the courage to fight on even these advantageous terms, then I shall remove you from your command.’
Atticus took a half-step forward to retort, but Ovidius spoke first.
‘We can be ready to sail by nightfall, Consul,’ he said, looking to break the conversation between the other two men. He did not know the source of the consul’s antagonism towards the prefect, but he was eager to deflect it, confident in the opinion he had formed of the Greek since arriving in Lilybaeum.
This was Ovidius’s first naval command, granted to him weeks before in Rome when he was tasked with sailing the first contingent of the new fleet south to the Aegates Islands in preparation for the siege of Lilybaeum. Unfamiliar with naval warfare, he relied heavily on the experienced captains of his squadron, and had spoken to each exhaustively over the course of the monotonous weeks of the blockade. The Greek prefect’s name had been mentioned many times, and Ovidius had quickly become aware of the high regard in which the men held him.
He did not understand the Greek’s hesitation and agreed with the consul’s assertion, but he also knew it was in the fleet’s best interest for Perennis to retain command of his squadron.
‘By nightfall,’ Scipio said, looking to Ovidius, the distraction causing his mind to focus once more on the incredible opportunity the Rhodian’s information had unlocked. He pushed his anger aside.
‘Yes, Consul,’ Ovidius replied. ‘We can sail up the coast during the night and attack at dawn, and a night approach will ensure the Carthaginians are not forewarned by land.’
Scipio stood up in anticipation. ‘Ready the fleet, Ovidius,’ he said, striding around the table. ‘We sail at dusk.’
Ovidius saluted and as he made to turn he saw the Greek ready himself to argue once more. He grabbed him by the arm, staying Atticus’s words, and led him from the tent.
Once outside, Atticus shrugged off Ovidius’s hand angrily.
‘This is madness, Ovidius,’ he said. ‘We cannot fight the Carthaginians on their terms, not yet.’
Ovidius held Atticus’s hostile gaze. ‘The battle will not be on their terms, Perennis,’ Ovidius replied. ‘We have surprise on our side.’
‘It will not be enough,’ Atticus said, not even convinced the Roman fleet could carry off a night approach. He looked once more to Scipio’s tent, the frustration of knowing his opinion counted for naught consuming him, seeing in Scipio the arrogant figure of Paullus before the storm.
Ovidius watched Atticus closely and stepped forward once more.
‘You do not know me, Perennis,’ he said evenly. ‘But I know of you. Take command of the vanguard. The honour is yours.’
Atticus turned to Ovidius, noticing the same unwavering confidence he had witnessed so many times before in other Roman officers, the indomitable self-assurance that could not be shaken. Ovidius slapped him on the shoulder and mounted his horse once more, the stallion wheeling in a tight circle before the Roman spurred it towards the gate. Atticus watched him leave and then mounted himself. He looked to the sun, its zenith already passed, and he spurred his horse in pursuit of the Roman prefect.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The day dawned under a leaden sky, prolonging the long dark hours of the night. The sea was troubled, the swell erratic and grey, like twisted cold metal long since cast aside from the furnace. The southwesterly wind had tormented the Roman fleet throughout the night, further complicating the already difficult task of maintaining the cohesion of the attack formation, and the dawn light revealed a seascape littered with individual galleys.
Scipio stood alone on the foredeck of his flagship, the Poena, his anticipation honed to a keen edge after long hours of waiting, his mind playing out his future. He breathed in the moist air, expanding his chest until the straps of his armour restrained him. He had spent his youth in the legions, pursuing the path that all ambitious men in Rome must tread, his legitimacy in the Senate as a military leader founded on the bedrock of legionary service. Now the armour felt light across his chest, a second skin he had long since grown accustomed to.
Those years in the legions had embedded many traits within his character, particularly patience, a skill he had developed during his time in the Senate into an almost impenetrable armour of self-discipline. Only hatred for his enemies pierced that armour, and not for the first time since sailing from Lilybaeum four hours before, Scipio felt the white heat of his temper overwhelm him, his mind swimming with the vision of one man whom he had sought to destroy at his ease but whose very existence was becoming too vexing to bear.
He turned and strode from the foredeck, the alert crew of the Poena stepping aside to allow him passage, wary of unwittingly colliding with the consul, an accident that would undoubtedly result in summary punishment. Scipio watched the crew as he stood on the main deck, looking beyond them to the ragged formation of the Roman fleet in surrounding waters. He felt his previous confidence ebb, and he cursed the creeping doubts with which the Greek had infected him. Battle was imminent, the enemy lying just beyond the horizon, outnumbered and unaware, and yet Scipio could not shake the warning uttered by Perennis.
He reached the aft-deck and beckoned the priest to his side, the older man moving deferentially towards the consul. Scipio glanced over his shoulder and immediately saw that many of the crew were watching surreptitiously. He nodded to himself. They would bear witness to the simple ceremony, its outcome putting mettle into their resolve, and Scipio would get the signalmen to spread the word across the fleet.
It was an arcane and ancient ritual, one Scipio had seen many times but had never held in any esteem, believing his fate to be controlled by a higher power than the creatures the priest carried in his hand. Today, however, on the eve of what would be his greatest victory, Scipio needed to dispel the curse of uncertainty, that slight shift in his confidence that he barely acknowledged even to himself. This ritual would cleanse him and, as Scipio watched the priest prepare for the almost farcical ceremony, he silently vowed that Perennis would never again stand tall in his presence. After today, he would finally break him. Whether he put him to the sword or to a galley oar in chains, Scipio would be rid of the Greek.
The priest began a slowly incantation, calling on the god Mars to rise up from his slumber and stand astride the battlefield over the ranks of the Roman forces, to look down upon the enemy over the shoulder of every legionary, to put his strength into the sword arm of every son of Rome so he might strike down the foe who would dare to defy him. Scipio listened to the droning voice, seeing past the words to the subtle essence of the invocation, allowing it to fill his heart while, behind him, the entire crew of the Poena ceased their tasks to gaze upon the ceremony.
The priest held out his left hand and scattered the grain on the timber deck, his voice becoming stronger as he crouched down to release the three chickens in his right hand, the birds squawking loudly as they flapped their clipped wings and found their feet. These birds were sacred, bred to perform in this one simple ceremony and complete a basic task that would signify that the gods favoured the Romans in the battle to come: eat the proffered grain.
Scipio stood silently watching the chickens circle the scattered seeds, his doubts already dispelled by the formality and reverence of the ceremony. He felt his confidence rise, and he held his breath in anticipation of the first peck of the chickens’ beaks, ready to use that moment of fulfilment of the ceremony to rouse the crew of the Poena and the fleet.
A minute passed, followed by another, and still the chickens would not eat, their seemingly aimless steps across the grain scattered beneath them breaking the previous spell of the ritual. Scipio looked to the priest, his expression twisting into furious anger, and the priest immediately crouched to shepherd the birds to the centre of the grain. Scipio felt a groundswell of superstitious fear sweep the crew behind, their muttered concerns rising to a cacophony of open alarm.
He rounded on them, glaring at those nearest, but they looked past him to the birds. He spun around again and charged at the priest, pushing him aside as his temper slipped its bounds. He picked up a chicken, squeezing its neck in his hands, the bird’s squawking increasing. He held the bird aloft and turned to the crew.
‘If they refuse to eat, then let them drink,’ he shouted, and he cast the bird over the side of the galley, reaching around to gather up the other two quickly and throwing them over with equal fury.
The crew stood aghast at the sacrilege. Scipio again lost control as he shouted at them to continue their preparations for battle, his voice and raw fury breaking the spell of their shock, but each man turned away with fear in his heart. The gods had spoken. If the Romans joined battle, they would do so alone, without the favour of
