Master of Rome

by John Stack

  ‘Therein lies your arrogance,’ Atticus replied aggressively. ‘My honour, my deeds, do not make me Roman. They make me the man I am – and that should be enough.’

  Septimus stepped back, fury coursing through him. He had witnessed this side of Atticus before, this aggression towards Rome, but never had it affected Septimus so keenly. For Atticus to find insult in being described as Roman was an affront to every Roman, one that cut Septimus deeply, and he realized that the decision he had made was the only restraint keeping his sword arm in check. The conflict over Hadria had driven a wedge between them, one that could not be removed.

  ‘I did not seek you out to fight this fight,’ he said, wishing to end the conversation and be away.

  ‘Then why have you come?’ Atticus asked cynically.

  ‘The Ninth is reforming and my request for a transfer has been accepted.’

  ‘A transfer?’ Atticus asked, his anger abating with shock.

  ‘I am to command the IV maniple, my old unit.’

  Atticus hesitated, his mind flooded once more by conflicting emotions. They cleared quickly as a sense of betrayal overcame all. ‘Then the Orcus will fight on without you,’ he said.

  ‘You and I both know we cannot share command, not now,’ Septimus said angrily, not willing to accept a full measure of blame for the fates that had shattered their friendship. ‘Your relationship with Hadria has seen to that.’

  ‘No,’ Atticus said wearily, ‘Rome has seen to that.’

  Septimus snorted in reply and turned to leave. He stopped short and looked once more to Atticus, trying to see past the aggressive expression to the friend he once had. He could not, and he walked away without another word.

  Atticus stood silent in the middle of the roadway, the noise of the camp around him increasing with every minute of the new day. Baro and the crew appeared from the mess tents, their mood light and jovial, and Baro nodded to his commander as he passed, leading the men off towards the beach. Atticus fell in behind them. His previous optimism had fled. There was no place for that sentiment; his mood darkened with every step he took towards the Orcus.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The quinquereme moved steadily through the crowded sea-lane, its course never deviating, and the trading vessels gave way before its imposing bow. Many of the traders cursed its passage, angered by the ship’s disregard for the ancient rule that oar-powered vessels should give way to sail, but their irate shouts died as they realized the masthead banners were not Roman but Carthaginian, and they gave the quinquereme a wider berth, almost colliding in their haste, as if the galley was flying the warning flags of a plague ship. From ship to ship, the warning cries of the galley’s approach swept along the teeming sea-lane and, like the searing wind that precedes a bush fire, the forewarning opened a passage in the lane. The Carthaginians took immediate advantage, anxious to complete their mission, and the quinquereme accelerated, each oar stroke taking them closer to Ostia.

  The Orcus moved steadily under sail, her pace matching those of the canvas-driven trading boats that surrounded her. The crew exchanged banter over the rails to the nearby craft, marking time as the Orcus sailed through the arc of its patrol route. Atticus paced slowly across the aft-deck, checking the line of the helm intermittently. He glanced at the shoreline a mile away, vaguely familiar with its outline.

  ‘Quinquereme dead ahead, one mile and closing.’

  Atticus looked to Corin and then the bow. The galley was on the exact back bearing of the Orcus, clearly visible through the separating line of the sea-lane.

  ‘One of ours,’ Atticus thought, although he couldn’t imagine from which port it might have sailed. The survivors of the storm were still based in Agrigentum, and he was unaware of any quinqueremes based in any other Roman ports. He turned as Baro ran on to the aft-deck.

  ‘She’s Carthaginian, Prefect,’ he blurted. ‘That’s why the lane is separating; the traders are sending warnings forward.’

  ‘All hands, battle stations,’ Atticus shouted, and the mainsail was quickly lowered as the Orcus accelerated to battle speed, Gaius cursing the crowded waters as he tried to keep the helm straight. Atticus looked to the empty main deck. Patrol duty in the sea-lanes of Ostia was, at best, procedural, given that the city’s only seaborne enemy was supposed to be in Sicilian waters, and the Orcus was devoid of its usual contingent of legionaries. Atticus let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword, kneading it with his palm. He looked to Gaius and noticed the frustration and worry in his face. With so many trading ships, the available sea room would be minimal, and bringing the ram to bear would be extremely difficult.

  ‘Gaius,’ Atticus ordered. ‘Come right on the starboard beam. We’ll draw them out of the lane.’

  The helmsman nodded and swung the bow through ninety degrees, cutting across the course of a dozen trading ships, their crews giving way before the unyielding galley, conscious of the impending skirmish. Atticus kept his eye on the enemy ship, glancing occasionally to Corin at the masthead, his brow creased with doubt.

  ‘They’re not turning,’ Atticus said, but he quickly shook off his uncertainty, knowing that to overreact and second-guess an opponent could be fatal. It was better to fight on your own terms. He held the course of the Orcus for a moment longer, judging the angles.

  ‘Gaius, come about. Attack speed. Bring the ram to bear amidships.’

  The Orcus turned neatly through the open water and headed back towards the sea-lane, the Carthaginian galley bow dead ahead but now broadside to the Orcus’s attack. The gap fell to three hundred yards. Then two hundred.

  ‘Still no reaction,’ Atticus thought, perplexed, although he could see the enemy crew lining the side rail, many of them pointing to the Orcus, others waving their hands. The enemy was in sight, there for the taking, and every fibre of Atticus’s experience called on him to order ramming speed. Suddenly he spotted one of the Carthaginian crew holding a shield over his head, a gesture of truce, and the order came instinctively to his lips.

  ‘All stop.’

  The order was repeated without hesitation and the Orcus came to a stop as the oars were dipped.

  ‘Your orders, Prefect,’ Gaius said warily, the Orcus falling rapidly out of position as the Carthaginian galley continued its course.

  ‘Standard speed, fall into their wake and then lay alongside,’ Atticus said. He called to the main deck, ‘Baro, have the men make ready in case it’s a trap of some kind.’

  The second-in-command confirmed the order and Atticus focused once more on the Carthaginian galley.

  The Orcus was swiftly in position, coming at the Carthaginian galley from its most vulnerable side. Her bow came within a half-ship length of the enemy stern, the Carthaginian coming to a full stop, shipping its oars to allow the Orcus to come alongside. Gaius deftly completed the manoeuvre and Atticus moved to the main deck, conscious of the silence that had enveloped both crews as they stared across at each other.

  The Carthaginians lining the rail on the main deck parted, and Atticus stepped back in shock as he recognized the Roman stepping into the space with a measured stride, his arm extended slightly to hold the folds of his toga.

  ‘Ahh, Prefect Perennis,’ he said with some surprise, but he quickly recovered and nodded to a Carthaginian officer beside him, the man hastily ordering a gangplank to be extended across the gap. The Roman moved across and the link was quickly severed, the Carthaginian crew visibly relaxing as their charge was given over and the galley moved off a point to re-engage its oars, turning neatly in the sea-lane until its bow was pointing due south.

  The Orcus continued to drift in the gentle current, the crew, like Atticus, yet to regain their wits.

  ‘Is it true?’ the Roman said, taking Atticus by the arm, his fingers digging into his flesh.

  ‘Proconsul?’

  ‘The storm, the losses. You were there. Is it true?’

  Atticus shook off his initial surprise. ‘Yes, Proconsul, it’s true,’ he said solemnly.
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  Regulus’s shoulders fell a fraction. He had long ago accepted Hamilcar’s version of events, or so he believed; however, upon seeing Atticus his initial hopes and disbelief surfaced, knowing that the prefect had been stationed in Aspis. He looked to Atticus and squared his shoulders, his conviction regaining its dominance over his mood.

  ‘You must give me a full report of everything since our defeat at Tunis,’ he ordered. ‘Now best speed to Ostia, Prefect. I need to be in Rome before sunset.’

  ‘But the Carthaginian galley …’ Atticus replied, his gaze locked on the retreating enemy ship. ‘We should take her.’

  ‘You cannot,’ Regulus said. ‘I gave them my word that they would be allowed to leave unhindered. They are sailing to Lipara, where they will wait for my return.’

  ‘Your return,’ Atticus asked perplexed. ‘I don’t understand, Proconsul. Why did they bring you back to Rome?’

  ‘Because,’ Regulus replied, a measure of pride in his tone, ‘I have come to bring an end to this war.’

  Septimus dismounted and stretched out his arms, leaning back to tighten the muscles of his shoulders, groaning in relief. He had galloped nearly the whole way from Fiumicino, not wanting to waste a precious minute of his leave and, as he watched Domitian approach across the courtyard, he felt an enormous sense of wellbeing. He handed the reins to the senior servant and slapped him on the shoulder; the older man’s smile widened at seeing the youngest son of the family home once more.

  ‘Your parents are in the triclinium,’ he said, and Septimus strode into the house, making his way quickly to the main dining room.

  Salonina leapt up as she saw her son enter and she went to him with open arms. Antoninus rose too, but more slowly, a wry smile on his face. He extended his hand and Septimus took it, matching the iron grip of his father.

  ‘Welcome, Centurion,’ he said, and Septimus struggled to conceal his surprise. It was the first time his father had ever addressed him by that rank, and he saw the pride in his father’s eyes at his son having attained a rank he once held, centurion of the Ninth Legion. Septimus suddenly felt angered by the overt display of approval, recalling the contempt Antoninus had shown many times for that same rank in the marines, dismissing the position out of hand as a hollow, meaningless title. Septimus found himself re-examining his decision to transfer.

  When he had first heard the announcement that the Ninth was to reform he had felt a deep sense of pride, glad that the ‘Wolves of Rome’ would rise to fight again. It was a valiant unit with a proud history and, as one of its sons, he had always maintained a strong affinity with the legion. His transfer to the navy had afforded him the chance of promotion, and although his decision at the time had been clouded by the loss of his friend Valerius in the Battle of Agrigentum, he had never regretted the choice.

  However he had long since recognized and accepted the powerful influence the Ninth had over him, in the strength of his sword arm and through his former comrades, men who knew and respected his father Antoninus. That influence had led him to march into battle with the Ninth at Thermae; but afterwards he had returned to the marines with a clear sense of purpose, confident that he had found a place amongst honourable men in the navy.

  That confidence had been shattered with the ending of his friendship with Atticus. With renewed resolve, Septimus had returned to the Ninth, gladly accepting command of the IV maniple. It was a position he seemed fated to occupy, one that his father had once held with distinction, and one that Septimus had served in as optio under Marcus Fabius Buteo, a comrade lost in the battle of Tunis.

  It was with this mantle on his shoulder that Septimus now stood before Antoninus, outwardly accepting his praise while realizing that, although he had craved this very acceptance in the many years during which he had commanded a maniple of the marines, it now gave him no pleasure. Septimus was disturbed by the realization and, as he accepted the invitation to sit with his parents, he wondered whether he no longer valued his father’s acceptance, or no longer valued the command that he had previously held in such high regard.

  ‘How is Hadria?’ he asked, wishing to change the subject. ‘Is she here?’

  Salonina’s face fell and she held her hands to stop them trembling. ‘She’s very ill,’ she replied, tears in her voice. ‘She is in her room and has not risen since that night when—’

  ‘That Greek whoreson has cursed her,’ Antoninus spat, and Septimus felt a renewed surge of anger towards his father. He held his tongue, knowing he could say nothing that would change Antoninus’s opinion.

  ‘How is she ill?’ Septimus asked, his concern rising.

  ‘She does not speak,’ Salonina replied. ‘And she barely eats. She just lies in her room. It is worse than when she grieved for Valerius.’

  ‘Do not compare the two, woman,’ Antoninus said angrily. ‘Valerius was a Roman, this Greek is a barbarus.’

  Salonina seemed not to hear her husband. ‘Time will heal her,’ she said without confidence, shaking her head in despair.

  On impulse Septimus stood up and left the room, finding his way to the steps that led to the bedrooms overlooking the courtyard. He climbed them slowly, his thoughts on what he could say to Hadria to comfort her, but as he recalled the part he had played in their affair he hesitated. He had always been against it, his motives shifting many times but his conviction never wavering, even after he understood Hadria’s level of devotion for Atticus. What mattered was that he had stood squarely against his sister and his friend, and he suddenly felt unsure, shaken by the repercussions; the loss of his friendship with Atticus and Hadria’s deep despair.

  He reached the door of her room and paused, listening intently, but there was no sound from behind the door and in the stillness he reached out for the handle. He stopped, his confidence giving way under the weight of his guilt, and finally he turned and walked away.

  Regulus stood on the threshold of the Curia, listening as the voices of debate rose and fell in a manner all too familiar to his ear. He adjusted the folds of his toga, remembering when he last stood in the hallowed chamber. He had been senior consul then, the most powerful man in Rome, and as he stood to depart on his quest to invade Africa, the Senate had cheered his name. Now he was returning as an ambassador of peace, a harbinger of what he knew would be welcome news. He would be revered as a saviour, a man who showed the city a way through its darkest hour, and the Senate would cheer his name once more.

  Regulus was fully committed to the proposed peace treaty, a belief reached after many weeks of discussion and reflection. Rome was beaten; Barca had convinced him of that, and the array of forces he had seen in the harbour of Carthage served to further convince him of the formidable strength yet to be unleashed by the enemy. He would speak to the Senate of peace with honour, of the need to check the advance of the Carthaginian horde, of the opportunity to stabilize the southern frontier of the Republic and gain time to renew their strength.

  For a brief moment, Regulus thought of the one aspect he could not have foreseen, the election of Scipio to the post of senior consul, news the Greek prefect had revealed. He had a sworn enemy in Scipio, a man he knew was beyond serpentine in nature, but Regulus believed his cause was honourable, and he trusted the senior consul would recognize that fact for the benefit of Rome, whatever his personal animosity. Clearing his mind of the inconsequential detail, Regulus straightened his shoulders and stepped over the threshold of the Curia.

  The Senate continued to debate as Regulus entered, but the discussion soon gave way to gasps of astonishment as he was recognized. A number of senators got up and walked over to the proconsul, bombarding him with questions, but he ignored them, keeping his expression composed as he looked between them in an effort to ascertain whether Scipio was present in the chamber. He moved towards the podium, the senators giving way before him, and the Senate became quiet as he paused to address them.

  ‘Citizens of Rome,’ he began. ‘I stand before you this day to bring you glorious news.
In our hour of greatest need, the gods of our forefathers have taken a guiding hand in our fate. Carthage desires peace and has offered us terms—’

  Shouts of disbelief and protest met his words and Regulus was forced to pause, disquieted by the attitude of his peers. He recalled his own initial abhorrence to the concept of surrender, but that was before he had been persuaded of its merits. He raised his voice, determined to complete his prepared speech, anxious to explain how lenient the Carthaginian terms were, confident that the senators’ initial objections would soon dissipate in the face of his logic.

  ‘Senators, Senators,’ he shouted. ‘The Carthaginians terms merely dictate that we withdraw from Sicily. Given our losses and their strength these are generous terms, worthy of acceptance. We—’

  Again he was forced to stop as the level of protest grew, many Senators now on their feet, pointing angrily at him. His confidence began to waver and he re-examined every facet of his argument, finding no flaw. He raised his hands and continued through the hail of protest.

  ‘Our fleet is no more, taken by the gods,’ he shouted. ‘We have been defeated in open battle. We must accept these terms, if only to give us time—’

  ‘Silence!’ a voice roared, and Regulus turned to the source, immediately recognizing Scipio. He had been present the entire time, sitting anonymously amidst the crowd while Regulus spoke. With a rising sense of dread, he watched Scipio stand and make his way across the Senate floor.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said disdainfully, and Regulus complied, departing the Senate chamber amidst a renewed barrage of protest.

  Scipio led him to the senior consul’s chamber at the centre of the Curia. It was a familiar path and Regulus followed without comment, his mind in turmoil. Only when he reached the room did he feel some semblance of calm return. This had once been his chamber and he felt a renewed sense of confidence as he remembered his achievements as senior consul.