Captain of Rome

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hamilcar paced impatiently across the ante-chamber, his eyes darting regularly to the inlaid gold on the ten-foot high doors to the king’s chamber. He had been waiting for over an hour, his only company the two royal guards standing silently at either side of the door. He instinctively reached for his sword, an impulse to knead the hilt with his hand, to ease the tension in his body but he remembered that his weapon had been confiscated at the first guardhouse, an insult he had been forced to swallow before being allowed to advance to the inner castle.

The Alissar had arrived in Syracuse only an hour before, her crew exhausted after a four day journey down the east coast of Sicily. Hamilcar had spent the entire time trying to salvage his plan in his own mind, trying to formulate alternatives that would ensure Hiero’s support and create the alliance he so desperately needed with the Syracusan. Hamilcar had also devised how best to deliver the news of the Romans discovery of Tyndaris, confident that the Alissar would arrive in Syracuse long before any local or Roman vessel. Now however he was not so sure. The change in the manner he was being treated did not bode well and Hamilcar’s carefully rehearsed report began to unravel in his mind.

The double-doors opened suddenly, Hamilcar spinning around to see two more guards ready to escort him into the king’s chamber. He followed them in, this time his eyes ignoring the ornate beauty of the room, his gaze fixed firmly on the dais and the figure of Hiero. As before, immediately to the king’s left, his advisor sat, the same wizened older man whom Hamilcar had all but ignored before but whose presence now irritated him, knowing the advisor had had the king’s ear for the past hour while he was kept waiting.

Hamilcar reached the foot of the raised platform and bowed as before, maintaining the same outward show of confidence he had always possessed in Hiero’s company. He waited to be spoken to. Hiero made him wait, his eyes fixed firmly on the Carthaginian’s, a trace of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

‘What news, Barca?’ he asked finally.

Hamilcar was immediately on guard, the tone of the king’s voice suggesting the question was not clear-cut, that Hiero somehow knew more than Hamilcar had hoped. But how much?

‘A setback, sire,’ Hamilcar said, reaching for a half-truth. ‘The Romans are aware that my forces have been using Tyndaris as a base of operations.’

‘How did they find out?’ Hiero asked and again Hamilcar sensed the king already had some knowledge of the answer.

‘A skirmish,’ Hamilcar said, deciding that Hiero couldn’t possibly know the whole truth, not from a first-hand source, ‘just west of Tyndaris. A small force of Roman ships approached and we were force to engage.’

Hiero nodded. ‘And you sailed to Syracuse to inform me personally?’ he asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice and Hamilcar’s stomach filled with dread. Hiero knew. He had not asked the obvious question, who had prevailed? Hamilcar realised that further subterfuge was useless.

‘There’s still time, sire,’ he said, pressing the force of his belief upon the king. ‘My forces are almost at your border. If your army rises now to meet them…’

‘Enough!’ Hiero shouted, his face mottled with anger. ‘You were defeated at Tyndaris. The Romans now hold the port and your plan is in ruins.’

‘How…’?’ Hamilcar asked, unable to comprehend how Hiero could know so soon.

The king smiled, a vicious contortion of his anger. ‘Your predecessor, Gisco, was good for one thing,’ he said derisively. ‘He introduced me to the Persians’ ingenious method of sending reports, carrier pigeon. I knew of your defeat two days ago.’

Hamilcar struggled to retain his composure, his mind racing to find an answer, a way to persuade Hiero to commit.

‘There is still a chance, sire,’ he said. ‘Allied together we can defeat the Roman invader. Tyndaris is only a setback, it is not defeat. It will be days yet before Rome is fully informed, maybe weeks before they react. We have the advantage if we join forces now.’

‘There is no time, Barca,’ Hiero said, his anger fuelled by the position the Carthaginian had placed him in. ‘My complicity at Tyndaris has been exposed and my commander there has already forewarned me that an envoy from the consul has been dispatched to Syracuse.’

‘From the consul? So quickly?’

‘He was the commander at Tyndaris,’ Hiero explained, his patience at an end, the thought of the envoy’s arrival and how he could avoid the wrath of Rome consuming him. ‘Now get out,’ he said. ‘From here on my open treaty with Rome will be my only alliance.’

Hamilcar made to protest but he held his tongue, knowing his cause to be lost, his honour preventing him from humbling himself further before the petty ruler. He bowed brusquely and backed out of the chamber, aware that he was now firmly in enemy territory and Hiero might decide that delivering the head of the Carthaginian commander would placate the envoy of Rome and the consul himself. He turned as he reached the doors, walking determinedly down through the myriad of stairwells and corridors that led to the main gate, snatching his sword back from one of the guards as he left the castle, silently vowing that Hiero would rue the day he had cast his lot in with Rome.

Longus, the junior consul, waited patiently as the servant refilled the two wine goblets. The Senate was still in session but Longus had slipped out and returned to his townhouse to update the man seated opposite him, wishing to seek his counsel before his meeting with Regulus. ‘I have spoken with Seneca as you suggested,’ Longus said after the servant had gone.

‘And?’ Duilius asked, raising the goblet to his mouth.

‘He will support Regulus’s strategy.’

Duilius nodded, savouring the taste of the wine, and Longus’s news. ‘Seneca holds sway over five other fellow junior senators,’ he said. ‘With their support and the others you have already confirmed, Regulus has a significant majority.’

Longus nodded but his expression remained sceptical. ‘I was surprised at Seneca’s endorsement,’ he said, ‘even with Regulus’s popularity after his victory at Tyndaris. What made you believe he was no longer Scipio’s pawn?’

Because now he is my pawn, Duilius thought, his neutral expression hiding his satisfaction. ‘I simply believed that Seneca was ready to vote with his conscience,’ he said aloud.

As censor, Duilius was responsible for the regimen morum, the keeping of the public morals, and he had quickly turned this responsibility to his advantage. Customarily the immoral excesses of the junior senators, the majority of whom were young men from wealthy families, were ignored by the Senate and the censors; the older statesmen seeing such behaviour as a right of passage they too had enjoyed in their youth. Duilius had reversed that traditional leniency however and he had quickly gathered a large body of evidence against many of the junior senators, a move which instantly gave him a unique power over offenders like Seneca; the young man being only one amongst many.

‘I will inform Regulus that he now has a majority amongst the junior senators when I see him this afternoon.’ Longus remarked. ‘I expect he will publicly announce his strategy after that.’

Duilius nodded. ‘Remember Longus,’ he said. ‘Regulus must not know of my involvement.’

‘I understand,’ Longus replied, wondering why Duilius did not openly back the senior consul given the support he was providing; the censor’s help so far allowing Longus to secure dozens of votes for Regulus. Nonetheless he would keep his mentor’s involvement a secret as instructed.

Duilius sat back and thought through his plan again, examining it in detail. Within days of Regulus becoming senior consul, he had arranged for two of his spies to become servants in Regulus’s household. Their reports, along with those of his spies in the Senate chambers, had given Duilius a first-hand account of the fracture between Regulus and Scipio. At first Duilius had been suspicious, conscious of the misinformation that had been given before, but Regulus’s actions had confirmed the spilt and Duilius had slowly reconsidered his initial opinion of the senior consul.

Two days earlier, when Regulus had returned to Rome, Duilius had instructed Longus to give his full and open support to the senior consul, to meet with him as often as possible and gain his confidence. Longus had obediently complied, reporting back regularly on Regulus’s emerging plans. It was Regulus’s strategy, and Longus’s appraisal of the now seemingly independent senior consul, that had convinced Duilius that it was time to support Regulus, using the leverage he had gained over the junior senators. Duilius was not yet ready to trust Regulus completely, and so he would keep his involvement secret, but for now one thing seemed certain. Regulus had placed the needs of Rome above petty rivalries and factional allegiance and for that reason alone, Duilius felt compelled to support the leader of the Republic.

Regulus stood as the arrival of the junior consul was announced, coming around from behind the marble-topped table in the centre of his chamber. He nodded affably to Longus, his expression genuine, their meetings over the previous two days, and Longus’s complete support, providing him with a reappraised view of the younger man, different from the opinion Scipio had imbued in him when he was first elected.

Longus returned the greeting, taking Regulus’s proffered hand before taking a seat. Regulus returned to his own side of the table and sat down, glancing briefly to the oculus in the dome far above and the blue sky beyond.

‘Well, Longus,’ Regulus began, looking once more to the junior consul, ‘what say the junior senators?’

‘They are in favour, Consul,’ Longus replied, his expression serious. ‘With your victory at Tyndaris and the exposure of the Carthaginians’ plans, the Senate is poised to follow any command you give them.’

Regulus nodded. His own discreet enquiries amongst the senior members of the Senate had surfaced the same support, a backing he wished to be sure of before announcing his plan. He looked to Longus once more. The junior consul had delivered dozens of votes from amongst the junior senators, men Regulus believed were thoroughly in the control of Scipio, and although he could not conceive how Longus had achieved such a task, he was grateful for the support.

‘Then we are ready, Longus,’ he said after a pause, ‘I will declare…’ A knock interrupted Regulus and he looked to the door as his private secretary entered, his hands clasped together in contrition, his face downcast.

‘I said there was to be no interruptions,’ Regulus said angrily.

‘My apologies, Senior Consul,’ the secretary said. ‘But Senator Scipio is outside and he insists you grant him an audience.’

‘Tell him what I told him yesterday, and the day before,’ Regulus shouted, looking beyond the secretary in order that Scipio should hear his words first hand. ‘I will summon him if, and only if, I see fit.’

‘Yes, Senior Consul,’ the secretary replied but as he turned to leave Scipio slipped in, almost knocking the secretary to the ground.

‘You will see me now,’ Scipio shouted angrily but immediately stopped when he saw who was with Regulus.

‘Longus,’ he snarled, staring balefully at the younger man.

‘Consul Longus,’ he replied, standing straight, returning the hateful gaze.

Scipio snorted derisively. ‘I need to speak to you alone,’ he said to Regulus, the resolve in his voice unmistakable, his anger and impatience completely evident.

Regulus remained seated, a smile slowly emerging on his face. The sight made Scipio almost lose his temper.

‘You believe this to be funny?’ he snarled, standing beside Longus as he leaned over the table. ‘You believe you can treat me like a common senator, that you can deny me an audience?’

‘I do not believe anything,’ Regulus said, a confidence in his voice that Scipio had never witnessed. ‘I know that I am senior consul and as such I command the power of Rome.’

‘You know nothing,’ Scipio spat back. ‘You think your victory at Tyndaris has made you secure, has made your position in this Senate unassailable but I wonder how many senators would support you if they knew how you gained your consulship; knew the part I played and the pawn that you were.’

Now Regulus stood, the smile he had worn cast off, his expression hard and cold.

‘You may tell your story to any that will listen,’ he said in whispered anger. ‘But I know, as will they realise, that what you did, you did for yourself and what I do now, I do for Rome. The Senate will see the truth of that.’

Scipio held Regulus’s gaze for a second longer, the hatred passing between them palatable, an almost physical force that marked the permanent division between them. He turned on his heel without another word, casting one last glance at Longus before storming from the room, a deafening silence left in his wake.

Atticus stood back from the door as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps on the other side. He reached up and touched the scar on his face, fingering it lightly as he traced the length of it along his jaw-line. He had seen the wound for only the first time three days before after the Aquila had docked in Ostia, a foreign reflection staring back at him from a barber’s polished copper mirror. Now he thought of it again, unconsciously continuing to touch it, thinking all the while of the person on the other side of the door who would also be seeing it for the first time.

The door opened inward and Hadria stepped back to push it past her, pivoting lightly on one foot as she did. Her expression changed quickly, so swiftly that Atticus, who was gazing directly at her, did not catch all the emotions displayed, surprise turning to elation and love, turning to concern at the sight of his wound. She rushed forward into his arms, pressing tightly against his chest, touching the heavy layer of bandages across his torso, then releasing the pressure of her embrace, fearful that she was hurting him. He pulled her close again, enfolding her slender body in his arms, whispering reassurances in her ear. She returned the embrace and her body began to shudder slightly, her tears warm and damp against his shoulder, the fear for him that she had thought to suppress rising again at the sight of his terrible wounds.

An hour later they lay in the solitude of her bedroom, the sounds of city barely audible through the opened shutters, the noise muted by the heat of the early afternoon. Atticus lay on his back, his eyes tracing the light reflected across the ceiling, his mind casting back to a dawn weeks before at the edge of Thermae and the glare of the sun on the waves. Hadria lay beside him, her finger tracing an imaginary line an inch above the scar on his face, recalling Atticus’s words of moments before when he told her of how he was attacked. Hadria had listened, silently glad that she had taken the lead an hour before when she had led him to her room, the fear resurfaced and so vividly remembered giving her reason to value every moment and she had tempered their mutual anticipation and yearning with a tenderness that Atticus had never known.

Now Atticus lay replete, his mind drifting aimlessly until he suddenly glanced to the door, his brow wrinkling as if in annoyance and he stared at it for a moment longer before turning away.

‘What’s the matter?’ Hadria asked, noticing his expression.

‘I thought I heard someone approaching,’ he said, looking once more at Hadria. ‘I was expecting a knock, a message from your father’s house that Septimus had returned.’

Hadria nodded and her expression turned serious. ‘I told him about us the last time he was in Rome,’ she said. ‘He was very angry.’

‘I know,’ Atticus replied and he told Hadria of his confrontation with Septimus on the Aquila.

‘And you haven’t spoken of it since?’ Hadria asked, her tone one of concern.

‘There is nothing more to say,’ Atticus said irritably. ‘Septimus will not change his mind.’

Hadria’s forehead creased as she tried to divine her brother’s inner thoughts. She could not be sure but she still felt her original conviction was sound, that Septimus did not want Hadria to lose another love in battle as she had her first husband. She spoke her thoughts aloud to Atticus, watching as his brow furrowed.

‘That’s why he told me to stay on deck before Tyndaris,’ he said almost to himself, ‘and why he was angry to see me when I went onto the Carthaginian galley to warn him.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hadria asked.

Atticus explained.

‘So he’s trying to protect you…’ Hadria whispered, her words hanging in the air as Atticus remained silent, thinking of his friend. After their confrontation on the Aquila he had been sure of Septimus’s position. Now, with Hadria’s insight, he was no longer certain.

The Senate stood as one as Regulus entered the Curia, his preannounced request for a full audience ensuring that every senator of Rome was in attendance, their numbers swelled by tribunes and senior magistrates who had also been summoned at the senior consul’s request. Regulus walked slowly to the podium, indicating with his hand for the assembly to be seated. He stood silent for a moment; savouring the approbation of the Senate but also the renewed sense of a shared purpose that permeated the Curia, the narrowly averted threat to Rome infusing the Senate with a reunified aspiration that stood above the petty power-plays and squabbling of the daily debate. Regulus had experienced this level of concord before, immediately after the victory of Mylae, when all of Rome rose to its feet in triumph. He was a lowly senator then, anonymous amongst three hundred. Now he was senior consul and the united power of Rome was his to command.

‘My fellow Romans!’ he began, his voice reaching every man in the hushed chamber. ‘We have reached a cross-roads in our fight with the Punici of Africa, a moment of truth when decisive action can and must prevail.’

A murmur of agreement rippled across the chamber.

‘As you all know, a Carthaginian plan to invade this very city was exposed,’ Regulus continued, indicating to Varro who stood in the wings, his first time in the Curia since announcing his defeat at Thermae, the tribune now bowing his head in acceptance of the splattering of applause from the Senate, ‘and subsequently thwarted at Tyndaris.’

The Senate clapped again, this time towards the podium but it quickly abated as Regulus raised his hand.

‘It was a bold plan, a decisive plan that, if it had succeeded, would have given the Carthaginians not only unconditional control of Sicily but also a new subservient state in their empire…a state named Rome.’

Many senators reacted with instinctive anger, shouting denial and cursing the Carthaginians who would dare such a thing. Regulus let them vent their antagonism, his eyes instead on those senators who remained silent, those who had understood the subtext of his words, many of them nodding their heads in pre-emptive approval.

‘I say to you then, Senators of Rome,’ Regulus shouted, overwhelming the cacophony of noise. ‘That we reverse this plan of the enemy, that we take their initiative and infuse it with Roman audacity!’ The Senate began to cheer. ‘With Roman courage!’ Regulus shouted, his voice struggling against the ovation, ‘and with the power of this mighty Republic!’

As one the Senate stood to applaud, the noise reaching a crescendo as Regulus stretched out his arms to encompass the power surging around him.

‘We will take this fight to the shores of Carthage herself!’ he roared, his final words tipping the Senate over into complete support for their leader.

Varro stood proudly beside his father as yet another senator approached to shake his hand. Regulus had finished his speech over an hour before and only now was the Curia beginning to empty, the session extended to allow the senior senators of the chamber to publicly back the consul’s plan, their orations infused with praise for Regulus and Varro and heavy with rhetoric that expounded the ideals of Rome, of how the overthrow of Carthage would bring civilisation to the shores of Africa. They were words that gave every tribune in the chamber cause to imagine their glorious fate in the approaching battle, but none more so that Varro, who saw his success at Tyndaris as only the beginning.

The crowd dissipated quickly and soon Varro’s father drifted off with a group of senior magistrates, grasping his son’s arm lightly as he left, his pride evident in every gesture. Varro walked slowly towards the colonnaded exit, the later afternoon sun creating blocks of light between the pillars through which droning insects traced lazy paths of flight. Varro stood still for a moment in one of the shafts of light, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the inner chamber and smiling slightly, the white brightness of the sun warm on his face. He turned again and was surprised by a figure standing in his path.

‘Congratulations, Tribune,’ the man said and Varro instantly recognised the voice.

‘Thank you, Senator Scipio,’ he replied and began to walk around him.

Scipio pre-empted the evasion and clasped Varro’s arm, holding it firm. ‘You have done well, Varro,’ he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Varro shrugged his arm clear, irritated by Scipio’s condescension. ‘I have done what I set out to do,’ he said. ‘Return to Rome with my honour restored.’

‘But what of our agreement?’ Scipio asked, ‘The Greek Perennis still lives.’

‘For now,’ Varro said dismissively, ‘and as for our agreement, it would seem I was mistaken in believing I needed your help.’

Scipio’s face coloured in anger, ‘An agreement made cannot be broken,’ he said, stepping closer until he was but mere inches from Varro’s face, ‘and you owe me.’

‘I owe you nothing, Scipio,’ Varro spat, ‘and your power in the Senate is no more. I will take my revenge on Perennis, but in my own time, and certainly not on your command.’

Scipio was about to retort but Varro brushed past him, walking quickly but confidently away until he was lost from sight. Only then did Scipio’s face contort into an expression of pure rage, his dismissal at the hands of an upstart like Varro striking at the very centre of his pride and honour.

‘So they all believe my power is no more,’ he whispered to himself, his mind summoning the memory of Regulus’s equally vile contempt, the thought fuelling his anger and hatred. He had raised Regulus from obscurity, rescued Varro from disgrace and both men had turned on him, their success giving them a false sense of invincibility, a belief they could dismiss Scipio and all he had done. But they were wrong, Scipio thought, his face twisting into a malicious smile, and with the patience of a hunter he set his mind to devising a new plan, one that would rid him of his enemies and finally achieve the death of a Greek captain who was at the centre of his hatred.

Atticus wiped the fine mist of sea-spray from his face as he leaned against the forerail of the Aquila, his gaze sweeping over the ordered formation of galleys fore and aft, their number stretching the length of the black shoreline of Fiumicino. He looked to the galleys closest to the Aquila in the five-abreast formation, triremes all who made up the centre of the line, the prized van-and rear-guard positions all granted to the pre-eminent quinqueremes who accounted for nearly half of the three-hundred strong Classis Romanus, a immense fleet that had taken three weeks to assemble.

‘Impressive…’

Atticus turned to find Septimus standing behind him. He was clad in full battle armour, the breastplate newly reshaped, the battle scars removed. Atticus nodded and looked to the fleet once more, a curious sensation in his chest as he repeated Septimus’s description in his mind, the display of Rome’s power mesmeric.

‘Orders from the vanguard, Captain,’ Lucius said, interrupting Atticus’s thoughts again. ‘The fleet is to heave-to at Ostia to allow the flagship and the senatorial galleys to take point.’

‘Very well, Lucius,’ Atticus replied. ‘Inform Gaius and stand by at the helm’. Lucius nodded and walked quickly away.

‘How are the new troops?’ Atticus asked of Septimus, his thoughts now on his own galley.

‘They’re good men,’ Septimus replied, ‘all from VII of the Fifth.’

Atticus nodded, glancing past Septimus to the assembled ranks of his replenished demi-maniple on the main deck.

‘So, our first stop is Brolium?’ Septimus asked, changing the subject.

‘Naples first,’ Atticus replied, ‘to pick up the transport ships that have been assembled there along with the replacement troops for the Ninth. Then we sail for Brolium.’

Septimus nodded, his thoughts straying to Marcus. The devastated Ninth legion had never been called to join the Second in fighting the Carthaginians to the south of Brolium but with the enemy now in full retreat and the replacement troops bringing the Ninth back up to full strength, they were the obvious choice to sail with the invasion fleet.

‘We should be in Brolium in about four days,’ Atticus added. ‘Two days to re-supply and embark the Ninth and then a full week to Agrigentum where the Sixth Legion will board.’

Septimus nodded again, marvelling anew at the scale of the invasion force. Three years before four legions, forty thousand men, had crossed the Strait of Messina to invade Sicily, but that crossing had taken less than an hour over a mere four miles of calm coastal water. Now the invasion was striking at the very heart of the Carthaginian Empire.

A sudden clarion call blasted from the vanguard of the fleet, the sound taken up and amplified until it rippled across the length of the entire formation, the air charged with the blare of a thousand trumpets as the head of the fleet reached the harbour entrance of Ostia. The flagship Victoria emerged, flanked by a dozen other quinqueremes, their banners heralding the family names of the senators on board, over fifty of them in total, many of them junior in rank, eager to associate their names with the impending invasion.

Hamilcar paced incessantly across his room in the naval barracks in Carthage. He had spent all morning with delegates from the one-hundred-and-four, discussing with them the latest rumours arriving in the city from traders interacting with others who had been to Ostia. The rumours were of a gathering fleet, and of Fiumcino’s shipyards’ increased and insatiable appetite for raw materials; pine and oak, canvas and iron; of a brooding tension that was permeating the enemy military.

He strode to the window and looked out over the harbour, subdued in the heat of the mid-day sun. In the military port, and beyond in the commercial harbour, the assembled fleets of the empire remained at anchor, over two hundred galleys, with only the Sicilian fleet still on station in the hostile waters surrounding the contested island. The galleys looked to be sleeping, tugging lazily on their anchor lines as the current shifted beneath them, the energy and anticipation that had infused the crews and commanders when they first arrived in Carthage now lost to apathy and tedium.

Hamilcar was due to stand before the supreme council of Carthage within the hour, to outline his revised plan of campaign now that his proposed invasion was all but impossible. The massive fleet in Carthage’s harbour was a constant strain on the city’s resources, draining the grain warehouses and coffers alike and Hamilcar knew that a majority of the council, led by Hanno, were anxious to return the fleets to their home ports.

The first knock on the door went unnoticed by Hamilcar, engrossed as he was in his thoughts, his eyes having lost their focus as he stared at the galleys before him. The second knock broke his reverie and he spun around, calling enter as he did. The door opened and Himilco stepped in, the captain’s face animated, his eyes darting to Hamilcar’s desk and then scanning the room until he saw his commander. He walked quickly to him.

‘My lord, I have further news of the Romans,’ he said.

‘Don’t you mean rumours?’ Hamilcar asked dismissively.

‘No, my lord,’ Himilco insisted. ‘There is a Maltese captain outside who you must hear.’

‘Maltese?’ Hamilcar asked, intrigued.

‘Yes, my lord. His ship approached the flagship Alissar in the commercial harbour and asked to speak to the commander. Once I heard his report I rushed him here.’

‘Very well,’ Hamilcar said. ‘Show him in.’

Hamilcar studied the captain as Himilco escorted him in. The Maltese was tall but showed none of the bearing of a military man, his eyes alert and intelligent but without the hard determination of one who has seen battle.

‘You have news?’ Hamilcar asked, his gaze suspicious.

‘Yes, my lord,’ the captain began, ‘from Naples.’

‘Go on.’ Hamilcar said.

‘As you know, my lord, the Maltese are no longer welcome in Ostia so we are forced to trade with the Republic further south where local loyalty leans more to the drachma and the denarius.’

Hamilcar nodded impatiently. Malta had been a province of Carthage for over one-hundred and fifty years, but her traders acted independently to those of the city, sailing their vessels into nearly every port in the Mediterranean, ally and foe of Carthage alike, their singular loyalty to trade recognised by all. Only Ostia forbade them entry.

‘And what have you heard?’ Hamilcar asked.

‘It is what I have seen, my lord,’ the captain said quickly. ‘A large Roman fleet sailing south from the city a week ago.’

‘How many ships?’ Hamilcar asked, his voice suddenly on edge.

‘At least three hundred galleys, my lord,’ the captain replied, ‘escorting transport ships carrying legionaries.’

Hamilcar stood silent for a moment, his mind racing. ‘Where were they heading?’ he asked.

‘The rumours in the city said Brolium on the Sicilian coast.’

Again Hamilcar remained quiet as he tried to discern the Romans’ intentions. He stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Why do you bring us this news?’ he asked, searching the captain’s expression.

‘The Romans have already closed the port of Ostia to our ships,’ the captain spat. ‘If they expand their territory then who knows what rule of law will follow? We Maltese want only trade and for generations Carthage has given us a free hand. Given a choice I would sooner have the Romans bottled up on their peninsula.’

Hamilcar nodded but he remained cautious. This information, taken with the rumours thus far, seemed to indicate a massive offensive. But against where? Panormus? Syracuse? Either way, he now had vital information to share with the supreme council, information that would decide the next move of the Carthaginian fleet.

‘Can we believe this message?’ the councillor said, looking to his colleagues, uncertainty in his voice, his question answered simultaneously by a half-dozen others. Hamilcar stood silently as the debate swung back and forth amongst the twelve members of the supreme council, waiting to be addressed directly having finished his report. As always he looked to his father surreptitiously, searching for some unspoken advice, the intricate alliances and sub-groups of the council a mystery to Hamilcar, leaving him with little idea of who still supported him as military leader.

‘Do you believe this message?’ the suffet finally asked, looking at Hamilcar with hooded eyes.

‘I have dispatched a galley to Thermae with orders for the captain to make contact with our spies in Brolium,’ Hamilcar replied, carefully keeping all bias from his tone. ‘If the Roman fleet do indeed dock there, then I believe we will have verification of the message. In the meantime I have interned the Maltese captain and his crew. If his report is false then we shall exact the real truth from his lying tongue.’

‘If the report is verified,’ the suffet said, ‘what do you propose?’

‘To learn of their final objective and then take the battle to them with our entire fleet.’ Hamilcar replied boldly.

‘To what end?’ Hanno said with derision. ‘To attempt to regain the confidence of this council?’

‘No,’ Hamilcar replied, anger in his voice. ‘To wipe the Roman scourge from our seas.’

Hanno made to retort but the suffet held his hand up for silence. ‘I agree with young Barca’s plan,’ he said after a moment’s pause, looking to each council member in turn. ‘With such a Roman fleet at sea we must act decisively.’

Some of the council members nodded in agreement while more looked stonily ahead, Hanno amongst them. The suffet marked the division and, conscious of the need for agreement, turned directly to Hanno.

‘This reversal of Barca’s invasion plan,’ he said. ‘You no longer have faith in his ability to command?’

‘No, Suffet,’ Hanno replied, ‘I believe Barca has been blinded by his own ambitions.’

Hamilcar bristled at the remark but held his tongue, catching his father’s expression of warning in the corner of his eye.

‘Hamilcar Barca is our most able commander,’ the suffet began, ‘but perhaps Hanno is right, perhaps he is too determined, too aggressive. I propose that you, Hanno, sail with the fleet to ensure that assertiveness is tempered with experience.’

Hanno nodded in agreement, knowing he could do little else. To refuse would invite accusations of cowardice. The suffet noticed Hanno’s allies also comply and he quickly called a vote, one that was carried easily.

Hamilcar saluted to the council before turning on his heel to leave the chamber. He caught Hanno’s eye as he did, seeing there the latent hostility he felt surging through his own veins. Hamilcar closed the chamber door and stood silently for a moment, fully realising that battle-lines had now been drawn not only in the sea but also in the council of Carthage itself, battle-lines that Hamilcar had to cross if he was to destroy his enemies. A cold determination crept onto Hamilcar’s face as he savoured the thought. Gone now was the subterfuge, the snares and planning that had consumed him over the previous months, replaced with the clarity given only to a warrior when he stands, sword in hand, upon the battlefield, his vision filled with the sight of his mortal enemy.