The sound of approaching footsteps caused Varro to turn and he stepped aside to allow a
contubernia
of ten legionaries to pass, the officer leading them, an
optio
, saluting the tribune’s uniform without recognising the man, the gesture precise and deferential. Without thinking Varro acknowledged the salute with a nod and he felt his pride stir within him once more. He tightened his grip on the scroll in his hand and continued
on into the villa, gesturing to a nearby soldier and ordering him to inform the port commander that he wished to see him.
After a brief wait Varro was shown into the port commander’s office. He stood in the centre of the room and proffered the scroll to the commander, standing far enough back from the desk so the commander was forced to stand and walk around to receive the scroll. Varro watched him move, his expression unreadable. The port commander was a heavy-set man in his mid-forties but he walked with such an efficiency of movement that Varro was given the impression that the commander had at one time been a trim fighting soldier.
‘I did not expect to see you again so soon, Tribune,’ the commander said, his tone light but questioning. Only minutes before, when he had been told that Varro was waiting outside the commander had rushed to his door to look out surreptitiously at the tribune. How had he managed to return to Sicily? Was he not in disgrace? The port commander’s mind was in turmoil as he returned to his desk but as he sat down he noticed the seal in the scroll.
SPQR
; the seal of the Senate of Rome.
The port commander broke the seal and began to read the document. With each line the grounds for Varro’s return became more apparent and the commander couldn’t help but smile as he reached the conclusion of the order from Scipio and the confirmation of Varro’s new rank.
Varro watched the port commander read the scroll in silence, but he studied the older man’s expression closely, trying to decipher from it how Scipio had phrased the order, with regard or with derision. As he saw the commander smile, Varro felt a sudden wave of anger hit him. Whatever Scipio’s tone the port commander was taking pleasure from the end
result. He stood slowly, his smile remaining and Varro struggled to keep his own expression neutral.
‘Very well, Commander Varro,’ the port commander began, a heavy emphasis on Varro’s revised rank. ‘It seems I must find a squad for you.’
Varro ignored the jibe and straightened his back to receive his orders. He looked to a point directly above the commander and focused his mind on the incident that had occurred minutes before in the courtyard when the
optio
had saluted him. Varro knew that the
optio
’s respect was engendered by his tribune’s uniform but he also believed his own natural bearing was a significant factor. After today his uniform might change but Varro vowed that in his mind he would remain a tribune, the minimum rank his social status demanded. In time he would fulfil his orders from Scipio and dispose of the Greek captain who had shamed both him and Rome. Then he would return to his city, reclaim his former rank and raise his head high once more in front of his father. Until then he would suffer the dismissive attitude of men like the port commander, lesser men who would live to regret their underestimation of Varro.
The
Alissar
moved sedately through the commercial harbour of Carthage as the helmsman navigated the quinquereme around the moving obstacle course of trading ships large and small. The wind was onshore and so the sail remained secured but the current of the outgoing tide eased the galley’s passage and the drum beat below decks hammered out a steady four knots.
Hamilcar paced the foredeck, his excitement and impatience in marked contrast to the steady rise and fall of the hull beneath him, the moderate course changes that brought the galley ever closer to the open waters beyond the harbour. Every so often
a smile creased his face and he glanced back at the entrance to the military harbour nestled beyond the commercial docks. Inside and unseen; for where he now stood he knew the area was frantic with activity, the stage of his plan backed by the supreme council now beginning to take shape under the skilful hands of a multitude of Carthaginian shipwrights and naval carpenters. They were the best in the world and the confidence they possessed in their abilities had immediately put any lingering doubts Hamilcar had about his aggressive schedule to rest.
Hamilcar turned again, this time to gaze upon the waters ahead of the
Alissar.
She had finally cleared the harbour and the drum beat was increased to seven knots as she advanced into unobstructed waters. Hamilcar looked to the horizon, his mind’s eye tracing out the routes the galleys he had dispatched yesterday had taken. There had been four in total, the captain of each carrying orders Hamilcar had dictated but which also bore the seal of the supreme council. Each one had been given a specific mission and so the order would be carried to very edges of the empire, to Marrakech, Iberia, Sardinia and Gymnesiae. Within weeks the provincial fleets ordered to return would arrive in Carthage, swelling Hamilcar’s command until he achieved the superiority in numbers his plan required.
Hamilcar leaned over slightly to counteract the tilt of the deck beneath his feet as the
Alissar
’s course was adjusted, her bearing north-north-east, a direct line to the south-east corner of Sicily. From there she would hug the coast, traversing the narrow strait of Messina at night to arrive at her final destination, Tyndaris. It was one of the most vital elements of the plan, in addition to being the one most vulnerable to discovery, so Hamilcar had decided to oversee the final stages of construction. In addition he had dispatched orders to Panormus for
a dozen galleys to join him in Tyndaris with the intention of closing the harbour to all commercial shipping.
Hamilcar glanced back over his shoulder as Carthage began to fade in the distance. It would be mere weeks before he would see her again and thoughts of her harbour filled with all the galleys of the empire filled his chest with pride at what he was about to achieve.
Atticus leaned back against the aft-rail, keeping close to the burning brazier, its smoke keeping away the evening insects. His chest felt stiff under the tight bandages the physician had applied, and the wound felt strangely cold, the foul-smelling salve he had applied numbing the area but easing his pain. He felt tired and light-headed but he delayed his return to the cabin below, wanting to wait until the turn of the watch at dusk and curious to learn what Septimus would reveal when he returned.
The breeze shifted slightly and the smoke of the brazier cleared, revealing to Atticus the distinct underlying odours of the port, the salt infused air, the musky smell of the town where a hundred fires had been lit in advance of the night and the sour acrid smell of the bilges of the ships that surrounded the
Aquila.
The crowds were melting away from the docks as the evening advanced, the gangs of slaves already corralled back to their quarters at the southern edge of Brolium, the passage of the day a featureless event in their miserable lives.
Atticus spotted Septimus from a hundred yards, his red cape easily distinguishable amongst the predominantly white clad traders and merchants. Atticus summoned a crewman to bring wine to the aft-deck as he watched Septimus’s approach with interest, trying to discern from his gait if the news he had heard was good or bad. It was hard to tell although the
centurion did move with determined stride as if time was of the essence.
Atticus nodded to Septimus as he reached the aft-deck, Atticus seeing for the first time the troubled expression of the centurion.
‘Marcus?’ he asked, misreading the expression.
‘He made it back,’ Septimus said, taking a proffered goblet of wine, ‘but the Ninth’s losses were very heavy. They have been temporarily stood down.’
Atticus nodded gravely but remained quiet, sensing that Septimus was not finished, and after a minute’s pause Septimus began to outline what Marcus had revealed and what they had discussed at length.
‘So Marcus believes the Carthaginian attack is more than just opportunistic?’ Atticus asked.
‘Yes, and I agree with him,’ Septimus replied, ‘but we don’t know to what end. Maybe they are trying to split our territory in two, or perhaps it’s just a feint in advance of an attack to retake Agrigentum.’
Atticus nodded. He agreed with Marcus’s initial belief, as did Septimus, but that conclusion had led them nowhere. Only the
Punici
knew what step was next.
Both men turned as they heard the thump of heavy footsteps of the gangway and they watched as Varro led his men on board. His eyes searched the deck and came to rest on Atticus and Septimus. He dismissed his men with a wave and continued to the aft-deck alone, his gaze never leaving the captain and centurion.
‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus said as he saluted, focusing Varro’s attention on him alone.
‘We sail at dawn,’ Varro replied, not correcting the centurion’s use of his former title. Varro knew the crew would learn of his demotion soon enough but until then he would remain tribune, if only in name.
‘What heading, Tribune?’ Atticus asked, stepping forward, determined to extract the necessary information a captain was entitled to know.
Varro stared hard at Atticus for a number of seconds, ‘Send one of your crew to fetch a map of the north coast of Sicily.’
Atticus complied and the three men waited in silence until the map was brought up from below. Septimus spread it on the deck and they circled around it, careful not to block the dying light of the evening sun that stood a hair’s breadth above the horizon.
‘We will sail east into this area,’ Varro began, pointing out a rough triangle on the map. ‘There we should encounter a squad of ten galleys who are responsible for patrolling that area. I will take command of this squad.’
Varro stood up as he finished and Atticus and Septimus followed suit in anticipation of further instructions. Varro however simply turned around and left the aft-deck without another word, descending quickly into the hatchway that led to the main-cabin below.
‘A tribune assigned patrol duty?’ Septimus asked suspiciously as he watched Varro leave.
‘How is he even still in command?’ Atticus said, suddenly angry, sick of the charade he was forced to play with Varro. The man had tried to have him killed and yet Atticus couldn’t fight back, Varro’s privileged rank and status protecting him. ‘Those cursed Romans have no honour,’ he spat.
Septimus spun around, a furious expression on his face. ‘What do you know of Roman honour?’ he asked, a hard edge to his voice, a buried anger rising to overwhelm him. ‘Varro is one man. He is not Rome.’
‘Who do you think is protecting him?’ Atticus countered,
angry at Septimus’s reaction and his defence of Varro. ‘Only the senior consul could have spared that whoreson.’
Septimus stepped in closer. ‘And what of Greek honour?’ he asked.
Atticus frowned, not understanding.
‘I told you to stay away from Hadria,’ Septimus said, speaking aloud the accusation that had festered in him for too long.
Atticus was stunned, the mention of Hadria’s name throwing him. ‘She has spoken with you?’ he asked, his anger taking a new twist as he saw the censure in Septimus’s face.
‘She has,’ Septimus said, ‘and I know of your betrayal.’
‘Betrayal?’ Atticus snapped and without conscious thought his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.
Septimus reacted within the blink of an eye, his hand reaching for his weapon, the knuckles of his fist white from the intensity of his grip.
Atticus held firm and stared balefully into the centurion’s eyes, the urge to draw his blade screaming at the muscles of his arm, the accusation of betrayal flooding his mind. An image flashed through his thoughts, of Hadria standing in her bedroom before running off to see her brother, and Atticus clawed his anger back from the brink of attack, his hand slowly withdrawing from his sword.
Septimus saw the gesture in the corner of his eye as he struggled to contain his fury. He had played out this confrontation many times in his mind but never had he thought it would spiral to his level. He believed beyond all else that the relationship between Atticus and Hadria had to end and he had trusted his friend to end it. In exposing that betrayal he had expected Atticus to be chastened but instead he was shocked by the ferocity of Atticus’s defence. He stared at his friend’s face, seeing there the conflict he felt in his own
resolve and he slowly loosened the grip on his sword, his previous conviction shaken. He made to speak again but he stopped himself. Enough words had been spoken and he turned and walked from the aft-deck.
Atticus never took his eyes from Septimus’s back, anger and confusion striking him in discontinuous waves. He looked down to the deck, the map of northern Sicily still spread at his feet, half of it now in shadow as the daylight gasped its last. He sought to refocus his attention, to drag his thoughts from the words Septimus had spoken and from the back of his mind he recalled Varro’s orders. He traced the area that Varro had described, a rough triangle that was probably one of many that delineated the patrol areas of the Roman squads based out of Brolium. One apex of the triangle was anchored in to the harbour where the
Aquila
now lay. The next apex was to the north-east, a line that ran from Brolium to strike the port of Medma on the Italian coast, the second apex. From there the line ran south-south-west to the final apex, a Syracusan-held town on the north-eastern corner of Sicily, the ancient port of Tyndaris.
A
tticus waved one last time as the
Neptunus
drew away from the
Aquila
, her captain returning the gesture before turning away to issue the order to come about. The
Neptunus
turned slowly into the north-easterly wind; the waves initially striking her broadside, throwing up a fine mist of spray until the spear-like bow came to bear, slicing cleanly into the whitehorses. For a second the galley seemed suspended, the oncoming wind counter-acting the power of her oars, but slowly and inexorably the two hundred slaves below decks overcame the inertia and within a minute she was up to a steady five knots.
Atticus turned and walked slowly over to the tiller. As he did he lifted his arm, rotating his shoulder through a full circle, recalling the slight stab of pain he had felt a moment ago when he had waved at the captain of the
Neptunus.
The wound on his chest was healing rapidly but the range of motion of his right arm was still restricted and even the weight of a sword became too heavy to hold within a minute.
Atticus nodded to Lucius and the second-in-command issued the order to raise sail, the
Aquila
’s course allowing her to take advantage of the wind and the whip-crack of canvas filled the air as the trireme came to life under Atticus’s feet.
‘Course, Captain?’ Gaius asked.
‘South-south-west Gaius,’ Atticus replied. ‘Where the wind takes us.’ And he felt an enormous sense of freedom as the galley turned neatly beneath him. The
Aquila
was his once more, Varro having transferred to the
Tigris
, the command ship of the squad, two weeks earlier when the
Aquila
had arrived on station in its patrol zone. Since then the mood of the entire crew had lifted, not least because the scrutiny of a senior officer was never welcome on any vessel.
‘South-south-west Captain,’ Gaius said as the
Aquila
settled on course and Atticus sensed the hopeful tone of his helmsman. He slapped Gaius on the shoulder and smiled, sharing his hope that today they would finally encounter the enemy and take back some measure of their loss at Thermae.
The past two weeks had been frustrating, with the
Aquila
patrolling at random, expecting each day to encounter an enemy galley, believing that the Carthaginians were perhaps emboldened enough by their victory at Thermae to venture east beyond Brolium. But each day had ended in frustration as the
Aquila
sailed through seas devoid of enemy ships and it was only morale that kept the crew sharp as inactivity chafed the nerves of all on board.
That frustration was compounded by the possibility that a second enemy was active in the area. The other captains spoke of reports of at least a half-dozen ships that had disappeared in the waters around the north-eastern tip of Sicily, ships that were known to be on a southerly course from Rome that had not arrived at their destination. These were the kind of reports that incensed the crew of the
Aquila
and they had accepted with relish the order that once more turned their galley into the pirate-hunter she was born to be.
‘Well?’ a voice asked and Atticus turned to find Septimus coming up from the main deck.
‘Nothing yet,’ Atticus replied, ‘but the rumours from the traders the
Neptunus
has stopped are the same as before.’
Septimus nodded and stood beside Atticus, looking past him to the departing Roman galley. Atticus stood easy, his hand resting lightly on the tiller. They had not spoken of their confrontation again in the previous two weeks and the tension between them had eventually dissipated, the unresolved conflict concealed by the routine of command and friendship.
‘You still think it’s pirates?’ Septimus asked.
Atticus nodded, trusting his instincts.
‘I don’t think it’s the Carthaginians,’ he said, reiterating his argument. ‘What reason would they have for capturing or sinking such a small number of ships? More importantly, not one ship has escaped to describe their attacker which means that each one was caught by complete surprise. Only a captain with local knowledge would know the best spots along the coast to ambush a passing ship.’
Septimus nodded, accepting the argument. ‘So it must be pirates,’ he said.
‘It must be…’ Atticus replied, his voice low, his thoughts still forming in his mind.
‘But…’ Septimus said, sensing Atticus’s hesitation.
‘I keep thinking of what Camillus, the survivor from the
Fides
, said,’ Atticus said, again lapsing into deep thought.
‘He said the pirates sunk the
Fides
after they captured it, slaves and all. A valuable prize,’ Atticus began. ‘And now every rumour speaks of ships disappearing without a trace. Not found drifting with their holds empty or beached with their complement of slaves taken, just disappeared as if they too were sunk. It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Whoever they are,’ Septimus concluded, ‘it’s only a matter of time before they run into one of our galleys.’
Atticus shrugged. He was unsure if the other crews were searching specifically for the pirates. Certainly no general order to that effect had been received from Varro, but even if the Roman galleys were tasked with patrolling for Carthaginian ships, it would be unlikely that they would allow a pirate ship to pass unchallenged. Either way, up until now, Fortuna had been on the side of the pirates.
Atticus glanced over his shoulder one last time as the
Neptunus
grew smaller in the distance. Beyond her the horizon was clear as it was off all four points of the
Aquila
, a featureless seascape but one where a galley could hide if she were commanded by the right crew. In addition the ancient shoreline of Italy was littered with blind coves and headlands, a multitude of lairs for a predatory galley. To catch her, Fortuna’s wheel would need to turn in the
Aquila
’s favour or Atticus would have to turn the wheel for her. Armed with a crew and a galley that had hunted pirates for years that task might just be possible.
Regulus sighed irritably as his servant announced that Scipio had arrived and was waiting in the atrium. For a second Regulus was tempted to say that he was unavailable but he immediately thought better of it. He would have to confront Scipio sooner or later and as he felt more confident within the walls of his own house, now would be the most opportune time.
Regulus had left the Curia immediately at sundown, the traditional time of day when all discussion and debate was suspended in the Senate, in the hope of postponing this confrontation but even as he left, Regulus recalled thinking how futile his efforts were. In Rome the Senate might close with the setting of the sun but the Senate’s business continued regardless of the heavens and Regulus knew he could not avoid this conversation.
The senior consul half-stood as Scipio entered the room, keeping his expression neutral, matching the senator’s renowned ability to hide his inner thoughts. Over the previous weeks Regulus had tried to become adept at reading Scipio’s thoughts but to no avail, the senator’s serpentine nature constantly making a mockery of his efforts. On this night however Regulus felt sure he knew what was on Scipio’s mind and he became even more guarded, knowing that Scipio’s anger was lurking just beneath the surface.
‘The hour is late, Senator,’ Regulus said, keeping his tone even. ‘You wished to see me?’
‘Who in Hades do you think you are?’ Scipio exploded, his veneer of composure suddenly cast aside.
Regulus bristled at the words, his own vow to remain calm forgotten as his patience evaporated. ‘I am the senior consul of Rome!’ he shouted, stepping forward to meet Scipio in the centre of the room.
Scipio laughed derisively, ‘You are nothing, Regulus. You are a fool who has forgotten his place.’
‘My place, Senator,’ Regulus growled, ‘is wherever I see fit.’
‘No, Regulus,’ Scipio said, drawing himself to his full height, his hands bunched by his side. ‘You have gone too far this time. You will withdraw your announcement.’
Now it was Regulus’s turn to laugh sardonically. He turned from Scipio and walked back to his seat, taking his goblet of wine from the table as he did. He recalled the moment in the Senate only hours before when he announced that he would travel to Sicily. The campaign there was in turmoil, with the Carthaginians pushing eastward beyond Enna and the legions struggling to contain the advance in the rugged mountains, unable to bring their superior fighting skills to bear in the hostile terrain. As senior consul, Regulus had felt compelled to act and he remembered the pride he had felt when his
announcement was cheered by the Senate, a spontaneous endorsement of his decision.
He had immediately looked to Scipio, knowing that his undisclosed decision would anger him, but he had been unprepared for the unbridled wrath he had seen written on the senator’s face. He took a drink from his wine, feeling confident that his decision had been wise. He turned once more to Scipio, recommitting himself as he saw the hostility in the senator’s eyes.
‘My decision and my announcement stand, Scipio,’ he began. ‘Rome needs me and I have answered her call.’
‘Rome needs you,’ Scipio spat, a mocking smile on his face at the pomposity of Regulus’s words. ‘What Rome needs is for me to decide, not you.’
‘You cannot hold me here,’ Regulus replied and Scipio realised for the first time, as he noticed a new confidence in the consul’s voice, that his grip on power was slipping. Regulus’s decision to travel to Sicily was a body blow to Scipio. With the senior consul away, leadership of the Senate would pass to Longus, the junior partner and a man completely beyond Scipio’s control.
Scipio was furious with himself. He had not foreseen that Regulus would become his own man and he couldn’t believe that it had happened so soon. With the revelation of his true intentions weeks earlier when they had first clashed Scipio knew his control of Regulus would become more tenuous but he had thought that his initial assessment of Regulus’s character was still sound, that the consul would bend to his superior will and that Regulus’s aspirations did not go beyond the title and trappings of the position of senior consul.
Scipio now knew that he had ignored his own doubts about his plan when he first noticed a new hostility emerging from within Regulus. Coupled with this the consul had unwittingly
begun to gain support in his own right amongst many of the senators and the Senate’s endorsement of Regulus’s announcement earlier that day bore full testament to that support.
Scipio silently cursed Regulus as he watched the senior consul retake his seat, but this turned to a malevolent smile as he noticed again the consul’s manner, the proud bearing that was fully suggestive of his confidence. Therein lay his demise, Scipio thought and he turned to leave the room without another word, satisfied, for now, for Regulus to believe that he had triumphed.
Hamilcar Barca walked slowly along the shore, his gaze ranging over the final stages of construction, the air filled with the sound of hammering and shouted commands. He knew he should feel tired, for he had barely slept over the previous two weeks, but anticipation was fuelling his energy and the sights around him continually commanded his full attention. He stopped at the head of one of the many jetties, his mind’s eye already seeing the serried ranks of galleys that would soon be moored there and again his mind ranged over the events and details that needed to transpire before that vision would become a reality. He turned in the soft sand and looked down to his feet. The beach had been churned by a thousand footfalls, the slaves’ bare footprints mixed with the prints of sandaled feet of the tradesmen who had been drafted in to the site. Hamilcar traced the signs of his own hob-nailed sandals and once again he was given over to imagine when the sand would show only prints of his kind.
Over the previous two weeks Hamilcar had received one report after another, each one keeping him apace with events on all fronts. In Carthage the fleets were assembling, the military port which could house two hundred galleys already full and the navy had resorted to commandeering parts of the
commercial port to house the excess. Sixty miles south-west from where Hamilcar stood, his forces had pushed past Enna and were skirmishing with the Romans, driving relentlessly eastward. They would reach the border of Syracuse within a week. One final report, received only two days before had come from Hiero through an emissary. Ostensibly the emissary had enquired about the security arrangements at Tyndaris but Hamilcar had quickly noticed that the Syracusan’s eyes had taken in every detail of the port and Hamilcar had taken the opportunity to mention the progress of his fleet and land forces, knowing that Hiero would hear his words within days.
Hamilcar looked to the sun setting rapidly in the west, the drop in temperature tempting a light cloud cover to appear on that horizon while over his shoulder, in the eastern sky, the full moon was beginning her climb into the heavens. Hamilcar’s thoughts drifted to Belus and his imminent return, the phase of the moon signalling the pre-determined end to his task. Perhaps he would arrive on the morrow and Hamilcar utter a silent prayer to Tanit that the information he would bring would confirm his earlier reports. Armed with that confirmation Hamilcar would be poised to strike and he suddenly felt impatient, the culmination of so many months of planning hinging on one final report.
Belus smiled in the twilight as he watched the full moon rise over the bow of the pirate galley. The moon looked unusually large in perspective and he savoured the sight that marked the end of his time on the pirate galley. Belus looked away and turned towards the darkening sea, blinking his eyes to clear them of the residual image of the moon as he once more marshalled his thoughts, sifting the information he had gathered since he had last seen his commander.
The crux of his report involved security and the perceived
opportunity to take the Romans by surprise. On this point he was now sure, the evidence overwhelming and he smiled without thinking as he imagined the reaction of Hamilcar to the news. The smile dissipated quickly as Belus was reminded of the primary source of this vital information, the Roman captain still recovering below decks. Too many times over the previous days, when Belus had gone to check on the Roman, he had found himself examining his decision to spare him. More than once his conviction had faltered, even when faced with the sight of the Roman’s broken body. Rome was the enemy, the aggressor who had precipitated the conflict on Sicily until the only option left to Carthage was total war. The sons of Rome therefore deserved no mercy, whether trader or soldier, for victory could not be achieved through halfmeasures. And yet, more often than not, Belus knew he was right to spare the captain. He firmly believed the Romans were no better than wolves, creatures totally without honour that corrupted all they touched. If Carthage was to prevail and remain unsullied by the conflict, Belus knew her sons needed to remain honourable. The Roman captain had been a worthy adversary and Belus would treat him as such. Once the impending campaign was underway, he would release him back to his people.