Ship of Rome

by John Stack

  Septimus counterattacked, parrying the Nubian’s blade before striking low, aiming to unbalance his opponent and go on the offensive. Within seconds he knew he was evenly matched. Septimus had years more experience with a sword, but much of that was in the legions, with only ten months of one-on-one combat training. Khalil had over twice that amount in single-combat training, his tutors the best gladiatorial trainers that Scipio’s money could buy. Septimus had balance and timing on his side, Khalil had practised technique – and each man tried to force the fight into their realm of strength.

  Septimus stepped back again as Khalil flowed into a twelve-stroke sequence, a seamless series of blows that twice penetrated Septimus’s defence on the torso and upper thigh. Septimus grunted as each blow struck, the heavy wooden sword raising the purple hue of bruising under the skin. Septimus counterattacked with a series of his own; the strokes were less defined than Khalil’s, but the Nubian was forced to react quickly to avoid injury. Septimus kept the pressure up, never allowing the Nubian to pause between attack and counterattack. The unrelenting pace began to take its toll and Khalil grunted heavily as Septimus punched the hilt of his sword into his stomach. The gladiator roared in anger as he attacked again, but Septimus used his superior balance as a defence, causing Khalil to overreach on the final strike, opening the opportunity for Septimus to immediately go on the offensive.

  Atticus watched in silence from the forward rail of the aft-deck. At the beginning of the fight he had cheered Septimus along with the rest of the crew, but now he watched in avid fascination as the fight developed. The balance between the two men was incredible. After nearly ten minutes of fighting, Khalil was clearly feeling the effects of the extended fight in his sword arm. His strikes were not as fast as before; however, the sequencing was every bit as deadly, and Septimus was struggling to fight off another attack.

  Both men fought on, sweat streaming from every pore, every strike now accompanied by a grunt of exertion from attacker and defender. A killer blow was yet to be struck, but both showed signs on their bodies of where defences had been overcome and their flesh had suffered the lash.

  ‘Enough!’

  All eyes turned to the source of command; all except the two fighters, who backed off imperceptibly, their gazes locked, their chests heaving in unison. Scipio descended to the main deck and approached the fighters. He eyed them both slowly, as if balancing them in his mind, his thoughts advancing the fight to an unseen conclusion.

  Before the fight, Scipio had been sure of Khalil’s superior skills. Within seconds of the beginning, however, his keen eye had discovered the gladiator’s obvious disadvantage. Gladiatorial fights were rarely to the death, and rarer still for fighters of Khalil’s calibre, when swordsmanship was the attraction of the contest. The centurion, on the other hand, had fought many times when death was in the offing and knew of no other way to fight. For the centurion it was kill or be killed; for the gladiator it was draw first blood and claim victory. Without that exposure to mortal danger, Khalil would never be the centurion’s equal. Scipio was sure, however, that in a fight to the death Khalil’s steely ferocity would adapt, and no man, certainly not a brute centurion of the marines, would stand against him.

  ‘You fight well, Centurion,’ Scipio said, his voice betraying the hollow words.

  ‘Thank you, Consul,’ Septimus replied, drawing himself to attention.

  Scipio nodded his head curtly to Khalil and turned towards the hatchway to the cabins below. He descended without another word, his personal guard and the Nubian slave following. Only when they were gone did the marines break the silence, the abrupt end to the fight sparking immediate arguments as to the victor and how the bets would be settled.

  Septimus let them argue, his eyes never leaving his assailant, even when all that remained was an empty hatchway. He had never fought a man of such ability, and he rolled his shoulder instinctively against the sharp pain of a heavy bruise on his upper arm. Throughout the rest of the day he waited for the slave to return from the decks below so he could discuss the fight and the incredible sequence of strikes that seemed so effortless. He waited in vain, for neither Khalil nor the consul re-emerged.

  Atticus could scarcely believe the sight before him. Everywhere he looked the sea was filled with all manner of ships, from the smallest skiffs, through merchant galleys, to the massive transport barges of the grain trade. Atticus felt an overwhelming sense of movement, of constant frenzied activity as ships travelled in all directions, their courses crisscrossing each other, with some setting sail for distant ports while others were reaching their journey’s end here, in Ostia, the port town of the city of Rome.

  The Aquila had sighted land at dusk the evening before and had turned its bow northwest along the ragged coastline of the Italian peninsula. During the night they had passed Naples on their right, its lights scattered over the shoreline of the crescent bay and on into the hills beyond, the individual lights in the dark a mirror of the heavens above. The offshore breeze blowing from the city had filled the air with the smell of wood smoke from countless cooking fires, and underneath the musky scent of humanity from the tightly packed confines of the hidden city.

  After the multitudinous lights of the city, only solitary pockets of light around small fishing villages remained. The mainland became dark once more, its existence off the starboard rail of the galley marked by a brooding presence that all aboard could feel, an unnamable sensation that constantly drew the eyes of those on board towards the shadowy features of Italia.

  As the night wore on, the Aquila found company in the water from other vessels travelling the same route to Rome, the number increasing until finally at dawn, with the galley still some ten miles from Ostia, the brightening vista exposed a multitude of craft in the surrounding sea, a host that was compressed in the mouth of the harbour where the Aquila now lay.

  The smaller craft in the water gave way to the galley, her bronze ram a deterrent that forged a path through the throng of lesser vessels. Further in, Gaius wove the galley around the larger transport barges, the Aquila, a more nimble ship under oar, giving way to the less manoeuvrable sailing ships in the time-honoured courtesy observed by all capable sailors.

  Ostia, at the mouth of the river Tiber, had been founded by Ancus Marcius, the fourth king of Rome, over three hundred years before, and its growth and prosperity was intimately tied to Rome, a symbiotic relationship that had seen the once-small fishing village become the trade gateway to the greatest city in the world. Now the Aquila carried one of the most valuable cargos that had ever entered the port, a vital message to the Senate borne by the leader of Rome itself, a message that held the fate of the forty thousand fighting men of the legions on Sicily.

  Lucius stood on the aft-deck beside the helmsman setting his course into the harbour. Years before, as a boatswain, the second-in-command had been stationed in the waters surrounding this port, and he intimately knew its harbour and the layout of the docks. He was guiding the galley to the castrum, the military camp that also served as the docking port for the Roman military galleys that patrolled the nearby sea-lanes.

  Atticus stood beside the two men, listening as Lucius pointed out the swarm of nationalities represented by the trading vessels surrounding the galley. The ships had come from the four corners of the Mediterranean, from Gaul and Iberia, from Illyricum on the shores of the Mare Superum across from the eastern shores of the Italian peninsula, and from Greece and Egyptus. These were the places that Atticus had dreamed of visiting when he was a boy, and now the very proximity of the people of these lands filled his imagination with wonder. As his eyes swept back and forward, from port to starboard, he suddenly noticed the consul approaching him across the aft-deck.

  ‘Captain Perennis,’ Scipio began, his expression cold, ‘once we dock, you and Centurion Capito will accompany me to the city. You will stay there until I personally give you leave to depart.’

  ‘Yes, Consul,’ Atticus replied, wondering why their pr
esence was so necessary, knowing that he dare not ask the consul.

  Scipio turned on his heel and proceeded to the main deck, where his guard and personal slave were waiting.

  Septimus mounted the aft-deck from the other side and walked over to Atticus.

  ‘You’ve heard then,’ he said, indicating the consul’s departure with a nod of his head.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Atticus replied, his mind still pondering the reason.

  ‘Why do you think he wants us in the city, Septimus?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Atticus. But this is certain. We’re now firmly in his grasp. You heard his order: we can’t leave until he personally gives us the order.’

  ‘I noticed that,’ Atticus said, realizing that the simple request to accompany the consul was in reality anything but simple. Atticus had only known the senior consul for three days and yet he already knew for certain that Scipio never took a step without knowing its consequences three steps down the line.

  ‘Never mind,’ Septimus said suddenly with a smile, picking up on Atticus’s preoccupation. ‘Now I’m guaranteed the opportunity to show you the sights of Rome.’

  Atticus shrugged off his sense of unease and smiled, slapping Septimus on the shoulder.

  ‘You’d better be right about Rome,’ he said. ‘I’ve waited too long to see this city to be disappointed.’

  ‘Disappointed?’ Septimus said with false amazement. ‘Atticus, my friend, by the time we’re finished you’ll bless the day you met the consul.’

  Atticus laughed at the centurion’s infectious anticipation. He had a feeling that the vision he had in his head of the city, a vision of magnificent temples and grand piazzas, was very different from the city that Septimus would show him.

  The castrum was located at the extreme northern end of the busy harbour. It was home to the largest single detachment of Roman military vessels, six out of the entire fleet of twelve galleys of the Republic. These six ships constantly patrolled the sea-lanes surrounding Rome, ensuring an uninterrupted flow of trade that was so necessary for the city’s growth. More importantly they provided escorts for the large grain transports, as the enormous barges ferried the vital lifeblood of Rome from Campania, over two days’ sailing to the southeast.

  As the Aquila approached, Atticus could see that all but two of Ostia’s galleys were at sea; the remaining triremes, the Libertas and the Tigris, were tied up neatly against the dock. The Aquila slowed under the expert hand of Gaius, and lines were thrown from fore and aft to the waiting slaves on land, who quickly tethered the ropes to the dock posts. The order was given to withdraw all oars, both port and starboard, and the sailors on deck began to haul in the ropes, hand over hand, until the Aquila moored precisely parallel to the dock. The gangway was lowered and Scipio and his retinue immediately disembarked, closely followed by Atticus and Septimus. The sight of the praetoriani arrested the movement of everyone on the dock, and they backed off to leave a path clear from the Aquila to the barracks, unsure of the unexpected visit of a senior member of the Senate aboard a never-before-seen Roman trireme that was not of the Ostia fleet.

  As the group approached the two-storey barracks, the port commander emerged from the entrance archway leading to the courtyard within. He was followed by a contubernia of ten soldiers, and his determined stride to investigate the unannounced arrival of a galley at his port mirrored the approach of Scipio, whose equally confident pace closed the gap between the two groups in seconds. Scipio noticed that the port commander’s pace lessened slightly as he tried to recognize the figure coming towards him, the consul’s importance obvious from the black-cloaked guard that attended him. The commander called a halt to his contubernia ten paces short and ordered his men to stand to attention, knowing that, whoever it was, the man approaching at the head of a detachment of praetoriani outranked him. Scipio raised his hand in the air two paces short of the commander, and his own guard immediately came to a stop.

  ‘Commander, I am Senior Consul Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio. I need eight of your finest mounts immediately to bear us to Rome. My slave and our baggage are to be escorted in our wake.’

  ‘Yes, Consul,’ the port commander replied, his mind racing to understand the sudden presence of the most powerful man in Rome in the military camp of Ostia.

  ‘Now!’ Scipio shouted, the momentary pause of the commander fuelling his impatience to be in Rome.

  The effect on the commander was immediate and he quickly turned and ordered his men to run to the stables to assemble and prepare the necessary mounts. He turned again to face the consul, but Scipio was already brushing past him, striding off in the direction of the entrance to the courtyard that would lead to the stables. The port commander was left standing in their wake before his wits returned once again and he took off in pursuit.

  The barracks at Ostia were almost identical to those at Brolium on the northern coast of Sicily. Both, like all others in the Republic, were based on a standard design, a two-storey quadrangle with an archway in the centre of each side leading into the central courtyard. The stables were beyond the eastern archway and it was through this that the contubernia now led eight horses of the light cavalry. They were Maremmano, a breed of horse from the plains of Tuscany. The horses were unattractive beasts in comparison to other breeds and, although they were not fleet of foot, they were strong and hardworking, a perfect match for the harsh life of the legions.

  Scipio, his four guards and guard commander, and the two men of the Aquila, mounted together and rode out through the southern archway, swinging left to travel east along the busy harbour road that led to the city. As they rode along by the water’s edge, Atticus’s senses were again overwhelmed by the sights and smells in the maelstrom of the busy port. The transport barges, recently arrived from all the ports of the known world, were disgorging their wares onto the dock, with the city traders standing ready to strike a deal with a returning regular or an inexperienced beginner. Gold quickly changed hands as bargains were struck and goods were hauled off by the army of slaves who stood poised behind every trader. Atticus had never seen such a wealth of goods, such a display of appetite, as the voracious city traders insatiably devoured each new barge-load of cargo. Within the space of the first quarter-mile of the dock, he had seen bolts of silk so numerous as could clothe an entire legion, exotic animals that clawed and snarled at the slaves who nimbly handled their cages, birds of every size and hue, the air filling with their song, and, everywhere in between, countless amphorae of wine and baskets of food. It seemed an impossibility that any one city could consume such an abundance, and yet Atticus got the impression that what he was witnessing occurred every day, that the city’s hunger would devour the cornucopia before him and then return tomorrow for more.

  Atticus felt a tug on his arm and he dragged his attention away from the seemingly chaotic scene to answer the summons. Septimus nodded his head to the left, indicating the sudden change in course of the mounted party, and Atticus wheeled his horse to follow the others as they turned away from the docks and headed into the port town. Here, as before, the streets were crammed with all manner of goods, this time on the move inland towards the city over twelve miles away. The horsemen wove their way around the multitude of slaves and bearers, slowing their progress until they emerged beyond the confines of the town into the open countryside. Within half a dozen miles they reached Via Aurelia, the recently constructed road that ran northwards along the coastline from Rome. They turned south and within ten minutes were crossing the Tiber over the Pons Aemilius, a magnificent stonepillared bridge with a wooden superstructure of five arches effortlessly spanning the one-hundred-yard-wide stretch of water. Atticus could only marvel at the engineering feat beneath him and he leaned out of his saddle to peer over the thirty-foot drop to the fast-flowing waters below.

  ‘You haven’t seen anything yet,’ Septimus smiled as he noticed his friend’s eyes take in every detail of the bridge. Atticus looked up and Septimus nodded his head to the road before th
em, to the sight that was opening before them: Rome.

  The horsemen entered the city through Porta Flumentana, one of twelve gates in the Servian Wall, which ran nearly seven miles around the entire city. Built by the sixth king of Rome, the wall was twelve feet thick and twenty high, a mammoth defensive barrier built as a reaction to the sacking of the city over one hundred and thirty years before by the seventy-thousand-strong Gaulish army of Brennus. As the group passed under the great arch of the gate, inscribed with the omnipresent SPQR denoting Senatus Populusque Romanus, ‘the Senate and the People of Rome’, Atticus’s eyes were drawn upwards to the height of the Palatine Hill, soaring two hundred feet above the level of the valley floor, upon which the foundation stones of Rome had been laid nearly five hundred years before by the demigod Romulus.

  The group wound its way through the bustling streets, swinging north of the Palatine Hill into the valley formed with the Capitoline Hill, itself dominated by the Capitolium Temple dedicated to the three supreme deities, Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus. Atticus had never seen such a multitude of people before. Having spent his whole adult life at sea, he had quickly become accustomed to living in close proximity with others, the limited space of a floating galley isolated at sea creating a claustrophobic and intrusive atmosphere on board. In comparison to the press of the streets and buildings surrounding him, however, the galley seemed capacious. The insulae, the apartment blocks on all sides of the narrow streets, rose five or more storeys high, with balconies reaching out to form a near roof that robbed the street of much of its daylight. Atticus felt an undeniable sensation of oppression in the enclosed corridor, and he inwardly sighed in relief as he noticed an end to the street ahead, a brighter, more open space beyond.

  Atticus was the trailing member of the group and so was the last to breach the confines of the narrow street out into the Forum Magnum, the central plaza of the sprawling city. His heart soared as he gazed upon the imperial heart of the Republic. When Atticus was young, his grandfather had regaled him with stories of the great city of Athens, a city his ancestors had called home before the Milonius clan fled before Alexander of Macedon and settled in southern Italia. The tales told of soaring temples and godlike statues, of civilization’s birthplace and home, a city that only the Greeks in their power could create. As a child, Atticus had let his imagination fashion a city of incredible presence, a vision he had often dismissed in his adult years, the boasts of an old man longing for his homeland. Now, standing on the cusp of the magnificent Forum Magnum, Atticus was presented with the very visions of his youth transplanted to another city, a city that surely exceeded all others in splendour and power.