Captain of Rome (20 page)

Septimus walked over to the Ninth’s building and was immediately allowed access as an officer. He entered and paused for a second to allow his vision to adjust to the gloom within. The room that faced him was the largest in the building, a common room with a large table in the centre, where a number of centurions were seated, some eating, others in quiet conversation. Septimus caught the eye of one officer and he stood up, a questioning look on his face.

‘I’m looking for Centurion Silanus of the IV,’ Septimus said.

‘Marcus?’ the man asked. ‘Who are you?’

‘Capito.’

The centurion nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. He recognised the name. ‘Antoninus’s son?’ he asked.

Septimus nodded, smiling to himself. A campaigning legion numbered ten thousand men between legionaries and auxiliary troops so although Septimus had served with the IV
maniple in the past and again for the last three months, he never expected that any other than his own maniple would recognise him. But everyone knew of his father and the centurion looked at Septimus for a full minute, a slight smile of remembrance at the edge of his mouth, before ambling off to find Marcus.

Septimus sat down at the table to wait, his eyes ranging over the room. The atmosphere of the room was oppressive, the men subdued, the usual energy that characterised the officers’ quarters completely absent. Septimus could only imagine what these men had endured on their fighting retreat from Thermae.

The sound of a familiar gruff voice caught Septimus’s attention and he turned, recognising the tall, narrow frame of his friend. He rose to greet Marcus, stepping away from the table and walking towards him. Septimus extended his hand but he suddenly hesitated, the diminishing gap allowing him to see Marcus’s face for the first time. The grizzled centurion was ten years older than Septimus but twenty-five years of strict legionary routine and constant physical exercise had always kept those years at bay. Now, however, it seemed to Septimus that his friend had accumulated those years and ten more in the two weeks since he had last seen him in Thermae.

The two men shook hands and Septimus was given a moment to examine the grim expression of his former commander. He stared into Marcus’s eyes, searching for the iron determination that defined the man. It was still there and Septimus curbed his initial doubts. As a soldier, his friend might be in his declining years, but his fighting spirit was as strong as ever.

Marcus gestured for Septimus to sit again and the centurion took a seat beside the marine.

‘My
hastati
were here when I returned,’ Marcus said simply and Septimus nodded, accepting the underlying thanks.

‘When did you get back?’ Septimus asked.

‘Three days ago.’

Septimus remained silent as he counted the days. The retreat had taken longer than he initially thought.

‘Losses?’ he asked.

‘Too many,’ Marcus replied, a shadow crossing his face, and Septimus was struck once more by how old his friend had become. Marcus described the retreat in detail, Septimus remaining silent throughout.

‘The Ninth has been stood down until replacements arrive from Rome.’ Marcus concluded.

Septimus nodded gravely. For proud men like those of the Ninth, to be removed from battle duty was a heavy sentence.

‘And the Second?’ he asked. ‘They’re not in camp?’

Marcus’s expression turned murderous and Septimus shifted uneasily. He could not recall ever seeing Marcus look so angry.

‘The cursed
Punici
,’ he spat. ‘While one force was bleeding us along the coast, another larger one struck inland.’

‘How far?’ Septimus asked.

‘By the time we reached Brolium, initial reports were arriving claiming the Carthaginians had already reached Enna and the town was under siege.’

‘So Megellus has marched the Second south?’

Marcus nodded, ‘Too late though. Enna is four days march away and on the day the Second left, the latest reports said the town was close to collapse.’

Septimus shook his head. Enna was a fortified town in the centre of Sicily, right in the middle of Roman occupied territory.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said aloud. ‘Even if the Carthaginians managed to take Enna they’re too deep in Roman territory
to hold her. The Sixth and Seventh legions are based in Agrigento to the south and with Megellus advancing from the north any force the enemy send can be overwhelmed.’

Marcus shrugged, unconvinced. ‘If they continue east they could cut our territory in two.’

‘But to what end?’ Septimus persisted. ‘Once they reach the border of Syracuse, they’ll face hostile forces on three fronts, Romans to the north and south and Syracuse to the east.’

Marcus shrugged again, and Septimus could see his friend’s anger remained. He understood Marcus’s reaction. After the mauling the Ninth had been dealt their first reaction would be to get back in the fight as soon as possible. With the Carthaginians advancing, the opportunity was at hand but the Ninth had been stood down and so Marcus and his men were left to watch other men fight in their stead.

‘When are replacements due?’ Septimus asked, calculating timelines in his mind.

‘Within the week,’ Marcus said, his mind already on the day when his maniple would be back up to full strength.

‘Megellus will have engaged by then,’ Septimus said; a subtle statement that the Ninth would not be needed on this occasion. Marcus recognised the subtext and he shook his head.

‘The Ninth will see battle before the month is out,’ he said, total conviction in his voice.

‘I don’t think so,’ Septimus said. ‘The
Punici
have overextended themselves. They’ve made a mistake in attacking Enna and Megellus will overturn the siege.’

‘No, Septimus,’ Marcus replied, his brow creased in thought. ‘The
Punici
don’t make mistakes like this. Since Mylae they’ve been quiet. Then suddenly when we attack Thermae we’re ambushed and overwhelmed while at the same time another force attacks our flank. There’s no way these attacks are impulsive.’

Septimus thought for a minute and then nodded, conceding the point. Taking the two attacks together, it would seem a greater plan was in play and the strike towards Enna was more than just an opportunistic advance on the back of a successful ambush at Thermae. Whatever the strategy, Septimus was now inclined to believe that Marcus was right. The Ninth would soon face the Carthaginians again in battle.

Hamilcar held his tongue and his nerve as he heard a low dismissive laugh from one of the men facing him. He kept his gaze steady on the suffet, remembering his father’s words but for a second his eyes shot to his detractor, Hanno. The remainder of the twelve man council were silent, their faces expressionless, showing neither approval or censure and Hamilcar continued without pause.

‘When our forces reach the borders of Syracuse,’ he said, ‘Hiero’s army will join ours, thereby securing our flank as our forces march to Tyndaris.’

‘You trust Hiero?’ the suffet asked after a moment.

‘No more than any other ally,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘He does not know of my full strategy and probably believes we are using Tyndaris exclusively for our campaign in Sicily. He is playing both sides and so, for the moment, it is in his best interest to keep our activities from Rome.’

The suffet nodded, apparently content with Hamilcar’s answer but his expression revealed nothing.

‘The Romans have two legions in Agrigentum,’ one of the council members interjected, ‘and at least another in Brolium. Hiero’s army is no match for them.’

‘It is of no consequence,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘Once our forces sail from Tyndaris and the second part of my strategy is executed, I expect the Romans to sue for terms. The first of these will be our demand for the Romans to leave Sicily.’

Again the suffet nodded and Hamilcar prepared to step away from the podium, his strategy outlined in full.

‘And what of your use of pirates?’ Hanno asked suddenly.

Hamilcar made to reply but another council member, an ally of his father’s spoke up. ‘The minutiae of the commander’s plans should not trouble this council,’ he said. ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already approved the viability of Hamilcar’s strategy. All we need to decide is whether the plan fulfils the needs of the Carthage.’

‘The needs of Carthage also include protecting the honour of the city,’ Hanno shot back, his gaze never leaving Hamilcar. Again Hamilcar made to reply but he held back, knowing he couldn’t win the argument and any words he spoke would further fuel Hanno’s attack. The suffet raised his hand to stay any further discussion. He looked directly at Hamilcar and again Hamilcar was left to wonder how much the suffet had overheard in the ante-chamber.

‘I have heard enough,’ the suffet said, his voice low and hard. ‘Now we must decide.’

Hamilcar nodded and stepped back from the podium. The members of the council immediately began to discuss the matter amongst themselves and so Hamilcar was allowed a moment to study them without distraction. To his left, in the corner of his vision, Hamilcar could see his father speaking quietly with the men on his immediate right and left. Hamilcar recognised them both, for he knew the sons of each and, as he scanned the rest of the room, he identified several others, each one the head of a powerful Carthaginian family.

In the centre of the semi-circle sat the suffet, and directly to his right sat Hanno, a smile on his face as he spoke. Hamilcar felt suddenly humbled in the presence of these powerful men. Each one had paid dearly for his place on the council, openly bribing the members of the lower council for their votes.
Hamilcar had heard that the same practice existed in Rome with senators paying for votes but in contrast it was looked upon as a dishonourable practice, a necessary evil that existed but was not spoken of openly. Hamilcar had scoffed at the Romans’ pretentions. In Carthage wealth was a sign of success, and to exude that wealth was to highlight that success. The positions on the supreme council therefore were open only to the wealthiest men in Carthage, men who had proven their worth and could be trusted with the reins of state.

The suffet raised his hand and the council came to order. Hamilcar fixed his gaze on the leader, marshalling his thoughts in readiness for the questions to come. The suffet rose and walked slowly around the chamber. He was one of the oldest men in the room but his back was straight and he move with ease, his intelligent eyes fixed on Hamilcar.

‘Your plan is ambitious,’ the suffet said.

Hamilcar did not reply. The suffet’s statement was simply that. It was not a question and Hamilcar’s father had warned him to respond to questions only.

‘You believe it will succeed?’ the suffet continued.

‘If I am given the resources I ask for, Suffet,’ Hamilcar replied, confidence in his voice, ‘then yes, I know my plan will succeed.’

‘But if it does not…’ a voice suddenly said and all eyes turned to Hanno. ‘You speak of this plan as if it is fool-proof.’

The suffet raised his hand once more to forestall Hamilcar’s rebuttal.

‘The One-hundred-and-four have already approved your plan,’ the suffet said to Hamilcar, ‘and we must trust their judgement. I merely wished to judge the depth of your conviction.’

Hamilcar nodded, although he could not judge from the suffet’s words whether or not he had judged Hamilcar’s conviction worthy.

‘The council will vote,’ the suffet said. ‘Those in favour?’

Hamilcar watched as six men nodded their approval, his father amongst them.

‘Opposed?’

The other five nodded, at least one of them looking to Hanno who held Hamilcar’s gaze as he nodded his disapproval.

‘Then my vote will decide’ the suffet said. He slowly walked back to his position at the centre of the council. Hamilcar’s full attention was focused on the older man. If he voted against then the vote would be tied and his voice alone would break the dead-lock, his vote essentially counting as two. He sat down and turned once more to Hamilcar, his gaze piercing as he measured the man one last time.

‘Anath guide your hand, young Barca,’ the suffet said. ‘I approve of your plan.’

Hamilcar saluted, keeping his sense of triumph from his expression. He turned on his heel and walked from the chamber. His father watched him go, his pride for his son curbed by the reality of what had occurred. The Council had approved, but by the narrowest margin, and in that approval there was no acceptance of responsibility. His son would bear that burden alone.

Varro paused as he came to the end of the last of the narrow streets leading to the large villa that overlooked Brolium. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to the bottom of the hill and the entire vista of the docks spread out before him. From this height the throngs of people he had so impatiently pushed through on the quayside were transformed into a series of amorphous groups with steady streams of supplies passing between them before disappearing into the narrow streets and onwards to the legionary camp.

The raucous noise of the docks had prevented Varro from concentrating on his thoughts but as he had climbed the steady hill away from the quay, the noise had diminished until now it was reduced to a surging murmur, a sound that rose and fell with the gush of each breeze and the turn of each corner. Varro looked ahead once more and continued into the open square facing the main entrance to the villa, his mind now fully focused on the meeting ahead. He signalled Vitulus and the other two guards to halt in the square and he continued on alone, walking past the two legionaries who stood guard at the main gate without a second glance, ignoring their salute.

Alone in the outer courtyard, Varro came to a stop and instinctively glanced down at the sealed scroll in his right hand. He had been handed the scroll by Scipio back in Rome with orders to present it to the commanding officer at Brolium. Varro surmised that the scroll contained details of his demotion along with a general command to place him in charge of one of the naval squadrons and he bristled when he thought of the contents, not because of the words themselves, for he accepted the challenge and the specific mission Scipio had set him, but because he had learned that the legate was not in Brolium and so Varro was left with no option but to present the scroll to the port commander, an officer with a lower rank than that of a tribune but higher than a squad commander. It was an ignominy that Varro had not prepared for and he hesitated on the threshold of the villa.