Captain of Rome

CHAPTER FIVE

Hamilcar’s heart soared as he caught sight of the walled citadel of Byrsa high above the city still hidden from his vantage point on the foredeck of the Alissar. The late evening light was reflecting off the wind-blasted fortifications, turning the entire fort into a beacon which seemed to draw him closer with every stroke of the galley’s oars. Hamilcar had not seen the city in over a year, but his memory guided his eyes instinctively, his gaze sweeping left and right as the tops of the taller temples started to appear on the horizon ahead and he quietly recited their names, his mind’s eye adding detail to each one until they merged into a single entity. Carthage.

Within minutes the massive wall that encircled Carthage dominated the view, a defence which had stood against every enemy in the city’s history, a colossal carapace that protected the heart of an empire within. The Alissar keeled hard to starboard as she approached the city, her bow finding a new course that would take her into the manmade harbours on the southern approaches. Hamilcar remained restless as the drum beat slowed in the confines of the first harbour, the commercial centre of a maritime empire, and the Alissar advanced onwards to sweep gracefully through the porticos that guarded the entrance to the military harbour, the helmsman ordering near dead stop in the crowded waters, the galley resting easily in the calm swell.

The military harbour was circular in shape, a manmade wheel with a raised island as its hub. Covered ship-houses on both the outer perimeter and the inner island dominated the space, an incredible sequence of slips, dry-docks and workshops that could house over two hundred galleys. The Alissar quickly docked and Hamilcar strode purposefully down the gangplank, pausing briefly at the end before stepping once more onto the sacred land of his home city, a renewed determination taking hold of him as he felt the power of the city course through his veins. He set off without a backward glance, his feet taking him unerringly through the ancient teeming streets to the Council chamber in the shadow of the Byrsa citadel.

Hamilcar slowed as he approached the Council chamber, his eyes ranging over the groups of men standing near the entrance to the chamber, searching for the familiar figure of his father. He was not to be seen however and Hamilcar continued on into the inner chamber, his vision quickly adjusting to the gloom within. He spotted Hanno almost immediately, holding court amongst a group of fellow councillors. He had a massive frame, made all the more imposing by a habit of flaying his hands about before him as he spoke. Hamilcar approached without hesitation, his military uniform and the metallic jangle of his personal arms drawing the attention of many in the chamber, all of whom recognised the young man. Hamilcar could see that Hanno had spotted him out of the corner of his eye but the councillor continued to speak uninterrupted, his face showing neither surprise nor expectation.

‘Councillor Hanno,’ Hamilcar called, immediately opening the circle around Hanno.

‘Hamilcar Barca,’ Hanno replied, his deep, booming voice friendly as the group around him opened their ranks further to allow Hamilcar to stand before the councillor. ‘How is the campaign on Sicily progressing?’

‘It is going well, Councillor,’ Hamilcar answered evenly although his eyes were now hostile, a look only Hanno could see and one which had not escaped his notice, ‘although,’ he continued, ‘the disposition of my forces has suffered from meddling from a civilian outsider.’ Hamilcar spat the last word and as he did a shadow seemed to pass over Hanno’s expression. The councillor drew in a deep breath before exhaling slowly, the smell of his breath washing over Hamilcar.

‘Meddling,’ Hanno said, with a definite edge to his voice. ‘A very unfortunate choice of words.’

‘But an appropriate one,’ Hamilcar said, the other councillors around him forgotten as he struggled to rein in his temper.

Hanno seemed ready to reply but he hesitated, his eyes darting left and right to the group of councillors surrounding them. This was not the forum to reveal his plans to every prying ear.

Hanno laughed suddenly, the outburst throwing Hamilcar off balance, ‘You are your father’s son,’ his congeniality almost convincing. ‘Come, Hamilcar, let us discuss this matter you speak of in more detail,’ he said, stepping forward and taking Hamilcar by the elbow. Hamilcar resisted for a second before allowing himself to be turned and he walked with Hanno to the quiet of an ante-chamber. Once there Hanno looked over his shoulder to ensure they were alone.

‘You would do well to temper your words, young Barca,’ he spat, his face becoming mottled with anger as he brought his full will to bear on Hamilcar.

‘By what right do you change my orders on Sicily?’ Hamilcar shot back, ‘Because of you, total victory was snatched from us at Thermae.’

‘Thermae,’ Hanno said in disgust. ‘What do I, what does Carthage care for Thermae, or Sicily for that matter?’

‘But…’ Hamilcar said, thrown slightly by Hanno’s casual attitude to the war.

‘By what right do you summon our fleet from Iberia to fight your war on Sicily?’ Hanno accused, cutting across Hamilcar, neatly turning the focus of the confrontation.

‘I need those ships to reassert our control over northern Sicily,’ Hamilcar replied, now on the defensive.

‘Those galleys are needed to protect the shipping lanes of the empire. They are not yours to personally command!’

Hamilcar hesitated, his mind searching for a way to turn the argument once more in his favour. He suddenly recalled Hanno’s sudden inexplicable laughter moments before and how he had led Hamilcar away from the other councillors. Hamilcar gambled. ‘Does the Council know of your interference?’ he asked.

Hanno hesitated for a mere second before he recovered. ‘What the Council does or does not know is none of your concern, Barca,’ he replied, a hard edge of anger once more infusing his words.

‘But it is my father’s concern,’ Hamilcar replied.

‘Have a care Barca,’ Hanno said menacingly. ‘These are matters far beyond your reach. I would caution you. A few well chosen words by me in the right ears might reignite a debate amongst the Hundred and Four about your summary execution of Hannibal Gisco.’

Again Hamilcar was forced to hesitate. The Hundred and Four was a council of judges that oversaw all military matters in the empire, including the appointment and dismissal of commanders. By right, only they could condemn a failed commander to death, a decision Hamilcar had usurped after the defeat at Mylae. He had escaped censure however, a pardon he was sure his father had secured.

‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ Hanno said, making to brush past Hamilcar, ‘I have more important matters than your tantrum to attend to.’

Hamilcar shot out his hand and grasped Hanno’s arm, holding him firm, his fingers biting into the soft flesh.

Hanno shot around, his face twisted in fury.

‘You dare strike a member of the Supreme Council of Carthage?’ he growled. ‘Take your hand off me before I have you and your family flayed alive.’

Hamilcar withdrew his hand immediately, knowing he had gone too far, pushed too hard. Hanno shot him one last look of pure contempt before he strode away leaving Hamilcar standing alone in the ante-chamber, drained by the encounter, the elation he had felt upon returning to Carthage shattered in the very heart of the city.

A complete hush descended upon the entire Senate chamber as the leader of the house slowly made his way towards the podium. He moved at a torturous pace, the seniority of his years that had warranted his appointment to the position of princeps senatus, a ceremonial and near powerless apolitical position, forcing him to shuffle forward and an audible moan escaped the more impatient senators as they waited in anticipation.

The vote for the senior consulship was now in its third count, the first two inconclusive votes merely adding uncertainty to an election that Duilius had split wide open the day before. The first vote had been an open show of hands as each of the two names on the ballot was called in turn, Regulus and Longus. It instantly became apparent however that the vote was too close to call, the scattered raised hands for each candidate across the house impossible to count and so the princeps senatus called for a second vote, a division of the house, where the senators would physically move to the side of the chamber occupied by their preferred candidate, Longus on the left, Regulus on the right. Both sides claimed victory as the final seats were taken but again it was impossible to discern a clear majority on either side and so a third vote was called, an actual count by the leader of the house of each individual senator’s vote.

‘Senators of Rome,’ the leader called out, ‘I have counted the votes for each candidate and I can now inform you that one of the candidates has achieved a majority.’

A half-hearted cheer escaped from some of the younger senators before the silence in the chamber quickly reasserted itself. Duilius looked across at Regulus before shifting his gaze to the senators surrounding him, the division of the house still in force. Scipio was there, two levels behind Regulus and to his right, a distance that spoke of a complete separation that Duilius knew to be false.

Duilius vividly recalled the anxiety he had experienced the day before when he had spotted Scipio staring at him, suspecting instantly that he was behind Regulus’s nomination. It had struck him like a hammer blow but he had tempered his alarm, knowing that to suspect Scipio on instinct alone was pointless. His proof had come later however when Appius, his spy master, reported that both Amaury and Tiago, the two spies he had placed in Scipio’s house, had disappeared. After that there could be no doubt save for one question. Did Amaury and Tiago voluntarily betray him or were they somehow exposed by Scipio and tricked into delivering false information? Either way they were dead men.

Now as Duilius watched Scipio intently, he cursed his own naivety. It had been a perfect trap, the bait impossible to ignore, the threat to his fortune a flawless strike at his weakest point. He saw Scipio turn towards his side of the house, his enemy’s eyes sweeping the chamber until his gaze came to rest on Duilius. He stared impassively, his expression unreadable, and Duilius matched his gaze as both men awaited the next words of the leader of the house.

‘I am honoured to announce,’ the leader continued, ‘that the new senior consul of Rome is Marcus Atilius Regulus.’

The Senate erupted as the announcement was made, the leader’s following words of congratulation lost amidst the cheers of the right. Scipio simply smiled and Duilius turned away. He had been outmanoeuvred by the very foe he thought he had beaten and the realisation steeled his will. He would not be so complacent again.

Atticus left the aft-deck and walked forward along the main, sensing the mood of many of the men as he went, their expressions animated and distracted as they continuously glanced over the side rails. Atticus tried to identify his own emotions as he mounted the foredeck and walked forwards to the bow rail to get a better view of the teeming waters ahead. The Aquila was approaching Ostia, the port town of Rome, and although she was still two miles distant the sea lanes were crowded with all manner of vessels, each vying for the limited sea room available so close to port. Gaius held a steady course, adjusting it only slightly to circumnavigate the lumbering transport ships under sail, the oar power at his command affording him greater manoeuvrability and he moved through their wakes or under their bows with barely an oars-width to spare.

Atticus noticed that many of the trading galleys did not adjust their course to swing wide of the Aquila and the four-foot bronze ram that sliced the water before her. He smiled to himself, remembering a time, in fact only a few months ago, when the sight of a Roman military galley was enough of a rarity to open a channel in even the busiest shipping lane. Now the Aquila passed like a ghost through the sea lane, almost unnoticed and completely undistinguished, a once exceptional sight that had become as common as the white horses of the waves themselves.

Within fifteen minutes the outlying buildings of Ostia came into sight, the low lying houses of the traders who fed off the daily bounty delivered from the four corners of the Mediterranean to Ostia. These dwellings gave way to the taller trading houses and warehouses of the town proper, an almost solid line of buildings that encircled the docks. The Aquila maintained a course parallel to the shoreline as she passed the commercial docks of Ostia, her course taking her across the inward and outward path of every other vessel and curses spoken in a dozen languages floated across the water from crews forced to slow or adjust their course to avoid the determined path of the war-galley.

The Aquila was heading for the castrum on the northern edge of the port, the military barracks that had once housed the tiny coastal fleet that protected the sea trade to and from the city. Now it was home to the Classis Romanus although the majority of the fleet was stationed a couple of miles north at Fiumicino. Atticus’s mind was flooded with memories as the Aquila neared the military docks.

Atticus had been granted a place of honour at the right hand of Gaius Duilius during the triumph that followed the great naval victory in Rome. It had been heady wine and the lasting impression of that day had further clouded and entangled Atticus’s attitude towards the city that now dictated his destiny.

Atticus recalled the sea eagle he had seen at dawn the previous day. At the time the sight had triggered something in his mind, a thought he had pushed aside when he spotted the survivors from the Fides in the water, but now he remembered lamenting that bird’s fate. It was a creature trapped between two worlds, relying on the land for its home but on the sea for its food, its life force, its very reason to exist. Cut off either land or sea and the sea eagle would perish.

Atticus had never believed his own existence was as interdependent. He had been born into grinding poverty, into a world where the sea offered the only means of sustenance and the land offered nothing in kind. His only happy childhood memories revolved around the sea and his time spent fishing with his father and grandfather and so at fourteen he had readily joined the crew of a military galley, the promise of open water and a life spent hunting the pirates his grandfather had taught him to hate, enough to sever his ties to Locri, a city which had never given him comfort or succour. For any given year since then Atticus could count the number of days he had spent ashore on his hands alone and he had truly come to consider the sea his home, tied only to the land through ancient bonds of ancestry and loyalty. That belief had been challenged by Rome.

For hundreds of years Rome had been a land based power, a republic surrounded on three sides by water. Its ambition to control Sicily however, was transforming that sphere, extending the reach of the Republic into the seas that had once held her fast and that ambition had quickly enveloped the small fleet of ships that had always acted independently on her behalf. The Aquila had been one of those ships and Atticus had been submerged into a culture that had previously existed only on the periphery of his life. This quickly created loyalties within him, firstly through Septimus and his bond with the legionaries trapped on Sicily and then through men like Duilius, new men of Rome who ignored the ancient lineage of a citizen and took their measure of a man by his deeds alone. Beyond these bonds of loyalty was Hadria, Septimus’s sister and it was her presence in Rome, more than any other, that caused Atticus to realise for the first time in his life, that the land promised many things the sea could not give.

The Aquila hove to with a gentle touch from Gaius and the starboard oars were withdrawn, allowing the galley to swing parallel to the docks. Mooring ropes were thrown and the Aquila was made fast before the gangplank was lowered onto the quayside. Once again Atticus found himself comparing the sights before him with his memories. The original castrum consisted of a standard barracks house with an enclosed courtyard set fifty yards back from the edge of the dock and where once it had stood almost forlorn and devoid of life, it was now alive with activity, a constant flow of military personnel passing through the arched entranceways that led to the interior. Atticus noticed an officer approaching the Aquila at the head of a contubernia of ten legionaries.

‘What galley?’ he called as he arrived at a point directly across from the aft-deck.

‘The Aquila,’ Atticus replied.

The officer quickly consulted his list, his head rising and falling as he read it through twice. ‘I have no record of your galley here,’ he shouted up, his expression now one of annoyance. ‘State the reason for this unscheduled arrival!’

Atticus nearly smiled. Bloody Roman paperwork, he thought. ‘We’re of the Thermae attack fleet,’ he said. ‘We…’

‘Captain!’

Atticus spun around to find Varro standing with his guards behind him.

‘Back to your station, Perennis,’ he spat. ‘I’ll address this.’

Atticus stepped aside and Varro approached the side rail. On the dock the officer’s face showed surprise at the unexpected sight of a tribune and he immediately snapped to attention before saluting. Varro indicated the gangplank with a nod and the officer saluted once more, marching his squad to the foot of the gangplank while Varro mirrored his approach with his praetoriani on the Aquila.

Atticus watched from the aft-deck as Varro descended. The tribune issued terse orders and within seconds two of the legionaries were dispatched back to the castrum. As Varro continued to talk, Atticus noticed the officer’s eyes flash towards him. The legionary nodded twice as the tribune’s orders continued, his gaze still fixed on the aft-deck and Atticus felt a sudden instinctive flare of warning. Rome was Varro’s domain, where his power was at its greatest, where an order to arrest him for insubordination and striking an officer would be followed without question.

Atticus braced himself for the inevitable as he watched Varro stride off to the castrum. The officer remained and instead of boarding to make an arrest, he strode once more along the dock until he was parallel to the aft-deck.

‘Captain, you are to disembark your entire crew immediately,’ the officer shouted, a hint of disdain in his voice.

Atticus was confused by the order. In what way was the crew involved?

‘And what of my men, the marines?’ Septimus asked, standing at Atticus’s shoulder.

‘Your full complement as well, Centurion.’

‘And my ship?’ Atticus asked.

The officer smiled derisively. ‘Your ship will be sailed by a reserve crew to Fiumicino.’

Atticus made to protest but Septimus stayed his words with a hand on his shoulder.

‘Save your breath, Atticus,’ he said. ‘There’s no latitude here.’

‘But I don’t understand. What is Varro playing at?’ Atticus asked, completely bewildered.

‘I think I know,’ Septimus replied and he turned over his shoulder to issue the necessary orders to Lucius and Drusus. The optio responded immediately but Lucius looked to Atticus for confirmation. The captain nodded without comment. There was no other option but to obey.

With each passing street and each familiar sight, Hamilcar began to feel his heart rate and his mood return to normal. These were the streets of his childhood, his teenage years before he reached the age of majority and every corner ignited long forgotten memories. A year ago, when he had last walked these streets, they had been shrouded in darkness, a hurried visit to his father’s house in the midst of his journey from Iberia to Sicily. Now he took the opportunity to drink in every sight, absorb every sound and smell until his heart felt once more like that of the boy he had once been.

With pride Hamilcar noticed the prosperity that infused every aspect of the street, the bustling stalls and storefronts, the haggling traders and customers, money changing hands over handshakes and platitudes, his mind and senses automatically ignoring the beggars and street urchins that swarmed about his feet. Carthage was an empire built on trade and Hamilcar was always fascinated by the multitude of minute transactions that took place every day in almost every street across the city’s domains, triggering events and decisions that shaped the very empire.

As Hamilcar moved up and around the hill of Byrsa, the streets became less crowded, the stalls more sporadic and the loud drone and buzz of the streets gave way to near silence so Hamilcar could once more hear the hobnails of his sandals on the cobblestones beneath him. These were the streets of the military families, the ancient nobility. They were all descendents of traders but now the wealth of each family was handled exclusively by agents, men who traded on their behalf. It distanced men like Hamilcar from the daily grind of commerce and he knew little of how the wealth of his family was generated and maintained. He did however know intimately the power that wealth wielded and the respect for money that was passed down father to son was strong in the Barcid family.

Hamilcar arrived at a modest but stout wooden door midway along one of the narrow streets. He paused for a second, touching the door lightly, feeling the grain beneath his fingers. He knocked with a clenched fist and then stood back. The door was opened within a minute by one of the senior servants, whose face lit up as he recognised his master’s son. Hamilcar returned the smile, touching the servant lightly on the arm as he brushed past him into the outer courtyard.

The house within the walls was sprawling and lavish. It had been expanded many times over its lifetime and the diverse mix of extensions and ancillary buildings spoke to the house’s long service over the lifetimes of many generations of the Barcids. Hamilcar moved inside, his ears picking up the sounds of excitement within and he marvelled as always at how fast the servants could transmit news across the house. As he crossed the main atrium he caught sight of his mother and father entering from the other side. His mother rushed to greet him while his father, Hasdrubal, approached with a measured stride, his hand extended, his expression warm with an undertone of surprise and curiosity at his son’s unexpected visit.

Hamilcar was led by his parents into an informal family room, an area bedecked with couches and low tables, with doorways in every wall leading to inner courtyards and gardens. They talked easily for an hour about inconsequential matters, a year’s worth of daily life and talk compressed with ease and in comfort. Hamilcar’s mother soon recognised a subtle turn in the conversation however, as her husband began to touch on matters in Sicily and she rose to make arrangements for the evening meal, kissing her son fondly before leaving the room.

‘What news of the campaign?’ Hasdrubal asked, sitting forward, his face taking on an expression of intense concentration.

Hamilcar relayed the entire events of the previous three months. His father knew of Mylae, but only through dispatches, and he took the opportunity to question his son extensively on the causes of their defeat. He then listened in silence as his son outlined his preparations for ambush at Thermae, nodding approvingly in places, his respect for his son’s abilities further reinforced. Hamilcar then spoke of how his well laid plan was thwarted by Hanno’s interference and he told his father of his confrontation with the councillor earlier that day. Again Hasdrubal listened in silence but his expression changed to one of anger and then concern.

‘Hanno,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘we must step carefully around him.’

‘Why, father?’ Hamilcar asked. ‘Surely many would think his interference borders on treason.’

Hasdrubal smiled although there was no humour there. ‘There are many that believe the city’s campaign on Sicily borders on treason.’

Hamilcar’s expression became puzzled, prompting his father to continue. ‘Hanno is the leader of a faction within the Supreme Council which is opposed to the war against Rome.’

‘Opposed? Why?’

‘They believe the empire’s destiny lies in Africa and that the conquest of Sicily is a misguided venture, a waste of our resources.’

‘But Sicily guards our northern flank and the island sits astride the northern Mediterranean sea-lanes,’ Hamilcar protested. ‘If the Romans are not held there, there is no telling where they will strike next.’

Hasdrubal nodded. He knew well the dangers inherent in allowing Rome control over Sicily. Hamilcar could sense the weariness in his agreement, as if he had said those exact words a thousand times in the council chamber to no avail. The two men lapsed into silence.

‘Can we thwart Hanno’s efforts to disrupt the war in Sicily?’ Hamilcar asked after a minute.

‘We must,’ his father replied, ‘and soon. Hanno will strike for the position of Suffet next year. If he successfully becomes the leader of the Council he will withdraw every resource from Sicily and the campaign will be strangled to death.’

Hamilcar nodded, sensing his father had already devised a solution. ‘What can I do?’ he asked.

‘Hanno’s faction was in the minority before the defeat at Mylae. Now it is steadily gaining numbers. What I, and those opposed to Hanno need, is a significant victory in Sicily, something to inspire the people and the council into backing the war fully once more.’

Again Hamilcar nodded, a knowing smile spreading across his face.

‘Then you need not worry,’ he said, marshalling his thoughts so as to outline the plan in detail to his father, a plan that he had already put in motion and would certainly deliver the victory that Carthage desired. In fact, he smiled as he began, if the plan was entirely successful, Sicily would be the least of the prizes won.

‘So why are we here?’ Atticus asked, his head propped up on his forearms as he looked out the chest high window onto the courtyard of the castrum. The sun was falling away to the west and more than half of the courtyard was in shadow, but the hectic activity of the castrum continued unabated. Atticus turned to face Septimus, who was sitting on one of the two cots in the tiny room. The centurion had shrugged off his leather breastplate and was tracing the imprint of an eagle on the leather with the tip of his finger. He looked up, pausing briefly as he picked up the voices of many other men, their words muted by the thick walls that separated the rooms. The entire crew of sailors and marines were locked in similar rooms, some larger than others but all with stout wooden doors that were locked from the outside.

‘Why do you think?’ Septimus asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Atticus replied frustratedly. ‘I can understand Varro wanting me arrested but why are the rest of the crew here? They weren’t complicit, they were following my orders. And you, you weren’t even on the Aquila when I hit him.’

Septimus chuckled, ‘This isn’t about you, Atticus. From what you’ve told me, and Varro’s reaction when he came back on board at Brolium, those senators who witnessed you hit Varro at Thermae will deny the incident so I don’t think you’ll face formal charges. In any case you’re not Varro’s biggest problem at the minute.’

Atticus nodded, almost but not quite feeling sorry for the tribune. Bearing news of a defeat was something every commander dreaded.

‘What’s happened since we arrived?’ Septimus asked.

Atticus thought for a second, recalling the events of the previous few hours in his mind. ‘We were escorted off the Aquila,’ he said, ‘practically rushed here, locked up and we haven’t seen anyone since.’

‘Exactly,’ Septimus said. ‘We haven’t seen anyone. We’re in isolation.’

‘Isolation? Why?’

‘Where is Varro now?’ Septimus asked.

‘Varro?’ Atticus replied, perplexed, ‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll tell you where. He’s preparing to stand before the Senate tomorrow morning. He’s preparing the speech that will decide his future in Rome.’

‘So? What has that to do with us?’

‘My family have never been part of the Senate,’ Septimus said, ‘but every Roman knows how the Senate works, how the system works. Varro’s version of events has to be the first to be heard. It’s the only way he can control the Senate’s reaction. He’ll have to stick close to the truth but the bias he uses, the slant he puts on the events will be all important. His version has got to show him in the best light.’

‘So he can’t have us wandering around telling everyone our version of the defeat before he gets a chance to deliver the news his way,’ Atticus concluded.

‘Exactly,’ Septimus nodded.

Atticus was silent for a couple of minutes as his mind dwelled on the other issue. ‘So with Varro embroiled in all this political trouble, you think I’m off the hook,’ he said.

‘That’s not what I said,’ Septimus replied, ‘I said there’ll be no formal charges, but there’s no way Varro will forget or forgive what’s happened. Would you?’

Atticus shook his head. Not a chance. He turned to the window once more, propping his chin on his forearms again as he gazed over the twilight lit courtyard. Tomorrow’s dawn would see Varro fighting the political battle of his life and for one day more Atticus knew he would be forgotten. Beyond that it was only a matter of time.