their sense of betrayal honed and sharpened over the days they had spent waiting for the relief that had never come. It was yesterday when the Ninth had finally come upon the bottle-neck pass where the Second were held, the Carthaginians withdrawing before they could be caught between the converging forces. The linkup had ensured the final day’s march to Brolium passed with little incident, with only minor attacks on the rear-guard. Now however, as the Ninth stood across from the Second, that sense of betrayal was brought to the fore again, the near full ranks of one legion in marked contrast to the devastated ranks of the other.
‘Bloody Second,’ Marcus heard behind him. ‘They gave the Punici an easy day’s work.’
There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘Silence in the ranks, eyes front,’ Marcus hissed as he glanced over his shoulder. The expressions of his men were murderous, many ignoring their centurion as they continued to stare across at the Second.
‘I said eyes front,’ Marcus snarled, his own undirected anger rising and the men sensed his mood and complied. Marcus felt his fingers ache and he suddenly noticed that he was still gripping his sword tightly in his hand. He looked down at the battered blade, both its edges tarnished and nicked, the guard cracked in two places from forgotten blows. With an almost detached mind he turned it over in his hand, examining the weapon and with a wry smile he realised he had never thought to sheath it, not even now in the safety of the garrison fort. He couldn’t remember when he had last put it down.
The camp prefect shouted the order to dismiss and it was instantly repeated by every centurion, all save one. The maniples of the Second and Ninth began to disperse but the IV remained firm, the men waiting for the confirmation of the order from their own centurion. Marcus spun around to face them. They met his gaze, knowing what Marcus was saying without the words being spoken. They stood taller, proud men. Not for having survived, for that was in the hands of Mars, but for having done what was expected of them by their commander. Marcus nodded to his men and then sheathed his sword.
‘Dismissed,’ he ordered.
They saluted in unison and dispersed. Marcus watched them walk slowly back to their quarters, proud to see that their backs were straight. The IV might be a broken command, its shattered strength robbing it of its ability to act as a fighting unit, but the men remained strong and determined. They would have to be, Marcus thought.
With their victory at Thermae the Carthaginians were poised to advance on every front.
The sun reached its zenith in a cloudless blue sky, its solitary presence in the heavens foretold by the play of the weather the night before. The wind however had shifted north-west to its habitual course, running smoothly down the Tyrrhenian Sea off the west coast of Italy, filling the mainsail of the Aquila with a constant press that begged her to take flight and become the creature for which she was named. The air contained a promise of the season to come, its touch made cooler by the moisture it carried, a foretaste of the cleansing autumn rains that were but weeks away.
Beneath the aft-deck the porthole hatchways remained tightly shut in the tiny starboard cabin, jealously guarding the fetid air inside from the fresh wind sweeping past the hull. Septimus sweated stoically in the half-light created by the lantern that illuminated the infernal space, his brow creased with worry as he gazed down at his friend. Atticus was barely recognisable, the vivid scar on his jaw-line in marked contrast to his pale ashen grey skin, his hair matted with sweat as the fever of infection racked his body. He was stripped to the waist on the narrow bunk, the wound across his chest heavily bandaged, the linen cloth already soaked through with fresh blood.
For the hundredth time Septimus checked the barely perceptible rise and fall of his friend’s chest, placing his hand on Atticus’s skin, fighting the urge to recoil from the searing skin that radiated such incredible heat. The infection had taken a strong hold, the loss of so much blood making Atticus all the more vulnerable.
‘Twenty-four hours,’ Septimus heard Lucius whisper and he turned to the older man, seeing the worry he felt reflected on the sailor’s face. ‘Then we’ll know.’
Septimus nodded. He looked to the gash on Atticus’s face again. The stitching was incredibly neat, a testament to the skill of Baro the sail maker and the wound had remained clean. However the chest injury had become infected somehow and although it wasn’t deep it could kill him just the same. Septimus had seen weaker men survive greater injuries and stronger men succumb to less. Atticus might be a born fighter, but Septimus knew this battle was in the hands of Fortuna alone.
‘He’s still alive?’
‘Yes Commander,’ Vitulus replied, his own disappointment self-evident, ‘I’ve just spoken to one of the crew. But it seems that the wound has become infected. He’s not out of the woods yet.’
‘That fool Quintus,’ Varro spat. ‘If he had carried out his orders…’ He stood up suddenly and pushed away from the table in the centre of the master-cabin of the Aquila. He paced to port side and peered out of the hatchway, his fists balled in anger. ‘You had no trouble disposing of his body?’
‘No, Commander,’ Vitulus replied. ‘I had those three villagers help us take his body, and the street-trader’s, out to sea in one of their boats.’
‘And?’ Varro prompted. He had been on deck when Vitulus had arrived back at the Aquila just before dawn and had been unable to question him on the details.
‘We weighted both bodies and dumped them about a half-mile from shore.’
Varro nodded. ‘And the villagers?’ he asked.
‘We took care of them when we got back to the beach,’ Vitulus replied. ‘With luck their bodies won’t be discovered until at least tomorrow.’
Again Varro nodded. The whole thing had turned into a fiasco and even now there were too many loose ends. Varro knew the plan had been arranged in haste. He had remembered Scipio’s warning, that the Greek was not to be attacked near Rome but the sight of Perennis leaving the ship alone had proved too great a temptation and he had dismissed the senator’s caution, secretly dispatching one of his guards, Quintus, in pursuit with one simple command. Ambush and kill the Greek. Quintus however had somehow managed to fail in his attempt and Varro cursed him anew.
Last night, as he waited for Quintus to return, Varro had had visions of standing before Scipio on this day, proudly telling him of Perennis’s death and lifting the sentence of banishment from over him before he had even left the city. Now he was sailing south as planned, with Rome in his wake.
Varro turned from Vitulus and stared out of the hatchway again. He spoke a silent petition to Quirinus, the God of his family’s household, to intercede on his behalf with Fortuna, asking her to take her hand from Perennis but as he did so a vicious elation overcame him. He realised suddenly that he could afford for the captain to recover, for if he did, Varro would try again and again until Perennis was dead. If this time Fortuna favoured the Greek then the next time the wheel would turn in Varro’s favour.
Belus spat over the side-rail of the pirate ship as he tried to clear his throat of the foul taste of butchery from his mouth. He watched his spittle strike the blood-stained water ten feet below and his eyes shifted left to gaze at a body floating face down in the sea. It rose and fell gently with the swell of the waves, before sinking slowly beneath the surface. Belus watched the burial without remorse, his compassion for the enemy long since cauterised from his heart.
The horrific cries from the sinking galley not twenty feet away were reaching a terrifying crescendo and Belus looked upon her once more. She was sinking quickly by the stern, the floodwaters of the sea rushing through the gaping maw where the pirates’ ram had struck home. Nearly two hundred men were below decks, chained to their oars with tempered iron and Belus watched as pleading hands appeared in the rowlocks, the faces of the slaves barely visible behind them, their terror robbing them of every vestige of dignity. Belus turned away, not wishing to witness such a terrible death, knowing that Tanit, the Phoenician Goddess of fortune, might one day decree such a fate for him.
The screams faded and then suddenly died as the Roman galley finally slipped beneath the waves, the waters above her churning; a memory of the horrific struggle of the doomed men within her hull. Belus did not mark her disappearance, he had seen enough enemy ships condemned to the depths, and he sheathed his sword as he made his way across the main deck to the hatchway leading to the main cabin below. Only six of the Roman crew had been captured alive, the untamed savagery of the pirate crew claiming the rest before Belus had been able to stop the slaughter. Crucially however, for the first time, one of those captives was the captain and Belus had immediately ordered that he be taken below. The remaining five were still on deck and Belus stopped as he reached the cowering group. One of the pirate crew stepped forward, his face matted with another man’s blood, his eyes alive and furtive.
‘Can we begin?’ he asked, a fleck of spittle escaping his mouth, his excitement barely contained.
