Captain of Rome

CHAPTER NINE

Marcus straightened his back as he led his maniple through the main gate of the garrison fort of Brolium, the remnants of the exhausted Ninth legion finally reaching refuge in the Roman port town on the north coast of Sicily. These steps were often in Marcus’s thoughts over the past week as the Ninth slowly retreated from Thermae, in his waking nightmares when the clarion calls of alarm sounded and the Carthaginian horde attacked once more. Each time he and his men had beaten their way through. Each time the enemy had come on again, more ferocious than before, more merciless, making the legionaries pay for every step they took closer to Brolium and salvation.

Marcus had led seventy-three men out of the cauldron of Thermae. Seventy-three men, the principes and triarii of his maniple. Now less than half that number marched in his wake, many of them walking wounded, many of them fighters in name only with spirits and bodies broken by the relentless fighting of the past week. On the third day out from Thermae, news had gotten through that the Second were marching west under Tribune Tacitus in relief. The pace of the Ninth had increased in anticipation of the link-up but the promised relief had never arrived, the Carthaginians managing to hold the Second at a narrow coastal pass, frustrating their efforts to rescue the Ninth.

Dogged determination had soon descended into brutality when news of the failed relief force had reached the remaining men of the Ninth and the noble order of ‘Steady the line,’ a command that signalled that the men should stand shoulder-to-shoulder, was quickly replaced with an unspoken command that marked them all, ‘March or die’. Where once before men stood over the wounded and protected them, now they left any who could not stand, the unremitting attacks forcing them ever onwards. To stand and fight was to die and it had taken all of Marcus’s experience to maintain the cohesion of his maniple as retreat teetered on the brink of rout. More than once he had been a heartbeat away from summarily executing one of his own for insubordination, a measure that other centurions had been forced to resort to, but the IV maniple had held together, if only through loyalty to their commander.

Marcus gazed at the men of the other maniples as they began to draw up in the centre of the parade ground, the legate, Megellus, insisting on regulations even now, his iron discipline allowing for nothing less. Every maniple had been mauled as much as the IV, the rotation of the maniples on point duty exposing each to the brunt of the Carthaginian ambushes. At first those ambushes had been sporadic and uncoordinated but they had quickly become deadly effective, the narrow defiles funnelling the legionaries into unavoidable killing grounds. As the Ninth had come closer to Brolium the Carthaginians had resorted to frontal assaults, creating shield walls across the legionaries’ advance. With a humourless smile Marcus recalled with pride that the IV had broken every line and barrier the Carthaginians had dared to put before them.

Marcus watched as Megellus accepted the salute of Tacitus, the tribune of the Second, his own men forming two sides of the square formation around the parade ground. The men of the Ninth looked balefully across at them, their sense of betrayal honed and sharpened over the days they had spent waiting for the relief that had never come. It was yesterday when the Ninth had finally come upon the bottle-neck pass where the Second were held, the Carthaginians withdrawing before they could be caught between the converging forces. The linkup had ensured the final day’s march to Brolium passed with little incident, with only minor attacks on the rear-guard. Now however, as the Ninth stood across from the Second, that sense of betrayal was brought to the fore again, the near full ranks of one legion in marked contrast to the devastated ranks of the other.

‘Bloody Second,’ Marcus heard behind him. ‘They gave the Punici an easy day’s work.’

There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘Silence in the ranks, eyes front,’ Marcus hissed as he glanced over his shoulder. The expressions of his men were murderous, many ignoring their centurion as they continued to stare across at the Second.

‘I said eyes front,’ Marcus snarled, his own undirected anger rising and the men sensed his mood and complied. Marcus felt his fingers ache and he suddenly noticed that he was still gripping his sword tightly in his hand. He looked down at the battered blade, both its edges tarnished and nicked, the guard cracked in two places from forgotten blows. With an almost detached mind he turned it over in his hand, examining the weapon and with a wry smile he realised he had never thought to sheath it, not even now in the safety of the garrison fort. He couldn’t remember when he had last put it down.

The camp prefect shouted the order to dismiss and it was instantly repeated by every centurion, all save one. The maniples of the Second and Ninth began to disperse but the IV remained firm, the men waiting for the confirmation of the order from their own centurion. Marcus spun around to face them. They met his gaze, knowing what Marcus was saying without the words being spoken. They stood taller, proud men. Not for having survived, for that was in the hands of Mars, but for having done what was expected of them by their commander. Marcus nodded to his men and then sheathed his sword.

‘Dismissed,’ he ordered.

They saluted in unison and dispersed. Marcus watched them walk slowly back to their quarters, proud to see that their backs were straight. The IV might be a broken command, its shattered strength robbing it of its ability to act as a fighting unit, but the men remained strong and determined. They would have to be, Marcus thought.

With their victory at Thermae the Carthaginians were poised to advance on every front.

The sun reached its zenith in a cloudless blue sky, its solitary presence in the heavens foretold by the play of the weather the night before. The wind however had shifted north-west to its habitual course, running smoothly down the Tyrrhenian Sea off the west coast of Italy, filling the mainsail of the Aquila with a constant press that begged her to take flight and become the creature for which she was named. The air contained a promise of the season to come, its touch made cooler by the moisture it carried, a foretaste of the cleansing autumn rains that were but weeks away.

Beneath the aft-deck the porthole hatchways remained tightly shut in the tiny starboard cabin, jealously guarding the fetid air inside from the fresh wind sweeping past the hull. Septimus sweated stoically in the half-light created by the lantern that illuminated the infernal space, his brow creased with worry as he gazed down at his friend. Atticus was barely recognisable, the vivid scar on his jaw-line in marked contrast to his pale ashen grey skin, his hair matted with sweat as the fever of infection racked his body. He was stripped to the waist on the narrow bunk, the wound across his chest heavily bandaged, the linen cloth already soaked through with fresh blood.

For the hundredth time Septimus checked the barely perceptible rise and fall of his friend’s chest, placing his hand on Atticus’s skin, fighting the urge to recoil from the searing skin that radiated such incredible heat. The infection had taken a strong hold, the loss of so much blood making Atticus all the more vulnerable.

‘Twenty-four hours,’ Septimus heard Lucius whisper and he turned to the older man, seeing the worry he felt reflected on the sailor’s face. ‘Then we’ll know.’

Septimus nodded. He looked to the gash on Atticus’s face again. The stitching was incredibly neat, a testament to the skill of Baro the sail maker and the wound had remained clean. However the chest injury had become infected somehow and although it wasn’t deep it could kill him just the same. Septimus had seen weaker men survive greater injuries and stronger men succumb to less. Atticus might be a born fighter, but Septimus knew this battle was in the hands of Fortuna alone.

‘He’s still alive?’

‘Yes Commander,’ Vitulus replied, his own disappointment self-evident, ‘I’ve just spoken to one of the crew. But it seems that the wound has become infected. He’s not out of the woods yet.’

‘That fool Quintus,’ Varro spat. ‘If he had carried out his orders…’ He stood up suddenly and pushed away from the table in the centre of the master-cabin of the Aquila. He paced to port side and peered out of the hatchway, his fists balled in anger. ‘You had no trouble disposing of his body?’

‘No, Commander,’ Vitulus replied. ‘I had those three villagers help us take his body, and the street-trader’s, out to sea in one of their boats.’

‘And?’ Varro prompted. He had been on deck when Vitulus had arrived back at the Aquila just before dawn and had been unable to question him on the details.

‘We weighted both bodies and dumped them about a half-mile from shore.’

Varro nodded. ‘And the villagers?’ he asked.

‘We took care of them when we got back to the beach,’ Vitulus replied. ‘With luck their bodies won’t be discovered until at least tomorrow.’

Again Varro nodded. The whole thing had turned into a fiasco and even now there were too many loose ends. Varro knew the plan had been arranged in haste. He had remembered Scipio’s warning, that the Greek was not to be attacked near Rome but the sight of Perennis leaving the ship alone had proved too great a temptation and he had dismissed the senator’s caution, secretly dispatching one of his guards, Quintus, in pursuit with one simple command. Ambush and kill the Greek. Quintus however had somehow managed to fail in his attempt and Varro cursed him anew.

Last night, as he waited for Quintus to return, Varro had had visions of standing before Scipio on this day, proudly telling him of Perennis’s death and lifting the sentence of banishment from over him before he had even left the city. Now he was sailing south as planned, with Rome in his wake.

Varro turned from Vitulus and stared out of the hatchway again. He spoke a silent petition to Quirinus, the God of his family’s household, to intercede on his behalf with Fortuna, asking her to take her hand from Perennis but as he did so a vicious elation overcame him. He realised suddenly that he could afford for the captain to recover, for if he did, Varro would try again and again until Perennis was dead. If this time Fortuna favoured the Greek then the next time the wheel would turn in Varro’s favour.

Belus spat over the side-rail of the pirate ship as he tried to clear his throat of the foul taste of butchery from his mouth. He watched his spittle strike the blood-stained water ten feet below and his eyes shifted left to gaze at a body floating face down in the sea. It rose and fell gently with the swell of the waves, before sinking slowly beneath the surface. Belus watched the burial without remorse, his compassion for the enemy long since cauterised from his heart.

The horrific cries from the sinking galley not twenty feet away were reaching a terrifying crescendo and Belus looked upon her once more. She was sinking quickly by the stern, the floodwaters of the sea rushing through the gaping maw where the pirates’ ram had struck home. Nearly two hundred men were below decks, chained to their oars with tempered iron and Belus watched as pleading hands appeared in the rowlocks, the faces of the slaves barely visible behind them, their terror robbing them of every vestige of dignity. Belus turned away, not wishing to witness such a terrible death, knowing that Tanit, the Phoenician Goddess of fortune, might one day decree such a fate for him.

The screams faded and then suddenly died as the Roman galley finally slipped beneath the waves, the waters above her churning; a memory of the horrific struggle of the doomed men within her hull. Belus did not mark her disappearance, he had seen enough enemy ships condemned to the depths, and he sheathed his sword as he made his way across the main deck to the hatchway leading to the main cabin below. Only six of the Roman crew had been captured alive, the untamed savagery of the pirate crew claiming the rest before Belus had been able to stop the slaughter. Crucially however, for the first time, one of those captives was the captain and Belus had immediately ordered that he be taken below. The remaining five were still on deck and Belus stopped as he reached the cowering group. One of the pirate crew stepped forward, his face matted with another man’s blood, his eyes alive and furtive.

‘Can we begin?’ he asked, a fleck of spittle escaping his mouth, his excitement barely contained.

‘Yes,’ Belus said with disgust. ‘But this time make sure they answer your questions before you go too far.’

The pirate grunted in reply and then turned to his comrades, a demonic grin on his face. He nodded and they rushed forward as one, manhandling the bound Romans to their feet, their laughter drowning out the cries for mercy of the captured men.

Belus turned his back on the scene and went below decks. He pushed open the door of the main cabin and went inside.

‘Stop!’ he shouted, his hand as always instinctively reaching for his sword. Narmer hesitated for a second and then slowly withdrew the tip of his blade from where it was poised over the Roman captain’s left eye. He slowly ran the point down the man’s cheek, drawing a neat line of blood along the flesh. The Roman winced and pulled away but his bounds held him fast and Narmer adjusted the pressure, keeping the blade in contact until he reached the jaw-line. Only then did he remove his knife.

‘He is my prisoner, Narmer,’ Belus scowled.

‘And this is my ship, Carthaginian,’ Narmer spat.

‘This ship is in the service of Carthage until we return to Tyndaris,’ Belus countered and he waited until Narmer stepped away and sheathed his knife.

Belus looked at the Roman captain. It was impossible to judge his age given his weathered features but his eyes seemed to show the presence of mind of an older man. He looked at Belus with a contemptuous expression and the Carthaginian smiled inwardly. A brave man.

‘What is your name?’ Belus asked.

‘Why is a Carthaginian officer commanding a pirate galley?’ the Roman replied, studying Belus’s armour and bearing.

Belus smiled, although his eyes remained cold. ‘You will answer my questions, Roman,’ he said, stepping ever closer.

‘You can go to Hades, Carthaginian,’ the Roman spat back. ‘or wherever you Punici…’

A sudden thump on the deck above was followed a heartbeat later by a horrific cry. The Roman captain started, his eyes riveted to the timbers above his head. The cries were replaced by the sounds of cheering.

‘Sounds like my men are getting acquainted with your crew,’ Narmer said stepping forward once more into the Roman’s line of sight. He grabbed a handful of the Roman’s hair and yanked his head back so he could bring his face to within inches of the bound man. ‘Want to know what they’re doing?’ Narmer asked, a malicious smile on his face.

The Roman shook his head as beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead.

‘Just a little game,’ Narmer continued, releasing the Roman so he could continue to walk across the cabin. A second thump resounded through the deck, this time accompanied by a heart wrenching scream. Again the Roman captain felt compelled to stare up at the deck above him.

‘They raise your men up to the yardarm of the mainmast by the hands; a good twenty feet up, and then release them.’ Narmer said, relishing every word. The Roman captain shook his head again, trying to block out the pirate’s voice, bracing himself as he heard one of his men plead for mercy above. The voice was cut short as the Roman hit the deck once more, his cries becoming a scream of pain.

‘The ankles break first,’ Narmer continued, ‘sometimes even the feet. After that it’s anyone’s guess, the shins, the knees, the thigh bones.’

The Roman captain closed his eyes against the pirate’s voice but his mind became flooded with images, of shattered bones piercing skin, of pleading eyes begging for mercy before the rope was released once more.

‘Enough.’

The Roman opened his eyes once more at the sound of the Carthaginian’s voice.

‘Leave us,’ Belus commanded and Narmer shrugged and walked out, a smile of satisfaction on his face. Belus closed the door behind him and turned to the Roman captain. He had been tempted to stop Narmer sooner, the sound of his voice vexing him, the pirate’s obvious enjoyment at the sound emanating from above deck a disgusting sight. But he realised the effect the words were having on the Roman, chipping away at his courage and will to resist, and he had therefore let Narmer continue.

‘Animals,’ the Roman suddenly said, spitting the blood that had trickled from his face into his mouth onto the floor.

‘I am not one of them, Roman,’ Belus said. ‘What I do, I do for my city.’

The Roman did not reply, his face twisting into an expression of pure hatred.

Belus ignored it, knowing it would soon change to one of terror and pain. He reached to his side and slowly withdrew his dagger, bringing it up until he could examine the blade in detail. It was a fine knife, a Celtic blade seized in battle in Iberia and Belus had used it many times. He stepped forward with the knife held before him, the Roman’s eyes riveted to the light reflecting off the blade. Belus steeled himself for what he needed to do next, believing that by recognising that the act besmirched his honour, he was somehow set apart from the men the Roman had called animals.

Septimus shielded his eyes against the harsh light of the early afternoon sun as he came up onto the main deck, its unfettered light reflecting off a million wave-tops and the white canvas sheet of the main sail. He turned his face into the cooling tail-wind, drinking in its freshness, allowing it to cleanse his lungs. It had been more than eight hours since he had been top-side and the vastness of the space around him emphasised the suffocating confines of the cabin below where Atticus lay unconscious.

The sound of drill commands caused Septimus to turn and he smiled as he watched Drusus put his demi-maniple through their paces. The optio was a hard taskmaster and Septimus was glad he could rely on him as much as he did. Beyond the men training on the main deck, Septimus spotted Vitulus alone on the fore. He was watching the legionaries intently, no doubt studying the differences in their training from that of the standard imposed on the legions. Septimus watched him for a minute and then suddenly realised he had not spoken to the guard commander since the night before when Varro had dispatched him back to the village with the three locals.

Septimus walked around his men and made his way to the fore, nodding at Drusus as he passed, an affirmation that the optio seemed to ignore. Septimus smiled inwardly. Drusus was as tough as they came. The centurion walked over to Vitulus and turned to stand beside him, facing his men on the main deck once more.

‘What happened last night?’ Septimus asked.

‘I have given my full report to the tribune,’ Vitulus replied icily.

Septimus turned to Vitulus, surprised by the dismissive reply and he squared up to the legionary.

‘Listen Vitulus,’ Septimus said, suddenly angry. ‘My friend was attacked last night and I’d like to know what happened.’

Vitulus turned to Septimus to reply, ready to dismiss him again, but he hesitated, wary of the look in the centurion’s eyes. He wondered if it were better not to antagonise the marine considering he would find out what Vitulus had reported sooner or later.

‘We found nothing except a dead street-trader,’ he replied.

‘That’s all?’ Septimus asked incredulously.

Vitulus nodded, sticking as close to the truth as possible. ‘He was dead, knife wound to the face, probably caused by your friend.’

‘And what about the legionary?’

‘There was no legionary,’ Vitulus said. ‘The villagers were lying.’

‘Lying?’ Septimus said. ‘Then how do you explain the captain’s wounds. He didn’t get those from a street-trader. Atticus is too good a fighter.’

‘Before the fight your captain was drinking in the tavern. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe that’s why he provoked the fight in the first place.’

‘How do you know he started the fight?’

‘Some of the villagers told us,’ Vitulus replied. ‘They said the Greek started an argument over the price of the trader’s food. He turned really nasty and drew his knife. Typical Greek if you ask me.’

Septimus held his tongue. Now he knew something was wrong. There was no way Atticus would do such a thing. Either someone had lied to Vitulus or the commander was lying now.

‘Did you get the names of the three villagers who brought the captain to the Aquila?’ Septimus asked, laying the trap. ‘I’d like to question them myself when we return to Fiumicino.’

‘I didn’t get their names,’ Vitulus replied, ‘and when we tried to question them, they fled down one of the alleyways. We chased them but Fiumicino is like a rat’s maze. We lost them.’

Septimus nodded as if he understood and agreed but his suspicion of Vitulus was heightened. Somehow he knew Vitulus would have an excuse as to why Septimus could never question the villagers. And the story he had told. All three civilians escaping from an experienced commander and two legionaries? The odds were certainly against it. Septimus looked at Vitulus but the commander did not hold his gaze and the centurion walked away. He was half-way back across the main deck when he spotted Lucius on the aft talking with Gaius. He approached the two men.

‘How is the Captain?’ Gaius asked.

‘No change, Gaius,’ Septimus replied. ‘All we can do is wait.’

Gaius nodded. Lucius had told him as much an hour before when he had come top-side.

Septimus looked back over his shoulder, spotting Vitulus still standing on the foredeck, leaning easily against the rail.

‘Vitulus says there was no legionary involved last night,’ Septimus said as he turned back to the two men.

Lucius nodded, ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I spoke with one of Varro’s guards earlier. He said the same thing.’

‘You don’t believe their account of what happened?’ Septimus asked, judging Lucius’s tone.

‘Do you, Centurion?’ Lucius replied.

Septimus paused for a second only. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘Then there’s one other thing to take into account,’ Lucius said, stepping forward and lowering his voice. ‘One of Varro’s men is not on board.’

‘You’re sure?’ Septimus asked, rocked by the information.

Lucius nodded, ‘Varro had four men with him last night when he boarded. Now there are only three.’

‘Did you say this to the guard you were talking to this morning?’ Septimus asked.

Again Lucius nodded. ‘He said I was mistaken, that only he and two others were guarding the tribune on this voyage.’

‘Could you have been wrong?’ Septimus asked, remembering the evening before when he had seen the tribune on deck with three men. Lucius had corrected him at the time by saying the fourth man must have been below decks.

‘He’s not wrong, Centurion,’ Gaius answered. ‘I saw them too, as did half the crew.’

Septimus nodded and turned once more to look down the length of the galley. Vitulus was still there. Septimus began to think that he should challenge the commander on his version of the events of last night but he thought better of it. To challenge him meant revealing his suspicions. To say nothing gave him the opportunity of watching Varro without attracting attention. He nodded to himself as he reached the conclusion of his thought. From now on the enemy were seen and unseen, both Carthaginian and Roman, and for the first time he was given an insight into his friend’s world.

Belus stepped back, panting, the bloodied knife hanging limp by his side. The Roman captain had passed out again, his ravaged face still transfixed with an expression of pain and anguish. The room seemed strangely dark and Belus noticed for the first time that the sun was setting in the western sky, its passage turning the sky a burnt red, darkening the day prematurely. Belus moved to close the hatches but he hesitated, abruptly aware of the overpowering smell in the room, the dank sweat smell of fear mingled with the sweet odour of freshly drawn blood and underneath, the acrid smell of urine from when the terror of anticipation had overcome the captain.

Belus suddenly felt suffocated by the choking air and he stuck his head out of the port-hole. The air was too fresh and he coughed violently as it struck his lungs. The wind rushing past filled his ears and he turned his head away from the flow. There were no sounds from above, no cries of pain or shouts of laughter and Belus briefly wondered when it had all stopped. He ducked back inside the cabin and lit one of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling above. The light ebbed and flowed across the cabin with the roll of the ship, at one moment illuminating only the Roman captain’s legs and then showing him in the full glare of the lantern.

Belus missed a breath at the sight, the few minutes’ pause breaking the trance that had descended over him as he tortured the Roman. The captain was unrecognisable from the man who had stood on the aft-deck of the Roman galley earlier that day, shouting defiance across the closing gap, issuing orders for his men to stand fast against the pirates as they boarded. The creature before Belus now was a broken shell, robbed of all dignity by hours of incessant pain. Belus raised his knife and examined the blade as he had done hours before. It was dull in the lantern light, matted with blood, some fresh, some hours old and the hand holding it was similarly coated. Belus was suddenly ashamed and he rammed the tip of the knife into the table top. He had never tortured a man personally, although he had seen it done many times, and he was acutely aware of how easily he had slipped into the role.

Belus recalled the questions he had asked and repeated over the preceding hours, sifting the information in his mind, suppressing the thoughts that reminded him of the moments when the captain had finally broken down each time. The evidence was now overwhelming and Belus consciously justified his decision to torture the Roman himself. He was the first captain they had captured and his knowledge was more valuable than any crewman. Left to the pirates they might have killed him prematurely or accidently. Because of his meticulous approach, Belus had been able to confirm all the previous reports and fill in the missing details. That justification caused Belus to step back and nod to himself but as the lantern light once more revealed the Roman, Belus was robbed of his assuredness.

The Roman had been a man of honour, certainly ex-military given his ability to judge the implications of the questions Belus was asking him and the Carthaginian instantly decided that the captain deserved a fate better than the one that had befallen the rest of his crew. Belus opened the cabin door and ordered one of the crew to fetch two others and report to the main cabin. They arrived a minute later and upon seeing the Roman, they smiled.

‘Is he dead?’ one asked.

‘No, he is unconscious,’ Belus replied.

‘Do you want to finish him off before we throw him over the side?’

‘No, I want you to bring him to my cabin,’ Belus said, an edge to his voice, ‘and have him cleaned up and his wounds tended.’

The pirates hesitated, wondering if the Carthaginian was joking, unsure as to what to do next.

‘Now!’ Belus shouted, suddenly angry, ‘and make sure he is treated well. I will check on him in thirty minutes.’

The pirates grumbled but they manhandled the Roman to his feet and dragged him from the main cabin, conscious that the Carthaginian was untouchable while on board and he could punish them without fear of retribution.

Belus watched them leave and then silently closed the cabin door once more. The lantern light continued to wash over the room, illuminating the now empty chair, with blood soaked bonds scattered on the floor beneath it. Belus re-examined his decision once more. He didn’t know if the captain would survive, Belus hadn’t considered it when he was torturing the man, but now he hoped he would. If he could grant mercy to this one man then perhaps he could regain some of his own honour, robbed from him by the pirates with whom he served, a detestable alliance that today had turned him into one of them.