by John Stack
The horsemen moved quickly and Atticus was struck, as always, by the sense of the pressing humanity around him, the multitude within the walls and at each passing side street he felt the presence of a dozen eyes on his back, observers hidden in the darkness. Within fifteen minutes the men arrived at a featureless gateway in an affluent quarter of the city. They had risen up the side of one of the seven hills of Rome but Atticus could not discern which, unfamiliar as he was with the layout of the sprawling capital. There was a marble nameplate encased in the wall next to the gate. It was shrouded in shadow with only the last two letters exposed to the ambient light, ‘us.’ Atticus tried to make out the preceding text but he could not and his heart rate increased despite his resolution to hold fast until the person who had summoned him was revealed.
The gate was opened without command or call and the men led their mounts into the outer courtyard. The details of the house inside were lost in darkness but Atticus could nevertheless sense its vastness. He dismounted, handing the reins to a stable lad who quickly corralled the horses and led them away, leaving Atticus standing amidst the praetoriani. They moved off towards the entrance to the house proper and again Atticus fell into step although he could sense that the men escorting him had visibly relaxed their guard. Once in the atrium the guard commander turned abruptly to Atticus and spoke to him for the first time since leaving Ostia.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded, before nodding to his men to follow him down a torch-lit passageway.
Atticus looked around him, perplexed at being left alone after the close attention on the ride. His gaze scanned his surroundings, recognising the signs of wealth that adorned the candle-lit atrium and as his eyes ranged over the various entranceways he spotted the shape of a lone figure framed in an arch. The man walked towards him and before his face was revealed, Atticus recognised his stature and gait. He walked forwards to close the distance, his mind thinking back on when he had last seen the man, when they had stood beside each other on the steps of the Curia and the aft-deck of the Aquila. He came to a stop and stood to attention as the man’s face was finally illuminated. Atticus saluted formally but the man dismissed the gesture, extending his hand in friendship instead. Atticus took it without hesitation, his face breaking into a smile.
‘It is good to see you, Atticus,’ the man said.
‘And you, Consul Duilius,’ Atticus replied.
Duilius nodded, continuing the handshake, his other hand clasping Atticus’s upper arm.
‘Come,’ he said and he led Atticus from the atrium into a well lit reception room.
‘I am glad to see you safe,’ Duilius said, proffering Atticus a goblet of wine. ‘I have heard of your “altercation” with Varro at Thermae and I feared he might try to take his measure of reprisal outside the confines of the castrum.’
Atticus took a minute to recover, recalling the caution of the guards on his journey to Duilius’s house, their drawn swords outside the Porta Flumentana when Atticus had noticed the rush of people in the dark. They had not been acting to prevent his escape, they had been guarding against an attack on his life. Atticus looked to Duilius once more, amazed at how far the senator’s knowledge extended.
‘Varro is a young fool,’ Atticus began. ‘He was ready to condemn over a thousand men to save his own skin.’
‘He is young and he may well be a fool,’ Duilius said seriously, ‘but his hand and actions are guided by his father. And he is no fool. That is why I advocate caution.’
Atticus nodded again, marking the warning from his former commander.
Duilius indicated a low couch in the centre of the room and Atticus sat down.
‘I have heard a full account of the battle from my source,’ the senator said, taking a seat opposite Atticus, ‘however I would like to hear your version.’
Atticus recounted the attack in detail, conscious that Duilius was an avid student of naval warfare.
‘It would seem the enemy grossly underestimated our numbers, otherwise their fleet would have been larger,’ Duilius remarked.
Atticus nodded in agreement. ‘Their mistake allowed for the escape of eighteen of our galleys and the majority of the hastati. Outnumbered, we would not have broken out.’
‘However fortunate your escape,’ Duilius said, ‘Thermae is a significant defeat. There will be repercussions.’
‘Varro?’ Atticus ventured.
‘He is disgraced, but his father will certainly deflect a severe censure, using his influence amongst the patricians. I suspect Varro will retain a command, albeit one of little consequence.’
‘You will not remove him from command?’ Atticus asked, surprised.
‘It is not within my power,’ Duilius replied.
‘But as senior consul…’
Duilius shook his head. He quickly told Atticus of his decision to attain the censorship, omitting his suspicions of Scipio’s manipulation of his intentions.
‘So who is senior consul?’ Atticus asked.
‘A man named Regulus,’ Duilius said and Atticus shrugged imperceptibly. He had never heard of him. ‘My own close ally, Longus, has attained the lesser position of junior consul.’
The men continued to talk, their conversation frequently touching on Thermae and what might become of Varro. Atticus told Duilius of his rescue of a survivor of a pirate attack, voicing his mystification at the pirates’ tactics but as he talked Atticus became increasingly aware that Duilius would have a lesser hand in any of the outcomes they were exploring.
As a Greek outsider in a Roman world, Atticus had found a confederate in Duilius, a Roman through and through but an outsider in his own society, a ‘new man’ in a world of ancient families and the two men had forged a bond based entirely on mutual respect of each other’s abilities. Duilius’s outward support for Atticus, making him captain of the flagship at Mylae, had afforded him a level of acceptance amongst many Romans, a measure of integration into a Republic that normally thought of its non-Roman citizens as beneath consideration. With Duilius’s acceptance of this new position however and his imminent exit from the military sphere, Atticus knew he would once more be exposed to the full prejudice of Rome.
‘It is near dawn,’ Duilius said finally, rising from the couch. ‘If you wish, I will have my men escort you to anywhere in the city.’
‘I do not need to return to Ostia?’ Atticus asked.
‘No, orders have been issued by Varro to release the entire crew of the Aquila at first light.’
Atticus nodded, wondering anew how Duilius got his information. The senator proffered his hand once more and Atticus took it, the solid grip of Duilius’s handshake affirming their friendship. The senator left the room without another word and moments later Duilius’s guard commander entered. His eyes were bloodshot with fatigue and he stood before Atticus with a weary expression.
‘Where to?’ he asked gruffly.
Atticus replied without conscious thought, the lure of his destination inescapable. ‘The Viminal Quarter,’ he said, brushing past the guard, his determined stride matching his anticipation.
Atticus stood for a moment at the south-eastern corner of the Forum Magnum, the main square in Rome, his gaze ranging over the vaulted temples and soaring statues, his mind casting back to the first time he had witnessed the magnificent vista before him. He glanced briefly over his shoulder but his escort was already lost in the throng of people feeding to and from the square from the narrow streets. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the faintly fresher air of the open forum washing some of the stronger smells of the airless crowded streets from his nostrils, the stench of unwashed bodies, of cooked food and human waste, the sweat and brine of a multitude crammed into the walled city. He reopened his eyes and took his bearings from the landmarks of the forum, his body turning unbidden to align his vision with the road leading to the Viminal quarter.
Atticus quickly sidestepped as a runner brushed passed him, knocking into another man as he did, invoking a murmured curse fro
m the irate Roman. The press of the jostling crowd was increasing with every passing second and Atticus could remain stationary no longer. He squared his shoulders and pressed forward, smiling as he thought of how Gaius manoeuvred the Aquila through even the most crowded harbours with ease, wondering what the Calabrian helmsman would make of the teeming streets of Rome.
Climbing the gentle slope of the hill, Atticus spotted his marker on the right, a tavern, and his eyes instantly shot to the other side of the street, to the austere walls of the house of Hadria’s aunt. He stepped to the left side of the street and ran his hand along the burnt brick wall, feeling the texture until it gave way to the iron-studded door that marked the centre of the wall. He paused for a second. It had been nearly three months since he stood on this spot and he savoured the anticipation of the moment. He knocked and stood back. The door opened and he was admitted, the servant scurrying off to fetch her mistress the moment she recognised the Greek captain, Atticus following at a slower pace, finding his way into the atrium, pausing there to wait.
The radiance of the morning sun had begun to fill the open-roofed atrium, illuminating the colonnaded path surrounding the tranquil pool at its centre. Atticus watched the pool in silence, forgetting the last remnants of the sounds that had dominated the streets outside, and he slowly became aware of the near silence of the house. Then he heard it, the sound at first hidden beneath the soothing trickle and murmur of the water. It was music, the gentle notes created by a lyre, its resonance so subtle and hypnotic that for a full minute Atticus was lost in its spell, his excitement overcome by an enormous sense of well-being.
Suddenly, in contrast to its stealthy arrival, the music stopped, to be replaced seconds later by the sound of approaching footsteps, light and fast, a creature in near flight and Atticus turned to its source with a smile on his face. Hadria burst into view around the far corner of the atrium, her run coming to a stop within three paces and she stood suddenly still, her chest heaving under her unadorned tunic, exertion and emotion combining to take her breath away. Atticus studied her face, drinking in the sight; her sun-bleached light brown hair and sea-grey eyes, her vivacity that seemed to charge the still air until her presence filled the entire atrium. He took a half step forward and the movement spurred her to full flight, her agility covering the space between them in the time it took Atticus to stretch out his arms. She leapt into them and they embraced, speechless in the intensity of the moment, and he reached down to kiss her, the softness of her mouth at odds with the firm contours of her young body. They drew apart and stood locked in each others’ gaze; the profound silence between them an extension of their time spent apart, their unspoken emotions implicit. They took each other’s hand and Hadria led the way to her bedroom, quietly closing the door behind them, their restraint immediately abandoned in a rush to rediscover each other.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hamilcar stood on the bow of the Alissar as his flagship entered the chaotic harbour of Syracuse on the south-eastern corner of Sicily, his hand gripping the side-rail for balance, the tunic beneath his leather chest-plate soaked by sea spray thrown up as the galley’s ram butted through the off-shore driven waves. He looked over his shoulder to the rigging of the mainmast, his eyes darting from one lookout to the next, judging the body language of each, sensing their tension but perceiving little else. He turned to the waters ahead once more, his ears picking up the cries of warning on the wind as his warship was spotted by the outermost trading galleys in the harbour.
Hamilcar ignored the sailing ships as they turned ponderously before the Alissar, their captains judging the course of the dark hulled galley, the blunt-nosed ram pointing directly for the centre of the harbour. Instead he looked beneath and between their sails, searching for the arrow-like lines of galleys that sped under oars, spotting a couple skimming the wave-tops as they too gave way before the Carthaginian quinquereme. They were biremes, almost certainly trading vessels but Hamilcar scrutinised each in turn to be sure.
‘Trireme! Two points off the starboard quarter!’
Hamilcar’s gaze darted to the shouted co-ordinates, cursing the fat-bellied ships that obscured his line of sight. He spotted the trireme and he instantly felt his heart rate quicken. Was she a warship? He couldn’t tell. The angle of sight was wrong, too deep, and the banners on the galley’s main mast were indistinguishable from the multitude bedecking every ship in the harbour. He turned once more to the look-outs, trusting their younger eyes and elevated line of sight. He saw the face of one burst into a smile, followed instantly by another.
‘She’s one of ours!’ the lookout called. ‘A trader!’
Hamilcar spun around again, waiting impatiently as the progress of the Alissar improved the angle of sight. He smiled as he confirmed the identification with his own eyes. A trading trireme. His relief made him laugh out loud. Only a Carthaginian would turn a galley that size into a trading ship. She was probably ex-military, stripped and sold at auction after it was deemed her aging timbers were no longer strong enough for battle conditions.
Hamilcar again considered the wisdom of this unannounced visit to Syracuse. The province was openly allied to Rome, a treaty signed after the Romans defeated the Syracusans three years before at the beginning of the war. Rome had been lenient in her terms, the escalation of the conflict with Carthage drawing her attention to the western half of Sicily and so they merely commanded King Hiero to confine his army within the borders of the Syracuse and provide anchorage for Roman ships when required. It was for this reason that Hamilcar had known his arrival was a significant gamble. If the trireme had indeed been a Roman warship, the Alissar would have taken her easily, but Hamilcar could not afford to compromise Hiero’s relationship with the Romans by destroying one of their ships in Syracuse harbour, not now that secrecy had become paramount.
The Alissar moved quickly through the cluttered harbour, the clear path created for her speeding her approach and Hamilcar smiled once more as his crew shouted acknowledgments to the Carthaginian crews of many of the trading vessels. The island of Sicily was a battlefield, but Syracuse remained an open port and trade recognised few boundaries, certainly not in a port that sat astride one of the busiest eastwest trading routes. The Alissar docked quickly and Hamilcar strode down the gang-plank with a guard detail of four men. He ordered his galley to take station in the outer harbour and she was instantly away, her balanced hull turning within a ship-length, her two hundred and seventy oars striking and churning the waters as one.
Hamilcar walked quickly along the dockside, his guard detail ever vigilant behind him, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Hamilcar spotted a Roman trading ship unloading ahead and he swept her deck with his eyes before spotting the captain on the aft-deck. The Roman had obviously seen the Alissar dock and Hamilcar knew his every step was now being watched surreptitiously. He returned the scrutiny balefully and he smiled inwardly as the Roman turned away. Hamilcar knew the Roman would report the sighting but he was unconcerned. It would be days before news reached Rome and a single Carthaginian galley in Syracuse was hardly cause for significant suspicion.
Hamilcar and his men left the busy docks and threaded their way through the labyrinthine streets, the soaring battlements of Hiero’s castle guiding them unerringly to their destination. The streets opened out into a large square directly before the guarded entrance to the castle and Hamilcar took the opportunity to study the east facing wall of the castle, as his first visit here over two months before had been at night. The castle was uncomplicated, a square fortification with watchtowers on each corner and Hamilcar nodded at the wisdom of its design, his military mind searching the thirty foot high sheer walls for weakness and finding none.
The Carthaginians crossed the square diagonally and their obvious military bearing ensured that their every step was watched with interest from the battlements above. Hamilcar approached the guards at the gate and spoke to them brusquely, requesting a word with the officer of the day. The of
ficer arrived promptly and Hamilcar identified himself, requesting an immediate audience with the king. The Carthaginians were escorted to the guard-house and the officer disappeared to return within five minutes with permission for Hamilcar to proceed alone to the audience chamber.
Hamilcar glanced left and right as he climbed ever higher and deeper into the castle, the guards preceding him moving quickly, sensing the importance of the Carthaginian commander who had been granted an immediate audience with their king. Every junction and landing was guarded but Hamilcar and his escort moved through them without check until finally they came to the ornate outer doors of the king’s chamber. The doors opened without command and the escort peeled off to allow Hamilcar to proceed alone along the carpeted approach to the king.
The chamber had a vaulted ceiling supported by a complex series of beams, held aloft by flanking columns that ran the length of the rectangular room and Hamilcar’s eyes were drawn instinctively upward. He lowered his eyes and looked directly to the head of the room. Hiero was seated on a low stool on a raised platform, an adviser sitting on a cushion directly to his left while a detachment of royal guards stood unmoved six feet behind the king. The area was strewn with many more cushions and Hamilcar had a feeling that they had been occupied only moments before, his announced arrival prompting Hiero to clear the chamber. A wise move considering what was going to be discussed.
Hamilcar stopped a discreet distance from the raised platform and bowed his head in respect, his eyes remaining on the king’s, searching for any clue to Hiero’s thoughts but the king’s expression was unreadable. Hamilcar straightened up and waited to be spoken to.
‘You are welcome, young Barca,’ Hiero said.
