grabbed one of the fleeing legionaries by the shoulder.
‘You,’ he said, ‘help him get this man up top.’
The soldier obeyed and between them the two legionaries carried the Roman captain up the gangway. Septimus followed them, continually glancing over his shoulder at the main cabin door, seeing the first wisps of smoke appear even as he began his climb to the main deck. The sight caused him to quicken his step and he immediately ordered men forward to command Drusus to disengage the enemy. He spotted Atticus and made his way towards him, issuing orders for his men to form up as he did.
The captain was sitting amidst the Roman wounded, his face deathly pale against his blood-stained tunic, Lucius kneeling beside him.
‘The ship is ours?’ Atticus asked, his voice weak but the triumph of victory strong in his gaze.
‘No,’ Septimus spat in anger. ‘This ship is in the hands of Vulcan.’
‘By the Gods…’ Atticus whispered. ‘Fire?’ As Septimus nodded the first cries of panic rose up from the slave deck below, the terrifying sound ripping along the entire length of the galley in the time it took the unaware amongst the Romans to understand what was happening. Soldiers who had charged fearlessly into battle turned to flee, their eyes looking around in trepidation, searching for evidence of the fire that terrified them all. Shouts of alarm rang across the main deck as smoke suddenly billowed from the aft hatchway.
‘Everyone back across the corvus!’ Septimus shouted and he helped Atticus to stand, bearing his weight as he continued to issue orders to his men, ensuring that the wounded were all accounted for.
‘Wait!’ a junior hastati shouted from the head of the forward hatchway, listening to the cries for mercy of the slaves. ‘I can hear Roman voices!’
‘Hold!’ Atticus roared, realising the danger but his order was lost amidst the cacophony of panic and desperation from the slave deck and he watched helplessly as the junior soldier disappeared down the hatchway to be immediately followed by two others. Atticus ran forward, the pain of his wound forgotten as saw that other legionaries were preparing to follow the first three below.
‘You men stand fast!’ Atticus shouted and the soldiers hesitated, looking beyond the Greek captain to their centurion, the pull of the Roman voices desperately calling for help causing them to inch forward once more. Septimus couldn’t understand Atticus’s command but he repeated it without hesitation, ordering his men to get back aboard the Aquila. Only when he reached the hatchway did he question Atticus; the endless voices of terror from below drowning out his words to all others except Atticus.
‘Damn it, Atticus,’ he hissed, angry that he hadn’t considered the fact that there might be Romans amongst the rowers sooner. ‘Why did you stop more of my men from going below? We need to be sure we rescue any Romans amongst the slaves.’
‘The slaves are dead men,’ Atticus replied, his eyes locked on the retreated legionaries, many of them returning his gaze balefully, ‘and you condemn any man you send down there.’
Septimus instinctively looked over his shoulder, judging the spread of the fire, trying to ignore the endless cries of terror.
‘There’s still time,’ he said. ‘But the three men down there need more help.’
Atticus turned to Septimus, a look of despair on his face.
‘I’ve seen this before,’ he said, a haunted look in his eyes. ‘They can’t be helped.’ He nodded towards the hatchway, ‘Look for yourself.’
Septimus held Atticus’s gaze for a second before turning to descend. Atticus grabbed his forearm. ‘Stay out of their reach,’ he warned.
Septimus nodded and started down the ladder, instinctively drawing his sword as he was exposed to the full measure of the terrible screams of panic that seemed to stem from the very timbers of the galley. He stopped halfway down the ladder, crouching down to see back along the abyss of Hades that was now the slave deck. The fire had already taken hold of the stern end of the ship, the smoke consuming the aft-end of the deck, the slaves visible in front of the grey wall dragging desperately at the manacles around their ankles that held them fast, the deck beneath them stained red by their torn skin as terror drove many to near madness.
Septimus spotted two of his men not ten feet from the base of the ladder, their bodies only recognisable from the remnants of their armour, their flesh in places torn away by the frenzied horde who had clawed desperately at them for release, robbing them of their swords and daggers, of anything they could use to free themselves, their collective panic preventing them from recognising the men as rescuers and Septimus watched in dread fascination as a slave snapped the blade of a gladius against an unyielding chain, a dozen hands clamouring for the shattered sword.
Beyond the fallen soldiers Septimus spotted the last man, the legionary who had fearlessly led the others. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, his cries ignored, terror etched upon his face as he slashed his sword at the countless hands that clawed at him. He suddenly turned in Septimus’s direction and for an instant his terror cleared as he recognised his centurion, his eyes pleading for help, his instinctive half-step towards the ladder cut off before he could complete it. He roared something incoherent, his plea lost in the maelstrom of fear and Septimus could only return the soldier’s gaze until the desperation of his fight forced the soldier to turn away once more.
Septimus hesitated for a second more and then turned his back on the doomed man, climbing back up the ladder and walking past Atticus without a word, the captain following the centurion back across the corvus, the ramp lifting behind them, separating the Aquila from her victim. Septimus moved to the fore-rail and stared across at the pirate galley as he sheathed his sword, his eyes ranging over the fallen legionaries on the deck, men who had given their lives for a hollow prize. The cries of the damned on the slave deck abated as the Aquila drew away, distance finally silencing their pleas.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Varro stood alone on the foredeck of the Tigris as he watched the quiet fishing village of Falcone come to life. It was a squalid little place with a half-dozen decrepit wooden huts huddled around a single jetty and the people that Varro could see from his vantage point all seemed to possess the same sullen posture that bore witness to their miserable existence. The sight disgusted him and Varro turned away from the shore to look past the assembled galleys of his squad to the open seascape beyond.
They had all arrived the day before, appearing individually throughout the daylight hours, like stragglers without conviction, with each reporting that the enemy had not been sighted. All save one, the one galley that had not arrived, the Aquila, and Varro smiled malevolently at the thought. Perhaps they had met the enemy and the Aquila with her Greek whoreson of a captain was now lost beneath the waves, or better yet, she was but hours away and Varro would be given the opportunity of having the captain flogged for insubordination. Either way, Varro relished the thought, a distraction from the news that had antagonised him since he had heard it only days before. Regulus had arrived in Sicily.
Brolium was only six hours’ sailing from where Varro now stood but he knew the senior consul might as well be in Rome given the chasm that now separated him from the most powerful man in the Republic. Over the previous days Varro had fruitlessly searched for a credible reason to approach Regulus, to finally gauge the consul’s position given that since their last meeting in Rome, when Regulus had issued his order for Varro’s banishment to the northern frontier of the Republic, Scipio had interceded on Varro’s behalf and apparently persuaded the consul of his true loyalty and worth. Now Varro was anxious to expound those qualities in person, to reinforce Scipio’s words and regain the full measure of Regulus’s confidence.
‘Galley approaching!’
Varro looked to the masthead and then to the indicated direction, sighting the approaching ship, its course a direct line to Falcone, its oars rising and falling with deceptive ineffectuality as if the galley was stationary in the water. It could only be the Aquila’s and Varro’s thoughts turned seamlessly to the punishment he had decided would greet the captain of the errant galley.
‘Falcone ahead!’ Corin shouted from the masthead and Atticus looked up to the youth, anticipating the words to follow. ‘The rest of the squad are already assembled!’
Atticus nodded and looked out over his galley to the lowlying village ahead. It was some three miles away, thirty minutes at the Aquila’s current speed. He turned from the side-rail and walked over to the tiller once more,
