Captain of Rome

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hamilcar stood on the bow of the Alissar as his flagship entered the chaotic harbour of Syracuse on the south-eastern corner of Sicily, his hand gripping the side-rail for balance, the tunic beneath his leather chest-plate soaked by sea spray thrown up as the galley’s ram butted through the off-shore driven waves. He looked over his shoulder to the rigging of the mainmast, his eyes darting from one lookout to the next, judging the body language of each, sensing their tension but perceiving little else. He turned to the waters ahead once more, his ears picking up the cries of warning on the wind as his warship was spotted by the outermost trading galleys in the harbour.

Hamilcar ignored the sailing ships as they turned ponderously before the Alissar, their captains judging the course of the dark hulled galley, the blunt-nosed ram pointing directly for the centre of the harbour. Instead he looked beneath and between their sails, searching for the arrow-like lines of galleys that sped under oars, spotting a couple skimming the wave-tops as they too gave way before the Carthaginian quinquereme. They were biremes, almost certainly trading vessels but Hamilcar scrutinised each in turn to be sure.

‘Trireme! Two points off the starboard quarter!’

Hamilcar’s gaze darted to the shouted co-ordinates, cursing the fat-bellied ships that obscured his line of sight. He spotted the trireme and he instantly felt his heart rate quicken. Was she a warship? He couldn’t tell. The angle of sight was wrong, too deep, and the banners on the galley’s main mast were indistinguishable from the multitude bedecking every ship in the harbour. He turned once more to the look-outs, trusting their younger eyes and elevated line of sight. He saw the face of one burst into a smile, followed instantly by another.

‘She’s one of ours!’ the lookout called. ‘A trader!’

Hamilcar spun around again, waiting impatiently as the progress of the Alissar improved the angle of sight. He smiled as he confirmed the identification with his own eyes. A trading trireme. His relief made him laugh out loud. Only a Carthaginian would turn a galley that size into a trading ship. She was probably ex-military, stripped and sold at auction after it was deemed her aging timbers were no longer strong enough for battle conditions.

Hamilcar again considered the wisdom of this unannounced visit to Syracuse. The province was openly allied to Rome, a treaty signed after the Romans defeated the Syracusans three years before at the beginning of the war. Rome had been lenient in her terms, the escalation of the conflict with Carthage drawing her attention to the western half of Sicily and so they merely commanded King Hiero to confine his army within the borders of the Syracuse and provide anchorage for Roman ships when required. It was for this reason that Hamilcar had known his arrival was a significant gamble. If the trireme had indeed been a Roman warship, the Alissar would have taken her easily, but Hamilcar could not afford to compromise Hiero’s relationship with the Romans by destroying one of their ships in Syracuse harbour, not now that secrecy had become paramount.

The Alissar moved quickly through the cluttered harbour, the clear path created for her speeding her approach and Hamilcar smiled once more as his crew shouted acknowledgments to the Carthaginian crews of many of the trading vessels. The island of Sicily was a battlefield, but Syracuse remained an open port and trade recognised few boundaries, certainly not in a port that sat astride one of the busiest eastwest trading routes. The Alissar docked quickly and Hamilcar strode down the gang-plank with a guard detail of four men. He ordered his galley to take station in the outer harbour and she was instantly away, her balanced hull turning within a ship-length, her two hundred and seventy oars striking and churning the waters as one.

Hamilcar walked quickly along the dockside, his guard detail ever vigilant behind him, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Hamilcar spotted a Roman trading ship unloading ahead and he swept her deck with his eyes before spotting the captain on the aft-deck. The Roman had obviously seen the Alissar dock and Hamilcar knew his every step was now being watched surreptitiously. He returned the scrutiny balefully and he smiled inwardly as the Roman turned away. Hamilcar knew the Roman would report the sighting but he was unconcerned. It would be days before news reached Rome and a single Carthaginian galley in Syracuse was hardly cause for significant suspicion.

Hamilcar and his men left the busy docks and threaded their way through the labyrinthine streets, the soaring battlements of Hiero’s castle guiding them unerringly to their destination. The streets opened out into a large square directly before the guarded entrance to the castle and Hamilcar took the opportunity to study the east facing wall of the castle, as his first visit here over two months before had been at night. The castle was uncomplicated, a square fortification with watchtowers on each corner and Hamilcar nodded at the wisdom of its design, his military mind searching the thirty foot high sheer walls for weakness and finding none.

The Carthaginians crossed the square diagonally and their obvious military bearing ensured that their every step was watched with interest from the battlements above. Hamilcar approached the guards at the gate and spoke to them brusquely, requesting a word with the officer of the day. The officer arrived promptly and Hamilcar identified himself, requesting an immediate audience with the king. The Carthaginians were escorted to the guard-house and the officer disappeared to return within five minutes with permission for Hamilcar to proceed alone to the audience chamber.

Hamilcar glanced left and right as he climbed ever higher and deeper into the castle, the guards preceding him moving quickly, sensing the importance of the Carthaginian commander who had been granted an immediate audience with their king. Every junction and landing was guarded but Hamilcar and his escort moved through them without check until finally they came to the ornate outer doors of the king’s chamber. The doors opened without command and the escort peeled off to allow Hamilcar to proceed alone along the carpeted approach to the king.

The chamber had a vaulted ceiling supported by a complex series of beams, held aloft by flanking columns that ran the length of the rectangular room and Hamilcar’s eyes were drawn instinctively upward. He lowered his eyes and looked directly to the head of the room. Hiero was seated on a low stool on a raised platform, an adviser sitting on a cushion directly to his left while a detachment of royal guards stood unmoved six feet behind the king. The area was strewn with many more cushions and Hamilcar had a feeling that they had been occupied only moments before, his announced arrival prompting Hiero to clear the chamber. A wise move considering what was going to be discussed.

Hamilcar stopped a discreet distance from the raised platform and bowed his head in respect, his eyes remaining on the king’s, searching for any clue to Hiero’s thoughts but the king’s expression was unreadable. Hamilcar straightened up and waited to be spoken to.

‘You are welcome, young Barca,’ Hiero said.

‘Thank you, sire!’ Hamilcar replied, smiling inwardly. The king was no older than himself, perhaps even a year or two younger, but Hamilcar conceded that if achievement was the mark of a man’s age, then Hiero was indeed a lifetime older.

‘You wished to speak with me?’ Hiero continued.

‘Yes, sire, I wished to inform you of my plans personally.’

Hiero’s adviser rose promptly and whispered something in the king’s ear. Hiero nodded his agreement before signaling Hamilcar to continue.

‘As you may know, sire,’ Hamilcar began, ‘my forces have turned the tide once more in Carthage’s favour with a victory at Thermae.’

‘Not as complete a victory as you might have wished,’ Hiero said, studying the Carthaginian commander’s reaction. ‘I understand many of the Roman galleys escaped.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Hamilcar countered, retaining his composure, ‘victory was secured and I am now in a position to advance my army eastwards.’

‘How far east?’ Hiero asked, sitting straighter on his chair.

‘To the borders of Syracuse, sire, in order to split the Romans’ territory in two.’

Hiero nodded, appreciating the audacity of the plan, his mind’s eye creating the map of Sicily, the west held by the Carthaginians, the east the domain Syracuse, the Roman territory dividing them both through the centre of the island.

‘You risk a great deal by revealing your plans to me, Barca,’ the king said after a pause, a smile on his face.

‘No more than you have already risked, sire, by allowing my ships to use Tyndaris in defiance of your treaty with Rome.’

Hiero’s smile broadened. He liked the Carthaginian’s confidence. It matched his own. He had granted Hamilcar the use of Tyndaris because the outcome of the war was still very much in the balance and he wanted the eventual victor, whomever that was, to remember Syracuse as an ally.

‘Nevertheless, why reveal your plans to me?’ he asked.

‘Because when my army reaches your border, there is an opportunity for Syracuse to throw off the shackles of Rome and form an open alliance with Carthage.’

‘To jump from the mouth of one baying wolf to another?’ Hiero asked.

‘Carthage has long been a friend of Syracuse, sire. We are very much alike. We seek only peaceful trade, not submission and dominance as Rome demands.’

Hiero nodded, searching the Carthaginian’s words for the real truth. His adviser rose once more to whisper into his ear.

Hamilcar waited in silence, cursing anew the need to reveal his strategy so soon to Hiero, a premature disclosure caused by Hanno’s plans to stifle the war in Sicily, the victory required by his father needed sooner rather than later.

‘And what of Tyndaris?’ Hiero asked. ‘I hear rumours that Carthage is employing the services of pirates in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the west coast of Italy.’

Hamilcar cursed inwardly. The king was too well informed. ‘Not pirates, sire, mercenaries, who are familiar with the territorial waters of Rome.’

The king nodded, a sly smile spreading across his face. ‘There is a thin line Barca,’ he said, ‘between pirates and mercenaries.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Hiero’s expression changed, becoming firm once more, an edge to his voice. ‘I trust you are taking every precaution to ensure the Romans do not become aware of your activities, and my involvement.’

‘Rest assured, sire, the mercenaries are acting under the strict command of one of my finest officers and his orders are to leave no witnesses.’

Hiero nodded again. The Carthaginian’s assurances were hollow and he knew it was only a matter of time before the secret of Tyndaris was exposed. Nevertheless he still believed his decision was sound-if the Carthaginians had indeed turned the tide of the war.

‘Very well, Barca,’ he said, ‘I will follow your campaign closely and if and when the time is right, my army will be committed to yours.’

Hamilcar bowed and began to slowly walk backward, keeping his head low. When he had retreated twenty paces he straightened up and turned, keeping his back straight as the doors leading from the chamber were opened once more. He passed through them and as he heard them close he halted, looking over his shoulder at the intricate designs on the door, the Greek iconography the spoke to the ancestral home of Hiero and his people. ‘If and when the time is right,’ the king had said and Hamilcar bridled at the failsafe approach that Hiero had adopted, the non-committal that placed the entire onus on the forces of Carthage. Succeed and Syracuse would become an open ally. Fail and Hiero could safely deny any pact ever existed.

Hamilcar’s escort returned to lead him once more to the gate of the castle and he fell in behind them. He straightened his shoulders as he walked, his hand reaching for and grasping the hilt of his sword, flexing his fingers as he took a firm grip on the moulded ivory handle. To his front the Roman enemy stood, bloodied but by no means beaten. To his rear the cautious men of Carthage and Syracuse stood, demanding victory before committing fully to the war. Hamilcar and his men stood in the middle, defiant and confident; their only ally the sword and shield and Hamilcar increased the intensity of his grip at the thought, matching his will to the forged iron of his blade.

Hadria allowed her hand to drift slowly down Atticus’s chest as he talked, her fingers tracing the contours of his flesh, brushing lightly over the creased skin of his scars, fascinated by them, wishing to know the story behind each one. Atticus lay on his back with one arm propped under his head, his eyes turned up to the ceiling as he relayed the events of the past three months in answer to her open questions, his voice unnaturally low in the privacy of Hadria’s bedroom. Hadria lay on her side, her leg thrown across Atticus, the gentle curve of her thigh pressing lightly on him, her head resting on her upper arm. Outside the sun was reaching its zenith and the dead heat of the late summer draped the room in a sullen shroud of warmth, sustaining a sheen of sweat on the lovers’ bodies.

Atticus spoke of Thermae but he did not mention his confrontation with Varro, not wanting to alarm Hadria. Finally he spoke of the journey to Rome and their rescue of the survivor from the Fides, his brow creasing anew as the logic of the pirates’ tactics continued to baffle him.

‘And what of Septimus?’ Hadria asked as Atticus finished. ‘Has he mentioned me to you?’

‘He only came back on board the Aquila at Thermae,’ Atticus replied. ‘We’ve not spoken of you since our quarrel months ago outside the walls of Rome.’

Hadria’s expression creased into a slight frown. ‘We must tell him of our love,’ she said.

Atticus turned over to face her, resting his hand on her cheek.

‘Many of the servants here are from my father’s household,’ she continued. ‘They move back and forth between the two houses and are bound to discuss this. It is only a matter of time before a loose word is overheard by one of my family.’

Atticus nodded, knowing the inevitable confrontation with Septimus would have to be faced sooner rather than later, their reunion at Thermae putting them once more at close quarters.

‘I will speak with him,’ Atticus said.

‘No,’ Hadria replied. ‘It must come from me; he must know how I feel.’

Again Atticus nodded, searching his own feelings. Hadria believed Septimus’s disapproval of Atticus as his sister’s suitor was in response to the loss of Hadria’s first husband and Septimus’s best friend in battle and that he wished to spare his sister, and perhaps himself, the pain of that loss again. Atticus had understood Hadria’s reasoning but he found he could not abandon the last vestiges of his own initial reaction, that Septimus disapproved because Atticus was Greek and beneath consideration as a match for Hadria. He knew it was a misplaced accusation and yet he had encountered prejudice so often before from many other Romans that his misgivings were hard to ignore.

A gentle knock on the door shattered the privacy of their world and Hadria leapt from the bed, her beauty pronounced by her nakedness and Atticus smiled anew.

‘My Aunt!’ Hadria gasped, fearing the worst as she shrugged on a tunic. ‘She was supposed to be out all day.’

Atticus shared Hadria’s alarm and quickly covered up. To be discovered now, on the cusp of revealing their relationship, would immeasurably compromise them both and he cursed Fortuna for her capricious nature. Hadria opened the door an inch and peered out, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she was confronted by one of the house servants. Atticus listened to the muted announcement, unable to discern the details. Hadria pushed the door closed and turned to him, her face a mixture of happiness and regret.

‘A messenger,’ she said, ‘from my father’s house. Septimus has returned and I am to go there at once.’

Antoninus Laetonius Capito stood tall at the head of the family room, his hand unconsciously fingering the vicious scar that marred the left side of his face. Septimus sat opposite him, a goblet of wine in his hand, the cushions beside him still crumpled from where his mother, Salonina, had sat only moments before, his forearm still sensing where her hand had pressed against his skin, a touch that confirmed to herself that her son had returned safely.

Antoninus began to pace, his movements slow but fluid, his gaze still the authoritarian stare of a centurion of the Ninth legion. In a low and hoarse voice, he began to question Septimus on the details of the battle of Thermae, his enquiries sharp and incisive, his military mind recreating the conflict in sharp detail.

‘Megellus is a fool,’ he said after Septimus had concluded, ‘he should have held firm in open ground rather than hamstrung his command in the narrow streets.’

‘The Carthaginian cavalry numbered near a thousand,’ Septimus replied, protest in his voice, ‘and the Ninth was under-strength.’

‘Your time in the marines has softened you, boy,’ Antoninus snorted derisively. ‘You’ve forgotten the true mettle of a legion. By Mars, my maniple would have stood.’

‘Then your maniple would have been slaughtered,’ Septimus spat back, weary of his father’s dismissive attitude towards the marines.

‘And you managed to escape by sea?’ There was a half look of disdain on Antoninus’s face.

‘My duty is to lead my men on board the Aquila.’

‘Your duty, as was mine, should be with the Ninth,’ Antoninus said, standing rigidly across from his son, his scar vividly white on his coloured face. ‘Where is your honour?’ he growled.

Septimus shot up, his knuckles white around the goblet in his hand, his temper rising as he held his father’s iron gaze.

‘I am a centurion and my honour is beyond question,’ he said, taking a half-step forward, his hand trembling and the muscles in his arm tensing, ready to be unleashed.

Antoninus saw Septimus’s stance and thanked Jupiter his son was unarmed. The boy was certainly a wild one and his ferocity seemed to be barely in check. For the first time Antoninus wondered what kind of a centurion his son was and a half-smile crept across his face as he answered his own question.

Suddenly Salonina entered the room, stopping short as she noticed the charged atmosphere, the aggressive stance of both men, and she shot a look to her husband who faced her, knowing he had goaded Septimus, that he had given voice to the disappointment he had often spoken to her about. She suppressed her censure and looked to her son.

‘Septimus,’ she said, a forced smile on her face, ‘Hadria has arrived.’

Septimus shot around at his mother’s voice, her tone breaking the spell of his temper. His mind replayed the words she had just spoken and his anger evaporated further. He turned his back on his father and looked to the entrance. Hadria strode in, her cheeks flushed in her haste and she stood smiling for a second before embracing her brother. Salonina beckoned towards the couches and they moved to sit down, Hadria immediately noticing the tension between her father and Septimus.

The conversation turned towards lighter subjects under Salonina’s diplomatic touch and soon all were at ease, the news of Septimus’s absent brothers, Tiberius and Claudius, taking centre stage. Both were traders and between them they controlled the bulk of the family’s wealth, an estate that had increased with the escalation of the war in Sicily, the demand for raw materials for ship building creating opportunities unseen in a generation.

‘When will you sail again?’ Hadria asked, wondering how long Atticus would be in Rome.

‘I don’t know,’ Septimus replied, telling them of their arrival in Ostia, the seizure of the Aquila and their forced confinement in the barracks pending Varro’s report to the Senate. They had been released only that very morning and Septimus had immediately ordered the crew and his men to proceed to Fiumicino.

‘And you did not go with them?’ Antoninus asked instinctively. A commander’s place was with his men.

‘No, father,’ Septimus replied, and he quickly told them how Atticus had been taken from his cell the night before, his escort unidentified and his whereabouts now unknown. ‘It’s possible he has been taken under guard by Varro,’ Septimus concluded, his concern evident to all.

‘No, he…’ Hadria spoke without thinking, impulsively wishing to allay her brother’s fears.

‘I mean, I’m sure he…,’ she continued, her mind racing. ‘Why would Varro take him under guard?’

Septimus explained about Atticus’s confrontation with Varro at Thermae, his own expression now puzzled as he thought about Hadria’s initial reaction. Hadria’s own face showed nothing but mounting anxiety at the danger Atticus was in, a danger he had kept from her. As Septimus concluded he stood once more as he suddenly understood what Hadria had meant to say.

‘I must go,’ he said, his family rising with him.

‘Where to?’ his father asked.

‘I must find Atticus, although I now believe I know where he is.’ Septimus touched his mother lightly on the forearm as he brushed past her, his determined stride taking him out of the room without a backward glance at Hadria or his father. Hadria ran after him, catching him as he stood in the atrium, buckling his scabbard, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

‘Septimus,’ she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘I must speak with you.’

‘You were with him last night,’ Septimus said as he spun around, his expression furious.

‘Yes,’ Hadria replied quickly. ‘It was Duilius who summoned Atticus from Ostia. He was told the rest of his crew was being released this morning so he came to see me.’

‘To see you,’ Septimus said scornfully. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘We are in love,’ Hadria shot back, suddenly angry at Septimus’s debasement of their relationship.

Septimus was shocked by Hadria’s pronouncement. He hadn’t realised their relationship was so far advanced. ‘He has betrayed me,’ he countered. ‘I told him not to pursue you.’

‘You had no right to do that, Septimus. Atticus is not beholden to you and neither am I.’

‘We’ll see,’ Septimus said and strode out into the courtyard, mounting his borrowed horse in one effortless movement. He galloped out the main gate without another word, scattering the people before him on the street, their angry cries drowning Hadria’s calls for Septimus to come back.

Varro steeled his nerve as he reached for the handle of the door leading to the senior consul’s chamber adjacent to the Curia. With grim satisfaction he noticed his hand was steady and he clenched and unclenched his fist a number of times, a simple distraction that helped calm him further. He had not talked to his father since he last saw him with Scipio the day before, the Senate reconvening soon after and his father not returning to the house that evening. The summons had then arrived at dawn, commanding Varro to attend Regulus’s private room, forestalling any chance to confer with his father, to learn the outcome of his intercession.

Varro entered the consul’s chamber with a determined stride but he instantly faltered, his step interrupted as his gaze was drawn upward towards the domed ceiling and the play of the late sunlight through the vaulted oculus, creating an uneven ellipse that tracked across the room with the passing of the day. The chamber was a perfect circle, an anomaly amongst the other ante-chambers of the Curia, all of which were square or rectangular and Varro felt overwhelmed by the impression that he had indeed stepped into the inner sanctum of power in Rome.

The tribune regained his wits and looked to the centre of the chamber where a massive marble-topped table dominated. Behind it sat Regulus, leaning forward with his palms spread flat on the featureless surface while behind him, by his left shoulder, stood Scipio, his sharp aquiline features accentuated by the light overhead. Varro strode to a point three feet short of the table and stood to attention, saluting with regulation exactness, his eyes staring at a point two inches above the seated consul’s head.

‘Titus Aurelius Varro reporting as ordered, Consul,’ he said, his voice shattering the temple-like silence of the chamber.

‘Varro,’ Regulus said, suddenly standing, his voice laced with disapproval. As the consul moved to his right, Varro quickly darted his eyes to Scipio, hoping to see some expression of confederacy, some sign of alliance after the meeting with his father but Scipio’s gaze was locked on Regulus.

Varro looked ahead as the senior consul continued. ‘All afternoon yesterday, Varro,’ he said, ‘I listened to many voices in the Senate, each one more condemnatory than the last.’

Varro maintained his gaze on the wall ahead, trying to ignore the words, focusing only on the decision of his fate. Regulus continued to circle the room, until he stood directly behind the tribune. ‘Throughout that debate however,’ he said, ‘I knew only one voice could determine your future…mine.’

Regulus paused for a minute, the heavy silence reasserting itself until Varro could hear only his own breathing.

The consul sat down, his hooded eyes looking up at the stoic tribune. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded and Varro dropped his gaze to meet Regulus’s.

‘You have failed Rome,’ Regulus said, his voice once more laced with censure, ‘and for that you must be punished. Therefore you are hereby stripped of all rank and privileges and are ordered to report to the Fourth Legion stationed in Felsina. There you will serve out your sinecure as a legionary.’

Varro’s expression glazed over as the full import of this sentence struck home through his mounting despair. Felsina was at the northern frontier of the Republic, a constant battleground where Gallic clans continually challenged the boundaries of Rome. The legion stationed there, the Fourth, was the toughest in the Republic, but it was also the legion with the lowest life expectancy. As a disgraced tribune, marked as an aberration amongst the proud legionaries, his life would be measured in weeks, whether he met the enemy in battle or not.

‘You are dismissed!’ Regulus said.

With enormous willpower Varro drew himself to full height and saluted once more. He spun on his heel and exited the room.

‘There is another option, Regulus,’ Scipio said as the tribune’s footsteps faded behind the door. He walked slowly around the table until he faced the consul. Regulus raised his eyebrows in question.

‘You could spare Varro a full censure,’ Scipio said.

‘Spare him?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘Impossible. He must be held accountable.’

‘But to what degree?’ Scipio said, beginning his carefully prepared argument. ‘I have heard reports from the battle that suggest that he does not bear full responsibility for the defeat.’

‘Of course he does,’ Regulus said dismissively. ‘He commanded the fleet.’

‘But there are reports of dereliction of duty that undermined his command.’

‘Against whom?’ Regulus asked, searching Scipio’s expression for signs of deception, remaining guarded though he found none.

‘Captain Perennis of the Aquila,’ Scipio said.

‘Perennis, Duilius’s captain at Mylae?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘Who makes such allegations?’

‘I cannot reveal my sources,’ Scipio said, beginning once again to pace the room. ‘Suffice it to say they are beyond question and it now seems clear that Varro was not entirely to blame for the defeat. In fact, he should be commended for his brave action in saving the hastati of the Ninth.’

Scipio kept his gaze from the consul, not willing to take the chance that Regulus would see that he was gambling. His ‘sources’ were the words of Varro himself, and as such were completely unreliable, but they served his purpose and in any case he had already agreed with Calvus that he would intercede on behalf of his son, an agreement he would never reveal to Regulus.

‘But what of accountability, Scipio?’ Regulus said. ‘The loss of so many galleys cannot go unpunished.’

‘Nor can the loss of a loyal tribune from a respected family be justified to satisfy the vultures of the Senate,’ Scipio said.

‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘Strip him of his rank of tribune but give him a lesser command, a squad of galleys in Sicily,’ Scipio proposed, ‘and banish him from Rome until we win the war. It will give him a chance to redeem himself.’

Regulus leaned forward once more as he contemplated the senator’s suggestion. Scipio watched him in silence, waiting for the senior consul to agree to his well-crafted argument. The lure had been elaborate and the subterfuge regarding his sources ignoble but Scipio was content with his approach. He needed Varro in Sicily if his plan was to succeed but to directly ask Regulus for the favour of leniency was beneath him. Scipio preferred to plant and then nurture an idea in another man’s head, bending his will without him knowing, allowing them to believe that the idea was his own before ultimately doing Scipio’s bidding without even realising it.

‘I disagree,’ Regulus said, sitting straight in his chair once more. ‘My initial judgement was sound. Varro will be sent to Felsina.’

For a second Scipio could not believe what he was hearing and it was only when he felt his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms did he realise that the consul had disagreed with him.

‘Regulus,’ Scipio said, the bile rising in his throat as he fought to contain his anger. ‘I urge you to reconsider.’

‘No, Scipio,’ Regulus said, no longer looking at the senator. ‘I have made up my mind. The sentence stands.’

‘You will withdraw the sentence,’ Scipio ordered, his usual tact now abandoned, his anger making him blunt.

‘How dare you!’ Regulus shouted, slamming his fist on the marble table as he stood. ‘I am senior consul and…’

‘You are senior consul only because of me,’ Scipio spat. ‘Never forget that.’

Regulus opened his mouth to speak again but Scipio forestalled him.

‘You will follow my orders, Regulus,’ he said, ‘or I will withdraw my support.’

‘I do not need…’ the consul began.

‘Think carefully, Regulus,’ Scipio said, cutting across him again. ‘You may hold the title of senior consul, but you and I both know where the real power lies. Cross me and you will be impotent, a leader in name only.’

Regulus felt his temper flare but he kept it in check, the anger burning in his chest as he swallowed his rebuttal, knowing that Scipio’s threat was viable and he turned his fury inwards, cursing his own pride. He had known that Scipio was using him for his own ends but he had dismissed the fact, believing their arrangement to be a partnership, deceived by his own ambition into thinking that Scipio wanted nothing more than simple vengeance, an indefensible lapse in judgement that fuelled his anger. Moreover the election had been a closer contest than Regulus had anticipated, with many of the patricians following Duilius’s call to vote for Longus and so Scipio’s support had been vital.

Now Regulus knew he was locked in Scipio’s grip and with that realisation he felt a reawakening of forgotten instincts, the subtle political prowess that had propelled him to the senior consul position years before but which had become dormant during his time on the periphery of the Senate. He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing the tension from his shoulders in an effort to appear compliant. There would be another time to challenge Scipio and so for now he kept his head lowered, certain that Scipio would recognise the seed of defiance in his expression.

Scipio stood in front of the table, breathing deeply in an effort to regain his composure. He knew the confrontation with Regulus was inevitable but he cursed the inopportune moment, the lack of control that had destroyed his once surreptitious manoeuvring of Regulus’s will. Now the consul would become harder to control, his awareness of Scipio’s ambitions making him hostile.

Scipio briefly examined his motive for forcing the issue over Varro and with contentment found them to be sound. Varro had to be released back to Sicily and Regulus was the only man who could spare him. If revealing himself to Regulus was the price to pay then so be it, for what was power if he could not wield it to destroy his enemies.