stand. He was speechless, his mind flooded with anger and confusion, and he gazed intently at Regulus, waiting for the movement he knew must occur. It was inconceivable that Regulus was acting alone, that he spontaneously formed the idea to run against Longus, that he was not forewarned. Duilius knew that human nature would cause Regulus to seek out his confederate at their moment of success, if only to share a silent triumphant glance, a secret congratulatory nod. Regulus turned to his left and Duilius immediately scanned the three quarters of the Senate on that side of him. He unconsciously discounted allies and focused on his known enemies, but none seemed to catch his gaze; their faces instead turned all directions as individual debates raged across the Senate. Duilius swept the chamber one last time and as he did, his heart plunged as the identity of Regulus’s associate suddenly became apparent, not because the man was looking back at Regulus but because his gaze was fixed intently at the podium. As Duilius watched a malicious smile spread across his enemy’s face.
Atticus walked swiftly down the gangway that led to the main cabin at the stern of the Aquila. Below decks the sound of the drum master’s beat was amplified and transmuted into a dull repetitive thud that seemed to emanate from every surface, the heartbeat of the galley heard from within. The hull moved slightly under Atticus’s feet and he put out his hand against the bulkhead to steady himself, the course corrections becoming more frequent as Gaius wove the Aquila through the busy shipping lanes of Naples. The timber felt smooth beneath his palm and Atticus let his hand linger for a second, feeling the grain of the wood, the lines of a once vibrant tree felled and shaped and made alive again as part of a Roman galley.
The sound of voices could be heard through the main cabin door and Atticus hastened his last remaining steps, stepping through the door without check, the familiar space made welcoming again knowing that Varro was still top-side on the aft-deck. The man who had been rescued by the Aquila’s crew was seated on the cot on the port side of the cabin, his head bowed, but his back straight and the single hour he had spent so far on the Aquila had immeasurably revived him. He looked up, pausing in his conversation with Septimus as Atticus closed the cabin door. The man stood, his legs unsteady and he kept one hand on the edge of the cot to help him balance.
‘I am Quintus Postumius Camillus,’ he said. ‘Boatswain of the trading galley Fides out of Ostia.’
‘Captain Perennis,’ Atticus replied, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, a simple request for him to be seated once more. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘We were en route to Taras when we were attacked,’ Camillus began.
‘Attacked?’ Atticus said.
‘By pirates, Atticus,’ Septimus said, nodding towards Camillus. ‘He has already filled me in on some of the details.’
Atticus sat back against the table in the centre of the cabin, his mind flooded with questions. ‘Where did the attack take place?’ he asked of Camillus.
‘We were a day’s sailing south of Naples, just short of Centola.’
‘And the pirate ship?’
‘She was a bireme, sailing under a banner of Egyptus. She was travelling north and as she crossed our bows, she suddenly changed course and swept out starboard oars.’ Camillus fell silent for a moment. ‘I’d never seen a galley move so fast,’ he muttered, shaking his head, his disbelief an unconscious absolution for him and his crewmates having been caught unawares.
‘They boarded us in overwhelming strength, at least a hundred men. We never had a chance,’ Camillus continued, his voice trailing off as his mind relived the horror of those desperate minutes.
‘How did you escape?’ Atticus asked after a moment’s silence, allowing Camillus time to fight his demons.
Camillus looked up as if suddenly woken from a nightmare.
‘When our defence collapsed I dived over the stern,’ Camillus began, his head bowed in shame at having fled from the fight. ‘By the time I resurfaced, the undercurrent had dragged me twenty feet from the galleys. I caught hold of some of the severed oars and kept low in the water.’
‘What of the fate of the other members of the crew? Did you see any others escape?’ Atticus asked.
‘There were no other survivors,’ Camillus said in a near whisper as he looked up, his face once more haunted by the images of his mind’s eye. ‘They slaughtered them all, every last man, even after they surrendered. I saw them, on the aftdeck, at least twenty of the crew. They threw down their swords and begged for quarter but the pirates, they just…’ Camillus’s words trailed off to silence and Atticus and Septimus were left to imagine the butchery that the pirates had wrought.
Atticus stood up abruptly, his fists balled in futile anger. ‘They’re swarming again,’ he spat, ‘with the war in Sicily, they know we’re stretched too thin to cover the coastline here.’
Atticus began to pace the cabin, his anger seething just beneath the surface. Before the current conflict with the Carthaginians he had spent his career hunting down the pirates who plagued the Ionian coastline of southern Italy. As captain of the Aquila he had caught many and each time he had ordered his crew to put the entire pirate ship to the sword. No trial, no quarter, no mercy. Revenge for the countless victims who had fallen prey to the vultures. They were a disease; a pestilence, and Atticus had devoted his life to removing their existence, their stain, from the shores of Italy. Now they had crept once more out of the shadows.
‘And what of the Fides?’ he asked of Camillus. ‘Where did they sail her to? What course?’
‘They didn’t take her,’ he replied, the colour draining from his face once more. ‘They put her to the torch.’
‘And the slaves?’ Atticus asked, confused.
‘They went down with the ship, every one of them,’ Camillus replied, remembering the tortured, desperate screams of the doomed slaves, the sound forever trapped within his memory.
‘I don’t understand,’ Atticus said almost to himself. ‘Why would they sink their prize? The galley alone was worth taking, but the slaves would be worth a fortune on any market.’
‘Maybe they were looking to stay mobile,’ Septimus suggested, ‘taking only what they could carry.’
‘Then why not take the slaves?’ Atticus countered. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Pirates often sink trading ships after they take what they can from the hold. But with a galley, the cargo is generally small; the real prize is the slaves manning the oars.’
‘They must have had some reason,’ Septimus said.
‘Whatever it was,’ Atticus said, almost to himself, ‘it’s something unique. I’ve never heard of pirates sinking their prize before. Never.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Hamilcar’s heart soared as he caught sight of the walled citadel of Byrsa high above the city still hidden from his vantage point on the foredeck of the Alissar. The late evening light was reflecting off the wind-blasted fortifications, turning the entire fort into a beacon which seemed to draw him closer with every stroke of the galley’s oars. Hamilcar had not seen the city in over a year, but his memory guided his eyes instinctively, his gaze sweeping left and right as the tops of the taller temples started to appear on the horizon ahead and he quietly recited their names, his mind’s eye adding detail to each one until they merged into a single entity. Carthage.
Within minutes the massive wall that encircled Carthage dominated the view, a defence which had stood against every enemy in the city’s history, a colossal carapace that protected the heart of an empire within. The Alissar keeled hard to starboard as she approached the city, her bow finding a new course that would take her into the manmade harbours on the southern approaches. Hamilcar remained restless as the drum beat slowed in the confines of the first harbour, the commercial centre of a maritime empire, and the Alissar advanced onwards to sweep gracefully through the porticos that guarded the entrance to the military harbour, the helmsman ordering near dead stop in the crowded waters, the galley resting easily in the calm swell.
The military harbour was circular in shape, a manmade wheel with a raised island as its hub. Covered ship- houses on both the outer perimeter and the inner island dominated the space, an incredible sequence of slips, dry- docks and workshops that could house over two hundred galleys. The Alissar quickly docked and Hamilcar strode purposefully down the gangplank, pausing briefly at the end before stepping once more onto the sacred land of his home city, a renewed determination taking hold of him as he felt the power of the city course through his veins. He set off without a backward glance, his feet taking him unerringly through the ancient teeming streets to the Council
