Hamilcar’s full attention was focused on the older man. If he voted against then the vote would be tied and his voice alone would break the dead-lock, his vote essentially counting as two. He sat down and turned once more to Hamilcar, his gaze piercing as he measured the man one last time.
‘Anath guide your hand, young Barca,’ the suffet said. ‘I approve of your plan.’
Hamilcar saluted, keeping his sense of triumph from his expression. He turned on his heel and walked from the chamber. His father watched him go, his pride for his son curbed by the reality of what had occurred. The Council had approved, but by the narrowest margin, and in that approval there was no acceptance of responsibility. His son would bear that burden alone.
Varro paused as he came to the end of the last of the narrow streets leading to the large villa that overlooked Brolium. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to the bottom of the hill and the entire vista of the docks spread out before him. From this height the throngs of people he had so impatiently pushed through on the quayside were transformed into a series of amorphous groups with steady streams of supplies passing between them before disappearing into the narrow streets and onwards to the legionary camp.
The raucous noise of the docks had prevented Varro from concentrating on his thoughts but as he had climbed the steady hill away from the quay, the noise had diminished until now it was reduced to a surging murmur, a sound that rose and fell with the gush of each breeze and the turn of each corner. Varro looked ahead once more and continued into the open square facing the main entrance to the villa, his mind now fully focused on the meeting ahead. He signalled Vitulus and the other two guards to halt in the square and he continued on alone, walking past the two legionaries who stood guard at the main gate without a second glance, ignoring their salute.
Alone in the outer courtyard, Varro came to a stop and instinctively glanced down at the sealed scroll in his right hand. He had been handed the scroll by Scipio back in Rome with orders to present it to the commanding officer at Brolium. Varro surmised that the scroll contained details of his demotion along with a general command to place him in charge of one of the naval squadrons and he bristled when he thought of the contents, not because of the words themselves, for he accepted the challenge and the specific mission Scipio had set him, but because he had learned that the legate was not in Brolium and so Varro was left with no option but to present the scroll to the port commander, an officer with a lower rank than that of a tribune but higher than a squad commander. It was an ignominy that Varro had not prepared for and he hesitated on the threshold of the villa.
The sound of approaching footsteps caused Varro to turn and he stepped aside to allow a contubernia of ten legionaries to pass, the officer leading them, an optio, saluting the tribune’s uniform without recognising the man, the gesture precise and deferential. Without thinking Varro acknowledged the salute with a nod and he felt his pride stir within him once more. He tightened his grip on the scroll in his hand and continued on into the villa, gesturing to a nearby soldier and ordering him to inform the port commander that he wished to see him.
After a brief wait Varro was shown into the port commander’s office. He stood in the centre of the room and proffered the scroll to the commander, standing far enough back from the desk so the commander was forced to stand and walk around to receive the scroll. Varro watched him move, his expression unreadable. The port commander was a heavy-set man in his mid-forties but he walked with such an efficiency of movement that Varro was given the impression that the commander had at one time been a trim fighting soldier.
‘I did not expect to see you again so soon, Tribune,’ the commander said, his tone light but questioning. Only minutes before, when he had been told that Varro was waiting outside the commander had rushed to his door to look out surreptitiously at the tribune. How had he managed to return to Sicily? Was he not in disgrace? The port commander’s mind was in turmoil as he returned to his desk but as he sat down he noticed the seal in the scroll. SPQR; the seal of the Senate of Rome.
The port commander broke the seal and began to read the document. With each line the grounds for Varro’s return became more apparent and the commander couldn’t help but smile as he reached the conclusion of the order from Scipio and the confirmation of Varro’s new rank.
Varro watched the port commander read the scroll in silence, but he studied the older man’s expression closely, trying to decipher from it how Scipio had phrased the order, with regard or with derision. As he saw the commander smile, Varro felt a sudden wave of anger hit him. Whatever Scipio’s tone the port commander was taking pleasure from the end result. He stood slowly, his smile remaining and Varro struggled to keep his own expression neutral.
‘Very well, Commander Varro,’ the port commander began, a heavy emphasis on Varro’s revised rank. ‘It seems I must find a squad for you.’
Varro ignored the jibe and straightened his back to receive his orders. He looked to a point directly above the commander and focused his mind on the incident that had occurred minutes before in the courtyard when the optio had saluted him. Varro knew that the optio’s respect was engendered by his tribune’s uniform but he also believed his own natural bearing was a significant factor. After today his uniform might change but Varro vowed that in his mind he would remain a tribune, the minimum rank his social status demanded. In time he would fulfil his orders from Scipio and dispose of the Greek captain who had shamed both him and Rome. Then he would return to his city, reclaim his former rank and raise his head high once more in front of his father. Until then he would suffer the dismissive attitude of men like the port commander, lesser men who would live to regret their underestimation of Varro.
The Alissar moved sedately through the commercial harbour of Carthage as the helmsman navigated the quinquereme around the moving obstacle course of trading ships large and small. The wind was onshore and so the sail remained secured but the current of the outgoing tide eased the galley’s passage and the drum beat below decks hammered out a steady four knots.
Hamilcar paced the foredeck, his excitement and impatience in marked contrast to the steady rise and fall of the hull beneath him, the moderate course changes that brought the galley ever closer to the open waters beyond the harbour. Every so often a smile creased his face and he glanced back at the entrance to the military harbour nestled beyond the commercial docks. Inside and unseen; for where he now stood he knew the area was frantic with activity, the stage of his plan backed by the supreme council now beginning to take shape under the skilful hands of a multitude of Carthaginian shipwrights and naval carpenters. They were the best in the world and the confidence they possessed in their abilities had immediately put any lingering doubts Hamilcar had about his aggressive schedule to rest.
Hamilcar turned again, this time to gaze upon the waters ahead of the Alissar. She had finally cleared the harbour and the drum beat was increased to seven knots as she advanced into unobstructed waters. Hamilcar looked to the horizon, his mind’s eye tracing out the routes the galleys he had dispatched yesterday had taken. There had been four in total, the captain of each carrying orders Hamilcar had dictated but which also bore the seal of the supreme council. Each one had been given a specific mission and so the order would be carried to very edges of the empire, to Marrakech, Iberia, Sardinia and Gymnesiae. Within weeks the provincial fleets ordered to return would arrive in Carthage, swelling Hamilcar’s command until he achieved the superiority in numbers his plan required.
Hamilcar leaned over slightly to counteract the tilt of the deck beneath his feet as the Alissar’s course was adjusted, her bearing north-north-east, a direct line to the south-east corner of Sicily. From there she would hug the coast, traversing the narrow strait of Messina at night to arrive at her final destination, Tyndaris. It was one of the most vital elements of the plan, in addition to being the one most vulnerable to discovery, so Hamilcar had decided to oversee the final stages of construction. In addition he had dispatched orders to Panormus for a dozen galleys to join him in Tyndaris with the intention of closing the harbour to all commercial shipping.
Hamilcar glanced back over his shoulder as Carthage began to fade in the distance. It would be mere weeks before he would see her again and thoughts of her harbour filled with all the galleys of the empire filled his chest with pride at what he was about to achieve.
Atticus leaned back against the aft-rail, keeping close to the burning brazier, its smoke keeping away the evening insects. His chest felt stiff under the tight bandages the physician had applied, and the wound felt strangely cold, the foul-smelling salve he had applied numbing the area but easing his pain. He felt tired and light-headed but he delayed his return to the cabin below, wanting to wait until the turn of the watch at dusk and curious to learn what Septimus would reveal when he returned.
The breeze shifted slightly and the smoke of the brazier cleared, revealing to Atticus the distinct underlying odours of the port, the salt infused air, the musky smell of the town where a hundred fires had been lit in advance of the night and the sour acrid smell of the bilges of the ships that surrounded the Aquila. The crowds were melting away from the docks as the evening advanced, the gangs of slaves already corralled back to their quarters at the
