Master of Rome mots-3

by John Stack

  Lilybaeum was no longer threatened. Drepana and Panormus were safe. The enemy were secure on all fronts, while the Roman-held ports of Brolium and Agrigentum were ripe to fall. Atticus felt the knot of frustration tighten further in his stomach. He had done all he could do in Sicily to divine the enemy’s plans. Only one other possible source of information remained, one man who might yet know what the enemy planned.

  ‘Your orders, Prefect,’ Drusus said, causing Atticus to spin around to face the centurion.

  ‘First we sail east to Brolium,’ he said without hesitation, his mind made up. ‘I will inform Aulus to keep me apprised should the trading captains report any enemy activity, but there is nothing more we can do here. We will sail for Ostia at noon.’

  Drusus nodded and left the aft-deck. Atticus moved to the tiller and ordered the helmsman to get under way and the Orcus turned neatly towards the strip of light that ran the length of the eastern horizon. Brolium was no more than an hour away; the Orcus would be there to see the sun rise. Atticus cast his thoughts to the days and weeks beyond. Rome still had a fleet, a hundred quinqueremes, the second half of the Classis Romanus, now anchored in the shallows of Fiumicino. The Carthaginians were granting him time and Atticus knew he would have to put it to good use.

  The morale of the Roman fleet had been mauled beyond redemption. A new spirit would need to be born, one forged in a belief that the Roman navy could match the prowess of the Carthaginians. Even after the ravages of Drepana and the storm off Camarina, there was still a core group of experienced captains in the fleet. They could be used to train the others.

  As the Orcus came up to standard speed, Atticus turned his back on the western horizon and the Carthaginian-held territory of Sicily. The threat remained, it could not be ignored; but, while the enemy slumbered, Atticus would prepare for the inevitable fight to come.

  Septimus stepped back from the contest, his chest heaving with exertion, the sweat running freely down his face, the wooden training sword still charged before him. His opponent was bunched over, his hand massaging his bruised ribs, and Septimus walked over to place a hand on the legionary’s shoulder, helping him to stand upright and retake his place in the ranks. It had been a hard-fought contest, a testament to the distance the legionaries had come in the months since they had arrived at Fiumicino.

  Septimus stood before his men and demonstrated the sword stroke he had used to end the fight before ordering them to break up into pairs to practise the technique. They moved quickly and the air was soon filled with the hollow, staccato sound of wooden swords. He watched them for a moment with a critical eye before moving off, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm as he went, the wooden sword swinging loosely in his hand as he subconsciously rehearsed a sequence of thrusts.

  He was pleased with the progress of his men. The training schedule was relentless, the techniques and shield foreign to them but, as new recruits of the Ninth, they had taken to the task without complaint, eager to avenge their loss at Lilybaeum and to take to the seas against the Carthaginian foe.

  That same sense of purpose had pervaded each maniple of the legion; as Septimus passed through the camp he recognized other former marines training the men in boarding techniques and one-to-one combat. Every soldier of the Ninth was conscious of the fact that the corvus was gone, and with it the advantage a traditional legion had in close-quarter fighting; the powerful shield wall that was built on mutual support. In the battle ahead there would be no opportunity to deploy into ranks. It would be man against man and speed, more than strength, would determine the outcome.

  Septimus reached the edge of the encampment and crested the sand dunes that led to the beach, pausing at the top. The galleys encased in scaffolding were all but finished, with workmen clambering over the decks and rigging. They had worked ceaselessly during the hours of daylight and the remaining galleys were the last of the new fleet, a consignment that would bring the strength of the Classis Romanus to two hundred quinqueremes.

  The consular elections had taken place a month before and the two new consuls, Aulus Postumius Albinus and Caius Lutatius Catulus, had issued a declaration to the citizens of Rome. After the losses of Drepana the navy would have to be rebuilt; however, the Treasury of the Republic was empty and the consuls called on its wealthy citizens to advance the city a loan that would be repaid when the Carthaginians were defeated. The response had been overwhelming, and within days of the announcement the keels of the new fleet were being laid down in the hard sand of Fiumicino, each one a symbol of the allegiance and determination of the citizens of Rome.

  Septimus looked beyond the beach to the sea. It was alive with galleys, their number pushing out the malleable boundary of the north-south trading lane that ran past Fiumicino. The crews were in training, following a schedule as gruelling as that of the Ninth. They were moving in small squadrons, each group changing course as one, like a flock of birds evading a predator, or at ramming speed, like a pack of wolves chasing down their prey.

  Septimus turned and headed back towards his men, his thoughts on the days ahead. As a legionary he had learned never to see beyond that immediate future, his destiny in the hands of his commanders and the Senate of Rome. The soldiery did not know what lay ahead in the war against Carthage, no more than the sailing crews did, but all were aware that precious time had been granted to them. They would continue to train and, as Septimus reached his maniple, he kneaded the hilt of his wooden sword, determined that the IV would be ready.

  Atticus stood for a moment at the foot of the steps to the Curia, the heat of the sun raising the sweat on his back. He narrowed his eyes against the reflected glare off the flagstones and looked up to the colonnaded entrance, conscious of how easily his self-imposed exile from Rome had been broken. He had arrived in the city the day before and, after brief enquiries, he had learned of the fate of the man he wished to question. He turned to sweep his gaze across the Forum, the central square all but empty under the noonday sun, and he strode away towards his destination, anxious to complete his task and leave the city once more.

  The prison stood to the side of the Curia. It was a low building, with an unadorned and imposing facade, while behind it the Capitoline Hill swept up to the temples of Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus. A single legionary stood guard at the door, his pila spear held out at an angle, his expression inscrutable under the brim of his helmet. Atticus approached slowly, marshalling his thoughts, conscious that the man he was about to see would have little reason to cooperate with him. He stood before the guard.

  ‘I am Atticus Milonius Perennis, Prefect of the Classis Romanus, and I wish to see the prisoner, Calix.’

  ‘Yes, Prefect,’ the legionary responded, standing to attention before hammering the butt of his spear against the door. A hatch opened at eye level and the legionary motioned for Atticus to step forward. He repeated his request and, as the hatch closed, Atticus heard a series of bolts being opened. The door swung outward and he stepped in over the threshold.

  The glaring sunlight gave way to an almost impenetrable darkness and Atticus closed his eyes to help them adjust as the door was shut behind him. He opened them and looked about the candlelit interior. The room was small and windowless. There was only one door, the one that led to the outside, and Atticus’s gaze was quickly drawn to the circular hole in the middle of the floor. It was flanked by an optio and four legionaries.

  The officer stepped forward. ‘You wish to see the Rhodian, Prefect?’ he said.

  Atticus nodded, his eyes never leaving the hole, and he heard the legionaries move about as they prepared to lower a ladder into the hole.

  ‘You weapons, Prefect,’ the optio said, holding out his hand, and Atticus surrendered his sword and dagger without comment.

  He stepped forward and prepared to descend. ‘Are there many others?’ he asked of the optio.

  ‘He is alone,’ the officer replied, and Atticus nodded again.

  The Romans had little use for prisons. Any n
obleman suspected of a crime was kept under house arrest and, if found guilty, they were either fined, exiled or put to death. For lesser citizens of the Republic, justice was swifter and the sentences summarily carried out. Imprisonment was used only for enemy commanders captured in battle, a brief incarceration while their fate was decided.

  Atticus swung his feet on to the rungs of the ladder and started down. He slowed as his head fell below the level of the floor and he looked about the near pitch-blackness of the lower room. A single candle was alight in a far corner and he kept his gaze locked on it as he descended further. An overpowering stench permeated the air, a combination of human waste and stale sweat, a smell of despair and decay. Atticus was reminded of the bilges of a galley, beneath the rowing deck, where the slaves slept while on relief; but here, in the bowels of the prison, the stale air had no escape and Atticus had to reach for each breath.

  He stopped at the end of the ladder and tried to find the Rhodian, expecting to see him in the halo of light surrounding the candle.

  ‘Perennis,’ a voice spoke, and Atticus spun around.

  ‘Calix,’ he replied to the darkness.

  ‘Why are you here?’ the voice asked.

  ‘I have come to seek your help,’ Atticus replied.

  Calix snorted in derision and stepped forward out of the darkness to brush past Atticus, his body hiding the flame of the candle until he reached the light and he spun around to sit down beside it. Atticus followed, glancing over his shoulder as the ladder was withdrawn once more through the hole in the ceiling.

  Atticus sat down and studied the Rhodian’s haggard face. His pallor was grey but his eyes had lost none of their intensity, and he returned Atticus’s gaze over the candle flame. His expression was defiant but Atticus thought he could also see desperation behind his eyes.

  ‘I have just returned to Rome from Sicily,’ Atticus began, and he described to Calix the Carthaginians’ inexplicable hesitation in advancing the war.

  ‘And how can I help?’ Calix asked warily as Atticus concluded.

  ‘You smuggled Barca out of Lilybaeum,’ Atticus said. ‘I thought you might know something of his plans, that maybe he confided in you or that you might have overheard something that would explain his strategy.’

  Calix nodded, his eyes never leaving Atticus. ‘Why should I help you?’ he asked disdainfully.

  ‘Because, if you do, I will speak to one of the senators on your behalf. He is a powerful man and can ensure the Senate will be lenient when they decide your sentence.’

  ‘The last deal I made with a Roman was with that whoreson, Scipio,’ Calix replied. ‘My testimony for my freedom — and yet I am here.’

  ‘I’m not Roman, I am Greek,’ Atticus said, ‘and I am true to my word.’

  ‘You are no Greek, Perennis,’ Calix spat. ‘If you were, you would have no loyalty to Rome, the very city that enslaved our people.’

  ‘My loyalty is not to Rome,’ Atticus said defiantly, and he stood up and paced out of the candlelight, suddenly consumed with anger, the Rhodian’s words stirring the conflict within him.

  ‘But it is, Perennis. You fight for Rome, and for a people who despise you,’ Calix continued, remembering the contempt Scipio had shown towards Atticus and how he had used Perennis’s Greek origins to attack his loyalty during the trial. To Calix, Perennis was a blind fool, and he smiled contemptuously as he saw the effect of his words on his enemy.

  Atticus paced around in the darkness, stumbling over the waste beneath his feet. He had said he had no loyalty to Rome without thinking but, as he examined his words, he knew them to be true.

  ‘So what do I fight for?’ he thought, and he looked to the Rhodian. Calix was a fellow Greek, but his loyalty was to money, not to his homeland. For Atticus, Locri had ceased to be his home from the day he had sailed away at the age of fourteen. The Magna Graecia of his grandfather’s time was gone — it no longer existed.

  As a pirate hunter, Atticus had fought in the Roman navy to protect his people, the fisherman and traders of the Calabrian coast whom he had known all his life. It was they who commanded his loyalty. But in the war against Carthage he was fighting for a city where he was often treated as an inferior outsider. And yet he had fought on, never shirking from the fight, always conscious of the men who stood beside him in battle, and in that moment Atticus suddenly realized where his loyalty stood. He stopped pacing and remained still for a full minute, repeating his conclusion in his mind, taking strength from it. He walked over to the Rhodian once more.

  ‘Will you help me?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘I cannot,’ Calix said with a sneer. ‘Barca never spoke to me of his plans. Your journey here has been wasted, Perennis.’

  Atticus nodded and turned away. He called for the ladder to be lowered.

  ‘So what now, Perennis?’ Calix asked, eager to strike a final blow. ‘You will fight on for this cursed city?’

  Atticus paused and turned to the Rhodian, ‘I do not fight for this city, Calix,’ he said. ‘I fight for the men who stand beside me in battle. It is they who command my loyalty, not Rome.’

  The ladder touched the ground beside Atticus and he ascended, leaving the Rhodian to the solitude of his prison.

  In the upper room, Atticus was handed back his weapons. He left the prison and retraced his steps to the foot of the Curia. He looked up at the Senate house, the very symbol of Rome. The building had spawned many of his enemies, some of whom had taken that fight to the field of battle. But for each of these, there were other Romans who had stood beside Atticus in the fray. Duilius, his advocate in the Senate; Gaius, whose first duty was always to his ship and fellow crewmen, his loyalty above question; Marcus of the Ninth Legion, killed at the battle of Tunis, a grizzled centurion who had trusted Atticus to guard the back of every Roman legionary fighting on land; and Lucius, who had given his life to save his Greek captain.

  Atticus lowered his head as one other name came to the fore of his thoughts, a man who had given his hand freely in friendship when they had last met. He, above all other Romans, had stood shoulder to shoulder with Atticus against every enemy.

  He glanced one last time at the Curia before setting off across the Forum, eager to return to Fiumicino. For now, the Carthaginians’ plans would remain a mystery, but one thing was certain. The war was not over. There were still battles to be fought, and in these Atticus vowed to stand with his Roman comrades and fight for the honourable dead who commanded his loyalty.

  Hamilcar paced the study in his house, impatiently waiting for his father to return, his anxiety causing him to mutter curses under his breath. The sound of boisterous playing in the courtyard below distracted him and he moved to the window, peering out to look down upon his three sons. Hannibal, the eldest at seven, was fighting Hasdrubal, the five year old, in a game of mock swordplay, while Mago, the youngest at two, clambered around them, shouting their names in encouragement as they lunged at each other, their youthful aggression held in check by Mago’s mispronunciation of their names, causing the older boys to laugh uncontrollably.

  Hamilcar was about to shout at them to silence the uproar, but he paused, realizing that the distraction had allowed a couple of minutes to pass when his mind was not consumed by his thoughts of the campaign in Sicily, so he continued to watch them surreptitiously, knowing that if any of them saw him, particularly Hannibal, they would escalate the ferocity of their fight to impress him, a ferocity that always led to injury and tears.

  He had arrived back in Carthage only two days before, following a summons from his father, leaving Himilco in charge at Lilybaeum. After many months of frustrating inaction, the message, which spoke of a Roman build-up of forces, had had an unusual effect on Hamilcar: what should have been a disquieting report actually gave him a moment of exhilaration, for the Romans’ activities, if true, would escalate the war once more.

  He had spoken exhaustively of the unconfirmed reports over the previous two nights with his father, their conver
sations eventually becoming cyclical, their conclusions the same each time. Hanno had said that only a direct threat against Lilybaeum would make him consider allocating additional forces to Sicily. Now it was possible that threat was about to materialize and, for the first time since Drepana, Hamilcar and his father had grounds to force the Council’s hand to commit additional forces to Sicily and push the war to a conclusion.

  The sound of his sons’ excited voices distracted him again, and he looked out to see his father, Hasdrubal, cross the courtyard, the boys gathered around their grandfather, each shouting to be heard above the others. Hasdrubal had gone to the Council chamber in answer to a summons, and his purposeful stride told Hamilcar his father was returning with news.

  He turned from the window and went to the door of his study, opening it as Hasdrubal entered the hall below, the boys’ shouts becoming louder in the confines of the house until Hasdrubal shooed them away. He climbed the steps and saw his son looking at him from the study door.

  ‘Well?’ Hamilcar said.

  Hasdrubal nodded as he approached. ‘The reports are confirmed,’ he said. ‘The Romans are assembling a fleet of some two hundred galleys just north of Ostia. We have it from three different sources, traders who have seen the galleys with their own eyes.’

  ‘But they have yet to sail?’ Hamilcar said, pacing the room once more, his mind racing.

  ‘As of four days ago they were still in port,’ Hasdrubal said.

  ‘And we know nothing of their plans?’ Hamilcar asked.

  Hasdrubal shook his head. ‘We do not,’ he said. ‘But I put forward your argument to the Supreme Council that Lilybaeum is the most obvious choice, given the Romans still have a legion encamped nearby.’

  ‘And…?’ Hamilcar said expectantly,

  ‘The Council has agreed to your proposal,’ Hasdrubal said with a smile. ‘A fleet is to be assembled here in Carthage in anticipation of responding to whatever advance the Romans make.’