Читать книгу Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome - John Stack - Страница 17

Septimus walked out into the sunlit courtyard half an hour after dawn to find his mother, father and Atticus already there. The captain was mounted on one of the mares from the newly formed barracks at Fiumicino. She had all the hallmarks of a military horse, broad in the chest and barrel with a servile expression that bore witness to the hard life she led. Septimus paused and took a moment to study his friend closely, unsure of how he now felt. His sister’s abrupt end to the evening had left his challenge to Atticus unsaid, and now as they waited for Hadria he found himself re-examining the lingering gazes he had witnessed between them, the memory making him uneasy.

Hadria appeared at the door a moment later and paused before walking out into the courtyard. Her gaze was on Septimus as she walked towards him, her emotions in turmoil at the imminent departure. From the corner of her eye she sensed Atticus staring at her intently, and she struggled not to return his gaze, knowing that to do so would reveal her heart to her brother. She reached for Septimus and hugged him tightly, her eyes welling with tears, a silent prayer passing through her mind for his safe return and for that of the man she could not hold. As she broke her embrace she sensed Septimus’s eyes searching her own and resolutely returned his gaze although her heart called out for one last look at Atticus.

Salonina suddenly began to wail, her fears for her son surfacing in a wave of emotion, and Septimus turned to her. She hugged her son ardently, whispering a hope for him to be safe, and Hadria noticed that Septimus’s complete attention was on his mother. She seized her chance and turned her head towards Atticus. For a heartbeat their eyes locked and passion swept between them. Hadria silently mouthed a message, unseen by all except Atticus, before she whipped her head around as Septimus broke his mother’s embrace. He shook his father’s hand once more and mounted his horse.

Atticus spurred his horse and rode out into the busy street, his eyes locked forward, not daring to look over his shoulder as he heard Septimus fall in behind him. The horses quickly settled into an easy gait, Atticus unconsciously steering his mount through the growing throng as the city came to life. His mind was flooded by visions of Hadria and what he had just witnessed in the courtyard. The confusion he had felt the evening before when she abruptly retired to bed was swept away by the message she had mouthed, a message so fleeting that he had almost missed it. But now, as he replayed the moment in his mind, he was sure not only of what she had said but of how she felt, for her message was, ‘I must see you again.’

Thirty minutes later the two riders were once more on the Via Aurelia heading northwards towards Fiumicino. Atticus was anxious to learn more about Hadria; as the previous confines of the city had kept them riding in single file, making conversation impossible, he now let the pace of his horse fall off, allowing Septimus to catch up and ride abreast.

‘We should be back in camp within twenty minutes,’ Atticus began, breaking the silence, wanting to broach the subject of Hadria indirectly.

Septimus nodded, his own thoughts guarded, but also on Hadria. He had decided during the thirty-minute ride through the city that he needed to confront Atticus, to forestall any intentions he might have regarding Hadria.

‘Atticus, by law Hadria must remarry within the year,’ he said bluntly, turning in his saddle so he could face his friend.

‘I know, Septimus, your father mentioned it on my last visit,’ Atticus answered warily, taken aback by Septimus’s unexpected comment.

‘Then you realize she cannot entertain advances from anyone other than a suitor.’

‘What are you saying?’ Atticus asked angrily, knowing the answer implied in Septimus’s comment.

‘I saw the way you were looking at her,’ Septimus shot back, his gaze hostile as he reined in his horse, ‘and I’m telling you to stay away from her.’

‘And why couldn’t I be a suitor?’ Atticus stormed, bringing his own mount to a halt.

Septimus was on the cusp of revealing the reason behind his demand when he realized how weak and pathetic his motive was. He was suddenly overwhelmed with shame and his pride made him angry at Atticus for putting him in this situation.

‘You could never marry her, Atticus,’ he spat.

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re not suitable,’ Septimus shouted, his words now twisted to suit his purpose.

There was a moment’s silence as Atticus recoiled. ‘Why?’ he shouted again, his horse shifting restlessly as he leaned out of his saddle, his face inches from Septimus’s.

‘Because you’re not Roman,’ Septimus countered, his own anger rising uncontrollably. ‘Hadria must marry someone of her class, an equestrian from a Roman family.’

‘Maybe Hadria should decide that for herself,’ Atticus said.

Septimus wheeled his horse to separate the two mounts before turning one last time to face Atticus.

‘I wanted to ask you, Atticus, but now I’m telling you,’ he said, his face a mask of determination. ‘Stay away from Hadria!’

Septimus spurred his horse and he galloped away, barging past slower travellers on the busy road, their irate shouts ignored.

Atticus could only watch him leave, his anger washing over him at what had just occurred, at how foolish he had been to think that Septimus was different from the arrogant Romans who believed they were above all others.

‘We need to lure them out, make them commit some of their fleet to an opportunity they cannot refuse.’

‘And then?’ Gisco asked.

‘Then we take them. We capture their force and learn their true strength.’

The admiral nodded, agreeing with Hamilcar’s logic. What they needed now, needed most of all, was information. The enemy were building a fleet, that much was known. What was unknown was what type of ship the Romans would deploy, when they would launch and how many there would be.

Gisco knew the Romans were aware of his fifty ships, the galley that escaped them in the Strait of Messina having surely reported their strength, with the loss of their transport fleet confirming that presence. He was confident that they did not know of the second fleet of sixty that had sailed up the west coast, but he could not be sure and he had learned early in his military career that – when making plans – it was best to assume the worst. He would assume they did know. The final piece, a piece he was sure no one knew, was that he had persuaded Hamilcar to return to Carthage to call up a third fleet, the home fleet of the sacred city of Carthage herself.

Gisco closed his eyes and pictured the Roman galley he had seen in the Strait of Messina. The sight before him made him clench his teeth in anger, but he swept the emotion aside and concentrated on the details. She had been a fast ship, faster than any trireme in the Carthaginian fleet, although she would be no match for a quinquereme, whose fourth row of oarsmen would give her enough speed to overtake any smaller vessel. Was she typical of the Roman fleet? Did they possess any quinqueremes of their own? Would the new fleet be a mix of the two? Her design had been lighter than his own vessels, the reduction in weight and smaller draught making her faster over the waves. Would the Romans use a heavier design to better match his ships? Had they found out the secrets of the Carthaginian design, the new concepts employed by the master craftsmen of the Punic empire that had allowed the Carthaginians to combine strength and speed? If they had captured any of his ships then those secrets would be laid bare before any trained eye. The fleet had lost four ships since arriving in northern Sicily, three in a squall while travelling from Panormus to the blockade, and Boodes had reported the loss of a galley sent on patrol a week before. Had she also been lost to bad weather or had the Romans captured her? There were too many unanswered questions and the frustration of uncertainty caused Gisco to stand up and begin pacing the room.

Hamilcar watched him pace, studying him anew. Three days before he had agreed, at Gisco’s persistent request, to sail to Carthage to commandeer the home fleet. It was a request that only a Council member like his father could grant, and Hamilcar was acutely aware that Gisco was attempting to use Hamilcar’s contacts on the Council to serve himself. By personally requesting the fleet on Gisco’s behalf, Hamilcar also knew he was tying his fate to that of the admiral’s. He had initially resisted, reluctant to intertwine his destiny with Gisco’s, but had finally relented when he realized that Gisco’s request served the greater needs of Carthage. The Carthaginians were a maritime people, a nation at home on the water. The navy was the strength and backbone of that empire and Hamilcar realized it was time for the city to flex that power.

‘So how do we lure them out?’ Gisco asked suddenly, turning towards the seated Hamilcar to find the man already staring at him.

‘We use the same tactic our forefathers used against Agathocles, the tyrant of Syracuse. We offer them a city,’ Hamilcar replied, the idea having been formed, developed and tested in his own mind over the past few days.

Gisco smiled at the simplicity of the idea, a tactic that had worked against a different enemy over forty years before. Agathocles, then ruler of Syracuse in the southwestern corner of Sicily, had broken the uneasy truce of the time by attacking and taking the Carthaginian stronghold of Messina. The Carthaginians held only one other stronghold on the island, the city of Agrigentum in the west. The Carthaginian leader Maharbal did not have sufficient forces to fight his way across the entire island of Sicily to regain Messina, and so he devised a plan to make the enemy come to him. He offered Agathocles the city of Agrigentum.

One of the city councillors had presented himself before Agathocles, claiming the inhabitants were ready to rise up against their Carthaginian oppressors. The leader of Syracuse had immediately taken the bait and led his army across the island to liberate Agrigentum, only to find the gates locked against him. In his anger he besieged the city, even though he was over a hundred miles from the safety of his own territory. It was the mistake Maharbal had hoped for. The Carthaginian leader swooped down with his army to surround the enemy, trapping them between his forces and the hostile city.

The resulting battle had been a disaster for Agathocles, undone by his own greed and recklessness. Gisco was confident the Romans had the first trait in abundance, for why else would they have built their Republic if not to satisfy their appetite for the lands and wealth of others. But were they reckless? Gisco ran through the list of Carthaginian-held cities in his mind. He smiled as the perfect match for his purpose presented itself. Gisco would not need to rely on the Romans being reckless, for the city he chose would appear easily within their grasp. It was a city located on an island off the northern coast of Sicily, an island far removed from the blockade and any visible threat from the Carthaginian navy. It was the city of Lipara.

Gaius Duilius sat patiently as the camp prefect of Fiumicino made his report to the Senate. The battle-worn ex-centurion looked oddly out of place in the hallowed inner chamber of the Curia; however, he showed no sign of being intimidated by the surrounding senators. Duilius surmised that Tuditanus had faced more menacing foes over the course of his military career than this group of languid old men.

The junior consul’s mind wandered as the prefect outlined the progress of the fleet’s construction. Duilius already knew the main details of the report. Not by virtue of having seen Tuditanus’s written work, but from the reports of half a dozen spies in the camp who fed him updates both day and night. For that reason Duilius had not been to the camp, although he was fully aware of Scipio’s visit the day before and the thought made him turn to the senior consul now seated in the centre of the bottom tier of the semicircular rows. His attention returned to the present as he picked up an inaccuracy in the report.

‘Prefect,’ Duilius said, his interruption stopping Tuditanus in his tracks, ‘did you say the first batch of twenty galleys will be ready in six days?’

‘Yes, Senator,’ Tuditanus replied, his voice confident.

‘No sooner?’ Duilius asked, with an implied disbelief hidden beneath the seemingly innocent question.

‘No, Senator. Six days.’

Tuditanus held the junior consul’s gaze. He had been warned by Scipio to expect the question, the senior consul knowing that in a camp the size of Fiumicino there would be few secrets, and certainly none that would escape Duilius.

‘I see,’ Duilius said finally. He stood up.

‘Senators,’ he announced, ‘I humbly ask the senior consul, in your presence, to allow me to take the fleet to sea once it is ready.’

A light applause followed the submission. Scipio rose to reply.

‘The junior consul may personally take the fleet to sea in six days,’ Scipio said, his words neatly avoiding the trap that Duilius had set. More applause was heard and Duilius nodded a thank-you at Scipio, both men knowing that the gesture was not one of gratitude.

Duilius retook his seat. His spies had told him three days, four at the most, and the galleys would be ready to sail. He was acutely aware of the opportunity that would be afforded the first man to command the fleet to sea, even if the journey was from the construction site to the castrum in Ostia. It was an opportunity to stamp their command of the fleet in the minds of men, an opportunity that would negate any agreement made in the Senate. The rule of Rome was the rule of the mob. If the people chose Scipio as the fleet’s leader, there was little Duilius could do to point out the joint leadership agreement. The mob would only remember one name. Duilius needed to find a way of making sure that name would be his.

*

Atticus marvelled at the gleaming hulls of the twenty triremes beached just above the high-water mark of the beach. He and Septimus had arrived back in Fiumicino two days before and had immediately recommenced their training routines, although Septimus now spent all his time in the camp of the Fourth. Anger flared up within Atticus as he recalled their sudden argument on the ride back from Rome and Septimus’s demand to stay away from Hadria, and he consciously swept the memory from his mind, concentrating instead on the Aquila as the galley slipped her mooring and the order was given to get under way.

Training the new recruits on how to ram when all his reason demanded he should train them for boarding had frustrated Atticus, but at least on this day he knew he would be teaching them a lesson that was vital, regardless of the galley’s method of attack. All of the trainees under his tutelage were already skilled sailors, and so in many cases it was simply a matter of adapting their skills, teaching them how best to manoeuvre a galley while choosing the most appropriate oar-stroke. Today’s lesson would concentrate on that second element.

The Aquila moved away from the beach at two knots, steerage speed. Her pace was not dictated by the nearest of the sea-lanes running perpendicular to her course, as Gaius could easily negotiate the tricky passage at standard speed, but by the need to conserve the strength of the rowers for the lesson ahead, a lesson that would be learnt at their expense. Atticus had kept this lesson until last, knowing it to be the most important for any command crew of a galley. When the assembled men on the main deck took to their own galleys in the near future, they would remember this day well.

Once the Aquila cleared the sea-lane, Atticus ordered all twenty-five trainees below to the slave deck. As they descended, he ordered the slaves to be chained to their oars, knowing that what he was about to do would endanger the trainees crowded on the narrow walkway along the length of the deck. He re-examined his decision on the method he had chosen to teach this all-important lesson and satisfied himself that there was no alternative, not if he wanted the lesson to be remembered.

With an additional twenty-five men below decks, the area was claustrophobic and, for some of the trainees, frightening. Many had never been on a slave deck before and the sight of two hundred near-naked men chained to their fifteen-foot oars struck dread into their hearts. The slaves’ expressions were unmoving and yet the trainees could feel the open hostility in the confined space. The slaves were men like the Romans who stood over them, the difference in their circumstances dictated only by the ever-fickle fate that controlled all their lives.

‘Men,’ Atticus shouted, his voice muted by the press of bodies and the surrounding timbers, ‘this deck represents the strength of your ship. These men, although slaves, are part of your crew. You must treat them accordingly. To abuse them is to sap your own strength.’

Atticus watched as the message was absorbed by those men who had never owned slaves and had never become callous in their treatment of them. Others, Fulfidias among them, had slaves of their own and had worked with them all their lives. For men like this, Atticus’s words sounded weak, unbecoming for the master of a ship.

‘In battle,’ Atticus continued, ‘you will face many challenges. The principal one will be your ability to know and understand your own ship and its capabilities. Of all your ship’s capabilities, one of the most important is the strength of the slaves at your oars. These men give you the ability to outmanoeuvre your enemy and escape or close in for attack. The crucial thing you must know is that their strength is finite. Once it is spent your ship is lost.’

The trainees listened in silence and then looked around them at the chained men an arm’s length away. A shouted command shocked them back to attention.

‘Battle speed!’ Atticus roared.

The two hundred oars of the Aquila increased with the command of the drum beat to battle speed, seven knots.

‘The galley slaves of the Aquila can row at battle speed for two hours. During that time the forty reserve rowers will also be used to keep that pace.’

Atticus let them row for thirty minutes. At that point the first few reserves were called up to replace the weaker rowers of the crew. The trainees in the centre of the walkways were pushed aside as the hatchway to the lower deck was opened and some of them were given a brief glance of the twilight hell beneath them; the stench of the bilges combined with the foul smell of the confined quarters of the reserve rowers rose up through the open hatchway.

The rowing continued on at battle speed, the only sound being the beat of the drum keeping time on the crowded deck. As the sweat began to increase on the backs of the slaves and their breathing became more laboured, many of the trainees began to form an understanding of what Atticus had spoken about.

‘Attack speed!’

Again the order had come as a surprise to many and again they turned their attention to Atticus.

‘At attack speed the Aquila is moving at eleven knots.’

Many of the trainees, some of whom had never been on a galley before their indentured service, marvelled at the incredible speed. For a sailing ship it was the equivalent of running before a strong wind, a tricky manoeuvre that was rarely attempted.

‘The rowers of the Aquila can maintain this speed for fifteen minutes. It is only three knots faster than battle speed, but the extra effort required cuts their ability to an eighth of the time.’

Again the trainees looked around them. Many now began to count the minutes. Ten passed.

‘Ramming speed!’

The drum master of the Aquila repeated the order and increased his beat. The slaves redoubled their efforts, many grunting through the pain of the backbreaking pull. Others cried out as cramped muscles gave way under the strain.

‘At ramming speed, even the best rowers will collapse after five minutes!’ Atticus shouted over the cries of pain and suffering. He secretly gritted his teeth to force his will to continue.

The first rower collapsed after two minutes.

Within another sixty seconds twenty more were down.

‘All stop!’ Atticus shouted, putting an end to the enforced barbarity of the lesson. He spat the bile of self-shame from his mouth at the sight of the near-broken men, many at the end of their strength, while others who had gone beyond their limit lay prone under their oars. One did not rise again, his heart broken from the effort.

Atticus never flinched from pushing his galley slaves to their limits when the situation required it. To show compassion and spare the slaves could mean endangering a ship, and so Atticus had long ago hardened his heart to the fate of the men below decks. Even so, he believed in treating the slaves well, not just because healthy slaves rowed better, but because, like all sailors, he knew that one day the tables might be turned and in defeat Atticus could find himself chained to an oar. By treating his slaves well he hoped that Fortuna, the goddess of fate, would place him under a similar master if his time ever came.

Atticus ordered the oars to be withdrawn and the sail raised. For the next hour the Aquila would have to make do with canvas only. He ordered the trainees back onto the main deck and then, standing on the aft, he addressed them once more.

‘We do not know what lies ahead for our fleet. At the very least we will be called upon to raise a blockade. We might even meet the Carthaginian fleet in battle. In either case you will need all your resources to stay alive and in the fight. The Aquila has three hundred and thirty men on board, two hundred and forty rowers, thirty sailors and sixty marines. She has fought in many battles and has survived them all. That is because I know that each man on board is valuable in the fight. To ignore any part of your crew is to doom your ship. The lesson is this … Know your ship. Know your crew. Know your strength.’

Septimus woke at the sound of the clarion call announcing the start of a new day. He sat up on the cot in the cramped tent and reached out for the water basin on the ground. It was half full and he emptied the contents over his head, the cold water barely penetrating the deep fatigue he felt. Over the past two days he had had fewer than four hours’ sleep each night. Silanus continued to frustrate his attempts to properly prepare the legionaries of the V maniple, and so Septimus had stepped up the hours of training in an effort to force the issue. It was not working, and Septimus had realized during the night that he would have to confront Silanus once and for all.

As Septimus walked out into the dawn light, the V maniple were forming on the training square for roll call, the procedure carried out with practised efficiency before the men were released for breakfast. Each contubernia of soldiers shared a single tent and the men ate in their groups, the arrangement more efficient in a temporary camp. Septimus noticed Silanus walking towards his own tent and moved to intercept him.

‘Silanus!’

The centurion turned to the call and his expression immediately became dismissive as Septimus approached him.

‘We need to talk,’ he said.

‘Really,’ Silanus replied with a sneer, ‘about what, marine?’ Again the last word was spat out, but Septimus ignored the gibe.

‘About the training, about how your men aren’t ready for battle, not against an enemy trained on the deck of a galley where a legion’s formations count for naught.’

‘So you say, marine. I say my men are unmatched in combat and no matter how differently the Carthaginians fight, even one to one, my men won’t be beaten.’

Septimus smiled, although the smile did not reach his eyes. Silanus had taken the bait.

‘Would you be willing to test that assertion in single combat?’ Septimus asked. ‘You against me?’

‘Gladly,’ Silanus nodded, returning Septimus’s smile with the same underlying enmity. He made to turn but Septimus grabbed his sword arm, arresting him.

‘But if I win,’ Septimus continued, ‘I want your word that you and your men will submit to the training.’

Silanus looked wary. ‘And if I win?’ he replied.

‘Then I’ll back down and concede that your men are without equal.’

Again Silanus nodded, jerking his arm to release Septimus’s grip, a malicious grin once more on his face, and walked away.

Septimus watched him go before turning to find Quintus standing behind him. His optio moved forward.

‘Your orders, Centurion?’ he asked.

‘Form up the men around the training square, Quintus,’ Septimus said with a smile. ‘I’ll be teaching the first lesson today.’

Fifteen minutes later the legionaries of the V were formed on three sides of the square with the Aquila’s twenty marines occupying the fourth side. The shouts of encouragement were sporadic as bets were exchanged between the marines and the legionaries, the odds agreed as even. Septimus and Silanus stood at the centre of the square, six feet apart as each limbered up, their heavy wooden training swords swinging with ever-increasing speed as the tempo of calls from the crowd increased. Quintus stepped forward between the two fighters and drew his sword, holding it straight out between them until both were ready. With a flash he dropped his blade and withdrew, the shouts from the crowd reaching a crescendo as the fight began.

Septimus studied Silanus’s movements as the two began to circle, noticing immediately that although he was right-handed, his body was finely balanced, the natural weakness of his left trained out of him many years before. Silanus moved with practised ease, confident of his ability and yet not rushing his attack, sizing up Septimus with every turn, weaving his sword from side to side to distract the marine. The two men continued to circle.

‘The Fourth Legion, the boars – right, Silanus?’ Septimus said, his words breaking the silence between the men although they were surrounded by a wall of sound.

‘What?’ Silanus said after a moment, his face betraying the break in his concentration.

‘You’re a man of the Fourth? A boar. One of the boars of Rome?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Silanus replied, the need to do so automatic.

‘Then what does that make your mother?’ Septimus said, loudly enough only for the centurion to hear.

Silanus’s face was mottled with anger as he tore into the fight, the words striking rage into his heart. Septimus had been ready for the strike but he was shocked by the sheer speed of the movement, his anticipation of the style of attack saving him, giving his reactions the extra time needed to counter the lunge. Silanus had attacked in the manner of the legions, albeit in a stylized way born out of adaptation to one-to-one combat. He had feigned to his left, where training dictated he lunge with his shield, before following through with the sword in his right hand. Septimus countered the stroke before backing off, the centurion following him step for step, keeping the pressure up, raining blow after blow on the marine.

The cheers from the legionaries of the Fourth becoming ever more strident as Silanus moved in for the kill, Septimus continuing to give ground before the furious centurion, waiting for the perfect time to counterattack. The moment came without warning and Septimus shifted the balance of his stance as he made ready. Where before Silanus had randomized his strikes, the sustained attack on Septimus had made his movements rhythmical, the years of training overcoming his individual style to reassert itself over his actions. It was the failure of all men of the legions in one-to-one combat and was the first lesson Atticus had taught Septimus on the Aquila. In one-to-one combat, predictability was death.

Septimus allowed the centurion one more strike, his mind predicting the blow long before it began. Then he counter attacked.

Septimus sidestepped the next expected strike and parried Silanus’s blade, breaking the centurion’s rhythm. He immediately followed with a thrust to the centurion’s groin, a killing blow that forced Silanus to react swiftly, his body turned off balance. Septimus reversed the strike at the last moment and brought the blade higher to the centurion’s stomach, again forcing Silanus to further shift off balance to counter the stroke, the original feint slowing his reactions. Silanus’s twisted torso exposed his kidneys and Septimus struck beneath the centurion’s extended sword at his lower back. The centurion grunted loudly as the tip of the heavy wooden sword struck his kidneys, driving a sharp pain into his stomach and chest. He immediately withdrew, pain etched on his face.

Now the men of the Aquila were cheering with blood lust as Septimus pressed home his attack, this time Silanus giving ground as the marine rained unpredictable blows on him. Septimus’s training on the Aquila came to the fore as the marine gave full vent to the conditioning of his combat instincts, while Silanus’s reactions became erratic as desperation crept into his defence as he fought to break the cycle of attack. Septimus feigned a strike to the centurion’s lower left side and suddenly thrust his sword upwards, the point driving towards Silanus’s face. The centurion reacted instinctively, without thought to the consequences, and whipped his sword up, swiping Septimus’s blade away but leaving his entire torso exposed. Septimus circled his blade around the sideswipe and brought the blade under Silanus’s arm, turning his body around as he did to put maximum momentum behind what he knew would be the last strike. The flat blade of the wooden sword slammed into Silanus’s stomach with a force that drove the wind from his lungs, and he pitched forward over the sword, falling heavily on all fours, his own sword thrown from his hand by the strength of the impact.

Septimus stepped back from the defeated centurion and turned to his men, holding his sword aloft in victory. He made to walk over to them when a hand on his shoulder arrested him. He turned to find Silanus facing him, the centurion still hunched forward with his hand over his stomach.

‘By the gods, Septimus, you fight like Pluto, like the lord of the underworld himself,’ Silanus gasped as he drew himself to his full height, proffering his hand as he did so.

‘The same way the Carthaginians fight,’ Septimus said, accepting Silanus’s hand, noting for the first time a look of respect on the centurion’s face.

Silanus nodded and turned towards his men, barking orders at them to form up and prepare for the day’s training.

Septimus smiled as Quintus came up and slapped him on the shoulder. The twenty galleys would be ready to sail within days and the rumour around the camp was that the senior consul was taking the galleys to the castrum at Ostia where they would make a great show of arriving and disembarking. If Ostia was to become the new home for the V maniple of the Fourth, Septimus would arrange for his optio, Quintus, to accompany them to continue the training, safe in the knowledge that finally he had an ally in Silanus. With the completion of the entire fleet still weeks away, time was on their side, time enough to teach the legionaries of the Fourth the vital skills they would need to survive the treacherous decks of a Carthaginian galley.

Gaius Duilius rose from his bed at the sound of the incessant knocking on his bedroom door.

‘Who is it?’ he shouted irritably, trying to judge the time from the light in the room. It was just after dawn.

The door burst open and his senior servant, Appius, entered, followed by one of his spies from the camp, a carpenter named Calvus. Duilius rose as they rushed across the floor, their agitation obvious.

‘They sail today, my lord,’ Calvus said, his anxiety etched on his face.

‘Today?’ Duilius replied. ‘All reports said tomorrow, the fourth day!’

‘That was the plan as everyone knew it, the schedule that Tuditanus had kept us to and swore us not to reveal to anyone – lest the enemy become aware of our plans,’ Calvus explained, ‘but last evening as we prepared to end our day, Tuditanus himself ordered the work to continue overnight. We were ordered to stay at our posts and finish the work by firelight.’

‘Why was I not informed of this?’ Duilius asked, turning to Appius. ‘Why didn’t one of the other spies report this?’

Appius was speechless.

‘We were all ordered to remain in camp last night on pain of death,’ Calvus interjected, ‘so none could spread the news beyond Fiumicino. I was only allowed to leave when the work was completed.’

Duilius swore at the simplicity of the plan that had thwarted him. By forcing the craftsmen and slaves to work overnight they had pushed the schedule forward twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that Duilius had been planning on using to arrange a ‘surprise’ inspection by him and some of the senior senators. Once at camp the next day, the fourth day, they would all see the fleet was indeed ready to sail and Duilius would pursue the offer Scipio had made in the Senate to allow Duilius to sail with the fleet when she first put to sea. That plan was now frustrated, ruined by Scipio’s simple change in the schedule. Duilius cursed his lack of foresight.

‘Shall I saddle your horse?’ Appius asked.

At first Duilius did not hear the question, furious as he was at being outmanoeuvred.

‘What?’ he asked, his mind still not in the moment.

Appius repeated the question.

‘No,’ Duilius said, realizing that to turn up in Fiumicino alone without senatorial backup would be useless, his rank as junior consul second to Scipio’s.

Duilius dismissed the two men and began pacing his room. He forced his mind to quiet so he could examine the problem from every angle. There was no solution; nothing to stop Scipio making his triumphant entrance into Ostia. Duilius might have won the first round in the Senate when he forced Scipio to back down over the command of the fleet, but the senior consul had won the second, a round that would give Scipio the backing of the people of Rome.

‘Today?’ Lucius said, disbelieving. He had been about to get the Aquila under way when his captain had came up to him on the aft-deck, his expression uneasy.

‘Yes, today,’ Atticus repeated, ‘I’ve just received the orders.’

‘But why the haste?’ Lucius asked.

‘Who knows?’ Atticus replied. ‘All I can be sure of is that the trainees aren’t ready. I’m going to have to confront Tuditanus again – at least make him agree to continue the training at Ostia.’

‘I’ll row you ashore,’ Lucius offered, and both men strode to the main deck and climbed down to a tethered skiff. Within minutes they were on the beach.

The activity around them seemed chaotic as the two men ascended the beach towards the camp prefect’s tent. Sailors clambered over the decks of the twenty galleys to install the running rigging of each, and the voices of the boatswains so recently taught on the Aquila could be heard shouting orders to the men who scrambled to obey. Atticus surveyed the ship closest to him and studied the near-finished arrangement of ropes. The rigging, to a casual eye, looked perfect, but Atticus quickly spotted a mistake, one that would only become apparent when the crew tried to raise sail. The boatswain had used the wrong sequence in completing the rigging and the lifting yard would foul the instant the crew tried to raise it aloft. He shook his head at the sight. The crews were simply not ready yet.

The activity around the boat explained the sailors’ haste. In front of each galley, slaves were laying out cylindrical logs on the hard-packed sand. The logs stretched out a hundred yards in front of each ship and led down to the water line, now at low tide. The galleys were suspended two feet off the ground on a timber frame that had supported the hull during construction, and logs were now placed in the gap beneath, leaving a space of six inches. As the last logs were put in place in front of the ship nearest to Atticus and Lucius, whip cracks filled the air and the slaves, at least three hundred in total, took the strain of the ropes tethered to the galley. With a mighty effort the ship was pulled forward on her frame, the action snapping the timbers of the frame until the galley crashed the six inches onto the logs underneath. More slaves rushed forward to clear the majority of the debris, even as the galley lurched forward on its way to the water line, the gentle slope of the beach aiding its progress. Atticus could see that within the hour all twenty galleys would be at the lower end of the beach, awaiting the tide that would free them from the land.

The two sailors of the Aquila were so engrossed by the unfolding scene that they did not notice the horsemen stationed fifty yards beyond them, the group also watching the galleys being made ready. Scipio turned to Tuditanus.

‘You’ve done well, Prefect.’

Tuditanus’s eyebrow raised at the rare compliment, although he was sure not to let the senior consul see the gesture.

‘Thank you, Senior Consul. I have sent word to the legion’s camp to have the men made ready. The tide rises rapidly in this area, so the galleys will be afloat within three hours.’

‘Good,’ Scipio replied, his voice and expressions once more minimal. He calculated the time in his mind. All being well, he would be rounding the headland at Ostia before noon.

*

Demades stood to attention as his task was dictated to him. He was not a military man – in fact he had never held a weapon in his hand in all his forty years; however, the stance seemed appropriate given the rank of the man speaking to him. The Carthaginian admiral had arrived unexpectedly an hour before, compelling Demades to race from his residence to the Council chamber, all the while fearing the worst, unable to think of a reason why Hannibal Gisco would want to visit the tiny island.

Lipara, which was also the name of the only city on the island, was located twenty-four miles off the northern coast of Sicily and was the largest of a group of eight islands. The island had been occupied since ancient times, primarily because of the hard black volcanic glass, obsidian, which was abundant under the soil. Its cutting edge had been prized by the inhabitants of the mainland, and the trade had made the otherwise insignificant island an important centre for commerce. The coming of iron had eradicated the trade in obsidian, but the islanders had adapted and now sold volcanic pumice to the rich inhabitants of the Roman Republic.

The arrival of the Carthaginians two years before had originally caused great consternation to the inhabitants of Lipara, not least to their senior councillor, Demades, who saw their coming as the death knell for their trade and for the Council that controlled both the trade and government of the island. In the event, the Carthaginians had had little impact on the lives of the ordinary people, who simply switched their trading routes to serve the empire of Carthage. Never before, however, had a senior Carthaginian figure been in the city, least of all the supreme commander of their entire army and navy. It was for that reason that Demades had attended Gisco personally, one leader to another. Demades had tried to take the upper hand in the meeting – after all, Lipara was his city and he was the senior councillor – however, within a heartbeat, Gisco’s overpowering will had cowed him and thereafter he listened in silence.

‘I beg your pardon, Admiral, but you want me to do what?’ Demades asked as Gisco got to the crux of his plan.

‘I want you to travel to Rome and announce to their Senate that Lipara wishes to switch allegiance to the Roman cause,’ Gisco repeated, annoyed with the awkward fool before him.

Gisco had met many like Demades before, and all had proved to be the same, big fish in small ponds. It was only when a bigger fish arrived that men like Demades realized that their power over a small city was naught when compared to the military might of an empire such as Carthage’s. Even in the face of this reality, however, Gisco had always noticed that these men still clung to the opinion that they were somehow equal to him. They were not, and in the past Gisco had been forced to draw blood to prove the point. It was only because Demades had been to Rome before and his face was known to all the traders that Gisco did not kill him now and replace him with an imposter. The traders would testify to the legitimacy of his claim to be the senior councillor of Lipara, a legitimacy that was required if the Senate was to be won over.

‘But, Admiral, Lipara has always been loyal to Carthage. We have never given the governor cause for concern. I don’t understand,’ Demades said.

‘You don’t need to understand,’ Gisco snarled. ‘You will ask the Senate to send a force to free your city, telling them that we, the Carthaginians, have strangled your trade and your people are prisoners on the island.’

‘But … but … that’s not so, Admiral. Our trade has flourished under your benevolent rule and our city has prospered. We have no wish to become a Roman possession, I assure you.’

Demades began to panic. He desperately wanted to obey the admiral, but he couldn’t understand what was being asked of him. Were the Carthaginians really going to abandon his island? If so, why would they want the Romans to take possession of Lipara? Why not just sail away?

‘You’re a fool, Demades,’ Gisco spat, losing his patience. ‘You will travel to Rome and deliver the message I have given you.’

Demades nodded, a look of puzzlement still on his face.

‘Cronus!’ Gisco shouted to the door behind Demades. The admiral’s guard commander entered and stood to attention.

‘Demades,’ Gisco continued, ‘this is Cronus. He will travel with you to Rome along with four of my personal guard. They will travel disguised as your personal guard and will be with you at all times.’

Demades looked to the towering figure of Cronus, his eyes moving from the expressionless face to the sword hanging loosely by his side. At Gisco’s words he returned his gaze to the admiral.

‘If you so much as breathe a word beyond telling the Senate the message I have outlined, Cronus will kill you, but not before he sends word to me of your betrayal. If I receive such a message, I will personally take the lives of your wife and two daughters.’

Gisco’s eyes swore the truth of the threat and Demades nearly lost control of his bladder as terror threatened to unman him. He nodded to indicate his understanding, not trusting his voice.

‘Take him away,’ Gisco ordered, and Cronus manhandled the councillor from the room.

The guard commander escorted Demades the short distance through the streets to the dockside. A trading barge was making ready to sail and Demades was bustled on board.

‘I can’t go now,’ he protested. ‘What of my family? I must speak with them.’

‘Take him below,’ was the only reply from Cronus, an order that signalled rough hands to take Demades to the main cabin.

The barge pushed off from the quayside, the helmsman setting a course that would take her north to Rome.

‘A sight to see,’ Atticus remarked to himself as the first of the twenty galleys made her way awkwardly through the breaking surf to the calmer waters beyond. It was hard to believe that it had only been two and a half weeks since construction of the fleet had begun on the once-empty beach. One by one the ships floated in the gentle swell of the tide before the oars were dropped into the shallow water and orders were issued to get under way. Given that the slaves on board had never manned oars, it was an impressive feat, and Atticus was proud of the drum masters, who had to create order from the probable chaos below decks. The successful launch of each ship was met by a cheer both from men on the beach and those on deck, and it was impossible not to feel overwhelmed at what had been achieved in so little time.

Septimus stood apart from Atticus on the aft-deck. He was dressed, as were all the marines now stationed on the galleys, in full battle gear, a show of force for the traders of Ostia. The necessities of their shared command demanded his return to the galley, and so an uneasy truce had been established between them, their argument not discussed but not forgotten either.

Atticus looked beyond the completed galleys to the beach sweeping north and a three-mile stretch of coastline where the construction frames for the next batch of fifty galleys were being completed. The number of people in the camp had exploded over the past week, and so now the fishing village of Fiumicino boasted a population greater than most cities. Atticus estimated that in less than three weeks the sea would be home to fifty more Roman galleys, all of which would need to be manned by capable crews.

As the galleys got under way, the Aquila slipped into formation, as did two galleys of the Ostia fleet, the Neptunus and the Asclepius. All three deferred to the Mars, the first ship launched and the designated flagship of the fleet. It was upon this ship that Scipio himself sailed, his statuesque figure on the foredeck visible to all those on the ships flanking the vanguard. Atticus smiled at the sight, knowing that if the Mars were to encounter a Carthaginian galley today, Scipio would immediately be knocked off his perch.

Fortuna must be smiling, Fulfidias thought, feeling favoured as his galley prepared to make the turn south to the port of Ostia. Only hours before, his dismal outlook had been as unchanged as it had been over the previous two weeks. He had stood on the aft-deck of his beached galley that morning and barked orders at his new crew, his tongue lashing all who came within range of his foul humour. That attitude had changed the moment he had answered a summons to the prefect’s tent.

He had never spoken to Tuditanus before then, but all knew of his fearsome reputation, and Fulfidias was apprehensive as to why he was being sent for. That apprehension had increased at the sight of the senior consul, Scipio himself, in attendance. They had asked him many questions, mainly about his previous sailing experience on trading galleys and the legitimacy of his business dealings in Rome. On both counts Fulfidias had spoken with pride and confidence. It was then that Scipio had announced that Fulfidias’s galley, the Salvia, would be renamed the Mars and would become the flagship of the new fleet.

Fulfidias now looked down the length of his new galley to the figure of Scipio standing alone on the foredeck. He had debated whether or not he should join the senior consul on the bow of the ship but had decided against it, remembering the cold manner that Scipio had exhibited since coming on board. Never mind, Fulfidias thought, there would be plenty of time to build a relationship with the most powerful man in the Republic. Fulfidias knew that Scipio would open new doors for him, doors that would surely reveal incredible opportunities for profit. In his mind he distinctly heard the click of Fortuna’s wheel as it turned in his favour.

Scipio ignored the light spray of water on his face and the feel of his damp toga where it was pressed against his skin by the oncoming warm breeze. He had been told the journey to Ostia would take no more than thirty minutes, and so he had decided to spend the entire time on the foredeck of the lead ship, the most prominent point in the newly formed fleet.

The sight of twenty-three galleys in the busy sea-lane drew astonished looks from the crews and passengers of other ships, and all noticed the seemingly sculpted figure of the Roman on the lead galley. Scipio knew it was only a foretaste of what he would encounter in the busy port ahead. He glanced over his shoulder at the triremes formed up behind him. They were indeed an impressive sight, one that he had never seen the like of before, and certainly one that would suggest power to all in Ostia and Rome beyond.

Scipio also noticed the three galleys of the regular fleet. They were in mid-formation, in a solid line of three abreast, their arrangement exact and controlled. Their precision was in marked contrast to the ships ahead and behind them which, it seemed, were struggling to maintain a semblance of the same order. He had earlier debated whether he should make one of the experienced galleys his flagship, but had dismissed the idea. The ‘old’ fleet was a familiar sight to the world, a fleet built by obscure and forgotten men. The new fleet was Scipio’s and, if he was going to stamp his authority and ownership on its galleys, he needed to mark them as such. Making one of the new ships his flagship was the first step in achieving his aim.

The fleet rounded the northern headland of the port of Ostia as the day reached its zenith, the springtime sun shining white from a cloudless sky, reflecting a million shards of light in the rippling waters of the bay. As more and more galleys appeared, the immediate reaction on the dockside was one of fear. The weeks of circulated rumours about the Punici horde had struck terror in the hearts of the traders, and now it seemed the enemy were striking at the very heart of the Republic.

The initial fear and consternation slowly gave way to jubilation as Roman banners flying from mastheads were recognized and all realized that the galleys approaching were not harbingers of ruin but the promised saviours that would sweep the seas for Rome. Word quickly spread, and soon almost the entire population of Ostia lined the quayside, cheering and waving the return of safety and security.

The ships fanned out as they approached the dock to create an illusion of greater numbers, so spectators on land had to turn their heads to take in the full spectacle. Two hundred yards from shore, the galleys stopped in line abreast and only the centre ship, the one that had been in the lead, continued on. While some had already noticed the tall, lone figure on the bow of the trireme, now all eyes fell on the sight as the ship made the final approach. The cheering continued, but now with a renewed focus, as the leader was identified, the man that personified the mighty strength of the assembled galleys.

With yards to go, the Mars heeled over hard to come parallel to the dock, a fluid movement belying a complex manoeuvre that the experienced galley captain made look effortless. Lines were thrown to shore and eager hands took hold to haul the ship in, the oars withdrawing to allow the ship to rest four feet from the dock. The gangway was quickly lowered and ten black-cloaked praetoriani rushed down to push the crowd back, their efforts creating a semicircular space at the foot of the gangway. Only then did Scipio appear at the head of the gangway. He paused there, taking in the frenzied cheers and shouted accolades. As the voices began to wane, he spread out his arms to call for quiet. The multitude leaned forward.

‘Citizens of Rome!’ Scipio shouted, his words carrying easily over the heads of the quieted crowd. ‘Our forefathers conceived an ambition. A hope! To spread the light of democracy from the centre of Rome to the corners of the world so all could live in peace and prosperity.

‘For hundreds of years, each generation in its turn has stepped forward to carry that torch onwards. Each generation taking its turn to expand the frontiers of the Republic. Now it is our turn, our responsibility.’

The crowd leaned ever forward, hanging on the spoken words.

‘It is not a task that promises victories or guarantees success. It is a task that requires sacrifice, and hardship, and perhaps death itself to those who carry that torch beyond the borders of our Republic.’

The crowd listened in complete silence, the only sound the lapping of the water against the dock and the cries of solitary seagulls overhead. Some recognized Scipio for who he was; most did not know his face.

‘A month ago a new kind of enemy appeared to threaten our Republic and our way of life. A savage, brutal enemy who moved with lightning speed to cut off the valiant men who carry the torch of Rome to the oppressed people of Sicily. It is a merciless enemy that, if not stopped, will surely carry the war to the gates of Rome itself!’

The crowd moaned in dismay at the thought, many recalling the terrible fear they had felt only moments before.

‘But fear not, my fellow citizens! The Senate has heard your cries and has responded. I have heard your cries and I have responded. I stand before you now on the very threshold of a new era for our glorious Republic. An era of renewed expansion and prosperity. With the fleet gathered before you, and the scores of galleys being built, I will sweep the enemy from our shores and from our seas.

‘I will free the island of Sicily and open her ports to Rome.

‘I will expand the frontiers of the Republic.

‘I, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, will make you, the citizens of Rome, masters of the sea!’

The crowd erupted in a tremendous roar as the words struck their hearts. A wave of sound crashed over Scipio and his own heart soared as thousands of voices were lifted in his name. He raised his clenched fist in triumph, the classic pose of the victorious, and the noise increased, the blood lust of the crowd now whipped up by the prospect of carrying the fight to the enemy.

Scipio let them cheer. His face was a mask of imperious strength as befitting his power, but inside he laughed at their gullibility. They were a mob, a mindless mob. He had called them fellow citizens but he felt completely detached from them. They were beneath him, and he resented the very fact that he was forced to breathe the same air as them.

Scipio knew, however, that he needed to harness their power – and to do so meant speaking on their level, a level that spoke of shared wealth and prosperity, of bright futures and security. He had hired half a dozen Greek rhetoricians, the best that his silver could buy, to speak on his behalf in every forum in Rome. They would reiterate Scipio’s promise to keep Rome free from the enemy threat, and ensure that his name was on every street corner in the city, on every man’s lips and in every man’s mind.

By the time the full fleet was ready, all of Rome would know who commanded the might of the Republic. Duilius would sail with the fleet but none would know his name. Only Scipio would be remembered. He would lead the fleet south and destroy the outnumbered Carthaginians. Then he would complete the conquest of Sicily.

As the crowd cheered, Scipio imagined the same sound multiplied a hundredfold. He imagined the streets of Rome lined with adoring crowds as his victorious triumph wound its way to the Curia. He imagined being given the corona graminea, the grass crown, the highest military honour the Republic could bestow, reserved only for those who rescued a beleaguered army.

Scipio looked out over the upturned faces of the cheering crowd. The people loved him as a leader because he offered them the world. In the future, when he delivered it, they would worship him as a god.