by John Stack
Regulus cursed as his foot caught a loose stone and he had to throw out his arms to regain his balance. The squad of soldiers escorting him did not check its pace, and Regulus was forced to trot for a half-dozen steps to regain his position in the centre of the formation. He looked up the hill to his left, to the citadel commanding the summit, comparing it to the descriptive reports he had read since he had first arrived in Africa. None of them had captured the essence of the fortress, its sheer brute size coupled with its daunting position, and Regulus was left to wonder how Carthage could fall with such strength at its core.
The squad led him to the quayside, and the traders and merchantmen crowding the docks opened their ranks to allow the soldiers through, the conversations continuing around the obstruction until it passed, voices raised in languages Regulus did not understand. He kept his eyes front, ignoring the baleful stares of the few who deduced his nationality, their incomprehensible curses lost in the clamour.
The commercial docks gave way to the military harbour, and again Regulus took the opportunity to observe it closely. The military harbour was circular in shape, with a raised island circumscribed by a lagoon at its centre and an outer perimeter quay. Boathouses covered every available space and, of the two hundred available berths, Regulus counted a dozen rams jutting out of occupied spaces, the extended claws of the beasts within.
At the far end of the harbour was a barracks house; the squad passed through the arched entranceway to a small courtyard inside. On three sides of the courtyard open doorways led to inner corridors and rooms, but on the side facing Regulus each door was heavily bolted, the metal turned green from exposure to the salt-laden air. The commander of the squad stepped forward alone to the middle door and wrenched back the bolt with a single pull. He turned to Regulus and motioned him forward.
‘You have thirty minutes,’ he said.
Regulus was puzzled but he stepped forward into the darkened room. The door closed behind him and the bolt was slammed home once more.
His eyes were immediately drawn to a small opening high on the opposing wall, which allowed in a pitiful shaft of white sunlight that barely penetrated the oppressive darkness. The opening was streaked with white excrement, and loose feathers fell through the beam of sunlight as birds, disturbed by the sound of the door, flew back to their perches once more.
‘Proconsul?’
Regulus’s gaze fell and he perceived four figures approaching him through the gloom. They wore tattered Roman uniforms and, as the sunlight fell across their gaunt faces, Regulus recognized each of them in turn. They were tribunes of his army, the command staff who had been with him in the breakout at Tunis. Regulus instinctively straightened his back, his officers following suit as they saluted him. He nodded in reply and then stepped forward, extending his hand. Each took it in a silent acknowledgement of comradeship.
‘What news of the rest of the men?’ Regulus asked.
‘They have been enslaved, Proconsul,’ one of the tribunes replied. ‘We alone were brought here from Tunis five days ago.’
‘Enslaved,’ Regulus repeated, bowing his head. Over the previous week, Hamilcar had called on him three times at the villa. Each time Regulus had enquired after the fate of the five hundred men taken at Tunis, but the Carthaginian had refused to be drawn on the question, focusing instead on fresh evidence that confirmed his story of the Roman fleet’s destruction. Regulus’s suspicion and Hamilcar’s obfuscation had made him accept that the fate of his legionaries was sealed the moment they were taken in battle.
‘We have far worse news, Proconsul,’ one of the other tribunes said, and he began to tell Regulus of the rumours they had heard of the storm. Regulus held his hand up to silence the tribune.
‘Those rumours may be true,’ he said, admitting out loud for the first time his belief in what Hamilcar had told him. He explained what he knew in detail, and watched as their expressions displayed the terrible realization he had slowly faced over the past week.
Regulus studied them in the silence that followed. They were all young men, sons of senators and, in the case of two of them, sons of former consuls. The Africa campaign was their first, and Regulus remembered their infectious exuberance after the victories of Ecnomus and Adys, a boundless confidence fed by the naivete of youth. Defeat and capture had shattered that brashness, but Regulus was proud to see that — in some at least — it had been replaced by maturity, a strength they would need in the months ahead.
The metallic grind of the door-bolt broke the silence and Regulus left the tribunes with assurances that he would soon return, already suspecting why they had been brought to Carthage, although unsure as to why he had been allowed to see them. The guard detail formed up around Regulus and they quickly left the courtyard, threading their way once more through the docks to retrace their steps to the villa. As they passed the base of the hill leading to the citadel, one of the soldiers followed a curt command and broke from the formation, striking out towards the fortress at a run.
When they returned to the villa, Regulus went immediately to the familiar surroundings of the inner courtyard. He called for wine and waited patiently in the shade, his thoughts on the tribunes and the wealth of their families in Rome. Approaching footsteps alerted him and he stood up to receive his expected visitor, an unconscious civility to echo the courtesy his enemy had shown him since his arrival in Carthage. Hamilcar entered the courtyard and nodded at Regulus.
‘You have seen your men,’ he said.
‘I have, Barca,’ Regulus replied, ‘as your soldier reported.’ He sat down again and took a sip of his wine. ‘So, you have spared my tribunes from enslavement for ransom.’
‘Yes.’
‘But why let me see them?’
‘So you can confirm that they are safe and well,’ Hamilcar said. ‘I want you to travel to Rome to negotiate their ransom.’
‘Me?’ Regulus replied, astonished by the suggestion. ‘You would release me?’
‘On parole,’ Hamilcar said.
Again Regulus was stunned. Parole was an agreement based on word of honour, one that Regulus would uphold because he held himself to be honourable. But the Carthaginian could not know that for sure, not from their brief acquaintance. ‘It would be madness to release me, Barca,’ he said, revealing his thoughts out loud. ‘You cannot have faith in my honour, and the lives of four tribunes are too insignificant to guarantee my return.’ His eyes narrowed warily. ‘There’s something else, something you’re not telling me.’
Hamilcar nodded. ‘There is something else,’ he said. ‘The ransom of the tribunes is merely a symbol of good faith.’
‘Good faith?’
‘For what I also want from you,’ Hamilcar replied, and he walked over to stand before Regulus, slowly forming and reforming the wording of his proposal in his mind, conscious of its importance. ‘I want you to act as an ambassador,’ he said, his tone wholly confident. ‘And bring, to Rome, Carthage’s terms for peace.’
Atticus balled his fists in anger. He was about to step forward but a desperate glance from Hadria made him stop. She was crying, the tears running freely down her face, and Atticus felt his rage build further. She looked away from him and he felt his restraint waver, every instinct telling him to cross the room to end the vicious flow of invective that was staining his honour and breaking Hadria’s heart.
The room was full of voices and conflicting sounds: Hadria’s trembling sobs, her mother’s wailing cries, her father’s continuous tirade, his fist slamming on to the table before him. Only Atticus and another were silent.
Borne on the back of Hadria’s hope, Atticus’s confidence had risen over the previous week as they waited for her father’s return to Rome. They had continued to meet in secret, but she had begun to speak openly of her hopes for the future with a certainty that had allayed Atticus’s doubts, a certainty he had carried with him when they’d entered the family house only minutes before, a certainty that had evaporated the second he saw her fat
her’s face.
Antoninus had understood immediately the significance of his daughter arriving with Atticus. ‘How long have you been seeing this… this man?’ he snarled.
Hadria told him, her breath catching in her throat.
‘Does anyone know, has anyone seen you?’ her mother, Salonina, said hastily, her face a mask of concern and horror.
‘No,’ Hadria answered, angered by her mother’s repulsed tone.
‘What were you thinking?’ Salonina asked.
‘I love him, Mother,’ Hadria replied, and she looked to Atticus, her face a mask of sorrow.
‘You cannot,’ Antoninus shouted. ‘He is barbarus, a foreigner.’
‘He is of Rome,’ Septimus interjected. He had never wanted Hadria and Atticus to be together, but he could no longer hold his peace, ashamed of his father’s attack on Atticus, a man who had risked everything many times for Rome.
Antoninus turned to his son, seeing the defiance in his face, and he suddenly understood. ‘You knew of this?’ he hissed.
‘I knew,’ Septimus replied. ‘And I tried to stop it.’
‘You were in league with him, this Greek, against your own family?’ Antoninus roared. ‘By the gods, Septimus, you were a man of honour, an optio of the Ninth. This navy, this collection of nothi and barbari, has defiled you, defiled your honour…’
‘Enough,’ Atticus roared, and he fixed his gaze on Antoninus as the room went silent. The older man was burning with hostility, the scar running through his left eye giving him a maniacal expression, and Atticus felt his temper slip beyond his control. He had held his tongue in the forlorn hope that Hadria’s parents would overcome their initial shock, knowing that anything he uttered would only refocus their anger, but now he had heard enough to know that their opposition was absolute.
‘You have said enough, Antoninus,’ he said.
‘You have no voice here, Greek,’ Antoninus replied, a hard edge to his voice. ‘I fought your people at Beneventum and I will be damned if one of you will dictate to me in my own house.’ He turned to Hadria. ‘I forbid you to see this man again,’ he ordered, and Hadria stumbled back as if struck, her shoulders falling in utter defeat. She looked to Atticus, her heart breaking, and she fled from the room.
‘Now get out, Greek,’ Antoninus snarled. ‘And do not darken my door again.’
The utter contempt of Antoninus’s words and the sight of Hadria’s flight snapped Atticus’s temper, and he stepped forward, his hand falling to the hilt of his dagger.
‘Atticus,’ Septimus shouted, and moved between him and his father, the unarmed centurion holding his hands out defensively. Atticus froze and looked to Septimus, then beyond him to the undaunted Antoninus, and for a second his anger drove him to the brink of attack. He stared again into Septimus’s face, seeing the plea for restraint, and finally he shook his head and left the room.
Atticus strode through the atrium, his mind in turmoil as a flood of conflicting emotions swept over him. His pace slackened as he heard sobbing and he whispered Hadria’s name. She stepped out from within a doorway and the conflict within him abated at the sight of her distress. He went to her and she fell into his arms, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder.
‘I couldn’t let you leave,’ she sobbed. ‘Not without saying goodbye.’
‘This isn’t goodbye,’ Atticus said soothingly. ‘I’ll come back for you. In time we’ll be together.’
‘No, we won’t,’ she whispered, the anguish of her words bringing fresh tears to her eyes. ‘My father has forbidden it, I cannot defy him.’
‘But we are in love,’ Atticus said, confused by her submission.
‘My father has the power of the pater familias, the head of this household,’ she said. ‘If I disobey him he will disavow me. I would be an outcast amongst my people.’
‘It is no more than I am,’ Atticus said, suddenly angry.
‘Please understand, Atticus,’ Hadria said, a desperate plea in her voice. ‘Rome… my family; it is all I know, the whole world to me.’
‘There is a world outside of Rome, Hadria,’ Atticus said. ‘We could be together there. Leave this city, come with me.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, and seeing his face colour in anger she reached out for him. ‘Please, Atticus. You cannot ask me to choose, not when I have no choice.’
Atticus heard her words and his anger increased, not against Hadria, but against the cursed city that kept her from him. He looked down to her upturned face and a wave of regret drove the fight from his body.
‘So I’m not accepted in your world and you cannot live outside it,’ he said, the words coming slowly. ‘Then you were right, Hadria. We cannot be together.’ And with a final brief kiss he swept past her out of the house.
Scipio rose to his feet to accept the nomination for consul, nodding to the senator who had put forward his name, his expression one of gratitude and mild surprise. A smattering of applause answered his acknowledgement, but it quickly died in the tense atmosphere of the chamber, and all eyes turned once more to the podium. The princeps senatus scanned the tiered seating, searching for further nominations, but none were forthcoming. He struck the podium with his gavel to bring the chamber to order.
‘Senators of Rome,’ he began, and Scipio took his eyes from the speaker to search the faces of the Senate members. The names of the five nominees were called out in turn. Two consuls would be elected from the five, with the senior position going to the senator with the most votes and the junior to the runner-up. Scipio dismissed the first three, knowing they had little or no support, their misdirected ambition matched only by their foolishness. They were no threat. The fourth name, however, was confirmation of what Scipio had suspected over the previous week.
He was Aulus Atilius Caiatinus, a young man who had served five years in the Senate. He was a patrician but, unlike his peers, he openly supported the progressive faction in the Senate. This placed him firmly in Duilius’s camp and Scipio sought him out on the far side of the chamber, noting his position relative to Duilius, who sat in the back row. The final name was Scipio’s, and again he nodded as many eyes turned at the mention of his voice.
With an announcement from the podium, the first of the nominees stood to make a speech in support of his candidacy. He was quickly followed by the second and the third. While Scipio’s expression remained inscrutable throughout the speeches, underneath he mocked the naivete of the nominees. Over the previous week he had invested every shred of his political capital into the election for senior consul. He had called on every carefully nurtured alliance; where none existed, he had resorted to electoral bribery, combining the silver of his treasury with honeyed promises of post-election favours to guarantee votes from the unscrupulous.
As the third candidate sat, Caiatinus stood to speak. He began in a low, sonorous voice that lent gravity to his words, describing how he was the best candidate to lead the Republic in the perilous times ahead. His speech was carefully contrived and he subtly criticized Paullus’s loss of the fleet, drawing attention to the dead consul’s allegiance to the old order of Rome, an allegiance that had made him inflexible and unable to adapt to the conditions of the new war being raged on the sea against Carthage.
Caiatinus then spoke of his rival candidates, focusing on each one in turn. His attack on each character was ingeniously understated, providing Caiatinus with a false ethical superiority and, as he came to Scipio, he looked towards his chief rival, speaking his name in full, deliberately drawing out the pronunciation of his unofficial cognomen, Asina. Scipio bristled at the insult but kept his expression dismissive, careful not to reveal how deep the wound to his pride still ran.
The end of Caiatinus’s speech was met with enthusiastic applause, and Scipio was given brief seconds to scan the chamber and ascertain who amongst the undecided had been influenced by the senator’s words. In the silence that followed, Scipio stood and began the speech Fabiola and he had crafted.
Like Caiatin
us, the tone of his voice commanded the attention of all in the chamber. Scipio was careful to personally address several senators he knew were uncommitted. These men were beyond his control, senior senators who were independently powerful and rarely allied themselves to any man or cause, and so Scipio had to rely solely on his oratorical skills and his ability to persuade men of his conviction.
Across the floor of the chamber, Duilius was similarly looking to the senators who were the focus of Scipio’s attention. He watched as they were ensnared by Scipio’s speech, the dramatic words probing their basest fears and uncertainties. It was a powerful oration, a worthy rebuttal to Caiatinus’s speech, and Duilius realized the vote would be closer than he had hoped. Upon learning, days before, of Scipio’s decision to run, Duilius had briefly thought to oppose him personally, but he ultimately conceded that the chances of success would be increased if the candidate for his faction was a patrician, considering the overwhelming majority of that class in the Senate. Moreover, Duilius now firmly believed he could wield his political strength to greater effect if he kept his influence hidden from the Senate at large, confident he could achieve more covertly than he ever could as a visible leader.
Scipio finished his speech with a tirade against the Carthaginians, a climax that roused the Senate. Many cheered as he spoke of the enemy’s inevitable defeat and the might of the city that would humble them. As he sat down amidst tumultuous applause, he straightened his back and looked directly at the podium, casting a figure of absolute authority and bearing.
The princeps senatus brought the Senate to order and called for a show of hands for each candidate. The first three were piteously supported, but Scipio watched in consternation as the support was called for Caiatinus. Close to half the Senate raised their hands and Scipio struggled to count their number in the brief time their hands were held aloft. The final vote, for Scipio, was called. Again, innumerable hands were raised, and Scipio held his breath, knowing the count was too close to call.