‘Skiff approaching!’
Atticus walked quickly to the side-rail to see the small boat approaching the Aquila from the distant quay. He instantly recognised Varro sitting in the fore of the boat, his tribune’s helmet distinctive even at a distance of a hundred yards. He was alone with his guard, the senators evidently remaining in Brolium, and Atticus found himself staring, his mind trying to fathom the thoughts of a man he did not know in any sense. Varro had been born into a life of privilege and wealth where power and command was a birthright. Atticus was born a fisherman’s son in a squalid hovel in the backstreets of Locri and had clawed his way to the top of his world, a pinnacle that was insignificant to a Roman magistrate’s son. Atticus tried to reverse their positions in his mind in a complex attempt to find a way for Varro to save face without Atticus losing, at best, his commission and at worst, his life.
‘Forget it,’ Septimus said beside Atticus and the captain spun around with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Forget what?’ he asked.
‘I know you too well, Atticus,’ Septimus replied, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend. ‘You’re trying to think of a way out of your problem with that young idiot Varro.’
‘And?’ Atticus asked.
‘And I’m saying forget it. I came across his type many times in the Ninth. One hand on his dagger and the other in daddy’s back pocket; every one of them an ambitious viper with an ego fit for the Senate. Whatever fate he’s decided for you he’ll be damned if he lets anyone change his course, especially you.’
Atticus nodded, chasing any thoughts he had of explanation and reconciliation from his mind. He walked away from Septimus and began pacing along the rail.
Before Mylae the Aquila had been Atticus’s to command with Septimus unobtrusively responsible for the marines, their ranks equal and separate, with no higher power to answer to beyond their standing orders to keep the shipping lanes of the Republic clear of pirates. It was a task that would often keep them at sea for months, away from the rigid command structures that entangled them every time they entered port, and Atticus had always relished the independence. That freedom had been lost at Mylae however, when the Aquila had been absorbed into the Classis Romanus, a lone wolf suddenly becoming part of a larger pack, no longer hunting prey using its singular skill but as part of a group, the hunt becoming a complex power play of command and ambition, where opportunities drew men like Varro to the fray.
Atticus stopped pacing as the skiff came alongside, watching the tribune disembark with the agile ability of youth. As he waited, Atticus felt anger rise slowly within him for the vicissitudes of fate that had placed his life at the whim of a man like Varro. At Mylae, Duilius had stood on the aft-deck of the Aquila as commander of the greatest fleet Rome had ever put to sea and yet he had treated Atticus as an equal, their shared fight uniting them against the Carthaginians, the consul understanding that in battle, men were equal before Pluto, the lord of the underworld. Varro, on the other hand, treated those of lesser rank with near contempt and negligible respect, irrespective of their past service to the Republic. For a brief second Atticus recalled the challenges of his hard fought career and his concern for his fate fled his mind. He had fought greater foes than the young tribune who now approached him across the main deck and he’d be damned if he was going to yield without a fight, even if redemption was a forlorn hope. Atticus straightened his back and stood to attention as the tribune covered the remaining steps between them on the aftdeck and he saluted smartly.
‘Make preparations for Rome, Captain,’ Varro said brusquely.
Atticus hesitated for a heartbeat, waiting for the tribune’s next words, but none were forthcoming. ‘Yes, Tribune,’ he replied, repeating his salute.
Varro spun on his heal and walked purposefully away to the hatchway that led to the main cabin below. Atticus watched him go, baffled by the brevity of the exchange. The tribune’s expression had been near inscrutable, cold and determined, but Atticus had noticed something in Varro’s eyes, something that alerted his instincts, a mere flicker of hostility that spoke of a deeper emotion, an unspoken antagonism that belied the calm exterior the tribune had so deceitfully presented. Atticus had fought many enemies in his life and he knew the look well, knew its portent as surely as if the tribune had challenged him openly on the aft-deck.
CHAPTER THREE
Longus walked quickly through the bustling streets of the Palatine quarter, holding a firm line of advance on the right hand side of the road, sidestepping only to avoid the crumbling piles of animal waste that had yet to be scavenged by the street urchins who would sell the dung to farmers outside the city. The crowds of people on the street seemed unconsciously aware of his presence and they moved aside to allow him to proceed unhindered. It was a capital offence to strike a senator of Rome and none would dare take the chance that an accidental collision might be construed as an attack by an irate senator on his way home from the Curia. But Longus was not heading towards his own home; instead his destination was a house he knew almost as intimately as his own, the home of his mentor and idol Duilius.
As Longus walked through the darkening streets his concern concentrated all his attention on the flight of Duilius from the chamber less than an hour before. He had been watching the consul intently, waiting for him to turn and nod his approval for Longus’s delivery of the speech that Duilius had so masterfully composed the evening before; words that Longus had infused with passion and meaning, but the consul’s sudden inexplicable departure had thrown Longus’s elation into turmoil and instead he found himself attempting to silence the whispered censures that swept the chamber at the consul’s flagrant disregard for Senate protocol. Longus’s remaining time in the Senate had been torturous and twice he had made a determined move to depart early only to have his nerve fail him, realising he did not have his mentor’s mettle.
Longus had never been an ambitious man and his whole life to this point had been lived by the formula dictated to him by his ancestors and the tradition of his family. At sixteen, a year after his father had died, Longus had joined the legions as a tribune and waited out his obligatory service in a quiet outpost in Campania. At twenty he had followed his father’s path into the Senate and thereafter he had settled into the daily life of a Roman senator, attending speeches and votes, hosting trade delegations and variously busying himself with the minutiae of a thriving city. That plodding existence had changed with the arrival of Gaius Duilius to the Senate, a charismatic and ambitious novus uomo and Longus had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame, igniting a determination within him that he never knew existed, and he had supported Duilius every step of his rise to power. He had never craved the power his mentor sought, only his approval and so now he was prepared to stand at Duilius’s right hand as junior consul, a position he coveted only because his idol wanted it so.
Longus was admitted into Duilius’s house after only one knock on the door and he followed the servant across the meticulously swept outer-courtyard to the entranceway to the house proper. It led into an atrium where the sound of trickling water into the inner pool blended serenely with the flicking candlelight. The atrium was unadorned but careful inspection revealed the quality of the marble columns and flooring; understated evidence of the vast wealth of the owner that contrasted sharply with the heavily ornamented atria that were typical of senators’ homes, where statues competed for space with precious antiques and fine tapestries. It was a simplicity that Longus had tried to emulate in his own home without success and he wondered, as often he had before, whether Duilius’s humble background was the source of his unaffected modesty.
The servant led Longus through a series of rooms, adhering to the consul’s earlier command to bring the young senator directly to him when he arrived. Duilius was walking slowly around a miniature garden at the rear of the house, a favourite retreat where he marshalled his thoughts and set his mind to finding the solution to every problem he encountered. The garden was immersed in shadows, the crepuscular evening light dissipated by the overhanging interwoven trellis and a servant moved discretely in the background, lighting sporadic candles that the gardener had placed with care to accentuate the beauty of the inner sanctum.
‘Good evening Longus,’ Duilius said, as he heard the approaching footsteps, his back still facing the entranceway.
‘Consul, I came as quickly as I could,’ Longus replied, his voice laced with agitation.
‘I knew you would,’ Duilius said as he turned, a half smile on his face, an expression Longus took as gratitude and he returned the smile ten-fold.
Duilius recommenced his easy stride around the garden and Longus watched him intently, shifting his weight
