by John Stack
‘Thank you, Senator Scipio,’ he replied and began to walk around him.
Scipio pre-empted the evasion and clasped Varro’s arm, holding it firm. ‘You have done well, Varro,’ he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Varro shrugged his arm clear, irritated by Scipio’s condescension. ‘I have done what I set out to do,’ he said. ‘Return to Rome with my honour restored.’
‘But what of our agreement?’ Scipio asked, ‘The Greek Perennis still lives.’
‘For now,’ Varro said dismissively, ‘and as for our agreement, it would seem I was mistaken in believing I needed your help.’
Scipio’s face coloured in anger, ‘An agreement made cannot be broken,’ he said, stepping closer until he was but mere inches from Varro’s face, ‘and you owe me.’
‘I owe you nothing, Scipio,’ Varro spat, ‘and your power in the Senate is no more. I will take my revenge on Perennis, but in my own time, and certainly not on your command.’
Scipio was about to retort but Varro brushed past him, walking quickly but confidently away until he was lost from sight. Only then did Scipio’s face contort into an expression of pure rage, his dismissal at the hands of an upstart like Varro striking at the very centre of his pride and honour.
‘So they all believe my power is no more,’ he whispered to himself, his mind summoning the memory of Regulus’s equally vile contempt, the thought fuelling his anger and hatred. He had raised Regulus from obscurity, rescued Varro from disgrace and both men had turned on him, their success giving them a false sense of invincibility, a belief they could dismiss Scipio and all he had done. But they were wrong, Scipio thought, his face twisting into a malicious smile, and with the patience of a hunter he set his mind to devising a new plan, one that would rid him of his enemies and finally achieve the death of a Greek captain who was at the centre of his hatred.
Atticus wiped the fine mist of sea-spray from his face as he leaned against the forerail of the Aquila, his gaze sweeping over the ordered formation of galleys fore and aft, their number stretching the length of the black shoreline of Fiumicino. He looked to the galleys closest to the Aquila in the five-abreast formation, triremes all who made up the centre of the line, the prized van—and rear-guard positions all granted to the pre-eminent quinqueremes who accounted for nearly half of the three-hundred strong Classis Romanus, a immense fleet that had taken three weeks to assemble.
‘Impressive…’
Atticus turned to find Septimus standing behind him. He was clad in full battle armour, the breastplate newly reshaped, the battle scars removed. Atticus nodded and looked to the fleet once more, a curious sensation in his chest as he repeated Septimus’s description in his mind, the display of Rome’s power mesmeric.
‘Orders from the vanguard, Captain,’ Lucius said, interrupting Atticus’s thoughts again. ‘The fleet is to heave-to at Ostia to allow the flagship and the senatorial galleys to take point.’
‘Very well, Lucius,’ Atticus replied. ‘Inform Gaius and stand by at the helm’. Lucius nodded and walked quickly away.
‘How are the new troops?’ Atticus asked of Septimus, his thoughts now on his own galley.
‘They’re good men,’ Septimus replied, ‘all from VII of the Fifth.’
Atticus nodded, glancing past Septimus to the assembled ranks of his replenished demi-maniple on the main deck.
‘So, our first stop is Brolium?’ Septimus asked, changing the subject.
‘Naples first,’ Atticus replied, ‘to pick up the transport ships that have been assembled there along with the replacement troops for the Ninth. Then we sail for Brolium.’
Septimus nodded, his thoughts straying to Marcus. The devastated Ninth legion had never been called to join the Second in fighting the Carthaginians to the south of Brolium but with the enemy now in full retreat and the replacement troops bringing the Ninth back up to full strength, they were the obvious choice to sail with the invasion fleet.
‘We should be in Brolium in about four days,’ Atticus added. ‘Two days to re-supply and embark the Ninth and then a full week to Agrigentum where the Sixth Legion will board.’
Septimus nodded again, marvelling anew at the scale of the invasion force. Three years before four legions, forty thousand men, had crossed the Strait of Messina to invade Sicily, but that crossing had taken less than an hour over a mere four miles of calm coastal water. Now the invasion was striking at the very heart of the Carthaginian Empire.
A sudden clarion call blasted from the vanguard of the fleet, the sound taken up and amplified until it rippled across the length of the entire formation, the air charged with the blare of a thousand trumpets as the head of the fleet reached the harbour entrance of Ostia. The flagship Victoria emerged, flanked by a dozen other quinqueremes, their banners heralding the family names of the senators on board, over fifty of them in total, many of them junior in rank, eager to associate their names with the impending invasion.
Hamilcar paced incessantly across his room in the naval barracks in Carthage. He had spent all morning with delegates from the one-hundred-and-four, discussing with them the latest rumours arriving in the city from traders interacting with others who had been to Ostia. The rumours were of a gathering fleet, and of Fiumcino’s shipyards’ increased and insatiable appetite for raw materials; pine and oak, canvas and iron; of a brooding tension that was permeating the enemy military.
He strode to the window and looked out over the harbour, subdued in the heat of the mid-day sun. In the military port, and beyond in the commercial harbour, the assembled fleets of the empire remained at anchor, over two hundred galleys, with only the Sicilian fleet still on station in the hostile waters surrounding the contested island. The galleys looked to be sleeping, tugging lazily on their anchor lines as the current shifted beneath them, the energy and anticipation that had infused the crews and commanders when they first arrived in Carthage now lost to apathy and tedium.
Hamilcar was due to stand before the supreme council of Carthage within the hour, to outline his revised plan of campaign now that his proposed invasion was all but impossible. The massive fleet in Carthage’s harbour was a constant strain on the city’s resources, draining the grain warehouses and coffers alike and Hamilcar knew that a majority of the council, led by Hanno, were anxious to return the fleets to their home ports.
The first knock on the door went unnoticed by Hamilcar, engrossed as he was in his thoughts, his eyes having lost their focus as he stared at the galleys before him. The second knock broke his reverie and he spun around, calling enter as he did. The door opened and Himilco stepped in, the captain’s face animated, his eyes darting to Hamilcar’s desk and then scanning the room until he saw his commander. He walked quickly to him.
‘My lord, I have further news of the Romans,’ he said.
‘Don’t you mean rumours?’ Hamilcar asked dismissively.
‘No, my lord,’ Himilco insisted. ‘There is a Maltese captain outside who you must hear.’
‘Maltese?’ Hamilcar asked, intrigued.
‘Yes, my lord. His ship approached the flagship Alissar in the commercial harbour and asked to speak to the commander. Once I heard his report I rushed him here.’
‘Very well,’ Hamilcar said. ‘Show him in.’
Hamilcar studied the captain as Himilco escorted him in. The Maltese was tall but showed none of the bearing of a military man, his eyes alert and intelligent but without the hard determination of one who has seen battle.
‘You have news?’ Hamilcar asked, his gaze suspicious.
‘Yes, my lord,’ the captain began, ‘from Naples.’
‘Go on.’ Hamilcar said.
‘As you know, my lord, the Maltese are no longer welcome in Ostia so we are forced to trade with the Republic further south where local loyalty leans more to the drachma and the denarius.’
Hamilcar nodded impatiently. Malta had been a province of Carthage for over one-hundred and fifty years, but her traders acted independently to t
hose of the city, sailing their vessels into nearly every port in the Mediterranean, ally and foe of Carthage alike, their singular loyalty to trade recognised by all. Only Ostia forbade them entry.
‘And what have you heard?’ Hamilcar asked.
‘It is what I have seen, my lord,’ the captain said quickly. ‘A large Roman fleet sailing south from the city a week ago.’
‘How many ships?’ Hamilcar asked, his voice suddenly on edge.
‘At least three hundred galleys, my lord,’ the captain replied, ‘escorting transport ships carrying legionaries.’
Hamilcar stood silent for a moment, his mind racing. ‘Where were they heading?’ he asked.
‘The rumours in the city said Brolium on the Sicilian coast.’
Again Hamilcar remained quiet as he tried to discern the Romans’ intentions. He stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Why do you bring us this news?’ he asked, searching the captain’s expression.
‘The Romans have already closed the port of Ostia to our ships,’ the captain spat. ‘If they expand their territory then who knows what rule of law will follow? We Maltese want only trade and for generations Carthage has given us a free hand. Given a choice I would sooner have the Romans bottled up on their peninsula.’
Hamilcar nodded but he remained cautious. This information, taken with the rumours thus far, seemed to indicate a massive offensive. But against where? Panormus? Syracuse? Either way, he now had vital information to share with the supreme council, information that would decide the next move of the Carthaginian fleet.
‘Can we believe this message?’ the councillor said, looking to his colleagues, uncertainty in his voice, his question answered simultaneously by a half-dozen others. Hamilcar stood silently as the debate swung back and forth amongst the twelve members of the supreme council, waiting to be addressed directly having finished his report. As always he looked to his father surreptitiously, searching for some unspoken advice, the intricate alliances and sub-groups of the council a mystery to Hamilcar, leaving him with little idea of who still supported him as military leader.
‘Do you believe this message?’ the suffet finally asked, looking at Hamilcar with hooded eyes.
‘I have dispatched a galley to Thermae with orders for the captain to make contact with our spies in Brolium,’ Hamilcar replied, carefully keeping all bias from his tone. ‘If the Roman fleet do indeed dock there, then I believe we will have verification of the message. In the meantime I have interned the Maltese captain and his crew. If his report is false then we shall exact the real truth from his lying tongue.’
‘If the report is verified,’ the suffet said, ‘what do you propose?’
‘To learn of their final objective and then take the battle to them with our entire fleet.’ Hamilcar replied boldly.
‘To what end?’ Hanno said with derision. ‘To attempt to regain the confidence of this council?’
‘No,’ Hamilcar replied, anger in his voice. ‘To wipe the Roman scourge from our seas.’
Hanno made to retort but the suffet held his hand up for silence. ‘I agree with young Barca’s plan,’ he said after a moment’s pause, looking to each council member in turn. ‘With such a Roman fleet at sea we must act decisively.’
Some of the council members nodded in agreement while more looked stonily ahead, Hanno amongst them. The suffet marked the division and, conscious of the need for agreement, turned directly to Hanno.
‘This reversal of Barca’s invasion plan,’ he said. ‘You no longer have faith in his ability to command?’
‘No, Suffet,’ Hanno replied, ‘I believe Barca has been blinded by his own ambitions.’
Hamilcar bristled at the remark but held his tongue, catching his father’s expression of warning in the corner of his eye.
‘Hamilcar Barca is our most able commander,’ the suffet began, ‘but perhaps Hanno is right, perhaps he is too determined, too aggressive. I propose that you, Hanno, sail with the fleet to ensure that assertiveness is tempered with experience.’
Hanno nodded in agreement, knowing he could do little else. To refuse would invite accusations of cowardice. The suffet noticed Hanno’s allies also comply and he quickly called a vote, one that was carried easily.
Hamilcar saluted to the council before turning on his heel to leave the chamber. He caught Hanno’s eye as he did, seeing there the latent hostility he felt surging through his own veins. Hamilcar closed the chamber door and stood silently for a moment, fully realising that battle-lines had now been drawn not only in the sea but also in the council of Carthage itself, battle-lines that Hamilcar had to cross if he was to destroy his enemies. A cold determination crept onto Hamilcar’s face as he savoured the thought. Gone now was the subterfuge, the snares and planning that had consumed him over the previous months, replaced with the clarity given only to a warrior when he stands, sword in hand, upon the battlefield, his vision filled with the sight of his mortal enemy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The rough hewn hawser dipped and raised with the even stroke of the Aquila’s oars, the sea-water dripping from the fibres of the rope with every pull, creating a cascade that fell in time with the drum beat of the trireme. Atticus leaned over the aft-rail and took a grip on the rope, testing its strength, feeling the tension within. He looked back along its length, following the lines as it fell to the sea and then rose again to the bowsprit of the transport ship fifty yards behind. A crewman stood on station there and he waved across as he noticed he was being watched, a wave Atticus returned before turning away once more.
Lucius approached him from the helm. ‘Cape Ecnomus,’ he said pointing over the starboard rail. ‘We’re about eight hours out from Agrigentum.’
Atticus nodded in return and then turned his attention back to the line of his galley. The Aquila was near the centre of the long line of triremes that stretched from the shore, each one towing a transport ship, an ignominious task ordered of the third squadron the day before when the wind suddenly dissipated, becalming the sail-driven transports. Now only the command ship of the third squadron, the Orcus, was without a tether, Varro’s quinquereme sailing a full ship-length ahead of the line as if in an effort to distance itself from the trireme dray-horses.
‘Eight hours out,’ Atticus said as Septimus approached from the main deck, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, a wooden training sword loose in his hand, a weapon he had been rarely without over the previous week as he trained his new men to full battle-readiness.
‘Still no sign of Marcus?’ Septimus asked, indicating the transport ships behind.
‘No, I haven’t seen him,’ Atticus replied. ‘The Fourth must be on one of the ships on the flanks.’
Septimus nodded, ‘He’s there somewhere,’ he said, his eyes scanning the decks of the ships nearest to the Aquila. Each deck was crowded with red-cloaked legionaries, many of them leaning out over the rails, their sea-sickness staining the hull, their faces pale and drawn from the week long passage down the east coast of Sicily.
‘Signal from the first squadron,’ Corin shouted and Atticus looked to the mainmast, waiting for the lookout to decipher the full message, a sudden feeling of unease sweeping over him as he watched Corin spin around, his expression one of pure dread.
‘Enemy fleet ahead!’ the lookout roared and Varro felt a sudden knot develop in the pit of his stomach.
‘Confirm that message!’ he roared up the masthead as he walked quickly to the helm.
‘Signal from the first squadron is confirmed!’ the lookout shouted. ‘An enemy fleet has been sighted.’
Varro looked to the sea ahead but could see nothing beyond the first and second squadrons a half-mile ahead. They were sailing in arrow formation, each squadron forming one side of the spear-point with the two command ships at the apex, the Victoria under Regulus at the head of the first squadron and a quinquereme under Longus at the head of the second.
Varro had been given command of the Orcus on the day the fleet had
sailed from Brolium, the singular honour of commanding the third squadron bestowed upon him in recognition of his part in thwarting the Carthaginians’ plans to attack Rome. It had been a proud moment for Varro, standing on the main deck of the Victoria as Regulus announced the promotion before the assembled tribunes and senators, the consul speaking highly of Varro’s courageous action at Thermae which had saved so many hastati of the Ninth in addition to his capture of the pirate galley that had led to the exposure of the enemy’s subterfuge.
Now however, sailing a half-mile behind the consuls, Varro felt suddenly cheated. The Orcus was a powerful galley, a ship that belonged in the van of the fleet, destroying enemy triremes as the Roman quinqueremes had done so easily at Tyndaris. Instead Varro was leading a fleet of hulking transport ships and obsolete triremes, a reprehensible command that would ensure that the glory of the battle ahead would fall to other, lesser men.
Varro walked slowly to the foredeck; his gaze locked on the Roman formation ahead, the distance opening with every passing minute as the vanguard accelerated to battle speed. He looked beyond them to the horizon, seeing for the first time the dark shapes of the approaching enemy, their naked mainmasts like a wave of scorched grass against the sky. Varro’s dark mood deepened at the sight, his eyes sweeping across the enemy line, estimating their numbers to be less than a hundred, a pitiful force against the three hundred galleys of the Classis Romanus. Success for the Roman fleet was assured, a near slaughter given the odds and Varro cursed the fates that robbed him of his part in a victory that would be gained on such easy terms.
The tribune was turning away from the sight but a flicker of darkness at the edges of the Carthaginian line made him turn once more, his mouth falling open slightly as he watched the enemy line extend on either side, the dark wave of galleys breaking towards the shoreline and the horizon to the south until it filled the entire seascape ahead, Varro’s dark mood dissipating without conscious thought to be replaced with a cold dread that filled his entire soul.