by John Stack
Hiero’s smile broadened. He liked the Carthaginian’s confidence. It matched his own. He had granted Hamilcar the use of Tyndaris because the outcome of the war was still very much in the balance and he wanted the eventual victor, whomever that was, to remember Syracuse as an ally.
‘Nevertheless, why reveal your plans to me?’ he asked.
‘Because when my army reaches your border, there is an opportunity for Syracuse to throw off the shackles of Rome and form an open alliance with Carthage.’
‘To jump from the mouth of one baying wolf to another?’ Hiero asked.
‘Carthage has long been a friend of Syracuse, sire. We are very much alike. We seek only peaceful trade, not submission and dominance as Rome demands.’
Hiero nodded, searching the Carthaginian’s words for the real truth. His adviser rose once more to whisper into his ear.
Hamilcar waited in silence, cursing anew the need to reveal his strategy so soon to Hiero, a premature disclosure caused by Hanno’s plans to stifle the war in Sicily, the victory required by his father needed sooner rather than later.
‘And what of Tyndaris?’ Hiero asked. ‘I hear rumours that Carthage is employing the services of pirates in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the west coast of Italy.’
Hamilcar cursed inwardly. The king was too well informed. ‘Not pirates, sire, mercenaries, who are familiar with the territorial waters of Rome.’
The king nodded, a sly smile spreading across his face. ‘There is a thin line Barca,’ he said, ‘between pirates and mercenaries.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Hiero’s expression changed, becoming firm once more, an edge to his voice. ‘I trust you are taking every precaution to ensure the Romans do not become aware of your activities, and my involvement.’
‘Rest assured, sire, the mercenaries are acting under the strict command of one of my finest officers and his orders are to leave no witnesses.’
Hiero nodded again. The Carthaginian’s assurances were hollow and he knew it was only a matter of time before the secret of Tyndaris was exposed. Nevertheless he still believed his decision was sound-if the Carthaginians had indeed turned the tide of the war.
‘Very well, Barca,’ he said, ‘I will follow your campaign closely and if and when the time is right, my army will be committed to yours.’
Hamilcar bowed and began to slowly walk backward, keeping his head low. When he had retreated twenty paces he straightened up and turned, keeping his back straight as the doors leading from the chamber were opened once more. He passed through them and as he heard them close he halted, looking over his shoulder at the intricate designs on the door, the Greek iconography the spoke to the ancestral home of Hiero and his people. ‘If and when the time is right,’ the king had said and Hamilcar bridled at the failsafe approach that Hiero had adopted, the non-committal that placed the entire onus on the forces of Carthage. Succeed and Syracuse would become an open ally. Fail and Hiero could safely deny any pact ever existed.
Hamilcar’s escort returned to lead him once more to the gate of the castle and he fell in behind them. He straightened his shoulders as he walked, his hand reaching for and grasping the hilt of his sword, flexing his fingers as he took a firm grip on the moulded ivory handle. To his front the Roman enemy stood, bloodied but by no means beaten. To his rear the cautious men of Carthage and Syracuse stood, demanding victory before committing fully to the war. Hamilcar and his men stood in the middle, defiant and confident; their only ally the sword and shield and Hamilcar increased the intensity of his grip at the thought, matching his will to the forged iron of his blade.
Hadria allowed her hand to drift slowly down Atticus’s chest as he talked, her fingers tracing the contours of his flesh, brushing lightly over the creased skin of his scars, fascinated by them, wishing to know the story behind each one. Atticus lay on his back with one arm propped under his head, his eyes turned up to the ceiling as he relayed the events of the past three months in answer to her open questions, his voice unnaturally low in the privacy of Hadria’s bedroom. Hadria lay on her side, her leg thrown across Atticus, the gentle curve of her thigh pressing lightly on him, her head resting on her upper arm. Outside the sun was reaching its zenith and the dead heat of the late summer draped the room in a sullen shroud of warmth, sustaining a sheen of sweat on the lovers’ bodies.
Atticus spoke of Thermae but he did not mention his confrontation with Varro, not wanting to alarm Hadria. Finally he spoke of the journey to Rome and their rescue of the survivor from the Fides, his brow creasing anew as the logic of the pirates’ tactics continued to baffle him.
‘And what of Septimus?’ Hadria asked as Atticus finished. ‘Has he mentioned me to you?’
‘He only came back on board the Aquila at Thermae,’ Atticus replied. ‘We’ve not spoken of you since our quarrel months ago outside the walls of Rome.’
Hadria’s expression creased into a slight frown. ‘We must tell him of our love,’ she said.
Atticus turned over to face her, resting his hand on her cheek.
‘Many of the servants here are from my father’s household,’ she continued. ‘They move back and forth between the two houses and are bound to discuss this. It is only a matter of time before a loose word is overheard by one of my family.’
Atticus nodded, knowing the inevitable confrontation with Septimus would have to be faced sooner rather than later, their reunion at Thermae putting them once more at close quarters.
‘I will speak with him,’ Atticus said.
‘No,’ Hadria replied. ‘It must come from me; he must know how I feel.’
Again Atticus nodded, searching his own feelings. Hadria believed Septimus’s disapproval of Atticus as his sister’s suitor was in response to the loss of Hadria’s first husband and Septimus’s best friend in battle and that he wished to spare his sister, and perhaps himself, the pain of that loss again. Atticus had understood Hadria’s reasoning but he found he could not abandon the last vestiges of his own initial reaction, that Septimus disapproved because Atticus was Greek and beneath consideration as a match for Hadria. He knew it was a misplaced accusation and yet he had encountered prejudice so often before from many other Romans that his misgivings were hard to ignore.
A gentle knock on the door shattered the privacy of their world and Hadria leapt from the bed, her beauty pronounced by her nakedness and Atticus smiled anew.
‘My Aunt!’ Hadria gasped, fearing the worst as she shrugged on a tunic. ‘She was supposed to be out all day.’
Atticus shared Hadria’s alarm and quickly covered up. To be discovered now, on the cusp of revealing their relationship, would immeasurably compromise them both and he cursed Fortuna for her capricious nature. Hadria opened the door an inch and peered out, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she was confronted by one of the house servants. Atticus listened to the muted announcement, unable to discern the details. Hadria pushed the door closed and turned to him, her face a mixture of happiness and regret.
‘A messenger,’ she said, ‘from my father’s house. Septimus has returned and I am to go there at once.’
Antoninus Laetonius Capito stood tall at the head of the family room, his hand unconsciously fingering the vicious scar that marred the left side of his face. Septimus sat opposite him, a goblet of wine in his hand, the cushions beside him still crumpled from where his mother, Salonina, had sat only moments before, his forearm still sensing where her hand had pressed against his skin, a touch that confirmed to herself that her son had returned safely.
Antoninus began to pace, his movements slow but fluid, his gaze still the authoritarian stare of a centurion of the Ninth legion. In a low and hoarse voice, he began to question Septimus on the details of the battle of Thermae, his enquiries sharp and incisive, his military mind recreating the conflict in sharp detail.
‘Megellus is a fool,’ he said after Septimus had concluded, ‘he should have held firm in open ground rather than hamstrung his command in the narrow streets.’
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‘The Carthaginian cavalry numbered near a thousand,’ Septimus replied, protest in his voice, ‘and the Ninth was under-strength.’
‘Your time in the marines has softened you, boy,’ Antoninus snorted derisively. ‘You’ve forgotten the true mettle of a legion. By Mars, my maniple would have stood.’
‘Then your maniple would have been slaughtered,’ Septimus spat back, weary of his father’s dismissive attitude towards the marines.
‘And you managed to escape by sea?’ There was a half look of disdain on Antoninus’s face.
‘My duty is to lead my men on board the Aquila.’
‘Your duty, as was mine, should be with the Ninth,’ Antoninus said, standing rigidly across from his son, his scar vividly white on his coloured face. ‘Where is your honour?’ he growled.
Septimus shot up, his knuckles white around the goblet in his hand, his temper rising as he held his father’s iron gaze.
‘I am a centurion and my honour is beyond question,’ he said, taking a half-step forward, his hand trembling and the muscles in his arm tensing, ready to be unleashed.
Antoninus saw Septimus’s stance and thanked Jupiter his son was unarmed. The boy was certainly a wild one and his ferocity seemed to be barely in check. For the first time Antoninus wondered what kind of a centurion his son was and a half-smile crept across his face as he answered his own question.
Suddenly Salonina entered the room, stopping short as she noticed the charged atmosphere, the aggressive stance of both men, and she shot a look to her husband who faced her, knowing he had goaded Septimus, that he had given voice to the disappointment he had often spoken to her about. She suppressed her censure and looked to her son.
‘Septimus,’ she said, a forced smile on her face, ‘Hadria has arrived.’
Septimus shot around at his mother’s voice, her tone breaking the spell of his temper. His mind replayed the words she had just spoken and his anger evaporated further. He turned his back on his father and looked to the entrance. Hadria strode in, her cheeks flushed in her haste and she stood smiling for a second before embracing her brother. Salonina beckoned towards the couches and they moved to sit down, Hadria immediately noticing the tension between her father and Septimus.
The conversation turned towards lighter subjects under Salonina’s diplomatic touch and soon all were at ease, the news of Septimus’s absent brothers, Tiberius and Claudius, taking centre stage. Both were traders and between them they controlled the bulk of the family’s wealth, an estate that had increased with the escalation of the war in Sicily, the demand for raw materials for ship building creating opportunities unseen in a generation.
‘When will you sail again?’ Hadria asked, wondering how long Atticus would be in Rome.
‘I don’t know,’ Septimus replied, telling them of their arrival in Ostia, the seizure of the Aquila and their forced confinement in the barracks pending Varro’s report to the Senate. They had been released only that very morning and Septimus had immediately ordered the crew and his men to proceed to Fiumicino.
‘And you did not go with them?’ Antoninus asked instinctively. A commander’s place was with his men.
‘No, father,’ Septimus replied, and he quickly told them how Atticus had been taken from his cell the night before, his escort unidentified and his whereabouts now unknown. ‘It’s possible he has been taken under guard by Varro,’ Septimus concluded, his concern evident to all.
‘No, he…’ Hadria spoke without thinking, impulsively wishing to allay her brother’s fears.
‘I mean, I’m sure he…,’ she continued, her mind racing. ‘Why would Varro take him under guard?’
Septimus explained about Atticus’s confrontation with Varro at Thermae, his own expression now puzzled as he thought about Hadria’s initial reaction. Hadria’s own face showed nothing but mounting anxiety at the danger Atticus was in, a danger he had kept from her. As Septimus concluded he stood once more as he suddenly understood what Hadria had meant to say.
‘I must go,’ he said, his family rising with him.
‘Where to?’ his father asked.
‘I must find Atticus, although I now believe I know where he is.’ Septimus touched his mother lightly on the forearm as he brushed past her, his determined stride taking him out of the room without a backward glance at Hadria or his father. Hadria ran after him, catching him as he stood in the atrium, buckling his scabbard, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
‘Septimus,’ she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘I must speak with you.’
‘You were with him last night,’ Septimus said as he spun around, his expression furious.
‘Yes,’ Hadria replied quickly. ‘It was Duilius who summoned Atticus from Ostia. He was told the rest of his crew was being released this morning so he came to see me.’
‘To see you,’ Septimus said scornfully. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘We are in love,’ Hadria shot back, suddenly angry at Septimus’s debasement of their relationship.
Septimus was shocked by Hadria’s pronouncement. He hadn’t realised their relationship was so far advanced. ‘He has betrayed me,’ he countered. ‘I told him not to pursue you.’
‘You had no right to do that, Septimus. Atticus is not beholden to you and neither am I.’
‘We’ll see,’ Septimus said and strode out into the courtyard, mounting his borrowed horse in one effortless movement. He galloped out the main gate without another word, scattering the people before him on the street, their angry cries drowning Hadria’s calls for Septimus to come back.
Varro steeled his nerve as he reached for the handle of the door leading to the senior consul’s chamber adjacent to the Curia. With grim satisfaction he noticed his hand was steady and he clenched and unclenched his fist a number of times, a simple distraction that helped calm him further. He had not talked to his father since he last saw him with Scipio the day before, the Senate reconvening soon after and his father not returning to the house that evening. The summons had then arrived at dawn, commanding Varro to attend Regulus’s private room, forestalling any chance to confer with his father, to learn the outcome of his intercession.
Varro entered the consul’s chamber with a determined stride but he instantly faltered, his step interrupted as his gaze was drawn upward towards the domed ceiling and the play of the late sunlight through the vaulted oculus, creating an uneven ellipse that tracked across the room with the passing of the day. The chamber was a perfect circle, an anomaly amongst the other ante-chambers of the Curia, all of which were square or rectangular and Varro felt overwhelmed by the impression that he had indeed stepped into the inner sanctum of power in Rome.
The tribune regained his wits and looked to the centre of the chamber where a massive marble-topped table dominated. Behind it sat Regulus, leaning forward with his palms spread flat on the featureless surface while behind him, by his left shoulder, stood Scipio, his sharp aquiline features accentuated by the light overhead. Varro strode to a point three feet short of the table and stood to attention, saluting with regulation exactness, his eyes staring at a point two inches above the seated consul’s head.
‘Titus Aurelius Varro reporting as ordered, Consul,’ he said, his voice shattering the temple-like silence of the chamber.
‘Varro,’ Regulus said, suddenly standing, his voice laced with disapproval. As the consul moved to his right, Varro quickly darted his eyes to Scipio, hoping to see some expression of confederacy, some sign of alliance after the meeting with his father but Scipio’s gaze was locked on Regulus.
Varro looked ahead as the senior consul continued. ‘All afternoon yesterday, Varro,’ he said, ‘I listened to many voices in the Senate, each one more condemnatory than the last.’
Varro maintained his gaze on the wall ahead, trying to ignore the words, focusing only on the decision of his fate. Regulus continued to circle the room, until he stood directly behind the tribune. ‘Throughout that debate however,’ he said
, ‘I knew only one voice could determine your future…mine.’
Regulus paused for a minute, the heavy silence reasserting itself until Varro could hear only his own breathing.
The consul sat down, his hooded eyes looking up at the stoic tribune. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded and Varro dropped his gaze to meet Regulus’s.
‘You have failed Rome,’ Regulus said, his voice once more laced with censure, ‘and for that you must be punished. Therefore you are hereby stripped of all rank and privileges and are ordered to report to the Fourth Legion stationed in Felsina. There you will serve out your sinecure as a legionary.’
Varro’s expression glazed over as the full import of this sentence struck home through his mounting despair. Felsina was at the northern frontier of the Republic, a constant battleground where Gallic clans continually challenged the boundaries of Rome. The legion stationed there, the Fourth, was the toughest in the Republic, but it was also the legion with the lowest life expectancy. As a disgraced tribune, marked as an aberration amongst the proud legionaries, his life would be measured in weeks, whether he met the enemy in battle or not.
‘You are dismissed!’ Regulus said.
With enormous willpower Varro drew himself to full height and saluted once more. He spun on his heel and exited the room.
‘There is another option, Regulus,’ Scipio said as the tribune’s footsteps faded behind the door. He walked slowly around the table until he faced the consul. Regulus raised his eyebrows in question.
‘You could spare Varro a full censure,’ Scipio said.
‘Spare him?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘Impossible. He must be held accountable.’
‘But to what degree?’ Scipio said, beginning his carefully prepared argument. ‘I have heard reports from the battle that suggest that he does not bear full responsibility for the defeat.’
‘Of course he does,’ Regulus said dismissively. ‘He commanded the fleet.’
‘But there are reports of dereliction of duty that undermined his command.’
‘Against whom?’ Regulus asked, searching Scipio’s expression for signs of deception, remaining guarded though he found none.
