Longus stepped down from the podium and made his way to his seat as a rival took to the centre of the floor to make his own case for election. Duilius turned in his seat, away from the speaker but also from Longus, conscious that the young senator was probably staring across at him, hoping once again to catch his eye. The thought made Duilius uncharacteristically re-examine his decision to promote Longus as a candidate for the junior consulship. With his own victory assured, Duilius’s endorsement carried significant weight and he had chosen carefully, conscious that his decision would be examined minutely by every senator. Longus had many flaws as a man, his inexperience exacerbating many of them but Duilius was sure of one inimitable quality that Longus possessed, and that was loyalty. In the maelstrom of shifting alliances and duplicitous allegiances that defined the Senate, Duilius would always be
sure of Longus’s support. Duilius’s uncertainties dissipated as he reaffirmed his decision and he let his mind drift to other topics, ignoring the rambling polemic from the speaker at the podium. His gaze extended to the colonnaded entrance to the chamber and lengthening shadows of the day, consciously willing the sun to speed its progress to a point below the horizon. As his eyes moved over the spaces between each column he spotted the familiar figure of Lutatius, his private secretary, and the sight arrested his attention and chased every thought from his mind. Lutatius was unmoved, his gaze locked on his master and although he did not gesture, his mere presence spoke of an urgency that Duilius could not ignore. The consul stood up and walked directly to the exit, his abrupt movement causing the speaker to pause in indignation at the unprincipled insult inherent in Duilius’s departure and a muttered undertone of disapproval swept through the house. Duilius was oblivious however, his attention locked on Lutatius. Sundown, the traditional close of business in the Senate, was less than an hour away, Duilius thought. What was so urgent that Lutatius could not wait for his return home?
Lutatius stepped back around the column into the full glare of the afternoon sun as Duilius approached, screening himself from the prying eyes of any in the chamber. Duilius rounded the column, shielding his eyes as they adjusted to the sunlight reflecting off the marble columns and flagstones, the residual heat of the day in marked contrast to the cool atmosphere of the Senate chamber. Lutatius looked furtively over his shoulder as his master stood before him, checking again to see if anyone was within earshot, conscious as always of how easy it was to betray oneself through carelessness.
‘What news?’ Duilius asked his private secretary, a man who also tightly controlled the consul’s extensive web of spies across the city.
‘Scipio,’ Lutatius replied simply.
‘He has revealed his plans?’ Duilius ventured, his excitement mounting.
‘Yes,’ Lutatius nodded. ‘Tiago brought news from Amaury this very hour.’
‘And?’
‘The censorship, my lord, Scipio plans to attain the censorship.’
Duilius was instantly and simultaneously flooded with conflicting emotions. Relief and triumph at having finally learned of Scipio’s plans and dread at the havoc Scipio could wreak should he succeed. The two censors were elected each year from the ranks of the former consuls serving in the Senate. By tradition, one of the positions was guaranteed to a retiring senator as a sinecure recognising a lifetime’s service to the state, while the other was sought through application by the more ambitious former consuls. Duilius had already taken steps to ensure an ally, Anicius Paulinus, who would be the forerunner for the second position but now, with Scipio’s intentions exposed, Paulinus’s appointment was far from secure.
Without another word, Duilius swept past his secretary and down the steps of the Curia, Lutatius falling in behind at a respectable distance, the business of the Senate proceeding unabated within the chamber, unaware that the most powerful man in Rome would not be returning that day.
‘Skiff approaching!’
Atticus walked quickly to the side-rail to see the small boat approaching the
Aquila
from the distant quay. He instantly recognised Varro sitting in the fore of the boat, his tribune’s helmet distinctive even at a distance of a hundred yards. He was alone with his guard, the senators evidently remaining in
Brolium, and Atticus found himself staring, his mind trying to fathom the thoughts of a man he did not know in any sense. Varro had been born into a life of privilege and wealth where power and command was a birthright. Atticus was born a fisherman’s son in a squalid hovel in the backstreets of Locri and had clawed his way to the top of his world, a pinnacle that was insignificant to a Roman magistrate’s son. Atticus tried to reverse their positions in his mind in a complex attempt to find a way for Varro to save face without Atticus losing, at best, his commission and at worst, his life.
‘Forget it,’ Septimus said beside Atticus and the captain spun around with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Forget what?’ he asked.
‘I know you too well, Atticus,’ Septimus replied, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend. ‘You’re trying to think of a way out of your problem with that young idiot Varro.’
‘And?’ Atticus asked.
‘And I’m saying forget it. I came across his type many times in the Ninth. One hand on his dagger and the other in daddy’s back pocket; every one of them an ambitious viper with an ego fit for the Senate. Whatever fate he’s decided for you he’ll be damned if he lets anyone change his course, especially you.’
Atticus nodded, chasing any thoughts he had of explanation and reconciliation from his mind. He walked away from Septimus and began pacing along the rail.
Before Mylae the
Aquila
had been Atticus’s to command with Septimus unobtrusively responsible for the marines, their ranks equal and separate, with no higher power to answer to beyond their standing orders to keep the shipping lanes of the Republic clear of pirates. It was a task that would often keep them at sea for months, away from the rigid command structures that entangled them every time they entered port, and Atticus had always relished the independence. That freedom
had been lost at Mylae however, when the
Aquila
had been absorbed into the
Classis Romanus
, a lone wolf suddenly becoming part of a larger pack, no longer hunting prey using its singular skill but as part of a group, the hunt becoming a complex power play of command and ambition, where opportunities drew men like Varro to the fray.
Atticus stopped pacing as the skiff came alongside, watching the tribune disembark with the agile ability of youth. As he waited, Atticus felt anger rise slowly within him for the vicissitudes of fate that had placed his life at the whim of a man like Varro. At Mylae, Duilius had stood on the aft-deck of the
Aquila
as commander of the greatest fleet Rome had ever put to sea and yet he had treated Atticus as an equal, their shared fight uniting them against the Carthaginians, the consul understanding that in battle, men were equal before Pluto, the lord of the underworld. Varro, on the other hand, treated those of lesser rank with near contempt and negligible respect, irrespective of their past service to the Republic. For a brief second Atticus recalled the challenges of his hard fought career and his concern for his fate fled his mind. He had fought greater foes than the young tribune who now approached him across the main deck and he’d be damned if he was going to yield without a fight, even if redemption was a forlorn hope. Atticus straightened his back and stood to attention as the tribune covered the remaining steps between them on the aftdeck and he saluted smartly.
‘Make preparations for Rome, Captain,’ Varro said brusquely.
Atticus hesitated for a heartbeat, waiting for the tribune’s next words, but none were forthcoming. ‘Yes, Tribune,’ he replied, repeating his salute.
Varro spun on his heal and walked purposefully away to the hatchway that led to the main cabin below. Atticus watched him go, baffled by the brevity of the exchange. The tribune’s
expression had been near inscrutable, cold and determined, but Atticus had noticed something in Varro’s eyes, something that alerted his instincts, a mere flicker of hostility that spoke of a deeper emotion, an unspoken antagonism that belied the calm exterior the tribune had so deceitfully presented. Atticus had fought many enemies in his life and he knew the look well, knew its portent as surely as if the tribune had challenged him openly on the aft-deck.
L
ongus walked quickly through the bustling streets of the Palatine quarter, holding a firm line of advance on the right hand side of the road, sidestepping only to avoid the crumbling piles of animal waste that had yet to be scavenged by the street urchins who would sell the dung to farmers outside the city. The crowds of people on the street seemed unconsciously aware of his presence and they moved aside to allow him to proceed unhindered. It was a capital offence to strike a senator of Rome and none would dare take the chance that an accidental collision might be construed as an attack by an irate senator on his way home from the Curia. But Longus was not heading towards his own home; instead his destination was a house he knew almost as intimately as his own, the home of his mentor and idol Duilius.
As Longus walked through the darkening streets his concern concentrated all his attention on the flight of Duilius from the chamber less than an hour before. He had been watching the consul intently, waiting for him to turn and nod his approval for Longus’s delivery of the speech that Duilius had so masterfully composed the evening before; words that Longus had infused with passion and meaning, but the consul’s sudden inexplicable departure had thrown Longus’s elation
into turmoil and instead he found himself attempting to silence the whispered censures that swept the chamber at the consul’s flagrant disregard for Senate protocol. Longus’s remaining time in the Senate had been torturous and twice he had made a determined move to depart early only to have his nerve fail him, realising he did not have his mentor’s mettle.
Longus had never been an ambitious man and his whole life to this point had been lived by the formula dictated to him by his ancestors and the tradition of his family. At sixteen, a year after his father had died, Longus had joined the legions as a tribune and waited out his obligatory service in a quiet outpost in Campania. At twenty he had followed his father’s path into the Senate and thereafter he had settled into the daily life of a Roman senator, attending speeches and votes, hosting trade delegations and variously busying himself with the minutiae of a thriving city. That plodding existence had changed with the arrival of Gaius Duilius to the Senate, a charismatic and ambitious
novus uomo
and Longus had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame, igniting a determination within him that he never knew existed, and he had supported Duilius every step of his rise to power. He had never craved the power his mentor sought, only his approval and so now he was prepared to stand at Duilius’s right hand as junior consul, a position he coveted only because his idol wanted it so.
Longus was admitted into Duilius’s house after only one knock on the door and he followed the servant across the meticulously swept outer-courtyard to the entranceway to the house proper. It led into an atrium where the sound of trickling water into the inner pool blended serenely with the flicking candlelight. The atrium was unadorned but careful inspection revealed the quality of the marble columns and flooring; understated
evidence of the vast wealth of the owner that contrasted sharply with the heavily ornamented atria that were typical of senators’ homes, where statues competed for space with precious antiques and fine tapestries. It was a simplicity that Longus had tried to emulate in his own home without success and he wondered, as often he had before, whether Duilius’s humble background was the source of his unaffected modesty.
The servant led Longus through a series of rooms, adhering to the consul’s earlier command to bring the young senator directly to him when he arrived. Duilius was walking slowly around a miniature garden at the rear of the house, a favourite retreat where he marshalled his thoughts and set his mind to finding the solution to every problem he encountered. The garden was immersed in shadows, the crepuscular evening light dissipated by the overhanging interwoven trellis and a servant moved discretely in the background, lighting sporadic candles that the gardener had placed with care to accentuate the beauty of the inner sanctum.
‘Good evening Longus,’ Duilius said, as he heard the approaching footsteps, his back still facing the entranceway.
‘Consul, I came as quickly as I could,’ Longus replied, his voice laced with agitation.
‘I knew you would,’ Duilius said as he turned, a half smile on his face, an expression Longus took as gratitude and he returned the smile ten-fold.
Duilius recommenced his easy stride around the garden and Longus watched him intently, shifting his weight from one foot to another, anxious to learn why the consul had fled the Senate chamber. Within seconds his impatience got the better of him and he blurted out the question that had plagued him over the previous hour. Duilius turned again, this time however there was no trace of a smile, only a hint of the frustration that lurked just beneath the surface.
‘Scipio plans to attain the censorship,’ he said simply.
Longus nodded slowly, his mind racing to find the exact reason why Duilius was concerned, eager to place his thoughts on a parallel to his mentor’s. He could not discern a reason however; in fact he thought Scipio’s appointment would be a godsend as it would place him further from the centre of power in the Senate.
Duilius watched Longus impassively, examining his transparent facial expressions, knowing within a minute that the young senator had not seen the overwhelming problem that Scipio’s appointment would bring. He smiled sardonically to himself at the senator’s ignorance. How often had he seen it before in the young pups who inherited their place in the Senate? Their casual indifference to money, their ignorance of how wealth was created and maintained, the skilled brilliance of their ancestors who created the family fortune lost and forgotten, diluted by generations who simply fed from the cornucopia.
‘What are the duties of the censors?’ Duilius asked, suddenly impatient with Longus and his inability to see beyond his own privileged world, a world that Duilius had entered through ambition and not the womb.
Longus was taken aback and took a second to answer, forming his reply before he spoke. ‘They are mainly responsible for the census.’
‘And in completing the census, what information must each citizen divulge?’
Again Longus paused, sensing Duilius’s impatience, still searching for the key. ‘
He
must register his holdings, his property both in the city and elsewhere.’
‘For what purpose, what do the censors dictate with that information?’
‘They set the property tax for every citizen.’ Longus said slowly in answer as understanding flooded his mind. ‘But
surely Scipio could not target you directly without upsetting everyone whose holdings are similar?’
Duilius laughed derisively, his gaze penetrating.
‘Of course he could,’ Duilius replied angrily. ‘He could set a separate tax on agricultural lands of a certain acreage, or those immediately straddling the city as mine are, or those newly registered in the past ten years. He could bankrupt me within a year and his decision would be inviolate, outside the control of the Senate.’
‘But what of the other censor?’ Longus asked. ‘Surely he could counteract any aggressive policy of Scipio’s, ensure that the taxation is just.’
‘The other censor,’ Duilius scoffed, ‘will be a toothless old retiring Senator with his best years far behind him. Whoever he is he will be no match for Scipio.’
Longus paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps Scipio’s attempt to attain the position will fail,’ he offered. ‘People already speak of your ally Paulinus as if he is guaranteed the position.’
‘My ally Paulinus,’ Duilius thought, his mouth unconsciously twisting into a sneer of derision. Before Mylae, Paulinus, a patrician, had been one of the uncommitted of the Senate, his alliance changing with every vote, his loyalty for sale to the highest bidder. Since Mylae however, he had openly supported Duilius, a support Duilius had welcomed and capitalised on by persuading the former consul to stand forward for the censorship, but his alliance had never been assured and Duilius had planned to keep him on a tight leash.
The final decision on the position rested with the
censores
, the two magistrates, but even here Duilius couldn’t be sure what influence Scipio would exert over them, monetary or otherwise and even if Duilius managed to secure Paulinus’s appointment, the patrician’s former avarice or even loyalty to
the coterie of ancient families might eventually make him Scipio’s pawn.
Duilius shook his head, amazed at the simplicity and brilliance of Scipio’s plan. ‘One way or another,’ Duilius muttered, ‘Scipio will control the censorship.’
‘We must stop him.’ Longus spoke without thinking.
‘There is only one way,’ Duilius said, almost to himself, preparing to speak aloud the only solution he had been able to find over the previous hour as he waited for Longus’s arrival. ‘I must attain the position myself,’ he said. ‘It is the only way. I can trust no other former consul in that position. There is too much at stake.’
‘But the senior consulship?’ Longus said aghast.
‘Is a powerless title without the money to back it up!’ Duilius said, his frustration boiling over, silently cursing Scipio for the hundredth time.
‘I could back you, financially,’ Longus ventured.
‘No, my friend,’ Duilius said smiling, ‘you do not have the resources.’
Longus nodded in silence.
‘But I could back you,’ Duilius continued in a near whisper.
Scipio glanced furtively over his shoulder as his entourage turned yet another corner in the warren of streets that made up the ancient Esquiline quarter of Rome. It was two hours past sunset and the feeble light of the rising quarter moon barely penetrated the heavy shadow cast by the hill which dominated the entire quarter. Scipio’s four heavily armed guards moved cautiously and silently in an effort to remain inconspicuous. Each man was a veteran of the legions, battle scarred and experienced; their courage without question and yet they moved with the trepidation of raw recruits, their swords drawn and ready in a defensive circle around the
senator. Scipio sensed their nervousness and he consciously reached beneath his robe for the hilt of his own dagger, fingering the pommel lightly before wrapping his hand around the hilt. The jewelled handle was warm in his grip and he withdrew the blade an inch from its scabbard, testing the fluidity of his draw, the familiar motion calming his nerve.
The scurrying sound of feet caused Scipio to stop suddenly and his guard halted without command, all eyes turned to their right in an effort to penetrate the darkness and identify the perpetrators. Scipio turned his head slightly in order to extend the limit of his hearing but the sound had dissipated and the streets were silent once more. He began to walk warily on and his guard moved again as one, eager to complete their journey to the house that lay just beyond the next corner. Scipio felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest once more and drew in a deep breath to ease its tempo, ignoring the stench of the fetid night air. As his heart rate returned to normal he cursed once more the necessity of the late hour of his meeting, knowing that the risk of travelling through the streets of Rome at night were enormous, even in one of the most affluent quarters of the city. The darkness belonged to the roving gangs of starving poor who took to the streets at night, scavenging for food scraps and prowling for naive visitors to the city or drunks caught unawares by nightfall. They killed without hesitation or fear of retribution, the darkness hiding their vicious crime and Scipio knew he would only be safe behind the walls and stout doors that protected each house in the quarter.
As the group rounded the last quarter Scipio immediately spied the torch illuminating the door of their destination. It was the only light on the street, acting not only as a beacon for him and his men but also as a sign to the roving gangs that the gate would be in use and Scipio’s guards increased
their vigilance as they covered the final yards of their journey. The lead soldier reached the door and tapped it lightly with the pommel of his sword and a small, face-high panel slid open in the door to reveal a wary expression in shadow. The eyes moved left and right but settled on the figure of Scipio who stood in the centre of the group, his own face bathed in the orange glow of the torch. The panel slid shut and the door reverberated with the sound of a series of bolts being withdrawn, the grating sound of metal unnaturally loud in the deceptively quiet street.
Scipio passed first through the doorway into the dimly lit courtyard, never looking back as the door closed firmly behind him, his gaze instead searching the gloom for the man he had made the hazardous journey to meet. The courtyard was empty however, save for the doorman and a servant standing by the inner door to the house and Scipio reflected bitterly at the fall in his political status. Marcus Atilius Regulus was Scipio’s equal, a former consul and member of the Patrician class, but Scipio was still in office and so etiquette demanded that Regulus should meet Scipio on the threshold of the door to the inner house. He was nowhere to be seen however, and Scipio was forced to swallow the insult in an effort to remain focused on his goal.
Regulus sat in the formal greeting room of his house, reclined on a confusion of cushions, a half-filled goblet of wine lolling in his hand. He was a heavyset man with a high colour that was accentuated by the candle and torchlight that infused the room. He stared at the doorway which led to the atrium beyond but his vision was without focus, his mind endlessly pondering a single question, ‘Why did Scipio want to meet him?’ The messenger had arrived earlier that day, Scipio’s note brief and without allusion, the demand for a meeting thinly disguised as a request. Regulus had immediately sent word of acceptance,
knowing he could not refuse the consul, even if ostensibly Scipio was a spent force in Rome.
‘The consul has arrived,’ a servant announced from the doorway and Regulus waved the man away as he leaned forward to stand up. He had previously decided to deny Scipio the normal respect due to a sitting consul and not meet him at the main door, but basic civility demanded that he greet him as a guest and so Regulus placed his goblet on the low table and moved towards the doorway. A moment later Scipio swept into the room.