sudden vision of Hades sweeping through his thoughts and he had tried to scream. He could feel his arms flailing and then suddenly an unyielding hand gripped his own, holding it tightly, steadying his nerve. He drifted back into darkness and when he opened his eyes again the room was brighter, the hatch above him opened to allow in the fresh sea breeze. Atticus felt pain for the first time and his hands touched the wounds on his chest and face, his mind replaying the frenzied fight in the dark alleyway. He thanked Fortuna that the wounds seemed minor, allaying the deep fear that affected all men, that in battle they might suffer a grievous wound, the loss of a limb or worst still, loss of sight. Atticus had seen too many veterans begging on the streets of the Republic, pitiful wretches who had once worn the armour of Rome but now relied on the alms of strangers.
Atticus had tried to rise from the cot but he had been too weak and so he had to suffer the ignominy of being carried up to the aft-deck by two of his crew. He had quickly shrugged off the indignity as he took his first breath of cleansing salt-laden air and so now he was content to sit in silence.
Approaching footsteps distracted Atticus and he looked up to see Septimus walk towards him. He had not seen his friend for many days and he smiled, a gesture that was returned by the centurion.
‘That scar will certainly improve your looks,’ Septimus said as he crouched down beside the captain.
Atticus’s smiled deepened at the gibe and his hand reached unconsciously for his face.
‘You should see the other guy,’ Atticus replied, a shadow passing over his face as he remembered the fight once more.
‘He was a legionary, Septimus,’ Atticus said, all vestige of humour gone from his face.
‘I know,’ Septimus replied, instinctively glancing over his shoulder to ensure they could not be overheard. He quickly relayed the sequence of events after Atticus had been carried back to the Aquila, concluding with Vitulus’s lie the next day and the missing guardsman.
Atticus’s face coloured as he listened to the words, his eyes searching past Septimus to the deck beyond, seeking out the figure of Varro. The tribune was not on deck.
‘Vitulus said the villagers escaped?’ Atticus asked.
Septimus nodded, ‘He said they did but I find it hard to believe.’
Atticus looked away again, this time to utter a silent plea to Poseidon in the hope that the fishermen had indeed escaped.
‘So the whoreson tried to have me killed,’ Atticus said, unconsciously touching his face once more. By speaking the accusation aloud he set aside any lingering doubt he had that Varro was behind the attack.
Septimus nodded, ‘And he’s sure to try again,’ he said.
‘Lower sail and secure! Orders to the drum master; standard speed!’ Both men turned at the sound of Lucius’s shout.
Then Septimus turned back, ‘Brolium,’ he said. ‘Now maybe we’ll find out what we’re doing here.’
Atticus nodded but then his expression froze as he spotted Varro emerge from below decks with his personal guard. Septimus saw his friend’s face twist into an angry frown and he moved over to hide the expression from the tribune.
‘Stand fast, Atticus,’ he warned. ‘Remember Varro doesn’t know we suspect him and if we want to stay a step ahead we need to keep it that way.’
Atticus seemed not to hear and he strained to look beyond Septimus once more.
‘Atticus!’ Septimus insisted and the captain relented.
Septimus rose and he walked down from the aft-deck to the main. Varro was standing by the side-rail as the Aquila was brought to steerage speed, ready for docking.
‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus asked as he saluted.
‘Stay on station and await my return,’ Varro replied. He looked beyond the centurion, spying the captain seated at the rear of the galley.
‘How is the Captain?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone even.
‘He’ll recover,’ Septimus said, equally expressionless, ‘so it looks like we won’t need a replacement.’
Varro shot his eyes back to Septimus at the remark but the centurion looked stonily beyond him. The crashing sound of the gangplank hitting the dock caused him to turn and he gave Septimus one last look before descending, Vitulus and the others following in turn. Only when they were gone did Septimus smile before returning to the aft- deck.
Hamilcar moved slowly around the ante-chamber, occasionally looking up to glance through the open door that led to the meeting room of the supreme council of Carthage. Many of the twelve council members had already assembled, standing in small groups, their conversations never rising above a whisper.
‘Speak directly to the suffet,’ Hamilcar’s father, Hasdrubal, said. ‘His approval must be your priority. Do not look to me or any other member of the council.’
Hamilcar nodded.
‘Hanno will try to disrupt you,’ Hasdrubal continued. ‘Do not let him draw you into an argument.’
‘I will be ready for him,’ Hamilcar said, a slight edge to his voice.
Two more members of the council passed through the ante-chamber and Hamilcar nodded to them both. They ignored the gesture and continued on.
‘Those men will side with Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said. ‘Regardless of the merits of your plan.’
Hamilcar nodded again, silently cursing Hanno for his opposition. The evening before Hamilcar had outlined his plan to the One-hundred-and-four, the council who oversaw military matters in the empire. They were men like Hamilcar, every one of them former commanders, experienced and practical men who had probed Hamilcar’s plans with informed questions. After hours of debate they had voted and approved Hamilcar’s strategy. Now only one final hurdle remained; Hamilcar’s proposal called for a dramatic increase in the size of the fleet and for a shift in the power base of its composition, from triremes to quinqueremes. For this expenditure he needed the approval of the supreme council.
‘How many members of the council does Hanno control?’ Hamilcar asked.
Hasdrubal looked over his shoulder to the open chamber door, wary of being overheard. He turned to his son.
‘Four council members openly support Hanno,’ Hasdrubal said, his voice low. ‘Of the other seven members of the council, I and two others openly support continuing the Sicilian campaign while the remaining four, including the suffet, are undecided.’
‘My strategy will win their support,’ Hamilcar said confidently. ‘The One-hundred-and-four have already given me theirs.’
Hasdrubal nodded but a frown creased the edge of his expression. ‘There is one aspect of your plan that might make some of these men hostile to you.’
Hamilcar looked to his father enquiringly.
Hasdrubal looked directly at his son. ‘Hanno has let it be known amongst the council members that you are using pirates to gather information on the Romans,’ he said.
‘But how could he…?’ Hamilcar asked.
‘Hanno has many spies in this city,’ Hasdrubal said, ensuring that his voice remained low, ‘and many more in the navy.’
Hamilcar slammed his fist into his open palm, cursing the councillor anew.
‘Perhaps you were unwise to use pirates.’ Hasdrubal ventured, voicing the sense of dishonour many of the council members felt at knowing Carthage was associated with such animals.
‘There was no other way,’ Hamilcar rounded on him, suddenly angry.
‘Lower your voice.’ Hasdrubal hissed.
Hamilcar followed his father’s gaze to the open chamber door and he turned away. ‘There was no other way,’ he repeated, keeping his back to his father, his anger increasing, knowing that his honour was being openly questioned. He turned once more to face Hasdrubal. ‘If I had sent one of my ships north to gather the information they would have been seen, or worse captured, and the whole strategy would have been exposed. I needed men with local knowledge of the coast who could ambush Roman ships successfully, men whose loyalty could be bought.’
Hasdrubal nodded, seeing the anger in his son’s face. Hamilcar made to explain further, to let his father know that he too felt the dishonour of conspiring with pirates, that he bore the disgrace for the sake of Carthage, but his words were interrupted as he noticed the suffet standing in the doorway of the ante-chamber, the elder statesman
