by John Stack
The sea eagle hit the water at an incredible speed and she was immediately swallowed by the calm sea, the ripples of her entry instantly swept away and her existence lost until a second later she broke the surface again with a fish trapped in her beak, the water cascading from her feathers to be caught by the light of the rising sun. She soared heavenward once more, however her success went unacknowledged as Atticus shifted his gaze to a flash of colour immediately behind where the bird had struck. The Aquila was almost past the point, her seven knot speed pushing her inexorably northward and Atticus spun around to look to the masthead. Corin was there, his gaze fixed dead ahead, scanning the waters for the trading ships that would soon emanate from the port of Naples. Atticus looked to the sea once more, the half-image he had witnessed lost once more to the rolling waves. He hesitated for a mere second longer.
‘Hard to starboard,’ he roared. ‘Come about east-south-east.’
The balanced hull of the Aquila swung instantly beneath his feet as he traversed the main deck towards the aft, his eyes locked on a reference point on the coast and as he reached Gaius at the tiller he ordered him to straighten the galley’s course.
‘Steerage speed, lookouts to the fore!’ he ordered and the crew scrambled to the task, Lucius reiterating the order as the Aquila settled low in the water, her two knot speed giving her a gentle headway against the off-shore breeze. Septimus approached Atticus with a quizzical look on his face.
‘Something in the water,’ Atticus said in answer, ‘two hundred yards off the bow.’
‘Understood,’ Septimus nodded and made his way to the foredeck to inform the lookouts stationed there.
Below deck in the main cabin, Varro felt the sudden change in the galley’s course and her drop in speed. He sat up in his cot and planted his feet firmly on the deck, his sudden action triggering a scurrying sound on the floor as cockroaches fled the unexpected movement. Varro reached up for the porthole above him, pulling back the shutter, allowing the early sunlight to flood the narrow confines of the cabin and he caught sight of the last of the ubiquitous insects as they fled for the dark recesses of the room.
He stood up slowly and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, digging his knuckles in deeply until his vision exploded with tiny stars before returning to the gloom of the twilight world below deck. He had barely slept, the constant motion of the world around him still completely alien, the confines of the room and the sudden inexplicable sounds that punctured the darkness keeping him constantly on edge. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, his mind filled with nightmarish visions of everyone he had ever known turning their back on him in vile condemnation, their faces haunting him even now in his waking hours and he cursed his fate and the ship that bore him anew.
Varro dressed quickly and mounted the steps to the main deck, squinting in the dawn light as looked about him to the frenzied activity of the crew. The majority of them were looking over the side-and forerails, shouting instructions to each other as they searched the waters around the galley. Varro moved quickly to the side-rail, pushing a crewman aside to see out over the water but he saw nothing in the empty sea. He turned to the aft-deck and his eyes sought the captain, seeing him instantly as he stood beside the helmsman, his easy confident stance evident, even from a distance, and Varro felt a resurgence of his hatred. He was about to stride back to the captain when a shout cut through the cacophony of voices on deck.
‘Two points starboard. Someone in the water!’
All eyes on the Aquila spun to that point, Varro following the gaze of others as he sought the point indicated. It was there, fifty yards off the bow, a small mass of indeterminate shapes in the gentle swell, hidden one moment and exposed the next but amidst the tangle Varro could see the shoulders and head of at least one person.
‘All stop,’ Atticus shouted and he ran the length of the galley to the foredeck, not noticing Varro as he passed him by, his attention firmly fixed on the figure of Septimus standing by the rail, his arm outstretched in indication of what Atticus had spotted minutes before from afar.
‘One survivor,’ Septimus said as the captain reached them. ‘Lashed to some debris.’
Atticus nodded and turned to the crewmen beside him.
‘You two, over the side,’ he said and the men instantly obeyed, each one swan-diving into the sea eight feet below to surface once again a couple of yards short of the inert people in the water. The crewmen were both able swimmers, as was every man on the Aquila, a skill Atticus strictly ensured that every sailor who joined his crew was taught. It was an ability that many of the more traditional sailors who found themselves serving on the Aquila thought irrational, believing it better that a sailor should die a quick death if his ship was sunk rather than suffering a lingering struggle before the sea inevitably claimed you.
‘He’s alive but unconscious,’ one of the crewmen shouted and they struck off towards the Aquila again without command, each man swimming with one hand while the other dragged the makeshift raft behind them. Two more sailors jumped overboard as the group reached the hull of the Aquila and the survivor was quickly cut from the debris and hauled by rope up and over the side-rail. The crew formed a rough circle around him as he was laid on the deck but it parted again for Atticus and Septimus, the centurion kneeling down and listening intently at the unconscious man’s chest, his knowledge qualified only through years of experience in the military.
Atticus was given a moment to study the man as Septimus’s steady hands searched for the signs that would indicate the strength of his life-force. The man was dark, almost certainly Roman, his young angular features made prominent by the sea water that had seemingly washed the very blood from his face, his skin stark against the deep red of the tunic which had caught Atticus’s eye.
‘He’s dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion,’ Septimus said without looking up, putting his head to the man’s chest once more. He stood up. ‘He’ll need rest and fresh water.’
‘Will he live?’ Atticus asked.
Septimus nodded. ‘He’s young and strong,’ he said, and as if bidden the man stirred slightly, his hand rising and falling again across his stomach.
Atticus instantly ordered the crew to pick him up. ‘Take him to the main cabin,’ he ordered without thinking, suddenly catching Varro’s eye at the edge of the circle, the tribune looking up with an aggravated expression, ‘with your permission, Tribune.’ Atticus added.
Varro nodded curtly and spun around, his exit creating a gap in the circle through which the crewmen carried the man to the main cabin below. Septimus followed, the young man now in his charge.
Regulus stepped warily through the throng of senators on the floor of the Senate house, catching the eye of many as they nodded a greeting. The men were clustered in groups, talking animatedly before the familiar hammer of a gavel, signalling the beginning of the first session of the day, would hasten them all to their seats. Their discussions were almost frenetic in their tempo, as if the dreary debates scheduled for the day could be mitigated by a couple of minutes of interesting conversation about the consulship elections that were due on the morrow.
Regulus engaged with no-one, skirting the groups to avoid being dragged into a discussion. His gaze sought many of the senators however, surreptitiously watching them, eavesdropping on their conversations as he moved past, trying to guess which ones might be the junior senators that Scipio claimed to secretly control. As he reached the edge of the throng, Regulus spotted the consul seated alone in the centre of the semi-circular seating that framed the central podium of the chamber. Scipio sat with an emotionless expression, his eyes scanning the room, ever restless. Regulus made to approach but thought better of the idea, turning away instead to make his way to his own seat.
A loud hammering sound filled the vaulted chamber and the three hundred senators took to their seats, the men sitting as individuals, loose confederations and close-knit factions, the fluid ever-changing political landscape placing former con
federates beside current adversaries. Regulus sat on the right hand of the speaker, a side increasingly associated with the Patrician class of the ancient Roman families although it was near impossible to gauge the loyalties of every senator and dividing lines were only as stable as the last vote taken in each session.
‘Senators of Rome,’ the speaker of the house called as the chamber came to order, the underlying murmur of a hundred conversations dissipating in the still morning air. ‘Before we begin the business of the day, Gaius Duilius,’ the speaker continued, as he nodded towards the junior consul seated firmly in the centre of the left, ‘the junior consul, has requested a brief audience with the chamber.’
Duilius stood and acknowledged the speaker with a nod, his unscheduled request prompting a light patter of applause that rose in intensity as Duilius made his way towards the podium. Regulus’s heart skipped a beat at the sight and he clapped unconsciously, his mind racing to the conversation he had had the night before with Scipio and the premonition made that was transpiring before his very eyes. He looked briefly to Scipio but the consul’s gaze was firmly fixed on his enemy.
Duilius walked with a determined stride and many of the senators sat straighter in their seats in anticipation, the comfortable slouch they had adopted for the scheduled debates thrown off as expectation filled the chamber. He whispered a brief thanks into the speaker’s ear as he took to the podium, the old senator nodding gravely as if his consent to allow Duilius to speak was anything more than a mere powerless formality.
The junior consul stood with his arms straight, his hands gripping the sides of the podium, his upper body leaning forward to convey the significance of his words.
‘My fellow Senators,’ he began. ‘It has been my esteemed honour to serve you and the city of Rome as junior consul this past year.’
A brief applause broke the silence before it was engulfed again by the palatable tension of the chamber.
‘It has been a significant year for the Republic, one which has seen our city embark on a new frontier, a bold courageous endeavour which has, I have no doubt, brought pride to the hearts of our ancestors, the men who built this mighty city and who, even now, look down upon this chamber from Elysium.’
Again the senators clapped politely at Duilius’s words, many willing the consul to get beyond the self congratulatory preamble to the crux of his speech.
‘I have been fortunate to have been part of Rome’s success in her first naval battle,’ Duilius continued, his words neatly ignoring and condemning to oblivion the disaster at Lipara, and for a brief heartbeat his gaze rested on Scipio before ranging over the expectant faces of the entire chamber, ‘and I hope I have done my duty as your consul.’
Loud applause and sporadic cheers filled the chamber at these words but Duilius raised his hands for silence, his request immediately obeyed as the senators sensed the point of Duilius’s speech was at hand.
‘My duty done,’ Duilius said, pausing for a second as if the words were hard to articulate, ‘I hereby withdraw my nomination for the position of senior consul and instead I will ask to be considered for the post of censor.’
The final words of Duilius’s sentence were lost in the uproar that followed as both ally and foe were taken completely unawares by the sudden turn of events, the entire Senate thrown into confusion with Duilius standing steady in the eye of the storm. Only a select few remained calm, their foreknowledge of the announcement insulating them from the maelstrom of questions and confusion.
Scipio remained seated amidst the turmoil, his eyes veiled, his head tilted back slightly as he drank in the utter chaos his plan had wrought, the sudden disorder that panicked the lesser men of the Senate, leaving them crying out for direction, for leadership. He lowered his head and steadied his gaze to a point on the right of the chamber, instantly catching the eye of Regulus and the older senator nodded imperceptibly. He was committed.
Scipio’s thoughts were broken by the slowly surfacing sound of Duilius pounding the gavel against the podium. By degrees the chamber returned to order although many of the senators remained standing, their agitation preventing them from retaking their seats.
‘My fellow Senators,’ Duilius began again, conscious that this last statement was all important and he paused once more to ensure the chamber was quiet enough for all to hear his words, ‘in withdrawing my nomination so close to the election I realise that the elections scheduled for tomorrow stand in disarray, not least as there are no other nominations for senior consul.’
A dark murmur of censure met these words but Duilius ignored them, concentrating instead his will on his allies and the undecided majority, ignoring those who now, for the first time, were emboldened to stand openly against him.
‘I would therefore,’ Duilius said aloud, once more waiting for the chamber to come to order, ‘I would therefore like to nominate Lucius Manlius Vulso Longus to stand in my stead, a man who will lead this Senate with the same sense of duty that has been the hallmark of my service.’
Duilius pointed to Longus as he spoke those final words and the senator stood to receive the applause of the Senate, both polite and enthusiastic. The cadre of senators surrounding him, each one an ally of Duilius, shook his hand and slapped him on the shoulder, and Longus raised his hands to still the Senate once more, clearing his throat as he did to make the gracious acceptance speech he and Duilius had crafted the evening before. As the chamber became quiet however, another single voice silenced Longus’s opening words before he could utter them.
‘Senators of Rome!’
All eyes turned to see Regulus standing tall.
‘Less than an hour ago this chamber stood poised to elect Gaius Duilius to the position of senior consul on the morrow. It was a fitting decision, an endorsement by this house of the achievements of a man who has served Rome well.’
There was a murmur of agreement and Regulus paused.
‘But,’ he continued, ‘following his withdrawal I believe this election must not become an automatic transfer of votes but must be open to all. Longus is a fine senator; a dutiful servant of Rome.’ Regulus paused and looked directly at Duilius. ‘But our city, our republic is at war and in times of war it is better to be led by the solid hand of experience, not the impulsive hand of youth.’
A murmur of agreement swept across the chamber.
‘You all know me,’ Regulus continued. ‘The senior members of this Senate know my reputation. I have held this highest of offices before and I am ready to lead again. I therefore humbly nominate myself for the position of senior consul, ever conscious that the Senate will decide wisely and elect the most suitable candidate accordingly.’
The Senate chamber was once more enveloped in deafening sound as Regulus retook his seat. Longus stood motionless as the waves of sound crashed over him, furious that his own moment of triumph had been swept away by Regulus’s sudden entry to the fray, and he desperately turned to his benefactor for guidance.
Duilius remained standing at the podium, the knuckles of his hands white from the intensity of his grip on the stand. He was speechless, his mind flooded with anger and confusion, and he gazed intently at Regulus, waiting for the movement he knew must occur. It was inconceivable that Regulus was acting alone, that he spontaneously formed the idea to run against Longus, that he was not forewarned. Duilius knew that human nature would cause Regulus to seek out his confederate at their moment of success, if only to share a silent triumphant glance, a secret congratulatory nod. Regulus turned to his left and Duilius immediately scanned the three quarters of the Senate on that side of him. He unconsciously discounted allies and focused on his known enemies, but none seemed to catch his gaze; their faces instead turned all directions as individual debates raged across the Senate. Duilius swept the chamber one last time and as he did, his heart plunged as the identity of Regulus’s associate suddenly became apparent, not because the man was looking back at Regulus but because his gaze was fixed intently at the podium. As Duilius wat
ched a malicious smile spread across his enemy’s face.
Atticus walked swiftly down the gangway that led to the main cabin at the stern of the Aquila. Below decks the sound of the drum master’s beat was amplified and transmuted into a dull repetitive thud that seemed to emanate from every surface, the heartbeat of the galley heard from within. The hull moved slightly under Atticus’s feet and he put out his hand against the bulkhead to steady himself, the course corrections becoming more frequent as Gaius wove the Aquila through the busy shipping lanes of Naples. The timber felt smooth beneath his palm and Atticus let his hand linger for a second, feeling the grain of the wood, the lines of a once vibrant tree felled and shaped and made alive again as part of a Roman galley.
The sound of voices could be heard through the main cabin door and Atticus hastened his last remaining steps, stepping through the door without check, the familiar space made welcoming again knowing that Varro was still top-side on the aft-deck. The man who had been rescued by the Aquila’s crew was seated on the cot on the port side of the cabin, his head bowed, but his back straight and the single hour he had spent so far on the Aquila had immeasurably revived him. He looked up, pausing in his conversation with Septimus as Atticus closed the cabin door. The man stood, his legs unsteady and he kept one hand on the edge of the cot to help him balance.
‘I am Quintus Postumius Camillus,’ he said. ‘Boatswain of the trading galley Fides out of Ostia.’
‘Captain Perennis,’ Atticus replied, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, a simple request for him to be seated once more. ‘Tell me what happened.’
