Читать книгу Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome - John Stack - Страница 18

From where he sat in the main cabin, Demades clearly heard the call from the masthead. Ostia had been sighted. He crossed the cabin to the starboard side and lifted the hatch to peer out over the busy waterways around the Roman port. The bright sunshine caused his eyes to water and he blinked against the discomfort. He had not seen the sun since the ship set sail from Lipara two days before.

Demades had passed the entire journey in his cabin. At first the confinement was imposed and his demands for his release had gone unanswered through the bolted cabin door. Hours out of port, Cronus had finally opened the door. Demades had immediately renewed his protests, calling for the ship to return to Lipara, but the guard commander had simply ignored him. Without a word he had walked away, leaving the door open. On a hostile galley, isolated at sea, a locked door was pointless. Demades had slammed the door shut in defiance and it had remained that way for the rest of the journey.

Demades’s initial thoughts had dwelt on the injustice of his plight. His bitterness and sense of hopelessness soon gave way to fear, not only of Cronus and the words Gisco had spoken, but also fear of the Romans. He realized the Carthaginians were setting some kind of trap for the Romans and, although he had no idea what form that trap would take, he knew that his city was the bait. As the presenter of that lure, Demades’s involvement would be synonymous with the trap. He was caught between the two opposing forces and the realization made him sick to his stomach. Whichever course he took, if he betrayed the Carthaginians to the Romans or the Romans to the Carthaginians, his life and the lives of his family would be forfeit if he did not find a way to avoid his fate.

Atticus watched Gaius swing the rudder to port and the Aquila turned neatly around the headland into the harbour at Ostia. The helmsman straightened the tiller and adjusted the ship’s trim to line her up with the castrum, now crowded with the twenty galleys of the newly formed Classis Romanus, the Fleet of Rome.

The activity of the traders and merchants of the port seemed reinvigorated at the sight of the anchored fleet, as if its very presence had eradicated the Carthaginian threat in the south, and ships sailed purposefully and confidently out under the offshore breeze for the far-flung ports of the Mediterranean. The Aquila’s course took her through some of the busiest parts of the harbour, but rather than before when the Aquila had had to weave her way between ships, those same ships now changed their course to make way for the military galley.

Atticus had been ordered to Ostia by Tuditanus to further the training of the command crews of the new fleet, a task he did not relish given that those same trainees were now captains in their own right and not subject to Atticus’s orders. He had a feeling they would not be as responsive as they had been before and, given that some had been blatantly uncooperative in the first place, their further training relied almost completely on any respect they had for his experience, a respect he knew in some cases did not exist.

Septimus was also in Ostia, having joined his optio, Quintus, the day before and, as the Aquila approached the dockside, Atticus could see the familiar figure of the centurion standing beside his opposite number from the V maniple of the Fourth.

The day’s training would involve teaching boarding techniques to the legionaries under the guise of demonstrating how the Carthaginians boarded enemy galleys. It would be the legionaries’ first taste of boarding, albeit in calm waters and without heavy battle armour, but it would be realistic, and the hope was that this realism would speed the training process. As the Aquila docked, the gangway was lowered to allow the men on board. They tramped up the gangway in single file. None seemed enthusiastic about the day ahead.

One hundred yards away, the ship bearing the men from Lipara reached the crowded docks. Cronus stood at the head of the gangway with the barge’s captain.

‘If we do not return you are to sail directly to Lipara and inform the admiral that we have been betrayed.’

The captain nodded as Cronus turned to Demades. ‘Remember, Demades, that although you will have the opportunity to betray us once we are in the city, you will not be able to stop this barge from sailing with news of that betrayal. If the admiral receives such a message, your family will be immediately killed.’

Demades nodded, his fear and understanding evident. Cronus disembarked, followed by the sullen and silent Demades and then four of Gisco’s, now Demades’s, personal guard. Once they were ashore, the gangway was raised and the ship shoved off from the busy quayside to allow another ship to moor in her place.

‘Wait here,’ Cronus ordered, and strode off alone towards a livery to hire horses for the journey to Rome.

Demades stood in the centre of the four men, cut off from the frantic world around him by the constantly vigilant guards. As his eyes roamed over the teeming waters, he caught sight of a galley sailing apace into the castrum. His breath caught in his throat at the sight, his heart rate increasing as he recognized the pennant flying at the masthead. It was an eagle in flight, the namesake of the galley it soared above.

‘The Aquila,’ he breathed to himself, his mind racing, scarcely believing what he was seeing. Demades had not seen the galley in over two years, ever since Lipara had fallen into Carthaginian hands. The city had always been a prime target for the pirates who sailed the northern shores of Sicily, and so the Aquila had always been a welcome sight in the city’s harbour, so much so that Demades knew the captain of the Aquila well.

‘Let’s go.’

The abrupt command broke into Demades’s thoughts and he turned to see Cronus tower over him again. The Carthaginian grabbed the councillor by the arm and led him through the crowd towards the livery. Demades was forced to walk briskly to keep up with the taller man’s stride; although the pace made it difficult for him to look back over his shoulder, Demades could not resist the temptation. The sight of the galley produced a tiny flicker of hope in him, a flame he nursed on the headlong gallop to Rome.

Scipio sat in silence as Duilius made his rebuttal. He was impressed with the junior consul, an emotion he rarely felt, but one he believed was warranted given the item being debated. Scipio was not involved in the debate itself, but he had surreptitiously engineered its acceptance on the agenda, something he was very pleased with given the awkward position it put Duilius in.

The Senate was debating the levying of taxes to fund the construction of the new fleet, specifically, in this case, the application of a new tax on produce sold in the markets. If effected, it would be diplomatically called the ‘rescue tax’, in reference to the legions trapped behind the blockade in Sicily, a name the Senate hoped would make the tax more palatable to the populace. It would be a tax that would be borne in part by the buyer and in part by the vendor. As Duilius was the largest merchant in the city, he stood to lose a great deal of money if the tax was passed, especially if the vendor was chosen to pay the greater part. This put Duilius in a no-win situation. If he opposed the tax he would be seen as unpatriotic. If he let it pass without conditions he would end up paying a huge portion of the costs of the new fleet. To watch the political balancing act that Duilius was now forced to perform gave Scipio immense satisfaction.

As the junior consul retook his seat, another senator stood to address the chamber and the debate continued. It was then that Scipio’s eye caught Longus moving across the chamber towards a man who had just appeared at the entrance to the Curia. Scipio watched the two in conversation, remembering the junior senator well and the contrived speech he had given that had started the ten-day-long debate on the decision to build the fleet.

‘Councillor Demades?’ Longus said as he approached the man, confirming his recognition of the familiar figure he had spied from across the chamber.

‘Senator Longus,’ Demades replied, relieved to see a familiar face.

On the one occasion Demades had addressed the Senate, Longus had been present as a member of the Senate committee responsible for trade with the Aeolian Islands, of which Lipara was one. The junior senator had taken the responsibility very seriously, an attitude reflected in the councillor from Lipara, and the two men had formed a connection. It was this familiarity that Demades now clung to as he tried to control his nerve.

‘I need to speak with the senior consul immediately,’ Demades said, before looking over his shoulder at Cronus standing outside the columned entrance.

Like the other armed men of the personal guard, Cronus was barred from entering the chamber by the senatorial guard. The brief seconds out of their presence had emboldened Demades, and he had considered the idea of alerting Longus to their true identity – but the almost imperceptible shake of the head that Cronus had given him, as if he could read his thoughts, banished the idea from his mind, and he committed himself once more to this part of the Carthaginians’ plan. The safety of himself and his family was paramount.

‘What is it?’ Longus asked, sensing Demades’s trepidation, suspicious of a man who before had been an ally but now came from an island under the enemy’s control.

‘Lipara wishes to form an alliance with Rome,’ Demades said in a rush.

‘What?’ Longus said, incredulous. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, of course I’m sure,’ Demades replied forcefully, his fear making him irrational.

Longus was taken aback by the unusual intensity of the man, but he instantly dismissed it as irrelevant. If what he said was true then Rome was poised to make a huge strategic gain over the enemy. The councillor had asked for the senior consul, but Longus had no intention of informing Scipio. His first loyalty was to Duilius.

‘Wait here,’ Longus said and he turned to re-enter the chamber. As he did so he collided with Scipio, who suddenly came out from behind a pillar.

‘No need to find me, Longus,’ Scipio said, his caustic voice signifying his belief that the junior senator had not been going to deliver the message directly to its intended source, at least not until after Duilius had heard it.

‘Come with me, Councillor,’ Scipio said, and brushed past Longus, leading Demades through a small archway to an antechamber beyond. Longus could only look on in exasperation as the councillor was led away. Only when the two men were out of sight did his wits return and he ran into the crowded chamber.

‘Why?’ Scipio asked, trying to keep his expression neutral, struggling to keep his mounting excitement under control.

He listened as Demades outlined the reasons that Gisco had told him to recite. They were plausible in themselves, although Scipio would have been content if no reasons for defection had been forthcoming. For him the mere chance of glory was proving too great a temptation, and he had to force himself to think about the proposal rationally.

The opportunity was almost too good to be true. According to Demades, the island was there for the taking, with only a small Carthaginian garrison in the city itself and no naval presence in the area. It would be the new fleet’s first victory, minor given the odds, but major given the island’s strategic location as a naval base off the northern coast of Sicily. More importantly, it would be Scipio’s first victory, and the first step on his road to absolute power. It might even help the legions, he thought sardonically.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Duilius in the antechamber, flanked by a small number of senators, Longus amongst them.

‘Senior Consul,’ Duilius began, ‘I just heard the news.’

‘Yes, Senator,’ Scipio replied. ‘Given the importance of the city, I plan on sailing immediately with the twenty galleys of the new fleet to take possession of the island.’

‘Senator,’ Duilius replied, thinking fast, ‘the situation is too dangerous for you to expose yourself. As per the Senate’s resolution, I must be the one to command the expedition.’

‘I see no danger, Duilius,’ Scipio replied confidently. ‘The island is undefended and is willing to defect. Councillor Demades will testify to the fact that there is no Carthaginian naval presence in the area. Taking the island under our protection will be a mere formality.’

‘We must put the decision to the Senate,’ Duilius said, knowing he had a chance of reversing Scipio’s decision in the chamber.

‘No!’ Scipio said, suddenly angry. ‘There will be no debate. You forget yourself, Duilius. As strategic commander of the fleet I am in charge here and I have determined there is no danger. Therefore I will sail at once.’

‘I must protest, Scipio,’ Duilius said.

‘Protest as you wish, Duilius. In fact I give you leave to debate my decision in the Senate. While you are discussing my actions, I will be on my way to free the people of Lipara.’

With that, Scipio strode past the hamstrung Duilius, pushing his way through the knot of senators behind the junior consul. Demades watched him go. He had set the trap and the Romans had fallen prey. Now it was time to save himself.

‘You surely don’t need a personal guard in Rome,’ Longus said, half looking over his shoulder at the five men following himself and Demades.

‘One never knows,’ Demades said, thinking fast. ‘The news I carried from Lipara would be seen as a betrayal by the Carthaginians. I need protection from assassins.’

Longus laughed at the suggestion, confident that there were no Carthaginians in Rome.

Earlier Longus had watched Duilius storm out of the Senate and head towards his own town house. He was furious at the defeat of his mentor at the hands of the senior consul and was still wondering how he could reverse Scipio’s decision to sail to Lipara. He realized all he could do was wait for Duilius to summon him to his aid and hope that when the time came he could be of service. As the antechamber had emptied, Longus had noticed the lone figure of Demades, his presence forgotten by all in the heat of the moment. Demades had immediately approached the senator and asked him for his assistance, although at the time he would not say what assistance was required. Longus agreed and now led the councillor to his modest town house at the foot of the Palatine Hill.

On their arrival, Longus summoned a servant to show Demades to the guest quarters, with instructions thereafter to show the personal guard to the servants’ quarters.

‘I will accompany you into your room,’ Demades’s guard commander said suddenly.

‘You will hold your tongue,’ Longus stormed, amazed at the blatant insubordination.

‘It’s all right, Senator Longus,’ Demades blurted, stepping forward, his voice nervous, ‘the commander only fears for my safety.’

‘You are entirely safe within these walls,’ Longus retorted, insulted by the insinuation that his house was not safe, and taken aback by Demades’s defence of the errant officer.

‘Yes, of course,’ Demades replied, again caught between conflicting forces. One look at Cronus confirmed the course he had to take.

‘But, Longus, I promised my wife that I would keep a guard with me at all times. I do not wish to break my word.’

Longus paused for a moment, ashamed by Demades’s obvious trepidation, embarrassed that the man was so concerned about the good graces of his wife. Demades noted the disgust on Longus’s face and bit back the feeling of humiliation.

‘So be it,’ Longus said. ‘Please join me in the main dining room when you are refreshed,’ he added before stalking off, musing all the while on how much Demades had changed since their last encounter.

Cronus waited until the Roman left before escorting Demades into his quarters.

‘Curse you, Demades, why are we here?’ he hissed, pressing the councillor against the wall as he held his neck firm in his hand.

‘I had to come,’ Demades spluttered, the pressure on his throat frightening. ‘Longus insisted I accept his hospitality before making the return voyage to Lipara. To refuse would have been seen as an insult.’

Cronus snarled at the explanation, searching Demades’s voice for signs of deception. He heard only fear. With one last squeeze of pressure he released the councillor. Demades fell to the ground, his hand massaging his damaged throat. He kept his eyes low, trying to hide the myriad of emotions he knew must be written on his face. If Cronus gained any inkling of what Demades was planning, he knew he would be dead in a heartbeat.

Septimus’s face remained grim as yet another man failed to make the jump between the two galleys. The legionary’s clambering hands on the side rail drew cheers from some of the men on the foredeck of the Aquila before he fell the ten feet to the water below.

‘At least this one can swim,’ Septimus muttered to himself as he watched the man make his way over to a waiting rope ladder. They had almost lost one of the men earlier, who had fallen like others before him to the cheers of all, but had not risen immediately after sinking below the water. Two sailors had been quick to realize that the man couldn’t swim and they had dived in to rescue him. It had never occurred to Septimus that most of the men couldn’t swim, a skill he took for granted having learned it in his childhood in the river Tiber.

The training was, as expected, proving to be slow and gruelling. The men were jumping without sword or shield or the extra weight of body armour, and yet many could not make the jump. They were brave soldiers, of that Septimus was sure, for the Fourth had a fearsome reputation; but like all men when faced with an unfamiliar danger, they lacked confidence. Even those who made the other side landed off balance, and in a fight would be easy prey for a defender. It was going to take a number of days at least until all would be able to make the jump with ease. Then Septimus would have to move on to the more difficult task of teaching the legionaries the vital tactics needed for the first frenzied moments of any boarding.

As the cheers died away and the next man prepared to make the jump, Septimus heard the loud call to order and all on deck immediately snapped to attention. Without moving his head he looked towards the gangway, which was now flanked by the familiar and unwelcome sight of the praetoriani. They stepped aside as Scipio came on board. The senior consul surveyed the assembled men.

‘Soldiers of Rome,’ he shouted so all could hear, ‘we sail within the hour. Prepare to depart.’

Silanus saluted and ordered his men ashore. As one they obeyed and made their way onto the main deck and down the gangway to the dockside. They were followed by the command crews of the galleys, who had been under Atticus’s tutelage on the main deck. Septimus strode to the dockside rail and looked along the quay. Black-cloaked praetoriani were fanning out along the docks, each one carrying the same message to the sailing crews as ship after ship came alive with activity. He was joined at the rail by Atticus.

‘What do you think?’ Atticus asked, puzzled by the order.

‘I don’t know,’ Septimus replied, although he felt uneasy owing to the presence of Scipio himself.

Atticus turned to Lucius. ‘Prepare to get under way.’

‘Hold!’ a voice said unexpectedly. It was Scipio, the overheard order causing him to stop halfway down the gangplank and spin around. His expression was hostile as he made his way back to the main deck.

‘This galley is not part of the Classis Romanus, Perennis,’ he spat. ‘That honour is reserved for the new fleet only. I need men who will follow my every command without question; men who are loyal to Rome and the Senate. You and your crew are to remain in Ostia.’

‘As you wish, Consul,’ Atticus replied, struggling to keep his voice even.

Scipio turned and walked off the Aquila without another word.

Atticus and Septimus watched from the foredeck of the Aquila as the Classis Romanus raised sail and set course for the mouth of the harbour. The ships were moving in a loose formation, the more efficient crews outstripping others, although none dared to overtake the Mars, commanded by Scipio, at the head of the fleet. Septimus spotted Silanus on the main deck of the flagship with half of his maniple assembled behind him. He saluted the centurion and Silanus returned the gesture with a nod before turning away from the rail. The sight of the fleet under way had brought cheers from both the dockside and crews of the trading ships in the harbour, and the crews of the galleys had returned the gesture, even though they were unaware of their destination.

For security reasons the galley captains had simply been told to make ready to depart. No further details were made available and none would be forthcoming until the fleet was safely at sea. Only then would the crews learn of their mission. What they did know, however, was that the ships were now stocked with two days’ worth of provisions. This was not unusual in itself – military galleys always carried a week’s provisions as a matter of course – but this was the first time the fleet had taken on supplies, as before the men were fed in the mess halls of the castrum. If the fleet was only sailing to Fiumicino, as the men suspected, then why the need for supplies?

From Atticus’s vantage point the course and position of the lead ships were lost in the confusion of galleys in formation, but he estimated they would be making the turn to starboard, and Fiumicino in the north, within minutes. The shape of the formation changed as the course correction was made, the galleys turning onto their new heading. Atticus could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

‘Come about south,’ Scipio ordered as the Mars cleared the mouth of Ostia harbour. Fulfidias issued the orders to his crew before turning to ensure the ships behind were matching his course.

‘Southerly course as ordered, Consul.’

Scipio nodded, never taking his eyes off the fleet behind him. His chest seemed to fill with pride at the sight.

‘Set course for the Aeolian Islands, Captain,’ Scipio said as he left the aft-deck.

Fulfidias’s mind raced as the last command sank in. The Aeolian Islands. Enemy territory. Only an hour before he had watched with amusement from the main deck of the Aquila as the legionaries of the Fourth made their first disastrous attempts at boarding. Now, as the fleet sailed into possibly hostile waters, Fulfidias wished he had not witnessed the training. Given time, he knew the legionaries would prove to be very capable at fighting in naval battles, but if they encountered the enemy on this voyage the time needed would never materialize. Fulfidias realized that if the fleet did encounter the Carthaginians, their only hope for survival would be to turn and run.

Gaius Duilius strode alone around the four sides of the atrium of his town house, his mind a whirl of thoughts as he tried in vain to find a way to turn the tide of battle once more in his favour. If round one had been his Senate victory, and round two Scipio’s triumphal entrance into Ostia, then this was certainly round three, and once again Scipio was heading for victory. Duilius cursed the system that now held him fast, the very system he had so artfully controlled many times before but which now seemed intractable.

The Senate was unlikely to revoke Scipio’s decision to sail to Lipara and, even if Duilius managed to raise the issue in debate, Scipio would have arrived at the island, liberated its people, set up a garrison and returned home in triumph before the senators of Rome were even ready to vote on the matter.

He had reviewed the idea of sailing with the fleet but, being second-in-command, and out of sight of the Senate where he enjoyed support, Duilius knew that Scipio would humiliate him by giving him command of the rear-guard, or a scouting vessel. Either way, without the certainty of battle on the horizon, Duilius would be unable to push his claim to be in the vanguard of any action. As he walked, Duilius cursed the goddess of fortune for her fickle nature.

‘One hour, Demades,’ Cronus said, his voice agitated by the unwanted confinement within the senator’s house, ‘do you understand? One hour and then you make your excuses. Tell the Roman we will leave at dawn.’

Demades nodded, not trusting his voice. One hour was more than enough. What he had to say to Longus would take minutes only.

‘And remember,’ Cronus added, ‘not a word to anyone, especially this senator. It may seem you are safe when not in my presence, Demades, but it only seems that way. If we do not return to Lipara safely, your family will be slaughtered.’

Demades left the Carthaginian alone in his room without another word and walked out to the atrium. He centred all his attention on keeping a measured stride, fearful that if he looked over his shoulder he would see Cronus watching his every move. As Demades entered the main dining room, he saw Longus, as protocol demanded, already waiting there to receive his guest. Demades forced a smile onto his face and Longus returned the gesture, although his face also showed a look of puzzlement at the councillor’s obvious discomfort. As Demades sat down he looked towards the arched exit back to his quarters, his eyes lingering on the opening, trying to ascertain if Cronus had indeed followed him.

‘I hope you find the guest accommodation to your satisfaction, Demades,’ Longus said lightly.

Demades spun around, his face a mask of fear. ‘I’m in mortal danger, Longus,’ he exclaimed.

Longus was immediately taken aback. ‘That’s ridiculous, Demades,’ he said. ‘Get a hold of yourself, man. You are safely within my house. Apart from your own guard, I have twenty men stationed within the walls. You are untouchable while in my presence.’

Demades had turned to look at the entranceway again as the senator spoke and immediately shot around as Longus finished speaking.

‘It is my guard who imperil me,’ he explained to Longus’s look of disbelief. ‘They’re not mine, they’re Carthaginian!’

Longus was speechless, his mind trying to fully comprehend Demades’s words.

‘But how …?’

‘I was ordered here by the Carthaginian admiral, a man named Gisco, to tell the Senate that Lipara was willing to defect,’ Demades explained, keeping his voice low, fearing Cronus’s appearance.

‘By the gods,’ Longus exclaimed as the realization struck him. ‘Then that means …’

‘Your fleet is sailing into a trap,’ Demades said, his voice broken under the admission.

Longus immediately shot up from his seat.

‘Guards! Guards! To me!’ he yelled.

‘No!’ Demades shouted, fear coursing through him. ‘My guards will hear.’

‘To Hades with you and your guards,’ Longus said as the approaching sound of running feet could be heard beyond the room.

From the guest quarters, Cronus clearly heard the cry of alarm from within the depths of the house. Instinct immediately took over his actions as he drew his sword and ran to the door of the room. He opened the door in time to see two of the house guards rush through the atrium to the dining room beyond, their destination, the source of the call to arms. Demades had betrayed them, there was no other explanation.

As Cronus slipped out of the room he cursed his own stupidity for allowing the councillor out of his sight. He had thought Demades a fool, a coward who was subdued to the point of total obedience; however, he had been wrong. Cronus knew he would pay for his mistake with his life, surrounded as he was on all sides by hostile forces. With a warrior’s cold detachment he accepted his fate, muttering a brief homage to Mot, the god of death in whose presence he would soon be. As he slipped into the atrium, his mind listening to the heated voices in the main dining room, he whispered a second prayer to Tanit, the Punic goddess of fortune. His words to her were not a plea for his own safety, but rather a request to grant him the opportunity to have revenge on the man who had sealed his fate.

‘You and you,’ Longus ordered, ‘guard this man.’

Two of the Roman guards stepped forward and stood on both sides of Demades.

The councillor protested, begging Longus for understanding and mercy, but the senator’s ears were deaf to his words. More guards were arriving by the second, the alarm now spreading to the entire house. Longus ordered men to secure the room while others were dispatched to the guardhouse and guest quarters to apprehend the Carthaginians in their midst. The senator’s final orders put steel and determination into the soldiers’ actions. No quarter was to be given.

Cronus heard the heavy footfalls of running men as at least four passed the doorway behind which he was hidden. He opened the door a crack to see the four men charge open the door to Demades’s room, roaring a battle cry as they did so to steel their nerves. Cronus knew it would take vital seconds before they realized their prey had fled. He shot out of the room and headed straight to the dining area not twenty yards away. The Roman guard stationed at the entrance was looking into the room, his back turned to Cronus, his attention drawn to a conversation in the room. The Carthaginian thanked Tanit for the opportunity he had prayed for.

‘Don’t you understand, Longus?’ Demades pleaded. ‘I had to do it. They would have killed me and my entire family if I had refused.’

‘You are nothing,’ Longus spat, ‘your family are nothing.’

The senator paced the room, waiting for the cries of allclear from the detachments sent to kill the Carthaginians. He turned back to Demades.

‘You will accompany me to the house of Gaius Duilius. There you will tell him everything you know. Everything! If you try to deceive us again I will have you flayed alive.’

Demades ignored the threat, his mind past fearing the danger that surrounded him on all sides. What mattered now was making the Romans understand that he was on their side and that his family were in danger. Somewhere in his tormented mind he was sure the Romans would listen to reason.

As Cronus ran the last few yards towards the Roman guard, his left hand slipped a dagger from a sheath in the small of his back, rotating it until he held it overhand. At full tilt he plunged the knife down into the back of the Roman’s neck, instantly severing the spinal column, the guard dead before he hit the floor. Cronus ran unchecked into the room beyond, his eyes taking in the details before him.

The room seemed full of Roman guards, his momentary glance insufficient to count them individually. His mind registered them as a group, his fighting instincts receiving the threat and calculating the odds. He had time for one sword thrust, one victim, knowing that by the time he withdrew and recovered he would be overwhelmed. He could take only one man with him beyond the gates of Hades. The choice was simple.

Demades spun around at the shout of warning from the main entranceway. His mind registered the oncoming man, Cronus’s face a mask of rage and insanity, and the detail of Demades’s surroundings seemed to fade as his entire being focused on the sight. His mind cleared, the pervasive fear he had felt dissipated in the certain knowledge that death was a heartbeat away.

Longus could only look on in horror as his guards continued to rain blows on the lifeless body of the Carthaginian. He had appeared out of nowhere, crossing the room in seconds, driving his sword to the hilt into Demades. The momentum of the charge had taken the councillor off his feet, carrying them both along until the Carthaginian fell onto his victim. The Carthaginian had made no effort to rise after the fall but had leaned into Demades and whispered something unintelligible. Only then did the Roman guards react, the first blows from their swords killing the Carthaginian instantly, the shock of the attack causing them to continue striking the inert body.

‘Enough!’ Longus shouted, his words bringing an end to the butchery.

‘Senator!’ a voice called, and Longus spun around to its source.

‘The four Carthaginians in the guardroom have been killed, Senator,’ the guard reported.

‘Very well,’ Longus announced, struggling to regain his composure after the incredible savagery he had just witnessed.

He cursed the death of Demades. Not because he believed he deserved to live, but because he had value as a source of information regarding the Carthaginian plans in Lipara.

Longus began to stride from the room, a guard falling in behind him as he went. He dismissed his concern for the loss of Demades. It was true that he might have had some more use, but the reality was that he had delivered the most important piece of information at the outset. The Roman fleet was sailing into a trap.

Scipio stared at the sea opened out before him, the waters sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. He was alone on the foredeck, a position he had made his own on the ship, with orders to the praetoriani guarding the approach to the deck to let none pass without his express permission.

The senior consul held out his wine goblet and immediately a slave rushed forward with an amphora of wine to recharge his drink. He brought the goblet up to his mouth and took in the rich smell of the wine, a vintage from one of his own land-holdings north of Rome. Scipio’s thoughts ran to the days ahead, days that would be filled with glory and personal success. Already he knew his consulship would be marked in history as one that witnessed tremendous adversity, adversity that he had and would overcome with fortitude and bravery. His immortality was already being assured, and Scipio would seize any chance to enhance the living legend being created. He knew that Sicily would give him that chance.

The Carthaginian invasion was a gift from the gods, an opportunity for Scipio to write his name into history. His father before him, Lucius Cornelius Scipio, had gone down in the annals as a great general, victor at the Battle of Volaterrae, conqueror of the Etruscans, a champion of Rome. He had been given the cognomen, Barbatus, conqueror of the Barbarians, and it was against this benchmark that the young consul now set his ambition. His position as senior consul gave him a guiding hand on the direction of his beloved Rome, a hand he fully intended to use to his own ends.

The arrival of a Carthaginian fleet off the northern coast of Sicily had thrown up a barrier to victory, but Scipio was unconcerned. He had faced many challenges in his life and had overcome them all. He was wholly confident that he could overcome the enemy fleet. He would bring order to Sicily and cast out the Carthaginian hordes. History would remember him as the conqueror of the Punici, founder of the Roman province of Sicily. Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio Sicilianus, he thought, testing an imagined cognomen. He liked it. Smiling, he raised his glass to make a silent toast to the future, and his destiny.

As he heard the shout, Gaius Duilius looked up from the table in his study, his shallow attention easily broken from the half-hearted attempt to immerse himself in matters other than the departure of the new fleet under Scipio’s command. He listened intently, waiting with his breath held until he heard the call again. It was someone shouting his name. Duilius rose from behind his desk and walked out into the peristyle, the small, colonnaded garden at the back of his town house. From his position he looked down the long axis of the house through the main dining room and the atrium beyond. As his eyes focused on the distant point, he heard the call again, and then watched as a servant opened the main door of the house. Duilius immediately recognized Longus.

The junior senator pushed his way past the servant and entered the atrium, renewing his calls. Duilius frowned at the discourteous interruption. Longus was a useful ally, one that had proved resourceful in the past, but he was also sycophantic, a fawning, immature man who constantly looked to the junior consul for guidance. Duilius recalled that when he was Longus’s age he was already a self-made man and owner of the largest estate in Rome.

Duilius walked into the main dining room to intercept the young senator. He moved in silence, refusing to raise his voice in an uncivil manner even as Longus destroyed the tranquillity of his house. Longus spotted him from the atrium and made towards him, his face a mask of concern mixed with relief at having found his mentor.

‘Thank the gods you are here, Consul,’ he began.

‘What is it, Longus?’ Duilius cut across irritably.

‘The fleet are sailing into a trap.’

For a second Duilius did not register the words, their meaning seemingly impossible.

‘A trap?’

‘Yes, Consul. The councillor from Lipara, Demades, informed me.’

Again Duilius paused. ‘Where is this councillor now?’

‘Dead. Killed by his own guard. They were Carthaginians.’

Duilius absorbed the information, his mind dismissing impractical questions, searching as always for the crux of the problem. There was a trap. The fleet were unaware. Time was against him. He instantly decided which problem needed to be tackled first. Time.

‘Saddle two of my fastest horses,’ he shouted to an attendant nearby. The man rushed away, the urgency of the order infectious.

‘Longus, you and I will ride to Ostia. With luck there will be a galley there to take us south in pursuit of the fleet. As they are unaware, they will not be rushed. We may yet catch them.’

Duilius walked out into the atrium and looked up into the afternoon sky. Scipio had left Rome hours before. Even allowing for time to prepare the fleet, the head start seemed insurmountable.

Atticus looked out over the now unfamiliar sight of the empty castrum dock at Ostia. It was an hour before sunset and the crew of the Aquila were using the last of the day’s light to make final preparations for the galley’s planned return to Fiumicino at dawn. Atticus’s eyes ranged over their activities without absorbing the detail, his mind firmly fixed on the sudden departure and unknown course of the Classis Romanus.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching horses and he turned to see two men arrive at speed. They were experienced horsemen, weaving their mounts along the approach paths to the docks, avoiding the stockpiles of military supplies that littered the whole area. Atticus walked from the foredeck to the head of the gangway in anticipation of their arrival. The horsemen stopped directly beside the Aquila and both men dismounted.

‘Sailor,’ the older of the two shouted, ‘where is the captain of this vessel?’

‘I’m the captain,’ Atticus replied, ‘Captain Perennis.’

The older man nodded and strode up the gangway, ignoring the protocol that dictated that all should first ask for permission before boarding. Atticus backed away from the head of the gangway, giving the approaching men room to come onto the main deck. Both wore senatorial robes, although it was obvious that the younger man deferred to the older.

‘Captain Perennis,’ the older man began, ‘when can you be ready to sail?’

‘On whose orders?’ Atticus replied, asserting his authority as captain.

‘On mine, Gaius Duilius, junior consul of the Senate of Rome.’

Atticus immediately noted the unyielding, authoritative voice and bearing.

‘Within thirty minutes, Consul,’ he replied.

‘Very well, Captain, make it so.’

Atticus turned and issued curt orders to his ever-attentive second-in-command. The crew redoubled their efforts to finish preparing the galley, the imminent departure changing nothing except their pace. A runner was sent below to find Septimus.

‘What is our destination, Senator?’ Atticus asked as the activity intensified around him.

Duilius turned and weighed the question, determining how much the captain needed to know at this stage. The young man before him seemed competent, his position as captain of one of Rome’s military vessels a testament to his unseen abilities. He judged him to be in his early thirties, maybe a year or two younger than he was. Duilius had himself risen to the heights of his own world at that age. The man before him had done the same. If achievements mark the man, then the captain could be trusted.

The junior consul nodded towards the aft-deck and led Atticus and Longus to a quiet spot by the starboard rail.

‘I need you to sail with all possible speed in pursuit of the new fleet, Captain,’ Duilius began. ‘We have learned they are sailing into a trap set by the Carthaginians.’

‘By the gods,’ Atticus whispered, ‘what is their destination?’

‘Lipara.’

Atticus nodded, his abrupt question and the lack of further unnecessary queries justifying Duilius’s judgement of his character.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Senators, I’ll have one of my men show you to the main cabin,’ Atticus said, and left the two senators alone on the aft-deck.

He went directly to the main deck to coordinate the preparation of the ship, his heart pounding in his chest as his thoughts went to the untried and unaware fleet sailing south.

The Aquila shoved off from the Ostia docks twenty minutes later, her full complement of crew and marines on board. The two senators joined Septimus and Atticus on the aft-deck as the galley cleared the busy inner harbour under oar power. Directly ahead the sun was setting rapidly, its golden light causing all to shield their eyes against the glare. Gaius kept both hands steady on the tiller, his eyesight seemingly unaffected as he nimbly wove the galley through the obstacle course of the Republic’s busiest port.

As the Aquila reached the mouth of the harbour, the protective headland to the north slipped behind them, exposing their beam to the full force of the northerly wind. Atticus called for the oars to be shipped and the mainsail raised as Gaius adjusted his course southwards. The orders were carried out with alacrity, and Duilius noted the efficiency, wondering why Scipio had not taken such an obviously competent crew on his voyage south. The Aquila shot ahead under full sail, making twelve knots as her spear-like bow cut through the white horses of the wave tips.

Atticus noted the intense stare of Duilius as he looked ahead to the darkening horizon. Lipara was no more than thirty-six hours to the south. Scipio’s considerable head start was now weighed against the experienced crew of the Aquila. The galleys themselves were evenly matched, the Aquila’s design copied in every hull of the Classis Romanus. Only the crews were different, with men new to their galleys set against men such as Gaius and Lucius, who’d spent countless hours minutely adjusting the trim of the Aquila