Читать книгу Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome - John Stack - Страница 11

Scipio allowed Khalil to massage his shoulders and back as he lay on his cot in the main cabin. He had left the aft-deck hours before, preferring to spend his time in solitude below decks, away from the company of lesser men. His confrontation with the captain remained at the forefront of his mind. The man had challenged him openly, a defiance Scipio would not forget. He regretted his own loss of composure, a slip that exposed his inner thoughts, and for this reason, even more than the blatant insubordination, he cursed the captain for forcing the argument.

In the Senate, appearance and deception were the cornerstones of a man’s survival. At all times a politician had to appear calm, never allowing his true emotions to surface and reveal his inner thoughts. Emotions, once mastered, allowed a politician to invoke them at will, a skill that engendered support from the people and fellow senators, a skill that was vital if one was to become a leader.

Beneath the calm exterior lived the art of deception, the ability to dissemble when the situation required it, to allow men false pretences and to be the puppeteer who controlled the lives of lesser mortals to the point where they fought your battles without even realizing it. Scipio was the embodiment of this type of man, his rise to the height of power in Rome a testament to his command of both himself and others. At the centre of this was control of his emotions.

Scipio now used that control to compartmentalize his mind, to push his self-censure to the back of his thoughts. Coupled with Khalil’s strong and practised hands, Scipio’s self-control helped to ease the tension in his body and he was asleep within minutes, his anger for the captain stored away to be drawn forth when the time was right.

Sensing that his master had drifted off, Khalil eased the pressure of his hands before withdrawing them from the oiled skin. Suddenly and unexpectedly his latent hatred rose in a wave, threatening to consume him, and his arms shook with the force of his restraint. The daily humiliation he felt at serving at another man’s whim was a constant open wound to his pride, and the realization that he could kill the Roman easily was like fire in his veins. He breathed deeply, trying to invoke the patience he had acquired in the four years he had been a slave.

Khalil had been seventeen when he was taken captive. His family had chosen to remain at Napata when the Nubian people of the Kush kingdom migrated to Meroë. It was a choice that was to cost them dearly. The city declined and its dwindling power made it a prime target for the Persians, who constantly raided the east coast of Africa. In just one attack the Persians overwhelmed the pitiful defensive forces of the city and took the population into slavery. Khalil had last seen his family in a slave market on the northern shore of Egyptus, his mother and two sisters sold to the whorehouses of Alexandria while his father was sent to the salt mines of Tuzla. Khalil was sent in chains to Rome, the price for his life a mere five sesterces.

Khalil’s first two years were spent enduring backbreaking labour in a fired-brick factory in Tibur, east of Rome. The infernal heat and relentless toil had honed his body and spirit into a rock of strength and had brought him to the attention of his master, who saw in him the opportunity to return a substantial profit on the price he had paid for the pathetic boy of two years before. He was sold into the house of Scipio, a fate that had revealed the duality of every turn in fortune. On the one hand Khalil was taught the deadly art of combat, a skill that spoke to his latent ferocity and burning aggression. On the other, the Roman senator treated Khalil as a plaything, a fighting dog to train and send out against the other trained dogs. The shame of servitude had never diminished in all his four years of slavery and his hatred burned like the furnaces of Tibur.

As a renewed sense of dishonour enveloped his heart, Khalil slowly withdrew his hands from where they were poised over Scipio’s neck. If he killed the senator now, he too would be dead within minutes – and Khalil was not ready to die. Patience and fate had taught him that revenge and freedom could be achieved together, that the opportunity would one day present itself and he would be free to find and save his family from the slavery that bound them all. Khalil would wait.

As the Nubian left the cabin, he extinguished the lantern and quietly closed the door to retake his position in the companionway. The slave leaned his massive frame against the bulkhead and lowered his chin onto his chest, relaxing the muscles in the back of his neck. He quelled the anger within him, burying his hatred deep behind defences that would hide his true feelings from his master. His self-control was immense and within five minutes he was calm. Then, like so many others on the now quiet Aquila, he slept.

*

The day dawned six hours later to find Atticus and Septimus on the aft-deck of the Aquila once more. The captain had awoken just before dawn as always, a habit born during his years as a seaman when the rising of the sun marked the change in the watch. He had dressed quickly and gone on deck to find the marine centurion already there. The two men discussed the events of the past two days but, as if by mutual consent, they avoided discussing the battle, each man having formed his own firm resolutions, inner promises that spoke of retribution and the heavy price to pay.

Septimus paused in the conversation to look around him. The ship was surrounded on all sides by the sea, an unfamiliar sight as the Aquila normally spent her time in coastal waters. The course of the ship seemed directionless, as if it were merely passing over the waves without a destination in mind. The thought unnerved him.

‘What’s our course?’ he asked, knowing that in general they were heading to Rome but wanting to hear specifics that would indicate that Atticus knew exactly how they would get there.

‘We’re travelling due north across the Tyrrhenian Sea, along the trading sea-lane to Naples. We will intercept the coast a little south of that city and then head northwest along the coastline to Rome.’

Septimus noted the easy confidence of the captain.

‘I’ve never been on a ship out of sight of land before,’ the centurion added, the featureless sea providing no visible point of reference.

Atticus turned towards the centurion and smiled.

‘My first time was when I was eight,’ he remarked, ‘and I was alone. I was fishing near the shore in my skiff when a storm blew up. It would have taken my sail away but I managed to secure it and weather out the squall until nightfall. By that time I had been carried out to sea.’

‘How did you survive?’ Septimus asked, trying to remember what it was to be eight.

‘I followed the stars home,’ Atticus replied matter-of-factly.

The captain smiled inwardly at the easy description of his escape, a contrast to the unmitigated terror he had actually felt at the time.

‘Even at eight you could navigate by the stars?’ Septimus asked, doubt in his mind that a young child could achieve such a thing.

‘Septimus, one of the first things I remember is my grandfather teaching me about the stars. He said they were the fisherman’s greatest ally against the fickle nature of the sea. The sea is uncertain, but the stars are constant, and a fisherman can trust them with his life. I trusted them that night and I survived.’

‘Give me land and a solid road under my feet any day,’ Septimus said, knowing he would never possess the skill that Atticus had at sea, an ease born out of a lifetime of pitting his wits against the sea and winning through every time.

‘And give me a fair wind and a good ship,’ Atticus replied.

Septimus smiled at the rebuttal and turned to walk down to the main deck and the assembled troops of his command. The men were subdued, their flight from the previous day’s battle a bitter shame. Septimus sensed the mood, weighing the impact on his men. Routine was a commander’s greatest ally and, for Septimus’s marines, routine dictated that each day began with combat training. Within thirty minutes they would be sweating heavily under the strain of full combat training, the concentration required clearing their mind of dissension. The men formed ranks and began to warm up. The moves they practised had been performed many times before, but Septimus had taught them that any lesson that might one day save your life was worth learning again and again.

The sweat was streaming down the marine centurion’s back by the time he disengaged from the training fight with his optio, Quintus. The younger man was also breathing heavily, the sudden burst of speed required to fend off the centurion’s attacks sapping him.

‘Good,’ Septimus said, between breaths, ‘very good.’

All around them the men of the marine century were paired up, each group fighting with the heavy wooden training swords that would build the muscle of all and bruise the limbs of the careless. Septimus had them practising a reverse thrust and the men now incorporated that move into their ever-expanding range of skills.

‘Take over, Quintus,’ Septimus said, before bending down to pick up his tunic, the garment discarded an hour before when the sun was two hours above the horizon. As he walked towards the aft-deck, the cooling sea breeze felt fresh over his toned body, his mood light after the morning’s exercise.

The consul was standing to one side on the aft-deck, two of his guards and the tall Nubian slave in attendance. As Septimus crossed the main deck he felt Scipio’s scrutiny, and the consul turned and spoke a few words to the unmoving Nubian beside him. The slave nodded, his eyes never leaving Septimus. The centurion mounted the aft-deck and walked towards Atticus at the ship’s rudder. The captain was issuing orders to a group of crewmen and, as Septimus approached, the sailors dispersed, fanning out over the ship as each went to the task assigned to him. Atticus looked up at the broad sail, an almost instinctive repetitive look to check and recheck the line of the sail, the angle of the wind, the tension in the running rigging and all the other myriad of minutiae that occurred simultaneously as a ship sped over the water.

‘How long has the consul been there?’ Septimus asked.

‘About half an hour. He’s been watching your men train. Seems to be discussing the training with his slave.’

Septimus nodded, knowing a summons was coming before the words were spoken.

‘Centurion!’ he heard, and spun around to see the consul beckoning him with a raised hand.

Septimus crossed the aft-deck and stood to attention before Scipio.

‘Your men are impressive, you train them well,’ the consul said coolly. Septimus could sense the undertone of challenge.

‘Thank you, Consul.’

Scipio seemed to study the centurion before him, weighing some unknown factors in his mind.

‘I would like you to fight my slave. He is a gladiator from my own school and would relish the challenge.’

‘I would welcome the opportunity, Consul,’ Septimus replied, and once more saluted Scipio before leading Khalil to the main deck. He caught the eye of Atticus as he went. Atticus had trained Septimus in one-to-one combat when the centurion had first come aboard the Aquila, but within three months the former legionary’s natural swordsmanship had surpassed Atticus’s median skills. It had been some time since Atticus had seen Septimus bested in a fight. He smiled broadly in anticipation.

The marines ceased training as they noticed the pair approaching, their purpose obvious as Septimus once more removed his tunic and began to limber up. They quickly formed a semicircle at the fore end so all could see the impending fight, the whispered bets and calls of encouragement steadily growing in intensity as Khalil removed his own tunic to expose his massive frame. Odds were renegotiated as the slave picked up a wooden training sword, his obvious comfort with the weapon a sign that he was familiar with it. All activity on the ship seemed to cease as the two men came toe to toe.

‘What’s your name, slave?’ Septimus asked, the last word spat in derision to raise the ire of his opponent.

‘Khalil.’

‘Well, Khalil, I will teach you a lesson or two today,’ Septimus taunted as he began sidestepping to his right, opening a circle of two arms’ length.

‘Not before I shame you in front of your men, Roman,’ Khalil replied, menace in his voice.

Septimus was shocked by the threat, the audacity of the slave to speak so aggressively to a freeman.

Khalil registered the surprise on the centurion’s face and used the moment to attack. Septimus was caught off guard and was forced to backstep as the Nubian’s blows came in fast and high. The centurion cursed himself for the momentary lapse in concentration; the simple trick of the Nubian had broken his thoughts and exposed him to the incisive attack.

Septimus counterattacked, parrying the Nubian’s blade before striking low, aiming to unbalance his opponent and go on the offensive. Within seconds he knew he was evenly matched. Septimus had years more experience with a sword, but much of that was in the legions, with only ten months of one-on-one combat training. Khalil had over twice that amount in single-combat training, his tutors the best gladiatorial trainers that Scipio’s money could buy. Septimus had balance and timing on his side, Khalil had practised technique – and each man tried to force the fight into their realm of strength.

Septimus stepped back again as Khalil flowed into a twelve-stroke sequence, a seamless series of blows that twice penetrated Septimus’s defence on the torso and upper thigh. Septimus grunted as each blow struck, the heavy wooden sword raising the purple hue of bruising under the skin. Septimus counterattacked with a series of his own; the strokes were less defined than Khalil’s, but the Nubian was forced to react quickly to avoid injury. Septimus kept the pressure up, never allowing the Nubian to pause between attack and counterattack. The unrelenting pace began to take its toll and Khalil grunted heavily as Septimus punched the hilt of his sword into his stomach. The gladiator roared in anger as he attacked again, but Septimus used his superior balance as a defence, causing Khalil to overreach on the final strike, opening the opportunity for Septimus to immediately go on the offensive.

Atticus watched in silence from the forward rail of the aft-deck. At the beginning of the fight he had cheered Septimus along with the rest of the crew, but now he watched in avid fascination as the fight developed. The balance between the two men was incredible. After nearly ten minutes of fighting, Khalil was clearly feeling the effects of the extended fight in his sword arm. His strikes were not as fast as before; however, the sequencing was every bit as deadly, and Septimus was struggling to fight off another attack.

Both men fought on, sweat streaming from every pore, every strike now accompanied by a grunt of exertion from attacker and defender. A killer blow was yet to be struck, but both showed signs on their bodies of where defences had been overcome and their flesh had suffered the lash.

‘Enough!’

All eyes turned to the source of command; all except the two fighters, who backed off imperceptibly, their gazes locked, their chests heaving in unison. Scipio descended to the main deck and approached the fighters. He eyed them both slowly, as if balancing them in his mind, his thoughts advancing the fight to an unseen conclusion.

Before the fight, Scipio had been sure of Khalil’s superior skills. Within seconds of the beginning, however, his keen eye had discovered the gladiator’s obvious disadvantage. Gladiatorial fights were rarely to the death, and rarer still for fighters of Khalil’s calibre, when swordsmanship was the attraction of the contest. The centurion, on the other hand, had fought many times when death was in the offing and knew of no other way to fight. For the centurion it was kill or be killed; for the gladiator it was draw first blood and claim victory. Without that exposure to mortal danger, Khalil would never be the centurion’s equal. Scipio was sure, however, that in a fight to the death Khalil’s steely ferocity would adapt, and no man, certainly not a brute centurion of the marines, would stand against him.

‘You fight well, Centurion,’ Scipio said, his voice betraying the hollow words.

‘Thank you, Consul,’ Septimus replied, drawing himself to attention.

Scipio nodded his head curtly to Khalil and turned towards the hatchway to the cabins below. He descended without another word, his personal guard and the Nubian slave following. Only when they were gone did the marines break the silence, the abrupt end to the fight sparking immediate arguments as to the victor and how the bets would be settled.

Septimus let them argue, his eyes never leaving his assailant, even when all that remained was an empty hatchway. He had never fought a man of such ability, and he rolled his shoulder instinctively against the sharp pain of a heavy bruise on his upper arm. Throughout the rest of the day he waited for the slave to return from the decks below so he could discuss the fight and the incredible sequence of strikes that seemed so effortless. He waited in vain, for neither Khalil nor the consul re-emerged.

Atticus could scarcely believe the sight before him. Everywhere he looked the sea was filled with all manner of ships, from the smallest skiffs, through merchant galleys, to the massive transport barges of the grain trade. Atticus felt an overwhelming sense of movement, of constant frenzied activity as ships travelled in all directions, their courses crisscrossing each other, with some setting sail for distant ports while others were reaching their journey’s end here, in Ostia, the port town of the city of Rome.

The Aquila had sighted land at dusk the evening before and had turned its bow northwest along the ragged coastline of the Italian peninsula. During the night they had passed Naples on their right, its lights scattered over the shoreline of the crescent bay and on into the hills beyond, the individual lights in the dark a mirror of the heavens above. The offshore breeze blowing from the city had filled the air with the smell of wood smoke from countless cooking fires, and underneath the musky scent of humanity from the tightly packed confines of the hidden city.

After the multitudinous lights of the city, only solitary pockets of light around small fishing villages remained. The mainland became dark once more, its existence off the starboard rail of the galley marked by a brooding presence that all aboard could feel, an unnamable sensation that constantly drew the eyes of those on board towards the shadowy features of Italia.

As the night wore on, the Aquila found company in the water from other vessels travelling the same route to Rome, the number increasing until finally at dawn, with the galley still some ten miles from Ostia, the brightening vista exposed a multitude of craft in the surrounding sea, a host that was compressed in the mouth of the harbour where the Aquila now lay.

The smaller craft in the water gave way to the galley, her bronze ram a deterrent that forged a path through the throng of lesser vessels. Further in, Gaius wove the galley around the larger transport barges, the Aquila, a more nimble ship under oar, giving way to the less manoeuvrable sailing ships in the time-honoured courtesy observed by all capable sailors.

Ostia, at the mouth of the river Tiber, had been founded by Ancus Marcius, the fourth king of Rome, over three hundred years before, and its growth and prosperity was intimately tied to Rome, a symbiotic relationship that had seen the once-small fishing village become the trade gateway to the greatest city in the world. Now the Aquila carried one of the most valuable cargos that had ever entered the port, a vital message to the Senate borne by the leader of Rome itself, a message that held the fate of the forty thousand fighting men of the legions on Sicily.

Lucius stood on the aft-deck beside the helmsman setting his course into the harbour. Years before, as a boatswain, the second-in-command had been stationed in the waters surrounding this port, and he intimately knew its harbour and the layout of the docks. He was guiding the galley to the castrum, the military camp that also served as the docking port for the Roman military galleys that patrolled the nearby sea-lanes.

Atticus stood beside the two men, listening as Lucius pointed out the swarm of nationalities represented by the trading vessels surrounding the galley. The ships had come from the four corners of the Mediterranean, from Gaul and Iberia, from Illyricum on the shores of the Mare Superum across from the eastern shores of the Italian peninsula, and from Greece and Egyptus. These were the places that Atticus had dreamed of visiting when he was a boy, and now the very proximity of the people of these lands filled his imagination with wonder. As his eyes swept back and forward, from port to starboard, he suddenly noticed the consul approaching him across the aft-deck.

‘Captain Perennis,’ Scipio began, his expression cold, ‘once we dock, you and Centurion Capito will accompany me to the city. You will stay there until I personally give you leave to depart.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ Atticus replied, wondering why their presence was so necessary, knowing that he dare not ask the consul.

Scipio turned on his heel and proceeded to the main deck, where his guard and personal slave were waiting.

Septimus mounted the aft-deck from the other side and walked over to Atticus.

‘You’ve heard then,’ he said, indicating the consul’s departure with a nod of his head.

‘Yes, I have,’ Atticus replied, his mind still pondering the reason.

‘Why do you think he wants us in the city, Septimus?’

‘I’m not sure, Atticus. But this is certain. We’re now firmly in his grasp. You heard his order: we can’t leave until he personally gives us the order.’

‘I noticed that,’ Atticus said, realizing that the simple request to accompany the consul was in reality anything but simple. Atticus had only known the senior consul for three days and yet he already knew for certain that Scipio never took a step without knowing its consequences three steps down the line.

‘Never mind,’ Septimus said suddenly with a smile, picking up on Atticus’s preoccupation. ‘Now I’m guaranteed the opportunity to show you the sights of Rome.’

Atticus shrugged off his sense of unease and smiled, slapping Septimus on the shoulder.

‘You’d better be right about Rome,’ he said. ‘I’ve waited too long to see this city to be disappointed.’

‘Disappointed?’ Septimus said with false amazement. ‘Atticus, my friend, by the time we’re finished you’ll bless the day you met the consul.’

Atticus laughed at the centurion’s infectious anticipation. He had a feeling that the vision he had in his head of the city, a vision of magnificent temples and grand piazzas, was very different from the city that Septimus would show him.

The castrum was located at the extreme northern end of the busy harbour. It was home to the largest single detachment of Roman military vessels, six out of the entire fleet of twelve galleys of the Republic. These six ships constantly patrolled the sea-lanes surrounding Rome, ensuring an uninterrupted flow of trade that was so necessary for the city’s growth. More importantly they provided escorts for the large grain transports, as the enormous barges ferried the vital lifeblood of Rome from Campania, over two days’ sailing to the southeast.

As the Aquila approached, Atticus could see that all but two of Ostia’s galleys were at sea; the remaining triremes, the Libertas and the Tigris, were tied up neatly against the dock. The Aquila slowed under the expert hand of Gaius, and lines were thrown from fore and aft to the waiting slaves on land, who quickly tethered the ropes to the dock posts. The order was given to withdraw all oars, both port and starboard, and the sailors on deck began to haul in the ropes, hand over hand, until the Aquila moored precisely parallel to the dock. The gangway was lowered and Scipio and his retinue immediately disembarked, closely followed by Atticus and Septimus. The sight of the praetoriani arrested the movement of everyone on the dock, and they backed off to leave a path clear from the Aquila to the barracks, unsure of the unexpected visit of a senior member of the Senate aboard a never-before-seen Roman trireme that was not of the Ostia fleet.

As the group approached the two-storey barracks, the port commander emerged from the entrance archway leading to the courtyard within. He was followed by a contubernia of ten soldiers, and his determined stride to investigate the unannounced arrival of a galley at his port mirrored the approach of Scipio, whose equally confident pace closed the gap between the two groups in seconds. Scipio noticed that the port commander’s pace lessened slightly as he tried to recognize the figure coming towards him, the consul’s importance obvious from the black-cloaked guard that attended him. The commander called a halt to his contubernia ten paces short and ordered his men to stand to attention, knowing that, whoever it was, the man approaching at the head of a detachment of praetoriani outranked him. Scipio raised his hand in the air two paces short of the commander, and his own guard immediately came to a stop.

‘Commander, I am Senior Consul Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio. I need eight of your finest mounts immediately to bear us to Rome. My slave and our baggage are to be escorted in our wake.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ the port commander replied, his mind racing to understand the sudden presence of the most powerful man in Rome in the military camp of Ostia.

‘Now!’ Scipio shouted, the momentary pause of the commander fuelling his impatience to be in Rome.

The effect on the commander was immediate and he quickly turned and ordered his men to run to the stables to assemble and prepare the necessary mounts. He turned again to face the consul, but Scipio was already brushing past him, striding off in the direction of the entrance to the courtyard that would lead to the stables. The port commander was left standing in their wake before his wits returned once again and he took off in pursuit.

The barracks at Ostia were almost identical to those at Brolium on the northern coast of Sicily. Both, like all others in the Republic, were based on a standard design, a two-storey quadrangle with an archway in the centre of each side leading into the central courtyard. The stables were beyond the eastern archway and it was through this that the contubernia now led eight horses of the light cavalry. They were Maremmano, a breed of horse from the plains of Tuscany. The horses were unattractive beasts in comparison to other breeds and, although they were not fleet of foot, they were strong and hardworking, a perfect match for the harsh life of the legions.

Scipio, his four guards and guard commander, and the two men of the Aquila, mounted together and rode out through the southern archway, swinging left to travel east along the busy harbour road that led to the city. As they rode along by the water’s edge, Atticus’s senses were again overwhelmed by the sights and smells in the maelstrom of the busy port. The transport barges, recently arrived from all the ports of the known world, were disgorging their wares onto the dock, with the city traders standing ready to strike a deal with a returning regular or an inexperienced beginner. Gold quickly changed hands as bargains were struck and goods were hauled off by the army of slaves who stood poised behind every trader. Atticus had never seen such a wealth of goods, such a display of appetite, as the voracious city traders insatiably devoured each new barge-load of cargo. Within the space of the first quarter-mile of the dock, he had seen bolts of silk so numerous as could clothe an entire legion, exotic animals that clawed and snarled at the slaves who nimbly handled their cages, birds of every size and hue, the air filling with their song, and, everywhere in between, countless amphorae of wine and baskets of food. It seemed an impossibility that any one city could consume such an abundance, and yet Atticus got the impression that what he was witnessing occurred every day, that the city’s hunger would devour the cornucopia before him and then return tomorrow for more.

Atticus felt a tug on his arm and he dragged his attention away from the seemingly chaotic scene to answer the summons. Septimus nodded his head to the left, indicating the sudden change in course of the mounted party, and Atticus wheeled his horse to follow the others as they turned away from the docks and headed into the port town. Here, as before, the streets were crammed with all manner of goods, this time on the move inland towards the city over twelve miles away. The horsemen wove their way around the multitude of slaves and bearers, slowing their progress until they emerged beyond the confines of the town into the open countryside. Within half a dozen miles they reached Via Aurelia, the recently constructed road that ran northwards along the coastline from Rome. They turned south and within ten minutes were crossing the Tiber over the Pons Aemilius, a magnificent stone-pillared bridge with a wooden superstructure of five arches effortlessly spanning the one-hundred-yard-wide stretch of water. Atticus could only marvel at the engineering feat beneath him and he leaned out of his saddle to peer over the thirty-foot drop to the fast-flowing waters below.

‘You haven’t seen anything yet,’ Septimus smiled as he noticed his friend’s eyes take in every detail of the bridge. Atticus looked up and Septimus nodded his head to the road before them, to the sight that was opening before them: Rome.

The horsemen entered the city through Porta Flumentana, one of twelve gates in the Servian Wall, which ran nearly seven miles around the entire city. Built by the sixth king of Rome, the wall was twelve feet thick and twenty high, a mammoth defensive barrier built as a reaction to the sacking of the city over one hundred and thirty years before by the seventy-thousand-strong Gaulish army of Brennus. As the group passed under the great arch of the gate, inscribed with the omnipresent SPQR denoting Senatus Populusque Romanus, ‘the Senate and the People of Rome’, Atticus’s eyes were drawn upwards to the height of the Palatine Hill, soaring two hundred feet above the level of the valley floor, upon which the foundation stones of Rome had been laid nearly five hundred years before by the demigod Romulus.

The group wound its way through the bustling streets, swinging north of the Palatine Hill into the valley formed with the Capitoline Hill, itself dominated by the Capitolium Temple dedicated to the three supreme deities, Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus. Atticus had never seen such a multitude of people before. Having spent his whole adult life at sea, he had quickly become accustomed to living in close proximity with others, the limited space of a floating galley isolated at sea creating a claustrophobic and intrusive atmosphere on board. In comparison to the press of the streets and buildings surrounding him, however, the galley seemed capacious. The insulae, the apartment blocks on all sides of the narrow streets, rose five or more storeys high, with balconies reaching out to form a near roof that robbed the street of much of its daylight. Atticus felt an undeniable sensation of oppression in the enclosed corridor, and he inwardly sighed in relief as he noticed an end to the street ahead, a brighter, more open space beyond.

Atticus was the trailing member of the group and so was the last to breach the confines of the narrow street out into the Forum Magnum, the central plaza of the sprawling city. His heart soared as he gazed upon the imperial heart of the Republic. When Atticus was young, his grandfather had regaled him with stories of the great city of Athens, a city his ancestors had called home before the Milonius clan fled before Alexander of Macedon and settled in southern Italia. The tales told of soaring temples and godlike statues, of civilization’s birthplace and home, a city that only the Greeks in their power could create. As a child, Atticus had let his imagination fashion a city of incredible presence, a vision he had often dismissed in his adult years, the boasts of an old man longing for his homeland. Now, standing on the cusp of the magnificent Forum Magnum, Atticus was presented with the very visions of his youth transplanted to another city, a city that surely exceeded all others in splendour and power.

Septimus reined in his horse and brought himself back alongside his open-mouthed friend.

‘Well?’ Septimus asked. ‘What do you think?’ he added with a smile.

‘By the gods, Septimus, I never believed it would be so … so …’

‘Big?’ the marine offered.

‘I was going to say amazing,’ Atticus replied, instantly understanding how the city before him could be the focal point for the power it held over the whole peninsula.

‘My father’s father spat on the name of Rome when the legions came to Locri, believing them and the city that bore their citizenship to be inferior to any in Greece,’ Atticus continued, shaking his head in silent criticism of the belief his grandfather had held.

Septimus began to name the sights of the Forum as they passed through the expansive and busy commercial and governmental centre. To their left was the Temple of Vesta, a towering circular shrine dedicated to the virgin goddess of home and family. Within, Septimus explained, the untouchable Vestal Virgins tended the eternal flame of Vesta, a symbol of the very source of life, the flame connected through the eastern opening of the temple to the ultimate source, the sun. The Virgins, once the daughters of the king of Rome, were now the daughters of the most important Roman families, and their thirty-year vow of chastity and acceptance into the only order of priestesses in Roman religion brought them and their families great honour and prestige.

Standing next to the temple was the Regia. Originally it had served as the centre for the kings of Rome, but now, with power residing in the Senate, the building was home to a spiritually more impressive figure, the pontifex maximus, the high priest of the Republic. The imposing rectangular temple housed the shield and lance of the war god, Mars, and it was with these symbols that the high priest administered the divine laws of Rome and kept the ‘Peace of the Gods’. Atticus listened in silent awe as Septimus explained that the lance held within the walls of the temple would vibrate in perilous times, a warning sign to the populace from Mars himself that Rome was under threat.

The two men swung their mounts left in pursuit of the senior consul as the group passed diagonally across the Forum. They passed the Umbilicus Urbi, the official centre of the city from which all distances, both within the city and the entire Republic, were measured. It was an isolated, unassuming marble obelisk, six feet high and five in diameter, and yet Atticus sensed the very fact that it was so humble, in such exalted surroundings, merely added to its significance as the marker point of the centre of the known world.

Septimus pointed out their destination in the northwest corner of the Forum, the Curia Hostilia, the court where the Senate met and the centre of all political activity in the Republic. The building was elevated above the level of the surrounding buildings, its striking façade dominating the northern end of the Forum, a symbol of strength and order. Atticus took his eyes off the impressive sight to look at the senior consul leading them, expecting the order to halt and dismount to come at any moment before they took the final steps of their journey up to the columned entrance of the Curia.

Scipio surreptitiously eyed the steps of the Curia as they approached the Senate building. His own house was a mere half-mile beyond the Forum, around the northern side of the Capitoline Hill that rose up on their left, and it was this destination that the consul now steered towards. As senators on the steps of the Curia recognized him, many of the junior members ran down to question his sudden appearance, while others – men Scipio knew were allied to his enemies – ran up to the entrance to warn those adversaries of the senior consul’s presence. As his horse drew parallel to the foot of the steps, he was surrounded by half a dozen men, each wearing the standard woollen toga of the Senate, although all could afford much finer cloth.

‘Senior Consul,’ one began, ‘we were not expecting you for at least another week. What news?’

‘Patience, Fabius,’ Scipio said with a smile, ‘I have travelled far these past two days and I wish to bathe and change before speaking to the Senate on a matter of grave import. Please inform those available that I will return in the afternoon,’ he added, knowing that everyone would ensure they were available to hear any news first hand.

‘Yes, Senior Consul,’ Fabius replied, the junior senator, a recently elected magistrate, barely able to contain his curiosity.

Fabius and the others turned away from the senior consul and began to climb the steps of the Curia, Scipio noting with satisfaction that they were already in deep conversation as to the nature of the ‘matter of grave import’ that he had alluded to. He knew it was only a matter of time before the whole Senate would be discussing the yet-to-be-disclosed news, their curiosity fermenting within the confines of the Senate building. Scipio would delay his return to the Curia until the last possible moment, allowing the tension to mount to the tautness of a legionary’s bow. Only then would he announce the news of the Carthaginian blockade and the threat to the Sicilian campaign. The timing would be perfect for declaring his proposal, presenting the senators with the only possible solution, his solution, without affording his enemies the opportunity to determine a counterproposal. It would be yet another one of his triumphs.

Gaius Duilius, junior consul of the Roman Senate, sat comfortably in the first row of the three-tiered inner chamber of the Curia. He was a novus homo, a new man, the first in his family line to be elected to the Senate. It was an achievement of which Duilius was extremely proud – and with good reason, for he was a self-made man who, from humble beginnings fifteen years before, had risen to the second most powerful position in Rome. When Duilius was nineteen, his parents and two younger sisters had succumbed to one of the many plagues that frequently swept the countryside around Rome, and he found himself the sole surviving inhabitant of the modest family villa that sat astride the Via Appia. This vital artery, the main road to the distant city of Brindisi, in the southeast of the country, was a thriving thoroughfare with a constant flow of traders passing the estate entrance on their way to the capital four miles beyond.

Duilius became master of his own estate and, free to make his own decisions, he gambled everything in a bid to capitalize on the estate’s ideal location. Using his land as collateral, he borrowed heavily from the usurers of Rome, who were only too eager to deal with him, confident that the young man would quickly default on the loans, allowing them to seize the estate. Duilius used the money to buy slaves and seed and quickly turned every arable inch of his land over to the growing of fresh produce. The markets of Rome had always been supplied by the outlying farmers, small land-holders, many of whom concentrated on individual seasonal crops; although the farmers worked in isolation, they were also careful not to directly compete with their neighbours. For years prices had remained relatively stable with little in the way of competition. Duilius planned to change that system.

In his first season, by using his entire estate, including the landscaped gardens that had been his mother’s pride, Duilius had more land under tillage than four average-size farms. He disregarded the delicate balance maintained by the other farmers and planted every commercial crop he could, utilizing a two-tier crop-rotation method that ensured his land was constantly producing. As his first crop was being harvested, Duilius propositioned every passing trader with an offer they could not decline. He sold them fresh produce below market price, taking advantage of the larger volumes he could command, leaving the traders free to transport the produce the mere four miles to the city, where they were free to profit from the margin in the city markets.

Within the first year Duilius was able to purchase his own wagons to transport his produce to the city, and within two more he had paid off his debts in full. Not content with the success of his own estate, he quickly borrowed even greater amounts and bought the two estates adjoining his own, paying the owners above market value, once again turning every inch of arable land over to production. It was then that Duilius got his first taste of the power that money could wield.

With the price of fresh produce falling in the market due to the unexpected competition, the farmers fought back by banding together to lobby the Senate to re-establish the status quo. Duilius had used his new-found wealth to ensure the ensuing vote in the Senate went in his favour, learning two valuable lessons in the process that had stayed with him ever since. The first was the power of money in guaranteeing the loyalty of unscrupulous men. The second was the value of information. Before the vote ever took place, Duilius knew exactly who he controlled, who he did not but, more importantly, who he could not control and who he dared not approach. Over time Duilius refined the dual revelations into one principle: ‘Money is only the method, information is the true wealth.’

Now, fifteen years after the death of his parents, Duilius owned the largest single tract of land straddling the city. Many other estates had tried to reproduce his methodology and achievements, but few had succeeded, and none to the same degree. Produce from his estates supplied the city with eighty per cent of its fresh vegetables and fruit, with all of the small farmers driven out of business by the cutthroat competition. These men had seen their livelihoods disappear almost overnight, and the cries of their hungry children had driven their attempts to assassinate Duilius on three occasions over the years. Each failed attempt brought terrible retribution from the Senate where Duilius held a seat, his position easily obtained years before from the votes of a grateful populace of Rome who craved the lower prices in the markets. The senator had used each occasion to further crush the farmers, and both guilty and innocent were forced off their land as punishment in the name of the State, their lands immediately put on the open market where Duilius snatched them up for half their true value.

Six months before, using the fortune that had propelled him into the realms of Rome’s elite, he had engineered a nomination to the position of senior consul from one of the sycophantic junior members of the Senate. The vote had been close and costly, but in the end he had been narrowly defeated by Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, one of the wealthiest men in Rome and one whom Duilius knew he could never control. The defeat had been bitter for Duilius, his first setback since setting out over fifteen years before, and the enmity between the two men had now divided the Senate into three segments: those firmly for Duilius, those firmly for Scipio, and a malleable majority in the centre whose votes were surreptitiously sold to the highest bidder.

Lucius Manlius Vulso Longus, a recently elected senator, quickly adjusted his gaze to the gloomy interior and rapidly searched the room for the man whose acceptance he craved more than anything in the world. He spotted Duilius and crossed the floor, his appearance putting an end to the honeyed words that Duilius had been speaking to a senator beside him, a senator whose vote Duilius had purchased many times. The junior consul looked up irritably.

‘What is it, Longus?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Scipio has returned!’ the young man said, his impatience to be the first to inform Duilius causing him to blurt out the words.

‘What …? When?’ Duilius said, standing, his voice loud in the muted chamber, the seated senator beside him forgotten.

‘Just now. I saw him crossing the Forum.’

Duilius’s mind raced to understand the reason behind the senior consul’s sudden reappearance. Why over a week early? And why unannounced? As he contemplated the answers his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the speaker’s gavel being struck on the marble lectern in the centre of the chamber. He looked up to see one of Scipio’s brats with the gavel in his hand.

‘The senior consul has returned from Sicily to inform us of a matter of grave import,’ he announced, his words holding everyone’s attention.

‘What matter?’ Duilius asked in the silent pause, his question drawing the speaker’s ire at the interruption.

‘I know not, Consul,’ Fabius replied, relishing Scipio’s adversary’s ignorance. ‘The senior consul will return to the Curia in the afternoon to speak in person to those members of the Senate who are available.’

Fabius left the lectern, to be immediately surrounded by Scipio’s allies who bombarded him with questions, none of which he had the answer to.

Senator Duilius looked around the chamber to see the eyes of his own allies looking to him for guidance, their faces blank, their minds filled with the same questions as everyone else’s.

Fools, Duilius thought, don’t they understand? There is only one step that must now be taken.

With a determined stride, the junior consul walked out of the inner chamber, his departure marked by silence as all watched him leave.