by John Stack
The sound of voices could be heard through the main cabin door and Atticus hastened his last remaining steps, stepping through the door without check, the familiar space made welcoming again knowing that Varro was still top-side on the aft-deck. The man who had been rescued by the Aquila’s crew was seated on the cot on the port side of the cabin, his head bowed, but his back straight and the single hour he had spent so far on the Aquila had immeasurably revived him. He looked up, pausing in his conversation with Septimus as Atticus closed the cabin door. The man stood, his legs unsteady and he kept one hand on the edge of the cot to help him balance.
‘I am Quintus Postumius Camillus,’ he said. ‘Boatswain of the trading galley Fides out of Ostia.’
‘Captain Perennis,’ Atticus replied, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, a simple request for him to be seated once more. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘We were en route to Taras when we were attacked,’ Camillus began.
‘Attacked?’ Atticus said.
‘By pirates, Atticus,’ Septimus said, nodding towards Camillus. ‘He has already filled me in on some of the details.’
Atticus sat back against the table in the centre of the cabin, his mind flooded with questions. ‘Where did the attack take place?’ he asked of Camillus.
‘We were a day’s sailing south of Naples, just short of Centola.’
‘And the pirate ship?’
‘She was a bireme, sailing under a banner of Egyptus. She was travelling north and as she crossed our bows, she suddenly changed course and swept out starboard oars.’ Camillus fell silent for a moment. ‘I’d never seen a galley move so fast,’ he muttered, shaking his head, his disbelief an unconscious absolution for him and his crewmates having been caught unawares.
‘They boarded us in overwhelming strength, at least a hundred men. We never had a chance,’ Camillus continued, his voice trailing off as his mind relived the horror of those desperate minutes.
‘How did you escape?’ Atticus asked after a moment’s silence, allowing Camillus time to fight his demons.
Camillus looked up as if suddenly woken from a nightmare.
‘When our defence collapsed I dived over the stern,’ Camillus began, his head bowed in shame at having fled from the fight. ‘By the time I resurfaced, the undercurrent had dragged me twenty feet from the galleys. I caught hold of some of the severed oars and kept low in the water.’
‘What of the fate of the other members of the crew? Did you see any others escape?’ Atticus asked.
‘There were no other survivors,’ Camillus said in a near whisper as he looked up, his face once more haunted by the images of his mind’s eye. ‘They slaughtered them all, every last man, even after they surrendered. I saw them, on the aftdeck, at least twenty of the crew. They threw down their swords and begged for quarter but the pirates, they just…’ Camillus’s words trailed off to silence and Atticus and Septimus were left to imagine the butchery that the pirates had wrought.
Atticus stood up abruptly, his fists balled in futile anger. ‘They’re swarming again,’ he spat, ‘with the war in Sicily, they know we’re stretched too thin to cover the coastline here.’
Atticus began to pace the cabin, his anger seething just beneath the surface. Before the current conflict with the Carthaginians he had spent his career hunting down the pirates who plagued the Ionian coastline of southern Italy. As captain of the Aquila he had caught many and each time he had ordered his crew to put the entire pirate ship to the sword. No trial, no quarter, no mercy. Revenge for the countless victims who had fallen prey to the vultures. They were a disease; a pestilence, and Atticus had devoted his life to removing their existence, their stain, from the shores of Italy. Now they had crept once more out of the shadows.
‘And what of the Fides?’ he asked of Camillus. ‘Where did they sail her to? What course?’
‘They didn’t take her,’ he replied, the colour draining from his face once more. ‘They put her to the torch.’
‘And the slaves?’ Atticus asked, confused.
‘They went down with the ship, every one of them,’ Camillus replied, remembering the tortured, desperate screams of the doomed slaves, the sound forever trapped within his memory.
‘I don’t understand,’ Atticus said almost to himself. ‘Why would they sink their prize? The galley alone was worth taking, but the slaves would be worth a fortune on any market.’
‘Maybe they were looking to stay mobile,’ Septimus suggested, ‘taking only what they could carry.’
‘Then why not take the slaves?’ Atticus countered. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Pirates often sink trading ships after they take what they can from the hold. But with a galley, the cargo is generally small; the real prize is the slaves manning the oars.’
‘They must have had some reason,’ Septimus said.
‘Whatever it was,’ Atticus said, almost to himself, ‘it’s something unique. I’ve never heard of pirates sinking their prize before. Never.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Hamilcar’s heart soared as he caught sight of the walled citadel of Byrsa high above the city still hidden from his vantage point on the foredeck of the Alissar. The late evening light was reflecting off the wind-blasted fortifications, turning the entire fort into a beacon which seemed to draw him closer with every stroke of the galley’s oars. Hamilcar had not seen the city in over a year, but his memory guided his eyes instinctively, his gaze sweeping left and right as the tops of the taller temples started to appear on the horizon ahead and he quietly recited their names, his mind’s eye adding detail to each one until they merged into a single entity. Carthage.
Within minutes the massive wall that encircled Carthage dominated the view, a defence which had stood against every enemy in the city’s history, a colossal carapace that protected the heart of an empire within. The Alissar keeled hard to starboard as she approached the city, her bow finding a new course that would take her into the manmade harbours on the southern approaches. Hamilcar remained restless as the drum beat slowed in the confines of the first harbour, the commercial centre of a maritime empire, and the Alissar advanced onwards to sweep gracefully through the porticos that guarded the entrance to the military harbour, the helmsman ordering near dead stop in the crowded waters, the galley resting easily in the calm swell.
The military harbour was circular in shape, a manmade wheel with a raised island as its hub. Covered ship-houses on both the outer perimeter and the inner island dominated the space, an incredible sequence of slips, dry-docks and workshops that could house over two hundred galleys. The Alissar quickly docked and Hamilcar strode purposefully down the gangplank, pausing briefly at the end before stepping once more onto the sacred land of his home city, a renewed determination taking hold of him as he felt the power of the city course through his veins. He set off without a backward glance, his feet taking him unerringly through the ancient teeming streets to the Council chamber in the shadow of the Byrsa citadel.
Hamilcar slowed as he approached the Council chamber, his eyes ranging over the groups of men standing near the entrance to the chamber, searching for the familiar figure of his father. He was not to be seen however and Hamilcar continued on into the inner chamber, his vision quickly adjusting to the gloom within. He spotted Hanno almost immediately, holding court amongst a group of fellow councillors. He had a massive frame, made all the more imposing by a habit of flaying his hands about before him as he spoke. Hamilcar approached without hesitation, his military uniform and the metallic jangle of his personal arms drawing the attention of many in the chamber, all of whom recognised the young man. Hamilcar could see that Hanno had spotted him out of the corner of his eye but the councillor continued to speak uninterrupted, his face showing neither surprise nor expectation.
‘Councillor Hanno,’ Hamilcar called, immediately opening the circle around Hanno.
‘Hamilcar Barca,’ Hanno replied, his deep, booming voice friendly as the group around him opened their ranks further to al
low Hamilcar to stand before the councillor. ‘How is the campaign on Sicily progressing?’
‘It is going well, Councillor,’ Hamilcar answered evenly although his eyes were now hostile, a look only Hanno could see and one which had not escaped his notice, ‘although,’ he continued, ‘the disposition of my forces has suffered from meddling from a civilian outsider.’ Hamilcar spat the last word and as he did a shadow seemed to pass over Hanno’s expression. The councillor drew in a deep breath before exhaling slowly, the smell of his breath washing over Hamilcar.
‘Meddling,’ Hanno said, with a definite edge to his voice. ‘A very unfortunate choice of words.’
‘But an appropriate one,’ Hamilcar said, the other councillors around him forgotten as he struggled to rein in his temper.
Hanno seemed ready to reply but he hesitated, his eyes darting left and right to the group of councillors surrounding them. This was not the forum to reveal his plans to every prying ear.
Hanno laughed suddenly, the outburst throwing Hamilcar off balance, ‘You are your father’s son,’ his congeniality almost convincing. ‘Come, Hamilcar, let us discuss this matter you speak of in more detail,’ he said, stepping forward and taking Hamilcar by the elbow. Hamilcar resisted for a second before allowing himself to be turned and he walked with Hanno to the quiet of an ante-chamber. Once there Hanno looked over his shoulder to ensure they were alone.
‘You would do well to temper your words, young Barca,’ he spat, his face becoming mottled with anger as he brought his full will to bear on Hamilcar.
‘By what right do you change my orders on Sicily?’ Hamilcar shot back, ‘Because of you, total victory was snatched from us at Thermae.’
‘Thermae,’ Hanno said in disgust. ‘What do I, what does Carthage care for Thermae, or Sicily for that matter?’
‘But…’ Hamilcar said, thrown slightly by Hanno’s casual attitude to the war.
‘By what right do you summon our fleet from Iberia to fight your war on Sicily?’ Hanno accused, cutting across Hamilcar, neatly turning the focus of the confrontation.
‘I need those ships to reassert our control over northern Sicily,’ Hamilcar replied, now on the defensive.
‘Those galleys are needed to protect the shipping lanes of the empire. They are not yours to personally command!’
Hamilcar hesitated, his mind searching for a way to turn the argument once more in his favour. He suddenly recalled Hanno’s sudden inexplicable laughter moments before and how he had led Hamilcar away from the other councillors. Hamilcar gambled. ‘Does the Council know of your interference?’ he asked.
Hanno hesitated for a mere second before he recovered. ‘What the Council does or does not know is none of your concern, Barca,’ he replied, a hard edge of anger once more infusing his words.
‘But it is my father’s concern,’ Hamilcar replied.
‘Have a care Barca,’ Hanno said menacingly. ‘These are matters far beyond your reach. I would caution you. A few well chosen words by me in the right ears might reignite a debate amongst the Hundred and Four about your summary execution of Hannibal Gisco.’
Again Hamilcar was forced to hesitate. The Hundred and Four was a council of judges that oversaw all military matters in the empire, including the appointment and dismissal of commanders. By right, only they could condemn a failed commander to death, a decision Hamilcar had usurped after the defeat at Mylae. He had escaped censure however, a pardon he was sure his father had secured.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ Hanno said, making to brush past Hamilcar, ‘I have more important matters than your tantrum to attend to.’
Hamilcar shot out his hand and grasped Hanno’s arm, holding him firm, his fingers biting into the soft flesh.
Hanno shot around, his face twisted in fury.
‘You dare strike a member of the Supreme Council of Carthage?’ he growled. ‘Take your hand off me before I have you and your family flayed alive.’
Hamilcar withdrew his hand immediately, knowing he had gone too far, pushed too hard. Hanno shot him one last look of pure contempt before he strode away leaving Hamilcar standing alone in the ante-chamber, drained by the encounter, the elation he had felt upon returning to Carthage shattered in the very heart of the city.
A complete hush descended upon the entire Senate chamber as the leader of the house slowly made his way towards the podium. He moved at a torturous pace, the seniority of his years that had warranted his appointment to the position of princeps senatus, a ceremonial and near powerless apolitical position, forcing him to shuffle forward and an audible moan escaped the more impatient senators as they waited in anticipation.
The vote for the senior consulship was now in its third count, the first two inconclusive votes merely adding uncertainty to an election that Duilius had split wide open the day before. The first vote had been an open show of hands as each of the two names on the ballot was called in turn, Regulus and Longus. It instantly became apparent however that the vote was too close to call, the scattered raised hands for each candidate across the house impossible to count and so the princeps senatus called for a second vote, a division of the house, where the senators would physically move to the side of the chamber occupied by their preferred candidate, Longus on the left, Regulus on the right. Both sides claimed victory as the final seats were taken but again it was impossible to discern a clear majority on either side and so a third vote was called, an actual count by the leader of the house of each individual senator’s vote.
‘Senators of Rome,’ the leader called out, ‘I have counted the votes for each candidate and I can now inform you that one of the candidates has achieved a majority.’
A half-hearted cheer escaped from some of the younger senators before the silence in the chamber quickly reasserted itself. Duilius looked across at Regulus before shifting his gaze to the senators surrounding him, the division of the house still in force. Scipio was there, two levels behind Regulus and to his right, a distance that spoke of a complete separation that Duilius knew to be false.
Duilius vividly recalled the anxiety he had experienced the day before when he had spotted Scipio staring at him, suspecting instantly that he was behind Regulus’s nomination. It had struck him like a hammer blow but he had tempered his alarm, knowing that to suspect Scipio on instinct alone was pointless. His proof had come later however when Appius, his spy master, reported that both Amaury and Tiago, the two spies he had placed in Scipio’s house, had disappeared. After that there could be no doubt save for one question. Did Amaury and Tiago voluntarily betray him or were they somehow exposed by Scipio and tricked into delivering false information? Either way they were dead men.
Now as Duilius watched Scipio intently, he cursed his own naivety. It had been a perfect trap, the bait impossible to ignore, the threat to his fortune a flawless strike at his weakest point. He saw Scipio turn towards his side of the house, his enemy’s eyes sweeping the chamber until his gaze came to rest on Duilius. He stared impassively, his expression unreadable, and Duilius matched his gaze as both men awaited the next words of the leader of the house.
‘I am honoured to announce,’ the leader continued, ‘that the new senior consul of Rome is Marcus Atilius Regulus.’
The Senate erupted as the announcement was made, the leader’s following words of congratulation lost amidst the cheers of the right. Scipio simply smiled and Duilius turned away. He had been outmanoeuvred by the very foe he thought he had beaten and the realisation steeled his will. He would not be so complacent again.
Atticus left the aft-deck and walked forward along the main, sensing the mood of many of the men as he went, their expressions animated and distracted as they continuously glanced over the side rails. Atticus tried to identify his own emotions as he mounted the foredeck and walked forwards to the bow rail to get a better view of the teeming waters ahead. The Aquila was approaching Ostia, the port town of Rome, and although she was still two miles distant the sea lanes were crowded with all manner of v
essels, each vying for the limited sea room available so close to port. Gaius held a steady course, adjusting it only slightly to circumnavigate the lumbering transport ships under sail, the oar power at his command affording him greater manoeuvrability and he moved through their wakes or under their bows with barely an oars-width to spare.
Atticus noticed that many of the trading galleys did not adjust their course to swing wide of the Aquila and the four-foot bronze ram that sliced the water before her. He smiled to himself, remembering a time, in fact only a few months ago, when the sight of a Roman military galley was enough of a rarity to open a channel in even the busiest shipping lane. Now the Aquila passed like a ghost through the sea lane, almost unnoticed and completely undistinguished, a once exceptional sight that had become as common as the white horses of the waves themselves.
Within fifteen minutes the outlying buildings of Ostia came into sight, the low lying houses of the traders who fed off the daily bounty delivered from the four corners of the Mediterranean to Ostia. These dwellings gave way to the taller trading houses and warehouses of the town proper, an almost solid line of buildings that encircled the docks. The Aquila maintained a course parallel to the shoreline as she passed the commercial docks of Ostia, her course taking her across the inward and outward path of every other vessel and curses spoken in a dozen languages floated across the water from crews forced to slow or adjust their course to avoid the determined path of the war-galley.
