‘Yes,’ Belus said with disgust. ‘But this time make sure they answer your questions before you go too far.’
The pirate grunted in reply and then turned to his comrades, a demonic grin on his face. He nodded and they rushed forward as one, manhandling the bound Romans to their feet, their laughter drowning out the cries for mercy of the captured men.
Belus turned his back on the scene and went below decks. He pushed open the door of the main cabin and went inside.
‘Stop!’ he shouted, his hand as always instinctively reaching for his sword. Narmer hesitated for a second and then slowly withdrew the tip of his blade from where it was poised over the Roman captain’s left eye. He slowly ran the point down the man’s cheek, drawing a neat line of blood along the flesh. The Roman winced and pulled away but his bounds held him fast and Narmer adjusted the pressure, keeping the blade in contact until he reached the jaw-line. Only then did he remove his knife.
‘He is my prisoner, Narmer,’ Belus scowled.
‘And this is my ship, Carthaginian,’ Narmer spat.
‘This ship is in the service of Carthage until we return to Tyndaris,’ Belus countered and he waited until Narmer stepped away and sheathed his knife.
Belus looked at the Roman captain. It was impossible to judge his age given his weathered features but his eyes seemed to show the presence of mind of an older man. He looked at Belus with a contemptuous expression and the Carthaginian smiled inwardly. A brave man.
‘What is your name?’ Belus asked.
‘Why is a Carthaginian officer commanding a pirate galley?’ the Roman replied, studying Belus’s armour and bearing.
Belus smiled, although his eyes remained cold. ‘You will answer my questions, Roman,’ he said, stepping ever closer.
‘You can go to Hades, Carthaginian,’ the Roman spat back. ‘or wherever you Punici…’
A sudden thump on the deck above was followed a heartbeat later by a horrific cry. The Roman captain started, his eyes riveted to the timbers above his head. The cries were replaced by the sounds of cheering.
‘Sounds like my men are getting acquainted with your crew,’ Narmer said stepping forward once more into the Roman’s line of sight. He grabbed a handful of the Roman’s hair and yanked his head back so he could bring his face to within inches of the bound man. ‘Want to know what they’re doing?’ Narmer asked, a malicious smile on his face.
The Roman shook his head as beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead.
‘Just a little game,’ Narmer continued, releasing the Roman so he could continue to walk across the cabin. A second thump resounded through the deck, this time accompanied by a heart wrenching scream. Again the Roman captain felt compelled to stare up at the deck above him.
‘They raise your men up to the yardarm of the mainmast by the hands; a good twenty feet up, and then release them.’ Narmer said, relishing every word. The Roman captain shook his head again, trying to block out the pirate’s voice, bracing himself as he heard one of his men plead for mercy above. The voice was cut short as the Roman hit the deck once more, his cries becoming a scream of pain.
‘The ankles break first,’ Narmer continued, ‘sometimes even the feet. After that it’s anyone’s guess, the shins, the knees, the thigh bones.’
The Roman captain closed his eyes against the pirate’s voice but his mind became flooded with images, of shattered bones piercing skin, of pleading eyes begging for mercy before the rope was released once more.
‘Enough.’
The Roman opened his eyes once more at the sound of the Carthaginian’s voice.
‘Leave us,’ Belus commanded and Narmer shrugged and walked out, a smile of satisfaction on his face. Belus closed the door behind him and turned to the Roman captain. He had been tempted to stop Narmer sooner, the sound of his voice vexing him, the pirate’s obvious enjoyment at the sound emanating from above deck a disgusting sight. But he realised the effect the words were having on the Roman, chipping away at his courage and will to resist, and he had therefore let Narmer continue.
‘Animals,’ the Roman suddenly said, spitting the blood that had trickled from his face into his mouth onto the floor.
‘I am not one of them, Roman,’ Belus said. ‘What I do, I do for my city.’
The Roman did not reply, his face twisting into an expression of pure hatred.
Belus ignored it, knowing it would soon change to one of terror and pain. He reached to his side and slowly withdrew his dagger, bringing it up until he could examine the blade in detail. It was a fine knife, a Celtic blade seized in battle in Iberia and Belus had used it many times. He stepped forward with the knife held before him, the Roman’s eyes riveted to the light reflecting off the blade. Belus steeled himself for what he needed to do next, believing that by recognising that the act besmirched his honour, he was somehow set apart from the men the Roman had called animals.
Septimus shielded his eyes against the harsh light of the early afternoon sun as he came up onto the main deck, its unfettered light reflecting off a million wave-tops and the white canvas sheet of the main sail. He turned his face into the cooling tail-wind, drinking in its freshness, allowing it to cleanse his lungs. It had been more than eight hours since he had been top-side and the vastness of the space around him emphasised the suffocating confines of the cabin below where Atticus lay unconscious.
The sound of drill commands caused Septimus to turn and he smiled as he watched Drusus put his demi- maniple through their paces. The optio was a hard taskmaster and Septimus was glad he could rely on him as much as he did. Beyond the men training on the main deck, Septimus spotted Vitulus alone on the fore. He was watching the legionaries intently, no doubt studying the differences in their training from that of the standard imposed on the legions. Septimus watched him for a minute and then suddenly realised he had not spoken to the guard commander since the night before when Varro had dispatched him back to the village with the three locals.
Septimus walked around his men and made his way to the fore, nodding at Drusus as he passed, an affirmation that the optio seemed to ignore. Septimus smiled inwardly. Drusus was as tough as they came. The centurion walked over to Vitulus and turned to stand beside him, facing his men on the main deck once more.
‘What happened last night?’ Septimus asked.
‘I have given my full report to the tribune,’ Vitulus replied icily.
Septimus turned to Vitulus, surprised by the dismissive reply and he squared up to the legionary.
‘Listen Vitulus,’ Septimus said, suddenly angry. ‘My friend was attacked last night and I’d like to know what happened.’
Vitulus turned to Septimus to reply, ready to dismiss him again, but he hesitated, wary of the look in the centurion’s eyes. He wondered if it were better not to antagonise the marine considering he would find out what Vitulus had reported sooner or later.
‘We found nothing except a dead street-trader,’ he replied.
‘That’s all?’ Septimus asked incredulously.
Vitulus nodded, sticking as close to the truth as possible. ‘He was dead, knife wound to the face, probably caused by your friend.’
‘And what about the legionary?’
‘There was no legionary,’ Vitulus said. ‘The villagers were lying.’
‘Lying?’ Septimus said. ‘Then how do you explain the captain’s wounds. He didn’t get those from a street- trader. Atticus is too good a fighter.’
‘Before the fight your captain was drinking in the tavern. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe that’s why he provoked the fight in the first place.’
‘How do you know he started the fight?’
‘Some of the villagers told us,’ Vitulus replied. ‘They said the Greek started an argument over the price of the trader’s food. He turned really nasty and drew his knife. Typical Greek if you ask me.’
Septimus held his tongue. Now he knew something was wrong. There was no way Atticus would do such a thing. Either someone had lied to Vitulus or the commander was lying now.
‘Did you get the names of the three villagers who brought the captain to the Aquila?’ Septimus asked, laying the trap. ‘I’d like to question them myself when we return to Fiumicino.’
