‘Good evening, Consul,’ Regulus said, his voice a high pitched tone that seemed to emanate from the back of his throat, his face breaking into a forced smile.
‘Good evening, Regulus,’ Scipio replied, his own expression a perfect mask of friendship, a practiced skill that hid his true feelings.
Regulus motioned to the raised seating area in the centre of the room, an open-sided square of low couches around a table lain with a sprawling feast, a banquet fit for a multitude of two.
‘Please,’ Regulus motioned with his hand, allowing Scipio to be seated first as the guest.
Scipio nodded and took the seat vacated moments before by Regulus at the head of the table, intentionally occupying the most important position, a seat normally reserved for the host and only relinquished to the most honoured of guests. It was a subtle point but with it Scipio retook the advantage in the continual power-play that had become almost instinctive after so many years in the Senate. For an instant Regulus’s expression showed disapproval but he instantly swept it aside with a smile and he sat to Scipio’s right, clapping his hands lightly as a signal for the servants to enter and begin serving the evening meal.
For the next thirty minutes the two men talked of inconsequential matters, touching lightly on matters debated every day in the Senate. It was mere foreplay, courtesy and convention dictating that the more serious topics be avoided until after the meal was ended. Regulus however, was unable to contain his curiosity and he blurted out his opening question before the servants had completed clearing the largely untouched food.
‘So what brings you to my humble abode after dark, Consul? Why the need for such secrecy?’ he asked.
Scipio was forced to summon all his will power in an effort to remain calm at Regulus’s vulgarity but his voice betrayed his inner anger as he leaned into the senator.
‘Dismiss your servants first,’ he breathed in a near whisper, the timbre of his voice disguising his anger.
Regulus was taken aback slightly by the request but he complied and within seconds the two men were alone in the room.
‘I have come,’ Scipio began slowly, committing himself fully to the plan he had devised, ‘to make you a proposition, Regulus. I have come to offer you the position of senior consul.’
Regulus was stunned, disbelief robbing him of a response. Scipio was mad, surely unhinged if he believed he could offer such a thing. He was still senior consul but only in name and even that for only a few days more. His enemies in the Senate openly mocked him using the cognomen they had conferred upon him after Lipara.
Asina
, they called him, the donkey. The word made Regulus smile involuntarily and before he could stop himself he was laughing uproariously at the absurdity of the moment, a morsel of food shooting from his mouth as his face twisted in mockery.
Scipio felt his entire body tense in sudden rage as he witnessed Regulus’s response. His fist clenched into a tight
ball and an almost insurmountable urge swept down his arm, his anger screaming at him to ram his fist into the face across from him. He conquered his emotions once more and let Regulus expend his laughter until the room lapsed once more into silence.
‘My apologies, Scipio,’ Regulus said with false sincerity. ‘Since your request for a meeting I have searched my mind for the reason. Believe you me, this was not one I envisaged.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Scipio said, as if Regulus’s reaction had not occurred, ‘I am in a position to offer you the senior consulship.’
Regulus made to respond but he stayed his words. He searched Scipio’s face for signs of duplicity but there were none and he forced his mind to ignore the absurdness of the proposal and examine it anew. Scipio was still a powerful man, a patrician with enormous wealth and, before Lipara, a man with a fearsome reputation in the Senate. It was probable that he still held sway over many of the junior senators, and history had shown that men could recover from calamitous defeat in battle, but again Regulus was wary. Surely it was too soon for Scipio to rise again, to have regained the support of the senior senators and yet Regulus could sense the utter conviction in Scipio’s offer. He continued to stare at the senior consul and for the first time a rueful frown appeared at the corner of his eyes.
‘How?’ Regulus said, all trace of joviality now gone from the room. ‘The election is in two days and Duilius currently stands unopposed.’
Scipio nodded as if the fact was tiresome.
‘And with good cause,’ Regulus added. ‘His victory at Mylae gives him the support of every senator in the house.’
‘Not every senator,’ Scipio replied cannily.
‘Granted,’ Regulus said after a moment’s pause. ‘There are
some, maybe even many who would prefer that a “new man” did not become senior consul, but none will challenge him openly, not when defeat is certain and their challenge would gain them a powerful enemy.’
‘But what if he didn’t stand for election?’ Scipio asked.
Again Regulus made to scoff, but he suppressed his natural reaction and continued instead to search Scipio’s hard gaze.
‘Go on…’ he said, trying to draw out Scipio’s reasoning, the specific information he so obviously had.
‘If Duilius did not stand, you could put your name forward for nomination. You have held the position before. You are renowned and well respected. With Duilius’s name removed from the ballot the Senate would favour a senior patrician.’
‘But what of Longus?’ Regulus asked. ‘He is Patrician and his nomination for junior consul is foremost. He would almost certainly strike for the higher position
if
Duilius withdraws.’
‘Longus is Duilius’s puppet.’ Scipio scoffed. ‘A vote for him is a vote for Duilius and every senior senator knows it. You are by far the better man.’
Regulus nodded politely at the superficial complement, but he struggled to remain guarded, a creeping ambition taking hold within him at the thought of once more holding the highest office, a position he had held when his star was at its zenith many years before. Since then he had become a peripheral figure in the Curia, content to rest on his achievements. Or so he had believed before Scipio’s offer was revealed. He sat forward, his mind already calculating the possible outcome of an imagined vote.
‘You believe the Senate will choose me over Longus?’ he asked.
Scipio nodded. ‘Over the years I have amassed considerable credit with many of the junior senators of the house, many of whom owe me dearly despite my current state.’ Scipio said
slowly, knowing he had to reveal his innermost hand if he was going to commit Regulus to his cause. ‘I have already called in each of those favours and alliances and to a man they have each put their vote secretly at my disposal.’
Regulus remained silent, his mind examining Scipio’s proposal from every angle.
‘And the senior senators will vote for one of their own,’ Regulus said almost to himself and again Scipio nodded.
Regulus turned the proposal over again. Only one obstacle remained, one insurmountable barrier that Regulus was sure could not be overcome, even by a man as cunning as he knew Scipio was.
‘How will you guarantee Duilius will not stand for election? His withdrawal would be the act of a madman.’
‘He will withdraw’ Scipio said with utter certainty.
‘But…’ Regulus began, unable to assure himself despite Scipio’s conviction.
‘He will announce his withdrawal tomorrow in the Senate and when he does I will look to you.’ Scipio said, his gaze penetrating, intimidating, his force of will filling the space around Regulus. ‘You will have your proof that my plan is sound and I will expect your full cooperation from that point onward.’
Regulus lapsed into silence once more and his gaze shifted from Scipio’s face, his eyes ranging into the candlelit spaces behind the consul as if he was chasing some elusive doubt. His gaze settled on Scipio once more.
‘You would do all this for revenge?’ he asked.
‘It is reason enough,’ Scipio said and Regulus nodded imperceptibly in agreement.
‘Then I accept,’ he said simply.
Scipio stood almost immediately, his sudden movement helping to mask the traces of a smile of triumph creeping onto his face. Regulus stood also and escorted Scipio from
the room, this time giving the consul the full deference his position had always commanded. The two men walked into the courtyard and Scipio’s guards formed up around their master, each one visibly tense at the thought of the return journey through the dark treacherous streets. Only Scipio seemed at ease and he bid Regulus farewell with a brief conspiratorial nod, struggling to contain a laugh as Regulus returned the gesture in kind. Once on the street and out of earshot of the senator however, Scipio gave full vent to his pent up triumph. Regulus had been easily swayed, happy and ready to believe that Scipio’s motives were entirely based on revenge against Duilius. They were in part, but Scipio’s ambitions sat well above mere retribution. They were as always set on only one objective, an aspiration that fate had cruelly wrenched from his grasp at Lipara but one which Scipio was determined to regain at any cost. Absolute power in Rome.
D
ay dawned for the
Aquila
ten miles south of Naples, with an offshore breeze blowing lightly over the aft-deck, the air laden with wood-smoke and waste, the deep musky smell of unwashed streets in the cramped innards of the teeming port. Atticus closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly as the faint smell washed over the foredeck and he was immediately transported back thirty years to the slums of Locri and the struggling existence of his childhood. He opened his eyes again slowly and drank in the sight of the open sea around him, whispering a silent thankful prayer to Fortuna for the guiding hand that had led him so far from that life.
Atticus’s gaze picked out a dark spot against the strengthening light in the east and he focused his attention on the sky over the low coastline a mile away, watching the silhouette intently as it slowly took shape into the familiar profile of a sea eagle and Atticus found that he was holding his breath in anticipation as the bird approached his ship. At two hundred yards distance the moment came and the bird suddenly withdrew its wings and tucked them tight against its body, the swift change sending the eagle into the beginnings of a graceful dive that transformed the once benevolent profile of the eagle into a deadly spear.
The sea eagle hit the water at an incredible speed and she was immediately swallowed by the calm sea, the ripples of her entry instantly swept away and her existence lost until a second later she broke the surface again with a fish trapped in her beak, the water cascading from her feathers to be caught by the light of the rising sun. She soared heavenward once more, however her success went unacknowledged as Atticus shifted his gaze to a flash of colour immediately behind where the bird had struck. The
Aquila
was almost past the point, her seven knot speed pushing her inexorably northward and Atticus spun around to look to the masthead. Corin was there, his gaze fixed dead ahead, scanning the waters for the trading ships that would soon emanate from the port of Naples. Atticus looked to the sea once more, the half-image he had witnessed lost once more to the rolling waves. He hesitated for a mere second longer.
‘Hard to starboard,’ he roared. ‘Come about east-south-east.’
The balanced hull of the
Aquila
swung instantly beneath his feet as he traversed the main deck towards the aft, his eyes locked on a reference point on the coast and as he reached Gaius at the tiller he ordered him to straighten the galley’s course.
‘Steerage speed, lookouts to the fore!’ he ordered and the crew scrambled to the task, Lucius reiterating the order as the Aquila settled low in the water, her two knot speed giving her a gentle headway against the off-shore breeze. Septimus approached Atticus with a quizzical look on his face.
‘Something in the water,’ Atticus said in answer, ‘two hundred yards off the bow.’
‘Understood,’ Septimus nodded and made his way to the foredeck to inform the lookouts stationed there.
Below deck in the main cabin, Varro felt the sudden change in the galley’s course and her drop in speed. He sat up in his
cot and planted his feet firmly on the deck, his sudden action triggering a scurrying sound on the floor as cockroaches fled the unexpected movement. Varro reached up for the porthole above him, pulling back the shutter, allowing the early sunlight to flood the narrow confines of the cabin and he caught sight of the last of the ubiquitous insects as they fled for the dark recesses of the room.
He stood up slowly and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, digging his knuckles in deeply until his vision exploded with tiny stars before returning to the gloom of the twilight world below deck. He had barely slept, the constant motion of the world around him still completely alien, the confines of the room and the sudden inexplicable sounds that punctured the darkness keeping him constantly on edge. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, his mind filled with nightmarish visions of everyone he had ever known turning their back on him in vile condemnation, their faces haunting him even now in his waking hours and he cursed his fate and the ship that bore him anew.
Varro dressed quickly and mounted the steps to the main deck, squinting in the dawn light as looked about him to the frenzied activity of the crew. The majority of them were looking over the side—and forerails, shouting instructions to each other as they searched the waters around the galley. Varro moved quickly to the side-rail, pushing a crewman aside to see out over the water but he saw nothing in the empty sea. He turned to the aft-deck and his eyes sought the captain, seeing him instantly as he stood beside the helmsman, his easy confident stance evident, even from a distance, and Varro felt a resurgence of his hatred. He was about to stride back to the captain when a shout cut through the cacophony of voices on deck.
‘Two points starboard. Someone in the water!’
All eyes on the
Aquila
spun to that point, Varro following the gaze of others as he sought the point indicated. It was there, fifty yards off the bow, a small mass of indeterminate shapes in the gentle swell, hidden one moment and exposed the next but amidst the tangle Varro could see the shoulders and head of at least one person.
‘All stop,’ Atticus shouted and he ran the length of the galley to the foredeck, not noticing Varro as he passed him by, his attention firmly fixed on the figure of Septimus standing by the rail, his arm outstretched in indication of what Atticus had spotted minutes before from afar.
‘One survivor,’ Septimus said as the captain reached them. ‘Lashed to some debris.’
Atticus nodded and turned to the crewmen beside him.
‘You two, over the side,’ he said and the men instantly obeyed, each one swan-diving into the sea eight feet below to surface once again a couple of yards short of the inert people in the water. The crewmen were both able swimmers, as was every man on the
Aquila
, a skill Atticus strictly ensured that every sailor who joined his crew was taught. It was an ability that many of the more traditional sailors who found themselves serving on the
Aquila
thought irrational, believing it better that a sailor should die a quick death if his ship was sunk rather than suffering a lingering struggle before the sea inevitably claimed you.
‘He’s alive but unconscious,’ one of the crewmen shouted and they struck off towards the
Aquila
again without command, each man swimming with one hand while the other dragged the makeshift raft behind them. Two more sailors jumped overboard as the group reached the hull of the
Aquila
and the survivor was quickly cut from the debris and hauled by rope up and over the side-rail. The crew formed a rough circle around him as he was laid on the deck but it parted
again for Atticus and Septimus, the centurion kneeling down and listening intently at the unconscious man’s chest, his knowledge qualified only through years of experience in the military.
Atticus was given a moment to study the man as Septimus’s steady hands searched for the signs that would indicate the strength of his life-force. The man was dark, almost certainly Roman, his young angular features made prominent by the sea water that had seemingly washed the very blood from his face, his skin stark against the deep red of the tunic which had caught Atticus’s eye.
‘He’s dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion,’ Septimus said without looking up, putting his head to the man’s chest once more. He stood up. ‘He’ll need rest and fresh water.’
‘Will he live?’ Atticus asked.
Septimus nodded. ‘He’s young and strong,’ he said, and as if bidden the man stirred slightly, his hand rising and falling again across his stomach.
Atticus instantly ordered the crew to pick him up. ‘Take him to the main cabin,’ he ordered without thinking, suddenly catching Varro’s eye at the edge of the circle, the tribune looking up with an aggravated expression, ‘with your permission, Tribune.’ Atticus added.
Varro nodded curtly and spun around, his exit creating a gap in the circle through which the crewmen carried the man to the main cabin below. Septimus followed, the young man now in his charge.
Regulus stepped warily through the throng of senators on the floor of the Senate house, catching the eye of many as they nodded a greeting. The men were clustered in groups, talking animatedly before the familiar hammer of a gavel, signalling the beginning of the first session of the day, would hasten
them all to their seats. Their discussions were almost frenetic in their tempo, as if the dreary debates scheduled for the day could be mitigated by a couple of minutes of interesting conversation about the consulship elections that were due on the morrow.
Regulus engaged with no-one, skirting the groups to avoid being dragged into a discussion. His gaze sought many of the senators however, surreptitiously watching them, eavesdropping on their conversations as he moved past, trying to guess which ones might be the junior senators that Scipio claimed to secretly control. As he reached the edge of the throng, Regulus spotted the consul seated alone in the centre of the semi-circular seating that framed the central podium of the chamber. Scipio sat with an emotionless expression, his eyes scanning the room, ever restless. Regulus made to approach but thought better of the idea, turning away instead to make his way to his own seat.
A loud hammering sound filled the vaulted chamber and the three hundred senators took to their seats, the men sitting as individuals, loose confederations and close-knit factions, the fluid ever-changing political landscape placing former confederates beside current adversaries. Regulus sat on the right hand of the speaker, a side increasingly associated with the Patrician class of the ancient Roman families although it was near impossible to gauge the loyalties of every senator and dividing lines were only as stable as the last vote taken in each session.
‘Senators of Rome,’ the speaker of the house called as the chamber came to order, the underlying murmur of a hundred conversations dissipating in the still morning air. ‘Before we begin the business of the day, Gaius Duilius,’ the speaker continued, as he nodded towards the junior consul seated firmly in the centre of the left, ‘the junior consul, has requested a brief audience with the chamber.’
Duilius stood and acknowledged the speaker with a nod, his unscheduled request prompting a light patter of applause that rose in intensity as Duilius made his way towards the podium. Regulus’s heart skipped a beat at the sight and he clapped unconsciously, his mind racing to the conversation he had had the night before with Scipio and the premonition made that was transpiring before his very eyes. He looked briefly to Scipio but the consul’s gaze was firmly fixed on his enemy.
Duilius walked with a determined stride and many of the senators sat straighter in their seats in anticipation, the comfortable slouch they had adopted for the scheduled debates thrown off as expectation filled the chamber. He whispered a brief thanks into the speaker’s ear as he took to the podium, the old senator nodding gravely as if his consent to allow Duilius to speak was anything more than a mere powerless formality.
The junior consul stood with his arms straight, his hands gripping the sides of the podium, his upper body leaning forward to convey the significance of his words.
‘My fellow Senators,’ he began. ‘It has been my esteemed honour to serve you and the city of Rome as junior consul this past year.’
A brief applause broke the silence before it was engulfed again by the palatable tension of the chamber.
‘It has been a significant year for the Republic, one which has seen our city embark on a new frontier, a bold courageous endeavour which has, I have no doubt, brought pride to the hearts of our ancestors, the men who built this mighty city and who, even now, look down upon this chamber from Elysium.’
Again the senators clapped politely at Duilius’s words, many willing the consul to get beyond the self congratulatory preamble to the crux of his speech.
‘I have been fortunate to have been part of Rome’s success
in her first naval battle,’ Duilius continued, his words neatly ignoring and condemning to oblivion the disaster at Lipara, and for a brief heartbeat his gaze rested on Scipio before ranging over the expectant faces of the entire chamber, ‘and I hope I have done my duty as your consul.’
Loud applause and sporadic cheers filled the chamber at these words but Duilius raised his hands for silence, his request immediately obeyed as the senators sensed the point of Duilius’s speech was at hand.
‘My duty done,’ Duilius said, pausing for a second as if the words were hard to articulate, ‘I hereby withdraw my nomination for the position of senior consul and instead I will ask to be considered for the post of censor.’
The final words of Duilius’s sentence were lost in the uproar that followed as both ally and foe were taken completely unawares by the sudden turn of events, the entire Senate thrown into confusion with Duilius standing steady in the eye of the storm. Only a select few remained calm, their foreknowledge of the announcement insulating them from the maelstrom of questions and confusion.
Scipio remained seated amidst the turmoil, his eyes veiled, his head tilted back slightly as he drank in the utter chaos his plan had wrought, the sudden disorder that panicked the lesser men of the Senate, leaving them crying out for direction, for leadership. He lowered his head and steadied his gaze to a point on the right of the chamber, instantly catching the eye of Regulus and the older senator nodded imperceptibly. He was committed.
Scipio’s thoughts were broken by the slowly surfacing sound of Duilius pounding the gavel against the podium. By degrees the chamber returned to order although many of the senators remained standing, their agitation preventing them from retaking their seats.
‘My fellow Senators,’ Duilius began again, conscious that this last statement was all important and he paused once more to ensure the chamber was quiet enough for all to hear his words, ‘in withdrawing my nomination so close to the election I realise that the elections scheduled for tomorrow stand in disarray, not least as there are no other nominations for senior consul.’