Master of Rome

CHAPTER SEVEN

Regulus walked slowly across the main deck of the Alissar, his thoughts skipping from one subject to another, his concentration undermined by the inner voices of his conscience. He yearned for a way out of the predicament the Carthaginian commander had placed him in, or, failing that, a way to regain control of his fate. He longed for the counsel of a fellow Roman.

There was no hope. The campaign against the Carthaginians was in ruins. Two full legions had been lost in Africa, the fleet was totally destroyed; and whereas the Punici were now able to call on reserves, the Republic simply did not possess the ships to replace her losses. Sicily had been put beyond the grasp of Rome, and Regulus was forced to concede that the proposed terms for peace were fair and reasonable, merely a demand for a full withdrawal of all Roman forces from Sicily. Given that those remaining forces were negligible, the end result of the peace treaty would be the surrender of cities that would have inevitably fallen to the Carthaginians in due course.

And yet, despite the hopelessness of the Roman cause, Regulus could not bring himself to embrace the proposed peace treaty fully. Surrender, however reasonable, was anathema to the Roman spirit. The Republic had faced and suffered defeat in the past, but always it had fought on, never relenting until the fight was won. He looked at the ship around him and his mind skipped to another thought, one that had struck him the moment the Alissar had set sail from Carthage.

Regulus had never sailed on an enemy galley before, and he was stunned by how different it was to a Roman galley. The ships were identical in type and design, but the Carthaginian crew operated with a level of competence and skill that Regulus had never before witnessed. They seemed to work without supervision or command, as if each man not only knew his own task, but also that of the men around him, their overlapping experience creating a fluent efficiency that put the Roman crews to shame. Regulus now believed that the ability of the lowest Carthaginian crewman would easily match the seamanship of any Roman captain and, despite his own victory at Ecnomus, he couldn’t assuage his growing conviction that eventually the Carthaginians would fully reclaim their rights to the sea, a dominion they had controlled for generations.

Hamilcar watched Regulus from the aft-deck and realized the Roman was still struggling with some internal conflict. The fleet from Gadir had arrived in Carthage only the day before and was currently restocking for the final leg to Lilybaeum in Sicily, while the transport fleet was also undergoing its final preparations. Hamilcar had persuaded Hanno to relinquish twenty elephants and five hundred mercenaries from the Numidian campaign, and had arranged for Regulus to witness their arrival in the military port, the sight of the colossal animals giving Regulus a harsh reminder of his defeat at Tunis and the vulnerability of the legions to their power. Even the departure of the Alissar had been carefully engineered, the flagship sailing slowly past the massed galleys of the Gadir fleet, and although Hamilcar would have preferred to sail with his fleet, he had hastened his departure to Sicily in order to impress upon Regulus the inevitability of his task, the step closer to Rome merely the first leg of a journey he would be honour bound to take.

Even in his own heart, Hamilcar knew that any peace treaty with Rome would be a charade. Only twenty-five years before, the two cities had been allies against Pyrrhus of Epirus, and a treaty had been signed wherein each city recognized the other’s sphere of influence. That was before Rome blatantly ignored its terms and invaded Sicily, a Carthaginian domain, in a treacherous act that had precipitated the current conflict. By all that was right, and given their weakened state, Hamilcar believed he could impose a harsher treaty on Rome, but he had chosen his terms on the realization that a more lenient approach would lead to a swifter conclusion.

Carthage was fighting a war on two fronts against different enemies. This separation of its forces had already cost Hamilcar the army he had commanded at Tunis, a loss that would inevitably hamstring his efforts to finally defeat the Romans in Sicily, and one he had carefully hidden from Regulus. The key to the island was its cities, and while the most important of these were on the coast, they could not be taken from the seaward side alone. Any siege would have to include land-based forces, and so Hamilcar needed to buy time — time for Hanno to defeat the Numidians and release the army to his command.

The war between Rome and Carthage would continue but, in the meantime, the enemy would retreat from Sicily and Hamilcar would be granted a golden opportunity to fortify the island against their inevitable return. Carthage had been ill prepared when the Romans had first invaded Sicily and had lost Agrigentum as a consequence. That mistake would not be repeated.

Hamilcar left the aft-deck and strode over to Regulus, who greeted him with an irritated expression, as if Hamilcar had interrupted an important conversation, and he felt his annoyance rise once more.

‘We will be in Lilybaeum tomorrow,’ he said, in an effort to draw Regulus into a discussion that would finalize his trip to Rome.

‘I will need more time to make my decision,’ Regulus replied, his tone one of hollow determination.

Hamilcar kept his expression neutral and he nodded to show his understanding, while underneath he fought an almost overwhelming urge to throttle Regulus. What concept of defeat did the Roman not understand? They were beaten; the Roman fleet was no more. What thread of reason was Regulus grasping that prevented him from accepting the benevolence of Hamilcar’s offer?

He decided to plant one last seed in Regulus’s mind, one last piece of logic that might persuade the Roman to accept his proposal.

‘It has been a long war,’ he remarked, and Regulus nodded cautiously, surprised by Hamilcar’s comment. ‘I will welcome peace when it comes,’ Hamilcar continued. ‘If nothing else, it will allow my city to regain the strength this war has cost her.’

Regulus nodded in agreement and looked beyond Hamilcar as the idea began to form in his mind. The opportunity that the Carthaginian spoke of would be available to Rome too. It would cost them little, merely a couple of cities, cities that could be retaken when the time was right. Regulus unconsciously nodded as he carried the idea to its conclusion.

Hamilcar saw the gesture and he turned away, confident now that Regulus would do his bidding and carry his terms to his Senate. Thereafter, it was only a matter of time before Rome bowed to the will of Carthage.

‘Hard to starboard, ramming speed!’

The Orcus banked into the sharp turn, her deck tilting precariously, and Atticus felt the muscles in his legs contract as he fought to keep his balance. He counted off the seconds until the bow swung through a full ninety degrees.

‘Centre your helm,’ he ordered, and Gaius put his weight behind the tiller.

The Orcus accelerated as the resistance of the rudder fell away. The drum beat began again, anticipating the surge that accompanied each pull of the oars through the calm water, and the crewmen on deck rocked back and forth on their haunches, many glancing to the formidable figure of the prefect standing motionless on the aft-deck, his eyes locked on some distant point beyond the bow.

Atticus cleared his mind and let the sound of the drum beat dominate his consciousness, allowing it to fuel his undirected aggression. He breathed in the salty air, holding his breath to allow the taste to penetrate the back of his throat, and then exhaled slowly, pushing the last vestiges of air from his lungs in an effort to quell the bitter acid that clawed at his stomach.

‘That’s one minute, Prefect,’ Gaius said behind him, and Atticus called for all stop, allowing the rowers to ship oars and rest.

‘I make that turn two seconds faster,’ Gaius said, his hand now resting lightly on the tiller as the Orcus rose and fell in the emptiness of the cove.

Atticus grunted in reply and moved to the side rail. He stood motionless once more, his eyes ranging over the coastline north of Fiumicino.

Paullus had taken nearly every available ship when he had sailed south weeks before, leaving the remnants to patrol the sea-lanes of Rome. The Orcus had been quickly drafted in to augment their ranks. It was tedious work, better suited to reserve crews and trainees, but the crew had welcomed the task, weary after many months in hostile waters. Only Atticus remained restless, unable to quash the uncertainties in his mind. Although on this day the Orcus had been scheduled for rest and repairs, he had ordered his galley north at dawn, taking advantage of the day’s leave to further the training of his crew.

‘Five minutes’ rest then we go again,’ he said over his shoulder, and Gaius acknowledged the order, shouting it forth to Baro on the main deck.

The Orcus descended into an uneasy quiet, the deck timbers creaking as the irregular surface of the water passed under the hull. Gaius stilled the sound of his own breathing and listened, almost sensing before finally hearing the sound of the rowers below deck. They were gasping for air, filling their lungs in an effort to regain their strength in the brief time allowed, their collective struggle making it seem as if the galley itself was breathing.

The helmsman looked to his commander, wondering how much further he would push the crew of the ship before calling an end to the day. They had been training relentlessly since dawn, honing their sailing skills, the absence of a corvus on the foredeck forcing them to concentrate their abilities on the little-used offensive tactic of ramming. Gaius did not know much of the greater plans of the fleet, but he had noticed, as had all the crew of the Orcus, that the new galleys being laid down in the shipyards at Fiumicino were all without the condemned boarding ramp.

For whatever reason, the prefect had been driving the crew remorselessly, and in the quiet of the interlude Gaius could only guess what demons the prefect was grappling with. He did not know his commander beyond their association on the aft-deck. In that arena they often thought with a unified mind, their expertise and abilities combining effortlessly, but outside it Gaius rarely spoke with him.

The aft-deck of a galley was a small space, and on many occasions Gaius had overheard conversations between the prefect and the two men he confided in, the centurion and the second-in-command; however, that useful source of information was no longer available. The centurion was not on board. He had not returned from Rome but had sent orders to his optio to disembark the legionaries at Fiumicino, their presence not required on the Orcus while in home waters. Moreover, the prefect did not confide in Baro to the same extent as in his predecessor, Lucius. This detachment was not all the prefect’s doing, for Gaius had often heard Baro speak derisively of the commander before his promotion. Although Baro was now more discreet, it was obvious to Gaius that he was keeping his distance, and he realized that Baro’s opinion had not changed.

He watched the prefect move from the side rail to stand once more in the centre of the aft-deck, his heading turning from side to side as he scanned the length of the ship. Gaius followed his commander’s gaze. With the abandonment of the corvus came the unspoken command to all crews to fight the Carthaginians on their terms. Whatever else the prefect might have to worry about, Gaius knew this problem alone was enough to explain his dark mood.

The order was given for battle speed and the Orcus got under way, accelerating swiftly to eight knots. Gaius’s hand tightened on the tiller; although he concentrated on anticipating the commands of the prefect, one part of his mind still dwelt on his previous reflections. He glanced at his commander and unconsciously kneaded the smooth, worn handle of the tiller. Whatever lay ahead, he would follow the prefect’s every command.

The Orcus rounded the headland north of Fiumicino as the last light of the day was waning. She moved gracefully under sail, her oars raised and withdrawn, and the crew moved sedately across the decks. It had been a long day, and many of them turned to the welcome sight of port and the hot meal and cot that awaited them there. It was an uncommon luxury for the men. While on duty the crew ate and slept on the galley, normally on the open deck, but in Fiumicino, with the fleet temporarily stood down, the men enjoyed the comforts of an established military camp.

As the sea room diminished closer to shore, the sail was lowered and the oars extended. Again the action was slowed by fatigue and the beat was struck for steerage speed. Gaius nodded as Atticus pointed out a free berth and the galley was directed to the seaward end of a jetty. The Orcus answered all stop and lines were thrown to secure the galley fore and aft as the gangway was lowered. Baro assigned a deck watch and then dismissed the rest of the crew, the men moving with renewed energy down the length of the jetty towards the beach, while Atticus waited on the aft-deck, issuing final orders that would sustain his ship for the night before he too disembarked.

The hollow footfalls on the wooden jetty gave way to the sound of shifting sand underfoot. Atticus leaned forward into the slope of the beach, cresting the dune at its peak as the last sliver of the sun fell below the horizon, leaving only the reflected twilight from the high clouds. Much of the military camp at Fiumicino had been transformed into solid structures of wood and stone over the intervening years, but Atticus, as a temporary visitor, had been assigned a tent, albeit one befitting his rank.

Although his sense of direction on land was normally unreliable, he made his way unerringly through the maze of temporary streets. He walked as if in a trance, his mind pre-occupied by a dozen different thoughts, each one fighting for supremacy. He favoured those that dwelt on the problems associated with the loss of the corvus, and tried to suppress the personal issues, but they struck him at unexpected intervals, invading his concentration with images of Septimus, Hadria, Scipio and Antoninus, each one destroying the carefully constructed serenity he craved, his temper rising and falling with each round of the struggle.

Atticus rounded the last corner and almost stumbled into his tent before noticing that a lamp was lit inside. He stepped backwards and his hand fell instinctively to the hilt of his dagger. He looked behind him, cursing his preoccupation and the failing sunlight that darkened the shadows on all sides. He moved warily to the entrance to his tent, drawing his dagger as he did so, the steel blade against the scabbard sounding unnaturally loud. He pulled back the flap of entrance and peered inside, his ears alert to any sound behind him as his eyes scanned the interior of his quarters.

A lone figure sat at the far end of the tent. Atticus recognized him immediately and visibly relaxed, sheathing his dagger as he crossed over to greet him.

‘Senator Duilius,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect…’

Duilius stood up to greet Atticus and they shook hands.

‘I prefer to keep my meetings private when I can,’ Duilius replied, motioning for Atticus to sit on the low cot. ‘It is good to see you, Atticus,’ he said.

The two men fell quickly into conversation, each bringing the other up to date with events. Atticus spoke at length about the campaign in Africa, giving Duilius a level of detail not found in the formal reports issued to the Senate. They discussed the storm and Atticus spoke of his prediction and warning to Paullus.

‘The man was always a fool, even before he left Rome,’ Duilius replied. ‘It is no surprise he remained one right up until the time of his death. Nevertheless, his recklessness has cost the Republic dearly.’

Duilius focused the conversation on the exposed weakness of the corvus, his questions incisive, revealing the level of knowledge he had retained since he commanded the fleet. Atticus ventured his own conclusion, supporting the abandonment of the device; he noticed that Duilius did not oppose his view, as if a consensus had already been reached, even at the senator’s level.

‘The Senate has authorized the construction of two hundred and twenty new galleys,’ Duilius said in conclusion. ‘And more than likely they will be built without corvi.’

Atticus had long grown accustomed to the enormous capabilities of Rome, but he was staggered by the number proposed, knowing that the construction schedule for these new ships would be punishing.

It was an aspect of Roman society that always amazed Atticus: the willingness to commit massive resources to every endeavour with a fierce belief that effort alone would give them victory in every conflict. Militarily, this attitude had worked well in the past, particularly on land where they were able to draw on a huge population base. They had employed the same attitude at sea, constructing massive fleets at incredible speed to counter the enemy. Only against the power of nature were their efforts thwarted — and yet, this latest resolution of the Senate proved that their belief was unshaken.

Thoughts of the Senate brought Scipio to mind, but Atticus contained his anger and instead thanked Duilius for his intervention when Scipio had effectively accused him of treason.

‘You have heard of his victory in the consular elections?’ Duilius asked.

Atticus nodded. News travelled swiftly between Rome and Fiumicino.

‘His success was unforeseen, and it complicates matters further,’ Duilius said, lapsing into silence as the topic brought to the surface problems within his own mind. He glanced at Atticus and saw the concern in his expression, knowing its origin. ‘For the moment you are safe from Scipio,’ Duilius said. ‘Your rank protects you and you have influential friends, me amongst them.’

Atticus nodded in thanks but Duilius frowned. ‘But he will exploit any mistake, real or perceived, that you make, Atticus. If you can, stay beyond his immediate reach.’

‘Will you not seek to remove him from office?’ Atticus asked, frustrated by Scipio’s return to power. ‘We have both witnessed the consequences of his pride and recklessness.’

Again Duilius was silent and Atticus cursed the rashness of his question, sensing that he had overstepped a boundary and presumed a confidence that Duilius could not extend. Duilius looked at him intently, as if weighing the consequences of his reply. ‘For now, Scipio is acting in the best interest of the Republic. He retains the full support of the Senate.’

Atticus nodded, trying to determine how much to read into Duilius’s reply.

‘Atticus,’ Duilius continued, ‘with the loss of so many of our skilled crews in the storm, and now the loss of the use of the corvus, the fate of the Republic is at risk. And you are right, with Scipio in charge that risk is increased. But for now we can only work within the system. I can try to curb his excesses in the Senate, and you must do the same at an operational level, in the fleet.’

‘How? My rank is nothing to Scipio. I cannot influence him.’

‘But you can influence the experienced men of the fleet. They respect you, I suspect more than you realize, and many of them will look to you when their faith in Scipio fails.’

Atticus looked beyond Duilius to the ephemeral shapes that the flickering lamp created on the wall of the tent. He tried to focus on them, to clear his mind and to sift through his confused thoughts. When Duilius mentioned the precarious fate of the Republic, Atticus had instinctively scoffed at the warning. What did he care for Rome and its fate? It was a hollow, soulless entity that had never accepted him. And yet when Duilius spoke of it, the senator’s conviction deeply affected him, and Atticus was forced to concede that — for the briefest of moments — he shared that conviction. He stood as Duilius took his leave and shook the senator’s hand again, a simple gesture that marked them as equals. In Duilius he had an ally, and Atticus was left to contemplate how men like the senator constantly challenged his opinion of Rome.

The rider approached the Servian Wall at full gallop, conscious of the dying sun off his right shoulder, the shadow of his flight already reaching far out into the fields beside him. A half-mile ahead, at the Porta Flumentana, he could see a group of legionaries standing to the side of the gate, allowing the last of the stragglers to enter the city before closing the gate at sundown. He spurred his mount to greater speed, its iron-shod hooves striking chips from the cobbled road. The rider pumped the reins as he leaned in to the curve of the horse’s withers.

He shouted to the legionaries as he saw them move to close the gate but they ignored him, the soldiers talking amongst themselves, indifferent to the approaching horseman. The order to close the gate came as inexorably as the falling sun that triggered the command. The rider yelled again, but this time in warning as he aimed his mount at the closing gates. The thundering sound of hooves alerted the legionaries and they jumped back at the last second as the rider shot between their ranks and through the half-closed gate.

The soldiers shouted in anger and many went to draw their swords, but the rider had already disappeared into the warren of narrow streets beyond the wall. He slowed his mount, the animal breathing hard as it cantered towards the centre of the city. The sun had fallen, but the sky still clung to the remnants of its light and the open windows of houses radiated shafts of yellow that ricocheted off the whitewashed walls, extending the twilight to illuminate the rider’s path.

He reached the hollow gloom of the Forum and scanned the temples that looked over it, watching as the disciples of each deity lit the blazing torches that marked the entrances. He turned to the northeast corner, spurring his mount once more, conscious of the need to find his destination before the blackness of night engulfed the streets.

He knew Rome well, but he only had an unconfirmed street name as a direction, ascertained through snippets of information gathered over the previous two weeks. He cursed the lateness of the hour, wishing he had more time, conscious that he was now effectively a prisoner of the city, and if he didn’t find the man he was looking for he would be forced to seek refuge in a tavern. He would have to spend the night in the city and dawn’s light would reveal his absence from his post, a dereliction the man he despised would surely exploit.

The streets on the northern side of the Capitoline Hill were wide and well swept, and behind the boundary walls the rider could see the soaring roofs of the expansive houses silhouetted against the sky. He searched the nameplates beside each entrance, glancing occasionally over his shoulder to the sky above; within minutes he could no longer see both sides of the street from the centre of the road. He moved to his left, halving the effectiveness of his search, but he reasoned the wealth and importance of the man he hoped to see would place his house on the higher side of the street.

With relief he found the house. He dismounted and hammered on the wooden door. A bolt slammed back and the door opened. Two soldiers stepped into the opening. They were household guards and their impassive expressions changed to ones of annoyance when they noticed the obvious unimportance of the man facing them. They were about to dismiss him, but his request caused them to hesitate, the sheer temerity of it transfixing the soldiers, caught between mockery and caution. The rider persisted, emphasizing his rank and posting, insisting that the master of the house would see him if he were informed.

He was led into the courtyard. One of the soldiers marched into the house while the other bolted the outer door shut. The rider waited in the silence that followed, handing the reins without comment to a stable lad who appeared to take his mount. A moment of doubt assailed him but he swallowed his uncertainty, committing himself once more to his course. The soldier reappeared and beckoned the rider to follow him into the house. He exhaled in relief, his doubt falling further away.

Scipio remained seated as the soldier of his household guard led the stranger into the room. He searched the man’s demeanour for traces of overt anxiety, the type of signs a man might display in the midst of enemies, but the stranger seemed remarkably confident. Scipio dismissed the soldier and indicated to the man to stand before him, albeit at a distance; he allowed a silence to develop as the footfalls of his guard receded.

‘I am honoured that you agreed to see me, Consul,’ the man said.

Scipio’s face darkened in anger. ‘You will speak only when spoken to,’ he snarled, and again the silence was reasserted.

Within a minute, Scipio noticed that the man’s previous confidence was waning and he smiled inwardly, preferring any lesser man who addressed him to be cowed in his presence. ‘Why have you come here?’ he asked eventually.

‘I wish to serve you, Consul.’

‘I have servants enough,’ Scipio said dismissively, although he was intrigued by the man’s unexpected appearance, given his rank and position. ‘In any case,’ he proceeded cautiously, ‘why would you wish to serve me?’

‘Because we share a hatred for one man,’ the stranger said without hesitation.

‘Really,’ Scipio said warily. ‘Which man?’

‘The Greek, Perennis.’

Scipio was thrown by the unexpected declaration, but his face remained impassive. He searched for signs of duplicity but found none. ‘You claim to be his second-in-command,’ he said.

‘I am,’ Baro replied. ‘I have been for over a year now.’

Scipio nodded, suppressing his growing sense of anticipation in favour of further caution. He chose his next question carefully, focusing all his attention on Baro’s expression. ‘Why do you hate Perennis?’ he asked.

Baro’s face reddened and he took an instinctive half-step forward, compelled by a sudden surge of aggression. ‘Because of what he is and because I am forced to serve under him,’ he spat.

‘You are a Roman citizen?’ Scipio asked, shocked by the intensity of Baro’s animosity.

‘Yes, Consul,’ Baro replied. ‘The son of a freedman from the Aventine quarter. It blackens my honour that I should take orders from a non-Roman.’

Scipio did not comment on Baro’s motives, believing them to be less important than the strength of the hatred itself. Therein lay the depth of Baro’s sincerity, however irrational his enmity might appear to another man, and Scipio was satisfied that Baro’s hatred ran deep. Only one other question remained.

‘How do you know of my hostility towards Perennis?’ he asked.

‘There are few secrets on a galley, Consul,’ Baro explained. ‘The deck is small; the bulkheads are thin. Over time I have heard enough to know the Greek considers you an enemy.’

Again Scipio nodded, convinced of Baro’s legitimacy. ‘So you believe we should form some kind of alliance?’ he said sceptically. ‘The senior consul and a lowly deck hand.’

Baro bristled at the dismissive tone but he held tightly to his conviction, knowing that now he had revealed his disaffection he had to stay the course.

‘I can be your eyes and ears on board the Orcus, Consul. Sooner or later the Greek will be vulnerable and, fully informed, you could exploit that weakness.’

Scipio unconsciously sat straighter in his chair as he absorbed Baro’s words, his own conclusions already forming unbidden beyond the scope of Baro’s basic premise. Baro’s idea had merit, and Scipio deepened his concentration as he questioned him once more on his motives and his relationship with the Greek. He became more incisive, probing each facet of Baro’s answers, and before long he invited Baro to sit at the far end of the table.

Two hours later, Scipio called for his guards to escort Baro back to the Porta Flumentana. He handed one of his men a scroll marked with the seal of the senior consul, the only pass that would allow for the gate to be opened during the hours of night. He dismissed Baro curtly, telling him he would let him know of his decision in due course, although his mind was already made up. Scipio knew many men of Baro’s calibre: determined, even ruthless, but lacking the intelligence to properly formulate an attack on an enemy. Baro was merely a weapon; a spear, cold and mindless. What he lacked, the consul would provide. Scipio would become the spearman and already, in his mind’s eye, he was taking aim on the heart of his enemy.

Atticus pushed back the flap of his tent as the first rays of the dawn sun clipped the canvas apex of his quarters. He felt optimistic as he recalled parts of his conversation with Duilius the evening before, focusing on the explicit assertions of support that the senator had given him. He spotted Baro emerging from his own tent not twenty feet away and he called him over, his second-in-command responding with alacrity.

‘Assemble the men on the beach, Baro. I want to be away within the half-hour.’

‘Yes, Prefect,’ Baro replied, and he moved off towards the mess tents to gather the crew.

Atticus watched him leave, his mind shifting seamlessly to the day ahead. His opinion on the corvus had been supported by Duilius and he was pleased that the persistent training he had employed over the previous weeks would not be in vain. He turned towards the mess tents, eager to begin his day, and he allowed the sound of gathered voices to guide his steps. In the legions each contubernia of ten soldiers cooked and ate together, a long-established routine that ensured efficiency, but with new men arriving daily to crew the new galleys, communal mess tents had been erected. This was a luxury that the crew of the Orcus had exploited ruthlessly, and one Atticus was sure his men would sorely miss when the Orcus turned south once more.

As he rounded the last corner, he stopped dead. Septimus was standing in the middle of the roadway, his eyes scanning the approaches, and as he turned towards Atticus he too froze. Memories of the last time he had seen Septimus flooded back to Atticus and his mouth formed into a tight line as he resumed his approach. The centurion also moved to close the gap, his hand as always on the hilt of his sword.

‘You’re back in Fiumicino,’ Atticus said dismissively, surprised by the sudden enmity he felt.

‘I never left,’ Septimus replied. ‘I’m billeted at the landward side of the camp, along with the rest of the legionaries.’

Atticus nodded and a silence drew out between them.

‘I came here to find you,’ Septimus said, his words coming slowly, tension in his voice.

‘You’re reporting back to the Orcus?’

‘No, I…’ Septimus hesitated. ‘About Hadria, Atticus,’ he resumed. ‘My father does not speak for the family.’

‘He only said what you’ve thought for a long time, that I’m not worthy of Hadria,’ Atticus said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger, the thoughts that had festered in his mind surging to the surface, threatening to overwhelm him. ‘Your father spoke for you and every other Roman who believes in your cursed superiority.’

The colour of anger rushed to Septimus’s face and his grip tightened instinctively on the hilt of his sword. He had not wanted a confrontation, given what he had decided, but Atticus’s words could not be ignored.

‘I defended you, Atticus,’ he said. ‘I tried to explain to my father that you were Roman, if not in name then in deed.’

‘Therein lies your arrogance,’ Atticus replied aggressively. ‘My honour, my deeds, do not make me Roman. They make me the man I am — and that should be enough.’

Septimus stepped back, fury coursing through him. He had witnessed this side of Atticus before, this aggression towards Rome, but never had it affected Septimus so keenly. For Atticus to find insult in being described as Roman was an affront to every Roman, one that cut Septimus deeply, and he realized that the decision he had made was the only restraint keeping his sword arm in check. The conflict over Hadria had driven a wedge between them, one that could not be removed.

‘I did not seek you out to fight this fight,’ he said, wishing to end the conversation and be away.

‘Then why have you come?’ Atticus asked cynically.

‘The Ninth is reforming and my request for a transfer has been accepted.’

‘A transfer?’ Atticus asked, his anger abating with shock.

‘I am to command the IV maniple, my old unit.’

Atticus hesitated, his mind flooded once more by conflicting emotions. They cleared quickly as a sense of betrayal overcame all. ‘Then the Orcus will fight on without you,’ he said.

‘You and I both know we cannot share command, not now,’ Septimus said angrily, not willing to accept a full measure of blame for the fates that had shattered their friendship. ‘Your relationship with Hadria has seen to that.’

‘No,’ Atticus said wearily, ‘Rome has seen to that.’

Septimus snorted in reply and turned to leave. He stopped short and looked once more to Atticus, trying to see past the aggressive expression to the friend he once had. He could not, and he walked away without another word.

Atticus stood silent in the middle of the roadway, the noise of the camp around him increasing with every minute of the new day. Baro and the crew appeared from the mess tents, their mood light and jovial, and Baro nodded to his commander as he passed, leading the men off towards the beach. Atticus fell in behind them. His previous optimism had fled. There was no place for that sentiment; his mood darkened with every step he took towards the Orcus.