‘Hamilcar Barca,’ Calix replied. ‘The overall commander of the Carthaginians.’
‘And where did you take him?’
‘Drepana.’
There was an audible gasp from the Senate and Scipio quickly turned to address them. ‘And this not hours before our siege towers were attacked by a Greek force, causing many casualties amongst our valiant legionaries — moreover, a Greek force in the paid service of the Carthaginians.’
Many of the senators automatically looked to Atticus, the Greek in their midst.
‘Then the overall commander of the Carthaginians, the man who subsequently led their fleet at Drepana, slips through our blockade,’ Scipio continued. ‘His escape orchestrated with the help of other Greeks who had enemy gold in their hands. Perennis’s own second-in-command confirms that Hamilcar Barca could have been captured had Perennis pressed home his supposed pursuit.’
‘No one knew Barca was on that ship,’ Atticus shouted, looking to Duilius, who seemed transfixed by Scipio’s evidence.
‘And when in command of the vanguard at Drepana,’ Scipio said, more loudly, as if Atticus had not spoken, ‘Perennis failed to confine the Carthaginian fleet in the inner harbour, allowing them to escape and overwhelm us.’
‘The attack was doomed from the start,’ Atticus shouted, stepping forward to confront Scipio, unable to control his anger.
‘Because you were in league with the enemy,’ Scipio shouted back, and again the Senate descended into cacophony of angry voices, this time not all of them directed at Scipio.
Atticus turned to the senators, overwhelmed with disgust; not only because of Scipio’s baseless accusations, but also at the fact that he had found a complicit audience amongst the senators.
‘Enough,’ Duilius shouted, regaining his wits. ‘These accusations are completely unfounded and unsubstantiated.’
‘We have the word of Baro,’ Scipio countered.
‘The word of a subordinate over that of his commander,’ Duilius said.
‘The word of a Roman over that of a barbarus, a foreigner, a Greek, whose people Rome defeated only a generation ago. Are we now to believe those same people are loyal to their conquerors?’
‘And what of the prefect’s valour at Ecnomus, or his injuries at Drepana at the hands of Barca himself?’ Duilius asked.
‘A valorous act at Ecnomus from which he escaped unscathed,’ Scipio retorted. ‘And Perennis had outlived his usefulness when Barca attacked him at Drepana. Carthaginian victory was already assured. They are a dishonourable race: why would Barca not kill Perennis and save the blood money he had agreed to pay him?’
Duilius made to respond but he stopped himself. Scipio had an answer to every question he posed, each one veiled in half-truth and innuendo, each one more damning than the last. He looked to the senators and saw that they were wavering and, worse, that many were looking at Atticus with open hostility. His only chance was to attack, to bring the focus back to Scipio and end the trial.
‘Senators,’ he shouted, glancing at Atticus, ‘what you are witnessing here is a dishonourable attack on a man who has served this city with distinction, a man whose loyalty, before today, was not only unquestioned, but was rewarded many times by his commanders. He may not be of Rome, but he is surely more Roman than Scipio Asina, a man who has brought defeat upon this city, not once, but twice. To listen further to his vile accusations is to draw shame upon us all, and I call upon the Senate to vote now on the consul’s guilt before we are all tainted with his treason.’
An uproar followed Duilius’s words, the senators continuing to argue amongst themselves, with many shouting at the protagonists on the floor of the chamber. The speaker hammered his gavel and slowly a semblance of order was restored. He quickly called a vote, asking for a show of hands for a guilty verdict. Of the three hundred senators, two-thirds raised their hands, condemning Scipio by majority, the uproar beginning anew as the speaker made to announce the result.
Atticus stood as if in the centre of a maelstrom, his eyes moving across the crowd, picking out the numerous hostile expressions directed towards him. Scipio had been condemned, but not by a unanimous vote, and Atticus knew that each vote in Scipio’s defence represented a senator who believed the consul’s accusations. The thought sickened him and a fierce hatred rose unbidden within him — not for Scipio, not for the senators, nor for the prejudices of the society that surrounded him, but for the all-enveloping evil that was Rome itself.
He stepped forward, passing Duilius without a word, the senator lost in his own thoughts, his victory soured by the split vote. He looked to Baro, who stared at him with a hatred finally unleashed into the open, seeing past him to the seemingly countless Romans who had looked upon him the same way, before he finally turned to the man he was approaching, Scipio.
The consul, like Duilius, was also staring at the audience of senators, his near expressionless face showing only a hint of some other emotion that Atticus hoped was despair. He stood beside him, unnoticed in the turmoil, his hatred for Rome finding a focus in its progeny standing before him. Scipio became aware of Atticus and he turned, his expression changing immediately, no longer controlled.
‘If you ever question my honour again, I will end you,’ Atticus said, holding Scipio’s hostile stare for a moment before turning to leave.
‘This fight is not over, Greek,’ Scipio said, spitting the last word in disgust.
Atticus rounded on Scipio and grabbed him by the throat, throttling him slowly as he stared into Scipio’s eyes, the consul’s face turning red under Atticus’s iron grip. Rough hands grabbed Atticus from behind, breaking his hold, and Scipio stumbled back as Atticus spun around to face Baro. Atticus struck him in the face with his forearm, the strike jarring the wound in his chest but knocking Baro to the floor, and he turned again to find Scipio standing with his hand to his throat, his faced mottled with anger.
‘You dare to strike a consul of Rome?’ he said, his voice ragged.
‘You are no longer a consul,’ Atticus said, stepping forward, causing Scipio to step back instinctively. ‘You are nothing, an exile
… and you are beaten.’
He turned away again and moved towards the exit, his hand clutching the wound on his chest, ignoring the continuous uproar in the Senate chamber.
‘And what are you, Perennis?’ Scipio shouted mockingly, keeping the spectre of his total loss at bay with his frantic taunts. ‘Where do you call home? What are you but an exile?’
Atticus tried to ignore Scipio, weary to the very depths of his soul, but as he stepped out through the colonnaded exit of the Curia, the questions began to burrow into his thoughts, their answers all too evident in the shadow of his growing contempt for Rome.
Duilius walked quickly from the chamber after Atticus. He had seen the scuffle in the corner of his eye, turning to see Atticus strike Baro and confront Scipio before leaving. Duilius had reacted quickly, knowing the furious debate would rage on. The fact that the vote had already been cast and was inviolate would do little to assuage the anger on both sides of the argument. Scipio was condemned. He was finished, and Duilius barely glanced at him as he passed, or at Baro, sitting on the floor of the chamber, his hand cupped over a bloody and broken nose.
He paused outside and looked around, quickly spying Atticus limping down the steps. The gathered crowd was cheering the verdict, their faces upturned in laughter, and Duilius looked upon them with derision. They were a mob, an undisciplined horde whose fickle anger was easily dissipated by the illusion of justice. However much it pleased Duilius, Scipio’s conviction did not reverse the enormous loss of so many galleys and men at Drepana. For Duilius, justice would have seen Scipio irrevocably destroyed after his defeat at Lipara, never to rise again to take command of a fleet as a consul of Rome. Now it was too late, the loss irreversible, and Duilius turned from the crowd to pursue Atticus to the foot of the steps.
Atticus would have to leave Rome, Duilius thought, for a few months at least, until the edge of Scipio’s accusations had dulled. Too many senators had been swayed by his argument, and Duilius was forced to admit that even he had experienced doubt for a moment, that Scipio’s sudden evidence, however false, had been compelling. Atticus was in danger, the involvement of the Greek mercenaries in the attack at Lilybaeum a damning connection that tainted Atticus and could lead to a separate trial for treason, and while Duilius was sure of Atticus’s innocence, he knew well that his faith was not shared by all.
