by John Stack
Vitulus squared his shoulders and looked hard into the captain’s eyes. Atticus shifted his weight slightly in anticipation but suddenly Vitulus turned his back and strode to the hatchway six feet away, disappearing below without a backward glance. Atticus stood rooted to the spot, his fury commanding him to rush forward but his good sense telling him to hold fast. Vitulus was under Varro’s command and protection and Atticus knew he would get no satisfaction from the tribune. With a furious scowl he walked past the hatchway and made his way back to the aft-deck, his hand still locked on the hilt of his sword.
The languid on-shore breeze carried a cool sea mist that soon enveloped the shoreline at Fiumicino, dissipating the crimson light of the dying sun and chasing the last of the day’s dead heat from the air. Atticus stood in the centre of the main deck, supervising the work of the crew as they carried supplies on board. It was a job he would normally leave to Lucius but tonight he needed the distraction and in any case, it took him away from the aft-deck where Varro and his guard commander, Vitulus, had been standing for the past hour.
When they had first arrived back on deck, Atticus had been standing at the tiller with Gaius. He had immediately tried to engage with the tribune, to ascertain the details of his orders and to find out where the Aquila would be sailing to on the morrow. Varro had been completely dismissive however and Atticus had felt compelled to leave the aft-deck. Not through intimidation but because he knew the obvious tension between him and Varro would be noticed by the crew and to have the two most senior officers on board at each other’s throats would adversely affect their morale.
Atticus reached out to the mainmast and ran his finger down the newly sanded oak. His finger left a trail through the light sheen of moisture the sea mist had deposited there and he rubbed the residue between his thumb and forefinger. He touched the mast again, sensing the strength of the timber, a strength that was now part of his ship. The thought made him angry and he looked to the aft-deck. His ship, but now not his own. The Aquila had always been Rome’s to command but before the escalation of the war and the Aquila’s entanglement into the conflict she had been Roman in name only, and Atticus had come to consider her his own. Now that autonomy was gone, replaced by anonymity, a single ship amidst a fleet and his command was set aside at the whim of privileged Romans.
‘Lucius!’ Atticus called and he was immediately on hand.
‘I’m going ashore,’ Atticus continued, overwhelmed for the first time ever with an urge to get off the Aquila. ‘Finish the re-supply.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied, sensing his captain’s frustration but withholding his counsel, knowing Atticus would ask for help if he needed it. He watched the young captain turn and walk down the gangway, sidestepping the men coming up against him and within seconds he was lost in the sea mist that obscured the shore-end of the jetty. Lucius realised his own teeth were gritted in anger and he instinctively turned to the aft-deck and the man who was the cause, a second too late to notice that Varro had also watched Atticus leave the galley.
The Alissar moved silently through the dark waters of Tyndaris harbour, her sleek hull cutting through the seemingly viscous waves, their crests dividing perfectly, peeling back to stroke the one-hundred and sixty foot hull before joining together once more in the galley’s swirling wake. The rowers below decks worked without the aid of a drum with only every third row engaged and the other oars withdrawn to avoid entanglements. At steerage speed of only two knots their oar strokes were almost languid, their rhythmic fluid motion belying the strength-sapping effort needed to propel the one-hundred and ten ton galley through the water.
Hamilcar stood at the starboard aft-deck rail, Captain Himilco by his side, the two men looking out over the shoreline illuminated by a thousand torch lights, the frantic pace of construction continuing even at this late hour.
‘Impressive,’ Himilco remarked, picturing the plans he had seen in Hamilcar’s cabin, overlaying them on the illuminated canvas of the shoreline before him.
Hamilcar nodded, pleased that the construction looked well advanced. It was impossible to tell in the dark but surely the end was well in sight.
A look-out approached Hamilcar and briefly indicated a point in the inner harbour. ‘There, Commander,’ he pointed. ‘We can’t see her yet but the signal has been confirmed twice.’
‘Very well,’ Hamilcar said, keeping his voice level. ‘Helmsman, two points to port. Steady as she goes.’
It was a gamble to enter Tyndaris harbour but Hamilcar had wanted to see how far the construction had progressed, even though the necessity to arrive at night robbed him of seeing much detail. He would attend the pre-arranged meeting, knowing the man he was to meet would have a full detailed report of activities both here and further north. Then the Alissar would slip out of Tyndaris, long before dawn’s early light betrayed her presence to the world, a passing shadow that would melt like the wake of a galley.
Atticus made his way up the beach, kicking the debris aside as he crossed the high-tide drift line until he reached the shallow dunes that marked the division between the beach and the semi-permanent city beyond. His vision extended no more than twenty feet in either direction, but all around he could hear the activities of the camp, shouted commands that were muted in the moisture-laden air, the hammer blows of carpenters that would soon cease as the last of the day’s light was extinguished prematurely by the mist. He turned right towards the village, knowing it to be almost one hundred yards ahead and, as the noises behind him began to fade, he slowly became aware of how the mist had isolated him amidst thousands. He smiled at the thought, glad to feel separated from the Romans even if in reality he was not.
Within a minute Atticus reached the ‘little river’ from which the village drew its name. It was no more than a stream and Atticus crossed it at the natural ford created where sediment carried downstream met the incoming tidal waves. The beach on this side of the river was unchanged by the sprawling activity that had transformed the coast running north on the other side and Atticus was forced to weave his way through the beached fishing boats of the villagers, many of them upturned, exposing their underbellies, and as Atticus recognised the different varieties of boats, he silently mouthed their names. He stopped suddenly as he spotted a kaiki, a traditional Greek fishing boat, almost exactly like one his father had once owned. He made his way towards it and placed his hand on the bowsprit, his mind flooding with memories. With the mist narrowing the range of his senses Atticus could almost believe he was standing on the beach astride his home city of Locri and for a second he was a young boy again, standing amidst the boats of his own people. He stood silent for a minute, taking comfort from the memory before continuing on into the village.
In the months since the creation of the shipyards, Fiumicino had tripled in size, its once solitary reason for existence, fishing, now superseded by commercial activities specifically targeted to the lucrative opportunities available in having so many Romans isolated from the city. The main thoroughfare running parallel to the river, once devoid of life, was now lined by stalls and Atticus was accosted from all sides by traders selling a profusion of goods, from cooked food and cheap wine, to medicinal cures and balms. The side-streets running away from the river had also been requisitioned, the less valuable sites making those traders that bit more aggressive as they tried to steer customers from the main street, but Atticus ignored them all, his eyes searching the buildings behind the stalls. Two of them in the centre of the street drew Atticus’s attention. Above the door of the first was a sign bearing a crude depiction of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, her nakedness demurely covered by her enfolded arms. Atticus smiled at the illustration. Love was rarely found in a brothel. The second building, which looked like a former shop, had a different sign over the door, depicting the Roman god of wine, Bacchus, and Atticus made directly for it.
Atticus pushed open the door, his eyes squinting to penetrate the gloom within. A wall of sound greeted him, laughter and raised convers
ations from tongues made loose by drink. He grimaced slightly as he was assaulted by the overpowering smells in the dour room, sweet wine and dank sweat while in the corner a man was collapsed in a pool of his own vomit. The bar stood on the opposite wall to the door and Atticus could see where the internal partitions of the building had been removed to make way for the five large tables which ran parallel to each other across the floor, with half empty benches on both sides of each one. Atticus picked a path between two and made his way towards the bar.
Atticus looked at the faces of many of the men as he passed, his gaze returned intensely by some. These men were the shipwrights and carpenters of the shipyards, skilled labourers who originally were drafted to Fiumicino by order of the Senate but who now remained by choice. With the village off-limits to the legionaries, a man so heavily armed as Atticus was immediately noticed and marked and as Atticus reached the bar, he could still feel the gaze of many on his back.
Amidst the continuous uproar of the room Atticus had to shout his order and he was immediately handed an amphora of wine and a dirty chipped wooden goblet. He turned and searched for a vacant seat nearby, finding one quickly and sitting down heavily, the scabbard of his sword striking the bench with a heavy thud. He filled the goblet and drank the cheap acerbic wine in one gulp, belching deeply as the liquid hit his stomach. He refilled his goblet and drank again, the burning sensation lessened this time and after two more refills Atticus shifted his weight and sat back a little, the wine finally taking the edge off his mood.
Atticus surveyed the room again. He noticed an incongruous corner of the room and he immediately realised he had been wrong before. The building had never been a shop; it had always been a tavern, albeit a much smaller one, which had expanded to accommodate the influx of customers. The walls in this corner, directly beside the door, were darker in shade, blackened over the years by near continuous candlelight. A small narrow bench still remained against the wall, upon which sat three older men, their eyes hooded, their gaze downturned as they spoke together in obvious hushed tones. Atticus smiled. They were the locals, the men who had drunk in this tavern all their lives and who still clung loyally to their corner, keeping themselves to themselves.
Atticus went to the bar once more and ordered three more amphorae, gathering them up in his arms before making his way towards the local’s corner. Someone in Fiumicino owed the kaiki boat on the beach, which meant it was possible they had once fished the Ionian coast. For Atticus, that was as close as he was going to get to his own kind tonight and he was determined to find out who the man was, if only to trade stories about the treacherous coastline that flanked the strait of Messina.
The three men looked at Atticus warily as he approached, their eyes at first drawn to his sword, but slowly rising to finally rest on the amphorae he was carrying and they unconsciously shifted to allow room for Atticus to sit down on the bench, taking the wine from him without comment, waiting for the stranger to begin the conversation, wondering what price he would require for the wine he had given them.
Septimus crested the dunes at the head of his sixty-strong demi-maniple, the rattle of their full armour loud in the early night air. He stepped aside out of formation to allow his men to pass, leaving Drusus to lead them down the beach as he inspected the ranks. Even in the semi-darkness many of the faces were familiar, but there was also a heavy mix of new men, replacements and transfers, men tested in other battles under different commanders.
The men were all legionaries, drawn from the legions and seconded to the navy if and when they were needed. While on board the Aquila, Septimus would endeavour to train them in new fighting techniques more suitable to the confines of a galley, but he knew his efforts would be met with resistance and would ultimately be fruitless as men were rotated out of naval duty and sent back to their respective legions. Septimus smiled in the darkness. They were stubborn men, proud of their legion as he had once been. Nevertheless, while he had them under his command, Septimus was determined to instil respect in every man he commanded, respect for the Aquila and in particular for the men who fought with the navy full-time.
As the last men passed Septimus he fell in behind them and then increased his pace to double-quick time, passing the entire troop before they reached the jetty at the end of the beach. He led them along the walkway, glancing at the other moored galleys as he passed until he reached the Aquila, her deck brightly lit by lanterns and burning braziers, her crew intensely active in contrast to the other quietened boats surrounding her.
For an instant Septimus’s plan dominated his mind. He was going to confront Atticus, at the first opportunity. For the hundredth time he searched his feelings and found his anger was still there, still smouldering from the thought of his friend’s betrayal. He recalled every counterpoint to that anger, his loyalty to Atticus, the number of times they had trusted each other with their lives, and his sister’s declaration of their love for each other. He knew it was not enough; Atticus would have to answer for his betrayal.
The sight of Lucius standing at the head of the gangway interrupted Septimus’s thoughts.
‘Permission to come aboard!’ Septimus called.
‘Granted,’ Lucius called, his eyes seeing past the centurion to the ranks behind him.
Septimus led his legionaries up the gangway and again stepped aside to allow his men to pass. Drusus formed them into ranks on the main deck.
‘Where is the captain?’ Septimus asked of Lucius.
‘He went ashore nearly three hours ago.’
‘To where?’
‘The captain didn’t say,’ Lucius replied. He saw the look of puzzlement in the centurion’s eyes but didn’t venture any further information. It wasn’t his place to speak on the captain’s behalf, particularly when the reason for his departure was a personal matter.
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’ Septimus asked, confused by Atticus’s actions. The Aquila was due to sail with the dawn and it was unlike Atticus to be absent so close to departure, however reliable his crew was.
‘No, Centurion,’ Lucius said. He sensed Septimus’s concern and relented slightly, obliquely citing the reason for his captain’s departure.
‘The tribune’s on board,’ he said, nodding towards the aft-deck.
Septimus followed his gaze and saw Varro standing at the aft-rail with his men.
‘He’s sailing with us?’ Septimus asked, surprised to see Varro in command considering his recent defeat. But his presence did provide a possible reason for Atticus’s absence.
‘Yes,’ answered Lucius, ‘him and four of his men.’
‘Four?’ Septimus asked. There were only three men with Varro on the aft-deck.
‘The other one must be below decks,’ Lucius surmised. ‘The tribune has commandeered the main cabin.’
Septimus nodded and turned his gaze back towards his own men. Having any high ranking officer on board always complicated the command structure, but with Varro, a disgraced tribune hostile to the captain, the problem would be exacerbated and magnified ten-fold.
Lucius watched Septimus intently, searching the young man’s expression. He had always harboured a contempt for legionaries but had long ago learned to respect the Roman centurion, not least because of his obvious friendship with the captain. The thought caused Lucius to look beyond Septimus to the impenetrable mist that still surrounded the galley, its gloom intensified by the darkness.
The three men laughed heartily as Atticus finished his tale, one of them slapping him on the back as he coughed, choking slightly on his wine. Atticus laughed with them, his earlier dark mood now completely forgotten, doused in wine and good company. The initial wariness when Atticus approached the men had evaporated the minute he had enquired about the ownership of the kaiki, for only a fisherman could know of its name. They realised immediately they were talking to one of their own. Now, hours later, the original amphorae were strewn at their feet, their replacements lying empty beside them, drunk faster and enjoyed
more by the three locals in the knowledge that Atticus had paid for them.
Atticus slowly recovered and lifted his goblet to his mouth. It was empty and he reached for the nearest amphora, casting it aside when he realised it too was empty. He stood up and immediately staggered, his fall prevented by the outstretched hand of one of the locals.
‘I think you’ve had enough, sailor,’ he said, his jovial face upturned in the shadowed room. ‘You’d better get back to your ship.’
Atticus nodded, patting the man on the shoulder. He stood upright and turned to the door, taking a couple of unsteady steps before plunging out into the darkened street.
The night air, made cool by the mist, sobered Atticus a little and he turned left towards the sea, his stride steadying that bit more as he brushed past the last of the stall-owners still plying their trade. Atticus rolled his head and rubbed his eyes to clear his mind that bit more but the action had no effect, and he smiled slightly at the thought. He hadn’t drunk that much wine in a long time.
Towards the end of the street near the beach a lone trader stood in the centre of the road, his palms upturned in greeting. Atticus sidestepped slightly but the man mirrored his move, placing himself once more in Atticus’s path.
‘You look hungry, sailor,’ the man said, a bright smile beneath his dishevelled hair. ‘Some food perhaps to satisfy an appetite sharpened at the tavern?’
Atticus half smiled, and raised his hand slightly to dismiss the man. The trader however stepped towards Atticus, ignoring the gesture.
‘Charcoaled fish,’ he said, reaching out with his hand and taking Atticus’s elbow.
Atticus acquiesced slightly, the wine mollifying him. The trader pointed to his stall with an open hand and Atticus turned. It was on one of the side streets, not ten feet off the main thoroughfare. Atticus hesitated for a second, but the trader persisted, drawing his arm around him, and Atticus relented, the smell of cooked fish suddenly making him hungry.
