Captain of Rome mots-2

by John Stack

Septimus hesitated for a second more and then turned his back on the doomed man, climbing back up the ladder and walking past Atticus without a word, the captain following the centurion back across the corvus, the ramp lifting behind them, separating the Aquila from her victim. Septimus moved to the fore-rail and stared across at the pirate galley as he sheathed his sword, his eyes ranging over the fallen legionaries on the deck, men who had given their lives for a hollow prize. The cries of the damned on the slave deck abated as the Aquila drew away, distance finally silencing their pleas.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Varro stood alone on the foredeck of the Tigris as he watched the quiet fishing village of Falcone come to life. It was a squalid little place with a half-dozen decrepit wooden huts huddled around a single jetty and the people that Varro could see from his vantage point all seemed to possess the same sullen posture that bore witness to their miserable existence. The sight disgusted him and Varro turned away from the shore to look past the assembled galleys of his squad to the open seascape beyond.

  They had all arrived the day before, appearing individually throughout the daylight hours, like stragglers without conviction, with each reporting that the enemy had not been sighted. All save one, the one galley that had not arrived, the Aquila, and Varro smiled malevolently at the thought. Perhaps they had met the enemy and the Aquila with her Greek whoreson of a captain was now lost beneath the waves, or better yet, she was but hours away and Varro would be given the opportunity of having the captain flogged for insubordination. Either way, Varro relished the thought, a distraction from the news that had antagonised him since he had heard it only days before. Regulus had arrived in Sicily.

  Brolium was only six hours’ sailing from where Varro now stood but he knew the senior consul might as well be in Rome given the chasm that now separated him from the most powerful man in the Republic. Over the previous days Varro had fruitlessly searched for a credible reason to approach Regulus, to finally gauge the consul’s position given that since their last meeting in Rome, when Regulus had issued his order for Varro’s banishment to the northern frontier of the Republic, Scipio had interceded on Varro’s behalf and apparently persuaded the consul of his true loyalty and worth. Now Varro was anxious to expound those qualities in person, to reinforce Scipio’s words and regain the full measure of Regulus’s confidence.

  ‘Galley approaching!’

  Varro looked to the masthead and then to the indicated direction, sighting the approaching ship, its course a direct line to Falcone, its oars rising and falling with deceptive ineffectuality as if the galley was stationary in the water. It could only be the Aquila’s and Varro’s thoughts turned seamlessly to the punishment he had decided would greet the captain of the errant galley.

  ‘Falcone ahead!’ Corin shouted from the masthead and Atticus looked up to the youth, anticipating the words to follow. ‘The rest of the squad are already assembled!’

  Atticus nodded and looked out over his galley to the lowlying village ahead. It was some three miles away, thirty minutes at the Aquila’s current speed. He turned from the side-rail and walked over to the tiller once more, his eyes unconsciously checking and re-checking the rigging and the line of the mainsail, the gentle breath of the on-shore breeze filling the canvas sheet and pressing smoothly against the offcentre drag of the rudder with Gaius’s minute adjustments of the tiller keeping the Aquila dead on course.

  Atticus’s gaze came to rest on the main deck and the sight that had drawn his attention so many times since dawn’s early light had given it clarity. The three men lay side by side, two legionaries and one of Atticus’s own, the soldiers lying with their shields covering their chests and faces, the sailor’s face covered with a strip of cloth, an act of dignity to hide their sightless eyes. They had all died of their wounds during the night, two of them succumbing mercifully while they were unconscious but the third screaming in pain until Mars claimed him, the deep wound to his kidney spilling black blood onto the deck, a stain that would never fade.

  ‘Fifteen men,’ Atticus whispered, recalling the faces of the three that were from his own crew, and with the resolution that only a commander could summon he buried the memory of them deep within his mind.

  Atticus’s trance was broken by the sight of Lucius before him, the second-in-command’s face agitated.

  ‘You need to speak with Albinus immediately!’ he said.

  ‘Albinus?’

  ‘The Roman captain the legionaries found on the pirate galley,’ Lucius explained. ‘He regained conscious about an hour ago.’

  Atticus was about to question Lucius further but he turned and walked to the hatchway leading to the cabins below, forcing Atticus to follow. He spotted Septimus approaching along the main deck, following a crewman and Atticus shrugged his shoulders to Septimus’s enquiring glance before descending the ladder leading to the deck below.

  The Roman captain was lying on a cot in one of the smaller side cabins. He was propped up on his elbow, a sailor assisting him as he drank a mouthful of water from a goblet, the captain coughing painfully as he choked on the meagre sip. The crewman withdrew the goblet and the captain lay down once more, closing his eyes as he drew his arms slowly across his chest and for the first time Atticus could see that all his fingers were broken, many of them sticking out at obscene angles.

  ‘Albinus,’ Lucius said, and the captain reopened his eyes. A shadow of some horrific memory swept across them before they came into focus.

  ‘Albinus, this is Captain Perennis and Centurion Capito,’ Lucius said and stepped aside to allow Atticus and Septimus to enter the cramped space. Atticus knelt down at the head of the cot while Septimus moved to the end, standing with his arms folded, anger etched on his face as looked upon the ruined body of the Roman captain.

  ‘Tell them what you told me,’ Lucius prompted and the captain nodded imperceptibly, swallowing hard as if to clear his throat of some vile taste.

  ‘I’m Albinus Lepidus of the trading galley Glycon,’ the captain began, his voice a whisper but easily heard in the tiny cabin. ‘We were sailing to Locri when we were ambushed by the pirate galley.’

  Albinus paused and was silent for a moment. ‘She came out of nowhere…’ he muttered and Atticus reached out instinctively and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. The captain seemed to draw strength from the gesture and continued.

  ‘They captured many of my crew alive. I was taken to the main cabin and the others…the others were tortured to death.’ Albinus said, the act of speaking of the terrible memory seemingly drawing the life force from his body.

  ‘Tortured?’ Septimus asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘It was the Carthaginian,’ Albinus spat, suddenly angry and defiant. ‘He ordered the men to be tortured and then the bastard…’ He coughed violently from the effort of speaking and blood-stained spittle shot from his lips onto his tunic. The image of the Carthaginian officer on the pirate galley immediately entered Septimus’s mind and he remembered his incredulity; not only seeing a Punic soldier on the galley but the fact that he seemed to be in command of the pirate crew.

  ‘Why was there a Carthaginian officer on board?’ Septimus asked. ‘And why was he in charge of the galley?’

  Albinus swallowed hard again as regained his breath.

  ‘I don’t think it was permanent,’ he said, his mind sifting through the minutes before the Carthaginian started to torture him. ‘He told the pirate captain that the ship was under his command until they reached Tyndaris.’

  ‘Tyndaris?’ Atticus said. ‘The Syracusan port?’

  Albinus nodded.

  ‘Why did he have the men tortured?’ Atticus asked, and he sensed Lucius leaning forward behind him. ‘What did he want to know?’

  ‘He wanted to know about our coastal defences,’ Albinus began. ‘If I had ever encountered any patrols. If there was an active defence line somewhere south of the city. Where the majority of the galleys were stationed? What activity I had seen?’

  ‘W
hat city?’ Atticus asked, his mind searching the coast of Sicily for the enemy’s target. ‘Are they planning an attack on Agrigentum?’ he ventured.

  Albinus shook his head and then turned to look directly into Atticus’s eyes.

  ‘No, Captain,’ he said, his voice raised above a whisper for the first time. ‘The Carthaginians plan to attack Rome’

  Varro angrily paced the main deck of the Tigris as he watched the small skiff approaching. Vitulus was perched behind the bowsprit, the two rowers behind him the only other two occupants of the boat. The Greek captain, the man he had ordered Vitulus to return with was nowhere to be seen and Varro looked beyond the skiff once more to the Aquila, now anchored a hundred yards away.

  ‘Well?’ Varro barked as Vitulus climbed up the rope ladder from the skiff.

  ‘The captain is on board,’ Vitulus began, rushing his words to explain himself before his commander could react further. ‘But he requests that you come across to the Aquila. He has a Roman captain on board who is too weak to be moved but who has vital information that you need to hear.’

  Varro stepped forward without warning, and slammed his forearm into Vitulus’s chest, knocking him to the deck.

  ‘I do not take orders from a Greek,’ Varro roared, his sword suddenly in his hand, its tip held above Vitulus. ‘Assemble a contubernia and bring this galley alongside the Aquila. I will deal with this insubordination myself.’

  Vitulus nodded and scrambled up, moving quickly to the aft-deck and issuing the necessary orders. The drum beat started a minute later as the Tigris got underway, the helmsman bringing her alongside the Aquila with practiced skill.

  The gangway of the Tigris was lowered onto the deck of the Aquila and Varro strode across, followed by Vitulus and ten legionaries.

  ‘Where is your Captain?’ he asked, grabbing a crewman by the scruff.

  The sailor indicated the aft-hatchway and Varro continued on, his mind barely registering the sight of three covered bodies on the deck. He descended the ladder with one hand on the hilt of his sword and upon seeing the opened door to a side cabin, prepared to enter, the men behind him crowding the corridor.

  Atticus spotted Varro the moment he appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Commander,’ Atticus began, relief in his voice, ‘thank the Gods you’re in time,’ he said indicating the man lying on the cot. ‘He is near death.’

  ‘You!’ Varro spat, drawing his sword, the movement awkward in the confines of the cabin. ‘You have disobeyed me for the last time.’

  ‘Commander!’ Septimus roared, his voice deafening in the confines of the narrow room. Varro’s sword immediately froze, his murderous gaze darting to the tall centurion at the end of the cot.

  ‘It is vital you hear this man’s report,’ Septimus continued, the natural commanding tone of his voice causing Varro to hesitate. He shoved Atticus aside and looked down at the haggard face of the Roman captain.

  ‘Who is he?’ he barked, shaking the captain’s shoulder roughly until he stirred and his eyes opened.

  As if in a trance the captain began to tell his story again, seemingly oblivious to whom his audience was. It took him ten minutes to recite his report, his voice trailing off a number of times, his eyes rolling in his head as his consciousness fled to be forcibly reined in again by Varro, his impatience and mounting excitement extinguishing any tolerance he had for delays caused by the captain’s weakness. He stood up as the captain finished his report and turned to face Septimus.

  ‘He speaks of a pirate ship,’ Varro said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Septimus immediately reported the events of the battle the day before.

  Varro nodded, remembering the corpses he had seen on deck. ‘He has made this report about an attack on Rome to you already?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes Commander,’ Septimus replied. ‘And to the captain and second-in-command.’

  ‘And each time it has been exactly the same?’

  ‘Yes, Commander,’ Septimus said.

  Varro nodded, dismissing any lingering doubt he had that the story was a delirious tale brought on by the man’s obvious wounds. A feverish ramble would not be repeated so succinctly.

  ‘Very well,’ Varro said and left the cabin without another word, Vitulus and the other legionaries making way for him in the corridor before following him back on deck. Varro did not pause until he was back on board the Tigris.

  ‘Cast off immediately,’ he ordered the captain, ‘and set course for Brolium.’

  The captain saluted and roused the crew to action.

  ‘Shall I signal the rest of the squad to follow?’ Vitulus asked.

  ‘No, order them to stand by on station here.’

  Vitulus saluted and proceeded to the aft-deck. Varro watched him go before turning to gaze over the other ships of his squad, many of their crews curiously watching the Tigris get under way. He spotted the Greek captain and the tall centurion on the main deck of the Aquila; the two men in conversation. They were more than just captain and marine, Varro thought as he watched them closely, they were obvious friends and Varro was left to wonder why a Roman centurion would befriend such a man as the Greek. Whatever the reason Varro marked the friendship in his mind, knowing that when the time came the centurion’s loyalty to his friend could supersede his loyalty to Rome.

  Varro re-examined the information the Roman captain had given them, information that the consul would need to hear and that Varro would deliver personally, ensuring that his name was associated with the discovery of the enemy’s plan. He smiled triumphantly. His rank and honour were within his grasp.

  Varro looked upon the flagship of the consul with awe. It was a quinquereme, one of a fleet of ten anchored at the northern end of the harbour at Brolium, their massive hulls dwarfing the single trireme that Varro could see amongst them, a galley that was being used to ferry supplies and equipment between the larger ships, a stark omen of the fate that surely awaited the suddenly obsolescent smaller galleys of the Classis Romanus.

  Varro commanded the captain to lay the Tigris alongside the flagship, his eyes ranging across the deck of the taller ship in the hope of confirming whether the consul was on board or not. He spotted Regulus almost immediately, the consul standing amidst a group of staff officers with the ever vigilant praetoriani flanking his position on the fore and aft-decks. He was easily distinguished, the consul’s heavier frame in marked contrast to the leaner younger tribunes who accompanied him and Varro felt his resolve weaken, knowing the dismissive glances that would greet him from his former contemporaries on the deck of the flagship.

  The Tigris came to rest twenty feet away from the flagship as permission was sought to come alongside and Varro waited impatiently on the main deck before the trireme closed the gap once more, the captain called for reverse oars to bring the Tigris to a dead stop and avoid the disgrace of accidently striking his hull against that of the flagship. A gangplank was lowered from the taller deck and Varro walked briskly across before the Tigris backed off once more.

  Varro squared his shoulders and walked across the main deck towards the assembled commanders. They were ranged around a large table strewn with maps, their edges haphazardly weighted down with an assortment of daggers and goblets. Regulus was holding court in the centre of the group with the tribunes around him leaning over the table, affecting knowing and intelligent expressions as they agreed with the consul’s deliberations. Regulus looked up by chance and saw Varro approach, the consul’s expression instantly turning to one of distain. Varro was surprised by the open look of contempt. Surely Scipio’s intercession had changed Regulus’s opinion of him?

  ‘Commander Varro,’ Regulus said, his voice laced with condescension. ‘You are not on patrol?’

  ‘By your leave, Consul,’ Varro said, his mind still trying to understand the consul’s attitude. ‘I bear grave and important news which I felt compelled to bring to you personally.’

  A wry smile appeared at the edge of Regulus’s mouth. ‘Then
speak, Squad Commander,’ the consul said, his emphasis on Varro’s rank drawing smiles from many of the tribunes.

  ‘It may be best if we speak in private,’ Varro insisted, hoping the consul would speak to him alone, knowing a personal delivery would heighten the impact and draw him into Regulus’s initial reaction.

  ‘I am sure,’ Regulus began, his impatience palpable, ‘that any news you might have, however important you feel it is, can be spoken of here in front of my officers.’

  Again the consul’s words were draped in condescension and Varro felt his anger rise at being treated with such disrespect.

  ‘Very well, Consul,’ Varro said, his voice even and emotionless, and he began to retell Albinus’s report, his words slowly wiping the smiles and contemptuous expressions from the faces of the tribunes, the look of distain fleeing quickly from Regulus’s eyes.

  ‘And this pirate bireme, commanded by a Carthaginian,’ Regulus asked, his voice low as his mind realised the implications of Varro’s report, ‘you say she has been taken and is now destroyed.’

  ‘Yes, Consul,’ Varro replied, his previous confidence returned. ‘Under my orders, my squad had been hunting the pirate galley for the past week and yesterday we caught her. The Carthaginian officer died in the attack and the pirate crew fired their own galley but fortuitously we were able to rescue the Roman captain.’

  ‘And he said the Carthaginian was operating out of Tyndaris?’ Regulus asked.

  Varro nodded, ‘Yes, Consul.’

  Regulus’s expression twisted in anger. ‘If Hiero has betrayed Rome…’ he said. He looked directly at Varro, ‘We sail to Tyndaris at once. Where is the rest of your squad, Varro?’

  ‘Six hours east of here; Falcone. I assembled them there in anticipation that you would need them.’

  Regulus nodded. ‘You have done well Varro,’ he said, meaning it. ‘Signal your galley to follow my squad. You will remain on board the Victoria so I can discuss this report with you further.’

  Varro saluted, his expression betraying nothing beyond compliance, and turned to issue the order to his own galley.