by John Stack
As Megellus finished reading the report, he unclasped his right hand to reveal the ring within. Twenty galleys lost, three hundred dead, fifteen hundred in chains. The defeat was absolute. He twisted the metal band in his hand, turning it once more into the light to read the two inscriptions. Megellus had recognized it immediately. He had seen it many times before, each year on the finger of a different man. Each year on the finger of the senior consul of the Senate of Rome.
Megellus’s gaze lifted from the ring to the face of the centurion before him. Marcus’s face was grim, the cheeks drawn from fatigue and hunger, but Megellus could see that his strength and determination were still intact, elements forged from a life serving in the legions. The legate wondered how long those would last in the face of such adversity.
The remaining meagre supplies of the Ninth were disappearing fast and with the defeat at Lipara, there was now no hope of resupply in the near future. Megellus had lost all contact with the Second at Segeste, the three-day march through enemy territory an unbridgeable gulf. No doubt the camp prefect was reading an identical parchment that very morning, and Megellus could only guess as to what condition the Second was in. If the Ninth was a mirror guide, the camp at Segeste was close to collapse.
Megellus stood up, his will forcing his body to stand erect. His aching muscles protested at the enforced activity and a fleeting fear ran through the legate’s mind. He dismissed it brutally, telling himself the ache was from salt deprivation and not the onset of the monstrous disease that had struck down over eighty of his men.
Marcus stood to attention as Megellus addressed him.
‘Assemble the men for roll call,’ he ordered, his voice controlled and authoritative.
Marcus saluted and left.
The legate adjusted the straps of his armour, conscious of the need to be an example to his men. The forlorn mood in the camp over the past few days had been palpable. With news of the defeat at Lipara spreading like wildfire, it was about to get much worse. The breaking point had not yet been reached but Megellus knew that, once it was upon them, the men of the Ninth, faced with starvation, would be deaf to orders and near impossible to command.
The campaign was only eight weeks old. If relief did not arrive soon, Megellus would be forced to abandon the cities of Makella and Segeste to their fate and march his legions back east to Brolium. The port was ten days’ march away, ten days through enemy-held territory, during which the Carthaginians would allow the legions no quarter. It would be a march across the landscape of Hades. Only strength and determination would see them through, two pillars that were crumbling before the legate’s eyes under the weight of pestilence and starvation.
Gaius Duilius looked out at the calm waters off Fiumicino to the fifty Roman galleys riding gently against their anchor lines. They had been launched two days before but workmen still clambered over their decks and rigging to complete the final stages of construction. Within twenty-four hours they would sail to Ostia, to join the fifty completed galleys already stationed there, swelling the numbers of the reborn Classis Romanus. The men worked with dogged determination, a sense of finality in their efforts as if the very ships they created would lead short, ill-fated lives. A similar emotion was suffusing the sailors and legionaries of the fleet, a dread that sucked the fighting spirit of all and sapped the discipline of the camp.
News of the defeat in Lipara four weeks before had arrived in Ostia via trading ships. The reports had emptied the port, the traders moving north to the coastline of southern Gaul and eastern Iberia. A pervasive fear was stalking the city of Rome, with all eyes turned to the southern horizon and the expected horrific sight of the Carthaginian fleet approaching to sack and enslave the city. A permanently tense atmosphere filled the forums of Rome, as if the populace were living on borrowed time.
Initially the Senate had panicked at the news of the defeat, with many calling for immediate negotiations with the Carthaginians in the hope that Rome could be spared an attack at the price of abandoning the legions in Sicily. Duilius had rounded on the Senate, his fury and passion shaming the lesser men to commit themselves once more to the path of honour they had chosen. Now, four weeks later, that fleet was nearing completion, with a final thirty ships scheduled for launch in two weeks’ time.
Atticus watched the wordless labour of the craftsmen as they completed the final stages of rigging the latest batch of fifty galleys. The Aquila sailed past the fleet at speed, her course set for one of the newly built wooden piers stretching out from the black sands of Fiumicino. A galley captain waved across the forty-yard gap to Atticus, and he returned the gesture with a nod, recognizing the man as a former trainee, now the captain of his own galley. Atticus was once again filled with disquiet at the thought of these raw crews facing the seemingly invincible Carthaginians. Once at Ostia the crews would undergo further training to ensure that all were familiar with their own ship and its capabilities. Even then they would fall well short of the years of experience the Carthaginians enjoyed.
The order was given for steerage speed and the Aquila slowed, the galley rising and falling in the gentle surge of the tide. Lines were thrown from the foredeck and slaves took the strain, their practised efficiency bringing the Aquila to a gentle stop. The gangplank was lowered and Atticus walked down it briskly, checking his armour as he went. His meeting with Duilius was at noon and promised, like the others, to last well into the afternoon. Ever since Lipara four weeks before, Duilius had become an avid student of seacraft and naval warfare. He had chosen Atticus as his tutor and they had met as often as the consul’s schedule allowed. Duilius was a quick study and was mindful of his inexperience, a fact that made Atticus’s task much easier.
The beach was alive with activity, the frames that would house the keels of the final thirty galleys already rising out of the remains of the scaffolds used for the completed galleys in the water. Beyond the noise of the hammering and sawing of timber, Atticus could hear the familiar sound as weighted wooden swords clashed in the legionaries’ encampment. He had not seen Septimus over the past few weeks, but it was rumoured that Septimus rarely slept and the legionaries of the Fourth followed his example, their thirst for vengeance over the loss of their comrades fuelling their strength and endurance. For the men of the Fourth, there would be no repeat of Lipara.
Atticus crested the dune at the top of the beach and continued on to the consul’s tent, situated where once the prefect’s tent had stood. Tuditanus had been taken into custody by Duilius the moment the Aquila had returned from Lipara and he had not been seen since. Atticus could only guess at Tuditanus’s fate, but he was sure that Duilius had not been lenient.
Duilius’s expansive quarters were set aside from the rest of the camp and, although the structures were made of canvas, they looked almost permanent, as if the consul’s quarters had stood as long as the village of Fiumicino. The entrance was guarded by praetoriani, their faces dour and uninviting. They too felt the shame of the defeat at Lipara. The sworn duty of their unit was the protection of the Senate, in particular the senior members. The loss of the senior consul under their charge was a dishonour to all of them.
Atticus passed through the checkpoint at the main gate, surrendering his weapons on request. He was subjected to two further searches before being admitted to the outer section of the consul’s tent. There he was questioned by an optio, the junior officer checking the captain’s details against the schedule confirmed by the consul’s private secretary. Only then did Atticus enter the inner tent, all the while flanked by two praetorian guards.
Duilius was standing with his back to the entrance, his mind focused solely on a canvas map hanging from the wall of the tent. The map depicted the southwestern coast of Italy, from Rome to the city of Righi on the toe. It also included the northern coastline of Sicily. It was this section of the map that held the consul’s attention. Duilius turned around as the guard announced Atticus’s presence.
‘You’re dismissed,’ Duilius told the
guards.
The guards hesitated for a second, their instincts momentarily overriding the order. This was the first time the consul had requested their absence and, although they knew the captain from previous meetings, in the present climate they were trusting no one. Duilius glared at them and they saluted and left.
‘Sit down, Captain,’ the consul ordered.
Atticus sat in one of the two chairs facing the large central table.
‘So, Captain, the deadline approaches for the launch of the final galleys of the fleet. Have you solved our problem?’
Atticus had known the question was coming, although he didn’t think Duilius would open the conversation with it. The direct approach threw him and his carefully prepared answer fled from his mind.
‘No, Consul,’ he replied after a pause, ‘I have discussed it at length with my senior crew and we’re still drawing a blank. We cannot think of a way to quickly and safely transfer legionaries from an attacking ship to the deck of another.’
Duilius nodded, his face inscrutable. The consul had hoped for a more positive answer, but all the while he had expected disappointment. Atticus’s response was the same answer he had had from every captain he had surreptitiously asked over the previous weeks. Their answers had all been the same. The legionaries could not be made full marines in the time they had.
Septimus staggered down the beach as if drunk, fatigue fogging his mind, his stupor allowing him to ignore the pain of the cramped muscle in his upper arm. The muscle had gone into spasm during a simulated combat exercise, forcing him to throw up his shield to protect his unguarded right, the blow from his opponent coming before the man had time to realize the centurion was in pain. The legionary had instantly disengaged, overcoming the aggressive urge brought on by the close-quarter fight. Septimus had waved away the offers of assistance and simply walked away from the training ground, his destination the cool waters of the sea that had revived him so many times over the preceding weeks.
At the edge of the water, Septimus kicked off his sandals, unbuckling his armour as he did so. The breast- and backplates fell onto the sand and Septimus stepped out of the circle of discarded kit. He walked into the sea, feeling the cold water soak his feet and legs before venturing further in. He stood for a moment in the hip-deep water, waiting for the surge of a wave to reach him before plunging headlong into the wall of water. The noise of the beach was immediately lost under the wave and Septimus struck out hard under the water, watching a maelstrom of tiny bubbles cascade over each other under the turbulence of the surf. He angled his stroke upwards and immediately broke the surface behind a second wave. The water seemed to instantly revive him and he directed his body to the nearest barge, one hundred yards from the shore. His powerful overarm stroke covered the distance in two minutes. He grabbed onto the anchor line of the barge and rested, his breath returning to normal within a minute, his healthy body shrugging off the exertion. Feeling renewed, he turned once more to shore and swam back through the breaking water.
Walking alertly from the sea, Septimus surveyed the frenzied activity on the beach, activity he had ignored on his way down to the water. His eyes scanned left and right, taking in the full vista of the construction site. As his gaze brought him to the south end of the beach, he spied the Aquila tethered to one of the wooden piers. As always there was activity on deck and in the rigging. Septimus smiled as he imagined hearing the raised voice of Lucius barking orders to all on board to make perfect the already impeccable galley. Septimus pricked up his ears and tried to single out the voice but it was lost in the cacophony of sound on the beach.
Septimus had noticed the galley on previous occasions, the first time prompting him to run down to meet Atticus and ask him if any news had been received in Ostia regarding the Carthaginians. The camp was all but cut off from the outside world now that security had been increased in the wake of the defeat at Lipara, and Septimus, like everyone, relied on infrequent seaborne news from Ostia.
Strapping his armour back on, Septimus decided he would call on the ship that evening if she were still in port. It would be good to see Atticus again, an opportunity to put their argument behind them over an amphora of wine. He looked forward to spending a night on board the Aquila after four weeks of sleeping on land. He smiled at the transformation his predilections had undergone in just under a year. He had always considered himself a land animal. Now, in contrast, he was beginning to think he would never feel at home anywhere except on the deck of a galley.
After a moment’s hesitation, Atticus decided he had to try. He quickly turned around and re-entered the consul’s tent. The optio inside looked up in surprise at the unexpected return.
‘I need a gate pass,’ Atticus said simply.
The optio looked doubtfully at the captain, knowing that passes through the camp’s security checkpoints were not given lightly.
‘Please wait here, Captain,’ he said, and turned to walk into the recesses of the elaborate tent to find the consul’s private secretary.
Atticus tapped his feet impatiently as he waited. Duilius had dismissed him only moments before, after six long hours, with orders to return at noon the next day. The unexpected eighteen hours of leave were probably the only opportunity Atticus would get, and so he prayed his request for a pass would be granted. In the time allowed he could have sailed back to Ostia; however, once there, he would be faced with the same security. Given he had just met with the consul in private, Atticus reckoned his odds were higher if he requested a pass now.
The personal secretary, a former centurion and camp prefect, emerged from the rear of the tent. He looked Atticus directly in the eyes, as if he were trying to find some level of subterfuge in the simple request for a pass.
‘The consul has agreed to the granting of a pass,’ the secretary said, his voice revealing a reluctance to accept Duilius’s magnanimous treatment of the young captain. ‘I just need to know your destination, for the paperwork.’
Atticus nodded, smiling at the bureaucracy that infused every aspect of military life.
‘Rome,’ Atticus replied, ‘the Viminal quarter.’
The secretary noted the information and handed Atticus a small scroll.
Atticus immediately left the tent and headed for the camp stables. Using the security pass as a mark of urgency and importance, he requisitioned a horse and rode south from the camp, intersecting the Via Aurelia ten miles short of the city.
The evening was drawing in as Atticus breached the Servian Wall surrounding the city. At sundown the gates to the city would be closed and locked until dawn the following morning, the age-old practice a precaution against a surprise night attack. Atticus stopped the first citizen he encountered within the city walls, asking the man for directions to the Viminal quarter. Atticus’s route took him through the Forum Magnum, the central plaza still alive with activity even as the sun was sinking into the western sky. The fading light had prompted the lighting of torches in the porticoes of the temples, and the whole area seemed sanctified, a fitting earthly realm for the gods represented in the marble statues that looked down on Atticus as he passed. He paused at a statue of Venus, the goddess of love demurely covering her nakedness behind enfolded arms. Atticus reached out and touched the plinth, his lips forming a silent prayer to the goddess for assistance in his search.
Atticus reached the Viminal quarter as the streets darkened around him. Looking up, he could see the tops of the tallest buildings still bathed in muted sunlight, their walls reflecting slanted rays that temporarily saved the streets from complete darkness. With only the family name of the house to guide him and an entire quarter to search, Atticus sensed the hopelessness of his task. Soon it would be dark; Septimus’s earlier warning about night-time predators made its way to the forefront of his thoughts.
The street-side traders were locking up their stalls for the night, their actions rushed after a long day of work, the promise of home spurring their haste. Atticus stopped many in their task as he aske
d for directions, his questions answered in hurried dismissive tones and gestures. The people moving in the street were becoming mere shadows when Atticus spotted a tavern offering lodgings and a stable for his mount. He walked towards it; the leave had afforded him an unexpected opportunity and he cursed his inability to take advantage of it. As he passed two house servants his mind registered their conversation. The mention of a name caused him to turn around, the sudden movement startling the two women.
‘Did you say your mistress was Hadria?’ he asked, his looming figure in the dark causing the women to hesitate.
‘What of it?’ the smaller woman demanded, her voice signifying her advanced age while her tone spoke of a woman who deferred to few.
‘I’m looking for the house of Capito, for a woman named Hadria.’
Atticus’s entreaty was met with silence, the suspicious expressions of the two women masked by the darkness.
‘We are servants in that house,’ the woman replied finally, her hand pointing out a doorway not fifty yards from where they stood.
‘Can you take a message to your mistress?’ Atticus asked, trying to make his voice sound friendly and unthreatening.
‘I will pay you for your trouble,’ he added, handing a bronze dupondius to the smaller woman, her hand closing on the coin, feeling its weight and shape.
‘What message?’ she asked.
‘Tell your mistress that Captain Perennis awaits her message in that tavern,’ he said, indicating the building almost directly across the road from Hadria’s aunt’s house.
