Читать книгу Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome - John Stack - Страница 13

Septimus was awakened from his light doze by the approaching steps of a guard detail. The familiar sound and unfamiliar surroundings meant he was instantly awake and on guard. Atticus was already standing in the middle of their quarters, his eyes locked on the door. He had never relaxed. The door was flung open and Scipio’s guard commander was framed in the entrance. He looked from one man to the other.

‘You are free to go but I need to know your whereabouts should the consul need to summon you.’

His abrupt statement caught the two men off guard and Septimus took a second to form his reply.

‘We will be at the Capito house, my family home, in the Caelian quarter,’ he said.

‘Or at the castrum in Ostia with our ship,’ Atticus added.

The guard commander nodded and stepped back from the door before leading the guard detail away.

‘So!’ Atticus said as he turned to face Septimus, happy at the order of release, ‘we’re going to your family home?’

‘Yes,’ replied Septimus with a smile, ‘just as soon as I’ve shown you some of the sights of Rome.’

The centurion stood up and began to walk out into the late evening sunshine.

‘And if the consul comes looking for us while we’re out seeing the sights?’ the captain asked.

‘There’s no way he’ll look for us tonight; not if he’s just ordered us away.’

‘So we’ll be at your family home tomorrow. Will that leave us enough time to see the sights?’

‘Trust me, Atticus: when it comes to the sights I’m going to show you, one night is never enough – but one night is all most men can handle.’

Scipio stormed into the tablinum, the master bedroom of his home, ripping off his toga as he went. He roared for wine to be brought and an instant later a slave entered and proffered the senator a golden goblet. Scipio snatched the drink and downed it in one, the tannic acidity of the wine only exacerbating the burning sensation of rage in his chest. The slave held up the amphora to refill the goblet, but Scipio grabbed the flask himself and ordered the slave to be gone. As the slave left the room, Scipio’s wife, Fabiola, entered. Her face was a mask of concern at the sight of her enraged husband. Scipio wheeled around and saw her standing by the now-closed door.

‘Fools!’ he spat. ‘Feeble-minded, incompetent fools.’

Fabiola knew better than to question the source of his rage. She had seen this before, although never so intense. Everyone who was aware of the intimate workings of the Senate knew it to be a ponderous, frustratingly conservative beast. With three hundred of the city’s greatest egos confined within one chamber, it was common for the plans of one man, or even one group of men, however well-meaning or well thought out, to be thwarted by the sheer verbosity and squabbling of the Senate. It was plainly obvious that the plans they had earlier discussed had been undone. To question the reason would only give Scipio a focus for his rage and, although he had never struck her, Fabiola had long since realized that her husband had a barely contained violent streak.

‘Three hours!’ he continued. ‘Three hours the fools debated. Like a gaggle of chattering slave women in the market. Three hours and they failed to even vote on the creation of a fleet, never mind its commander.’

Scipio emptied another goblet of wine, again in one swallow. It did nothing to calm his emotions.

‘That bastard Duilius. It was his doing. He had one of his pups question my proposal. Just a simple question. But a perfect blow. It was almost as if he had prepared in advance; as if he knew about the blockade before I announced it. His little thrust exposed a chink, just a tiny chink.’

Scipio continued pacing, his fist clenched by his side, his knuckles white from the pressure. ‘But it was enough. Enough for the indecisive old men to pause and debate. Before long they weren’t even sure if a fleet was necessary, and if it was they debated over who would bear the cost. Now it will be a week before we go to vote. A week instead of a minute – all because of Gaius Duilius.’

Fabiola, her mind agitated by the mood of her husband, could only watch Scipio vent his rage. As he raved, her mind picked up something he had said: something about it seeming that Duilius had known what Scipio was going to announce before he did. She calmed her emotions and partially faded out the voice of her husband in order to think the point through.

The more she considered the possibility, the more she believed it to be true. Someone must have informed Duilius. But who? And when? Of course the galley that had escorted Scipio from Sicily was full of people who knew of the blockade, but it was docked in the castrum in Ostia, a twenty-five-mile round trip on busy roads, and not an easy place for a civilian to enter. She discounted that and focused on the more obvious sources: Scipio’s praetoriani guard, the captain and centurion of the galley, and the household slaves. It became more and more obvious that the leak had come from among their number.

She continued to watch her husband in silence, waiting for him to calm down. Only then would she approach him and offer her advice and comfort. When he was soothed and once more himself, perhaps tomorrow she thought, she would inform him of her suspicions. If there was a spy within the walls of her husband’s house, Fabiola was sure that, once found, she would witness the full fury of the violence she always suspected her husband was capable of.

Septimus led Atticus to a bathhouse as the dying sun in the western sky was touching the taller buildings of Rome. The bathhouse was no more than a hundred yards off the main piazza of the Forum Magnum, and yet Atticus was struck by how different the surrounding area was from the vaulted temples and soaring statues of the city’s central forum. Here the streets were narrow and the apartment buildings towered eight storeys high, while underfoot the laneways of the plebeian quarter were strewn with human and animal filth, creating a stench that rose to infuse the very walls of the surrounding houses.

Atticus’s mind was instantly transported back to the city of Locri and the backstreets he had called home for the first fourteen years of his life; the long summer days when he fished with his father and his stomach was full, and the hard, cold winters when the storms kept the fleet bottled up and the poorer inhabitants of Locri teetered on the brink of starvation. On those dark winter days, Atticus would escape the hovel he shared with his family and spend his days scavenging on streets no different from those that now surrounded him, and he marked the distance he had travelled since his childhood.

‘After dark I wouldn’t march a squad of ten legionaries through these streets,’ Septimus remarked with a wry smile, and Atticus caught a hint of disdain in the centurion’s voice.

The main door of the bathhouse was flanked by two large thuggish men, but they allowed Septimus and Atticus to pass unchallenged while inside Septimus was immediately recognized by an older woman who greeted patrons as they entered.

‘My older brothers, Tiberius and Claudius, first brought me here on my sixteenth birthday,’ Septimus explained with a smile, ‘and I’ve come back at least once a year since then.’

Septimus produced the requisite amount of silver and both men were ushered into an antechamber, where slaves quickly stripped them of their kit before they were led to the caldarium, a large tiled room dominated by a central bath of steaming, scented water. Atticus groaned loudly in content as he slipped into the bath, the hot water quickly infusing his muscles pleasurably and chasing all tension from his limbs. The sensation was amazing, and he sweated stoically before the near-unbearable heat forced him to rise. He was immediately led to a low table where a female slave rubbed oil into his skin before removing it with a strigil and, with a sense of cleanliness Atticus had never felt before, he was shown to the tepidarium chamber, where Septimus was already immersed in the lukewarm bath. Again Atticus groaned as he entered the water and Septimus laughed loudly.

‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what do you think?’

‘By the gods, Septimus, this is the way to live,’ Atticus laughed as two beautiful young women entered, carrying trays of food and a large amphora of wine. Septimus followed his friend’s gaze.

‘There are many bathhouses in Rome, my friend, but this particular one offers one other additional service.’ Septimus smiled as a goblet of wine was placed in his hand.

The two women moved quickly and efficiently around the room, bringing food and wine at every summons, and their light and carefree conversation instantly put the men at ease. Within thirty minutes Atticus was consumed by an overwhelming sense of wellbeing and his mind, fogged by the numbing effect of wine, drank in the hushed feminine tones that seemed to fill the air. He raised his goblet to have it refilled, but this time it was taken from him and he was led from the bath by one of the young women to a small room off the tepidarium chamber. She quietly closed the door and turned to Atticus, slipping off her tunic as she did so. Atticus gasped involuntarily, her beauty and the potent aphrodisiac of youth combining to stir his desire. He became awkward in his haste, but the experienced young woman immediately took the lead and she guided him to a low cot in the corner of the room. She stroked his upper body and wound her fingers through the dense hair of his chest, skilfully controlling his desire before laying him down and straddling him, allowing him to relax completely, her movements slow and hypnotic.

Afterwards the two lay entwined on the cot, her hands once more gently caressing his body with languid strokes. Atticus had never felt so sated and he drifted off into a deep sleep, every outside thought banished from his mind and the world beyond the walls of the bathhouse forgotten for the night.

Septimus arched his back to stretch the muscles in his spine as he walked through the busy streets of Rome. They had both risen at dawn, both finding themselves alone in their respective rooms in the bathhouse. After dressing, Septimus had bidden a farewell to the woman who had first greeted them – with promises of a return – and they had walked, once more, out onto the bustling streets. Atticus could scarcely believe that the serene world of the bathhouse existed behind the walls of the building he had just left, so different from the dilapidated, frantic streets surrounding it, and the thought sobered him as they walked the short distance to the Forum Magnum, stopping a street vendor to buy some food, their appetites sharpened by the remains of the wine in their stomachs. They continued on in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

‘Just beyond this next street …’ Septimus said, suddenly breaking the quiet between them, returning their attention to the bustling activity all around.

‘What?’ Atticus replied, dragging his thoughts back to the moment.

‘… My home,’ Septimus smiled. ‘It’s just beyond this next street.’

Atticus noticed his friend’s pace increase at the mention of his home and he adjusted his stride to match. The equestrian middle-class Caelian quarter was a world apart from the narrow streets and soaring apartment blocks of the poorer quarter and Atticus couldn’t help marking the differences in his mind.

‘Who’ll be home?’ he asked, realizing that in the ten months he had known Septimus they had never before discussed his family.

‘As far as I know, everyone, although I haven’t been home in over two years, so my parents and two older brothers will be there … and my younger sister will probably be at home.’

Atticus noticed that Septimus’s face became solemn at the mention of his sister before his smile returned anew, and Atticus was left wondering what the family would look like: the women probably dark-featured like Septimus, and the men older versions of him.

The streets passed quickly under their feet and before long they reached the entrance to the house, a modest stout wooden gate set into the whitewashed stone wall that ran along both sides of the residential area. A small tablet beside the door was marked with the family name ‘Capito’. Septimus banged on the door and stood back to wait. He was about to knock again when the gate opened abruptly and the arched entrance was framed by a man who stood with arms akimbo, his gaze intense, his chin thrust forward at the sight of unexpected visitors. The moment of recognition was marked by the man’s arms falling to his side and his face bursting into a happy smile.

‘By the gods … Septimus!’

‘Domitian,’ Septimus smiled, glad to see the senior servant of the house, a man he had known since childhood.

The servant stood for a second before turning to run into the house to announce the unexpected return.

As Septimus led them into the small courtyard, Atticus surveyed the simple, unadorned whitewashed walls of the interior building. To the left stood a small stable-house and two-storey barn, its open doors revealing the heaped straw and bags of grain within. Directly in front of them was the main family residence, again two storeys tall with shuttered windows opened across its broad front. In the centre stood the main door and, as they approached, Atticus could hear the shouts of delight within the house as news of Septimus’s return spread.

Suddenly an older woman rushed out through the door towards them. She was tall and slim and her features were high, almost regal. She was dark, as Atticus had suspected, with large hazel eyes and black flowing hair. The woman wrapped her arms around Septimus and kissed him on the cheek, her delight at the return of her youngest son evident in the tears forming at the edges of her eyes.

‘Oh Septimus,’ she said, close to tears, ‘welcome home. Welcome home.’

Septimus broke the embrace, embarrassed by the overt display of affection in front of Atticus. The captain could only smile. Beyond the trio, an older man appeared, and Atticus instantly knew it was his friend’s father. The resemblance was striking, the same broad build, the same unruly black hair, but Septimus’s father also had a vicious scar on the left side of his face, running from his forehead to his cheek, cutting through the eye, which had turned opaque and milky white. But for the injury, he was Septimus in twenty years’ time.

Septimus shook his father’s hand warmly, legionary style, with hands gripping forearms.

‘Welcome home, son,’ the older man said, his voice deep and hoarse.

‘It’s good to be home, father,’ Septimus replied, standing tall before his father as he would before a senior officer.

‘Those markings on your armour,’ his father continued, his hand touching Septimus’s breast-plate, ‘are those the insignia of the marines?’

‘Of a marine centurion,’ Septimus replied proudly, this visit marking the first time he had stood before his father as a centurion, the same rank his father had achieved in the Ninth.

‘A marine centurion,’ the older man said dismissively, as if the first word sullied the second. ‘Better an optio in the Ninth where your rank commanded some respect.’

‘There is no dishonour in commanding the marines,’ Septimus countered, but his father ended the argument with a wave, his attention turning to Atticus, leaving Septimus with no choice but to introduce his friend.

‘Father, mother, this is the captain of the Aquila, Atticus Milonius Perennis, and Atticus, this is Antoninus and Salonina,’ Septimus said, indicating in turn his father and mother.

Atticus nodded a greeting to Salonina before shaking Antoninus’s hand. The grip was hard and firm, the underlying strength of the man evident in the simple gesture.

‘Milonius … Greek?’ Antoninus asked, his expression inscrutable.

‘Yes,’ Atticus answered warily, ‘from Locri.’

Antoninus nodded slowly, maintaining his grip on Atticus’s arm, his gaze penetrating, the handshake only breaking when Salonina turned and beckoned them all to follow through the main door. Beyond was the atrium, similar in design to the one at Scipio’s house, but more basic, the surrounding pillars plain and unembellished, the central pool simple and untiled. The group walked around the atrium and entered the room beyond, the triclinium, the main dining room of the house. A table stood in the centre of the room, flanked by three couches; the fourth side opened towards the kitchen door, through which slaves were ferrying fresh fruit and bread. The group sat down, with the father taking the head of the table with his wife to his right and Atticus and Septimus occupying the third couch.

‘So where are Tiberius and Claudius?’ Septimus asked, enquiring after his brothers, ‘and Hadria? Is she home?’

Antoninus shook his head.

‘Your brothers are in the south on a trade journey with their partner Nerva from the house of Carantus. Hadria is in the city at your aunt’s house in the Viminal quarter.’

‘Does she still speak of Valerius?’ Septimus asked, looking to his mother.

‘No,’ Salonina answered softly. ‘She deeply mourned his loss but I believe her heart is free again.’

‘So soon?’ Septimus said, a sharp edge to his voice.

‘It’s been nearly a year since his death, Septimus,’ Salonina replied, ‘and at twenty she cannot remain a widow for much longer.’

‘You know Rome’s law, Septimus,’ Antoninus added, ‘she must remarry within two years to settle Valerius’s estate. His father Casca is already stopping me in the forum and asking if I have found any suitors.’

Septimus was about to speak but he held his tongue, his mind flooded with memories of the friend he had lost.

‘Domitian!’ Antoninus called, his summons answered instantly. ‘Send a messenger to Hadria with word that Septimus has returned.’ The senior servant nodded and left immediately.

Septimus began to fill his parents in on the details of his life over the past two years. Many things had happened and many things had changed. Two hours later, when the bell rang for the forenoon meal, he was only just beginning to relate the events of the previous four days.

‘They march, Admiral,’ the man announced as permission to speak was granted.

‘When and to where?’

‘Yesterday at dawn. They are heading west.’

Hannibal Gisco nodded and dismissed the messenger. He rose from his seated position behind the marble-topped table and walked through the windblown cotton drapes out onto the top-floor balcony beyond. The building was three storeys tall and stood directly on the dock of the port town of Panormus, a magnificent natural harbour that now sheltered the growing Carthaginian fleet. Gisco watched with satisfaction as the remnants of the sixty-ship-strong second fleet dropped anchor two hundred yards from shore. The fleet had sailed up the west coast of Sicily, with orders to set up a blockade around the Roman-held city of Agrigentum. The remainder would add its precious cargo of soldiers to Gisco’s command, swelling his army to twenty-five thousand.

As Gisco surveyed the busy harbour, he calculated the rate of advance of the Roman legions, confident that the enemy were unaware of his knowledge of their movements. Over the winter months, the Roman encampment had been under constant surveillance, from both the nearby hills and from bribed local merchants who had given the Carthaginians detailed descriptions of the size and strength of the army within the walled camp. The reports to Panormus had come regularly by an ingenious method stolen from the Persians a generation before: carrier pigeon. These winged messengers gave the Carthaginians an incredible advantage against an enemy who had not yet discovered the birds’ unique abilities and so, not thirty-six hours after the Romans had marched, Gisco had been handed the chance to get one step ahead of his foe.

Gisco thought back to the messenger’s words. The Romans had left their winter encampment yesterday, marching west. Gisco knew their destination was undoubtedly the cities of Segeste and Makella to the south of Panormus. These two city-states had defiantly sided with the Romans immediately after their victory at Agrigentum, although they were deep within Carthaginian territory. Gisco had ordered the cities besieged and was confident that, given time, they would once more fall under his control. He had already decided the fate of the inhabitants of the cities, a fate that would act as a deterrent to any other city-states within his territory that were considering defecting to the Roman cause. His private promise of retribution could only be carried out if he stalled or, better yet, stopped the Roman advance.

Gisco immediately discounted the option of a direct assault. The Roman legion’s fighting abilities on land far exceeded his own army’s, a fact demonstrated by the Carthaginian defeat at Agrigentum. If he was to defeat the enemy he would need to extend his strategy of strangling the Romans into submission.

The legions were no more than a week’s march from the territorial dividing line, a demarcation running south from the coastal town of Caronia on the northern coast that had indicated the furthest advance of the Romans in the previous year’s campaign season. That line was almost exactly halfway between their start point at the winter encampment and the Carthaginians’ base camp in Panormus, and so if Gisco was going to slow their advance he realized he would have to reach the line first. The admiral turned abruptly from the balcony and called for his aide. The man entered immediately.

‘Assemble the section commanders in the main hall immediately for a briefing and send orders to the cavalry to make ready to advance before the day’s end.’

‘Yes, Admiral,’ the aide replied and left.

Gisco walked over to the table and surveyed the detailed map of Sicily. The first Roman soldiers had landed on the island only four years before. At first the Carthaginians had viewed their arrival as a mere annoyance and had not even opposed their landing at Messina, confident that they could and would defeat them at the time of their choosing. They had been wrong, Gisco thought with frustration. The Romans had proved to be better than the Carthaginians on land and now controlled the entire eastern half of the island. Gisco would redress the error of not exploiting the Romans’ vulnerability at sea. As a combined force on land and sea, the Carthaginians were more than a match for the enemy. He would make the two sides of the same coin work in unison to isolate and destroy the Romans. No army could stand alone. Gisco would make sure the Romans learnt that lesson well.

*

Atticus listened in silence as Septimus and his father discussed the threat the legions faced in Sicily. The remains of the forenoon meal had been removed from the table only moments before, the servants moving in silence, Atticus noticing that many had their ears cocked at the incredible news that Septimus was relaying. At times Septimus looked to Atticus for confirmation or agreement on a point, but Atticus noticed that Antoninus never looked his way, the older man unconsciously touching his scar as he spoke to his son about his old legion.

Suddenly Atticus’s drifting thoughts were shattered by a scream, a shriek of delight that caused all heads to turn to the dining-room entrance and, as he watched spellbound, a young woman bolted into the room and threw herself into Septimus’s arms. Atticus had never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.

Hadria wore a simple white stola, secured around the middle with a thin braided leather belt. She was not tall, her head only reaching to Septimus’s chest, but her legs were long and tanned and she danced in her sandals an inch off the ground. Her whole body seemed to radiate vitality and health and her face was a picture of happiness as she laughed up at her older brother, her open mouth sensuous. Hadria did not have Septimus’s dark complexion. She was fair, with flawless skin that spoke of her youth. Her shoulder-length light-brown hair had elements of blonde where the sun had bleached the strands and the colour set off the light in her sea-grey eyes. Atticus had never seen such emotion expressed in anyone’s face before, and the affection she held for her brother was there for all to behold.

Septimus laughed at the infectious happiness of his sister and it was a full minute before their embrace was relaxed. Only then did Septimus turn to his friend.

‘Atticus,’ he began, ‘I would like to introduce you to my sister, Hadria.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hadria,’ Atticus said, captivated by her.

‘And you,’ Hadria replied demurely, her gaze penetrating, unnerving.

She broke the link and danced around to sit beside her mother as all retook their seats, the mood lifted further by her presence.

Within half an hour the conversation turned trivial, the topics lighthearted as Septimus regaled his sister with tales from his time away. Hadria sat with rapt attention as her brother spoke, her gaze never leaving his, her questions infrequent yet incisive, the perfect listener. Septimus held her gaze and the two-way link allowed Atticus to watch Hadria surreptitiously from the corner of his eye. He studied her closely, his eyes picking up every detail of her profile, his senses overwhelmed by her beauty. The thread of lighter conversation brought Atticus back into the group and the discussion drifted on into the late afternoon.

The evening ended with Salonina announcing the lateness of the hour, her hand held out to Hadria as a gesture for her daughter to accompany her from the room. Hadria groaned playfully and jumped off the couch in one fluid movement. She kissed her father and brother on the cheek before bidding goodnight to Atticus, the simple politeness accompanied by a broad smile.

Atticus returned the pleasantry and watched Hadria leave the room. As he turned back, Septimus and Antoninus began to talk once more of the legions in Sicily, the older man expanding on a thought he had developed over the previous hours.

*

Atticus rose early the following morning and walked through the atrium of the house into the main dining room for breakfast. The four members of the Capito family were already there talking animatedly in a tight circle around the low table. They did not immediately notice Atticus’s arrival and so he was free to observe them unawares. For a family that spent a considerable time apart they were very close and, judging from the occasional laughter and the smiling expressions of all, Atticus suspected that the conversation between them was light and inconsequential, typical family talk that touched on the details of their daily lives.

Atticus’s eyes rested on Hadria in the group before him. She was wearing a pale blue stola that set off the colour in her eyes perfectly and seemed to accentuate the fairness of her skin. She was listening to a story being told by her father and she laughed and clapped at his punch-lines, her joy infectious, her parents laughing with her.

‘Atticus!’ she called, noticing her observer for the first time. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

For a heartbeat Atticus noticed an intriguing look behind Hadria’s radiant smile, a lingering touch to her gaze that spoke of something beyond affection, a look that heightened his awareness of the most beautiful woman he had ever met.