‘I once sat in that chair,’ he said. ‘I remember the power one holds as senior consul and I know how the Senate can be manipulated by words and empty promises. You have led the Senate astray for your own ends.’
‘You sat in this chair because I put you there,’ Scipio replied viciously. ‘And you repaid that debt with treachery.’
‘What I did, I did for Rome,’ Regulus replied.
‘And that is why you fail,’ Scipio shouted as he stood up. ‘Why you falter now, when Rome’s strength falters. Rome is powerful because of men like me, Regulus, men whose strength of will carry the city forward. Rome will not surrender because I will not surrender, and she will be victorious because I will be victorious.’
Regulus stepped back from the table, knowing any further argument was useless, and he returned the full measure of Scipio’s malignant gaze as he made to leave.
‘I am honour bound by the terms of my parole to return to Lilybaeum in Sicily via Lipara,’ he said. ‘But know this, Scipio. Your ambition threatens the very survival of Rome, and when the eyes of the senators have been opened to that reality, they will remember men like me — men who place the good of Rome above all else — and they will call for me.’
‘No, Regulus,’ Scipio said slowly. ‘You will be forgotten.’ And he turned away as the proconsul left the chamber.
In the silence that followed, Scipio found he could not be still, his temper on edge, and he paced the room, walking aimlessly around the large marble table. He had already decided where his first attack would take place, a stronghold of the Carthaginians that had been a thorn in the Roman campaign’s side since the beginning of the war, and a focal point for every attack launched by the enemy on the northern coast of Sicily.
The new fleet was far from ready, and so Scipio would need to call up the remnants of the storm-lashed fleet in Agrigentum to complete his plan. He thought again of his first choice to command the naval arm of his attack and, as before, his reason and his pride were in disagreement. Logically, given the paucity of qualified Roman officers, the Greek was the obvious choice. In his narrow field, he had knowledge that few others possessed. Scipio thought of how the Greek had warned Paullus of the storm, only to have his advice ignored by the idiotic consul. Simultaneously Scipio felt his anger rise that he would even countenance accepting the Greek into his ranks, but again reason prevailed and Scipio thought of the traitor he retained on the prefect’s ship. He would keep the Greek at arm’s length and use Baro to keep a watchful eye on his enemy, a compromise that sickened him but one he knew was necessary, for now.
The decision made, Scipio turned his thoughts to the other aspects of the campaign. He became engrossed in the minutiae, his sharp mind dealing with each detail in turn while all the while his anticipation rose steadily, the pace of his stride increasing as he moved about the room. He stopped suddenly and looked over to the door, striding towards it with a determined step. He had planned enough, waited enough. Now it was time to put those plans into action, time to fulfil the promise he had made the Senate: time to go to war.
CHAPTER NINE
A single alarm bell was heard across the wide sweep of the bay, followed moments later by a dozen more, the sound rapidly succeeded by the horns of the galleys in the outer harbour, their clamour combining to fuel the panic of the inhabitants inside the walls of the town. Panormus was in turmoil, its streets crammed with people and animals, some fleeing deeper into the town and the docks, others towards the gates, now shut tightly against the advancing Roman legions. The noise was deafening, whipping up the panic of the populace, while above it the shouted commands of officers held sway, sending men racing to the walls, their shields and spears giving them headway in the throng.
Atticus stood on the aft-deck of the Orcus, breathing in the atmosphere of the ancient port. Fewer than a dozen Carthaginian galleys were in the bay, their hulls down as they drew deeper into the safety of the inner harbour, the sight of so many Roman galleys hastening their flight. Behind and around the Orcus sailed seventy galleys, newly formed from the remnants of the fleet from Agrigentum, which had regained its strength over the previous month. Atticus was in overall command and he nodded to Gaius as he watched the last of his ships round the eastern approaches.
The Orcus slowed, coming once more to standard speed. The wings of the formation unfolded as a blockade was formed, a flurry of orders and signals reaching across the length of the fleet until each galley knew its place. Atticus took a moment to look at the trim of his own ship, focusing on the actions of his new crew. Every moment of the long voyage from Rome to Agrigentum and thence to Panormus had been spent in training the raw recruits, and Atticus was satisfied with their progress.
Almost all of the senior sailing crew of the Orcus had been transferred to provide experienced personnel for the new fleet of 220 galleys being built at Fiumicino, and when Atticus had sailed south from Rome some three weeks before, half of those ships were already afloat and undergoing sea trials. It was only a matter of time before they would be unleashed upon the enemy.
Atticus had applied to retain Gaius, a request that was granted because of his rank, but he had been surprised and delighted when Baro also escaped transfer. Many of the experienced seconds-in-command had been chosen to captain new galleys, and the retention of Baro was a stroke of luck that immeasurably speeded up the training of the new crew.
Atticus acknowledged another flood of signals and the Orcus came to a stop, her bow swinging neatly to point directly into the inner harbour, her position making her the lynchpin for the entire right flank of the blockade. Atticus moved to the foredeck to get a better view, bringing with him the signalman from aft. Aside from the dozen or so Carthaginian war galleys, there were over fifty trading vessels of all sizes, many of them tethered to the docks, while others milled around the in visible boundary between the inner and outer harbour. Nightfall would bring the first attempts to break out, particularly amongst the smaller trading ships, and Atticus studied their form and disposition, trying to decipher which ones were the more aggressive given their proximity to the blockade.
Blockades were notoriously difficult to maintain given the small range of a galley. They had limited space for supplies, particularly water, a resource quickly devoured by the rowing crew in the late summer heat. It was necessary therefore to set up a system whereby individual ships could disengage from the formation to resupply nearby on land, the ranks thinning around its position until it returned, only to allow another ship to disengage and repeat the process. Any sailor who had witnessed a blockade, and doubtless there were some in Panormus, would know of such limitations and would therefore try to exploit the weakness. Atticus knew of only one solution to this problem, and that was to keep the disengagements random, allowing no advantage to an observant enemy. Even still, in an unfamiliar harbour, there would certainly be some escapees, and Atticus’s main concern was that some of those might sail directly to Lilybaeum to warn the enemy there about the blockade.
The high-pitched clarion call of the legions caught Atticus’s ear and he turned towards the shore beyond the walls of Panormus. The marching formations of the newly formed Ninth were stark red against the green hills sweeping up from behind town, and even from a distance Atticus could sense their latent energy, a coiled serpent waiting to strike against the walls of Panormus. Atticus turned away from the sight, forestalling the drift of his thoughts to one in particular amongst the legion. He refocused his concentration on the formation of galleys around him, conscious that the battle would soon be joined and the blockade would need to stand firm.
Septimus cursed loudly as he roared at the new recruits in his maniple. In the brief minutes that he had been distracted by observing the walls of Panormus, the strict formation of the unit had once more lost cohesion. The defined gaps between the grades had disappeared and the formerly rigid square was again bowed outwards on both flanks, inviting similar curses from the centurions who commanded the maniples on either side.
The recruits were interspersed with experienced men, but their majority in numbers gave them weight, and the stumbling efforts of one man had an instant ripple effect on the whole. An experienced unit would constantly dress its own ranks, compensating immediately for any uneven terrain underfoot, but the recruits allowed themselves to be shuffled out of position, forgetting even the most basic rules of drill in their heightened state of anticipation. The nervous tension of his men further aggravated Septimus, and the whiplash of his commands brought them once more into formation, a status the centurion knew would not last.
The maniple, indeed the entire legion, was built on the solid premise that experience was essential in maintaining discipline in battle. For that reason the front ranks, the hastati, were often the most junior of the
