Captain of Rome (19 page)

‘You can go to Hades, Carthaginian,’ the Roman spat back. ‘or wherever you
Punici
…’

A sudden thump on the deck above was followed a heartbeat later by a horrific cry. The Roman captain started, his eyes riveted to the timbers above his head. The cries were replaced by the sounds of cheering.

‘Sounds like my men are getting acquainted with your crew,’ Narmer said stepping forward once more into the Roman’s line of sight. He grabbed a handful of the Roman’s hair and yanked his head back so he could bring his face to within inches of the bound man. ‘Want to know what they’re doing?’ Narmer asked, a malicious smile on his face.

The Roman shook his head as beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead.

‘Just a little game,’ Narmer continued, releasing the Roman so he could continue to walk across the cabin. A second thump resounded through the deck, this time accompanied by a heart wrenching scream. Again the Roman captain felt compelled to stare up at the deck above him.

‘They raise your men up to the yardarm of the mainmast
by the hands; a good twenty feet up, and then release them.’ Narmer said, relishing every word. The Roman captain shook his head again, trying to block out the pirate’s voice, bracing himself as he heard one of his men plead for mercy above. The voice was cut short as the Roman hit the deck once more, his cries becoming a scream of pain.

‘The ankles break first,’ Narmer continued, ‘sometimes even the feet. After that it’s anyone’s guess, the shins, the knees, the thigh bones.’

The Roman captain closed his eyes against the pirate’s voice but his mind became flooded with images, of shattered bones piercing skin, of pleading eyes begging for mercy before the rope was released once more.

‘Enough.’

The Roman opened his eyes once more at the sound of the Carthaginian’s voice.

‘Leave us,’ Belus commanded and Narmer shrugged and walked out, a smile of satisfaction on his face. Belus closed the door behind him and turned to the Roman captain. He had been tempted to stop Narmer sooner, the sound of his voice vexing him, the pirate’s obvious enjoyment at the sound emanating from above deck a disgusting sight. But he realised the effect the words were having on the Roman, chipping away at his courage and will to resist, and he had therefore let Narmer continue.

‘Animals,’ the Roman suddenly said, spitting the blood that had trickled from his face into his mouth onto the floor.

‘I am not one of them, Roman,’ Belus said. ‘What I do, I do for my city.’

The Roman did not reply, his face twisting into an expression of pure hatred.

Belus ignored it, knowing it would soon change to one of terror and pain. He reached to his side and slowly withdrew
his dagger, bringing it up until he could examine the blade in detail. It was a fine knife, a Celtic blade seized in battle in Iberia and Belus had used it many times. He stepped forward with the knife held before him, the Roman’s eyes riveted to the light reflecting off the blade. Belus steeled himself for what he needed to do next, believing that by recognising that the act besmirched his honour, he was somehow set apart from the men the Roman had called animals.

Septimus shielded his eyes against the harsh light of the early afternoon sun as he came up onto the main deck, its unfettered light reflecting off a million wave-tops and the white canvas sheet of the main sail. He turned his face into the cooling tail-wind, drinking in its freshness, allowing it to cleanse his lungs. It had been more than eight hours since he had been top-side and the vastness of the space around him emphasised the suffocating confines of the cabin below where Atticus lay unconscious.

The sound of drill commands caused Septimus to turn and he smiled as he watched Drusus put his demi-maniple through their paces. The
optio
was a hard taskmaster and Septimus was glad he could rely on him as much as he did. Beyond the men training on the main deck, Septimus spotted Vitulus alone on the fore. He was watching the legionaries intently, no doubt studying the differences in their training from that of the standard imposed on the legions. Septimus watched him for a minute and then suddenly realised he had not spoken to the guard commander since the night before when Varro had dispatched him back to the village with the three locals.

Septimus walked around his men and made his way to the fore, nodding at Drusus as he passed, an affirmation that the
optio
seemed to ignore. Septimus smiled inwardly. Drusus was
as tough as they came. The centurion walked over to Vitulus and turned to stand beside him, facing his men on the main deck once more.

‘What happened last night?’ Septimus asked.

‘I have given my full report to the tribune,’ Vitulus replied icily.

Septimus turned to Vitulus, surprised by the dismissive reply and he squared up to the legionary.

‘Listen Vitulus,’ Septimus said, suddenly angry. ‘My friend was attacked last night and I’d like to know what happened.’

Vitulus turned to Septimus to reply, ready to dismiss him again, but he hesitated, wary of the look in the centurion’s eyes. He wondered if it were better not to antagonise the marine considering he would find out what Vitulus had reported sooner or later.

‘We found nothing except a dead street-trader,’ he replied.

‘That’s all?’ Septimus asked incredulously.

Vitulus nodded, sticking as close to the truth as possible. ‘He was dead, knife wound to the face, probably caused by your friend.’

‘And what about the legionary?’

‘There was no legionary,’ Vitulus said. ‘The villagers were lying.’

‘Lying?’ Septimus said. ‘Then how do you explain the captain’s wounds. He didn’t get those from a street-trader. Atticus is too good a fighter.’

‘Before the fight your captain was drinking in the tavern. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe that’s why he provoked the fight in the first place.’

‘How do you know he started the fight?’

‘Some of the villagers told us,’ Vitulus replied. ‘They said the Greek started an argument over the price of the trader’s food. He turned really nasty and drew his knife. Typical Greek if you ask me.’

Septimus held his tongue. Now he knew something was wrong. There was no way Atticus would do such a thing. Either someone had lied to Vitulus or the commander was lying now.

‘Did you get the names of the three villagers who brought the captain to the
Aquila
?’ Septimus asked, laying the trap. ‘I’d like to question them myself when we return to Fiumicino.’

‘I didn’t get their names,’ Vitulus replied, ‘and when we tried to question them, they fled down one of the alleyways. We chased them but Fiumicino is like a rat’s maze. We lost them.’

Septimus nodded as if he understood and agreed but his suspicion of Vitulus was heightened. Somehow he knew Vitulus would have an excuse as to why Septimus could never question the villagers. And the story he had told. All three civilians escaping from an experienced commander and two legionaries? The odds were certainly against it. Septimus looked at Vitulus but the commander did not hold his gaze and the centurion walked away. He was half-way back across the main deck when he spotted Lucius on the aft talking with Gaius. He approached the two men.

‘How is the Captain?’ Gaius asked.

‘No change, Gaius,’ Septimus replied. ‘All we can do is wait.’

Gaius nodded. Lucius had told him as much an hour before when he had come top-side.

Septimus looked back over his shoulder, spotting Vitulus still standing on the foredeck, leaning easily against the rail.

‘Vitulus says there was no legionary involved last night,’ Septimus said as he turned back to the two men.

Lucius nodded, ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I spoke with one of Varro’s guards earlier. He said the same thing.’

‘You don’t believe their account of what happened?’ Septimus asked, judging Lucius’s tone.

‘Do you, Centurion?’ Lucius replied.

Septimus paused for a second only. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘Then there’s one other thing to take into account,’ Lucius said, stepping forward and lowering his voice. ‘One of Varro’s men is not on board.’

‘You’re sure?’ Septimus asked, rocked by the information.

Lucius nodded, ‘Varro had four men with him last night when he boarded. Now there are only three.’

‘Did you say this to the guard you were talking to this morning?’ Septimus asked.

Again Lucius nodded. ‘He said I was mistaken, that only he and two others were guarding the tribune on this voyage.’

‘Could you have been wrong?’ Septimus asked, remembering the evening before when he had seen the tribune on deck with three men. Lucius had corrected him at the time by saying the fourth man must have been below decks.

‘He’s not wrong, Centurion,’ Gaius answered. ‘I saw them too, as did half the crew.’

Septimus nodded and turned once more to look down the length of the galley. Vitulus was still there. Septimus began to think that he should challenge the commander on his version of the events of last night but he thought better of it. To challenge him meant revealing his suspicions. To say nothing gave him the opportunity of watching Varro without attracting attention. He nodded to himself as he reached the conclusion of his thought. From now on the enemy were seen and unseen, both Carthaginian and Roman, and for the first time he was given an insight into his friend’s world.

Belus stepped back, panting, the bloodied knife hanging limp by his side. The Roman captain had passed out again, his ravaged face still transfixed with an expression of pain and anguish. The room seemed strangely dark and Belus noticed for the first time that the sun was setting in the western sky,
its passage turning the sky a burnt red, darkening the day prematurely. Belus moved to close the hatches but he hesitated, abruptly aware of the overpowering smell in the room, the dank sweat smell of fear mingled with the sweet odour of freshly drawn blood and underneath, the acrid smell of urine from when the terror of anticipation had overcome the captain.

Belus suddenly felt suffocated by the choking air and he stuck his head out of the port-hole. The air was too fresh and he coughed violently as it struck his lungs. The wind rushing past filled his ears and he turned his head away from the flow. There were no sounds from above, no cries of pain or shouts of laughter and Belus briefly wondered when it had all stopped. He ducked back inside the cabin and lit one of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling above. The light ebbed and flowed across the cabin with the roll of the ship, at one moment illuminating only the Roman captain’s legs and then showing him in the full glare of the lantern.

Belus missed a breath at the sight, the few minutes’ pause breaking the trance that had descended over him as he tortured the Roman. The captain was unrecognisable from the man who had stood on the aft-deck of the Roman galley earlier that day, shouting defiance across the closing gap, issuing orders for his men to stand fast against the pirates as they boarded. The creature before Belus now was a broken shell, robbed of all dignity by hours of incessant pain. Belus raised his knife and examined the blade as he had done hours before. It was dull in the lantern light, matted with blood, some fresh, some hours old and the hand holding it was similarly coated. Belus was suddenly ashamed and he rammed the tip of the knife into the table top. He had never tortured a man personally, although he had seen it done many times, and he was acutely aware of how easily he had slipped into the role.

Belus recalled the questions he had asked and repeated over the preceding hours, sifting the information in his mind, suppressing the thoughts that reminded him of the moments when the captain had finally broken down each time. The evidence was now overwhelming and Belus consciously justified his decision to torture the Roman himself. He was the first captain they had captured and his knowledge was more valuable than any crewman. Left to the pirates they might have killed him prematurely or accidently. Because of his meticulous approach, Belus had been able to confirm all the previous reports and fill in the missing details. That justification caused Belus to step back and nod to himself but as the lantern light once more revealed the Roman, Belus was robbed of his assuredness.

The Roman had been a man of honour, certainly ex-military given his ability to judge the implications of the questions Belus was asking him and the Carthaginian instantly decided that the captain deserved a fate better than the one that had befallen the rest of his crew. Belus opened the cabin door and ordered one of the crew to fetch two others and report to the main cabin. They arrived a minute later and upon seeing the Roman, they smiled.

‘Is he dead?’ one asked.

‘No, he is unconscious,’ Belus replied.

‘Do you want to finish him off before we throw him over the side?’

‘No, I want you to bring him to my cabin,’ Belus said, an edge to his voice, ‘and have him cleaned up and his wounds tended.’

The pirates hesitated, wondering if the Carthaginian was joking, unsure as to what to do next.

‘Now!’ Belus shouted, suddenly angry, ‘and make sure he is treated well. I will check on him in thirty minutes.’

The pirates grumbled but they manhandled the Roman to his feet and dragged him from the main cabin, conscious that the Carthaginian was untouchable while on board and he could punish them without fear of retribution.

Belus watched them leave and then silently closed the cabin door once more. The lantern light continued to wash over the room, illuminating the now empty chair, with blood soaked bonds scattered on the floor beneath it. Belus re-examined his decision once more. He didn’t know if the captain would survive, Belus hadn’t considered it when he was torturing the man, but now he hoped he would. If he could grant mercy to this one man then perhaps he could regain some of his own honour, robbed from him by the pirates with whom he served, a detestable alliance that today had turned him into one of them.

T
he
Aquila
sailed into the harbour of Brolium under a full press of sail, her finely balanced hull making the turn around the protective headland within a half ship length. Gaius stood braced at the tiller, his own balance matching that of his charge and the muscles of his arms bunched and relaxed with every slight adjustment of the rudder. Atticus watched him in silence, admiring as always the easy manner of the helmsman that belied the incredible skill he commanded. The captain sat under a canvas awning, the edges of the sheet flapping in the strong north-easterly, but the awning holding firm to create a shelter from the noon-day sun.

Atticus’s fever had broken the day before, two days out from Rome. He remembered waking up in the darkened cabin, feeling numb and breathless, unable to move. His mind had screamed panic in the darkness, a sudden vision of Hades sweeping through his thoughts and he had tried to scream. He could feel his arms flailing and then suddenly an unyielding hand gripped his own, holding it tightly, steadying his nerve. He drifted back into darkness and when he opened his eyes again the room was brighter, the hatch above him opened to allow in the fresh sea breeze. Atticus felt pain for the first time and his hands touched the wounds on his chest and face,
his mind replaying the frenzied fight in the dark alleyway. He thanked Fortuna that the wounds seemed minor, allaying the deep fear that affected all men, that in battle they might suffer a grievous wound, the loss of a limb or worst still, loss of sight. Atticus had seen too many veterans begging on the streets of the Republic, pitiful wretches who had once worn the armour of Rome but now relied on the alms of strangers.

Atticus had tried to rise from the cot but he had been too weak and so he had to suffer the ignominy of being carried up to the aft-deck by two of his crew. He had quickly shrugged off the indignity as he took his first breath of cleansing salt-laden air and so now he was content to sit in silence.

Approaching footsteps distracted Atticus and he looked up to see Septimus walk towards him. He had not seen his friend for many days and he smiled, a gesture that was returned by the centurion.

‘That scar will certainly improve your looks,’ Septimus said as he crouched down beside the captain.

Atticus’s smiled deepened at the gibe and his hand reached unconsciously for his face.

‘You should see the other guy,’ Atticus replied, a shadow passing over his face as he remembered the fight once more.

‘He was a legionary, Septimus,’ Atticus said, all vestige of humour gone from his face.

‘I know,’ Septimus replied, instinctively glancing over his shoulder to ensure they could not be overheard. He quickly relayed the sequence of events after Atticus had been carried back to the
Aquila
, concluding with Vitulus’s lie the next day and the missing guardsman.

Atticus’s face coloured as he listened to the words, his eyes searching past Septimus to the deck beyond, seeking out the figure of Varro. The tribune was not on deck.

‘Vitulus said the villagers escaped?’ Atticus asked.

Septimus nodded, ‘He said they did but I find it hard to believe.’

Atticus looked away again, this time to utter a silent plea to Poseidon in the hope that the fishermen had indeed escaped.

‘So the whoreson tried to have me killed,’ Atticus said, unconsciously touching his face once more. By speaking the accusation aloud he set aside any lingering doubt he had that Varro was behind the attack.

Septimus nodded, ‘And he’s sure to try again,’ he said.

‘Lower sail and secure! Orders to the drum master; standard speed!’ Both men turned at the sound of Lucius’s shout.

Then Septimus turned back, ‘Brolium,’ he said. ‘Now maybe we’ll find out what we’re doing here.’

Atticus nodded but then his expression froze as he spotted Varro emerge from below decks with his personal guard. Septimus saw his friend’s face twist into an angry frown and he moved over to hide the expression from the tribune.

‘Stand fast, Atticus,’ he warned. ‘Remember Varro doesn’t know we suspect him and if we want to stay a step ahead we need to keep it that way.’

Atticus seemed not to hear and he strained to look beyond Septimus once more.

‘Atticus!’ Septimus insisted and the captain relented.

Septimus rose and he walked down from the aft-deck to the main. Varro was standing by the side-rail as the
Aquila
was brought to steerage speed, ready for docking.

‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus asked as he saluted.

‘Stay on station and await my return,’ Varro replied. He looked beyond the centurion, spying the captain seated at the rear of the galley.

‘How is the Captain?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

‘He’ll recover,’ Septimus said, equally expressionless, ‘so it looks like we won’t need a replacement.’

Varro shot his eyes back to Septimus at the remark but the centurion looked stonily beyond him. The crashing sound of the gangplank hitting the dock caused him to turn and he gave Septimus one last look before descending, Vitulus and the others following in turn. Only when they were gone did Septimus smile before returning to the aft-deck.

Hamilcar moved slowly around the ante-chamber, occasionally looking up to glance through the open door that led to the meeting room of the supreme council of Carthage. Many of the twelve council members had already assembled, standing in small groups, their conversations never rising above a whisper.

‘Speak directly to the suffet,’ Hamilcar’s father, Hasdrubal, said. ‘His approval must be your priority. Do not look to me or any other member of the council.’

Hamilcar nodded.

‘Hanno will try to disrupt you,’ Hasdrubal continued. ‘Do not let him draw you into an argument.’

‘I will be ready for him,’ Hamilcar said, a slight edge to his voice.

Two more members of the council passed through the ante-chamber and Hamilcar nodded to them both. They ignored the gesture and continued on.

‘Those men will side with Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said. ‘Regardless of the merits of your plan.’

Hamilcar nodded again, silently cursing Hanno for his opposition. The evening before Hamilcar had outlined his plan to the One-hundred-and-four, the council who oversaw military matters in the empire. They were men like Hamilcar, every one of them former commanders, experienced and practical men who had probed Hamilcar’s plans with informed questions. After hours of debate they had voted and approved Hamilcar’s
strategy. Now only one final hurdle remained; Hamilcar’s proposal called for a dramatic increase in the size of the fleet and for a shift in the power base of its composition, from triremes to quinqueremes. For this expenditure he needed the approval of the supreme council.

‘How many members of the council does Hanno control?’ Hamilcar asked.

Hasdrubal looked over his shoulder to the open chamber door, wary of being overheard. He turned to his son.

‘Four council members openly support Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said, his voice low. ‘Of the other seven members of the council, I and two others openly support continuing the Sicilian campaign while the remaining four, including the suffet, are undecided.’

‘My strategy will win their support,’ Hamilcar said confidently. ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already given me theirs.’

Hasdrubal nodded but a frown creased the edge of his expression. ‘There is one aspect of your plan that might make some of these men hostile to you.’

Hamilcar looked to his father enquiringly.

Hasdrubal looked directly at his son. ‘Hanno has let it be known amongst the council members that you are using pirates to gather information on the Romans,’ he said.

‘But how could he…?’ Hamilcar asked.

‘Hanno has many spies in this city,’ Hasdrubal said, ensuring that his voice remained low, ‘and many more in the navy.’

Hamilcar slammed his fist into his open palm, cursing the councillor anew.

‘Perhaps you were unwise to use pirates.’ Hasdrubal ventured, voicing the sense of dishonour many of the council members felt at knowing Carthage was associated with such animals.

‘There was no other way,’ Hamilcar rounded on him, suddenly angry.

‘Lower your voice.’ Hasdrubal hissed.

Hamilcar followed his father’s gaze to the open chamber door and he turned away. ‘There was no other way,’ he repeated, keeping his back to his father, his anger increasing, knowing that his honour was being openly questioned. He turned once more to face Hasdrubal. ‘If I had sent one of my ships north to gather the information they would have been seen, or worse captured, and the whole strategy would have been exposed. I needed men with local knowledge of the coast who could ambush Roman ships successfully, men whose loyalty could be bought.’

Hasdrubal nodded, seeing the anger in his son’s face. Hamilcar made to explain further, to let his father know that he too felt the dishonour of conspiring with pirates, that he bore the disgrace for the sake of Carthage, but his words were interrupted as he noticed the suffet standing in the doorway of the ante-chamber, the elder statesman looking to both men before walking through into the council meeting room. Hamilcar watched him pass, wondering how much of the exchange the suffet had witnessed. He looked to his father, holding his gaze for a moment before Hasdrubal turned and followed the suffet into the room.

Septimus left the
Aquila
ten minutes after Varro, estimating that he had at least a couple of hours before the tribune returned, more than enough time. His first task was to find Aulus, the harbour master, and he leapt upon a pile of grain sacks to get a better view of the busy docks. The scene before him seemed chaotic, with trading ships constantly docking and departing all along the quarter-mile long quay. Organised gangs of slaves attacked each new arrival, rushing up the
gangplank even before it was made secure, lumbering down seconds later under heavy burdens to deposit the supplies on the quay-side.

Septimus slowly scanned the throng, his eyes shielded against the afternoon sunlight, his ears tuned to pick up Aulus’s familiar tone. He spotted the harbour master within a minute, near the centre of the docks, gesturing wildly at some unseen target, his face mottled with frustration. Septimus smiled to himself as he jumped down and he set off with a determined stride. At six foot four inches and 220 pounds, dressed in battle armour and with his hand settled on the hilt of his sword, Septimus cut an easy path through the crowd, the lines of slaves parting to allow him through and he reached Aulus before the harbour master had finished his tirade.

‘No rest for petty tyrants,’ Septimus said as he came to stop behind Aulus.

The harbour master spun around, his expression murderous, the previous victim of his anger forgotten. He stared up at Septimus and inhaled in anticipation of an attack but his outburst was cut short with a smile.

‘Capito!’ he shouted, ‘I thought I smelled legionary.’

Septimus laughed, clapping Aulus on the shoulder. Once a trader and sailor himself, Aulus had no love for the soldiers; legionaries or marines. ‘The
Aquila
is back in Brolium?’

‘Yes,’ Septimus replied, ‘but for how long I don’t know. We sail with Varro. I think he’s reporting to the port commander right now with orders from Rome.’

‘Varro of Thermae?’ Aulus said with disbelief. ‘Didn’t think we’d see him again.’

‘You know the legions, Aulus,’ Septimus said sarcastically. ‘Forgive and forget.’

Aulus smiled but he looked wary. He liked to know of everything that transpired in his harbour and the return of a
disgraced tribune was important news. He was about to press Septimus further when he noticed that all humour had vanished from the marine’s face and his eyebrows raised in question.

‘It’s Atticus,’ Septimus said. ‘He’s been injured.’

‘How badly?’

Septimus explained in as much detail as he could.

‘And his fever has broken?’

‘Yes,’ Septimus replied. ‘But now that we are in port I would like a trained physician to examine him.’

Aulus nodded. With the fever broken the odds were in Atticus’s favour but Aulus appreciated the marine’s caution. ‘I know such a man,’ he said. ‘I will have him sent to the
Aquila
immediately.’

Septimus thanked Aulus and turned on his heel, his feet taking him unerringly to his next destination.

It was another fifteen minutes before Septimus reached the legions’ camp outside the town. At the quayside he had been tempted to ask Aulus about the Ninth, knowing the harbour master was always well informed but he had decided to wait to see for himself. In any case, Aulus’s information would not extend to the fate of individual commands.

Septimus squared his shoulders as two legionaries of the
excubiae
, the day guard, stepped out to block his way through the main gate.

‘Capito,’ Septimus said as he came to a stop. ‘Centurion of the
Aquila.
’

The men saluted and stepped aside but Septimus noticed they did not react with the same alacrity as they normally would for a legionary centurion. He pushed aside the thought, knowing he could not confront the men on their subtle lack of respect.

Septimus walked on across the parade ground. The area
was strangely deserted although Septimus could see individual squads of legionaries in his peripheral vision. He suddenly felt tense and he increased his pace, the strange absence of normal activity unnerving him.

The legate’s quarters were on the opposite side of the parade ground to the main gate. It was a dull, functional building, single storied and made from local brick. It was flanked on both sides by the officers’ quarters of the Ninth and Second, equally grey buildings that were originally planned as temporary dwellings. Septimus stopped as he surveyed the buildings, comprehension replacing unease as he looked at each in turn. Outside the officers’ quarters of the Ninth, the battle standards of each individual maniple were neatly arranged in a line, held aloft on iron-tipped lances. The standards of the Second and the legate himself however, were nowhere to be seen and although men were stationed at the entrance to each building, only one was occupied.