by John Stack
Varro’s expression glazed over as the full import of this sentence struck home through his mounting despair. Felsina was at the northern frontier of the Republic, a constant battleground where Gallic clans continually challenged the boundaries of Rome. The legion stationed there, the Fourth, was the toughest in the Republic, but it was also the legion with the lowest life expectancy. As a disgraced tribune, marked as an aberration amongst the proud legionaries, his life would be measured in weeks, whether he met the enemy in battle or not.
‘You are dismissed!’ Regulus said.
With enormous willpower Varro drew himself to full height and saluted once more. He spun on his heel and exited the room.
‘There is another option, Regulus,’ Scipio said as the tribune’s footsteps faded behind the door. He walked slowly around the table until he faced the consul. Regulus raised his eyebrows in question.
‘You could spare Varro a full censure,’ Scipio said.
‘Spare him?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘Impossible. He must be held accountable.’
‘But to what degree?’ Scipio said, beginning his carefully prepared argument. ‘I have heard reports from the battle that suggest that he does not bear full responsibility for the defeat.’
‘Of course he does,’ Regulus said dismissively. ‘He commanded the fleet.’
‘But there are reports of dereliction of duty that undermined his command.’
‘Against whom?’ Regulus asked, searching Scipio’s expression for signs of deception, remaining guarded though he found none.
‘Captain Perennis of the Aquila,’ Scipio said.
‘Perennis, Duilius’s captain at Mylae?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘Who makes such allegations?’
‘I cannot reveal my sources,’ Scipio said, beginning once again to pace the room. ‘Suffice it to say they are beyond question and it now seems clear that Varro was not entirely to blame for the defeat. In fact, he should be commended for his brave action in saving the hastati of the Ninth.’
Scipio kept his gaze from the consul, not willing to take the chance that Regulus would see that he was gambling. His ‘sources’ were the words of Varro himself, and as such were completely unreliable, but they served his purpose and in any case he had already agreed with Calvus that he would intercede on behalf of his son, an agreement he would never reveal to Regulus.
‘But what of accountability, Scipio?’ Regulus said. ‘The loss of so many galleys cannot go unpunished.’
‘Nor can the loss of a loyal tribune from a respected family be justified to satisfy the vultures of the Senate,’ Scipio said.
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘Strip him of his rank of tribune but give him a lesser command, a squad of galleys in Sicily,’ Scipio proposed, ‘and banish him from Rome until we win the war. It will give him a chance to redeem himself.’
Regulus leaned forward once more as he contemplated the senator’s suggestion. Scipio watched him in silence, waiting for the senior consul to agree to his well-crafted argument. The lure had been elaborate and the subterfuge regarding his sources ignoble but Scipio was content with his approach. He needed Varro in Sicily if his plan was to succeed but to directly ask Regulus for the favour of leniency was beneath him. Scipio preferred to plant and then nurture an idea in another man’s head, bending his will without him knowing, allowing them to believe that the idea was his own before ultimately doing Scipio’s bidding without even realising it.
‘I disagree,’ Regulus said, sitting straight in his chair once more. ‘My initial judgement was sound. Varro will be sent to Felsina.’
For a second Scipio could not believe what he was hearing and it was only when he felt his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms did he realise that the consul had disagreed with him.
‘Regulus,’ Scipio said, the bile rising in his throat as he fought to contain his anger. ‘I urge you to reconsider.’
‘No, Scipio,’ Regulus said, no longer looking at the senator. ‘I have made up my mind. The sentence stands.’
‘You will withdraw the sentence,’ Scipio ordered, his usual tact now abandoned, his anger making him blunt.
‘How dare you!’ Regulus shouted, slamming his fist on the marble table as he stood. ‘I am senior consul and…’
‘You are senior consul only because of me,’ Scipio spat. ‘Never forget that.’
Regulus opened his mouth to speak again but Scipio forestalled him.
‘You will follow my orders, Regulus,’ he said, ‘or I will withdraw my support.’
‘I do not need…’ the consul began.
‘Think carefully, Regulus,’ Scipio said, cutting across him again. ‘You may hold the title of senior consul, but you and I both know where the real power lies. Cross me and you will be impotent, a leader in name only.’
Regulus felt his temper flare but he kept it in check, the anger burning in his chest as he swallowed his rebuttal, knowing that Scipio’s threat was viable and he turned his fury inwards, cursing his own pride. He had known that Scipio was using him for his own ends but he had dismissed the fact, believing their arrangement to be a partnership, deceived by his own ambition into thinking that Scipio wanted nothing more than simple vengeance, an indefensible lapse in judgement that fuelled his anger. Moreover the election had been a closer contest than Regulus had anticipated, with many of the patricians following Duilius’s call to vote for Longus and so Scipio’s support had been vital.
Now Regulus knew he was locked in Scipio’s grip and with that realisation he felt a reawakening of forgotten instincts, the subtle political prowess that had propelled him to the senior consul position years before but which had become dormant during his time on the periphery of the Senate. He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing the tension from his shoulders in an effort to appear compliant. There would be another time to challenge Scipio and so for now he kept his head lowered, certain that Scipio would recognise the seed of defiance in his expression.
Scipio stood in front of the table, breathing deeply in an effort to regain his composure. He knew the confrontation with Regulus was inevitable but he cursed the inopportune moment, the lack of control that had destroyed his once surreptitious manoeuvring of Regulus’s will. Now the consul would become harder to control, his awareness of Scipio’s ambitions making him hostile.
Scipio briefly examined his motive for forcing the issue over Varro and with contentment found them to be sound. Varro had to be released back to Sicily and Regulus was the only man who could spare him. If revealing himself to Regulus was the price to pay then so be it, for what was power if he could not wield it to destroy his enemies.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Varro sat alone in the study in his father’s house, his head buried in his hands, his mood dark and aggressive. In the background, hidden somewhere in the maze of rooms, he could hear laughter and the sounds of children’s voices, his sister’s children, their spirits high, oblivious to the sombre atmosphere that pervaded the rest of house. Varro’s father had already stormed off, the final shattering of the aspirations he had had for his son too much to accept and his tirade against Varro still rang in the young man’s ears.
Varro stood up and began to pace the room, cursing Fortuna for abandoning him yet again, cursing Scipio for his uselessness, cursing his father. Underneath it all however, in his mind’s eye, he could see only the face of Perennis, the Greek whoreson who had precipitated his downfall. At first Varro had wanted Perennis dead for striking him. Then as defeat became reality, and responsibility and blame were levelled at Varro, he began to see a different offence emerging, one he had spoken aloud for the first time before Scipio, that Perennis was truly to blame for Thermae, that his allegiance was suspect and that he had neglected his duty as the naval commander. In the confines of the study one thought began to consume Varro: Perennis had been at fault but it was Varro who had paid for the defeat with his reputation and his career.
A loud knock halted Varro’s pacing and he turned to t
he door. A servant entered and immediately quailed under his master’s gaze. ‘A messenger has arrived, master,’ the servant said. ‘Senator Scipio wishes to see you at his residence immediately.’
For a minute Varro stood silent, his mind exploring the cause for the summons. A tiny flicker of hope emerged within him and he instantly brushed past the servant. He left his father’s house and turned into the street, his determined stride taking him the mere hundred yards to Scipio’s house on the reverse slope of the Capitoline Hill and he hammered impatiently on the door. It was opened quickly by a heavily armed black-cloaked praetorian. The soldier stood to attention, recognising the uniform of a tribune but as Varro passed him, he noticed who the officer was and his rigidity slackened, the corner of his mouth rising in a disrespectful sneer.
Unaware, Varro continued on into the house, telling a servant as he passed to inform the senator that he had arrived. He waited impatiently in the atrium before being led further into the house, to a small enclosed courtyard at the rear of the residence, in the middle of which sat Scipio, pouring over a series of documents in his hands. The courtyard was warm and still, a small simple space, at odds with the opulence of the rooms Varro had passed through.
‘Varro,’ Scipio said rising, his expression unreadable. ‘Thank you for coming so soon.’
Varro straightened and saluted as before but Scipio dismissed the action with a wave. He was not interested in speaking to Varro in a military tone. He gestured for Varro to take a seat opposite his own and sat down once more. Scipio smiled inwardly as he watched Varro. The boy was an open book, his anxiousness and curiosity clearly evident in his expression and body language. In this he was nothing like his father, a man like Scipio, schooled in the art of politics, where true emotions were buried deeply.
‘I have spoken with the senior consul on your behalf,’ Scipio said after a minute. ‘And he has agreed to my alternative.’
‘Thank you Senator,’ Varro gushed, his relief overwhelming.
‘You have not yet heard what that alternative is,’ Scipio warned, although he knew his lure would be too powerful to resist once cast. ‘The defeat at Thermae was considerable. The city and the Senate rightfully demand retribution.’
Varro nodded, solemn once more, although he could not think of a sentence worse than that given by Regulus.
‘You will be demoted from the rank of tribune to that of squad commander,’ Scipio began, watching Varro intently, ‘and you are hereby ordered back to Sicily, there to remain until the end of the war.’
‘I am banished from Rome?’ Varro said in despair.
‘Until the end of the war, yes,’ Scipio said, slowly drawing the net closer. ‘You have suffered a very public defeat. Your presence in Rome would be a further reminder to the Senate of that failure.’
Varro stood up, angry once more. That failure was not his fault.
Scipio sensed the perfect moment had arrived. ‘There is one way to mitigate this sentence,’ he said, happy with the instant response from Varro as the young man spun around, his hope reignited once more.
‘You must accept the demotion. Nothing can be done about that, and the war still rages in Sicily. Again you must rejoin the fight,’ Scipio said, his words solemn, his tone parental, a protector who wished to save the career of a soldier ill-treated by fate. He revelled in the deception. ‘But perhaps the banishment can be lifted.’
Varro sat down again, his entire being focused on Scipio.
‘I can speak on your behalf in the Senate,’ Scipio said, ‘not publicly, not where the wound of defeat is still open, but privately, in the ears of men who would listen, who could sway the senior consul and persuade him to rescind the decree of banishment.’
‘Senator Scipio,’ Varro gushed again, his face a mask of admiration, ‘I cannot thank you enough. Your intervention is…’
Scipio put up his hand to stay Varro’s words. He did not want to hear more words of gratitude, especially when he had no intention of speaking to any senator on Varro’s behalf. He readied his next words in his mind, savouring them until he was poised to strike.
‘There is something you must do for me in return,’ he said in a hushed tone.
‘Anything,’ Varro said with full sincerity.
‘You told me that one other man was culpable for the defeat at Thermae.’
‘Captain Perennis,’ Varro said instantly.
Scipio nodded, as if he needed reminding of the name. ‘As a senator of Rome,’ Scipio said, the anger in his voice now genuine, ‘it galls me that this man, this Greek, has escaped the retribution he so obviously deserves.’
Varro nodded in agreement, his own face twisted in anger.
‘But Perennis cannot be attacked in or near Rome,’ Scipio continued. ‘He has powerful friends, men who would investigate and proclaim Perennis’s death as a crime against the state. His death must occur far from Rome, where the truth can be hidden.’
Again Varro nodded and Scipio fixed him with a steady gaze.
‘You must be Rome’s avenger when he is out of her reach,’ Scipio said, relishing every word, every second as his revenge took shape. ‘Do this, Varro, and I will see that you return to Rome with honour.’
Instinctively Varro stood to attention once more, saluting with all the passion he could muster.
‘Yes, Senator,’ he said.
With the order given and acknowledged there were no other words to be spoken and he strode from the courtyard with a renewed sense of honour and pride coursing through his veins, never looking back, never seeing the malevolent smile of triumph on the face of his saviour.
Atticus stood tall on the aft-deck of the Aquila as he looked out over the teeming military activity that was Fiumicino. In his mind’s eye he pictured the simple fishing village it had once been, untouched and unsullied by the great city that sat only fifteen miles distant. Now it was home to the shipyards of the Classis Romanus, and the tented city that once sat astride the village now consisted of timber barracks and workshops, interspersed by stone-built blockhouses and officers’ quarters that stretched behind the wind-shaped dunes and housed over five thousand of Rome’s finest.
Stretching along the coastline, above the high-tide mark stood a vast array of skeletal frames, scaffolding for the new galleys that were under constant construction. Each new ship was a quinquereme, designed for five rowers on each bank of three oars, the lowest oar with a single rower, with the upper oars manned by a pair of slaves. They were Tyrian in design, based on the Carthaginian flagship captured at Mylae, and soon they would outnumber the triremes of the Roman fleet, their superior design and power a greater match for the ships of Carthage.
The sound of approaching footsteps across the deck caused Atticus to turn and he nodded to Lucius as the second-in-command came towards him. The older man looked pleased with himself, his normal sombre expression cast aside in a smile, revealing teeth more often clenched in anger when a crewman moved too slow for his liking. Atticus smiled back, liking the man. Lucius was the heart of the ship’s crew, respected by all, a seaman for over thirty years and answerable to no man except for his captain. He knew the Aquila intimately, her every length of running rigging and every seam of timber and he placed her above every other ship in the fleet. When Lucius and the crew had arrived at Fiumicino ahead of Atticus, the second-in-command had found the Aquila languishing by her stern anchor one hundred yards from shore. He had immediately harassed and harangued the port commander for the choice mooring spot the Aquila now enjoyed at the end of a jetty, citing the Aquila’s importance as a former flagship. This greatly improved the speed and ease of her refitting and Lucius was enormously pleased with the result.
‘We should be ready to sail by dawn tomorrow, Captain,’ he said, moving to the rail beside Atticus.
‘Good work,’ Atticus replied and slapped Lucius on the shoulder. He looked to the main deck and the activity of the crew there. Lucius had taken advantage of the Aquila’s presence in the shipyards by ord
ering a new mainmast and rigging. Atticus had checked it earlier and had been more than satisfied. The angle of mast had been set perfectly and the flawless oak spar would serve the Aquila for years to come. Atticus turned once more to look along the shoreline.
‘Bloody quinqueremes,’ Lucius spat, seeing the focus of his captain’s gaze. ‘Fat sows, every last one of ‘em.’
‘They’re good ships, Lucius,’ Atticus said, a smile on his face, goading his friend slightly.
‘Their draught is too deep and the Aquila would run rings around any one of them,’ Lucius replied irritably.
‘But they’re fast and they can ram any trireme out of the water,’ Atticus countered, playing devil’s advocate, wishing to draw out the foundations of Lucius’s argument beneath his obvious prejudice.
‘Size and strength aren’t everything,’ Lucius said. ‘The Greeks proved that at Salamis. What counts is manoeuvrability and once you get behind one of those, they’re as vulnerable as any other galley.’
Atticus nodded, conceding the point, remembering that the Aquila had taken a quinquereme at Mylae. The argument was academic however, because right or wrong the decision had already been made by the Romans. The Classis Romanus would eventually be a fleet dominated by quinqueremes and so the triremes’ days as a front line galley were numbered.
Lucius tapped Atticus’s arm and pointed towards the beach end of the jetty where a group of riders were dismounting. Atticus recognised Varro immediately and his stomach tightened. The tribune was making his way down the jetty, his fourstrong personal guard in tow with Vitulus at their head.
‘Honour guard to the gangway, Lucius,’ Atticus commanded without turning.
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied with a low growl, his dislike for Varro already deeply entrenched.
