Captain of Rome

by John Stack

  Atticus watched as Varro swayed and he shot out his arm, grabbing hold of Varro’s chest-plate, suddenly abhorring the idea of the Roman’s body defiling the Aquila’s deck. He hauled him to the side-rail and held him there for a second as he looked at his enemy one last time before throwing him over the side. Varro struck the sea eight feet below and sank beneath the water, surfacing a moment later, one hand still on his throat, the other flailing the water, his face a mask of absolute panic, his armour dragging him down, his blood staining the sea around him. He reached out to the hull of the Aquila, grasping for a hand-hold but the smooth timbers betrayed him and he slipped beneath the surface, the sea returning to calm as Atticus looked on dispassionately.

  ‘Enemy galleys approaching!’

  Hamilcar shot around, running to the side of the foredeck of the Alissar to gain a better view of the sea behind. Scores of Roman galleys were approaching, the bulk of the spearhead. Hamilcar looked to the horizon beyond them, seeing the grey palls of smoke that marked each burning galley and he cursed Hanno’s name, realising the councillor had defied him and that that defiance had turned to failure, costing Hamilcar the time he had so desperately needed to overwhelm the Roman transport fleet. He turned and looked beyond the stricken Roman trireme, his gaze sweeping over the seascape, his galleys locked in combat, a lone few having broken through, a pitiful number of transport ships sunk with the others scattered across the horizon.

  Hamilcar looked once more to the approaching Roman vanguard less than a mile away. They would be upon him within minutes, an overwhelming force that could only end in defeat and capture for the remaining Carthaginian galleys in the fight and his eyes fell across the fight on the Roman trireme transfixed to the ram of the Alissar; the battle-lines clearly drawn by the shield walls of the Romans, one across the aft-deck and a defensive semi-circle on the main, the quick victory Hamilcar had expected turning into a bloody stalemate with the arrival of a Roman quinquereme. His indecision lasted a second longer and he called the captain to his side, the order catching in his throat as he cursed his fate.

  ‘Sound the withdrawal,’ he said, his heart consumed with thoughts of the consequences that would follow his decision. ‘Full retreat.’

  The trumpet calls of retreat were followed an instant later by triumphant shouts, the Roman lines surging forward as the Carthaginians ran to the two quinqueremes, many of the Punici dropping their weapons in their haste, the men leaping across to the foredecks to escape the unleashed legionaries. The rowers of the Carthaginian galleys began to backstroke, slowly withdrawing their rams, the sea-water gushing in around them, filling the lower holds of the Aquila as retreat rapidly descended into rout, the Carthaginians left on the Aquila trying to jump the ever-increasing gap, many falling to the water below, easy prey for the hungry sea.

  Septimus led his men to the foredeck of the Aquila, attacking the bottle-neck of retreating men; giving no quarter to an enemy who had offered them less and the fight became a desperate slaughter as the Romans purged the Aquila of Carthaginians, the remnants throwing themselves into the sea to avoid the vengeance of a merciless foe. Septimus called his men to order, breathing heavily, his blood-soaked sword falling to his side, his gaze drawn to the retreating Carthaginian quinqueremes and beyond to the Roman vanguard.

  Septimus suddenly became aware of the desperate screams of panic beneath him as the battle noise on the foredeck abated and he looked across the Aquila, noticing the tilt of the deck that was worsening with each passing second, the Carthaginian rams that had supported the Aquila supplanted with an unstoppable flood of sea-water.

  ‘Every man to the Orcus!’ Septimus roared, his men reacting instantly and they ran the full length of the Aquila to the corvus of the Roman quinquereme, the legionaries of that galley following without hesitation. Septimus took up the rear, ensuring that every injured legionary was taken aft, his eyes sweeping the decks, ignoring the dreadful screams of the dying rowers chained to the dying galley. He reached the aft-deck and immediately spotted Atticus, the captain kneeling at the side-rail with a man’s head on his lap. He ran to them, recognising the pale bloodless figure as Lucius.

  ‘Atticus,’ Septimus called. ‘Is he…?’

  Atticus looked to Septimus, a haunting expression of grief etched on his face. ‘Get your men off,’ Atticus said, ‘and hold the corvus for me.’

  Septimus nodded, turning to the last of the legionaries waiting for their chance to get across the boarding ramp.

  Atticus leaned over, his face inches from the man he had served with for so many years, his trusted advisor and mentor, his friend.

  ‘Lucius,’ he said. ‘We need to go.’

  Lucius opened his eyes and gazed across Aquila before looking up at Atticus.

  ‘She’s dying, Atticus,’ Lucius said, his voice cracking, a trickle of blood forming at the edge of his mouth, a massive pool of blood covering the deck beneath him.

  ‘I know,’ Atticus replied, forcing his own eyes to look out over his galley, accepting and facing that truth for the first time.

  ‘Leave me here,’ Lucius said, his eyes pleading. ‘Leave me with her.’

  ‘No I can’t,’ Atticus replied. ‘There’s still time. I…’

  ‘No,’ Lucius said, shaking his head. ‘There’s no time, not for me, and I don’t want to die on some blasted quin.’ He tried to laugh and blood coughed from his mouth, staining his lips. He gasped for breath. ‘She shouldn’t die alone,’ he said.

  Atticus nodded and held out his hand. Lucius grabbed it, the strength of a lifetime’s friendship and respect making the grip firm. Atticus laid Lucius’s head gently on the deck and stood up, holding his gaze for a second longer before turning and walking to the corvus, Septimus already across, the Orcus ready to pull away.

  Atticus stopped for a heartbeat and looked down at the deck of the Aquila and then back along her entire length, the galley sinking rapidly by the bow. He nodded to her and jumped onto the corvus, the ramp rising even as he walked across and the Orcus got underway, the quinquereme turning as the first galleys of the Roman vanguard swept past, many of their crews looking to the sinking trireme, at the many slain on her decks, Roman and Carthaginian, wondering what ferocity had gripped the solitary ship. Atticus stood with Septimus on the foredeck of the Orcus as the quinquereme accelerated to battle speed, her course turning into the wake of the fleeing Carthaginians while Atticus watched once over his shoulder as the Aquila slipped beneath the waves.

  EPILOGUE

  The muted sounds of a thousand voices, of shouted commands and a multitude making ready was carried on the soft breeze that blew into Regulus’s room in the barracks overlooking the harbour of Agrigentum. He glanced down at the parchment on the table, reading again the last lines of the written report, satisfied the man standing before him could add no more. He looked up, studying the captain’s face, searching for any signs of subterfuge. There were none.

  ‘You’re dismissed,’ Regulus said and the captain of the Orcus saluted and turned on his heel, leaving the room quickly.

  ‘His report confirms it,’ the young man seated by the far wall said, standing up as he spoke. ‘Varro attempted to flee and only engaged when the Aquila forced him to. Along with the statements of the other captains the evidence is overwhelming.’

  Regulus nodded but remained silent, turning his head to stare out the window to the harbour of Agrigentum, to the ranks of galleys and transport ships, the preparations to sail at a frenzied pitch. He turned back.

  ‘I agree, Longus,’ he said, ‘but the captain of the Orcus also states that Varro ordered him to sail directly to the Aquila’s aid and we know that Varro was lost in that fight.’

  Longus made to respond but Regulus held up his hand.

  ‘He died trying to save those men, Longus,’ Regulus said.

  ‘But his cowardice almost cost us the Ninth Legion,’ Longus protested. ‘Whatever bravery he subsequently showed.’

  Regulus lapsed into silence
again, his mind already decided on the matter. To denigrate Varro was to call into judgment his own decision to appoint the tribune as commander of the third squadron and it was a sign of weakness that Regulus had to avoid at all costs. The invasion would begin within days and last several months, a long time for Regulus to be absent from the Senate chamber and he could not have any doubt of his abilities to command fermenting in the Curia.

  Regulus looked to Longus again, ready to call the last meeting when a sudden thought occurred to him, a thought that made him uneasy. To quash all record of Varro’s cowardice was a calculated move to protect himself rather than a noble deed for Rome and Regulus realised that a part of him had become like the man he most despised, Scipio. He brushed the thought aside, burying it quickly, not ready to admit that he had made the needs of Rome subservient to his own.

  ‘Send in Captain Perennis,’ he said and Longus nodded, wondering at the senior consul’s suddenly strained expression.

  Atticus walked into the room and stood to attention before Regulus, Longus walking around the table to stand at the consul’s shoulder. Regulus studied the man before him, the vicious scar across his jaw-line, the hard determined features, his green eyes almost unfocused in their intensity. The consul had seldom seen a more charged expression, as if latent fury was but a shade beneath the exterior and Regulus silently confirmed his earlier decision.

  ‘You are to be commended, Captain Perennis,’ Regulus began, his voice expansive, his expression affable. ‘You have done Rome a great service, showing courage and daring against a determined enemy.’

  The consul paused, waiting for the captain to accept the complement but the young man stood unmoved.

  ‘Rome has found in you a son she can be proud of,’ Regulus continued, ‘and I hereby promote you to the newly formed rank of Praefectus Classis, Prefect of the fleet, reporting directly to the commander of the Classis Romanus.’

  Again Regulus paused, waiting for a reaction. He glanced at Longus, his expression perplexed but the junior consul merely shrugged in reply, unable to explain the captain’s apparent indifference. Regulus turned once more to the captain.

  ‘This is a singular honour, Perennis,’ he said, a slight note of irritation in his voice. ‘You will be the only Prefect who is not a citizen of Rome.’

  A silence drew out once more.

  ‘Perennis?’ Regulus snapped, standing up suddenly. ‘Do you have anything you wish to say?’

  Atticus remained silent for a moment longer before turning his gaze directly to the consul. ‘Rome victorious,’ he said, striking his chest with a fist in salute, snapping back to attention before turning around and walking from the room.

  Atticus paused in the courtyard of the barracks. He turned his face briefly up to the sun, closing his eyes against the light as he breathed in deeply, his mind overwhelmed by a dozen thoughts. The senior consul had been hearing reports all morning from many of the captains in the fleet, no doubt in a bid to create a complete account of the battle and although there was no indication that anyone had witnessed Varro’s death, Atticus had prepared himself for the worst when the consul’s summons had arrived, imaging a scenario that had been completely shattered by Regulus’s offer of promotion.

  Atticus lowered his gaze and saw Septimus approach, the centurion in full battledress. His brow creased in puzzlement. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked, having left Septimus an hour before on the Orcus.

  ‘The legate of the Ninth requested to see me,’ Septimus replied, indicating over his shoulder.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ Septimus said and he looked intently at Atticus. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Promotion,’ Atticus replied off-handedly. ‘To a new rank, Prefect of the fleet.’

  Septimus looked relieved and he clasped Atticus on the shoulder. He left his hand there for a moment, studying his friend, surprised to see none of the relief he himself felt. Atticus looked up over his shoulder to the windows of Regulus’s office, the consuls reverting to shadowy figures in his mind’s eye, indistinctive men, Roman commanders.

  ‘Who are these men?’ he asked, almost to himself.

  ‘Who?’ Septimus asked, causing Atticus to turn back.

  ‘These Romans,’ Atticus replied, confused emotions giving an edge to his voice. ‘These men we fight for. By the Gods, Septimus, I don’t know who the enemy are anymore.’

  Septimus removed his hand. ‘I know who they are,’ he said, remembering the fury that had gripped him when he threw his sword after a fleeing Carthaginian galley. ‘The Punici, Atticus. They’re the enemy.’

  ‘The Carthaginians?’ Atticus replied. ‘Men who fight with honour. Men who face their enemy regardless of the odds, who never shirk from the fight.’

  ‘Would you rather fight for them?’ Septimus asked, anger compounding his confusion at Atticus’s words. ‘Look around you, man. Look to your front. I’m Roman and I fight with honour. Fight for that Rome, not for men like the consuls.’

  ‘I do,’ Atticus replied, all his frustration and loss rising to the surface. ‘I sacrificed the Aquila to save the men of the Ninth, to save Roman men, and how is that repaid, how was Lucius repaid? Attacked from behind by a Roman.’

  Septimus’s retort died in his throat at the mention of Lucius, remembering the older man, the gruff sailor who had never hidden his dislike of legionaries but who had always shown Septimus respect.

  ‘I won’t forget why Lucius died,’ he said, ‘and I’ll make sure men like Marcus and his command knows too. They’re honourable men, Atticus. They won’t forget.’

  Atticus nodded and Septimus held out his hand in comradeship, holding it steady.

  Atticus noticed the gesture and looked to Septimus, seeing past his uniform to the man, the Roman, who had become his friend. He remembered Marcus, the centurion of the IV Maniple, and remembered why he had sailed the Aquila to her doom, knowing then as now that he could do nothing less for the legions. Thoughts of the Aquila turned his mind once more to Varro, the poisoned viper that had hidden amongst the honourable men he served with, a whoreson spawned from the very corruption that festered in the heart of the Republic and yet again Atticus knew of one amongst them, Duilius, a new man, an outsider in many ways, but an honourable man, a Roman.

  Atticus’s eyes refocused once more and he looked to Septimus’s proffered hand, the conflict raging unabated within him, the loss of the Aquila and Lucius too raw to allow him to think clearly. In seeing Septimus he thought, as many times before, of Hadria, of his love for her and his friend’s refusal to accept that relationship. Hadria was sure of her brother’s motives but Atticus could not grasp that same conviction, his friendship for Septimus tainted by the actions of his fellow Romans. Not today, Septimus had said and Atticus turned that resolution to his own conflict. In Septimus he had an ally and a friend and he took his hand, the grip firm between them. In time, Atticus thought, he might discover the same loyalty to Rome that Septimus took for granted, but not today.

  Hamilcar walked quickly down the gangway of the Alissar onto the docks of the military harbour, pushing his way through the press of men on the quayside, stepping over the injured and dead alike who littered the narrow walkway. He sighted the Baal Hammon on the far side of the harbour, knowing she had only recently docked; Hanno’s section of the fleet only an hour ahead of Hamilcar’s on the flight south to the safety of Carthage. Hamilcar walked on, realising that Hanno was now long gone, no doubt to the council chamber to announce the defeat in terms that exonerated the councillor.

  Hamilcar had thought of little else over the previous days, replaying every moment of the battle in his mind, searching for the point when victory assured turned to ignominious defeat, re-examining his strategy again and again; every time his conclusion gathering greater conviction. Hanno’s retreat had cost Carthage the battle. Hamilcar rounded a corner into the city proper, the breath catching in his throat as he sensed the palpable fear in the city. Panic seemed to emanate
from every man, woman and child on the street as anxious eyes turned north to the horizon and the certain Roman invasion to come. He stopped dead, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as the shame of that fear struck home. He stepped forward again, his gaze focusing on the street ahead that would lead him to the council chamber.

  Suddenly he stopped, the shame he felt instantly replaced by anger and a spasm of bile rose in his throat. Not twenty feet away, in the shadow of an awning stood Hanno with a squad of soldiers fanned out before him, their faces grim, their eyes sweeping the street. They were looking for him, Hamilcar realised and he reached for his sword, silently cursing Hanno, vowing to take as many of his henchmen as he could before death claimed him.

  Hamilcar strode forward, people scattering before him as they saw his drawn blade. One of Hanno’s men spotted Hamilcar and pointed, his call alerting the others and Hanno turned to stare at Hamilcar. He walked out from behind his men and approached Hamilcar alone.

  ‘Put down your sword, you fool,’ he hissed and Hamilcar hesitated. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Hamilcar looked warily beyond the councillor to the squad of soldiers, each man unmoved. He sheathed his sword.

  ‘Follow me,’ Hanno said and walked back towards the Baal Hammon, Hamilcar falling in behind him, his mind racing but unable to comprehend Hanno’s actions in the short time it took to reach the quinquereme.

  Hanno walked to the aft-deck and ordered it cleared, leaving the two men standing alone.

  ‘How many did you lose?’ Hanno asked, his head bowed, his voice an angry growl.

  ‘Thirty-eight,’ Hamilcar said.

  ‘Fifty-six,’ Hanno replied and walked away two steps.

  ‘Mot protect them,’ Hamilcar whispered, ‘over ninety galleys. Lost.’ He lapsed into silence.

  ‘This is your fault!’ Hamilcar suddenly spat, anger coursing through him. Hanno spun around.