by John Stack
In the centre of the chamber, Gaius Duilius stood abruptly. Scipio watched him like a hawk. Of the three hundred individual votes of the Senate, only two really counted in this debate, Scipio’s and Duilius’s. The direction of the junior consul’s turn would decide the matter, one way or the other. Scipio watched the man’s calm exterior, hating him anew. Duilius had thwarted his proposals at every turn, but always through intermediaries and always with a subtle, clever approach that never really jeopardized any proposal as a whole. In this way important decisions like the one to build the fleet were made, but Duilius had chipped away at Scipio’s propositions, undermining his authority at every turn. Scipio had needed to give ground each time, including this last proposal on leadership, and so he watched with the bile of hatred rising ever further in his throat as he waited for Duilius to react, unsure if he would be able to control his actions should the junior consul vote against him this one last time.
As the tension in the chamber reached breaking point, Gaius Duilius turned.
From the beginning of the debate ten days earlier, Duilius had believed in the fundamentals of Scipio’s approach. The fleet was needed, of that there was no doubt. Given the Carthaginians’ superiority in naval skills, the fleet would need to outnumber any force the Punici could put to sea. Simple logic that needed no debate. The city would need to fund the building of the fleet from the public coffers, and taxes would need to be levied to make up any shortfall. Again this fact was irrefutable. And yet Duilius had challenged Scipio on each occasion.
The exercise had been expensive, but necessary. Duilius needed to show Scipio that he could hold up his ambitions indefinitely in the senatorial quagmire if he did not give ground on the most important proposal, that of leadership of the fleet. The debates had been taxing and the individual votes tedious but now, as the members of the house stood up to vote, Duilius felt real power surround him. He had always known the motivation behind Scipio’s proposals, the thirst for power that drove his actions – as it did Duilius’s; and, as the entire Senate chamber looked to see which way the junior consul would turn, Duilius felt the power of Rome in his hand.
Scipio had amended his proposal on leadership. He had had to. Scipio would indeed go to sea with the fleet and he would be the overall commander, but Duilius would sail too. The junior consul would take the vanguard and would be tactical commander of the fleet, while Scipio would have strategic command, the senior consul’s position in the rear of the fleet giving the illusion of safety that the Senate demanded. Duilius had engineered the debate to highlight this compromise to Scipio and the senior consul had accepted, each man knowing that once the fleet was out of sight of Rome and beyond the Senate’s gaze, the power struggle would start afresh. But now, on this day and at this time, Duilius was ruler of Rome and he savoured the sensation.
Duilius turned and walked towards the eastern wall, his supporters immediately following to leave a forlorn minority of twenty senators on the other side of the chamber. The men of the Senate cheered at this final decision, this conclusion to their debate, the tension of the previous ten days released in a moment of shared relief. Scipio stood and was surrounded by senators who slapped congratulatory hands on his shoulders and back, as they did for Duilius, the two men seen together as the joint saviours of the Sicilian campaign, an accolade Scipio had planned as his own. The senior consul walked towards Duilius through the press of cheering senators and magnanimously offered his hand in a show of shared responsibility for the battles ahead that would be faced together. Duilius took the hand and the crowd cheered anew. The expressions of both men were expansive, both reflecting the thrill of the moment and atmosphere of the crowd. Both expressions were only skin deep. As their eyes locked only an astute observer would have seen the momentary exchange. For Scipio and Duilius the surface solidarity hid the challenge that had been thrown down and accepted. From here on the glory of Rome would take second place to the power struggle that the Carthaginian blockade had ignited between them. Both men knew that there could be only one ruler of Rome.
‘No, no, no, Gaius,’ Lucius argued, ‘we can’t rely on every helmsman having your skill. Any new ships built will be sailed by, at best, fishermen and traders.’
‘Even so,’ Gaius countered, ‘the ram is still the best way for a raw crew to defeat an experienced one. There’s no way we can teach the legionaries to board properly within a reasonable time!’
Atticus looked on in silence, allowing the argument to draw out the full opinion of both men, their knowledge and experience vital if a solution was to be found. The three men sat in the enclosed main cabin of the Aquila, the trireme resting against her ropes at the dockside of Ostia.
Atticus had remained at the Capito home for three days in total, his own departure coming two days after Hadria’s, the insistent calls from her aunt compelling her to return to her house in the Viminal quarter. The lack of news or orders from the Senate had chafed Atticus’s patience and he had arisen on the third day with an overwhelming urge to see his ship. On arriving at Ostia he had put every waking hour and all his energy into the Aquila. The entire running rigging had now been replaced, as had the mainsail, the replacements drawn from the extensive stores of the military camp that serviced the dozen ships of the Ostia fleet. The rowers had been brought up and housed in the slave compound behind the castrum and the slave decks had been thoroughly cleaned. Even now slaves were diving beneath the galley, removing barnacles and limpets from the hull. Once cleaned, the galley would be a half-knot faster at her top stroke.
The three senior sailors of the Aquila had been discussing possible tactics for over an hour, the captain playing devil’s advocate to the second-in-command and the helmsman. Each time the two men agreed on a point, Atticus would counter their solution, finding a chink in their logic that would set the two men talking again. They had discussed every possible approach and how the Carthaginians might respond to any move. Having seen the Punici in action twice, the three men had little doubt of the calibre and resolve of their foe. Every possible scenario finished with the same conclusion, the same imbalance: experience.
A new Roman fleet would be crewed by inexperienced men, civilian sailors and legionaries used to fighting on land. Inexperienced sailors meant that ramming would be a near-impossible tactic, the manoeuvring skills required taking months to perfect, the combination of angle and speed needing to be precise. This was especially pertinent since the Roman craft were of a lighter design and would be unsure of penetration if the angle was off by more than ten degrees. Over ten degrees it was likely that the ram would simply deflect off the heavier Carthaginian hull. The call for ramming speed also needed to be exact. Too late and the ship would lack the necessary momentum; too soon and the galley slaves would be spent after the first couple of encounters; it was likely that any large-scale confrontation would last for hours.
The ability to manoeuvre alongside for boarding took considerably less skill: the angle less important, the speed only needing to be sufficient to overtake the opponent. The three men had all agreed that traders, and even fishermen, could be taught enough to master the simple manoeuvre within a week at most. The problem of inexperience now shifted to the legionaries. To train them as marines would take several months, the ability to board successfully and in sufficient numbers vital in the first minutes of any attack. Once on board, they would be without their favoured four-foot scutum shields and their years of training as land-based fighting units would count for naught, armed as they would be with a hoplon shield along with their gladius.
‘Gaius, Lucius,’ Atticus interrupted, trying to bring the discussion back to its centre, needing to forge ahead, ‘we’re all agreed that the sailing crews can be taught how to manoeuvre for boarding but not for ramming in the time we have.’
‘Yes,’ both men replied.
‘And we’re also agreed that our legionaries cannot be taught to board and fight using the traditional methods in the time we have.’
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�Yes,’ both men said again, this time Lucius sighing as the discussion circled around the obstacle.
‘Right. We need to concentrate on solving one of the problems only. I think the solution to the sailing problem will be harder to find, so I suggest we concentrate on the boarding issue. We need to find a way of getting our troops onto the enemy decks in sufficient numbers and with their scutum shields. Once there they’ll be unstoppable.’
‘Once there…’ Gaius said, as he put his mind to the task.
The cabin became silent again as all three men applied themselves to the problem. They were still without a solution an hour later when a messenger knocked on the cabin door.
‘Messenger approaching,’ Domitian called from the courtyard. The senior servant turned from the main gate and ran into the atrium of the Capito estate, repeating his call as he ran. Septimus heard the call in the smaller enclosed courtyard at the rear of the compound, where he had been practising his swordplay. He threw the wooden sword to the ground and strode through the house, meeting Domitian halfway.
‘Messenger approaching on horseback,’ the foreman said.
Septimus nodded and brushed past him. As he exited the front door of the house, the mounted praetorian guard entered through the main gate. He spotted Septimus and cantered towards him.
‘I have a message for Centurion Capito and Captain Perennis of the Aquila,’ he announced.
‘I am Centurion Capito. Captain Perennis is at the castrum of Ostia,’ Septimus replied.
The praetorian guard nodded. The other messenger, sent directly to Ostia, would find the captain. The mounted soldier looked Septimus up and down, the man before him wearing a sweat-stained tunic, the black dishevelled hair giving him a wild, untamed look. He didn’t look much like a centurion. Bloody marines, the guard thought.
‘My master, Senior Consul Scipio, orders—’
‘Get off your horse and deliver your message properly,’ Septimus interrupted, his voice hard, having noticed the unconscious look of disdain creep onto the guard’s face before he spoke. The guard hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, the underlying menace of the command triggering his instinct as a soldier. He dismounted.
‘My master—’
‘Properly!’ Septimus interrupted again, his tone like iron. ‘You’re addressing a superior officer, soldier. I’ll give you one last chance to get it right.’
Septimus drew himself to his full height. At six foot four inches he stood half a head above the guard. The praetorian fully believed that he was in mortal danger, even though he was armed and the centurion before him was not.
He adroitly stood to attention and saluted, slamming his bunched fist against his metal breast-plate, his eyes now fixed dead ahead in regulation fashion.
‘Beg to report,’ he began. ‘My master, Senior Consul Scipio, orders you to attend his town house immediately.’
Septimus waited a moment in silence, a part of him still debating whether or not he should strike the guard for insubordination. The praetorian seemed to sense the centurion’s thoughts and instinctively braced himself for the blow.
‘Very well,’ Septimus said suddenly. ‘You’re dismissed,’ he added, realizing that it would be best not to send the guard back to Scipio with a black eye.
The praetorian saluted again and remounted his horse. He wheeled around and galloped off.
‘Domitian!’
‘Yes, Septimus,’ the foreman replied as he stepped out from inside the main door from where he had witnessed the exchange.
‘Order my personal aide to lay out my kit and have one of the stable lads ready a mount.’
Domitian acknowledged the command and was gone. Septimus strode to the main gate and watched the messenger weave his way through the throng of people on the street. He turned and entered the house and within minutes re-emerged in full dress uniform. He mounted the horse held by the stable lad and cantered out through the main gate.
Atticus approached the town house of the senior consul slowly, the winding streets keeping his mount down to a trot. He had followed the praetorian messenger from Ostia, relying on the guard to guide him to the city and to the senator’s house within. Atticus was a creature of the wide open expanses of the sea; whereas he could plot any course on the featureless water using the sun and stars, his sense of direction failed him completely in the enclosed streets of Rome. As he turned into the walled courtyard of Scipio’s town house he saw Septimus standing near the entranceway into the atrium beyond.
‘About time,’ Septimus called up. ‘I’ve had to wait here until you arrived.’
Atticus nodded a smile, knowing that the centurion was probably burning with the same curiosity as he was.
‘Any idea why we’ve been called now?’ he asked as he dismounted beside Septimus.
‘No. I only know from the news I heard on the street when I passed through the Forum Magnum that the Senate has approved the building of a fleet and both Scipio and Duilius will command it.’
‘Duilius?’ Atticus asked as both men passed under the entrance into the serenity of the atrium.
‘This year’s junior consul. Owns half of the land straddling the city and stocks most of the markets from his fields.’
Atticus nodded, realizing that he knew very little about the most important citizens of the city and the main players in the Senate.
The praetorian guard commander was waiting for them inside.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered brusquely, although his rank was no higher than the captain or centurion’s.
‘Friendly as ever,’ Septimus murmured.
The commander led them through a series of rooms, some obviously for entertaining guests and dining, and others that seemed to serve no visible purpose other than to display the artwork and statues adorning the space. The house was expansive, the simple courtyard and atrium deceptively small given the depth of the house. They came upon Scipio under the shade of an awning in an inner courtyard. He was sitting alone, apparently deep in thought. He did not look up as the three men entered.
The guard commander peeled off and the men of the Aquila approached alone.
‘Captain Perennis and Centurion Capito reporting as ordered,’ Atticus announced as both men snapped to attention.
‘Ah yes,’ Scipio said, looking up as if noticing them for the first time.
‘The Senate has decided to build a fleet of one hundred and fifty triremes. You are to report to Publius Cornelius Lentulus, the master shipbuilder in Ostia, and assist him in this task, specifically to relate to him your experience of the enemy and their capabilities.’
‘Yes, Consul,’ both men replied.
They waited for a further command but none was forthcoming. Scipio looked back down at his notes, seeming to forget the two officers. A full minute passed.
‘You’re dismissed!’ the senior consul finally said, and Atticus and Septimus turned on their heels and left.
The two men retraced their steps through the house back to the main courtyard where a stable lad held the reins of their horses.
‘By the gods, Septimus…’ Atticus breathed, his face a mask of astonishment. ‘One hundred and fifty galleys. It’s a mammoth task. It’ll take six months at least and then they’ll have to find men to crew them all.’
‘Atticus, Atticus…’ Septimus chided with a smile, amused by his friend’s astonishment. ‘Look around you, man. Look at the city that has been built here. Built by Scipio and others like him in the Senate. If they have decided that one hundred and fifty galleys are to be built, then built they shall be – and not within six months either. They know the threat is more imminent and the ships will be needed sooner. I’ll bet the deadline is half that time and the crews are already being levied as we speak.’
Atticus shook his head, disbelieving. Surely the Senate had set too big a task for Rome to complete.
Septimus looked up at the sun. It was an hour after midday.
‘We still have time to meet this master shipbuilder to
day,’ he said as he mounted. Atticus nodded and mounted his own horse, wheeling it around to follow Septimus out through the main gate. In his mind’s eye he tried to picture such a massive armada. He could not. His logical mind told him it wasn’t possible in the time they had. In six months the campaign season would be over and Sicily would be strewn with the starved bodies of the Second and Ninth legions. At best they had three months to break the blockade.
Septimus’s words echoed in his ears as he rode back towards the Forum Magnum and his eyes were drawn up to the magnificent buildings that surrounded the central plaza. They were truly the work of great men; determined men who set themselves a task and followed through regardless of the cost or consequences. Perhaps his friend was right; perhaps the Senate had set Rome the task knowing she could respond in kind. As his mind debated the mission ahead he subconsciously spurred his horse to a greater speed; his innate impatience to get started drove him on and he brushed past Septimus to take the lead. By the time they cleared the Porta Flumentana on the road to Ostia, their horses were galloping at full tilt.
‘Here they come again!’
Marcus Fabius Buteo spun around in the direction of the shouted warning in time to see yet another cavalry charge from the woods to the left of the marching column.
‘Form up!’ the centurion roared, and ran to position himself at the head of the lead transport wagon, the maniple’s signifer running behind him, the standard becoming the pivot point of the formation.
As Marcus ran, a Roman cavalry unit tore through a gap in the supply train, the riders’ heads low in an attempt to gain every ounce of speed from their mounts. The Carthaginian cavalry were over three hundred yards away. At full gallop they would cover the distance in less than twenty seconds. The Roman cavalry had to engage them fast and as far away from the valuable supplies as they could and so they rode like men possessed, the seemingly endless attacks pumping adrenaline through their veins to overcome the fatigue in both horse and rider.
