and fell in the emptiness of the cove.
Atticus grunted in reply and moved to the side rail. He stood motionless once more, his eyes ranging over the coastline north of Fiumicino.
Paullus had taken nearly every available ship when he had sailed south weeks before, leaving the remnants to patrol the sea-lanes of Rome. The Orcus had been quickly drafted in to augment their ranks. It was tedious work, better suited to reserve crews and trainees, but the crew had welcomed the task, weary after many months in hostile waters. Only Atticus remained restless, unable to quash the uncertainties in his mind. Although on this day the Orcus had been scheduled for rest and repairs, he had ordered his galley north at dawn, taking advantage of the day’s leave to further the training of his crew.
‘Five minutes’ rest then we go again,’ he said over his shoulder, and Gaius acknowledged the order, shouting it forth to Baro on the main deck.
The Orcus descended into an uneasy quiet, the deck timbers creaking as the irregular surface of the water passed under the hull. Gaius stilled the sound of his own breathing and listened, almost sensing before finally hearing the sound of the rowers below deck. They were gasping for air, filling their lungs in an effort to regain their strength in the brief time allowed, their collective struggle making it seem as if the galley itself was breathing.
The helmsman looked to his commander, wondering how much further he would push the crew of the ship before calling an end to the day. They had been training relentlessly since dawn, honing their sailing skills, the absence of a corvus on the foredeck forcing them to concentrate their abilities on the little-used offensive tactic of ramming. Gaius did not know much of the greater plans of the fleet, but he had noticed, as had all the crew of the Orcus, that the new galleys being laid down in the shipyards at Fiumicino were all without the condemned boarding ramp.
For whatever reason, the prefect had been driving the crew remorselessly, and in the quiet of the interlude Gaius could only guess what demons the prefect was grappling with. He did not know his commander beyond their association on the aft-deck. In that arena they often thought with a unified mind, their expertise and abilities combining effortlessly, but outside it Gaius rarely spoke with him.
The aft-deck of a galley was a small space, and on many occasions Gaius had overheard conversations between the prefect and the two men he confided in, the centurion and the second-in-command; however, that useful source of information was no longer available. The centurion was not on board. He had not returned from Rome but had sent orders to his optio to disembark the legionaries at Fiumicino, their presence not required on the Orcus while in home waters. Moreover, the prefect did not confide in Baro to the same extent as in his predecessor, Lucius. This detachment was not all the prefect’s doing, for Gaius had often heard Baro speak derisively of the commander before his promotion. Although Baro was now more discreet, it was obvious to Gaius that he was keeping his distance, and he realized that Baro’s opinion had not changed.
He watched the prefect move from the side rail to stand once more in the centre of the aft-deck, his heading turning from side to side as he scanned the length of the ship. Gaius followed his commander’s gaze. With the abandonment of the corvus came the unspoken command to all crews to fight the Carthaginians on their terms. Whatever else the prefect might have to worry about, Gaius knew this problem alone was enough to explain his dark mood.
The order was given for battle speed and the Orcus got under way, accelerating swiftly to eight knots. Gaius’s hand tightened on the tiller; although he concentrated on anticipating the commands of the prefect, one part of his mind still dwelt on his previous reflections. He glanced at his commander and unconsciously kneaded the smooth, worn handle of the tiller. Whatever lay ahead, he would follow the prefect’s every command.
The Orcus rounded the headland north of Fiumicino as the last light of the day was waning. She moved gracefully under sail, her oars raised and withdrawn, and the crew moved sedately across the decks. It had been a long day, and many of them turned to the welcome sight of port and the hot meal and cot that awaited them there. It was an uncommon luxury for the men. While on duty the crew ate and slept on the galley, normally on the open deck, but in Fiumicino, with the fleet temporarily stood down, the men enjoyed the comforts of an established military camp.
As the sea room diminished closer to shore, the sail was lowered and the oars extended. Again the action was slowed by fatigue and the beat was struck for steerage speed. Gaius nodded as Atticus pointed out a free berth and the galley was directed to the seaward end of a jetty. The Orcus answered all stop and lines were thrown to secure the galley fore and aft as the gangway was lowered. Baro assigned a deck watch and then dismissed the rest of the crew, the men moving with renewed energy down the length of the jetty towards the beach, while Atticus waited on the aft-deck, issuing final orders that would sustain his ship for the night before he too disembarked.
The hollow footfalls on the wooden jetty gave way to the sound of shifting sand underfoot. Atticus leaned forward into the slope of the beach, cresting the dune at its peak as the last sliver of the sun fell below the horizon, leaving only the reflected twilight from the high clouds. Much of the military camp at Fiumicino had been transformed into solid structures of wood and stone over the intervening years, but Atticus, as a temporary visitor, had been assigned a tent, albeit one befitting his rank.
Although his sense of direction on land was normally unreliable, he made his way unerringly through the maze of temporary streets. He walked as if in a trance, his mind pre-occupied by a dozen different thoughts, each one fighting for supremacy. He favoured those that dwelt on the problems associated with the loss of the corvus, and tried to suppress the personal issues, but they struck him at unexpected intervals, invading his concentration with images of Septimus, Hadria, Scipio and Antoninus, each one destroying the carefully constructed serenity he craved, his temper rising and falling with each round of the struggle.
Atticus rounded the last corner and almost stumbled into his tent before noticing that a lamp was lit inside. He stepped backwards and his hand fell instinctively to the hilt of his dagger. He looked behind him, cursing his preoccupation and the failing sunlight that darkened the shadows on all sides. He moved warily to the entrance to his tent, drawing his dagger as he did so, the steel blade against the scabbard sounding unnaturally loud. He pulled back the flap of entrance and peered inside, his ears alert to any sound behind him as his eyes scanned the interior of his quarters.
A lone figure sat at the far end of the tent. Atticus recognized him immediately and visibly relaxed, sheathing his dagger as he crossed over to greet him.
‘Senator Duilius,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect…’
Duilius stood up to greet Atticus and they shook hands.
‘I prefer to keep my meetings private when I can,’ Duilius replied, motioning for Atticus to sit on the low cot. ‘It is good to see you, Atticus,’ he said.
The two men fell quickly into conversation, each bringing the other up to date with events. Atticus spoke at length about the campaign in Africa, giving Duilius a level of detail not found in the formal reports issued to the Senate. They discussed the storm and Atticus spoke of his prediction and warning to Paullus.
‘The man was always a fool, even before he left Rome,’ Duilius replied. ‘It is no surprise he remained one right up until the time of his death. Nevertheless, his recklessness has cost the Republic dearly.’
Duilius focused the conversation on the exposed weakness of the corvus, his questions incisive, revealing the level of knowledge he had retained since he commanded the fleet. Atticus ventured his own conclusion, supporting the abandonment of the device; he noticed that Duilius did not oppose his view, as if a consensus had already been reached, even at the senator’s level.
‘The Senate has authorized the construction of two hundred and twenty new galleys,’ Duilius said in conclusion. ‘And more than likely they will be built without corvi.’
Atticus had long grown accustomed to the enormous capabilities of Rome, but he was staggered by the number proposed, knowing that the construction schedule for these new ships would be punishing.
It was an aspect of Roman society that always amazed Atticus: the willingness to commit massive resources to every endeavour with a fierce belief that effort alone would give them victory in every conflict. Militarily, this attitude had worked well in the past, particularly on land where they were able to draw on a huge population base. They had employed the same attitude at sea, constructing massive fleets at incredible speed to counter the enemy. Only against the power of nature were their efforts thwarted — and yet, this latest resolution of the Senate proved that their belief was unshaken.
Thoughts of the Senate brought Scipio to mind, but Atticus contained his anger and instead thanked Duilius for his intervention when Scipio had effectively accused him of treason.
