by John Stack
‘The Senate has authorized the construction of two hundred and twenty new galleys,’ Duilius said in conclusion. ‘And more than likely they will be built without corvi.’
Atticus had long grown accustomed to the enormous capabilities of Rome, but he was staggered by the number proposed, knowing that the construction schedule for these new ships would be punishing.
It was an aspect of Roman society that always amazed Atticus: the willingness to commit massive resources to every endeavour with a fierce belief that effort alone would give them victory in every conflict. Militarily, this attitude had worked well in the past, particularly on land where they were able to draw on a huge population base. They had employed the same attitude at sea, constructing massive fleets at incredible speed to counter the enemy. Only against the power of nature were their efforts thwarted — and yet, this latest resolution of the Senate proved that their belief was unshaken.
Thoughts of the Senate brought Scipio to mind, but Atticus contained his anger and instead thanked Duilius for his intervention when Scipio had effectively accused him of treason.
‘You have heard of his victory in the consular elections?’ Duilius asked.
Atticus nodded. News travelled swiftly between Rome and Fiumicino.
‘His success was unforeseen, and it complicates matters further,’ Duilius said, lapsing into silence as the topic brought to the surface problems within his own mind. He glanced at Atticus and saw the concern in his expression, knowing its origin. ‘For the moment you are safe from Scipio,’ Duilius said. ‘Your rank protects you and you have influential friends, me amongst them.’
Atticus nodded in thanks but Duilius frowned. ‘But he will exploit any mistake, real or perceived, that you make, Atticus. If you can, stay beyond his immediate reach.’
‘Will you not seek to remove him from office?’ Atticus asked, frustrated by Scipio’s return to power. ‘We have both witnessed the consequences of his pride and recklessness.’
Again Duilius was silent and Atticus cursed the rashness of his question, sensing that he had overstepped a boundary and presumed a confidence that Duilius could not extend. Duilius looked at him intently, as if weighing the consequences of his reply. ‘For now, Scipio is acting in the best interest of the Republic. He retains the full support of the Senate.’
Atticus nodded, trying to determine how much to read into Duilius’s reply.
‘Atticus,’ Duilius continued, ‘with the loss of so many of our skilled crews in the storm, and now the loss of the use of the corvus, the fate of the Republic is at risk. And you are right, with Scipio in charge that risk is increased. But for now we can only work within the system. I can try to curb his excesses in the Senate, and you must do the same at an operational level, in the fleet.’
‘How? My rank is nothing to Scipio. I cannot influence him.’
‘But you can influence the experienced men of the fleet. They respect you, I suspect more than you realize, and many of them will look to you when their faith in Scipio fails.’
Atticus looked beyond Duilius to the ephemeral shapes that the flickering lamp created on the wall of the tent. He tried to focus on them, to clear his mind and to sift through his confused thoughts. When Duilius mentioned the precarious fate of the Republic, Atticus had instinctively scoffed at the warning. What did he care for Rome and its fate? It was a hollow, soulless entity that had never accepted him. And yet when Duilius spoke of it, the senator’s conviction deeply affected him, and Atticus was forced to concede that — for the briefest of moments — he shared that conviction. He stood as Duilius took his leave and shook the senator’s hand again, a simple gesture that marked them as equals. In Duilius he had an ally, and Atticus was left to contemplate how men like the senator constantly challenged his opinion of Rome.
The rider approached the Servian Wall at full gallop, conscious of the dying sun off his right shoulder, the shadow of his flight already reaching far out into the fields beside him. A half-mile ahead, at the Porta Flumentana, he could see a group of legionaries standing to the side of the gate, allowing the last of the stragglers to enter the city before closing the gate at sundown. He spurred his mount to greater speed, its iron-shod hooves striking chips from the cobbled road. The rider pumped the reins as he leaned in to the curve of the horse’s withers.
He shouted to the legionaries as he saw them move to close the gate but they ignored him, the soldiers talking amongst themselves, indifferent to the approaching horseman. The order to close the gate came as inexorably as the falling sun that triggered the command. The rider yelled again, but this time in warning as he aimed his mount at the closing gates. The thundering sound of hooves alerted the legionaries and they jumped back at the last second as the rider shot between their ranks and through the half-closed gate.
The soldiers shouted in anger and many went to draw their swords, but the rider had already disappeared into the warren of narrow streets beyond the wall. He slowed his mount, the animal breathing hard as it cantered towards the centre of the city. The sun had fallen, but the sky still clung to the remnants of its light and the open windows of houses radiated shafts of yellow that ricocheted off the whitewashed walls, extending the twilight to illuminate the rider’s path.
He reached the hollow gloom of the Forum and scanned the temples that looked over it, watching as the disciples of each deity lit the blazing torches that marked the entrances. He turned to the northeast corner, spurring his mount once more, conscious of the need to find his destination before the blackness of night engulfed the streets.
He knew Rome well, but he only had an unconfirmed street name as a direction, ascertained through snippets of information gathered over the previous two weeks. He cursed the lateness of the hour, wishing he had more time, conscious that he was now effectively a prisoner of the city, and if he didn’t find the man he was looking for he would be forced to seek refuge in a tavern. He would have to spend the night in the city and dawn’s light would reveal his absence from his post, a dereliction the man he despised would surely exploit.
The streets on the northern side of the Capitoline Hill were wide and well swept, and behind the boundary walls the rider could see the soaring roofs of the expansive houses silhouetted against the sky. He searched the nameplates beside each entrance, glancing occasionally over his shoulder to the sky above; within minutes he could no longer see both sides of the street from the centre of the road. He moved to his left, halving the effectiveness of his search, but he reasoned the wealth and importance of the man he hoped to see would place his house on the higher side of the street.
With relief he found the house. He dismounted and hammered on the wooden door. A bolt slammed back and the door opened. Two soldiers stepped into the opening. They were household guards and their impassive expressions changed to ones of annoyance when they noticed the obvious unimportance of the man facing them. They were about to dismiss him, but his request caused them to hesitate, the sheer temerity of it transfixing the soldiers, caught between mockery and caution. The rider persisted, emphasizing his rank and posting, insisting that the master of the house would see him if he were informed.
He was led into the courtyard. One of the soldiers marched into the house while the other bolted the outer door shut. The rider waited in the silence that followed, handing the reins without comment to a stable lad who appeared to take his mount. A moment of doubt assailed him but he swallowed his uncertainty, committing himself once more to his course. The soldier reappeared and beckoned the rider to follow him into the house. He exhaled in relief, his doubt falling further away.
Scipio remained seated as the soldier of his household guard led the stranger into the room. He searched the man’s demeanour for traces of overt anxiety, the type of signs a man might display in the midst of enemies, but the stranger seemed remarkably confident. Scipio dismissed the soldier and indicated to the man to stand before him, albeit at a distance; he allowed a silence to develop as the footfalls of his guar
d receded.
‘I am honoured that you agreed to see me, Consul,’ the man said.
Scipio’s face darkened in anger. ‘You will speak only when spoken to,’ he snarled, and again the silence was reasserted.
Within a minute, Scipio noticed that the man’s previous confidence was waning and he smiled inwardly, preferring any lesser man who addressed him to be cowed in his presence. ‘Why have you come here?’ he asked eventually.
‘I wish to serve you, Consul.’
‘I have servants enough,’ Scipio said dismissively, although he was intrigued by the man’s unexpected appearance, given his rank and position. ‘In any case,’ he proceeded cautiously, ‘why would you wish to serve me?’
‘Because we share a hatred for one man,’ the stranger said without hesitation.
‘Really,’ Scipio said warily. ‘Which man?’
‘The Greek, Perennis.’
Scipio was thrown by the unexpected declaration, but his face remained impassive. He searched for signs of duplicity but found none. ‘You claim to be his second-in-command,’ he said.
‘I am,’ Baro replied. ‘I have been for over a year now.’
Scipio nodded, suppressing his growing sense of anticipation in favour of further caution. He chose his next question carefully, focusing all his attention on Baro’s expression. ‘Why do you hate Perennis?’ he asked.
Baro’s face reddened and he took an instinctive half-step forward, compelled by a sudden surge of aggression. ‘Because of what he is and because I am forced to serve under him,’ he spat.
‘You are a Roman citizen?’ Scipio asked, shocked by the intensity of Baro’s animosity.
‘Yes, Consul,’ Baro replied. ‘The son of a freedman from the Aventine quarter. It blackens my honour that I should take orders from a non-Roman.’
Scipio did not comment on Baro’s motives, believing them to be less important than the strength of the hatred itself. Therein lay the depth of Baro’s sincerity, however irrational his enmity might appear to another man, and Scipio was satisfied that Baro’s hatred ran deep. Only one other question remained.
‘How do you know of my hostility towards Perennis?’ he asked.
‘There are few secrets on a galley, Consul,’ Baro explained. ‘The deck is small; the bulkheads are thin. Over time I have heard enough to know the Greek considers you an enemy.’
Again Scipio nodded, convinced of Baro’s legitimacy. ‘So you believe we should form some kind of alliance?’ he said sceptically. ‘The senior consul and a lowly deck hand.’
Baro bristled at the dismissive tone but he held tightly to his conviction, knowing that now he had revealed his disaffection he had to stay the course.
‘I can be your eyes and ears on board the Orcus, Consul. Sooner or later the Greek will be vulnerable and, fully informed, you could exploit that weakness.’
Scipio unconsciously sat straighter in his chair as he absorbed Baro’s words, his own conclusions already forming unbidden beyond the scope of Baro’s basic premise. Baro’s idea had merit, and Scipio deepened his concentration as he questioned him once more on his motives and his relationship with the Greek. He became more incisive, probing each facet of Baro’s answers, and before long he invited Baro to sit at the far end of the table.
Two hours later, Scipio called for his guards to escort Baro back to the Porta Flumentana. He handed one of his men a scroll marked with the seal of the senior consul, the only pass that would allow for the gate to be opened during the hours of night. He dismissed Baro curtly, telling him he would let him know of his decision in due course, although his mind was already made up. Scipio knew many men of Baro’s calibre: determined, even ruthless, but lacking the intelligence to properly formulate an attack on an enemy. Baro was merely a weapon; a spear, cold and mindless. What he lacked, the consul would provide. Scipio would become the spearman and already, in his mind’s eye, he was taking aim on the heart of his enemy.
Atticus pushed back the flap of his tent as the first rays of the dawn sun clipped the canvas apex of his quarters. He felt optimistic as he recalled parts of his conversation with Duilius the evening before, focusing on the explicit assertions of support that the senator had given him. He spotted Baro emerging from his own tent not twenty feet away and he called him over, his second-in-command responding with alacrity.
‘Assemble the men on the beach, Baro. I want to be away within the half-hour.’
‘Yes, Prefect,’ Baro replied, and he moved off towards the mess tents to gather the crew.
Atticus watched him leave, his mind shifting seamlessly to the day ahead. His opinion on the corvus had been supported by Duilius and he was pleased that the persistent training he had employed over the previous weeks would not be in vain. He turned towards the mess tents, eager to begin his day, and he allowed the sound of gathered voices to guide his steps. In the legions each contubernia of ten soldiers cooked and ate together, a long-established routine that ensured efficiency, but with new men arriving daily to crew the new galleys, communal mess tents had been erected. This was a luxury that the crew of the Orcus had exploited ruthlessly, and one Atticus was sure his men would sorely miss when the Orcus turned south once more.
As he rounded the last corner, he stopped dead. Septimus was standing in the middle of the roadway, his eyes scanning the approaches, and as he turned towards Atticus he too froze. Memories of the last time he had seen Septimus flooded back to Atticus and his mouth formed into a tight line as he resumed his approach. The centurion also moved to close the gap, his hand as always on the hilt of his sword.
‘You’re back in Fiumicino,’ Atticus said dismissively, surprised by the sudden enmity he felt.
‘I never left,’ Septimus replied. ‘I’m billeted at the landward side of the camp, along with the rest of the legionaries.’
Atticus nodded and a silence drew out between them.
‘I came here to find you,’ Septimus said, his words coming slowly, tension in his voice.
‘You’re reporting back to the Orcus?’
‘No, I…’ Septimus hesitated. ‘About Hadria, Atticus,’ he resumed. ‘My father does not speak for the family.’
‘He only said what you’ve thought for a long time, that I’m not worthy of Hadria,’ Atticus said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger, the thoughts that had festered in his mind surging to the surface, threatening to overwhelm him. ‘Your father spoke for you and every other Roman who believes in your cursed superiority.’
The colour of anger rushed to Septimus’s face and his grip tightened instinctively on the hilt of his sword. He had not wanted a confrontation, given what he had decided, but Atticus’s words could not be ignored.
‘I defended you, Atticus,’ he said. ‘I tried to explain to my father that you were Roman, if not in name then in deed.’
‘Therein lies your arrogance,’ Atticus replied aggressively. ‘My honour, my deeds, do not make me Roman. They make me the man I am — and that should be enough.’
Septimus stepped back, fury coursing through him. He had witnessed this side of Atticus before, this aggression towards Rome, but never had it affected Septimus so keenly. For Atticus to find insult in being described as Roman was an affront to every Roman, one that cut Septimus deeply, and he realized that the decision he had made was the only restraint keeping his sword arm in check. The conflict over Hadria had driven a wedge between them, one that could not be removed.
‘I did not seek you out to fight this fight,’ he said, wishing to end the conversation and be away.
‘Then why have you come?’ Atticus asked cynically.
‘The Ninth is reforming and my request for a transfer has been accepted.’
‘A transfer?’ Atticus asked, his anger abating with shock.
‘I am to command the IV maniple, my old unit.’
Atticus hesitated, his mind flooded once more by conflicting emotions. They cleared quickly as a sense of betrayal overcame all. ‘Then the Orcus will fight on wi
thout you,’ he said.
‘You and I both know we cannot share command, not now,’ Septimus said angrily, not willing to accept a full measure of blame for the fates that had shattered their friendship. ‘Your relationship with Hadria has seen to that.’
‘No,’ Atticus said wearily, ‘Rome has seen to that.’
Septimus snorted in reply and turned to leave. He stopped short and looked once more to Atticus, trying to see past the aggressive expression to the friend he once had. He could not, and he walked away without another word.
Atticus stood silent in the middle of the roadway, the noise of the camp around him increasing with every minute of the new day. Baro and the crew appeared from the mess tents, their mood light and jovial, and Baro nodded to his commander as he passed, leading the men off towards the beach. Atticus fell in behind them. His previous optimism had fled. There was no place for that sentiment; his mood darkened with every step he took towards the Orcus.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The quinquereme moved steadily through the crowded sea-lane, its course never deviating, and the trading vessels gave way before its imposing bow. Many of the traders cursed its passage, angered by the ship’s disregard for the ancient rule that oar-powered vessels should give way to sail, but their irate shouts died as they realized the masthead banners were not Roman but Carthaginian, and they gave the quinquereme a wider berth, almost colliding in their haste, as if the galley was flying the warning flags of a plague ship. From ship to ship, the warning cries of the galley’s approach swept along the teeming sea-lane and, like the searing wind that precedes a bush fire, the forewarning opened a passage in the lane. The Carthaginians took immediate advantage, anxious to complete their mission, and the quinquereme accelerated, each oar stroke taking them closer to Ostia.
The Orcus moved steadily under sail, her pace matching those of the canvas-driven trading boats that surrounded her. The crew exchanged banter over the rails to the nearby craft, marking time as the Orcus sailed through the arc of its patrol route. Atticus paced slowly across the aft-deck, checking the line of the helm intermittently. He glanced at the shoreline a mile away, vaguely familiar with its outline.
