had become only a part. The Rhodian’s knowledge was the balance and Atticus was determined to take his full measure of its worth.
Atticus coughed violently as the dust thrown up by the horse’s hooves coated the back of his parched throat. The effort to breathe hurt his chest and he gazed through exhausted eyes to the main gate of the legion encampment ahead. The rush of battle that had possessed him only an hour before had fled, and he looked grimly to the charred remains of the siege towers two hundred yards away. They were being picked over by a dozen soot- stained soldiers, searching for salvageable remains of iron, like ants scavenging a carcass after a larger predator has eaten its fill.
Atticus looked to his own blood-and sweat-stained tunic, blacked by the fires of battle. Then he glanced at Ovidius, the Roman prefect, riding by his side, at his immaculate tribune’s uniform. He felt no inferiority, though; he was glad he had been able to locate his fellow fleet commander as he landed on the northern shore of the bay, knowing he too needed to hear the Rhodian’s information first hand. He saw Ovidius glance at the cavalry troop in their wake and the prisoner in their midst, noting with satisfaction that the Roman prefect had taken Atticus at his word and was conscious of the importance of the Rhodian.
The horsemen rode through the gates unchallenged, many of the legionaries looking with undisguised curiosity at the ragged sailor riding shoulder to shoulder with the tribune. They made their way directly to the command tent in the middle of the encampment, dismounting even as their horses slowed, and Atticus felt a renewed surge of energy flood his reserves as he watched two cavalrymen manhandle the wounded Rhodian from his mount. An optio approached Ovidius and, following a terse request, withdrew into the tent, reappearing after a minute to summon the men forward. Ovidius led Atticus and the Rhodian inside.
The interior was bathed in canvas-filtered sunlight, subdued by the dark rugs underfoot. After a brief pause inside the threshold, the men stepped forward. Scipio was seated at the far end of the tent, behind a dark stained desk, a solid piece built for the rigours of a campaign; but closer inspection revealed the intricacies of its elaborate carvings, the work of master craftsmen. His face was drawn with irritation and he barely acknowledged the salutes of his two prefects, his eyes darting to each in turn but lingering a second longer on Atticus.
‘Speak,’ he said to Ovidius.
‘Prefect Perennis,’ Ovidius began, glancing at Atticus, ‘captured this man and his crew as they tried to run the blockade earlier this morning. He is the mercenary known as the Rhodian.’
Scipio shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, looking to the wounded man behind Ovidius.
‘And…?’ he said impatiently.
‘He claims the fleet is in danger from a Carthaginian attack,’ Atticus interjected, hiding his own impatience, wary as always of Scipio’s hostility.
‘Claims?’ Scipio said.
‘He knows the location of the enemy fleet, Consul,’ Atticus continued.
‘Where is it?’ Scipio asked.
‘He will not say. He demanded to speak only to you, Consul,’ Atticus explained. ‘And, given the importance of the information, I judged it best that it was given willingly.’
‘You are a fool, Perennis,’ Scipio said dismissively. ‘He is bargaining for his life. He would say anything.’
Atticus bristled at the insult.
‘I believe him, Consul,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘He escaped this harbour days ago carrying Carthaginian officers, and when captured today those men were not on board. With the wind shift in the past twenty-four hours, I believe they must have disembarked at some location not a day’s sailing from here.’
‘They could have transshipped to another galley,’ Scipio said mockingly, ‘or simply landed somewhere along the coast.’
‘I brought them to their fleet,’ Calix said, speaking for the first time, noting the open hostility the consul displayed towards the Greek prefect. The identity of his passenger entered his mind, but Calix chose to retain that information, knowing he needed to keep something in reserve to strengthen his bargaining position.
Scipio grunted in reply but he tempered his scornful remarks, the seeds of fortune and opportunity combining in his mind. Perhaps this was his chance to go on the offensive. He beckoned the Rhodian forward with a wave of his hand.
‘You are who Perennis claims you are?’ he asked.
‘My name is Calix.’
‘But men call you the Rhodian?’ Scipio said, smiling coldly at the confident tone of the captured captain.
‘I am of that island,’ Calix replied.
‘So you too are Greek,’ he said slowly, the smile falling from his face. ‘Like the mercenaries who attacked the siege towers.’ And he glanced unconsciously at Atticus.
Calix saw the sideward glance. ‘I know nothing of them,’ he said. ‘I was hired by the Carthaginians for a specific task, as I was hired by the Romans in the past.’
Scipio’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he leaned forward, his interest piqued by the revelation. ‘When were you hired by the Romans?’ he asked, and Calix listed the operations he had carried out at the beginning of the war.
Scipio sat back again, intrigued by the mercenary’s obvious indifference to both sides in the conflict, his adherence to any cause purchased only for the length of a single contract. Scipio had known and manipulated men of this sort his entire career, and he knew the measure of their loyalty, and how easily it could be bought.
‘So now you will reveal the location of the Carthaginian fleet in exchange for your life?’ Scipio asked and Calix nodded.
‘Where is it?’ Scipio asked.
‘You will release me?’ Calix said.
Scipio nodded.
‘The Carthaginian fleet is anchored at Drepana.’
‘How many?’ Atticus asked.
‘Over one hundred galleys,’ Calix replied over his shoulder. He turned back to Scipio. ‘They are planning an attack. I do not know when.’
Again Scipio nodded.
‘Guards,’ he called, and four legionaries entered.
‘Take this man to the guardhouse and hold him there,’ he said.
‘But our agreement,’ Calix said angrily.
‘Will be honoured when we have confirmed your information,’ Scipio said dismissively, and he returned the Rhodian’s hostile gaze as he was escorted out.
Calix followed the legionaries across the beaten earth in the centre of the encampment, the acid bile of anger in his throat. He swallowed his fury, knowing he needed to remain calm. The consul’s actions were not wholly unexpected and Calix focused on the remaining information he held. The Romans would have confirmation of his report when they reached Drepana and, whether they attacked or remained in defence, the identity of the Carthaginian commander was salient information.
Calix suddenly recalled the hostility he had witnessed towards Perennis. The Greek prefect had been victorious, had taken a valuable ship as a prize, and yet the Roman consul had offered no praise. He had even looked at Perennis when he spoke of the attacks perpetrated by Greek mercenaries. Such an open schism was an obvious weakness and Calix kept it at the forefront of his thoughts, knowing that if he were to escape with his life, he would need every advantage he could gain.
Scipio looked to Atticus and Ovidius in the silence that followed the Rhodian’s departure, his mind already formulating a plan, a mortal blow to the Carthaginian fleet.
‘How far is Drepana?’ he asked of the two men before him.
‘No more than four hours,’ Atticus replied. ‘We must plan our defence so we can be ready at a moment’s notice.’
‘Our defence?’ Scipio said incredulously. ‘By the gods, Perennis, you Greeks are a timid race. We will attack, immediately.’
‘We cannot, Consul,’ Atticus said, struggling to contain his anger against Scipio’s hostility and denigration. ‘The men of the new fleet aren’t ready for an open, offensive battle.’
‘We have surprise and numbers on our side, Perennis,’ Scipio said, a cold edge to his voice. ‘If you have not
