Captain of Rome (14 page)

Atticus nodded, knowing the inevitable confrontation with Septimus would have to be faced sooner rather than later, their reunion at Thermae putting them once more at close quarters.

‘I will speak with him,’ Atticus said.

‘No,’ Hadria replied. ‘It must come from me; he must know how I feel.’

Again Atticus nodded, searching his own feelings. Hadria believed Septimus’s disapproval of Atticus as his sister’s suitor was in response to the loss of Hadria’s first husband and Septimus’s best friend in battle and that he wished to spare his sister, and perhaps himself, the pain of that loss again. Atticus had understood Hadria’s reasoning but he found he could not abandon the last vestiges of his own initial reaction, that Septimus disapproved because Atticus was Greek and beneath consideration as a match for Hadria. He knew it was a misplaced accusation and yet he had encountered prejudice so often before from many other Romans that his misgivings were hard to ignore.

A gentle knock on the door shattered the privacy of their world and Hadria leapt from the bed, her beauty pronounced by her nakedness and Atticus smiled anew.

‘My Aunt!’ Hadria gasped, fearing the worst as she shrugged on a tunic. ‘She was supposed to be out all day.’

Atticus shared Hadria’s alarm and quickly covered up. To be discovered now, on the cusp of revealing their relationship, would immeasurably compromise them both and he
cursed Fortuna for her capricious nature. Hadria opened the door an inch and peered out, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she was confronted by one of the house servants. Atticus listened to the muted announcement, unable to discern the details. Hadria pushed the door closed and turned to him, her face a mixture of happiness and regret.

‘A messenger,’ she said, ‘from my father’s house. Septimus has returned and I am to go there at once.’

Antoninus Laetonius Capito stood tall at the head of the family room, his hand unconsciously fingering the vicious scar that marred the left side of his face. Septimus sat opposite him, a goblet of wine in his hand, the cushions beside him still crumpled from where his mother, Salonina, had sat only moments before, his forearm still sensing where her hand had pressed against his skin, a touch that confirmed to herself that her son had returned safely.

Antoninus began to pace, his movements slow but fluid, his gaze still the authoritarian stare of a centurion of the Ninth legion. In a low and hoarse voice, he began to question Septimus on the details of the battle of Thermae, his enquiries sharp and incisive, his military mind recreating the conflict in sharp detail.

‘Megellus is a fool,’ he said after Septimus had concluded, ‘he should have held firm in open ground rather than hamstrung his command in the narrow streets.’

‘The Carthaginian cavalry numbered near a thousand,’ Septimus replied, protest in his voice, ‘and the Ninth was under-strength.’

‘Your time in the marines has softened you, boy,’ Antoninus snorted derisively. ‘You’ve forgotten the true mettle of a legion. By Mars, my maniple would have stood.’

‘Then your maniple would have been slaughtered,’ Septimus
spat back, weary of his father’s dismissive attitude towards the marines.

‘And you managed to escape by sea?’ There was a half look of disdain on Antoninus’s face.

‘My duty is to lead my men on board the
Aquila.
’

‘Your duty, as was mine, should be with the Ninth,’ Antoninus said, standing rigidly across from his son, his scar vividly white on his coloured face. ‘Where is your honour?’ he growled.

Septimus shot up, his knuckles white around the goblet in his hand, his temper rising as he held his father’s iron gaze.

‘I am a centurion and my honour is beyond question,’ he said, taking a half-step forward, his hand trembling and the muscles in his arm tensing, ready to be unleashed.

Antoninus saw Septimus’s stance and thanked Jupiter his son was unarmed. The boy was certainly a wild one and his ferocity seemed to be barely in check. For the first time Antoninus wondered what kind of a centurion his son was and a half-smile crept across his face as he answered his own question.

Suddenly Salonina entered the room, stopping short as she noticed the charged atmosphere, the aggressive stance of both men, and she shot a look to her husband who faced her, knowing he had goaded Septimus, that he had given voice to the disappointment he had often spoken to her about. She suppressed her censure and looked to her son.

‘Septimus,’ she said, a forced smile on her face, ‘Hadria has arrived.’

Septimus shot around at his mother’s voice, her tone breaking the spell of his temper. His mind replayed the words she had just spoken and his anger evaporated further. He turned his back on his father and looked to the entrance. Hadria strode in, her cheeks flushed in her haste and she stood
smiling for a second before embracing her brother. Salonina beckoned towards the couches and they moved to sit down, Hadria immediately noticing the tension between her father and Septimus.

The conversation turned towards lighter subjects under Salonina’s diplomatic touch and soon all were at ease, the news of Septimus’s absent brothers, Tiberius and Claudius, taking centre stage. Both were traders and between them they controlled the bulk of the family’s wealth, an estate that had increased with the escalation of the war in Sicily, the demand for raw materials for ship building creating opportunities unseen in a generation.

‘When will you sail again?’ Hadria asked, wondering how long Atticus would be in Rome.

‘I don’t know,’ Septimus replied, telling them of their arrival in Ostia, the seizure of the
Aquila
and their forced confinement in the barracks pending Varro’s report to the Senate. They had been released only that very morning and Septimus had immediately ordered the crew and his men to proceed to Fiumicino.

‘And you did not go with them?’ Antoninus asked instinctively. A commander’s place was with his men.

‘No, father,’ Septimus replied, and he quickly told them how Atticus had been taken from his cell the night before, his escort unidentified and his whereabouts now unknown. ‘It’s possible he has been taken under guard by Varro,’ Septimus concluded, his concern evident to all.

‘No, he…’ Hadria spoke without thinking, impulsively wishing to allay her brother’s fears.

‘I mean, I’m sure he…,’ she continued, her mind racing. ‘Why would Varro take him under guard?’

Septimus explained about Atticus’s confrontation with Varro at Thermae, his own expression now puzzled as he
thought about Hadria’s initial reaction. Hadria’s own face showed nothing but mounting anxiety at the danger Atticus was in, a danger he had kept from her. As Septimus concluded he stood once more as he suddenly understood what Hadria had meant to say.

‘I must go,’ he said, his family rising with him.

‘Where to?’ his father asked.

‘I must find Atticus, although I now believe I know where he is.’ Septimus touched his mother lightly on the forearm as he brushed past her, his determined stride taking him out of the room without a backward glance at Hadria or his father. Hadria ran after him, catching him as he stood in the atrium, buckling his scabbard, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

‘Septimus,’ she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘I must speak with you.’

‘You were with him last night,’ Septimus said as he spun around, his expression furious.

‘Yes,’ Hadria replied quickly. ‘It was Duilius who summoned Atticus from Ostia. He was told the rest of his crew was being released this morning so he came to see me.’

‘To
see
you,’ Septimus said scornfully. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘We are in love,’ Hadria shot back, suddenly angry at Septimus’s debasement of their relationship.

Septimus was shocked by Hadria’s pronouncement. He hadn’t realised their relationship was so far advanced. ‘He has betrayed me,’ he countered. ‘I told him not to pursue you.’

‘You had no right to do that, Septimus. Atticus is not beholden to you and neither am I.’

‘We’ll see,’ Septimus said and strode out into the courtyard, mounting his borrowed horse in one effortless movement. He galloped out the main gate without another word, scattering
the people before him on the street, their angry cries drowning Hadria’s calls for Septimus to come back.

Varro steeled his nerve as he reached for the handle of the door leading to the senior consul’s chamber adjacent to the Curia. With grim satisfaction he noticed his hand was steady and he clenched and unclenched his fist a number of times, a simple distraction that helped calm him further. He had not talked to his father since he last saw him with Scipio the day before, the Senate reconvening soon after and his father not returning to the house that evening. The summons had then arrived at dawn, commanding Varro to attend Regulus’s private room, forestalling any chance to confer with his father, to learn the outcome of his intercession.

Varro entered the consul’s chamber with a determined stride but he instantly faltered, his step interrupted as his gaze was drawn upward towards the domed ceiling and the play of the late sunlight through the vaulted oculus, creating an uneven ellipse that tracked across the room with the passing of the day. The chamber was a perfect circle, an anomaly amongst the other ante-chambers of the Curia, all of which were square or rectangular and Varro felt overwhelmed by the impression that he had indeed stepped into the inner sanctum of power in Rome.

The tribune regained his wits and looked to the centre of the chamber where a massive marble-topped table dominated. Behind it sat Regulus, leaning forward with his palms spread flat on the featureless surface while behind him, by his left shoulder, stood Scipio, his sharp aquiline features accentuated by the light overhead. Varro strode to a point three feet short of the table and stood to attention, saluting with regulation exactness, his eyes staring at a point two inches above the seated consul’s head.

‘Titus Aurelius Varro reporting as ordered, Consul,’ he said, his voice shattering the temple-like silence of the chamber.

‘Varro,’ Regulus said, suddenly standing, his voice laced with disapproval. As the consul moved to his right, Varro quickly darted his eyes to Scipio, hoping to see some expression of confederacy, some sign of alliance after the meeting with his father but Scipio’s gaze was locked on Regulus.

Varro looked ahead as the senior consul continued. ‘All afternoon yesterday, Varro,’ he said, ‘I listened to many voices in the Senate, each one more condemnatory than the last.’

Varro maintained his gaze on the wall ahead, trying to ignore the words, focusing only on the decision of his fate. Regulus continued to circle the room, until he stood directly behind the tribune. ‘Throughout that debate however,’ he said, ‘I knew only one voice could determine your future…mine.’

Regulus paused for a minute, the heavy silence reasserting itself until Varro could hear only his own breathing.

The consul sat down, his hooded eyes looking up at the stoic tribune. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded and Varro dropped his gaze to meet Regulus’s.

‘You have failed Rome,’ Regulus said, his voice once more laced with censure, ‘and for that you must be punished. Therefore you are hereby stripped of all rank and privileges and are ordered to report to the Fourth Legion stationed in Felsina. There you will serve out your sinecure as a legionary.’

Varro’s expression glazed over as the full import of this sentence struck home through his mounting despair. Felsina was at the northern frontier of the Republic, a constant battleground where Gallic clans continually challenged the boundaries of Rome. The legion stationed there, the Fourth, was the toughest in the Republic, but it was also the legion with the lowest life expectancy. As a disgraced tribune, marked
as an aberration amongst the proud legionaries, his life would be measured in weeks, whether he met the enemy in battle or not.

‘You are dismissed!’ Regulus said.

With enormous willpower Varro drew himself to full height and saluted once more. He spun on his heel and exited the room.

‘There is another option, Regulus,’ Scipio said as the tribune’s footsteps faded behind the door. He walked slowly around the table until he faced the consul. Regulus raised his eyebrows in question.

‘You could spare Varro a full censure,’ Scipio said.

‘Spare him?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘Impossible. He must be held accountable.’

‘But to what degree?’ Scipio said, beginning his carefully prepared argument. ‘I have heard reports from the battle that suggest that he does not bear full responsibility for the defeat.’

‘Of course he does,’ Regulus said dismissively. ‘He commanded the fleet.’

‘But there are reports of dereliction of duty that undermined his command.’

‘Against whom?’ Regulus asked, searching Scipio’s expression for signs of deception, remaining guarded though he found none.

‘Captain Perennis of the
Aquila
,’ Scipio said.

‘Perennis, Duilius’s captain at Mylae?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘Who makes such allegations?’

‘I cannot reveal my sources,’ Scipio said, beginning once again to pace the room. ‘Suffice it to say they are beyond question and it now seems clear that Varro was not entirely to blame for the defeat. In fact, he should be commended for his brave action in saving the
hastati
of the Ninth.’

Scipio kept his gaze from the consul, not willing to take
the chance that Regulus would see that he was gambling. His ‘sources’ were the words of Varro himself, and as such were completely unreliable, but they served his purpose and in any case he had already agreed with Calvus that he would intercede on behalf of his son, an agreement he would never reveal to Regulus.

‘But what of accountability, Scipio?’ Regulus said. ‘The loss of so many galleys cannot go unpunished.’

‘Nor can the loss of a loyal tribune from a respected family be justified to satisfy the vultures of the Senate,’ Scipio said.

‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘Strip him of his rank of tribune but give him a lesser command, a squad of galleys in Sicily,’ Scipio proposed, ‘and banish him from Rome until we win the war. It will give him a chance to redeem himself.’