by John Stack
‘Is he…?’ he muttered.
‘He’s still alive,’ Septimus said as he brushed past the second-in-command, carrying him quickly back up the gangway.
‘Drusus!’ he called. The optio was immediately on hand.
‘Call out the guard and detain those three men,’ he ordered and Drusus quickly commanded his men, the soldiers rushing down the ramp, pushing past the crew re-boarding the galley after their captain.
‘More light here,’ Lucius called as Septimus laid Atticus on the deck.
‘Merciful Juptier,’ Septimus whispered as lantern lights laid bare the full extent of Atticus’s injuries. Septimus ripped opened Atticus’s tunic, exposing the chest wound. His hands were immediately on his friend, probing the skin, examining the wound and a fresh trail of blood emerged from the crusted gash to run onto the deck.
‘It’s not deep,’ Septimus said, the relief in his voice causing him to breathe out the words. He placed his hand on Atticus’s forehead and gently tilted his face until his slashed jaw-line was in the full glare of a lantern. Septimus winched at the sight. It was a savage wound, at least four inches long and once again as he probed, the wound began to weep profusely.
‘Will he live?’
Septimus turned to see the ravaged face of Lucius behind him.
‘I don’t know,’ Septimus said; his own words foreign to his ears. This was his friend. ‘The chest wound is not deep, more of a slash. He does not seem to be injured internally but he’s lost a lot of blood, maybe too much.’
Lucius nodded, not really hearing the words.
‘We need to get him below decks, to close the wounds and bind him,’ Septimus continued. ‘It’s the only way to stop the bleeding.’
Again Lucius nodded but he did not move.
‘Lucius!’ Septimus snapped and the second-in-command suddenly blinked as if waking from a nightmare. He spun around.
‘You two,’ he said to two of the closest crewmen. ‘Get below and bring up some planking. I want a stretcher to bring the captain below. Baro!’
The sailor stepped forward.
‘Get your tools and then meet us below decks,’ Lucius commanded.
Baro nodded and was away.
‘Our master-sail-maker,’ Lucius explained to Septimus. ‘He has the steadiest hand and the best eye for this job.’
Septimus nodded and stood up, his concern for his friend lying unconscious on the deck suddenly giving way to anger. He pushed through the circle of sailors surrounding Atticus and found Drusus standing with a troop of legionaries guarding the three men who had brought Atticus to the Aquila. Septimus walked up to the eldest, a grey-haired man, his face weathered and aged.
‘Tell me again what happened,’ he said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the muscles in his right arm bunched as if ready to strike. The man retold the events.
‘How did you know he was from the Aquila?’ Septimus asked.
‘He told us in the tavern earlier tonight,’ the man said. ‘He bought us some wine and he talked with us.’
Septimus nodded, his suspicions evaporating. If the three men had really attacked Atticus, they were unlikely to carry him back to his ship afterwards.
‘So who attacked him?’ he asked.
‘One of your own,’ the man said. ‘A legionary.’
Septimus was rocked back by the accusation. ‘A legionary? You’re sure?’
‘He’s lying dead in the street, along with one of the streettraders.’
‘A street-trader?’ Septimus asked. The whole thing made no sense. Why would a legionary attack Atticus? Or maybe it was the other way around? Perhaps Atticus started the fight.
‘Drusus,’ Septimus ordered. ‘Take a squad and follow these men back to the village. I want the legionary’s body brought back here.’
‘Hold!’
Septimus spun around. Varro was standing behind him.
‘I’ll take over here, Centurion,’ Varro said, his own tone one of barely suppressed anger. ‘Vitulus!’
The guard commander stepped forward.
‘Take two of the men and follow these villagers to Fiumicino. Do what needs to be done.’
Vitulus saluted and nodded to his men. They followed the villagers down the gang-plank and were soon lost in the darkness.
‘How is the Captain?’ Varro asked of Septimus, ‘Will he live?’
‘I don’t…’ Septimus replied, his concern for his friend overwhelming him. He shook off his misgivings. ‘He’ll survive with Fortuna’s help, Tribune.’
‘Yes…’ Varro said, drawing out the word. He looked to the main deck where the crew were carefully transferring the captain to a stretcher.
‘Centurion,’ he said, turning once more to Septimus. ‘Inform the second-in-command that he is to take charge of the crew for our departure at dawn. If necessary we will take on a new captain when we reach our destination.’
‘You intend to sail as planned?’ Septimus asked incredulously, forgetting himself and to whom he was talking. ‘But Atticus, Captain Perennis, needs to be examined by a trained physician. He needs to be transferred to the field hospital.’
‘Then he’d better be off this galley by dawn, Centurion,’ Varro said, anger once more in his voice. ‘We sail as planned.’
Septimus hesitated. To leave Atticus behind unguarded was unthinkable but to take keep him on board might equally condemn him, the uneasy motion of a galley at sea completely adverse to a wounded man.
Septimus suddenly noticed that the tribune was looking at him intently, waiting for an acknowledgment of his command. He saluted his assent and walked away from Varro, determined to keep his stride steady even as his own anger rose within him. In the light of cold military logic, Varro was right to sail with or without Atticus for no man was indispensable. But Septimus knew that Varro’s decision was not based on logic. He was taking advantage of this sudden opportunity to rid himself of Atticus, one way or another. Before tonight Septimus had looked upon Varro as a threat to his friend and he had silently vowed to watch Atticus’s back when the tribune was around. Now however he marked the tribune as an enemy, his callous disregard for Atticus reinforcing Septimus’s enmity.
CHAPTER NINE
Marcus straightened his back as he led his maniple through the main gate of the garrison fort of Brolium, the remnants of the exhausted Ninth legion finally reaching refuge in the Roman port town on the north coast of Sicily. These steps were often in Marcus’s thoughts over the past week as the Ninth slowly retreated from Thermae, in his waking nightmares when the clarion calls of alarm sounded and the Carthaginian horde attacked once more. Each time he and his men had beaten their way through. Each time the enemy had come on again, more ferocious than before, more merciless, making the legionaries pay for every step they took closer to Brolium and salvation.
Marcus had led seventy-three men out of the cauldron of Thermae. Seventy-three men, the principes and triarii of his maniple. Now less than half that number marched in his wake, many of them walking wounded, many of them fighters in name only with spirits and bodies broken by the relentless fighting of the past week. On the third day out from Thermae, news had gotten through that the Second were marching west under Tribune Tacitus in relief. The pace of the Ninth had increased in anticipation of the link-up but the promised relief had never arrived, the Carthaginians managing to hold the Second at a narrow coastal pass, frustrating their efforts to rescue the Ninth.
Dogged determination had soon descended into brutality when news of the failed relief force had reached the remaining men of the Ninth and the noble order of ‘Steady the line,’ a command that signalled that the men should stand shoulder-to-shoulder, was quickly replaced with an unspoken command that marked them all, ‘March or die’. Where once before men stood over the wounded and protected them, now they left any who could not stand, the unremitting attacks forcing them ever onwards. To stand and fight was to die and it had taken all of Marcus’s experience to maintain the cohesion of h
is maniple as retreat teetered on the brink of rout. More than once he had been a heartbeat away from summarily executing one of his own for insubordination, a measure that other centurions had been forced to resort to, but the IV maniple had held together, if only through loyalty to their commander.
Marcus gazed at the men of the other maniples as they began to draw up in the centre of the parade ground, the legate, Megellus, insisting on regulations even now, his iron discipline allowing for nothing less. Every maniple had been mauled as much as the IV, the rotation of the maniples on point duty exposing each to the brunt of the Carthaginian ambushes. At first those ambushes had been sporadic and uncoordinated but they had quickly become deadly effective, the narrow defiles funnelling the legionaries into unavoidable killing grounds. As the Ninth had come closer to Brolium the Carthaginians had resorted to frontal assaults, creating shield walls across the legionaries’ advance. With a humourless smile Marcus recalled with pride that the IV had broken every line and barrier the Carthaginians had dared to put before them.
Marcus watched as Megellus accepted the salute of Tacitus, the tribune of the Second, his own men forming two sides of the square formation around the parade ground. The men of the Ninth looked balefully across at them, their sense of betrayal honed and sharpened over the days they had spent waiting for the relief that had never come. It was yesterday when the Ninth had finally come upon the bottle-neck pass where the Second were held, the Carthaginians withdrawing before they could be caught between the converging forces. The linkup had ensured the final day’s march to Brolium passed with little incident, with only minor attacks on the rear-guard. Now however, as the Ninth stood across from the Second, that sense of betrayal was brought to the fore again, the near full ranks of one legion in marked contrast to the devastated ranks of the other.
‘Bloody Second,’ Marcus heard behind him. ‘They gave the Punici an easy day’s work.’
There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘Silence in the ranks, eyes front,’ Marcus hissed as he glanced over his shoulder. The expressions of his men were murderous, many ignoring their centurion as they continued to stare across at the Second.
‘I said eyes front,’ Marcus snarled, his own undirected anger rising and the men sensed his mood and complied. Marcus felt his fingers ache and he suddenly noticed that he was still gripping his sword tightly in his hand. He looked down at the battered blade, both its edges tarnished and nicked, the guard cracked in two places from forgotten blows. With an almost detached mind he turned it over in his hand, examining the weapon and with a wry smile he realised he had never thought to sheath it, not even now in the safety of the garrison fort. He couldn’t remember when he had last put it down.
The camp prefect shouted the order to dismiss and it was instantly repeated by every centurion, all save one. The maniples of the Second and Ninth began to disperse but the IV remained firm, the men waiting for the confirmation of the order from their own centurion. Marcus spun around to face them. They met his gaze, knowing what Marcus was saying without the words being spoken. They stood taller, proud men. Not for having survived, for that was in the hands of Mars, but for having done what was expected of them by their commander. Marcus nodded to his men and then sheathed his sword.
‘Dismissed,’ he ordered.
They saluted in unison and dispersed. Marcus watched them walk slowly back to their quarters, proud to see that their backs were straight. The IV might be a broken command, its shattered strength robbing it of its ability to act as a fighting unit, but the men remained strong and determined. They would have to be, Marcus thought.
With their victory at Thermae the Carthaginians were poised to advance on every front.
The sun reached its zenith in a cloudless blue sky, its solitary presence in the heavens foretold by the play of the weather the night before. The wind however had shifted north-west to its habitual course, running smoothly down the Tyrrhenian Sea off the west coast of Italy, filling the mainsail of the Aquila with a constant press that begged her to take flight and become the creature for which she was named. The air contained a promise of the season to come, its touch made cooler by the moisture it carried, a foretaste of the cleansing autumn rains that were but weeks away.
Beneath the aft-deck the porthole hatchways remained tightly shut in the tiny starboard cabin, jealously guarding the fetid air inside from the fresh wind sweeping past the hull. Septimus sweated stoically in the half-light created by the lantern that illuminated the infernal space, his brow creased with worry as he gazed down at his friend. Atticus was barely recognisable, the vivid scar on his jaw-line in marked contrast to his pale ashen grey skin, his hair matted with sweat as the fever of infection racked his body. He was stripped to the waist on the narrow bunk, the wound across his chest heavily bandaged, the linen cloth already soaked through with fresh blood.
For the hundredth time Septimus checked the barely perceptible rise and fall of his friend’s chest, placing his hand on Atticus’s skin, fighting the urge to recoil from the searing skin that radiated such incredible heat. The infection had taken a strong hold, the loss of so much blood making Atticus all the more vulnerable.
‘Twenty-four hours,’ Septimus heard Lucius whisper and he turned to the older man, seeing the worry he felt reflected on the sailor’s face. ‘Then we’ll know.’
Septimus nodded. He looked to the gash on Atticus’s face again. The stitching was incredibly neat, a testament to the skill of Baro the sail maker and the wound had remained clean. However the chest injury had become infected somehow and although it wasn’t deep it could kill him just the same. Septimus had seen weaker men survive greater injuries and stronger men succumb to less. Atticus might be a born fighter, but Septimus knew this battle was in the hands of Fortuna alone.
‘He’s still alive?’
‘Yes Commander,’ Vitulus replied, his own disappointment self-evident, ‘I’ve just spoken to one of the crew. But it seems that the wound has become infected. He’s not out of the woods yet.’
‘That fool Quintus,’ Varro spat. ‘If he had carried out his orders…’ He stood up suddenly and pushed away from the table in the centre of the master-cabin of the Aquila. He paced to port side and peered out of the hatchway, his fists balled in anger. ‘You had no trouble disposing of his body?’
‘No, Commander,’ Vitulus replied. ‘I had those three villagers help us take his body, and the street-trader’s, out to sea in one of their boats.’
‘And?’ Varro prompted. He had been on deck when Vitulus had arrived back at the Aquila just before dawn and had been unable to question him on the details.
‘We weighted both bodies and dumped them about a half-mile from shore.’
Varro nodded. ‘And the villagers?’ he asked.
‘We took care of them when we got back to the beach,’ Vitulus replied. ‘With luck their bodies won’t be discovered until at least tomorrow.’
Again Varro nodded. The whole thing had turned into a fiasco and even now there were too many loose ends. Varro knew the plan had been arranged in haste. He had remembered Scipio’s warning, that the Greek was not to be attacked near Rome but the sight of Perennis leaving the ship alone had proved too great a temptation and he had dismissed the senator’s caution, secretly dispatching one of his guards, Quintus, in pursuit with one simple command. Ambush and kill the Greek. Quintus however had somehow managed to fail in his attempt and Varro cursed him anew.
Last night, as he waited for Quintus to return, Varro had had visions of standing before Scipio on this day, proudly telling him of Perennis’s death and lifting the sentence of banishment from over him before he had even left the city. Now he was sailing south as planned, with Rome in his wake.
Varro turned from Vitulus and stared out of the hatchway again. He spoke a silent petition to Quirinus, the God of his family’s household, to intercede on his behalf with Fortuna, asking her to take her hand from Perennis but as he did so a vicious elation overcame him.
He realised suddenly that he could afford for the captain to recover, for if he did, Varro would try again and again until Perennis was dead. If this time Fortuna favoured the Greek then the next time the wheel would turn in Varro’s favour.
Belus spat over the side-rail of the pirate ship as he tried to clear his throat of the foul taste of butchery from his mouth. He watched his spittle strike the blood-stained water ten feet below and his eyes shifted left to gaze at a body floating face down in the sea. It rose and fell gently with the swell of the waves, before sinking slowly beneath the surface. Belus watched the burial without remorse, his compassion for the enemy long since cauterised from his heart.
The horrific cries from the sinking galley not twenty feet away were reaching a terrifying crescendo and Belus looked upon her once more. She was sinking quickly by the stern, the floodwaters of the sea rushing through the gaping maw where the pirates’ ram had struck home. Nearly two hundred men were below decks, chained to their oars with tempered iron and Belus watched as pleading hands appeared in the rowlocks, the faces of the slaves barely visible behind them, their terror robbing them of every vestige of dignity. Belus turned away, not wishing to witness such a terrible death, knowing that Tanit, the Phoenician Goddess of fortune, might one day decree such a fate for him.
The screams faded and then suddenly died as the Roman galley finally slipped beneath the waves, the waters above her churning; a memory of the horrific struggle of the doomed men within her hull. Belus did not mark her disappearance, he had seen enough enemy ships condemned to the depths, and he sheathed his sword as he made his way across the main deck to the hatchway leading to the main cabin below. Only six of the Roman crew had been captured alive, the untamed savagery of the pirate crew claiming the rest before Belus had been able to stop the slaughter. Crucially however, for the first time, one of those captives was the captain and Belus had immediately ordered that he be taken below. The remaining five were still on deck and Belus stopped as he reached the cowering group. One of the pirate crew stepped forward, his face matted with another man’s blood, his eyes alive and furtive.
