Captain of Rome (17 page)

‘Four?’ Septimus asked. There were only three men with Varro on the aft-deck.

‘The other one must be below decks,’ Lucius surmised. ‘The tribune has commandeered the main cabin.’

Septimus nodded and turned his gaze back towards his own men. Having any high ranking officer on board always complicated the command structure, but with Varro, a disgraced tribune hostile to the captain, the problem would be exacerbated and magnified ten-fold.

Lucius watched Septimus intently, searching the young man’s expression. He had always harboured a contempt for legionaries but had long ago learned to respect the Roman centurion, not least because of his obvious friendship with the captain. The thought caused Lucius to look beyond Septimus to the impenetrable mist that still surrounded the galley, its gloom intensified by the darkness.

The three men laughed heartily as Atticus finished his tale, one of them slapping him on the back as he coughed, choking slightly on his wine. Atticus laughed with them, his earlier dark mood now completely forgotten, doused in wine and good company. The initial wariness when Atticus approached the men had evaporated the minute he had enquired about the ownership of the
kaiki
, for only a fisherman could know of its name. They realised immediately they were talking to one of their own. Now, hours later, the original amphorae were strewn at their feet, their replacements lying empty beside
them, drunk faster and enjoyed more by the three locals in the knowledge that Atticus had paid for them.

Atticus slowly recovered and lifted his goblet to his mouth. It was empty and he reached for the nearest amphora, casting it aside when he realised it too was empty. He stood up and immediately staggered, his fall prevented by the outstretched hand of one of the locals.

‘I think you’ve had enough, sailor,’ he said, his jovial face upturned in the shadowed room. ‘You’d better get back to your ship.’

Atticus nodded, patting the man on the shoulder. He stood upright and turned to the door, taking a couple of unsteady steps before plunging out into the darkened street.

The night air, made cool by the mist, sobered Atticus a little and he turned left towards the sea, his stride steadying that bit more as he brushed past the last of the stall-owners still plying their trade. Atticus rolled his head and rubbed his eyes to clear his mind that bit more but the action had no effect, and he smiled slightly at the thought. He hadn’t drunk that much wine in a long time.

Towards the end of the street near the beach a lone trader stood in the centre of the road, his palms upturned in greeting. Atticus sidestepped slightly but the man mirrored his move, placing himself once more in Atticus’s path.

‘You look hungry, sailor,’ the man said, a bright smile beneath his dishevelled hair. ‘Some food perhaps to satisfy an appetite sharpened at the tavern?’

Atticus half smiled, and raised his hand slightly to dismiss the man. The trader however stepped towards Atticus, ignoring the gesture.

‘Charcoaled fish,’ he said, reaching out with his hand and taking Atticus’s elbow.

Atticus acquiesced slightly, the wine mollifying him. The trader
pointed to his stall with an open hand and Atticus turned. It was on one of the side streets, not ten feet off the main thoroughfare. Atticus hesitated for a second, but the trader persisted, drawing his arm around him, and Atticus relented, the smell of cooked fish suddenly making him hungry.

The stall was the only one still open on the street, the darkness beyond it revealing only the outlines of others, the houses behind them silent and seemingly deserted. Atticus squinted into the gloom and smiled at the trader’s persistence, staying open so late when everyone else had left. He turned to say as much when he noticed the man’s smile had disappeared from his face, replaced instead with an expression of fear. The man was looking back over his shoulder, his body twisted awkwardly, his hand still holding Atticus’s elbow.

A voice suddenly sounded in Atticus’s mind, a cry of warning, and he spun around towards the trader, ducking his head forward as he did. The stab of pain was immediate as the tip of a blade whipped across his jaw-line, slicing the skin cleanly and opening a deep wound where, a heartbeat before, the back of his exposed neck had been.

A piercing cry split the air as the blade continued unimpeded through its arc and part of Atticus’s vision registered the trader’s face disappear behind a spray of blood, the knife striking him full in the face. Atticus sprang backward to face his attacker, hitting the stall with his shoulder, the hot coals of the brazier spilling across his outstretched left hand as he struggled for balance. His mind ignored the pain, focused instead on survival and his right hand went for the dagger in his belt, a spear-pointed blade six inches long, sliding out of the scabbard in a blink of an eye.

Atticus crouched slightly and tensed his legs, his eyes frantically searching the darkness for his attacker. He saw him not
six feet away, his bulk obscuring the dim light of the main street behind. The trader continued to scream somewhere close at hand but Atticus ignored him, his eyes now locked on the blade in his attacker’s right hand while somewhere in his mind he cursed the darkness that robbed him of the chance of seeing his attacker’s eyes, knowing that in a knife fight, the eyes always revealed an attack a heartbeat before it came.

The man lunged forward and Atticus was forced to sidestep to his right, his shoulder slamming into the side wall of a house, his body arched to avoid the strike. He counterattacked immediately, fearful of being cornered, and he slashed his blade across his attacker’s exposed side, his mind registering shock as the blade glanced off armour. A legionary! The man came on again, spinning on his heel, driving his blade underarm, searching for a killing blow. Atticus sprang into a lunge, hitting the soldier in the upper arm with his shoulder and he drove his knee up suddenly, connecting heavily with his attacker’s left leg. A grunt of pain and Atticus was given a second’s respite. He circled to his right and stumbled over the hysterical trader, thrashing and writhing on the ground.

The legionary rushed forward again and Atticus met his charge full on, his left hand reaching frantically for his attacker’s right until he managed to grab hold of his wrist. Atticus raised his own blade and stabbed downward, aiming blindly for the neck but his own hand was equally stayed by an iron grip, instantly turning the fight in a battle of strength and will.

The two men became locked in a grotesque embrace and Atticus could feel the muscles in his arm burn from the effort of attacking with his right while defending with his left. He shifted his balance only to have the move countered immediately, while a second later he was forced to react in kind, the
legionary trying to turn his wrist and force his own blade down. Atticus’s face was on fire, the deep wound on his jaw-line fighting the adrenaline in his body to overwhelm his mind with pain while his left hand struggled to maintain its grip, the blisters raised by the charcoals bursting to coat his skin with blood.

From deep within, Atticus summoned the strength to push home his attack, driven on by anger at the cowardly ambush and the legionary took a hard-fought step backward. Atticus leaned in to increase the pressure, grunting heavily as he did, his nostrils filled with the smell of his own blood, the harsh smell of his attacker’s sweat, his rotten breath washing over Atticus’s face. The legionary’s blade was an inch from Atticus’s chest, locked by Atticus’s grip while his own blade was further down, pointing vertically, looking to strike below the soldier’s armour into his exposed groin. Atticus had the advantage and he summoned his will for one last lunge.

Suddenly the legionary stumbled backward over the inert trader, pulling Atticus forward, the pressure he had been exerting speeding his fall, the mutual lock binding them together. Atticus fell heavily on the soldier, his right hand shooting up and he felt an instant resistance against his blade as it struck his attacker. At the same instant the soldier’s blade was trapped between them and it sliced cleanly into Atticus’s chest, cutting flesh and sinew until it struck against his ribs, glancing off the bone as the full weight of his body turned the blade flat.

Atticus’s mind registered it all in a heartbeat, the warm gush of blood over his knife hand, the acrid smell as the dead soldier’s bowels voided, the warmth spreading across his own chest as his blood flowed from the open wound. With an almost detached sensation spreading through his mind Atticus rolled off the legionary, his mind hearing his own scream as
the soldier’s knife was drawn out of the horizontal gash across his chest. He fell onto his back, the fall knocking the air out of his lungs and he felt his strength draining away, the energy to draw breath once more escaping him. His eyes focused on the night sky above the street, the stars intermittently visible through the thinning sea mist. He tried to recognise them, but his mind was blank. A face filled his vision, then another, their mouths saying words he could not hear, frantic words of disbelief. He closed his eyes, the pain suddenly less intense, more distant, and he slipped into darkness.

Mooring ropes were thrown between the two galleys without command, quickly taken on both sides and pulled hand-over-hand until the bows kissed with a gentle thud. Within a minute they moved as one, rising and falling gently with the swell. Hamilcar stood on the foredeck of the
Alissar
, peering across through the darkness to the opposing galley, suspicious always of treachery, not willing to board until he knew the man he had seconded to the galley was alive and well. The sound of a splash nearby caused him to look left, to the lights of the town of Tyndaris, a hundred yards away. He waited for a second and then witnessed the cause as the surface was broken again by fish-hunting insects drawn to the waves by the reflected light of the crescent moon.

Hamilcar looked once more to the opposing foredeck in time to see Belus emerge from behind a group of men. He looked incongruous amongst the pirates, his armour and bearing setting him apart. Hamilcar immediately walked forward and jumped nimbly onto the side-rail. He waited a heartbeat for the decks to steady and then jumped down onto the pirate deck, landing steadily on both feet. His hand-picked guard of six men followed him without pause. Belus stood to attention and saluted. Hamilcar smiled in reply, glad to see
his old friend safe, and he extended his arms and clasped Belus’s shoulders, causing the older man to smile.

‘Well met, Belus.’

‘It is good to see you,’ Belus replied, liking the commander greatly.

Hamilcar became aware of the other eyes on him and he looked beyond Belus to the assembled crew of pirates, their curiosity causing them to bunch together on the foredeck.

‘The captain?’ Hamilcar asked of Belus.

‘Narmer,’ Belus replied, turning towards the pirates.

The captain heard his name spoken and stepped forward. Hamilcar studied him closely as he approached. He was a colossus, with limbs that seemed grotesquely overdeveloped and he moved with a slow loping gait, as if he was prowling his own deck. Hamilcar looked to his face as he came closer and his features became more defined. He was a young man, his face unremarkable but his eyes immediately drew Hamilcar’s fascination. They were the most pitiless eyes he had ever seen. In a society where ferocity and ruthlessness paved the way to power, Narmer had reached the highest rank of captain and Hamilcar knew that what he saw in the captain’s eyes was merely a shadow of the barbarity within.

‘I am Hamilcar,’ he said.

‘Narmer,’ the captain replied with a look of disdain. ‘You have my gold?’

‘First I will hear my officer’s report,’ Hamilcar said.

Narmer bristled, but something in the Carthaginian’s tone made him hold his tongue. He was used to dominating men with his presence and force of will but he knew instinctively that this one would not bend.

Hamilcar stepped forward and brushed past Narmer. Belus followed. The pirate crew parted before them and they walked
onto the main deck alone. Hamilcar felt something soft under his foot and he looked down. The deck was filthy, strewn with debris: half-eaten food, lengths of rigging, a single wooden goblet rolling with the tilt of the deck. As he passed over a hatchway, a horrendous smell struck him from the slave deck below, a mix of human filth and rotting decay. Hamilcar peered down into the pitch darkness but could discern nothing and he listened for a moment to the sporadic groans and coughs that struggled upward into the night.

He looked up to face Belus, the disgust he felt sticking in his throat. The pirates were animals, and for the hundredth time his honour questioned him on his decision to use these scavengers. For generations Carthage had hunted pirates with merciless determination, abhorring their breed and enacting terrible revenge for every trading ship lost to their attacks. Now Hamilcar was using them in paid service of the city and he weighted his motives once more against the dishonour of the alliance. With disinclined conviction he renewed his determination. Rome was the greater enemy.

‘Perhaps it would be safer for you if we were aboard the
Alissar
?’ Belus ventured. ‘These men have no honour and if they realise your importance they could try to hold you here.’

‘It is better that we show these carrion that we are unafraid,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘In any case, the crew of the
Alissar
are fully armed and on alert.’

Belus nodded. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the pirate crew were far enough away. He began to outline the information he had garnered so far from the Roman crews which the pirates had captured and tortured over the previous weeks. It was a gruesome report but Belus remained dispassionate, his involvement in the defeat at Mylae robbing him of the greater part of any pity he might have felt for the Roman traders. Hamilcar listened with heightened awareness,
his mind quickly sifting and prioritising the information, searching for the salient parts that were so vital to his strategy.

‘You’re sure about the defences?’ he asked as Belus finished.