extend the assignment, and consented to it without command or hesitation.
‘And the construction schedule here?’ Hamilcar asked, nodding over his shoulder to the lights of the shoreline beyond the town.
‘It is progressing well,’ Belus said, ‘and Hiero has been true to his word. The site is completely self- contained; with his troops allowing no-one to enter or leave. Its true purpose is still a secret.’
Hamilcar nodded. It was one aspect of the plan that could easily fall prey to exposure. A trained military eye would certainly be suspicious if they could see anything, but the site lay beyond the shore, out of sight from the water. It was vital that prying eyes were kept at bay, even if that meant keeping the construction workers imprisoned until the work was finished.
Hamilcar reached out and tapped Belus on the shoulder in thanks. His posting on the pirate galley was an unenviable assignment but his friend had done well and he was willing to remain on the galley for as long as it took to remove any doubts. Hamilcar led Belus to the foredeck where the pirate crew parted once more to let them through. Narmer was standing at the aft-rail, studying the Carthaginian galley moored to his vessel.
‘A fine ship,’ he said to Hamilcar, his covetousness plainly written on his face and Hamilcar got the impression that if his own crew were not so numerous and armed, Narmer would have his men over the rails without hesitation.
Hamilcar did not reply but rather looked across to Himilco on the Alissar. He held up his hand and spread out all five fingers. The captain nodded and then indicated to two crewmen who picked up one of two chests and carried it forward, its obvious weight betraying its contents. They manhandled it across the gap between the galleys and lay it at Narmer’s feet.
‘That’s five hundred,’ Hamilcar said as Narmer bent down to open the chest.
The pirate captain didn’t hesitate as he heard the words and his hand reached for his sword as he stood fully upright. Within a heartbeat, Hamilcar’s guards reacted in kind and then the pirate crew, the sound of iron on iron filling the air as swords were drawn from their metal scabbards. Only Hamilcar remained immovable, holding Narmer’s gaze as the pirate captain stared balefully at him.
‘What deceit is this?’ he spat. ‘The agreed price was one-thousand drachma.’
‘I must extend the contract until the full moon,’ Hamilcar said evenly.
‘Belus agreed that I would be given the full amount when he made contact with his commander. You are he. The full moon is three weeks away.’ Narmer stepped forward as he spoke, bringing his sword closer to Hamilcar’s chest.
‘I will pay you a further one thousand drachma in addition to this chest when next we meet,’ Hamilcar said, keeping his eyes locked on Narmer. He saw the pirate’s eyes glaze over slightly at the mention of the increased price and he smiled inside. He knew Narmer’s avarice would decide the issue. In any case he also needed the pirate to remain cooperative if Belus was to succeed and the increased price was bound to placate him.
Narmer suddenly stepped back and sheathed his sword. He smiled at Hamilcar and then laughed out loud.
‘It is a good deal,’ he said aloud for the benefit of his crew, a show of bravado as if he had engineered the deal. They also backed off and soon not a single blade, pirate or Carthaginian, was exposed.
Hamilcar looked once more to Belus and nodded before turning to leave.
Narmer stepped in front of him and leaned in, lowering his voice so none could overhear.
‘Look to your back, Carthaginian,’ he hissed, ‘this deal might bind me now but I will not forget this night’
Hamilcar held the pirate’s gaze, a sudden wave of hate washing over him, not for Narmer in particular, but for his kind. He looked away and brushed past the seething captain, silently vowing that once Rome was subjugated, he would dedicate his fleet to wiping the stain of piracy from the seas of Carthage.
Septimus continued to pace the main deck as the ship’s bell chimed the turn of the hour, a sound repeated near and far from the other galleys docked along the shoreline. He looked to the eastern sky but it was pitch black. Dawn was still three hours away. The sea mist had cleared, leaving the night cool and clear with a promise of fair weather for the morrow. Septimus turned and made his way to the aft-deck, silently stepping over the prone bodies of some of the sleeping crew, their bodies hunched up under blankets as they snatched a couple of hours.
The aft-deck was deserted except for Gaius, who lay beneath the tiller, his powerful arms enfolded across his chest, his breathing deep and even. Septimus arched his back at the sight, his own fatigue provoked by the peaceful sight but he knew he could not sleep, his mind too alert for rest. There was still no sight of Atticus and Septimus’s resolution to confront him remained at the forefront of his thoughts. That plan was now blunted by the discovery that Varro would be sailing with the Aquila. How had the tribune escaped censure and punishment? Septimus couldn’t even begin to fathom a defence the tribune could have used. And his return to the Aquila had to be connected to Atticus, so his friend was once more in danger. Septimus began to waver. Could he confront Atticus at a time when it could lead to a breach in their friendship? At a time when he needed someone to watch his back more than ever before?
The sound of raised voices caused Septimus to rush to the aft-rail and he peered into the darkness enveloping the beach end of the jetty, trying to decipher the meaning of the overlapping calls. Other voices were soon raised in answer from the galleys closer to shore; calls that were at first raised in anger. Septimus’s stomach filled with dread as his intuition caught the tone of panic in the raised voices, the sound he had often heard before on the battlefield. Something was very wrong. The strongest of the overlapping voices suddenly became clear.
‘Ho Aquila! Call out! Identify yourself!’
‘Here!’ Septimus called without hesitation, his commanding voice waking Gaius immediately along with half of the sleeping crew.
A tangle of figures emerged from the darkness and Septimus quickly identified them as three men carrying a fourth. He immediately ran from the aft-deck and within seconds he was down the gangplank and onto the jetty. He rushed up to the three men, his own sense of panic rising as he recognised the blood-stained man they carried.
‘What happened?’ he shouted, grabbing the nearest man by the front of his tunic, almost lifting him clear off the ground.
‘We found him on the street in the village,’ the man spluttered, terrified of the towering soldier.
Septimus pushed him aside and reached for Atticus, the other men stopping in their tracks.
‘He’s alive,’ one of the others said and Septimus looked to him, a murderous expression twisting his face.
‘What happened to him?’ Septimus asked, the accusation in his tone clearly evident as he took hold of Atticus, his limp body falling against Septimus’s chest.
‘A knife fight,’ the man replied. ‘We heard the shouts of alarm in the tavern and rushed out to find him lying unconscious on the street.’
By now a number of the Aquila’s crew had rushed onto the jetty, Lucius amongst them and he pushed his way to the front. His expression collapsed as he spotted his captain, his blood black in the darkness, drenching his clothes and running down his legs.
‘Is he…?’ he muttered.
‘He’s still alive,’ Septimus said as he brushed past the second-in-command, carrying him quickly back up the gangway.
‘Drusus!’ he called. The optio was immediately on hand.
‘Call out the guard and detain those three men,’ he ordered and Drusus quickly commanded his men, the soldiers rushing down the ramp, pushing past the crew re-boarding the galley after their captain.
‘More light here,’ Lucius called as Septimus laid Atticus on the deck.
‘Merciful Juptier,’ Septimus whispered as lantern lights laid bare the full extent of Atticus’s injuries. Septimus ripped opened Atticus’s tunic, exposing the chest wound. His hands were immediately on his friend, probing the skin, examining the wound and a fresh trail of blood emerged from the crusted gash to run onto the deck.
‘It’s not deep,’ Septimus said, the relief in his voice causing him to breathe out the words. He placed his hand on Atticus’s forehead and gently tilted his face until his slashed jaw-line was in the full glare of a lantern. Septimus winched at the sight. It was a savage wound, at least four inches long and once again as he probed, the wound began to weep profusely.
‘Will he live?’
Septimus turned to see the ravaged face of Lucius behind him.
