down on the bench, taking the wine from him without comment, waiting for the stranger to begin the conversation, wondering what price he would require for the wine he had given them.
Septimus crested the dunes at the head of his sixty-strong demi-maniple, the rattle of their full armour loud in the early night air. He stepped aside out of formation to allow his men to pass, leaving Drusus to lead them down the beach as he inspected the ranks. Even in the semi-darkness many of the faces were familiar, but there was also a heavy mix of new men, replacements and transfers, men tested in other battles under different commanders.
The men were all legionaries, drawn from the legions and seconded to the navy if and when they were needed. While on board the Aquila, Septimus would endeavour to train them in new fighting techniques more suitable to the confines of a galley, but he knew his efforts would be met with resistance and would ultimately be fruitless as men were rotated out of naval duty and sent back to their respective legions. Septimus smiled in the darkness. They were stubborn men, proud of their legion as he had once been. Nevertheless, while he had them under his command, Septimus was determined to instil respect in every man he commanded, respect for the Aquila and in particular for the men who fought with the navy full-time.
As the last men passed Septimus he fell in behind them and then increased his pace to double-quick time, passing the entire troop before they reached the jetty at the end of the beach. He led them along the walkway, glancing at the other moored galleys as he passed until he reached the Aquila, her deck brightly lit by lanterns and burning braziers, her crew intensely active in contrast to the other quietened boats surrounding her.
For an instant Septimus’s plan dominated his mind. He was going to confront Atticus, at the first opportunity. For the hundredth time he searched his feelings and found his anger was still there, still smouldering from the thought of his friend’s betrayal. He recalled every counterpoint to that anger, his loyalty to Atticus, the number of times they had trusted each other with their lives, and his sister’s declaration of their love for each other. He knew it was not enough; Atticus would have to answer for his betrayal.
The sight of Lucius standing at the head of the gangway interrupted Septimus’s thoughts.
‘Permission to come aboard!’ Septimus called.
‘Granted,’ Lucius called, his eyes seeing past the centurion to the ranks behind him.
Septimus led his legionaries up the gangway and again stepped aside to allow his men to pass. Drusus formed them into ranks on the main deck.
‘Where is the captain?’ Septimus asked of Lucius.
‘He went ashore nearly three hours ago.’
‘To where?’
‘The captain didn’t say,’ Lucius replied. He saw the look of puzzlement in the centurion’s eyes but didn’t venture any further information. It wasn’t his place to speak on the captain’s behalf, particularly when the reason for his departure was a personal matter.
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’ Septimus asked, confused by Atticus’s actions. The Aquila was due to sail with the dawn and it was unlike Atticus to be absent so close to departure, however reliable his crew was.
‘No, Centurion,’ Lucius said. He sensed Septimus’s concern and relented slightly, obliquely citing the reason for his captain’s departure.
‘The tribune’s on board,’ he said, nodding towards the aft-deck.
Septimus followed his gaze and saw Varro standing at the aft-rail with his men.
‘He’s sailing with us?’ Septimus asked, surprised to see Varro in command considering his recent defeat. But his presence did provide a possible reason for Atticus’s absence.
‘Yes,’ answered Lucius, ‘him and four of his men.’
‘Four?’ Septimus asked. There were only three men with Varro on the aft-deck.
‘The other one must be below decks,’ Lucius surmised. ‘The tribune has commandeered the main cabin.’
Septimus nodded and turned his gaze back towards his own men. Having any high ranking officer on board always complicated the command structure, but with Varro, a disgraced tribune hostile to the captain, the problem would be exacerbated and magnified ten-fold.
Lucius watched Septimus intently, searching the young man’s expression. He had always harboured a contempt for legionaries but had long ago learned to respect the Roman centurion, not least because of his obvious friendship with the captain. The thought caused Lucius to look beyond Septimus to the impenetrable mist that still surrounded the galley, its gloom intensified by the darkness.
The three men laughed heartily as Atticus finished his tale, one of them slapping him on the back as he coughed, choking slightly on his wine. Atticus laughed with them, his earlier dark mood now completely forgotten, doused in wine and good company. The initial wariness when Atticus approached the men had evaporated the minute he had enquired about the ownership of the kaiki, for only a fisherman could know of its name. They realised immediately they were talking to one of their own. Now, hours later, the original amphorae were strewn at their feet, their replacements lying empty beside them, drunk faster and enjoyed more by the three locals in the knowledge that Atticus had paid for them.
Atticus slowly recovered and lifted his goblet to his mouth. It was empty and he reached for the nearest amphora, casting it aside when he realised it too was empty. He stood up and immediately staggered, his fall prevented by the outstretched hand of one of the locals.
‘I think you’ve had enough, sailor,’ he said, his jovial face upturned in the shadowed room. ‘You’d better get back to your ship.’
Atticus nodded, patting the man on the shoulder. He stood upright and turned to the door, taking a couple of unsteady steps before plunging out into the darkened street.
The night air, made cool by the mist, sobered Atticus a little and he turned left towards the sea, his stride steadying that bit more as he brushed past the last of the stall-owners still plying their trade. Atticus rolled his head and rubbed his eyes to clear his mind that bit more but the action had no effect, and he smiled slightly at the thought. He hadn’t drunk that much wine in a long time.
Towards the end of the street near the beach a lone trader stood in the centre of the road, his palms upturned in greeting. Atticus sidestepped slightly but the man mirrored his move, placing himself once more in Atticus’s path.
‘You look hungry, sailor,’ the man said, a bright smile beneath his dishevelled hair. ‘Some food perhaps to satisfy an appetite sharpened at the tavern?’
Atticus half smiled, and raised his hand slightly to dismiss the man. The trader however stepped towards Atticus, ignoring the gesture.
‘Charcoaled fish,’ he said, reaching out with his hand and taking Atticus’s elbow.
Atticus acquiesced slightly, the wine mollifying him. The trader pointed to his stall with an open hand and Atticus turned. It was on one of the side streets, not ten feet off the main thoroughfare. Atticus hesitated for a second, but the trader persisted, drawing his arm around him, and Atticus relented, the smell of cooked fish suddenly making him hungry.
The stall was the only one still open on the street, the darkness beyond it revealing only the outlines of others, the houses behind them silent and seemingly deserted. Atticus squinted into the gloom and smiled at the trader’s persistence, staying open so late when everyone else had left. He turned to say as much when he noticed the man’s smile had disappeared from his face, replaced instead with an expression of fear. The man was looking back over his shoulder, his body twisted awkwardly, his hand still holding Atticus’s elbow.
A voice suddenly sounded in Atticus’s mind, a cry of warning, and he spun around towards the trader, ducking his head forward as he did. The stab of pain was immediate as the tip of a blade whipped across his jaw-line, slicing the skin cleanly and opening a deep wound where, a heartbeat before, the back of his exposed neck had been.
A piercing cry split the air as the blade continued unimpeded through its arc and part of Atticus’s vision registered the trader’s face disappear behind a spray of blood, the knife striking him full in the face. Atticus sprang backward to face his attacker, hitting the stall with his shoulder, the hot coals of the brazier spilling across his outstretched left hand as he struggled for balance. His mind ignored the pain, focused instead on survival and his right hand went for the dagger in his belt, a spear-pointed blade six inches long, sliding out of the scabbard in a blink of an eye.
Atticus crouched slightly and tensed his legs, his eyes frantically searching the darkness for his attacker. He saw him not six feet away, his bulk obscuring the dim light of the main street behind. The trader continued to
