by John Stack
Hiero nodded. ‘And you sailed to Syracuse to inform me personally?’ he asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice and Hamilcar’s stomach filled with dread. Hiero knew. He had not asked the obvious question, who had prevailed? Hamilcar realised that further subterfuge was useless.
‘There’s still time, sire,’ he said, pressing the force of his belief upon the king. ‘My forces are almost at your border. If your army rises now to meet them…’
‘Enough!’ Hiero shouted, his face mottled with anger. ‘You were defeated at Tyndaris. The Romans now hold the port and your plan is in ruins.’
‘How…’?’ Hamilcar asked, unable to comprehend how Hiero could know so soon.
The king smiled, a vicious contortion of his anger. ‘Your predecessor, Gisco, was good for one thing,’ he said derisively. ‘He introduced me to the Persians’ ingenious method of sending reports, carrier pigeon. I knew of your defeat two days ago.’
Hamilcar struggled to retain his composure, his mind racing to find an answer, a way to persuade Hiero to commit.
‘There is still a chance, sire,’ he said. ‘Allied together we can defeat the Roman invader. Tyndaris is only a setback, it is not defeat. It will be days yet before Rome is fully informed, maybe weeks before they react. We have the advantage if we join forces now.’
‘There is no time, Barca,’ Hiero said, his anger fuelled by the position the Carthaginian had placed him in. ‘My complicity at Tyndaris has been exposed and my commander there has already forewarned me that an envoy from the consul has been dispatched to Syracuse.’
‘From the consul? So quickly?’
‘He was the commander at Tyndaris,’ Hiero explained, his patience at an end, the thought of the envoy’s arrival and how he could avoid the wrath of Rome consuming him. ‘Now get out,’ he said. ‘From here on my open treaty with Rome will be my only alliance.’
Hamilcar made to protest but he held his tongue, knowing his cause to be lost, his honour preventing him from humbling himself further before the petty ruler. He bowed brusquely and backed out of the chamber, aware that he was now firmly in enemy territory and Hiero might decide that delivering the head of the Carthaginian commander would placate the envoy of Rome and the consul himself. He turned as he reached the doors, walking determinedly down through the myriad of stairwells and corridors that led to the main gate, snatching his sword back from one of the guards as he left the castle, silently vowing that Hiero would rue the day he had cast his lot in with Rome.
Longus, the junior consul, waited patiently as the servant refilled the two wine goblets. The Senate was still in session but Longus had slipped out and returned to his townhouse to update the man seated opposite him, wishing to seek his counsel before his meeting with Regulus. ‘I have spoken with Seneca as you suggested,’ Longus said after the servant had gone.
‘And?’ Duilius asked, raising the goblet to his mouth.
‘He will support Regulus’s strategy.’
Duilius nodded, savouring the taste of the wine, and Longus’s news. ‘Seneca holds sway over five other fellow junior senators,’ he said. ‘With their support and the others you have already confirmed, Regulus has a significant majority.’
Longus nodded but his expression remained sceptical. ‘I was surprised at Seneca’s endorsement,’ he said, ‘even with Regulus’s popularity after his victory at Tyndaris. What made you believe he was no longer Scipio’s pawn?’
Because now he is my pawn, Duilius thought, his neutral expression hiding his satisfaction. ‘I simply believed that Seneca was ready to vote with his conscience,’ he said aloud.
As censor, Duilius was responsible for the regimen morum, the keeping of the public morals, and he had quickly turned this responsibility to his advantage. Customarily the immoral excesses of the junior senators, the majority of whom were young men from wealthy families, were ignored by the Senate and the censors; the older statesmen seeing such behaviour as a right of passage they too had enjoyed in their youth. Duilius had reversed that traditional leniency however and he had quickly gathered a large body of evidence against many of the junior senators, a move which instantly gave him a unique power over offenders like Seneca; the young man being only one amongst many.
‘I will inform Regulus that he now has a majority amongst the junior senators when I see him this afternoon.’ Longus remarked. ‘I expect he will publicly announce his strategy after that.’
Duilius nodded. ‘Remember Longus,’ he said. ‘Regulus must not know of my involvement.’
‘I understand,’ Longus replied, wondering why Duilius did not openly back the senior consul given the support he was providing; the censor’s help so far allowing Longus to secure dozens of votes for Regulus. Nonetheless he would keep his mentor’s involvement a secret as instructed.
Duilius sat back and thought through his plan again, examining it in detail. Within days of Regulus becoming senior consul, he had arranged for two of his spies to become servants in Regulus’s household. Their reports, along with those of his spies in the Senate chambers, had given Duilius a first-hand account of the fracture between Regulus and Scipio. At first Duilius had been suspicious, conscious of the misinformation that had been given before, but Regulus’s actions had confirmed the spilt and Duilius had slowly reconsidered his initial opinion of the senior consul.
Two days earlier, when Regulus had returned to Rome, Duilius had instructed Longus to give his full and open support to the senior consul, to meet with him as often as possible and gain his confidence. Longus had obediently complied, reporting back regularly on Regulus’s emerging plans. It was Regulus’s strategy, and Longus’s appraisal of the now seemingly independent senior consul, that had convinced Duilius that it was time to support Regulus, using the leverage he had gained over the junior senators. Duilius was not yet ready to trust Regulus completely, and so he would keep his involvement secret, but for now one thing seemed certain. Regulus had placed the needs of Rome above petty rivalries and factional allegiance and for that reason alone, Duilius felt compelled to support the leader of the Republic.
Regulus stood as the arrival of the junior consul was announced, coming around from behind the marble-topped table in the centre of his chamber. He nodded affably to Longus, his expression genuine, their meetings over the previous two days, and Longus’s complete support, providing him with a reappraised view of the younger man, different from the opinion Scipio had imbued in him when he was first elected.
Longus returned the greeting, taking Regulus’s proffered hand before taking a seat. Regulus returned to his own side of the table and sat down, glancing briefly to the oculus in the dome far above and the blue sky beyond.
‘Well, Longus,’ Regulus began, looking once more to the junior consul, ‘what say the junior senators?’
‘They are in favour, Consul,’ Longus replied, his expression serious. ‘With your victory at Tyndaris and the exposure of the Carthaginians’ plans, the Senate is poised to follow any command you give them.’
Regulus nodded. His own discreet enquiries amongst the senior members of the Senate had surfaced the same support, a backing he wished to be sure of before announcing his plan. He looked to Longus once more. The junior consul had delivered dozens of votes from amongst the junior senators, men Regulus believed were thoroughly in the control of Scipio, and although he could not conceive how Longus had achieved such a task, he was grateful for the support.
‘Then we are ready, Longus,’ he said after a pause, ‘I will declare…’ A knock interrupted Regulus and he looked to the door as his private secretary entered, his hands clasped together in contrition, his face downcast.
‘I said there was to be no interruptions,’ Regulus said angrily.
‘My apologies, Senior Consul,’ the secretary said. ‘But Senator Scipio is outside and he insists you grant him an audience.’
‘Tell him what I told him yesterday, and the day before,’ Regulus shouted, looking beyond the secretary in order that Scipio should he
ar his words first hand. ‘I will summon him if, and only if, I see fit.’
‘Yes, Senior Consul,’ the secretary replied but as he turned to leave Scipio slipped in, almost knocking the secretary to the ground.
‘You will see me now,’ Scipio shouted angrily but immediately stopped when he saw who was with Regulus.
‘Longus,’ he snarled, staring balefully at the younger man.
‘Consul Longus,’ he replied, standing straight, returning the hateful gaze.
Scipio snorted derisively. ‘I need to speak to you alone,’ he said to Regulus, the resolve in his voice unmistakable, his anger and impatience completely evident.
Regulus remained seated, a smile slowly emerging on his face. The sight made Scipio almost lose his temper.
‘You believe this to be funny?’ he snarled, standing beside Longus as he leaned over the table. ‘You believe you can treat me like a common senator, that you can deny me an audience?’
‘I do not believe anything,’ Regulus said, a confidence in his voice that Scipio had never witnessed. ‘I know that I am senior consul and as such I command the power of Rome.’
‘You know nothing,’ Scipio spat back. ‘You think your victory at Tyndaris has made you secure, has made your position in this Senate unassailable but I wonder how many senators would support you if they knew how you gained your consulship; knew the part I played and the pawn that you were.’
Now Regulus stood, the smile he had worn cast off, his expression hard and cold.
‘You may tell your story to any that will listen,’ he said in whispered anger. ‘But I know, as will they realise, that what you did, you did for yourself and what I do now, I do for Rome. The Senate will see the truth of that.’
Scipio held Regulus’s gaze for a second longer, the hatred passing between them palatable, an almost physical force that marked the permanent division between them. He turned on his heel without another word, casting one last glance at Longus before storming from the room, a deafening silence left in his wake.
Atticus stood back from the door as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps on the other side. He reached up and touched the scar on his face, fingering it lightly as he traced the length of it along his jaw-line. He had seen the wound for only the first time three days before after the Aquila had docked in Ostia, a foreign reflection staring back at him from a barber’s polished copper mirror. Now he thought of it again, unconsciously continuing to touch it, thinking all the while of the person on the other side of the door who would also be seeing it for the first time.
The door opened inward and Hadria stepped back to push it past her, pivoting lightly on one foot as she did. Her expression changed quickly, so swiftly that Atticus, who was gazing directly at her, did not catch all the emotions displayed, surprise turning to elation and love, turning to concern at the sight of his wound. She rushed forward into his arms, pressing tightly against his chest, touching the heavy layer of bandages across his torso, then releasing the pressure of her embrace, fearful that she was hurting him. He pulled her close again, enfolding her slender body in his arms, whispering reassurances in her ear. She returned the embrace and her body began to shudder slightly, her tears warm and damp against his shoulder, the fear for him that she had thought to suppress rising again at the sight of his terrible wounds.
An hour later they lay in the solitude of her bedroom, the sounds of city barely audible through the opened shutters, the noise muted by the heat of the early afternoon. Atticus lay on his back, his eyes tracing the light reflected across the ceiling, his mind casting back to a dawn weeks before at the edge of Thermae and the glare of the sun on the waves. Hadria lay beside him, her finger tracing an imaginary line an inch above the scar on his face, recalling Atticus’s words of moments before when he told her of how he was attacked. Hadria had listened, silently glad that she had taken the lead an hour before when she had led him to her room, the fear resurfaced and so vividly remembered giving her reason to value every moment and she had tempered their mutual anticipation and yearning with a tenderness that Atticus had never known.
Now Atticus lay replete, his mind drifting aimlessly until he suddenly glanced to the door, his brow wrinkling as if in annoyance and he stared at it for a moment longer before turning away.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hadria asked, noticing his expression.
‘I thought I heard someone approaching,’ he said, looking once more at Hadria. ‘I was expecting a knock, a message from your father’s house that Septimus had returned.’
Hadria nodded and her expression turned serious. ‘I told him about us the last time he was in Rome,’ she said. ‘He was very angry.’
‘I know,’ Atticus replied and he told Hadria of his confrontation with Septimus on the Aquila.
‘And you haven’t spoken of it since?’ Hadria asked, her tone one of concern.
‘There is nothing more to say,’ Atticus said irritably. ‘Septimus will not change his mind.’
Hadria’s forehead creased as she tried to divine her brother’s inner thoughts. She could not be sure but she still felt her original conviction was sound, that Septimus did not want Hadria to lose another love in battle as she had her first husband. She spoke her thoughts aloud to Atticus, watching as his brow furrowed.
‘That’s why he told me to stay on deck before Tyndaris,’ he said almost to himself, ‘and why he was angry to see me when I went onto the Carthaginian galley to warn him.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hadria asked.
Atticus explained.
‘So he’s trying to protect you…’ Hadria whispered, her words hanging in the air as Atticus remained silent, thinking of his friend. After their confrontation on the Aquila he had been sure of Septimus’s position. Now, with Hadria’s insight, he was no longer certain.
The Senate stood as one as Regulus entered the Curia, his preannounced request for a full audience ensuring that every senator of Rome was in attendance, their numbers swelled by tribunes and senior magistrates who had also been summoned at the senior consul’s request. Regulus walked slowly to the podium, indicating with his hand for the assembly to be seated. He stood silent for a moment; savouring the approbation of the Senate but also the renewed sense of a shared purpose that permeated the Curia, the narrowly averted threat to Rome infusing the Senate with a reunified aspiration that stood above the petty power-plays and squabbling of the daily debate. Regulus had experienced this level of concord before, immediately after the victory of Mylae, when all of Rome rose to its feet in triumph. He was a lowly senator then, anonymous amongst three hundred. Now he was senior consul and the united power of Rome was his to command.
‘My fellow Romans!’ he began, his voice reaching every man in the hushed chamber. ‘We have reached a cross-roads in our fight with the Punici of Africa, a moment of truth when decisive action can and must prevail.’
A murmur of agreement rippled across the chamber.
‘As you all know, a Carthaginian plan to invade this very city was exposed,’ Regulus continued, indicating to Varro who stood in the wings, his first time in the Curia since announcing his defeat at Thermae, the tribune now bowing his head in acceptance of the splattering of applause from the Senate, ‘and subsequently thwarted at Tyndaris.’
The Senate clapped again, this time towards the podium but it quickly abated as Regulus raised his hand.
‘It was a bold plan, a decisive plan that, if it had succeeded, would have given the Carthaginians not only unconditional control of Sicily but also a new subservient state in their empire…a state named Rome.’
Many senators reacted with instinctive anger, shouting denial and cursing the Carthaginians who would dare such a thing. Regulus let them vent their antagonism, his eyes instead on those senators who remained silent, those who had understood the subtext of his words, many of them nodding their heads in pre-emptive approval.
‘I say to you then, Senators of Rome,’ Regulus shouted, overwhelming the cacophony of noise.
‘That we reverse this plan of the enemy, that we take their initiative and infuse it with Roman audacity!’ The Senate began to cheer. ‘With Roman courage!’ Regulus shouted, his voice struggling against the ovation, ‘and with the power of this mighty Republic!’
As one the Senate stood to applaud, the noise reaching a crescendo as Regulus stretched out his arms to encompass the power surging around him.
‘We will take this fight to the shores of Carthage herself!’ he roared, his final words tipping the Senate over into complete support for their leader.
Varro stood proudly beside his father as yet another senator approached to shake his hand. Regulus had finished his speech over an hour before and only now was the Curia beginning to empty, the session extended to allow the senior senators of the chamber to publicly back the consul’s plan, their orations infused with praise for Regulus and Varro and heavy with rhetoric that expounded the ideals of Rome, of how the overthrow of Carthage would bring civilisation to the shores of Africa. They were words that gave every tribune in the chamber cause to imagine their glorious fate in the approaching battle, but none more so that Varro, who saw his success at Tyndaris as only the beginning.
The crowd dissipated quickly and soon Varro’s father drifted off with a group of senior magistrates, grasping his son’s arm lightly as he left, his pride evident in every gesture. Varro walked slowly towards the colonnaded exit, the later afternoon sun creating blocks of light between the pillars through which droning insects traced lazy paths of flight. Varro stood still for a moment in one of the shafts of light, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the inner chamber and smiling slightly, the white brightness of the sun warm on his face. He turned again and was surprised by a figure standing in his path.
‘Congratulations, Tribune,’ the man said and Varro instantly recognised the voice.
