‘How is Hadria?’ he asked, wishing to change the subject. ‘Is she here?’
Salonina’s face fell and she held her hands to stop them trembling. ‘She’s very ill,’ she replied, tears in her voice. ‘She is in her room and has not risen since that night when-’
‘That Greek whoreson has cursed her,’ Antoninus spat, and Septimus felt a renewed surge of anger towards his father. He held his tongue, knowing he could say nothing that would change Antoninus’s opinion.
‘How is she ill?’ Septimus asked, his concern rising.
‘She does not speak,’ Salonina replied. ‘And she barely eats. She just lies in her room. It is worse than when she grieved for Valerius.’
‘Do not compare the two, woman,’ Antoninus said angrily. ‘Valerius was a Roman, this Greek is a barbarus.’
Salonina seemed not to hear her husband. ‘Time will heal her,’ she said without confidence, shaking her head in despair.
On impulse Septimus stood up and left the room, finding his way to the steps that led to the bedrooms overlooking the courtyard. He climbed them slowly, his thoughts on what he could say to Hadria to comfort her, but as he recalled the part he had played in their affair he hesitated. He had always been against it, his motives shifting many times but his conviction never wavering, even after he understood Hadria’s level of devotion for Atticus. What mattered was that he had stood squarely against his sister and his friend, and he suddenly felt unsure, shaken by the repercussions; the loss of his friendship with Atticus and Hadria’s deep despair.
He reached the door of her room and paused, listening intently, but there was no sound from behind the door and in the stillness he reached out for the handle. He stopped, his confidence giving way under the weight of his guilt, and finally he turned and walked away.
Regulus stood on the threshold of the Curia, listening as the voices of debate rose and fell in a manner all too familiar to his ear. He adjusted the folds of his toga, remembering when he last stood in the hallowed chamber. He had been senior consul then, the most powerful man in Rome, and as he stood to depart on his quest to invade Africa, the Senate had cheered his name. Now he was returning as an ambassador of peace, a harbinger of what he knew would be welcome news. He would be revered as a saviour, a man who showed the city a way through its darkest hour, and the Senate would cheer his name once more.
Regulus was fully committed to the proposed peace treaty, a belief reached after many weeks of discussion and reflection. Rome was beaten; Barca had convinced him of that, and the array of forces he had seen in the harbour of Carthage served to further convince him of the formidable strength yet to be unleashed by the enemy. He would speak to the Senate of peace with honour, of the need to check the advance of the Carthaginian horde, of the opportunity to stabilize the southern frontier of the Republic and gain time to renew their strength.
For a brief moment, Regulus thought of the one aspect he could not have foreseen, the election of Scipio to the post of senior consul, news the Greek prefect had revealed. He had a sworn enemy in Scipio, a man he knew was beyond serpentine in nature, but Regulus believed his cause was honourable, and he trusted the senior consul would recognize that fact for the benefit of Rome, whatever his personal animosity. Clearing his mind of the inconsequential detail, Regulus straightened his shoulders and stepped over the threshold of the Curia.
The Senate continued to debate as Regulus entered, but the discussion soon gave way to gasps of astonishment as he was recognized. A number of senators got up and walked over to the proconsul, bombarding him with questions, but he ignored them, keeping his expression composed as he looked between them in an effort to ascertain whether Scipio was present in the chamber. He moved towards the podium, the senators giving way before him, and the Senate became quiet as he paused to address them.
‘Citizens of Rome,’ he began. ‘I stand before you this day to bring you glorious news. In our hour of greatest need, the gods of our forefathers have taken a guiding hand in our fate. Carthage desires peace and has offered us terms-’
Shouts of disbelief and protest met his words and Regulus was forced to pause, disquieted by the attitude of his peers. He recalled his own initial abhorrence to the concept of surrender, but that was before he had been persuaded of its merits. He raised his voice, determined to complete his prepared speech, anxious to explain how lenient the Carthaginian terms were, confident that the senators’ initial objections would soon dissipate in the face of his logic.
‘Senators, Senators,’ he shouted. ‘The Carthaginians terms merely dictate that we withdraw from Sicily. Given our losses and their strength these are generous terms, worthy of acceptance. We-’
Again he was forced to stop as the level of protest grew, many Senators now on their feet, pointing angrily at him. His confidence began to waver and he re-examined every facet of his argument, finding no flaw. He raised his hands and continued through the hail of protest.
‘Our fleet is no more, taken by the gods,’ he shouted. ‘We have been defeated in open battle. We must accept these terms, if only to give us time-’
‘Silence!’ a voice roared, and Regulus turned to the source, immediately recognizing Scipio. He had been present the entire time, sitting anonymously amidst the crowd while Regulus spoke. With a rising sense of dread, he watched Scipio stand and make his way across the Senate floor.
‘Follow me,’ he said disdainfully, and Regulus complied, departing the Senate chamber amidst a renewed barrage of protest.
Scipio led him to the senior consul’s chamber at the centre of the Curia. It was a familiar path and Regulus followed without comment, his mind in turmoil. Only when he reached the room did he feel some semblance of calm return. This had once been his chamber and he felt a renewed sense of confidence as he remembered his achievements as senior consul.
The room was a perfect circle, an anomalous shape in the heart of a rectangular building, and the domed ceiling was dominated by an oculus that threw an ever-changing shaft of sunlight on the marble walls. Scipio moved behind the table that dominated the centre of the chamber, watching Regulus intently. Initially, like everyone in the Senate chamber, Scipio had been shocked by the sudden arrival of Regulus. He had watched the proconsul move with a determined stride to the podium but, as Regulus began to speak, that shock had been surpassed by disbelief. He had smiled inwardly as he felt the growing sense of anger among the senators around him.
Scipio had been elected senior consul because he had promised the Senate victory over the Carthaginians and they had believed him. Since that day he had carefully tended that flame of belief, stoking it into a raging fire when he needed their vote to commission a new fleet of quinqueremes, allowing it to recede when he needed to temper their belief with fear, but always ensuring he maintained in them a level of faith in Rome’s ultimate victory. His success was confirmed in the immediate reaction of the Senate to Regulus.
Scipio levelled his gaze at the proconsul, feeling nothing but contempt for the man who had once defied him. ‘So, you have become the Carthaginians’ puppet.’
‘I am no puppet, Scipio,’ Regulus replied angrily. ‘I am on parole, as an ambassador of peace, and I bring with me lenient terms that Rome must accept.’
‘You are a fool on a fool’s errand, Regulus,’ Scipio said mockingly. ‘And Rome must accept nothing.’
‘Look beyond your pride, Scipio. We are beaten,’ Regulus said. ‘A peace treaty is our only chance to keep our mainland inviolate. If we continue to fight, we will be driven from Sicily by force and the Carthaginians will not stop at the Straits of Messina.’
‘The Carthaginians will be defeated. I have promised the Senate of that. I have given them faith. You just witnessed the strength of that belief in the Senate chamber.’
‘That faith is misplaced, Scipio. I have seen the enemy’s strength in the harbour of Carthage. We cannot stand against them, not now that we are weak.’
‘The fleet is being rebuilt even as we speak,’ Scipio said resolutely. ‘Soon Rome will be strong again, and when she is I will lead her to victory.’
Regulus noticed the maniacal edge to Scipio’s voice, the look of absolute self-belief in his eyes, and he realized that — despite the precariousness of Rome’s position — Scipio was determined to continue the war. Perennis had told him of the new fleet, but Regulus had hoped the Greek was misinformed. Now there was no doubt. He was about to continue his argument when he suddenly paused. In the two years since he had cast Scipio aside in this very room, he himself had changed immeasurably, but he realized that Scipio was essentially the same man. He was not seeking to continue the war for the glory of Rome; he was doing so to further his own personal objectives. Despite everything, Scipio still placed his own ambitions above the needs of the state. The realization angered Regulus and he leaned in over the table.
