by John Stack
‘Hold!’ he shouted, rage in his voice. For a heartbeat the men wavered and Narmer felt their hesitation. He whipped his sword down on the outstretched blades of the two men to his right, the unexpected strike knocking the swords from their hands. ‘I said enough!’ he roared.
His men backed off, anger in their expressions although Narmer immediately noticed that a few men now had a look of malicious expectation on their faces. He smiled inwardly. They knew what was coming next, and for these men, it was a lot more enjoyable than simply putting a crew to the sword. He turned once more to the Carthaginian.
‘You would do well, Belus,’ he growled, charging his sword forward, its tip just beneath the Carthaginian’s neck, ‘to remember that this is my ship and I give the orders here.’
‘And you should remember,’ Belus spat in reply, ‘that you are in the paid service of the Carthaginian Empire and you will follow my instructions or forfeit the gold you have been promised upon our return to Tyndaris.’
Narmer lowered his sword and turned his head, spitting onto the dead body of the Roman at his feet. Belus ignored the insult.
‘Now finish your work here,’ he ordered. ‘Find out what you can from these prisoners and then fire the ship.’
Narmer snorted in derision but issued the orders, glancing at Belus one last time before turning his anger towards the remaining crew of the Roman ship.
Varro felt a trickle of sweat run down his back beneath his tunic as arguments and accusations raged across the senate floor around him. Only moments before he had stood down from the podium, his carefully prepared speech still clenched in his left hand. He had been unable to finish it, his announcement mid-way through of the defeat at Thermae stifling all attempts to continue, the Senate erupting into a wall of sound. His eyes darted left and right, searching for his father amongst the three hundred white robed senators. He was seated near the centre, beside Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, the two men deep in conversation.
Suddenly, as if he knew he was being watched, Scipio turned to face Varro, the young commander holding the former consul’s gaze for a minute before its intensity caused him to turn away. When he looked back Scipio was once more engrossed in conversation.
His father’s censure, spoken so vehemently the night before, flooded back into Varro’s mind and he tried to block the memory, the shame, the look of disgust on his father’s face. He had not told him of the Greek captain’s attack and had thereafter vowed to keep the event to himself, knowing his father’s censure would run deeper if he knew his son had not immediately challenged his attacker. Afterwards Varro had sat in silence as his father dictated the speech he now held in his hand, the carefully chosen words that had been cut off by the uproar of the senate. Varro had tried to reassert control, tried to shout the senators down in an effort to finish his account, the skilled trap, the impossibility of perceiving the threat, his selfless actions and courage that saved the hastati of the Ninth, but it was for naught.
The reverberating sound of a gavel brought the Senate back to some semblance of order and all eyes turned to the podium. The speaker of the house stood tall at the rostrum, patiently hammering the gavel until he judged he could be heard.
‘In light of the news delivered by Titus Aurelius Varro!’ he announced. ‘The Senate will recess for one hour!’
Varro stepped back to allow many of the Senators to sweep past him on their way out of the chamber, purposefully avoiding the accusatory and derisive looks that shamed him. Again he searched for his father, spotting him once again with Scipio as both men made their way towards the exit. Varro cut across the flow of the crowd, the men before making no effort to step aside and ease his passage while twenty feet away he saw his father enter a small ante-chamber adjacent to the main exit.
‘It is out of my hands, Calvus,’ Scipio said, his face a mask of empathy while inside he secretly rejoiced at the humbling of such a powerful magistrate. ‘The fate of your son is in the hand of the senior consul. He is the supreme commander.’
‘I am not blind, Gnaeus,’ Calvus replied. ‘It is widely suspected that you were the driving force behind the election of Regulus.’
Scipio smiled inwardly, happy that the well chosen rumours he had circulated regarding his secret alliance with Regulus were already filtering through to the right ears.
‘I cannot comment on wild rumour, Calvus,’ Scipio said, allowing a half smile to creep across his face, ‘but it is true that Regulus and I have a long-standing friendship. It may be possible to speak to him on your son’s behalf.’
Calvus signed inwardly. Scipio was one of the most cunning men he had ever encountered in the Senate and like many others, he had secretly celebrated Scipio’s humiliation at Lipara, glad to see his power curtailed. Now, however, it would seem the Hydra-headed former consul was once more entwined in the inner circle of power and Calvus knew the price to save his son would dwarf even the fortune he had paid to ensure his son’s commission in the first place.
A knock on the door interrupted both men and they turned to see the young commander enter.
‘Ah, Titus Aurelius Varro,’ Scipio said, his false friendliness fooling the son if not the father, ‘we were just discussing you.’
Varro coloured at implication and he closed the door behind him, the heavy oak muting the sounds of conversation outside.
‘Senator Scipio,’ Varro said stepping forward, keeping his tone easy, a smile on his face. ‘My father has spoken of you many times. I am pleased to finally meet you in person.’
Scipio took the proffered hand, his own smile genial, a carefully constructed mask.
‘And I you, young Varro,’ he replied, ‘although I’m sure you would wish the circumstances were different.’
Again Varro coloured but with effort he retained his smile.
‘As a man who has suffered a similar fate at the hands of the Carthaginians,’ Varro said gravely, ‘I know I can count on your understanding in this matter.’
The smile evaporated from Scipio’s face in an instant, to be replaced by a withering stare of contempt.
‘Do not speak as if we are equals, boy,’ he growled. ‘My capture at Lipara was the result of a treacherous plot by the enemy. Your defeat was due to sheer incompetence.’
Varro was shocked by the sudden anger from Scipio and for a moment he was speechless. His father bristled inwardly, cursing his son and his inept approach. Scipio already held all the cards and could command any price. If he became hostile however, that price would increase exponentially.
‘My son is clumsy, Senator,’ Calvus said, stepping forward. ‘What he meant to say was; as Romans we all share the sting of defeat.’
Scipio snorted, his gaze never leaving Varro, his anger commanding him to throw the fool to the wolves. Slowly, however, his rational mind forced him to focus.
‘Of course,’ he said, the smile returning to his face although it did not reach his cold eyes.
Varro stepped forward again, his own anger rising at his father’s dismissal, the need to defend himself overwhelming.
‘I am a legionary, Senator Scipio,’ he said, ‘not a sailor. You are right to say that my defeat was due to incompetence, but it was not my incompetence, it was the fault of my captain, the man who should have perceived the threat and advised me, Atticus Milonius Perennis.’
Calvus was shocked by his son’s announcement and again he burned with shame. It was unseemly for a commander to blame his subordinates and he turned to Scipio once more, expecting the senator to berate his son for such a blatant attempt to shift the blame. He was surprised however when Scipio’s expression seemed to show understanding.
‘Perennis,’ Scipio said slowly, allowing the name to hang in the air for a moment. ‘He was captain of your flagship?’
‘At Consul Duilius’s insistence,’ Varro interjected although the truth was that Varro had chosen Atticus without intervention.
Scipio nodded once more. Perennis was still under the tacit protection of Duilius
and as a hero of Mylae, he was near untouchable in Rome. Away from the city he was out of Scipio’s immediate reach but also Duilius’s protection and so for months Scipio had being trying to devise a way to eradicate the man who had sullied his honour, while remaining above suspicion. Varro could be just the puppet he was seeking. He decided to test the depths of the young man’s belligerence.
‘But Perennis captained the flagship to victory at Mylae,’ Scipio said, his advocacy of Perennis like bile in his throat. ‘Surely he is more than capable.’
‘Perhaps he is, Senator,’ Varro replied, committing himself to speak aloud the words that would strengthen his case. ‘But we must remember he is a Greek and has no vested interest in the fate of the Roman fleet.’
‘You question his loyalty?’ Scipio asked, his excitement rising as he sensed the hatred of the younger man.
‘I question where his loyalty lies,’ Varro replied, his half-truths taking on a life of their own.
‘Very well,’ Scipio said, satisfied. ‘Leave us now, young Varro. I must speak with your father alone.’
Varro stood to attention and saluted, believing firmly that he had found an ally in the senator. He left the room without another word.
Scipio watched him go, his mind racing as his previous plans were discarded and new ones began to formulate. He had been content to protect Varro to place his father in debt to him but the young man had put Scipio within reach of an even greater prize and it took all of his self control to keep the look of triumph from his face. He turned once more to the elder Varro, his outer consciousness listening once more to the man’s renewed supplication, his expression fixed to show only indulgence while inwardly a malicious pleasure grew. He had already enacted a measure of revenge against Duilius. Now, however, with the unwitting assistance of Varro, he was ready to strike at the other man who had stolen so much from him.
Atticus sat up on his cot as he heard the key turn in the lock’s brass housing. He glanced over his shoulder to the window of his cell. It was dark outside with a light breeze herding low clouds across the sky, their passing obscuring and revealing the pale light of the rising crescent moon. As he turned back to the door he caught Septimus’s eye. The centurion was also rising from his cot, his puzzled expression answering Atticus’s unasked question. They had been in the cell now for nearly thirty-six hours and while food had been delivered at regular intervals by slaves, they had had no other contact with the world outside.
The door opened and a black cloaked praetorian guard entered. He was flanked in the hallway by three others, shadowy figures in the darkness of the hallway. The man’s height was increased by his helmet and he towered over the seated men, his eyes moving over both before settling on Atticus.
‘Captain Perennis of the Aquila?’ he asked
Atticus stood up and nodded.
‘You’re to come with me,’ the guard said, his voice revealing nothing.
‘Where to?’ Atticus asked.
‘To see my master,’ the guard replied.
‘And he is?’
The guard looked to Septimus again, then to the window, his gaze wary.
‘Not here,’ he replied, stepping aside slightly to indicate that Atticus should pass out into the hallway. Atticus hesitated for a mere second. There was nothing to be gained from resisting. Not yet at least. He turned to Septimus and nodded, the centurion returning his gesture before he walked past the praetorian guard.
Atticus waited while the door was relocked and then he followed his escort down the long torch-lit corridor out into the courtyard. A stable lad held five horses ready and they mounted quickly, two men taking station in front of and behind Atticus as they trotted out of the castrum. It was near midnight but the commercial dockside of Ostia was still busy with activity, some furtive, as starving waifs searched for scraps of fallen and forgotten food and slaves cleared away the remnants of the day’s trading, clearing the docks for the flood of produce that would arrive when dawn’s light would permit the incoming ships to dock safely.
Their way along the docks was cleared without command before them, the hoof beats unnaturally loud in the silence of Ostia, their passing unremarkable to the slaves and starving whose wretched lives they interrupted. Atticus remained silent, his position in the centre of the group preventing further questions of his escort, but he sensed the men close in around him, bunching their advance and hemming him in. He smiled inwardly, wondering where they thought he was going to run to. He didn’t recognise any of them but one thing was clear, whoever their master was, they were not taking any chances that he might escape.
The group left Ostia and headed east until they reached the via Aurelia, the great road north from Rome. They turned towards the city and increased their pace, the iron shod hooves of their mounts reverberating against the cobbles of the neardeserted paved road. As they approached the Servian wall of the city, Atticus could see the bivouacs of travellers stranded by the closing of the city gates at dusk, arriving too late to be admitted entry. They were huddled around pathetic fires, taking solace from the feeble light, a protection from the darkness that surrounded them and the preying hunters that would steal life and possessions from any who slept unguarded.
As the escort approached the Porta Flumentana, one of sixteen locked gates in the wall, Atticus’s gaze was drawn upwards along the towering wall. It was capped by flaming torches, beacons that created semi-circular patches of flickering lights on the battlements and accentuated the black darkness of the wall beneath. The gate within a granite arch rose twenty-five feet, solid oak with heavy iron bands spanning and securing the timbers every two feet. In the light of day they would be thrown back in open invitation to all, but now, in the half light of fire, in the depth of night, they stood impenetrable to the stranded travellers.
The horsemen halted as they reached the gate and the guard commander dismounted. He withdrew his sword and hammered the pommel on the wooden barrier, creating a deep resounding thud that echoed off the silent walls and alerted every traveller within earshot. A small face-high panel opened and Atticus watched as the praetorian conducted a terse conversation with an unseen guard on the inside. The panel closed again and the commander re-mounted. For a minute nothing happened and then suddenly the still air was wrenched with the grating sound of metal on metal. The gate was drawn back six feet and a troop of legionaries emerged, the six of them fanning out with their shields charged. The two mounted praetoriani behind Atticus drew their swords without command and again bunched in behind him, preventing him from turning his mount, their swords charged and ready. Again Atticus frowned at their over-cautious steps to prevent his escape, but he ignored them, his attention taken by the gust of sound in the darkness behind him.
The sound of the opening gate had roused those travellers closest to the gate and they came forward at a rush, many dragging their possessions while others tried to quickly harness their pack horses and ponies. The praetorian commander trotted forward through the gate without looking back, Atticus following in his wake, but the legionaries remained forward facing, their spears now levelled against the oncoming rush of people. Atticus could hear the desperation in their voices as they cried out for entry and he looked back over his shoulder to witness their forlorn attempt. They were fifteen feet from the legionaries when a flight of arrows suddenly struck the ground before them, loosed from the hidden parapets above and the crowd stopped short, their headlong rush transformed into halting steps, the sight of the arrows embedded into the ground before them causing all to hesitate.
The gate obscured Atticus’s vision of the road outside as he passed through and as the praetoriani behind him followed suit, the legionaries backed through the narrow aperture before it was closed with an echoing thud, cutting off the last of the pathetic voices of the travellers outside.
The escort continued through darkened streets, the pitiable moonlight offering little assistance and Atticus was left to reflect on what he had just witnessed. It was inconcei
vable to believe that the gates of Rome were opened each time a troop of soldiers arrived, praetoriani or otherwise, and Atticus was convinced that the man commanding these guards had to be powerful enough to overrule an age-old law that commanded the closure of the gates during darkness.
The horsemen moved quickly and Atticus was struck, as always, by the sense of the pressing humanity around him, the multitude within the walls and at each passing side street he felt the presence of a dozen eyes on his back, observers hidden in the darkness. Within fifteen minutes the men arrived at a featureless gateway in an affluent quarter of the city. They had risen up the side of one of the seven hills of Rome but Atticus could not discern which, unfamiliar as he was with the layout of the sprawling capital. There was a marble nameplate encased in the wall next to the gate. It was shrouded in shadow with only the last two letters exposed to the ambient light, ‘us.’ Atticus tried to make out the preceding text but he could not and his heart rate increased despite his resolution to hold fast until the person who had summoned him was revealed.
The gate was opened without command or call and the men led their mounts into the outer courtyard. The details of the house inside were lost in darkness but Atticus could nevertheless sense its vastness. He dismounted, handing the reins to a stable lad who quickly corralled the horses and led them away, leaving Atticus standing amidst the praetoriani. They moved off towards the entrance to the house proper and again Atticus fell into step although he could sense that the men escorting him had visibly relaxed their guard. Once in the atrium the guard commander turned abruptly to Atticus and spoke to him for the first time since leaving Ostia.
