Captain of Rome (13 page)

Atticus quickly sidestepped as a runner brushed passed him, knocking into another man as he did, invoking a murmured curse from the irate Roman. The press of the jostling crowd was increasing with every passing second and Atticus could remain stationary no longer. He squared his shoulders and pressed forward, smiling as he thought of how Gaius manoeuvred the
Aquila
through even the most crowded harbours with ease, wondering what the Calabrian helmsman would make of the teeming streets of Rome.

Climbing the gentle slope of the hill, Atticus spotted his marker on the right, a tavern, and his eyes instantly shot to the other side of the street, to the austere walls of the house of Hadria’s aunt. He stepped to the left side of the street and ran his hand along the burnt brick wall, feeling the texture until it gave way to the iron-studded door that marked the centre of the wall. He paused for a second. It had been nearly three months since he stood on this spot and he savoured the anticipation of the moment. He knocked and stood back.
The door opened and he was admitted, the servant scurrying off to fetch her mistress the moment she recognised the Greek captain, Atticus following at a slower pace, finding his way into the atrium, pausing there to wait.

The radiance of the morning sun had begun to fill the open-roofed atrium, illuminating the colonnaded path surrounding the tranquil pool at its centre. Atticus watched the pool in silence, forgetting the last remnants of the sounds that had dominated the streets outside, and he slowly became aware of the near silence of the house. Then he heard it, the sound at first hidden beneath the soothing trickle and murmur of the water. It was music, the gentle notes created by a lyre, its resonance so subtle and hypnotic that for a full minute Atticus was lost in its spell, his excitement overcome by an enormous sense of well-being.

Suddenly, in contrast to its stealthy arrival, the music stopped, to be replaced seconds later by the sound of approaching footsteps, light and fast, a creature in near flight and Atticus turned to its source with a smile on his face. Hadria burst into view around the far corner of the atrium, her run coming to a stop within three paces and she stood suddenly still, her chest heaving under her unadorned tunic, exertion and emotion combining to take her breath away. Atticus studied her face, drinking in the sight; her sun-bleached light brown hair and sea-grey eyes, her vivacity that seemed to charge the still air until her presence filled the entire atrium. He took a half step forward and the movement spurred her to full flight, her agility covering the space between them in the time it took Atticus to stretch out his arms. She leapt into them and they embraced, speechless in the intensity of the moment, and he reached down to kiss her, the softness of her mouth at odds with the firm contours of her young body. They drew apart and stood locked in each others’ gaze; the
profound silence between them an extension of their time spent apart, their unspoken emotions implicit. They took each other’s hand and Hadria led the way to her bedroom, quietly closing the door behind them, their restraint immediately abandoned in a rush to rediscover each other.

H
amilcar stood on the bow of the
Alissar
as his flagship entered the chaotic harbour of Syracuse on the south-eastern corner of Sicily, his hand gripping the side-rail for balance, the tunic beneath his leather chest-plate soaked by sea spray thrown up as the galley’s ram butted through the off-shore driven waves. He looked over his shoulder to the rigging of the mainmast, his eyes darting from one lookout to the next, judging the body language of each, sensing their tension but perceiving little else. He turned to the waters ahead once more, his ears picking up the cries of warning on the wind as his warship was spotted by the outermost trading galleys in the harbour.

Hamilcar ignored the sailing ships as they turned ponderously before the
Alissar
, their captains judging the course of the dark hulled galley, the blunt-nosed ram pointing directly for the centre of the harbour. Instead he looked beneath and between their sails, searching for the arrow-like lines of galleys that sped under oars, spotting a couple skimming the wave-tops as they too gave way before the Carthaginian quinquereme. They were biremes, almost certainly trading vessels but Hamilcar scrutinised each in turn to be sure.

‘Trireme! Two points off the starboard quarter!’

Hamilcar’s gaze darted to the shouted co-ordinates, cursing the fat-bellied ships that obscured his line of sight. He spotted the trireme and he instantly felt his heart rate quicken. Was she a warship? He couldn’t tell. The angle of sight was wrong, too deep, and the banners on the galley’s main mast were indistinguishable from the multitude bedecking every ship in the harbour. He turned once more to the look-outs, trusting their younger eyes and elevated line of sight. He saw the face of one burst into a smile, followed instantly by another.

‘She’s one of ours!’ the lookout called. ‘A trader!’

Hamilcar spun around again, waiting impatiently as the progress of the
Alissar
improved the angle of sight. He smiled as he confirmed the identification with his own eyes. A trading trireme. His relief made him laugh out loud. Only a Carthaginian would turn a galley that size into a trading ship. She was probably ex-military, stripped and sold at auction after it was deemed her aging timbers were no longer strong enough for battle conditions.

Hamilcar again considered the wisdom of this unannounced visit to Syracuse. The province was openly allied to Rome, a treaty signed after the Romans defeated the Syracusans three years before at the beginning of the war. Rome had been lenient in her terms, the escalation of the conflict with Carthage drawing her attention to the western half of Sicily and so they merely commanded King Hiero to confine his army within the borders of the Syracuse and provide anchorage for Roman ships when required. It was for this reason that Hamilcar had known his arrival was a significant gamble. If the trireme had indeed been a Roman warship, the
Alissar
would have taken her easily, but Hamilcar could not afford to compromise Hiero’s relationship with the Romans by destroying one of their ships in Syracuse harbour, not now that secrecy had become paramount.

The
Alissar
moved quickly through the cluttered harbour, the clear path created for her speeding her approach and Hamilcar smiled once more as his crew shouted acknowledgments to the Carthaginian crews of many of the trading vessels. The island of Sicily was a battlefield, but Syracuse remained an open port and trade recognised few boundaries, certainly not in a port that sat astride one of the busiest eastwest trading routes. The
Alissar
docked quickly and Hamilcar strode down the gang-plank with a guard detail of four men. He ordered his galley to take station in the outer harbour and she was instantly away, her balanced hull turning within a ship-length, her two hundred and seventy oars striking and churning the waters as one.

Hamilcar walked quickly along the dockside, his guard detail ever vigilant behind him, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Hamilcar spotted a Roman trading ship unloading ahead and he swept her deck with his eyes before spotting the captain on the aft-deck. The Roman had obviously seen the
Alissar
dock and Hamilcar knew his every step was now being watched surreptitiously. He returned the scrutiny balefully and he smiled inwardly as the Roman turned away. Hamilcar knew the Roman would report the sighting but he was unconcerned. It would be days before news reached Rome and a single Carthaginian galley in Syracuse was hardly cause for significant suspicion.

Hamilcar and his men left the busy docks and threaded their way through the labyrinthine streets, the soaring battlements of Hiero’s castle guiding them unerringly to their destination. The streets opened out into a large square directly before the guarded entrance to the castle and Hamilcar took the opportunity to study the east facing wall of the castle, as his first visit here over two months before had been at night. The castle was uncomplicated, a square fortification with
watchtowers on each corner and Hamilcar nodded at the wisdom of its design, his military mind searching the thirty foot high sheer walls for weakness and finding none.

The Carthaginians crossed the square diagonally and their obvious military bearing ensured that their every step was watched with interest from the battlements above. Hamilcar approached the guards at the gate and spoke to them brusquely, requesting a word with the officer of the day. The officer arrived promptly and Hamilcar identified himself, requesting an immediate audience with the king. The Carthaginians were escorted to the guard-house and the officer disappeared to return within five minutes with permission for Hamilcar to proceed alone to the audience chamber.

Hamilcar glanced left and right as he climbed ever higher and deeper into the castle, the guards preceding him moving quickly, sensing the importance of the Carthaginian commander who had been granted an immediate audience with their king. Every junction and landing was guarded but Hamilcar and his escort moved through them without check until finally they came to the ornate outer doors of the king’s chamber. The doors opened without command and the escort peeled off to allow Hamilcar to proceed alone along the carpeted approach to the king.

The chamber had a vaulted ceiling supported by a complex series of beams, held aloft by flanking columns that ran the length of the rectangular room and Hamilcar’s eyes were drawn instinctively upward. He lowered his eyes and looked directly to the head of the room. Hiero was seated on a low stool on a raised platform, an adviser sitting on a cushion directly to his left while a detachment of royal guards stood unmoved six feet behind the king. The area was strewn with many more cushions and Hamilcar had a feeling that they had been occupied only moments before, his announced
arrival prompting Hiero to clear the chamber. A wise move considering what was going to be discussed.

Hamilcar stopped a discreet distance from the raised platform and bowed his head in respect, his eyes remaining on the king’s, searching for any clue to Hiero’s thoughts but the king’s expression was unreadable. Hamilcar straightened up and waited to be spoken to.

‘You are welcome, young Barca,’ Hiero said.

‘Thank you, sire!’ Hamilcar replied, smiling inwardly. The king was no older than himself, perhaps even a year or two younger, but Hamilcar conceded that if achievement was the mark of a man’s age, then Hiero was indeed a lifetime older.

‘You wished to speak with me?’ Hiero continued.

‘Yes, sire, I wished to inform you of my plans personally.’

Hiero’s adviser rose promptly and whispered something in the king’s ear. Hiero nodded his agreement before signaling Hamilcar to continue.

‘As you may know, sire,’ Hamilcar began, ‘my forces have turned the tide once more in Carthage’s favour with a victory at Thermae.’

‘Not as complete a victory as you might have wished,’ Hiero said, studying the Carthaginian commander’s reaction. ‘I understand many of the Roman galleys escaped.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Hamilcar countered, retaining his composure, ‘victory was secured and I am now in a position to advance my army eastwards.’

‘How far east?’ Hiero asked, sitting straighter on his chair.

‘To the borders of Syracuse, sire, in order to split the Romans’ territory in two.’

Hiero nodded, appreciating the audacity of the plan, his mind’s eye creating the map of Sicily, the west held by the Carthaginians, the east the domain Syracuse, the Roman territory dividing them both through the centre of the island.

‘You risk a great deal by revealing your plans to me, Barca,’ the king said after a pause, a smile on his face.

‘No more than you have already risked, sire, by allowing my ships to use Tyndaris in defiance of your treaty with Rome.’

Hiero’s smile broadened. He liked the Carthaginian’s confidence. It matched his own. He had granted Hamilcar the use of Tyndaris because the outcome of the war was still very much in the balance and he wanted the eventual victor, whomever that was, to remember Syracuse as an ally.

‘Nevertheless, why reveal your plans to me?’ he asked.

‘Because when my army reaches your border, there is an opportunity for Syracuse to throw off the shackles of Rome and form an open alliance with Carthage.’

‘To jump from the mouth of one baying wolf to another?’ Hiero asked.

‘Carthage has long been a friend of Syracuse, sire. We are very much alike. We seek only peaceful trade, not submission and dominance as Rome demands.’

Hiero nodded, searching the Carthaginian’s words for the real truth. His adviser rose once more to whisper into his ear.

Hamilcar waited in silence, cursing anew the need to reveal his strategy so soon to Hiero, a premature disclosure caused by Hanno’s plans to stifle the war in Sicily, the victory required by his father needed sooner rather than later.

‘And what of Tyndaris?’ Hiero asked. ‘I hear rumours that Carthage is employing the services of pirates in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the west coast of Italy.’

Hamilcar cursed inwardly. The king was too well informed. ‘Not pirates, sire, mercenaries, who are familiar with the territorial waters of Rome.’

The king nodded, a sly smile spreading across his face. ‘There is a thin line Barca,’ he said, ‘between pirates and mercenaries.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Hiero’s expression changed, becoming firm once more, an edge to his voice. ‘I trust you are taking every precaution to ensure the Romans do not become aware of your activities, and my involvement.’

‘Rest assured, sire, the mercenaries are acting under the strict command of one of my finest officers and his orders are to leave no witnesses.’

Hiero nodded again. The Carthaginian’s assurances were hollow and he knew it was only a matter of time before the secret of Tyndaris was exposed. Nevertheless he still believed his decision was sound—if the Carthaginians had indeed turned the tide of the war.

‘Very well, Barca,’ he said, ‘I will follow your campaign closely and if and when the time is right, my army will be committed to yours.’

Hamilcar bowed and began to slowly walk backward, keeping his head low. When he had retreated twenty paces he straightened up and turned, keeping his back straight as the doors leading from the chamber were opened once more. He passed through them and as he heard them close he halted, looking over his shoulder at the intricate designs on the door, the Greek iconography the spoke to the ancestral home of Hiero and his people. ‘If and when the time is right,’ the king had said and Hamilcar bridled at the failsafe approach that Hiero had adopted, the non-committal that placed the entire onus on the forces of Carthage. Succeed and Syracuse would become an open ally. Fail and Hiero could safely deny any pact ever existed.

Hamilcar’s escort returned to lead him once more to the gate of the castle and he fell in behind them. He straightened his shoulders as he walked, his hand reaching for and grasping the hilt of his sword, flexing his fingers as he took a firm grip on the moulded ivory handle. To his front the Roman enemy
stood, bloodied but by no means beaten. To his rear the cautious men of Carthage and Syracuse stood, demanding victory before committing fully to the war. Hamilcar and his men stood in the middle, defiant and confident; their only ally the sword and shield and Hamilcar increased the intensity of his grip at the thought, matching his will to the forged iron of his blade.

Hadria allowed her hand to drift slowly down Atticus’s chest as he talked, her fingers tracing the contours of his flesh, brushing lightly over the creased skin of his scars, fascinated by them, wishing to know the story behind each one. Atticus lay on his back with one arm propped under his head, his eyes turned up to the ceiling as he relayed the events of the past three months in answer to her open questions, his voice unnaturally low in the privacy of Hadria’s bedroom. Hadria lay on her side, her leg thrown across Atticus, the gentle curve of her thigh pressing lightly on him, her head resting on her upper arm. Outside the sun was reaching its zenith and the dead heat of the late summer draped the room in a sullen shroud of warmth, sustaining a sheen of sweat on the lovers’ bodies.

Atticus spoke of Thermae but he did not mention his confrontation with Varro, not wanting to alarm Hadria. Finally he spoke of the journey to Rome and their rescue of the survivor from the
Fides
, his brow creasing anew as the logic of the pirates’ tactics continued to baffle him.

‘And what of Septimus?’ Hadria asked as Atticus finished. ‘Has he mentioned me to you?’

‘He only came back on board the
Aquila
at Thermae,’ Atticus replied. ‘We’ve not spoken of you since our quarrel months ago outside the walls of Rome.’

Hadria’s expression creased into a slight frown. ‘We must tell him of our love,’ she said.

Atticus turned over to face her, resting his hand on her cheek.

‘Many of the servants here are from my father’s household,’ she continued. ‘They move back and forth between the two houses and are bound to discuss this. It is only a matter of time before a loose word is overheard by one of my family.’