wrong. The Romans were a ruthless foe, far more dangerous than the Numidians to the south of Carthage. They were not beaten, they would rise again; and as Hamilcar made his way through the corridors leading from the centre of power in Carthage, the black bile of utter frustration consumed his every fibre.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The trading ship moved steadily over the dark sea, its wake barely troubling the surface of the gentle swell. The bow kicked up sporadic waves that reflected the sallow light of the crescent moon. A muted command broke the silence and the sharp edges of the triangular lateen sail collapsed, giving the captain an uninterrupted view of the solitary running light of the galley ahead. He moved to the rail, wary despite the pre-planned meeting off the north coast of Sicily, and he looked to the four points of his ship as it came to a steady stop.
The galley ahead advanced under the power of half its oars, the drum beat punctuating the night air. It was a standard quinquereme, indistinguishable from the dozens the trading captain had observed over the previous weeks, and he peered into the gloom in a vain attempt to identify the banners fluttering from the masthead. He moved to the foredeck of his ship, passing through the ranks of his crew as he did, their eyes locked on the approaching galley.
The two ships came bow to bow and a line was thrown from out of the darkness and made secure. Two men came to the forerail of the quinquereme and the captain smiled as he recognized them, his apprehension lifting.
‘Well met, Atticus,’ he said.
‘It is good to see you, Darius,’ Atticus replied.
The trading captain nodded and briefly acknowledged the other man standing opposite him, the taciturn centurion who, as usual, showed no sign of response.
‘What news?’ Atticus asked, drawing Darius’s attention.
‘The same as before,’ Darius replied. ‘The Carthaginian fleet has disappeared. Only the Roman galleys that were captured at Drepana remain. They have been moved to the inner harbour of Lilybaeum.’
Atticus’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. ‘And Panormus?’ he asked.
‘From what I could see from the sea-lane, there are perhaps twenty galleys in the harbour, no more than that, although I cannot tell of their origin. The Carthaginians have closed the port.’
Atticus nodded and looked beyond Darius into the darkness, his eyes narrowing as he thought. ‘Have you heard any rumours as to the enemy’s intent?’ he asked after a pause.
Darius smiled slightly. He was a citizen of the Roman Republic, but as a native of Siderno on the Calabrian coast he considered himself to be Greek first. The Carthaginians were no enemy of his. He was a trader, and as such he recognized few boundaries. The risks he took in spying for Rome were not engaged in because Carthage was the enemy. They were taken because Atticus had asked him.
He had known Atticus for many years, from a time when the captain from Locri commanded a trireme in the Ionian Sea. As a pirate hunter, Atticus had kept the sea-lanes open for traders like Darius, and he felt deeply indebted to his fellow Greek.
‘I have heard nothing beyond what I have observed myself,’ he replied sincerely, seeing the frustration on Atticus’s face. ‘But I will continue to keep my ears open, my friend.’
Again Atticus nodded. ‘Thank you, Darius,’ he said, disappointed at the paucity of Darius’s report. ‘Can you meet me here again when Arcturus reaches its zenith?’
Darius nodded and called over his shoulder for the mainsail to be raised. The line between the two ships was released and the trader slipped away from the bow of the Orcus, the offshore wind bringing it about quickly, and within minutes it was lost to the darkness.
Atticus turned away from the rail and made his way back to the aft-deck. Drusus followed, stopping briefly on the main deck to order his men to stand down for the night.
‘I don’t like it, Drusus,’ Atticus said quietly. ‘It’s been nearly four months since Drepana, and still the Carthaginians have not advanced. Our defences in Sicily are wide open. The enemy must know that. Surely they are shadowing our ports as we are theirs?’
Drusus shook his head in puzzlement and the two men lapsed into silence, the mystery of the Carthaginians’ unwillingness to pursue the fight defying reason.
Atticus looked once more in the direction taken by Darius. The Greek trader was one of four that he was using to spy on the Carthaginians, an intricate net he had constructed in the three months since returning to Sicily. Aulus, the harbour master at Brolium, was at the centre of that net, a fixed point that allowed Atticus to coordinate his intelligence gathering, but thus far the four Greek captains had shed little light on the Carthaginians’ inexplicable motives.
Atticus had known each captain for years, the confines of the Ionian Sea ensuring that all had crossed his path on many occasions during the time he commanded the Aquila. They were amongst the finest and ablest of sailors, each one a shrewd trader, and Atticus knew that nothing would escape their notice. If they believed the Carthaginians had withdrawn their fleet from Sicily then there could be no doubt.
Panormus was lost, and with it the supply lines to the legions encamped across the approaches to Lilybaeum. This further setback after Drepana had already forced Rome to recall the Ninth Legion from Sicily, leaving the Second to maintain the landward siege and rely solely on a precarious supply line to Agrigentum to the south.
Lilybaeum was no longer threatened. Drepana and Panormus were safe. The enemy were secure on all fronts, while the Roman-held ports of Brolium and Agrigentum were ripe to fall. Atticus felt the knot of frustration tighten further in his stomach. He had done all he could do in Sicily to divine the enemy’s plans. Only one other possible source of information remained, one man who might yet know what the enemy planned.
‘Your orders, Prefect,’ Drusus said, causing Atticus to spin around to face the centurion.
‘First we sail east to Brolium,’ he said without hesitation, his mind made up. ‘I will inform Aulus to keep me apprised should the trading captains report any enemy activity, but there is nothing more we can do here. We will sail for Ostia at noon.’
Drusus nodded and left the aft-deck. Atticus moved to the tiller and ordered the helmsman to get under way and the Orcus turned neatly towards the strip of light that ran the length of the eastern horizon. Brolium was no more than an hour away; the Orcus would be there to see the sun rise. Atticus cast his thoughts to the days and weeks beyond. Rome still had a fleet, a hundred quinqueremes, the second half of the Classis Romanus, now anchored in the shallows of Fiumicino. The Carthaginians were granting him time and Atticus knew he would have to put it to good use.
The morale of the Roman fleet had been mauled beyond redemption. A new spirit would need to be born, one forged in a belief that the Roman navy could match the prowess of the Carthaginians. Even after the ravages of Drepana and the storm off Camarina, there was still a core group of experienced captains in the fleet. They could be used to train the others.
As the Orcus came up to standard speed, Atticus turned his back on the western horizon and the Carthaginian-held territory of Sicily. The threat remained, it could not be ignored; but, while the enemy slumbered, Atticus would prepare for the inevitable fight to come.
Septimus stepped back from the contest, his chest heaving with exertion, the sweat running freely down his face, the wooden training sword still charged before him. His opponent was bunched over, his hand massaging his bruised ribs, and Septimus walked over to place a hand on the legionary’s shoulder, helping him to stand upright and retake his place in the ranks. It had been a hard-fought contest, a testament to the distance the legionaries had come in the months since they had arrived at Fiumicino.
Septimus stood before his men and demonstrated the sword stroke he had used to end the fight before ordering them to break up into pairs to practise the technique. They moved quickly and the air was soon filled with the hollow, staccato sound of wooden swords. He watched them for a moment with a critical eye before moving off, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm as he went, the wooden sword swinging loosely in his hand as he subconsciously rehearsed a sequence of thrusts.
He was pleased with the progress of his men. The training schedule was relentless, the techniques and shield foreign to them but, as new recruits of the Ninth, they had taken to the task without complaint, eager to avenge
