looking to both men before walking through into the council meeting room. Hamilcar watched him pass, wondering how much of the exchange the suffet had witnessed. He looked to his father, holding his gaze for a moment before Hasdrubal turned and followed the suffet into the room.
Septimus left the Aquila ten minutes after Varro, estimating that he had at least a couple of hours before the tribune returned, more than enough time. His first task was to find Aulus, the harbour master, and he leapt upon a pile of grain sacks to get a better view of the busy docks. The scene before him seemed chaotic, with trading ships constantly docking and departing all along the quarter-mile long quay. Organised gangs of slaves attacked each new arrival, rushing up the gangplank even before it was made secure, lumbering down seconds later under heavy burdens to deposit the supplies on the quay-side.
Septimus slowly scanned the throng, his eyes shielded against the afternoon sunlight, his ears tuned to pick up Aulus’s familiar tone. He spotted the harbour master within a minute, near the centre of the docks, gesturing wildly at some unseen target, his face mottled with frustration. Septimus smiled to himself as he jumped down and he set off with a determined stride. At six foot four inches and 220 pounds, dressed in battle armour and with his hand settled on the hilt of his sword, Septimus cut an easy path through the crowd, the lines of slaves parting to allow him through and he reached Aulus before the harbour master had finished his tirade.
‘No rest for petty tyrants,’ Septimus said as he came to stop behind Aulus.
The harbour master spun around, his expression murderous, the previous victim of his anger forgotten. He stared up at Septimus and inhaled in anticipation of an attack but his outburst was cut short with a smile.
‘Capito!’ he shouted, ‘I thought I smelled legionary.’
Septimus laughed, clapping Aulus on the shoulder. Once a trader and sailor himself, Aulus had no love for the soldiers; legionaries or marines. ‘The Aquila is back in Brolium?’
‘Yes,’ Septimus replied, ‘but for how long I don’t know. We sail with Varro. I think he’s reporting to the port commander right now with orders from Rome.’
‘Varro of Thermae?’ Aulus said with disbelief. ‘Didn’t think we’d see him again.’
‘You know the legions, Aulus,’ Septimus said sarcastically. ‘Forgive and forget.’
Aulus smiled but he looked wary. He liked to know of everything that transpired in his harbour and the return of a disgraced tribune was important news. He was about to press Septimus further when he noticed that all humour had vanished from the marine’s face and his eyebrows raised in question.
‘It’s Atticus,’ Septimus said. ‘He’s been injured.’
‘How badly?’
Septimus explained in as much detail as he could.
‘And his fever has broken?’
‘Yes,’ Septimus replied. ‘But now that we are in port I would like a trained physician to examine him.’
Aulus nodded. With the fever broken the odds were in Atticus’s favour but Aulus appreciated the marine’s caution. ‘I know such a man,’ he said. ‘I will have him sent to the Aquila immediately.’
Septimus thanked Aulus and turned on his heel, his feet taking him unerringly to his next destination.
It was another fifteen minutes before Septimus reached the legions’ camp outside the town. At the quayside he had been tempted to ask Aulus about the Ninth, knowing the harbour master was always well informed but he had decided to wait to see for himself. In any case, Aulus’s information would not extend to the fate of individual commands.
Septimus squared his shoulders as two legionaries of the excubiae, the day guard, stepped out to block his way through the main gate.
‘Capito,’ Septimus said as he came to a stop. ‘Centurion of the Aquila.’
The men saluted and stepped aside but Septimus noticed they did not react with the same alacrity as they normally would for a legionary centurion. He pushed aside the thought, knowing he could not confront the men on their subtle lack of respect.
Septimus walked on across the parade ground. The area was strangely deserted although Septimus could see individual squads of legionaries in his peripheral vision. He suddenly felt tense and he increased his pace, the strange absence of normal activity unnerving him.
The legate’s quarters were on the opposite side of the parade ground to the main gate. It was a dull, functional building, single storied and made from local brick. It was flanked on both sides by the officers’ quarters of the Ninth and Second, equally grey buildings that were originally planned as temporary dwellings. Septimus stopped as he surveyed the buildings, comprehension replacing unease as he looked at each in turn. Outside the officers’ quarters of the Ninth, the battle standards of each individual maniple were neatly arranged in a line, held aloft on iron-tipped lances. The standards of the Second and the legate himself however, were nowhere to be seen and although men were stationed at the entrance to each building, only one was occupied.
Septimus walked over to the Ninth’s building and was immediately allowed access as an officer. He entered and paused for a second to allow his vision to adjust to the gloom within. The room that faced him was the largest in the building, a common room with a large table in the centre, where a number of centurions were seated, some eating, others in quiet conversation. Septimus caught the eye of one officer and he stood up, a questioning look on his face.
‘I’m looking for Centurion Silanus of the IV,’ Septimus said.
‘Marcus?’ the man asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘Capito.’
The centurion nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. He recognised the name. ‘Antoninus’s son?’ he asked.
Septimus nodded, smiling to himself. A campaigning legion numbered ten thousand men between legionaries and auxiliary troops so although Septimus had served with the IV maniple in the past and again for the last three months, he never expected that any other than his own maniple would recognise him. But everyone knew of his father and the centurion looked at Septimus for a full minute, a slight smile of remembrance at the edge of his mouth, before ambling off to find Marcus.
Septimus sat down at the table to wait, his eyes ranging over the room. The atmosphere of the room was oppressive, the men subdued, the usual energy that characterised the officers’ quarters completely absent. Septimus could only imagine what these men had endured on their fighting retreat from Thermae.
The sound of a familiar gruff voice caught Septimus’s attention and he turned, recognising the tall, narrow frame of his friend. He rose to greet Marcus, stepping away from the table and walking towards him. Septimus extended his hand but he suddenly hesitated, the diminishing gap allowing him to see Marcus’s face for the first time. The grizzled centurion was ten years older than Septimus but twenty-five years of strict legionary routine and constant physical exercise had always kept those years at bay. Now, however, it seemed to Septimus that his friend had accumulated those years and ten more in the two weeks since he had last seen him in Thermae.
The two men shook hands and Septimus was given a moment to examine the grim expression of his former commander. He stared into Marcus’s eyes, searching for the iron determination that defined the man. It was still there and Septimus curbed his initial doubts. As a soldier, his friend might be in his declining years, but his fighting spirit was as strong as ever.
Marcus gestured for Septimus to sit again and the centurion took a seat beside the marine.
‘My hastati were here when I returned,’ Marcus said simply and Septimus nodded, accepting the underlying thanks.
‘When did you get back?’ Septimus asked.
‘Three days ago.’
Septimus remained silent as he counted the days. The retreat had taken longer than he initially thought.
‘Losses?’ he asked.
‘Too many,’ Marcus replied, a shadow crossing his face, and Septimus was struck once more by how old his friend had become. Marcus described the retreat in detail, Septimus remaining silent throughout.
‘The Ninth has been stood down until replacements arrive from Rome.’ Marcus concluded.
Septimus nodded gravely. For proud men like those of the Ninth, to be removed from battle duty was a heavy sentence.
‘And the Second?’ he asked. ‘They’re not in camp?’
Marcus’s expression turned murderous and Septimus shifted uneasily. He could not recall ever seeing Marcus look so angry.
