Atticus left the aft-deck and walked forward along the main, sensing the mood of many of the men as he went, their expressions animated and distracted as they continuously glanced over the side rails. Atticus tried to identify his own emotions as he mounted the foredeck and walked forwards to the bow rail to get a better view of the teeming waters ahead. The Aquila was approaching Ostia, the port town of Rome, and although she was still two miles distant the sea lanes were crowded with all manner of vessels, each vying for the limited sea room available so close to port. Gaius held a steady course, adjusting it only slightly to circumnavigate the lumbering transport ships under sail, the oar power at his command affording him greater manoeuvrability and he moved through their wakes or under their bows with barely an oars-width to spare.
Atticus noticed that many of the trading galleys did not adjust their course to swing wide of the Aquila and the four-foot bronze ram that sliced the water before her. He smiled to himself, remembering a time, in fact only a few months ago, when the sight of a Roman military galley was enough of a rarity to open a channel in even the busiest shipping lane. Now the Aquila passed like a ghost through the sea lane, almost unnoticed and completely undistinguished, a once exceptional sight that had become as common as the white horses of the waves themselves.
Within fifteen minutes the outlying buildings of Ostia came into sight, the low lying houses of the traders who fed off the daily bounty delivered from the four corners of the Mediterranean to Ostia. These dwellings gave way to the taller trading houses and warehouses of the town proper, an almost solid line of buildings that encircled the docks. The Aquila maintained a course parallel to the shoreline as she passed the commercial docks of Ostia, her course taking her across the inward and outward path of every other vessel and curses spoken in a dozen languages floated across the water from crews forced to slow or adjust their course to avoid the determined path of the war-galley.
The Aquila was heading for the castrum on the northern edge of the port, the military barracks that had once housed the tiny coastal fleet that protected the sea trade to and from the city. Now it was home to the Classis Romanus although the majority of the fleet was stationed a couple of miles north at Fiumicino. Atticus’s mind was flooded with memories as the Aquila neared the military docks.
Atticus had been granted a place of honour at the right hand of Gaius Duilius during the triumph that followed the great naval victory in Rome. It had been heady wine and the lasting impression of that day had further clouded and entangled Atticus’s attitude towards the city that now dictated his destiny.
Atticus recalled the sea eagle he had seen at dawn the previous day. At the time the sight had triggered something in his mind, a thought he had pushed aside when he spotted the survivors from the Fides in the water, but now he remembered lamenting that bird’s fate. It was a creature trapped between two worlds, relying on the land for its home but on the sea for its food, its life force, its very reason to exist. Cut off either land or sea and the sea eagle would perish.
Atticus had never believed his own existence was as interdependent. He had been born into grinding poverty, into a world where the sea offered the only means of sustenance and the land offered nothing in kind. His only happy childhood memories revolved around the sea and his time spent fishing with his father and grandfather and so at fourteen he had readily joined the crew of a military galley, the promise of open water and a life spent hunting the pirates his grandfather had taught him to hate, enough to sever his ties to Locri, a city which had never given him comfort or succour. For any given year since then Atticus could count the number of days he had spent ashore on his hands alone and he had truly come to consider the sea his home, tied only to the land through ancient bonds of ancestry and loyalty. That belief had been challenged by Rome.
For hundreds of years Rome had been a land based power, a republic surrounded on three sides by water. Its ambition to control Sicily however, was transforming that sphere, extending the reach of the Republic into the seas that had once held her fast and that ambition had quickly enveloped the small fleet of ships that had always acted independently on her behalf. The Aquila had been one of those ships and Atticus had been submerged into a culture that had previously existed only on the periphery of his life. This quickly created loyalties within him, firstly through Septimus and his bond with the legionaries trapped on Sicily and then through men like Duilius, new men of Rome who ignored the ancient lineage of a citizen and took their measure of a man by his deeds alone. Beyond these bonds of loyalty was Hadria, Septimus’s sister and it was her presence in Rome, more than any other, that caused Atticus to realise for the first time in his life, that the land promised many things the sea could not give.
The Aquila hove to with a gentle touch from Gaius and the starboard oars were withdrawn, allowing the galley to swing parallel to the docks. Mooring ropes were thrown and the Aquila was made fast before the gangplank was lowered onto the quayside. Once again Atticus found himself comparing the sights before him with his memories. The original castrum consisted of a standard barracks house with an enclosed courtyard set fifty yards back from the edge of the dock and where once it had stood almost forlorn and devoid of life, it was now alive with activity, a constant flow of military personnel passing through the arched entranceways that led to the interior. Atticus noticed an officer approaching the Aquila at the head of a contubernia of ten legionaries.
‘What galley?’ he called as he arrived at a point directly across from the aft-deck.
‘The Aquila,’ Atticus replied.
The officer quickly consulted his list, his head rising and falling as he read it through twice. ‘I have no record of your galley here,’ he shouted up, his expression now one of annoyance. ‘State the reason for this unscheduled arrival!’
Atticus nearly smiled. Bloody Roman paperwork, he thought. ‘We’re of the Thermae attack fleet,’ he said. ‘We…’
‘Captain!’
Atticus spun around to find Varro standing with his guards behind him.
‘Back to your station, Perennis,’ he spat. ‘I’ll address this.’
Atticus stepped aside and Varro approached the side rail. On the dock the officer’s face showed surprise at the unexpected sight of a tribune and he immediately snapped to attention before saluting. Varro indicated the gangplank with a nod and the officer saluted once more, marching his squad to the foot of the gangplank while Varro mirrored his approach with his praetoriani on the Aquila.
Atticus watched from the aft-deck as Varro descended. The tribune issued terse orders and within seconds two of the legionaries were dispatched back to the castrum. As Varro continued to talk, Atticus noticed the officer’s eyes flash towards him. The legionary nodded twice as the tribune’s orders continued, his gaze still fixed on the aft-deck and Atticus felt a sudden instinctive flare of warning. Rome was Varro’s domain, where his power was at its greatest, where an order to arrest him for insubordination and striking an officer would be followed without question.
Atticus braced himself for the inevitable as he watched Varro stride off to the castrum. The officer remained and instead of boarding to make an arrest, he strode once more along the dock until he was parallel to the aft- deck.
‘Captain, you are to disembark your entire crew immediately,’ the officer shouted, a hint of disdain in his voice.
Atticus was confused by the order. In what way was the crew involved?
‘And what of my men, the marines?’ Septimus asked, standing at Atticus’s shoulder.
‘Your full complement as well, Centurion.’
‘And my ship?’ Atticus asked.
The officer smiled derisively. ‘Your ship will be sailed by a reserve crew to Fiumicino.’
Atticus made to protest but Septimus stayed his words with a hand on his shoulder.
‘Save your breath, Atticus,’ he said. ‘There’s no latitude here.’
‘But I don’t understand. What is Varro playing at?’ Atticus asked, completely bewildered.
‘I think I know,’ Septimus replied and he turned over his shoulder to issue the necessary orders to Lucius and Drusus. The optio responded immediately but Lucius looked to Atticus for confirmation. The captain nodded without comment. There was no other option but to obey.
With each passing street and each familiar sight, Hamilcar began to feel his heart rate and his mood return to normal. These were the streets of his childhood, his teenage years before he reached the age of majority and every corner ignited long forgotten memories. A year ago, when he had last walked these streets, they had been shrouded in darkness, a hurried visit to his father’s house in the midst of his journey from Iberia to Sicily. Now he took the opportunity to drink in every sight, absorb every sound and smell until his heart felt once more like that of the boy he had once been.
