undoubtedly dead, the Senate would soon need to elect a new leader, but there was also a chance to blacken the name of the Greek. He turned once more to Atticus and, needing to further antagonize him, adopted an expression of utter contempt.
‘With the senior consul missing, you were the most senior officer to survive the storm?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Atticus replied.
Scipio nodded and turned to face the senators once more. ‘So you felt it was your responsibility to inform the Senate,’ he said, gesturing to the house with a sweep of his hand.
‘Yes,’ Atticus said tersely.
‘Your responsibility,’ Scipio repeated, as if contemplating the word. He turned once more to Atticus. ‘Are you familiar with the crime of perduellio?’ he asked.
A dark murmur swept through the chamber, an undertone of surprise and outrage, and Scipio turned once more to the senators before Atticus could reply, conscious that he needed to control their anger at the loss of the fleet and that his approach needed to be cautious.
‘Understand that I do not accuse the senior consul and the prefects of the fleet with this crime,’ Scipio went on tactfully, ‘but I do believe that such a loss demands a measure of responsibility. Perduellio is the crime of treason. Through the loss of the fleet, the security of Rome has been placed in grave danger. It is vital that we know where responsibility lies.’
Many of the senators nodded at this explanation. The loss of the fleet was catastrophic, and if it was due to negligence then perhaps there was a case for a charge of treason. They looked again to Atticus, many now unconsciously seeing him as a defendant rather than a messenger.
Atticus had never heard of perduellio, but he understood the implication of a charge of treason and his anger turned to caution. He sensed Septimus take a step closer to the podium and he drew strength from his presence, although his gaze never left Scipio.
The senator turned to Atticus once more. ‘You’ve reported that Consul Paullus ordered the fleet to Sicily to threaten the ports held by Carthage on the southwestern shore.’
‘Those were the consul’s orders,’ Atticus replied earnestly, conscious of Scipio’s play on words, the subtle insinuation that Atticus was reporting a personal version of events that somehow concealed a hidden truth. He tried to anticipate Scipio’s next question, knowing that this was the senator’s arena and that Scipio held the advantage of experience.
‘Your ship survived the storm,’ Scipio said suspiciously. ‘You are obviously an experienced sailor. Why then did you not anticipate such a terrible deterioration in the weather and warn the consul? You are a prefect and your first loyalty should be to the fleet.’
‘I…’ Atticus made to answer but he checked himself, indecision staying his words. To protest that he did warn Paullus would surely look like a fabrication given Scipio’s implied accusation, but to remain silent would equally condemn him.
Scipio was shocked by the hesitation, realizing suddenly that it was quite possible that Perennis had indeed predicted the storm and even warned Paullus of the danger. He quickly re-evaluated his attack. One of the central rules of debate was to ask only questions to which you already knew the answer, so you could not be taken by surprise. Scipio had believed the premise of his question was groundless, that it was impossible for anyone to predict the vicissitudes of the weather, but he had posed it regardless, content that any answer Perennis offered could not deflect the accusation of negligence. Although the Greek would never be convicted of perduellio on such inadequate grounds, the implied guilt would remain.
Now, however, there was every chance the Greek would implicate Paullus, and while Scipio cared little for the consul’s reputation, many senators might be incensed by the attack. Scipio could lose his temporary control over the debate amid accusations of slander.
‘Your responsibility was clear and you will be dealt with in due course,’ Scipio said, determined to end his attack while he held the initiative. ‘Until then you are dismissed.’
Atticus held his ground, still immobilized by uncertainty, until Scipio’s will compelled him to move.
‘Wait,’ Septimus said, stepping up to the podium.
Scipio whipped around. ‘Hold your tongue, Centurion,’ he spat. ‘You are both dismissed from the Curia. Get out.’
‘Stand fast,’ a voice shouted out, and the entire chamber turned to the senator standing at the entranceway.
Duilius strode to the centre of the floor, placing himself between Scipio and the podium. His expression was hard and determined and he stood silent for a minute as he regulated his breathing. His headlong rush on horseback from his estate beyond the city walls had taxed him, but it had also given him the chance to fully absorb the news borne by the messenger. He glanced over his shoulder to the podium; although his face remained impassive, he gave the two men standing there a subtle nod of alliance. He had heard the final moments of the confrontation between them and Scipio and immediately grasped his rival’s intent. He turned once more to the Senate.
‘Senators of Rome,’ he began, ‘this disaster demands that we stand united by loyalty, not divided by censure. The prefect is a messenger. He is not here to answer for the loss of the fleet.’
Duilius’s dramatic arrival had broken the spell of Scipio’s control over the debate, and the majority of the senators voiced their agreement, their attention turning once more to the heart of the crisis. Scipio marked the shift and he strode across the floor, his movement drawing attention.
‘The loss of the fleet is a catastrophe that demands swift and decisive action,’ he exhorted. ‘We must confirm the loss of the consuls and act accordingly.’
Again voices were raised in agreement and Scipio stopped pacing to hold the attention of the Senate. Duilius took the opportunity to glance once more at Atticus, gesturing for him to leave. Atticus nodded, and he and Septimus quietly left the chamber.
Duilius watched them leave and turned his full attention back to his rival. The debate was now descending into a protracted discussion, with other senators standing in their seats in a bid to be heard. As Duilius looked on, the princeps senatus reasserted a level of control, calling out senators by name and permitting them to speak in turn. Scipio moved slowly to his seat, finally relinquishing the floor, aware that his moment had passed. Duilius shadowed his move, glancing surreptitiously at him as he sat down.
The political stakes had increased immeasurably with the loss of both the fleet and the consuls, and Duilius cursed the vital minutes that Scipio had held sway over the debate, knowing that many of the more fickle members of the Senate would remember that Scipio had stood before them when uncertainty reigned.
Septimus put his arm out and steadied Atticus, gripping his shoulder tightly as the two men stood at the top of the steps leading down from the Curia to the Forum.
‘Thank Fortuna Duilius turned up when he did,’ he muttered.
Atticus nodded in reply. ‘That bastard Scipio,’ he said, and glanced over his shoulder to the shadowed entrance behind him. The senator had totally outmatched him, backing him into a corner and then allowing no avenue of escape. He felt a fool, and was angry that he had not defended himself better. He turned abruptly and set off down the steps, Septimus following a pace behind.
The afternoon sun was warm on their backs and Septimus watched their shadows reach down the steps before them, seething at how his friend had been treated by the Senate, and in particular how Scipio had continued unchecked before Duilius arrived. He glanced at Atticus as they reached the bottom of the steps, noticing that his friend’s attention was drawn to the southeastern corner of the Forum and the Viminal quarter beyond.
Thoughts of what had occurred in the Senate fled from Septimus’s mind to be replaced with a forgotten anger. His sister, Hadria, lived at their aunt’s house in the Viminal quarter, and it was obvious that Atticus was thinking of going there. Time had not diminished Septimus’s resolve to prevent the affair between Atticus and his sister, but as he made to step forward and stand before his friend to bar his way, he hesitated.
He thought of how long it had been since either Atticus or he had set foot in Rome, how long it had been since he had seen his own family. He looked up at the Curia and remembered the danger Atticus had just faced and the many enemies he and his friend had faced together over the previous year. For an instant his pride reared up again and demanded he confront Atticus, but his friendship argued for a stay in his conviction.
‘I’m going to the Caelian quarter to see my family,’ Septimus said. ‘I’ll see you back at the ship?’
The question startled Atticus but he quickly recovered and nodded. Septimus slapped him once more on the shoulder and walked over to the contubernia of soldiers who had waited with their mounts. He took his horse and
