by John Stack
The Aquila was heading for the castrum on the northern edge of the port, the military barracks that had once housed the tiny coastal fleet that protected the sea trade to and from the city. Now it was home to the Classis Romanus although the majority of the fleet was stationed a couple of miles north at Fiumicino. Atticus’s mind was flooded with memories as the Aquila neared the military docks.
Atticus had been granted a place of honour at the right hand of Gaius Duilius during the triumph that followed the great naval victory in Rome. It had been heady wine and the lasting impression of that day had further clouded and entangled Atticus’s attitude towards the city that now dictated his destiny.
Atticus recalled the sea eagle he had seen at dawn the previous day. At the time the sight had triggered something in his mind, a thought he had pushed aside when he spotted the survivors from the Fides in the water, but now he remembered lamenting that bird’s fate. It was a creature trapped between two worlds, relying on the land for its home but on the sea for its food, its life force, its very reason to exist. Cut off either land or sea and the sea eagle would perish.
Atticus had never believed his own existence was as interdependent. He had been born into grinding poverty, into a world where the sea offered the only means of sustenance and the land offered nothing in kind. His only happy childhood memories revolved around the sea and his time spent fishing with his father and grandfather and so at fourteen he had readily joined the crew of a military galley, the promise of open water and a life spent hunting the pirates his grandfather had taught him to hate, enough to sever his ties to Locri, a city which had never given him comfort or succour. For any given year since then Atticus could count the number of days he had spent ashore on his hands alone and he had truly come to consider the sea his home, tied only to the land through ancient bonds of ancestry and loyalty. That belief had been challenged by Rome.
For hundreds of years Rome had been a land based power, a republic surrounded on three sides by water. Its ambition to control Sicily however, was transforming that sphere, extending the reach of the Republic into the seas that had once held her fast and that ambition had quickly enveloped the small fleet of ships that had always acted independently on her behalf. The Aquila had been one of those ships and Atticus had been submerged into a culture that had previously existed only on the periphery of his life. This quickly created loyalties within him, firstly through Septimus and his bond with the legionaries trapped on Sicily and then through men like Duilius, new men of Rome who ignored the ancient lineage of a citizen and took their measure of a man by his deeds alone. Beyond these bonds of loyalty was Hadria, Septimus’s sister and it was her presence in Rome, more than any other, that caused Atticus to realise for the first time in his life, that the land promised many things the sea could not give.
The Aquila hove to with a gentle touch from Gaius and the starboard oars were withdrawn, allowing the galley to swing parallel to the docks. Mooring ropes were thrown and the Aquila was made fast before the gangplank was lowered onto the quayside. Once again Atticus found himself comparing the sights before him with his memories. The original castrum consisted of a standard barracks house with an enclosed courtyard set fifty yards back from the edge of the dock and where once it had stood almost forlorn and devoid of life, it was now alive with activity, a constant flow of military personnel passing through the arched entranceways that led to the interior. Atticus noticed an officer approaching the Aquila at the head of a contubernia of ten legionaries.
‘What galley?’ he called as he arrived at a point directly across from the aft-deck.
‘The Aquila,’ Atticus replied.
The officer quickly consulted his list, his head rising and falling as he read it through twice. ‘I have no record of your galley here,’ he shouted up, his expression now one of annoyance. ‘State the reason for this unscheduled arrival!’
Atticus nearly smiled. Bloody Roman paperwork, he thought. ‘We’re of the Thermae attack fleet,’ he said. ‘We…’
‘Captain!’
Atticus spun around to find Varro standing with his guards behind him.
‘Back to your station, Perennis,’ he spat. ‘I’ll address this.’
Atticus stepped aside and Varro approached the side rail. On the dock the officer’s face showed surprise at the unexpected sight of a tribune and he immediately snapped to attention before saluting. Varro indicated the gangplank with a nod and the officer saluted once more, marching his squad to the foot of the gangplank while Varro mirrored his approach with his praetoriani on the Aquila.
Atticus watched from the aft-deck as Varro descended. The tribune issued terse orders and within seconds two of the legionaries were dispatched back to the castrum. As Varro continued to talk, Atticus noticed the officer’s eyes flash towards him. The legionary nodded twice as the tribune’s orders continued, his gaze still fixed on the aft-deck and Atticus felt a sudden instinctive flare of warning. Rome was Varro’s domain, where his power was at its greatest, where an order to arrest him for insubordination and striking an officer would be followed without question.
Atticus braced himself for the inevitable as he watched Varro stride off to the castrum. The officer remained and instead of boarding to make an arrest, he strode once more along the dock until he was parallel to the aft-deck.
‘Captain, you are to disembark your entire crew immediately,’ the officer shouted, a hint of disdain in his voice.
Atticus was confused by the order. In what way was the crew involved?
‘And what of my men, the marines?’ Septimus asked, standing at Atticus’s shoulder.
‘Your full complement as well, Centurion.’
‘And my ship?’ Atticus asked.
The officer smiled derisively. ‘Your ship will be sailed by a reserve crew to Fiumicino.’
Atticus made to protest but Septimus stayed his words with a hand on his shoulder.
‘Save your breath, Atticus,’ he said. ‘There’s no latitude here.’
‘But I don’t understand. What is Varro playing at?’ Atticus asked, completely bewildered.
‘I think I know,’ Septimus replied and he turned over his shoulder to issue the necessary orders to Lucius and Drusus. The optio responded immediately but Lucius looked to Atticus for confirmation. The captain nodded without comment. There was no other option but to obey.
With each passing street and each familiar sight, Hamilcar began to feel his heart rate and his mood return to normal. These were the streets of his childhood, his teenage years before he reached the age of majority and every corner ignited long forgotten memories. A year ago, when he had last walked these streets, they had been shrouded in darkness, a hurried visit to his father’s house in the midst of his journey from Iberia to Sicily. Now he took the opportunity to drink in every sight, absorb every sound and smell until his heart felt once more like that of the boy he had once been.
With pride Hamilcar noticed the prosperity that infused every aspect of the street, the bustling stalls and storefronts, the haggling traders and customers, money changing hands over handshakes and platitudes, his mind and senses automatically ignoring the beggars and street urchins that swarmed about his feet. Carthage was an empire built on trade and Hamilcar was always fascinated by the multitude of minute transactions that took place every day in almost every street across the city’s domains, triggering events and decisions that shaped the very empire.
As Hamilcar moved up and around the hill of Byrsa, the streets became less crowded, the stalls more sporadic and the loud drone and buzz of the streets gave way to near silence so Hamilcar could once more hear the hobnails of his sandals on the cobblestones beneath him. These were the streets of the military families, the ancient nobility. They were all descendents of traders but now the wealth of each family was handled exclusively by agents, men who traded on their behalf. It distanced men like Hamilcar from the daily grind of commerce and he knew little of how the wealth of his family was generated and mai
ntained. He did however know intimately the power that wealth wielded and the respect for money that was passed down father to son was strong in the Barcid family.
Hamilcar arrived at a modest but stout wooden door midway along one of the narrow streets. He paused for a second, touching the door lightly, feeling the grain beneath his fingers. He knocked with a clenched fist and then stood back. The door was opened within a minute by one of the senior servants, whose face lit up as he recognised his master’s son. Hamilcar returned the smile, touching the servant lightly on the arm as he brushed past him into the outer courtyard.
The house within the walls was sprawling and lavish. It had been expanded many times over its lifetime and the diverse mix of extensions and ancillary buildings spoke to the house’s long service over the lifetimes of many generations of the Barcids. Hamilcar moved inside, his ears picking up the sounds of excitement within and he marvelled as always at how fast the servants could transmit news across the house. As he crossed the main atrium he caught sight of his mother and father entering from the other side. His mother rushed to greet him while his father, Hasdrubal, approached with a measured stride, his hand extended, his expression warm with an undertone of surprise and curiosity at his son’s unexpected visit.
Hamilcar was led by his parents into an informal family room, an area bedecked with couches and low tables, with doorways in every wall leading to inner courtyards and gardens. They talked easily for an hour about inconsequential matters, a year’s worth of daily life and talk compressed with ease and in comfort. Hamilcar’s mother soon recognised a subtle turn in the conversation however, as her husband began to touch on matters in Sicily and she rose to make arrangements for the evening meal, kissing her son fondly before leaving the room.
‘What news of the campaign?’ Hasdrubal asked, sitting forward, his face taking on an expression of intense concentration.
Hamilcar relayed the entire events of the previous three months. His father knew of Mylae, but only through dispatches, and he took the opportunity to question his son extensively on the causes of their defeat. He then listened in silence as his son outlined his preparations for ambush at Thermae, nodding approvingly in places, his respect for his son’s abilities further reinforced. Hamilcar then spoke of how his well laid plan was thwarted by Hanno’s interference and he told his father of his confrontation with the councillor earlier that day. Again Hasdrubal listened in silence but his expression changed to one of anger and then concern.
‘Hanno,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘we must step carefully around him.’
‘Why, father?’ Hamilcar asked. ‘Surely many would think his interference borders on treason.’
Hasdrubal smiled although there was no humour there. ‘There are many that believe the city’s campaign on Sicily borders on treason.’
Hamilcar’s expression became puzzled, prompting his father to continue. ‘Hanno is the leader of a faction within the Supreme Council which is opposed to the war against Rome.’
‘Opposed? Why?’
‘They believe the empire’s destiny lies in Africa and that the conquest of Sicily is a misguided venture, a waste of our resources.’
‘But Sicily guards our northern flank and the island sits astride the northern Mediterranean sea-lanes,’ Hamilcar protested. ‘If the Romans are not held there, there is no telling where they will strike next.’
Hasdrubal nodded. He knew well the dangers inherent in allowing Rome control over Sicily. Hamilcar could sense the weariness in his agreement, as if he had said those exact words a thousand times in the council chamber to no avail. The two men lapsed into silence.
‘Can we thwart Hanno’s efforts to disrupt the war in Sicily?’ Hamilcar asked after a minute.
‘We must,’ his father replied, ‘and soon. Hanno will strike for the position of Suffet next year. If he successfully becomes the leader of the Council he will withdraw every resource from Sicily and the campaign will be strangled to death.’
Hamilcar nodded, sensing his father had already devised a solution. ‘What can I do?’ he asked.
‘Hanno’s faction was in the minority before the defeat at Mylae. Now it is steadily gaining numbers. What I, and those opposed to Hanno need, is a significant victory in Sicily, something to inspire the people and the council into backing the war fully once more.’
Again Hamilcar nodded, a knowing smile spreading across his face.
‘Then you need not worry,’ he said, marshalling his thoughts so as to outline the plan in detail to his father, a plan that he had already put in motion and would certainly deliver the victory that Carthage desired. In fact, he smiled as he began, if the plan was entirely successful, Sicily would be the least of the prizes won.
‘So why are we here?’ Atticus asked, his head propped up on his forearms as he looked out the chest high window onto the courtyard of the castrum. The sun was falling away to the west and more than half of the courtyard was in shadow, but the hectic activity of the castrum continued unabated. Atticus turned to face Septimus, who was sitting on one of the two cots in the tiny room. The centurion had shrugged off his leather breastplate and was tracing the imprint of an eagle on the leather with the tip of his finger. He looked up, pausing briefly as he picked up the voices of many other men, their words muted by the thick walls that separated the rooms. The entire crew of sailors and marines were locked in similar rooms, some larger than others but all with stout wooden doors that were locked from the outside.
‘Why do you think?’ Septimus asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Atticus replied frustratedly. ‘I can understand Varro wanting me arrested but why are the rest of the crew here? They weren’t complicit, they were following my orders. And you, you weren’t even on the Aquila when I hit him.’
Septimus chuckled, ‘This isn’t about you, Atticus. From what you’ve told me, and Varro’s reaction when he came back on board at Brolium, those senators who witnessed you hit Varro at Thermae will deny the incident so I don’t think you’ll face formal charges. In any case you’re not Varro’s biggest problem at the minute.’
Atticus nodded, almost but not quite feeling sorry for the tribune. Bearing news of a defeat was something every commander dreaded.
‘What’s happened since we arrived?’ Septimus asked.
Atticus thought for a second, recalling the events of the previous few hours in his mind. ‘We were escorted off the Aquila,’ he said, ‘practically rushed here, locked up and we haven’t seen anyone since.’
‘Exactly,’ Septimus said. ‘We haven’t seen anyone. We’re in isolation.’
‘Isolation? Why?’
‘Where is Varro now?’ Septimus asked.
‘Varro?’ Atticus replied, perplexed, ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll tell you where. He’s preparing to stand before the Senate tomorrow morning. He’s preparing the speech that will decide his future in Rome.’
‘So? What has that to do with us?’
‘My family have never been part of the Senate,’ Septimus said, ‘but every Roman knows how the Senate works, how the system works. Varro’s version of events has to be the first to be heard. It’s the only way he can control the Senate’s reaction. He’ll have to stick close to the truth but the bias he uses, the slant he puts on the events will be all important. His version has got to show him in the best light.’
‘So he can’t have us wandering around telling everyone our version of the defeat before he gets a chance to deliver the news his way,’ Atticus concluded.
‘Exactly,’ Septimus nodded.
Atticus was silent for a couple of minutes as his mind dwelled on the other issue. ‘So with Varro embroiled in all this political trouble, you think I’m off the hook,’ he said.
‘That’s not what I said,’ Septimus replied, ‘I said there’ll be no formal charges, but there’s no way Varro will forget or forgive what’s happened. Would you?’
Atticus shook his head. Not a chance. He turned to the window once
more, propping his chin on his forearms again as he gazed over the twilight lit courtyard. Tomorrow’s dawn would see Varro fighting the political battle of his life and for one day more Atticus knew he would be forgotten. Beyond that it was only a matter of time.
CHAPTER SIX
Belus stood with his sword drawn but the blade hung loose by his side, his shield similarly lowered, strapped to his left forearm. He was breathing deeply, his chest heaving beneath the metal breastplate of his armour. The armour was heavily scored and Belus winced slightly as he felt the bruise swell on his chest beneath the mark. It had been a good strike, and if he had not being wearing armour, as so few were on the pirate galley, he would surely be dead. Instead his attacker lay slain at his feet, his final expression of violent aggression forever etched on his face.
Belus stepped over the body, and then many more as he made his way aft where Narmer, the pirate captain, was ordering his men to assemble the surviving crew of the Roman trading galley. The Roman merchantmen had fought like demons, like men possessed, like men who knew that death walked amongst them and that none would be spared. It created an intensity to fighting that Belus had never experienced before, even at Mylae, where his own ship had survived a full assault against the Roman legionaries because of his men’s sheer refusal to yield. Belus had now fought in five of these pirate attacks and he was yet to get used to the level of ferocity that marred each encounter.
Belus sheathed his sword as he reached the confluence of men on the main deck. The pirates had circled the disarmed survivors, like a pack of baying wolves, their bloody swords still drawn and charged against the doomed Romans. Belus felt a sting of shame as he watched the spectacle, his honour sullied by the barbarity. In his fifteen years as a captain of a Carthaginian trireme he had always held to the code his father had taught him. The enemy were to be fought until beaten but quarter should be given to those who surrender. On board his own galley these captured Romans would already be in irons, chained to an oar for their eternity. Here their lives were forfeit, a crime against honour he had been ordered to commit and one the pirates did not pause to perpetrate.
