their loss at Lilybaeum and to take to the seas against the Carthaginian foe.
That same sense of purpose had pervaded each maniple of the legion; as Septimus passed through the camp he recognized other former marines training the men in boarding techniques and one-to-one combat. Every soldier of the Ninth was conscious of the fact that the corvus was gone, and with it the advantage a traditional legion had in close-quarter fighting; the powerful shield wall that was built on mutual support. In the battle ahead there would be no opportunity to deploy into ranks. It would be man against man and speed, more than strength, would determine the outcome.
Septimus reached the edge of the encampment and crested the sand dunes that led to the beach, pausing at the top. The galleys encased in scaffolding were all but finished, with workmen clambering over the decks and rigging. They had worked ceaselessly during the hours of daylight and the remaining galleys were the last of the new fleet, a consignment that would bring the strength of the Classis Romanus to two hundred quinqueremes.
The consular elections had taken place a month before and the two new consuls, Aulus Postumius Albinus and Caius Lutatius Catulus, had issued a declaration to the citizens of Rome. After the losses of Drepana the navy would have to be rebuilt; however, the Treasury of the Republic was empty and the consuls called on its wealthy citizens to advance the city a loan that would be repaid when the Carthaginians were defeated. The response had been overwhelming, and within days of the announcement the keels of the new fleet were being laid down in the hard sand of Fiumicino, each one a symbol of the allegiance and determination of the citizens of Rome.
Septimus looked beyond the beach to the sea. It was alive with galleys, their number pushing out the malleable boundary of the north-south trading lane that ran past Fiumicino. The crews were in training, following a schedule as gruelling as that of the Ninth. They were moving in small squadrons, each group changing course as one, like a flock of birds evading a predator, or at ramming speed, like a pack of wolves chasing down their prey.
Septimus turned and headed back towards his men, his thoughts on the days ahead. As a legionary he had learned never to see beyond that immediate future, his destiny in the hands of his commanders and the Senate of Rome. The soldiery did not know what lay ahead in the war against Carthage, no more than the sailing crews did, but all were aware that precious time had been granted to them. They would continue to train and, as Septimus reached his maniple, he kneaded the hilt of his wooden sword, determined that the IV would be ready.
Atticus stood for a moment at the foot of the steps to the Curia, the heat of the sun raising the sweat on his back. He narrowed his eyes against the reflected glare off the flagstones and looked up to the colonnaded entrance, conscious of how easily his self-imposed exile from Rome had been broken. He had arrived in the city the day before and, after brief enquiries, he had learned of the fate of the man he wished to question. He turned to sweep his gaze across the Forum, the central square all but empty under the noonday sun, and he strode away towards his destination, anxious to complete his task and leave the city once more.
The prison stood to the side of the Curia. It was a low building, with an unadorned and imposing facade, while behind it the Capitoline Hill swept up to the temples of Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus. A single legionary stood guard at the door, his pila spear held out at an angle, his expression inscrutable under the brim of his helmet. Atticus approached slowly, marshalling his thoughts, conscious that the man he was about to see would have little reason to cooperate with him. He stood before the guard.
‘I am Atticus Milonius Perennis, Prefect of the Classis Romanus, and I wish to see the prisoner, Calix.’
‘Yes, Prefect,’ the legionary responded, standing to attention before hammering the butt of his spear against the door. A hatch opened at eye level and the legionary motioned for Atticus to step forward. He repeated his request and, as the hatch closed, Atticus heard a series of bolts being opened. The door swung outward and he stepped in over the threshold.
The glaring sunlight gave way to an almost impenetrable darkness and Atticus closed his eyes to help them adjust as the door was shut behind him. He opened them and looked about the candlelit interior. The room was small and windowless. There was only one door, the one that led to the outside, and Atticus’s gaze was quickly drawn to the circular hole in the middle of the floor. It was flanked by an optio and four legionaries.
The officer stepped forward. ‘You wish to see the Rhodian, Prefect?’ he said.
Atticus nodded, his eyes never leaving the hole, and he heard the legionaries move about as they prepared to lower a ladder into the hole.
‘You weapons, Prefect,’ the optio said, holding out his hand, and Atticus surrendered his sword and dagger without comment.
He stepped forward and prepared to descend. ‘Are there many others?’ he asked of the optio.
‘He is alone,’ the officer replied, and Atticus nodded again.
The Romans had little use for prisons. Any nobleman suspected of a crime was kept under house arrest and, if found guilty, they were either fined, exiled or put to death. For lesser citizens of the Republic, justice was swifter and the sentences summarily carried out. Imprisonment was used only for enemy commanders captured in battle, a brief incarceration while their fate was decided.
Atticus swung his feet on to the rungs of the ladder and started down. He slowed as his head fell below the level of the floor and he looked about the near pitch-blackness of the lower room. A single candle was alight in a far corner and he kept his gaze locked on it as he descended further. An overpowering stench permeated the air, a combination of human waste and stale sweat, a smell of despair and decay. Atticus was reminded of the bilges of a galley, beneath the rowing deck, where the slaves slept while on relief; but here, in the bowels of the prison, the stale air had no escape and Atticus had to reach for each breath.
He stopped at the end of the ladder and tried to find the Rhodian, expecting to see him in the halo of light surrounding the candle.
‘Perennis,’ a voice spoke, and Atticus spun around.
‘Calix,’ he replied to the darkness.
‘Why are you here?’ the voice asked.
‘I have come to seek your help,’ Atticus replied.
Calix snorted in derision and stepped forward out of the darkness to brush past Atticus, his body hiding the flame of the candle until he reached the light and he spun around to sit down beside it. Atticus followed, glancing over his shoulder as the ladder was withdrawn once more through the hole in the ceiling.
Atticus sat down and studied the Rhodian’s haggard face. His pallor was grey but his eyes had lost none of their intensity, and he returned Atticus’s gaze over the candle flame. His expression was defiant but Atticus thought he could also see desperation behind his eyes.
‘I have just returned to Rome from Sicily,’ Atticus began, and he described to Calix the Carthaginians’ inexplicable hesitation in advancing the war.
‘And how can I help?’ Calix asked warily as Atticus concluded.
‘You smuggled Barca out of Lilybaeum,’ Atticus said. ‘I thought you might know something of his plans, that maybe he confided in you or that you might have overheard something that would explain his strategy.’
Calix nodded, his eyes never leaving Atticus. ‘Why should I help you?’ he asked disdainfully.
‘Because, if you do, I will speak to one of the senators on your behalf. He is a powerful man and can ensure the Senate will be lenient when they decide your sentence.’
‘The last deal I made with a Roman was with that whoreson, Scipio,’ Calix replied. ‘My testimony for my freedom — and yet I am here.’
‘I’m not Roman, I am Greek,’ Atticus said, ‘and I am true to my word.’
‘You are no Greek, Perennis,’ Calix spat. ‘If you were, you would have no loyalty to Rome, the very city that enslaved our people.’
‘My loyalty is not to Rome,’ Atticus said defiantly, and he stood up and paced out of the candlelight, suddenly consumed with anger, the Rhodian’s words stirring the conflict within him.
‘But it is, Perennis. You fight for Rome, and for a people who despise you,’ Calix continued, remembering the contempt Scipio had shown towards Atticus and how he had used Perennis’s Greek origins to attack his loyalty during the trial. To Calix, Perennis was a blind fool, and he smiled contemptuously as he saw the effect of his words on his enemy.
Atticus paced around in the darkness, stumbling over the waste beneath his feet. He had said he had no loyalty to Rome without thinking but, as he examined his words, he knew them to be true.
‘So what do I fight for?’ he thought, and he looked to the Rhodian. Calix was a fellow Greek, but his loyalty was to money, not to his homeland. For Atticus, Locri had ceased to be his home from the day he had sailed away
