by John Stack
‘How is he even still in command?’ Atticus said, suddenly angry, sick of the charade he was forced to play with Varro. The man had tried to have him killed and yet Atticus couldn’t fight back, Varro’s privileged rank and status protecting him. ‘Those cursed Romans have no honour,’ he spat.
Septimus spun around, a furious expression on his face. ‘What do you know of Roman honour?’ he asked, a hard edge to his voice, a buried anger rising to overwhelm him. ‘Varro is one man. He is not Rome.’
‘Who do you think is protecting him?’ Atticus countered, angry at Septimus’s reaction and his defence of Varro. ‘Only the senior consul could have spared that whoreson.’
Septimus stepped in closer. ‘And what of Greek honour?’ he asked.
Atticus frowned, not understanding.
‘I told you to stay away from Hadria,’ Septimus said, speaking aloud the accusation that had festered in him for too long.
Atticus was stunned, the mention of Hadria’s name throwing him. ‘She has spoken with you?’ he asked, his anger taking a new twist as he saw the censure in Septimus’s face.
‘She has,’ Septimus said, ‘and I know of your betrayal.’
‘Betrayal?’ Atticus snapped and without conscious thought his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.
Septimus reacted within the blink of an eye, his hand reaching for his weapon, the knuckles of his fist white from the intensity of his grip.
Atticus held firm and stared balefully into the centurion’s eyes, the urge to draw his blade screaming at the muscles of his arm, the accusation of betrayal flooding his mind. An image flashed through his thoughts, of Hadria standing in her bedroom before running off to see her brother, and Atticus clawed his anger back from the brink of attack, his hand slowly withdrawing from his sword.
Septimus saw the gesture in the corner of his eye as he struggled to contain his fury. He had played out this confrontation many times in his mind but never had he thought it would spiral to his level. He believed beyond all else that the relationship between Atticus and Hadria had to end and he had trusted his friend to end it. In exposing that betrayal he had expected Atticus to be chastened but instead he was shocked by the ferocity of Atticus’s defence. He stared at his friend’s face, seeing there the conflict he felt in his own resolve and he slowly loosened the grip on his sword, his previous conviction shaken. He made to speak again but he stopped himself. Enough words had been spoken and he turned and walked from the aft-deck.
Atticus never took his eyes from Septimus’s back, anger and confusion striking him in discontinuous waves. He looked down to the deck, the map of northern Sicily still spread at his feet, half of it now in shadow as the daylight gasped its last. He sought to refocus his attention, to drag his thoughts from the words Septimus had spoken and from the back of his mind he recalled Varro’s orders. He traced the area that Varro had described, a rough triangle that was probably one of many that delineated the patrol areas of the Roman squads based out of Brolium. One apex of the triangle was anchored in to the harbour where the Aquila now lay. The next apex was to the north-east, a line that ran from Brolium to strike the port of Medma on the Italian coast, the second apex. From there the line ran south-south-west to the final apex, a Syracusan-held town on the north-eastern corner of Sicily, the ancient port of Tyndaris.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Atticus waved one last time as the Neptunus drew away from the Aquila, her captain returning the gesture before turning away to issue the order to come about. The Neptunus turned slowly into the north-easterly wind; the waves initially striking her broadside, throwing up a fine mist of spray until the spear-like bow came to bear, slicing cleanly into the whitehorses. For a second the galley seemed suspended, the oncoming wind counter-acting the power of her oars, but slowly and inexorably the two hundred slaves below decks overcame the inertia and within a minute she was up to a steady five knots.
Atticus turned and walked slowly over to the tiller. As he did he lifted his arm, rotating his shoulder through a full circle, recalling the slight stab of pain he had felt a moment ago when he had waved at the captain of the Neptunus. The wound on his chest was healing rapidly but the range of motion of his right arm was still restricted and even the weight of a sword became too heavy to hold within a minute.
Atticus nodded to Lucius and the second-in-command issued the order to raise sail, the Aquila’s course allowing her to take advantage of the wind and the whip-crack of canvas filled the air as the trireme came to life under Atticus’s feet.
‘Course, Captain?’ Gaius asked.
‘South-south-west Gaius,’ Atticus replied. ‘Where the wind takes us.’ And he felt an enormous sense of freedom as the galley turned neatly beneath him. The Aquila was his once more, Varro having transferred to the Tigris, the command ship of the squad, two weeks earlier when the Aquila had arrived on station in its patrol zone. Since then the mood of the entire crew had lifted, not least because the scrutiny of a senior officer was never welcome on any vessel.
‘South-south-west Captain,’ Gaius said as the Aquila settled on course and Atticus sensed the hopeful tone of his helmsman. He slapped Gaius on the shoulder and smiled, sharing his hope that today they would finally encounter the enemy and take back some measure of their loss at Thermae.
The past two weeks had been frustrating, with the Aquila patrolling at random, expecting each day to encounter an enemy galley, believing that the Carthaginians were perhaps emboldened enough by their victory at Thermae to venture east beyond Brolium. But each day had ended in frustration as the Aquila sailed through seas devoid of enemy ships and it was only morale that kept the crew sharp as inactivity chafed the nerves of all on board.
That frustration was compounded by the possibility that a second enemy was active in the area. The other captains spoke of reports of at least a half-dozen ships that had disappeared in the waters around the north-eastern tip of Sicily, ships that were known to be on a southerly course from Rome that had not arrived at their destination. These were the kind of reports that incensed the crew of the Aquila and they had accepted with relish the order that once more turned their galley into the pirate-hunter she was born to be.
‘Well?’ a voice asked and Atticus turned to find Septimus coming up from the main deck.
‘Nothing yet,’ Atticus replied, ‘but the rumours from the traders the Neptunus has stopped are the same as before.’
Septimus nodded and stood beside Atticus, looking past him to the departing Roman galley. Atticus stood easy, his hand resting lightly on the tiller. They had not spoken of their confrontation again in the previous two weeks and the tension between them had eventually dissipated, the unresolved conflict concealed by the routine of command and friendship.
‘You still think it’s pirates?’ Septimus asked.
Atticus nodded, trusting his instincts.
‘I don’t think it’s the Carthaginians,’ he said, reiterating his argument. ‘What reason would they have for capturing or sinking such a small number of ships? More importantly, not one ship has escaped to describe their attacker which means that each one was caught by complete surprise. Only a captain with local knowledge would know the best spots along the coast to ambush a passing ship.’
Septimus nodded, accepting the argument. ‘So it must be pirates,’ he said.
‘It must be…’ Atticus replied, his voice low, his thoughts still forming in his mind.
‘But…’ Septimus said, sensing Atticus’s hesitation.
‘I keep thinking of what Camillus, the survivor from the Fides, said,’ Atticus said, again lapsing into deep thought.
‘He said the pirates sunk the Fides after they captured it, slaves and all. A valuable prize,’ Atticus began. ‘And now every rumour speaks of ships disappearing without a trace. Not found drifting with their holds empty or beached with their complement of slaves taken, just disappeared as if they too were sunk. It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Whoever they are,’ Septim
us concluded, ‘it’s only a matter of time before they run into one of our galleys.’
Atticus shrugged. He was unsure if the other crews were searching specifically for the pirates. Certainly no general order to that effect had been received from Varro, but even if the Roman galleys were tasked with patrolling for Carthaginian ships, it would be unlikely that they would allow a pirate ship to pass unchallenged. Either way, up until now, Fortuna had been on the side of the pirates.
Atticus glanced over his shoulder one last time as the Neptunus grew smaller in the distance. Beyond her the horizon was clear as it was off all four points of the Aquila, a featureless seascape but one where a galley could hide if she were commanded by the right crew. In addition the ancient shoreline of Italy was littered with blind coves and headlands, a multitude of lairs for a predatory galley. To catch her, Fortuna’s wheel would need to turn in the Aquila’s favour or Atticus would have to turn the wheel for her. Armed with a crew and a galley that had hunted pirates for years that task might just be possible.
Regulus sighed irritably as his servant announced that Scipio had arrived and was waiting in the atrium. For a second Regulus was tempted to say that he was unavailable but he immediately thought better of it. He would have to confront Scipio sooner or later and as he felt more confident within the walls of his own house, now would be the most opportune time.
Regulus had left the Curia immediately at sundown, the traditional time of day when all discussion and debate was suspended in the Senate, in the hope of postponing this confrontation but even as he left, Regulus recalled thinking how futile his efforts were. In Rome the Senate might close with the setting of the sun but the Senate’s business continued regardless of the heavens and Regulus knew he could not avoid this conversation.
The senior consul half-stood as Scipio entered the room, keeping his expression neutral, matching the senator’s renowned ability to hide his inner thoughts. Over the previous weeks Regulus had tried to become adept at reading Scipio’s thoughts but to no avail, the senator’s serpentine nature constantly making a mockery of his efforts. On this night however Regulus felt sure he knew what was on Scipio’s mind and he became even more guarded, knowing that Scipio’s anger was lurking just beneath the surface.
‘The hour is late, Senator,’ Regulus said, keeping his tone even. ‘You wished to see me?’
‘Who in Hades do you think you are?’ Scipio exploded, his veneer of composure suddenly cast aside.
Regulus bristled at the words, his own vow to remain calm forgotten as his patience evaporated. ‘I am the senior consul of Rome!’ he shouted, stepping forward to meet Scipio in the centre of the room.
Scipio laughed derisively, ‘You are nothing, Regulus. You are a fool who has forgotten his place.’
‘My place, Senator,’ Regulus growled, ‘is wherever I see fit.’
‘No, Regulus,’ Scipio said, drawing himself to his full height, his hands bunched by his side. ‘You have gone too far this time. You will withdraw your announcement.’
Now it was Regulus’s turn to laugh sardonically. He turned from Scipio and walked back to his seat, taking his goblet of wine from the table as he did. He recalled the moment in the Senate only hours before when he announced that he would travel to Sicily. The campaign there was in turmoil, with the Carthaginians pushing eastward beyond Enna and the legions struggling to contain the advance in the rugged mountains, unable to bring their superior fighting skills to bear in the hostile terrain. As senior consul, Regulus had felt compelled to act and he remembered the pride he had felt when his announcement was cheered by the Senate, a spontaneous endorsement of his decision.
He had immediately looked to Scipio, knowing that his undisclosed decision would anger him, but he had been unprepared for the unbridled wrath he had seen written on the senator’s face. He took a drink from his wine, feeling confident that his decision had been wise. He turned once more to Scipio, recommitting himself as he saw the hostility in the senator’s eyes.
‘My decision and my announcement stand, Scipio,’ he began. ‘Rome needs me and I have answered her call.’
‘Rome needs you,’ Scipio spat, a mocking smile on his face at the pomposity of Regulus’s words. ‘What Rome needs is for me to decide, not you.’
‘You cannot hold me here,’ Regulus replied and Scipio realised for the first time, as he noticed a new confidence in the consul’s voice, that his grip on power was slipping. Regulus’s decision to travel to Sicily was a body blow to Scipio. With the senior consul away, leadership of the Senate would pass to Longus, the junior partner and a man completely beyond Scipio’s control.
Scipio was furious with himself. He had not foreseen that Regulus would become his own man and he couldn’t believe that it had happened so soon. With the revelation of his true intentions weeks earlier when they had first clashed Scipio knew his control of Regulus would become more tenuous but he had thought that his initial assessment of Regulus’s character was still sound, that the consul would bend to his superior will and that Regulus’s aspirations did not go beyond the title and trappings of the position of senior consul.
Scipio now knew that he had ignored his own doubts about his plan when he first noticed a new hostility emerging from within Regulus. Coupled with this the consul had unwittingly begun to gain support in his own right amongst many of the senators and the Senate’s endorsement of Regulus’s announcement earlier that day bore full testament to that support.
Scipio silently cursed Regulus as he watched the senior consul retake his seat, but this turned to a malevolent smile as he noticed again the consul’s manner, the proud bearing that was fully suggestive of his confidence. Therein lay his demise, Scipio thought and he turned to leave the room without another word, satisfied, for now, for Regulus to believe that he had triumphed.
Hamilcar Barca walked slowly along the shore, his gaze ranging over the final stages of construction, the air filled with the sound of hammering and shouted commands. He knew he should feel tired, for he had barely slept over the previous two weeks, but anticipation was fuelling his energy and the sights around him continually commanded his full attention. He stopped at the head of one of the many jetties, his mind’s eye already seeing the serried ranks of galleys that would soon be moored there and again his mind ranged over the events and details that needed to transpire before that vision would become a reality. He turned in the soft sand and looked down to his feet. The beach had been churned by a thousand footfalls, the slaves’ bare footprints mixed with the prints of sandaled feet of the tradesmen who had been drafted in to the site. Hamilcar traced the signs of his own hob-nailed sandals and once again he was given over to imagine when the sand would show only prints of his kind.
Over the previous two weeks Hamilcar had received one report after another, each one keeping him apace with events on all fronts. In Carthage the fleets were assembling, the military port which could house two hundred galleys already full and the navy had resorted to commandeering parts of the commercial port to house the excess. Sixty miles south-west from where Hamilcar stood, his forces had pushed past Enna and were skirmishing with the Romans, driving relentlessly eastward. They would reach the border of Syracuse within a week. One final report, received only two days before had come from Hiero through an emissary. Ostensibly the emissary had enquired about the security arrangements at Tyndaris but Hamilcar had quickly noticed that the Syracusan’s eyes had taken in every detail of the port and Hamilcar had taken the opportunity to mention the progress of his fleet and land forces, knowing that Hiero would hear his words within days.
Hamilcar looked to the sun setting rapidly in the west, the drop in temperature tempting a light cloud cover to appear on that horizon while over his shoulder, in the eastern sky, the full moon was beginning her climb into the heavens. Hamilcar’s thoughts drifted to Belus and his imminent return, the phase of the moon signalling the pre-determined end to his task. Perhaps he would arrive on the morrow and Hamilcar utter a silent p
rayer to Tanit that the information he would bring would confirm his earlier reports. Armed with that confirmation Hamilcar would be poised to strike and he suddenly felt impatient, the culmination of so many months of planning hinging on one final report.
Belus smiled in the twilight as he watched the full moon rise over the bow of the pirate galley. The moon looked unusually large in perspective and he savoured the sight that marked the end of his time on the pirate galley. Belus looked away and turned towards the darkening sea, blinking his eyes to clear them of the residual image of the moon as he once more marshalled his thoughts, sifting the information he had gathered since he had last seen his commander.
The crux of his report involved security and the perceived opportunity to take the Romans by surprise. On this point he was now sure, the evidence overwhelming and he smiled without thinking as he imagined the reaction of Hamilcar to the news. The smile dissipated quickly as Belus was reminded of the primary source of this vital information, the Roman captain still recovering below decks. Too many times over the previous days, when Belus had gone to check on the Roman, he had found himself examining his decision to spare him. More than once his conviction had faltered, even when faced with the sight of the Roman’s broken body. Rome was the enemy, the aggressor who had precipitated the conflict on Sicily until the only option left to Carthage was total war. The sons of Rome therefore deserved no mercy, whether trader or soldier, for victory could not be achieved through halfmeasures. And yet, more often than not, Belus knew he was right to spare the captain. He firmly believed the Romans were no better than wolves, creatures totally without honour that corrupted all they touched. If Carthage was to prevail and remain unsullied by the conflict, Belus knew her sons needed to remain honourable. The Roman captain had been a worthy adversary and Belus would treat him as such. Once the impending campaign was underway, he would release him back to his people.
