southern edge of Brolium, the passage of the day a featureless event in their miserable lives.
Atticus spotted Septimus from a hundred yards, his red cape easily distinguishable amongst the predominantly white clad traders and merchants. Atticus summoned a crewman to bring wine to the aft-deck as he watched Septimus’s approach with interest, trying to discern from his gait if the news he had heard was good or bad. It was hard to tell although the centurion did move with determined stride as if time was of the essence.
Atticus nodded to Septimus as he reached the aft-deck, Atticus seeing for the first time the troubled expression of the centurion.
‘Marcus?’ he asked, misreading the expression.
‘He made it back,’ Septimus said, taking a proffered goblet of wine, ‘but the Ninth’s losses were very heavy. They have been temporarily stood down.’
Atticus nodded gravely but remained quiet, sensing that Septimus was not finished, and after a minute’s pause Septimus began to outline what Marcus had revealed and what they had discussed at length.
‘So Marcus believes the Carthaginian attack is more than just opportunistic?’ Atticus asked.
‘Yes, and I agree with him,’ Septimus replied, ‘but we don’t know to what end. Maybe they are trying to split our territory in two, or perhaps it’s just a feint in advance of an attack to retake Agrigentum.’
Atticus nodded. He agreed with Marcus’s initial belief, as did Septimus, but that conclusion had led them nowhere. Only the Punici knew what step was next.
Both men turned as they heard the thump of heavy footsteps of the gangway and they watched as Varro led his men on board. His eyes searched the deck and came to rest on Atticus and Septimus. He dismissed his men with a wave and continued to the aft-deck alone, his gaze never leaving the captain and centurion.
‘Your orders, Tribune?’ Septimus said as he saluted, focusing Varro’s attention on him alone.
‘We sail at dawn,’ Varro replied, not correcting the centurion’s use of his former title. Varro knew the crew would learn of his demotion soon enough but until then he would remain tribune, if only in name.
‘What heading, Tribune?’ Atticus asked, stepping forward, determined to extract the necessary information a captain was entitled to know.
Varro stared hard at Atticus for a number of seconds, ‘Send one of your crew to fetch a map of the north coast of Sicily.’
Atticus complied and the three men waited in silence until the map was brought up from below. Septimus spread it on the deck and they circled around it, careful not to block the dying light of the evening sun that stood a hair’s breadth above the horizon.
‘We will sail east into this area,’ Varro began, pointing out a rough triangle on the map. ‘There we should encounter a squad of ten galleys who are responsible for patrolling that area. I will take command of this squad.’
Varro stood up as he finished and Atticus and Septimus followed suit in anticipation of further instructions. Varro however simply turned around and left the aft-deck without another word, descending quickly into the hatchway that led to the main-cabin below.
‘A tribune assigned patrol duty?’ Septimus asked suspiciously as he watched Varro leave.
‘How is he even still in command?’ Atticus said, suddenly angry, sick of the charade he was forced to play with Varro. The man had tried to have him killed and yet Atticus couldn’t fight back, Varro’s privileged rank and status protecting him. ‘Those cursed Romans have no honour,’ he spat.
Septimus spun around, a furious expression on his face. ‘What do you know of Roman honour?’ he asked, a hard edge to his voice, a buried anger rising to overwhelm him. ‘Varro is one man. He is not Rome.’
‘Who do you think is protecting him?’ Atticus countered, angry at Septimus’s reaction and his defence of Varro. ‘Only the senior consul could have spared that whoreson.’
Septimus stepped in closer. ‘And what of Greek honour?’ he asked.
Atticus frowned, not understanding.
‘I told you to stay away from Hadria,’ Septimus said, speaking aloud the accusation that had festered in him for too long.
Atticus was stunned, the mention of Hadria’s name throwing him. ‘She has spoken with you?’ he asked, his anger taking a new twist as he saw the censure in Septimus’s face.
‘She has,’ Septimus said, ‘and I know of your betrayal.’
‘Betrayal?’ Atticus snapped and without conscious thought his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.
Septimus reacted within the blink of an eye, his hand reaching for his weapon, the knuckles of his fist white from the intensity of his grip.
Atticus held firm and stared balefully into the centurion’s eyes, the urge to draw his blade screaming at the muscles of his arm, the accusation of betrayal flooding his mind. An image flashed through his thoughts, of Hadria standing in her bedroom before running off to see her brother, and Atticus clawed his anger back from the brink of attack, his hand slowly withdrawing from his sword.
Septimus saw the gesture in the corner of his eye as he struggled to contain his fury. He had played out this confrontation many times in his mind but never had he thought it would spiral to his level. He believed beyond all else that the relationship between Atticus and Hadria had to end and he had trusted his friend to end it. In exposing that betrayal he had expected Atticus to be chastened but instead he was shocked by the ferocity of Atticus’s defence. He stared at his friend’s face, seeing there the conflict he felt in his own resolve and he slowly loosened the grip on his sword, his previous conviction shaken. He made to speak again but he stopped himself. Enough words had been spoken and he turned and walked from the aft-deck.
Atticus never took his eyes from Septimus’s back, anger and confusion striking him in discontinuous waves. He looked down to the deck, the map of northern Sicily still spread at his feet, half of it now in shadow as the daylight gasped its last. He sought to refocus his attention, to drag his thoughts from the words Septimus had spoken and from the back of his mind he recalled Varro’s orders. He traced the area that Varro had described, a rough triangle that was probably one of many that delineated the patrol areas of the Roman squads based out of Brolium. One apex of the triangle was anchored in to the harbour where the Aquila now lay. The next apex was to the north-east, a line that ran from Brolium to strike the port of Medma on the Italian coast, the second apex. From there the line ran south-south-west to the final apex, a Syracusan-held town on the north-eastern corner of Sicily, the ancient port of Tyndaris.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Atticus waved one last time as the Neptunus drew away from the Aquila, her captain returning the gesture before turning away to issue the order to come about. The Neptunus turned slowly into the north-easterly wind; the waves initially striking her broadside, throwing up a fine mist of spray until the spear-like bow came to bear, slicing cleanly into the whitehorses. For a second the galley seemed suspended, the oncoming wind counter-acting the power of her oars, but slowly and inexorably the two hundred slaves below decks overcame the inertia and within a minute she was up to a steady five knots.
Atticus turned and walked slowly over to the tiller. As he did he lifted his arm, rotating his shoulder through a full circle, recalling the slight stab of pain he had felt a moment ago when he had waved at the captain of the Neptunus. The wound on his chest was healing rapidly but the range of motion of his right arm was still restricted and even the weight of a sword became too heavy to hold within a minute.
Atticus nodded to Lucius and the second-in-command issued the order to raise sail, the Aquila’s course allowing her to take advantage of the wind and the whip-crack of canvas filled the air as the trireme came to life under Atticus’s feet.
‘Course, Captain?’ Gaius asked.
‘South-south-west Gaius,’ Atticus replied. ‘Where the wind takes us.’ And he felt an enormous sense of freedom as the galley turned neatly beneath him. The Aquila was his once more, Varro having transferred to the Tigris, the command ship of the squad, two weeks earlier when the Aquila had arrived on station in its patrol zone. Since then the mood of the entire crew had lifted, not least because the scrutiny of a senior officer was never welcome on any vessel.
‘South-south-west Captain,’ Gaius said as the Aquila settled on course and Atticus sensed the hopeful tone of
