Atticus looked to Corin and then the bow. The galley was on the exact back bearing of the Orcus, clearly visible through the separating line of the sea-lane.
‘One of ours,’ Atticus thought, although he couldn’t imagine from which port it might have sailed. The survivors of the storm were still based in Agrigentum, and he was unaware of any quinqueremes based in any other Roman ports. He turned as Baro ran on to the aft-deck.
‘She’s Carthaginian, Prefect,’ he blurted. ‘That’s why the lane is separating; the traders are sending warnings forward.’
‘All hands, battle stations,’ Atticus shouted, and the mainsail was quickly lowered as the Orcus accelerated to battle speed, Gaius cursing the crowded waters as he tried to keep the helm straight. Atticus looked to the empty main deck. Patrol duty in the sea-lanes of Ostia was, at best, procedural, given that the city’s only seaborne enemy was supposed to be in Sicilian waters, and the Orcus was devoid of its usual contingent of legionaries. Atticus let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword, kneading it with his palm. He looked to Gaius and noticed the frustration and worry in his face. With so many trading ships, the available sea room would be minimal, and bringing the ram to bear would be extremely difficult.
‘Gaius,’ Atticus ordered. ‘Come right on the starboard beam. We’ll draw them out of the lane.’
The helmsman nodded and swung the bow through ninety degrees, cutting across the course of a dozen trading ships, their crews giving way before the unyielding galley, conscious of the impending skirmish. Atticus kept his eye on the enemy ship, glancing occasionally to Corin at the masthead, his brow creased with doubt.
‘They’re not turning,’ Atticus said, but he quickly shook off his uncertainty, knowing that to overreact and second-guess an opponent could be fatal. It was better to fight on your own terms. He held the course of the Orcus for a moment longer, judging the angles.
‘Gaius, come about. Attack speed. Bring the ram to bear amidships.’
The Orcus turned neatly through the open water and headed back towards the sea-lane, the Carthaginian galley bow dead ahead but now broadside to the Orcus ’s attack. The gap fell to three hundred yards. Then two hundred.
‘Still no reaction,’ Atticus thought, perplexed, although he could see the enemy crew lining the side rail, many of them pointing to the Orcus, others waving their hands. The enemy was in sight, there for the taking, and every fibre of Atticus’s experience called on him to order ramming speed. Suddenly he spotted one of the Carthaginian crew holding a shield over his head, a gesture of truce, and the order came instinctively to his lips.
‘All stop.’
The order was repeated without hesitation and the Orcus came to a stop as the oars were dipped.
‘Your orders, Prefect,’ Gaius said warily, the Orcus falling rapidly out of position as the Carthaginian galley continued its course.
‘Standard speed, fall into their wake and then lay alongside,’ Atticus said. He called to the main deck, ‘Baro, have the men make ready in case it’s a trap of some kind.’
The second-in-command confirmed the order and Atticus focused once more on the Carthaginian galley.
The Orcus was swiftly in position, coming at the Carthaginian galley from its most vulnerable side. Her bow came within a half-ship length of the enemy stern, the Carthaginian coming to a full stop, shipping its oars to allow the Orcus to come alongside. Gaius deftly completed the manoeuvre and Atticus moved to the main deck, conscious of the silence that had enveloped both crews as they stared across at each other.
The Carthaginians lining the rail on the main deck parted, and Atticus stepped back in shock as he recognized the Roman stepping into the space with a measured stride, his arm extended slightly to hold the folds of his toga.
‘Ahh, Prefect Perennis,’ he said with some surprise, but he quickly recovered and nodded to a Carthaginian officer beside him, the man hastily ordering a gangplank to be extended across the gap. The Roman moved across and the link was quickly severed, the Carthaginian crew visibly relaxing as their charge was given over and the galley moved off a point to re-engage its oars, turning neatly in the sea-lane until its bow was pointing due south.
The Orcus continued to drift in the gentle current, the crew, like Atticus, yet to regain their wits.
‘Is it true?’ the Roman said, taking Atticus by the arm, his fingers digging into his flesh.
‘Proconsul?’
‘The storm, the losses. You were there. Is it true?’
Atticus shook off his initial surprise. ‘Yes, Proconsul, it’s true,’ he said solemnly.
Regulus’s shoulders fell a fraction. He had long ago accepted Hamilcar’s version of events, or so he believed; however, upon seeing Atticus his initial hopes and disbelief surfaced, knowing that the prefect had been stationed in Aspis. He looked to Atticus and squared his shoulders, his conviction regaining its dominance over his mood.
‘You must give me a full report of everything since our defeat at Tunis,’ he ordered. ‘Now best speed to Ostia, Prefect. I need to be in Rome before sunset.’
‘But the Carthaginian galley…’ Atticus replied, his gaze locked on the retreating enemy ship. ‘We should take her.’
‘You cannot,’ Regulus said. ‘I gave them my word that they would be allowed to leave unhindered. They are sailing to Lipara, where they will wait for my return.’
‘Your return,’ Atticus asked perplexed. ‘I don’t understand, Proconsul. Why did they bring you back to Rome?’
‘Because,’ Regulus replied, a measure of pride in his tone, ‘I have come to bring an end to this war.’
Septimus dismounted and stretched out his arms, leaning back to tighten the muscles of his shoulders, groaning in relief. He had galloped nearly the whole way from Fiumicino, not wanting to waste a precious minute of his leave and, as he watched Domitian approach across the courtyard, he felt an enormous sense of wellbeing. He handed the reins to the senior servant and slapped him on the shoulder; the older man’s smile widened at seeing the youngest son of the family home once more.
‘Your parents are in the triclinium,’ he said, and Septimus strode into the house, making his way quickly to the main dining room.
Salonina leapt up as she saw her son enter and she went to him with open arms. Antoninus rose too, but more slowly, a wry smile on his face. He extended his hand and Septimus took it, matching the iron grip of his father.
‘Welcome, Centurion,’ he said, and Septimus struggled to conceal his surprise. It was the first time his father had ever addressed him by that rank, and he saw the pride in his father’s eyes at his son having attained a rank he once held, centurion of the Ninth Legion. Septimus suddenly felt angered by the overt display of approval, recalling the contempt Antoninus had shown many times for that same rank in the marines, dismissing the position out of hand as a hollow, meaningless title. Septimus found himself re-examining his decision to transfer.
When he had first heard the announcement that the Ninth was to reform he had felt a deep sense of pride, glad that the ‘Wolves of Rome’ would rise to fight again. It was a valiant unit with a proud history and, as one of its sons, he had always maintained a strong affinity with the legion. His transfer to the navy had afforded him the chance of promotion, and although his decision at the time had been clouded by the loss of his friend Valerius in the Battle of Agrigentum, he had never regretted the choice.
However he had long since recognized and accepted the powerful influence the Ninth had over him, in the strength of his sword arm and through his former comrades, men who knew and respected his father Antoninus. That influence had led him to march into battle with the Ninth at Thermae; but afterwards he had returned to the marines with a clear sense of purpose, confident that he had found a place amongst honourable men in the navy.
That confidence had been shattered with the ending of his friendship with Atticus. With renewed resolve, Septimus had returned to the Ninth, gladly accepting command of the IV maniple. It was a position he seemed fated to occupy, one that his father had once held with distinction, and one that Septimus had served in as optio under Marcus Fabius Buteo, a comrade lost in the battle of Tunis.
It was with this mantle on his shoulder that Septimus now stood before Antoninus, outwardly accepting his praise while realizing that, although he had craved this very acceptance in the many years during which he had commanded a maniple of the marines, it now gave him no pleasure. Septimus was disturbed by the realization and, as he accepted the invitation to sit with his parents, he wondered whether he no longer valued his father’s acceptance, or no longer valued the command that he had previously held in such high regard.
