‘You have heard of his victory in the consular elections?’ Duilius asked.
Atticus nodded. News travelled swiftly between Rome and Fiumicino.
‘His success was unforeseen, and it complicates matters further,’ Duilius said, lapsing into silence as the topic brought to the surface problems within his own mind. He glanced at Atticus and saw the concern in his expression, knowing its origin. ‘For the moment you are safe from Scipio,’ Duilius said. ‘Your rank protects you and you have influential friends, me amongst them.’
Atticus nodded in thanks but Duilius frowned. ‘But he will exploit any mistake, real or perceived, that you make, Atticus. If you can, stay beyond his immediate reach.’
‘Will you not seek to remove him from office?’ Atticus asked, frustrated by Scipio’s return to power. ‘We have both witnessed the consequences of his pride and recklessness.’
Again Duilius was silent and Atticus cursed the rashness of his question, sensing that he had overstepped a boundary and presumed a confidence that Duilius could not extend. Duilius looked at him intently, as if weighing the consequences of his reply. ‘For now, Scipio is acting in the best interest of the Republic. He retains the full support of the Senate.’
Atticus nodded, trying to determine how much to read into Duilius’s reply.
‘Atticus,’ Duilius continued, ‘with the loss of so many of our skilled crews in the storm, and now the loss of the use of the corvus, the fate of the Republic is at risk. And you are right, with Scipio in charge that risk is increased. But for now we can only work within the system. I can try to curb his excesses in the Senate, and you must do the same at an operational level, in the fleet.’
‘How? My rank is nothing to Scipio. I cannot influence him.’
‘But you can influence the experienced men of the fleet. They respect you, I suspect more than you realize, and many of them will look to you when their faith in Scipio fails.’
Atticus looked beyond Duilius to the ephemeral shapes that the flickering lamp created on the wall of the tent. He tried to focus on them, to clear his mind and to sift through his confused thoughts. When Duilius mentioned the precarious fate of the Republic, Atticus had instinctively scoffed at the warning. What did he care for Rome and its fate? It was a hollow, soulless entity that had never accepted him. And yet when Duilius spoke of it, the senator’s conviction deeply affected him, and Atticus was forced to concede that — for the briefest of moments — he shared that conviction. He stood as Duilius took his leave and shook the senator’s hand again, a simple gesture that marked them as equals. In Duilius he had an ally, and Atticus was left to contemplate how men like the senator constantly challenged his opinion of Rome.
The rider approached the Servian Wall at full gallop, conscious of the dying sun off his right shoulder, the shadow of his flight already reaching far out into the fields beside him. A half-mile ahead, at the Porta Flumentana, he could see a group of legionaries standing to the side of the gate, allowing the last of the stragglers to enter the city before closing the gate at sundown. He spurred his mount to greater speed, its iron-shod hooves striking chips from the cobbled road. The rider pumped the reins as he leaned in to the curve of the horse’s withers.
He shouted to the legionaries as he saw them move to close the gate but they ignored him, the soldiers talking amongst themselves, indifferent to the approaching horseman. The order to close the gate came as inexorably as the falling sun that triggered the command. The rider yelled again, but this time in warning as he aimed his mount at the closing gates. The thundering sound of hooves alerted the legionaries and they jumped back at the last second as the rider shot between their ranks and through the half-closed gate.
The soldiers shouted in anger and many went to draw their swords, but the rider had already disappeared into the warren of narrow streets beyond the wall. He slowed his mount, the animal breathing hard as it cantered towards the centre of the city. The sun had fallen, but the sky still clung to the remnants of its light and the open windows of houses radiated shafts of yellow that ricocheted off the whitewashed walls, extending the twilight to illuminate the rider’s path.
He reached the hollow gloom of the Forum and scanned the temples that looked over it, watching as the disciples of each deity lit the blazing torches that marked the entrances. He turned to the northeast corner, spurring his mount once more, conscious of the need to find his destination before the blackness of night engulfed the streets.
He knew Rome well, but he only had an unconfirmed street name as a direction, ascertained through snippets of information gathered over the previous two weeks. He cursed the lateness of the hour, wishing he had more time, conscious that he was now effectively a prisoner of the city, and if he didn’t find the man he was looking for he would be forced to seek refuge in a tavern. He would have to spend the night in the city and dawn’s light would reveal his absence from his post, a dereliction the man he despised would surely exploit.
The streets on the northern side of the Capitoline Hill were wide and well swept, and behind the boundary walls the rider could see the soaring roofs of the expansive houses silhouetted against the sky. He searched the nameplates beside each entrance, glancing occasionally over his shoulder to the sky above; within minutes he could no longer see both sides of the street from the centre of the road. He moved to his left, halving the effectiveness of his search, but he reasoned the wealth and importance of the man he hoped to see would place his house on the higher side of the street.
With relief he found the house. He dismounted and hammered on the wooden door. A bolt slammed back and the door opened. Two soldiers stepped into the opening. They were household guards and their impassive expressions changed to ones of annoyance when they noticed the obvious unimportance of the man facing them. They were about to dismiss him, but his request caused them to hesitate, the sheer temerity of it transfixing the soldiers, caught between mockery and caution. The rider persisted, emphasizing his rank and posting, insisting that the master of the house would see him if he were informed.
He was led into the courtyard. One of the soldiers marched into the house while the other bolted the outer door shut. The rider waited in the silence that followed, handing the reins without comment to a stable lad who appeared to take his mount. A moment of doubt assailed him but he swallowed his uncertainty, committing himself once more to his course. The soldier reappeared and beckoned the rider to follow him into the house. He exhaled in relief, his doubt falling further away.
Scipio remained seated as the soldier of his household guard led the stranger into the room. He searched the man’s demeanour for traces of overt anxiety, the type of signs a man might display in the midst of enemies, but the stranger seemed remarkably confident. Scipio dismissed the soldier and indicated to the man to stand before him, albeit at a distance; he allowed a silence to develop as the footfalls of his guard receded.
‘I am honoured that you agreed to see me, Consul,’ the man said.
Scipio’s face darkened in anger. ‘You will speak only when spoken to,’ he snarled, and again the silence was reasserted.
Within a minute, Scipio noticed that the man’s previous confidence was waning and he smiled inwardly, preferring any lesser man who addressed him to be cowed in his presence. ‘Why have you come here?’ he asked eventually.
‘I wish to serve you, Consul.’
‘I have servants enough,’ Scipio said dismissively, although he was intrigued by the man’s unexpected appearance, given his rank and position. ‘In any case,’ he proceeded cautiously, ‘why would you wish to serve me?’
‘Because we share a hatred for one man,’ the stranger said without hesitation.
‘Really,’ Scipio said warily. ‘Which man?’
‘The Greek, Perennis.’
Scipio was thrown by the unexpected declaration, but his face remained impassive. He searched for signs of duplicity but found none. ‘You claim to be his second-in-command,’ he said.
‘I am,’ Baro replied. ‘I have been for over a year now.’
Scipio nodded, suppressing his growing sense of anticipation in favour of further caution. He chose his next question carefully, focusing all his attention on Baro’s expression. ‘Why do you hate Perennis?’ he asked.
Baro’s face reddened and he took an instinctive half-step forward, compelled by a sudden surge of aggression. ‘Because of what he is and because I am forced to serve under him,’ he spat.
‘You are a Roman citizen?’ Scipio asked, shocked by the intensity of Baro’s animosity.
‘Yes, Consul,’ Baro replied. ‘The son of a freedman from the Aventine quarter. It blackens my honour that I should take orders from a non-Roman.’
Scipio did not comment on Baro’s motives, believing them to be less important than the strength of the
