master was, they were not taking any chances that he might escape.
The group left Ostia and headed east until they reached the via Aurelia, the great road north from Rome. They turned towards the city and increased their pace, the iron shod hooves of their mounts reverberating against the cobbles of the neardeserted paved road. As they approached the Servian wall of the city, Atticus could see the bivouacs of travellers stranded by the closing of the city gates at dusk, arriving too late to be admitted entry. They were huddled around pathetic fires, taking solace from the feeble light, a protection from the darkness that surrounded them and the preying hunters that would steal life and possessions from any who slept unguarded.
As the escort approached the Porta Flumentana, one of sixteen locked gates in the wall, Atticus’s gaze was drawn upwards along the towering wall. It was capped by flaming torches, beacons that created semi-circular patches of flickering lights on the battlements and accentuated the black darkness of the wall beneath. The gate within a granite arch rose twenty-five feet, solid oak with heavy iron bands spanning and securing the timbers every two feet. In the light of day they would be thrown back in open invitation to all, but now, in the half light of fire, in the depth of night, they stood impenetrable to the stranded travellers.
The horsemen halted as they reached the gate and the guard commander dismounted. He withdrew his sword and hammered the pommel on the wooden barrier, creating a deep resounding thud that echoed off the silent walls and alerted every traveller within earshot. A small face-high panel opened and Atticus watched as the praetorian conducted a terse conversation with an unseen guard on the inside. The panel closed again and the commander re-mounted. For a minute nothing happened and then suddenly the still air was wrenched with the grating sound of metal on metal. The gate was drawn back six feet and a troop of legionaries emerged, the six of them fanning out with their shields charged. The two mounted praetoriani behind Atticus drew their swords without command and again bunched in behind him, preventing him from turning his mount, their swords charged and ready. Again Atticus frowned at their over-cautious steps to prevent his escape, but he ignored them, his attention taken by the gust of sound in the darkness behind him.
The sound of the opening gate had roused those travellers closest to the gate and they came forward at a rush, many dragging their possessions while others tried to quickly harness their pack horses and ponies. The praetorian commander trotted forward through the gate without looking back, Atticus following in his wake, but the legionaries remained forward facing, their spears now levelled against the oncoming rush of people. Atticus could hear the desperation in their voices as they cried out for entry and he looked back over his shoulder to witness their forlorn attempt. They were fifteen feet from the legionaries when a flight of arrows suddenly struck the ground before them, loosed from the hidden parapets above and the crowd stopped short, their headlong rush transformed into halting steps, the sight of the arrows embedded into the ground before them causing all to hesitate.
The gate obscured Atticus’s vision of the road outside as he passed through and as the praetoriani behind him followed suit, the legionaries backed through the narrow aperture before it was closed with an echoing thud, cutting off the last of the pathetic voices of the travellers outside.
The escort continued through darkened streets, the pitiable moonlight offering little assistance and Atticus was left to reflect on what he had just witnessed. It was inconceivable to believe that the gates of Rome were opened each time a troop of soldiers arrived, praetoriani or otherwise, and Atticus was convinced that the man commanding these guards had to be powerful enough to overrule an age-old law that commanded the closure of the gates during darkness.
The horsemen moved quickly and Atticus was struck, as always, by the sense of the pressing humanity around him, the multitude within the walls and at each passing side street he felt the presence of a dozen eyes on his back, observers hidden in the darkness. Within fifteen minutes the men arrived at a featureless gateway in an affluent quarter of the city. They had risen up the side of one of the seven hills of Rome but Atticus could not discern which, unfamiliar as he was with the layout of the sprawling capital. There was a marble nameplate encased in the wall next to the gate. It was shrouded in shadow with only the last two letters exposed to the ambient light, ‘us.’ Atticus tried to make out the preceding text but he could not and his heart rate increased despite his resolution to hold fast until the person who had summoned him was revealed.
The gate was opened without command or call and the men led their mounts into the outer courtyard. The details of the house inside were lost in darkness but Atticus could nevertheless sense its vastness. He dismounted, handing the reins to a stable lad who quickly corralled the horses and led them away, leaving Atticus standing amidst the praetoriani. They moved off towards the entrance to the house proper and again Atticus fell into step although he could sense that the men escorting him had visibly relaxed their guard. Once in the atrium the guard commander turned abruptly to Atticus and spoke to him for the first time since leaving Ostia.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded, before nodding to his men to follow him down a torch-lit passageway.
Atticus looked around him, perplexed at being left alone after the close attention on the ride. His gaze scanned his surroundings, recognising the signs of wealth that adorned the candle-lit atrium and as his eyes ranged over the various entranceways he spotted the shape of a lone figure framed in an arch. The man walked towards him and before his face was revealed, Atticus recognised his stature and gait. He walked forwards to close the distance, his mind thinking back on when he had last seen the man, when they had stood beside each other on the steps of the Curia and the aft-deck of the Aquila. He came to a stop and stood to attention as the man’s face was finally illuminated. Atticus saluted formally but the man dismissed the gesture, extending his hand in friendship instead. Atticus took it without hesitation, his face breaking into a smile.
‘It is good to see you, Atticus,’ the man said.
‘And you, Consul Duilius,’ Atticus replied.
Duilius nodded, continuing the handshake, his other hand clasping Atticus’s upper arm.
‘Come,’ he said and he led Atticus from the atrium into a well lit reception room.
‘I am glad to see you safe,’ Duilius said, proffering Atticus a goblet of wine. ‘I have heard of your “altercation” with Varro at Thermae and I feared he might try to take his measure of reprisal outside the confines of the castrum.’
Atticus took a minute to recover, recalling the caution of the guards on his journey to Duilius’s house, their drawn swords outside the Porta Flumentana when Atticus had noticed the rush of people in the dark. They had not been acting to prevent his escape, they had been guarding against an attack on his life. Atticus looked to Duilius once more, amazed at how far the senator’s knowledge extended.
‘Varro is a young fool,’ Atticus began. ‘He was ready to condemn over a thousand men to save his own skin.’
‘He is young and he may well be a fool,’ Duilius said seriously, ‘but his hand and actions are guided by his father. And he is no fool. That is why I advocate caution.’
Atticus nodded again, marking the warning from his former commander.
Duilius indicated a low couch in the centre of the room and Atticus sat down.
‘I have heard a full account of the battle from my source,’ the senator said, taking a seat opposite Atticus, ‘however I would like to hear your version.’
Atticus recounted the attack in detail, conscious that Duilius was an avid student of naval warfare.
‘It would seem the enemy grossly underestimated our numbers, otherwise their fleet would have been larger,’ Duilius remarked.
Atticus nodded in agreement. ‘Their mistake allowed for the escape of eighteen of our galleys and the majority of the hastati. Outnumbered, we would not have broken out.’
‘However fortunate your escape,’ Duilius said, ‘Thermae is a significant defeat. There will be repercussions.’
‘Varro?’ Atticus ventured.
‘He is disgraced, but his father will certainly deflect a severe censure, using his influence amongst the patricians. I suspect Varro will retain a command, albeit one of little consequence.’
‘You will not remove him from command?’ Atticus asked, surprised.
‘It is not within my power,’ Duilius replied.
‘But as senior consul…’
Duilius shook his head. He quickly told Atticus of his decision to attain the censorship, omitting his suspicions of Scipio’s manipulation of his intentions.
‘So who is senior consul?’ Atticus asked.
‘A man named Regulus,’ Duilius said and Atticus shrugged imperceptibly. He had never heard of him. ‘My own close ally, Longus, has attained the lesser position of junior consul.’
