Master of Rome

by John Stack

  ‘I meant no disrespect, Prefect,’ he said, a slight tremble in his voice. ‘But the design cannot be wrong. It was rigorously tested.’

  ‘Your designs were tested in the confines of coastal waters,’ Atticus argued. ‘They were never fully tested in open seas, or in battle, or in a storm. Those sailors you speak so ill of lost their lives proving that point.’

  Chastened by Atticus’s words and his conviction, the apprentice looked down at the table. Atticus continued to stare at him, his impulsive annoyance refusing to abate. The apprentice was a young man, no more than a boy, probably little older than Atticus himself had been when he’d joined the navy, and Atticus suddenly realized his anger was not directed at the apprentice but at himself. He remembered the day he had rushed to this very room with the seeds of the idea that would become the corvus. How he had stood before Lentulus and expounded on his plan for a boarding ramp, and how he had been filled with pride when that idea had become a reality and been proved in battle at Mylae. Although it seemed a lifetime ago, it was but a few years, and Atticus conceded that he had hidden that memory from himself to suppress his own culpability, knowing he had once been the greatest advocate of the corvus.

  ‘The prefect is right,’ Lentulus said, taking control of the meeting once more. ‘In our haste and hubris we ignored the fundamental attributes of a galley, ballast and balance, and we failed to fully appreciate the effect the boarding ramp would have on those.’

  The apprentices nodded in silent agreement and Lentulus dismissed them from the room with instructions to begin work on finding an answer to the problem.

  ‘So you believe there is a solution?’ Atticus asked.

  Lentulus looked to the initial thoughts he had sketched out. ‘No,’ he replied after a pause, ‘not if we need our galleys to compete with the speed and manoeuvrability of the Carthaginians.’

  ‘We cannot fight the Punici on their terms, we need the advantage the corvus gives us,’ Atticus said, his defence of the boarding ramp sounding treacherous in his own mind.

  ‘We may not have a choice, Prefect,’ Lentulus said, pacing the room once more. ‘Everyone in Fiumicino knows how and why the fleet was lost. Already crews are refusing to sail on any galley with a corvus, and with good cause. They will not, and we cannot, take the chance of such a loss occurring again.’

  The conversation continued, but Atticus found it impossible to focus. He had been back in Rome over a week and this was not the first time he had had this argument, albeit with other men. That the master shipbuilder had asked for his report in person was evidence of the enormity of the problem the fleet now faced, trapped between the opposing forces of the Carthaginians and the weather, one threat calling for the retention of the corvus, the other for its rejection.

  The meeting ended an hour later and Atticus left the barracks at Fiumicino to walk down to the shoreline to clear his head. The slips and scaffolding that dominated the beach were quiet in the noon heat, and he picked his way through them, the soft repetitive sound of waves crashing on the black sand allowing him to calm the voices of frustration. He turned his back on the beach and found his horse in the stables of the barracks, mounting it in one fluid movement as he set off for the city, his thoughts now focusing on the evening ahead, a smile creeping on to his face in anticipation. Hadria’s father had returned to Rome and it was finally time for Atticus and Hadria’s love to emerge from the shadows.

  Regulus cursed as his foot caught a loose stone and he had to throw out his arms to regain his balance. The squad of soldiers escorting him did not check its pace, and Regulus was forced to trot for a half-dozen steps to regain his position in the centre of the formation. He looked up the hill to his left, to the citadel commanding the summit, comparing it to the descriptive reports he had read since he had first arrived in Africa. None of them had captured the essence of the fortress, its sheer brute size coupled with its daunting position, and Regulus was left to wonder how Carthage could fall with such strength at its core.

  The squad led him to the quayside, and the traders and merchantmen crowding the docks opened their ranks to allow the soldiers through, the conversations continuing around the obstruction until it passed, voices raised in languages Regulus did not understand. He kept his eyes front, ignoring the baleful stares of the few who deduced his nationality, their incomprehensible curses lost in the clamour.

  The commercial docks gave way to the military harbour, and again Regulus took the opportunity to observe it closely. The military harbour was circular in shape, with a raised island circumscribed by a lagoon at its centre and an outer perimeter quay. Boathouses covered every available space and, of the two hundred available berths, Regulus counted a dozen rams jutting out of occupied spaces, the extended claws of the beasts within.

  At the far end of the harbour was a barracks house; the squad passed through the arched entranceway to a small courtyard inside. On three sides of the courtyard open doorways led to inner corridors and rooms, but on the side facing Regulus each door was heavily bolted, the metal turned green from exposure to the salt-laden air. The commander of the squad stepped forward alone to the middle door and wrenched back the bolt with a single pull. He turned to Regulus and motioned him forward.

  ‘You have thirty minutes,’ he said.

  Regulus was puzzled but he stepped forward into the darkened room. The door closed behind him and the bolt was slammed home once more.

  His eyes were immediately drawn to a small opening high on the opposing wall, which allowed in a pitiful shaft of white sunlight that barely penetrated the oppressive darkness. The opening was streaked with white excrement, and loose feathers fell through the beam of sunlight as birds, disturbed by the sound of the door, flew back to their perches once more.

  ‘Proconsul?’

  Regulus’s gaze fell and he perceived four figures approaching him through the gloom. They wore tattered Roman uniforms and, as the sunlight fell across their gaunt faces, Regulus recognized each of them in turn. They were tribunes of his army, the command staff who had been with him in the breakout at Tunis. Regulus instinctively straightened his back, his officers following suit as they saluted him. He nodded in reply and then stepped forward, extending his hand. Each took it in a silent acknowledgement of comradeship.

  ‘What news of the rest of the men?’ Regulus asked.

  ‘They have been enslaved, Proconsul,’ one of the tribunes replied. ‘We alone were brought here from Tunis five days ago.’

  ‘Enslaved,’ Regulus repeated, bowing his head. Over the previous week, Hamilcar had called on him three times at the villa. Each time Regulus had enquired after the fate of the five hundred men taken at Tunis, but the Carthaginian had refused to be drawn on the question, focusing instead on fresh evidence that confirmed his story of the Roman fleet’s destruction. Regulus’s suspicion and Hamilcar’s obfuscation had made him accept that the fate of his legionaries was sealed the moment they were taken in battle.

  ‘We have far worse news, Proconsul,’ one of the other tribunes said, and he began to tell Regulus of the rumours they had heard of the storm. Regulus held his hand up to silence the tribune.

  ‘Those rumours may be true,’ he said, admitting out loud for the first time his belief in what Hamilcar had told him. He explained what he knew in detail, and watched as their expressions displayed the terrible realization he had slowly faced over the past week.

  Regulus studied them in the silence that followed. They were all young men, sons of senators and, in the case of two of them, sons of former consuls. The Africa campaign was their first, and Regulus remembered their infectious exuberance after the victories of Ecnomus and Adys, a boundless confidence fed by the naiveté of youth. Defeat and capture had shattered that brashness, but Regulus was proud to see that – in some at least – it had been replaced by maturity, a strength they would need in the months ahead.

  The metallic grind of the door-bolt broke the silence and Regulus left the tribunes with assurances tha
t he would soon return, already suspecting why they had been brought to Carthage, although unsure as to why he had been allowed to see them. The guard detail formed up around Regulus and they quickly left the courtyard, threading their way once more through the docks to retrace their steps to the villa. As they passed the base of the hill leading to the citadel, one of the soldiers followed a curt command and broke from the formation, striking out towards the fortress at a run.

  When they returned to the villa, Regulus went immediately to the familiar surroundings of the inner courtyard. He called for wine and waited patiently in the shade, his thoughts on the tribunes and the wealth of their families in Rome. Approaching footsteps alerted him and he stood up to receive his expected visitor, an unconscious civility to echo the courtesy his enemy had shown him since his arrival in Carthage. Hamilcar entered the courtyard and nodded at Regulus.

  ‘You have seen your men,’ he said.

  ‘I have, Barca,’ Regulus replied, ‘as your soldier reported.’ He sat down again and took a sip of his wine. ‘So, you have spared my tribunes from enslavement for ransom.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why let me see them?’

  ‘So you can confirm that they are safe and well,’ Hamilcar said. ‘I want you to travel to Rome to negotiate their ransom.’

  ‘Me?’ Regulus replied, astonished by the suggestion. ‘You would release me?’

  ‘On parole,’ Hamilcar said.

  Again Regulus was stunned. Parole was an agreement based on word of honour, one that Regulus would uphold because he held himself to be honourable. But the Carthaginian could not know that for sure, not from their brief acquaintance. ‘It would be madness to release me, Barca,’ he said, revealing his thoughts out loud. ‘You cannot have faith in my honour, and the lives of four tribunes are too insignificant to guarantee my return.’ His eyes narrowed warily. ‘There’s something else, something you’re not telling me.’

  Hamilcar nodded. ‘There is something else,’ he said. ‘The ransom of the tribunes is merely a symbol of good faith.’

  ‘Good faith?’

  ‘For what I also want from you,’ Hamilcar replied, and he walked over to stand before Regulus, slowly forming and reforming the wording of his proposal in his mind, conscious of its importance. ‘I want you to act as an ambassador,’ he said, his tone wholly confident. ‘And bring, to Rome, Carthage’s terms for peace.’

  Atticus balled his fists in anger. He was about to step forward but a desperate glance from Hadria made him stop. She was crying, the tears running freely down her face, and Atticus felt his rage build further. She looked away from him and he felt his restraint waver, every instinct telling him to cross the room to end the vicious flow of invective that was staining his honour and breaking Hadria’s heart.

  The room was full of voices and conflicting sounds: Hadria’s trembling sobs, her mother’s wailing cries, her father’s continuous tirade, his fist slamming on to the table before him. Only Atticus and another were silent.

  Borne on the back of Hadria’s hope, Atticus’s confidence had risen over the previous week as they waited for her father’s return to Rome. They had continued to meet in secret, but she had begun to speak openly of her hopes for the future with a certainty that had allayed Atticus’s doubts, a certainty he had carried with him when they’d entered the family house only minutes before, a certainty that had evaporated the second he saw her father’s face.

  Antoninus had understood immediately the significance of his daughter arriving with Atticus. ‘How long have you been seeing this … this man?’ he snarled.

  Hadria told him, her breath catching in her throat.

  ‘Does anyone know, has anyone seen you?’ her mother, Salonina, said hastily, her face a mask of concern and horror.

  ‘No,’ Hadria answered, angered by her mother’s repulsed tone.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ Salonina asked.

  ‘I love him, Mother,’ Hadria replied, and she looked to Atticus, her face a mask of sorrow.

  ‘You cannot,’ Antoninus shouted. ‘He is barbarus, a foreigner.’

  ‘He is of Rome,’ Septimus interjected. He had never wanted Hadria and Atticus to be together, but he could no longer hold his peace, ashamed of his father’s attack on Atticus, a man who had risked everything many times for Rome.

  Antoninus turned to his son, seeing the defiance in his face, and he suddenly understood. ‘You knew of this?’ he hissed.

  ‘I knew,’ Septimus replied. ‘And I tried to stop it.’

  ‘You were in league with him, this Greek, against your own family?’ Antoninus roared. ‘By the gods, Septimus, you were a man of honour, an optio of the Ninth. This navy, this collection of nothi and barbari, has defiled you, defiled your honour …’

  ‘Enough,’ Atticus roared, and he fixed his gaze on Antoninus as the room went silent. The older man was burning with hostility, the scar running through his left eye giving him a maniacal expression, and Atticus felt his temper slip beyond his control. He had held his tongue in the forlorn hope that Hadria’s parents would overcome their initial shock, knowing that anything he uttered would only refocus their anger, but now he had heard enough to know that their opposition was absolute.

  ‘You have said enough, Antoninus,’ he said.

  ‘You have no voice here, Greek,’ Antoninus replied, a hard edge to his voice. ‘I fought your people at Beneventum and I will be damned if one of you will dictate to me in my own house.’ He turned to Hadria. ‘I forbid you to see this man again,’ he ordered, and Hadria stumbled back as if struck, her shoulders falling in utter defeat. She looked to Atticus, her heart breaking, and she fled from the room.

  ‘Now get out, Greek,’ Antoninus snarled. ‘And do not darken my door again.’

  The utter contempt of Antoninus’s words and the sight of Hadria’s flight snapped Atticus’s temper, and he stepped forward, his hand falling to the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘Atticus,’ Septimus shouted, and moved between him and his father, the unarmed centurion holding his hands out defensively. Atticus froze and looked to Septimus, then beyond him to the undaunted Antoninus, and for a second his anger drove him to the brink of attack. He stared again into Septimus’s face, seeing the plea for restraint, and finally he shook his head and left the room.

  Atticus strode through the atrium, his mind in turmoil as a flood of conflicting emotions swept over him. His pace slackened as he heard sobbing and he whispered Hadria’s name. She stepped out from within a doorway and the conflict within him abated at the sight of her distress. He went to her and she fell into his arms, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder.

  ‘I couldn’t let you leave,’ she sobbed. ‘Not without saying goodbye.’

  ‘This isn’t goodbye,’ Atticus said soothingly. ‘I’ll come back for you. In time we’ll be together.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ she whispered, the anguish of her words bringing fresh tears to her eyes. ‘My father has forbidden it, I cannot defy him.’

  ‘But we are in love,’ Atticus said, confused by her submission.

  ‘My father has the power of the pater familias, the head of this household,’ she said. ‘If I disobey him he will disavow me. I would be an outcast amongst my people.’

  ‘It is no more than I am,’ Atticus said, suddenly angry.

  ‘Please understand, Atticus,’ Hadria said, a desperate plea in her voice. ‘Rome … my family; it is all I know, the whole world to me.’

  ‘There is a world outside of Rome, Hadria,’ Atticus said. ‘We could be together there. Leave this city, come with me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, and seeing his face colour in anger she reached out for him. ‘Please, Atticus. You cannot ask me to choose, not when I have no choice.’

  Atticus heard her words and his anger increased, not against Hadria, but against the cursed city that kept her from him. He looked down to her upturned face and a wave of regret drove the fight from his body.

  ‘So I’
m not accepted in your world and you cannot live outside it,’ he said, the words coming slowly. ‘Then you were right, Hadria. We cannot be together.’ And with a final brief kiss he swept past her out of the house.

  Scipio rose to his feet to accept the nomination for consul, nodding to the senator who had put forward his name, his expression one of gratitude and mild surprise. A smattering of applause answered his acknowledgement, but it quickly died in the tense atmosphere of the chamber, and all eyes turned once more to the podium. The princeps senatus scanned the tiered seating, searching for further nominations, but none were forthcoming. He struck the podium with his gavel to bring the chamber to order.

  ‘Senators of Rome,’ he began, and Scipio took his eyes from the speaker to search the faces of the Senate members. The names of the five nominees were called out in turn. Two consuls would be elected from the five, with the senior position going to the senator with the most votes and the junior to the runner-up. Scipio dismissed the first three, knowing they had little or no support, their misdirected ambition matched only by their foolishness. They were no threat. The fourth name, however, was confirmation of what Scipio had suspected over the previous week.

  He was Aulus Atilius Caiatinus, a young man who had served five years in the Senate. He was a patrician but, unlike his peers, he openly supported the progressive faction in the Senate. This placed him firmly in Duilius’s camp and Scipio sought him out on the far side of the chamber, noting his position relative to Duilius, who sat in the back row. The final name was Scipio’s, and again he nodded as many eyes turned at the mention of his voice.

  With an announcement from the podium, the first of the nominees stood to make a speech in support of his candidacy. He was quickly followed by the second and the third. While Scipio’s expression remained inscrutable throughout the speeches, underneath he mocked the naiveté of the nominees. Over the previous week he had invested every shred of his political capital into the election for senior consul. He had called on every carefully nurtured alliance; where none existed, he had resorted to electoral bribery, combining the silver of his treasury with honeyed promises of post-election favours to guarantee votes from the unscrupulous.