had always been treated magnanimously.
For Scipio it was evidence of the beliefs he had always held about the treacherous nature of non-Romans: that their disloyalty was simply a mark of their innate inferiority. In watching the trader being beaten from camp, Scipio had pictured Perennis beneath those same swords, spat at and told never to return, as the Romans who had tolerated him for years finally became aware of the true nature of the outsider in their midst. For now, the Greek prefect still served a purpose, but Scipio was finding it increasingly hard to stick to his original conviction, and it was with difficulty that he suppressed the urge to summon Perennis to the camp under some pretext in order to expose him to the wrath of the legionaries. He calmed himself, conceding once more that time was on his side and that eventually he would dispose of the Greek as thoroughly as the legionaries had his compatriot.
Scipio was distracted by the approach of a contubernia of soldiers led by a centurion, and his eyes narrowed in curiosity as he looked at the long timber box they carried on their shoulders. The centurion stopped before Scipio and saluted. His expression was fearful and his forehead beaded with sweat.
‘Beg to report, Consul,’ he said haltingly. ‘We found this box inside our lines this morning. It must have been placed there during the attack.’
‘What is it?’ Scipio asked impatiently.
‘It’s…’ the centurion stammered and he looked to the box, unable to answer.
‘Set it down,’ Scipio ordered irritably.
The soldiers quickly complied and then backed away. The box had already been opened, Scipio presumed by the centurion, but the lid had been reaffixed. Scipio could hear a faint buzzing sound emanating from within and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
‘Open it,’ he commanded, and the centurion stepped forward, drawing his sword as he did. He crouched down and slid the blade under the lid and then turned his face away, before abruptly twisting and lifting the blade with one sweep of his arm.
The lid flew off and a cloud of flies erupted from the box, causing Scipio to lean back and look away as the swarm dissipated. He waved his hand angrily in front of his face and stepped forward to peer down. His stomach heaved, a violent spasm from the depths of his bowels, and he turned away before looking back upon the rotting corpse laid out in the box. Regulus stared up at him sightlessly; his eyes long since devoured by the voracious flies that had nested there, the swarm resettling once more on his flesh.
Scipio looked down to the butchery that was Regulus’s chest, unable to comprehend what would cause such a horrendous wound. It was as if… and Scipio suddenly realized what he was seeing, the shape of the elephant’s pad-like foot clearly visible around the lower edge of the wound. He fought against the wave of nausea that swept over him.
‘Cover him up,’ he ordered the centurion harshly, and he turned to enter his tent, anxious to be alone.
Once inside he stumbled over to a basin and splashed water on his face, closing his eyes as he did so. The image of Regulus flashed before him and he opened his eyes wide again, his nausea suddenly coupled with a primal fear of retribution. Regulus had been his enemy and Scipio had wanted him destroyed, but he realized that the terrible fate the proconsul had suffered had affected him deeply. He had sent Regulus to that end, and again the image of his hollow stare flashed before him.
Scipio brushed the vision aside, suddenly angry at his own weakness, that he should feel remorse for Regulus. The proconsul had brought his fate upon himself with his foolish attempt to broker a peace treaty, and the Carthaginians had carried out the barbaric execution, not Scipio. Yet a shred of culpability remained on his conscience. He poured a goblet of wine from an amphora and drank deeply, allowing the sharp taste to cleanse the last of the nausea from his throat.
The return of Regulus’s body was no doubt meant as a personal warning to the Roman commander of the fate that awaited him, but for Scipio it merely hardened his heart. The Carthaginians had rid him of his enemy and, however merciless they perceived their method of execution to be, Scipio had witnessed the legionaries descend to the same level of savagery in their sack of Panormus. If Carthage believed that Rome had not the stomach for the fight, they were sorely mistaken. Scipio would open their eyes to that error. He would go back on the offensive, and wipe the stain of Regulus’s demise from his conscience by inflicting a terrible reprisal on the Carthaginian foe.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hamilcar looked out along the length of the city of Drepana to the harbour as the Ares rounded the small islands at the head of the bay. The Gadir fleet was anchored in neat lines, the ships tethered by their sterns, their bows facing out, ready to slip their moorings at a moment’s notice. He heard warning cries carried on the offshore breeze, and from out of the inner harbour two quinqueremes approached, turning neatly together to intercept the unusual ship that had sailed brazenly into the jaws of the fleet.
Hamilcar smiled and moved to the foredeck to identify himself as the gap narrowed, impressed but not surprised by the alertness of the fleet’s commanders. Gadir was on the very fringes of the empire, and the fleet based there was one of the best: independent and resilient, it existed outside of the realm of the relative protection of Carthage and was often cut off for months during the winter. The crews were renowned for their strict sailing discipline and the fleet possessed the agility and reaction times of a force half its size.
The Ares passed through the guardsmen and into the long neck of the harbour, while Hamilcar returned to the aft-deck to instruct Calix to sail past the fleet and tie up at the docks beneath the walls of the town.
‘An impressive fleet, Hamilcar,’ Calix said as the Ares moved slowly past the serried ranks.
‘There are few finer,’ Hamilcar replied, with the same unassuming confidence that Calix had shown when he spoke of his crew.
Calix nodded, realizing the depth of pride the Carthaginian had in the men he commanded. They were indeed a race of skilled mariners, their expansive empire a fitting testament to that skill, but Calix believed they could not claim the mantle of the finest seafarers. That rested solidly on the shoulders of the Greeks, an ancient claim that was reasserted with each new generation.
‘You are right, Hamilcar,’ Calix said, looking proudly around at his crew. ‘There are few finer, and they are here.’
Hamilcar smiled with amusement. ‘You must continue to prove that, Calix,’ he said. ‘I need to keep a line of communication open with the besieged garrison. You must return to Lilybaeum immediately.’
Calix nodded. He had expected as much, given that only he could run the blockade.
‘Pay me for the passage for you and your men first, then we will negotiate a fee for running the blockade with dispatches,’ he said.
‘I will pay you what we agreed,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘And the same amount again each time you return here from Lilybaeum.’
Calix’s eyes shone with avarice. It was more than he’d hoped for and Hamilcar had offered it without hesitation. The potential purse was enormous and, given that he had already bested the Romans, even the notable Greek prefect, it would be an easy task.
Hamilcar saw the self-assurance in Calix’s face and felt his doubts ease somewhat. It was a risk sending the Rhodian back to Lilybaeum, given that — if he was caught — he would certainly reveal the strength and location of the Carthaginian fleet; but Hamilcar knew he had to keep in contact with the garrison, albeit only until he had readied the Gadir fleet for battle.
Continuing to use the Rhodian also sorted out one other potential problem. If Hamilcar ended his contract, the Rhodian would be free to sell his information to the Romans. The alternative was to seize the Rhodian’s ship but, considering how dependent Hamilcar was on mercenaries, any such blatant persecution of one of their own kind would surely cause the others to question his loyalty to their agreements.
‘Then we are agreed,’ Hamilcar said to Calix’s silence. ‘When you reach Lilybaeum, submit yourself to the garrison commander.’
Again Calix nodded and, as the gangplank was lowered on to the dock, Hamilcar beckoned to his men to depart.
Calix followed with men of his own, anxious to receive the money he was due and depart the bottleneck of the port. He felt hemmed in, an unfamiliar feeling for a creature of the open sea, and he looked around him furtively,
