Читать книгу Captain of Rome - John Stack - Страница 6

He couldn’t breathe; the fetid air was too thick, too laced with the smell of fear and human waste. His mind was filled with the sounds of despair, of men dying slowly in the pitch blackness. He tried to stand, to break out, but the ceiling closed in on him, pushing him down until he thought his back would break from the pressure. His skin began to crawl, the sensation assailing his extremities first, forcing him to draw his arms and legs until he was curled into a foetal position, the tiny filthy creatures finding every inch of his skin, feeling their way up his back and across his chest, their clicking sound smothering all other in his tormented mind. They reached his neck, and he stretched his head up with forlorn hope to escape them, their advance inexorable. The first of them touched his face, scuttling across his cheek and into his hair. It was followed by a dozen others, then a hundred, the clicking noise roaring in his ears; his face was alive with them.

Scipio shot up and screamed a cry of despair from the depths of his soul. His wife was instantly awake, her hand outstretched to touch her husband and release him from the bounds of his nightmare, the horrific dream that visited him every night without fail. He sat upright in the bed, swallowing huge breaths of air as if to cleanse his lungs, his eyes wide open, focusing intently on the soft light of the lantern that was now constantly lit during the hours of darkness.

‘Gnaeus…’ Fabiola began, her voice gentle, searching for the man lost in that terrible place he had described to her only once, a place that had forever stolen part of his courage.

Scipio shrugged off her hand, throwing his feet out over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed the last vestiges of the nightmare from his face.

‘Go back to sleep Fabiola,’ he said knowing he himself would not sleep again that night. He rose and walked naked across the room, brushing aside the silken drapes that led to the cool night air of the balcony. On the lower reverse slope of the Capitoline Hill of Rome, the view from the balcony took in the flood plains of the Tiber, now bathed in the soft half-glow of a crescent moon. It was a beautiful calming sight but Scipio took no pleasure from it, his anger and shame still raw from the nightly reminder of his downfall.

Scipio had no idea how long he had been held prisoner in the lower hold of the Carthaginian galley after his capture at Lipara; weeks, a month, eternity, time had lost all meaning in the blackness of that space but one thought had always remained with him during that sentence, one thought he had coiled around his heart—revenge; a vindicta against the men who had robbed him of his rightful fate. Scipio’s dark memories were interrupted and he started slightly as Fabiola’s naked body, still warm from the bed, pressed against his back, warming the skin that had cooled in the pre-dawn air. Her arms enfolded around him and he raised his hands and encased hers in his across his chest. He knew she never slept either after his nightmares and whereas most nights he preferred his own company at this time, on this night, the night before he would take his first step on his road to vengeance, he accepted her presence without hesitation. He turned around and looked into her face, her delicate features made more beautiful by the half-light. He gazed deeply into her eyes, seeing the intelligence there, but also the cold ruthlessness that she hid from all except her husband. A smile crept onto her face and he nodded slightly, his anticipation rising at the thought of the hours ahead and the plan made possible by his wife’s incredible instincts.

‘Soon…’ she whispered.

He nodded again. The word had become a mantra for him, a talisman for the time when the men who had crossed him would pay for their crime.

‘Soon…’ he replied, taking his wife by the hand and leading her back through the rippling folds of the silk curtains.

The cool blue-green water of Brolium harbour removed every thought from Atticus’s mind as he swam deeper beneath the hull of the Aquila, her recently caulked keel illuminated by the distorted light of the mid-morning sun refracting through the gentle swell of the waves above. The pressure in his lungs deepened as he hung suspended beneath the water, his brief exhalation of air to achieve neutral buoyancy prompting his body to protest at the rationing of its sustenance. Atticus ignored the slight burning sensation in his chest, his intimate knowledge of his body’s limits, tested many times, allowing him to clear his mind and take in the sweep of his galley’s hull. They had hit the Carthaginian ship hard and three of the strake timbers of the bow port quarter were deeply scored where the galleys had connected. With an experienced eye Atticus surveyed the damage, searching for telltale air bubbles that would foretell a weakness but the hull was sound. A reflexive reminder to breathe interrupted Atticus’s thoughts and he thumped the hull twice with his fist before striking out for the surface.

Atticus broke the water’s skin just shy of the forward anchor line and he reached out for the tether, breathing the morning air deeply, the two minutes underwater refreshing him after a fitful night’s sleep. He scanned the seventeen galleys clustered around the Aquila at the eastern end of the busy harbour, their separation from the hustle and flow of the port’s normal activities a self-imposed exile to lessen the shame of their defeat.

The fleet had arrived in Brolium as dawn was breaking, their unexpected appearance drawing curious crowds to the dockside where the galleys quickly disembarked the soldiers of the Ninth before retiring to take station in deeper waters, the legionaries marching in loose formation to their encampment beyond the town. Varro, his guard, and the four senators had also disembarked, the tribune making directly for the port commander’s residence straddling the hill above the town. Atticus remembered tracking Varro’s departure from his ship intently, expecting the tribune to approach and challenge him on his insubordination but Varro had walked directly from the hatchway to the gangplank, and thence to the dock, never once looking back.

A rogue cloud eclipsed the sun, its passing accompanied by a light on-shore breeze that animated the wave tops and cooled Atticus’s shoulders above the waterline, prompting him to strike out once more for the rope ladder hanging from the main deck. He clambered up the steps and crossed the main deck, shrugging on the tunic he had left on the side rail as he went. Septimus was on the aft-deck and Atticus nodded a welcome to him as he approached the centurion.

‘Drill?’ Atticus asked, noticing the weighted wooden training sword held loosely by Septimus’s side.

‘Definitely,’ Septimus replied, his eyes ranging over the drawn ranks of the marines on the main deck, ‘anything to stop their minds dwelling on the last twenty-four hours!’

Atticus nodded, smiling inwardly. It was the type of order he had come to expect from Septimus; a return to routine at all costs.

‘No sign of the Tribune returning?’ Atticus asked, looking beyond Septimus to the empty waters between the Aquila and the docks two hundred yards away.

‘Not yet,’ Septimus replied, conscious of his friend’s unease over the inevitable confrontation that was yet to occur.

Atticus seemed not to hear the reply and so Septimus did not pursue the subject, aware of the situation from Atticus’s earlier remarks. He slapped his friend on the shoulder as he passed him to leave the aft-deck, raising his sword and testing its weight as he went, his concentration switching to his marines. Septimus checked his pace slightly as he noticed the gaping holes in their ranks, gaps left by the dead and injured and he mindfully shrugged off his grief, determined as always that his men would know him only as a disciplined commander.

Scipio slowly surfaced from beneath the crystal-clear water, his right hand wiping away the vestiges of water running down his face as he lay back once more in the lukewarm bath, his breathing deep and controlled. The circular bath was positioned in the very centre of the square tepidarium chamber, affording Scipio a view of the three doors of the room. Two of these led to the first and third chambers of the bath house annexed to his home, the third, the one that now held his attention, led to the slave quarters. He glanced at the third door surreptitiously, his ears tuned in the tranquillity of the tiled room to any telltale sound that would announce the arrival of the bath attendant.

The door opened and a middle aged man entered. He was stooped at the waist, as if bowed over by an invisible weight and his head followed the contour of his back, his face downcast in the ubiquitous manner of a slave. Scipio was careful not to reveal his interest in the man’s arrival, conscious that any overt attention would be out of character and he suppressed the malicious smile that threatened his face as he recognised the slave. His name was Amaury, his pale skin marking him as a native of some foreign tribe beyond the great mountain range north of the Republic’s borders. Slaves came and went in Scipio’s household, often without stirring his attention, his indifference making them invisible. But Amaury, and one other, a stable lad named Tiago, were unique among the slaves of Scipio’s household, a point discovered nearly three months ago by his wife Fabiola.

The door from the first chamber opened suddenly and Fabiola walked in amidst a cloud of steam from the scalding bath of the caldarium chamber. Scipio unconsciously marvelled at her poise and grace, her elegant stride acutely accentuated by the fact that she was completely naked, her innate confidence intensely alluring. She acknowledged her husband with a wry smile and slipped into the consuming waters in one fluid movement, her eyes never straying to the bath attendant who was considered nonexistent. Fabiola began to talk to her husband in light tones, her conversation ethereal, skipping from one trivial topic to another. Scipio simply nodded in reply, smiling briefly when Fabiola’s words warranted the expression, his attention focused on the rehearsed question to come.

‘Have you made a decision on your future in the Senate?’ Fabiola asked, her tone never changing.

Scipio straightened imperceptibly, his thoughts touching briefly on how effortlessly Fabiola had introduced the topic into their conversation. He paused as if in contemplation before answering.

‘I have,’ he replied, his gaze never leaving his wife, his other senses intently focused on the slave in their midst. ‘I will pursue the censorship.’

Fabiola nodded, feigning unspoken approval. ‘So you believe you can gain the support of the censores?’ she asked, referring to the two magistrates entrusted with bestowing the censorship.

‘I am confident I can,’ Scipio replied. ‘I have been a consul, I am eligible for the position and with Duilius focused on the senior consulship, I will gain the censores implicit approval prior to the election, long before Duilius is even aware of my intention.’

Fabiola’s face hardened at the mention of Duilius’s name, an expression she did not have to fake.

‘It is unthinkable that that shop steward, that farmer, will rise to the highest rank in the Senate,’ she spat, her words not part of their carefully rehearsed conversation, her hatred for the man who had outmanoeuvred her husband temporarily overwhelming her normal self-control. She instantly regretted the slip and continued as if her invective had never been spoken.

‘His power will surpass yours in the Senate,’ she said. ‘You will be at his mercy.’

‘In all areas save one,’ Scipio replied, his face also betraying the hatred he could not suppress, ‘and using that all important, untouchable power the censor holds, I will make Duilius pay.’

Fabiola smiled maliciously at her husband’s words and for a heartbeat Scipio forgot the charade they were playing, his thoughts focused instead on the sudden overwhelming attraction he felt for his wife, captivated by the malevolent beauty of her.

‘Leave us,’ he commanded brusquely over his shoulder to Amaury. The slave withdrew instantly. Scipio watched him leave, his triumphant expression finally giving voice to his emotions. He turned once more to his wife, noting immediately her expression, one that acutely mirrored his own. He moved slowly around the bath to her side, his eyes locked on beauty, his excitement and arousal combining to create an intoxicating potion that chased every thought from his mind.

Amaury quietly closed the oak door to the tepidarium chamber, his shaking hand the only outward sign of his inward elation, his continually downcast face as always showing only mute servility. He paused in the corridor for a heartbeat, glancing left and right, making certain he was alone before dropping the towels in his hand to the floor, his feet already taking him unerringly to the stables at the rear of the house. A rare smile formed at the edges of his mouth as he walked, the thought of his master’s gratitude causing him to unconsciously quicken his pace as his senses picked up the pungent smell of the stables and the rhythmic sound of the black-smith’s forge. He turned the corner at the end of the corridor and pushed open the reinforced door to the courtyard beyond, the white sunlight of late summer spilling past him to briefly mark his exit from the confines of the house. Again he glanced furtively left and right, conscious of his anomalous presence in the courtyard. He spotted Tiago grooming a bay foal and made directly for him, his mind wilfully forming the news he had just heard into the brief report that the stable lad would deliver before the day’s end.

Varro felt a flush of shame build again in his cheeks as his eyes swept back and forward between the faces of the four other men in the room on the ground floor of the port commander’s residence. They were ignoring him completely, talking amongst themselves as if he had silently departed after he had finished relaying the events of the past twenty-four hours. Twice he had interjected with a comment, his carefully prepared words dying mid-sentence as his voice was lost in the agitated debate, his opinion regarded as beneath consequence. Varro shifted once more on his feet, the deep fatigue of his body concentrated in the tormented muscles of his legs. He noticed the senior tribune of the Second Legion glance briefly in his direction and he straightened his back in anticipation, fighting the impulse to quail under the tribune’s undisguised look of scorn, his shame rising unbidden again to manifest itself on his face.

Varro retreated inward as the conversation raged about him, his mind reaching back to the surety of the days and weeks before the disaster that was befalling his ambitions. He was so certain, so convinced, as his father had been, that the capture of Thermae was a mere formality, a stepping stone that would open every door in the corridors of power in Rome. The events of yesterday had reversed those aspirations. He replayed the battle in his thoughts, his mind’s eye flashing images before him, his latent anger building slowly as he watched the sequence of events that had forged his fate, his pride baying for retribution as he remembered the insubordination of the Greek captain. The strike across his face was unforgivable, that blow the senators travelling with him had later claimed not to have witnessed, their confederacy with a lesser man adding grievous insult to his injury, their contemptuous looks beginning a pattern that Varro had seen mirrored in the senior tribune’s face.

When the Aquila had pulled alongside the docks at Brolium, Varro had disembarked without looking back at the aft-deck, not sure that he could control his temper should he see the captain watching him. With the senators firmly on the captain’s side Varro had realised that any accusation he levelled, without eye witness support, would likely be seen by others as a desperate attempt to apportion blame on a man who had proved himself at Mylae. It was therefore a simple matter of honour between two men and Varro’s accusation would have to be followed by a challenge, a challenge the young tribune knew he could not win against a man ten years his senior and ten times his better in fighting skills. Varro had decided in the darkness of his cabin as the Aquila fled Thermae, that there would be no spoken accusation, no open challenge. There would be only revenge.

As Varro’s gaze refocused on the present he noticed all eyes in the room were upon him and he realised they were waiting for him to answer a question he had not heard.

‘I…’ he hesitated, his expression exposing his lapse in concentration; ‘I didn’t…’

‘The camp prefect asked you a question, Varro,’ the senior tribune of the Ninth barked, indicating the eldest man in the room. ‘When will you be ready to sail?’

‘To sail?’ Varro asked uncertainly, furious at himself for having drifted off from the conversation.

‘For Rome man, for Rome!’ the senior tribune said impatiently.

Varro’s mind raced as he considered the question, realising that he had no idea how long it took to ready a galley for sea.

‘We’ll need to restock…’ he began, trying to hide his lack of knowledge.

‘I’ll see that all necessary stores are made available from the barrack’s stores,’ the port commander of Brolium interjected; ‘we can have the Aquila fully stocked before the tide turns, two hours at most.’

Varro nodded his assent but the port commander didn’t seem to notice, looking instead to the senior tribune for approval.

‘Make it so,’ the senior tribune commanded, usurping Varro’s position.

‘We’re agreed then,’ the officer of the Ninth continued, turning his attention to his opposite number in the Second. ‘Tacitus, you will take two thousand of the Second west on a forced march to intercept the retreating soldiers of the Ninth. I will take the remainder of the fleet on a parallel course along the coast.’

‘But the fleet is…’ Varro said, cutting himself short, instantly regretting his remark.

‘Is what, Varro? Yours?’ the tribune replied with a sneer. ‘Your fleet was destroyed at Thermae. Now your only task is to sail to Rome and inform the Senate of your defeat!’

The tribune turned contemptuously from the younger man and nodded his dismissal to the prefect and port commander before saluting his equal from the Second. His gesture was returned and then all four men left the room without another word, each one passing Varro at arm’s length, careful not to touch the disgraced officer for fear of tainting their own fortune. Varro stood rooted to the spot as the footfalls of the others faded along the corridor.

Hamilcar let his shield fall to the sand as the approaching skiff reached the line of breaking waves off the beach at Thermae. The two oarsmen rowed with skill, riding each wave as the current of the crest caught them, using the blades of their oars to balance the hull in the crashing surf. Hamilcar walked forward into the water as one of the oarsmen jumped nimbly from the boat, holding the bowsprit to steady the craft and allow their commander to board. Hamilcar jumped in and sat in the bow as the boat was swung around to once more face the anchored fleet in the mid-channel of the harbour, both oarsmen rapidly re-taking their positions, bending their backs into the task of sculling out through the breakers.

Hamilcar stared impassively past the two rowers to the beach he had just left and the exhausted soldiers who stood motionless along the line of seaweed that marked the furthest advance of the tide. They had fought well over the past twenty-four hours, harrying the Romans relentlessly as they retreated east along the shore. At first Hamilcar and his men could only pick off stragglers and the injured, surprised as they were by the sudden breakout of the Romans, a breakout that had postponed Hamilcar’s reunion with the fleet until now. The enemy infantry’s escape had been uneven and the narrow confines of the coastline had forced the Romans into an extended line of advance, a weak formation that Hamilcar’s commanders had mercilessly exploited, advancing rapidly on the enemy flanks to ambush every rearguard the Romans formed. Hamilcar had personally led many of the charges, his anger at the frustration of his trap causing him to recklessly take the front in an effort to assuage his fury. His orders had been disobeyed; his fleet cut to an ineffective fraction of its original size by an unknown person. Exposing the traitor had become the dominant thought in Hamilcar’s mind and with the pattern of attack established, he had delegated the pursuit of the Romans to one of his commanders, freeing him to return to Thermae to find his betrayer.

The skiff pulled neatly alongside the flagship, a quinquereme named the Alissar. Hamilcar leapt onto the stepladder and climbed up to the main deck, ignoring the crew assembled in his honour, his gaze instead seeking out the man he had placed in command of the fleet. Himilco stood front and centre, the captain’s salute formal and exact. He stepped forward towards Hamilcar, extending his hand as he did.

‘Welcome aboard, Commander,’ he said, a broad smile forming across his narrow face. ‘Congratulations on a great victory!’

The crew cheered on cue, their voices raised in praise of their commander but Hamilcar’s stern expression never changed and as he neared the captain he noticed a shade of doubt flash across Himilco’s eyes.

‘Follow me,’ Hamilcar said brusquely, cutting off the captain before he could utter another word.

Himilco hesitated for a second, his mind racing to comprehend Hamilcar’s attitude, before he hurried after his commander.

Hamilcar pushed open the door of the main cabin under the aft-deck and walked into the middle of the room. It was sparsely furnished, as befitting a battleship, with a map-strewn table in the centre and a cot on the starboard side. A large personal chest stood on the opposite side of the cabin. Hamilcar closed his eyes and dropped his head until his chin rested on his chest, breathing deeply in an effort to control the urge to run the captain through with the blood-stained sword at his side, to wipe the asinine smile off his face. ‘Congratulations,’ the fool had said and Hamilcar’s hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his sword. He heard Himilco’s footfalls behind him and the heavy sound of the door closing. They were alone.

With a speed that defied the eye Hamilcar spun around, drawing his sword in a single swipe as he did, the blade clearing the scabbard with inches to spare, its once smooth edge nicked and scored from the previous day’s combat. Himilco’s reaction was measured only in his face, his every defence too slow to respond to the unexpected attack as Hamilcar covered the gap between them before Himilco’s eyes could blink in surprise. The blade stopped an inch from the captain’s throat; its vibrating point the only outward sign of the immense self-control Hamilcar had exercised in staying its thrust.

‘Where is the rest of the fleet?!’ he shouted, his anger forcing the point of the blade against the skin of Himilco’s throat, drawing blood from the sallow skin.

‘My lord?’ Himilco asked, his confusion entangled with fear.

‘The fleet,’ Hamilcar roared. ‘The one hundred galleys I assembled in Panormus with orders to sail to Thermae. I saw only forty here yesterday. Where are the rest?’

‘Off the coast of Malaka in Iberia,’ Himilco stammered, his expression one of bewilderment, his hands now raised reflexively in a futile gesture.

‘By whose orders?’ Hamilcar barked, readying himself to run Himilco through in anticipation of his answer.

Again confusion broke through the captain’s expression of fear. ‘By your orders,’ he replied, a plea in his voice, ‘Councillor Hanno issued them on your behalf three days after you left Panormus.’

Now it was Hamilcar’s face that showed shock and the tension in his sword arm lessened without conscious thought, the point of the blade moving down to rest against the captain’s chest.

‘Hanno?’ he said, almost to himself.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Himilco replied, relief rushing through him as the answer the commander had sought was finally found.

‘He told you it was my order?’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Himilco repeated.

Hamilcar stepped back and sheathed his sword, his mind now ignoring the captain, its focus instead on the discovery of the man who had ruined his trap and rendered it incomplete.

‘Assemble a squad and set sail for Panormus immediately,’ Hamilcar said.

Himilco sensed his commander’s intentions and spoke with a renewed sense of safety, conscious that Hamilcar’s sword was no longer at his throat.

‘The councillor sailed for Carthage the day we left Panormus,’ he ventured.

‘Then we follow,’ Hamilcar replied after a second’s thought. ‘All speed to Carthage.’

Himilco saluted and left the cabin, his steps almost breaking into a run in an effort to put distance between himself and his commander’s sword.

Hamilcar watched him go, replaying the captain’s words in his mind as he did. In by-passing Panormus he would miss a prearranged meeting with one of his senior officers, Belus, a man to whom Hamilcar had already entrusted a vital component of a greater scheme and for a moment he worried that Hanno might have also obstructed those orders. He immediately dismissed his concern, confident in Belus’s loyalty and he turned his full attention to Hanno once more. The councillor’s actions were inexplicable and his subterfuge, his use of Hamilcar’s authority, was an act of treachery that any man who was ranked less than Hanno would pay for with his life. The depth of Hamilcar’s thoughts were undisturbed even as the dull thud of the drum beat began, its sound reverberating through the timbers of the Alissar as the galley got underway, her crew bringing her about on a course that would take her to the city of Carthage.

Gaius Duilius sat silently in the centre of the semi-circular forum of the Curia Hostilia, the senate house of Rome, his eyes ranging over the faces of the other senators of the house, their attention focused on the potent, almost hypnotic words of the speaker, Lucius Manlius Vulso Longus. Outside, the afternoon sun was suspended in the western sky; the shadows and shapes it created across the marble floor of the inner chamber transfixed in the still air.

Duilius looked upon friend and foe alike, on the undecided and the resolute in each group, his mind calculating odds and testing scenarios. As he watched, many of the senators nodded with a practiced look of sagacity at the words Longus was speaking and Duilius smiled inwardly, awaiting the applause he knew would follow, approbation for the keynote of the speech that he had written for Longus. The senators applauded on cue and once again Duilius used the opportunity to search beyond the outward displays of approval and agreement on the senators’ faces to try to divine their true intentions.

The elections were less than three days away and although Duilius was confident of victory, he was acutely aware of the limits to his knowledge, conscious that although his accession to the senior consulship was assured, the size of his majority in the secret ballot was yet unknown as were the true strength and numbers of his adversaries. As the victor of Mylae, Duilius was still exploiting the residual gratitude of the people of Rome and the Senate and he had used his influence to engineer Longus’s nomination to the junior consulship, his speech a carefully crafted manifesto that Duilius hoped would win favour with the undeclared majority of the house.

As Duilius’s gaze reached the far end of the forum, he swept his gaze around again, this time in search of Longus’s main rivals. They were scattered sporadically amongst the 300 strong senate, each one an ear of wheat amidst the chaff, some rising higher than the others, but all members of the ancient conservative Patrician class against whom Duilius had battled during his entire career in the Senate. That contest had reached its zenith the previous year when Duilius had been junior consul to Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, the patriarch of their pompous faction. The open rivalry had brought to the surface the supporters of each man, and by extension each philosophy, conservative verses progressive, and the house had divided along those lines with the centre occupied by a fickle majority whose votes were bought and extorted by the opposing forces. Now however, with Scipio discredited and in absentia, his supporters had dispersed and were once more hidden amongst the confusion of the malleable centre, their concealment reducing Duilius’s ability to judge the outcome of each vote.

As Longus finished his speech, many in the house stood to applaud the young senator and he smiled boldly at his supporters. Duilius stood also as an overt sign of his endorsement, moving his clapping hands from left to right as if to display this approval to the entire house. He caught the young senator’s gaze for a brief instant and Longus nodded his thanks, his fawning devotion evident to even the most obtuse observer and Duilius looked away quickly, hoping to wipe the sycophantic smile from Longus’s face, the expression unwise given that the majority of senators believed in the tradition that each consul, both junior and senior, should be their own man, each one, at least overtly, acting as a check against the power of the other.

Longus stepped down from the podium and made his way to his seat as a rival took to the centre of the floor to make his own case for election. Duilius turned in his seat, away from the speaker but also from Longus, conscious that the young senator was probably staring across at him, hoping once again to catch his eye. The thought made Duilius uncharacteristically re-examine his decision to promote Longus as a candidate for the junior consulship. With his own victory assured, Duilius’s endorsement carried significant weight and he had chosen carefully, conscious that his decision would be examined minutely by every senator. Longus had many flaws as a man, his inexperience exacerbating many of them but Duilius was sure of one inimitable quality that Longus possessed, and that was loyalty. In the maelstrom of shifting alliances and duplicitous allegiances that defined the Senate, Duilius would always be sure of Longus’s support. Duilius’s uncertainties dissipated as he reaffirmed his decision and he let his mind drift to other topics, ignoring the rambling polemic from the speaker at the podium. His gaze extended to the colonnaded entrance to the chamber and lengthening shadows of the day, consciously willing the sun to speed its progress to a point below the horizon. As his eyes moved over the spaces between each column he spotted the familiar figure of Lutatius, his private secretary, and the sight arrested his attention and chased every thought from his mind. Lutatius was unmoved, his gaze locked on his master and although he did not gesture, his mere presence spoke of an urgency that Duilius could not ignore. The consul stood up and walked directly to the exit, his abrupt movement causing the speaker to pause in indignation at the unprincipled insult inherent in Duilius’s departure and a muttered undertone of disapproval swept through the house. Duilius was oblivious however, his attention locked on Lutatius. Sundown, the traditional close of business in the Senate, was less than an hour away, Duilius thought. What was so urgent that Lutatius could not wait for his return home?

Lutatius stepped back around the column into the full glare of the afternoon sun as Duilius approached, screening himself from the prying eyes of any in the chamber. Duilius rounded the column, shielding his eyes as they adjusted to the sunlight reflecting off the marble columns and flagstones, the residual heat of the day in marked contrast to the cool atmosphere of the Senate chamber. Lutatius looked furtively over his shoulder as his master stood before him, checking again to see if anyone was within earshot, conscious as always of how easy it was to betray oneself through carelessness.

‘What news?’ Duilius asked his private secretary, a man who also tightly controlled the consul’s extensive web of spies across the city.

‘Scipio,’ Lutatius replied simply.

‘He has revealed his plans?’ Duilius ventured, his excitement mounting.

‘Yes,’ Lutatius nodded. ‘Tiago brought news from Amaury this very hour.’

‘And?’

‘The censorship, my lord, Scipio plans to attain the censorship.’

Duilius was instantly and simultaneously flooded with conflicting emotions. Relief and triumph at having finally learned of Scipio’s plans and dread at the havoc Scipio could wreak should he succeed. The two censors were elected each year from the ranks of the former consuls serving in the Senate. By tradition, one of the positions was guaranteed to a retiring senator as a sinecure recognising a lifetime’s service to the state, while the other was sought through application by the more ambitious former consuls. Duilius had already taken steps to ensure an ally, Anicius Paulinus, who would be the forerunner for the second position but now, with Scipio’s intentions exposed, Paulinus’s appointment was far from secure.

Without another word, Duilius swept past his secretary and down the steps of the Curia, Lutatius falling in behind at a respectable distance, the business of the Senate proceeding unabated within the chamber, unaware that the most powerful man in Rome would not be returning that day.

‘Skiff approaching!’

Atticus walked quickly to the side-rail to see the small boat approaching the Aquila from the distant quay. He instantly recognised Varro sitting in the fore of the boat, his tribune’s helmet distinctive even at a distance of a hundred yards. He was alone with his guard, the senators evidently remaining in Brolium, and Atticus found himself staring, his mind trying to fathom the thoughts of a man he did not know in any sense. Varro had been born into a life of privilege and wealth where power and command was a birthright. Atticus was born a fisherman’s son in a squalid hovel in the backstreets of Locri and had clawed his way to the top of his world, a pinnacle that was insignificant to a Roman magistrate’s son. Atticus tried to reverse their positions in his mind in a complex attempt to find a way for Varro to save face without Atticus losing, at best, his commission and at worst, his life.

‘Forget it,’ Septimus said beside Atticus and the captain spun around with a puzzled expression on his face.

‘Forget what?’ he asked.

‘I know you too well, Atticus,’ Septimus replied, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend. ‘You’re trying to think of a way out of your problem with that young idiot Varro.’

‘And?’ Atticus asked.

‘And I’m saying forget it. I came across his type many times in the Ninth. One hand on his dagger and the other in daddy’s back pocket; every one of them an ambitious viper with an ego fit for the Senate. Whatever fate he’s decided for you he’ll be damned if he lets anyone change his course, especially you.’

Atticus nodded, chasing any thoughts he had of explanation and reconciliation from his mind. He walked away from Septimus and began pacing along the rail.

Before Mylae the Aquila had been Atticus’s to command with Septimus unobtrusively responsible for the marines, their ranks equal and separate, with no higher power to answer to beyond their standing orders to keep the shipping lanes of the Republic clear of pirates. It was a task that would often keep them at sea for months, away from the rigid command structures that entangled them every time they entered port, and Atticus had always relished the independence. That freedom had been lost at Mylae however, when the Aquila had been absorbed into the Classis Romanus, a lone wolf suddenly becoming part of a larger pack, no longer hunting prey using its singular skill but as part of a group, the hunt becoming a complex power play of command and ambition, where opportunities drew men like Varro to the fray.

Atticus stopped pacing as the skiff came alongside, watching the tribune disembark with the agile ability of youth. As he waited, Atticus felt anger rise slowly within him for the vicissitudes of fate that had placed his life at the whim of a man like Varro. At Mylae, Duilius had stood on the aft-deck of the Aquila as commander of the greatest fleet Rome had ever put to sea and yet he had treated Atticus as an equal, their shared fight uniting them against the Carthaginians, the consul understanding that in battle, men were equal before Pluto, the lord of the underworld. Varro, on the other hand, treated those of lesser rank with near contempt and negligible respect, irrespective of their past service to the Republic. For a brief second Atticus recalled the challenges of his hard fought career and his concern for his fate fled his mind. He had fought greater foes than the young tribune who now approached him across the main deck and he’d be damned if he was going to yield without a fight, even if redemption was a forlorn hope. Atticus straightened his back and stood to attention as the tribune covered the remaining steps between them on the aftdeck and he saluted smartly.

‘Make preparations for Rome, Captain,’ Varro said brusquely.

Atticus hesitated for a heartbeat, waiting for the tribune’s next words, but none were forthcoming. ‘Yes, Tribune,’ he replied, repeating his salute.

Varro spun on his heal and walked purposefully away to the hatchway that led to the main cabin below. Atticus watched him go, baffled by the brevity of the exchange. The tribune’s expression had been near inscrutable, cold and determined, but Atticus had noticed something in Varro’s eyes, something that alerted his instincts, a mere flicker of hostility that spoke of a deeper emotion, an unspoken antagonism that belied the calm exterior the tribune had so deceitfully presented. Atticus had fought many enemies in his life and he knew the look well, knew its portent as surely as if the tribune had challenged him openly on the aft-deck.