Masters of the Sea - Master of Rome (9 page)

He had thereafter engineered the vote to send Paullus to Sicily, hoping the new senior consul, free from the immediate restraints of the Senate, would forcefully wrestle the initiative from Regulus; but again he had been frustrated as Paullus continued to timidly defer to the Senate’s will.

Now, however, Fortuna’s wheel had turned. Scipio’s impassive expression hid an inward smile as he observed the worried faces of his fellow senators, their anxiety creating a palpable tension in the Senate chamber that fed Scipio’s satisfaction. They bemoaned the defeat of Regulus, but Scipio saw it only as a victory: Paullus had finally been granted the opportunity to intervene directly in Africa, to stamp his authority on the campaign. The senior consul had grabbed it with both hands in a belated display of courage and conviction.

For the first time in months, Scipio was confident that his underlying plan was moving forward once more. If Paullus could conclude his tenure with a victory over the Carthaginians, then the faction that bred him would be strengthened, and consequently Scipio would be a step closer to his ultimate goal. He had chosen Paullus carefully, selecting a man with the right balance of ambition, arrogance and nescience and, although for a time Paullus’s timidity had disappointed Scipio, it now seemed the senior consul was rising to his expectations.

A
tticus stood on the foredeck of the
Orcus
as the galley cut a path through the teeming waters of Ostia, his gaze ranging over the entire harbour. The sight never failed to overawe him, the multitude of ships competing for space, the sprawling docks consuming the cargo of each vessel as fast as it could be unloaded, the traders frantically trying to feed the insatiable appetite of the city twelve miles away.

The trading ships came from all corners of the Mediterranean, the origin of many of them easily distinguishable by the type of craft or the men who sailed them, while others were more anonymous, bireme galleys and sailing barges that were common to every port. Despite the war, the traders recognized few boundaries, and some of the ships that were docking in Ostia had sailed from ports in the Carthaginian Empire only days before, bringing untraceable cargoes that were swiftly exchanged for the faithless denarius. The Roman authorities had tried to stem this flow, banning vessels from the closest Carthaginian dominions of Sardinia, Malta and the Baliares, but the lure of profit had impelled the traders to disguise their activities, and the Roman merchants in Ostia were only too ready to aid the clandestine trade, their first loyalty given solely to the market.

The oar-powered vessels in the path of the
Orcus
gave way to the larger quinquereme, while Gaius manoeuvred neatly around the more unwieldy sailing barges until the
Orcus
reached the northern end of the port and the military barracks that was the home of the
Classis Romanus
. As always there were a number of galleys tethered to the docks, but most of them were triremes, smaller ships that were no longer considered worthy of the battle line and were used primarily for coastal patrol in the sea-lanes around Ostia.

Atticus studied the nearest trireme in detail. It was nearly identical to the
Aquila
, his first command, as were all the triremes in the Roman fleet, mass-produced copies of an ori ginal design that had served the coastal fleet for a generation. Atticus saw past the minor differences and smiled as he pictured his old ship, slower and less powerful than the
Orcus
, but nimbler and quicker to accelerate, an Arabian stallion to the quinquereme warhorse. The Roman fleet’s switch to quinqueremes was unalterable, the changing face of warfare dictating the use of larger galleys, but Atticus still believed that the triremes had strengths disproportionate to their size.

Gaius called for steerage speed and then for the oars to be withdrawn as he steered the
Orcus
to a free berth. Atticus turned to leave the foredeck but he stopped as he saw a number of men running towards his galley. A mixture of sailors and legionaries, they were clearly agitated. Atticus spotted an officer at the head of the group, his head turning quickly as he swept the
Orcus
with his gaze.

‘What ship?’ the officer shouted as he neared the dockside. ‘The
Orcus
,’ Atticus called back.

The officer followed the voice and looked directly at Atticus. ‘What fleet?’ he called frantically.

‘The consul’s fleet, from Africa.’

For a second the officer seemed lost for words, as if Atticus’s identification had somehow confirmed a terrible truth. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

Atticus looked perplexed.

‘The storm, the fleet,’ the officer continued, his voice rising. ‘Is it true? Has the fleet been destroyed?’

Atticus was stunned by the questions and he moved quickly to the main deck as mooring ropes were thrown and made secure. The officer mirrored his progress on the dock, his impatience increasing, and as the gangway crashed down he was standing directly before Atticus.

‘Answer my questions, Captain,’ he said angrily.

‘Prefect,’ Atticus corrected him as he disembarked. He noticed the officer wore the uniform of a tribune, and so their ranks were in effect the same, although Atticus doubted that the Roman would recognize the equality.

‘All right . . . Prefect,’ the tribune said derisively. ‘Is it true, man?’

‘What have you heard?’ Atticus asked, wary of the larger crowd of soldiers standing behind the officer, not wishing to confirm any news before he had spoken to someone in authority.

‘Just rumours, from traders arriving in Ostia in the last two days. They speak of a terrible storm off the southwest coast of Sicily that destroyed the consul’s fleet. We heard there were survivors but there has been no confirmation from a military galley.’

‘Who commands here?’ Atticus asked, motioning to the barracks behind.

The tribune stated the name.

‘Take me to him,’ Atticus said, and he walked towards the barracks. The tribune hesitated for a second, overcome with frustration, but he followed, the men he had led from the barracks falling in behind.

*

Regulus shrugged on the fresh toga and stepped out of the bath, taking the proffered goblet of wine as he did so. He had not bathed in weeks and the simple cleansing ritual had gone some way to ease the constant feeling of foreboding he had lived with since his capture. He sniffed the wine and took a sip, savouring the taste before he followed his attendant slave to a shaded courtyard at the rear of the villa.

He had been brought to Carthage the evening before, escorted on horseback from Tunis with his hands tied like a common criminal. He had swallowed his protests, knowing that to utter them would invite ridicule, but the yoke of captivity was heavy and it was with difficulty that he kept his head high on the journey.

He had spent the night in another darkened room, but with the dawn came an incredible change in the nature of his captivity. The door of his room had been opened by a slave bearing towels, and as Regulus stepped out he immediately noticed the absence of guards, the villa in which he found himself quiet in the early morning sunlight. He had followed the slave to the bathhouse and, although the quality of the baths was by far inferior to his own in Rome, Regulus had rejoiced at the opportunity to cleanse himself. Now as he sat in the open courtyard, he wondered about the change in his condition. There was only one answer.

Regulus looked up as Hamilcar entered the courtyard. He stood without thinking and then cursed his carelessness, the change in his treatment softening his defences. He quickly recovered and squared his shoulders, adopting a look of superi or ity as Hamilcar crossed the open space.

Hamilcar smiled contemptuously, seeing through the Roman’s charade. He had been watching Regulus surreptitiously for several minutes, noting how at ease the Roman was, justifying his decision to grant his enemy this simple boon, knowing that the Roman’s compliance was vital if his plan was to proceed. He stepped closer to Regulus and stood before him, allowing a silence to lengthen.

‘I know why you have brought me here, Barca,’ Regulus said.

Hamilcar raised his eyebrows in question.

‘My people have offered you a ransom for my return and you have accepted it.’

Hamilcar almost laughed out loud but he kept his derision in check, knowing his words would have a far greater effect.

‘You are mistaken, Roman,’ he replied. ‘I have brought you here so I could deliver some news to you in person.’ And Hamilcar proceeded to tell Regulus of the events during his captivity in Tunis. He began with the battle at Cape Hermaeum, leaving out the capture of many of his ships and, although Hamilcar did not speak of it as a defeat, he noticed a sly smile creep on to Regulus’s face as he described the breakout of the galleys at Aspis to join the larger Roman fleet from Sicily.

Hamilcar paused, allowing Regulus to revel in the good news before he continued to describe the subsequent movements of the Roman fleet, their return to Sicily, their foolish disregard for the unpredictable weather before the rising of Sirius and the sudden storm that had destroyed them all. He continued unabated, even as he heard Regulus’s wine goblet clatter to the ground, and as he finished he watched with cold triumph as Regulus stumbled back to sit once more on the low bench.

Hamilcar stayed silent, keeping his gaze firmly on Regulus, studying him, the Roman sitting with his head bowed. Hamilcar knew it would not last. Regulus would lift his head again. He would gather his strength and pride and accuse Hamilcar of deceit and fabrication. It would not matter.

In time he would persuade Regulus of the truth of his report and, although the proconsul would remain a prisoner, he would be treated reasonably, allowing Hamilcar to steadily gain his trust, so that Regulus would accept his proposal – one that he had, after all, already accepted in another form.

Atticus sped on horseback along the Via Aurelia, his chest close to his mount’s crest. Septimus was on his left shoulder, while ahead the
contubernia
of ten mounted soldiers cleared a path with hurried shouts of warning to the human stream that travelled the great north road. Atticus’s mind was on the task ahead, the rapid rhythm of hoof beats on the paving stones aiding his concentration.

The commander at the barracks in Ostia had confirmed the tribune’s assertions. Ostia and Rome were awash with rumours of the fleet’s destruction and two days of un certainty had created a latent panic that was only kept in check by the absence of any firm proof, something Atticus was now going to deliver to the Senate.

The horsemen reached the Servian Wall and sped through the Porta Flumentana, their pace only slowing as they entered the narrow streets. The
insulae
soared above them on either side, while between them Atticus caught glances of the Palatine and Capitoline hills reaching up from the valley floor.

The streets were packed with people moving with intent, and Atticus’s mount snorted anxiously as the crowd pressed in from all sides. Atticus spurred on his horse, ignoring the angry abuse of those he pushed aside. The pedestrians’ temerity in the face of mounted armed men emphasized the confidence every Roman citizen felt in their safety within the walls of the city.

The narrow street soon gave way to the open space of the Forum Magnum, the main Forum, and the horses increased to a canter as they crossed to the northwest corner and the Curia. Atticus and Septimus dismounted and walked quickly up the steps, their eyes raised to the columned entrance above. Atticus paused as he reached the top and looked over his shoulder to the city spread out before him. The air was filled with the constant hum of a bustling population, concealed within the myriad streets. Atticus recalled the last time he had stood on this spot, when those same people had crowded into the Forum below to celebrate the fleet’s first victory at Mylae. He turned and saw Septimus waiting for him. He nodded and they went inside.

The noise of the outside world subsided with every step they took beyond the entrance to the Curia, to be replaced with the drone of voices raised in debate interspersed with calls of agreement and dissent. Atticus paused at the threshold, his gaze sweeping the tiered seating, searching for a familiar face to call attention to his arrival.

The chamber was no more than a third full, with many of the senators leaning into tight circles of private conversation, while others looked to the senator speaking at length at the near side of the room. He was reading from a parchment, his monotone delivery holding the attention of only those closest to him, whose enthusiasm for his words seemed lacklustre at best.

Atticus felt Septimus tap him on the arm, drawing his attention to the podium facing the tiered seating. An old senator was seated beside it, his back straight in the winged chair. His gaze was locked on the speaker. Atticus nodded and walked across the floor, his movement drawing the attention of some of the senators.

The
princeps senatus
looked towards Atticus as he heard the approaching footsteps. He stood up slowly, his expression a mixture of annoyance and curiosity and, as Atticus leaned in to whisper to him, a general murmur began to develop amongst the onlookers, quickly reaching a level that caused the speaker to pause in his oration and look towards the podium.

Atticus gave his message quickly and succinctly, leaving the
princeps senatus
little chance to respond, but the senators closest to the podium noticed the change in the leader’s express ion and their reaction fuelled further speculation that ended all other conversation in the chamber.

Atticus stood upright once more as he finished, and the
princeps senatus
stepped back, his hand reaching for the podium. He moved behind it and the chamber came to order unbidden.

‘This man . . .’ he began, pointing to Atticus and looking to him questioningly, having forgotten his name. After Atticus’s whispered prompt, the older man continued: ‘. . . Prefect Perennis, of Consul Paullus’s fleet, brings news of the gravest import.’

The mention of Paullus brought many of the senators to their feet. They had all heard the rumours and the
princeps senatus
’s demeanour was in itself confirmation. A barrage of questions swept across the chamber. The leader called for order but his frailty, compounded by shock, undermined his attempts, and his words were lost in the maelstrom.

‘Citizens!’

Septimus’s sudden strident call brought quiet to the chamber. Everyone looked to the centurion, his commanding stare holding their attention, drawing out the silence. He nodded to Atticus who turned to address the chamber.

‘Senators, I have come here from Agrigentum to inform you of the destruction of the
Classis Romanus
,’ Atticus began. He outlined the events of the storm, omitting his conversation with Paullus in Aspis but sparing no other detail, including the loss of the
Concordia
with all hands. The senators listened in complete silence, staggered by the disaster. The conclusion of his announcement was met by a deafening roar of questions and lamentations.

The dozens of discussions made individual debate impossible. Atticus remained at the podium, answering questions as they were asked, repeating details of the report a dozen times in as many minutes to senators at opposite ends of the room. Some men rushed from the chamber to seek out absent senators, feeding them the news as they led them back to the Senate. Each new arrival added to the confusion, the noise level growing as the numbers passed two hundred. Atticus could no longer isolate individual voices. The frustration of those who had not heard the report first-hand quickly turned to aggression as their questions were lost in the uproar.