‘Captain Perennis,’ Varro said instantly.
Scipio nodded, as if he needed reminding of the name. ‘As a senator of Rome,’ Scipio said, the anger in his voice now genuine, ‘it galls me that this man, this Greek, has escaped the retribution he so obviously deserves.’
Varro nodded in agreement, his own face twisted in anger.
‘But Perennis cannot be attacked in or near Rome,’ Scipio continued. ‘He has powerful friends, men who would investigate and proclaim Perennis’s death as a crime against the state. His death must occur far from Rome, where the truth can be hidden.’
Again Varro nodded and Scipio fixed him with a steady gaze.
‘You must be Rome’s avenger when he is out of her reach,’ Scipio said, relishing every word, every second as his revenge took shape. ‘Do this, Varro, and I will see that you return to Rome with honour.’
Instinctively Varro stood to attention once more, saluting with all the passion he could muster.
‘Yes, Senator,’ he said.
With the order given and acknowledged there were no other words to be spoken and he strode from the courtyard with a renewed sense of honour and pride coursing through his veins, never looking back, never seeing the malevolent smile of triumph on the face of his saviour.
Atticus stood tall on the aft-deck of the Aquila as he looked out over the teeming military activity that was Fiumicino. In his mind’s eye he pictured the simple fishing village it had once been, untouched and unsullied by the great city that sat only fifteen miles distant. Now it was home to the shipyards of the Classis Romanus, and the tented city that once sat astride the village now consisted of timber barracks and workshops, interspersed by stone-built blockhouses and officers’ quarters that stretched behind the wind-shaped dunes and housed over five thousand of Rome’s finest.
Stretching along the coastline, above the high-tide mark stood a vast array of skeletal frames, scaffolding for the new galleys that were under constant construction. Each new ship was a quinquereme, designed for five rowers on each bank of three oars, the lowest oar with a single rower, with the upper oars manned by a pair of slaves. They were Tyrian in design, based on the Carthaginian flagship captured at Mylae, and soon they would outnumber the triremes of the Roman fleet, their superior design and power a greater match for the ships of Carthage.
The sound of approaching footsteps across the deck caused Atticus to turn and he nodded to Lucius as the second-in-command came towards him. The older man looked pleased with himself, his normal sombre expression cast aside in a smile, revealing teeth more often clenched in anger when a crewman moved too slow for his liking. Atticus smiled back, liking the man. Lucius was the heart of the ship’s crew, respected by all, a seaman for over thirty years and answerable to no man except for his captain. He knew the Aquila intimately, her every length of running rigging and every seam of timber and he placed her above every other ship in the fleet. When Lucius and the crew had arrived at Fiumicino ahead of Atticus, the second-in-command had found the Aquila languishing by her stern anchor one hundred yards from shore. He had immediately harassed and harangued the port commander for the choice mooring spot the Aquila now enjoyed at the end of a jetty, citing the Aquila’s importance as a former flagship. This greatly improved the speed and ease of her refitting and Lucius was enormously pleased with the result.
‘We should be ready to sail by dawn tomorrow, Captain,’ he said, moving to the rail beside Atticus.
‘Good work,’ Atticus replied and slapped Lucius on the shoulder. He looked to the main deck and the activity of the crew there. Lucius had taken advantage of the Aquila’s presence in the shipyards by ordering a new mainmast and rigging. Atticus had checked it earlier and had been more than satisfied. The angle of mast had been set perfectly and the flawless oak spar would serve the Aquila for years to come. Atticus turned once more to look along the shoreline.
‘Bloody quinqueremes,’ Lucius spat, seeing the focus of his captain’s gaze. ‘Fat sows, every last one of ‘em.’
‘They’re good ships, Lucius,’ Atticus said, a smile on his face, goading his friend slightly.
‘Their draught is too deep and the Aquila would run rings around any one of them,’ Lucius replied irritably.
‘But they’re fast and they can ram any trireme out of the water,’ Atticus countered, playing devil’s advocate, wishing to draw out the foundations of Lucius’s argument beneath his obvious prejudice.
‘Size and strength aren’t everything,’ Lucius said. ‘The Greeks proved that at Salamis. What counts is manoeuvrability and once you get behind one of those, they’re as vulnerable as any other galley.’
Atticus nodded, conceding the point, remembering that the Aquila had taken a quinquereme at Mylae. The argument was academic however, because right or wrong the decision had already been made by the Romans. The Classis Romanus would eventually be a fleet dominated by quinqueremes and so the triremes’ days as a front line galley were numbered.
Lucius tapped Atticus’s arm and pointed towards the beach end of the jetty where a group of riders were dismounting. Atticus recognised Varro immediately and his stomach tightened. The tribune was making his way down the jetty, his fourstrong personal guard in tow with Vitulus at their head.
‘Honour guard to the gangway, Lucius,’ Atticus commanded without turning.
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied with a low growl, his dislike for Varro already deeply entrenched.
Atticus watched the men approach until the last possible second and then made his own way to the main deck and the head of the gangway. Varro was first to come aboard. He scanned the deck before him before finally coming to the captain. Their eyes met and Atticus tried to discern the level of the tribune’s hostility but the gaze was too brief.
‘When can you be ready to sail, Perennis?’ Varro asked abruptly.
Atticus suppressed his anger at Varro’s insult of omitting the title of his rank in front of his crew while beside him he felt Lucius bristle, but for another reason. Naval tradition demanded that a visitor request permission to board before doing so. To ignore the courtesy was an insult to all on board.
‘The ship can be ready by dawn tomorrow, Tribune,’ Atticus replied, keeping his tone even, ‘but the complement of marines or their commander are not on board.’
‘Send runners immediately,’ Varro said. ‘Inform the marines that we will be sailing at dawn.’
Atticus looked to Lucius and nodded and the second-in-command immediately beckoned one of the crewmen to his side, issuing him with the order. Varro brushed past Atticus, followed by Vitulus and three other legionaries. Atticus made to follow them but Vitulus sensed the move and turned abruptly.
‘Step aside, soldier,’ Atticus commanded, his patience long since gone.
‘The tribune will be using the main cabin as his quarters, Captain,’ Vitulus replied. ‘He will ask for you when you are needed.’
‘I didn’t ask you about the tribune’s sleeping arrangements,’ Atticus replied threateningly, his right hand moving to the hilt of his sword. ‘I ordered you to step aside.’
Vitulus squared his shoulders and looked hard into the captain’s eyes. Atticus shifted his weight slightly in anticipation but suddenly Vitulus turned his back and strode to the hatchway six feet away, disappearing below without a backward glance. Atticus stood rooted to the spot, his fury commanding him to rush forward but his good sense telling him to hold fast. Vitulus was under Varro’s command and protection and Atticus knew he would get no satisfaction from the tribune. With a furious scowl he walked past the hatchway and made his way back to the aft- deck, his hand still locked on the hilt of his sword.
The languid on-shore breeze carried a cool sea mist that soon enveloped the shoreline at Fiumicino, dissipating the crimson light of the dying sun and chasing the last of the day’s dead heat from the air. Atticus stood in the centre of the main deck, supervising the work of the crew as they carried supplies on board. It was a job he would normally leave to Lucius but tonight he needed the distraction and in any case, it took him away from the aft-deck where Varro and his guard commander, Vitulus, had been standing for the past hour.
When they had first arrived back on deck, Atticus had been standing at the tiller with Gaius. He had immediately tried to engage with the tribune, to ascertain the details of his orders and to find out where the Aquila would be sailing to on the morrow. Varro had been completely dismissive however and Atticus had felt compelled to leave the aft-deck. Not through intimidation but because he knew the obvious tension between him and Varro would be noticed by the crew and to have the two most senior officers on board at each other’s throats would adversely affect their morale.
Atticus reached out to the mainmast and ran his finger down the newly sanded oak. His finger left a trail
