Rome, the Senate as well as the people of Rome.

I bet you five Denari, given half a chance, Agrippa would have jumped her as well, Marcus whispered.

Shut up, Marcus, you’ll get us all into trouble, Rufus admonished him.

Whereas Octavian proved to be the loyal keeper of Roman values and tradition, Marc Anthony engaged in betrayal and adultery, and it is he who is now threatening Rome and the people of Rome with his troops.

Ah, that’s an interesting one, Marcus said. So, we have come all the way from Gaul to Actium only to find ourselves attacked by Marc Anthony. Just goes to show how erroneous my thoughts were. I could have sworn that we were ordered to tramp across half of the Empire to attack him.

Marcus, if you do not keep your big mouth shut, I will shut it for you in a moment, Rufus hissed. He was getting rather annoyed with Marcus’ running commentary.

I do not have to tell you why we are here at Actium.

But you just did, Marcus interjected.

For the sake of the Gods, shut up, Rufus shouted at Marcus, his voice carrying rather further than he had anticipated.

You, over there, Agrippa pointed his finger at Rufus, repeat what you just said.

When Rufus realized that he had become the center of attention, he turned pale. Trying to compose himself, he addressed Agrippa in a humble voice:—

Forgive me, my general, but my bowls are rumbling, and I suffer from ill winds. I was telling my internals to shut up so that I could hear you better.

Well lied, my friend, Marcus grinned.

I am certain that we would all be very happy to allow you to dispose of your ill winds elsewhere. Marc Anthony has already created such a foul smell around here that we do not need yours as well, Agrippa stated, suppressing a smile. Some men of the lower ranks laughed.

But let me continue. Tomorrow, we shall annihilate the traitor and his juvenile bed companion. I have instructed your commanders and centurions in respect of the order of the battle, and they know what to do. There is only one thing I have to say to you. You will be fighting for Rome and the people of Rome. Only full and resounding victory will do. Traitors of Rome suffer defeat, and it will be you who deliver this deadly message. We have sacrificed to the Gods, and the omens are excellent. Since the Gods are with us, we will win. I shall rely on each and every one of you. For Rome, for the people of Rome, and for the glory of Rome.

Before speaking the last words, Agrippa had raised his right hand in the traditional Roman greeting, and the troops joined in the chorus, making the ground vibrate in awe of Rome.

C H A P T E R 2

The troops rested well during the night. Although Agrippa had given clear orders that no wine was to be dispensed or consumed until after complete victory had been achieved, many had managed to smuggle jugs of cheap fermented grape juice, mostly of dubious origin, into their tents, and the deafening snoring that emanated from some tents indicated that it had had the desired effect.

At dawn, the legionnaires dressed quietly, and began their brief march to the vessels. Each ship was to receive a compliment of ten Contubernia, equivalent to 80 soldiers, to support the ships’ crews and add to the fighting forces aboard. Thus the cohorts were split up into small units, and many friends found themselves separated from each other and allocated to different vessels.

While about half of the army proceeded to the anchorage, the other half began to march towards the advance camp. Agrippa had determined, of course in consultation with Octavian, that the main strike was to be at sea, but land forces would attack Marc Anthony’s camp at the same time for additional effect. To be able to do this, the troops had to cross the stretch of water separating the Gulf of Ambracia from the Ionian Sea, and Agrippa had secured a fleet of small crafts for the purpose.

Marcus Sepulius Gato did not feel well at all. Although his friend Rufus had joked about his own bowel problems the day before to escape the wrath of Agrippa for interrupting ‘The Speech before Battle’, Marcus’ pain was real. Nearly every ten paces, he broke foul smelling winds, and Rufus began to wonder how much air one slim built person could retain.

I’ll tell you one thing, Marcus, if you carry on like this, Marc Anthony is definitely going to flee. No one can stand this smell over any length of time. What on earth did you eat yesterday?

Apologetically, Marcus said, I am sorry about this, but my stomach is literally rotating. It must have been whatever I had for dinner. As if this needed reinforcement, the last words were accompanied by yet another forceful eruption of his bowels, which would have make Mount Vesuvius pale with envy.

Damn it, stop this or I’ll ram a cork up your ass, Rufus barked at him. Marcus merely shrugged his shoulders. He would have been happy to oblige, but alas, nature did not allow him to do so.

When they arrived at the anchorage, a centurion directed the Contubernia to the individual vessels. Within a few moments, they found themselves on the deck of a veteran ship that had already seen action during the battle against Sextus some five years earlier. Minutes later, Marcus observed that they began to move, with a gentle wind from the northwest making the task of the oarsmen slightly easier. It was only the second time for both Marcus and Rufus on board a ship, and their confidence fell even further when they heard the captain shouting commands in his native Greek language.

I do not trust these Greeks, he observed. Well, you have no choice in the matter, Marcus, Rufus admonished him. As you well know, no decent Roman soldier volunteers for the Navy, and therefore they have to take whatever they can get.

Rufus was quite right with his observation. Service in the Navy was anything but popular. Not only was the service period of twenty-six years a whole year longer than for Roman army troops, but the reward at the end was usually no more than Roman citizenship since most of the sailors were merely freedmen.

I like to have a Greek in front of me, never behind me. Do you know what they do to sheep in their spare time? Marcus asked, relying on tales he had overheard at one of the numerous campfire nights.

You’re just impossible. With your bowels being what they are at the moment, you have nothing to worry about. And sheep are much more sensible than you think, Rufus reproached him. But they always have such happy faces, Marcus added to have the last word, giggling quietly.

Their vessel was making good progress. To the left (or, more accurately, to port), they saw Marc Anthony’s fleet, which had formed a semi-circle around the mouth of the channel reaching out from the Gulf of Ambracia, and their aim was to form a wider semi-circle around Marc Anthony’s fleet so that he would be trapped and prevented from fleeing to Alexandria.

Octavian and Agrippa’s vessel were divided into two groups. The northern part of the semi-circle was under the command of L. Arruntius, the southern part of M. Lurius. Both were respected generals and had the full confidence of their commander.

Well before midday, the vessels were in position, and it was very obvious to Marc Anthony that he was to be locked into the Gulf of Ambracia. Alas, it was wholly unclear to Marcus whether the ship on which he had the misfortune of sailing, deliberately started to turn into the enemy fleet or if Marc Anthony’s vessels began the attack. Despite of the slow speed, Marcus suddenly realized that they were approaching an enemy craft on a collision course, and his imagination ran wild.

Rufus, we are going to collide with them. With our heavy breast armor, we don’t stand a chance when we get thrown into the water. We’ll sink like rocks. His voice barely concealed the panic he felt.

First of all, Rufus sought to calm him down, you surely mean ‘if’ we get thrown into the water rather than ‘when’. Secondly, the whole point of the exercise is to ram the ship we are heading for. Did you not see that pointed and carved beam up to the front of the ship? It’s called a ramrod. It is designed to embed itself in the side of the other craft and to disable and kill their oarsmen. But beforehand, we shall bombard them with our little firepots, setting the deck on fire. Ramming is only the last act in the sequence. Rufus was pleased that he had at long last found a subject of which he knew more than Marcus.

At this moment, the catapults were being prepared. Earthenware pots, filled with tar, small stones and some straw were set alight, and the catapults would throw them at quite some distance, although aiming at targets was a rather complicated and usually fairly hopeless task. The first attempts ended in complete failure since the pots fell well short of the opposing vessel, breaking on contact with the water, and sinking rapidly. However, once closer, some of them did make the odd hit, shattering into a thousand pieces on impact. The compliments were reciprocated, and one or two of the enemy missiles landed successfully on the deck of their own vessel. Sand and water were used to extinguish the resulting fires, and on balance, they took fewer hits than their opponent.

The two vessels were approaching each other steadily, and appeared to be less than fifty feet apart.

Rufus, what exactly happens when we ram these guys, I mean, does our ship not break up as well? Marcus feared that before his friend was able to provide him with an explanation, he would find out for himself. And he was right. The Greek captain suddenly ordered the rudder to be turned to port, so that the bows would swing away from the opponent, but shortly afterwards, he ordered the rudder to sharp starboard so that he approached the other ship at nearly a right angle. This was just enough to be able to aim his ramming gear directly behind the bows of the oncoming vessel, and before his counterpart had an opportunity to react and engage in an evasive maneuver, the ramming gear, reinforced with bronze bands and hooks, embedded itself firmly in the forward midship section of the wooden hull of the opponent vessel. Marcus could not work out whether he was more terrified by the impact, the horrendous noise created by splintering wood, breaking oars, and shrieking oarsmen, or the invisible force that catapulted him forward. Marcus fell onto the deck, knocking himself unconscious when his head hit the hardwood planks. His last thought was dedicated to the sharp pain traveling through his head and spine, and then there followed blackness around him.

Marcus missed the attack that followed, first with javelins hurled at whoever was visible on the deck of the opponent, then with more fire pots. The ship would not be boarded because the firepot missiles previously employed had already begun to take their toll. The poop and quarterdeck were fully ablaze, and the ship was doomed to be consumed by fire shortly. Marc Anthony’s crew had little heart for fighting and preferred to throw their protective armory away before jumping over board. Marcus was also unable to watch the frantic attempts of the Greek captain to extract his vessel from the bows of the other, the rapid beat of the drummers used to encourage the oarsmen to give their utmost so as to allow the vessel to move astern and extract herself from the deadly wounded opponent.

In fact, Marcus missed the rest of the entire battle. He did not see that the fierceness of the attack by Octavian’s fleet led Cleopatra to believe that all was lost, including her beloved Marc Anthony, and to make a break through the stretched center section of the Roman forces for Egypt. Cleopatra’s desertion caused the rest of Marc Anthony’s fleet to panic and loose any hope for victory, forcing Marc Anthony to follow his lover with some 70 to 80 ships somewhat hastily, leaving the rest to be conquered or destroyed by L. Arruntius and M. Lurius. Even with the benefit of hindsight, it is difficult to say whether the tide really turned because of Cleopatra’s fateful assessment of the outcome of the sea battle and her hasty flight, or whether the cause was lost in any event before the battle started. What we do know is that Marcus Sepulius Gato was lying flat on his back, unconscious, and with a pained expression on his face. The only good news for Marcus and everybody else on board was that his current unconscious state prevented him from breaking wind.

When he eventually came to again, it was already dark, and their vessel was limping back to the anchorage area, having been badly damaged during one of the many encounters that followed the first contact with the enemy. She was listing slightly towards port, water pouring in through various leaks in the hull and ripped out caulking, and it was questionable whether she would still be afloat on the following morning. When Marcus regained his senses, his first sensation was to experience the same agonizing pain in his head that he felt before he entered the soothing blackness. The state of unconsciousness had put a temporary stop to his flatulence problem, but the moment he opened his eyes, his weakened anal muscles relaxed and the eruption that followed was at least at par with the rumblings of Mount Aetna on a better day.

Ah, well, you have decided to rejoin us now that it is all over, the familiar voice of Rufus exclaimed. How’s your head?

Ohhhh, was all that Marcus managed to utter, groaning and moaning at the same time. His hands carefully reached for the tender parts of his head, and the mere vicinity to the bruised areas appeared to multiply the pain he felt.

Come on, I’ll help you up. You can’t stay on board over night because we may well sink. Rufus lifted Marcus up, placed an arm around his waist, and half carried, half dragged him ashore.

Gaius Lucilis, their centurion, approached them and inquired, How’s our naval hero?

He’ll live, but will have a stinking headache for a while. Rufus answered on Marcus’ behalf. And a serious dent in his skull.

Well, it’s not only the headache that stinks. If all our troops had rendered such marvelous performance, we surely would have lost. I want to see this man of undistinguished valor tomorrow morning in my tent. Make sure that his head is back to normal by then. And, you’ll better come along as well. You have both just volunteered for special duties. Sleep well and sweet dreams. And, he added with a seriousness that left no room for doubt, one more fart out of him, and he’ll regret it for the rest of his miserable life.

The irony of the good wishes did not escape Rufus. Thanks a lot, Marcus. That’s all I need, volunteering for special duties. With friends like you, who needs enemies. Rufus was enraged. Because of your buttery legs we’ll get sent to some forsaken place to do the unspeakable, or dig trenches, or clean the latrines. Some friend you are to me.

Marcus was still dazed, and happy to endure whatever vile abuse Rufus chose to hurl at him, as long as he could lie down in his tent and rest. And rest he did, the whole night. And his bowels—well, let’s say we leave them alone for the moment.

C H A P T E R 3

Marcus Sepulius Gato, report immediately to Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. The order shouted by Gaius Lucilis, the centurion, could have woken up the dead. I said: immediately. On the double. Get mooooving. Any drill sergeant would have been proud of the manner in which the order had been delivered.

Marcus stirred. What? he mumbled still dazed.

Get your precious behind at once to our commander’s tent or I shall teach you how I feel about you disobeying my orders? Clearly, Gaius Lucilis was not in a joking mood.

Marcus rose, brought his clothing into some order, and marched off. What was this all about, he wondered. Why me? Each step he took sent a sharp pain to his head. Steadily, he moved himself up the slight elevation to Agrippa’s tent complex, which doubled as the camp’s headquarters. The two guards standing on either side of the entrance eyed him with an expression of sympathy. Did they know something he did not?

How nice of you to join us, Marcus. May I call you Marcus? Agrippa waved him towards the group of soldiers. May I introduce our guest: Marcus Sepulius Veto.

Actually, it’s Gato, Sir, Marcus uttered awkwardly. He hated it if anyone got his name wrong.

How careless of me, of course, Gato. Please forgive me. The irony could not be missed. The ‘Veto’ just crossed my mind because of your difficulties to follow orders.

Stand at ease, Marcus, you are amongst friends here. You do not mind if I call you Marcus? This was not a question, but a statement. You know everybody? The general raised an eyebrow to demonstrate his concern that etiquette was fully observed.

Marcus nodded shyly, not knowing what to do with his hands. His head felt as if it was about to explode. He recognized some of the faces. This was no social gathering, and it was somewhat obvious to him that Agrippa was not about to introduce everyone individually.

Now let’s see. Here is our great naval hero. Before we even fired the first salvo, he knocked himself unconscious, and enjoyed a lovely and peaceful rest for the remainder of the day, allowing the others to do the fighting. Do correct me if I am wrong, but you were asleep for most of yesterday, weren’t you, Marcus?

It was obvious that Agrippa had decided to humiliate him, Marcus concluded as sharply as his foggy mind allowed. The sharp and pulsating pain in his head added to his overall discomfort.

With soldiers like Marcus at your side, who needs an enemy? Is that not so? Everybody laughed. It was not a polite laugh. They were roaring with amusement. Somewhat slapped his thighs.

Sir, it wasn’t my fault. We rammed another ship, I lost my balance, and suddenly I knocked my head. I cannot even remember what exactly happened, Marcus mumbled. His eyes were searching for a little hole into which he could disappear. But, as was to be expected at a moment such as this, there was none.

It was not his fault. Of course, not, how silly of me to think otherwise.

Agrippa’s mockery was becoming unbearable. Marcus concluded that Agrippa was a sadist, who had decided to tear him intellectually to shreds. The physical punishment was probably due later.

Look, Marcus, in earnest: I expect my soldiers to fight. When Rome’s survival and freedom are at stake, you fight and you die, but you do not sleep through battle. There is no way that Rome can retain its power and supremacy if its soldiers prefer to sleep or knock themselves unconscious in battle. Do I make myself clear?

Marcus nodded. His voice failed him. Agrippa’s words cut like a knife into him.

Your centurion has described you as a good soldier to me. Frankly, I have no intention of calling Gaius Luckless a liar, but I find his words a trifle difficult to believe. You may be interested to learn that you were the only one, let me repeat this: the only one, who managed to extricate himself from an honorable fight. I do not tolerate cowards in my ranks. There was no doubt in Marcus’ mind that Agrippa meant what he said. The question was what Agrippa had in store for him by way of punishment. Perhaps a few lashes? Docking some of the pay? Surely, not expulsion from the army? That would have meant the loss of his pension. Marcus waited for the verbal downpour to continue.

I am not a coward, he muttered. His self-esteem had been completely crushed. Those standing around him clearly enjoyed the spectacle, judging by the smirks on their faces. They patiently waited for the next verbal onslaught.

Not a coward? And how would you describe your conduct? Setting an example? The mocking tone had changed to a coldness Marcus had never before experienced with Agrippa. If anyone ever wondered where the expression ‘cold as ice’ came from, this was it.

I am inclined to discharge you dishonorably right now, so that you can tend harmless sheep in the Roman foothills. No pension, no pay-off, no land, nothing. You do not deserve to be called a Roman legionnaire. I would sleep better knowing that you were with the enemy.

Marcus knew that it would not be wise to respond. His head lowered, he awaited the next barbed assault. He felt that his worst fears were about to become true.

But, having considered the option of just discharging you, or perhaps even putting you on trial, I found that this would not be harsh enough a penalty for you. Apart from making your shame public, which would only reflect badly on Rome and drag the good name of the army into the dirt, I would get no joy out of it. And, Marcus, I like to enjoy myself. You may find this difficult to believe, but I do. Therefore, I have devised a plan that will remove you from my sight for a while, and at the same time teach you a lesson you will never forget.

Agrippa paused deliberately to allow his words to sink in and cause Marcus’ imagination to run amok. What did he have in mind? Sending him off to fight vandals or barbarians? The arena? Throwing him to the lions? Turning him into a gladiator and let him be hacked to pieces? He began to shake.

Now, Marcus, calm yourself, Agrippa continued in a slightly softer voice, basking in Marcus’ discomfort, I am not inhuman.

You could have fooled me, Marcus thought.

I am prepared to give you a chance to redeem yourself, and to demonstrate that you are wearing the dress of a Roman soldier for some good reason. Let me tell you what I have in mind. You’ve heard of the juvenile Egyptian whore, Cleopatra, haven’t you?

Marcus nodded. ‘What about her?’, he mused. It cannot be anything I would normally volunteer for, he decided. Marcus realized that the issue of volunteering had already been settled. He had volunteered.

As you have probably heard—since you were asleep, you did certainly not see it with your own eyes—, the great female warrior queen was the first to take flight and leave her beloved Marc Anthony to his own devices. She conceded the battle before we had even warmed up. Now, it does not take much to figure out where she sailed off to.

Marcus did not have a clue. In his head, the lights were on, but nobody was home.

Of course, Marcus, back to Egypt. To Alexandria, to be precise. And let me tell you a little strategic secret: We are planning to follow her. To Alexandria. Since she left in such a hurry, it is my guess that she will get there before us. Agreed?

How could Marcus disagree with his great leader? He realized that Agrippa was not going to wait for him to express his admiration for the razor-sharp deductive thinking displayed. That’s why Agrippa was boss earning the big Denari, and he a lowly paid legionnaire. Marcus resigned himself to waiting for what was coming next. At least it did no longer have the ring of immediate death to it. The emphasis was on ‘immediate’.

So, there she is back in Alexandria, at home, waiting for us to come. And come we will. But, and this is where you come in, we do not want to find any unpleasant surprises when we arrive. We want to know how she has prepared herself for our arrival. Does that make sense to you?

Marcus began to understand that a dangerous line of thought was in the process of being developed, with him being part of it somehow.

I see it in your eyes that we are entirely ad idem. We need intelligence. Without wishing to insult you, Marcus, but what we need is intelligence.

Marcus winced. He could swallow the insult to his intelligence, but his fears were beginning to take shape.

We need a set of eyes and ears in place before we attack her on her home turf. We need to know what her plans are. And, here’s the good news, Marcus, you will be our eyes and ears. Great idea, isn’t it?

Marcus was struggling to share Agrippa’s enthusiasm. He the eyes and ears of the Roman army? How? Marcus could not quite bring himself to share Agrippa’s excitement.

Now, don’t be shy. All we expect you to do is smuggle yourself into Egypt, and gather that information for us. I shall consult with you before we strike. That’s quite an honor, is it not?

Marcus failed to be impressed. He did not speak the local language, nor did he remotely look like an Egyptian. He would stand out like one of Hannibal’s elephants on a plain without bushes or trees. This was obviously a suicide mission, without the privilege to be able to decline it.

I won’t insult you by making any suggestions as to how you should go about this task. Gaius Luckless tells me that you are a man of cunning and resources. This will give you a chance to use your natural talents to their fullest. Obviously, always provided that you are not asleep at the time.

Marcus never realized before how low Gaius Lucilis’ opinion of him must have been. ‘Me, cunning and resourceful’, he thought. That’s the beauty of being a soldier. You get told what to do, and leave the thinking to the higher ranks with the better pay. Marcus struggled to decide whether he suffered more from the headache that tormented him or the spiked drink that Agrippa had just served up. Only someone like Agrippa would get away with calling Gaius Lucilis ‘Luckless’.

I appreciate your obvious gratitude and will accept your thanks later, Agrippa’s voice had fallen back into pure mockery. But, given all the circumstances, you are the very best man for the job. A bright smile beamed from his face. The general was pleased with himself and what he had done to Marcus. Crushed him—without so much as raising his hand.

Poor Rome, you are condemned to suffer the worst defeat ever. At this moment, his brain still hidden in a set of low hanging cumulus clouds, Marcus did not regard himself as the likely savior of Rome.

My dear Agrippa, I think that you have scared Marcus Sepulius quite enough for today, a firm, but kind voice admonished. Marcus’ attention was drawn to one of the men whom he had found in the tent with Agrippa. He was of medium built, but had a presence that made him stand out, although Marcus had not really noticed him before because his attention had been directed at Agrippa.

Do you know who I am?

I fear not, Sir, Marcus admitted, not quite recovered from the shock.

"I am Gaius Octavian, commander of the army in which you serve. I also happen to be the one who has the minor differences with Marc Anthony, and am therefore responsible for your being here. Now let me put the matter that Agrippa addressed, in another way. I have a responsibility to Rome, to the Roman Senate, and to the people of