Captain of Rome (11 page)

‘So? What has that to do with us?’

‘My family have never been part of the Senate,’ Septimus said, ‘but every Roman knows how the Senate works, how the system works. Varro’s version of events has to be the first to be heard. It’s the only way he can control the Senate’s reaction. He’ll have to stick close to the truth but the bias he uses, the slant he puts on the events will be all important. His version has got to show him in the best light.’

‘So he can’t have us wandering around telling everyone our version of the defeat before he gets a chance to deliver the news his way,’ Atticus concluded.

‘Exactly,’ Septimus nodded.

Atticus was silent for a couple of minutes as his mind dwelled on the other issue. ‘So with Varro embroiled in all this political trouble, you think I’m off the hook,’ he said.

‘That’s not what I said,’ Septimus replied, ‘I said there’ll be no formal charges, but there’s no way Varro will forget or forgive what’s happened. Would you?’

Atticus shook his head. Not a chance. He turned to the window once more, propping his chin on his forearms again
as he gazed over the twilight lit courtyard. Tomorrow’s dawn would see Varro fighting the political battle of his life and for one day more Atticus knew he would be forgotten. Beyond that it was only a matter of time.

B
elus stood with his sword drawn but the blade hung loose by his side, his shield similarly lowered, strapped to his left forearm. He was breathing deeply, his chest heaving beneath the metal breastplate of his armour. The armour was heavily scored and Belus winced slightly as he felt the bruise swell on his chest beneath the mark. It had been a good strike, and if he had not being wearing armour, as so few were on the pirate galley, he would surely be dead. Instead his attacker lay slain at his feet, his final expression of violent aggression forever etched on his face.

Belus stepped over the body, and then many more as he made his way aft where Narmer, the pirate captain, was ordering his men to assemble the surviving crew of the Roman trading galley. The Roman merchantmen had fought like demons, like men possessed, like men who knew that death walked amongst them and that none would be spared. It created an intensity to fighting that Belus had never experienced before, even at Mylae, where his own ship had survived a full assault against the Roman legionaries because of his men’s sheer refusal to yield. Belus had now fought in five of these pirate attacks and he was yet to get used to the level of ferocity that marred each encounter.

Belus sheathed his sword as he reached the confluence of men on the main deck. The pirates had circled the disarmed survivors, like a pack of baying wolves, their bloody swords still drawn and charged against the doomed Romans. Belus felt a sting of shame as he watched the spectacle, his honour sullied by the barbarity. In his fifteen years as a captain of a Carthaginian trireme he had always held to the code his father had taught him. The enemy were to be fought until beaten but quarter should be given to those who surrender. On board his own galley these captured Romans would already be in irons, chained to an oar for their eternity. Here their lives were forfeit, a crime against honour he had been ordered to commit and one the pirates did not pause to perpetrate.

Suddenly one of the Romans bolted for the side-rail, a headlong rush, his shoulder lowered in an attempt to break through the circle. The pirate he aimed for sidestepped the charge and swung his drawn blade under the Romans shoulder, slicing clean into the man’s exposed side. The Roman fell with a cry of pain and the pirate instantly spun around, slashing his sword down in a blur of movement, slicing through the Roman’s neck, killing him instantly. The rest of the pirates roared as their blood lust was enflamed once more and they instinctively began to edge forward against the remaining terrified Romans.

‘Enough!’ Belus shouted, causing some of the pirates to hesitate, while others continued, oblivious to the Carthaginian’s orders. One of the pirates darted the tip of his sword forward, striking one of the Romans on his thigh and the man screamed in pain, his leg buckling beneath him. His crewmates grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him back, the circle ever collapsing, their line of retreat nonexistent.

‘Captain!’ Belus shouted, looking directly at Narmer. ‘Tell your men that’s enough!’

Narmer looked over his shoulder at the Carthaginian, a look of disdain on his face. He turned around once more, watching his men as they continued to close the vice, the bloodlust in his veins calling for slaughter, sick of the game this Carthaginian was making him play. Another Roman was struck and the pirates laughed as the terrified men finally ran out of room, squeezed into a pitiful huddle, their arms outstretched in a plea for mercy. Narmer felt the men around him ready themselves to surge forward and for a second he craved to issue the order to release them, to finish the fight as they always had, always, that was, until he made a deal with the Carthaginians.

‘Hold!’ he shouted, rage in his voice. For a heartbeat the men wavered and Narmer felt their hesitation. He whipped his sword down on the outstretched blades of the two men to his right, the unexpected strike knocking the swords from their hands. ‘I said enough!’ he roared.

His men backed off, anger in their expressions although Narmer immediately noticed that a few men now had a look of malicious expectation on their faces. He smiled inwardly. They knew what was coming next, and for these men, it was a lot more enjoyable than simply putting a crew to the sword. He turned once more to the Carthaginian.

‘You would do well, Belus,’ he growled, charging his sword forward, its tip just beneath the Carthaginian’s neck, ‘to remember that this is my ship and I give the orders here.’

‘And you should remember,’ Belus spat in reply, ‘that you are in the paid service of the Carthaginian Empire and you will follow my instructions or forfeit the gold you have been promised upon our return to Tyndaris.’

Narmer lowered his sword and turned his head, spitting
onto the dead body of the Roman at his feet. Belus ignored the insult.

‘Now finish your work here,’ he ordered. ‘Find out what you can from these prisoners and then fire the ship.’

Narmer snorted in derision but issued the orders, glancing at Belus one last time before turning his anger towards the remaining crew of the Roman ship.

Varro felt a trickle of sweat run down his back beneath his tunic as arguments and accusations raged across the senate floor around him. Only moments before he had stood down from the podium, his carefully prepared speech still clenched in his left hand. He had been unable to finish it, his announcement mid-way through of the defeat at Thermae stifling all attempts to continue, the Senate erupting into a wall of sound. His eyes darted left and right, searching for his father amongst the three hundred white robed senators. He was seated near the centre, beside Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, the two men deep in conversation.

Suddenly, as if he knew he was being watched, Scipio turned to face Varro, the young commander holding the former consul’s gaze for a minute before its intensity caused him to turn away. When he looked back Scipio was once more engrossed in conversation.

His father’s censure, spoken so vehemently the night before, flooded back into Varro’s mind and he tried to block the memory, the shame, the look of disgust on his father’s face. He had not told him of the Greek captain’s attack and had thereafter vowed to keep the event to himself, knowing his father’s censure would run deeper if he knew his son had not immediately challenged his attacker. Afterwards Varro had sat in silence as his father dictated the speech he now held in his
hand, the carefully chosen words that had been cut off by the uproar of the senate. Varro had tried to reassert control, tried to shout the senators down in an effort to finish his account, the skilled trap, the impossibility of perceiving the threat, his selfless actions and courage that saved the
hastati
of the Ninth, but it was for naught.

The reverberating sound of a gavel brought the Senate back to some semblance of order and all eyes turned to the podium. The speaker of the house stood tall at the rostrum, patiently hammering the gavel until he judged he could be heard.

‘In light of the news delivered by Titus Aurelius Varro!’ he announced. ‘The Senate will recess for one hour!’

Varro stepped back to allow many of the Senators to sweep past him on their way out of the chamber, purposefully avoiding the accusatory and derisive looks that shamed him. Again he searched for his father, spotting him once again with Scipio as both men made their way towards the exit. Varro cut across the flow of the crowd, the men before making no effort to step aside and ease his passage while twenty feet away he saw his father enter a small ante-chamber adjacent to the main exit.

‘It is out of my hands, Calvus,’ Scipio said, his face a mask of empathy while inside he secretly rejoiced at the humbling of such a powerful magistrate. ‘The fate of your son is in the hand of the senior consul. He is the supreme commander.’

‘I am not blind, Gnaeus,’ Calvus replied. ‘It is widely suspected that you were the driving force behind the election of Regulus.’

Scipio smiled inwardly, happy that the well chosen rumours he had circulated regarding his secret alliance with Regulus were already filtering through to the right ears.

‘I cannot comment on wild rumour, Calvus,’ Scipio said,
allowing a half smile to creep across his face, ‘but it is true that Regulus and I have a long-standing friendship. It
may
be possible to speak to him on your son’s behalf.’

Calvus signed inwardly. Scipio was one of the most cunning men he had ever encountered in the Senate and like many others, he had secretly celebrated Scipio’s humiliation at Lipara, glad to see his power curtailed. Now, however, it would seem the Hydra-headed former consul was once more entwined in the inner circle of power and Calvus knew the price to save his son would dwarf even the fortune he had paid to ensure his son’s commission in the first place.

A knock on the door interrupted both men and they turned to see the young commander enter.

‘Ah, Titus Aurelius Varro,’ Scipio said, his false friendliness fooling the son if not the father, ‘we were just discussing you.’

Varro coloured at implication and he closed the door behind him, the heavy oak muting the sounds of conversation outside.

‘Senator Scipio,’ Varro said stepping forward, keeping his tone easy, a smile on his face. ‘My father has spoken of you many times. I am pleased to finally meet you in person.’

Scipio took the proffered hand, his own smile genial, a carefully constructed mask.

‘And I you, young Varro,’ he replied, ‘although I’m sure you would wish the circumstances were different.’

Again Varro coloured but with effort he retained his smile.

‘As a man who has suffered a similar fate at the hands of the Carthaginians,’ Varro said gravely, ‘I know I can count on your understanding in this matter.’

The smile evaporated from Scipio’s face in an instant, to be replaced by a withering stare of contempt.

‘Do not speak as if we are equals, boy,’ he growled. ‘My
capture at Lipara was the result of a treacherous plot by the enemy. Your defeat was due to sheer incompetence.’

Varro was shocked by the sudden anger from Scipio and for a moment he was speechless. His father bristled inwardly, cursing his son and his inept approach. Scipio already held all the cards and could command any price. If he became hostile however, that price would increase exponentially.

‘My son is clumsy, Senator,’ Calvus said, stepping forward. ‘What he meant to say was; as Romans we all share the sting of defeat.’

Scipio snorted, his gaze never leaving Varro, his anger commanding him to throw the fool to the wolves. Slowly, however, his rational mind forced him to focus.

‘Of course,’ he said, the smile returning to his face although it did not reach his cold eyes.

Varro stepped forward again, his own anger rising at his father’s dismissal, the need to defend himself overwhelming.

‘I am a legionary, Senator Scipio,’ he said, ‘not a sailor. You are right to say that my defeat was due to incompetence, but it was not my incompetence, it was the fault of my captain, the man who should have perceived the threat and advised me, Atticus Milonius Perennis.’

Calvus was shocked by his son’s announcement and again he burned with shame. It was unseemly for a commander to blame his subordinates and he turned to Scipio once more, expecting the senator to berate his son for such a blatant attempt to shift the blame. He was surprised however when Scipio’s expression seemed to show understanding.

‘Perennis,’ Scipio said slowly, allowing the name to hang in the air for a moment. ‘He was captain of your flagship?’

‘At Consul Duilius’s insistence,’ Varro interjected although the truth was that Varro had chosen Atticus without intervention.

Scipio nodded once more. Perennis was still under the tacit protection of Duilius and as a hero of Mylae, he was near untouchable in Rome. Away from the city he was out of Scipio’s immediate reach but also Duilius’s protection and so for months Scipio had being trying to devise a way to eradicate the man who had sullied his honour, while remaining above suspicion. Varro could be just the puppet he was seeking. He decided to test the depths of the young man’s belligerence.

‘But Perennis captained the flagship to victory at Mylae,’ Scipio said, his advocacy of Perennis like bile in his throat. ‘Surely he is more than capable.’

‘Perhaps he is, Senator,’ Varro replied, committing himself to speak aloud the words that would strengthen his case. ‘But we must remember he is a Greek and has no vested interest in the fate of the Roman fleet.’

‘You question his loyalty?’ Scipio asked, his excitement rising as he sensed the hatred of the younger man.

‘I question where his loyalty lies,’ Varro replied, his half-truths taking on a life of their own.

‘Very well,’ Scipio said, satisfied. ‘Leave us now, young Varro. I must speak with your father alone.’

Varro stood to attention and saluted, believing firmly that he had found an ally in the senator. He left the room without another word.

Scipio watched him go, his mind racing as his previous plans were discarded and new ones began to formulate. He had been content to protect Varro to place his father in debt to him but the young man had put Scipio within reach of an even greater prize and it took all of his self control to keep the look of triumph from his face. He turned once more to the elder Varro, his outer consciousness listening once more to the man’s renewed supplication, his expression fixed
to show only indulgence while inwardly a malicious pleasure grew. He had already enacted a measure of revenge against Duilius. Now, however, with the unwitting assistance of Varro, he was ready to strike at the other man who had stolen so much from him.

Atticus sat up on his cot as he heard the key turn in the lock’s brass housing. He glanced over his shoulder to the window of his cell. It was dark outside with a light breeze herding low clouds across the sky, their passing obscuring and revealing the pale light of the rising crescent moon. As he turned back to the door he caught Septimus’s eye. The centurion was also rising from his cot, his puzzled expression answering Atticus’s unasked question. They had been in the cell now for nearly thirty-six hours and while food had been delivered at regular intervals by slaves, they had had no other contact with the world outside.