Master of Rome

CHAPTER FIVE

Atticus stood on the foredeck of the Orcus as the galley cut a path through the teeming waters of Ostia, his gaze ranging over the entire harbour. The sight never failed to overawe him, the multitude of ships competing for space, the sprawling docks consuming the cargo of each vessel as fast as it could be unloaded, the traders frantically trying to feed the insatiable appetite of the city twelve miles away.

The trading ships came from all corners of the Mediterranean, the origin of many of them easily distinguishable by the type of craft or the men who sailed them, while others were more anonymous, bireme galleys and sailing barges that were common to every port. Despite the war, the traders recognized few boundaries, and some of the ships that were docking in Ostia had sailed from ports in the Carthaginian Empire only days before, bringing untraceable cargoes that were swiftly exchanged for the faithless denarius. The Roman authorities had tried to stem this flow, banning vessels from the closest Carthaginian dominions of Sardinia, Malta and the Baliares, but the lure of profit had impelled the traders to disguise their activities, and the Roman merchants in Ostia were only too ready to aid the clandestine trade, their first loyalty given solely to the market.

The oar-powered vessels in the path of the Orcus gave way to the larger quinquereme, while Gaius manoeuvred neatly around the more unwieldy sailing barges until the Orcus reached the northern end of the port and the military barracks that was the home of the Classis Romanus. As always there were a number of galleys tethered to the docks, but most of them were triremes, smaller ships that were no longer considered worthy of the battle line and were used primarily for coastal patrol in the sea-lanes around Ostia.

Atticus studied the nearest trireme in detail. It was nearly identical to the Aquila, his first command, as were all the triremes in the Roman fleet, mass-produced copies of an original design that had served the coastal fleet for a generation. Atticus saw past the minor differences and smiled as he pictured his old ship, slower and less powerful than the Orcus, but nimbler and quicker to accelerate, an Arabian stallion to the quinquereme warhorse. The Roman fleet’s switch to quinqueremes was unalterable, the changing face of warfare dictating the use of larger galleys, but Atticus still believed that the triremes had strengths disproportionate to their size.

Gaius called for steerage speed and then for the oars to be withdrawn as he steered the Orcus to a free berth. Atticus turned to leave the foredeck but he stopped as he saw a number of men running towards his galley. A mixture of sailors and legionaries, they were clearly agitated. Atticus spotted an officer at the head of the group, his head turning quickly as he swept the Orcus with his gaze.

‘What ship?’ the officer shouted as he neared the dockside.

‘The Orcus,’ Atticus called back.

The officer followed the voice and looked directly at Atticus. ‘What fleet?’ he called frantically.

‘The consul’s fleet, from Africa.’

For a second the officer seemed lost for words, as if Atticus’s identification had somehow confirmed a terrible truth. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

Atticus looked perplexed.

‘The storm, the fleet,’ the officer continued, his voice rising. ‘Is it true? Has the fleet been destroyed?’

Atticus was stunned by the questions and he moved quickly to the main deck as mooring ropes were thrown and made secure. The officer mirrored his progress on the dock, his impatience increasing, and as the gangway crashed down he was standing directly before Atticus.

‘Answer my questions, Captain,’ he said angrily.

‘Prefect,’ Atticus corrected him as he disembarked. He noticed the officer wore the uniform of a tribune, and so their ranks were in effect the same, although Atticus doubted that the Roman would recognize the equality.

‘All right… Prefect,’ the tribune said derisively. ‘Is it true, man?’

‘What have you heard?’ Atticus asked, wary of the larger crowd of soldiers standing behind the officer, not wishing to confirm any news before he had spoken to someone in authority.

‘Just rumours, from traders arriving in Ostia in the last two days. They speak of a terrible storm off the southwest coast of Sicily that destroyed the consul’s fleet. We heard there were survivors but there has been no confirmation from a military galley.’

‘Who commands here?’ Atticus asked, motioning to the barracks behind.

The tribune stated the name.

‘Take me to him,’ Atticus said, and he walked towards the barracks. The tribune hesitated for a second, overcome with frustration, but he followed, the men he had led from the barracks falling in behind.

Regulus shrugged on the fresh toga and stepped out of the bath, taking the proffered goblet of wine as he did so. He had not bathed in weeks and the simple cleansing ritual had gone some way to ease the constant feeling of foreboding he had lived with since his capture. He sniffed the wine and took a sip, savouring the taste before he followed his attendant slave to a shaded courtyard at the rear of the villa.

He had been brought to Carthage the evening before, escorted on horseback from Tunis with his hands tied like a common criminal. He had swallowed his protests, knowing that to utter them would invite ridicule, but the yoke of captivity was heavy and it was with difficulty that he kept his head high on the journey.

He had spent the night in another darkened room, but with the dawn came an incredible change in the nature of his captivity. The door of his room had been opened by a slave bearing towels, and as Regulus stepped out he immediately noticed the absence of guards, the villa in which he found himself quiet in the early morning sunlight. He had followed the slave to the bathhouse and, although the quality of the baths was by far inferior to his own in Rome, Regulus had rejoiced at the opportunity to cleanse himself. Now as he sat in the open courtyard, he wondered about the change in his condition. There was only one answer.

Regulus looked up as Hamilcar entered the courtyard. He stood without thinking and then cursed his carelessness, the change in his treatment softening his defences. He quickly recovered and squared his shoulders, adopting a look of superiority as Hamilcar crossed the open space.

Hamilcar smiled contemptuously, seeing through the Roman’s charade. He had been watching Regulus surreptitiously for several minutes, noting how at ease the Roman was, justifying his decision to grant his enemy this simple boon, knowing that the Roman’s compliance was vital if his plan was to proceed. He stepped closer to Regulus and stood before him, allowing a silence to lengthen.

‘I know why you have brought me here, Barca,’ Regulus said.

Hamilcar raised his eyebrows in question.

‘My people have offered you a ransom for my return and you have accepted it.’

Hamilcar almost laughed out loud but he kept his derision in check, knowing his words would have a far greater effect.

‘You are mistaken, Roman,’ he replied. ‘I have brought you here so I could deliver some news to you in person.’ And Hamilcar proceeded to tell Regulus of the events during his captivity in Tunis. He began with the battle at Cape Hermaeum, leaving out the capture of many of his ships and, although Hamilcar did not speak of it as a defeat, he noticed a sly smile creep on to Regulus’s face as he described the breakout of the galleys at Aspis to join the larger Roman fleet from Sicily.

Hamilcar paused, allowing Regulus to revel in the good news before he continued to describe the subsequent movements of the Roman fleet, their return to Sicily, their foolish disregard for the unpredictable weather before the rising of Sirius and the sudden storm that had destroyed them all. He continued unabated, even as he heard Regulus’s wine goblet clatter to the ground, and as he finished he watched with cold triumph as Regulus stumbled back to sit once more on the low bench.

Hamilcar stayed silent, keeping his gaze firmly on Regulus, studying him, the Roman sitting with his head bowed. Hamilcar knew it would not last. Regulus would lift his head again. He would gather his strength and pride and accuse Hamilcar of deceit and fabrication. It would not matter.

In time he would persuade Regulus of the truth of his report and, although the proconsul would remain a prisoner, he would be treated reasonably, allowing Hamilcar to steadily gain his trust, so that Regulus would accept his proposal — one that he had, after all, already accepted in another form.

Atticus sped on horseback along the Via Aurelia, his chest close to his mount’s crest. Septimus was on his left shoulder, while ahead the contubernia of ten mounted soldiers cleared a path with hurried shouts of warning to the human stream that travelled the great north road. Atticus’s mind was on the task ahead, the rapid rhythm of hoof beats on the paving stones aiding his concentration.

The commander at the barracks in Ostia had confirmed the tribune’s assertions. Ostia and Rome were awash with rumours of the fleet’s destruction and two days of un certainty had created a latent panic that was only kept in check by the absence of any firm proof, something Atticus was now going to deliver to the Senate.

The horsemen reached the Servian Wall and sped through the Porta Flumentana, their pace only slowing as they entered the narrow streets. The insulae soared above them on either side, while between them Atticus caught glances of the Palatine and Capitoline hills reaching up from the valley floor.

The streets were packed with people moving with intent, and Atticus’s mount snorted anxiously as the crowd pressed in from all sides. Atticus spurred on his horse, ignoring the angry abuse of those he pushed aside. The pedestrians’ temerity in the face of mounted armed men emphasized the confidence every Roman citizen felt in their safety within the walls of the city.

The narrow street soon gave way to the open space of the Forum Magnum, the main Forum, and the horses increased to a canter as they crossed to the northwest corner and the Curia. Atticus and Septimus dismounted and walked quickly up the steps, their eyes raised to the columned entrance above. Atticus paused as he reached the top and looked over his shoulder to the city spread out before him. The air was filled with the constant hum of a bustling population, concealed within the myriad streets. Atticus recalled the last time he had stood on this spot, when those same people had crowded into the Forum below to celebrate the fleet’s first victory at Mylae. He turned and saw Septimus waiting for him. He nodded and they went inside.

The noise of the outside world subsided with every step they took beyond the entrance to the Curia, to be replaced with the drone of voices raised in debate interspersed with calls of agreement and dissent. Atticus paused at the threshold, his gaze sweeping the tiered seating, searching for a familiar face to call attention to his arrival.

The chamber was no more than a third full, with many of the senators leaning into tight circles of private conversation, while others looked to the senator speaking at length at the near side of the room. He was reading from a parchment, his monotone delivery holding the attention of only those closest to him, whose enthusiasm for his words seemed lacklustre at best.

Atticus felt Septimus tap him on the arm, drawing his attention to the podium facing the tiered seating. An old senator was seated beside it, his back straight in the winged chair. His gaze was locked on the speaker. Atticus nodded and walked across the floor, his movement drawing the attention of some of the senators.

The princeps senatus looked towards Atticus as he heard the approaching footsteps. He stood up slowly, his expression a mixture of annoyance and curiosity and, as Atticus leaned in to whisper to him, a general murmur began to develop amongst the onlookers, quickly reaching a level that caused the speaker to pause in his oration and look towards the podium.

Atticus gave his message quickly and succinctly, leaving the princeps senatus little chance to respond, but the senators closest to the podium noticed the change in the leader’s expression and their reaction fuelled further speculation that ended all other conversation in the chamber.

Atticus stood upright once more as he finished, and the princeps senatus stepped back, his hand reaching for the podium. He moved behind it and the chamber came to order unbidden.

‘This man…’ he began, pointing to Atticus and looking to him questioningly, having forgotten his name. After Atticus’s whispered prompt, the older man continued: ‘… Prefect Perennis, of Consul Paullus’s fleet, brings news of the gravest import.’

The mention of Paullus brought many of the senators to their feet. They had all heard the rumours and the princeps senatus ’s demeanour was in itself confirmation. A barrage of questions swept across the chamber. The leader called for order but his frailty, compounded by shock, undermined his attempts, and his words were lost in the maelstrom.

‘Citizens!’

Septimus’s sudden strident call brought quiet to the chamber. Everyone looked to the centurion, his commanding stare holding their attention, drawing out the silence. He nodded to Atticus who turned to address the chamber.

‘Senators, I have come here from Agrigentum to inform you of the destruction of the Classis Romanus,’ Atticus began. He outlined the events of the storm, omitting his conversation with Paullus in Aspis but sparing no other detail, including the loss of the Concordia with all hands. The senators listened in complete silence, staggered by the disaster. The conclusion of his announcement was met by a deafening roar of questions and lamentations.

The dozens of discussions made individual debate impossible. Atticus remained at the podium, answering questions as they were asked, repeating details of the report a dozen times in as many minutes to senators at opposite ends of the room. Some men rushed from the chamber to seek out absent senators, feeding them the news as they led them back to the Senate. Each new arrival added to the confusion, the noise level growing as the numbers passed two hundred. Atticus could no longer isolate individual voices. The frustration of those who had not heard the report first-hand quickly turned to aggression as their questions were lost in the uproar.

Unnoticed by Atticus, Scipio entered the chamber, led by the junior senator who had sought him out. He stopped just feet inside the room and scanned the crowd, sneering disdainfully at the sight. He had seen this too often. The Senate of Rome, the leaders of the Republic, reduced to a panicked mob, lacking what Scipio always believed only he and a few others like him could bestow: the iron hand of leadership. He uttered a brief command to the junior senator at his side, and the younger man disappeared into the throng to search out the members of the conservative faction, drawing their attention to Scipio’s presence. As a group they did not recognize him as their leader, but individually the majority of them had forged an alliance with Scipio, the junior senators acknowledging him as a patron, the senior members as a cohort; although each man believed his association to be unique, the web of secrecy that Scipio imposed concealing the breadth of his influence.

He stepped out into an open space in the floor and waited for the ripple effect of individual groups becoming quiet to cascade into a general silence as senators quickly turned in the direction indicated by others. Soon all were focused on the senior senator standing apart on the floor of the chamber.

Atticus, puzzled by the return to order, followed the gaze of the crowd. A wave of anger and dread swept over him as he recognized Scipio; his hands clenched the edges of the podium to steady his temper and nerve. Scipio was the manifestation of all that Atticus despised in Rome. He realized that the enmity he felt for the hydra-headed politician had not abated over the years since he had last seen him. It struck him now like a hammer blow to the stomach and he failed to keep his emotions in check. Anger twisted his mouth, accentuating the deep scar on his face.

Scipio turned to the podium and, seeing the Greek’s expression, smiled coldly. The shock of the news the junior senator had brought had been tempered by the identity of the messenger. This was the Greek who had brought glory to his sworn enemy, Duilius, and compounded Scipio’s downfall; the whoreson, who had somehow survived subsequent attempts to destroy him, always remained beyond Scipio’s immediate reach. He turned his back on Atticus and looked around the room. It was nearly full and he motioned to the senators still standing on the floor to be seated, the men complying without hesitation. A hush fell over the vaulted chamber.

‘Repeat your report in full,’ Scipio said dismissively over his shoulder, and Atticus’s voice filled the room once more. Scipio remained standing, adjusting his position until he seemed to become the conduit for Atticus’s report, the senators instinctively shifting their gaze continuously from the podium to the lone senator on the floor. As Atticus’s report ended for a second time, all eyes turned to Scipio.

‘Can you confirm the loss of the Concordia?’ he asked, keeping his back to Atticus.

‘The surviving ships sailed to Agrigentum. The Concordia was not amongst them. I can confirm nothing beyond that,’ Atticus replied, the identity of his interrogator giving his voice a hostile edge.

The tone was not lost on Scipio, and he quickly rearranged the sequence of questions in his mind. The senators were in shock, the loss of the fleet compounded by the almost certain loss of both consuls. In times of crisis, weak men often turn to the strong for guidance and reassurance, and Scipio was, for now, in a unique position. Duilius was not in the chamber — he had not yet arrived, and Scipio held the floor. The Senate was looking to him, but Scipio knew the spell of shock and uncertainty would soon be broken as other astute members of the Senate regained their wits. So he needed to act fast if he was to exploit the opportunity to the full. Paullus was undoubtedly dead, the Senate would soon need to elect a new leader, but there was also a chance to blacken the name of the Greek. He turned once more to Atticus and, needing to further antagonize him, adopted an expression of utter contempt.

‘With the senior consul missing, you were the most senior officer to survive the storm?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Atticus replied.

Scipio nodded and turned to face the senators once more. ‘So you felt it was your responsibility to inform the Senate,’ he said, gesturing to the house with a sweep of his hand.

‘Yes,’ Atticus said tersely.

‘Your responsibility,’ Scipio repeated, as if contemplating the word. He turned once more to Atticus. ‘Are you familiar with the crime of perduellio?’ he asked.

A dark murmur swept through the chamber, an undertone of surprise and outrage, and Scipio turned once more to the senators before Atticus could reply, conscious that he needed to control their anger at the loss of the fleet and that his approach needed to be cautious.

‘Understand that I do not accuse the senior consul and the prefects of the fleet with this crime,’ Scipio went on tactfully, ‘but I do believe that such a loss demands a measure of responsibility. Perduellio is the crime of treason. Through the loss of the fleet, the security of Rome has been placed in grave danger. It is vital that we know where responsibility lies.’

Many of the senators nodded at this explanation. The loss of the fleet was catastrophic, and if it was due to negligence then perhaps there was a case for a charge of treason. They looked again to Atticus, many now unconsciously seeing him as a defendant rather than a messenger.

Atticus had never heard of perduellio, but he understood the implication of a charge of treason and his anger turned to caution. He sensed Septimus take a step closer to the podium and he drew strength from his presence, although his gaze never left Scipio.

The senator turned to Atticus once more. ‘You’ve reported that Consul Paullus ordered the fleet to Sicily to threaten the ports held by Carthage on the southwestern shore.’

‘Those were the consul’s orders,’ Atticus replied earnestly, conscious of Scipio’s play on words, the subtle insinuation that Atticus was reporting a personal version of events that somehow concealed a hidden truth. He tried to anticipate Scipio’s next question, knowing that this was the senator’s arena and that Scipio held the advantage of experience.

‘Your ship survived the storm,’ Scipio said suspiciously. ‘You are obviously an experienced sailor. Why then did you not anticipate such a terrible deterioration in the weather and warn the consul? You are a prefect and your first loyalty should be to the fleet.’

‘I…’ Atticus made to answer but he checked himself, indecision staying his words. To protest that he did warn Paullus would surely look like a fabrication given Scipio’s implied accusation, but to remain silent would equally condemn him.

Scipio was shocked by the hesitation, realizing suddenly that it was quite possible that Perennis had indeed predicted the storm and even warned Paullus of the danger. He quickly re-evaluated his attack. One of the central rules of debate was to ask only questions to which you already knew the answer, so you could not be taken by surprise. Scipio had believed the premise of his question was groundless, that it was impossible for anyone to predict the vicissitudes of the weather, but he had posed it regardless, content that any answer Perennis offered could not deflect the accusation of negligence. Although the Greek would never be convicted of perduellio on such inadequate grounds, the implied guilt would remain.

Now, however, there was every chance the Greek would implicate Paullus, and while Scipio cared little for the consul’s reputation, many senators might be incensed by the attack. Scipio could lose his temporary control over the debate amid accusations of slander.

‘Your responsibility was clear and you will be dealt with in due course,’ Scipio said, determined to end his attack while he held the initiative. ‘Until then you are dismissed.’

Atticus held his ground, still immobilized by uncertainty, until Scipio’s will compelled him to move.

‘Wait,’ Septimus said, stepping up to the podium.

Scipio whipped around. ‘Hold your tongue, Centurion,’ he spat. ‘You are both dismissed from the Curia. Get out.’

‘Stand fast,’ a voice shouted out, and the entire chamber turned to the senator standing at the entranceway.

Duilius strode to the centre of the floor, placing himself between Scipio and the podium. His expression was hard and determined and he stood silent for a minute as he regulated his breathing. His headlong rush on horseback from his estate beyond the city walls had taxed him, but it had also given him the chance to fully absorb the news borne by the messenger. He glanced over his shoulder to the podium; although his face remained impassive, he gave the two men standing there a subtle nod of alliance. He had heard the final moments of the confrontation between them and Scipio and immediately grasped his rival’s intent. He turned once more to the Senate.

‘Senators of Rome,’ he began, ‘this disaster demands that we stand united by loyalty, not divided by censure. The prefect is a messenger. He is not here to answer for the loss of the fleet.’

Duilius’s dramatic arrival had broken the spell of Scipio’s control over the debate, and the majority of the senators voiced their agreement, their attention turning once more to the heart of the crisis. Scipio marked the shift and he strode across the floor, his movement drawing attention.

‘The loss of the fleet is a catastrophe that demands swift and decisive action,’ he exhorted. ‘We must confirm the loss of the consuls and act accordingly.’

Again voices were raised in agreement and Scipio stopped pacing to hold the attention of the Senate. Duilius took the opportunity to glance once more at Atticus, gesturing for him to leave. Atticus nodded, and he and Septimus quietly left the chamber.

Duilius watched them leave and turned his full attention back to his rival. The debate was now descending into a protracted discussion, with other senators standing in their seats in a bid to be heard. As Duilius looked on, the princeps senatus reasserted a level of control, calling out senators by name and permitting them to speak in turn. Scipio moved slowly to his seat, finally relinquishing the floor, aware that his moment had passed. Duilius shadowed his move, glancing surreptitiously at him as he sat down.

The political stakes had increased immeasurably with the loss of both the fleet and the consuls, and Duilius cursed the vital minutes that Scipio had held sway over the debate, knowing that many of the more fickle members of the Senate would remember that Scipio had stood before them when uncertainty reigned.

Septimus put his arm out and steadied Atticus, gripping his shoulder tightly as the two men stood at the top of the steps leading down from the Curia to the Forum.

‘Thank Fortuna Duilius turned up when he did,’ he muttered.

Atticus nodded in reply. ‘That bastard Scipio,’ he said, and glanced over his shoulder to the shadowed entrance behind him. The senator had totally outmatched him, backing him into a corner and then allowing no avenue of escape. He felt a fool, and was angry that he had not defended himself better. He turned abruptly and set off down the steps, Septimus following a pace behind.

The afternoon sun was warm on their backs and Septimus watched their shadows reach down the steps before them, seething at how his friend had been treated by the Senate, and in particular how Scipio had continued unchecked before Duilius arrived. He glanced at Atticus as they reached the bottom of the steps, noticing that his friend’s attention was drawn to the southeastern corner of the Forum and the Viminal quarter beyond.

Thoughts of what had occurred in the Senate fled from Septimus’s mind to be replaced with a forgotten anger. His sister, Hadria, lived at their aunt’s house in the Viminal quarter, and it was obvious that Atticus was thinking of going there. Time had not diminished Septimus’s resolve to prevent the affair between Atticus and his sister, but as he made to step forward and stand before his friend to bar his way, he hesitated.

He thought of how long it had been since either Atticus or he had set foot in Rome, how long it had been since he had seen his own family. He looked up at the Curia and remembered the danger Atticus had just faced and the many enemies he and his friend had faced together over the previous year. For an instant his pride reared up again and demanded he confront Atticus, but his friendship argued for a stay in his conviction.

‘I’m going to the Caelian quarter to see my family,’ Septimus said. ‘I’ll see you back at the ship?’

The question startled Atticus but he quickly recovered and nodded. Septimus slapped him once more on the shoulder and walked over to the contubernia of soldiers who had waited with their mounts. He took his horse and set off across the Forum. He did not look back.

Atticus stood still for a moment longer and then retrieved his horse, dismissing the soldiers as he did so. He mounted and looked to where Septimus had crossed the Forum but the centurion was lost from sight. Atticus spurred his horse and turned towards the Viminal quarter.

He reached the house with ease, recalling each corner of the familiar journey. As he tethered his horse outside Hadria’s house, the intervening year fell away. His knock on the outer door was answered by a servant Atticus did not recognize, and he saw suspicion in the servant’s eyes as he looked upon the tall stranger with a scarred face and intense green eyes. That suspicion was compounded when Atticus spoke, his unusual accent marking him as a non-native. The servant admitted him warily, leading Atticus to the open-roofed atrium that stood before the inner rooms of the house.

The servant asked him to wait. Atticus walked around the rainwater pool in the centre of the atrium. During his time away from Rome he had thought of Hadria almost every day, evoking her in his mind’s eye, placing her within specific memories to capture the essence of her beauty, but trying always to keep his emotions in check, never knowing for sure when he would see her again, the great distance between them an abyss that only fate could cross. Now, that moment of reunion was but seconds away and his feelings for her swept over him.

Hadria appeared in a blur of movement, racing into the atrium, her head turning as she sought him out. Atticus looked at her intently, taking in every detail. She was different from the image that had sustained him over the previous year. Her brown hair was darker and shoulder length, framing her face to accentuate her sea-grey eyes. Her gaze possessed a steely determination, as if she was somehow more self-assured.

Hadria’s face lit up as she saw Atticus across the tranquil pool, and she skirted around its edge to run into his opened arms. She breathed in the smell of him, letting it fill her memories, and when she broke his embrace to kiss him, the intensity of the contact drew blood from her lip that mingled with the taste of him. She had lived moments like this before, when he had returned from other campaigns, but each time felt like the first, the surge of emotion overwhelming her. She drew him ever closer, not daring to trust her senses and believe that he had returned once more.

Hours later, Atticus sat at the edge of Hadria’s bed and looked out at the sun falling behind the Quirinal Hill. He felt a light touch on his lower back and he looked over his shoulder and smiled. Hadria was stretched across the bed, her hair cascading across her face, giving her a dishevelled look. He fell back into her arms. He kissed her tenderly, acutely aware of how fragile her naked body looked, but as she moved against him he felt the strength in her slender limbs.

‘The messenger will be here soon,’ he said, and she nodded. Septimus was home, which meant she would be summoned to see him. The anticipation of seeing her brother safe and well was coloured by having to leave Atticus.

‘Can you wait until I return?’ she asked.

‘There’s not enough time,’ he replied. ‘I will need to leave the city before they close the gates at sundown if I’m to return to Ostia.’

‘You could stay here for the night,’ she smiled.

‘But your aunt, is she not here?’

‘She is, but she knows of you,’ Hadria replied casually.

Atticus was shocked by the revelation. He had thought that Hadria was striving to keep their relationship secret until she felt the time was right to tell her parents.

‘I have been resisting my parents’ efforts to have me remarried,’ she explained. ‘That raised my aunt’s suspicions, and with so many servants in this house there are few secrets. She confronted me months ago and I revealed my love for you.’

‘Has she told your parents?’

‘No,’ Hadria replied. ‘She agreed to keep my secret as long as I agreed to tell my parents of our relationship when next you were in Rome.’

‘Then I must accompany you tonight,’ Atticus said.

Hadria shook her head. ‘My father is away from Rome for another week,’ she said. ‘When he returns we will stand before him, together.’

She smiled in anticipation and Atticus embraced her once more, not wanting her to sense the doubt he felt in his own heart. Hadria’s father, Antoninus, was a former centurion of the Ninth Legion, a Roman of the equestrian class. He had always treated Atticus with shifting levels of respect and contempt, his admiration of a fellow commander vying with his suspicion about Atticus’s heritage. Now Atticus would stand before him as his daughter’s suitor, and only Antoninus could decide which instinct would hold sway.

Scipio looked slowly around the candlelit walls of the dining room, studying the familiar murals, which told the story of Aeneas’s heroic flight from Troy and the journey that took him to the shores of Italy, a simple thread of history that led, generations later, to the founding of Rome. Scipio smiled, remembering how — as a child — this private room had been forbidden to him by his father. He had defied that prohibition many times, sneaking in to view the legend that enthralled him; but even now, although his father was gone, Scipio still felt echoes of the fear that had marked each secret visit to the room.

The sound of approaching footsteps caused Scipio to stir and he looked to the doorway. A moment later, his wife, Fabiola, entered. She was wearing a simple woollen stola and the modesty of the garment strongly accentuated her classical beauty, her dark brown eyes reflecting the candlelight that flickered as she glided on to her own couch. She held out her hand and Scipio took it, his thumb stroking the back of her tapered fingers. She smiled demurely, nodding indulgently at his offer of wine.

Scipio called out to the doorway and immediately servants swept into the room bearing fresh fruit and cooked meats, each placing their platter in turn on the low square table between the couches. As they left Fabiola began to talk of inconsequential matters, keeping her tone light and sweet, pausing in her conversation only to refill her husband’s wine goblet, her words carefully chosen to relax and amuse.

As Fabiola spoke she felt a keen sense of expectation rise within her. That Scipio had chosen to have dinner in the private dining room could only mean that he wished to seek her counsel, and she longed for her husband to put an end to her idle chatter and reveal his inner thoughts. In the past, their discussions within the house had been overheard by servants who had been paid spies of Duilius’s, a betrayal that Fabiola had exposed. She remembered how he had had those spies brutally tortured and put to death. She paused for breath, and as she did so Scipio spoke.

‘In response to the deaths of Paullus and Nobilior, the Senate has voted to hold emergency consular elections next week.’

Fabiola nodded in reply but remained silent.

‘This may be my opportunity,’ he mused, and he looked intently at his wife.

Fabiola took a moment to gather her thoughts. ‘I agree there may never be a better time,’ she said.

Scipio nodded. ‘But I had not thought to run for the consulship for at least another two years,’ he cautioned. ‘If I strike now and fail, it will cost me any future chance.’

‘Now or in the future, a protracted electoral campaign would be difficult.’ Given your past disgrace, she almost said, but she continued seamlessly. ‘The senators who are allied to you are weak men, subject to their passions. The loss of the fleet is a crisis that favours your oratorical skills. If you fan the flames of their fear and uncertainty, they will support you.’

Again Scipio nodded. He had surmised as much, but to hear Fabiola’s endorsement strengthened his resolve. He gazed at her over the rim of his wine goblet, filtering her words through his own thoughts, and found no flaw in his plan, although it was fraught with risk. Duilius was sure to oppose him, perhaps with a ‘new man’ candidate of his own, and there was still a large block of undeclared senators between the two existing factions in the Senate. He looked at his options again, examining them from every angle, slowly spinning the goblet in his hand, creating a tiny vortex in the deep red wine.

Fabiola watched Scipio in silence, confident that her words had been of use to her husband, sensing that he was close to a decision. The struggle of the past year had been exhausting for both of them, the countless evenings entertaining political guests in the main dining room of the house, each banquet carefully orchestrated to persuade and cajole senators into Scipio’s camp. Fabiola recalled how often she had fawned over men who were but a shadow of her husband in order to secure their support. That struggle had borne fruit in the partial resurrection of her husband’s political strength, but it was insufficient compensation for Fabiola: she yearned for the time when Scipio would once more take his rightful place as the most powerful man in Rome.