Captain of Rome

CHAPTER TEN

The Aquila sailed into the harbour of Brolium under a full press of sail, her finely balanced hull making the turn around the protective headland within a half ship length. Gaius stood braced at the tiller, his own balance matching that of his charge and the muscles of his arms bunched and relaxed with every slight adjustment of the rudder. Atticus watched him in silence, admiring as always the easy manner of the helmsman that belied the incredible skill he commanded. The captain sat under a canvas awning, the edges of the sheet flapping in the strong north-easterly, but the awning holding firm to create a shelter from the noon-day sun.

Atticus’s fever had broken the day before, two days out from Rome. He remembered waking up in the darkened cabin, feeling numb and breathless, unable to move. His mind had screamed panic in the darkness, a sudden vision of Hades sweeping through his thoughts and he had tried to scream. He could feel his arms flailing and then suddenly an unyielding hand gripped his own, holding it tightly, steadying his nerve. He drifted back into darkness and when he opened his eyes again the room was brighter, the hatch above him opened to allow in the fresh sea breeze. Atticus felt pain for the first time and his hands touched the wounds on his chest and face, his mind replaying the frenzied fight in the dark alleyway. He thanked Fortuna that the wounds seemed minor, allaying the deep fear that affected all men, that in battle they might suffer a grievous wound, the loss of a limb or worst still, loss of sight. Atticus had seen too many veterans begging on the streets of the Republic, pitiful wretches who had once worn the armour of Rome but now relied on the alms of strangers.

Atticus had tried to rise from the cot but he had been too weak and so he had to suffer the ignominy of being carried up to the aft-deck by two of his crew. He had quickly shrugged off the indignity as he took his first breath of cleansing salt-laden air and so now he was content to sit in silence.

Approaching footsteps distracted Atticus and he looked up to see Septimus walk towards him. He had not seen his friend for many days and he smiled, a gesture that was returned by the centurion.

‘That scar will certainly improve your looks,’ Septimus said as he crouched down beside the captain.

Atticus’s smiled deepened at the gibe and his hand reached unconsciously for his face.

‘You should see the other guy,’ Atticus replied, a shadow passing over his face as he remembered the fight once more.

‘He was a legionary, Septimus,’ Atticus said, all vestige of humour gone from his face.

‘I know,’ Septimus replied, instinctively glancing over his shoulder to ensure they could not be overheard. He quickly relayed the sequence of events after Atticus had been carried back to the Aquila, concluding with Vitulus’s lie the next day and the missing guardsman.

Atticus’s face coloured as he listened to the words, his eyes searching past Septimus to the deck beyond, seeking out the figure of Varro. The tribune was not on deck.

‘Vitulus said the villagers escaped?’ Atticus asked.

Septimus nodded, ‘He said they did but I find it hard to believe.’

Atticus looked away again, this time to utter a silent plea to Poseidon in the hope that the fishermen had indeed escaped.

‘So the whoreson tried to have me killed,’ Atticus said, unconsciously touching his face once more. By speaking the accusation aloud he set aside any lingering doubt he had that Varro was behind the attack.

Septimus nodded, ‘And he’s sure to try again,’ he said.

‘Lower sail and secure! Orders to the drum master; standard speed!’ Both men turned at the sound of Lucius’s shout.

Then Septimus turned back, ‘Brolium,’ he said. ‘Now maybe we’ll find out what we’re doing here.’

Atticus nodded but then his expression froze as he spotted Varro emerge from below decks with his personal guard. Septimus saw his friend’s face twist into an angry frown and he moved over to hide the expression from the tribune.

‘Stand fast, Atticus,’ he warned. ‘Remember Varro doesn’t know we suspect him and if we want to stay a step ahead we need to keep it that way.’

Atticus seemed not to hear and he strained to look beyond Septimus once more.

‘Atticus!’ Septimus insisted and the captain relented.

Septimus rose and he walked down from the aft-deck to the main. Varro was standing by the side-rail as the Aquila was brought to steerage speed, ready for docking.

‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus asked as he saluted.

‘Stay on station and await my return,’ Varro replied. He looked beyond the centurion, spying the captain seated at the rear of the galley.

‘How is the Captain?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

‘He’ll recover,’ Septimus said, equally expressionless, ‘so it looks like we won’t need a replacement.’

Varro shot his eyes back to Septimus at the remark but the centurion looked stonily beyond him. The crashing sound of the gangplank hitting the dock caused him to turn and he gave Septimus one last look before descending, Vitulus and the others following in turn. Only when they were gone did Septimus smile before returning to the aft-deck.

Hamilcar moved slowly around the ante-chamber, occasionally looking up to glance through the open door that led to the meeting room of the supreme council of Carthage. Many of the twelve council members had already assembled, standing in small groups, their conversations never rising above a whisper.

‘Speak directly to the suffet,’ Hamilcar’s father, Hasdrubal, said. ‘His approval must be your priority. Do not look to me or any other member of the council.’

Hamilcar nodded.

‘Hanno will try to disrupt you,’ Hasdrubal continued. ‘Do not let him draw you into an argument.’

‘I will be ready for him,’ Hamilcar said, a slight edge to his voice.

Two more members of the council passed through the ante-chamber and Hamilcar nodded to them both. They ignored the gesture and continued on.

‘Those men will side with Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said. ‘Regardless of the merits of your plan.’

Hamilcar nodded again, silently cursing Hanno for his opposition. The evening before Hamilcar had outlined his plan to the One-hundred-and-four, the council who oversaw military matters in the empire. They were men like Hamilcar, every one of them former commanders, experienced and practical men who had probed Hamilcar’s plans with informed questions. After hours of debate they had voted and approved Hamilcar’s strategy. Now only one final hurdle remained; Hamilcar’s proposal called for a dramatic increase in the size of the fleet and for a shift in the power base of its composition, from triremes to quinqueremes. For this expenditure he needed the approval of the supreme council.

‘How many members of the council does Hanno control?’ Hamilcar asked.

Hasdrubal looked over his shoulder to the open chamber door, wary of being overheard. He turned to his son.

‘Four council members openly support Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said, his voice low. ‘Of the other seven members of the council, I and two others openly support continuing the Sicilian campaign while the remaining four, including the suffet, are undecided.’

‘My strategy will win their support,’ Hamilcar said confidently. ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already given me theirs.’

Hasdrubal nodded but a frown creased the edge of his expression. ‘There is one aspect of your plan that might make some of these men hostile to you.’

Hamilcar looked to his father enquiringly.

Hasdrubal looked directly at his son. ‘Hanno has let it be known amongst the council members that you are using pirates to gather information on the Romans,’ he said.

‘But how could he…?’ Hamilcar asked.

‘Hanno has many spies in this city,’ Hasdrubal said, ensuring that his voice remained low, ‘and many more in the navy.’

Hamilcar slammed his fist into his open palm, cursing the councillor anew.

‘Perhaps you were unwise to use pirates.’ Hasdrubal ventured, voicing the sense of dishonour many of the council members felt at knowing Carthage was associated with such animals.

‘There was no other way,’ Hamilcar rounded on him, suddenly angry.

‘Lower your voice.’ Hasdrubal hissed.

Hamilcar followed his father’s gaze to the open chamber door and he turned away. ‘There was no other way,’ he repeated, keeping his back to his father, his anger increasing, knowing that his honour was being openly questioned. He turned once more to face Hasdrubal. ‘If I had sent one of my ships north to gather the information they would have been seen, or worse captured, and the whole strategy would have been exposed. I needed men with local knowledge of the coast who could ambush Roman ships successfully, men whose loyalty could be bought.’

Hasdrubal nodded, seeing the anger in his son’s face. Hamilcar made to explain further, to let his father know that he too felt the dishonour of conspiring with pirates, that he bore the disgrace for the sake of Carthage, but his words were interrupted as he noticed the suffet standing in the doorway of the ante-chamber, the elder statesman looking to both men before walking through into the council meeting room. Hamilcar watched him pass, wondering how much of the exchange the suffet had witnessed. He looked to his father, holding his gaze for a moment before Hasdrubal turned and followed the suffet into the room.

Septimus left the Aquila ten minutes after Varro, estimating that he had at least a couple of hours before the tribune returned, more than enough time. His first task was to find Aulus, the harbour master, and he leapt upon a pile of grain sacks to get a better view of the busy docks. The scene before him seemed chaotic, with trading ships constantly docking and departing all along the quarter-mile long quay. Organised gangs of slaves attacked each new arrival, rushing up the gangplank even before it was made secure, lumbering down seconds later under heavy burdens to deposit the supplies on the quay-side.

Septimus slowly scanned the throng, his eyes shielded against the afternoon sunlight, his ears tuned to pick up Aulus’s familiar tone. He spotted the harbour master within a minute, near the centre of the docks, gesturing wildly at some unseen target, his face mottled with frustration. Septimus smiled to himself as he jumped down and he set off with a determined stride. At six foot four inches and 220 pounds, dressed in battle armour and with his hand settled on the hilt of his sword, Septimus cut an easy path through the crowd, the lines of slaves parting to allow him through and he reached Aulus before the harbour master had finished his tirade.

‘No rest for petty tyrants,’ Septimus said as he came to stop behind Aulus.

The harbour master spun around, his expression murderous, the previous victim of his anger forgotten. He stared up at Septimus and inhaled in anticipation of an attack but his outburst was cut short with a smile.

‘Capito!’ he shouted, ‘I thought I smelled legionary.’

Septimus laughed, clapping Aulus on the shoulder. Once a trader and sailor himself, Aulus had no love for the soldiers; legionaries or marines. ‘The Aquila is back in Brolium?’

‘Yes,’ Septimus replied, ‘but for how long I don’t know. We sail with Varro. I think he’s reporting to the port commander right now with orders from Rome.’

‘Varro of Thermae?’ Aulus said with disbelief. ‘Didn’t think we’d see him again.’

‘You know the legions, Aulus,’ Septimus said sarcastically. ‘Forgive and forget.’

Aulus smiled but he looked wary. He liked to know of everything that transpired in his harbour and the return of a disgraced tribune was important news. He was about to press Septimus further when he noticed that all humour had vanished from the marine’s face and his eyebrows raised in question.

‘It’s Atticus,’ Septimus said. ‘He’s been injured.’

‘How badly?’

Septimus explained in as much detail as he could.

‘And his fever has broken?’

‘Yes,’ Septimus replied. ‘But now that we are in port I would like a trained physician to examine him.’

Aulus nodded. With the fever broken the odds were in Atticus’s favour but Aulus appreciated the marine’s caution. ‘I know such a man,’ he said. ‘I will have him sent to the Aquila immediately.’

Septimus thanked Aulus and turned on his heel, his feet taking him unerringly to his next destination.

It was another fifteen minutes before Septimus reached the legions’ camp outside the town. At the quayside he had been tempted to ask Aulus about the Ninth, knowing the harbour master was always well informed but he had decided to wait to see for himself. In any case, Aulus’s information would not extend to the fate of individual commands.

Septimus squared his shoulders as two legionaries of the excubiae, the day guard, stepped out to block his way through the main gate.

‘Capito,’ Septimus said as he came to a stop. ‘Centurion of the Aquila.’

The men saluted and stepped aside but Septimus noticed they did not react with the same alacrity as they normally would for a legionary centurion. He pushed aside the thought, knowing he could not confront the men on their subtle lack of respect.

Septimus walked on across the parade ground. The area was strangely deserted although Septimus could see individual squads of legionaries in his peripheral vision. He suddenly felt tense and he increased his pace, the strange absence of normal activity unnerving him.

The legate’s quarters were on the opposite side of the parade ground to the main gate. It was a dull, functional building, single storied and made from local brick. It was flanked on both sides by the officers’ quarters of the Ninth and Second, equally grey buildings that were originally planned as temporary dwellings. Septimus stopped as he surveyed the buildings, comprehension replacing unease as he looked at each in turn. Outside the officers’ quarters of the Ninth, the battle standards of each individual maniple were neatly arranged in a line, held aloft on iron-tipped lances. The standards of the Second and the legate himself however, were nowhere to be seen and although men were stationed at the entrance to each building, only one was occupied.

Septimus walked over to the Ninth’s building and was immediately allowed access as an officer. He entered and paused for a second to allow his vision to adjust to the gloom within. The room that faced him was the largest in the building, a common room with a large table in the centre, where a number of centurions were seated, some eating, others in quiet conversation. Septimus caught the eye of one officer and he stood up, a questioning look on his face.

‘I’m looking for Centurion Silanus of the IV,’ Septimus said.

‘Marcus?’ the man asked. ‘Who are you?’

‘Capito.’

The centurion nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. He recognised the name. ‘Antoninus’s son?’ he asked.

Septimus nodded, smiling to himself. A campaigning legion numbered ten thousand men between legionaries and auxiliary troops so although Septimus had served with the IV maniple in the past and again for the last three months, he never expected that any other than his own maniple would recognise him. But everyone knew of his father and the centurion looked at Septimus for a full minute, a slight smile of remembrance at the edge of his mouth, before ambling off to find Marcus.

Septimus sat down at the table to wait, his eyes ranging over the room. The atmosphere of the room was oppressive, the men subdued, the usual energy that characterised the officers’ quarters completely absent. Septimus could only imagine what these men had endured on their fighting retreat from Thermae.

The sound of a familiar gruff voice caught Septimus’s attention and he turned, recognising the tall, narrow frame of his friend. He rose to greet Marcus, stepping away from the table and walking towards him. Septimus extended his hand but he suddenly hesitated, the diminishing gap allowing him to see Marcus’s face for the first time. The grizzled centurion was ten years older than Septimus but twenty-five years of strict legionary routine and constant physical exercise had always kept those years at bay. Now, however, it seemed to Septimus that his friend had accumulated those years and ten more in the two weeks since he had last seen him in Thermae.

The two men shook hands and Septimus was given a moment to examine the grim expression of his former commander. He stared into Marcus’s eyes, searching for the iron determination that defined the man. It was still there and Septimus curbed his initial doubts. As a soldier, his friend might be in his declining years, but his fighting spirit was as strong as ever.

Marcus gestured for Septimus to sit again and the centurion took a seat beside the marine.

‘My hastati were here when I returned,’ Marcus said simply and Septimus nodded, accepting the underlying thanks.

‘When did you get back?’ Septimus asked.

‘Three days ago.’

Septimus remained silent as he counted the days. The retreat had taken longer than he initially thought.

‘Losses?’ he asked.

‘Too many,’ Marcus replied, a shadow crossing his face, and Septimus was struck once more by how old his friend had become. Marcus described the retreat in detail, Septimus remaining silent throughout.

‘The Ninth has been stood down until replacements arrive from Rome.’ Marcus concluded.

Septimus nodded gravely. For proud men like those of the Ninth, to be removed from battle duty was a heavy sentence.

‘And the Second?’ he asked. ‘They’re not in camp?’

Marcus’s expression turned murderous and Septimus shifted uneasily. He could not recall ever seeing Marcus look so angry.

‘The cursed Punici,’ he spat. ‘While one force was bleeding us along the coast, another larger one struck inland.’

‘How far?’ Septimus asked.

‘By the time we reached Brolium, initial reports were arriving claiming the Carthaginians had already reached Enna and the town was under siege.’

‘So Megellus has marched the Second south?’

Marcus nodded, ‘Too late though. Enna is four days march away and on the day the Second left, the latest reports said the town was close to collapse.’

Septimus shook his head. Enna was a fortified town in the centre of Sicily, right in the middle of Roman occupied territory.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said aloud. ‘Even if the Carthaginians managed to take Enna they’re too deep in Roman territory to hold her. The Sixth and Seventh legions are based in Agrigento to the south and with Megellus advancing from the north any force the enemy send can be overwhelmed.’

Marcus shrugged, unconvinced. ‘If they continue east they could cut our territory in two.’

‘But to what end?’ Septimus persisted. ‘Once they reach the border of Syracuse, they’ll face hostile forces on three fronts, Romans to the north and south and Syracuse to the east.’

Marcus shrugged again, and Septimus could see his friend’s anger remained. He understood Marcus’s reaction. After the mauling the Ninth had been dealt their first reaction would be to get back in the fight as soon as possible. With the Carthaginians advancing, the opportunity was at hand but the Ninth had been stood down and so Marcus and his men were left to watch other men fight in their stead.

‘When are replacements due?’ Septimus asked, calculating timelines in his mind.

‘Within the week,’ Marcus said, his mind already on the day when his maniple would be back up to full strength.

‘Megellus will have engaged by then,’ Septimus said; a subtle statement that the Ninth would not be needed on this occasion. Marcus recognised the subtext and he shook his head.

‘The Ninth will see battle before the month is out,’ he said, total conviction in his voice.

‘I don’t think so,’ Septimus said. ‘The Punici have overextended themselves. They’ve made a mistake in attacking Enna and Megellus will overturn the siege.’

‘No, Septimus,’ Marcus replied, his brow creased in thought. ‘The Punici don’t make mistakes like this. Since Mylae they’ve been quiet. Then suddenly when we attack Thermae we’re ambushed and overwhelmed while at the same time another force attacks our flank. There’s no way these attacks are impulsive.’

Septimus thought for a minute and then nodded, conceding the point. Taking the two attacks together, it would seem a greater plan was in play and the strike towards Enna was more than just an opportunistic advance on the back of a successful ambush at Thermae. Whatever the strategy, Septimus was now inclined to believe that Marcus was right. The Ninth would soon face the Carthaginians again in battle.

Hamilcar held his tongue and his nerve as he heard a low dismissive laugh from one of the men facing him. He kept his gaze steady on the suffet, remembering his father’s words but for a second his eyes shot to his detractor, Hanno. The remainder of the twelve man council were silent, their faces expressionless, showing neither approval or censure and Hamilcar continued without pause.

‘When our forces reach the borders of Syracuse,’ he said, ‘Hiero’s army will join ours, thereby securing our flank as our forces march to Tyndaris.’

‘You trust Hiero?’ the suffet asked after a moment.

‘No more than any other ally,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘He does not know of my full strategy and probably believes we are using Tyndaris exclusively for our campaign in Sicily. He is playing both sides and so, for the moment, it is in his best interest to keep our activities from Rome.’

The suffet nodded, apparently content with Hamilcar’s answer but his expression revealed nothing.

‘The Romans have two legions in Agrigentum,’ one of the council members interjected, ‘and at least another in Brolium. Hiero’s army is no match for them.’

‘It is of no consequence,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘Once our forces sail from Tyndaris and the second part of my strategy is executed, I expect the Romans to sue for terms. The first of these will be our demand for the Romans to leave Sicily.’

Again the suffet nodded and Hamilcar prepared to step away from the podium, his strategy outlined in full.

‘And what of your use of pirates?’ Hanno asked suddenly.

Hamilcar made to reply but another council member, an ally of his father’s spoke up. ‘The minutiae of the commander’s plans should not trouble this council,’ he said. ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already approved the viability of Hamilcar’s strategy. All we need to decide is whether the plan fulfils the needs of the Carthage.’

‘The needs of Carthage also include protecting the honour of the city,’ Hanno shot back, his gaze never leaving Hamilcar. Again Hamilcar made to reply but he held back, knowing he couldn’t win the argument and any words he spoke would further fuel Hanno’s attack. The suffet raised his hand to stay any further discussion. He looked directly at Hamilcar and again Hamilcar was left to wonder how much the suffet had overheard in the ante-chamber.

‘I have heard enough,’ the suffet said, his voice low and hard. ‘Now we must decide.’

Hamilcar nodded and stepped back from the podium. The members of the council immediately began to discuss the matter amongst themselves and so Hamilcar was allowed a moment to study them without distraction. To his left, in the corner of his vision, Hamilcar could see his father speaking quietly with the men on his immediate right and left. Hamilcar recognised them both, for he knew the sons of each and, as he scanned the rest of the room, he identified several others, each one the head of a powerful Carthaginian family.

In the centre of the semi-circle sat the suffet, and directly to his right sat Hanno, a smile on his face as he spoke. Hamilcar felt suddenly humbled in the presence of these powerful men. Each one had paid dearly for his place on the council, openly bribing the members of the lower council for their votes. Hamilcar had heard that the same practice existed in Rome with senators paying for votes but in contrast it was looked upon as a dishonourable practice, a necessary evil that existed but was not spoken of openly. Hamilcar had scoffed at the Romans’ pretentions. In Carthage wealth was a sign of success, and to exude that wealth was to highlight that success. The positions on the supreme council therefore were open only to the wealthiest men in Carthage, men who had proven their worth and could be trusted with the reins of state.

The suffet raised his hand and the council came to order. Hamilcar fixed his gaze on the leader, marshalling his thoughts in readiness for the questions to come. The suffet rose and walked slowly around the chamber. He was one of the oldest men in the room but his back was straight and he move with ease, his intelligent eyes fixed on Hamilcar.

‘Your plan is ambitious,’ the suffet said.

Hamilcar did not reply. The suffet’s statement was simply that. It was not a question and Hamilcar’s father had warned him to respond to questions only.

‘You believe it will succeed?’ the suffet continued.

‘If I am given the resources I ask for, Suffet,’ Hamilcar replied, confidence in his voice, ‘then yes, I know my plan will succeed.’

‘But if it does not…’ a voice suddenly said and all eyes turned to Hanno. ‘You speak of this plan as if it is fool-proof.’

The suffet raised his hand once more to forestall Hamilcar’s rebuttal.

‘The One-hundred-and-four have already approved your plan,’ the suffet said to Hamilcar, ‘and we must trust their judgement. I merely wished to judge the depth of your conviction.’

Hamilcar nodded, although he could not judge from the suffet’s words whether or not he had judged Hamilcar’s conviction worthy.

‘The council will vote,’ the suffet said. ‘Those in favour?’

Hamilcar watched as six men nodded their approval, his father amongst them.

‘Opposed?’

The other five nodded, at least one of them looking to Hanno who held Hamilcar’s gaze as he nodded his disapproval.

‘Then my vote will decide’ the suffet said. He slowly walked back to his position at the centre of the council. Hamilcar’s full attention was focused on the older man. If he voted against then the vote would be tied and his voice alone would break the dead-lock, his vote essentially counting as two. He sat down and turned once more to Hamilcar, his gaze piercing as he measured the man one last time.

‘Anath guide your hand, young Barca,’ the suffet said. ‘I approve of your plan.’

Hamilcar saluted, keeping his sense of triumph from his expression. He turned on his heel and walked from the chamber. His father watched him go, his pride for his son curbed by the reality of what had occurred. The Council had approved, but by the narrowest margin, and in that approval there was no acceptance of responsibility. His son would bear that burden alone.

Varro paused as he came to the end of the last of the narrow streets leading to the large villa that overlooked Brolium. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to the bottom of the hill and the entire vista of the docks spread out before him. From this height the throngs of people he had so impatiently pushed through on the quayside were transformed into a series of amorphous groups with steady streams of supplies passing between them before disappearing into the narrow streets and onwards to the legionary camp.

The raucous noise of the docks had prevented Varro from concentrating on his thoughts but as he had climbed the steady hill away from the quay, the noise had diminished until now it was reduced to a surging murmur, a sound that rose and fell with the gush of each breeze and the turn of each corner. Varro looked ahead once more and continued into the open square facing the main entrance to the villa, his mind now fully focused on the meeting ahead. He signalled Vitulus and the other two guards to halt in the square and he continued on alone, walking past the two legionaries who stood guard at the main gate without a second glance, ignoring their salute.

Alone in the outer courtyard, Varro came to a stop and instinctively glanced down at the sealed scroll in his right hand. He had been handed the scroll by Scipio back in Rome with orders to present it to the commanding officer at Brolium. Varro surmised that the scroll contained details of his demotion along with a general command to place him in charge of one of the naval squadrons and he bristled when he thought of the contents, not because of the words themselves, for he accepted the challenge and the specific mission Scipio had set him, but because he had learned that the legate was not in Brolium and so Varro was left with no option but to present the scroll to the port commander, an officer with a lower rank than that of a tribune but higher than a squad commander. It was an ignominy that Varro had not prepared for and he hesitated on the threshold of the villa.

The sound of approaching footsteps caused Varro to turn and he stepped aside to allow a contubernia of ten legionaries to pass, the officer leading them, an optio, saluting the tribune’s uniform without recognising the man, the gesture precise and deferential. Without thinking Varro acknowledged the salute with a nod and he felt his pride stir within him once more. He tightened his grip on the scroll in his hand and continued on into the villa, gesturing to a nearby soldier and ordering him to inform the port commander that he wished to see him.

After a brief wait Varro was shown into the port commander’s office. He stood in the centre of the room and proffered the scroll to the commander, standing far enough back from the desk so the commander was forced to stand and walk around to receive the scroll. Varro watched him move, his expression unreadable. The port commander was a heavy-set man in his mid-forties but he walked with such an efficiency of movement that Varro was given the impression that the commander had at one time been a trim fighting soldier.

‘I did not expect to see you again so soon, Tribune,’ the commander said, his tone light but questioning. Only minutes before, when he had been told that Varro was waiting outside the commander had rushed to his door to look out surreptitiously at the tribune. How had he managed to return to Sicily? Was he not in disgrace? The port commander’s mind was in turmoil as he returned to his desk but as he sat down he noticed the seal in the scroll. SPQR; the seal of the Senate of Rome.

The port commander broke the seal and began to read the document. With each line the grounds for Varro’s return became more apparent and the commander couldn’t help but smile as he reached the conclusion of the order from Scipio and the confirmation of Varro’s new rank.

Varro watched the port commander read the scroll in silence, but he studied the older man’s expression closely, trying to decipher from it how Scipio had phrased the order, with regard or with derision. As he saw the commander smile, Varro felt a sudden wave of anger hit him. Whatever Scipio’s tone the port commander was taking pleasure from the end result. He stood slowly, his smile remaining and Varro struggled to keep his own expression neutral.

‘Very well, Commander Varro,’ the port commander began, a heavy emphasis on Varro’s revised rank. ‘It seems I must find a squad for you.’

Varro ignored the jibe and straightened his back to receive his orders. He looked to a point directly above the commander and focused his mind on the incident that had occurred minutes before in the courtyard when the optio had saluted him. Varro knew that the optio’s respect was engendered by his tribune’s uniform but he also believed his own natural bearing was a significant factor. After today his uniform might change but Varro vowed that in his mind he would remain a tribune, the minimum rank his social status demanded. In time he would fulfil his orders from Scipio and dispose of the Greek captain who had shamed both him and Rome. Then he would return to his city, reclaim his former rank and raise his head high once more in front of his father. Until then he would suffer the dismissive attitude of men like the port commander, lesser men who would live to regret their underestimation of Varro.

The Alissar moved sedately through the commercial harbour of Carthage as the helmsman navigated the quinquereme around the moving obstacle course of trading ships large and small. The wind was onshore and so the sail remained secured but the current of the outgoing tide eased the galley’s passage and the drum beat below decks hammered out a steady four knots.

Hamilcar paced the foredeck, his excitement and impatience in marked contrast to the steady rise and fall of the hull beneath him, the moderate course changes that brought the galley ever closer to the open waters beyond the harbour. Every so often a smile creased his face and he glanced back at the entrance to the military harbour nestled beyond the commercial docks. Inside and unseen; for where he now stood he knew the area was frantic with activity, the stage of his plan backed by the supreme council now beginning to take shape under the skilful hands of a multitude of Carthaginian shipwrights and naval carpenters. They were the best in the world and the confidence they possessed in their abilities had immediately put any lingering doubts Hamilcar had about his aggressive schedule to rest.

Hamilcar turned again, this time to gaze upon the waters ahead of the Alissar. She had finally cleared the harbour and the drum beat was increased to seven knots as she advanced into unobstructed waters. Hamilcar looked to the horizon, his mind’s eye tracing out the routes the galleys he had dispatched yesterday had taken. There had been four in total, the captain of each carrying orders Hamilcar had dictated but which also bore the seal of the supreme council. Each one had been given a specific mission and so the order would be carried to very edges of the empire, to Marrakech, Iberia, Sardinia and Gymnesiae. Within weeks the provincial fleets ordered to return would arrive in Carthage, swelling Hamilcar’s command until he achieved the superiority in numbers his plan required.

Hamilcar leaned over slightly to counteract the tilt of the deck beneath his feet as the Alissar’s course was adjusted, her bearing north-north-east, a direct line to the south-east corner of Sicily. From there she would hug the coast, traversing the narrow strait of Messina at night to arrive at her final destination, Tyndaris. It was one of the most vital elements of the plan, in addition to being the one most vulnerable to discovery, so Hamilcar had decided to oversee the final stages of construction. In addition he had dispatched orders to Panormus for a dozen galleys to join him in Tyndaris with the intention of closing the harbour to all commercial shipping.

Hamilcar glanced back over his shoulder as Carthage began to fade in the distance. It would be mere weeks before he would see her again and thoughts of her harbour filled with all the galleys of the empire filled his chest with pride at what he was about to achieve.

Atticus leaned back against the aft-rail, keeping close to the burning brazier, its smoke keeping away the evening insects. His chest felt stiff under the tight bandages the physician had applied, and the wound felt strangely cold, the foul-smelling salve he had applied numbing the area but easing his pain. He felt tired and light-headed but he delayed his return to the cabin below, wanting to wait until the turn of the watch at dusk and curious to learn what Septimus would reveal when he returned.

The breeze shifted slightly and the smoke of the brazier cleared, revealing to Atticus the distinct underlying odours of the port, the salt infused air, the musky smell of the town where a hundred fires had been lit in advance of the night and the sour acrid smell of the bilges of the ships that surrounded the Aquila. The crowds were melting away from the docks as the evening advanced, the gangs of slaves already corralled back to their quarters at the southern edge of Brolium, the passage of the day a featureless event in their miserable lives.

Atticus spotted Septimus from a hundred yards, his red cape easily distinguishable amongst the predominantly white clad traders and merchants. Atticus summoned a crewman to bring wine to the aft-deck as he watched Septimus’s approach with interest, trying to discern from his gait if the news he had heard was good or bad. It was hard to tell although the centurion did move with determined stride as if time was of the essence.

Atticus nodded to Septimus as he reached the aft-deck, Atticus seeing for the first time the troubled expression of the centurion.

‘Marcus?’ he asked, misreading the expression.

‘He made it back,’ Septimus said, taking a proffered goblet of wine, ‘but the Ninth’s losses were very heavy. They have been temporarily stood down.’

Atticus nodded gravely but remained quiet, sensing that Septimus was not finished, and after a minute’s pause Septimus began to outline what Marcus had revealed and what they had discussed at length.

‘So Marcus believes the Carthaginian attack is more than just opportunistic?’ Atticus asked.

‘Yes, and I agree with him,’ Septimus replied, ‘but we don’t know to what end. Maybe they are trying to split our territory in two, or perhaps it’s just a feint in advance of an attack to retake Agrigentum.’

Atticus nodded. He agreed with Marcus’s initial belief, as did Septimus, but that conclusion had led them nowhere. Only the Punici knew what step was next.

Both men turned as they heard the thump of heavy footsteps of the gangway and they watched as Varro led his men on board. His eyes searched the deck and came to rest on Atticus and Septimus. He dismissed his men with a wave and continued to the aft-deck alone, his gaze never leaving the captain and centurion.

‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus said as he saluted, focusing Varro’s attention on him alone.

‘We sail at dawn,’ Varro replied, not correcting the centurion’s use of his former title. Varro knew the crew would learn of his demotion soon enough but until then he would remain tribune, if only in name.

‘What heading, Tribune?’ Atticus asked, stepping forward, determined to extract the necessary information a captain was entitled to know.

Varro stared hard at Atticus for a number of seconds, ‘Send one of your crew to fetch a map of the north coast of Sicily.’

Atticus complied and the three men waited in silence until the map was brought up from below. Septimus spread it on the deck and they circled around it, careful not to block the dying light of the evening sun that stood a hair’s breadth above the horizon.

‘We will sail east into this area,’ Varro began, pointing out a rough triangle on the map. ‘There we should encounter a squad of ten galleys who are responsible for patrolling that area. I will take command of this squad.’

Varro stood up as he finished and Atticus and Septimus followed suit in anticipation of further instructions. Varro however simply turned around and left the aft-deck without another word, descending quickly into the hatchway that led to the main-cabin below.

‘A tribune assigned patrol duty?’ Septimus asked suspiciously as he watched Varro leave.

‘How is he even still in command?’ Atticus said, suddenly angry, sick of the charade he was forced to play with Varro. The man had tried to have him killed and yet Atticus couldn’t fight back, Varro’s privileged rank and status protecting him. ‘Those cursed Romans have no honour,’ he spat.

Septimus spun around, a furious expression on his face. ‘What do you know of Roman honour?’ he asked, a hard edge to his voice, a buried anger rising to overwhelm him. ‘Varro is one man. He is not Rome.’

‘Who do you think is protecting him?’ Atticus countered, angry at Septimus’s reaction and his defence of Varro. ‘Only the senior consul could have spared that whoreson.’

Septimus stepped in closer. ‘And what of Greek honour?’ he asked.

Atticus frowned, not understanding.

‘I told you to stay away from Hadria,’ Septimus said, speaking aloud the accusation that had festered in him for too long.

Atticus was stunned, the mention of Hadria’s name throwing him. ‘She has spoken with you?’ he asked, his anger taking a new twist as he saw the censure in Septimus’s face.

‘She has,’ Septimus said, ‘and I know of your betrayal.’

‘Betrayal?’ Atticus snapped and without conscious thought his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.

Septimus reacted within the blink of an eye, his hand reaching for his weapon, the knuckles of his fist white from the intensity of his grip.

Atticus held firm and stared balefully into the centurion’s eyes, the urge to draw his blade screaming at the muscles of his arm, the accusation of betrayal flooding his mind. An image flashed through his thoughts, of Hadria standing in her bedroom before running off to see her brother, and Atticus clawed his anger back from the brink of attack, his hand slowly withdrawing from his sword.

Septimus saw the gesture in the corner of his eye as he struggled to contain his fury. He had played out this confrontation many times in his mind but never had he thought it would spiral to his level. He believed beyond all else that the relationship between Atticus and Hadria had to end and he had trusted his friend to end it. In exposing that betrayal he had expected Atticus to be chastened but instead he was shocked by the ferocity of Atticus’s defence. He stared at his friend’s face, seeing there the conflict he felt in his own resolve and he slowly loosened the grip on his sword, his previous conviction shaken. He made to speak again but he stopped himself. Enough words had been spoken and he turned and walked from the aft-deck.

Atticus never took his eyes from Septimus’s back, anger and confusion striking him in discontinuous waves. He looked down to the deck, the map of northern Sicily still spread at his feet, half of it now in shadow as the daylight gasped its last. He sought to refocus his attention, to drag his thoughts from the words Septimus had spoken and from the back of his mind he recalled Varro’s orders. He traced the area that Varro had described, a rough triangle that was probably one of many that delineated the patrol areas of the Roman squads based out of Brolium. One apex of the triangle was anchored in to the harbour where the Aquila now lay. The next apex was to the north-east, a line that ran from Brolium to strike the port of Medma on the Italian coast, the second apex. From there the line ran south-south-west to the final apex, a Syracusan-held town on the north-eastern corner of Sicily, the ancient port of Tyndaris.