straightened his shoulders as he walked, his hand reaching for and grasping the hilt of his sword, flexing his fingers as he took a firm grip on the moulded ivory handle. To his front the Roman enemy stood, bloodied but by no means beaten. To his rear the cautious men of Carthage and Syracuse stood, demanding victory before committing fully to the war. Hamilcar and his men stood in the middle, defiant and confident; their only ally the sword and shield and Hamilcar increased the intensity of his grip at the thought, matching his will to the forged iron of his blade.
Hadria allowed her hand to drift slowly down Atticus’s chest as he talked, her fingers tracing the contours of his flesh, brushing lightly over the creased skin of his scars, fascinated by them, wishing to know the story behind each one. Atticus lay on his back with one arm propped under his head, his eyes turned up to the ceiling as he relayed the events of the past three months in answer to her open questions, his voice unnaturally low in the privacy of Hadria’s bedroom. Hadria lay on her side, her leg thrown across Atticus, the gentle curve of her thigh pressing lightly on him, her head resting on her upper arm. Outside the sun was reaching its zenith and the dead heat of the late summer draped the room in a sullen shroud of warmth, sustaining a sheen of sweat on the lovers’ bodies.
Atticus spoke of Thermae but he did not mention his confrontation with Varro, not wanting to alarm Hadria. Finally he spoke of the journey to Rome and their rescue of the survivor from the Fides, his brow creasing anew as the logic of the pirates’ tactics continued to baffle him.
‘And what of Septimus?’ Hadria asked as Atticus finished. ‘Has he mentioned me to you?’
‘He only came back on board the Aquila at Thermae,’ Atticus replied. ‘We’ve not spoken of you since our quarrel months ago outside the walls of Rome.’
Hadria’s expression creased into a slight frown. ‘We must tell him of our love,’ she said.
Atticus turned over to face her, resting his hand on her cheek.
‘Many of the servants here are from my father’s household,’ she continued. ‘They move back and forth between the two houses and are bound to discuss this. It is only a matter of time before a loose word is overheard by one of my family.’
Atticus nodded, knowing the inevitable confrontation with Septimus would have to be faced sooner rather than later, their reunion at Thermae putting them once more at close quarters.
‘I will speak with him,’ Atticus said.
‘No,’ Hadria replied. ‘It must come from me; he must know how I feel.’
Again Atticus nodded, searching his own feelings. Hadria believed Septimus’s disapproval of Atticus as his sister’s suitor was in response to the loss of Hadria’s first husband and Septimus’s best friend in battle and that he wished to spare his sister, and perhaps himself, the pain of that loss again. Atticus had understood Hadria’s reasoning but he found he could not abandon the last vestiges of his own initial reaction, that Septimus disapproved because Atticus was Greek and beneath consideration as a match for Hadria. He knew it was a misplaced accusation and yet he had encountered prejudice so often before from many other Romans that his misgivings were hard to ignore.
A gentle knock on the door shattered the privacy of their world and Hadria leapt from the bed, her beauty pronounced by her nakedness and Atticus smiled anew.
‘My Aunt!’ Hadria gasped, fearing the worst as she shrugged on a tunic. ‘She was supposed to be out all day.’
Atticus shared Hadria’s alarm and quickly covered up. To be discovered now, on the cusp of revealing their relationship, would immeasurably compromise them both and he cursed Fortuna for her capricious nature. Hadria opened the door an inch and peered out, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she was confronted by one of the house servants. Atticus listened to the muted announcement, unable to discern the details. Hadria pushed the door closed and turned to him, her face a mixture of happiness and regret.
‘A messenger,’ she said, ‘from my father’s house. Septimus has returned and I am to go there at once.’
Antoninus Laetonius Capito stood tall at the head of the family room, his hand unconsciously fingering the vicious scar that marred the left side of his face. Septimus sat opposite him, a goblet of wine in his hand, the cushions beside him still crumpled from where his mother, Salonina, had sat only moments before, his forearm still sensing where her hand had pressed against his skin, a touch that confirmed to herself that her son had returned safely.
Antoninus began to pace, his movements slow but fluid, his gaze still the authoritarian stare of a centurion of the Ninth legion. In a low and hoarse voice, he began to question Septimus on the details of the battle of Thermae, his enquiries sharp and incisive, his military mind recreating the conflict in sharp detail.
‘Megellus is a fool,’ he said after Septimus had concluded, ‘he should have held firm in open ground rather than hamstrung his command in the narrow streets.’
‘The Carthaginian cavalry numbered near a thousand,’ Septimus replied, protest in his voice, ‘and the Ninth was under-strength.’
‘Your time in the marines has softened you, boy,’ Antoninus snorted derisively. ‘You’ve forgotten the true mettle of a legion. By Mars, my maniple would have stood.’
‘Then your maniple would have been slaughtered,’ Septimus spat back, weary of his father’s dismissive attitude towards the marines.
‘And you managed to escape by sea?’ There was a half look of disdain on Antoninus’s face.
‘My duty is to lead my men on board the Aquila.’
‘Your duty, as was mine, should be with the Ninth,’ Antoninus said, standing rigidly across from his son, his scar vividly white on his coloured face. ‘Where is your honour?’ he growled.
Septimus shot up, his knuckles white around the goblet in his hand, his temper rising as he held his father’s iron gaze.
‘I am a centurion and my honour is beyond question,’ he said, taking a half-step forward, his hand trembling and the muscles in his arm tensing, ready to be unleashed.
Antoninus saw Septimus’s stance and thanked Jupiter his son was unarmed. The boy was certainly a wild one and his ferocity seemed to be barely in check. For the first time Antoninus wondered what kind of a centurion his son was and a half-smile crept across his face as he answered his own question.
Suddenly Salonina entered the room, stopping short as she noticed the charged atmosphere, the aggressive stance of both men, and she shot a look to her husband who faced her, knowing he had goaded Septimus, that he had given voice to the disappointment he had often spoken to her about. She suppressed her censure and looked to her son.
‘Septimus,’ she said, a forced smile on her face, ‘Hadria has arrived.’
Septimus shot around at his mother’s voice, her tone breaking the spell of his temper. His mind replayed the words she had just spoken and his anger evaporated further. He turned his back on his father and looked to the entrance. Hadria strode in, her cheeks flushed in her haste and she stood smiling for a second before embracing her brother. Salonina beckoned towards the couches and they moved to sit down, Hadria immediately noticing the tension between her father and Septimus.
The conversation turned towards lighter subjects under Salonina’s diplomatic touch and soon all were at ease, the news of Septimus’s absent brothers, Tiberius and Claudius, taking centre stage. Both were traders and between them they controlled the bulk of the family’s wealth, an estate that had increased with the escalation of the war in Sicily, the demand for raw materials for ship building creating opportunities unseen in a generation.
‘When will you sail again?’ Hadria asked, wondering how long Atticus would be in Rome.
‘I don’t know,’ Septimus replied, telling them of their arrival in Ostia, the seizure of the Aquila and their forced confinement in the barracks pending Varro’s report to the Senate. They had been released only that very morning and Septimus had immediately ordered the crew and his men to proceed to Fiumicino.
‘And you did not go with them?’ Antoninus asked instinctively. A commander’s place was with his men.
‘No, father,’ Septimus replied, and he quickly told them how Atticus had been taken from his cell the night before, his escort unidentified and his whereabouts now unknown. ‘It’s possible he has been taken under guard by Varro,’ Septimus concluded, his concern evident to all.
‘No, he…’ Hadria spoke without thinking, impulsively wishing to allay her brother’s fears.
‘I mean, I’m sure he…,’ she continued, her mind racing. ‘Why would Varro take him under guard?’
Septimus explained about Atticus’s confrontation with Varro at Thermae, his own expression now puzzled as he thought about Hadria’s initial reaction. Hadria’s own face showed nothing but mounting anxiety at the danger Atticus was in, a danger he had kept from her. As Septimus concluded he stood once more as he suddenly
