Captain of Rome mots-2

by John Stack

  Hamilcar held his tongue and his nerve as he heard a low dismissive laugh from one of the men facing him. He kept his gaze steady on the suffet, remembering his father’s words but for a second his eyes shot to his detractor, Hanno. The remainder of the twelve man council were silent, their faces expressionless, showing neither approval or censure and Hamilcar continued without pause.

  ‘When our forces reach the borders of Syracuse,’ he said, ‘Hiero’s army will join ours, thereby securing our flank as our forces march to Tyndaris.’

  ‘You trust Hiero?’ the suffet asked after a moment.

  ‘No more than any other ally,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘He does not know of my full strategy and probably believes we are using Tyndaris exclusively for our campaign in Sicily. He is playing both sides and so, for the moment, it is in his best interest to keep our activities from Rome.’

  The suffet nodded, apparently content with Hamilcar’s answer but his expression revealed nothing.

  ‘The Romans have two legions in Agrigentum,’ one of the council members interjected, ‘and at least another in Brolium. Hiero’s army is no match for them.’

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘Once our forces sail from Tyndaris and the second part of my strategy is executed, I expect the Romans to sue for terms. The first of these will be our demand for the Romans to leave Sicily.’

  Again the suffet nodded and Hamilcar prepared to step away from the podium, his strategy outlined in full.

  ‘And what of your use of pirates?’ Hanno asked suddenly.

  Hamilcar made to reply but another council member, an ally of his father’s spoke up. ‘The minutiae of the commander’s plans should not trouble this council,’ he said. ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already approved the viability of Hamilcar’s strategy. All we need to decide is whether the plan fulfils the needs of the Carthage.’

  ‘The needs of Carthage also include protecting the honour of the city,’ Hanno shot back, his gaze never leaving Hamilcar. Again Hamilcar made to reply but he held back, knowing he couldn’t win the argument and any words he spoke would further fuel Hanno’s attack. The suffet raised his hand to stay any further discussion. He looked directly at Hamilcar and again Hamilcar was left to wonder how much the suffet had overheard in the ante-chamber.

  ‘I have heard enough,’ the suffet said, his voice low and hard. ‘Now we must decide.’

  Hamilcar nodded and stepped back from the podium. The members of the council immediately began to discuss the matter amongst themselves and so Hamilcar was allowed a moment to study them without distraction. To his left, in the corner of his vision, Hamilcar could see his father speaking quietly with the men on his immediate right and left. Hamilcar recognised them both, for he knew the sons of each and, as he scanned the rest of the room, he identified several others, each one the head of a powerful Carthaginian family.

  In the centre of the semi-circle sat the suffet, and directly to his right sat Hanno, a smile on his face as he spoke. Hamilcar felt suddenly humbled in the presence of these powerful men. Each one had paid dearly for his place on the council, openly bribing the members of the lower council for their votes. Hamilcar had heard that the same practice existed in Rome with senators paying for votes but in contrast it was looked upon as a dishonourable practice, a necessary evil that existed but was not spoken of openly. Hamilcar had scoffed at the Romans’ pretentions. In Carthage wealth was a sign of success, and to exude that wealth was to highlight that success. The positions on the supreme council therefore were open only to the wealthiest men in Carthage, men who had proven their worth and could be trusted with the reins of state.

  The suffet raised his hand and the council came to order. Hamilcar fixed his gaze on the leader, marshalling his thoughts in readiness for the questions to come. The suffet rose and walked slowly around the chamber. He was one of the oldest men in the room but his back was straight and he move with ease, his intelligent eyes fixed on Hamilcar.

  ‘Your plan is ambitious,’ the suffet said.

  Hamilcar did not reply. The suffet’s statement was simply that. It was not a question and Hamilcar’s father had warned him to respond to questions only.

  ‘You believe it will succeed?’ the suffet continued.

  ‘If I am given the resources I ask for, Suffet,’ Hamilcar replied, confidence in his voice, ‘then yes, I know my plan will succeed.’

  ‘But if it does not…’ a voice suddenly said and all eyes turned to Hanno. ‘You speak of this plan as if it is fool-proof.’

  The suffet raised his hand once more to forestall Hamilcar’s rebuttal.

  ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already approved your plan,’ the suffet said to Hamilcar, ‘and we must trust their judgement. I merely wished to judge the depth of your conviction.’

  Hamilcar nodded, although he could not judge from the suffet’s words whether or not he had judged Hamilcar’s conviction worthy.

  ‘The council will vote,’ the suffet said. ‘Those in favour?’

  Hamilcar watched as six men nodded their approval, his father amongst them.

  ‘Opposed?’

  The other five nodded, at least one of them looking to Hanno who held Hamilcar’s gaze as he nodded his disapproval.

  ‘Then my vote will decide’ the suffet said. He slowly walked back to his position at the centre of the council. Hamilcar’s full attention was focused on the older man. If he voted against then the vote would be tied and his voice alone would break the dead-lock, his vote essentially counting as two. He sat down and turned once more to Hamilcar, his gaze piercing as he measured the man one last time.

  ‘Anath guide your hand, young Barca,’ the suffet said. ‘I approve of your plan.’

  Hamilcar saluted, keeping his sense of triumph from his expression. He turned on his heel and walked from the chamber. His father watched him go, his pride for his son curbed by the reality of what had occurred. The Council had approved, but by the narrowest margin, and in that approval there was no acceptance of responsibility. His son would bear that burden alone.

  Varro paused as he came to the end of the last of the narrow streets leading to the large villa that overlooked Brolium. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to the bottom of the hill and the entire vista of the docks spread out before him. From this height the throngs of people he had so impatiently pushed through on the quayside were transformed into a series of amorphous groups with steady streams of supplies passing between them before disappearing into the narrow streets and onwards to the legionary camp.

  The raucous noise of the docks had prevented Varro from concentrating on his thoughts but as he had climbed the steady hill away from the quay, the noise had diminished until now it was reduced to a surging murmur, a sound that rose and fell with the gush of each breeze and the turn of each corner. Varro looked ahead once more and continued into the open square facing the main entrance to the villa, his mind now fully focused on the meeting ahead. He signalled Vitulus and the other two guards to halt in the square and he continued on alone, walking past the two legionaries who stood guard at the main gate without a second glance, ignoring their salute.

  Alone in the outer courtyard, Varro came to a stop and instinctively glanced down at the sealed scroll in his right hand. He had been handed the scroll by Scipio back in Rome with orders to present it to the commanding officer at Brolium. Varro surmised that the scroll contained details of his demotion along with a general command to place him in charge of one of the naval squadrons and he bristled when he thought of the contents, not because of the words themselves, for he accepted the challenge and the specific mission Scipio had set him, but because he had learned that the legate was not in Brolium and so Varro was left with no option but to present the scroll to the port commander, an officer with a lower rank than that of a tribune but higher than a squad commander. It was an ignominy that Varro had not prepared for and he hesitated on the threshold of the villa.

  The sound of approaching footsteps c
aused Varro to turn and he stepped aside to allow a contubernia of ten legionaries to pass, the officer leading them, an optio, saluting the tribune’s uniform without recognising the man, the gesture precise and deferential. Without thinking Varro acknowledged the salute with a nod and he felt his pride stir within him once more. He tightened his grip on the scroll in his hand and continued on into the villa, gesturing to a nearby soldier and ordering him to inform the port commander that he wished to see him.

  After a brief wait Varro was shown into the port commander’s office. He stood in the centre of the room and proffered the scroll to the commander, standing far enough back from the desk so the commander was forced to stand and walk around to receive the scroll. Varro watched him move, his expression unreadable. The port commander was a heavy-set man in his mid-forties but he walked with such an efficiency of movement that Varro was given the impression that the commander had at one time been a trim fighting soldier.

  ‘I did not expect to see you again so soon, Tribune,’ the commander said, his tone light but questioning. Only minutes before, when he had been told that Varro was waiting outside the commander had rushed to his door to look out surreptitiously at the tribune. How had he managed to return to Sicily? Was he not in disgrace? The port commander’s mind was in turmoil as he returned to his desk but as he sat down he noticed the seal in the scroll. SPQR; the seal of the Senate of Rome.

  The port commander broke the seal and began to read the document. With each line the grounds for Varro’s return became more apparent and the commander couldn’t help but smile as he reached the conclusion of the order from Scipio and the confirmation of Varro’s new rank.

  Varro watched the port commander read the scroll in silence, but he studied the older man’s expression closely, trying to decipher from it how Scipio had phrased the order, with regard or with derision. As he saw the commander smile, Varro felt a sudden wave of anger hit him. Whatever Scipio’s tone the port commander was taking pleasure from the end result. He stood slowly, his smile remaining and Varro struggled to keep his own expression neutral.

  ‘Very well, Commander Varro,’ the port commander began, a heavy emphasis on Varro’s revised rank. ‘It seems I must find a squad for you.’

  Varro ignored the jibe and straightened his back to receive his orders. He looked to a point directly above the commander and focused his mind on the incident that had occurred minutes before in the courtyard when the optio had saluted him. Varro knew that the optio’s respect was engendered by his tribune’s uniform but he also believed his own natural bearing was a significant factor. After today his uniform might change but Varro vowed that in his mind he would remain a tribune, the minimum rank his social status demanded. In time he would fulfil his orders from Scipio and dispose of the Greek captain who had shamed both him and Rome. Then he would return to his city, reclaim his former rank and raise his head high once more in front of his father. Until then he would suffer the dismissive attitude of men like the port commander, lesser men who would live to regret their underestimation of Varro.

  The Alissar moved sedately through the commercial harbour of Carthage as the helmsman navigated the quinquereme around the moving obstacle course of trading ships large and small. The wind was onshore and so the sail remained secured but the current of the outgoing tide eased the galley’s passage and the drum beat below decks hammered out a steady four knots.

  Hamilcar paced the foredeck, his excitement and impatience in marked contrast to the steady rise and fall of the hull beneath him, the moderate course changes that brought the galley ever closer to the open waters beyond the harbour. Every so often a smile creased his face and he glanced back at the entrance to the military harbour nestled beyond the commercial docks. Inside and unseen; for where he now stood he knew the area was frantic with activity, the stage of his plan backed by the supreme council now beginning to take shape under the skilful hands of a multitude of Carthaginian shipwrights and naval carpenters. They were the best in the world and the confidence they possessed in their abilities had immediately put any lingering doubts Hamilcar had about his aggressive schedule to rest.

  Hamilcar turned again, this time to gaze upon the waters ahead of the Alissar. She had finally cleared the harbour and the drum beat was increased to seven knots as she advanced into unobstructed waters. Hamilcar looked to the horizon, his mind’s eye tracing out the routes the galleys he had dispatched yesterday had taken. There had been four in total, the captain of each carrying orders Hamilcar had dictated but which also bore the seal of the supreme council. Each one had been given a specific mission and so the order would be carried to very edges of the empire, to Marrakech, Iberia, Sardinia and Gymnesiae. Within weeks the provincial fleets ordered to return would arrive in Carthage, swelling Hamilcar’s command until he achieved the superiority in numbers his plan required.

  Hamilcar leaned over slightly to counteract the tilt of the deck beneath his feet as the Alissar’s course was adjusted, her bearing north-north-east, a direct line to the south-east corner of Sicily. From there she would hug the coast, traversing the narrow strait of Messina at night to arrive at her final destination, Tyndaris. It was one of the most vital elements of the plan, in addition to being the one most vulnerable to discovery, so Hamilcar had decided to oversee the final stages of construction. In addition he had dispatched orders to Panormus for a dozen galleys to join him in Tyndaris with the intention of closing the harbour to all commercial shipping.

  Hamilcar glanced back over his shoulder as Carthage began to fade in the distance. It would be mere weeks before he would see her again and thoughts of her harbour filled with all the galleys of the empire filled his chest with pride at what he was about to achieve.

  Atticus leaned back against the aft-rail, keeping close to the burning brazier, its smoke keeping away the evening insects. His chest felt stiff under the tight bandages the physician had applied, and the wound felt strangely cold, the foul-smelling salve he had applied numbing the area but easing his pain. He felt tired and light-headed but he delayed his return to the cabin below, wanting to wait until the turn of the watch at dusk and curious to learn what Septimus would reveal when he returned.

  The breeze shifted slightly and the smoke of the brazier cleared, revealing to Atticus the distinct underlying odours of the port, the salt infused air, the musky smell of the town where a hundred fires had been lit in advance of the night and the sour acrid smell of the bilges of the ships that surrounded the Aquila. The crowds were melting away from the docks as the evening advanced, the gangs of slaves already corralled back to their quarters at the southern edge of Brolium, the passage of the day a featureless event in their miserable lives.

  Atticus spotted Septimus from a hundred yards, his red cape easily distinguishable amongst the predominantly white clad traders and merchants. Atticus summoned a crewman to bring wine to the aft-deck as he watched Septimus’s approach with interest, trying to discern from his gait if the news he had heard was good or bad. It was hard to tell although the centurion did move with determined stride as if time was of the essence.

  Atticus nodded to Septimus as he reached the aft-deck, Atticus seeing for the first time the troubled expression of the centurion.

  ‘Marcus?’ he asked, misreading the expression.

  ‘He made it back,’ Septimus said, taking a proffered goblet of wine, ‘but the Ninth’s losses were very heavy. They have been temporarily stood down.’

  Atticus nodded gravely but remained quiet, sensing that Septimus was not finished, and after a minute’s pause Septimus began to outline what Marcus had revealed and what they had discussed at length.

  ‘So Marcus believes the Carthaginian attack is more than just opportunistic?’ Atticus asked.

  ‘Yes, and I agree with him,’ Septimus replied, ‘but we don’t know to what end. Maybe they are trying to split our territory in two, or perhaps it’s just a feint in advance of an attack to retake Agrigentum.’

  Atticus nodded. He a
greed with Marcus’s initial belief, as did Septimus, but that conclusion had led them nowhere. Only the Punici knew what step was next.

  Both men turned as they heard the thump of heavy footsteps of the gangway and they watched as Varro led his men on board. His eyes searched the deck and came to rest on Atticus and Septimus. He dismissed his men with a wave and continued to the aft-deck alone, his gaze never leaving the captain and centurion.

  ‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus said as he saluted, focusing Varro’s attention on him alone.

  ‘We sail at dawn,’ Varro replied, not correcting the centurion’s use of his former title. Varro knew the crew would learn of his demotion soon enough but until then he would remain tribune, if only in name.

  ‘What heading, Tribune?’ Atticus asked, stepping forward, determined to extract the necessary information a captain was entitled to know.

  Varro stared hard at Atticus for a number of seconds, ‘Send one of your crew to fetch a map of the north coast of Sicily.’

  Atticus complied and the three men waited in silence until the map was brought up from below. Septimus spread it on the deck and they circled around it, careful not to block the dying light of the evening sun that stood a hair’s breadth above the horizon.

  ‘We will sail east into this area,’ Varro began, pointing out a rough triangle on the map. ‘There we should encounter a squad of ten galleys who are responsible for patrolling that area. I will take command of this squad.’

  Varro stood up as he finished and Atticus and Septimus followed suit in anticipation of further instructions. Varro however simply turned around and left the aft-deck without another word, descending quickly into the hatchway that led to the main-cabin below.

  ‘A tribune assigned patrol duty?’ Septimus asked suspiciously as he watched Varro leave.