Master of Rome

by John Stack

  ‘No one knew Barca was on that ship,’ Atticus shouted, looking to Duilius, who seemed transfixed by Scipio’s evidence.

  ‘And when in command of the vanguard at Drepana,’ Scipio said, more loudly, as if Atticus had not spoken, ‘Perennis failed to confine the Carthaginian fleet in the inner harbour, allowing them to escape and overwhelm us.’

  ‘The attack was doomed from the start,’ Atticus shouted, stepping forward to confront Scipio, unable to control his anger.

  ‘Because you were in league with the enemy,’ Scipio shouted back, and again the Senate descended into cacophony of angry voices, this time not all of them directed at Scipio.

  Atticus turned to the senators, overwhelmed with disgust; not only because of Scipio’s baseless accusations, but also at the fact that he had found a complicit audience amongst the senators.

  ‘Enough,’ Duilius shouted, regaining his wits. ‘These accusations are completely unfounded and unsubstantiated.’

  ‘We have the word of Baro,’ Scipio countered.

  ‘The word of a subordinate over that of his commander,’ Duilius said.

  ‘The word of a Roman over that of a barbarus, a foreigner, a Greek, whose people Rome defeated only a generation ago. Are we now to believe those same people are loyal to their conquerors?’

  ‘And what of the prefect’s valour at Ecnomus, or his injuries at Drepana at the hands of Barca himself?’ Duilius asked.

  ‘A valorous act at Ecnomus from which he escaped unscathed,’ Scipio retorted. ‘And Perennis had outlived his usefulness when Barca attacked him at Drepana. Carthaginian victory was already assured. They are a dishonourable race: why would Barca not kill Perennis and save the blood money he had agreed to pay him?’

  Duilius made to respond but he stopped himself. Scipio had an answer to every question he posed, each one veiled in half-truth and innuendo, each one more damning than the last. He looked to the senators and saw that they were wavering and, worse, that many were looking at Atticus with open hostility. His only chance was to attack, to bring the focus back to Scipio and end the trial.

  ‘Senators,’ he shouted, glancing at Atticus, ‘what you are witnessing here is a dishonourable attack on a man who has served this city with distinction, a man whose loyalty, before today, was not only unquestioned, but was rewarded many times by his commanders. He may not be of Rome, but he is surely more Roman than Scipio Asina, a man who has brought defeat upon this city, not once, but twice. To listen further to his vile accusations is to draw shame upon us all, and I call upon the Senate to vote now on the consul’s guilt before we are all tainted with his treason.’

  An uproar followed Duilius’s words, the senators continuing to argue amongst themselves, with many shouting at the protagonists on the floor of the chamber. The speaker hammered his gavel and slowly a semblance of order was restored. He quickly called a vote, asking for a show of hands for a guilty verdict. Of the three hundred senators, two-thirds raised their hands, condemning Scipio by majority, the uproar beginning anew as the speaker made to announce the result.

  Atticus stood as if in the centre of a maelstrom, his eyes moving across the crowd, picking out the numerous hostile expressions directed towards him. Scipio had been condemned, but not by a unanimous vote, and Atticus knew that each vote in Scipio’s defence represented a senator who believed the consul’s accusations. The thought sickened him and a fierce hatred rose unbidden within him – not for Scipio, not for the senators, nor for the prejudices of the society that surrounded him, but for the all-enveloping evil that was Rome itself.

  He stepped forward, passing Duilius without a word, the senator lost in his own thoughts, his victory soured by the split vote. He looked to Baro, who stared at him with a hatred finally unleashed into the open, seeing past him to the seemingly countless Romans who had looked upon him the same way, before he finally turned to the man he was approaching, Scipio.

  The consul, like Duilius, was also staring at the audience of senators, his near expressionless face showing only a hint of some other emotion that Atticus hoped was despair. He stood beside him, unnoticed in the turmoil, his hatred for Rome finding a focus in its progeny standing before him. Scipio became aware of Atticus and he turned, his expression changing immediately, no longer controlled.

  ‘If you ever question my honour again, I will end you,’ Atticus said, holding Scipio’s hostile stare for a moment before turning to leave.

  ‘This fight is not over, Greek,’ Scipio said, spitting the last word in disgust.

  Atticus rounded on Scipio and grabbed him by the throat, throttling him slowly as he stared into Scipio’s eyes, the consul’s face turning red under Atticus’s iron grip. Rough hands grabbed Atticus from behind, breaking his hold, and Scipio stumbled back as Atticus spun around to face Baro. Atticus struck him in the face with his forearm, the strike jarring the wound in his chest but knocking Baro to the floor, and he turned again to find Scipio standing with his hand to his throat, his faced mottled with anger.

  ‘You dare to strike a consul of Rome?’ he said, his voice ragged.

  ‘You are no longer a consul,’ Atticus said, stepping forward, causing Scipio to step back instinctively. ‘You are nothing, an exile … and you are beaten.’

  He turned away again and moved towards the exit, his hand clutching the wound on his chest, ignoring the continuous uproar in the Senate chamber.

  ‘And what are you, Perennis?’ Scipio shouted mockingly, keeping the spectre of his total loss at bay with his frantic taunts. ‘Where do you call home? What are you but an exile?’

  Atticus tried to ignore Scipio, weary to the very depths of his soul, but as he stepped out through the colonnaded exit of the Curia, the questions began to burrow into his thoughts, their answers all too evident in the shadow of his growing contempt for Rome.

  Duilius walked quickly from the chamber after Atticus. He had seen the scuffle in the corner of his eye, turning to see Atticus strike Baro and confront Scipio before leaving. Duilius had reacted quickly, knowing the furious debate would rage on. The fact that the vote had already been cast and was inviolate would do little to assuage the anger on both sides of the argument. Scipio was condemned. He was finished, and Duilius barely glanced at him as he passed, or at Baro, sitting on the floor of the chamber, his hand cupped over a bloody and broken nose.

  He paused outside and looked around, quickly spying Atticus limping down the steps. The gathered crowd was cheering the verdict, their faces upturned in laughter, and Duilius looked upon them with derision. They were a mob, an undisciplined horde whose fickle anger was easily dissipated by the illusion of justice. However much it pleased Duilius, Scipio’s conviction did not reverse the enormous loss of so many galleys and men at Drepana. For Duilius, justice would have seen Scipio irrevocably destroyed after his defeat at Lipara, never to rise again to take command of a fleet as a consul of Rome. Now it was too late, the loss irreversible, and Duilius turned from the crowd to pursue Atticus to the foot of the steps.

  Atticus would have to leave Rome, Duilius thought, for a few months at least, until the edge of Scipio’s accusations had dulled. Too many senators had been swayed by his argument, and Duilius was forced to admit that even he had experienced doubt for a moment, that Scipio’s sudden evidence, however false, had been compelling. Atticus was in danger, the involvement of the Greek mercenaries in the attack at Lilybaeum a damning connection that tainted Atticus and could lead to a separate trial for treason, and while Duilius was sure of Atticus’s innocence, he knew well that his faith was not shared by all.

  Only outside of Rome, out of the immediate reach of the Senate and the minds of the senators could Duilius ensure Atticus’s safety from prosecution. He would persuade Caiatinus, now the senior consul, to repress all debate on the subject, knowing that, with time, the senators would forget and move on. The war still raged and victory was now further away than ever. All he needed was Atticus’s compliance and he pushed through the outer fringes of the cr
owd, his eyes on Atticus only yards away. He called his name and Atticus turned.

  Duilius was immediately taken aback by Atticus’s murderous expression. His anger was understandable, but Duilius discerned something else, something deeper, a look in his eyes that seemed to suggest that all he saw was abhorrent to him.

  ‘Atticus,’ he said, his words coming slowly, distracted by the prefect’s expression. ‘I know you’re angry, but we could not have foreseen Scipio’s attack on you.’

  ‘It is not his attack that angers me,’ Atticus replied vehemently. ‘It’s how quickly and easily his words persuaded many of the senators that I was a traitor.’

  ‘The defeat at Drepana unnerved them,’ Duilius said. ‘They were easy prey for Scipio’s lies. They will soon forget, but in the meantime you should leave Rome. I’ll send word when it is safe to return.’

  ‘I’m sailing with the tide for Brolium,’ Atticus said coldly. ‘But …’

  He stopped short of saying he would not return, not wanting to listen to any words Duilius might speak in Rome’s defence. They would be hollow arguments that would do nothing to assuage his hatred. He looked to Duilius, the senator’s face showing mild surprise, as if he had expected Atticus to resist his request to leave the city. Duilius held out his hand and Atticus shook it perfunctorily, not hearing the senator’s final words of farewell. He turned and walked away, his thoughts already on his ship and the open seascape to the south, determined that, if the Fates allowed, he would never set foot in Rome again.

  Hamilcar paced across the small antechamber outside the Supreme Council’s meeting room, his impatience bidding him to turn to the door continually. He had been summoned unexpectedly an hour before, only to be ordered to wait, the undeclared reason for his summons only adding to his anxiety. He paused and listened again, holding his breath in the quiet of the antechamber. He could hear voices raised in anger but they were muffled by the heavy oak door and he was unable to identify the words or the speakers.

  He had arrived back in Carthage five days before, announcing his victory – amidst rapturous applause – to the One Hundred and Four, and to fractured elation from the Supreme Council. Hanno, the newly elected suffet, and his faction remained subdued while his father, and his supporters, sent heralds out into the street to proclaim the victory, to ensure that every voice in Carthage would speak Hamilcar’s name with pride and jubilation.

  A louder voice suddenly rang out within the meeting room and a silence descended, causing Hamilcar to stare transfixed at the door. It opened and Hasdrubal, his father, beckoned him in, his face crestfallen, unable to meet his son’s gaze. Hamilcar stepped in and stood in the centre of the room, facing the council. Hanno was directly before him in the centre, seated in the suffet’s chair.

  ‘The Council has decided,’ Hanno began, without the formality of a greeting, ‘that the Gadir fleet will return to Iberia forthwith and that the Greek mercenaries will be withdrawn and their contract ended.’

  Hamilcar was speechless. He looked to his father, but Hasdrubal could only stare back impassively, his own arguments having already fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘But what of the campaign?’ Hamilcar asked, turning to Hanno. ‘Are those forces to be replaced?’

  ‘No,’ Hanno scoffed. ‘The campaign is over. The Romans are beaten; the seaways around Sicily are secure. There is no reason to commit any more resources to that godforsaken island.’

  ‘But we have a chance to retake lost territory, to retake Agrigentum,’ Hamilcar protested. ‘If you give me the men and galleys—’

  Hanno held up his hand to quiet Hamilcar, his expression suddenly hostile. ‘The council has made its decision, Barca,’ he said. ‘That is an end to the matter, and this meeting is adjourned.’

  Many of the councillors rose up immediately, some going to Hanno who was still seated while others walked straight from the room, brushing past Hamilcar without a glance. Hasdrubal approached his son and, taking him by the arm, led him to the side of the room.

  ‘It’s over, Hamilcar,’ he said. ‘We knew this day would come.’

  ‘But what of the other councillors?’ Hamilcar asked. ‘What of their support for the Sicilian campaign?’

  ‘The vote was nine to three against continuing the war with the Romans. I am isolated, and those who would be swayed are cowed by Hanno. As suffet his power is too great to challenge.’

  Hasdrubal glanced over his shoulder at Hanno. ‘Come,’ he said to Hamilcar. ‘We must go.’

  Hamilcar shrugged off his father’s hand. ‘I will speak with Hanno myself,’ he said, looking past his father to the suffet. The room was all but empty, the last of the councillors leaving, with only one remaining at Hanno’s side, speaking to him in whispered tones.

  ‘No,’ Hasdrubal said, ‘you cannot confront him.’

  ‘I must,’ Hamilcar hissed, and he stepped away from his father, moving once more to the centre of the room to stand before the suffet’s chair.

  Hanno saw him and waved the last supplicant away, the councillor leaving quickly. Hasdrubal paused for a moment longer, looking to his son’s back. He could not drag him away, Hamilcar was his own man, and he too left, closing the door to leave his son alone with the most powerful man in Carthage.

  ‘Why?’ Hamilcar asked.

  ‘Because it is within my power,’ Hanno said simply, enjoying the realization of a long-held desire.

  ‘But if we strike now we can end Rome’s plans of dominating Sicily forever,’ Hamilcar protested.

  ‘I have told you before, Barca,’ Hanno said. ‘I care nothing for Sicily. I concede that Lilybaeum is an important trading hub for Carthage, and for its defence I agreed to the use of the Gadir fleet, but I want nothing more of that island. The war against Rome has been a drain on our resources for too long, and to what end?’ He paused and hardened his stare. ‘So you can write your name in the annals of history?’ he asked with a sneer.

  ‘You think I want Sicily for personal glory?’ Hamilcar asked incredulously, anger in his voice. ‘And you would end the campaign simply to thwart that ambition?’

  Hanno laughed mockingly. ‘This was not personal, you young fool,’ he said. ‘I may despise you for your reckless ambition and mindless obstinacy, but that is not why I end the campaign on Sicily. Lilybaeum is safe and Panormus will soon be in our hands. Seaports are what count on that island, and with those in our control the trading route around the northwest of the island is secure. There is nothing more to be achieved.’

  He stood up, walking over to stand before Hamilcar, his expression grave once more. ‘My loyalty to Carthage runs as deep as yours, Barca. Perhaps even deeper, despite what you think, and I believe this city’s future lies in Africa, not on some island to the north. We are not vile conquerors like the Romans, we are traders, and Africa is where we will expand our empire and our wealth, by extending our reach from the sacred soil of this city; something we cannot achieve if we are fighting a war on two fronts.’

  ‘Then let me finish our war against the Romans decisively,’ Hamilcar said, fearful of allowing Rome to recover. ‘You must give me the forces I need to do this.’

  ‘I do not answer to you, young Barca,’ Hanno said, angry again.

  ‘Then you will answer to the children of Carthage,’ Hamilcar said vehemently. ‘Rome will rise again. They are relentless in their quest to expand. If we do not contain them on their peninsula they will threaten Carthage again. With control of Sicily we can achieve that. Otherwise our children will have to fight them as we have.’

  ‘You overestimate the Romans, Barca,’ Hanno scoffed. ‘With their losses in the storm and Drepana, their ambitions to control the sea-lanes are finished.’

  Hamilcar made to retort but, as before, Hanno held up his hand to stay his words. He had not intended on explaining himself to the young commander, his dislike for Barca running as deeply as before, but he had felt a sense of magnanimity in the wake of his victory. He forced his temper to cool, focusing on what Ba
rca had achieved at Drepana.

  ‘I will allow you to retain the galleys you captured at Drepana and Panormus,’ he said evenly. ‘Use them to keep Lilybaeum supplied by sea until the Romans abandon their futile siege, as they surely will in time. Now go, I grow weary of this argument. My decision is made and the council has voted. From this day, the armies of Carthage will fight only on African soil.’

  Hamilcar stared at Hanno for a moment longer and then turned and walked from the room. To argue further was pointless, and while every futile word he spoke pricked his honour, Hamilcar knew in his heart that Hanno was wrong. The Romans were a ruthless foe, far more dangerous than the Numidians to the south of Carthage. They were not beaten, they would rise again; and as Hamilcar made his way through the corridors leading from the centre of power in Carthage, the black bile of utter frustration consumed his every fibre.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The trading ship moved steadily over the dark sea, its wake barely troubling the surface of the gentle swell. The bow kicked up sporadic waves that reflected the sallow light of the crescent moon. A muted command broke the silence and the sharp edges of the triangular lateen sail collapsed, giving the captain an uninterrupted view of the solitary running light of the galley ahead. He moved to the rail, wary despite the pre-planned meeting off the north coast of Sicily, and he looked to the four points of his ship as it came to a steady stop.

  The galley ahead advanced under the power of half its oars, the drum beat punctuating the night air. It was a standard quinquereme, indistinguishable from the dozens the trading captain had observed over the previous weeks, and he peered into the gloom in a vain attempt to identify the banners fluttering from the masthead. He moved to the foredeck of his ship, passing through the ranks of his crew as he did, their eyes locked on the approaching galley.

  The two ships came bow to bow and a line was thrown from out of the darkness and made secure. Two men came to the forerail of the quinquereme and the captain smiled as he recognized them, his apprehension lifting.