Ship of Rome

The cheers from the legionaries of the Fourth becoming ever more strident as Silanus moved in for the kill, Septimus continuing to give ground before the furious centurion, waiting for the perfect time to counterattack. The moment came without warning and Septimus shifted the balance of his stance as he made ready. Where before Silanus had randomized his strikes, the sustained attack on Septimus had made his movements rhythmical, the years of training overcoming his individual style to reassert itself over his actions. It was the failure of all men of the legions in one-to-one combat and was the first lesson Atticus had taught Septimus on the Aquila. In one-to-one combat, predictability was death.

Septimus allowed the centurion one more strike, his mind predicting the blow long before it began. Then he counter attacked.

Septimus sidestepped the next expected strike and parried Silanus’s blade, breaking the centurion’s rhythm. He immediately followed with a thrust to the centurion’s groin, a killing blow that forced Silanus to react swiftly, his body turned off balance. Septimus reversed the strike at the last moment and brought the blade higher to the centurion’s stomach, again forcing Silanus to further shift off balance to counter the stroke, the original feint slowing his reactions. Silanus’s twisted torso exposed his kidneys and Septimus struck beneath the centurion’s extended sword at his lower back. The centurion grunted loudly as the tip of the heavy wooden sword struck his kidneys, driving a sharp pain into his stomach and chest. He immediately withdrew, pain etched on his face.

Now the men of the Aquila were cheering with blood lust as Septimus pressed home his attack, this time Silanus giving ground as the marine rained unpredictable blows on him. Septimus’s training on the Aquila came to the fore as the marine gave full vent to the conditioning of his combat instincts, while Silanus’s reactions became erratic as desperation crept into his defence as he fought to break the cycle of attack. Septimus feigned a strike to the centurion’s lower left side and suddenly thrust his sword upwards, the point driving towards Silanus’s face. The centurion reacted instinctively, without thought to the consequences, and whipped his sword up, swiping Septimus’s blade away but leaving his entire torso exposed. Septimus circled his blade around the sideswipe and brought the blade under Silanus’s arm, turning his body around as he did to put maximum momentum behind what he knew would be the last strike. The flat blade of the wooden sword slammed into Silanus’s stomach with a force that drove the wind from his lungs, and he pitched forward over the sword, falling heavily on all fours, his own sword thrown from his hand by the strength of the impact.

Septimus stepped back from the defeated centurion and turned to his men, holding his sword aloft in victory. He made to walk over to them when a hand on his shoulder arrested him. He turned to find Silanus facing him, the centurion still hunched forward with his hand over his stomach.

‘By the gods, Septimus, you fight like Pluto, like the lord of the underworld himself,’ Silanus gasped as he drew himself to his full height, proffering his hand as he did so.

‘The same way the Carthaginians fight,’ Septimus said, accepting Silanus’s hand, noting for the first time a look of respect on the centurion’s face.

Silanus nodded and turned towards his men, barking orders at them to form up and prepare for the day’s training.

Septimus smiled as Quintus came up and slapped him on the shoulder. The twenty galleys would be ready to sail within days and the rumour around the camp was that the senior consul was taking the galleys to the castrum at Ostia where they would make a great show of arriving and disembarking. If Ostia was to become the new home for the V maniple of the Fourth, Septimus would arrange for his optio, Quintus, to accompany them to continue the training, safe in the knowledge that finally he had an ally in Silanus. With the completion of the entire fleet still weeks away, time was on their side, time enough to teach the legionaries of the Fourth the vital skills they would need to survive the treacherous decks of a Carthaginian galley.

Gaius Duilius rose from his bed at the sound of the incessant knocking on his bedroom door.

‘Who is it?’ he shouted irritably, trying to judge the time from the light in the room. It was just after dawn.

The door burst open and his senior servant, Appius, entered, followed by one of his spies from the camp, a carpenter named Calvus. Duilius rose as they rushed across the floor, their agitation obvious.

‘They sail today, my lord,’ Calvus said, his anxiety etched on his face.

‘Today?’ Duilius replied. ‘All reports said tomorrow, the fourth day!’

‘That was the plan as everyone knew it, the schedule that Tuditanus had kept us to and swore us not to reveal to anyone – lest the enemy become aware of our plans,’ Calvus explained, ‘but last evening as we prepared to end our day, Tuditanus himself ordered the work to continue overnight. We were ordered to stay at our posts and finish the work by firelight.’

‘Why was I not informed of this?’ Duilius asked, turning to Appius. ‘Why didn’t one of the other spies report this?’

Appius was speechless.

‘We were all ordered to remain in camp last night on pain of death,’ Calvus interjected, ‘so none could spread the news beyond Fiumicino. I was only allowed to leave when the work was completed.’

Duilius swore at the simplicity of the plan that had thwarted him. By forcing the craftsmen and slaves to work overnight they had pushed the schedule forward twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that Duilius had been planning on using to arrange a ‘surprise’ inspection by him and some of the senior senators. Once at camp the next day, the fourth day, they would all see the fleet was indeed ready to sail and Duilius would pursue the offer Scipio had made in the Senate to allow Duilius to sail with the fleet when she first put to sea. That plan was now frustrated, ruined by Scipio’s simple change in the schedule. Duilius cursed his lack of foresight.

‘Shall I saddle your horse?’ Appius asked.

At first Duilius did not hear the question, furious as he was at being outmanoeuvred.

‘What?’ he asked, his mind still not in the moment.

Appius repeated the question.

‘No,’ Duilius said, realizing that to turn up in Fiumicino alone without senatorial backup would be useless, his rank as junior consul second to Scipio’s.

Duilius dismissed the two men and began pacing his room. He forced his mind to quiet so he could examine the problem from every angle. There was no solution; nothing to stop Scipio making his triumphant entrance into Ostia. Duilius might have won the first round in the Senate when he forced Scipio to back down over the command of the fleet, but the senior consul had won the second, a round that would give Scipio the backing of the people of Rome.

‘Today?’ Lucius said, disbelieving. He had been about to get the Aquila under way when his captain had came up to him on the aft-deck, his expression uneasy.

‘Yes, today,’ Atticus repeated, ‘I’ve just received the orders.’

‘But why the haste?’ Lucius asked.

‘Who knows?’ Atticus replied. ‘All I can be sure of is that the trainees aren’t ready. I’m going to have to confront Tuditanus again – at least make him agree to continue the training at Ostia.’

‘I’ll row you ashore,’ Lucius offered, and both men strode to the main deck and climbed down to a tethered skiff. Within minutes they were on the beach.

The activity around them seemed chaotic as the two men ascended the beach towards the camp prefect’s tent. Sailors clambered over the decks of the twenty galleys to install the running rigging of each, and the voices of the boatswains so recently taught on the Aquila could be heard shouting orders to the men who scrambled to obey. Atticus surveyed the ship closest to him and studied the near-finished arrangement of ropes. The rigging, to a casual eye, looked perfect, but Atticus quickly spotted a mistake, one that would only become apparent when the crew tried to raise sail. The boatswain had used the wrong sequence in completing the rigging and the lifting yard would foul the instant the crew tried to raise it aloft. He shook his head at the sight. The crews were simply not ready yet.

The activity around the boat explained the sailors’ haste. In front of each galley, slaves were laying out cylindrical logs on the hard-packed sand. The logs stretched out a hundred yards in front of each ship and led down to the water line, now at low tide. The galleys were suspended two feet off the ground on a timber frame that had supported the hull during construction, and logs were now placed in the gap beneath, leaving a space of six inches. As the last logs were put in place in front of the ship nearest to Atticus and Lucius, whip cracks filled the air and the slaves, at least three hundred in total, took the strain of the ropes tethered to the galley. With a mighty effort the ship was pulled forward on her frame, the action snapping the timbers of the frame until the galley crashed the six inches onto the logs underneath. More slaves rushed forward to clear the majority of the debris, even as the galley lurched forward on its way to the water line, the gentle slope of the beach aiding its progress. Atticus could see that within the hour all twenty galleys would be at the lower end of the beach, awaiting the tide that would free them from the land.

The two sailors of the Aquila were so engrossed by the unfolding scene that they did not notice the horsemen stationed fifty yards beyond them, the group also watching the galleys being made ready. Scipio turned to Tuditanus.

‘You’ve done well, Prefect.’

Tuditanus’s eyebrow raised at the rare compliment, although he was sure not to let the senior consul see the gesture.

‘Thank you, Senior Consul. I have sent word to the legion’s camp to have the men made ready. The tide rises rapidly in this area, so the galleys will be afloat within three hours.’

‘Good,’ Scipio replied, his voice and expressions once more minimal. He calculated the time in his mind. All being well, he would be rounding the headland at Ostia before noon.

Demades stood to attention as his task was dictated to him. He was not a military man – in fact he had never held a weapon in his hand in all his forty years; however, the stance seemed appropriate given the rank of the man speaking to him. The Carthaginian admiral had arrived unexpectedly an hour before, compelling Demades to race from his residence to the Council chamber, all the while fearing the worst, unable to think of a reason why Hannibal Gisco would want to visit the tiny island.

Lipara, which was also the name of the only city on the island, was located twenty-four miles off the northern coast of Sicily and was the largest of a group of eight islands. The island had been occupied since ancient times, primarily because of the hard black volcanic glass, obsidian, which was abundant under the soil. Its cutting edge had been prized by the inhabitants of the mainland, and the trade had made the otherwise insignificant island an important centre for commerce. The coming of iron had eradicated the trade in obsidian, but the islanders had adapted and now sold volcanic pumice to the rich inhabitants of the Roman Republic.

The arrival of the Carthaginians two years before had originally caused great consternation to the inhabitants of Lipara, not least to their senior councillor, Demades, who saw their coming as the death knell for their trade and for the Council that controlled both the trade and government of the island. In the event, the Carthaginians had had little impact on the lives of the ordinary people, who simply switched their trading routes to serve the empire of Carthage. Never before, however, had a senior Carthaginian figure been in the city, least of all the supreme commander of their entire army and navy. It was for that reason that Demades had attended Gisco personally, one leader to another. Demades had tried to take the upper hand in the meeting – after all, Lipara was his city and he was the senior councillor – however, within a heartbeat, Gisco’s overpowering will had cowed him and thereafter he listened in silence.

‘I beg your pardon, Admiral, but you want me to do what?’ Demades asked as Gisco got to the crux of his plan.

‘I want you to travel to Rome and announce to their Senate that Lipara wishes to switch allegiance to the Roman cause,’ Gisco repeated, annoyed with the awkward fool before him.

Gisco had met many like Demades before, and all had proved to be the same, big fish in small ponds. It was only when a bigger fish arrived that men like Demades realized that their power over a small city was naught when compared to the military might of an empire such as Carthage’s. Even in the face of this reality, however, Gisco had always noticed that these men still clung to the opinion that they were somehow equal to him. They were not, and in the past Gisco had been forced to draw blood to prove the point. It was only because Demades had been to Rome before and his face was known to all the traders that Gisco did not kill him now and replace him with an imposter. The traders would testify to the legitimacy of his claim to be the senior councillor of Lipara, a legitimacy that was required if the Senate was to be won over.

‘But, Admiral, Lipara has always been loyal to Carthage. We have never given the governor cause for concern. I don’t understand,’ Demades said.

‘You don’t need to understand,’ Gisco snarled. ‘You will ask the Senate to send a force to free your city, telling them that we, the Carthaginians, have strangled your trade and your people are prisoners on the island.’

‘But…but…that’s not so, Admiral. Our trade has flourished under your benevolent rule and our city has prospered. We have no wish to become a Roman possession, I assure you.’

Demades began to panic. He desperately wanted to obey the admiral, but he couldn’t understand what was being asked of him. Were the Carthaginians really going to abandon his island? If so, why would they want the Romans to take possession of Lipara? Why not just sail away?

‘You’re a fool, Demades,’ Gisco spat, losing his patience. ‘You will travel to Rome and deliver the message I have given you.’

Demades nodded, a look of puzzlement still on his face.

‘Cronus!’ Gisco shouted to the door behind Demades. The admiral’s guard commander entered and stood to attention.

‘Demades,’ Gisco continued, ‘this is Cronus. He will travel with you to Rome along with four of my personal guard. They will travel disguised as your personal guard and will be with you at all times.’

Demades looked to the towering figure of Cronus, his eyes moving from the expressionless face to the sword hanging loosely by his side. At Gisco’s words he returned his gaze to the admiral.

‘If you so much as breathe a word beyond telling the Senate the message I have outlined, Cronus will kill you, but not before he sends word to me of your betrayal. If I receive such a message, I will personally take the lives of your wife and two daughters.’

Gisco’s eyes swore the truth of the threat and Demades nearly lost control of his bladder as terror threatened to unman him. He nodded to indicate his understanding, not trusting his voice.

‘Take him away,’ Gisco ordered, and Cronus manhandled the councillor from the room.

The guard commander escorted Demades the short distance through the streets to the dockside. A trading barge was making ready to sail and Demades was bustled on board.

‘I can’t go now,’ he protested. ‘What of my family? I must speak with them.’

‘Take him below,’ was the only reply from Cronus, an order that signalled rough hands to take Demades to the main cabin.

The barge pushed off from the quayside, the helmsman setting a course that would take her north to Rome.

‘A sight to see,’ Atticus remarked to himself as the first of the twenty galleys made her way awkwardly through the breaking surf to the calmer waters beyond. It was hard to believe that it had only been two and a half weeks since construction of the fleet had begun on the once-empty beach. One by one the ships floated in the gentle swell of the tide before the oars were dropped into the shallow water and orders were issued to get under way. Given that the slaves on board had never manned oars, it was an impressive feat, and Atticus was proud of the drum masters, who had to create order from the probable chaos below decks. The successful launch of each ship was met by a cheer both from men on the beach and those on deck, and it was impossible not to feel overwhelmed at what had been achieved in so little time.

Septimus stood apart from Atticus on the aft-deck. He was dressed, as were all the marines now stationed on the galleys, in full battle gear, a show of force for the traders of Ostia. The necessities of their shared command demanded his return to the galley, and so an uneasy truce had been established between them, their argument not discussed but not forgotten either.

Atticus looked beyond the completed galleys to the beach sweeping north and a three-mile stretch of coastline where the construction frames for the next batch of fifty galleys were being completed. The number of people in the camp had exploded over the past week, and so now the fishing village of Fiumicino boasted a population greater than most cities. Atticus estimated that in less than three weeks the sea would be home to fifty more Roman galleys, all of which would need to be manned by capable crews.

As the galleys got under way, the Aquila slipped into formation, as did two galleys of the Ostia fleet, the Neptunus and the Asclepius. All three deferred to the Mars, the first ship launched and the designated flagship of the fleet. It was upon this ship that Scipio himself sailed, his statuesque figure on the foredeck visible to all those on the ships flanking the vanguard. Atticus smiled at the sight, knowing that if the Mars were to encounter a Carthaginian galley today, Scipio would immediately be knocked off his perch.

Fortuna must be smiling, Fulfidias thought, feeling favoured as his galley prepared to make the turn south to the port of Ostia. Only hours before, his dismal outlook had been as unchanged as it had been over the previous two weeks. He had stood on the aft-deck of his beached galley that morning and barked orders at his new crew, his tongue lashing all who came within range of his foul humour. That attitude had changed the moment he had answered a summons to the prefect’s tent.

He had never spoken to Tuditanus before then, but all knew of his fearsome reputation, and Fulfidias was apprehensive as to why he was being sent for. That apprehension had increased at the sight of the senior consul, Scipio himself, in attendance. They had asked him many questions, mainly about his previous sailing experience on trading galleys and the legitimacy of his business dealings in Rome. On both counts Fulfidias had spoken with pride and confidence. It was then that Scipio had announced that Fulfidias’s galley, the Salvia, would be renamed the Mars and would become the flagship of the new fleet.

Fulfidias now looked down the length of his new galley to the figure of Scipio standing alone on the foredeck. He had debated whether or not he should join the senior consul on the bow of the ship but had decided against it, remembering the cold manner that Scipio had exhibited since coming on board. Never mind, Fulfidias thought, there would be plenty of time to build a relationship with the most powerful man in the Republic. Fulfidias knew that Scipio would open new doors for him, doors that would surely reveal incredible opportunities for profit. In his mind he distinctly heard the click of Fortuna’s wheel as it turned in his favour.

Scipio ignored the light spray of water on his face and the feel of his damp toga where it was pressed against his skin by the oncoming warm breeze. He had been told the journey to Ostia would take no more than thirty minutes, and so he had decided to spend the entire time on the foredeck of the lead ship, the most prominent point in the newly formed fleet.

The sight of twenty-three galleys in the busy sea-lane drew astonished looks from the crews and passengers of other ships, and all noticed the seemingly sculpted figure of the Roman on the lead galley. Scipio knew it was only a foretaste of what he would encounter in the busy port ahead. He glanced over his shoulder at the triremes formed up behind him. They were indeed an impressive sight, one that he had never seen the like of before, and certainly one that would suggest power to all in Ostia and Rome beyond.

Scipio also noticed the three galleys of the regular fleet. They were in mid-formation, in a solid line of three abreast, their arrangement exact and controlled. Their precision was in marked contrast to the ships ahead and behind them which, it seemed, were struggling to maintain a semblance of the same order. He had earlier debated whether he should make one of the experienced galleys his flagship, but had dismissed the idea. The ‘old’ fleet was a familiar sight to the world, a fleet built by obscure and forgotten men. The new fleet was Scipio’s and, if he was going to stamp his authority and ownership on its galleys, he needed to mark them as such. Making one of the new ships his flagship was the first step in achieving his aim.

The fleet rounded the northern headland of the port of Ostia as the day reached its zenith, the springtime sun shining white from a cloudless sky, reflecting a million shards of light in the rippling waters of the bay. As more and more galleys appeared, the immediate reaction on the dockside was one of fear. The weeks of circulated rumours about the Punici horde had struck terror in the hearts of the traders, and now it seemed the enemy were striking at the very heart of the Republic.

The initial fear and consternation slowly gave way to jubilation as Roman banners flying from mastheads were recognized and all realized that the galleys approaching were not harbingers of ruin but the promised saviours that would sweep the seas for Rome. Word quickly spread, and soon almost the entire population of Ostia lined the quayside, cheering and waving the return of safety and security.

The ships fanned out as they approached the dock to create an illusion of greater numbers, so spectators on land had to turn their heads to take in the full spectacle. Two hundred yards from shore, the galleys stopped in line abreast and only the centre ship, the one that had been in the lead, continued on. While some had already noticed the tall, lone figure on the bow of the trireme, now all eyes fell on the sight as the ship made the final approach. The cheering continued, but now with a renewed focus, as the leader was identified, the man that personified the mighty strength of the assembled galleys.

With yards to go, the Mars heeled over hard to come parallel to the dock, a fluid movement belying a complex manoeuvre that the experienced galley captain made look effortless. Lines were thrown to shore and eager hands took hold to haul the ship in, the oars withdrawing to allow the ship to rest four feet from the dock. The gangway was quickly lowered and ten black-cloaked praetoriani rushed down to push the crowd back, their efforts creating a semicircular space at the foot of the gangway. Only then did Scipio appear at the head of the gangway. He paused there, taking in the frenzied cheers and shouted accolades. As the voices began to wane, he spread out his arms to call for quiet. The multitude leaned forward.

‘Citizens of Rome!’ Scipio shouted, his words carrying easily over the heads of the quieted crowd. ‘Our forefathers conceived an ambition. A hope! To spread the light of democracy from the centre of Rome to the corners of the world so all could live in peace and prosperity.

‘For hundreds of years, each generation in its turn has stepped forward to carry that torch onwards. Each generation taking its turn to expand the frontiers of the Republic. Now it is our turn, our responsibility.’

The crowd leaned ever forward, hanging on the spoken words.

‘It is not a task that promises victories or guarantees success. It is a task that requires sacrifice, and hardship, and perhaps death itself to those who carry that torch beyond the borders of our Republic.’

The crowd listened in complete silence, the only sound the lapping of the water against the dock and the cries of solitary seagulls overhead. Some recognized Scipio for who he was; most did not know his face.

‘A month ago a new kind of enemy appeared to threaten our Republic and our way of life. A savage, brutal enemy who moved with lightning speed to cut off the valiant men who carry the torch of Rome to the oppressed people of Sicily. It is a merciless enemy that, if not stopped, will surely carry the war to the gates of Rome itself!’

The crowd moaned in dismay at the thought, many recalling the terrible fear they had felt only moments before.

‘But fear not, my fellow citizens! The Senate has heard your cries and has responded. I have heard your cries and I have responded. I stand before you now on the very threshold of a new era for our glorious Republic. An era of renewed expansion and prosperity. With the fleet gathered before you, and the scores of galleys being built, I will sweep the enemy from our shores and from our seas.

‘I will free the island of Sicily and open her ports to Rome.

‘I will expand the frontiers of the Republic.

‘I, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, will make you, the citizens of Rome, masters of the sea!’

The crowd erupted in a tremendous roar as the words struck their hearts. A wave of sound crashed over Scipio and his own heart soared as thousands of voices were lifted in his name. He raised his clenched fist in triumph, the classic pose of the victorious, and the noise increased, the blood lust of the crowd now whipped up by the prospect of carrying the fight to the enemy.

Scipio let them cheer. His face was a mask of imperious strength as befitting his power, but inside he laughed at their gullibility. They were a mob, a mindless mob. He had called them fellow citizens but he felt completely detached from them. They were beneath him, and he resented the very fact that he was forced to breathe the same air as them.

Scipio knew, however, that he needed to harness their power – and to do so meant speaking on their level, a level that spoke of shared wealth and prosperity, of bright futures and security. He had hired half a dozen Greek rhetoricians, the best that his silver could buy, to speak on his behalf in every forum in Rome. They would reiterate Scipio’s promise to keep Rome free from the enemy threat, and ensure that his name was on every street corner in the city, on every man’s lips and in every man’s mind.

By the time the full fleet was ready, all of Rome would know who commanded the might of the Republic. Duilius would sail with the fleet but none would know his name. Only Scipio would be remembered. He would lead the fleet south and destroy the outnumbered Carthaginians. Then he would complete the conquest of Sicily.

As the crowd cheered, Scipio imagined the same sound multiplied a hundredfold. He imagined the streets of Rome lined with adoring crowds as his victorious triumph wound its way to the Curia. He imagined being given the corona graminea, the grass crown, the highest military honour the Republic could bestow, reserved only for those who rescued a beleaguered army.

Scipio looked out over the upturned faces of the cheering crowd. The people loved him as a leader because he offered them the world. In the future, when he delivered it, they would worship him as a god.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

From where he sat in the main cabin, Demades clearly heard the call from the masthead. Ostia had been sighted. He crossed the cabin to the starboard side and lifted the hatch to peer out over the busy waterways around the Roman port. The bright sunshine caused his eyes to water and he blinked against the discomfort. He had not seen the sun since the ship set sail from Lipara two days before.

Demades had passed the entire journey in his cabin. At first the confinement was imposed and his demands for his release had gone unanswered through the bolted cabin door. Hours out of port, Cronus had finally opened the door. Demades had immediately renewed his protests, calling for the ship to return to Lipara, but the guard commander had simply ignored him. Without a word he had walked away, leaving the door open. On a hostile galley, isolated at sea, a locked door was pointless. Demades had slammed the door shut in defiance and it had remained that way for the rest of the journey.

Demades’s initial thoughts had dwelt on the injustice of his plight. His bitterness and sense of hopelessness soon gave way to fear, not only of Cronus and the words Gisco had spoken, but also fear of the Romans. He realized the Carthaginians were setting some kind of trap for the Romans and, although he had no idea what form that trap would take, he knew that his city was the bait. As the presenter of that lure, Demades’s involvement would be synonymous with the trap. He was caught between the two opposing forces and the realization made him sick to his stomach. Whichever course he took, if he betrayed the Carthaginians to the Romans or the Romans to the Carthaginians, his life and the lives of his family would be forfeit if he did not find a way to avoid his fate.

Atticus watched Gaius swing the rudder to port and the Aquila turned neatly around the headland into the harbour at Ostia. The helmsman straightened the tiller and adjusted the ship’s trim to line her up with the castrum, now crowded with the twenty galleys of the newly formed Classis Romanus, the Fleet of Rome.

The activity of the traders and merchants of the port seemed reinvigorated at the sight of the anchored fleet, as if its very presence had eradicated the Carthaginian threat in the south, and ships sailed purposefully and confidently out under the offshore breeze for the far-flung ports of the Mediterranean. The Aquila’s course took her through some of the busiest parts of the harbour, but rather than before when the Aquila had had to weave her way between ships, those same ships now changed their course to make way for the military galley.

Atticus had been ordered to Ostia by Tuditanus to further the training of the command crews of the new fleet, a task he did not relish given that those same trainees were now captains in their own right and not subject to Atticus’s orders. He had a feeling they would not be as responsive as they had been before and, given that some had been blatantly uncooperative in the first place, their further training relied almost completely on any respect they had for his experience, a respect he knew in some cases did not exist.

Septimus was also in Ostia, having joined his optio, Quintus, the day before and, as the Aquila approached the dockside, Atticus could see the familiar figure of the centurion standing beside his opposite number from the V maniple of the Fourth.

The day’s training would involve teaching boarding techniques to the legionaries under the guise of demonstrating how the Carthaginians boarded enemy galleys. It would be the legionaries’ first taste of boarding, albeit in calm waters and without heavy battle armour, but it would be realistic, and the hope was that this realism would speed the training process. As the Aquila docked, the gangway was lowered to allow the men on board. They tramped up the gangway in single file. None seemed enthusiastic about the day ahead.

One hundred yards away, the ship bearing the men from Lipara reached the crowded docks. Cronus stood at the head of the gangway with the barge’s captain.

‘If we do not return you are to sail directly to Lipara and inform the admiral that we have been betrayed.’

The captain nodded as Cronus turned to Demades. ‘Remember, Demades, that although you will have the opportunity to betray us once we are in the city, you will not be able to stop this barge from sailing with news of that betrayal. If the admiral receives such a message, your family will be immediately killed.’

Demades nodded, his fear and understanding evident. Cronus disembarked, followed by the sullen and silent Demades and then four of Gisco’s, now Demades’s, personal guard. Once they were ashore, the gangway was raised and the ship shoved off from the busy quayside to allow another ship to moor in her place.

‘Wait here,’ Cronus ordered, and strode off alone towards a livery to hire horses for the journey to Rome.

Demades stood in the centre of the four men, cut off from the frantic world around him by the constantly vigilant guards. As his eyes roamed over the teeming waters, he caught sight of a galley sailing apace into the castrum. His breath caught in his throat at the sight, his heart rate increasing as he recognized the pennant flying at the masthead. It was an eagle in flight, the namesake of the galley it soared above.

‘The Aquila,’ he breathed to himself, his mind racing, scarcely believing what he was seeing. Demades had not seen the galley in over two years, ever since Lipara had fallen into Carthaginian hands. The city had always been a prime target for the pirates who sailed the northern shores of Sicily, and so the Aquila had always been a welcome sight in the city’s harbour, so much so that Demades knew the captain of the Aquila well.

‘Let’s go.’

The abrupt command broke into Demades’s thoughts and he turned to see Cronus tower over him again. The Carthaginian grabbed the councillor by the arm and led him through the crowd towards the livery. Demades was forced to walk briskly to keep up with the taller man’s stride; although the pace made it difficult for him to look back over his shoulder, Demades could not resist the temptation. The sight of the galley produced a tiny flicker of hope in him, a flame he nursed on the headlong gallop to Rome.

Scipio sat in silence as Duilius made his rebuttal. He was impressed with the junior consul, an emotion he rarely felt, but one he believed was warranted given the item being debated. Scipio was not involved in the debate itself, but he had surreptitiously engineered its acceptance on the agenda, something he was very pleased with given the awkward position it put Duilius in.

The Senate was debating the levying of taxes to fund the construction of the new fleet, specifically, in this case, the application of a new tax on produce sold in the markets. If effected, it would be diplomatically called the ‘rescue tax’, in reference to the legions trapped behind the blockade in Sicily, a name the Senate hoped would make the tax more palatable to the populace. It would be a tax that would be borne in part by the buyer and in part by the vendor. As Duilius was the largest merchant in the city, he stood to lose a great deal of money if the tax was passed, especially if the vendor was chosen to pay the greater part. This put Duilius in a no-win situation. If he opposed the tax he would be seen as unpatriotic. If he let it pass without conditions he would end up paying a huge portion of the costs of the new fleet. To watch the political balancing act that Duilius was now forced to perform gave Scipio immense satisfaction.

As the junior consul retook his seat, another senator stood to address the chamber and the debate continued. It was then that Scipio’s eye caught Longus moving across the chamber towards a man who had just appeared at the entrance to the Curia. Scipio watched the two in conversation, remembering the junior senator well and the contrived speech he had given that had started the ten-day-long debate on the decision to build the fleet.

‘Councillor Demades?’ Longus said as he approached the man, confirming his recognition of the familiar figure he had spied from across the chamber.

‘Senator Longus,’ Demades replied, relieved to see a familiar face.

On the one occasion Demades had addressed the Senate, Longus had been present as a member of the Senate committee responsible for trade with the Aeolian Islands, of which Lipara was one. The junior senator had taken the responsibility very seriously, an attitude reflected in the councillor from Lipara, and the two men had formed a connection. It was this familiarity that Demades now clung to as he tried to control his nerve.

‘I need to speak with the senior consul immediately,’ Demades said, before looking over his shoulder at Cronus standing outside the columned entrance.

Like the other armed men of the personal guard, Cronus was barred from entering the chamber by the senatorial guard. The brief seconds out of their presence had emboldened Demades, and he had considered the idea of alerting Longus to their true identity – but the almost imperceptible shake of the head that Cronus had given him, as if he could read his thoughts, banished the idea from his mind, and he committed himself once more to this part of the Carthaginians’ plan. The safety of himself and his family was paramount.

‘What is it?’ Longus asked, sensing Demades’s trepidation, suspicious of a man who before had been an ally but now came from an island under the enemy’s control.

‘Lipara wishes to form an alliance with Rome,’ Demades said in a rush.

‘What?’ Longus said, incredulous. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, of course I’m sure,’ Demades replied forcefully, his fear making him irrational.

Longus was taken aback by the unusual intensity of the man, but he instantly dismissed it as irrelevant. If what he said was true then Rome was poised to make a huge strategic gain over the enemy. The councillor had asked for the senior consul, but Longus had no intention of informing Scipio. His first loyalty was to Duilius.

‘Wait here,’ Longus said and he turned to re-enter the chamber. As he did so he collided with Scipio, who suddenly came out from behind a pillar.

‘No need to find me, Longus,’ Scipio said, his caustic voice signifying his belief that the junior senator had not been going to deliver the message directly to its intended source, at least not until after Duilius had heard it.

‘Come with me, Councillor,’ Scipio said, and brushed past Longus, leading Demades through a small archway to an antechamber beyond. Longus could only look on in exasperation as the councillor was led away. Only when the two men were out of sight did his wits return and he ran into the crowded chamber.

‘Why?’ Scipio asked, trying to keep his expression neutral, struggling to keep his mounting excitement under control.

He listened as Demades outlined the reasons that Gisco had told him to recite. They were plausible in themselves, although Scipio would have been content if no reasons for defection had been forthcoming. For him the mere chance of glory was proving too great a temptation, and he had to force himself to think about the proposal rationally.

The opportunity was almost too good to be true. According to Demades, the island was there for the taking, with only a small Carthaginian garrison in the city itself and no naval presence in the area. It would be the new fleet’s first victory, minor given the odds, but major given the island’s strategic location as a naval base off the northern coast of Sicily. More importantly, it would be Scipio’s first victory, and the first step on his road to absolute power. It might even help the legions, he thought sardonically.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Duilius in the antechamber, flanked by a small number of senators, Longus amongst them.

‘Senior Consul,’ Duilius began, ‘I just heard the news.’

‘Yes, Senator,’ Scipio replied. ‘Given the importance of the city, I plan on sailing immediately with the twenty galleys of the new fleet to take possession of the island.’

‘Senator,’ Duilius replied, thinking fast, ‘the situation is too dangerous for you to expose yourself. As per the Senate’s resolution, I must be the one to command the expedition.’

‘I see no danger, Duilius,’ Scipio replied confidently. ‘The island is undefended and is willing to defect. Councillor Demades will testify to the fact that there is no Carthaginian naval presence in the area. Taking the island under our protection will be a mere formality.’

‘We must put the decision to the Senate,’ Duilius said, knowing he had a chance of reversing Scipio’s decision in the chamber.

‘No!’ Scipio said, suddenly angry. ‘There will be no debate. You forget yourself, Duilius. As strategic commander of the fleet I am in charge here and I have determined there is no danger. Therefore I will sail at once.’

‘I must protest, Scipio,’ Duilius said.

‘Protest as you wish, Duilius. In fact I give you leave to debate my decision in the Senate. While you are discussing my actions, I will be on my way to free the people of Lipara.’

With that, Scipio strode past the hamstrung Duilius, pushing his way through the knot of senators behind the junior consul. Demades watched him go. He had set the trap and the Romans had fallen prey. Now it was time to save himself.

‘You surely don’t need a personal guard in Rome,’ Longus said, half looking over his shoulder at the five men following himself and Demades.

‘One never knows,’ Demades said, thinking fast. ‘The news I carried from Lipara would be seen as a betrayal by the Carthaginians. I need protection from assassins.’

Longus laughed at the suggestion, confident that there were no Carthaginians in Rome.

Earlier Longus had watched Duilius storm out of the Senate and head towards his own town house. He was furious at the defeat of his mentor at the hands of the senior consul and was still wondering how he could reverse Scipio’s decision to sail to Lipara. He realized all he could do was wait for Duilius to summon him to his aid and hope that when the time came he could be of service. As the antechamber had emptied, Longus had noticed the lone figure of Demades, his presence forgotten by all in the heat of the moment. Demades had immediately approached the senator and asked him for his assistance, although at the time he would not say what assistance was required. Longus agreed and now led the councillor to his modest town house at the foot of the Palatine Hill.

On their arrival, Longus summoned a servant to show Demades to the guest quarters, with instructions thereafter to show the personal guard to the servants’ quarters.

‘I will accompany you into your room,’ Demades’s guard commander said suddenly.

‘You will hold your tongue,’ Longus stormed, amazed at the blatant insubordination.

‘It’s all right, Senator Longus,’ Demades blurted, stepping forward, his voice nervous, ‘the commander only fears for my safety.’

‘You are entirely safe within these walls,’ Longus retorted, insulted by the insinuation that his house was not safe, and taken aback by Demades’s defence of the errant officer.

‘Yes, of course,’ Demades replied, again caught between conflicting forces. One look at Cronus confirmed the course he had to take.

‘But, Longus, I promised my wife that I would keep a guard with me at all times. I do not wish to break my word.’

Longus paused for a moment, ashamed by Demades’s obvious trepidation, embarrassed that the man was so concerned about the good graces of his wife. Demades noted the disgust on Longus’s face and bit back the feeling of humiliation.

‘So be it,’ Longus said. ‘Please join me in the main dining room when you are refreshed,’ he added before stalking off, musing all the while on how much Demades had changed since their last encounter.

Cronus waited until the Roman left before escorting Demades into his quarters.

‘Curse you, Demades, why are we here?’ he hissed, pressing the councillor against the wall as he held his neck firm in his hand.

‘I had to come,’ Demades spluttered, the pressure on his throat frightening. ‘Longus insisted I accept his hospitality before making the return voyage to Lipara. To refuse would have been seen as an insult.’

Cronus snarled at the explanation, searching Demades’s voice for signs of deception. He heard only fear. With one last squeeze of pressure he released the councillor. Demades fell to the ground, his hand massaging his damaged throat. He kept his eyes low, trying to hide the myriad of emotions he knew must be written on his face. If Cronus gained any inkling of what Demades was planning, he knew he would be dead in a heartbeat.

Septimus’s face remained grim as yet another man failed to make the jump between the two galleys. The legionary’s clambering hands on the side rail drew cheers from some of the men on the foredeck of the Aquila before he fell the ten feet to the water below.

‘At least this one can swim,’ Septimus muttered to himself as he watched the man make his way over to a waiting rope ladder. They had almost lost one of the men earlier, who had fallen like others before him to the cheers of all, but had not risen immediately after sinking below the water. Two sailors had been quick to realize that the man couldn’t swim and they had dived in to rescue him. It had never occurred to Septimus that most of the men couldn’t swim, a skill he took for granted having learned it in his childhood in the river Tiber.

The training was, as expected, proving to be slow and gruelling. The men were jumping without sword or shield or the extra weight of body armour, and yet many could not make the jump. They were brave soldiers, of that Septimus was sure, for the Fourth had a fearsome reputation; but like all men when faced with an unfamiliar danger, they lacked confidence. Even those who made the other side landed off balance, and in a fight would be easy prey for a defender. It was going to take a number of days at least until all would be able to make the jump with ease. Then Septimus would have to move on to the more difficult task of teaching the legionaries the vital tactics needed for the first frenzied moments of any boarding.

As the cheers died away and the next man prepared to make the jump, Septimus heard the loud call to order and all on deck immediately snapped to attention. Without moving his head he looked towards the gangway, which was now flanked by the familiar and unwelcome sight of the praetoriani. They stepped aside as Scipio came on board. The senior consul surveyed the assembled men.

‘Soldiers of Rome,’ he shouted so all could hear, ‘we sail within the hour. Prepare to depart.’

Silanus saluted and ordered his men ashore. As one they obeyed and made their way onto the main deck and down the gangway to the dockside. They were followed by the command crews of the galleys, who had been under Atticus’s tutelage on the main deck. Septimus strode to the dockside rail and looked along the quay. Black-cloaked praetoriani were fanning out along the docks, each one carrying the same message to the sailing crews as ship after ship came alive with activity. He was joined at the rail by Atticus.

‘What do you think?’ Atticus asked, puzzled by the order.

‘I don’t know,’ Septimus replied, although he felt uneasy owing to the presence of Scipio himself.

Atticus turned to Lucius. ‘Prepare to get under way.’

‘Hold!’ a voice said unexpectedly. It was Scipio, the overheard order causing him to stop halfway down the gangplank and spin around. His expression was hostile as he made his way back to the main deck.

‘This galley is not part of the Classis Romanus, Perennis,’ he spat. ‘That honour is reserved for the new fleet only. I need men who will follow my every command without question; men who are loyal to Rome and the Senate. You and your crew are to remain in Ostia.’

‘As you wish, Consul,’ Atticus replied, struggling to keep his voice even.

Scipio turned and walked off the Aquila without another word.

Atticus and Septimus watched from the foredeck of the Aquila as the Classis Romanus raised sail and set course for the mouth of the harbour. The ships were moving in a loose formation, the more efficient crews outstripping others, although none dared to overtake the Mars, commanded by Scipio, at the head of the fleet. Septimus spotted Silanus on the main deck of the flagship with half of his maniple assembled behind him. He saluted the centurion and Silanus returned the gesture with a nod before turning away from the rail. The sight of the fleet under way had brought cheers from both the dockside and crews of the trading ships in the harbour, and the crews of the galleys had returned the gesture, even though they were unaware of their destination.

For security reasons the galley captains had simply been told to make ready to depart. No further details were made available and none would be forthcoming until the fleet was safely at sea. Only then would the crews learn of their mission. What they did know, however, was that the ships were now stocked with two days’ worth of provisions. This was not unusual in itself – military galleys always carried a week’s provisions as a matter of course – but this was the first time the fleet had taken on supplies, as before the men were fed in the mess halls of the castrum. If the fleet was only sailing to Fiumicino, as the men suspected, then why the need for supplies?

From Atticus’s vantage point the course and position of the lead ships were lost in the confusion of galleys in formation, but he estimated they would be making the turn to starboard, and Fiumicino in the north, within minutes. The shape of the formation changed as the course correction was made, the galleys turning onto their new heading. Atticus could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

‘Come about south,’ Scipio ordered as the Mars cleared the mouth of Ostia harbour. Fulfidias issued the orders to his crew before turning to ensure the ships behind were matching his course.

‘Southerly course as ordered, Consul.’

Scipio nodded, never taking his eyes off the fleet behind him. His chest seemed to fill with pride at the sight.

‘Set course for the Aeolian Islands, Captain,’ Scipio said as he left the aft-deck.

Fulfidias’s mind raced as the last command sank in. The Aeolian Islands. Enemy territory. Only an hour before he had watched with amusement from the main deck of the Aquila as the legionaries of the Fourth made their first disastrous attempts at boarding. Now, as the fleet sailed into possibly hostile waters, Fulfidias wished he had not witnessed the training. Given time, he knew the legionaries would prove to be very capable at fighting in naval battles, but if they encountered the enemy on this voyage the time needed would never materialize. Fulfidias realized that if the fleet did encounter the Carthaginians, their only hope for survival would be to turn and run.

Gaius Duilius strode alone around the four sides of the atrium of his town house, his mind a whirl of thoughts as he tried in vain to find a way to turn the tide of battle once more in his favour. If round one had been his Senate victory, and round two Scipio’s triumphal entrance into Ostia, then this was certainly round three, and once again Scipio was heading for victory. Duilius cursed the system that now held him fast, the very system he had so artfully controlled many times before but which now seemed intractable.

The Senate was unlikely to revoke Scipio’s decision to sail to Lipara and, even if Duilius managed to raise the issue in debate, Scipio would have arrived at the island, liberated its people, set up a garrison and returned home in triumph before the senators of Rome were even ready to vote on the matter.

He had reviewed the idea of sailing with the fleet but, being second-in-command, and out of sight of the Senate where he enjoyed support, Duilius knew that Scipio would humiliate him by giving him command of the rear-guard, or a scouting vessel. Either way, without the certainty of battle on the horizon, Duilius would be unable to push his claim to be in the vanguard of any action. As he walked, Duilius cursed the goddess of fortune for her fickle nature.

‘One hour, Demades,’ Cronus said, his voice agitated by the unwanted confinement within the senator’s house, ‘do you understand? One hour and then you make your excuses. Tell the Roman we will leave at dawn.’

Demades nodded, not trusting his voice. One hour was more than enough. What he had to say to Longus would take minutes only.

‘And remember,’ Cronus added, ‘not a word to anyone, especially this senator. It may seem you are safe when not in my presence, Demades, but it only seems that way. If we do not return to Lipara safely, your family will be slaughtered.’

Demades left the Carthaginian alone in his room without another word and walked out to the atrium. He centred all his attention on keeping a measured stride, fearful that if he looked over his shoulder he would see Cronus watching his every move. As Demades entered the main dining room, he saw Longus, as protocol demanded, already waiting there to receive his guest. Demades forced a smile onto his face and Longus returned the gesture, although his face also showed a look of puzzlement at the councillor’s obvious discomfort. As Demades sat down he looked towards the arched exit back to his quarters, his eyes lingering on the opening, trying to ascertain if Cronus had indeed followed him.

‘I hope you find the guest accommodation to your satisfaction, Demades,’ Longus said lightly.

Demades spun around, his face a mask of fear. ‘I’m in mortal danger, Longus,’ he exclaimed.

Longus was immediately taken aback. ‘That’s ridiculous, Demades,’ he said. ‘Get a hold of yourself, man. You are safely within my house. Apart from your own guard, I have twenty men stationed within the walls. You are untouchable while in my presence.’

Demades had turned to look at the entranceway again as the senator spoke and immediately shot around as Longus finished speaking.

‘It is my guard who imperil me,’ he explained to Longus’s look of disbelief. ‘They’re not mine, they’re Carthaginian!’

Longus was speechless, his mind trying to fully comprehend Demades’s words.

‘But how…?’

‘I was ordered here by the Carthaginian admiral, a man named Gisco, to tell the Senate that Lipara was willing to defect,’ Demades explained, keeping his voice low, fearing Cronus’s appearance.

‘By the gods,’ Longus exclaimed as the realization struck him. ‘Then that means…’

‘Your fleet is sailing into a trap,’ Demades said, his voice broken under the admission.

Longus immediately shot up from his seat.

‘Guards! Guards! To me!’ he yelled.

‘No!’ Demades shouted, fear coursing through him. ‘My guards will hear.’

‘To Hades with you and your guards,’ Longus said as the approaching sound of running feet could be heard beyond the room.

From the guest quarters, Cronus clearly heard the cry of alarm from within the depths of the house. Instinct immediately took over his actions as he drew his sword and ran to the door of the room. He opened the door in time to see two of the house guards rush through the atrium to the dining room beyond, their destination, the source of the call to arms. Demades had betrayed them, there was no other explanation.

As Cronus slipped out of the room he cursed his own stupidity for allowing the councillor out of his sight. He had thought Demades a fool, a coward who was subdued to the point of total obedience; however, he had been wrong. Cronus knew he would pay for his mistake with his life, surrounded as he was on all sides by hostile forces. With a warrior’s cold detachment he accepted his fate, muttering a brief homage to Mot, the god of death in whose presence he would soon be. As he slipped into the atrium, his mind listening to the heated voices in the main dining room, he whispered a second prayer to Tanit, the Punic goddess of fortune. His words to her were not a plea for his own safety, but rather a request to grant him the opportunity to have revenge on the man who had sealed his fate.

‘You and you,’ Longus ordered, ‘guard this man.’

Two of the Roman guards stepped forward and stood on both sides of Demades.

The councillor protested, begging Longus for understanding and mercy, but the senator’s ears were deaf to his words. More guards were arriving by the second, the alarm now spreading to the entire house. Longus ordered men to secure the room while others were dispatched to the guardhouse and guest quarters to apprehend the Carthaginians in their midst. The senator’s final orders put steel and determination into the soldiers’ actions. No quarter was to be given.

Cronus heard the heavy footfalls of running men as at least four passed the doorway behind which he was hidden. He opened the door a crack to see the four men charge open the door to Demades’s room, roaring a battle cry as they did so to steel their nerves. Cronus knew it would take vital seconds before they realized their prey had fled. He shot out of the room and headed straight to the dining area not twenty yards away. The Roman guard stationed at the entrance was looking into the room, his back turned to Cronus, his attention drawn to a conversation in the room. The Carthaginian thanked Tanit for the opportunity he had prayed for.

‘Don’t you understand, Longus?’ Demades pleaded. ‘I had to do it. They would have killed me and my entire family if I had refused.’

‘You are nothing,’ Longus spat, ‘your family are nothing.’

The senator paced the room, waiting for the cries of allclear from the detachments sent to kill the Carthaginians. He turned back to Demades.

‘You will accompany me to the house of Gaius Duilius. There you will tell him everything you know. Everything! If you try to deceive us again I will have you flayed alive.’

Demades ignored the threat, his mind past fearing the danger that surrounded him on all sides. What mattered now was making the Romans understand that he was on their side and that his family were in danger. Somewhere in his tormented mind he was sure the Romans would listen to reason.

As Cronus ran the last few yards towards the Roman guard, his left hand slipped a dagger from a sheath in the small of his back, rotating it until he held it overhand. At full tilt he plunged the knife down into the back of the Roman’s neck, instantly severing the spinal column, the guard dead before he hit the floor. Cronus ran unchecked into the room beyond, his eyes taking in the details before him.

The room seemed full of Roman guards, his momentary glance insufficient to count them individually. His mind registered them as a group, his fighting instincts receiving the threat and calculating the odds. He had time for one sword thrust, one victim, knowing that by the time he withdrew and recovered he would be overwhelmed. He could take only one man with him beyond the gates of Hades. The choice was simple.

Demades spun around at the shout of warning from the main entranceway. His mind registered the oncoming man, Cronus’s face a mask of rage and insanity, and the detail of Demades’s surroundings seemed to fade as his entire being focused on the sight. His mind cleared, the pervasive fear he had felt dissipated in the certain knowledge that death was a heartbeat away.

Longus could only look on in horror as his guards continued to rain blows on the lifeless body of the Carthaginian. He had appeared out of nowhere, crossing the room in seconds, driving his sword to the hilt into Demades. The momentum of the charge had taken the councillor off his feet, carrying them both along until the Carthaginian fell onto his victim. The Carthaginian had made no effort to rise after the fall but had leaned into Demades and whispered something unintelligible. Only then did the Roman guards react, the first blows from their swords killing the Carthaginian instantly, the shock of the attack causing them to continue striking the inert body.

‘Enough!’ Longus shouted, his words bringing an end to the butchery.

‘Senator!’ a voice called, and Longus spun around to its source.

‘The four Carthaginians in the guardroom have been killed, Senator,’ the guard reported.

‘Very well,’ Longus announced, struggling to regain his composure after the incredible savagery he had just witnessed.

He cursed the death of Demades. Not because he believed he deserved to live, but because he had value as a source of information regarding the Carthaginian plans in Lipara.

Longus began to stride from the room, a guard falling in behind him as he went. He dismissed his concern for the loss of Demades. It was true that he might have had some more use, but the reality was that he had delivered the most important piece of information at the outset. The Roman fleet was sailing into a trap.

Scipio stared at the sea opened out before him, the waters sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. He was alone on the foredeck, a position he had made his own on the ship, with orders to the praetoriani guarding the approach to the deck to let none pass without his express permission.

The senior consul held out his wine goblet and immediately a slave rushed forward with an amphora of wine to recharge his drink. He brought the goblet up to his mouth and took in the rich smell of the wine, a vintage from one of his own land-holdings north of Rome. Scipio’s thoughts ran to the days ahead, days that would be filled with glory and personal success. Already he knew his consulship would be marked in history as one that witnessed tremendous adversity, adversity that he had and would overcome with fortitude and bravery. His immortality was already being assured, and Scipio would seize any chance to enhance the living legend being created. He knew that Sicily would give him that chance.

The Carthaginian invasion was a gift from the gods, an opportunity for Scipio to write his name into history. His father before him, Lucius Cornelius Scipio, had gone down in the annals as a great general, victor at the Battle of Volaterrae, conqueror of the Etruscans, a champion of Rome. He had been given the cognomen, Barbatus, conqueror of the Barbarians, and it was against this benchmark that the young consul now set his ambition. His position as senior consul gave him a guiding hand on the direction of his beloved Rome, a hand he fully intended to use to his own ends.

The arrival of a Carthaginian fleet off the northern coast of Sicily had thrown up a barrier to victory, but Scipio was unconcerned. He had faced many challenges in his life and had overcome them all. He was wholly confident that he could overcome the enemy fleet. He would bring order to Sicily and cast out the Carthaginian hordes. History would remember him as the conqueror of the Punici, founder of the Roman province of Sicily. Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio Sicilianus, he thought, testing an imagined cognomen. He liked it. Smiling, he raised his glass to make a silent toast to the future, and his destiny.

As he heard the shout, Gaius Duilius looked up from the table in his study, his shallow attention easily broken from the halfhearted attempt to immerse himself in matters other than the departure of the new fleet under Scipio’s command. He listened intently, waiting with his breath held until he heard the call again. It was someone shouting his name. Duilius rose from behind his desk and walked out into the peristyle, the small, colonnaded garden at the back of his town house. From his position he looked down the long axis of the house through the main dining room and the atrium beyond. As his eyes focused on the distant point, he heard the call again, and then watched as a servant opened the main door of the house. Duilius immediately recognized Longus.

The junior senator pushed his way past the servant and entered the atrium, renewing his calls. Duilius frowned at the discourteous interruption. Longus was a useful ally, one that had proved resourceful in the past, but he was also sycophantic, a fawning, immature man who constantly looked to the junior consul for guidance. Duilius recalled that when he was Longus’s age he was already a self-made man and owner of the largest estate in Rome.

Duilius walked into the main dining room to intercept the young senator. He moved in silence, refusing to raise his voice in an uncivil manner even as Longus destroyed the tranquillity of his house. Longus spotted him from the atrium and made towards him, his face a mask of concern mixed with relief at having found his mentor.

‘Thank the gods you are here, Consul,’ he began.

‘What is it, Longus?’ Duilius cut across irritably.

‘The fleet are sailing into a trap.’

For a second Duilius did not register the words, their meaning seemingly impossible.

‘A trap?’

‘Yes, Consul. The councillor from Lipara, Demades, informed me.’

Again Duilius paused. ‘Where is this councillor now?’

‘Dead. Killed by his own guard. They were Carthaginians.’

Duilius absorbed the information, his mind dismissing impractical questions, searching as always for the crux of the problem. There was a trap. The fleet were unaware. Time was against him. He instantly decided which problem needed to be tackled first. Time.

‘Saddle two of my fastest horses,’ he shouted to an attendant nearby. The man rushed away, the urgency of the order infectious.

‘Longus, you and I will ride to Ostia. With luck there will be a galley there to take us south in pursuit of the fleet. As they are unaware, they will not be rushed. We may yet catch them.’

Duilius walked out into the atrium and looked up into the afternoon sky. Scipio had left Rome hours before. Even allowing for time to prepare the fleet, the head start seemed insurmountable.

Atticus looked out over the now unfamiliar sight of the empty castrum dock at Ostia. It was an hour before sunset and the crew of the Aquila were using the last of the day’s light to make final preparations for the galley’s planned return to Fiumicino at dawn. Atticus’s eyes ranged over their activities without absorbing the detail, his mind firmly fixed on the sudden departure and unknown course of the Classis Romanus.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching horses and he turned to see two men arrive at speed. They were experienced horsemen, weaving their mounts along the approach paths to the docks, avoiding the stockpiles of military supplies that littered the whole area. Atticus walked from the foredeck to the head of the gangway in anticipation of their arrival. The horsemen stopped directly beside the Aquila and both men dismounted.

‘Sailor,’ the older of the two shouted, ‘where is the captain of this vessel?’

‘I’m the captain,’ Atticus replied, ‘Captain Perennis.’

The older man nodded and strode up the gangway, ignoring the protocol that dictated that all should first ask for permission before boarding. Atticus backed away from the head of the gangway, giving the approaching men room to come onto the main deck. Both wore senatorial robes, although it was obvious that the younger man deferred to the older.

‘Captain Perennis,’ the older man began, ‘when can you be ready to sail?’

‘On whose orders?’ Atticus replied, asserting his authority as captain.

‘On mine, Gaius Duilius, junior consul of the Senate of Rome.’

Atticus immediately noted the unyielding, authoritative voice and bearing.

‘Within thirty minutes, Consul,’ he replied.

‘Very well, Captain, make it so.’

Atticus turned and issued curt orders to his ever-attentive second-in-command. The crew redoubled their efforts to finish preparing the galley, the imminent departure changing nothing except their pace. A runner was sent below to find Septimus.

‘What is our destination, Senator?’ Atticus asked as the activity intensified around him.

Duilius turned and weighed the question, determining how much the captain needed to know at this stage. The young man before him seemed competent, his position as captain of one of Rome’s military vessels a testament to his unseen abilities. He judged him to be in his early thirties, maybe a year or two younger than he was. Duilius had himself risen to the heights of his own world at that age. The man before him had done the same. If achievements mark the man, then the captain could be trusted.

The junior consul nodded towards the aft-deck and led Atticus and Longus to a quiet spot by the starboard rail.

‘I need you to sail with all possible speed in pursuit of the new fleet, Captain,’ Duilius began. ‘We have learned they are sailing into a trap set by the Carthaginians.’

‘By the gods,’ Atticus whispered, ‘what is their destination?’

‘Lipara.’

Atticus nodded, his abrupt question and the lack of further unnecessary queries justifying Duilius’s judgement of his character.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Senators, I’ll have one of my men show you to the main cabin,’ Atticus said, and left the two senators alone on the aft-deck.

He went directly to the main deck to coordinate the preparation of the ship, his heart pounding in his chest as his thoughts went to the untried and unaware fleet sailing south.

The Aquila shoved off from the Ostia docks twenty minutes later, her full complement of crew and marines on board. The two senators joined Septimus and Atticus on the aft-deck as the galley cleared the busy inner harbour under oar power. Directly ahead the sun was setting rapidly, its golden light causing all to shield their eyes against the glare. Gaius kept both hands steady on the tiller, his eyesight seemingly unaffected as he nimbly wove the galley through the obstacle course of the Republic’s busiest port.

As the Aquila reached the mouth of the harbour, the protective headland to the north slipped behind them, exposing their beam to the full force of the northerly wind. Atticus called for the oars to be shipped and the mainsail raised as Gaius adjusted his course southwards. The orders were carried out with alacrity, and Duilius noted the efficiency, wondering why Scipio had not taken such an obviously competent crew on his voyage south. The Aquila shot ahead under full sail, making twelve knots as her spear-like bow cut through the white horses of the wave tips.

Atticus noted the intense stare of Duilius as he looked ahead to the darkening horizon. Lipara was no more than thirty-six hours to the south. Scipio’s considerable head start was now weighed against the experienced crew of the Aquila. The galleys themselves were evenly matched, the Aquila’s design copied in every hull of the Classis Romanus. Only the crews were different, with men new to their galleys set against men such as Gaius and Lucius, who’d spent countless hours minutely adjusting the trim of the Aquila to garner every knot of speed from the wind.

Atticus found himself matching the intense stare of the senator as he looked to the horizon ahead. He remained silent, knowing there would be plenty of time to question the consul on what was known of the trap. Right now those questions took second place to the immediate need to ensure that his galley was running at her top speed. Within fifteen minutes the water around them was shrouded in darkness, the night’s arrival seemingly portentous, the obscure seascape suppressing the hope of the men standing on the aft-deck of the Aquila.

CHAPTER TWELVE

From the main cabin in the Mars, Scipio clearly heard the call of land sighted on the port quarter. He consulted the maps laid out before him, his finger running down the line of the ship’s course as described by the captain the day before. Fulfidias had estimated that the Mars would sight the volcanic island of Stromboli at the beginning of the third day and now, an hour after dawn, the ship was indeed sailing past the island.

Scipio noticed the sulphuric stench infusing the air in the cabin and he went on deck to see the famed island that he had never laid eyes on before. The legendary volcano rose over three thousand feet above the sea, its summit constantly spewing out noxious smoke that seemed to fill the entire eastern sky off the port bow.

Scipio approached Fulfidias.

‘Report, Captain.’

‘We are an hour short of Lipara, Consul. Our next land sighting will be Euonymos, and immediately after that we will be able to see the island of Lipara.’

Scipio nodded. ‘Call me when we pass Euonymos,’ he said, and returned to his cabin.

‘Land ahead, three degrees off the port bow!’

Atticus glanced up at the masthead lookout and followed his pointed hand to the low cloud ahead on the eastern horizon.

Stromboli.

He rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger, the morning sun seemingly brighter than usual after the darkness of the pre-dawn.

‘Anything?’ a voice beside him enquired.

Atticus turned to see Duilius standing beside him, the consul’s bloodshot eyes testament to the sleepless night shared by all on board the Aquila.

Atticus shook his head before returning his full concentration to the horizon ahead.

Fifteen minutes later the Aquila was parallel to Stromboli, the half-mile-high volcano hiding the morning sun and casting a three-mile-long shadow across the sea through which the galley sailed at speed.

‘An hour from Lipara,’ Atticus thought.

‘Lucius, what’s our speed?’

The second-in-command signalled the drop of the marker on the foredeck and counted aloud until it passed his position on the aft-deck, one hundred and twenty feet from the start point. He closed his eyes momentarily to calculate.

‘A shade over ten knots, Captain.’

‘Orders to below, engage oars at attack speed. Once rhythm has been established, accelerate to ramming speed.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied and went below to the slave deck.

From the aft-deck, Atticus clearly heard the drum master call the slaves to order, making them ready to engage. It was a tricky manoeuvre, one only an experienced crew of oarsmen could accomplish. At attack speed their stroke was eleven knots, one faster than the wind. Their first stroke would have to be perfect, with each oar hitting the water simultaneously, otherwise the current of water flowing past the ship would foul any oar out of sequence. There was no margin for error. Atticus waited for the order to engage to be given, holding his breath until the drum beat started. The order to engage was coupled with the first beat and two hundred oars hit the water as one. The Aquila took on the extra knot of speed with ease. Within a minute the order for ramming speed was given and the Aquila reached her top speed of thirteen knots.

‘How long can your slaves maintain this speed?’ Duilius asked, watching the manoeuvre intently.

‘Five minutes under normal circumstances,’ Atticus began. ‘However, with the wind taking the lion’s share of ten knots, the rowers only have to make up the additional three. The tempo is as high as ramming speed but the effort is greatly reduced.’

Again Duilius nodded, his face reflecting his admiration and understanding of the skill required for such an operation.

Atticus noted the unspoken compliment. In the brief time he had known Duilius, he had begun to form a very different opinion of senators from the one Scipio had ingrained in him.

The Aquila sailed past the island of Euonymos at thirteen knots, her every stroke taking her closer to Lipara. Atticus stood with Septimus and Duilius on the foredeck, the three men searching the sea ahead in silence. Atticus was tempted to increase the oar-stroke to beyond ramming speed, a move made possible given the trailing wind. It was a highly dangerous manoeuvre, though, one he had seen carried out only once before – and that with disastrous consequences. Above ramming speed the individual beats on the drum began to merge and the guiding rhythm, so important in keeping two hundred men working in unison, could be easily lost. Atticus dismissed the idea with reluctance. He would have to rely on their current speed and pray to Fortuna that they would be in time.

‘Ships ahead!’

The entire crew looked to the masthead at the call, each man following the line indicated by the lookout to the horizon dead ahead.

‘How far?’ Atticus called up.

‘I estimate five miles, Captain, sailing in line-astern formation, just short of Lipara harbour.’

‘Stercus!’ Atticus spat. ‘Too far to signal.’

‘We’re too late,’ Septimus said aloud to himself, speaking the dread words that all felt.

‘Maintain course and speed,’ Duilius said, ‘perhaps the Carthaginian trap is not set to be sprung. We may yet reach them in time.’

Atticus nodded, wanting the possibility to exist.

Scipio surveyed the seemingly quiet city of Lipara from the aft-deck of the Mars as the galley entered the crescent-shaped harbour. The city stood in the centre of the bay, the land rising sharply behind to create a series of undulating hills stretching northwards along the spine of the island. What activity there had been on the docks had ceased at the sight of the Roman galleys approaching the mouth of the harbour, and so the trading ships that were moored to the quay stood quiet and forlorn. Scipio smiled as he imagined the panic now unfolding in the Carthaginian garrison somewhere deep within the city.

The Mars hove to in the centre of the bay, the other galleys deploying left and right in line-abreast formation. Scipio had personally chosen the formation, remembering the impact the sight had had on the people of Ostia, a sight that would inspire fear in the heart of any enemy standing on the shoreline. The senior consul experienced a feeling of anticlimax at the ease of their approach. Once back in Rome he would need to embellish his report on the capture of the city, if only to satisfy the city’s appetite for glory. A victory easily won was not a tale worth telling.

Scipio waited impatiently as the inexperienced crews manoeuvred their galleys in the confines of the harbour. Although the ships were under oar power, their efforts seemed uncoordinated and clumsy. The simple transformation of the fleet from line astern to line abreast was still incomplete when Scipio’s patience ended.

‘Standard speed!’

The Mars got under way, her advance matched by the galleys flanking her position. Scipio adjusted the folds of his toga, readying himself for disembarkation.

Duilius watched in hopeless silence as the last of the Classis Romanus breached the harbour mouth four miles ahead. The Roman galleys were moving with intent, but without haste, allowing all on board the Aquila to grasp on to the slim hope that the trap could yet be averted.

Atticus, his years at sea compelling him to be ever vigilant, continued to scan the four quarters of the horizon for any sight of an approaching enemy.

‘There!’ his mind screamed as he caught a flicker of movement off the southernmost tip of the island, a headland less than a mile from the harbour.

‘Ships off the port forequarter!’ the lookout called, all eyes turning to where Atticus’s gaze was already rooted.

‘Carthaginians!’ Atticus said, the unfurled masthead banners confirming the already realized truth. ‘Moving at attack speed.’

Atticus counted ten galleys, with more rounding the headland with every stroke of their oars. They were led by a quinquereme, an alpha male leading the attack wolves unerringly to their prey.

‘All stop!’ Duilius said suddenly.

Atticus hesitated for a heartbeat before relaying the order to the crew. The sail was immediately collapsed and the Aquila’s oars brought her to a complete stop within three galley-lengths.

‘Your orders, Consul?’ Atticus asked, urgency in his voice, knowing that every second counted. Septimus stood beside him, his hand holding the grip of his sword tightly, the proximity of the enemy heightening his readiness.

‘Set course for Rome, Captain,’ Duilius answered, his voice laced with futile anger.

Atticus and Septimus made to protest, but Duilius cut them short, anticipating their words.

‘I cannot compound Scipio’s fate by sailing into Lipara. If both he and I fall into enemy hands the fleet will be leaderless. Our priority is Rome and the legions of Sicily. One extra Roman galley at Lipara will not stave off defeat.’

Atticus had been making ready to retort but he stayed his words, surprised by Duilius’s explanation of his decision, the consul’s honesty creating trust, the collaborative style of command encouraging compliance.

‘That fool Scipio,’ Longus spat, ‘he deserves the fate his pride has led him to.’

‘But the fleet does not,’ Duilius cursed, slamming his fist down on the side rail. ‘They are Romans. Men who answered the call of their city. They should not die like rats in a trap.’

Atticus nodded imperceptibly at Duilius’s words, the underlying belief striking a chord with his growing connection to Rome.

‘Bring her about, Gaius!’ he ordered, his faith in the consul’s vision enabling his obedience to the command. ‘Set course for Rome.’

The Aquila swung neatly as her oars engaged, the crew silent as the full realization of their failure to catch the Classis Romanus struck home. Behind them the Carthaginian quinquereme rounded the mouth of Lipara, her hull down in the calm waters of the inner harbour.

Atticus and Septimus continued to look over the aft-rail as the Aquila retreated northwards under oars, the familiarity of the scene imposing a silence on both men. The faces of the command crews and marine centurions of the Classis Romanus swept through their minds, the faces of men already lost, men already mourned. Within minutes the details of the horizon were lost in the distance and the inevitable defeat was accepted.

‘Enemy ships astern!’

Scipio spun around at the sound of the strident call. Over three hundred yards away five galleys were rounding the southern headland into the bay, with a dozen more in pursuit. They were led by a colossal ship, a quinquereme that towered over the triremes surrounding her. All were tearing through the water, rounding the headland in the time it took for panic to spread throughout the Roman fleet. Carthaginian war cries split the air and Scipio’s stomach tightened at the sound. The veneer of a Roman consul fell away to be replaced with his experience as a legionary commander.

‘Captain! Evasive manoeuvres! Centurion! Form ranks, prepare for battle.’

Scipio registered the centurion’s salute and affirmation as he responded instantly to the command.

Fulfidias, however, did not respond. Scipio whipped around, taking his eyes off the enemy to find the captain standing motionless, his eyes locked on the approaching Carthaginian galleys, a look of sheer terror on his face. Scipio struck him hard across the face, the open-handed blow knocking Fulfidias off balance. The captain regained his stance and looked at Scipio, his expression of panic unchanged.

‘Captain!’ Scipio shouted. ‘Get control of yourself and this galley or I’ll have you thrown over the side.’

Fulfidias reacted. ‘Drum master!’ Scipio heard him roar above the cacophony of sound enveloping the panicked ship. ‘Full ahead. Ramming speed!’

The Mars lurched forward as the oars bit into the calm waters of the harbour.

Scipio was given an instant to survey the Roman fleet, expecting to see the other galleys break formation and prepare to engage the enemy. His expectation was wrong.

Gisco bellowed at the top of his voice as he echoed the war cry of the men assembled on the foredeck of the Melqart. The sword in his hand felt light and he held it above his head to renew the frenzied cries of his crew, the sound filling his warrior soul. From the moment the lookouts on the heights above Lipara had signalled the arrival of the Roman fleet, Gisco had felt the exhilaration of battle rise within him. The Carthaginian fleet of twenty galleys had been moored in the village of Pianoconte, a mere two miles around the southernmost headland and completely hidden from any vessel entering the harbour of Lipara. When the Melqart had rounded the headland, Gisco’s heart had soared at the sight of the Roman galleys formed in line abreast, facing away from the mouth of the harbour. The formation seemed an act of madness, an asinine deployment that left the ships entirely vulnerable to the type of attack Gisco was now employing. The arrival of the Carthaginian galleys had transformed the scene into one of sheer chaos.

At the northern end of the fleet a number of Roman galleys were already racing towards the beach, skirting that end of the city in order to beach their ships and escape on land. Gisco had anticipated a possible fight on land and so had deployed two thousand soldiers within the city. With the Romans in disarray, their capture was inevitable. Gisco laughed out loud at the sight of the remaining galleys attempting to turn to engage his own fleet. No more than four ships had got under way in a manner that seemed to suggest competency and, as he watched, one of them endeavoured to ram a Carthaginian trireme one hundred yards off his starboard bow. The Roman’s trajectory was hopelessly inaccurate and the ram merely bounced off the heavier hull of the target. Gisco smiled malevolently as the crew of the Carthaginian trireme grappled the Roman ship and boarded her, reversing the attack the Romans had forfeited through their incompetence.

The smile was once more wiped from Gisco’s face as his eyes searched for the other three ships that were showing signs of a determined resistance.

‘Orders to the helm,’ he shouted, ‘turn two degrees starboard. Intercept and ram the Roman ship closest to the dock.’

Seconds later, the course of the Melqart adjusted under Gisco’s feet as the quinquereme pointed her bow at a gap left in the centre of the Roman line by one of the few ships that had had the good sense to break formation and give themselves steerage space. As the galley raced through the gap, Gisco looked left and right to the Roman triremes. The starboard ship was entangled with another, while the port one seemed simply incapacitated by the total panic of her crew.

‘Archers!’ Gisco shouted, his men immediately loosing volley after volley into the stricken crews, their aim deadly at the short range.

The Melqart emerged from the gap at attack speed, her course once again changing as the helmsman bore down on the lone Roman trireme ahead of them. Gisco felt the surge of pace as the galley moved to ramming speed. He looked down at the six-foot bronze ram splitting the wave tops in front of the rushing galley, its squared face racing ahead of the ship in its haste to sink itself into the enemy’s hull. Gisco raised his eyes once more to the Roman galley, desperately trying to flee parallel to the shoreline. He sheathed his sword and gripped the rail before him, tensing his body for the impending impact. At fourteen knots the momentum of the ship would drive all six feet of the ram into the Roman galley.

Scipio felt the deck of the Mars heel over beneath him as he watched the Carthaginian quinquereme speed through the Roman line. He spun around to look for Fulfidias, enraged that the captain was looking for an avenue of escape when all around them Roman galleys were locked in a chaotic, desperate fight with the Carthaginians. The enemy were spreading out to pick off individual targets and, as Scipio watched, a Carthaginian galley rammed a Roman trireme amidships, the crack of the impact filling the air, the sound immediately followed by the dread cry of the Punici boarding party as they swept onto the stricken ship. Scipio knew that if the Mars was to survive she needed to turn into the fight, not flee before it, and his eyes searched the aft-deck for the spineless captain.

The first drop in speed came suddenly, a barely perceptible drain, as if the galley had somehow snagged on an underwater obstacle that was sapping her strength. Scipio immediately noticed the change and he searched for the cause, his mind suddenly registering the ever-increasing whip cracks from the slave decks below as the rowers were whipped to comply with the impossible task of maintaining ramming speed, an order issued by Fulfidias the moment the oars had engaged over five long minutes before. Scipio cursed the idiot, realizing he had expected Fulfidias to be every bit as competent as the captain of the Aquila.

‘Commander,’ Scipio said, his praetorian guard standing by his side with their shields raised, ‘form up around me. We are about to be boarded.’

The commander saluted and the ten praetorian guards formed a ring around the consul, their black scutum shields creating a fortification against the coming onslaught. Scipio looked to the main deck to see the legionaries of the Fourth formed up ready to repel the enemy. Their faces were set in the legionaries’ blank expression of battle, discipline holding them firm, bravery giving them resolve. The senior consul turned again to the enemy ship. It was upon them.

The six-foot ram of the Melqart struck the side of the Mars with a terrifying crack, its unyielding bronze striking deep in a killer blow that drove to the very core of the smaller ship. The ram split the deck beneath the rowers, crushing the slaves like grain under a millstone, their cries mingling with the tortured sound of the ship. The momentum of the Carthaginian galley drove the trireme up onto the cutwater of the larger ship, the impact throwing all on the deck of the Mars off their feet, as if the hammer of Vulcan had fallen amongst them.

Like a dark wave of Hades, the Carthaginians spilled over the forerail of the Melqart onto the deck of the Roman galley, their war cries renewed in the battle frenzy of attack. The men of the Fourth were immediately on their feet, but they found themselves instantly overwhelmed, their sixty outmatched by the scores of Punic warriors still pouring from the Carthaginian flagship. Within minutes each legionary was fighting for his life. All sense of order was lost in the Roman ranks as men fought desperately against overpowering odds. The lone voice of a Roman centurion cut through the air to rally his legionaries into a coherent unit and the men summoned innate battle tactics as they tried to adopt a unified defensive position, their career-long training giving them a moment’s respite. It did not last.

The Carthaginians pressed home their attack on the main deck, their superior numbers and ferocity keeping the balance firmly on their side. The Romans struggled to build an effective defensive wall on the confined deck, and time and again their flanks were exposed. The Roman commander’s attempt to rally his troops died on the end of a Punic sword and, to the last man, the legionaries of the Fourth fell under the Carthaginian assault.

Scipio took another step backwards as a fresh wave of Carthaginians attacked his small band of praetoriani. They had been largely ignored during the Carthaginians’ first onslaught, with only individuals or small groups of two and three peeling off from the main attack to seek out other targets on the blood-soaked deck. His guard was down to seven men, a pitiful number that would be instantly overwhelmed the moment the legionaries’ defence collapsed on the main deck, freeing the entire Carthaginian horde to seek out new prey. Scipio stumbled over an inert body as he moved towards the stern rail and he looked down to see the captain, Fulfidias, lying supine on the deck, an arrow buried deep in his neck. His face was fixed in a grotesque scream, the expression robbing him of dignity, revealing the terror the man had experienced at the moment of death. Scipio spat on the man, cursing his incompetence.

Another of Scipio’s guards fell and a Carthaginian warrior charged through the gap, his sword raised for the killing blow. Scipio deftly sidestepped the swipe and brought his own dagger up in an underhand blow into the lower back of his attacker. The knife drove deep into the kidneys of the Carthaginian, a gush of dark blood confirming the strike. Scipio twisted the knife and withdrew it, pushing the man aside and readying himself for the next attack. A cheer from the main deck signalled the final defeat of the legionaries and the knot of men on the main deck dispersed to fan out over the ship. Scipio spotted a large group heading for the aft-deck and he bent down to pick up the sword of a fallen praetorian, stepping forward into the line formed by the four remaining guards, ready to die with his men.

‘Hold!’

The bellowed order split the air and the Carthaginians checked their attack. Scipio did not understand the shouted order in Punic but he realized its significance and he searched the crowd of blood-soaked warriors for their commander. The Carthaginians parted and a solid bull of a man strode forward, his bearded face matted with sweat. He was older than Scipio, by at least a dozen years, but he carried himself with the bearing of a commander. He stood directly opposite Scipio and looked him up and down, his face fixed in a crooked smile. He turned to his men and issued more orders in incomprehensible Punic. The men rushed forward and struck at the four praetorian guards, taking them by surprise and killing them where they stood. Scipio roared a curse at the Carthaginian commander and readied himself once more. The commander laughed at the defiance.

‘Put down your sword, Roman,’ the Carthaginian said in fluent Latin.

Scipio did not move, his expression hard. The Carthaginian commander sheathed his own sword and walked forward until he was within range of Scipio’s blade.

‘I do not wish to kill you, Roman, you wear the robes of a senator. Who are you?’

Scipio drew himself to his full height.

‘I am Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, senior consul of the Roman Republic,’ he said, speaking in a tone that reflected his disgust at having to address the Carthaginian commander. In the pause that followed, Scipio studied the man before him, wondering what fate the Carthaginian had in store for him.

The Punic commander smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes but rather emphasized the loathing that dwelt behind the gaze. For the first time that day, as Scipio gazed upon the hate-filled expression, he felt fear in his heart.

Atticus looked out over the aft-rail of the Aquila as the last traces of the volcanic smoke disappeared in the southern sky, the island of Stromboli now twenty miles behind in their wake as the galley sped northwards towards a darkening horizon. The drum beat of standard speed infused the air, but to Atticus the sound went unnoticed, its staccato rhythm blended into the myriad of familiar sounds that he had known half his life. Only unusual sounds alerted his concentration, and so he turned abruptly as he heard Duilius approach. He stiffened to attention in anticipation of an order, but Duilius waved his hand.

‘Stand easy, Captain,’ he said, his voice lowered so as not to be overheard.

Atticus turned once more to the aft-rail and resumed his vigil. Duilius leaned on the rail beside him. Minutes passed.

‘Do you think any will have escaped?’ the consul asked.

Atticus simply shook his head, too weary to answer.

‘You seem sure,’ Duilius said, glancing sideways at Atticus.

Atticus stood upright and faced the consul, Duilius mirroring his stance.

‘They never had a chance,’ Atticus said, Duilius noting an underlying anger in the captain’s voice, ‘condemned men from the first day they arrived in Fiumicino.’

Duilius was shocked by the finality of Atticus’s answer, and his own anger began to rise.

‘Why?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.

‘Because the Carthaginians outclass us in nearly every way and we don’t have the experience to beat them on their terms.’

‘So the Classis Romanus should never have been born,’ Duilius asked angrily, ‘is that it? We should abandon Sicily and the legions?’

‘No,’ Atticus replied, the thought of futilely having to argue his point with another Roman making him angry, ‘but I do believe we need to stick to our strengths and challenge the Carthaginians to the only fight we know we can win.’

Duilius was about to rebuke the captain again, but something in his voice made him pause and he realized that what he had thought was defeatism was in fact frustration.

‘So what are our strengths?’ he asked, his gaze searching.

‘Our sailors can’t match the Carthaginian crews, but our legionaries far surpass the Carthaginians’ best fighters. We need to take the fight to the enemy decks.’

‘How?’ Duilius asked, realizing at that moment that he knew nothing of naval tactics.

Atticus outlined the sailing skills necessary and the time that would be needed to train the crews. He paused as he decided if he should reveal the whole truth, the gaping problem in the tactics he outlined, the legionaries’ inability to board successfully. He recalled the consul’s earlier honesty and decided to gamble with the truth.

Duilius absorbed the entire argument, for and against, before replying.

‘Why were the sailing crews not taught boarding manoeuvres at Fiumicino?’ he asked.

‘Because our orders were to train them in ramming techniques only, the one area the Carthaginians have complete superiority.’

‘By whose orders?’

‘Tuditanus’s,’ Atticus replied.

Scipio’s man, Duilius thought to himself.

‘Do the other galley captains agree with your judgement?’ the consul asked aloud.

‘The captains of the Ostia fleet are Roman. They follow orders without question,’ Atticus said, a hint of disdain in his voice. ‘It takes an outsider to see what they cannot.’

Duilius nodded. He had seen it many times himself in the Senate, from the first day he walked in as a novus homo, a new man. The senators from the older families were blinkered by tradition and age-old stability, bred from a young age to replace their fathers in the Curia. It was because Duilius was an outsider that he was able to see what they could not, that he had been able to use the system in a way they would never discover, and it was the reason he had risen so far so fast.

Duilius gazed intently at Atticus as his mind weighed the task ahead of him. He was not a military man. In fact, he had never been on board a galley before two days ago. Now, however, he was overall commander of the Classis Romanus and he realized in an instant that, if he was going to succeed, he would need the expertise of men like the captain before him, men whose qualities reflected his own.

‘Captain Perennis,’ he said suddenly, ‘I want you to draw up a full training schedule when we return to Fiumicino, one that encompasses both ramming and boarding.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ Atticus replied, his hand unconsciously gripping the aft-rail as frustration was replaced by anticipation.

‘But…’ Duilius continued ‘…you also need to solve the problem of the legionaries.’

Atticus nodded as he consciously brought the entire argument to the forefront of his mind once more so he could examine it anew.

Duilius studied Atticus’s expression and saw that his mind was already at work on the problem. He nodded to himself. The captain was indeed a man like himself, a man who became focused and driven when the odds were stacked against him. He turned once more to peer out over the aft-rail as the last of the day’s light fell below the western horizon, his thoughts returning to the day past and the weeks ahead.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Marcus read the parchment in silence as the legionary stood before him in the centurion’s tent, the dagger still in his hand.

‘This was hooked to the pommel of the knife,’ the soldier said, holding out his hand to reveal a signet ring.

Marcus took the ring and studied it. It was gold, with an ingrained symbol on its face. ‘SPQR.’ He turned it over slowly in his hand, his mind reeling from the news on the parchment, news that the Carthaginians had stuck to a tree outside the main gate during the night using a Roman dagger. It had been found by the legionary standing before him when the dawn light revealed its presence.

‘Who else knows of this parchment?’ Marcus asked abruptly.

‘Only the two legionaries from the II maniple. They were stationed at the gate beneath our watchtower.’

Marcus got up and walked to the entrance to his tent. From his vantage point he could see the gate sixty yards away. There was only one guard on duty.

‘Stercus!’

His eyes whipped across to the tents of the II maniple. Aelius, the centurion, was striding away from his tent towards the centre of the encampment, towards the legate’s quarters. Behind him the men of his maniple were talking animatedly in groups, with individuals breaking off to head to other parts of the camp.

‘The bloody fool,’ Marcus cursed.

‘You, come with me!’ he ordered, and walked out to intercept Aelius. The legionary followed.

The three men met twenty yards short of the legate’s command tent. Aelius saw the parchment in Marcus’s hand.

‘By the gods, Marcus, we’re lost.’

‘Get a hold of yourself, Aelius,’ Marcus spat. ‘Curse it, man, your maniple will spread the news to the whole camp before roll call.’

‘I-I-I…’ Aelius stammered, looking back over his shoulder at the sound of raised voices, realizing his mistake.

Marcus turned abruptly and walked determinately towards the commander’s quarters, the legionary following behind again, leaving Aelius standing alone in the middle of the parade ground. They passed the hospital tent and, as they did, both men instinctively covered their mouths with their hands for protection.

The first case of typhus had been confirmed a week before, the legionary collapsing on parade, the telltale rash on his chest only found when he was stripped inside the hospital tent. The word had spread like wildfire, the dread news that plague stalked the encampment driving the last remnants of hope from every soldier of the Ninth Legion. Malnourished as they were, the men were ripe for the scythe of typhus, and the hospital tent was already full, a hellish place where the moans of dying men rent the air.

Two legionaries of the III maniple stood to attention as Marcus reached the entrance of the tent, their fists slamming against their armoured breast-plates in unison. Marcus ignored them and ducked his head under the opening into the outer awning. Without requesting permission he strode into the inner tent. Megellus was seated behind his desk, his expression immediately hostile at the unannounced interruption. He hadn’t slept the night before, his mind in turmoil as it fixated on the deteriorating situation of his legions, and his face was drawn and colourless. The admonition he had formed in his mind fled from his lips as he noticed Marcus’s uneasy expression.

‘What is it, Centurion?’

‘Beg to report, Legate, these were stuck to a tree outside the main gate using a Roman knife.’

Megellus stood up to take the proffered parchment and ring. His eyes widened as he immediately recognized the ring. He turned it over to read an inscription on the underside of the face.

‘No, it can’t be…’ he muttered, the parchment in his hand forgotten.

‘Who found this?’ he asked suddenly, his anxious face betraying his mounting apprehension.

‘This man,’ Marcus replied, stepping aside to allow the legionary to move forward.

‘Tell me everything,’ Megellus ordered.

The soldier quickly related his discovery of the message. Megellus listened in silence.

‘Who knows of this?’ he asked as the legionary finished.

‘Word is spreading throughout the camp as we speak,’ Marcus admitted angrily, silently cursing the centurion of the II maniple for his carelessness.

Megellus cursed as he sat back into his chair, taking up the parchment as he did so, dreading what he would find written by the hand of the enemy.

Marcus watched the legate intently. Megellus’s stature seemed to dissipate before his very eyes as he read the Carthaginians’ report of their total victory at Lipara. When Marcus had read the report minutes before, his mind had tried to dismiss the words as enemy propaganda, a vicious ploy to eradicate the last vestiges of hope within the Roman encampment. The ring, however, put paid to that hope, although Marcus could not fathom the special significance that Megellus had afforded it, beyond it being crude proof as to the veracity of the report.

As Megellus finished reading the report, he unclasped his right hand to reveal the ring within. Twenty galleys lost, three hundred dead, fifteen hundred in chains. The defeat was absolute. He twisted the metal band in his hand, turning it once more into the light to read the two inscriptions. Megellus had recognized it immediately. He had seen it many times before, each year on the finger of a different man. Each year on the finger of the senior consul of the Senate of Rome.

Megellus’s gaze lifted from the ring to the face of the centurion before him. Marcus’s face was grim, the cheeks drawn from fatigue and hunger, but Megellus could see that his strength and determination were still intact, elements forged from a life serving in the legions. The legate wondered how long those would last in the face of such adversity.

The remaining meagre supplies of the Ninth were disappearing fast and with the defeat at Lipara, there was now no hope of resupply in the near future. Megellus had lost all contact with the Second at Segeste, the three-day march through enemy territory an unbridgeable gulf. No doubt the camp prefect was reading an identical parchment that very morning, and Megellus could only guess as to what condition the Second was in. If the Ninth was a mirror guide, the camp at Segeste was close to collapse.

Megellus stood up, his will forcing his body to stand erect. His aching muscles protested at the enforced activity and a fleeting fear ran through the legate’s mind. He dismissed it brutally, telling himself the ache was from salt deprivation and not the onset of the monstrous disease that had struck down over eighty of his men.

Marcus stood to attention as Megellus addressed him.

‘Assemble the men for roll call,’ he ordered, his voice controlled and authoritative.

Marcus saluted and left.

The legate adjusted the straps of his armour, conscious of the need to be an example to his men. The forlorn mood in the camp over the past few days had been palpable. With news of the defeat at Lipara spreading like wildfire, it was about to get much worse. The breaking point had not yet been reached but Megellus knew that, once it was upon them, the men of the Ninth, faced with starvation, would be deaf to orders and near impossible to command.

The campaign was only eight weeks old. If relief did not arrive soon, Megellus would be forced to abandon the cities of Makella and Segeste to their fate and march his legions back east to Brolium. The port was ten days’ march away, ten days through enemy-held territory, during which the Carthaginians would allow the legions no quarter. It would be a march across the landscape of Hades. Only strength and determination would see them through, two pillars that were crumbling before the legate’s eyes under the weight of pestilence and starvation.

Gaius Duilius looked out at the calm waters off Fiumicino to the fifty Roman galleys riding gently against their anchor lines. They had been launched two days before but workmen still clambered over their decks and rigging to complete the final stages of construction. Within twenty-four hours they would sail to Ostia, to join the fifty completed galleys already stationed there, swelling the numbers of the reborn Classis Romanus. The men worked with dogged determination, a sense of finality in their efforts as if the very ships they created would lead short, ill-fated lives. A similar emotion was suffusing the sailors and legionaries of the fleet, a dread that sucked the fighting spirit of all and sapped the discipline of the camp.

News of the defeat in Lipara four weeks before had arrived in Ostia via trading ships. The reports had emptied the port, the traders moving north to the coastline of southern Gaul and eastern Iberia. A pervasive fear was stalking the city of Rome, with all eyes turned to the southern horizon and the expected horrific sight of the Carthaginian fleet approaching to sack and enslave the city. A permanently tense atmosphere filled the forums of Rome, as if the populace were living on borrowed time.

Initially the Senate had panicked at the news of the defeat, with many calling for immediate negotiations with the Carthaginians in the hope that Rome could be spared an attack at the price of abandoning the legions in Sicily. Duilius had rounded on the Senate, his fury and passion shaming the lesser men to commit themselves once more to the path of honour they had chosen. Now, four weeks later, that fleet was nearing completion, with a final thirty ships scheduled for launch in two weeks’ time.

Atticus watched the wordless labour of the craftsmen as they completed the final stages of rigging the latest batch of fifty galleys. The Aquila sailed past the fleet at speed, her course set for one of the newly built wooden piers stretching out from the black sands of Fiumicino. A galley captain waved across the forty-yard gap to Atticus, and he returned the gesture with a nod, recognizing the man as a former trainee, now the captain of his own galley. Atticus was once again filled with disquiet at the thought of these raw crews facing the seemingly invincible Carthaginians. Once at Ostia the crews would undergo further training to ensure that all were familiar with their own ship and its capabilities. Even then they would fall well short of the years of experience the Carthaginians enjoyed.

The order was given for steerage speed and the Aquila slowed, the galley rising and falling in the gentle surge of the tide. Lines were thrown from the foredeck and slaves took the strain, their practised efficiency bringing the Aquila to a gentle stop. The gangplank was lowered and Atticus walked down it briskly, checking his armour as he went. His meeting with Duilius was at noon and promised, like the others, to last well into the afternoon. Ever since Lipara four weeks before, Duilius had become an avid student of seacraft and naval warfare. He had chosen Atticus as his tutor and they had met as often as the consul’s schedule allowed. Duilius was a quick study and was mindful of his inexperience, a fact that made Atticus’s task much easier.

The beach was alive with activity, the frames that would house the keels of the final thirty galleys already rising out of the remains of the scaffolds used for the completed galleys in the water. Beyond the noise of the hammering and sawing of timber, Atticus could hear the familiar sound as weighted wooden swords clashed in the legionaries’ encampment. He had not seen Septimus over the past few weeks, but it was rumoured that Septimus rarely slept and the legionaries of the Fourth followed his example, their thirst for vengeance over the loss of their comrades fuelling their strength and endurance. For the men of the Fourth, there would be no repeat of Lipara.

Atticus crested the dune at the top of the beach and continued on to the consul’s tent, situated where once the prefect’s tent had stood. Tuditanus had been taken into custody by Duilius the moment the Aquila had returned from Lipara and he had not been seen since. Atticus could only guess at Tuditanus’s fate, but he was sure that Duilius had not been lenient.

Duilius’s expansive quarters were set aside from the rest of the camp and, although the structures were made of canvas, they looked almost permanent, as if the consul’s quarters had stood as long as the village of Fiumicino. The entrance was guarded by praetoriani, their faces dour and uninviting. They too felt the shame of the defeat at Lipara. The sworn duty of their unit was the protection of the Senate, in particular the senior members. The loss of the senior consul under their charge was a dishonour to all of them.

Atticus passed through the checkpoint at the main gate, surrendering his weapons on request. He was subjected to two further searches before being admitted to the outer section of the consul’s tent. There he was questioned by an optio, the junior officer checking the captain’s details against the schedule confirmed by the consul’s private secretary. Only then did Atticus enter the inner tent, all the while flanked by two praetorian guards.

Duilius was standing with his back to the entrance, his mind focused solely on a canvas map hanging from the wall of the tent. The map depicted the southwestern coast of Italy, from Rome to the city of Righi on the toe. It also included the northern coastline of Sicily. It was this section of the map that held the consul’s attention. Duilius turned around as the guard announced Atticus’s presence.

‘You’re dismissed,’ Duilius told the guards.

The guards hesitated for a second, their instincts momentarily overriding the order. This was the first time the consul had requested their absence and, although they knew the captain from previous meetings, in the present climate they were trusting no one. Duilius glared at them and they saluted and left.

‘Sit down, Captain,’ the consul ordered.

Atticus sat in one of the two chairs facing the large central table.

‘So, Captain, the deadline approaches for the launch of the final galleys of the fleet. Have you solved our problem?’

Atticus had known the question was coming, although he didn’t think Duilius would open the conversation with it. The direct approach threw him and his carefully prepared answer fled from his mind.

‘No, Consul,’ he replied after a pause, ‘I have discussed it at length with my senior crew and we’re still drawing a blank. We cannot think of a way to quickly and safely transfer legionaries from an attacking ship to the deck of another.’

Duilius nodded, his face inscrutable. The consul had hoped for a more positive answer, but all the while he had expected disappointment. Atticus’s response was the same answer he had had from every captain he had surreptitiously asked over the previous weeks. Their answers had all been the same. The legionaries could not be made full marines in the time they had.

Septimus staggered down the beach as if drunk, fatigue fogging his mind, his stupor allowing him to ignore the pain of the cramped muscle in his upper arm. The muscle had gone into spasm during a simulated combat exercise, forcing him to throw up his shield to protect his unguarded right, the blow from his opponent coming before the man had time to realize the centurion was in pain. The legionary had instantly disengaged, overcoming the aggressive urge brought on by the close-quarter fight. Septimus had waved away the offers of assistance and simply walked away from the training ground, his destination the cool waters of the sea that had revived him so many times over the preceding weeks.

At the edge of the water, Septimus kicked off his sandals, unbuckling his armour as he did so. The breast- and backplates fell onto the sand and Septimus stepped out of the circle of discarded kit. He walked into the sea, feeling the cold water soak his feet and legs before venturing further in. He stood for a moment in the hip-deep water, waiting for the surge of a wave to reach him before plunging headlong into the wall of water. The noise of the beach was immediately lost under the wave and Septimus struck out hard under the water, watching a maelstrom of tiny bubbles cascade over each other under the turbulence of the surf. He angled his stroke upwards and immediately broke the surface behind a second wave. The water seemed to instantly revive him and he directed his body to the nearest barge, one hundred yards from the shore. His powerful overarm stroke covered the distance in two minutes. He grabbed onto the anchor line of the barge and rested, his breath returning to normal within a minute, his healthy body shrugging off the exertion. Feeling renewed, he turned once more to shore and swam back through the breaking water.

Walking alertly from the sea, Septimus surveyed the frenzied activity on the beach, activity he had ignored on his way down to the water. His eyes scanned left and right, taking in the full vista of the construction site. As his gaze brought him to the south end of the beach, he spied the Aquila tethered to one of the wooden piers. As always there was activity on deck and in the rigging. Septimus smiled as he imagined hearing the raised voice of Lucius barking orders to all on board to make perfect the already impeccable galley. Septimus pricked up his ears and tried to single out the voice but it was lost in the cacophony of sound on the beach.

Septimus had noticed the galley on previous occasions, the first time prompting him to run down to meet Atticus and ask him if any news had been received in Ostia regarding the Carthaginians. The camp was all but cut off from the outside world now that security had been increased in the wake of the defeat at Lipara, and Septimus, like everyone, relied on infrequent seaborne news from Ostia.

Strapping his armour back on, Septimus decided he would call on the ship that evening if she were still in port. It would be good to see Atticus again, an opportunity to put their argument behind them over an amphora of wine. He looked forward to spending a night on board the Aquila after four weeks of sleeping on land. He smiled at the transformation his predilections had undergone in just under a year. He had always considered himself a land animal. Now, in contrast, he was beginning to think he would never feel at home anywhere except on the deck of a galley.

After a moment’s hesitation, Atticus decided he had to try. He quickly turned around and re-entered the consul’s tent. The optio inside looked up in surprise at the unexpected return.

‘I need a gate pass,’ Atticus said simply.

The optio looked doubtfully at the captain, knowing that passes through the camp’s security checkpoints were not given lightly.

‘Please wait here, Captain,’ he said, and turned to walk into the recesses of the elaborate tent to find the consul’s private secretary.

Atticus tapped his feet impatiently as he waited. Duilius had dismissed him only moments before, after six long hours, with orders to return at noon the next day. The unexpected eighteen hours of leave were probably the only opportunity Atticus would get, and so he prayed his request for a pass would be granted. In the time allowed he could have sailed back to Ostia; however, once there, he would be faced with the same security. Given he had just met with the consul in private, Atticus reckoned his odds were higher if he requested a pass now.

The personal secretary, a former centurion and camp prefect, emerged from the rear of the tent. He looked Atticus directly in the eyes, as if he were trying to find some level of subterfuge in the simple request for a pass.

‘The consul has agreed to the granting of a pass,’ the secretary said, his voice revealing a reluctance to accept Duilius’s magnanimous treatment of the young captain. ‘I just need to know your destination, for the paperwork.’

Atticus nodded, smiling at the bureaucracy that infused every aspect of military life.

‘Rome,’ Atticus replied, ‘the Viminal quarter.’

The secretary noted the information and handed Atticus a small scroll.

Atticus immediately left the tent and headed for the camp stables. Using the security pass as a mark of urgency and importance, he requisitioned a horse and rode south from the camp, intersecting the Via Aurelia ten miles short of the city.

The evening was drawing in as Atticus breached the Servian Wall surrounding the city. At sundown the gates to the city would be closed and locked until dawn the following morning, the age-old practice a precaution against a surprise night attack. Atticus stopped the first citizen he encountered within the city walls, asking the man for directions to the Viminal quarter. Atticus’s route took him through the Forum Magnum, the central plaza still alive with activity even as the sun was sinking into the western sky. The fading light had prompted the lighting of torches in the porticoes of the temples, and the whole area seemed sanctified, a fitting earthly realm for the gods represented in the marble statues that looked down on Atticus as he passed. He paused at a statue of Venus, the goddess of love demurely covering her nakedness behind enfolded arms. Atticus reached out and touched the plinth, his lips forming a silent prayer to the goddess for assistance in his search.

Atticus reached the Viminal quarter as the streets darkened around him. Looking up, he could see the tops of the tallest buildings still bathed in muted sunlight, their walls reflecting slanted rays that temporarily saved the streets from complete darkness. With only the family name of the house to guide him and an entire quarter to search, Atticus sensed the hopelessness of his task. Soon it would be dark; Septimus’s earlier warning about night-time predators made its way to the forefront of his thoughts.

The street-side traders were locking up their stalls for the night, their actions rushed after a long day of work, the promise of home spurring their haste. Atticus stopped many in their task as he asked for directions, his questions answered in hurried dismissive tones and gestures. The people moving in the street were becoming mere shadows when Atticus spotted a tavern offering lodgings and a stable for his mount. He walked towards it; the leave had afforded him an unexpected opportunity and he cursed his inability to take advantage of it. As he passed two house servants his mind registered their conversation. The mention of a name caused him to turn around, the sudden movement startling the two women.

‘Did you say your mistress was Hadria?’ he asked, his looming figure in the dark causing the women to hesitate.

‘What of it?’ the smaller woman demanded, her voice signifying her advanced age while her tone spoke of a woman who deferred to few.

‘I’m looking for the house of Capito, for a woman named Hadria.’

Atticus’s entreaty was met with silence, the suspicious expressions of the two women masked by the darkness.

‘We are servants in that house,’ the woman replied finally, her hand pointing out a doorway not fifty yards from where they stood.

‘Can you take a message to your mistress?’ Atticus asked, trying to make his voice sound friendly and unthreatening.

‘I will pay you for your trouble,’ he added, handing a bronze dupondius to the smaller woman, her hand closing on the coin, feeling its weight and shape.

‘What message?’ she asked.

‘Tell your mistress that Captain Perennis awaits her message in that tavern,’ he said, indicating the building almost directly across the road from Hadria’s aunt’s house.

The woman nodded, the gesture almost lost in the nearly pitch-darkness. The two hurried away and Atticus made his way to the tavern. He hoped the message was ambiguous enough to forestall any gossip amongst the servants, knowing that Hadria would want to keep any meeting secret.

Atticus banged on the door and an innkeeper opened a small, face-high hatchway in the stout wooden door. Atticus asked for lodgings and, after a brief moment when the innkeeper looked beyond Atticus into the darkened street, the door was opened. A stable lad was called to take Atticus’s mount, and a young boy ran fearlessly out into the street to guide the horse away to a nearby enclosed courtyard. After the darkness of the street, the oil-lamp light of the tavern was warm and inviting. The atmosphere was subdued, with only four other guests in the spacious room. Atticus ordered an amphora of wine and some food and then settled down in a corner to wait. The whole idea had been ambitious, a goal set on the hope that Hadria had returned to her aunt’s house in the city, that he would be able to find the house and that she would be willing to see him. He thanked Venus for the good fortune that had carried him thus far.

After thirty minutes, Atticus began to question whether his run of good fortune had ended with the discovery of the house. He anxiously watched the door, willing a knock to be heard that would signal her arrival. Doubts began to fill his thoughts. Perhaps the message had been intercepted by one of her brothers who, unknown to Atticus, had returned and was staying in the same house. Or perhaps the servant had simply pocketed the money and the message had never been delivered. The last reason he had thought of, the one he did not want to contemplate, was that Hadria had received the message but did not want to see him.

A loud knock broke his thoughts. The knock was repeated, louder than before. The innkeeper walked across the room to the door, shouting to the person outside to be patient. As before, he opened the hatchway to peer out at the caller. Words were spoken that Atticus could not hear, although he could tell the person on the other side of the door was a man. The innkeeper turned.

‘Is there a Captain Perennis here?’ he called.

Atticus stood up to identify himself, his hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword.

‘Someone here is looking for you,’ the innkeeper explained, his eyes seeing Atticus’s guarded gesture. His hand stayed firmly on the iron bolt holding the door closed.

Atticus walked to the door and looked out. A soldier was standing there, a house guard who looked alertly up and down the darkened street.

‘I am Captain Perennis,’ Atticus said through the hatchway.

The guard turned back to the hatchway.

‘The mistress of my house requests you accompany me. She has a message for her brother which she wishes you to bear,’ he said, the guarded message revealing nothing of Hadria’s identity to the prying ears of the innkeeper.

‘Open the door,’ Atticus ordered.

‘It’s not safe out there,’ the innkeeper said, ‘and you haven’t paid for your room or the lodging for your horse.’

Atticus reached into his pocket and withdrew a bronze sestertius. The innkeeper bit the coin before putting it in his pocket. Only then did he draw back the bolt.

Atticus stepped out into the street once more, his hand remaining steadily on his sword. The soldier turned and walked up the street, passing the main doorway the servants had indicated earlier. The street was strangely quiet, the only sounds those of muted conversations and laughter behind the burned brick walls of the houses. The guard made a sudden left turn into a narrow alleyway, the path leading along the north wall of the town house. The soldier’s steps took him unerringly to a small wooden door set into the wall. He tapped on the door and it immediately opened, a shadowy figure beyond beckoning them in off the street. The door was immediately closed and barred. Atticus followed the guard across a courtyard bathed in subdued light from second-storey windows. They made their way towards a door, and again the guard had to knock before the sound of a sliding bolt signalled their permission to enter. The opening door threw a long rectangle of light out into the courtyard and Atticus once again experienced the relief of entering a well-lit room.

The guard who had opened the door and the escort left, leaving the young captain alone. Atticus looked around the simple square room, its doorways probably leading to other reception rooms and the atrium, their destinations now hidden from view. A long, low marble bench stood in the middle of the room, minimal furnishing that spoke to the room’s use as a waiting area. Atticus could not sit, and he paced the room for what seemed an eternity. Finally a door opened and a woman entered.

In the weeks they had spent apart since their last encounter, Atticus had formed a picture in his mind of Hadria. A simple, unadorned portrait that spoke to her beauty and poise. It had become his icon, the image he evoked when the end of a day allowed him a moment’s peace. He could see now that even his elaborate imagination did not do justice to the real vision before him. She literally shone with beauty, the soft light of the room behind her infusing her hair and framing her image in the doorway.

‘Hadria,’ Atticus whispered, his voice instinctively lowered in the muted space.

She walked forward at his summons, her movements slow and ethereal, her smile suddenly radiant and infectious.

‘You kept me waiting,’ Atticus said playfully.

‘Your message took me completely by surprise,’ Hadria countered with a smile. ‘First I had to wait until my aunt retired for the evening. Then I had to dismiss all the servants to make sure none would see you enter.’

Atticus smiled at the convoluted arrangements.

‘I almost decided you weren’t worth the trouble,’ Hadria added teasingly.

Atticus smiled but did not reply immediately and a silence began to spin out between them. They both gazed intently at each other, the air around them becoming charged with unspoken emotions before Hadria suddenly rushed the last few yards between them and flung herself into Atticus’s arms. He held her tightly, drinking in the smell of her perfumed body, the feel of her against him. They drew slightly apart and kissed, the intimacy of the moment causing them both to catch their breaths.

As Atticus framed Hadria’s face in his hands, he noticed tears forming in her eyes and he thought his heart would break at the sight.

‘We have so little time,’ she explained before he could speak, ‘only minutes before the guard commander returns to escort you back to the tavern. I told him that you were going to courier a message for me to my brother in Fiumicino.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Atticus began, ‘I am not expected back at camp until noon tomorrow. There is so much I need to tell you, so much I want to know.’

‘We can’t be together, Atticus,’ Hadria tried to explain, ‘not yet.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of Septimus.’

‘Septimus,’ Atticus spat as he broke away, striding around the marble bench until it separated him from Hadria, ‘I already know what he thinks.’

Hadria’s confused look prompted Atticus to continue.

‘He thinks I’m not good enough for you. That because I’m Greek, I’m beneath you.’

Hadria’s face showed instant shock and she shook her head, her hands outstretched across the bench.

‘No, Atticus, that’s not true.’ She pleaded, ‘Whatever Septimus has told you is only a front. Septimus wants us apart because of Valerius.’

‘Valerius?’

‘Yes, Valerius Cispius Clarus, my first husband.’

‘But why…?’

‘Valerius was Septimus’s best friend,’ she explained. ‘They grew up together and joined the Ninth Legion together. He took Valerius’s death at Agrigentum very hard. I even believe it was one of the reasons why he transferred from the Ninth to the marines.’

Realization began to dawn on Atticus’s face and he walked once more around the bench to be by Hadria’s side.

‘So Septimus is concerned…’ Atticus began.

‘…that history could repeat itself,’ Hadria concluded.

‘So why didn’t Septimus tell me this himself?’

‘Because he’s a proud man, Atticus, and I think he would see his concern as being a weakness.’

Atticus instinctively held out his arms again and Hadria moved into his embrace, her worries momentarily forgotten.

‘I love you, Atticus. I know that now. But I also know the terrible price that would be paid if Septimus found out we were together before I had a chance to somehow allay his fears.’

Atticus smiled at the loyalty underlying Septimus’s concerns.

‘Why are you smiling?’ Hadria asked.

‘He must love you very much,’ Atticus said simply.

‘Yes…he does,’ she said, his understanding touching her deeply.

She moved up and kissed him full on the lips, allowing the contact to linger. The sound of approaching footsteps caused Hadria to suddenly break contact. The guard commander was returning.

‘Please take care, Atticus…Take care until we meet again,’ she breathed, her voice cracking with the fear she felt for the man she loved. Atticus embraced her, allowing her to draw strength from him and the intensity of their shared love before she drew away from him again. She turned quickly and rushed towards the door. For a brief second her body was outlined in the dim light from the hallway beyond, and she turned towards him one last time, whispering his name as she did so. Then she was gone.

The activity in the camp was as frenzied as before when Atticus rode through the main gate an hour before noon. His pass was checked one last time and then confiscated to avoid it being used again. Atticus willingly relinquished the document, having no further use for it. He knew he would not get another chance to leave the camp on such an extended leave.

Atticus checked the course of the sun in the clear blue sky. He had more than enough time for a swim and a bite to eat aboard the Aquila before his meeting with the consul. He hastened his step and crested the dune separating the camp from the beach. The sight before him caused him to stop. Of the fifty galleys that had been moored off the beach the day before, only a dozen or so remained, and they were in the process of getting under way, their bows pointed south towards the port of Ostia. It was not their progress that drew his gaze, however, it was the twenty huge transport ships that had taken the galleys’ place off the beach. They were ganged together in four groups, each one congregated around one of the four wooden piers that stretched far enough out to sea to ensure the barges did not become beached as they unloaded their cargo of humanity. Atticus stopped a soldier who was hurrying past him.

‘What legion are they, soldier?’

‘They are the Fifth, of Liguria,’ the young legionary said before running off again.

Already the beach just above the breakwater was crowded with the disciplined formations of the newly arrived legion. Every few moments a fully formed maniple would begin the march up the beach between the framed workings of the shipbuilders. Like the Fourth, which was already encamped in Fiumicino, the Fifth was a garrison legion and therefore consisted of roughly five thousand soldiers in forty maniples. These legions lacked the additional numbers of auxiliaries and mounted cavalry that would swell their size to ten thousand, the complement of a campaigning legion such as those in Sicily. Judging from their regimented ranks and the fact that they were part of the Republic’s northern defence, Atticus suspected they were a tough, experienced unit.

Atticus walked down the beach towards the southernmost pier where the Aquila had been moored the evening before. Beyond the two barges now moored on the pier he could see his own galley anchored two hundred yards offshore, its position well removed from the cumbersome transports. Atticus walked away from the pier to an isolated spot on the beach and waved to the galley. His wave was returned by Lucius on the aft-deck, who immediately recognized the captain. Atticus watched as a skiff was launched. He pointed towards the end of the pier, indicating where he wanted to be picked up, and then began walking the short distance back to the barges.

The pier was eight feet wide and stretched for one hundred yards into the sea from the high-tide mark of the beach. Atticus walked down the right-hand side of the pier, the stern-faced soldiers marching three abreast coming past him on the other side. As Atticus drew level with the centre of the barge, he paused to look up onto the main deck, his progress temporarily blocked by the unloading of a large crate hanging precariously from a crane.

The rail at the side of the low deck had been removed to allow for the six-foot-wide, twelve-foot-long gangplank to be lowered onto the pier. These massive gangplanks were ubiquitous on all trading barges, their width and sturdiness allowing for everything from livestock to gangs of slaves to be unloaded quickly. The gangplanks normally lay on the main deck and were simply thrown over the side of the ship when in port, their momentum checked at the last moment by guide ropes attached to the deck end. It was a simple yet skilful manoeuvre requiring split-second timing and a firm hand. One slip and the gangplank would fall completely over the side of the barge, an embarrassment often witnessed by Atticus in the busy ports of the Republic.

The legionaries waited patiently at the back of the main deck as the crane, its base attached to the main mast, swung out over the lowered gangplank. A shouted command ordered the gang of sailors controlling it to ease it away, and they slowly lowered the lifting arm until the crate hung over the pier at the foot of the gangplank. A second team of sailors holding the rope attached to the crate fed the line through a pulley at the top of the crane and the cargo dropped gently onto the pier. Men clambered over the crate to untie it and the crane was hoisted away again in search of the next crate. Atticus stepped around the knot of men manhandling the cargo and walked on towards the end of the pier.

Atticus spied the small skiff making its way towards him and he waved a greeting. A sudden thought arrested him and he spun around to look back at the barge. The legionaries had recommenced their disembarkation, their disciplined ranks forming at the head of the gangplank before marching down its twelve-foot length, three abreast. The formation wheeled right at the foot of the gangplank and continued on down the pier towards the beach. Within a minute an entire maniple, twenty rows of three men abreast, had disembarked.

Atticus was dumbstruck by the simplicity of the idea forming in his head. His sceptical side argued against the basic concept, but his logical mind overcame the doubts to once more re-establish the solution firmly in his thoughts. Atticus began to run, his flight drawing puzzled looks from the sailors in the skiff. He passed the legionaries marching along the pier and continued on to the beach. He stopped for a second to get his bearings, his eyes searching the construction site before him, but Lentulus, the master shipbuilder, was nowhere to be seen. Atticus started running again, this time up the beach towards the camp. As he ran his face took on a determined expression, the idea turning over and over in his head.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Scipio retched again at the overpowering stench surrounding him in the pitch-black recesses of the bottom deck of the Carthaginian galley. The cramped space of the hold was in marked contrast to where Scipio had spent the first two weeks of his captivity, locked in the fortified garrison at Lipara. From the window of his cell he had been able to look out over the harbour and watch the loss of his Classis Romanus, not through destruction but through conversion and amalgamation into the Carthaginian fleet. Sixteen of his original twenty galleys had survived the ambush and their number had swelled the ranks of the enemy in a bitter twist that shamed the onceproud consul. At the end of the two weeks the Carthaginians had made ready to sail again from Lipara. It was then that Scipio had been dragged from his cell and without explanation thrown into the hold where he now languished.

His stomach cramped as he doubled over, its contents long lost, and he fought to catch his breath. The claustrophobic nightmare of the confined space filled his consciousness again and threatened to overwhelm him. He dug deep into his courage to fight the rising panic but found his nerve failing. His legs ached in the confined space, the five-foot headroom forcing him to alternate between squatting and crouching in an effort to keep off the filthy, cockroach- and faeces-infested deck. A bulkhead separated him from the slave quarters and he could hear their moans and wretched coughing through the timbers. It was a sound that chilled his blood.

Scipio was not sure exactly how long he had been in the hold but he estimated it had been at least two weeks. The hatchway above him had opened intermittently during that time, his captors giving him stale bread and brackish water, their offering always accompanied by an insulting remark spoken in their incomprehensible language. During the first week Scipio had done his best to present an outward display of indifference to his predicament, not wanting to give his captors the satisfaction of knowing how much he was suffering. The act had produced a brutal response on two occasions, the second a blow to the head that had knocked him unconscious. The second week had marked the onset of a pervasive fear, a feeling that he would be left to die in the hold, and it was then that all trace of real defiance had fled. As the drum from the slave deck above him continued its unending beat, Scipio felt the final vestiges of his resolve begin to dissipate in the darkness engulfing him.

Hannibal Gisco walked down the length of the rowing deck towards the guarded hatchway that led to the lower hold. He moved silently, his eyes ranging over the rows of chained galley slaves. As the taskmasters patrolling the deck became aware of Gisco’s presence, they intensified their whip lashes on the backs of the rowers. Their increased barbarity was not born from zeal but from fear. Gisco noted the change and smiled inwardly to himself. He had been surprised to learn that the Romans used their own sailors as taskmasters on the slave deck. Years before, Gisco had ordered the position filled by slaves taken from the ranks of the rowers themselves.

Gisco’s method meant that from the moment those chosen picked up the whip and delivered their first lash, they became enemies of their fellow slaves. Any sign that a taskmaster was sparing his former companions from the lash was instantly punishable by returning that slave to the ranks of the rowers. Once back amongst those men, the former taskmaster’s life was measured in hours, their death normally occurring during their first relief break when, along with the men they had recently whipped, they were confined out of sight in the hold beneath the rowing deck. The move had immeasurably enhanced the effectiveness of the taskmasters, causing them to become vicious, almost inhuman in their ferocity, the fear that they might be seen as lenient intensifying their brutality.

Gisco stopped as he came to the hatchway. The soldier posted there saluted and stepped back.

‘Find two more men,’ Gisco ordered, and the soldier departed.

As the admiral waited, he replayed the information he had already stored in his head. Over the past two weeks, the eighteen Roman captains who had survived the ambush had been systematically tortured for intelligence regarding the new fleet. Some had been tougher than others, some more informed, but all had eventually revealed some fragment of the overall strategy.

The Romans were planning to build one hundred and fifty ships, all of the same class as those taken at Lipara. The initial twenty were now either destroyed or in Carthaginian hands, which meant the bulk of the fleet was yet to be deployed. The timing of their deployment was still unknown but could be readily estimated by the speed at which the Romans had built the initial twenty. When Gisco first heard the reported construction time, he had not believed it. He had personally supervised the interrogation of three captains to confirm the report. The first twenty had been built in a little over two weeks and, on the day they sailed, fifty more keels were being laid down. Given that nearly all the reports stated that Rome was constantly increasing the rate of construction, it was reasonable to assume the fleet was near to completion.

Gisco was also sure that the Romans knew the full details of the trap laid for them at Lipara. His guard commander, Cronus, and the traitor Demades had not returned from Rome. Demades had betrayed him. Before leaving Lipara, Gisco had fulfilled his promise and had put the councillor’s family to the sword, but not before the three women had spent a long night in the company of the garrison soldiers.

The only remaining piece of the puzzle was the man who would command the Roman fleet. Many of the captains had spoken of a Roman named Gaius Duilius, the junior consul, as being next in line to command. None of the captains knew anything of the man himself, his background or his abilities. Gisco was sure, however, that the man beneath his feet, the senior consul of Rome, would have the personal information he required to get the measure of the man he would soon face in battle.

The hatchway above Scipio opened suddenly. Rough hands reached down and hauled him up onto the rowing deck of the galley. His legs cramped as he straightened them and he gritted his teeth against the pain. The light was muted below deck but, after the pitch-darkness of the lower hold, Scipio shielded his eyes against its intensity. His hands were instantly pulled down and held behind him.

Scipio looked up to see the face of the Carthaginian commander, the same man he had met in battle on the aft-deck of the Mars. Scipio was immediately aware of the contrast between them. The Carthaginian stood tall and proud, his gaze fierce and confident. Scipio, by contrast, could only mimic those same qualities. His toga was filthy and clung to his flesh, his posture stooped and pathetic. Scipio tried to draw himself to his full height but his legs cramped again and so he set his own expression into what he believed was hardened defiance as he looked up at his captor.

The Carthaginian smiled and walked away, the guards forcing Scipio to follow through a series of narrow companionways to the main cabin at the stern of the ship. Once there the Carthaginian commander sat down behind a central desk.

‘Remove his toga!’ Gisco ordered, his face expressing his disgust at the filth of the robes.

Again Scipio was manhandled roughly as his toga was removed, his tunic underneath equally filthy.

‘Leave us,’ Gisco commanded the guards.

The two adversaries were left alone.

‘I demand to be treated in accordance with my rank,’ Scipio said, trying to establish a level of arrogance he did not feel.

‘Vae victis: “Woe to the vanquished”,’ Gisco spat, evoking the retort of a Gaulish commander, who had used the phrase more than a hundred years earlier after sacking the city of Rome.

‘Sit down, Roman.’

Scipio tried to stand firm.

‘Sit down or I will have my men take you back to the hold.’

Scipio flinched at the threat, the thought of returning to the pitch-dark prison sending a spasm through his intestines. He sat down quickly.

Gisco noted the reaction, disgusted at the outward show of fear in one who claimed to be the leader of Rome.

‘My name is Hannibal Gisco. I am the overall commander of the Carthaginian forces fighting to free Sicily from Roman tyranny.’

Scipio bit back an instinctive retort, not wanting to antagonize his enemy.

‘I have “spoken” with the captains of your fleet,’ Gisco began. ‘It seems their loyalty did not extend beyond saving their own lives. They were very willing to divulge every detail of your new fleet. Its size, complement, class of ship.’

Scipio tried to maintain an expression of indifference, but the Carthaginian’s words caused a latent anger to rise within him. I have been betrayed by everyone, he thought bitterly.

‘There is just one final piece of information I need you to confirm, Roman,’ Gisco added.

‘I will not betray my city,’ Scipio answered feebly, trying to make his voice sound bold and confident. Even in his own ears he heard the hollowness of his words.

Gisco laughed.

‘Enough Romans have already done that,’ he said dismissively. ‘I simply want you to tell me about the man who will command the Roman fleet.’

Scipio sat straighter as his mind pictured the hated face of Duilius.

‘If you cooperate I will confine you to a cabin rather than the hold you have just left,’ Gisco added.

Scipio could not hide his reaction to the bribe and the opportunity to reach beyond his captivity to have his revenge on Duilius. Gisco noticed the change and smiled inwardly. This was going to be easier than he had anticipated.

‘Now,’ Gisco said, ‘tell me all you know of Gaius Duilius.’

The junior consul looked up from the obviously hurried yet comprehensible sketches laid out before him. The two men at the other side of the table looked confident, as if the idea was a proven strategy, rather than a concept based on an idea formed only an hour before.

‘This design is feasible?’ Duilius asked the older man.

‘Yes, Consul,’ Lentulus replied.

Duilius looked back down at the drawings once more. On paper the design looked practical, the very solution he had sought over the preceding weeks.

‘When can we test it?’ the consul asked.

‘We can rig the Aquila with the new system and be ready to test it within forty-eight hours,’ Atticus replied.

Duilius nodded. He deliberately overcame the infectious conviction of the two men and looked at the idea rationally. To second Lentulus to the Aquila and take him out of the building programme would delay the launch of the final thirty galleys but, if the idea were feasible, it would go a long way towards levelling the odds between them and the Punici. He glanced surreptitiously at Atticus, the captain’s gaze firmly on the drawings on the table. It seemed the outsider had found what everyone had been looking for but none could find.

‘Make it so,’ he replied simply.

The two men stood to leave, the younger man saluting with a clenched fist to his chest. Duilius nodded his dismissal, his expression hiding the eagerness he felt to see the simple line drawings before him turned into reality.

‘He is not of noble birth?’ Gisco asked, trying to find a trace of guile in the Roman’s words. He could find none. The man before him clearly hated Gaius Duilius. Of that there was no doubt, although Gisco could not fathom a reason.

‘No, he is not,’ Scipio spat. ‘He is low-born, the son of a middle-class farmer.’

The monarchy in Carthage had been abolished over fifty years before, but Gisco, like all those in positions of power in both the military and government, could trace their lineage to at least one of the ancient monarchs. The idea that a non-noble could rise to a position of power was foreign to him, and he contemptuously considered Rome’s acceptance of such leaders as a further sign of their fallibility.

‘So how did he rise to such a position?’ Gisco asked.

‘Money,’ Scipio said disdainfully, as if the very word was vulgar, his mind automatically ignoring the fact that it was the riches of his own ancestors that had ensured their place in the first Senate.

‘Has he military experience?’

‘He has never known combat and has no military training.’

Again Gisco found the answers hard to believe and he forced himself to think about the Roman’s words objectively, to suppress the rising confidence he felt at the failings of his enemy.

‘But to rise to such a position he must be resourceful?’ Gisco asked, almost to himself.

‘Yes, he is resourceful, but only in matters of secrecy and deceit.’

Gisco nodded. He felt nothing but disdain for the man sitting opposite him. The Roman was consumed with hate. It was an emotion Gisco understood well, but Scipio was readily betraying his own city in his pursuit of vengeance against a fellow Roman he considered his enemy. In his quest to destroy this man Duilius, Scipio was willing to forfeit a whole fleet of his own countrymen.

‘You have been most helpful,’ Gisco remarked.

Scipio smiled in pathetic gratitude.

‘I would ask you, Admiral,’ Scipio said, his voice filled with a new hope, ‘for the opportunity to bathe and put on new clothes before being escorted to my cabin.’

Gisco smiled.

‘Guards!’ the admiral shouted.

The door was immediately opened and three soldiers stepped into the room.

‘Return this filth to the hold,’ Gisco ordered.

Scipio’s stature seemed to collapse at the command. He began to raise his hands to his face in despair when his arms were grabbed from behind and he was pulled to his feet and dragged from the cabin.

Gisco watched him leave. If Duilius was junior in rank and ability to this broken man, then the Carthaginians were poised to sweep the sea clear of Rome for ever.

‘Release!’

For a heartbeat the corvus remained motionless as the holding rope went slack. It began to fall, slowly at first, until its own weight caused it to pick up momentum and it slammed down with a shattering crash onto the foredeck of the galley across from the Aquila.

‘Good,’ Lentulus said, as if to himself, one of his apprentices automatically nodding his agreement by his side.

‘But too slow,’ Atticus added. ‘It’s got to start falling the instant it’s released.’

‘I agree,’ Lentulus replied thoughtfully. ‘I will make some modifications.’

Atticus watched the sailors pull on the rope to raise his invention once more to its position. He had named the new weapon the corvus, for the raven was a harbinger of death and Atticus fully intended to make sure the device lived up to its name.

The corvus was a combination of a crane and a gangplank, thirty-six feet long and four wide, a massive ramp with its bottom end hinged to a vertical mast installed in the centre of the foredeck. The mast rose forty feet above the deck, allowing for the ramp to be raised to a vertical position and the hinge pivoted through one hundred and eighty degrees, making it possible to deploy the corvus on both the starboard and port sides of the galley. In one fell swoop the ramp could be lowered and legionaries rushed across to board an enemy ship. The ramp was big enough to allow the legionaries to carry their full battle kit, including the four-foot scutum shield, and in sufficient numbers to ensure a standard battle formation line could be deployed on the enemy’s deck within seconds.

Atticus left the craftsmen and walked over to the side rail where Septimus had been watching the latest test, Atticus having asked him on board for his expertise on legionaries’ tactics.

‘You know,’ Atticus smiled, ‘if this works, the marines will be out of a job.’

He turned to Septimus but the centurion was not laughing; indeed his expression was troubled.

‘I came to the Aquila the night before last,’ he said unexpectedly, giving voice to the question that had been on his mind since then. ‘You weren’t on board.’

‘No,’ Atticus said, his mind racing to cover his absence from the Aquila and his trip to Rome. ‘I was with Duilius in his quarters and didn’t get back until after midnight.’

Septimus nodded, his expression giving nothing away, but inside his anger was building. Atticus was lying to him. Septimus had spent the night on the Aquila and he knew that Atticus had never returned. He was about to challenge Atticus on the lie when they were interrupted.

‘We’re ready to try again,’ Lentulus said behind them.

‘To speed the fall of the ramp, the corvus will no longer rise to the vertical. The angle will put more stress on the mast, but I am confident it will still hold.’

Atticus nodded at the solution and looked over to the sailors who were once more holding the release rope taut.

‘Ready?’

The sailors nodded.

‘Release!’

This time the corvus fell immediately with no hesitation.

‘Better,’ Atticus remarked.

At that moment a rogue wave struck the Aquila and the gap between the two galleys opened wider. Before Gaius could bring the Aquila back into position, the far end of the corvus slid off the foredeck of the ‘enemy’ galley.

‘That’s another problem we have to tackle,’ Lentulus said.

Atticus watched the corvus being raised again as the Aquila was manoeuvred back into place. In battle the only thing holding the two ships together would be grappling hooks. If the enemy reacted quickly and severed the lines, they could easily manoeuvre their galley away. Any boarding party across the corvus would be stranded while anyone on the ramp itself when the ships parted would fall into the sea. They had to find a way to make the ramp secure, to lock the ships together.

‘I think this raven needs to be given claws,’ Atticus said.

Gisco studied the man opposite him with interest. The Nubian stood tall and erect, his balanced stance betraying the slave’s obvious fighting abilities. His gaze was arrogant, an emotion Gisco had never encountered in a slave before, and it fascinated him.

The Nubian had been found in the Roman consul’s quarters after the ambush at Lipara. Gisco had immediately noticed the stature and bearing of a trained fighter and had arranged for the Nubian to be spared the fate of galley slave reserved for all those taken alive in the ambush. Now, as the Carthaginian fleet approached Panormus, Gisco had finally found the time to study the potential of Scipio’s personal servant.

Khalil had outlined his later life and captivity in detail, confirming Gisco’s assumption that he was a gladiator. The thought of using the Nubian as a force against the very people who trained him appealed to the admiral’s sense of fate. Only the question of Khalil’s loyalty remained. Of the hate he felt for the Romans there was no doubt, and Gisco was confident that Khalil would savage any Roman he met in battle. For Gisco to be able to command the Nubian, however, he needed to find an inducement to ensure his loyalty.

‘I will need men like you in the battle ahead,’ Gisco said.

Khalil remained quiet; however, Gisco noticed the flicker of interest in the Nubian’s eyes. The sight convinced him to continue.

‘If you fight well against the Romans and obey my every command, I will grant you your freedom when the battle is won.’

Again Khalil remained impassive, the silence irking Gisco.

‘Do you agree?’ he asked, his anger beginning to flare at the unreadable Nubian.

‘My freedom is of no concern until I repay a debt of pride. I want the life of Scipio.’

Gisco smiled at the request, one he would never allow; the consul’s life was far too valuable to be thrown away at the behest of a mere slave.

‘Agreed,’ he lied, noting with satisfaction the savage expression of Khalil as he nodded his assent.

Admiral Gisco stepped off the gangplank of the Melqart onto the busy docks of Panormus. He paused as he looked over at the frenzied activity of the port, the preparations for battle already well advanced. By his orders the fleet blockading the western coast of Sicily had been summoned to Panormus, and so the northern port was now home to over one hundred galleys. Gisco had consulted Hamilcar before his departure for Carthage and both were in agreement. Given the detailed reports of the Roman captains, the new Roman fleet would be in the waters of northern Sicily in less than two weeks.

At Lipara, Gisco had closely inspected the new Roman galleys. They had been hastily built of untreated, unweathered timbers. The hulls were too new to the water and the timbers had not bonded completely. Given time they would become hard as iron, but now they lacked significant strength beneath the water line, certainly not enough to stop a six-foot bronze ram.

Hamilcar was due to return in a little over a week with another forty galleys to join the burgeoning Carthaginian fleet in Sicily. Gisco recalled the young man’s hesitation when he had first requested the additional ships. It was only after Gisco explained the simple logic behind his demand that Hamilcar agreed. It was not enough to simply defeat the Romans in battle. The Carthaginian fleet needed to wipe out the entire Roman fleet down to its last ship. To accomplish that objective none must escape; Gisco knew only numerical superiority would guarantee him total victory.

Septimus crested the dunes at the top of the beach and headed directly for the consul’s quarters, his pace quickened by the limited time available before the sea trials for the new corvus would take place and his presence would be required back on board the Aquila. A sliver of guilt caused him a heartbeat’s hesitation, but he dismissed it quickly, using the lie that Atticus had told him to justify his decision to seek out Lutatius. Septimus knew he had caught Atticus unawares, his decision to spend the night on the Aquila unannounced and unexpected and Atticus’s equally unplanned absence from the galley too unusual to go unchallenged.

Septimus had been disturbed by the lie, not because he expected complete honesty from his friends, but because his earlier suspicions about a possible involvement with his sister had instantly reared their head. He had therefore decided to confirm his suspicions – at least in part – by calling in an old loyalty.

Septimus reached the consul’s quarters and ducked inside. An optio was seated behind a desk, its surface covered by neat piles of parchments, the endless lists of a military operation.

‘I need to speak with the consul’s private secretary,’ Septimus announced, his voice and presence causing the optio to immediately stand to attention.

‘Yes, Centurion. Who shall I say is making the request?’

‘Septimus Laetonius Capito of the IV of the Ninth.’

The optio nodded and disappeared into the inner room of the tented quarters.

A moment later he reappeared, followed by an older man, the latter with a broad smile on his usually dour face.

‘Septimus!’ the secretary laughed. ‘I see a centurion before me where once stood a boy of Rome.’

‘Lutatius,’ Septimus replied, stepping forward to shake the hand of the former camp prefect of the Ninth. Lutatius had been a centurion when Septimus joined the Ninth, a training commander who moulded new recruits into fighting legionaries. A veteran of the Third Samnite War, he had been a hard taskmaster, but he had also seen in Septimus the potential that had eventually borne fruit at the Battle of Agrigentum.

‘I hear you’re training the pups of the Fourth,’ Lutatius said. ‘Are they as hard to train as you once were?’

Septimus laughed, liking the older man, casting his mind back to his first months in the legions and the endless grinding pace that Lutatius had enforced. The two men continued to reminisce.

‘I need a favour…’ Septimus said finally.

‘Name it,’ Lutatius replied, noting the sudden seriousness in Septimus’s tone.

‘I need to know what destination was recorded on a pass given to Captain Perennis of the Aquila.’

‘Isn’t that the galley on which you now serve?’ Lutatius replied, the details of every command stored in his sharp mind.

Septimus nodded, revealing nothing that might cause Lutatius to hesitate to reveal the information.

‘Wait here,’ the secretary said after a moment’s pause, and he re-entered the inner tent. He reappeared with a large bound ledger open in his arms, his eyes running down an unseen list of passes approved and issued.

‘Here it is,’ he said finally. ‘Atticus Milonius Perennis…eighteen-hour gate pass…destination?…Rome, the Viminal quarter.’

For an instant Septimus’s face revealed the sudden flare-up of anger within him before he wiped the expression from his face. He had expected the information that Lutatius revealed, had even prepared himself for the confirmation of his suspicions, and yet when Atticus’s betrayal was spoken out loud, Septimus was almost overwhelmed by the force of his anger. The Viminal quarter, the home of Septimus’s aunt and the residence of his sister, Hadria.

‘Thanks, Lutatius,’ Septimus said abruptly, before striding out of the consul’s quarters, automatically setting out for the Aquila, his mind clouded by visions of his sister and the man he had come to respect and trust over all others. As he crested the dunes again and made his way down towards the shoreline, his eyes discerned the figure of Atticus standing on the aft-deck of the Aquila, the galley tethered to the pier, the gangplank lowered to receive Duilius and his praetorian guard. Atticus was making ready to sail and Septimus singled out his familiar voice amid the cacophony of sound on the busy beach.

The sight and sound stopped Septimus dead in his tracks and he stood rooted to the spot halfway down the beach, feeling for the first time the tightness of his grip on the handle of his sword. He released the pressure slightly, flexing his fingers, never relinquishing his touch on the moulded grip. Septimus’s mind was in utter turmoil, one moment determined to challenge Atticus and an instant later feeling that he should give his friend the benefit of the doubt; after all, the Viminal quarter was vast and he had no proof that Atticus had been visiting Hadria. As if his thoughts were projected to the aft-deck of the Aquila, he saw Atticus suddenly turn, the captain’s face breaking into an excited smile as he spotted Septimus, his hand raised to beckon the centurion so the sea trials could begin. Septimus automatically stepped forward, his stride once again determined.

By the time Septimus reached the gangplank of the Aquila, his mind had chosen a course. He lacked proof but the evidence was damning. When the opportunity presented itself, he would confront Atticus and demand an answer. The decision allowed him to push the impending confrontation to the back of his mind, his focus shifting to the all-important part he would play in proving the worth of the corvus. He nodded to Atticus as he reached the main deck, his friend nodding in reply. For an instant Septimus’s mind fixed on the one aspect he had not yet faced, the answer to the question of how he would react if Atticus had indeed been with his sister. A renewed flash of anger revealed the only answer he knew was possible.

The Aquila cut through the calm water at her attack speed of eleven knots. Duilius gripped the side rail and steadied himself against the swell of the deck, his legs slightly splayed for balance. From his position on the aft-deck the demi-maniple on the foredeck looked like a solid mass, the linked scutum shields forming a wall that seemed barely able to restrain the soldiers behind. Beyond the bow of the galley Duilius could see the ‘enemy’ galley making her way towards their position, the convergent course bridging the gap between the ships at a frightening pace. The galley was one of the new fleet and, as the two ships jostled for position, the disparity in skill level between her helmsman and that of the Aquila was obvious even to the untrained eye of the consul. In battle a Carthaginian galley would be harder to engage for the inexperienced crews of the new fleet, but Duilius could see that the manoeuvre was nonetheless achievable.

The ‘enemy’ galley was trying to gain the broadside of the Aquila, a tactic the Carthaginians would use to ram their prey. All the helmsman of the Aquila had to do to counter the move was mirror each turn his opponent made, thereby keeping the galleys bow to bow. The gap closed inexorably and at the last turn, when the galleys looked set to simply sweep past each other, the helmsman of the Aquila turned her bow into the ‘enemy’s’. The two ships collided with tremendous force, the reinforced bow of each absorbing the blow and transmitting it down the length of the ship, the reverberation almost throwing Duilius to the deck. The collision robbed both galleys of most of their speed but they continued to slide past each other.

‘Now!’ Duilius heard, and there was a flurry of activity as grappling hooks were thrown onto the opposing deck.

The ropes were instantly made taut and the two ships came to a stop, their fates now linked together by the precarious threads. Duilius watched as the crew of the other galley attacked the lines with axes, severing the ropes in single blows. Within seconds the two ships would be free once more.

‘Release!’

This time Duilius watched in awe as the huge boarding ramp was dropped from the foredeck. The underside of its forward section revealed three vicious foot-long iron spikes that seemed to reach out to the ‘enemy’ foredeck. As the ramp crashed down, the spikes were hammered home into the deck, locking the two ships together in an inescapable grip. The legionaries instantly surged across the ramp, the first row of three presenting a solid shield wall at the front of the charge. Duilius counted aloud in his head. The entire attacking force of sixty legionaries was across in less than twenty seconds. The demi-maniple now stood together on the foredeck of the ‘enemy’ galley, their shields linked in a classic battle formation, facing down the length of the opposing galley. There was no enemy to engage on board the allied galley, but Duilius could immediately appreciate the deadly effectiveness of the attack.

‘Hold!’

The order was shouted from within the ranks of the legionaries and Duilius watched a centurion disengage from the centre of the line. He was a tall young man, one Duilius recognized from his frequent visits to the training camp at Fiumicino. The centurion recrossed the ramp and made his way up along the galley. He mounted the steps from the main deck and stood beside the captain and shipbuilder who were already standing expectantly in the centre of the aft-deck. The centurion saluted the consul. Duilius looked at the three men.

‘How long before these devices can be installed on every galley?’ he asked, the question his explicit approval of the tactic.

Lentulus smiled, the other two men suppressing the smile behind cold military expressions.

‘A week at most, Consul, in time for the launch of the last batch of thirty galleys.’

‘Make it so,’ Duilius commanded. ‘I want daily progress reports.’

‘Yes, Consul.’

Duilius turned his back on the men and walked once more to the side rail. He watched as the legionaries were ordered to return to the Aquila and the corvus was once more raised. The galley swung away and turned her bow again to the beach. The sound of the drum signalled the re-engagement of the oars and the deck became alive beneath his feet once more. The sound of the beat allowed Duilius’s mind to organize what he would need to achieve in the coming week. He had barely finished the first day in his mind when the galley reached the southernmost wooden pier at Fiumicino.

Atticus watched from the aft-deck as the junior consul disembarked from the Aquila. He had noticed the galley had not docked with its usual agility and he turned to see the frowning face of the helmsman, Gaius.

‘Something troubles you, Gaius?’ Atticus asked as he approached the more experienced sailor.

‘It’s the corvus, Captain,’ Gaius replied. He had discovered a distinct disadvantage to the device, something that could jeopardize any vessel on which it was deployed. He understood the importance of the weapon and how it was Atticus’s discovery, but he also knew the captain would expect nothing less than an honest appraisal, the safety of the ship paramount.

‘The trim of the ship has been severely altered,’ he continued. ‘With the weight of the corvus on the foredeck the Aquila is heavy in the bow. It makes little difference in calm waters, but I fear in a storm the galley would be unmanageable.’

Atticus nodded. He admitted to himself that neither he nor Lentulus had considered the impact the heavy ramp would have on the finely balanced galley.

‘Unmanageable to what degree?’ he asked, knowing that Gaius would not have raised the issue if the problem wasn’t significant.

‘To the point of being unseaworthy.’

Atticus nodded once again, this time in silence. He would discuss the issue with Lentulus, although he had no doubt that Gaius’s prediction was accurate. Ultimately they would have to inform Duilius.

Atticus turned again to the bow and the unfamiliar sight of the corvus on the once-empty foredeck. He could not suppress the sense of hope he felt at the sight, even though his mind called for caution. The Carthaginians were far from beaten, but at last Atticus could picture their defeat in his mind’s eye. This new device, this corvus, had made that possible. The legions of Rome were unequalled in their fighting prowess. With the corvus, Rome could carry that killer ability onto the sea itself.

‘Ninety-six!’

Marcus repeated the number in his head as the centurion of the IX maniple, the centurion of the watch, prepared to strike again, his expression grim, his bloody work almost done.

‘Ninety-seven!’

The sound of the whiplash filled the very air, its strike no longer accompanied by the cries of pain that had struck at the heart of every legionary of the Ninth.

‘Ninety-eight!’

The legionary of the VII maniple hung like a butchered carcass across the interlocked pila spears, the flesh of his back in tatters, his legs soaked with his own blood.

‘Ninety-nine!’

Marcus darted his eyes left to Megellus, the legate standing alone in front of the I maniple, his armour hanging loosely from his shadowed frame, his gaunt face set in a mask of determination.

‘One hundred and all done!’

The centurion of the IX stepped back from the stricken soldier, his own torso and face spattered by the blood of the man he had beaten. The whip hung loosely by his side, its flayed tip dripping flesh and blood into the hard-packed sand of the parade ground. Megellus nodded a dismissal to the centurion before stepping forward.

‘Soldiers of the Ninth!’ he shouted, his voice carrying easily over the nine thousand men who could still do duty. ‘We are soldiers of the Republic, legionaries of the Ninth, the Wolves of Rome. The Ninth will not tolerate insubordination. Rome will not tolerate dereliction of duty!’

Megellus let his words hang in the air for a minute before he gestured to two orderlies to cut the legionary down. They ran forward and quickly cut the bonds that splayed the soldier across the X profile of the two spears, lowering him gently onto a stretcher. One of the orderlies ran his hands deftly over the still body, searching for a sign of life. There was none. He looked at Megellus and shook his head before they lifted the lifeless soldier and removed him from the parade ground. The entire legion followed their progress, ignoring the standing order of eyes front.

Megellus cursed inwardly. One hundred lashes was a brutal punishment, a heavy coin that was warranted for the crime of insubordination, but it was rarely a death sentence and was never envisioned as such. Given the soldier’s malnutrition, his chances of survival had always been slim, but regulations were clear and the punishment could not be changed. The legate’s gaze ranged over the massed troops before him, sensing their hostile mood, a mood that had turned inward over the previous week to focus on the commanders of the legion, the men they believed were condemning them daily as their comrades fell from typhus, malnutrition and exhaustion.

‘Troops dismissed!’ Megellus shouted, his order echoed by the centurion of each maniple. Where before the men would snap to attention before dismissal, the majority simply shuffled off the parade ground, many glancing back over their shoulders with hooded eyes at the legate.

‘Prefect,’ Megellus commanded, ‘assemble the senior centurions in my tent.’

The legate heard the slap of a fist on armour as he strode into his quarters, the camp prefect recalling the manipular commanders.

Five minutes later Megellus’s tent was filled with the senior officers of the legion, each one a veteran of more than twenty years, each one acutely aware of the precariousness of their situation.

‘Ten days,’ Megellus said simply, his face unable to hide the bitter disappointment of this final decision, ‘ten days and our final supplies will be exhausted. Ten days and we march, first to Segeste and the Second and then south to Agrigentum.’

Many of the centurions nodded; others, Marcus among them, simply held the legate’s gaze.

Ten days, Marcus thought, ten days during which the Ninth could still hold its head high amongst the legions of Rome. After that it would be stained with the mark of utter defeat, and Marcus felt the bitter bile of shame rise in his throat at the thought. For an instant his mind pictured a scene played out between three men nearly three months before at Brolium. He recalled the words vividly, the deal struck between them, the strength of their bond forged over a vow of honour. The memory straightened Marcus’s back and he stood tall amongst his commander and comrades. Whatever happened, he would stand tall for ten more days.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The light breeze accompanying the rising sun caused the war banners to billow out from the mastheads, the first rays of sunlight stroking their linen cloth. The dawn was heralded by the low baritone call of a sounding horn, its resonance signalling to the fleet to make ready to sail. Gisco gave thanks to Shahar, the god of dawn, for the westerly wind, its sudden arrival a further fortuitous omen for the battle ahead.

As the light strengthened the admiral could see the surrounding ships of the Carthaginian fleet nestled in the harbour of Lipara. Never before had he seen such a confluence of galleys. He held out his right hand and surveyed the calloused skin of his palm. He had heard that the Greeks could see the pattern of a man’s life and fortunes in the lines on his palm. Gisco wondered what mark represented his control of the most powerful fleet Carthage had ever assembled. He bunched his fist at the thought, feeling the strength of his grip. He smiled at the prospect of using the fist and the power of the fleet within its lines to hammer his enemies.

Six hours before, in the dead of night, a sentinel galley had returned from the north with news that the Roman fleet was beating southwards towards the northern coast of Sicily, a fleet of war galleys followed behind by transport barges. Their course was set for Brolium and the blockade around it, a formation of galleys that Gisco had already withdrawn into the main fleet two days before to swell his command to one hundred and sixty-one galleys. The fastest route for the Romans would take them between the Aeolian Islands and the Cape of Mylae on the north coast of Sicily, a channel only five miles across. It was there that Gisco would meet the enemy, leaving the Romans no route to circumvent his line of battle.

As the outermost galleys of the fleet raised their sails and began to manoeuvre out of the harbour, Gisco re-examined his battle plan. He could find no flaw in his strategy. His fleet surpassed the Romans’ in experience, seamanship, and numbers. If the Romans decided to attack his line head on they would be slaughtered. If they tried to turn and run in the narrow channel they would be slaughtered. There would be no escape and no quarter given. As the Melqart got under way beneath him he hammered his fist onto the side rail, feeling his blow connect with the power of his ship. Within minutes the quinquereme’s superior speed took her to the vanguard of the fleet, giving Gisco an uninterrupted view of the horizon. His pulse began to rise as he anticipated the sight of the Roman fleet breaching the solid line of the sea ahead. Remembering the complete victory he had accomplished in the harbour of Lipara, he almost regretted the ease with which he knew he would crush the Roman fleet.

‘Land ahead!’

Instinctively the three men glanced up to the masthead lookout.

‘Sicily,’ Atticus remarked to himself, anticipation in his voice.

Duilius turned to the captain by his side, seeing the steady gaze of the younger man, sharing the pent-up expectancy. The junior consul had chosen the Aquila as his flagship and so the galley sailed in the vanguard of the fleet. To his left and right the new fleet of galleys spread out in a rough arrow formation, the flanks held by experienced galleys of the Ostia fleet and others requisitioned from Naples and Capua. Duilius could not help feeling immense pride at Rome’s achievement, the fleet of one hundred and forty ships, both new and old, testament to the Republic’s strength.

Atticus consulted the map spread out on a small table on the aft-deck, briefly consulting with Gaius as each man recognized features of the familiar coast. The captain nodded briefly as agreement was reached and Gaius altered the course of the lead galley to turn the fleet west. Signals were exchanged from the stern rail and Atticus noted with confidence that the captains of the new galleys matched his course while maintaining formation.

‘That’s the Cape of Mylae,’ Atticus explained to Duilius and Septimus as he pointed to a headland five miles ahead off the port quarter. ‘And those are the Aeolian Islands,’ indicating a darker mass of land on the starboard quarter horizon.

‘How far beyond is Brolium?’ Duilius asked.

‘Roughly twenty-five miles beyond the cape, a little over four hours at our current speed,’ Atticus replied automatically, his own thoughts also focused on the distant islands. He wondered if the Carthaginian fleet had left the island or if they were still at the port city. Either way he relished the encounter, and Atticus recited a vow to make them pay a heavy price.

‘Enemy galleys dead ahead!’

Gisco reacted instantly to the call.

‘Signal all galleys. Enemy sighted. Battle formation!’

The crewmen responded immediately, rushing to transmit the commands to the ships on the left and right flanks.

‘Battle speed!’ Gisco ordered the helmsman and the Melqart sprang forward as the ship’s oars were engaged.

The admiral walked calmly to the bow, his unhurried steps in contrast to the frenzied activities of the crew as final preparations for battle were made. As he walked up the steps to the foredeck, he caught sight of the approaching Roman galleys. Their sails were lowered against the oncoming wind, relying solely on oar power to propel them through the channel. Gisco smiled coldly as the order was given for his own sail to be lowered and secured against the lifting yard. The Carthaginian fleet had arrived on station under sail and their rowers would be fresher as battle was joined.

Gisco looked left and right as his fleet moved into formation. His own ship was in the centre of the three-mile line, with the remaining quinqueremes interspersed among the triremes. Boodes, his most trusted squad commander, was anchoring the starboard flank against any attempt to escape to Brolium while the port flank was held by Hamilcar to cut off retreat to the Aeolians.

The admiral stared across the five-mile gap to the Roman galleys, his eyes narrowing in hate as he watched them deploy into a line of battle. Over a year before, Gisco had been forced to abandon the city of Agrigentum in the face of the Roman legions. He had believed his army unbeatable but the Romans had shamed him. He now twisted the bitter memory into pure malice for the enemy. There would be no repeat of his ignominious defeat.

‘Damn it, Lucius, signal them to hold the line!’

Atticus continued to look left and right as the Aquila reached her full battle speed. Lucius bellowed over the side rail for the order to be passed down the line, the command having an immediate effect on those who heard it directly. The line of battle had been slow to form and was now becoming ragged as the ships increased to battle speed. Each ship was guarding the flanks of her port and starboard cohorts, the very reason for line-of-battle formation. If the Roman line struck the Carthaginians unevenly, many ships would be immediately exposed to the deadly rams of the enemy. The experienced galleys on the flanks worked hard to dress the line and slowly the formation re-established cohesion.

Atticus grunted his satisfaction and turned once more to the approaching enemy ships, now only three miles away. They were in perfect line-of-battle formation, their expert seamanship evident in the quick collapse of their sails and steady spacing between each ship. The Carthaginians would try to run through the line of Roman ships, destroying the formation so that every ship would have to fight as a single entity. The Roman plan was to engage the Carthaginians at the first point of contact, turning their bows into the enemy’s and stopping them from breaching the line. It was a tactic never tried before, but Atticus could think of no other that would allow for maximum use of the corvus.

As the Roman captain took one more look to his port and starboard, he could see that some galleys were still not fully in line. The air was filled with shouted orders as ships’ captains commanded their crews and coordinated with their flanking galleys to keep formation. A sliver of doubt rose in Atticus’s thoughts as he recalled the command crews’ lack of experience. The final week in Ostia had been consumed in relentless training of the crews on how to use the corvus. The first head-on contact was crucial. After that the Carthaginians would have the advantage.

Septimus breathed easily as he looked over the faces of his demi-maniple of the Fourth. Only the faces in the front row were familiar, the remaining six members of his own marine command. The rest of his former command were scattered amongst the legionaries of the new fleet, their fluency in boarding providing each party with a backbone of experience. As Septimus’s glance reached the end of the line, he nodded to his new optio. Quintus had also been reassigned and was now commanding a demi-maniple of his own, while Septimus had been given a tough second officer of the Fourth. He was an older man of few words, but the men respected him and he would anchor and steady the line on the enemy deck.

Septimus could sense the impatience of the legionaries. They were men of the Fourth, the Boar. Their legion had been dishonourably wounded at Lipara and the loss of twelve hundred of their comrades called for vindicta, revenge on the hated Punici. Over the years Septimus had heard many words spoken to troops before battle. In his time as centurion he had given such orations himself, a way to rally his command before battle, the words spoken to whip up the men’s fighting frenzy. With cold realization he knew only two words would be needed that day to unleash their fury. As he heard the shouted command for the galley to increase to attack speed, he drew his gladius, knowing that the enemy were close. The eyes of sixty men were locked on Septimus, ignoring the approaching enemy over the centurion’s shoulders. Septimus raised his sword.

‘Avenge Lipara!’

The men roared with demonic blood lust, a roar of pure aggression. Septimus smiled grimly. They were ready.

Atticus felt his mind clear as the Aquila moved to attack speed. He instinctively looked left and right at the battle line to watch the other galleys match his speed. They were committed. At attack speed, the final gap of a mile would be closed in less than two minutes. There was no time for final changes, no time for doubts. His whole being became focused on the enemy before him. Over the preceding weeks he had begun to consider the enemy in abstraction, a faceless foe to be outwitted and outmanoeuvred. Now he vividly recalled each encounter, the dishonour of fleeing in the Strait of Messina still sharp, as was the rage he felt at the slaughter of the transport fleet at Brolium.

The Carthaginians were quarter of a mile away, close enough for Atticus to pick out individual details. The centre of their line was held by a quinquereme, a behemoth in comparison to the triremes flanking her hull. Atticus realized it would be the flagship, the head of the serpent. The Aquila was on course to strike the Carthaginian line three galleys south of the centre point. He etched every detail of the quinquereme in his mind, marking it as his prey. After the lines collapsed he would hunt her down. For the Romans, the fleet was not the last line of defence, it was the only line. The Punici had to be defeated and their commander struck down. In the centre of the Roman line, Atticus knew only the Aquila was equal to the task.

As the gap closed between the lines, Gisco’s focus was interrupted by the sight of an unusual structure on the bow of each Roman galley. At one hundred yards his mind had little time to react and he dismissed the sight, concentrating on the gap in the line between the two enemy galleys before him. The Melqart would sweep through, her archers raining death as she passed, before turning once more into the rear of the line. The Romans would turn to meet the threat, exposing themselves neatly. With the entire Roman fleet consisting of triremes, Gisco was confident that no enemy ship could match the speed and power of the Melqart.

He recalled the glory of the day when his ram had claimed four Roman transport ships. At the time he had revelled in the victory, his first chance to repay the hated Romans for his defeat at Agrigentum. Now he was faced with battleships and his endless appetite for revenge was goaded by the increased danger.

‘Archers, ignite!’ Gisco ordered.

The pitch-soaked tips of two dozen arrows were lit at the shouted command, the archers drawing their bows to ready themselves for the command to release.

Gisco watched as the Roman galley on his port quarter veered into his course, setting her bow against that of the Melqart.