at the age of fourteen. The Magna Graecia of his grandfather’s time was gone — it no longer existed.
As a pirate hunter, Atticus had fought in the Roman navy to protect his people, the fisherman and traders of the Calabrian coast whom he had known all his life. It was they who commanded his loyalty. But in the war against Carthage he was fighting for a city where he was often treated as an inferior outsider. And yet he had fought on, never shirking from the fight, always conscious of the men who stood beside him in battle, and in that moment Atticus suddenly realized where his loyalty stood. He stopped pacing and remained still for a full minute, repeating his conclusion in his mind, taking strength from it. He walked over to the Rhodian once more.
‘Will you help me?’ he asked brusquely.
‘I cannot,’ Calix said with a sneer. ‘Barca never spoke to me of his plans. Your journey here has been wasted, Perennis.’
Atticus nodded and turned away. He called for the ladder to be lowered.
‘So what now, Perennis?’ Calix asked, eager to strike a final blow. ‘You will fight on for this cursed city?’
Atticus paused and turned to the Rhodian, ‘I do not fight for this city, Calix,’ he said. ‘I fight for the men who stand beside me in battle. It is they who command my loyalty, not Rome.’
The ladder touched the ground beside Atticus and he ascended, leaving the Rhodian to the solitude of his prison.
In the upper room, Atticus was handed back his weapons. He left the prison and retraced his steps to the foot of the Curia. He looked up at the Senate house, the very symbol of Rome. The building had spawned many of his enemies, some of whom had taken that fight to the field of battle. But for each of these, there were other Romans who had stood beside Atticus in the fray. Duilius, his advocate in the Senate; Gaius, whose first duty was always to his ship and fellow crewmen, his loyalty above question; Marcus of the Ninth Legion, killed at the battle of Tunis, a grizzled centurion who had trusted Atticus to guard the back of every Roman legionary fighting on land; and Lucius, who had given his life to save his Greek captain.
Atticus lowered his head as one other name came to the fore of his thoughts, a man who had given his hand freely in friendship when they had last met. He, above all other Romans, had stood shoulder to shoulder with Atticus against every enemy.
He glanced one last time at the Curia before setting off across the Forum, eager to return to Fiumicino. For now, the Carthaginians’ plans would remain a mystery, but one thing was certain. The war was not over. There were still battles to be fought, and in these Atticus vowed to stand with his Roman comrades and fight for the honourable dead who commanded his loyalty.
Hamilcar paced the study in his house, impatiently waiting for his father to return, his anxiety causing him to mutter curses under his breath. The sound of boisterous playing in the courtyard below distracted him and he moved to the window, peering out to look down upon his three sons. Hannibal, the eldest at seven, was fighting Hasdrubal, the five year old, in a game of mock swordplay, while Mago, the youngest at two, clambered around them, shouting their names in encouragement as they lunged at each other, their youthful aggression held in check by Mago’s mispronunciation of their names, causing the older boys to laugh uncontrollably.
Hamilcar was about to shout at them to silence the uproar, but he paused, realizing that the distraction had allowed a couple of minutes to pass when his mind was not consumed by his thoughts of the campaign in Sicily, so he continued to watch them surreptitiously, knowing that if any of them saw him, particularly Hannibal, they would escalate the ferocity of their fight to impress him, a ferocity that always led to injury and tears.
He had arrived back in Carthage only two days before, following a summons from his father, leaving Himilco in charge at Lilybaeum. After many months of frustrating inaction, the message, which spoke of a Roman build-up of forces, had had an unusual effect on Hamilcar: what should have been a disquieting report actually gave him a moment of exhilaration, for the Romans’ activities, if true, would escalate the war once more.
He had spoken exhaustively of the unconfirmed reports over the previous two nights with his father, their conversations eventually becoming cyclical, their conclusions the same each time. Hanno had said that only a direct threat against Lilybaeum would make him consider allocating additional forces to Sicily. Now it was possible that threat was about to materialize and, for the first time since Drepana, Hamilcar and his father had grounds to force the Council’s hand to commit additional forces to Sicily and push the war to a conclusion.
The sound of his sons’ excited voices distracted him again, and he looked out to see his father, Hasdrubal, cross the courtyard, the boys gathered around their grandfather, each shouting to be heard above the others. Hasdrubal had gone to the Council chamber in answer to a summons, and his purposeful stride told Hamilcar his father was returning with news.
He turned from the window and went to the door of his study, opening it as Hasdrubal entered the hall below, the boys’ shouts becoming louder in the confines of the house until Hasdrubal shooed them away. He climbed the steps and saw his son looking at him from the study door.
‘Well?’ Hamilcar said.
Hasdrubal nodded as he approached. ‘The reports are confirmed,’ he said. ‘The Romans are assembling a fleet of some two hundred galleys just north of Ostia. We have it from three different sources, traders who have seen the galleys with their own eyes.’
‘But they have yet to sail?’ Hamilcar said, pacing the room once more, his mind racing.
‘As of four days ago they were still in port,’ Hasdrubal said.
‘And we know nothing of their plans?’ Hamilcar asked.
Hasdrubal shook his head. ‘We do not,’ he said. ‘But I put forward your argument to the Supreme Council that Lilybaeum is the most obvious choice, given the Romans still have a legion encamped nearby.’
‘And…?’ Hamilcar said expectantly,
‘The Council has agreed to your proposal,’ Hasdrubal said with a smile. ‘A fleet is to be assembled here in Carthage in anticipation of responding to whatever advance the Romans make.’
Hamilcar slammed his fist into his open palm in triumph. Time had passed but nothing had changed and Hamilcar thanked Anath, the goddess of war, that the Romans had lost none of their arrogance. They would certainly put to sea once the storms of winter had passed, perhaps believing because of his forces’ inertia that Lilybaeum was vulnerable once more. He smiled coldly. That belief, or whatever conceit possessed them, would be their undoing. The forces of Carthage in Sicily might have slumbered but they were far from inert. They could be battle-ready by his command within days, while an additional fleet would soon assemble in the harbour of Carthage, ready for his hand to lead them into battle.
Drepana was merely a prelude. His next victory would be nothing short of annihilation. Beyond that, Hamilcar was determined not to repeat his previous naivete. He would not return to Carthage to trumpet his victory, nor would he relinquish his forces. He would retain them and, after the Romans had been defeated in pitched battle, he would pursue them relentlessly, even to the very shores of Rome, a punitive voyage to destroy every last galley they possessed and forever crush their ambition to conquer the island of Sicily.
Septimus sat in the bow of the skiff, his rounded hoplon shield across his lap, his gaze on the quinquereme ahead. The Orcus had been in port for over three weeks, although Septimus had been unable to call on the galley until now, the demands of his rank keeping him in camp. He called for permission to board and quickly climbed up the ladder from the skiff to the main deck, the familiarity of the galley bringing a rough smile to his face.
He went towards the aft-deck and saw Atticus approach to meet him, his hand extended in friendship. Septimus took it. ‘It’s good to see you, Atticus.’
‘And you,’ Atticus replied, maintaining the grip.
‘What news from Sicily?’ Septimus asked, and Atticus told the centurion of his progress over the previous months, the two men lapsing into a conversation as Atticus tried once more to fathom the Carthaginians’ plans. They walked to the side rail together.
‘I heard about Scipio,’ Septimus said, a wry smile on his face.
Atticus nodded, his satisfaction at the demise of his enemy still tainted by the support Scipio’s accusations had found amongst the senators, and he told Septimus the details of the trial.
‘And where is Baro now?’ Septimus asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Atticus replied, ‘I only know he hasn’t been seen since.’
Septimus tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as he thought of Baro and Scipio, regretting that he had not been there to stand beside Atticus as he had done when his friend had first faced the senator in the Curia, his command of the IV of the Ninth keeping him in Sicily.
He looked at Atticus’s scarred face. So much had happened between them since he had first been assigned
