through the light sheen of moisture the sea mist had deposited there and he rubbed the residue between his thumb and forefinger. He touched the mast again, sensing the strength of the timber, a strength that was now part of his ship. The thought made him angry and he looked to the aft-deck. His ship, but now not his own. The Aquila had always been Rome’s to command but before the escalation of the war and the Aquila’s entanglement into the conflict she had been Roman in name only, and Atticus had come to consider her his own. Now that autonomy was gone, replaced by anonymity, a single ship amidst a fleet and his command was set aside at the whim of privileged Romans.
‘Lucius!’ Atticus called and he was immediately on hand.
‘I’m going ashore,’ Atticus continued, overwhelmed for the first time ever with an urge to get off the Aquila. ‘Finish the re-supply.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius replied, sensing his captain’s frustration but withholding his counsel, knowing Atticus would ask for help if he needed it. He watched the young captain turn and walk down the gangway, sidestepping the men coming up against him and within seconds he was lost in the sea mist that obscured the shore-end of the jetty. Lucius realised his own teeth were gritted in anger and he instinctively turned to the aft-deck and the man who was the cause, a second too late to notice that Varro had also watched Atticus leave the galley.
The Alissar moved silently through the dark waters of Tyndaris harbour, her sleek hull cutting through the seemingly viscous waves, their crests dividing perfectly, peeling back to stroke the one-hundred and sixty foot hull before joining together once more in the galley’s swirling wake. The rowers below decks worked without the aid of a drum with only every third row engaged and the other oars withdrawn to avoid entanglements. At steerage speed of only two knots their oar strokes were almost languid, their rhythmic fluid motion belying the strength-sapping effort needed to propel the one-hundred and ten ton galley through the water.
Hamilcar stood at the starboard aft-deck rail, Captain Himilco by his side, the two men looking out over the shoreline illuminated by a thousand torch lights, the frantic pace of construction continuing even at this late hour.
‘Impressive,’ Himilco remarked, picturing the plans he had seen in Hamilcar’s cabin, overlaying them on the illuminated canvas of the shoreline before him.
Hamilcar nodded, pleased that the construction looked well advanced. It was impossible to tell in the dark but surely the end was well in sight.
A look-out approached Hamilcar and briefly indicated a point in the inner harbour. ‘There, Commander,’ he pointed. ‘We can’t see her yet but the signal has been confirmed twice.’
‘Very well,’ Hamilcar said, keeping his voice level. ‘Helmsman, two points to port. Steady as she goes.’
It was a gamble to enter Tyndaris harbour but Hamilcar had wanted to see how far the construction had progressed, even though the necessity to arrive at night robbed him of seeing much detail. He would attend the pre-arranged meeting, knowing the man he was to meet would have a full detailed report of activities both here and further north. Then the Alissar would slip out of Tyndaris, long before dawn’s early light betrayed her presence to the world, a passing shadow that would melt like the wake of a galley.
Atticus made his way up the beach, kicking the debris aside as he crossed the high-tide drift line until he reached the shallow dunes that marked the division between the beach and the semi-permanent city beyond. His vision extended no more than twenty feet in either direction, but all around he could hear the activities of the camp, shouted commands that were muted in the moisture-laden air, the hammer blows of carpenters that would soon cease as the last of the day’s light was extinguished prematurely by the mist. He turned right towards the village, knowing it to be almost one hundred yards ahead and, as the noises behind him began to fade, he slowly became aware of how the mist had isolated him amidst thousands. He smiled at the thought, glad to feel separated from the Romans even if in reality he was not.
Within a minute Atticus reached the ‘little river’ from which the village drew its name. It was no more than a stream and Atticus crossed it at the natural ford created where sediment carried downstream met the incoming tidal waves. The beach on this side of the river was unchanged by the sprawling activity that had transformed the coast running north on the other side and Atticus was forced to weave his way through the beached fishing boats of the villagers, many of them upturned, exposing their underbellies, and as Atticus recognised the different varieties of boats, he silently mouthed their names. He stopped suddenly as he spotted a kaiki, a traditional Greek fishing boat, almost exactly like one his father had once owned. He made his way towards it and placed his hand on the bowsprit, his mind flooding with memories. With the mist narrowing the range of his senses Atticus could almost believe he was standing on the beach astride his home city of Locri and for a second he was a young boy again, standing amidst the boats of his own people. He stood silent for a minute, taking comfort from the memory before continuing on into the village.
In the months since the creation of the shipyards, Fiumicino had tripled in size, its once solitary reason for existence, fishing, now superseded by commercial activities specifically targeted to the lucrative opportunities available in having so many Romans isolated from the city. The main thoroughfare running parallel to the river, once devoid of life, was now lined by stalls and Atticus was accosted from all sides by traders selling a profusion of goods, from cooked food and cheap wine, to medicinal cures and balms. The side-streets running away from the river had also been requisitioned, the less valuable sites making those traders that bit more aggressive as they tried to steer customers from the main street, but Atticus ignored them all, his eyes searching the buildings behind the stalls. Two of them in the centre of the street drew Atticus’s attention. Above the door of the first was a sign bearing a crude depiction of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, her nakedness demurely covered by her enfolded arms. Atticus smiled at the illustration. Love was rarely found in a brothel. The second building, which looked like a former shop, had a different sign over the door, depicting the Roman god of wine, Bacchus, and Atticus made directly for it.
Atticus pushed open the door, his eyes squinting to penetrate the gloom within. A wall of sound greeted him, laughter and raised conversations from tongues made loose by drink. He grimaced slightly as he was assaulted by the overpowering smells in the dour room, sweet wine and dank sweat while in the corner a man was collapsed in a pool of his own vomit. The bar stood on the opposite wall to the door and Atticus could see where the internal partitions of the building had been removed to make way for the five large tables which ran parallel to each other across the floor, with half empty benches on both sides of each one. Atticus picked a path between two and made his way towards the bar.
Atticus looked at the faces of many of the men as he passed, his gaze returned intensely by some. These men were the shipwrights and carpenters of the shipyards, skilled labourers who originally were drafted to Fiumicino by order of the Senate but who now remained by choice. With the village off-limits to the legionaries, a man so heavily armed as Atticus was immediately noticed and marked and as Atticus reached the bar, he could still feel the gaze of many on his back.
Amidst the continuous uproar of the room Atticus had to shout his order and he was immediately handed an amphora of wine and a dirty chipped wooden goblet. He turned and searched for a vacant seat nearby, finding one quickly and sitting down heavily, the scabbard of his sword striking the bench with a heavy thud. He filled the goblet and drank the cheap acerbic wine in one gulp, belching deeply as the liquid hit his stomach. He refilled his goblet and drank again, the burning sensation lessened this time and after two more refills Atticus shifted his weight and sat back a little, the wine finally taking the edge off his mood.
Atticus surveyed the room again. He noticed an incongruous corner of the room and he immediately realised he had been wrong before. The building had never been a shop; it had always been a tavern, albeit a much smaller one, which had expanded to accommodate the influx of customers. The walls in this corner, directly beside the door, were darker in shade, blackened over the years by near continuous candlelight. A small narrow bench still remained against the wall, upon which sat three older men, their eyes hooded, their gaze downturned as they spoke together in obvious hushed tones. Atticus smiled. They were the locals, the men who had drunk in this tavern all their lives and who still clung loyally to their corner, keeping themselves to themselves.
Atticus went to the bar once more and ordered three more amphorae, gathering them up in his arms before making his way towards the local’s corner. Someone in Fiumicino owed the kaiki boat on the beach, which meant it was possible they had once fished the Ionian coast. For Atticus, that was as close as he was going to get to his own kind tonight and he was determined to find out who the man was, if only to trade stories about the treacherous coastline that flanked the strait of Messina.
The three men looked at Atticus warily as he approached, their eyes at first drawn to his sword, but slowly rising to finally rest on the amphorae he was carrying and they unconsciously shifted to allow room for Atticus to sit
