Читать книгу Ship of Rome - John Stack - Страница 6

The sail billowed out with a crack as the trailing wind filled the broad canvas sheet, the running rigging straining against the pull. Within an instant the Aquila was propelled to fifteen knots, its cutwater tearing through the sea, throwing a spray of water across the foredeck. The running of a galley required immense skill and concentration, and Atticus noticed the iron look on Gaius’s face as he fought to keep the helm true. One slip and the galley’s stern would swing through the line of the wind. The sail would be exposed to unequal stresses, instantly snapping the rigging and collapsing the canvas. Worse still, if the rigging held, the galley would capsize under the press of wind.

Atticus watched in silence as the experienced helmsman struck a delicate balance between the prevailing wind and the ship, making the two connect until the galley perfectly matched the wind’s speed and direction. Confident that Gaius had the ship in hand, Atticus looked out over the stern rail to confirm the Carthaginians were not in pursuit. The Aquila was now four hundred yards clear of the headland at the northeastern tip of Sicily. The Punici had not followed beyond the strait.

Atticus was in turmoil as he realized his ship had escaped. Although he had known the only choice had been to flee from the enemy fleet, the retreat from the Carthaginian galley marked the first time in his whole life that he had run from an enemy. The empty sea behind the Aquila mocked the captain for its absence of an enemy and Atticus slammed his fist onto the stern rail. Knowing he had made the right decision was not enough to assuage the dishonour he felt at having fled.

Septimus stood silently by Atticus’s side. Eight marines were unaccounted for from the fight on board the enemy galley, six of them hastati, junior soldiers, many of them in their first battle. He could only pray that all had died under the sword and that none had been left injured on the enemy’s deck. If taken alive their fate would be horrific. The Aquila had been saved because of the sacrifice of those men. Septimus recounted their names silently in his mind.

‘Where are we sailing to?’ he asked finally.

‘To the only port Rome holds on the north coast. To Brolium.’

Septimus nodded, looking ahead over the bow. During his time on the Aquila he had come to accept that the unfamiliar seas around him held many enemies, as had the unfamiliar terrain of Sicily when he had served in the legions. As a legionary he was always confident that he served in the best land army in the world. The sight of the Carthaginian fleet had made him realize that Rome did not enjoy that same superiority and confidence at sea.

Eight hours later the Aquila rounded the eastern headland guarding the approaches to the Roman-held port of Brolium. Atticus stood alone on the bow, preferring solitude as the hours had sped past and league after league fell under the galley’s wake. His thoughts had ranged over every detail of the Carthaginian ships they had fought, every difference, however minute, between them and the vessel under his feet, his mind slowly forming a model of the heavier, stronger galleys that would soon plague the waters off northern Sicily.

A sudden change in the tilt of the deck broke Atticus’s thoughts as Gaius lined up the Aquila to strike the very centre of the hectic waters ahead, crammed with transport barges awaiting a chance to disgorge their contents onto the already crowded docks of the once-quiet fishing town. Even from this distance out, the air around Atticus was filled with the hum of voices from the multitude at work, broken occasionally by the sound of a whip crack as a driver spurred his team of oxen to advance, signalling the departure of yet another fully loaded wagon along the road south to the fortified legion encampment hidden beyond the town.

The scene of docking and departing barges, of unloading and reloading supplies, of man and beast struggling for space on the congested docks seemed completely chaotic, and yet Atticus could sense the underlying order that permeated the entire operation as no voice was raised in anger and everywhere men moved with purpose and intent. The Roman legions had never fought a campaign off the mainland before Sicily, and yet, within a matter of months, the Romans’ ability to bring order and discipline to all endeavours ensured that the legions were operating as if they were but a mile from the city of Rome itself. Atticus could only wonder if any natural barrier would ever exist that could protect a people against the seemingly relentless advance of Rome.

Lucius’s sharp commands cut through the cacophony as the sail was collapsed and made secure and the oars were engaged in the rapidly dwindling sea room of the inner harbour. Again Gaius’s incredible skill was called upon as barge after barge was avoided, their crews shouting warnings and curses as each near collision with the slow, ponderous vessels was averted. Atticus’s gaze swept the dock, searching for an opportunity. He quickly saw one and calculated the angles. It would be tight.

‘Three points starboard!’ he roared, his voice acknowledged by Gaius sixty yards away with a nod and a nimble touch on the tiller as Atticus ran to the main deck to prepare to disembark.

The Aquila aligned her bow with an emerging gap as a barge began to cast off, her now empty hull turning towards the mid-channel. Voices and hands were raised on the docks, calling forward the next waiting barge into the valuable space before one of the taskmasters noticed the Aquila’s intercept course, his realization causing a minor panic as the galley’s unerring intent became apparent. Lucius roared for the barge to give way, his command instinctively followed by the merchantmen of the transport vessel who feared the Aquila’s four-foot bronze ram, and the galley swung deftly into the gap left by the departing barge.

Atticus, Septimus and a detachment of six legionaries ran down the gangway the moment it touched the dock, their determined arrival forestalling any protest from the irate taskmaster.

‘Stand by on station,’ Atticus called to Lucius, who saluted and immediately ordered the gangway raised and the galley to push off from the dock. The six legionaries fell in pairs behind the captain and centurion and together they marched towards the end of the dock, heading to the town beyond. The slave labourers crowding the wharf moved back to allow the armed men to pass; as a knot of them dispersed, Atticus spotted an officer approaching at the head of a contubernia of ten soldiers. He was a tall, gaunt man, determination in his step, his face a mask of fury. Atticus recognized him immediately. He was Aulus, the Brolium harbour master.

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Aulus yelled as he moved around the gangway of an unloading barge, shoving his way through the queue of bearers that cut across his path. He checked his step as he recognized the approaching captain, ordering his squad of ten men to halt.

‘Atticus, you Greek dog!’ he smiled. ‘By Jupiter’s balls! What madness is this?’

The two men shook hands, Roman style, each grasping the other’s arm below the elbow.

‘I should have known it was the Aquila; only Gaius could pull off a manoeuvre like that. And Septimus,’ Aulus exclaimed over the captain’s shoulder, ‘still alive, I see.’

Septimus allowed himself a smile at the friendly gibe, knowing Aulus’s dislike of legionaries.

‘We couldn’t wait for clearance, Aulus. We need to see the port commander immediately.’

Aulus was disturbed by the captain’s infectious agitation, something he had never before seen in the young man.

‘Atticus, in Pluto’s name, what’s going on?’ he asked, all trace of humour now gone.

‘Carthaginians, Aulus, a whole fleet of them. At least fifty ships. Bearing north through the Strait of Messina.’

‘A Carthaginian fleet? In these waters? By the gods…’

Instinctively Aulus looked around at the assembled fleet of barges. These vessels and their ability to ply goods between the mainland and Sicily were the key to the entire Roman campaign on the island. But they were slow, ponderous beasts in comparison to galleys. Fifty Carthaginian ships would play merry hell with them.

‘Atticus, this news must reach the legion commanders immediately,’ Aulus said without looking back at the captain, his focus on the barges around him, his mind already picturing their destruction at the hands of the Punici.

‘That’s why I need to speak to the port commander immediately, Aulus. He will be able to speak to the legion commanders directly.’

‘Atticus…Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio is here, in Brolium itself.’

‘The senior consul? Here?’ Atticus asked with disbelief. ‘What’s he doing in Sicily?’

‘He’s here to inspect the legions before the spring campaign,’ Aulus replied. ‘He only arrived two days ago. He’s staying in the port commander’s villa.’

Atticus looked up at the villa overlooking the port. It was fifteen minutes away by foot, four minutes by horseback, but that was on a quiet day, when the streets were all but empty. Today the entire town seemed choked with equipment, slaves and draught oxen. He would need the marine legionaries to beat a path to the consul’s door.

‘Septimus,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘we need to get to the villa as quickly as possible.’

‘Understood,’ Septimus replied, and turned to his six men. ‘Squad…draw swords!’ he ordered, his words followed instantly by the distinctive sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards.

All activity around the soldiers ceased as the sound arrested the movement of every man in earshot. Those within range immediately drew back from the group, fearful of the razor-sharp killing sword of the Roman legions. A ripple ran through the crowd as word was passed quickly along the length of the dock and, like a gust of wind blowing through ripened corn, the crowd began to part in front of the soldiers. Septimus turned and slowly drew his own sword, holding it firmly before him, sensing the familiar weight of the weapon, remembering the last time he had drawn it only hours before.

‘Fall in behind,’ he said to Atticus as he looked beyond him to the channel opening before them. ‘Squad…double-quick time.’

The squad took off as one, their pace the ground-eating double-quick time that would get them to their destination, over two miles away, in fifteen minutes. Aulus watched them go until his view of them was lost, the slaves around him returning to work as if nothing had happened. But something had happened, Aulus thought, something had changed. The four legions on Sicily had seemed invincible, unbeatable, the best land army in the world. Now the Carthaginians had begun to exploit their best asset, as masters of the sea, and as surely as death follows life, if the fifty ships of the Punici were not stopped, they would strangle and starve forty thousand of Rome’s finest.

Atticus and Septimus mounted the final steps leading to the villa’s rooftop garden behind two of the consul’s black-cloaked praetorian guards, their long wait before being summoned forward by the guard commander further chafing Atticus’s nerves after his earlier angry exchanges with the praetorian commander in the villa’s courtyard. The praetoriani were notoriously arrogant, their privileged position as the guardsmen of the Senate setting them apart from and above the regular soldiers of the legions, and this particular guard commander, an ex-centurion of the Fourth Legion, had a glaring contempt for all ranks other than his own. He had initially refused the Aquila’s officers’ request for an audience with the consul out of hand, turning his back on them even as they spoke, as if the very effort of refusal was beneath him, and it was only when Atticus mentioned, with barely contained anger, that the entire campaign was now under threat that the guard commander stopped in his tracks to listen before agreeing to seek the consul’s permission for an audience.

Atticus and Septimus stood to attention as the praetorian guards came to a halt just inside the boundary of the garden, their arrival seemingly unnoticed by Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, senior consul to the Senate of Rome, who was standing with his back to them, slowly and methodically splashing cold water from a basin onto his forearms and face. He reached out for a towel and one was immediately proffered by a large Nubian slave before he turned to face the two officers.

Atticus and Septimus saluted in unison, but the consul did not acknowledge the gesture as he poured himself a glass of wine, the pause giving Atticus a chance to study the man before him. He knew Scipio was a patrician, one of the elite of the Roman Republic, and his bearing showed all the hallmarks of a privileged upbringing. He was not a tall man, maybe two inches shy of six feet, but his stance gave the impression that he stood over everyone around him. He moved like a fighter, with long, slow, fluid movements that belied his obvious strength, and although his eyes were downturned, Atticus had the impression that he was fully aware of everyone around him. The consul looked up to face the two men, his eyes never leaving them as he took a drink from his glass, and both Atticus and Septimus knew that they were being assessed by one of the most powerful men in the Republic.

‘Report,’ he ordered.

‘I am Captain Atticus Milonius Perennis and this is Centurion Septimus Laetonius Capito of the marines. We are the commanding officers of the trireme Aquila out of the port of Locri, stationed in the Ionian Sea and Strait of Messina. This morning—’

‘Wait,’ Scipio interrupted. ‘I am familiar with the family name Laetonius,’ he said with a nod to Septimus, ‘but I have never heard of Milonius. What is the origin of your family?’

‘It’s Greek,’ Atticus replied, somewhat puzzled at the line of questioning, ‘from Brutium,’ indicating the region occupying the ‘toe’ of the Italian mainland.

‘So what is a Greek doing commanding a Roman vessel?’ the consul enquired, trying to gauge the young captain before him. He knew that many of the ships of the Roman navy were provided by provincial cities and so their crews were a mix of personnel from all corners of the Republic, but he had thought all the galleys were commanded by Roman citizens.

‘The origin of the name is Greek, but we are of Brutium, and citizens of the Republic. I joined the navy when I was fourteen and worked my way up to the rank of captain.’

Atticus had drawn himself to his full height as he spoke, and Scipio could sense the pride and determination behind the words when he spoke of his citizenship and rank. He recalled that Brutium had once been part of Magna Graecia, Greater Greece, a loose confederation of city-states whose founders had originated from the Greek mainland. Rome had absorbed the entire area less than a generation before as the legions washed the stain of Pyrrhus from the peninsula, and so now former enemies had become fellow citizens.

‘Continue with your report, Captain,’ Scipio said with a wave of his hand, his mind now tinged with a hint of mistrust as the Greek continued.

Atticus quickly recounted the morning’s action, emphasizing the enemy’s numbers and course.

Scipio listened while the captain spoke, his expression never changing. The consul was used to hiding his thoughts and emotions from those around him, and he had trained his face to remain impassive no matter what news was delivered. This report of a fleet of Carthaginian galleys shook him to his core, however, as he realized its implications. Scipio lifted his glass to take a drink and noted with satisfaction that his hand was rock steady. He turned to his fellow Roman.

‘Centurion, do you confirm this report?’

‘Yes, Consul, every detail,’ Septimus replied without hesitation, sensing his friend Atticus bristle as his honesty was questioned. Scipio continued to hold the gaze of each man, his face a mask of indifference. Atticus immediately mistook his demeanour for a sign that he had missed the point of the report entirely.

‘Consul, the fleet was moving north through the strait. Their destination must be Thermae or Panormus further along this coast. From there they could range along the entire northern coast, attacking our transport barges as they cross from the mainland.’

Scipio had looked up the moment Atticus began to speak and he listened intently until the captain finished his sentence. It was only then that his expression changed. Not to one of understanding and concern as Atticus had expected, but to one of rage.

‘How dare you speak without permission?’ he growled at Atticus. ‘Do you think me a fool? Hold your tongue!’

Atticus was stunned by the consul’s outburst and silently cursed the manner of the man standing before him. His ship had fought hard to escape the Carthaginian fleet and for the past eight hours he had pushed the trireme to its limits. For him there was not a moment to lose and the unreadable manner of the consul irked him. The port commander at Brolium, the man he had hoped to report to, spoke to his captains as near equals, accepting their opinions and dissent in any private discussions. This man, however, this politician of Rome, kept his own counsel and invited none.

‘You men will accompany me to the legion encampment immediately,’ he said brusquely to Atticus and Septimus. ‘Wait for me in the courtyard.’

The two men saluted and turned on their heels. The consul’s personal guard quickly formed up around them and they were escorted from the rooftop.

Scipio walked to the rail and looked out over the docks below. The tempo of the labour there had not abated throughout the afternoon, but it now seemed that they had broken the back of the task of unloading the fleet of barges. With a new threat emerging in the waters beyond the harbour, Scipio wondered briefly if these would be the last supplies for the fighting legions on Sicily.

Hannibal Gisco sat in his cabin on the flagship Melqart, drinking wine from a golden goblet. The goblet had once belonged to the prefect of Agrigentum, the city Gisco had captured over a year before. Along with the entire city Council, the prefect had been stoned to death, punishment for closing the city gates against the Carthaginians’ initial advance. The man had not died well. In the corner of the cabin, reclined on a couch, Hamilcar Barca sat watching the admiral in silence. He noticed the slight smile on Gisco’s face, wondering what thought had prompted the smile, an expression so different from the frustration Gisco had displayed an hour before when he had first returned to the flagship.

Hamilcar had listened then as Gisco outlined the escape of a Roman trireme, concealing his shock at the anger that seemed to emanate from every pore of the admiral’s body. The slaves had worked with practised speed as Gisco talked, stripping the admiral of his armour and tunic, bathing his skin with scented water before massaging oil into the obviously tensed muscles of his upper body and shoulders. The familiar routine had gone some way to assuage Gisco’s frustration, but only now, as a lingering smile remained on the admiral’s face, did Hamilcar judge the moment right to discuss the implications of the Roman ship’s escape.

‘You said she was a coastal galley?’ Hamilcar asked, keeping his voice even, suppressing all elements of judgement.

‘Yes, lighter than one of our own. Probably a pirate hunter.’

Hamilcar nodded, allowing a silence to develop once more, his experience in the Council chamber of Carthage dictating his line of questioning.

‘She will flee along the northern coast of Sicily then?’

Gisco grunted a reply, disliking the young man and his presence on board the flagship. The Council’s interference in military affairs had reached new depths with the appointment of Barca, the Council’s ‘envoy’, an advisory observer who shadowed Gisco’s command.

‘No doubt to the nearest Roman port, where she will give advance warning to all that our fleet has entered these waters…’ Hamilcar persisted, trying to get Gisco to reveal his thoughts on the change in circumstances.

‘It is of little consequence, Barca, the Romans would have found out soon enough,’ Gisco replied, avoiding any admission that his failure to capture the Roman trireme was in any way significant.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

‘Come,’ Gisco ordered.

The commander of his personal guard, Cronus, entered. He snapped to attention.

‘Captain Maghreb of the Hermes reporting as ordered, Admiral.’

‘Good, show him in, Cronus.’

Gisco rose from his chair. He leaned over his desk, strewn with Carthaginian maps of the waters around the eastern and northern coasts of Sicily. Maghreb entered, led by the guard commander and flanked by four more soldiers. His sword and dagger had been removed. He stood to attention and saluted.

‘Reporting as ordered, Admiral,’ he said, trying to hide the tension in his voice. He failed. Gisco could sense the captain’s fear.

‘Captain,’ the admiral began, ‘I have studied all our maps and charts of these waters. I can find no reference to the whirlpool we encountered this morning. The Romans tricked us using superior local knowledge. We could not have been aware of their plans.’

Maghreb visibly relaxed and, although he still stood to attention, Gisco noticed that the tension had gone out of his shoulders and he was no longer holding his breath.

‘They will not escape the next time they cross our path,’ Maghreb added, sensing the admiral’s mood.

‘No, Captain, they will not,’ Gisco replied, his voice cold.

The two men stood facing each other in silence and Maghreb felt uncomfortable once more under Gisco’s gaze. The admiral’s expression was impossible to read, but the captain sensed that he would evade blame for the escape of the Roman galley.

He was wrong.

‘Guard commander!’ Gisco suddenly ordered, breaking the heavy silence. ‘This man disobeyed my orders, he must be punished. Seize him.’

Cronus looked at two of the guards and jerked his head towards the captain. They immediately rushed forward and grabbed his arms. Maghreb’s initial shock at the admiral’s words gave way to fear and he struggled against the men holding him.

‘But…’ he pleaded, fear consuming him, his mind unable to comprehend the admiral’s actions, ‘you said yourself, I couldn’t have known of the Romans’ trap. We were taken by surprise. We—’

‘Enough!’ Gisco bellowed, cutting across the captain’s pleas. ‘You were ordered to continue your pursuit of the Roman vessel. You did not and they escaped. There are no excuses.’

‘But…’ Maghreb began again, hopelessness overwhelming him.

‘Take him away, Commander,’ Gisco ordered. ‘Have him straddle the ram.’

The pronounced sentence instantly silenced Maghreb, an overwhelming wave of terror engulfing him. Cronus saluted and led the condemned man from the cabin.

Hamilcar had watched the entire exchange with disbelief. In the two months since being appointed to shadow Gisco, he had become increasingly aware of the man’s serpentine nature. Hamilcar had witnessed scenes like this before and as always his honour was offended by Gisco’s methods. The admiral always lulled an enemy before striking and Hamilcar knew it served no purpose other than to satisfy Gisco’s ego.

The admiral noticed Hamilcar’s expression as he sat back down behind his desk. The captain’s renewed cries for mercy could be heard through the cabin door as he was dragged up onto the deck above and brought forward to meet his fate.

‘You disapprove, Barca?’

Hamilcar kept his peace, sensing Gisco’s dislike for his position, knowing the admiral wanted to provoke a confrontation to justify his actions.

‘Let me tell you something, young man,’ Gisco began, his voice patronizing. ‘Fear is what drives men. Fear of failure. Fear of retribution. Fear of—’

‘Hannibal Gisco?’ Hamilcar interrupted, his own censure evident in every word.

‘Yes,’ Gisco replied, as if trying to explain his reasoning to an obtuse child, ‘fear of Hannibal Gisco. Maghreb was ordered to hunt down the Roman galley and he failed. Now he will pay for that failure with his life.’

Hamilcar bit back his retort, knowing the futility of arguing against a man such as Gisco. The man had no honour, no sense of the true motivation of men, the drive that inspires them to create and control an empire. He got up slowly from the couch, sensing the admiral’s dismissive gaze as he moved towards the door. He walked out without a word, glad to be out of Gisco’s company.

Hamilcar reached the deck as Cronus and two others were climbing back over the forerail. Hamilcar walked down the length of the galley, ignoring the guard commander as they passed each other amidships. By the time he reached the foredeck, Cronus had issued the order for the Melqart to get back under way. Hamilcar looked over the forerail to the figure of Maghreb below. He was tied in a supine position, face up, over the six-foot ram of the galley. With the ship at rest, half of his body was submerged under the water; however, as the quinquereme picked up speed to reach standard, the waves began to crash over him. Maghreb would drown slowly. Very slowly.

Hamilcar watched in dread fascination as Maghreb tried to draw breath between waves. An errant crest filled his mouth with water and he coughed and spluttered to clear his tortured lungs. He gained a moment’s respite but within a minute he was caught again. Maghreb threw his face up and Hamilcar was given a vision of pure terror. A cry of anguish was cut short by the cold sea, her unending current oblivious to the fate of the terrified captain. Maghreb cleared his throat again but all the while his lungs continued to fill with water.

At standard speed, in calm coastal waters, Hamilcar estimated it would take at least thirty minutes for Maghreb to drown. The Melqart was flanked on both sides by other galleys, many of their crew lining the rails to witness the captain’s punishment. Hamilcar could see from their expressions that Gisco was achieving his aim of inspiring fear in the heart of each man. Maghreb was silent, his thrashing arms and manic face the only testament to his futile struggle against the sea. Hamilcar stepped back from the forerail, hiding the captain from his line of sight.

Hamilcar had spent the first ten years of his military career in Iberia, stationed in Malaka on the southern coast. It was the frontier of the Carthaginian empire, a new expansion being forged from the lands of the Celts who had formerly controlled the isolated peninsula. Hamilcar had made his name and cemented his standing amongst the ancestors of his ancient line in that campaign. The fight had been brutal, the territory hard fought and won. Hamilcar had led many men to their deaths, had ruthlessly thrown them against the relentless attacks of the Celts in an effort to secure victory. But always with honour, always with the strength of his men harnessed through loyalty to Carthage and their commander.

Hamilcar had yet to meet the Romans in battle. Years before, Carthage and Rome had fought together as allies against Pyrrhus of Epirus. It was an alliance that precipitated the current conflict, a once-honourable union that Rome had established to save her lands before turning the allied victory into a dishonourable invasion of Sicily on a pretext of saving the people of Messina from the armies of Syracuse, an invasion that threatened Carthage’s extensive commercial interests on the island.

The die was now cast. The Roman trireme had escaped and so it was only a matter of time before Hamilcar would face the enemy in battle. His gaze hardened at the thought, savouring the anticipation of expelling the Romans from Sicily, re-establishing the supremacy of his people as masters of the Mediterranean.

A guard detail of sixty legionaries, half a full maniple, stood in formation in the courtyard of the villa with a centurion walking up and down the ranks inspecting the men. A signifer stood at the head of the formation, holding aloft the maniple’s standard. The gentle offshore breeze ruffled the cloth of the standard, the gold discs hanging beneath clinking against each other like wind chimes. Septimus studied it and saw the symbol of a bull, marking it as a maniple of the Second legion, one of the four now campaigning in Sicily. Septimus had belonged to the Ninth Legion, encamped with the Second just beyond the town of Brolium. The other two legions, the Sixth and Seventh, were stationed further south, near the border with Syracuse, a politically motivated location meant to keep Hiero II, the king of Syracuse, bottled up. Their static location meant the two legions at Brolium would bear the brunt of the spring campaign.

The inspecting centurion looked past his men to the entrance of the courtyard, spotting Septimus and Atticus. He approached them with the confident, measured stride of a manipular centurion, a man totally at ease with his command and certain of his place in life.

‘Identify yourselves!’ he demanded of the two men.

‘Captain Perennis of the trireme Aquila, and Centurion Capito of the marines,’ Septimus announced, ‘reporting as ordered by the senior consul.’

The centurion grunted, his opinion of sailors and marines clearly written across his face. Septimus ignored the implied slur, although he marked the centurion’s face in his mind.

‘Fall into the front rank,’ the legionary commanded. ‘The consul is on his way.’

Atticus and Septimus walked forward and took their place in the formation of soldiers. The centurion took one last look at his assembled men before standing to the fore of the group, the signifer behind and to his left. All waited motionless for the consul to appear.

Scipio arrived five minutes later. He was followed by his guard commander and the twelve men of his personal guard, the praetoriani. Their distinctive black travelling cloaks billowed around them as they marched in step behind their master. The consul flicked his hand upwards and the guard commander called the soldiers to a halt, the hobnails of their sandals reverberating in the quiet of the afternoon air. Scipio walked on alone to inspect the demi-maniple of legionaries. He sensed and relished the stillness of the troops before him, their discipline and uniformity evoking memories of his own time in the legions, a simpler time when rules and orders dictated all his actions, just as they did for the men before him. He noticed the two commanders from the Aquila in the front rank of the formation, noticed that they were still in full battle armour. They kept and wore their armour well, although both showed signs of battles fought.

The sound of a horse’s snort caused Scipio to turn. A stable lad was leading a grey-white stallion across the courtyard to the assembled men. The horse was Andalusian, a Spanish horse, sixteen hands high. He had been warmed up and groomed and he scraped the flagstones with his right hoof, his body a mass of restrained energy. Scipio walked over to the horse and patted his crest and throat, talking gently to the stallion in the practised tone of a seasoned horseman.

‘A magnificent beast,’ he said to no one in particular before mounting.

The senior consul settled himself comfortably in the saddle and turned the horse around to face the demi-maniple. He noticed immediately that his mount was a warhorse, the animal responding to movements in Scipio’s legs and shifts in his body weight. In battle, the rider would be free to wield weapons in both hands, the horse not relying on the reins for guidance.

‘Form up!’ Scipio ordered the centurion, before wheeling the horse around.

‘Marching column!’ the centurion roared, and the demi-maniple transformed itself into twenty rows of three men abreast. Atticus and Septimus were in the front row, the naval captain thankful that he didn’t have to move for the column to form up, unfamiliar as he was with the finer points of legionary drill manoeuvres.

The consul’s guard led the march out through the double doors of the courtyard, followed by Scipio, who needed to duck beneath the overhead arch of the gateway. The demi-maniple of the Second followed, wheeling right as they left the courtyard to take the winding road down to the docks two miles away. The streets were empty before them, doors and shutters closed to hide the inhabitants within. The townspeople were used to seeing Roman soldiers in Brolium; however, the menacing sight of the black-cloaked guard of the praetoriani and the obvious importance of the Roman they escorted prompted the people to hide in trepidation.

The column wound its way out of the town of Brolium and set out on the road south to the encampment. The road was busy, with the constant flow of traders moving between the port town and the lucrative opportunities of the legions’ base camp. All stepped aside as the marching column of soldiers approached, many manhandling their carts from the ten-foot-wide dust road into the fields on either side. They stared in awe at the sight of Scipio riding gloriously in the evening sun, his bearing and perfect features heralding his wealth and stature, while the size of his escort announced his importance for all the world to see.

The Roman encampment was located a mile south of Brolium. The camp was the Second and Ninth legions’ castra hiberna, their winter camp, and was a semi-permanent structure suitable for the soldiers’ extended stay in the cold months. Even now the weather heralded the arrival of spring, when Ceres’s vibrant touch would transform nature in celebration of Proserpina’s return to the world from her winter exile in Hades. The arrival of spring would also herald the beginning of the legions’ campaign season, and soon the Romans would march away from Brolium to carry the fight to the Carthaginians holding the western half of Sicily. If they were successful they would not return and a new castra hiberna would be constructed deep in what was now enemy territory.

As the column approached the encampment, they passed the advanced stations of the legions. These guard posts were located two hundred yards from the camp on each approach road and were manned by four legionaries. Septimus could see that they had been forewarned of the consul’s possible arrival, as all four soldiers stood to attention outside the guard hut where normally one would stand while the other three rested inside. They did not challenge the column but let it pass in silence, their eyes looking straight ahead, not daring to look up at Scipio for fear of drawing his attention.

The main camp was rectangular in shape, built of two squares, one for each legion, and the long axis of the camp ran parallel to the road. The whole area was surrounded by a deep trench, fifteen feet across and five deep with the excavated earth thrown inward to form a formidable rampart, on top of which stood the wall. Near the main gate, the Porta Praetoria, the wall had been reinforced with stone; however, the majority of the palisade was constructed from wooden stakes cut from young oak trees. The branches of the stakes had been sharpened and interwoven with each other to form a near-impenetrable obstacle, and at each corner of the rectangle a twenty-foot-high watchtower stood, giving the sentries advance warning of any approaching force on the uninterrupted surface of the valley floor.

The column passed through the open gates of the camp, again without challenge or check, to be confronted, immediately inside the walls, by the massed ranks of the Second and Ninth legions. They had been drawn up in manipular formation; a legion stood on each side of the road running directly down the centre of the camp to the officers’ quarters in the centre. As Scipio rode under the archway of the gate, the legionaries roared with one voice:

‘Rome Victorious!’

Scipio rode on at the measured pace of the march, never looking left or right. A man born to command, the blood rushed in his veins at the sound of twenty thousand shouting in his honour. His expression was imperial, a look of fraternal pride, as if each man before him was a younger brother, a brother of Rome. Drawn up across the road before him were the senior officers of the legions. The commander of the praetoriani called a halt to the column and Scipio dismounted, covering the last few steps of the journey on foot.

‘Greetings, Senior Consul,’ a tall authoritative man at the head of the officers declared. ‘Welcome to Sicily.’ He was Lucius Postumius Megellus, legate of the Roman legions and a member of the Senate.

‘Thank you, Lucius,’ Scipio replied, his words genuine. Scipio had spent the past seven years in the Senate, all the while gaining in influence and power. His rise had given him many enemies, and on more than one occasion the man before him had clashed with him, but always honourably, always without subterfuge, and for that Scipio respected him.

Legate Megellus turned to introduce Scipio to the assembled officers. The introductions were brief, the salutes formal and exact.

Septimus ignored the confluence of senior officers before him, his gaze firmly fixed on the banners held aloft over the legion to his left. The preying wolf of the Ninth looked balefully from each linen standard, its eyes locked on a former son of the ranks. Septimus had not seen the Ninth in over a year, his reassignment to the Aquila severing his link to the only legion he had ever known. He remembered the moment acutely, the moment of choice so many months before, the decision to accept a promotion to centurion in the marines over remaining as optio of the IV maniple. It was a decision he had wrestled over but once made he had never looked back. Until now.

Septimus searched the ranks for the signifer of the IV maniple, suddenly feeling the need to reconnect to his old command and the standard he had fought and lived under for so many years. The order to advance the column was given as he found his mark deep within the ranks, the men beneath the banner of the IV hidden by the mass of soldiers around them.

‘How reliable is this man’s word?’ Legate Megellus asked, his question directed at the port commander.

‘Captain Perennis has been in Rome’s service for fifteen years. I have personally known him for ten. His word is beyond question,’ the commander answered, confidence in his voice as he looked over at the young captain.

Atticus stood motionless beside Septimus in the meeting room of the officers’ quarters. His expression never changed at the questioning of his report, although he was glad he could rely on his commander for backup. He had retold the salient parts of his report to the group of officers, paying particular attention to what he had seen of the strength and course of the Carthaginian fleet, sticking only to facts and avoiding subjectivity and opinion.

‘So you see, gentlemen,’ Scipio said as he scanned the faces of the assembled officers before him, the men still reeling from the news they had just heard, ‘the Carthaginians have raised the stakes considerably. At best we are faced with dwindling supplies, at worst we are faced with starvation and ruin.’

Scipio’s face remained inscrutable as he spoke, the men waiting for his next words. Megellus smiled to himself. He had seen the senior consul in discussion with other men before, and knew his habit of drawing out a silence, a silence which unnerved some men, especially the younger ones, who felt compelled to fill the void. A junior tribune was the first to break the quiet.

‘We must accelerate our campaign and strike while we are still strong!’ he blurted.

The words emboldened the other junior tribunes and they echoed this view, calling for immediate action, immediate countermeasures, their thoughts and words directionless, overlapping.

‘Enough!’ Megellus ordered above the rising sound.

The silence reasserted itself.

‘What are your thoughts, Consul?’ he asked Scipio.

The senior consul looked down at the maps and charts on the table before him, studying the outline of the northern coast of Sicily on one in particular. For the past twenty years the Punici had occupied the entire island west of Halaesa, a dividing line some fifty miles west of Brolium. Fifty miles to the east of Brolium was the kingdom of Syracuse, the two territories separated by the natural obstacle of Mount Etna and a mutual agreement of noninterference. The Roman legions had filled that vacuum and so, as yet, their supply hubs were still a closely guarded secret.

‘I believe we have time on our side for the moment,’ Scipio began, every man now hanging on his words, the same officers nodding agreement who moments ago had advocated haste. ‘The Carthaginians hold ports further west of our location,’ he continued, pointing to the ports of Thermae and Panormus. ‘They will need time to discover and confirm our supply routes. That time will give us the opportunity to implement some minor countermeasures. Measures such as using circuitous routes to port and forming smaller fleets of transport barges to make detection more difficult. It will also give me time to consult the Senate before making my decision on how best to proceed with annihilating this new threat. For now, the legions must act as if nothing has changed. We still have a campaign to win and an enemy to beat.’

The officers voiced their agreement in unison, trusting the senior consul, who seemed completely confident in his assessment of the threat. Scipio raised his hand for silence and looked over at Atticus, who now stood outside the circle of officers around the table. He consciously swept aside his intuitive mistrust of the non-Roman, knowing he had to take advantage of the younger man’s experience.

‘And you, Captain Perennis,’ he asked of Atticus. ‘As the only naval commander here, what are your thoughts on the matter?’

All the officers turned around to look at Atticus, many with a look of mild astonishment and disdain that the opinion of a lowly captain was being sought. Once again Atticus had been taken off guard by a question from the consul. He had expected to be dismissed after giving his report and so he and Septimus had drifted back to the periphery of the group. Now he was once again the centre of attention.

‘I agree that we may have time on our hands as the Carthaginians organize their blockade of the northern and eastern coasts. However, I would advise against sending supplies once that blockade is in place, even using different routes or smaller fleets as you suggest.’ Atticus saw a number of tribunes bristle at this contradiction of the consul’s view, but Scipio’s expression, as inscrutable as ever, did not show censure.

‘I believe the Carthaginians are amongst the best seamen in the world,’ he continued, ‘master planners in both logistics and naval tactics. Any attempt to outmanoeuvre their blockade will result in failure.’

Again Atticus’s remarks drew angry mutterings from some of the tribunes as he openly praised the enemy, but he continued undaunted. ‘The only successful strategy will be to defeat them in battle and destroy the blockade,’ he concluded, his final opinion greeted with icy silence.

Two of the tribunes snorted in derision and turned their backs on the captain, their focus returning to the consul, waiting for him to aggressively refute Atticus’s opinion, but Scipio simply nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said. Scipio addressed his senior officers once more.

‘While time may be on our side, the next few weeks are vital if we are to overcome this threat. Any indecisiveness in our actions will be catastrophic. I will therefore leave for Rome now, immediately. Word must reach the Senate and I must be the one to deliver it. As the sea is still the fastest route to Rome, I will trust my life to those who have already bested the Punici. I will travel to Rome on the Aquila.’

Both Atticus and Septimus straightened up as once again all eyes in the room turned to them. Their course had been set…to Rome, to the centre of the Republic and the civilized world, escorting the most important man of the Republic.

‘We leave in one hour,’ Scipio said, dismissing the officers of the Aquila.

‘Marcus! You old bastard,’ Septimus called as he and Atticus entered the junior officers’ mess, immediately recognizing his old commander from the IV maniple of the Ninth.

‘Septimus!’

The two men met in the middle of the room and shook hands, smiling happily at each other, their meeting the first since the Battle of Agrigentum over a year before. Marcus was ten years older than Septimus, a tall, thin man and, although he was in the declining years of his prime, he still possessed an iron-hard physique and a will and discipline to match.

‘How is Antoninus?’ Marcus asked. ‘Still the same old tyrant?’

‘As hard as ever,’ Septimus replied, proud of his father’s reputation as one of the toughest centurions who had ever commanded a maniple of the Ninth.

‘Marcus,’ Septimus continued, turning to Atticus, ‘this is Captain Atticus Milonius Perennis of the Aquila.’

The centurion was about to proffer his hand but he stayed the gesture, his eyes suddenly unfriendly.

‘A Greek? By the gods, Septimus,’ he said, turning to the marine, ‘I cursed the day you accepted your promotion to centurion in the marines, but now I find you command with the very people your father and I fought at Beneventum.’

Atticus stepped forward, incensed by the unwarranted insult, but Septimus stepped into his path, his hand raised across Atticus’s sword arm.

‘Atticus has fought for the Republic for as long as I have, for as many years as half the men in this room. His loyalty is without question.’

Marcus was about to retort but he held his tongue, recalling the bond of friendship he had with Septimus and what a mentor Septimus’s father, Antoninus, had been. He slowly proffered his hand once more, his expression this time unreadable.

Atticus remained motionless, his own gaze hostile.

‘Any friend of Septimus’s is a comrade of the Ninth,’ Marcus prompted.

The words seemed hollow to Atticus; however, he shook the centurion’s proffered hand.

‘A naval captain, eh?’ Marcus asked, measuring him. ‘What brings you and this orphan of the Ninth to our camp?’

‘Grave news,’ Septimus said, recapturing Marcus’s attention, all humour now gone from his voice.

Marcus indicated a crowded table with a nod of his head and all three sat down. The other centurions looked on in silence, many leaning in to hear the news that had wrought such a change in the expression of the young marine.

‘Go on…’ Marcus said, prompting Septimus to begin.

‘Carthaginians,’ he began, ‘a whole fleet of them, Marcus. Off the northern coast. We expect a full blockade within weeks.’

‘Merciful Jupiter,’ Marcus breathed.

The centurion was a keen disciple of logistics, as were all centurions by necessity. The success and readiness of his maniple depended in large part on how well it was supplied. No supplies meant no replacements of armour, weapons, and the myriad simple but necessary items needed to keep a modern, effective army in the field.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Marcus finally asked, breaking the silence, the younger centurions deferring to the most experienced man in the room.

‘We sail for Rome…’ Septimus replied ‘…to escort the senior consul to the Senate.’

‘And the legions?’

‘Scipio ordered that the legions must act as if nothing has changed,’ Septimus said, remembering the senior consul’s words in the earlier meeting, ‘so the Ninth and Second will march out to battle as planned.’

‘We’ll march out as planned all right,’ Marcus remarked, anger in his voice as forces beyond his control threatened to place a stranglehold on his legion, his maniple, his men, ‘but if a blockade is enforced those plans will rapidly change. We’ll become survivors not fighters, scavengers of food instead of hunters of men.’ The room went quiet again as each man contemplated this change of fortune.

‘Septimus,’ Marcus said suddenly, a hard edge to his voice, ‘Antoninus was like a father to me and to serve as optio in his maniple at Beneventum was an honour I was proud to repay when I promoted you to my second-in-command. I know there was another reason behind your acceptance of a promotion out of the Ninth and into the marines after the Battle of Agrigentum, and I also know you are a man like your father, a man of honour.’

Septimus nodded, remembering the strength of the bond between the two senior officers of every maniple.

‘As my optio I always had your back and you had mine,’ Marcus continued. ‘I call on that bond again, Septimus. If a blockade develops, you and your captain must break it. Whatever needs to be done, you need to do it. We’re facing six months of fighting and I need to know that you have our backs covered, that you’ll make sure we can fight on and not be hamstrung by the Carthaginians.’

Marcus stood up as Septimus nodded his assent.

‘Do I have your word?’ he demanded, his tone that of a maniple centurion, a commander of one hundred and twenty men.

Septimus stood opposite him.

‘Yes, Centurion,’ he replied, their ranks equal but Marcus’s experience commanding and earning Septimus’s respect.

Marcus looked to Atticus, noting the hard expression on the younger man’s face.

‘And you, Greek. Will you fight for the legions?’

Atticus stood up slowly beside his friend.

‘I’ll fight,’ he replied simply after a moment’s pause.

‘Good,’ Marcus said.

Marcus extended his hand and Septimus shook it solemnly. Atticus paused for a heartbeat before following suit, his hesitation raising a sly smile at the edge of Marcus’s mouth.

‘What’s the name of your ship?’ Marcus asked.

‘The Aquila,’ Atticus replied, his back straightening.

Marcus nodded, noting the name. ‘Good hunting, men of the Aquila,’ he said.

‘Give ‘em cold iron, wolves of the Ninth,’ Septimus replied, his connection to the legion that forged him giving intensity to his words, and for an instant he yearned to be once more in the ranks of the IV maniple. The strength of his will caused every man in the room to stand without command. Septimus and Atticus saluted them and they returned the salute in unison…all except Marcus. For a moment his eyes locked with Septimus’s and the marine saw the veteran centurion nod imperceptibly, the gesture a reinforcement of the words spoken moments before. The Second and the Ninth, the Bull and the Wolf, would march from this camp onto the battlefields of Sicily. Two creatures born to battle, these beasts would fight, but they would also consume, their strength drawn from their supplies, without which they would weaken and be overcome by the very prey they sought. Their strength was now the responsibility of Septimus, and he would give his life to protect it: not because the Republic of Rome demanded the sacrifice, but because the men of the legions, men like Marcus, asked for it.