Captain of Rome

CHAPTER EIGHT

Varro sat alone in the study in his father’s house, his head buried in his hands, his mood dark and aggressive. In the background, hidden somewhere in the maze of rooms, he could hear laughter and the sounds of children’s voices, his sister’s children, their spirits high, oblivious to the sombre atmosphere that pervaded the rest of house. Varro’s father had already stormed off, the final shattering of the aspirations he had had for his son too much to accept and his tirade against Varro still rang in the young man’s ears.

Varro stood up and began to pace the room, cursing Fortuna for abandoning him yet again, cursing Scipio for his uselessness, cursing his father. Underneath it all however, in his mind’s eye, he could see only the face of Perennis, the Greek whoreson who had precipitated his downfall. At first Varro had wanted Perennis dead for striking him. Then as defeat became reality, and responsibility and blame were levelled at Varro, he began to see a different offence emerging, one he had spoken aloud for the first time before Scipio, that Perennis was truly to blame for Thermae, that his allegiance was suspect and that he had neglected his duty as the naval commander. In the confines of the study one thought began to consume Varro: Perennis had been at fault but it was Varro who had paid for the defeat with his reputation and his career.

A loud knock halted Varro’s pacing and he turned to the door. A servant entered and immediately quailed under his master’s gaze. ‘A messenger has arrived, master,’ the servant said. ‘Senator Scipio wishes to see you at his residence immediately.’

For a minute Varro stood silent, his mind exploring the cause for the summons. A tiny flicker of hope emerged within him and he instantly brushed past the servant. He left his father’s house and turned into the street, his determined stride taking him the mere hundred yards to Scipio’s house on the reverse slope of the Capitoline Hill and he hammered impatiently on the door. It was opened quickly by a heavily armed black-cloaked praetorian. The soldier stood to attention, recognising the uniform of a tribune but as Varro passed him, he noticed who the officer was and his rigidity slackened, the corner of his mouth rising in a disrespectful sneer.

Unaware, Varro continued on into the house, telling a servant as he passed to inform the senator that he had arrived. He waited impatiently in the atrium before being led further into the house, to a small enclosed courtyard at the rear of the residence, in the middle of which sat Scipio, pouring over a series of documents in his hands. The courtyard was warm and still, a small simple space, at odds with the opulence of the rooms Varro had passed through.

‘Varro,’ Scipio said rising, his expression unreadable. ‘Thank you for coming so soon.’

Varro straightened and saluted as before but Scipio dismissed the action with a wave. He was not interested in speaking to Varro in a military tone. He gestured for Varro to take a seat opposite his own and sat down once more. Scipio smiled inwardly as he watched Varro. The boy was an open book, his anxiousness and curiosity clearly evident in his expression and body language. In this he was nothing like his father, a man like Scipio, schooled in the art of politics, where true emotions were buried deeply.

‘I have spoken with the senior consul on your behalf,’ Scipio said after a minute. ‘And he has agreed to my alternative.’

‘Thank you Senator,’ Varro gushed, his relief overwhelming.

‘You have not yet heard what that alternative is,’ Scipio warned, although he knew his lure would be too powerful to resist once cast. ‘The defeat at Thermae was considerable. The city and the Senate rightfully demand retribution.’

Varro nodded, solemn once more, although he could not think of a sentence worse than that given by Regulus.

‘You will be demoted from the rank of tribune to that of squad commander,’ Scipio began, watching Varro intently, ‘and you are hereby ordered back to Sicily, there to remain until the end of the war.’

‘I am banished from Rome?’ Varro said in despair.

‘Until the end of the war, yes,’ Scipio said, slowly drawing the net closer. ‘You have suffered a very public defeat. Your presence in Rome would be a further reminder to the Senate of that failure.’

Varro stood up, angry once more. That failure was not his fault.

Scipio sensed the perfect moment had arrived. ‘There is one way to mitigate this sentence,’ he said, happy with the instant response from Varro as the young man spun around, his hope reignited once more.

‘You must accept the demotion. Nothing can be done about that, and the war still rages in Sicily. Again you must rejoin the fight,’ Scipio said, his words solemn, his tone parental, a protector who wished to save the career of a soldier ill-treated by fate. He revelled in the deception. ‘But perhaps the banishment can be lifted.’

Varro sat down again, his entire being focused on Scipio.

‘I can speak on your behalf in the Senate,’ Scipio said, ‘not publicly, not where the wound of defeat is still open, but privately, in the ears of men who would listen, who could sway the senior consul and persuade him to rescind the decree of banishment.’

‘Senator Scipio,’ Varro gushed again, his face a mask of admiration, ‘I cannot thank you enough. Your intervention is…’

Scipio put up his hand to stay Varro’s words. He did not want to hear more words of gratitude, especially when he had no intention of speaking to any senator on Varro’s behalf. He readied his next words in his mind, savouring them until he was poised to strike.

‘There is something you must do for me in return,’ he said in a hushed tone.

‘Anything,’ Varro said with full sincerity.

‘You told me that one other man was culpable for the defeat at Thermae.’

‘Captain Perennis,’ Varro said instantly.

Scipio nodded, as if he needed reminding of the name. ‘As a senator of Rome,’ Scipio said, the anger in his voice now genuine, ‘it galls me that this man, this Greek, has escaped the retribution he so obviously deserves.’

Varro nodded in agreement, his own face twisted in anger.

‘But Perennis cannot be attacked in or near Rome,’ Scipio continued. ‘He has powerful friends, men who would investigate and proclaim Perennis’s death as a crime against the state. His death must occur far from Rome, where the truth can be hidden.’

Again Varro nodded and Scipio fixed him with a steady gaze.

‘You must be Rome’s avenger when he is out of her reach,’ Scipio said, relishing every word, every second as his revenge took shape. ‘Do this, Varro, and I will see that you return to Rome with honour.’

Instinctively Varro stood to attention once more, saluting with all the passion he could muster.

‘Yes, Senator,’ he said.

With the order given and acknowledged there were no other words to be spoken and he strode from the courtyard with a renewed sense of honour and pride coursing through his veins, never looking back, never seeing the malevolent smile of triumph on the face of his saviour.

Atticus stood tall on the aft-deck of the Aquila as he looked out over the teeming military activity that was Fiumicino. In his mind’s eye he pictured the simple fishing village it had once been, untouched and unsullied by the great city that sat only fifteen miles distant. Now it was home to the shipyards of the Classis Romanus, and the tented city that once sat astride the village now consisted of timber barracks and workshops, interspersed by stone-built blockhouses and officers’ quarters that stretched behind the wind-shaped dunes and housed over five thousand of Rome’s finest.

Stretching along the coastline, above the high-tide mark stood a vast array of skeletal frames, scaffolding for the new galleys that were under constant construction. Each new ship was a quinquereme, designed for five rowers on each bank of three oars, the lowest oar with a single rower, with the upper oars manned by a pair of slaves. They were Tyrian in design, based on the Carthaginian flagship captured at Mylae, and soon they would outnumber the triremes of the Roman fleet, their superior design and power a greater match for the ships of Carthage.

The sound of approaching footsteps across the deck caused Atticus to turn and he nodded to Lucius as the second-in-command came towards him. The older man looked pleased with himself, his normal sombre expression cast aside in a smile, revealing teeth more often clenched in anger when a crewman moved too slow for his liking. Atticus smiled back, liking the man. Lucius was the heart of the ship’s crew, respected by all, a seaman for over thirty years and answerable to no man except for his captain. He knew the Aquila intimately, her every length of running rigging and every seam of timber and he placed her above every other ship in the fleet. When Lucius and the crew had arrived at Fiumicino ahead of Atticus, the second-in-command had found the Aquila languishing by her stern anchor one hundred yards from shore. He had immediately harassed and harangued the port commander for the choice mooring spot the Aquila now enjoyed at the end of a jetty, citing the Aquila’s importance as a former flagship. This greatly improved the speed and ease of her refitting and Lucius was enormously pleased with the result.

‘We should be ready to sail by dawn tomorrow, Captain,’ he said, moving to the rail beside Atticus.

‘Good work,’ Atticus replied and slapped Lucius on the shoulder. He looked to the main deck and the activity of the crew there. Lucius had taken advantage of the Aquila’s presence in the shipyards by ordering a new mainmast and rigging. Atticus had checked it earlier and had been more than satisfied. The angle of mast had been set perfectly and the flawless oak spar would serve the Aquila for years to come. Atticus turned once more to look along the shoreline.

‘Bloody quinqueremes,’ Lucius spat, seeing the focus of his captain’s gaze. ‘Fat sows, every last one of ‘em.’

‘They’re good ships, Lucius,’ Atticus said, a smile on his face, goading his friend slightly.

‘Their draught is too deep and the Aquila would run rings around any one of them,’ Lucius replied irritably.

‘But they’re fast and they can ram any trireme out of the water,’ Atticus countered, playing devil’s advocate, wishing to draw out the foundations of Lucius’s argument beneath his obvious prejudice.

‘Size and strength aren’t everything,’ Lucius said. ‘The Greeks proved that at Salamis. What counts is manoeuvrability and once you get behind one of those, they’re as vulnerable as any other galley.’

Atticus nodded, conceding the point, remembering that the Aquila had taken a quinquereme at Mylae. The argument was academic however, because right or wrong the decision had already been made by the Romans. The Classis Romanus would eventually be a fleet dominated by quinqueremes and so the triremes’ days as a front line galley were numbered.

Lucius tapped Atticus’s arm and pointed towards the beach end of the jetty where a group of riders were dismounting. Atticus recognised Varro immediately and his stomach tightened. The tribune was making his way down the jetty, his fourstrong personal guard in tow with Vitulus at their head.

‘Honour guard to the gangway, Lucius,’ Atticus commanded without turning.

‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied with a low growl, his dislike for Varro already deeply entrenched.

Atticus watched the men approach until the last possible second and then made his own way to the main deck and the head of the gangway. Varro was first to come aboard. He scanned the deck before him before finally coming to the captain. Their eyes met and Atticus tried to discern the level of the tribune’s hostility but the gaze was too brief.

‘When can you be ready to sail, Perennis?’ Varro asked abruptly.

Atticus suppressed his anger at Varro’s insult of omitting the title of his rank in front of his crew while beside him he felt Lucius bristle, but for another reason. Naval tradition demanded that a visitor request permission to board before doing so. To ignore the courtesy was an insult to all on board.

‘The ship can be ready by dawn tomorrow, Tribune,’ Atticus replied, keeping his tone even, ‘but the complement of marines or their commander are not on board.’

‘Send runners immediately,’ Varro said. ‘Inform the marines that we will be sailing at dawn.’

Atticus looked to Lucius and nodded and the second-in-command immediately beckoned one of the crewmen to his side, issuing him with the order. Varro brushed past Atticus, followed by Vitulus and three other legionaries. Atticus made to follow them but Vitulus sensed the move and turned abruptly.

‘Step aside, soldier,’ Atticus commanded, his patience long since gone.

‘The tribune will be using the main cabin as his quarters, Captain,’ Vitulus replied. ‘He will ask for you when you are needed.’

‘I didn’t ask you about the tribune’s sleeping arrangements,’ Atticus replied threateningly, his right hand moving to the hilt of his sword. ‘I ordered you to step aside.’

Vitulus squared his shoulders and looked hard into the captain’s eyes. Atticus shifted his weight slightly in anticipation but suddenly Vitulus turned his back and strode to the hatchway six feet away, disappearing below without a backward glance. Atticus stood rooted to the spot, his fury commanding him to rush forward but his good sense telling him to hold fast. Vitulus was under Varro’s command and protection and Atticus knew he would get no satisfaction from the tribune. With a furious scowl he walked past the hatchway and made his way back to the aft-deck, his hand still locked on the hilt of his sword.

The languid on-shore breeze carried a cool sea mist that soon enveloped the shoreline at Fiumicino, dissipating the crimson light of the dying sun and chasing the last of the day’s dead heat from the air. Atticus stood in the centre of the main deck, supervising the work of the crew as they carried supplies on board. It was a job he would normally leave to Lucius but tonight he needed the distraction and in any case, it took him away from the aft-deck where Varro and his guard commander, Vitulus, had been standing for the past hour.

When they had first arrived back on deck, Atticus had been standing at the tiller with Gaius. He had immediately tried to engage with the tribune, to ascertain the details of his orders and to find out where the Aquila would be sailing to on the morrow. Varro had been completely dismissive however and Atticus had felt compelled to leave the aft-deck. Not through intimidation but because he knew the obvious tension between him and Varro would be noticed by the crew and to have the two most senior officers on board at each other’s throats would adversely affect their morale.

Atticus reached out to the mainmast and ran his finger down the newly sanded oak. His finger left a trail through the light sheen of moisture the sea mist had deposited there and he rubbed the residue between his thumb and forefinger. He touched the mast again, sensing the strength of the timber, a strength that was now part of his ship. The thought made him angry and he looked to the aft-deck. His ship, but now not his own. The Aquila had always been Rome’s to command but before the escalation of the war and the Aquila’s entanglement into the conflict she had been Roman in name only, and Atticus had come to consider her his own. Now that autonomy was gone, replaced by anonymity, a single ship amidst a fleet and his command was set aside at the whim of privileged Romans.

‘Lucius!’ Atticus called and he was immediately on hand.

‘I’m going ashore,’ Atticus continued, overwhelmed for the first time ever with an urge to get off the Aquila. ‘Finish the re-supply.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied, sensing his captain’s frustration but withholding his counsel, knowing Atticus would ask for help if he needed it. He watched the young captain turn and walk down the gangway, sidestepping the men coming up against him and within seconds he was lost in the sea mist that obscured the shore-end of the jetty. Lucius realised his own teeth were gritted in anger and he instinctively turned to the aft-deck and the man who was the cause, a second too late to notice that Varro had also watched Atticus leave the galley.

The Alissar moved silently through the dark waters of Tyndaris harbour, her sleek hull cutting through the seemingly viscous waves, their crests dividing perfectly, peeling back to stroke the one-hundred and sixty foot hull before joining together once more in the galley’s swirling wake. The rowers below decks worked without the aid of a drum with only every third row engaged and the other oars withdrawn to avoid entanglements. At steerage speed of only two knots their oar strokes were almost languid, their rhythmic fluid motion belying the strength-sapping effort needed to propel the one-hundred and ten ton galley through the water.

Hamilcar stood at the starboard aft-deck rail, Captain Himilco by his side, the two men looking out over the shoreline illuminated by a thousand torch lights, the frantic pace of construction continuing even at this late hour.

‘Impressive,’ Himilco remarked, picturing the plans he had seen in Hamilcar’s cabin, overlaying them on the illuminated canvas of the shoreline before him.

Hamilcar nodded, pleased that the construction looked well advanced. It was impossible to tell in the dark but surely the end was well in sight.

A look-out approached Hamilcar and briefly indicated a point in the inner harbour. ‘There, Commander,’ he pointed. ‘We can’t see her yet but the signal has been confirmed twice.’

‘Very well,’ Hamilcar said, keeping his voice level. ‘Helmsman, two points to port. Steady as she goes.’

It was a gamble to enter Tyndaris harbour but Hamilcar had wanted to see how far the construction had progressed, even though the necessity to arrive at night robbed him of seeing much detail. He would attend the pre-arranged meeting, knowing the man he was to meet would have a full detailed report of activities both here and further north. Then the Alissar would slip out of Tyndaris, long before dawn’s early light betrayed her presence to the world, a passing shadow that would melt like the wake of a galley.

Atticus made his way up the beach, kicking the debris aside as he crossed the high-tide drift line until he reached the shallow dunes that marked the division between the beach and the semi-permanent city beyond. His vision extended no more than twenty feet in either direction, but all around he could hear the activities of the camp, shouted commands that were muted in the moisture-laden air, the hammer blows of carpenters that would soon cease as the last of the day’s light was extinguished prematurely by the mist. He turned right towards the village, knowing it to be almost one hundred yards ahead and, as the noises behind him began to fade, he slowly became aware of how the mist had isolated him amidst thousands. He smiled at the thought, glad to feel separated from the Romans even if in reality he was not.

Within a minute Atticus reached the ‘little river’ from which the village drew its name. It was no more than a stream and Atticus crossed it at the natural ford created where sediment carried downstream met the incoming tidal waves. The beach on this side of the river was unchanged by the sprawling activity that had transformed the coast running north on the other side and Atticus was forced to weave his way through the beached fishing boats of the villagers, many of them upturned, exposing their underbellies, and as Atticus recognised the different varieties of boats, he silently mouthed their names. He stopped suddenly as he spotted a kaiki, a traditional Greek fishing boat, almost exactly like one his father had once owned. He made his way towards it and placed his hand on the bowsprit, his mind flooding with memories. With the mist narrowing the range of his senses Atticus could almost believe he was standing on the beach astride his home city of Locri and for a second he was a young boy again, standing amidst the boats of his own people. He stood silent for a minute, taking comfort from the memory before continuing on into the village.

In the months since the creation of the shipyards, Fiumicino had tripled in size, its once solitary reason for existence, fishing, now superseded by commercial activities specifically targeted to the lucrative opportunities available in having so many Romans isolated from the city. The main thoroughfare running parallel to the river, once devoid of life, was now lined by stalls and Atticus was accosted from all sides by traders selling a profusion of goods, from cooked food and cheap wine, to medicinal cures and balms. The side-streets running away from the river had also been requisitioned, the less valuable sites making those traders that bit more aggressive as they tried to steer customers from the main street, but Atticus ignored them all, his eyes searching the buildings behind the stalls. Two of them in the centre of the street drew Atticus’s attention. Above the door of the first was a sign bearing a crude depiction of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, her nakedness demurely covered by her enfolded arms. Atticus smiled at the illustration. Love was rarely found in a brothel. The second building, which looked like a former shop, had a different sign over the door, depicting the Roman god of wine, Bacchus, and Atticus made directly for it.

Atticus pushed open the door, his eyes squinting to penetrate the gloom within. A wall of sound greeted him, laughter and raised conversations from tongues made loose by drink. He grimaced slightly as he was assaulted by the overpowering smells in the dour room, sweet wine and dank sweat while in the corner a man was collapsed in a pool of his own vomit. The bar stood on the opposite wall to the door and Atticus could see where the internal partitions of the building had been removed to make way for the five large tables which ran parallel to each other across the floor, with half empty benches on both sides of each one. Atticus picked a path between two and made his way towards the bar.

Atticus looked at the faces of many of the men as he passed, his gaze returned intensely by some. These men were the shipwrights and carpenters of the shipyards, skilled labourers who originally were drafted to Fiumicino by order of the Senate but who now remained by choice. With the village off-limits to the legionaries, a man so heavily armed as Atticus was immediately noticed and marked and as Atticus reached the bar, he could still feel the gaze of many on his back.

Amidst the continuous uproar of the room Atticus had to shout his order and he was immediately handed an amphora of wine and a dirty chipped wooden goblet. He turned and searched for a vacant seat nearby, finding one quickly and sitting down heavily, the scabbard of his sword striking the bench with a heavy thud. He filled the goblet and drank the cheap acerbic wine in one gulp, belching deeply as the liquid hit his stomach. He refilled his goblet and drank again, the burning sensation lessened this time and after two more refills Atticus shifted his weight and sat back a little, the wine finally taking the edge off his mood.

Atticus surveyed the room again. He noticed an incongruous corner of the room and he immediately realised he had been wrong before. The building had never been a shop; it had always been a tavern, albeit a much smaller one, which had expanded to accommodate the influx of customers. The walls in this corner, directly beside the door, were darker in shade, blackened over the years by near continuous candlelight. A small narrow bench still remained against the wall, upon which sat three older men, their eyes hooded, their gaze downturned as they spoke together in obvious hushed tones. Atticus smiled. They were the locals, the men who had drunk in this tavern all their lives and who still clung loyally to their corner, keeping themselves to themselves.

Atticus went to the bar once more and ordered three more amphorae, gathering them up in his arms before making his way towards the local’s corner. Someone in Fiumicino owed the kaiki boat on the beach, which meant it was possible they had once fished the Ionian coast. For Atticus, that was as close as he was going to get to his own kind tonight and he was determined to find out who the man was, if only to trade stories about the treacherous coastline that flanked the strait of Messina.

The three men looked at Atticus warily as he approached, their eyes at first drawn to his sword, but slowly rising to finally rest on the amphorae he was carrying and they unconsciously shifted to allow room for Atticus to sit down on the bench, taking the wine from him without comment, waiting for the stranger to begin the conversation, wondering what price he would require for the wine he had given them.

Septimus crested the dunes at the head of his sixty-strong demi-maniple, the rattle of their full armour loud in the early night air. He stepped aside out of formation to allow his men to pass, leaving Drusus to lead them down the beach as he inspected the ranks. Even in the semi-darkness many of the faces were familiar, but there was also a heavy mix of new men, replacements and transfers, men tested in other battles under different commanders.

The men were all legionaries, drawn from the legions and seconded to the navy if and when they were needed. While on board the Aquila, Septimus would endeavour to train them in new fighting techniques more suitable to the confines of a galley, but he knew his efforts would be met with resistance and would ultimately be fruitless as men were rotated out of naval duty and sent back to their respective legions. Septimus smiled in the darkness. They were stubborn men, proud of their legion as he had once been. Nevertheless, while he had them under his command, Septimus was determined to instil respect in every man he commanded, respect for the Aquila and in particular for the men who fought with the navy full-time.

As the last men passed Septimus he fell in behind them and then increased his pace to double-quick time, passing the entire troop before they reached the jetty at the end of the beach. He led them along the walkway, glancing at the other moored galleys as he passed until he reached the Aquila, her deck brightly lit by lanterns and burning braziers, her crew intensely active in contrast to the other quietened boats surrounding her.

For an instant Septimus’s plan dominated his mind. He was going to confront Atticus, at the first opportunity. For the hundredth time he searched his feelings and found his anger was still there, still smouldering from the thought of his friend’s betrayal. He recalled every counterpoint to that anger, his loyalty to Atticus, the number of times they had trusted each other with their lives, and his sister’s declaration of their love for each other. He knew it was not enough; Atticus would have to answer for his betrayal.

The sight of Lucius standing at the head of the gangway interrupted Septimus’s thoughts.

‘Permission to come aboard!’ Septimus called.

‘Granted,’ Lucius called, his eyes seeing past the centurion to the ranks behind him.

Septimus led his legionaries up the gangway and again stepped aside to allow his men to pass. Drusus formed them into ranks on the main deck.

‘Where is the captain?’ Septimus asked of Lucius.

‘He went ashore nearly three hours ago.’

‘To where?’

‘The captain didn’t say,’ Lucius replied. He saw the look of puzzlement in the centurion’s eyes but didn’t venture any further information. It wasn’t his place to speak on the captain’s behalf, particularly when the reason for his departure was a personal matter.

‘Did he say when he’d be back?’ Septimus asked, confused by Atticus’s actions. The Aquila was due to sail with the dawn and it was unlike Atticus to be absent so close to departure, however reliable his crew was.

‘No, Centurion,’ Lucius said. He sensed Septimus’s concern and relented slightly, obliquely citing the reason for his captain’s departure.

‘The tribune’s on board,’ he said, nodding towards the aft-deck.

Septimus followed his gaze and saw Varro standing at the aft-rail with his men.

‘He’s sailing with us?’ Septimus asked, surprised to see Varro in command considering his recent defeat. But his presence did provide a possible reason for Atticus’s absence.

‘Yes,’ answered Lucius, ‘him and four of his men.’

‘Four?’ Septimus asked. There were only three men with Varro on the aft-deck.

‘The other one must be below decks,’ Lucius surmised. ‘The tribune has commandeered the main cabin.’

Septimus nodded and turned his gaze back towards his own men. Having any high ranking officer on board always complicated the command structure, but with Varro, a disgraced tribune hostile to the captain, the problem would be exacerbated and magnified ten-fold.

Lucius watched Septimus intently, searching the young man’s expression. He had always harboured a contempt for legionaries but had long ago learned to respect the Roman centurion, not least because of his obvious friendship with the captain. The thought caused Lucius to look beyond Septimus to the impenetrable mist that still surrounded the galley, its gloom intensified by the darkness.

The three men laughed heartily as Atticus finished his tale, one of them slapping him on the back as he coughed, choking slightly on his wine. Atticus laughed with them, his earlier dark mood now completely forgotten, doused in wine and good company. The initial wariness when Atticus approached the men had evaporated the minute he had enquired about the ownership of the kaiki, for only a fisherman could know of its name. They realised immediately they were talking to one of their own. Now, hours later, the original amphorae were strewn at their feet, their replacements lying empty beside them, drunk faster and enjoyed more by the three locals in the knowledge that Atticus had paid for them.

Atticus slowly recovered and lifted his goblet to his mouth. It was empty and he reached for the nearest amphora, casting it aside when he realised it too was empty. He stood up and immediately staggered, his fall prevented by the outstretched hand of one of the locals.

‘I think you’ve had enough, sailor,’ he said, his jovial face upturned in the shadowed room. ‘You’d better get back to your ship.’

Atticus nodded, patting the man on the shoulder. He stood upright and turned to the door, taking a couple of unsteady steps before plunging out into the darkened street.

The night air, made cool by the mist, sobered Atticus a little and he turned left towards the sea, his stride steadying that bit more as he brushed past the last of the stall-owners still plying their trade. Atticus rolled his head and rubbed his eyes to clear his mind that bit more but the action had no effect, and he smiled slightly at the thought. He hadn’t drunk that much wine in a long time.

Towards the end of the street near the beach a lone trader stood in the centre of the road, his palms upturned in greeting. Atticus sidestepped slightly but the man mirrored his move, placing himself once more in Atticus’s path.

‘You look hungry, sailor,’ the man said, a bright smile beneath his dishevelled hair. ‘Some food perhaps to satisfy an appetite sharpened at the tavern?’

Atticus half smiled, and raised his hand slightly to dismiss the man. The trader however stepped towards Atticus, ignoring the gesture.

‘Charcoaled fish,’ he said, reaching out with his hand and taking Atticus’s elbow.

Atticus acquiesced slightly, the wine mollifying him. The trader pointed to his stall with an open hand and Atticus turned. It was on one of the side streets, not ten feet off the main thoroughfare. Atticus hesitated for a second, but the trader persisted, drawing his arm around him, and Atticus relented, the smell of cooked fish suddenly making him hungry.

The stall was the only one still open on the street, the darkness beyond it revealing only the outlines of others, the houses behind them silent and seemingly deserted. Atticus squinted into the gloom and smiled at the trader’s persistence, staying open so late when everyone else had left. He turned to say as much when he noticed the man’s smile had disappeared from his face, replaced instead with an expression of fear. The man was looking back over his shoulder, his body twisted awkwardly, his hand still holding Atticus’s elbow.

A voice suddenly sounded in Atticus’s mind, a cry of warning, and he spun around towards the trader, ducking his head forward as he did. The stab of pain was immediate as the tip of a blade whipped across his jaw-line, slicing the skin cleanly and opening a deep wound where, a heartbeat before, the back of his exposed neck had been.

A piercing cry split the air as the blade continued unimpeded through its arc and part of Atticus’s vision registered the trader’s face disappear behind a spray of blood, the knife striking him full in the face. Atticus sprang backward to face his attacker, hitting the stall with his shoulder, the hot coals of the brazier spilling across his outstretched left hand as he struggled for balance. His mind ignored the pain, focused instead on survival and his right hand went for the dagger in his belt, a spear-pointed blade six inches long, sliding out of the scabbard in a blink of an eye.

Atticus crouched slightly and tensed his legs, his eyes frantically searching the darkness for his attacker. He saw him not six feet away, his bulk obscuring the dim light of the main street behind. The trader continued to scream somewhere close at hand but Atticus ignored him, his eyes now locked on the blade in his attacker’s right hand while somewhere in his mind he cursed the darkness that robbed him of the chance of seeing his attacker’s eyes, knowing that in a knife fight, the eyes always revealed an attack a heartbeat before it came.

The man lunged forward and Atticus was forced to sidestep to his right, his shoulder slamming into the side wall of a house, his body arched to avoid the strike. He counterattacked immediately, fearful of being cornered, and he slashed his blade across his attacker’s exposed side, his mind registering shock as the blade glanced off armour. A legionary! The man came on again, spinning on his heel, driving his blade underarm, searching for a killing blow. Atticus sprang into a lunge, hitting the soldier in the upper arm with his shoulder and he drove his knee up suddenly, connecting heavily with his attacker’s left leg. A grunt of pain and Atticus was given a second’s respite. He circled to his right and stumbled over the hysterical trader, thrashing and writhing on the ground.

The legionary rushed forward again and Atticus met his charge full on, his left hand reaching frantically for his attacker’s right until he managed to grab hold of his wrist. Atticus raised his own blade and stabbed downward, aiming blindly for the neck but his own hand was equally stayed by an iron grip, instantly turning the fight in a battle of strength and will.

The two men became locked in a grotesque embrace and Atticus could feel the muscles in his arm burn from the effort of attacking with his right while defending with his left. He shifted his balance only to have the move countered immediately, while a second later he was forced to react in kind, the legionary trying to turn his wrist and force his own blade down. Atticus’s face was on fire, the deep wound on his jaw-line fighting the adrenaline in his body to overwhelm his mind with pain while his left hand struggled to maintain its grip, the blisters raised by the charcoals bursting to coat his skin with blood.

From deep within, Atticus summoned the strength to push home his attack, driven on by anger at the cowardly ambush and the legionary took a hard-fought step backward. Atticus leaned in to increase the pressure, grunting heavily as he did, his nostrils filled with the smell of his own blood, the harsh smell of his attacker’s sweat, his rotten breath washing over Atticus’s face. The legionary’s blade was an inch from Atticus’s chest, locked by Atticus’s grip while his own blade was further down, pointing vertically, looking to strike below the soldier’s armour into his exposed groin. Atticus had the advantage and he summoned his will for one last lunge.

Suddenly the legionary stumbled backward over the inert trader, pulling Atticus forward, the pressure he had been exerting speeding his fall, the mutual lock binding them together. Atticus fell heavily on the soldier, his right hand shooting up and he felt an instant resistance against his blade as it struck his attacker. At the same instant the soldier’s blade was trapped between them and it sliced cleanly into Atticus’s chest, cutting flesh and sinew until it struck against his ribs, glancing off the bone as the full weight of his body turned the blade flat.

Atticus’s mind registered it all in a heartbeat, the warm gush of blood over his knife hand, the acrid smell as the dead soldier’s bowels voided, the warmth spreading across his own chest as his blood flowed from the open wound. With an almost detached sensation spreading through his mind Atticus rolled off the legionary, his mind hearing his own scream as the soldier’s knife was drawn out of the horizontal gash across his chest. He fell onto his back, the fall knocking the air out of his lungs and he felt his strength draining away, the energy to draw breath once more escaping him. His eyes focused on the night sky above the street, the stars intermittently visible through the thinning sea mist. He tried to recognise them, but his mind was blank. A face filled his vision, then another, their mouths saying words he could not hear, frantic words of disbelief. He closed his eyes, the pain suddenly less intense, more distant, and he slipped into darkness.

Mooring ropes were thrown between the two galleys without command, quickly taken on both sides and pulled hand-over-hand until the bows kissed with a gentle thud. Within a minute they moved as one, rising and falling gently with the swell. Hamilcar stood on the foredeck of the Alissar, peering across through the darkness to the opposing galley, suspicious always of treachery, not willing to board until he knew the man he had seconded to the galley was alive and well. The sound of a splash nearby caused him to look left, to the lights of the town of Tyndaris, a hundred yards away. He waited for a second and then witnessed the cause as the surface was broken again by fish-hunting insects drawn to the waves by the reflected light of the crescent moon.

Hamilcar looked once more to the opposing foredeck in time to see Belus emerge from behind a group of men. He looked incongruous amongst the pirates, his armour and bearing setting him apart. Hamilcar immediately walked forward and jumped nimbly onto the side-rail. He waited a heartbeat for the decks to steady and then jumped down onto the pirate deck, landing steadily on both feet. His hand-picked guard of six men followed him without pause. Belus stood to attention and saluted. Hamilcar smiled in reply, glad to see his old friend safe, and he extended his arms and clasped Belus’s shoulders, causing the older man to smile.

‘Well met, Belus.’

‘It is good to see you,’ Belus replied, liking the commander greatly.

Hamilcar became aware of the other eyes on him and he looked beyond Belus to the assembled crew of pirates, their curiosity causing them to bunch together on the foredeck.

‘The captain?’ Hamilcar asked of Belus.

‘Narmer,’ Belus replied, turning towards the pirates.

The captain heard his name spoken and stepped forward. Hamilcar studied him closely as he approached. He was a colossus, with limbs that seemed grotesquely overdeveloped and he moved with a slow loping gait, as if he was prowling his own deck. Hamilcar looked to his face as he came closer and his features became more defined. He was a young man, his face unremarkable but his eyes immediately drew Hamilcar’s fascination. They were the most pitiless eyes he had ever seen. In a society where ferocity and ruthlessness paved the way to power, Narmer had reached the highest rank of captain and Hamilcar knew that what he saw in the captain’s eyes was merely a shadow of the barbarity within.

‘I am Hamilcar,’ he said.

‘Narmer,’ the captain replied with a look of disdain. ‘You have my gold?’

‘First I will hear my officer’s report,’ Hamilcar said.

Narmer bristled, but something in the Carthaginian’s tone made him hold his tongue. He was used to dominating men with his presence and force of will but he knew instinctively that this one would not bend.

Hamilcar stepped forward and brushed past Narmer. Belus followed. The pirate crew parted before them and they walked onto the main deck alone. Hamilcar felt something soft under his foot and he looked down. The deck was filthy, strewn with debris: half-eaten food, lengths of rigging, a single wooden goblet rolling with the tilt of the deck. As he passed over a hatchway, a horrendous smell struck him from the slave deck below, a mix of human filth and rotting decay. Hamilcar peered down into the pitch darkness but could discern nothing and he listened for a moment to the sporadic groans and coughs that struggled upward into the night.

He looked up to face Belus, the disgust he felt sticking in his throat. The pirates were animals, and for the hundredth time his honour questioned him on his decision to use these scavengers. For generations Carthage had hunted pirates with merciless determination, abhorring their breed and enacting terrible revenge for every trading ship lost to their attacks. Now Hamilcar was using them in paid service of the city and he weighted his motives once more against the dishonour of the alliance. With disinclined conviction he renewed his determination. Rome was the greater enemy.

‘Perhaps it would be safer for you if we were aboard the Alissar?’ Belus ventured. ‘These men have no honour and if they realise your importance they could try to hold you here.’

‘It is better that we show these carrion that we are unafraid,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘In any case, the crew of the Alissar are fully armed and on alert.’

Belus nodded. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the pirate crew were far enough away. He began to outline the information he had garnered so far from the Roman crews which the pirates had captured and tortured over the previous weeks. It was a gruesome report but Belus remained dispassionate, his involvement in the defeat at Mylae robbing him of the greater part of any pity he might have felt for the Roman traders. Hamilcar listened with heightened awareness, his mind quickly sifting and prioritising the information, searching for the salient parts that were so vital to his strategy.

‘You’re sure about the defences?’ he asked as Belus finished.

‘I would like to confirm the information from more sources but it seems the initial reports were correct.’

Hamilcar shook his head, wanting to believe him, but mystified by the Romans’ seeming incompetence. Could they be so blind? Could it simply be their lack of naval experience? If Belus could confirm the information then Hamilcar’s initial strategy remained infallible. He looked to Belus once more. Hamilcar had planned to release him from duty on the pirate ship this very night, as they had originally discussed, but Belus had foreseen the need to extend the assignment, and consented to it without command or hesitation.

‘And the construction schedule here?’ Hamilcar asked, nodding over his shoulder to the lights of the shoreline beyond the town.

‘It is progressing well,’ Belus said, ‘and Hiero has been true to his word. The site is completely self-contained; with his troops allowing no-one to enter or leave. Its true purpose is still a secret.’

Hamilcar nodded. It was one aspect of the plan that could easily fall prey to exposure. A trained military eye would certainly be suspicious if they could see anything, but the site lay beyond the shore, out of sight from the water. It was vital that prying eyes were kept at bay, even if that meant keeping the construction workers imprisoned until the work was finished.

Hamilcar reached out and tapped Belus on the shoulder in thanks. His posting on the pirate galley was an unenviable assignment but his friend had done well and he was willing to remain on the galley for as long as it took to remove any doubts. Hamilcar led Belus to the foredeck where the pirate crew parted once more to let them through. Narmer was standing at the aft-rail, studying the Carthaginian galley moored to his vessel.

‘A fine ship,’ he said to Hamilcar, his covetousness plainly written on his face and Hamilcar got the impression that if his own crew were not so numerous and armed, Narmer would have his men over the rails without hesitation.

Hamilcar did not reply but rather looked across to Himilco on the Alissar. He held up his hand and spread out all five fingers. The captain nodded and then indicated to two crewmen who picked up one of two chests and carried it forward, its obvious weight betraying its contents. They manhandled it across the gap between the galleys and lay it at Narmer’s feet.

‘That’s five hundred,’ Hamilcar said as Narmer bent down to open the chest.

The pirate captain didn’t hesitate as he heard the words and his hand reached for his sword as he stood fully upright. Within a heartbeat, Hamilcar’s guards reacted in kind and then the pirate crew, the sound of iron on iron filling the air as swords were drawn from their metal scabbards. Only Hamilcar remained immovable, holding Narmer’s gaze as the pirate captain stared balefully at him.

‘What deceit is this?’ he spat. ‘The agreed price was one-thousand drachma.’

‘I must extend the contract until the full moon,’ Hamilcar said evenly.

‘Belus agreed that I would be given the full amount when he made contact with his commander. You are he. The full moon is three weeks away.’ Narmer stepped forward as he spoke, bringing his sword closer to Hamilcar’s chest.

‘I will pay you a further one thousand drachma in addition to this chest when next we meet,’ Hamilcar said, keeping his eyes locked on Narmer. He saw the pirate’s eyes glaze over slightly at the mention of the increased price and he smiled inside. He knew Narmer’s avarice would decide the issue. In any case he also needed the pirate to remain cooperative if Belus was to succeed and the increased price was bound to placate him.

Narmer suddenly stepped back and sheathed his sword. He smiled at Hamilcar and then laughed out loud.

‘It is a good deal,’ he said aloud for the benefit of his crew, a show of bravado as if he had engineered the deal. They also backed off and soon not a single blade, pirate or Carthaginian, was exposed.

Hamilcar looked once more to Belus and nodded before turning to leave.

Narmer stepped in front of him and leaned in, lowering his voice so none could overhear.

‘Look to your back, Carthaginian,’ he hissed, ‘this deal might bind me now but I will not forget this night’

Hamilcar held the pirate’s gaze, a sudden wave of hate washing over him, not for Narmer in particular, but for his kind. He looked away and brushed past the seething captain, silently vowing that once Rome was subjugated, he would dedicate his fleet to wiping the stain of piracy from the seas of Carthage.

Septimus continued to pace the main deck as the ship’s bell chimed the turn of the hour, a sound repeated near and far from the other galleys docked along the shoreline. He looked to the eastern sky but it was pitch black. Dawn was still three hours away. The sea mist had cleared, leaving the night cool and clear with a promise of fair weather for the morrow. Septimus turned and made his way to the aft-deck, silently stepping over the prone bodies of some of the sleeping crew, their bodies hunched up under blankets as they snatched a couple of hours.

The aft-deck was deserted except for Gaius, who lay beneath the tiller, his powerful arms enfolded across his chest, his breathing deep and even. Septimus arched his back at the sight, his own fatigue provoked by the peaceful sight but he knew he could not sleep, his mind too alert for rest. There was still no sight of Atticus and Septimus’s resolution to confront him remained at the forefront of his thoughts. That plan was now blunted by the discovery that Varro would be sailing with the Aquila. How had the tribune escaped censure and punishment? Septimus couldn’t even begin to fathom a defence the tribune could have used. And his return to the Aquila had to be connected to Atticus, so his friend was once more in danger. Septimus began to waver. Could he confront Atticus at a time when it could lead to a breach in their friendship? At a time when he needed someone to watch his back more than ever before?

The sound of raised voices caused Septimus to rush to the aft-rail and he peered into the darkness enveloping the beach end of the jetty, trying to decipher the meaning of the overlapping calls. Other voices were soon raised in answer from the galleys closer to shore; calls that were at first raised in anger. Septimus’s stomach filled with dread as his intuition caught the tone of panic in the raised voices, the sound he had often heard before on the battlefield. Something was very wrong. The strongest of the overlapping voices suddenly became clear.

‘Ho Aquila! Call out! Identify yourself!’

‘Here!’ Septimus called without hesitation, his commanding voice waking Gaius immediately along with half of the sleeping crew.

A tangle of figures emerged from the darkness and Septimus quickly identified them as three men carrying a fourth. He immediately ran from the aft-deck and within seconds he was down the gangplank and onto the jetty. He rushed up to the three men, his own sense of panic rising as he recognised the blood-stained man they carried.

‘What happened?’ he shouted, grabbing the nearest man by the front of his tunic, almost lifting him clear off the ground.

‘We found him on the street in the village,’ the man spluttered, terrified of the towering soldier.

Septimus pushed him aside and reached for Atticus, the other men stopping in their tracks.

‘He’s alive,’ one of the others said and Septimus looked to him, a murderous expression twisting his face.

‘What happened to him?’ Septimus asked, the accusation in his tone clearly evident as he took hold of Atticus, his limp body falling against Septimus’s chest.

‘A knife fight,’ the man replied. ‘We heard the shouts of alarm in the tavern and rushed out to find him lying unconscious on the street.’

By now a number of the Aquila’s crew had rushed onto the jetty, Lucius amongst them and he pushed his way to the front. His expression collapsed as he spotted his captain, his blood black in the darkness, drenching his clothes and running down his legs.

‘Is he…?’ he muttered.

‘He’s still alive,’ Septimus said as he brushed past the second-in-command, carrying him quickly back up the gangway.

‘Drusus!’ he called. The optio was immediately on hand.

‘Call out the guard and detain those three men,’ he ordered and Drusus quickly commanded his men, the soldiers rushing down the ramp, pushing past the crew re-boarding the galley after their captain.

‘More light here,’ Lucius called as Septimus laid Atticus on the deck.

‘Merciful Juptier,’ Septimus whispered as lantern lights laid bare the full extent of Atticus’s injuries. Septimus ripped opened Atticus’s tunic, exposing the chest wound. His hands were immediately on his friend, probing the skin, examining the wound and a fresh trail of blood emerged from the crusted gash to run onto the deck.

‘It’s not deep,’ Septimus said, the relief in his voice causing him to breathe out the words. He placed his hand on Atticus’s forehead and gently tilted his face until his slashed jaw-line was in the full glare of a lantern. Septimus winched at the sight. It was a savage wound, at least four inches long and once again as he probed, the wound began to weep profusely.

‘Will he live?’

Septimus turned to see the ravaged face of Lucius behind him.

‘I don’t know,’ Septimus said; his own words foreign to his ears. This was his friend. ‘The chest wound is not deep, more of a slash. He does not seem to be injured internally but he’s lost a lot of blood, maybe too much.’

Lucius nodded, not really hearing the words.

‘We need to get him below decks, to close the wounds and bind him,’ Septimus continued. ‘It’s the only way to stop the bleeding.’

Again Lucius nodded but he did not move.

‘Lucius!’ Septimus snapped and the second-in-command suddenly blinked as if waking from a nightmare. He spun around.

‘You two,’ he said to two of the closest crewmen. ‘Get below and bring up some planking. I want a stretcher to bring the captain below. Baro!’

The sailor stepped forward.

‘Get your tools and then meet us below decks,’ Lucius commanded.

Baro nodded and was away.

‘Our master-sail-maker,’ Lucius explained to Septimus. ‘He has the steadiest hand and the best eye for this job.’

Septimus nodded and stood up, his concern for his friend lying unconscious on the deck suddenly giving way to anger. He pushed through the circle of sailors surrounding Atticus and found Drusus standing with a troop of legionaries guarding the three men who had brought Atticus to the Aquila. Septimus walked up to the eldest, a grey-haired man, his face weathered and aged.

‘Tell me again what happened,’ he said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the muscles in his right arm bunched as if ready to strike. The man retold the events.

‘How did you know he was from the Aquila?’ Septimus asked.

‘He told us in the tavern earlier tonight,’ the man said. ‘He bought us some wine and he talked with us.’

Septimus nodded, his suspicions evaporating. If the three men had really attacked Atticus, they were unlikely to carry him back to his ship afterwards.

‘So who attacked him?’ he asked.

‘One of your own,’ the man said. ‘A legionary.’

Septimus was rocked back by the accusation. ‘A legionary? You’re sure?’

‘He’s lying dead in the street, along with one of the streettraders.’

‘A street-trader?’ Septimus asked. The whole thing made no sense. Why would a legionary attack Atticus? Or maybe it was the other way around? Perhaps Atticus started the fight.

‘Drusus,’ Septimus ordered. ‘Take a squad and follow these men back to the village. I want the legionary’s body brought back here.’

‘Hold!’

Septimus spun around. Varro was standing behind him.

‘I’ll take over here, Centurion,’ Varro said, his own tone one of barely suppressed anger. ‘Vitulus!’

The guard commander stepped forward.

‘Take two of the men and follow these villagers to Fiumicino. Do what needs to be done.’

Vitulus saluted and nodded to his men. They followed the villagers down the gang-plank and were soon lost in the darkness.

‘How is the Captain?’ Varro asked of Septimus, ‘Will he live?’

‘I don’t…’ Septimus replied, his concern for his friend overwhelming him. He shook off his misgivings. ‘He’ll survive with Fortuna’s help, Tribune.’

‘Yes…’ Varro said, drawing out the word. He looked to the main deck where the crew were carefully transferring the captain to a stretcher.

‘Centurion,’ he said, turning once more to Septimus. ‘Inform the second-in-command that he is to take charge of the crew for our departure at dawn. If necessary we will take on a new captain when we reach our destination.’

‘You intend to sail as planned?’ Septimus asked incredulously, forgetting himself and to whom he was talking. ‘But Atticus, Captain Perennis, needs to be examined by a trained physician. He needs to be transferred to the field hospital.’

‘Then he’d better be off this galley by dawn, Centurion,’ Varro said, anger once more in his voice. ‘We sail as planned.’

Septimus hesitated. To leave Atticus behind unguarded was unthinkable but to take keep him on board might equally condemn him, the uneasy motion of a galley at sea completely adverse to a wounded man.

Septimus suddenly noticed that the tribune was looking at him intently, waiting for an acknowledgment of his command. He saluted his assent and walked away from Varro, determined to keep his stride steady even as his own anger rose within him. In the light of cold military logic, Varro was right to sail with or without Atticus for no man was indispensable. But Septimus knew that Varro’s decision was not based on logic. He was taking advantage of this sudden opportunity to rid himself of Atticus, one way or another. Before tonight Septimus had looked upon Varro as a threat to his friend and he had silently vowed to watch Atticus’s back when the tribune was around. Now however he marked the tribune as an enemy, his callous disregard for Atticus reinforcing Septimus’s enmity.