she was still listing badly, and the crew continued to fight a running battle against the ocean, with two lines of men baling out the lower hold. The others were undamaged but they maintained the same speed as their wounded sister ships, holding position on the outer flanks. A protective shield against an enemy that would overwhelm them in minutes, Baro thought sardonically.
He looked over his shoulder again, his growing confidence causing him to unconsciously glance down at the deck under the tiller, and the fate that might have been his. The blood there was turning black, staining the deck timbers with an indelible mark, as if the Orcus wanted to remember its helmsman. Baro had cast Gaius’s body overboard during the night, the danger of pursuit — still existent at the time — forcing him to grant the helmsman only a perfunctory funeral. He looked away from the bloodstained deck, remembering the attack, a deep anger swelling within him.
The Greek had saved his life, had pushed him to the deck as the first flight of arrows struck, and the thought stirred his anger further. Baro believed that Perennis, as commander of the ship, was the obvious target, while he and Gaius had been unfortunate bystanders, the helmsman paying for that misfortune with his life.
‘Lilybaeum ahead,’ the lookout called, and the crew cheered, the shout taken up by the men on the other galleys.
Baro’s mind remained enraged, however, his eyes fixed firmly on the waters ahead, his grip still tight on the tiller. The Greek was still his enemy, but now he was beholden to that whoreson for his life, a debt that was abhorrent to him. As the Orcus sailed ever closer to Lilybaeum, Baro began to hope that one other man had survived the slaughter at Drepana.
Scipio drew his sword with a fluid sweep of his arm and slashed the blade down with all his fury, striking the bulkhead timber with a force that embedded the blade two inches into the seasoned timber. He wrenched it aside, trying to free the weapon, shouting angrily as his temper slipped beyond control. Suddenly the blade snapped and he fell backwards. Regaining his balance in the middle of the cabin, he stared at the broken haft, his anger unbounded, and threw it away with all his might, the metal resounding off the timber bulkhead before falling to the deck.
He stormed out of the cabin and on to the main deck of the Poena, the crew moving quickly away, none daring to look at the enraged consul. Scipio looked to the sun, its arrival mocking him, as it illuminated the pitiful remnants of the Roman fleet that had escaped Drepana. Twenty-three ships surrounded the Poena, twenty-three from the southern flank that had fled behind their consul as the battle at Drepana descended into utter disaster.
The Poena had been one of the last to take its place in the defensive line. The Carthaginians were already engaged, and Scipio had quickly realized that the situation was hopeless: the centre enveloped, Ovidius’s galley lost from sight, the Roman prefect trapped between the shoreline and the impenetrable wall of timber and iron that was the Carthaginian battle line. Time would have placed Scipio’s flank in the same net, and so he had ordered a retreat, turning his back on the lost to save what he could, beginning a headlong flight that had ended in the darkness of night in Lilybaeum. Only then did Scipio pause to examine his defeat. In the quiet pre-dawn gloom of his cabin, his plans for the future, his thoughts of glory and fame, had slowly unravelled.
He moved to the foredeck and looked out over the remaining galleys, the cold onshore wind clearing the surface of his anger, allowing him to think. He would sail for Rome. It was his only choice if he was going to limit the repercussions of Drepana. He began to think of how he would formulate his argument to retain his consulship, knowing that, given time, he might yet salvage some semblance of dignity.
Scipio knew from long experience that the crux of that argument would need to be the apportionment of blame. With defeat came retribution, and if Scipio could redirect the responsibility for the loss, he might be spared the full wrath of the Senate. He would begin by interrogating the Rhodian further. The mercenary had been in the paid service of Rome many times. He had said the Carthaginians were preparing for an attack. That testimony would justify Scipio’s decision to make a pre-emptive strike.
But what of the battle? His fleet had outnumbered the Carthaginians’. How had he failed? He could blame Ovidius for the loss of the centre, or Perennis for not sealing the Carthaginian fleet in the inner harbour, but either way he would be blaming a dead man and Scipio knew that such an approach would be seen as cowardly: putting responsibility on a man who could not defend himself, who had given his life for Rome. He needed to put something or someone between him and culpability.
A call from the masthead distracted Scipio and he looked to the northern approaches to the bay. Galleys were rounding the headland and many of the crew shouted warnings of a Carthaginian attack, their frantic voices tearing the thin veil of calm to reveal the panic hidden just beneath. Scipio moved to the rail, apprehension rising within him, until he saw they were but four ships, his anxiety turning to shame as the lookout identified the galleys as Roman.
Scipio watched them slowly approach. They were a forlorn sight. Four ships, and only two of them undamaged. Of the others, one was listing heavily to port and the last… Scipio’s hands tightened on the rail, recognizing the masthead banners. He smiled coldly, nurturing the first seeds of confidence after many hours of despair. The Greek was alive, and with him Scipio’s chances of saving his political fortune.
Septimus looked up at the familiar profile of the Orcus as the skiff approached the quinquereme. The starboard side of the galley was heavily scored, with many of the oar-holes damaged, the raw, exposed timber stark against the darker, sea-stained hull. He glanced into the open wounds, catching glimpses of shadows, and the lighter tone of the rowers’ naked flesh, the men moving slowly, still in obvious shock from the devastating attack.
Septimus shook his head and turned away. The sun was beginning its descent to the western horizon, taking with it the heat of the day; he savoured the light breeze sweeping over the wave tops. He looked to Drusus sitting in the bow of the small boat. As befitting his usual reserved manner, the centurion was staring impassively at the shoreline over Septimus’s shoulder, and Septimus was forced to stay his impatient questions, knowing Drusus’s terse answers would only increase his frustration.
Drusus had arrived in the legion’s encampment an hour before, formally reporting to Septimus that Atticus had been injured in battle. He had come personally, of his own volition, and yet, save to repeat his brief report, he had refused to be drawn in detail on any of Septimus’s immediate questions, prompting Septimus to forgo the attempt and go with all haste to the Orcus.
The skiff nudged against the hull and Septimus clambered up on to the main deck. The galley was quiet, overlaid with a silence that seemed unnatural given the hour of the day and the number of men on deck. He went quickly to the main cabin, accepting the salutes of the legionaries he passed, nodding in silent greeting at those he recognized.
Septimus entered the dark, airless cabin and immediately felt a wave of relief as he spotted Atticus lying on his cot. His shoulder and leg were heavily bandaged and his skin was pale under a sheen of sweat, but his eyes were alert and he smiled as he saw Septimus. He shifted slightly to sit up but a stab of pain caused him to wince and pause, prompting Septimus to cross the cabin to help him.
‘Take it easy,’ Septimus said with a smile as he helped Atticus prop himself up further on the cot.
‘How did you…?’ Atticus began.
‘Drusus told me,’ Septimus replied, and he stepped back to sit down on the only chair in the cabin. A silence drew out between them, both men suddenly uneasy in each other’s company, their previous conflict foremost in their minds. Atticus was first to speak, his face crestfallen.
‘Gaius and Corin are dead,’ he said.
‘How?’ Septimus asked, and Atticus used the prompt to relay the events of the entire battle, the recollection causing him to shift restlessly on the cot, his breathing becoming laboured as he dominated the pain of his wounds.
‘Barca…’ Septimus said maliciously as Atticus finished his account.
‘We just weren’t ready,’ Atticus said, and again he began to speak at length, telling Septimus of his warning to Scipio.
Septimus’s brow furrowed at the mention of the consul’s name.
‘Scipio’s campaign against Lilybaeum has been a complete failure — on land, and now at sea. He is sure to be recalled to Rome to answer for that failure.’
‘He has already given the order,’ Atticus replied. ‘What’s left of the fleet sails for Rome on tomorrow’s tide.’
