Scipio stood almost immediately, his sudden movement helping to mask the traces of a smile of triumph creeping onto his face. Regulus stood also and escorted Scipio from the room, this time giving the consul the full deference his position had always commanded. The two men walked into the courtyard and Scipio’s guards formed up around their master, each one visibly tense at the thought of the return journey through the dark treacherous streets. Only Scipio seemed at ease and he bid Regulus farewell with a brief conspiratorial nod, struggling to contain a laugh as Regulus returned the gesture in kind. Once on the street and out of earshot of the senator however, Scipio gave full vent to his pent up triumph. Regulus had been easily swayed, happy and ready to believe that Scipio’s motives were entirely based on revenge against Duilius. They were in part, but Scipio’s ambitions sat well above mere retribution. They were as always set on only one objective, an aspiration that fate had cruelly wrenched from his grasp at Lipara but one which Scipio was determined to regain at any cost. Absolute power in Rome.
CHAPTER FOUR
Day dawned for the Aquila ten miles south of Naples, with an offshore breeze blowing lightly over the aft- deck, the air laden with wood-smoke and waste, the deep musky smell of unwashed streets in the cramped innards of the teeming port. Atticus closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly as the faint smell washed over the foredeck and he was immediately transported back thirty years to the slums of Locri and the struggling existence of his childhood. He opened his eyes again slowly and drank in the sight of the open sea around him, whispering a silent thankful prayer to Fortuna for the guiding hand that had led him so far from that life.
Atticus’s gaze picked out a dark spot against the strengthening light in the east and he focused his attention on the sky over the low coastline a mile away, watching the silhouette intently as it slowly took shape into the familiar profile of a sea eagle and Atticus found that he was holding his breath in anticipation as the bird approached his ship. At two hundred yards distance the moment came and the bird suddenly withdrew its wings and tucked them tight against its body, the swift change sending the eagle into the beginnings of a graceful dive that transformed the once benevolent profile of the eagle into a deadly spear.
The sea eagle hit the water at an incredible speed and she was immediately swallowed by the calm sea, the ripples of her entry instantly swept away and her existence lost until a second later she broke the surface again with a fish trapped in her beak, the water cascading from her feathers to be caught by the light of the rising sun. She soared heavenward once more, however her success went unacknowledged as Atticus shifted his gaze to a flash of colour immediately behind where the bird had struck. The Aquila was almost past the point, her seven knot speed pushing her inexorably northward and Atticus spun around to look to the masthead. Corin was there, his gaze fixed dead ahead, scanning the waters for the trading ships that would soon emanate from the port of Naples. Atticus looked to the sea once more, the half-image he had witnessed lost once more to the rolling waves. He hesitated for a mere second longer.
‘Hard to starboard,’ he roared. ‘Come about east-south-east.’
The balanced hull of the Aquila swung instantly beneath his feet as he traversed the main deck towards the aft, his eyes locked on a reference point on the coast and as he reached Gaius at the tiller he ordered him to straighten the galley’s course.
‘Steerage speed, lookouts to the fore!’ he ordered and the crew scrambled to the task, Lucius reiterating the order as the Aquila settled low in the water, her two knot speed giving her a gentle headway against the off-shore breeze. Septimus approached Atticus with a quizzical look on his face.
‘Something in the water,’ Atticus said in answer, ‘two hundred yards off the bow.’
‘Understood,’ Septimus nodded and made his way to the foredeck to inform the lookouts stationed there.
Below deck in the main cabin, Varro felt the sudden change in the galley’s course and her drop in speed. He sat up in his cot and planted his feet firmly on the deck, his sudden action triggering a scurrying sound on the floor as cockroaches fled the unexpected movement. Varro reached up for the porthole above him, pulling back the shutter, allowing the early sunlight to flood the narrow confines of the cabin and he caught sight of the last of the ubiquitous insects as they fled for the dark recesses of the room.
He stood up slowly and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, digging his knuckles in deeply until his vision exploded with tiny stars before returning to the gloom of the twilight world below deck. He had barely slept, the constant motion of the world around him still completely alien, the confines of the room and the sudden inexplicable sounds that punctured the darkness keeping him constantly on edge. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, his mind filled with nightmarish visions of everyone he had ever known turning their back on him in vile condemnation, their faces haunting him even now in his waking hours and he cursed his fate and the ship that bore him anew.
Varro dressed quickly and mounted the steps to the main deck, squinting in the dawn light as looked about him to the frenzied activity of the crew. The majority of them were looking over the side-and forerails, shouting instructions to each other as they searched the waters around the galley. Varro moved quickly to the side-rail, pushing a crewman aside to see out over the water but he saw nothing in the empty sea. He turned to the aft-deck and his eyes sought the captain, seeing him instantly as he stood beside the helmsman, his easy confident stance evident, even from a distance, and Varro felt a resurgence of his hatred. He was about to stride back to the captain when a shout cut through the cacophony of voices on deck.
‘Two points starboard. Someone in the water!’
All eyes on the Aquila spun to that point, Varro following the gaze of others as he sought the point indicated. It was there, fifty yards off the bow, a small mass of indeterminate shapes in the gentle swell, hidden one moment and exposed the next but amidst the tangle Varro could see the shoulders and head of at least one person.
‘All stop,’ Atticus shouted and he ran the length of the galley to the foredeck, not noticing Varro as he passed him by, his attention firmly fixed on the figure of Septimus standing by the rail, his arm outstretched in indication of what Atticus had spotted minutes before from afar.
‘One survivor,’ Septimus said as the captain reached them. ‘Lashed to some debris.’
Atticus nodded and turned to the crewmen beside him.
‘You two, over the side,’ he said and the men instantly obeyed, each one swan-diving into the sea eight feet below to surface once again a couple of yards short of the inert people in the water. The crewmen were both able swimmers, as was every man on the Aquila, a skill Atticus strictly ensured that every sailor who joined his crew was taught. It was an ability that many of the more traditional sailors who found themselves serving on the Aquila thought irrational, believing it better that a sailor should die a quick death if his ship was sunk rather than suffering a lingering struggle before the sea inevitably claimed you.
‘He’s alive but unconscious,’ one of the crewmen shouted and they struck off towards the Aquila again without command, each man swimming with one hand while the other dragged the makeshift raft behind them. Two more sailors jumped overboard as the group reached the hull of the Aquila and the survivor was quickly cut from the debris and hauled by rope up and over the side-rail. The crew formed a rough circle around him as he was laid on the deck but it parted again for Atticus and Septimus, the centurion kneeling down and listening intently at the unconscious man’s chest, his knowledge qualified only through years of experience in the military.
Atticus was given a moment to study the man as Septimus’s steady hands searched for the signs that would indicate the strength of his life-force. The man was dark, almost certainly Roman, his young angular features made prominent by the sea water that had seemingly washed the very blood from his face, his skin stark against the deep red of the tunic which had caught Atticus’s eye.
‘He’s dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion,’ Septimus said without looking up, putting his head to the man’s chest once more. He stood up. ‘He’ll need rest and fresh water.’
‘Will he live?’ Atticus asked.
Septimus nodded. ‘He’s young and strong,’ he said, and as if bidden the man stirred slightly, his hand rising and falling again across his stomach.
Atticus instantly ordered the crew to pick him up. ‘Take him to the main cabin,’ he ordered without thinking, suddenly catching Varro’s eye at the edge of the circle, the tribune looking up with an aggravated expression, ‘with your permission, Tribune.’ Atticus added.
