by John Stack
Atticus’s fever had broken the day before, two days out from Rome. He remembered waking up in the darkened cabin, feeling numb and breathless, unable to move. His mind had screamed panic in the darkness, a sudden vision of Hades sweeping through his thoughts and he had tried to scream. He could feel his arms flailing and then suddenly an unyielding hand gripped his own, holding it tightly, steadying his nerve. He drifted back into darkness and when he opened his eyes again the room was brighter, the hatch above him opened to allow in the fresh sea breeze. Atticus felt pain for the first time and his hands touched the wounds on his chest and face, his mind replaying the frenzied fight in the dark alleyway. He thanked Fortuna that the wounds seemed minor, allaying the deep fear that affected all men, that in battle they might suffer a grievous wound, the loss of a limb or worst still, loss of sight. Atticus had seen too many veterans begging on the streets of the Republic, pitiful wretches who had once worn the armour of Rome but now relied on the alms of strangers.
Atticus had tried to rise from the cot but he had been too weak and so he had to suffer the ignominy of being carried up to the aft-deck by two of his crew. He had quickly shrugged off the indignity as he took his first breath of cleansing salt-laden air and so now he was content to sit in silence.
Approaching footsteps distracted Atticus and he looked up to see Septimus walk towards him. He had not seen his friend for many days and he smiled, a gesture that was returned by the centurion.
‘That scar will certainly improve your looks,’ Septimus said as he crouched down beside the captain.
Atticus’s smiled deepened at the gibe and his hand reached unconsciously for his face.
‘You should see the other guy,’ Atticus replied, a shadow passing over his face as he remembered the fight once more.
‘He was a legionary, Septimus,’ Atticus said, all vestige of humour gone from his face.
‘I know,’ Septimus replied, instinctively glancing over his shoulder to ensure they could not be overheard. He quickly relayed the sequence of events after Atticus had been carried back to the Aquila, concluding with Vitulus’s lie the next day and the missing guardsman.
Atticus’s face coloured as he listened to the words, his eyes searching past Septimus to the deck beyond, seeking out the figure of Varro. The tribune was not on deck.
‘Vitulus said the villagers escaped?’ Atticus asked.
Septimus nodded, ‘He said they did but I find it hard to believe.’
Atticus looked away again, this time to utter a silent plea to Poseidon in the hope that the fishermen had indeed escaped.
‘So the whoreson tried to have me killed,’ Atticus said, unconsciously touching his face once more. By speaking the accusation aloud he set aside any lingering doubt he had that Varro was behind the attack.
Septimus nodded, ‘And he’s sure to try again,’ he said.
‘Lower sail and secure! Orders to the drum master; standard speed!’ Both men turned at the sound of Lucius’s shout.
Then Septimus turned back, ‘Brolium,’ he said. ‘Now maybe we’ll find out what we’re doing here.’
Atticus nodded but then his expression froze as he spotted Varro emerge from below decks with his personal guard. Septimus saw his friend’s face twist into an angry frown and he moved over to hide the expression from the tribune.
‘Stand fast, Atticus,’ he warned. ‘Remember Varro doesn’t know we suspect him and if we want to stay a step ahead we need to keep it that way.’
Atticus seemed not to hear and he strained to look beyond Septimus once more.
‘Atticus!’ Septimus insisted and the captain relented.
Septimus rose and he walked down from the aft-deck to the main. Varro was standing by the side-rail as the Aquila was brought to steerage speed, ready for docking.
‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus asked as he saluted.
‘Stay on station and await my return,’ Varro replied. He looked beyond the centurion, spying the captain seated at the rear of the galley.
‘How is the Captain?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone even.
‘He’ll recover,’ Septimus said, equally expressionless, ‘so it looks like we won’t need a replacement.’
Varro shot his eyes back to Septimus at the remark but the centurion looked stonily beyond him. The crashing sound of the gangplank hitting the dock caused him to turn and he gave Septimus one last look before descending, Vitulus and the others following in turn. Only when they were gone did Septimus smile before returning to the aft-deck.
Hamilcar moved slowly around the ante-chamber, occasionally looking up to glance through the open door that led to the meeting room of the supreme council of Carthage. Many of the twelve council members had already assembled, standing in small groups, their conversations never rising above a whisper.
‘Speak directly to the suffet,’ Hamilcar’s father, Hasdrubal, said. ‘His approval must be your priority. Do not look to me or any other member of the council.’
Hamilcar nodded.
‘Hanno will try to disrupt you,’ Hasdrubal continued. ‘Do not let him draw you into an argument.’
‘I will be ready for him,’ Hamilcar said, a slight edge to his voice.
Two more members of the council passed through the ante-chamber and Hamilcar nodded to them both. They ignored the gesture and continued on.
‘Those men will side with Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said. ‘Regardless of the merits of your plan.’
Hamilcar nodded again, silently cursing Hanno for his opposition. The evening before Hamilcar had outlined his plan to the One-hundred-and-four, the council who oversaw military matters in the empire. They were men like Hamilcar, every one of them former commanders, experienced and practical men who had probed Hamilcar’s plans with informed questions. After hours of debate they had voted and approved Hamilcar’s strategy. Now only one final hurdle remained; Hamilcar’s proposal called for a dramatic increase in the size of the fleet and for a shift in the power base of its composition, from triremes to quinqueremes. For this expenditure he needed the approval of the supreme council.
‘How many members of the council does Hanno control?’ Hamilcar asked.
Hasdrubal looked over his shoulder to the open chamber door, wary of being overheard. He turned to his son.
‘Four council members openly support Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said, his voice low. ‘Of the other seven members of the council, I and two others openly support continuing the Sicilian campaign while the remaining four, including the suffet, are undecided.’
‘My strategy will win their support,’ Hamilcar said confidently. ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already given me theirs.’
Hasdrubal nodded but a frown creased the edge of his expression. ‘There is one aspect of your plan that might make some of these men hostile to you.’
Hamilcar looked to his father enquiringly.
Hasdrubal looked directly at his son. ‘Hanno has let it be known amongst the council members that you are using pirates to gather information on the Romans,’ he said.
‘But how could he…?’ Hamilcar asked.
‘Hanno has many spies in this city,’ Hasdrubal said, ensuring that his voice remained low, ‘and many more in the navy.’
Hamilcar slammed his fist into his open palm, cursing the councillor anew.
‘Perhaps you were unwise to use pirates.’ Hasdrubal ventured, voicing the sense of dishonour many of the council members felt at knowing Carthage was associated with such animals.
‘There was no other way,’ Hamilcar rounded on him, suddenly angry.
‘Lower your voice.’ Hasdrubal hissed.
Hamilcar followed his father’s gaze to the open chamber door and he turned away. ‘There was no other way,’ he repeated, keeping his back to his father, his anger increasing, knowing that his honour was being openly questioned. He turned once more to face Hasdrubal. ‘If I had sent one of my ships north to gather the information they would have been seen, or worse captured, and the whole strate
gy would have been exposed. I needed men with local knowledge of the coast who could ambush Roman ships successfully, men whose loyalty could be bought.’
Hasdrubal nodded, seeing the anger in his son’s face. Hamilcar made to explain further, to let his father know that he too felt the dishonour of conspiring with pirates, that he bore the disgrace for the sake of Carthage, but his words were interrupted as he noticed the suffet standing in the doorway of the ante-chamber, the elder statesman looking to both men before walking through into the council meeting room. Hamilcar watched him pass, wondering how much of the exchange the suffet had witnessed. He looked to his father, holding his gaze for a moment before Hasdrubal turned and followed the suffet into the room.
Septimus left the Aquila ten minutes after Varro, estimating that he had at least a couple of hours before the tribune returned, more than enough time. His first task was to find Aulus, the harbour master, and he leapt upon a pile of grain sacks to get a better view of the busy docks. The scene before him seemed chaotic, with trading ships constantly docking and departing all along the quarter-mile long quay. Organised gangs of slaves attacked each new arrival, rushing up the gangplank even before it was made secure, lumbering down seconds later under heavy burdens to deposit the supplies on the quay-side.
Septimus slowly scanned the throng, his eyes shielded against the afternoon sunlight, his ears tuned to pick up Aulus’s familiar tone. He spotted the harbour master within a minute, near the centre of the docks, gesturing wildly at some unseen target, his face mottled with frustration. Septimus smiled to himself as he jumped down and he set off with a determined stride. At six foot four inches and 220 pounds, dressed in battle armour and with his hand settled on the hilt of his sword, Septimus cut an easy path through the crowd, the lines of slaves parting to allow him through and he reached Aulus before the harbour master had finished his tirade.
‘No rest for petty tyrants,’ Septimus said as he came to stop behind Aulus.
The harbour master spun around, his expression murderous, the previous victim of his anger forgotten. He stared up at Septimus and inhaled in anticipation of an attack but his outburst was cut short with a smile.
‘Capito!’ he shouted, ‘I thought I smelled legionary.’
Septimus laughed, clapping Aulus on the shoulder. Once a trader and sailor himself, Aulus had no love for the soldiers; legionaries or marines. ‘The Aquila is back in Brolium?’
‘Yes,’ Septimus replied, ‘but for how long I don’t know. We sail with Varro. I think he’s reporting to the port commander right now with orders from Rome.’
‘Varro of Thermae?’ Aulus said with disbelief. ‘Didn’t think we’d see him again.’
‘You know the legions, Aulus,’ Septimus said sarcastically. ‘Forgive and forget.’
Aulus smiled but he looked wary. He liked to know of everything that transpired in his harbour and the return of a disgraced tribune was important news. He was about to press Septimus further when he noticed that all humour had vanished from the marine’s face and his eyebrows raised in question.
‘It’s Atticus,’ Septimus said. ‘He’s been injured.’
‘How badly?’
Septimus explained in as much detail as he could.
‘And his fever has broken?’
‘Yes,’ Septimus replied. ‘But now that we are in port I would like a trained physician to examine him.’
Aulus nodded. With the fever broken the odds were in Atticus’s favour but Aulus appreciated the marine’s caution. ‘I know such a man,’ he said. ‘I will have him sent to the Aquila immediately.’
Septimus thanked Aulus and turned on his heel, his feet taking him unerringly to his next destination.
It was another fifteen minutes before Septimus reached the legions’ camp outside the town. At the quayside he had been tempted to ask Aulus about the Ninth, knowing the harbour master was always well informed but he had decided to wait to see for himself. In any case, Aulus’s information would not extend to the fate of individual commands.
Septimus squared his shoulders as two legionaries of the excubiae, the day guard, stepped out to block his way through the main gate.
‘Capito,’ Septimus said as he came to a stop. ‘Centurion of the Aquila.’
The men saluted and stepped aside but Septimus noticed they did not react with the same alacrity as they normally would for a legionary centurion. He pushed aside the thought, knowing he could not confront the men on their subtle lack of respect.
Septimus walked on across the parade ground. The area was strangely deserted although Septimus could see individual squads of legionaries in his peripheral vision. He suddenly felt tense and he increased his pace, the strange absence of normal activity unnerving him.
The legate’s quarters were on the opposite side of the parade ground to the main gate. It was a dull, functional building, single storied and made from local brick. It was flanked on both sides by the officers’ quarters of the Ninth and Second, equally grey buildings that were originally planned as temporary dwellings. Septimus stopped as he surveyed the buildings, comprehension replacing unease as he looked at each in turn. Outside the officers’ quarters of the Ninth, the battle standards of each individual maniple were neatly arranged in a line, held aloft on iron-tipped lances. The standards of the Second and the legate himself however, were nowhere to be seen and although men were stationed at the entrance to each building, only one was occupied.
Septimus walked over to the Ninth’s building and was immediately allowed access as an officer. He entered and paused for a second to allow his vision to adjust to the gloom within. The room that faced him was the largest in the building, a common room with a large table in the centre, where a number of centurions were seated, some eating, others in quiet conversation. Septimus caught the eye of one officer and he stood up, a questioning look on his face.
‘I’m looking for Centurion Silanus of the IV,’ Septimus said.
‘Marcus?’ the man asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘Capito.’
The centurion nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. He recognised the name. ‘Antoninus’s son?’ he asked.
Septimus nodded, smiling to himself. A campaigning legion numbered ten thousand men between legionaries and auxiliary troops so although Septimus had served with the IV maniple in the past and again for the last three months, he never expected that any other than his own maniple would recognise him. But everyone knew of his father and the centurion looked at Septimus for a full minute, a slight smile of remembrance at the edge of his mouth, before ambling off to find Marcus.
Septimus sat down at the table to wait, his eyes ranging over the room. The atmosphere of the room was oppressive, the men subdued, the usual energy that characterised the officers’ quarters completely absent. Septimus could only imagine what these men had endured on their fighting retreat from Thermae.
The sound of a familiar gruff voice caught Septimus’s attention and he turned, recognising the tall, narrow frame of his friend. He rose to greet Marcus, stepping away from the table and walking towards him. Septimus extended his hand but he suddenly hesitated, the diminishing gap allowing him to see Marcus’s face for the first time. The grizzled centurion was ten years older than Septimus but twenty-five years of strict legionary routine and constant physical exercise had always kept those years at bay. Now, however, it seemed to Septimus that his friend had accumulated those years and ten more in the two weeks since he had last seen him in Thermae.
The two men shook hands and Septimus was given a moment to examine the grim expression of his former commander. He stared into Marcus’s eyes, searching for the iron determination that defined the man. It was still there and Septimus curbed his initial doubts. As a soldier, his friend might be in his declining years, but his fighting spirit was as strong as ever.
Marcus gestured for Septimus to sit again and the centurion took a seat beside the marine.
‘My hastati were here when I returned,’ Marcus said
simply and Septimus nodded, accepting the underlying thanks.
‘When did you get back?’ Septimus asked.
‘Three days ago.’
Septimus remained silent as he counted the days. The retreat had taken longer than he initially thought.
‘Losses?’ he asked.
‘Too many,’ Marcus replied, a shadow crossing his face, and Septimus was struck once more by how old his friend had become. Marcus described the retreat in detail, Septimus remaining silent throughout.
‘The Ninth has been stood down until replacements arrive from Rome.’ Marcus concluded.
Septimus nodded gravely. For proud men like those of the Ninth, to be removed from battle duty was a heavy sentence.
‘And the Second?’ he asked. ‘They’re not in camp?’
Marcus’s expression turned murderous and Septimus shifted uneasily. He could not recall ever seeing Marcus look so angry.
‘The cursed Punici,’ he spat. ‘While one force was bleeding us along the coast, another larger one struck inland.’
‘How far?’ Septimus asked.
‘By the time we reached Brolium, initial reports were arriving claiming the Carthaginians had already reached Enna and the town was under siege.’
‘So Megellus has marched the Second south?’
Marcus nodded, ‘Too late though. Enna is four days march away and on the day the Second left, the latest reports said the town was close to collapse.’
Septimus shook his head. Enna was a fortified town in the centre of Sicily, right in the middle of Roman occupied territory.
