Ship of Rome

Septimus pointed out their destination in the northwest corner of the Forum, the Curia Hostilia, the court where the Senate met and the centre of all political activity in the Republic. The building was elevated above the level of the surrounding buildings, its striking façade dominating the northern end of the Forum, a symbol of strength and order. Atticus took his eyes off the impressive sight to look at the senior consul leading them, expecting the order to halt and dismount to come at any moment before they took the final steps of their journey up to the columned entrance of the Curia.

Scipio surreptitiously eyed the steps of the Curia as they approached the Senate building. His own house was a mere half-mile beyond the Forum, around the northern side of the Capitoline Hill that rose up on their left, and it was this destination that the consul now steered towards. As senators on the steps of the Curia recognized him, many of the junior members ran down to question his sudden appearance, while others – men Scipio knew were allied to his enemies – ran up to the entrance to warn those adversaries of the senior consul’s presence. As his horse drew parallel to the foot of the steps, he was surrounded by half a dozen men, each wearing the standard woollen toga of the Senate, although all could afford much finer cloth.

‘Senior Consul,’ one began, ‘we were not expecting you for at least another week. What news?’

‘Patience, Fabius,’ Scipio said with a smile, ‘I have travelled far these past two days and I wish to bathe and change before speaking to the Senate on a matter of grave import. Please inform those available that I will return in the afternoon,’ he added, knowing that everyone would ensure they were available to hear any news first hand.

‘Yes, Senior Consul,’ Fabius replied, the junior senator, a recently elected magistrate, barely able to contain his curiosity.

Fabius and the others turned away from the senior consul and began to climb the steps of the Curia, Scipio noting with satisfaction that they were already in deep conversation as to the nature of the ‘matter of grave import’ that he had alluded to. He knew it was only a matter of time before the whole Senate would be discussing the yet-to-be-disclosed news, their curiosity fermenting within the confines of the Senate building. Scipio would delay his return to the Curia until the last possible moment, allowing the tension to mount to the tautness of a legionary’s bow. Only then would he announce the news of the Carthaginian blockade and the threat to the Sicilian campaign. The timing would be perfect for declaring his proposal, presenting the senators with the only possible solution, his solution, without affording his enemies the opportunity to determine a counterproposal. It would be yet another one of his triumphs.

Gaius Duilius, junior consul of the Roman Senate, sat comfortably in the first row of the three-tiered inner chamber of the Curia. He was a novus homo, a new man, the first in his family line to be elected to the Senate. It was an achievement of which Duilius was extremely proud – and with good reason, for he was a self-made man who, from humble beginnings fifteen years before, had risen to the second most powerful position in Rome. When Duilius was nineteen, his parents and two younger sisters had succumbed to one of the many plagues that frequently swept the countryside around Rome, and he found himself the sole surviving inhabitant of the modest family villa that sat astride the Via Appia. This vital artery, the main road to the distant city of Brindisi, in the southeast of the country, was a thriving thoroughfare with a constant flow of traders passing the estate entrance on their way to the capital four miles beyond.

Duilius became master of his own estate and, free to make his own decisions, he gambled everything in a bid to capitalize on the estate’s ideal location. Using his land as collateral, he borrowed heavily from the usurers of Rome, who were only too eager to deal with him, confident that the young man would quickly default on the loans, allowing them to seize the estate. Duilius used the money to buy slaves and seed and quickly turned every arable inch of his land over to the growing of fresh produce. The markets of Rome had always been supplied by the outlying farmers, small land-holders, many of whom concentrated on individual seasonal crops; although the farmers worked in isolation, they were also careful not to directly compete with their neighbours. For years prices had remained relatively stable with little in the way of competition. Duilius planned to change that system.

In his first season, by using his entire estate, including the landscaped gardens that had been his mother’s pride, Duilius had more land under tillage than four average-size farms. He disregarded the delicate balance maintained by the other farmers and planted every commercial crop he could, utilizing a two-tier crop-rotation method that ensured his land was constantly producing. As his first crop was being harvested, Duilius propositioned every passing trader with an offer they could not decline. He sold them fresh produce below market price, taking advantage of the larger volumes he could command, leaving the traders free to transport the produce the mere four miles to the city, where they were free to profit from the margin in the city markets.

Within the first year Duilius was able to purchase his own wagons to transport his produce to the city, and within two more he had paid off his debts in full. Not content with the success of his own estate, he quickly borrowed even greater amounts and bought the two estates adjoining his own, paying the owners above market value, once again turning every inch of arable land over to production. It was then that Duilius got his first taste of the power that money could wield.

With the price of fresh produce falling in the market due to the unexpected competition, the farmers fought back by banding together to lobby the Senate to re-establish the status quo. Duilius had used his new-found wealth to ensure the ensuing vote in the Senate went in his favour, learning two valuable lessons in the process that had stayed with him ever since. The first was the power of money in guaranteeing the loyalty of unscrupulous men. The second was the value of information. Before the vote ever took place, Duilius knew exactly who he controlled, who he did not but, more importantly, who he could not control and who he dared not approach. Over time Duilius refined the dual revelations into one principle: ‘Money is only the method, information is the true wealth.’

Now, fifteen years after the death of his parents, Duilius owned the largest single tract of land straddling the city. Many other estates had tried to reproduce his methodology and achievements, but few had succeeded, and none to the same degree. Produce from his estates supplied the city with eighty per cent of its fresh vegetables and fruit, with all of the small farmers driven out of business by the cutthroat competition. These men had seen their livelihoods disappear almost overnight, and the cries of their hungry children had driven their attempts to assassinate Duilius on three occasions over the years. Each failed attempt brought terrible retribution from the Senate where Duilius held a seat, his position easily obtained years before from the votes of a grateful populace of Rome who craved the lower prices in the markets. The senator had used each occasion to further crush the farmers, and both guilty and innocent were forced off their land as punishment in the name of the State, their lands immediately put on the open market where Duilius snatched them up for half their true value.

Six months before, using the fortune that had propelled him into the realms of Rome’s elite, he had engineered a nomination to the position of senior consul from one of the sycophantic junior members of the Senate. The vote had been close and costly, but in the end he had been narrowly defeated by Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, one of the wealthiest men in Rome and one whom Duilius knew he could never control. The defeat had been bitter for Duilius, his first setback since setting out over fifteen years before, and the enmity between the two men had now divided the Senate into three segments: those firmly for Duilius, those firmly for Scipio, and a malleable majority in the centre whose votes were surreptitiously sold to the highest bidder.

Lucius Manlius Vulso Longus, a recently elected senator, quickly adjusted his gaze to the gloomy interior and rapidly searched the room for the man whose acceptance he craved more than anything in the world. He spotted Duilius and crossed the floor, his appearance putting an end to the honeyed words that Duilius had been speaking to a senator beside him, a senator whose vote Duilius had purchased many times. The junior consul looked up irritably.

‘What is it, Longus?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Scipio has returned!’ the young man said, his impatience to be the first to inform Duilius causing him to blurt out the words.

‘What…? When?’ Duilius said, standing, his voice loud in the muted chamber, the seated senator beside him forgotten.

‘Just now. I saw him crossing the Forum.’

Duilius’s mind raced to understand the reason behind the senior consul’s sudden reappearance. Why over a week early? And why unannounced? As he contemplated the answers his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the speaker’s gavel being struck on the marble lectern in the centre of the chamber. He looked up to see one of Scipio’s brats with the gavel in his hand.

‘The senior consul has returned from Sicily to inform us of a matter of grave import,’ he announced, his words holding everyone’s attention.

‘What matter?’ Duilius asked in the silent pause, his question drawing the speaker’s ire at the interruption.

‘I know not, Consul,’ Fabius replied, relishing Scipio’s adversary’s ignorance. ‘The senior consul will return to the Curia in the afternoon to speak in person to those members of the Senate who are available.’

Fabius left the lectern, to be immediately surrounded by Scipio’s allies who bombarded him with questions, none of which he had the answer to.

Senator Duilius looked around the chamber to see the eyes of his own allies looking to him for guidance, their faces blank, their minds filled with the same questions as everyone else’s.

Fools, Duilius thought, don’t they understand? There is only one step that must now be taken.

With a determined stride, the junior consul walked out of the inner chamber, his departure marked by silence as all watched him leave.

CHAPTER FIVE

Atticus and Septimus followed Scipio and his guard into the courtyard of the senior consul’s Roman residence. The house was on the lower slopes of the northern side of the Capitoline Hill, an elevated site that afforded the residents an uninterrupted view of the expansive flood plains of the Tiber beyond the Servian Wall. The air at this height was fresher than that of the confined streets of the insulae, and Atticus breathed the earth-scented breeze deeply. Both men dismounted and followed Scipio into the house, hearing the heavy wooden courtyard gate closing firmly behind them, locking the world outside. The trio entered the atrium of the house, a large open-centred square surrounded by high-ceilinged porticoes on all sides, the roofs of which sloped inwards to collect rainwater in the shallow pool dominating the space. Although Septimus knew of such senatorial residences, he had never set foot inside a house such as Scipio’s. For Atticus, the house represented the individual version of the opulent wealth that he had witnessed in the Forum. The air inside the atrium was still and near silent, the hustle and bustle of the streets outside forgotten, the house seemingly deserted. The side of the atrium opposite the entrance was opened, leading further into the recesses of the building. The consul walked towards it with the others following in awed silence before he suddenly stopped and turned.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered; ‘my servants will attend you and bring you to one of the bathing rooms. After that, report to the guards’ quarters and await my orders.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ both men answered in unison, the senator already striding out of the atrium to the room beyond.

Septimus whistled tonelessly as he looked around the atrium. The area was sparsely furnished to give the impression of space, but the few items in view spoke of the wealth of the master of the house, from exquisitely carved marble busts of the Scipio family to gold inlaid mosaics on the walls. Moments later a slave arrived. Without comment he led them into the recesses of the enormous house.

Scipio lowered himself slowly into the near-scalding water. The steam in the room had already brought sweat from his every pore and, although the moist air had raised his body temperature, his mind protested at the additional intensity of the water in the mosaic-covered bath. Scipio fought the intense heat until his body temperature adjusted to match its surroundings, and he lay back to allow his mind to clear. There was much to think about, but he had always found that following the simple rituals of life, such as bathing, was a powerful method for ordering his thoughts. The first step in that process was to allow the ritual routine to become his focus. Only then would he experience the calm that was necessary to see the hidden solutions for every problem.

‘More heat,’ he murmured, and his mind registered the slap of bare feet as a slave scuttled to attend to his command, adding fuel to the fire that fed the underfloor heating of the large caldarium bath. Once again his body registered the change as heat built upon heat and his heart rate increased, giving him a light-headed, euphoric feeling.

When Scipio reached the edge of his level of endurance he signalled his attendant slaves to lift him from the bath. Two muscular slaves, sweating stoically in the heated chamber, rushed forward and lifted the near-limp senator over to a marble, towel-covered table. A female slave rubbed perfumed oil into every supple, heated muscle before removing the oil with a strigil, a curved metal tool that scraped off the dirt that had risen from the open pores. Scipio, feeling clean for the first time in many days, made his way into the tepidarium, the lukewarm bath in the adjoining room, and once again plunged himself into the crystal-clear waters, taken directly from the aquifer beneath the bathhouse. The water in this bath was a mere two degrees above body temperature, and Scipio lay back in the silence of the chamber, the only other presence an attendant male slave who stood ever ready for an immediate summons. Scipio totally ignored the man, considering the slave to be merely part of the surroundings in his private bathhouse; after the confines of the galley that had transported him here from Sicily, he relished the solitude.

A gentle knock on the door of the tepidarium chamber disrupted his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to look to the door, knowing who stood on the other side, smiling at the thought of seeing the familiar face.

He paused for a heartbeat, prolonging the sensation of anticipation.

‘Enter,’ he said.

The door opened inwards and a woman entered. She moved with a practised ease born of her privileged upbringing and social status, her bearing making her look taller than her average height. She was classically beautiful with dark brown eyes and long auburn hair, her mouth slightly open in a half-smile. She took a seat near the edge of the bath, facing her husband.

‘Welcome home, Gnaeus,’ she said, her voice sweet in the once-quiet chamber.

‘It’s good to be home, Fabiola,’ Scipio replied, his joy at seeing his wife and the truth of his statement evident in his voice.

Fabiola was wearing an elegant light woollen stola, parted slightly above her knee, and the hint of the fine line of her inner thigh caused Scipio to stir slightly in the bath, his loins remembering past nights in the privacy of their bedroom. She noticed the change in her husband and smiled inwardly, drawing pleasure from arousing the most powerful man in Rome.

‘I wasn’t expecting you home so soon,’ she said, concern in her voice at his sudden return.

‘Things have turned against the army’s favour in Sicily,’ Scipio replied. ‘The Carthaginians have blockaded the coast and cut our supply lines. If the situation isn’t remedied, our army there will not last the campaign season.’

The senior consul watched his wife intently, waiting for her reaction. She was a highly intelligent woman, and Scipio often used her as a sounding board for his ideas. Her thoughts and judgements on any matter were always of value, and he had found that her reaction to his ideas was always in line with his own views.

‘This is an opportunity,’ she said after a full minute, ‘an opportunity for you, Gnaeus.’

Scipio nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly,’ he replied. ‘The Punici have already been beaten on land by our forces. Given time we would push them back into the sea from whence they came. Another victory for the legions. Another province for the Republic. Nothing new and exciting for the populace of Rome.’

‘But now the Carthaginians have raised the stakes,’ Fabiola added, prompting the continuation of Scipio’s thoughts, knowing his idea’s end.

‘Yes,’ Scipio said, ‘they have raised the stakes, and they have changed the rules of the game. Our legions have never before faced such a challenge. This threat will fire the imagination and excitement of the plebeians. Their attention will be drawn to the previously insignificant campaign on Sicily by the new struggle developing.’

‘And you will save the legions,’ Fabiola said with a smile, her own body tingling with the excitement of her husband deciding the fate of so many.

‘I will save the legions,’ Scipio agreed. ‘I will create the navy that will defeat the Carthaginians and the people will cheer this new show of strength, this new extension of our power.’

‘They will love you and demand you break tradition and stay to serve another year,’ she said, speaking of the prize they had often discussed.

‘And I will finally break the asinine rules that bound my term as senior consul and extend my power into another year,’ Scipio said with a triumphant smile.

Fabiola suddenly stood up, her eyes locked to those of her husband, the power emanating from him intoxicating, charging the air in the room with an unseen energy that drew her towards him. Her body ached to feed off that power, to draw directly from its source.

‘Leave us,’ she commanded the attendant slave, and he instantly vanished.

She stepped to the side of the bath and unbuckled the shoulder straps of her stola, allowing the outer dress to fall around her ankles, revealing the thigh-length silk tunica intima beneath. Fabiola slowly lowered herself down the marble steps of the bath into the waist-deep warm water. Standing directly opposite her husband, she bent her knees and immersed herself completely beneath the surface before standing once more.

The silken slip clung to her body as she rose out of the water, the feminine swell of her breasts accentuated by the slow deep breathing of her anticipation, her arousal obvious by the darkened circles of her nipples under her tunica.

Scipio sat straighter on the underwater shelf of the tepidarium bath as his wife slowly approached, his eyes watching her hands grasp the bottom of her slip as she raised it slowly to reveal her sex. As Fabiola reached him, Scipio extended his arms and supported her climb to place a knee on each side of his waist before sitting into his embrace. The heat between them deepened as their movements intensified, their mingled cries echoing off the marbled walls of the private chamber, the power play that aroused them driving their passion.

Amaury, Scipio’s bath attendant, listened silently on the other side of the tepidarium chamber’s door. His dismissal moments before had been unexpected but he dared not let the opportunity pass. The cries of his master and mistress could be heard faintly through the thick oak timbers of the door and he knew that time was now against him. There were few secrets in a home full of slaves, and the consul and his wife’s intimate couplings were always juicy conversation for the slave women of the house. This time would be like all others, aggressive, passionate but, more importantly, short-lived. Soon the consul’s wife would leave him and his summons for Amaury would immediately follow. He had to be quick. Dropping the linen towels he carried to the floor, Amaury turned and ran to the slave quarters at the rear of the house, praying that Tiago, the stable lad, could be found in time.

‘Towels!’ Scipio called impatiently, this second call louder than the unanswered first. After Fabiola had left, he had lain back in the water once more, his confidence in his plan renewed by his wife’s tacit acceptance of the plan’s main tenets, the never-before-encountered threat, the mortal peril of the legions, Scipio’s central role in the rescue of the soldiers of Rome. Handled properly, the conquering of Sicily would give the senior consul the power and immortality he craved. He was sure of that now more than ever.

Scipio raised his head and turned towards the door that had earlier been exited by the attendant slave. He was not used to asking twice for anything, from anyone, least of all a slave, and he vowed the man would be severely punished if it was found that he had left him unattended.

‘Towels!’ he roared, and began to raise himself out of the water when the door burst open as the slave reappeared.

‘What is the meaning of this delay?’ Scipio asked furiously as the slave ran to proffer a towel to him.

‘A thousand apologies, master,’ Amaury said with his head bowed, his voice servile in the presence of the man who could, at a whim, have him executed. ‘I could not hear your summons through the heavy oak door.’

Scipio looked down on the man before him. The slave was breathing heavily, as if from exertion, but more likely from fear. It hardly seemed probable that the slave had left him waiting on purpose.

Scipio whipped the towel out of the slave’s hand and brushed past him into the outer corridor, calling for the slave master of the house. He arrived immediately.

‘Six lashes for this man,’ Scipio ordered, and the slave master moved into the tepidarium chamber to take hold of the slave. Next time he would be more attentive, Scipio thought with a careless attitude, and strode into the frigidarium chamber, the final room and the cold bath that would end the ritual.

Out of the corner of his eye, Amaury watched the senior consul leave. He kept his head low and his face impassive but inside he smiled. Six lashes, he thought: a small price to pay for the silver he would receive from his real master.

Scipio strode out into the courtyard of his home as the sun was beginning to descend into the western hills of the Roman countryside. With spring in the offing, these cool afternoons would soon give way to the warmer winds of the new season, when the air would be filled with the scent of blossoms from the manicured gardens surrounding the house. He inhaled deeply and held his breath for a heartbeat, feeling an enormous sense of wellbeing. It had been less than ninety minutes since he had passed the Curia, but the brief interlude, the bath, a light meal, the time spent with his wife, had recharged him to the point that his confidence felt unassailable.

Scipio noted that the two officers of the Aquila were waiting, as ordered, with his personal guard. The senior consul nodded to the guard commander and the main gate of the courtyard out to the street beyond was opened. Scipio fell in behind four of his guards with six more trailing, and the troop began the brief journey that would take them back to the Forum Magnum. Scipio always felt a deep sense of satisfaction and importance as he strode through the streets of his city. People all around would stop and stare at the passing senator, many pointing out to strangers the distinctive figure of the senior consul, the most powerful man in Rome.

The group wound its way into the shade of the eastern side of the Capitoline Hill. On the left Scipio noticed the intense flurried activity of the Forum Holitorium, a section of the mercantile food market that dealt solely with fruit, vegetables and oil. He smiled inwardly at the sight, the source of his rival’s wealth. Scipio was a direct descendant of one of the original patricii, the founding fathers of the Roman Senate, which had been established nearly three hundred years before. As such he was a member of the patrician class, the Roman elite of upper-class families who continued to make up the majority of the Senate. His rival Duilius, however, was a member of the equestrian middle class; he had clawed his way up using ‘new money’, wielding his wealth like a blunt instrument as he shamelessly bought his way into power. The irony of the accusation was not lost on Scipio, who also used his wealth, and the power it conferred, to achieve his ends. Scipio believed, however, that his was a more subtle, refined and delicate approach that spoke to his better breeding.

Scipio felt the tension and excitement rise within him as he turned the final corner into the Forum Magnum, the hub of the city, still bathed in the afternoon’s sunlight. The Curia Hostilia rose above him to his right and the praetoriani guard wheeled neatly towards the base of the steps leading to the Senate. The senior consul’s thoughts still dwelt on his junior counterpart and he revelled in the triumph of stealing a march on his rival. As junior consul this year, Duilius was in a prime position to attain the full title next year. But it was not to be, Scipio thought. The Carthaginians had seen to that. They had given Scipio a chance to write his name into history, and to write Duilius out. As the senior consul began to climb the steps that led to the very heart of the Republic, his eyes wandered upwards to the porticoes flanking the entrance into the inner chamber. He noted with pride that a junior senator was stationed at the top of the steps to watch for his arrival. As the man recognized the approach of the leader of Rome, he spun on his heels and ran into the interior beyond to announce that Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio had arrived.

Atticus squinted towards the evening sun as he gazed out over the inner courtyard adjacent to the guards’ quarters of Scipio’s house, his thoughts ranging over the events of the previous days. He turned to face Septimus, the centurion lying supine on his cot in the sparsely furnished quarters, taking advantage of the forced inactivity as they waited for the consul’s orders.

‘Back in Brolium, Marcus said that under blockade the legions would become “survivors not fighters, scavengers of food instead of hunters of men”,’ Atticus said. ‘What did he mean exactly? How quickly will the legions lose their ability to fight effectively?’

Septimus paused for a moment before replying.

‘Cut off from resupply, once the Second and Ninth exhaust the supplies they carry with them, they’ll be faced with three shortages, two of which they can survive.’

Atticus walked over to his own cot and sat down.

‘Which two are those?’ he asked.

‘Food and equipment,’ Septimus replied, sitting up to face Atticus. ‘The first is always an issue for every army. A hot meal in a soldier’s belly lifts his strength and morale. An empty belly fuels discontentment. If the food supplies that the legions carry are consumed, the men will go hungry, but they won’t starve. Once in enemy territory the army will be free to forage, stripping passing farms of their livestock and grain, leaving famine in their wake but keeping the men of the Second and Ninth marching.’

‘Marcus called it scavenging,’ Atticus remarked, ‘and he didn’t relish the prospect.’

Septimus nodded, his face grave. ‘It’s a precarious practice, with foraging teams open to ambush from the enemy; and should the army pass through more barren mountain land, their foraging would become more desperate and widespread.’

Atticus nodded, slowly understanding the difficult challenges faced by a campaigning army. ‘You said equipment was also a surmountable problem,’ he prompted.

Again Septimus nodded. ‘After the stocks of replacements are exhausted, the men will switch to patching up their existing kit. There’s countless ways to keep a legionary’s kit functional, although the end result might not pass a parade-ground inspection. The only vital pieces of equipment are a soldier’s weaponry, his short sword, javelins and a shield. His armour takes second place to these essentials, although men fight more aggressively when they have the protection of segmented armour over their chest and a helmet on their heads. Either way, though, the legions will go into battle and the fallen will provide replacement equipment for the survivors.’

Atticus nodded his understanding. Now only one problem remained.

‘So what’s the third shortage?’ Atticus asked. ‘The one the legions can’t do without?’

‘The most essential supply for any army, Atticus. The supply of men.’

‘But between them the Second and Ninth encompass nearly twenty thousand men. Surely it will be months before any loss will become so significant as to affect the ability of the legions as a whole?’ Atticus countered.

Septimus shook his head. ‘The total might number twenty thousand, but a legion’s strength is not in its sheer numbers but in the individual formations within its ranks.’

Atticus’s puzzled expression prompted Septimus to continue. ‘A maniple consists of one hundred and twenty men. At any one time there are always at least a half-dozen excused duty because of illness. Once the enemy is engaged, the problem intensifies, as the injured swell the ranks of those unfit for duty. A campaign like this one will be riddled with minor engagements, each one sapping the strength of each fighting maniple. With no supply of replacements getting through from the mainland, maniple after maniple will be struck off the fighting roster and, before long, individual commands will disappear as maniples are cannabilized to provide replacements for others. Mark my words, Atticus, this natural attrition of the army’s most basic raw material, through illness, battle injuries and death, and the inability to resupply that raw material to the front line, will destroy the Second and Ninth within a matter of a couple of months.’

Atticus drew in a slow breath as he absorbed Septimus’s words, the centurion’s explanation painting a vivid picture of the Roman army’s demise. The army was like an individual soldier, its loss of men like the flesh wounds sustained in battle, injuries that healed as new men were fed in to fill the breach, the residual scar tissue hardening the man beneath. Without the ability to renew itself, the army, like the individual soldier, would fall from its wounds, its lifeblood soaking into the arid soil of Sicily.

‘Senators!’ Scipio began, his voice holding the absolute attention of the three hundred men who represented the political power of the Republic. The senior consul was standing tall at the lectern positioned at the centre of the semicircle of three tiers of seating in the inner chamber of the Curia. Only moments before, his arrival had been announced by the princeps senatus, the leader of the house, a ceremonial, almost powerless position granted to one of the senior, long-standing senators. Scipio had swept into the chamber with a determined stride, the senators rising as one as a mark of respect to his rank; he had noted with satisfaction that nearly all were in attendance, including Duilius.

Scipio paused before continuing.

‘Senators, I come with grave news from our campaign to remove the Carthaginian horde from the shores of our beloved Sicily. I have come in great haste, enduring great personal risk, to deliver this message to you. You men of courage and intellect hold the key to saving the brave men of the legions now fighting overseas.’

Duilius could sense the charged atmosphere of the Senate as they hung on every word Scipio uttered. Although the junior consul knew what was to be announced, he couldn’t suppress the tingle of anticipation at Scipio’s words, admiring his eloquence and ability to control the mob that was the Senate. Duilius smiled inwardly at the choice of words: ‘you men of courage and intellect’. He knew that Scipio, like himself, had little respect for the other senators of the chamber, and yet so powerful was Scipio’s ability to control the crowd that those same men firmly believed the senior consul’s description of them was fully warranted, believed that both individually and collectively they held the power of Rome in their hands – while in reality it rested neatly on the shoulders of men like Scipio and Duilius alone.

When Duilius had stalked out of the Curia on receiving the news of Scipio’s return, he had known there was only one course of action open to him. With the long-before-learnt lesson on the value of information dictating his movements, he had rushed to his town house behind the Forum Holitorium. He had immediately called for Appius, his senior servant, a freedman who ostensibly ran the affairs of the junior consul’s town house, but who in reality was the head of a network of agents spread throughout the homes of the senior men of the Senate. Included in their number were four men in Scipio’s household, all freedmen who were sold into the house as slaves to spy on Duilius’s most powerful rival. The junior consul had impatiently paced the four corridors of the atrium of his home for nearly an hour before, finally, Appius had reappeared with the much sought-after news. Duilius had listened in silence to the report before brushing past the man and returning to the Senate.

Now, as Duilius sat in the Curia watching Scipio’s speech, his mind was at peace, the precious time to prepare that had been given to him by his spies allowing him to plan a rebuttal to Scipio’s course. As the senior consul sped towards the pinnacle of his speech, the announcement of the Carthaginian threat, Duilius looked from the corner of his eye to the anxious figure of Longus, a junior senator whom Duilius had enlisted to help carry out his plan. Duilius could only hope the young fop was up to the challenge.

‘And so my fellow senators,’ Scipio was concluding, ‘it is with trepidation in my heart that I tell you that the Carthaginians have blockaded the northern coastline of Sicily and effectively cut off our gallant legions from resupply. The Punici have placed a stranglehold on our campaign and, if it is not released, it will surely destroy our army in Sicily, placing the enemy in a position to strike at the very centre of the Republic: Rome itself!’

There was an audible gasp from the entire chamber, followed by a moment’s silence before a cacophony of sound erupted, the senators giving full vent to their fears and anxieties. Many men wailed in voices of doom and defeat, Scipio’s final words mentioning a threat to Rome itself fuelling their concerns and heightening their apprehension. Scipio scanned the room slowly, his eyes passing over the sea of worried faces. He did not believe there was any immediate or even medium-term threat to Rome itself, but he knew that many of the senators had not served in the legions and did not fully understand the threat that a severed supply line meant to an army. He had needed to make the threat of the Carthaginians more personal to the rich, complacent, isolated men of the Senate. He had needed to formulate a threat to the city of Rome. As his eyes came to the position of Gaius Duilius, he was surprised to see the man calmly surveying the room himself, his face expressionless, as if Scipio had merely announced the yearly crop figures of grain from Campania. Scipio admired the man’s self-control and was about to move on, when Duilius suddenly turned and looked his way. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat, and Scipio thought he read a message in his rival’s eyes before their gaze was broken. Scipio picked up the gavel and began to pound it on the lectern, the chamber slowly coming back to order.

‘My fellow senators,’ he began, his voice now authoritative where before it had been conciliatory, ‘my fellow senators, Rome must counter this threat. We must defeat the Punici and wipe them from our seas.’

‘How?’ a voice called, the question echoed by a dozen others.

‘By building our own fleet!’ Scipio shouted, his voice rising above the questions. ‘By harnessing the power of the Republic to create a fleet that will overcome their blockade and sweep their galleys before us. By defeating them as we have every enemy who dared to challenge the might of Rome. By allowing me, your leader, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, to lead the fleet into battle for the glory of the Republic!’

The chamber erupted in cheers as the senators clung to the line of hope and victory offered to them by Scipio. They were a mob, completely swayed by the play of their emotions. The senior consul had driven them down with the news of the seemingly unconquerable threat of the Carthaginians before suddenly raising them high with the hope of victory. The cheering lasted for five full minutes while Scipio stood motionless at the lectern, his expression imperious, his stature imposing, exuding strength and purpose. As the noise began to subside, Scipio prepared for the decisive moment of his strategy, when the entire Senate would vote overwhelmingly in favour of his plan and for him to assume the position of commander of the new fleet. As he raised his gavel to finally silence the crowd, a single voice caught his and everyone else’s attention.

‘My fellow senators,’ Longus announced, a slight tremor in his voice as the entire Senate fell silent, ‘we are blessed by the goddess Minerva, the wisest of all, to have as our leader the man standing before us, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio.’

Voices were raised in agreement from across the Senate, and Scipio nodded in gratitude, a sentiment he did not feel as his mind raced to understand the reason behind Longus’s speech, knowing he was a pawn of Duilius’s. The young senator raised his voice to overcome the noise.

‘Truly our senior consul has shown us the way to defeat the Punici. His intellect, guided by the goddess, has unlocked the solution that will save the legions and the fate of Rome itself. He is our leader and the centre of our power.’

Longus paused once more as voices echoed his words. He waited for silence to reassert itself before continuing the scripted words that Duilius had given him prior to Scipio’s arrival, the rehearsed speech dictating his words.

‘It is precisely why Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio is our leader and our greatest senator that I fear the precarious position he would be put in should he lead the fleet into battle against the unknown strength of the Carthaginians. Without his mighty presence to lead the Senate, we would be surely lost against this new and powerful enemy. I therefore put it to you, my fellow senators, that the senior consul should indeed lead our naval campaign against the Punici, but he should do so from here, the Senate, the centre of Rome’s power. Command of the fleet should be delegated to the junior consul, Gaius Duilius.’

The abrupt end to Longus’s speech was followed by a moment’s silence before, once again, the chamber was filled with raised voices, many debating Longus’s speech. Scipio tore his furious eyes from the young senator and whipped them around to Duilius who, as before, sat impassively in the centre of the lower tier, directly opposite the lectern. His gaze was on Longus, and the junior consul nodded slightly before turning to see Scipio watching him. A slight smile formed on his lips as the voices in the chamber called for Duilius to speak. He stood slowly to address the frenzied chamber.

‘I concur with the words of the senator and I humbly accept his proposal for me to lead the fleet into battle.’

Duilius sat down once more, his simple statement reigniting the debate raging across the chamber. Scipio pounded his gavel on the lectern to try to regain control of the Senate, but he already knew that his moment of victory had been snatched by the junior senator’s unexpected speech. His mind reached back to the knowing look that Duilius had given him at the announcement of the Carthaginian blockade, and he now recognized it for what it was: a look of defiant triumph. He had been outmanoeuvred and the realization made his anger flare up to an intensity that caused him to viciously hammer the gavel on the lectern even as the last voice was silenced by the aggressive blows.

‘My fellow senators,’ Scipio shouted, his raised voice unnecessary in the silence. He heard the pitch of his own words and immediately fought to bring his emotions under control. He paused and drew a deep breath before continuing.

‘My fellow senators. I am humbled by your concern for my safety and the safety of my position as leader of this chamber. But I say to you, the real power of this Senate lies with each individual member. As senior consul I will lead the fleet, knowing that the power of Rome is safe within your hands.’

Scipio watched as many heads shook in disagreement. He gambled one last time, praying that the residual confidence in his proposal would carry the day.

‘I therefore call for a vote on my proposal, confident in your sound judgement,’ Scipio continued with all the conviction he could muster. ‘I put it to the floor that we build the fleet and I command her into battle.’

Whereas before, when Scipio had first announced his intention to lead the fleet, he had been cheered in universal support, now only a smattering of debate could be heard. Within a minute voices were raised in conflict and the Senate stood divided. Scipio’s faction followed their leader, as did Duilius’s. The undecided majority wavered between the two, the indecisive calling for more debate, unsure of which proposal to accept. Their voices prevailed and the vote was postponed, Scipio’s moment swept away to be replaced with the tedious slog of debate. The senior consul surrendered his place at the lectern to the princeps senatus, who would head the discussion. It took all Scipio’s willpower to contain his rage and walk steadily back to his position amongst the senators.

CHAPTER SIX

Septimus was awakened from his light doze by the approaching steps of a guard detail. The familiar sound and unfamiliar surroundings meant he was instantly awake and on guard. Atticus was already standing in the middle of their quarters, his eyes locked on the door. He had never relaxed. The door was flung open and Scipio’s guard commander was framed in the entrance. He looked from one man to the other.

‘You are free to go but I need to know your whereabouts should the consul need to summon you.’

His abrupt statement caught the two men off guard and Septimus took a second to form his reply.

‘We will be at the Capito house, my family home, in the Caelian quarter,’ he said.

‘Or at the castrum in Ostia with our ship,’ Atticus added.

The guard commander nodded and stepped back from the door before leading the guard detail away.

‘So!’ Atticus said as he turned to face Septimus, happy at the order of release, ‘we’re going to your family home?’

‘Yes,’ replied Septimus with a smile, ‘just as soon as I’ve shown you some of the sights of Rome.’

The centurion stood up and began to walk out into the late evening sunshine.

‘And if the consul comes looking for us while we’re out seeing the sights?’ the captain asked.

‘There’s no way he’ll look for us tonight; not if he’s just ordered us away.’

‘So we’ll be at your family home tomorrow. Will that leave us enough time to see the sights?’

‘Trust me, Atticus: when it comes to the sights I’m going to show you, one night is never enough – but one night is all most men can handle.’

Scipio stormed into the tablinum, the master bedroom of his home, ripping off his toga as he went. He roared for wine to be brought and an instant later a slave entered and proffered the senator a golden goblet. Scipio snatched the drink and downed it in one, the tannic acidity of the wine only exacerbating the burning sensation of rage in his chest. The slave held up the amphora to refill the goblet, but Scipio grabbed the flask himself and ordered the slave to be gone. As the slave left the room, Scipio’s wife, Fabiola, entered. Her face was a mask of concern at the sight of her enraged husband. Scipio wheeled around and saw her standing by the now-closed door.

‘Fools!’ he spat. ‘Feeble-minded, incompetent fools.’

Fabiola knew better than to question the source of his rage. She had seen this before, although never so intense. Everyone who was aware of the intimate workings of the Senate knew it to be a ponderous, frustratingly conservative beast. With three hundred of the city’s greatest egos confined within one chamber, it was common for the plans of one man, or even one group of men, however well-meaning or well thought out, to be thwarted by the sheer verbosity and squabbling of the Senate. It was plainly obvious that the plans they had earlier discussed had been undone. To question the reason would only give Scipio a focus for his rage and, although he had never struck her, Fabiola had long since realized that her husband had a barely contained violent streak.

‘Three hours!’ he continued. ‘Three hours the fools debated. Like a gaggle of chattering slave women in the market. Three hours and they failed to even vote on the creation of a fleet, never mind its commander.’

Scipio emptied another goblet of wine, again in one swallow. It did nothing to calm his emotions.

‘That bastard Duilius. It was his doing. He had one of his pups question my proposal. Just a simple question. But a perfect blow. It was almost as if he had prepared in advance; as if he knew about the blockade before I announced it. His little thrust exposed a chink, just a tiny chink.’

Scipio continued pacing, his fist clenched by his side, his knuckles white from the pressure. ‘But it was enough. Enough for the indecisive old men to pause and debate. Before long they weren’t even sure if a fleet was necessary, and if it was they debated over who would bear the cost. Now it will be a week before we go to vote. A week instead of a minute – all because of Gaius Duilius.’

Fabiola, her mind agitated by the mood of her husband, could only watch Scipio vent his rage. As he raved, her mind picked up something he had said: something about it seeming that Duilius had known what Scipio was going to announce before he did. She calmed her emotions and partially faded out the voice of her husband in order to think the point through.

The more she considered the possibility, the more she believed it to be true. Someone must have informed Duilius. But who? And when? Of course the galley that had escorted Scipio from Sicily was full of people who knew of the blockade, but it was docked in the castrum in Ostia, a twenty-five-mile round trip on busy roads, and not an easy place for a civilian to enter. She discounted that and focused on the more obvious sources: Scipio’s praetoriani guard, the captain and centurion of the galley, and the household slaves. It became more and more obvious that the leak had come from among their number.

She continued to watch her husband in silence, waiting for him to calm down. Only then would she approach him and offer her advice and comfort. When he was soothed and once more himself, perhaps tomorrow she thought, she would inform him of her suspicions. If there was a spy within the walls of her husband’s house, Fabiola was sure that, once found, she would witness the full fury of the violence she always suspected her husband was capable of.

Septimus led Atticus to a bathhouse as the dying sun in the western sky was touching the taller buildings of Rome. The bathhouse was no more than a hundred yards off the main piazza of the Forum Magnum, and yet Atticus was struck by how different the surrounding area was from the vaulted temples and soaring statues of the city’s central forum. Here the streets were narrow and the apartment buildings towered eight storeys high, while underfoot the laneways of the plebeian quarter were strewn with human and animal filth, creating a stench that rose to infuse the very walls of the surrounding houses.

Atticus’s mind was instantly transported back to the city of Locri and the backstreets he had called home for the first fourteen years of his life; the long summer days when he fished with his father and his stomach was full, and the hard, cold winters when the storms kept the fleet bottled up and the poorer inhabitants of Locri teetered on the brink of starvation. On those dark winter days, Atticus would escape the hovel he shared with his family and spend his days scavenging on streets no different from those that now surrounded him, and he marked the distance he had travelled since his childhood.

‘After dark I wouldn’t march a squad of ten legionaries through these streets,’ Septimus remarked with a wry smile, and Atticus caught a hint of disdain in the centurion’s voice.

The main door of the bathhouse was flanked by two large thuggish men, but they allowed Septimus and Atticus to pass unchallenged while inside Septimus was immediately recognized by an older woman who greeted patrons as they entered.

‘My older brothers, Tiberius and Claudius, first brought me here on my sixteenth birthday,’ Septimus explained with a smile, ‘and I’ve come back at least once a year since then.’

Septimus produced the requisite amount of silver and both men were ushered into an antechamber, where slaves quickly stripped them of their kit before they were led to the caldarium, a large tiled room dominated by a central bath of steaming, scented water. Atticus groaned loudly in content as he slipped into the bath, the hot water quickly infusing his muscles pleasurably and chasing all tension from his limbs. The sensation was amazing, and he sweated stoically before the near-unbearable heat forced him to rise. He was immediately led to a low table where a female slave rubbed oil into his skin before removing it with a strigil and, with a sense of cleanliness Atticus had never felt before, he was shown to the tepidarium chamber, where Septimus was already immersed in the lukewarm bath. Again Atticus groaned as he entered the water and Septimus laughed loudly.

‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what do you think?’

‘By the gods, Septimus, this is the way to live,’ Atticus laughed as two beautiful young women entered, carrying trays of food and a large amphora of wine. Septimus followed his friend’s gaze.

‘There are many bathhouses in Rome, my friend, but this particular one offers one other additional service.’ Septimus smiled as a goblet of wine was placed in his hand.

The two women moved quickly and efficiently around the room, bringing food and wine at every summons, and their light and carefree conversation instantly put the men at ease. Within thirty minutes Atticus was consumed by an overwhelming sense of wellbeing and his mind, fogged by the numbing effect of wine, drank in the hushed feminine tones that seemed to fill the air. He raised his goblet to have it refilled, but this time it was taken from him and he was led from the bath by one of the young women to a small room off the tepidarium chamber. She quietly closed the door and turned to Atticus, slipping off her tunic as she did so. Atticus gasped involuntarily, her beauty and the potent aphrodisiac of youth combining to stir his desire. He became awkward in his haste, but the experienced young woman immediately took the lead and she guided him to a low cot in the corner of the room. She stroked his upper body and wound her fingers through the dense hair of his chest, skilfully controlling his desire before laying him down and straddling him, allowing him to relax completely, her movements slow and hypnotic.

Afterwards the two lay entwined on the cot, her hands once more gently caressing his body with languid strokes. Atticus had never felt so sated and he drifted off into a deep sleep, every outside thought banished from his mind and the world beyond the walls of the bathhouse forgotten for the night.

Septimus arched his back to stretch the muscles in his spine as he walked through the busy streets of Rome. They had both risen at dawn, both finding themselves alone in their respective rooms in the bathhouse. After dressing, Septimus had bidden a farewell to the woman who had first greeted them – with promises of a return – and they had walked, once more, out onto the bustling streets. Atticus could scarcely believe that the serene world of the bathhouse existed behind the walls of the building he had just left, so different from the dilapidated, frantic streets surrounding it, and the thought sobered him as they walked the short distance to the Forum Magnum, stopping a street vendor to buy some food, their appetites sharpened by the remains of the wine in their stomachs. They continued on in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

‘Just beyond this next street…’ Septimus said, suddenly breaking the quiet between them, returning their attention to the bustling activity all around.

‘What?’ Atticus replied, dragging his thoughts back to the moment.

‘…My home,’ Septimus smiled. ‘It’s just beyond this next street.’

Atticus noticed his friend’s pace increase at the mention of his home and he adjusted his stride to match. The equestrian middle-class Caelian quarter was a world apart from the narrow streets and soaring apartment blocks of the poorer quarter and Atticus couldn’t help marking the differences in his mind.

‘Who’ll be home?’ he asked, realizing that in the ten months he had known Septimus they had never before discussed his family.

‘As far as I know, everyone, although I haven’t been home in over two years, so my parents and two older brothers will be there…and my younger sister will probably be at home.’

Atticus noticed that Septimus’s face became solemn at the mention of his sister before his smile returned anew, and Atticus was left wondering what the family would look like: the women probably dark-featured like Septimus, and the men older versions of him.

The streets passed quickly under their feet and before long they reached the entrance to the house, a modest stout wooden gate set into the whitewashed stone wall that ran along both sides of the residential area. A small tablet beside the door was marked with the family name ‘Capito’. Septimus banged on the door and stood back to wait. He was about to knock again when the gate opened abruptly and the arched entrance was framed by a man who stood with arms akimbo, his gaze intense, his chin thrust forward at the sight of unexpected visitors. The moment of recognition was marked by the man’s arms falling to his side and his face bursting into a happy smile.

‘By the gods…Septimus!’

‘Domitian,’ Septimus smiled, glad to see the senior servant of the house, a man he had known since childhood.

The servant stood for a second before turning to run into the house to announce the unexpected return.

As Septimus led them into the small courtyard, Atticus surveyed the simple, unadorned whitewashed walls of the interior building. To the left stood a small stable-house and two-storey barn, its open doors revealing the heaped straw and bags of grain within. Directly in front of them was the main family residence, again two storeys tall with shuttered windows opened across its broad front. In the centre stood the main door and, as they approached, Atticus could hear the shouts of delight within the house as news of Septimus’s return spread.

Suddenly an older woman rushed out through the door towards them. She was tall and slim and her features were high, almost regal. She was dark, as Atticus had suspected, with large hazel eyes and black flowing hair. The woman wrapped her arms around Septimus and kissed him on the cheek, her delight at the return of her youngest son evident in the tears forming at the edges of her eyes.

‘Oh Septimus,’ she said, close to tears, ‘welcome home. Welcome home.’

Septimus broke the embrace, embarrassed by the overt display of affection in front of Atticus. The captain could only smile. Beyond the trio, an older man appeared, and Atticus instantly knew it was his friend’s father. The resemblance was striking, the same broad build, the same unruly black hair, but Septimus’s father also had a vicious scar on the left side of his face, running from his forehead to his cheek, cutting through the eye, which had turned opaque and milky white. But for the injury, he was Septimus in twenty years’ time.

Septimus shook his father’s hand warmly, legionary style, with hands gripping forearms.

‘Welcome home, son,’ the older man said, his voice deep and hoarse.

‘It’s good to be home, father,’ Septimus replied, standing tall before his father as he would before a senior officer.

‘Those markings on your armour,’ his father continued, his hand touching Septimus’s breast-plate, ‘are those the insignia of the marines?’

‘Of a marine centurion,’ Septimus replied proudly, this visit marking the first time he had stood before his father as a centurion, the same rank his father had achieved in the Ninth.

‘A marine centurion,’ the older man said dismissively, as if the first word sullied the second. ‘Better an optio in the Ninth where your rank commanded some respect.’

‘There is no dishonour in commanding the marines,’ Septimus countered, but his father ended the argument with a wave, his attention turning to Atticus, leaving Septimus with no choice but to introduce his friend.

‘Father, mother, this is the captain of the Aquila, Atticus Milonius Perennis, and Atticus, this is Antoninus and Salonina,’ Septimus said, indicating in turn his father and mother.

Atticus nodded a greeting to Salonina before shaking Antoninus’s hand. The grip was hard and firm, the underlying strength of the man evident in the simple gesture.

‘Milonius…Greek?’ Antoninus asked, his expression inscrutable.

‘Yes,’ Atticus answered warily, ‘from Locri.’

Antoninus nodded slowly, maintaining his grip on Atticus’s arm, his gaze penetrating, the handshake only breaking when Salonina turned and beckoned them all to follow through the main door. Beyond was the atrium, similar in design to the one at Scipio’s house, but more basic, the surrounding pillars plain and unembellished, the central pool simple and untiled. The group walked around the atrium and entered the room beyond, the triclinium, the main dining room of the house. A table stood in the centre of the room, flanked by three couches; the fourth side opened towards the kitchen door, through which slaves were ferrying fresh fruit and bread. The group sat down, with the father taking the head of the table with his wife to his right and Atticus and Septimus occupying the third couch.

‘So where are Tiberius and Claudius?’ Septimus asked, enquiring after his brothers, ‘and Hadria? Is she home?’

Antoninus shook his head.

‘Your brothers are in the south on a trade journey with their partner Nerva from the house of Carantus. Hadria is in the city at your aunt’s house in the Viminal quarter.’

‘Does she still speak of Valerius?’ Septimus asked, looking to his mother.

‘No,’ Salonina answered softly. ‘She deeply mourned his loss but I believe her heart is free again.’

‘So soon?’ Septimus said, a sharp edge to his voice.

‘It’s been nearly a year since his death, Septimus,’ Salonina replied, ‘and at twenty she cannot remain a widow for much longer.’

‘You know Rome’s law, Septimus,’ Antoninus added, ‘she must remarry within two years to settle Valerius’s estate. His father Casca is already stopping me in the forum and asking if I have found any suitors.’

Septimus was about to speak but he held his tongue, his mind flooded with memories of the friend he had lost.

‘Domitian!’ Antoninus called, his summons answered instantly. ‘Send a messenger to Hadria with word that Septimus has returned.’ The senior servant nodded and left immediately.

Septimus began to fill his parents in on the details of his life over the past two years. Many things had happened and many things had changed. Two hours later, when the bell rang for the forenoon meal, he was only just beginning to relate the events of the previous four days.

‘They march, Admiral,’ the man announced as permission to speak was granted.

‘When and to where?’

‘Yesterday at dawn. They are heading west.’

Hannibal Gisco nodded and dismissed the messenger. He rose from his seated position behind the marble-topped table and walked through the windblown cotton drapes out onto the top-floor balcony beyond. The building was three storeys tall and stood directly on the dock of the port town of Panormus, a magnificent natural harbour that now sheltered the growing Carthaginian fleet. Gisco watched with satisfaction as the remnants of the sixty-ship-strong second fleet dropped anchor two hundred yards from shore. The fleet had sailed up the west coast of Sicily, with orders to set up a blockade around the Roman-held city of Agrigentum. The remainder would add its precious cargo of soldiers to Gisco’s command, swelling his army to twenty-five thousand.

As Gisco surveyed the busy harbour, he calculated the rate of advance of the Roman legions, confident that the enemy were unaware of his knowledge of their movements. Over the winter months, the Roman encampment had been under constant surveillance, from both the nearby hills and from bribed local merchants who had given the Carthaginians detailed descriptions of the size and strength of the army within the walled camp. The reports to Panormus had come regularly by an ingenious method stolen from the Persians a generation before: carrier pigeon. These winged messengers gave the Carthaginians an incredible advantage against an enemy who had not yet discovered the birds’ unique abilities and so, not thirty-six hours after the Romans had marched, Gisco had been handed the chance to get one step ahead of his foe.

Gisco thought back to the messenger’s words. The Romans had left their winter encampment yesterday, marching west. Gisco knew their destination was undoubtedly the cities of Segeste and Makella to the south of Panormus. These two city-states had defiantly sided with the Romans immediately after their victory at Agrigentum, although they were deep within Carthaginian territory. Gisco had ordered the cities besieged and was confident that, given time, they would once more fall under his control. He had already decided the fate of the inhabitants of the cities, a fate that would act as a deterrent to any other city-states within his territory that were considering defecting to the Roman cause. His private promise of retribution could only be carried out if he stalled or, better yet, stopped the Roman advance.

Gisco immediately discounted the option of a direct assault. The Roman legion’s fighting abilities on land far exceeded his own army’s, a fact demonstrated by the Carthaginian defeat at Agrigentum. If he was to defeat the enemy he would need to extend his strategy of strangling the Romans into submission.

The legions were no more than a week’s march from the territorial dividing line, a demarcation running south from the coastal town of Caronia on the northern coast that had indicated the furthest advance of the Romans in the previous year’s campaign season. That line was almost exactly halfway between their start point at the winter encampment and the Carthaginians’ base camp in Panormus, and so if Gisco was going to slow their advance he realized he would have to reach the line first. The admiral turned abruptly from the balcony and called for his aide. The man entered immediately.

‘Assemble the section commanders in the main hall immediately for a briefing and send orders to the cavalry to make ready to advance before the day’s end.’

‘Yes, Admiral,’ the aide replied and left.

Gisco walked over to the table and surveyed the detailed map of Sicily. The first Roman soldiers had landed on the island only four years before. At first the Carthaginians had viewed their arrival as a mere annoyance and had not even opposed their landing at Messina, confident that they could and would defeat them at the time of their choosing. They had been wrong, Gisco thought with frustration. The Romans had proved to be better than the Carthaginians on land and now controlled the entire eastern half of the island. Gisco would redress the error of not exploiting the Romans’ vulnerability at sea. As a combined force on land and sea, the Carthaginians were more than a match for the enemy. He would make the two sides of the same coin work in unison to isolate and destroy the Romans. No army could stand alone. Gisco would make sure the Romans learnt that lesson well.

Atticus listened in silence as Septimus and his father discussed the threat the legions faced in Sicily. The remains of the forenoon meal had been removed from the table only moments before, the servants moving in silence, Atticus noticing that many had their ears cocked at the incredible news that Septimus was relaying. At times Septimus looked to Atticus for confirmation or agreement on a point, but Atticus noticed that Antoninus never looked his way, the older man unconsciously touching his scar as he spoke to his son about his old legion.

Suddenly Atticus’s drifting thoughts were shattered by a scream, a shriek of delight that caused all heads to turn to the dining-room entrance and, as he watched spellbound, a young woman bolted into the room and threw herself into Septimus’s arms. Atticus had never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.

Hadria wore a simple white stola, secured around the middle with a thin braided leather belt. She was not tall, her head only reaching to Septimus’s chest, but her legs were long and tanned and she danced in her sandals an inch off the ground. Her whole body seemed to radiate vitality and health and her face was a picture of happiness as she laughed up at her older brother, her open mouth sensuous. Hadria did not have Septimus’s dark complexion. She was fair, with flawless skin that spoke of her youth. Her shoulder-length light-brown hair had elements of blonde where the sun had bleached the strands and the colour set off the light in her sea-grey eyes. Atticus had never seen such emotion expressed in anyone’s face before, and the affection she held for her brother was there for all to behold.

Septimus laughed at the infectious happiness of his sister and it was a full minute before their embrace was relaxed. Only then did Septimus turn to his friend.

‘Atticus,’ he began, ‘I would like to introduce you to my sister, Hadria.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hadria,’ Atticus said, captivated by her.

‘And you,’ Hadria replied demurely, her gaze penetrating, unnerving.

She broke the link and danced around to sit beside her mother as all retook their seats, the mood lifted further by her presence.

Within half an hour the conversation turned trivial, the topics lighthearted as Septimus regaled his sister with tales from his time away. Hadria sat with rapt attention as her brother spoke, her gaze never leaving his, her questions infrequent yet incisive, the perfect listener. Septimus held her gaze and the two-way link allowed Atticus to watch Hadria surreptitiously from the corner of his eye. He studied her closely, his eyes picking up every detail of her profile, his senses overwhelmed by her beauty. The thread of lighter conversation brought Atticus back into the group and the discussion drifted on into the late afternoon.

The evening ended with Salonina announcing the lateness of the hour, her hand held out to Hadria as a gesture for her daughter to accompany her from the room. Hadria groaned playfully and jumped off the couch in one fluid movement. She kissed her father and brother on the cheek before bidding goodnight to Atticus, the simple politeness accompanied by a broad smile.

Atticus returned the pleasantry and watched Hadria leave the room. As he turned back, Septimus and Antoninus began to talk once more of the legions in Sicily, the older man expanding on a thought he had developed over the previous hours.

Atticus rose early the following morning and walked through the atrium of the house into the main dining room for breakfast. The four members of the Capito family were already there talking animatedly in a tight circle around the low table. They did not immediately notice Atticus’s arrival and so he was free to observe them unawares. For a family that spent a considerable time apart they were very close and, judging from the occasional laughter and the smiling expressions of all, Atticus suspected that the conversation between them was light and inconsequential, typical family talk that touched on the details of their daily lives.

Atticus’s eyes rested on Hadria in the group before him. She was wearing a pale blue stola that set off the colour in her eyes perfectly and seemed to accentuate the fairness of her skin. She was listening to a story being told by her father and she laughed and clapped at his punch-lines, her joy infectious, her parents laughing with her.

‘Atticus!’ she called, noticing her observer for the first time. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

For a heartbeat Atticus noticed an intriguing look behind Hadria’s radiant smile, a lingering touch to her gaze that spoke of something beyond affection, a look that heightened his awareness of the most beautiful woman he had ever met.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘And so, my esteemed colleagues of the Senate, I now call for a vote on my revised proposal, I call for a division of the house to settle the matter.’

Scipio sat down and surveyed the crowded chamber with inner disgust. The senators were having mumbled conversations with those around them at this new call to vote. Scipio had estimated that it would take a week for the Senate to decide on a course of action to defeat the Carthaginian blockade. He had been wrong. The debate was now in its tenth day and the seemingly endless rounds of debate and voting, over ridiculously minor points, had frayed his patience to a thread. On the fifth day the Senate had finally decided that a fleet was needed. The following two days had been taken up with a decision on the size of the fleet and two days after that on how the fleet would be financed. Only now were the senators debating the command of the campaign.

The leader of the house banged his gavel on the lectern and called the assembly to order.

‘Following the senior consul’s submission and the aforementioned views of the junior consul, we will now divide the house. All those in favour please move to the eastern wall, those against to the western.’

Scipio remained seated in the front tier, his position in front of the eastern wall a call to all his supporters to rally to his side. Scipio inwardly scoffed at the term ‘supporters’. He had spent the past ten days cajoling and subtly bribing half of them in an effort to gain their backing. Only a tiny minority of them actually voted in line with the conviction that their actions were in Rome’s best interest. Only a tiny minority of them had that courage. The rest of them needed to be led like cattle.

In the centre of the chamber, Gaius Duilius stood abruptly. Scipio watched him like a hawk. Of the three hundred individual votes of the Senate, only two really counted in this debate, Scipio’s and Duilius’s. The direction of the junior consul’s turn would decide the matter, one way or the other. Scipio watched the man’s calm exterior, hating him anew. Duilius had thwarted his proposals at every turn, but always through intermediaries and always with a subtle, clever approach that never really jeopardized any proposal as a whole. In this way important decisions like the one to build the fleet were made, but Duilius had chipped away at Scipio’s propositions, undermining his authority at every turn. Scipio had needed to give ground each time, including this last proposal on leadership, and so he watched with the bile of hatred rising ever further in his throat as he waited for Duilius to react, unsure if he would be able to control his actions should the junior consul vote against him this one last time.

As the tension in the chamber reached breaking point, Gaius Duilius turned.

From the beginning of the debate ten days earlier, Duilius had believed in the fundamentals of Scipio’s approach. The fleet was needed, of that there was no doubt. Given the Carthaginians’ superiority in naval skills, the fleet would need to outnumber any force the Punici could put to sea. Simple logic that needed no debate. The city would need to fund the building of the fleet from the public coffers, and taxes would need to be levied to make up any shortfall. Again this fact was irrefutable. And yet Duilius had challenged Scipio on each occasion.

The exercise had been expensive, but necessary. Duilius needed to show Scipio that he could hold up his ambitions indefinitely in the senatorial quagmire if he did not give ground on the most important proposal, that of leadership of the fleet. The debates had been taxing and the individual votes tedious but now, as the members of the house stood up to vote, Duilius felt real power surround him. He had always known the motivation behind Scipio’s proposals, the thirst for power that drove his actions – as it did Duilius’s; and, as the entire Senate chamber looked to see which way the junior consul would turn, Duilius felt the power of Rome in his hand.

Scipio had amended his proposal on leadership. He had had to. Scipio would indeed go to sea with the fleet and he would be the overall commander, but Duilius would sail too. The junior consul would take the vanguard and would be tactical commander of the fleet, while Scipio would have strategic command, the senior consul’s position in the rear of the fleet giving the illusion of safety that the Senate demanded. Duilius had engineered the debate to highlight this compromise to Scipio and the senior consul had accepted, each man knowing that once the fleet was out of sight of Rome and beyond the Senate’s gaze, the power struggle would start afresh. But now, on this day and at this time, Duilius was ruler of Rome and he savoured the sensation.

Duilius turned and walked towards the eastern wall, his supporters immediately following to leave a forlorn minority of twenty senators on the other side of the chamber. The men of the Senate cheered at this final decision, this conclusion to their debate, the tension of the previous ten days released in a moment of shared relief. Scipio stood and was surrounded by senators who slapped congratulatory hands on his shoulders and back, as they did for Duilius, the two men seen together as the joint saviours of the Sicilian campaign, an accolade Scipio had planned as his own. The senior consul walked towards Duilius through the press of cheering senators and magnanimously offered his hand in a show of shared responsibility for the battles ahead that would be faced together. Duilius took the hand and the crowd cheered anew. The expressions of both men were expansive, both reflecting the thrill of the moment and atmosphere of the crowd. Both expressions were only skin deep. As their eyes locked only an astute observer would have seen the momentary exchange. For Scipio and Duilius the surface solidarity hid the challenge that had been thrown down and accepted. From here on the glory of Rome would take second place to the power struggle that the Carthaginian blockade had ignited between them. Both men knew that there could be only one ruler of Rome.

‘No, no, no, Gaius,’ Lucius argued, ‘we can’t rely on every helmsman having your skill. Any new ships built will be sailed by, at best, fishermen and traders.’

‘Even so,’ Gaius countered, ‘the ram is still the best way for a raw crew to defeat an experienced one. There’s no way we can teach the legionaries to board properly within a reasonable time!’

Atticus looked on in silence, allowing the argument to draw out the full opinion of both men, their knowledge and experience vital if a solution was to be found. The three men sat in the enclosed main cabin of the Aquila, the trireme resting against her ropes at the dockside of Ostia.

Atticus had remained at the Capito home for three days in total, his own departure coming two days after Hadria’s, the insistent calls from her aunt compelling her to return to her house in the Viminal quarter. The lack of news or orders from the Senate had chafed Atticus’s patience and he had arisen on the third day with an overwhelming urge to see his ship. On arriving at Ostia he had put every waking hour and all his energy into the Aquila. The entire running rigging had now been replaced, as had the mainsail, the replacements drawn from the extensive stores of the military camp that serviced the dozen ships of the Ostia fleet. The rowers had been brought up and housed in the slave compound behind the castrum and the slave decks had been thoroughly cleaned. Even now slaves were diving beneath the galley, removing barnacles and limpets from the hull. Once cleaned, the galley would be a half-knot faster at her top stroke.

The three senior sailors of the Aquila had been discussing possible tactics for over an hour, the captain playing devil’s advocate to the second-in-command and the helmsman. Each time the two men agreed on a point, Atticus would counter their solution, finding a chink in their logic that would set the two men talking again. They had discussed every possible approach and how the Carthaginians might respond to any move. Having seen the Punici in action twice, the three men had little doubt of the calibre and resolve of their foe. Every possible scenario finished with the same conclusion, the same imbalance: experience.

A new Roman fleet would be crewed by inexperienced men, civilian sailors and legionaries used to fighting on land. Inexperienced sailors meant that ramming would be a near-impossible tactic, the manoeuvring skills required taking months to perfect, the combination of angle and speed needing to be precise. This was especially pertinent since the Roman craft were of a lighter design and would be unsure of penetration if the angle was off by more than ten degrees. Over ten degrees it was likely that the ram would simply deflect off the heavier Carthaginian hull. The call for ramming speed also needed to be exact. Too late and the ship would lack the necessary momentum; too soon and the galley slaves would be spent after the first couple of encounters; it was likely that any large-scale confrontation would last for hours.

The ability to manoeuvre alongside for boarding took considerably less skill: the angle less important, the speed only needing to be sufficient to overtake the opponent. The three men had all agreed that traders, and even fishermen, could be taught enough to master the simple manoeuvre within a week at most. The problem of inexperience now shifted to the legionaries. To train them as marines would take several months, the ability to board successfully and in sufficient numbers vital in the first minutes of any attack. Once on board, they would be without their favoured four-foot scutum shields and their years of training as land-based fighting units would count for naught, armed as they would be with a hoplon shield along with their gladius.

‘Gaius, Lucius,’ Atticus interrupted, trying to bring the discussion back to its centre, needing to forge ahead, ‘we’re all agreed that the sailing crews can be taught how to manoeuvre for boarding but not for ramming in the time we have.’

‘Yes,’ both men replied.

‘And we’re also agreed that our legionaries cannot be taught to board and fight using the traditional methods in the time we have.’

‘Yes,’ both men said again, this time Lucius sighing as the discussion circled around the obstacle.

‘Right. We need to concentrate on solving one of the problems only. I think the solution to the sailing problem will be harder to find, so I suggest we concentrate on the boarding issue. We need to find a way of getting our troops onto the enemy decks in sufficient numbers and with their scutum shields. Once there they’ll be unstoppable.’

‘Once there…’ Gaius said, as he put his mind to the task.

The cabin became silent again as all three men applied themselves to the problem. They were still without a solution an hour later when a messenger knocked on the cabin door.

‘Messenger approaching,’ Domitian called from the courtyard. The senior servant turned from the main gate and ran into the atrium of the Capito estate, repeating his call as he ran. Septimus heard the call in the smaller enclosed courtyard at the rear of the compound, where he had been practising his swordplay. He threw the wooden sword to the ground and strode through the house, meeting Domitian halfway.

‘Messenger approaching on horseback,’ the foreman said.

Septimus nodded and brushed past him. As he exited the front door of the house, the mounted praetorian guard entered through the main gate. He spotted Septimus and cantered towards him.

‘I have a message for Centurion Capito and Captain Perennis of the Aquila,’ he announced.

‘I am Centurion Capito. Captain Perennis is at the castrum of Ostia,’ Septimus replied.

The praetorian guard nodded. The other messenger, sent directly to Ostia, would find the captain. The mounted soldier looked Septimus up and down, the man before him wearing a sweat-stained tunic, the black dishevelled hair giving him a wild, untamed look. He didn’t look much like a centurion. Bloody marines, the guard thought.

‘My master, Senior Consul Scipio, orders—’

‘Get off your horse and deliver your message properly,’ Septimus interrupted, his voice hard, having noticed the unconscious look of disdain creep onto the guard’s face before he spoke. The guard hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, the underlying menace of the command triggering his instinct as a soldier. He dismounted.

‘My master—’

‘Properly!’ Septimus interrupted again, his tone like iron. ‘You’re addressing a superior officer, soldier. I’ll give you one last chance to get it right.’

Septimus drew himself to his full height. At six foot four inches he stood half a head above the guard. The praetorian fully believed that he was in mortal danger, even though he was armed and the centurion before him was not.

He adroitly stood to attention and saluted, slamming his bunched fist against his metal breast-plate, his eyes now fixed dead ahead in regulation fashion.

‘Beg to report,’ he began. ‘My master, Senior Consul Scipio, orders you to attend his town house immediately.’

Septimus waited a moment in silence, a part of him still debating whether or not he should strike the guard for insubordination. The praetorian seemed to sense the centurion’s thoughts and instinctively braced himself for the blow.

‘Very well,’ Septimus said suddenly. ‘You’re dismissed,’ he added, realizing that it would be best not to send the guard back to Scipio with a black eye.

The praetorian saluted again and remounted his horse. He wheeled around and galloped off.

‘Domitian!’

‘Yes, Septimus,’ the foreman replied as he stepped out from inside the main door from where he had witnessed the exchange.

‘Order my personal aide to lay out my kit and have one of the stable lads ready a mount.’

Domitian acknowledged the command and was gone. Septimus strode to the main gate and watched the messenger weave his way through the throng of people on the street. He turned and entered the house and within minutes re-emerged in full dress uniform. He mounted the horse held by the stable lad and cantered out through the main gate.

Atticus approached the town house of the senior consul slowly, the winding streets keeping his mount down to a trot. He had followed the praetorian messenger from Ostia, relying on the guard to guide him to the city and to the senator’s house within. Atticus was a creature of the wide open expanses of the sea; whereas he could plot any course on the featureless water using the sun and stars, his sense of direction failed him completely in the enclosed streets of Rome. As he turned into the walled courtyard of Scipio’s town house he saw Septimus standing near the entranceway into the atrium beyond.

‘About time,’ Septimus called up. ‘I’ve had to wait here until you arrived.’

Atticus nodded a smile, knowing that the centurion was probably burning with the same curiosity as he was.

‘Any idea why we’ve been called now?’ he asked as he dismounted beside Septimus.

‘No. I only know from the news I heard on the street when I passed through the Forum Magnum that the Senate has approved the building of a fleet and both Scipio and Duilius will command it.’

‘Duilius?’ Atticus asked as both men passed under the entrance into the serenity of the atrium.

‘This year’s junior consul. Owns half of the land straddling the city and stocks most of the markets from his fields.’

Atticus nodded, realizing that he knew very little about the most important citizens of the city and the main players in the Senate.

The praetorian guard commander was waiting for them inside.

‘Come with me,’ he ordered brusquely, although his rank was no higher than the captain or centurion’s.

‘Friendly as ever,’ Septimus murmured.

The commander led them through a series of rooms, some obviously for entertaining guests and dining, and others that seemed to serve no visible purpose other than to display the artwork and statues adorning the space. The house was expansive, the simple courtyard and atrium deceptively small given the depth of the house. They came upon Scipio under the shade of an awning in an inner courtyard. He was sitting alone, apparently deep in thought. He did not look up as the three men entered.

The guard commander peeled off and the men of the Aquila approached alone.

‘Captain Perennis and Centurion Capito reporting as ordered,’ Atticus announced as both men snapped to attention.

‘Ah yes,’ Scipio said, looking up as if noticing them for the first time.

‘The Senate has decided to build a fleet of one hundred and fifty triremes. You are to report to Publius Cornelius Lentulus, the master shipbuilder in Ostia, and assist him in this task, specifically to relate to him your experience of the enemy and their capabilities.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ both men replied.

They waited for a further command but none was forthcoming. Scipio looked back down at his notes, seeming to forget the two officers. A full minute passed.

‘You’re dismissed!’ the senior consul finally said, and Atticus and Septimus turned on their heels and left.

The two men retraced their steps through the house back to the main courtyard where a stable lad held the reins of their horses.

‘By the gods, Septimus…’ Atticus breathed, his face a mask of astonishment. ‘One hundred and fifty galleys. It’s a mammoth task. It’ll take six months at least and then they’ll have to find men to crew them all.’

‘Atticus, Atticus…’ Septimus chided with a smile, amused by his friend’s astonishment. ‘Look around you, man. Look at the city that has been built here. Built by Scipio and others like him in the Senate. If they have decided that one hundred and fifty galleys are to be built, then built they shall be – and not within six months either. They know the threat is more imminent and the ships will be needed sooner. I’ll bet the deadline is half that time and the crews are already being levied as we speak.’

Atticus shook his head, disbelieving. Surely the Senate had set too big a task for Rome to complete.

Septimus looked up at the sun. It was an hour after midday.

‘We still have time to meet this master shipbuilder today,’ he said as he mounted. Atticus nodded and mounted his own horse, wheeling it around to follow Septimus out through the main gate. In his mind’s eye he tried to picture such a massive armada. He could not. His logical mind told him it wasn’t possible in the time they had. In six months the campaign season would be over and Sicily would be strewn with the starved bodies of the Second and Ninth legions. At best they had three months to break the blockade.

Septimus’s words echoed in his ears as he rode back towards the Forum Magnum and his eyes were drawn up to the magnificent buildings that surrounded the central plaza. They were truly the work of great men; determined men who set themselves a task and followed through regardless of the cost or consequences. Perhaps his friend was right; perhaps the Senate had set Rome the task knowing she could respond in kind. As his mind debated the mission ahead he subconsciously spurred his horse to a greater speed; his innate impatience to get started drove him on and he brushed past Septimus to take the lead. By the time they cleared the Porta Flumentana on the road to Ostia, their horses were galloping at full tilt.

‘Here they come again!’

Marcus Fabius Buteo spun around in the direction of the shouted warning in time to see yet another cavalry charge from the woods to the left of the marching column.

‘Form up!’ the centurion roared, and ran to position himself at the head of the lead transport wagon, the maniple’s signifer running behind him, the standard becoming the pivot point of the formation.

As Marcus ran, a Roman cavalry unit tore through a gap in the supply train, the riders’ heads low in an attempt to gain every ounce of speed from their mounts. The Carthaginian cavalry were over three hundred yards away. At full gallop they would cover the distance in less than twenty seconds. The Roman cavalry had to engage them fast and as far away from the valuable supplies as they could and so they rode like men possessed, the seemingly endless attacks pumping adrenaline through their veins to overcome the fatigue in both horse and rider.

‘Stand the line!’ Marcus shouted as the maniple formed around him. Every soldier heard the command and braced himself forward against the coming onslaught. The command meant no fall-back, no reserve rally point. There would be no further order to manoeuvre and they would fight where they stood, each man knowing the reason. They could not leave the supplies undefended.

The attacks had begun five days ago, before the legions had even crossed the territorial dividing line. The first surprise strike had been the most devastating. Although the maniples guarding the supplies, including the IV of the Ninth commanded by Marcus, reacted instantly to the cavalry charge, they were no match for the swift and manoeuvrable mounted enemy. Without the support of their own cavalry units, who were dispersed along the entire length of the three-mile-long marching column, the infantry soldiers could do little but hold their ground and defend themselves. It was at the point of impact in that first attack that Marcus realized the true target of the enemy. While small detachments peeled off the main cavalry charge to keep the infantry tied down, they made no attempt to push home their attack or penetrate the defensive shield walls of the legionaries. Instead their focus had been the supply wagons. Dozens of fire arrows had been loosed into the heaped wagons while spearmen targeted the tethered oxen. The result had been catastrophic. The Carthaginians had disengaged after only five frenzied minutes, leaving the supply train in chaos. Marcus, like the other centurions, had ordered the men to douse the flames while frantic appeals for support were sent up the line to the legion commanders. That first attack had cost them a tenth of their entire supplies.

The legions had camped that first night on the very spot of the attack, the engineers hastily erecting the protective palisade of a marching legion in enemy territory. The attack had been dissected in detail, the legions’ commanders quizzing the centurions who had witnessed the coordinated ambush. Changes were made. Defences were strengthened. Counter measures were deployed, including cavalry and a fire guard with responsibility for protecting the combustible supplies.

The ambushes had reached their peak on the third day when a combined force of enemy infantry and cavalry attacked at a river ford. The Romans had been quick to respond and the enemy had been severely bruised and routed, their foolhardy infantry suffering the most against the determined legionaries. The Carthaginians had switched back to exclusively mounted attacks after the minor setback and so now, on the fifth day, an hour after midday, Marcus and his men were forced to respond to yet another strike, the fourth that day.

From one hundred and fifty yards away, Marcus heard the crunch of steel, bone, man and horse as the two cavalry forces collided. The collision was vicious, the naked belligerence of both sides turning the fight into brutal combat where no quarter was asked or given. The men of the IV maniple could only watch in silence, their teeth bared in hatred at the enemy out of their reach. All eyes were on the chaotic mêlée.

‘On the flank!’

Marcus saw the danger immediately as he reacted to the cry. Another enemy cavalry unit of fifty mounted men had broken from the cover of the woods and were bearing directly down on his maniple’s position, bypassing the engaged Roman cavalry, heading straight for the supply train. The order went out for the Roman reserve cavalry to counter this second thrust, but Marcus knew they would not arrive in time, positioned as they were at the very rear of the supply train.

‘Charge weapons,’ the centurion shouted, and the men of his maniple roared a defiant primal scream as they thrust out their pila between their shields, presenting a wall of deadly steel to the approaching horsemen. The oxen behind the men bellowed in terror at the confused scene around them, the sound mixing with the war cries of the fast-approaching Punici. Marcus leaned forward into his shield and braced his left foot behind, steadying himself against the wave of man and beast approaching at the terrifying speed of thirty miles per hour. The ground beneath him trembled with the force of the charge.

‘Hastati!’ he shouted, the enemy now one hundred yards away.

‘Loose!’

The whooshing sound of forty pila released together filled the air above the shield wall as the hastati of the IV put their might behind the throw of their javelins, their craving to bring death to the enemy fuelling their effort. The javelins seemed to hang in the air for a heartbeat before falling into the oncoming charge. Man and horse buckled and fell under the deadly shower but the charge was barely checked and the Carthaginians came on over their fallen comrades with renewed hatred and drive.

‘Steady, boys!’ Marcus shouted, his men taking strength from the calmness of the command.

The cavalry charge turned at the last possible second, sweeping down the line of the shield wall, the deadly points of the bared pila forcing the turn. The Carthaginians hurled both fire arrows and spears into the supplies behind the wall of legionaries, striking blow after deadly blow against the precious supplies. One rider was slow to turn and his mount crashed straight into the braced, interlocked shields at the head of the maniple. The one-thousand-pound horse tore through the wall, catapulting two soldiers into the oxen and wagons behind, killing them instantly. The horse slammed directly against the six-foot-high wagon wheel with a sickening crunch. The Carthaginian rider was thrown and landed deep within the ranks of the legionaries where he was instantly dispatched under the blows of half a dozen blades.

As the last of the riders swept past Marcus, the centurion ordered a second volley of pila, this time into the undefended rear of the charge. Again the missiles had a deadly effect on their targets but again the charge did not waver. As the Carthaginians exhausted all their arrows and spears they peeled off and began their retreat to the woods, the lead rider sounding a horn that signalled to the Carthaginian cavalry engaged with the Romans that it should break off and retreat. Within an instant the field before the defending Romans was clear once again. The attack had lasted no more than four minutes.

Marcus ordered his maniple to regroup while he surveyed the aftermath. The enemy had left maybe a dozen or more of their number dead or dying on the field, while the Roman casualties were perhaps half that number amongst the cavalry, plus the two legionaries who had been crushed by the Carthaginian horse. Smoke was once again rising over four of the twenty laden supply wagons, but the fire guard was working efficiently and the threat was soon extinguished. The centurion counted eight oxen dead in their traces, the equivalent of an entire team for one wagon.

In the five days of attacks, Marcus estimated they had lost nearly twenty-five per cent of their entire supply train. They were ten days out from the castra hiberna at Floresta, which meant they were approximately four days short of the first besieged city of Makella. Four days, Marcus thought; four days before they could set up a more permanent defensive palisade as they worked to lift the siege of Makella. Four more days of attacks on the supplies before they could be properly protected. If things continued as they were, they would arrive at their first destination with half the supplies they had set out with. They would be able to resupply from the city once the siege was lifted, but only in terms of food and some basic equipment. Everything else was lost for good – irreplaceable until the blockade was lifted.

‘Form up!’ he commanded, echoing a similar command up and down the line as the last of the fires was extinguished and the depleted oxen were once again redistributed by their drivers. The IV maniple formed up behind the standard held high by the signifer. It had been singed in an attack two days before and the sight of the battered standard brought pride to Marcus’s chest, a fitting symbol of the fighting men of his command and a defiant reminder of the nine men he had lost over the previous five days.

The legions would reach Makella, of that there was no doubt, but the cost was high. The enemy knew where to hit them and how. They had attacked suddenly, with a ferocity born from sensing the closeness of the kill, the scent of a weakened and desperate enemy cut off from home. The legions would reach Makella but Marcus suspected they would go no further, the open marching column too easy a target for the focused attacks. At Makella they would make their stand, lifting the siege while being besieged themselves. Not by a visible enemy who offered battle, but by an unseen foe who snapped at their heels and sapped their strength.

‘March,’ Marcus shouted, his subconscious mind picking up the ripple of command as it fed down the line, his thoughts on the dark future ahead of them. His attention was brought back to the moment by the whip crack of the ox drivers. The men around them involuntarily started at the loud crack, their nerves strained to breaking point as they waited for the next cry of attack, knowing that the day was far from over.

‘Come.’

Atticus opened the door and entered the small office in the north wing of the castrum at Ostia. He was followed by Septimus, and the presence of the two men made the enclosed space seem claustrophobic. Publius Cornelius Lentulus, master shipbuilder of the Roman fleet, sat behind the desk poring over a scale model of a trireme made from light balsam timber. Parchments were strewn all around him, covering the desk and the wall-mounted shelves, many lying on the floor where they had fallen from the overloaded spaces. The master shipbuilder was an older man with thinning hair and a greying beard. He glanced up with a mild look of surprise on his face, as if he seldom received visitors in his office.

‘Yes?’

‘Captain Perennis and Centurion Capito of the Aquila,’ Atticus said by way of introduction.

‘Ah yes,’ Lentulus said genially as he stood up to greet the men, ‘my Carthaginian experts.’

Atticus smiled at the description. ‘Experts’ was stretching the description of their knowledge a little too far.

Lentulus led them out of his small office into a larger room down the corridor. This room also seemed to be in chaos, but the disorder was confined to a large table in the centre of the room. The table was surrounded on all sides by chairs, four of which were occupied by Lentulus’s team of junior craftsmen, each one an apprentice of the master. They stood as Lentulus entered but he signalled them to be seated with an impatient wave of his hand, as if the courtesy was not sought.

‘This is Captain Perennis and Centurion Capito of the Aquila,’ he announced. The four apprentices looked at the officers with intense interest. They had never seen a Carthaginian warship, and their natural curiosity for all things nautical fuelled their interest in the men; they would normally have considered them to be mere ballast on the magnificent ships they designed.

Lentulus chaired the conversation but he allowed his apprentices to ask the majority of the questions. Atticus described the ships he had encountered in detail, from their speed and manoeuvrability, to their size and draught. Septimus offered confirmation of the enemy’s deck layout and hatch placement from his memory of the fight aboard the Carthaginian galley, the upper features of the deck giving some indication of the hidden framework beneath. The questions were thorough, and in many cases Atticus did not have the answer the craftsmen sought, his knowledge limited to the sailing capabilities and his thoughts on the design merely subjective. Any unanswered questions sparked fierce debate amongst the competitive apprentices, and on two occasions the debate nearly erupted into blows before Lentulus intervened and brought the discussion back to order.

The interview lasted over two hours, and when Atticus and Septimus finally emerged from the room the sun had slipped below the western horizon. They walked to the Aquila in silence, both drained from the intense conversation. Atticus had not been given the opportunity to ask any questions of his own, particularly about what kind of schedule Lentulus envisioned for the completion of the fleet, although the master shipbuilder and his team didn’t seem to be wasting any time. Design and concepts were one thing, he thought; it was a whole other problem to implement those ideas and actually build a vessel.

The following morning Atticus woke as usual just before dawn. He dressed in a light tunic and went on deck. The morning was crisp with a cool breeze that held no cold and a promise of warmer spring weather as the sun rose in the eastern sky. The trading docks beyond the castrum were already busy, the half-light of the pre-dawn sufficient for the ships to manoeuvre to the dockside to begin the process of unloading, the shouted calls of their commanders muted as the sound carried over the harbour. Atticus ordered one of the crew to bring him some food, and he settled down on the aft-deck to eat. Septimus joined him half an hour after sunrise and they set off to Lentulus’s office once more.

They arrived there to find the master shipbuilder packing some of his hurried designs and supply manifests into a shoulder bag. He escorted the two officers to a coastal barge that was preparing to sail, explaining that they were heading to the coastal town of Fiumicino, two miles north of Ostia at the mouth of a small river that gave the town its name. The three men boarded and the barge immediately shoved off, passing the Aquila as she went, the trireme now the only galley tethered to the docks. The news of the Carthaginian fleet in the south had spread throughout Ostia and Rome and the traders had frantically called for extra escorts, the hidden danger beyond the horizon made terrible by wild rumour. The Senate had immediately agreed, fearful of a panic that would drive the traders from Rome’s shores, and so the entire Ostia fleet was now constantly at sea.

The coastal barge cleared the harbour with ease, the sea-lanes relatively quiet in the dawn light. Lentulus quizzed Atticus on some of the finer details of his experience with the Carthaginians, the master shipbuilder having been up for most of the night with his apprentices and having discovered further unknowns in the Carthaginian design. Atticus answered what questions he could. The two men were still deep in conversation when the barge came in sight of Fiumicino.

The coastal town was small and unremarkable, a fishing village that had changed little over the generations, its proximity to the centre of a mighty republic having little effect as the trade routes, on both land and sea, simply passed by on either side, the village a tiny island in the middle of a fast-flowing river of humanity. The beach stretched flat and wide north and south from the village, the sand an unusual black from the high level of ferrous deposits on the shoreline. There were two large trading barges beached on the shore immediately north of the mouth of the small river. Atticus counted four more holding station half a mile offshore.

As the coastal barge drew level with the beached traders, Atticus noted the frenzied activity on board and around the slightly tilted vessels, their broad, almost flat keels resting on the compacted sand. The ships were unloading timber, huge logs of oak and pine, which were being lowered onto waiting wagons to be hauled and pushed above the high-tide mark. The barge beached fifty yards beyond the northernmost trader and all disembarked, jumping down the eight feet into the ankle-deep waves. Atticus noticed immediately that the ground beneath his feet was rock solid and, although he had jumped from a height, he left no footprints in the black sand.

The tide was two hours from full and the aft section of the beached traders was already under three feet of water, the slaves and crew of the ship working frantically to unload the last remaining timbers. At high tide the vessel would float once more, the added buoyancy of an empty hull assisting the re-launch. Once away their place would be taken by the four traders waiting offshore.

The unloaded timbers were being sorted on the beach, the slaves’ activities commanded by two of Lentulus’s apprentices. One was working with the stockpile, separating oak from pine and further separating these in terms of length, girth and approximate age. The other apprentice was meticulously checking each timber, looking for signs of rot or fungal infection, rejecting even vaguely suspicious timbers to leave only the solid. For ones so young they worked with confidence and efficiency, their entire adolescent lives having been dedicated to their craft.

The men of the Aquila followed Lentulus above the beach, cresting a wind-formed dune to view the flatlands beyond. Both Atticus and Septimus stopped at the sight before them. A veritable city of tents had been erected directly behind the drift line of the dunes, the white canvas peaks stretching a mile northwards from the fishing village on their right. Everywhere men moved with purpose between the tents, many carrying the tools of their trade: carpenters, ironmongers, shipwrights and more. How long had it been, Atticus wondered in awe, forty-eight hours? Two days since the Senate formally announced the decision to build the fleet? The city had moved with incredible speed, the logistics seemingly effortless for a society as ordered as that of Rome. For the first time Atticus felt a creeping confidence about the task ahead.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hannibal Gisco watched the Romans’ activity from the heights above the city of Makella, having arrived from Panormus two days before, covering the twenty miles in one ride. He had witnessed the last of the attacks on the Romans’ supply train as they completed the remaining miles of their march. The ambushes were near ineffectual in themselves, the Romans’ anticipatory preparations and defence blunting the cavalry charge. And yet Gisco had noted minor damage to the supply column, a fallen ox, a burning wagon, as his cavalry retreated to the safety of the surrounding hills. When the Romans had resumed their march they had left a small pile of smouldering supplies in their wake, a mere drop of blood from a wounded beast, but when taken in combination with all the attacks of the past days, Gisco was sure those same wounds ran deep.

Gisco was joined on the summit ridge by Hamilcar, the initial uneasy truce between the two men having now developed into a more tactical alliance. Gisco, an admiral by rank and a sailor by nature, relied on Hamilcar’s greater experience on land and he had learned to trust the younger man’s instincts. Gisco also saw an advantage in forging a friendship with the heir of the Barca family, an ancient line that claimed a direct link to Queen Dido herself, the legendary founder of Carthage. The Barca clan had a permanent seat on the Council of Carthage, a seat now occupied by Hamilcar’s father, and Hamilcar often alluded to the close relationship he enjoyed with his father, a relationship Gisco planned to use to his own ends.

‘Prisoners in charge of their own prison.’ Hamilcar smiled at the sight of the last of the column unwinding into the rectangular palisade.

Gisco smiled in return at the description. It wasn’t far from the mark. Hamilcar had persuaded Gisco to abandon the siege of the city below, arguing that the prize was no longer necessary. The Romans were welcome to Makella, and Hamilcar was sure that the price they had exacted for the city’s freedom was more than the Romans had bargained for.

Marcus’s maniple was one of the last to ford the River Eleuterio before climbing the gentle slope into the palisade beyond. The countryside around him was quiet, the terraced vineyards unattended, the walled city of Makella – less than half a mile away – tranquil in the late evening light. The centurion’s eyes were drawn upwards to the surrounding hills, the tallest rising a thousand feet to the north. He was sure the enemy were somewhere nearby, watching their every move, and he hated the sensation.

The IV of the Ninth was no longer a frontline maniple, not on paper at least. The last nine days had cost Marcus fifteen dead and twenty-six wounded, fifteen of whom were walking and in the ranks. The other eleven were buried somewhere in the supply train on a wagon. Marcus had personally checked on the wounded men himself that very morning and he had come away bitter and angry, knowing he was going to lose at least four more before the day was out, their wounds mortal. The maniple would be stood down until replacements could be found, replacements that Marcus knew would never come, not from Rome at least. Now one of two scenarios would unfold: either another maniple would fold before his and he would be given the remnants, or his maniple would be broken up to feed others. For a proud fighting man it was a bitter coin toss.

From his tent in the centre of the encampment, Lucius Postumius Megellus, commander of the Second and Ninth, heard the shouted order for the gate to be closed. The sound gave him a profound sense of relief and he immediately chastised himself for the feeling, cursing the Carthaginians who had hounded his column for the past nine days and chased them like wolves until, now, Megellus only felt safe within the confines of a perimeter wall.

The camp was temporary only, built with the six-foot-long pointed oak sudis stakes that travelled with the column. The lead maniples had begun the camp three hours before dusk, laying out the boundaries of the rectangular encampment before beginning the digging of a trench, ten foot wide by five deep, the earth thrown inwards to form a rampart, on top of which the sudes were implanted and intertwined with lighter oak branches. The camp had been built each night on the march and dismantled each morning with an efficiency born out of repetition and training, the hard labour of construction forgotten each new day as the column marched onwards.

Megellus would now change the nature of the camp. He would order it transformed into a castra stativa, a standing camp. The walls would be made more solid. Stone would be gathered from the nearby river and added to the vulnerable points of the wall around the gates. Towers would be built on the four corners of the castrum to warn of any approach by the enemy.

The legate bit back the bile of disappointment that had emerged so soon in the campaign. Scouts had returned from the city with reports that the enemy had fled at the sight of the advancing column, although Megellus suspected they had simply withdrawn rather than offer combat to an enemy that would be defeated in time anyway, and with a lot less Carthaginian blood spilt.

The legate would confirm the reports in the morning by sending ten maniples to the city gates. The show of force would impress the Council of Makella and imbue in them a sense of victory, justifying their decision to support Rome and not Carthage. Megellus would then split his command and send the Second forward to cover the three days’ march to the city of Segeste, again to lift the siege that the legate was sure would be already lifted when they arrived. The enemy would attack their supplies on the march and again there would be losses, the quartermaster estimating that already nearly half of their original equipment was gone.

The Second would take Segeste but would go no further. They would build a second standing camp, a second island in a sea of hostility. The campaign would grind to a halt, the army forced onto the defensive in an effort to protect and hoard its valuable, now irreplaceable supplies. This was no way to fight a war, Megellus thought bitterly, a man used to fighting aggressively and offensively.

The legate walked out of his tent and observed the hurried activity around him as the army prepared to bed down for the night. It was becoming dark and Megellus watched the vigilae, the night guard, take their posts on the walls, their eyes searching the darkened surrounding countryside for the unseen enemy. There will be no attacks this night, Megellus thought sarcastically, for why would the Carthaginians attack the now inert Roman army. Only two weeks before Megellus had informed his men that the campaign would continue as before, as if the blockade did not exist, but the Carthaginians’ tactic of specifically targeting the supplies had thwarted the legate’s intentions. The Punici had drawn their blades and used them to deadly effect. The legions were now hamstrung, crippled and cut off from home.

At the forefront of Megellus’s thoughts were the vital questions of how long the legions could now hold out in hostile territory, for without resupply they would eventually have to turn back – and how far they would need to withdraw. On the first question, only time would tell. The second? If the legions did finally withdraw, the Carthaginians would pursue them, of that there was no doubt, the enemy gaining strength and confidence as the legions bled those same resources into the sand. With a dread feeling Megellus answered this second question in his mind. If the tables were turned he knew what he would do. He would pursue the enemy to the bitter end. The Punici would employ the same determination they had shown over the previous nine days. The legions would be pursued past the territorial dividing line of the last campaign. They would be pursued past their winter camp and, finally, if the Carthaginians were not checked, the Second and Ninth would be pushed into the sea itself.

Atticus crouched down and scooped a handful of seawater from the shallow surf, splashing the water onto his face in an effort to clear the exhaustion from his mind. One hundred yards away the Aquila rested gently against her anchor line, the setting sun reflected in the wave tops thrown up as the shifting current broke against her hull. Atticus stood up and turned his back on the shoreline, walking slowly up the gentle slope of the beach at Fiumicino, arching his back as he went to stretch his tired muscles. He glanced over his shoulder one last time to see the two crewmen who had rowed him ashore already asleep in the bottom of the small skiff. After another sixteen-hour day training raw recruits, Atticus couldn’t begrudge them the rest, and he silently cursed the late hour of the summons from the camp prefect which kept him from his own cabin.

Atticus had asked to see Tuditanus five days before, the same day the training schedules had been issued to the galleys, the Aquila amongst them, tasked with training the new sailing crews arriving daily at Fiumicino. Atticus had instantly come ashore to see the camp prefect but his request for a meeting had been denied, as had every repeated request since. Until now.

Walking up the beach, Atticus was once more struck with awe by the activity surrounding him. For the past week he had watched as barge after barge, marching column after marching column arrived at the coastal village, to fill the beach with raw materials and the tented city with sailors and soldiers. Fiumicino was now home to some ten thousand people, half of them craftsmen, who laboured every daylight hour to turn rough raw timber into graceful spars and frames for the developing fleet, and so now, as Atticus crested the dunes at the head of the beach, the skeletal frames of twenty triremes stood tall on the sand above the high-water mark.

The camp prefect’s tented quarters stood apart from the main camp, enclosed within a palisade on a patch of raised ground overlooking the village of Fiumicino. Atticus identified himself at the gate before being ushered in, his arrival expected by the guards. He ducked under the awning of the tent and stood to attention, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the gloom of the interior. Tuditanus sat silently behind his desk poring over a series of scrolls, murmuring quietly to himself before he raised his head to acknowledge Atticus. A former manipular centurion and veteran of the Pyrrhic War, Tuditanus now held the highest rank an equestrian could achieve in the legions, and his attitude was one of a man completely at ease with his station in life.

He held Atticus’s gaze for a full minute before standing up and circling around to the front of his desk.

‘You asked to see me, Captain Perennis?’ Tuditanus said impatiently.

Atticus instantly bit back the words that rushed to his lips. ‘Yes, Camp Prefect,’ he answered evenly. ‘It’s about the training schedule issued to the galleys.’

‘Go on…’ Tuditanus said slowly, irritation in his voice.

‘I believe the approach ordered is wrong,’ Atticus said in a rush, his course set. ‘The new crews can’t be trained to ram in the time we have. We need to teach the crews how to steer a galley for boarding and make that our priority.’

‘You believe a Roman sailor cannot be taught how to ram?’

‘No, Camp Prefect, not in the time we have.’

‘The time we have?’

‘The time the legions in Sicily have.’

Tuditanus nodded, although Atticus could clearly see it was not in agreement.

‘You’re Greek, are you not, Captain?’

‘Yes, but I don’t see—’

‘And you believe the orders of your Roman commander are ill-advised?’ Tuditanus asked, cutting Atticus short.

Once again Atticus held his words, anger flaring in him as he was confronted anew by Roman arrogance. He breathed deeply, his mind searching for a way to persuade the camp prefect that the orders were wrong without saying as much.

‘I know Lentulus chose a traditional design to speed up construction because his apprentices and many of the craftsmen have built identical galleys in the past. But I also know that the Carthaginian galleys are stronger than our own and their crews more skilled – and we can’t be guaranteed victory if we rely on the ram.’

Tuditanus circled and stood once more behind his desk, bunching his fists as he leaned forward.

‘You Greeks are all the same. You underestimate Rome, Perennis, with the same arrogance your ancestors did.’

Atticus made to protest again but Tuditanus silenced him with a raised hand. ‘Now let me be very clear on this,’ he continued, his gaze piercing, ‘the sailing crews will be trained how to ram and you will make that your priority. If I hear that you are doing otherwise, I’ll have you and your crew flogged before the entire camp. Now get out of my sight.’

Atticus saluted and turned on his heel, the acid rising in his stomach as he fought to suppress his anger. Minutes later he was back at the water’s edge, kicking the hull of the skiff to waken the two crewmen who were instantly at the oars, their captain’s dark mood quickening their oar-strokes as they skulled through the darkness.

Scipio crested the windblown dune at the head of the beach south of Fiumicino and paused, allowing his stallion to breathe easy after the twelve-mile gallop from the city. His guard detail of four mounted praetoriani halted ten paces behind him. The senior consul had left his town house in the half-light an hour before dawn, and now, forty minutes later, it was as if he had travelled to the shore of a distant land. The southern beach before him was deserted and seemed unworldly after the enclosed, cramped streets of the capital and the busy northern trade road, the Via Aurelia, five miles inland. Scipio breathed deeply, the cleansing, salt-laden onshore breeze fresh in his face.

The final decisions on the fleet had been made over a week before, and since then he had been working tirelessly on the organizational elements of the plan, his position as fleet commander giving him overall responsibility for the task. With the full support and power of the Senate behind him, Scipio had issued a number of sweeping decrees which immeasurably speeded up the process. Entire crews were drafted from the trading populace of Ostia. An army of slaves had been commandeered from the surrounding estates and towns to provide labour. Their combined strength would be used to construct the fleet and then it would be harnessed to propel the ships through the water as each slave would be sent to man the oars of the very ships they built. Fleets of transport barges had also been requisitioned and the vital raw materials they carried seized by order of the Senate. The decrees had been brutal. Scipio had no doubt that many traders had already lost their livelihood as a result of the enforced orders and yet he felt no remorse. Rome was threatened, therefore Rome must react. If individuals had to be sacrificed for the greater good then so be it. History would remember men like Scipio and the glory of Rome. No one would remember the casualties.

The senior consul swept his eyes northwards, to the beach on the other side of the small fishing village that straddled the mouth of the river. The area was beginning to come alive, the sun’s imminent arrival signalling the start of the working day. Scipio spurred his horse and trotted down onto the almost stone-hard sand. His guard followed. The group crossed the river at the edge of its mouth, where the ground met the incoming tidal waves. The dual action created a natural ford and the shallow water splashed high as the horses’ hooves cut its surface. Once on the other side the group turned up the beach, passing the frame of a partially constructed trireme as they did so. This was the first time Scipio had been to the site and his eyes swept over every detail before him, the endless lists he had reviewed in Rome made real on the beach at Fiumicino. The galley frame was almost lost in a forest of supports and yet Scipio could make out the sharp lines of the vessel beneath. Even now, although it was only partly built and was caged by scaffolding, the galley looked as if it would soar over the water, and Scipio felt a surge of admiration for the craftsmanship of his fellow Romans.

Scipio counted twenty frames in number, the exact total he had seen on an obscure list a week before. When the decision had been made to build the fleet, there had only been sufficient material and skilled labour available in the immediate vicinity of Rome to construct these twenty ships. Even now supplies were arriving and being distributed that would fuel the construction of a further one hundred and thirty galleys, but the twenty before him would put to sea first. Scipio entered the tented city and headed for the camp prefect’s quarters. A lantern was lit inside, the occupant already working diligently. Scipio had chosen Tuditanus personally, his choice based on two facts. The first, that Tuditanus was a hard taskmaster and would stick rigorously to any schedule, and the second, that Tuditanus was in Scipio’s employ and, while on the surface he might report to the Senate, in reality he answered only to the senior consul.

Septimus woke thirty minutes before dawn, his mind surfacing through a groggy fog of fatigue. As he rose he looked across the dark cabin to the sleeping figure of Atticus, his friend laid out as if he had been knocked unconscious. He crept from the cabin, gathering up his sword and shield as he did and climbed the aft-gangway to the deck above. The mood up top was subdued, the men on duty coming to the end of their watch as dawn approached. Septimus ordered one of them below to get him food while he washed his face with water in a futile attempt to refresh himself. Atticus emerged five minutes later, Septimus noticing that under the dark lines of fatigue on his face the captain was seething with anger.

‘I take it your meeting with Tuditanus didn’t go well?’ he prompted as Atticus took the basin of water and poured the contents over his head. A week before, Atticus had outlined his fears to Septimus, the centurion immediately deferring to his friend’s experience, sharing his impatience as they waited for Tuditanus’s summons.

‘The bastard completely ignored me. He said I was underestimating the Romans,’ Atticus replied, slamming his fist onto the railing as he looked out over the beach.

‘Maybe he has a point, Atticus,’ Septimus said. ‘Lentulus is a clever man and Tuditanus is no fool.’

‘So you think because I’m not Roman I’m wrong?’ Atticus countered, his anger rising anew.

‘That’s not what I said,’ Septimus replied, keeping his tone even, sensing that Atticus was close to losing his temper.

Atticus curbed his anger, knowing it was misplaced when directed at his friend.

‘So what now?’ Septimus asked.

‘Now I need your help,’ Atticus replied. ‘I can’t risk training the recruits yet on boarding manoeuvres, but we’ve got to give the legionaries a fighting chance. Can you train them on some of the techniques for boarding?’

‘My own orders call for me to demonstrate our knowledge of Carthaginian tactics, but I think I’ve enough scope to teach them some of the basics,’ Septimus smiled, liking the idea of circumventing the camp prefect’s orders.

Atticus nodded his thanks as he noticed a number of skiffs disembarking from the beach, each one filled with the sailing recruits who would spend their day on the Aquila. The sight prompted Septimus to make his way to the main deck before climbing over the side and down a rope ladder into the small skiff tethered to the galley. A crewman of the Aquila was waiting there for him, the week-old daily routine dictating the steps of both men. As Septimus sat down, the crewman pushed off and started to row towards the shore.

Septimus jumped out of the skiff into the ankle-deep water and walked up onto the beach. All around him the area was coming to life as drowsy men walked off their weariness and stretched tired muscles. A long day ahead. He crested the dune at the top of the beach and walked onto the flat coastal plateau behind, heading towards the hastily erected training camp at the northern end of the tented city, an expansive square of land that housed the legionaries of the Fourth, the Roman legion that had arrived at the beginning of the week. Septimus had been tasked with instructing one of the maniples on the fighting skills of the Carthaginians, specifically on how men trained in one-to-one encounters.

The centurion was challenged at the gate of the camp by two of the vigilae, the night guard, who, although three hours into their watch, stood alert and ready. A tightly run legion, Septimus thought, as he identified himself. He passed through and headed for the quarters of his own men, spotting Quintus, his optio, standing beside a fire with two of the twenty principes of the Aquila’s half-century. They were having a murmured conversation, keeping their voices low in the quiet time before dawn.

The optio spotted his commander approaching and broke away from the two men.

‘Good morning, Centurion.’

‘Morning, Quintus…all quiet?’

‘As a grave. With the work we have those legionaries doing, they’re sleeping like babies.’

Septimus smiled at the description. The men of the Fourth were anything but babies. As one of the legions of the northern army, the Fourth had historically been at the centre of all of the major conflicts as Rome expanded her borders northwards. Their symbol was the boar, and it was a suitable emblem, for the soldiers were both vicious and stubborn. Septimus realized that the latter quality would make the task ahead more difficult.

Septimus turned to his optio as a trumpet sounded for roll call.

‘Quintus, I want to shift the focus of training and teach the legionaries some of the basics of boarding.’

‘Yes, Centurion,’ Quintus replied, Septimus noticing the underlying scepticism in his optio’s voice. Having gone through the training only ten months before, the techniques and steps were fresh in Septimus’s mind; however, he would let Quintus, a marine with two full years’ experience, take the lead on the agenda.

‘So, what do you think is the best way to proceed?’

‘We introduce them to the hoplon.’

Septimus nodded, knowing that that portion of the training was especially difficult for men used to handling the four-foot scutum shields of the legions.

‘We have to start somewhere, and the sooner the legionaries realize that they don’t have a shield that will defend their torso and legs at the same time, the better,’ Quintus added.

‘Agreed,’ Septimus said, as the men of the V maniple of the Fourth formed up in the training square. Their centurion, Marcus Junius Silanus, approached and Septimus groaned inwardly. Silanus had absolutely no respect for marines, an opinion he constantly expressed both to Septimus and to the men of his own maniple.

‘What’s on today’s agenda, marine?’ he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

Septimus drew himself up to his full height, a good two inches taller than Silanus, the centurion’s tone goading him.

‘More of the same, Silanus,’ Septimus replied, ‘just teaching your boys how to fight.’

Silanus bristled at the slight against his maniple.

‘Look, marine,’ Silanus growled, ‘orders are orders – which means my maniple has to sit here and watch your men dance around all day, but don’t think for one second you can teach the V anything about real fighting.’ He turned on his heel and marched back to his men. Septimus watched him go, angry at himself for allowing Silanus to incite him into another round of insults. If he was going to prepare the legionaries for naval warfare, he needed to get Silanus on side.

An hour later, Quintus finished his demonstration to the assembled maniple of the Fourth. Septimus called for questions but none was forthcoming; he knew the silence was not because the men completely understood the techniques of fighting with a rounded hoplon shield, but rather because of the contempt the legionaries felt for the foreign shield. At the eye of that contempt was Silanus, the centurion providing a focal point of disdain for the marines and their method of fighting, and by extension the Carthaginians. Septimus caught the centurion’s eye and held his gaze. If the men of the V maniple were going to be trained, Septimus knew that Silanus would have to be taught first.

Lucius Fulfidias reached out from his position at the front of the small skiff and grasped the rope ladder. With a single fluid movement he swung his feet onto the rungs and quickly climbed onto the deck of the Aquila. The four other men in his skiff followed suit. He was the captain of the newly formed command crew, chosen because of his experience commanding trading galleys, while the other four men were his second-in-command, helmsman, boatswain and drum master. Four other skiffs were quickly alongside, each one containing the five men of a command crew. Once on board, Fulfidias followed the other trainee captains to the aft-deck where the young commander of the military trireme stood confidently beside his helmsman. Fulfidias sneered inwardly at the sight, disliking the man and what he represented, a servitude enforced by Rome – and the young pup wasn’t even Roman himself, he was a bloody Greek. Who in Hades was he to command a galley of the Republic?

Fulfidias was a trader from Naples, his ship a nimble bireme named the Sol. She was a small vessel, her cargo hold tiny in comparison to the gigantic trading barges, but she was fast and the shallow draught allowed her to berth at any port. It was this flexibility and speed that had given Fulfidias a niche in the markets of Ostia and Rome. For over ten years he had built a reputation of being the first to market with the pick of every season’s first crop. It was not a commodity for the common man, but one for the affluent of Rome who, as a sign of their status and wealth, liked to be the first to serve each new season’s bounty at their table when entertaining guests. Fulfidias traded primarily in new-season wines from the Gaulish coast, and first spring lambs and suckling pigs from Campania. It was a lucrative business, with the rich paying exorbitant prices to have goods merely weeks before their social peers.

Two weeks before, when the Roman military had begun trawling the port of Ostia for crews to man their new fleet, the Sol had been in dry dock, her hull undergoing repairs to damage caused by the odious shipworm that had dug deep into the timbers of the bireme. With his ship temporarily out of action, Fulfidias had been left with nowhere to go to, and he had been indentured into military service at the Senate’s pleasure.

As Fulfidias waited on the aft-deck for the remaining crews to come on board the Aquila, his thoughts strayed to his own ship. She would be afloat by now, the repairs only three days short of completion when he had been drafted into service. She would be sitting at the dockside in Ostia instead of heading south under a favourable wind to Campania, where the approach of spring heralded the birthing season for sheep. In another week Fulfidias knew it would be too late for him to set sail and another trader would beat him to market with the prized lambs. The market of Ostia had no loyalty, no honour if those virtues stood in the way of profit, and so the men who regularly dealt with Fulfidias would immediately deal with the new supplier. The contacts and negotiating terms carefully built up by Fulfidias over ten years would be wiped away in one season.

As the trireme got under way, the young military commander began explaining the training that the teams would be undergoing that day. Fulfidias was not listening. He had sailed on trading galleys for over thirty years and he firmly believed there was nothing the young pup could teach him that he didn’t already know. The captain of the Sol raged internally at the injustice of life. The injustice of a system that robbed him of his livelihood with impunity. He had been forced into service, knowing that a refusal would result in banishment from the sea-lanes of Rome, and so he had acquiesced, but only to the point of being present. For Fulfidias that presence fulfilled his portion of the unfair contract.

Atticus finished his description of the day’s training ahead to the assembled captains and helmsmen on the aft-deck as the Aquila headed for the open sea. Of the ten men present, a half-dozen or so seemed to be giving the discussion their full attention, the number an increase on the day before. The others were distant, while two had expressions of open hostility. Atticus could understand their frustration and anger. He had chosen the life he led, a life dedicated to the navy. The men around him had also chosen their own path, until Rome had decided that they would follow her whim.

Atticus did his best to inject respect into his instructions, knowing that some of the men had greater experience of seamanship than he, albeit on non-military vessels. Many of the helmsmen and captains had sailed on galleys before and had a firm grasp of the basics, but they lacked the tactical thinking and fast decision-making skills required of a military commander. At sea and in battle, the line between victory and defeat was often drawn between men who commanded the events of the battle and men who simply reacted to the attacks of others. To be victorious at sea a captain needed to take the fight to the enemy.

As the Aquila sailed directly away from the shore she passed through the busy north–south sea-lane. The trireme was under oar power and so Gaius deferred to the sail-propelled vessels as he nimbly negotiated the crossing. Atticus looked over his shoulder at the receding shoreline. Against the black sands of Fiumicino, the polished skeletal frames of the new triremes stood out like ivory on black marble, their purpose evident even to an untrained eye. The spread of news in Ostia, Rome – in fact the whole Republic – was the result of the interconnected threads of the trading routes. That Rome could not keep anything secret was simply an unavoidable side effect of trade. The problem could not have been avoided, even if the camp had been placed away from a trading route. From the ships supplying raw materials to the merchants supplying the camp, there were simply too many people interacting with the site. It was only a matter of time before the Punici knew every detail there was to know about Rome’s new fleet.

Atticus cursed inwardly as he counted the odds stacked against them. Currently the Romans had no advantages over the Carthaginians. News of the new fleet would spread south eventually and the element of surprise would be lost. The enemy ships were heavier and crewed by more experienced sailors, highly skilled in ramming, while the newly recruited Roman crews were hopelessly unskilled. The Roman legionaries were certainly a match for the Carthaginians but, because of Tuditanus, they lacked the skills necessary for boarding and so could not carry the fight to the deck of an enemy galley.

As the Aquila cleared the last vessels of the sea-lane, Atticus turned once more to his trainees. It was time to begin. The training schedule was tedious and unrelenting and the recruits far from ready for battle. He could teach them the basics of every manoeuvre but in the end it was experience that counted. He could only hope they would have enough time.

CHAPTER NINE

‘How old is this report?’ Gisco roared. ‘Ten days at least,’ the messenger said, cringing from the admiral’s furious gaze.

‘Ten days! Ten days and it’s only reaching me now?’

Gisco stormed forward with the parchment crushed in his balled fist. He raised his arm and made to strike the messenger. The man drew back and threw his arm up to protect himself, knowing that the admiral’s fury would make any defence useless. Gisco stopped short and looked upon the cowering man with disgust.

‘Get out!’ he shouted, and the messenger fled.

The admiral turned and walked over to the desk in the centre of his tent high in the hills overlooking Makella.

The past five days had been quiet, the Romans now firmly ensconced in their camp beside the city walls below. The Romans had marched half their forces west to the city of Segeste two days after their arrival at Makella, their goal to once again lift a siege that Gisco had already lifted. The admiral had accompanied Hamilcar on the three-day shadow column that harassed and attacked the marching Romans’ supplies, and had personally directed two of the ambushes. As before, their attacks, when viewed individually, had been relatively ineffective, but taken as a whole, they had inflicted significant losses on the Romans’ irreplaceable provisions. The two weeks of fighting had cost Gisco over four hundred cavalry, but he had robbed the Roman legions of their manoeuvrability. It had been an uneven trade in his favour and he had been satisfied with the deal.

Until now. The news on the document in his hand changed everything. At first he had looked at it with incomprehension. It had only been a few weeks – four at most – since the blockade had been imposed, and yet, if the report was to be believed, the Romans were already building a fleet to challenge his own. How could they have moved so fast? And with such aggression? The Roman military’s prowess on land was well established and was such that Gisco was unwilling to attack them until the odds were heavily in his favour. Their navy, however, had always been inconsequential when compared to that of the Carthaginians. Their galleys were light and fast, but they were weak-hulled and no match for his own.

Gisco had one hundred and ten galleys in the waters around the west and north coast of Sicily. Surely the Romans could not dare to hope to overcome them? And yet the admiral knew from experience that the Romans did not do anything by half. The report was based on two things: one fact and the other rumour. The fact was the location of the new fleet, two miles north of Ostia on the Roman coast. The rumour was its size, and was stated as ‘in excess of one hundred’. This second part of the report would have to be verified. Gisco called for his aide and issued instructions for his horse to be prepared. He would leave for Panormus on the coast immediately. One thing was certain, one thing the report did not state but which was true nonetheless: the Romans were taking the fight to the Carthaginians. ‘Good,’ Gisco thought, buckling his scabbard, ‘we’ll be ready for them.’

‘So when will they be ready to sail?’ Scipio asked.

This was his second day at the camp and by now the senior consul was fully informed of almost every aspect of the operation. Only this one crucial question remained to be answered.

‘In four days,’ Tuditanus replied.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, the hulls were completed on the twenty galleys yesterday. All that remains is the inner works, which have been immeasurably simplified to suit the task.’

‘Simplified how?’ Scipio asked, his natural curiosity aroused.

‘We have stripped out everything bar the bulkheads and the upper and lower decks. There will be no cabins, storage decks or sleeping quarters.’

Scipio nodded, understanding the logic of the decision. The fleet was being built for battle, a confrontation that would occur sooner rather than later. At this point in time there was no need to look at the functionality of the ships beyond the oncoming clash, the future beyond the battle still shrouded in uncertainty.

‘Do not tell the Senate of this schedule. If asked, your answer is six days. I want no one to know the ships will be ready in four.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ Tuditanus answered, never questioning the senior consul’s motives, Scipio’s gold being sufficient to command his allegiance.

Scipio dismissed Tuditanus and sat back on the couch in the expansive tent. In four days the first twenty galleys of the new fleet would be ready to sail. The Senate’s decision on command would be followed, but on the senior consul’s terms. He would take charge of these first twenty ships. What was important now was to take the initiative. The people of Rome were anxious to hear about the new fleet, anxious to know that the threat of the Carthaginians was being dealt with. The man who commanded the first fleet to sea would be the man they would remember. Scipio would be that man. He would sail the twenty new galleys into the port of Ostia and step triumphantly onto the dock, the backdrop of new triremes a show of force that would for ever after be associated with Scipio. In his mind’s eye he pictured every detail of the event. It would be perfect.

Septimus felt an incredible sense of freedom well up within him as he galloped along the Via Aurelia towards Rome. He glanced over his shoulder and spied Atticus hard on his heels, the captain’s expression mirroring his own, the unexpected furlough giving both men the opportunity to escape the confines of Fiumicino for twenty-four hours. Both men were acutely aware that this was going to be their last leave before sailing south again, and so Septimus had decided to visit his family home one last time. Atticus, a stranger in the city, had asked to accompany him and Septimus had quickly agreed.

An hour after leaving the camp at Fiumicino, Atticus and Septimus arrived at the Capito home. As before, and aware that her son was visiting for perhaps the last time, Salonina sent a messenger for her daughter. Hadria arrived in time for the evening meal and the family sat down together, the probable finality of the occasion neither acknowledged nor discussed.

The meal lasted three hours; however, when Salonina finally announced her intention to retire, Atticus was filled with disappointment at the shortness of the evening. Her husband Antoninus rose with her and both took their leave of the group before departing. The table before them was clear except for wine goblets and a half-filled amphora, the servants having cleared away all traces of the meal. Atticus, Hadria and Septimus sat in silence. Atticus leaned forward and picked up his wine, his smile returned by Hadria. He willed Septimus to go, to leave him and Hadria alone, although he was unsure what he would do if such an opportunity presented itself. The silence dragged on.

Hadria felt lightheaded. The pleasure of the evening combined with the wine she had drunk filled her with an enormous sense of wellbeing and she smiled unabashedly. She had noticed Atticus look at her again during the evening, his gaze intense and searching. Hadria recalled her first impressions of Atticus weeks before, how handsome he was, his dark Grecian complexion made striking by his green eyes. She also remembered becoming acutely aware of Atticus’s sidelong glances at her that evening and the touch of his gaze had sent shivers down her spine. For days afterwards she had been plagued by guilt, her attraction to Atticus feeling like a betrayal of Valerius; but now – as before – she did not want the night to end, and so she waited, content to know that Atticus was near her.

Septimus fought hard to suppress his growing disquiet at what he was witnessing, all the while wondering if he was misjudging the looks being exchanged between Atticus and his sister. His boyhood friend Valerius had been dead less than a year and, although his mother had said that Hadria’s heart was free, Septimus felt it was wrong for his friend and sister to share any feelings of attraction.

‘Atticus?’ Hadria asked, her voice finally breaking the silence. ‘Tell me about your ship. Why is she called the Aquila?’

‘She is named after the star constellation,’ Atticus answered, and began to describe the positions of the five major stars that formed the figure in the night sky. Hadria leaned in close to follow his every word.

‘Aquila was a faithful servant of Jupiter, the king of the gods,’ Atticus explained. ‘During the king’s war with the Titans on earth the eagle carried Jupiter’s lightning bolts from the heavens to strike the Titans. After the war was won, Jupiter immortalized Aquila in the stars as a reward for his loyalty.’

Hadria noticed that Atticus spoke in hushed tones, his deep, sonorous voice giving passion to the ancient story, a passion that reflected his obvious bond to his ship.

‘Loyalty…’ Septimus said suddenly, breaking the spell around Hadria, ‘the cornerstone of any friendship. Wouldn’t you agree, Atticus?’

‘What?’ he said, looking over at Septimus, the centurion’s expression unreadable.

Hadria was also unable to read Septimus’s face, but she knew the tone of his voice, knew its portent with the absolute certainty of a sibling. The underlying menace was undeniable. Her mind raced to understand its cause until she suddenly realized the reason for Septimus’s animosity. Valerius.

‘Septimus,’ Hadria said, cutting off her brother’s repetition of his question, ‘it’s late and I’m tired. Would you kindly escort me to my room?’

The suddenness of the request and the sweetness of the tone in which it was made arrested Septimus’s comment. Hadria stood up and made to leave the room, her brother falling in beside her. She glanced over her shoulder at Atticus who looked confused by the sudden turn of events.

‘Goodnight, Atticus,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound dispassionate.

‘Goodnight, Hadria. Goodnight, Septimus.’

The centurion did not return the platitude and the brother and sister left the room.

The abrupt end to the night and Hadria’s hasty departure had caught Atticus off guard. He had been acutely disappointed when Septimus had not left after the meal, but he had still held out hope that he would be able to engineer a moment alone with Hadria. Despite his frustration he smiled to himself. Perhaps there would be another chance.

Hadria turned at her door to say goodnight to her brother. He still looked slightly aggravated but she pretended not to notice and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The intimate gesture returned a slight smile to his face.

‘Goodnight, Septimus,’ she said.

‘Hadria?’ Septimus said, catching his sister lightly by the forearm, arresting her departure. ‘Do you no longer mourn for Valerius?’

Hadria sighed, her expression kind, sensing the question had been on her brother’s mind.

‘I think about him every day, Septimus, but I have learned to live without him in my heart.’

Septimus nodded, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance, his memory on the Battle of Agrigentum a year before, standing shoulder to shoulder with Valerius in the centre of the line as the final assault of the Carthaginian heavy infantry rushed towards them.

‘So you will marry again?’ he asked softly.

‘I have little choice, brother, but yes, I will marry again. I can only hope to someone worthy of Valerius’s memory.’

Again Septimus nodded, this time his eyes looking to Hadria’s.

‘And I hope you will never feel that pain of loss again,’ he replied, gently squeezing his sister’s forearm in affection. ‘Goodnight, Hadria,’ he smiled.

Hadria returned his smile before closing her door. She stood in the darkness of her room, listening to the receding sound of her brother’s footsteps, remembering his parting words, sensing that his hope encompassed them both. It was only then that she recalled the lie she had just told her brother. There had been many days over the previous weeks that she had not thought of Valerius; she had thought only of another man, a man who had crept into her feelings and into her heart.

‘Well, where in Hades are they?’ Marcus cursed, his hand instinctively going for the hilt of his gladius as his eyes scanned the near-impenetrable line of trees.

‘I don’t know, Centurion. They followed a deer into that copse about ten minutes ago,’ Corin, the optio, replied, indicating the island of dense woodland at the top of the rise.

‘Just the two of them?’

‘Yes, Centurion. Legionaries Gratian and Nerva.’

Marcus immediately pictured the two men in his mind.

‘I left strict standing orders that no group smaller than a contubernia was to detach from the maniple.’

‘Yes, Centurion,’ Corin replied, knowing that terse answers and complete agreement was always the safest option when addressing a superior officer, especially an officer with Marcus’s reputation for discipline.

Marcus cursed again and walked forward towards the copse, his shield raised slightly to cover his flank. He searched the line of trees again, suppressing the urge to call out the men’s names. With the Roman encampment at Makella three miles behind him, his maniple was deep in enemy territory, and any overt betrayal of their position could be fatal.

Marcus unconsciously flexed the muscles of his sword arm, the cramps becoming more frequent as his body reacted to the lack of salt in his system. The ration had been halted more than a week before and so now Marcus, like every other legionary of the Ninth, was experiencing the onset of salt deprivation. The movement of his arm relaxed the tortured muscle, allowing Marcus’s mind to fixate once again on the ever-present ache in his stomach.

The food supplies of the legion were near exhaustion and, with the camp and the adjoining city both effectively under siege, the legions had been forced to engage in foraging. It was a normal practice for a fighting army in the field, but one that carried significant risks. The Carthaginians knew how tenuous the Romans’ supply situation was, and so their attacks on the foraging parties were marked by their intensity and ferocity. Legate Megellus was forced to send units no smaller than a maniple into the surrounding countryside and the parties had to range further and further in an effort to keep the camp supplied.

The IV of the Ninth had left camp at dawn to forage in the valley to the north of the encampment. Marcus’s maniple was once again near full strength, the death of Centurion Valerius of the VII resulting in the cannibalization of his maniple to feed and replenish others. The resulting influx of men from the VII, proud men who resented the break-up of their maniple, had infused Marcus’s command with a miasma of anger and isolation that had badly affected morale.

Marcus glanced over his shoulder at his assembled men. To a man their expressions were grim and angry. When facing the enemy those expressions signified the ferocity of a fighting legion. Now, those same expressions represented the low morale and simmering discontentment of hungry men. After three hours of foraging, the wagon accompanying them held only wild game and fowl, barely enough to feed the maniple itself. The Carthaginians had swept the countryside of livestock and grain stores, creating an island of hungry men in a sea of ravaged farmland, and the desperation of his men was palpable, a desperation that fuelled their indiscipline and the reckless action of Gratian and Nerva.

Marcus turned once more to the tree-line and spat in anger. When the two legionaries returned Marcus knew he would have to order a harsh punishment for their insubordination. He could only hope they would return empty-handed. If they carried a deer on their shoulders the men would cheer their return, a cheer that would instantly turn to resentment when Marcus had the men flogged for disobeying the standing order. It was brutal discipline but entirely necessary if the men were to be kept in check. With their backs to the wall, any lapse in the rule of command would result in anarchy.

Marcus tensed as he caught a flicker of movement within the copse. ‘About bloody time,’ he cursed as he hardened his expression. Out of the corner of his eye he caught another disturbance, the second fifty yards from the first. He reacted before his mind could fathom their cause.

‘Shields up!’ Marcus roared before the first flight of arrows darted from the undergrowth.

The legionaries moved with lightning speed, their previous indolence forgotten as training took over their actions.

Marcus felt the arrows slam against his own shield, their flat trajectory driving the arrowheads deep into the leather. An arrow tore past his shield and struck him in the upper arm, the punch of iron knocking him off balance. Behind him the arrows struck the wall of shields as one, negating the killing power of the surprise attack.

‘Form up on the centurion!’ the optio called. The maniple moved forward as one, their line enveloping Marcus and coalescing around his position.

Marcus grunted as he caught the shaft of the arrow embedded in his upper arm. The wound felt numb, a feeling Marcus knew would not last, and he fought to break the arrow before the pain arrived. The shaft snapped at the instant a second wave of arrows struck. The Carthaginians were steadying their aim after the first rush of attack and Marcus heard the cries of his men as they fell under the onslaught.

‘Testudo!’

The flanks instantly folded and the maniple deployed into two lines, the second holding their shields aloft at a forward angle to complete the tortoiseshell of protection. As quickly as it began the rain of arrows ceased, the tree-line once more becoming still.

‘Steady men, wait for the command,’ Marcus shouted to his men, their swords drawn behind the wall of shields, their eyes fixed dead ahead.

The copse seemed to exhale a breath of aggression as the legionaries waited in silence. Suddenly a lone war cry was heard, the noise a low growl, its source undefined in the undergrowth. Within a heartbeat it multiplied and reached a crescendo, and the Carthaginians surged out of the woods.

‘Orbis!’ Marcus roared above the sound of fury.

The legionaries moved instantly, the command expected, and before the Carthaginians had covered half the distance the IV had formed into a defensive circle. The Carthaginian front line struck the solid line of shields with all the momentum of their downhill run, their shoulders bunched into the charge in an effort to breach the armoured wall and expose the flesh beneath.

The Roman wall bowed under the pressure before legs made strong from endless marches began to push the formation back into shape, the Carthaginians forced to spill around the edges.

‘Give ‘em iron!’

The legionaries roared in attack as they began the rhythmical series of strikes made efficient through years of training. Marcus bunched his shoulder behind his shield and heaved forward against the press of the enemy. The surge opened a small gap between his shield and the next, a gap large enough for his gladius to seek out flesh and bone. The sword struck home and Marcus withdrew the bloodied blade, allowing the gap to close again as he readied himself for the next lunge.

The wall buckled to Marcus’s left as a legionary fell, the flanks moving to close the gap and re-form the line. The Punic and Roman war cries were now mixed with the common cries of wounded men as the bloody slaughter continued, the Carthaginians maintaining the pressure of attack in a bid to break the back of the Roman defence. As commander Marcus detached his mind from the sound of battle to seek out signs of weakness or panic. All around him men were falling, Roman and Carthaginian, but neither side was giving quarter. Marcus knew he had to force the issue if a break was to be made.

‘Maniple! Prepare to manoeuvre!’

Every Roman heard the command, their bodies tensing in anticipation of the change in formation.

‘Wedge!’

Again the legionaries moved as if guided by an unseen hand, forming a wedge with the centre of the front line as its point. The Carthaginians were caught off guard by the sudden change in formation, their flanks left with a vacuum of enemy before them as the centre of their line now took the full brunt of the Roman attack.

‘Advance!’ Marcus shouted, pressing forward at the head of the wedge.

The enemy line staggered under the hammer blow, its shallow depth unable to stem the press of Roman shields before suddenly collapsing under the onslaught, which split the Punic line and annihilated the cohesion of the formation.

Marcus felt the pressure against his shield lift as the enemy turned, his gladius automatically striking out at the exposed lower back of a Carthaginian, the black blood of his kidney running down the blade of Marcus’s sword. A surge went through the Roman formation as the enemy fled, their blood lust aroused, calling for slaughter, the sudden release from imminent death provoking them to slay all before the line.

‘Hold!’ Marcus roared, his voice like a whiplash to break the spell of pursuit.

The legionaries halted at the order, their ingrained obedience to a centurion’s command transforming their thirst for retribution into shouts of challenge and insult at the retreating enemy.

‘Testudo!’ Marcus commanded, the legionaries once more forming a protective barrier as the last of the enemy re-entered the copse at the top of the rise. Within seconds the Carthaginian archers recommenced their deadly barrage, their aim steadied by their desire for revenge.

‘Sound the advance?’ Corin asked.

As Marcus considered the question he saw two Carthaginian runners break from the edge of the copse and run headlong down the far side of the rise. Messengers, he realized.

‘No, we withdraw. Out here in the open our tactics are superior. In enclosed woods it would be every man for himself. We need to withdraw to Makella before reinforcements are brought up and the Punici recover their nerve.’

A cry to their left caused both officers to turn. Another legionary had been hit, the arrow finding the break in armour between breast and neck. The men around the fallen soldier bristled with anger at the sight, their exposed position offering no chance to repay the enemy in blood. Instinctively they took a step forward towards the copse, each man yearning for the command to advance and charge the Carthaginian position.

Marcus sensed their mood and reasserted his command, dispatching men to cover the horses of the wagon fifty yards behind. The tortoise formation withdrew slowly, gathering up their wounded as they did, using upturned scutum shields as stretchers for those who couldn’t stand. The rain of arrows continued to punish any man left exposed in the formation. The maniple formed around the wagon, the meagre catch of dead animals thrown away to make room for the wounded. Men of the IV lay with soldiers of the VII, the shared fight and blood spilt casting aside previous loyalties to form new bonds.

The maniple moved off slowly, their shields constantly charged against the threat of arrows or a renewed attack. Marcus ran his gaze over the rise before him, his sword sheathed, his hand pressed against his shoulder to stanch the flow of his blood. Romans and Carthaginians lay dead together, their overlapping corpses mocked by Pluto, who respected neither rank nor race, the god of the underworld counting them only as dead men for his charge. Marcus counted over a dozen fallen Roman warriors, men who had stood where others might have fled. The wagon to his back contained a dozen more, the boards of the wagon already soaked with their blood, a steady stream that marked their passage over the road to Makella.

Once out of range of the copse, Marcus ordered the maniple to increase to double-quick time, the intensified pace chewing up the ground beneath their feet. The road behind them remained empty, Marcus knowing that pursuit was unnecessary. The enemy had made their point. The area around Makella was Carthaginian territory and a Roman maniple alone outside the encampment was no longer safe. From here on the Ninth Legion had two choices. Either stay in the camp and starve or come out in full force. There was no middle ground.

CHAPTER TEN

Septimus walked out into the sunlit courtyard half an hour after dawn to find his mother, father and Atticus already there. The captain was mounted on one of the mares from the newly formed barracks at Fiumicino. She had all the hallmarks of a military horse, broad in the chest and barrel with a servile expression that bore witness to the hard life she led. Septimus paused and took a moment to study his friend closely, unsure of how he now felt. His sister’s abrupt end to the evening had left his challenge to Atticus unsaid, and now as they waited for Hadria he found himself re-examining the lingering gazes he had witnessed between them, the memory making him uneasy.

Hadria appeared at the door a moment later and paused before walking out into the courtyard. Her gaze was on Septimus as she walked towards him, her emotions in turmoil at the imminent departure. From the corner of her eye she sensed Atticus staring at her intently, and she struggled not to return his gaze, knowing that to do so would reveal her heart to her brother. She reached for Septimus and hugged him tightly, her eyes welling with tears, a silent prayer passing through her mind for his safe return and for that of the man she could not hold. As she broke her embrace she sensed Septimus’s eyes searching her own and resolutely returned his gaze although her heart called out for one last look at Atticus.

Salonina suddenly began to wail, her fears for her son surfacing in a wave of emotion, and Septimus turned to her. She hugged her son ardently, whispering a hope for him to be safe, and Hadria noticed that Septimus’s complete attention was on his mother. She seized her chance and turned her head towards Atticus. For a heartbeat their eyes locked and passion swept between them. Hadria silently mouthed a message, unseen by all except Atticus, before she whipped her head around as Septimus broke his mother’s embrace. He shook his father’s hand once more and mounted his horse.

Atticus spurred his horse and rode out into the busy street, his eyes locked forward, not daring to look over his shoulder as he heard Septimus fall in behind him. The horses quickly settled into an easy gait, Atticus unconsciously steering his mount through the growing throng as the city came to life. His mind was flooded by visions of Hadria and what he had just witnessed in the courtyard. The confusion he had felt the evening before when she abruptly retired to bed was swept away by the message she had mouthed, a message so fleeting that he had almost missed it. But now, as he replayed the moment in his mind, he was sure not only of what she had said but of how she felt, for her message was, ‘I must see you again.’

Thirty minutes later the two riders were once more on the Via Aurelia heading northwards towards Fiumicino. Atticus was anxious to learn more about Hadria; as the previous confines of the city had kept them riding in single file, making conversation impossible, he now let the pace of his horse fall off, allowing Septimus to catch up and ride abreast.

‘We should be back in camp within twenty minutes,’ Atticus began, breaking the silence, wanting to broach the subject of Hadria indirectly.

Septimus nodded, his own thoughts guarded, but also on Hadria. He had decided during the thirty-minute ride through the city that he needed to confront Atticus, to forestall any intentions he might have regarding Hadria.

‘Atticus, by law Hadria must remarry within the year,’ he said bluntly, turning in his saddle so he could face his friend.

‘I know, Septimus, your father mentioned it on my last visit,’ Atticus answered warily, taken aback by Septimus’s unexpected comment.

‘Then you realize she cannot entertain advances from anyone other than a suitor.’

‘What are you saying?’ Atticus asked angrily, knowing the answer implied in Septimus’s comment.

‘I saw the way you were looking at her,’ Septimus shot back, his gaze hostile as he reined in his horse, ‘and I’m telling you to stay away from her.’

‘And why couldn’t I be a suitor?’ Atticus stormed, bringing his own mount to a halt.

Septimus was on the cusp of revealing the reason behind his demand when he realized how weak and pathetic his motive was. He was suddenly overwhelmed with shame and his pride made him angry at Atticus for putting him in this situation.

‘You could never marry her, Atticus,’ he spat.

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re not suitable,’ Septimus shouted, his words now twisted to suit his purpose.

There was a moment’s silence as Atticus recoiled. ‘Why?’ he shouted again, his horse shifting restlessly as he leaned out of his saddle, his face inches from Septimus’s.

‘Because you’re not Roman,’ Septimus countered, his own anger rising uncontrollably. ‘Hadria must marry someone of her class, an equestrian from a Roman family.’

‘Maybe Hadria should decide that for herself,’ Atticus said.

Septimus wheeled his horse to separate the two mounts before turning one last time to face Atticus.

‘I wanted to ask you, Atticus, but now I’m telling you,’ he said, his face a mask of determination. ‘Stay away from Hadria!’

Septimus spurred his horse and he galloped away, barging past slower travellers on the busy road, their irate shouts ignored.

Atticus could only watch him leave, his anger washing over him at what had just occurred, at how foolish he had been to think that Septimus was different from the arrogant Romans who believed they were above all others.

‘We need to lure them out, make them commit some of their fleet to an opportunity they cannot refuse.’

‘And then?’ Gisco asked.

‘Then we take them. We capture their force and learn their true strength.’

The admiral nodded, agreeing with Hamilcar’s logic. What they needed now, needed most of all, was information. The enemy were building a fleet, that much was known. What was unknown was what type of ship the Romans would deploy, when they would launch and how many there would be.

Gisco knew the Romans were aware of his fifty ships, the galley that escaped them in the Strait of Messina having surely reported their strength, with the loss of their transport fleet confirming that presence. He was confident that they did not know of the second fleet of sixty that had sailed up the west coast, but he could not be sure and he had learned early in his military career that – when making plans – it was best to assume the worst. He would assume they did know. The final piece, a piece he was sure no one knew, was that he had persuaded Hamilcar to return to Carthage to call up a third fleet, the home fleet of the sacred city of Carthage herself.

Gisco closed his eyes and pictured the Roman galley he had seen in the Strait of Messina. The sight before him made him clench his teeth in anger, but he swept the emotion aside and concentrated on the details. She had been a fast ship, faster than any trireme in the Carthaginian fleet, although she would be no match for a quinquereme, whose fourth row of oarsmen would give her enough speed to overtake any smaller vessel. Was she typical of the Roman fleet? Did they possess any quinqueremes of their own? Would the new fleet be a mix of the two? Her design had been lighter than his own vessels, the reduction in weight and smaller draught making her faster over the waves. Would the Romans use a heavier design to better match his ships? Had they found out the secrets of the Carthaginian design, the new concepts employed by the master craftsmen of the Punic empire that had allowed the Carthaginians to combine strength and speed? If they had captured any of his ships then those secrets would be laid bare before any trained eye. The fleet had lost four ships since arriving in northern Sicily, three in a squall while travelling from Panormus to the blockade, and Boodes had reported the loss of a galley sent on patrol a week before. Had she also been lost to bad weather or had the Romans captured her? There were too many unanswered questions and the frustration of uncertainty caused Gisco to stand up and begin pacing the room.

Hamilcar watched him pace, studying him anew. Three days before he had agreed, at Gisco’s persistent request, to sail to Carthage to commandeer the home fleet. It was a request that only a Council member like his father could grant, and Hamilcar was acutely aware that Gisco was attempting to use Hamilcar’s contacts on the Council to serve himself. By personally requesting the fleet on Gisco’s behalf, Hamilcar also knew he was tying his fate to that of the admiral’s. He had initially resisted, reluctant to intertwine his destiny with Gisco’s, but had finally relented when he realized that Gisco’s request served the greater needs of Carthage. The Carthaginians were a maritime people, a nation at home on the water. The navy was the strength and backbone of that empire and Hamilcar realized it was time for the city to flex that power.

‘So how do we lure them out?’ Gisco asked suddenly, turning towards the seated Hamilcar to find the man already staring at him.

‘We use the same tactic our forefathers used against Agathocles, the tyrant of Syracuse. We offer them a city,’ Hamilcar replied, the idea having been formed, developed and tested in his own mind over the past few days.

Gisco smiled at the simplicity of the idea, a tactic that had worked against a different enemy over forty years before. Agathocles, then ruler of Syracuse in the southwestern corner of Sicily, had broken the uneasy truce of the time by attacking and taking the Carthaginian stronghold of Messina. The Carthaginians held only one other stronghold on the island, the city of Agrigentum in the west. The Carthaginian leader Maharbal did not have sufficient forces to fight his way across the entire island of Sicily to regain Messina, and so he devised a plan to make the enemy come to him. He offered Agathocles the city of Agrigentum.

One of the city councillors had presented himself before Agathocles, claiming the inhabitants were ready to rise up against their Carthaginian oppressors. The leader of Syracuse had immediately taken the bait and led his army across the island to liberate Agrigentum, only to find the gates locked against him. In his anger he besieged the city, even though he was over a hundred miles from the safety of his own territory. It was the mistake Maharbal had hoped for. The Carthaginian leader swooped down with his army to surround the enemy, trapping them between his forces and the hostile city.

The resulting battle had been a disaster for Agathocles, undone by his own greed and recklessness. Gisco was confident the Romans had the first trait in abundance, for why else would they have built their Republic if not to satisfy their appetite for the lands and wealth of others. But were they reckless? Gisco ran through the list of Carthaginian-held cities in his mind. He smiled as the perfect match for his purpose presented itself. Gisco would not need to rely on the Romans being reckless, for the city he chose would appear easily within their grasp. It was a city located on an island off the northern coast of Sicily, an island far removed from the blockade and any visible threat from the Carthaginian navy. It was the city of Lipara.

Gaius Duilius sat patiently as the camp prefect of Fiumicino made his report to the Senate. The battle-worn ex-centurion looked oddly out of place in the hallowed inner chamber of the Curia; however, he showed no sign of being intimidated by the surrounding senators. Duilius surmised that Tuditanus had faced more menacing foes over the course of his military career than this group of languid old men.

The junior consul’s mind wandered as the prefect outlined the progress of the fleet’s construction. Duilius already knew the main details of the report. Not by virtue of having seen Tuditanus’s written work, but from the reports of half a dozen spies in the camp who fed him updates both day and night. For that reason Duilius had not been to the camp, although he was fully aware of Scipio’s visit the day before and the thought made him turn to the senior consul now seated in the centre of the bottom tier of the semicircular rows. His attention returned to the present as he picked up an inaccuracy in the report.

‘Prefect,’ Duilius said, his interruption stopping Tuditanus in his tracks, ‘did you say the first batch of twenty galleys will be ready in six days?’

‘Yes, Senator,’ Tuditanus replied, his voice confident.

‘No sooner?’ Duilius asked, with an implied disbelief hidden beneath the seemingly innocent question.

‘No, Senator. Six days.’

Tuditanus held the junior consul’s gaze. He had been warned by Scipio to expect the question, the senior consul knowing that in a camp the size of Fiumicino there would be few secrets, and certainly none that would escape Duilius.

‘I see,’ Duilius said finally. He stood up.

‘Senators,’ he announced, ‘I humbly ask the senior consul, in your presence, to allow me to take the fleet to sea once it is ready.’

A light applause followed the submission. Scipio rose to reply.

‘The junior consul may personally take the fleet to sea in six days,’ Scipio said, his words neatly avoiding the trap that Duilius had set. More applause was heard and Duilius nodded a thank-you at Scipio, both men knowing that the gesture was not one of gratitude.

Duilius retook his seat. His spies had told him three days, four at the most, and the galleys would be ready to sail. He was acutely aware of the opportunity that would be afforded the first man to command the fleet to sea, even if the journey was from the construction site to the castrum in Ostia. It was an opportunity to stamp their command of the fleet in the minds of men, an opportunity that would negate any agreement made in the Senate. The rule of Rome was the rule of the mob. If the people chose Scipio as the fleet’s leader, there was little Duilius could do to point out the joint leadership agreement. The mob would only remember one name. Duilius needed to find a way of making sure that name would be his.

Atticus marvelled at the gleaming hulls of the twenty triremes beached just above the high-water mark of the beach. He and Septimus had arrived back in Fiumicino two days before and had immediately recommenced their training routines, although Septimus now spent all his time in the camp of the Fourth. Anger flared up within Atticus as he recalled their sudden argument on the ride back from Rome and Septimus’s demand to stay away from Hadria, and he consciously swept the memory from his mind, concentrating instead on the Aquila as the galley slipped her mooring and the order was given to get under way.

Training the new recruits on how to ram when all his reason demanded he should train them for boarding had frustrated Atticus, but at least on this day he knew he would be teaching them a lesson that was vital, regardless of the galley’s method of attack. All of the trainees under his tutelage were already skilled sailors, and so in many cases it was simply a matter of adapting their skills, teaching them how best to manoeuvre a galley while choosing the most appropriate oar-stroke. Today’s lesson would concentrate on that second element.

The Aquila moved away from the beach at two knots, steerage speed. Her pace was not dictated by the nearest of the sea-lanes running perpendicular to her course, as Gaius could easily negotiate the tricky passage at standard speed, but by the need to conserve the strength of the rowers for the lesson ahead, a lesson that would be learnt at their expense. Atticus had kept this lesson until last, knowing it to be the most important for any command crew of a galley. When the assembled men on the main deck took to their own galleys in the near future, they would remember this day well.

Once the Aquila cleared the sea-lane, Atticus ordered all twenty-five trainees below to the slave deck. As they descended, he ordered the slaves to be chained to their oars, knowing that what he was about to do would endanger the trainees crowded on the narrow walkway along the length of the deck. He re-examined his decision on the method he had chosen to teach this all-important lesson and satisfied himself that there was no alternative, not if he wanted the lesson to be remembered.

With an additional twenty-five men below decks, the area was claustrophobic and, for some of the trainees, frightening. Many had never been on a slave deck before and the sight of two hundred near-naked men chained to their fifteen-foot oars struck dread into their hearts. The slaves’ expressions were unmoving and yet the trainees could feel the open hostility in the confined space. The slaves were men like the Romans who stood over them, the difference in their circumstances dictated only by the ever-fickle fate that controlled all their lives.

‘Men,’ Atticus shouted, his voice muted by the press of bodies and the surrounding timbers, ‘this deck represents the strength of your ship. These men, although slaves, are part of your crew. You must treat them accordingly. To abuse them is to sap your own strength.’

Atticus watched as the message was absorbed by those men who had never owned slaves and had never become callous in their treatment of them. Others, Fulfidias among them, had slaves of their own and had worked with them all their lives. For men like this, Atticus’s words sounded weak, unbecoming for the master of a ship.

‘In battle,’ Atticus continued, ‘you will face many challenges. The principal one will be your ability to know and understand your own ship and its capabilities. Of all your ship’s capabilities, one of the most important is the strength of the slaves at your oars. These men give you the ability to outmanoeuvre your enemy and escape or close in for attack. The crucial thing you must know is that their strength is finite. Once it is spent your ship is lost.’

The trainees listened in silence and then looked around them at the chained men an arm’s length away. A shouted command shocked them back to attention.

‘Battle speed!’ Atticus roared.

The two hundred oars of the Aquila increased with the command of the drum beat to battle speed, seven knots.

‘The galley slaves of the Aquila can row at battle speed for two hours. During that time the forty reserve rowers will also be used to keep that pace.’

Atticus let them row for thirty minutes. At that point the first few reserves were called up to replace the weaker rowers of the crew. The trainees in the centre of the walkways were pushed aside as the hatchway to the lower deck was opened and some of them were given a brief glance of the twilight hell beneath them; the stench of the bilges combined with the foul smell of the confined quarters of the reserve rowers rose up through the open hatchway.

The rowing continued on at battle speed, the only sound being the beat of the drum keeping time on the crowded deck. As the sweat began to increase on the backs of the slaves and their breathing became more laboured, many of the trainees began to form an understanding of what Atticus had spoken about.

‘Attack speed!’

Again the order had come as a surprise to many and again they turned their attention to Atticus.

‘At attack speed the Aquila is moving at eleven knots.’

Many of the trainees, some of whom had never been on a galley before their indentured service, marvelled at the incredible speed. For a sailing ship it was the equivalent of running before a strong wind, a tricky manoeuvre that was rarely attempted.

‘The rowers of the Aquila can maintain this speed for fifteen minutes. It is only three knots faster than battle speed, but the extra effort required cuts their ability to an eighth of the time.’

Again the trainees looked around them. Many now began to count the minutes. Ten passed.

‘Ramming speed!’

The drum master of the Aquila repeated the order and increased his beat. The slaves redoubled their efforts, many grunting through the pain of the backbreaking pull. Others cried out as cramped muscles gave way under the strain.

‘At ramming speed, even the best rowers will collapse after five minutes!’ Atticus shouted over the cries of pain and suffering. He secretly gritted his teeth to force his will to continue.

The first rower collapsed after two minutes.

Within another sixty seconds twenty more were down.

‘All stop!’ Atticus shouted, putting an end to the enforced barbarity of the lesson. He spat the bile of self-shame from his mouth at the sight of the near-broken men, many at the end of their strength, while others who had gone beyond their limit lay prone under their oars. One did not rise again, his heart broken from the effort.

Atticus never flinched from pushing his galley slaves to their limits when the situation required it. To show compassion and spare the slaves could mean endangering a ship, and so Atticus had long ago hardened his heart to the fate of the men below decks. Even so, he believed in treating the slaves well, not just because healthy slaves rowed better, but because, like all sailors, he knew that one day the tables might be turned and in defeat Atticus could find himself chained to an oar. By treating his slaves well he hoped that Fortuna, the goddess of fate, would place him under a similar master if his time ever came.

Atticus ordered the oars to be withdrawn and the sail raised. For the next hour the Aquila would have to make do with canvas only. He ordered the trainees back onto the main deck and then, standing on the aft, he addressed them once more.

‘We do not know what lies ahead for our fleet. At the very least we will be called upon to raise a blockade. We might even meet the Carthaginian fleet in battle. In either case you will need all your resources to stay alive and in the fight. The Aquila has three hundred and thirty men on board, two hundred and forty rowers, thirty sailors and sixty marines. She has fought in many battles and has survived them all. That is because I know that each man on board is valuable in the fight. To ignore any part of your crew is to doom your ship. The lesson is this…Know your ship. Know your crew. Know your strength.’

Septimus woke at the sound of the clarion call announcing the start of a new day. He sat up on the cot in the cramped tent and reached out for the water basin on the ground. It was half full and he emptied the contents over his head, the cold water barely penetrating the deep fatigue he felt. Over the past two days he had had fewer than four hours’ sleep each night. Silanus continued to frustrate his attempts to properly prepare the legionaries of the V maniple, and so Septimus had stepped up the hours of training in an effort to force the issue. It was not working, and Septimus had realized during the night that he would have to confront Silanus once and for all.

As Septimus walked out into the dawn light, the V maniple were forming on the training square for roll call, the procedure carried out with practised efficiency before the men were released for breakfast. Each contubernia of soldiers shared a single tent and the men ate in their groups, the arrangement more efficient in a temporary camp. Septimus noticed Silanus walking towards his own tent and moved to intercept him.

‘Silanus!’

The centurion turned to the call and his expression immediately became dismissive as Septimus approached him.

‘We need to talk,’ he said.

‘Really,’ Silanus replied with a sneer, ‘about what, marine?’ Again the last word was spat out, but Septimus ignored the gibe.

‘About the training, about how your men aren’t ready for battle, not against an enemy trained on the deck of a galley where a legion’s formations count for naught.’

‘So you say, marine. I say my men are unmatched in combat and no matter how differently the Carthaginians fight, even one to one, my men won’t be beaten.’

Septimus smiled, although the smile did not reach his eyes. Silanus had taken the bait.

‘Would you be willing to test that assertion in single combat?’ Septimus asked. ‘You against me?’

‘Gladly,’ Silanus nodded, returning Septimus’s smile with the same underlying enmity. He made to turn but Septimus grabbed his sword arm, arresting him.

‘But if I win,’ Septimus continued, ‘I want your word that you and your men will submit to the training.’

Silanus looked wary. ‘And if I win?’ he replied.

‘Then I’ll back down and concede that your men are without equal.’

Again Silanus nodded, jerking his arm to release Septimus’s grip, a malicious grin once more on his face, and walked away.

Septimus watched him go before turning to find Quintus standing behind him. His optio moved forward.

‘Your orders, Centurion?’ he asked.

‘Form up the men around the training square, Quintus,’ Septimus said with a smile. ‘I’ll be teaching the first lesson today.’

Fifteen minutes later the legionaries of the V were formed on three sides of the square with the Aquila’s twenty marines occupying the fourth side. The shouts of encouragement were sporadic as bets were exchanged between the marines and the legionaries, the odds agreed as even. Septimus and Silanus stood at the centre of the square, six feet apart as each limbered up, their heavy wooden training swords swinging with ever-increasing speed as the tempo of calls from the crowd increased. Quintus stepped forward between the two fighters and drew his sword, holding it straight out between them until both were ready. With a flash he dropped his blade and withdrew, the shouts from the crowd reaching a crescendo as the fight began.

Septimus studied Silanus’s movements as the two began to circle, noticing immediately that although he was right-handed, his body was finely balanced, the natural weakness of his left trained out of him many years before. Silanus moved with practised ease, confident of his ability and yet not rushing his attack, sizing up Septimus with every turn, weaving his sword from side to side to distract the marine. The two men continued to circle.

‘The Fourth Legion, the boars – right, Silanus?’ Septimus said, his words breaking the silence between the men although they were surrounded by a wall of sound.

‘What?’ Silanus said after a moment, his face betraying the break in his concentration.

‘You’re a man of the Fourth? A boar. One of the boars of Rome?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Silanus replied, the need to do so automatic.

‘Then what does that make your mother?’ Septimus said, loudly enough only for the centurion to hear.

Silanus’s face was mottled with anger as he tore into the fight, the words striking rage into his heart. Septimus had been ready for the strike but he was shocked by the sheer speed of the movement, his anticipation of the style of attack saving him, giving his reactions the extra time needed to counter the lunge. Silanus had attacked in the manner of the legions, albeit in a stylized way born out of adaptation to one-to-one combat. He had feigned to his left, where training dictated he lunge with his shield, before following through with the sword in his right hand. Septimus countered the stroke before backing off, the centurion following him step for step, keeping the pressure up, raining blow after blow on the marine.