John Stack: Captain of Rome

‘Make preparations for Rome, Captain,’ Varro said brusquely.

Atticus hesitated for a heartbeat, waiting for the tribune’s next words, but none were forthcoming. ‘Yes, Tribune,’ he replied, repeating his salute.

Varro spun on his heal and walked purposefully away to the hatchway that led to the main cabin below. Atticus watched him go, baffled by the brevity of the exchange. The tribune’s expression had been near inscrutable, cold and determined, but Atticus had noticed something in Varro’s eyes, something that alerted his instincts, a mere flicker of hostility that spoke of a deeper emotion, an unspoken antagonism that belied the calm exterior the tribune had so deceitfully presented. Atticus had fought many enemies in his life and he knew the look well, knew its portent as surely as if the tribune had challenged him openly on the aft-deck.

Longus walked quickly through the bustling streets of the Palatine quarter, holding a firm line of advance on the right hand side of the road, sidestepping only to avoid the crumbling piles of animal waste that had yet to be scavenged by the street urchins who would sell the dung to farmers outside the city. The crowds of people on the street seemed unconsciously aware of his presence and they moved aside to allow him to proceed unhindered. It was a capital offence to strike a senator of Rome and none would dare take the chance that an accidental collision might be construed as an attack by an irate senator on his way home from the Curia. But Longus was not heading towards his own home; instead his destination was a house he knew almost as intimately as his own, the home of his mentor and idol Duilius.

As Longus walked through the darkening streets his concern concentrated all his attention on the flight of Duilius from the chamber less than an hour before. He had been watching the consul intently, waiting for him to turn and nod his approval for Longus’s delivery of the speech that Duilius had so masterfully composed the evening before; words that Longus had infused with passion and meaning, but the consul’s sudden inexplicable departure had thrown Longus’s elation into turmoil and instead he found himself attempting to silence the whispered censures that swept the chamber at the consul’s flagrant disregard for Senate protocol. Longus’s remaining time in the Senate had been torturous and twice he had made a determined move to depart early only to have his nerve fail him, realising he did not have his mentor’s mettle.

Longus had never been an ambitious man and his whole life to this point had been lived by the formula dictated to him by his ancestors and the tradition of his family. At sixteen, a year after his father had died, Longus had joined the legions as a tribune and waited out his obligatory service in a quiet outpost in Campania. At twenty he had followed his father’s path into the Senate and thereafter he had settled into the daily life of a Roman senator, attending speeches and votes, hosting trade delegations and variously busying himself with the minutiae of a thriving city. That plodding existence had changed with the arrival of Gaius Duilius to the Senate, a charismatic and ambitious novus uomo and Longus had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame, igniting a determination within him that he never knew existed, and he had supported Duilius every step of his rise to power. He had never craved the power his mentor sought, only his approval and so now he was prepared to stand at Duilius’s right hand as junior consul, a position he coveted only because his idol wanted it so.

Longus was admitted into Duilius’s house after only one knock on the door and he followed the servant across the meticulously swept outer-courtyard to the entranceway to the house proper. It led into an atrium where the sound of trickling water into the inner pool blended serenely with the flicking candlelight. The atrium was unadorned but careful inspection revealed the quality of the marble columns and flooring; understated evidence of the vast wealth of the owner that contrasted sharply with the heavily ornamented atria that were typical of senators’ homes, where statues competed for space with precious antiques and fine tapestries. It was a simplicity that Longus had tried to emulate in his own home without success and he wondered, as often he had before, whether Duilius’s humble background was the source of his unaffected modesty.

The servant led Longus through a series of rooms, adhering to the consul’s earlier command to bring the young senator directly to him when he arrived. Duilius was walking slowly around a miniature garden at the rear of the house, a favourite retreat where he marshalled his thoughts and set his mind to finding the solution to every problem he encountered. The garden was immersed in shadows, the crepuscular evening light dissipated by the overhanging interwoven trellis and a servant moved discretely in the background, lighting sporadic candles that the gardener had placed with care to accentuate the beauty of the inner sanctum.

‘Good evening Longus,’ Duilius said, as he heard the approaching footsteps, his back still facing the entranceway.

‘Consul, I came as quickly as I could,’ Longus replied, his voice laced with agitation.

‘I knew you would,’ Duilius said as he turned, a half smile on his face, an expression Longus took as gratitude and he returned the smile ten-fold.

Duilius recommenced his easy stride around the garden and Longus watched him intently, shifting his weight from one foot to another, anxious to learn why the consul had fled the Senate chamber. Within seconds his impatience got the better of him and he blurted out the question that had plagued him over the previous hour. Duilius turned again, this time however there was no trace of a smile, only a hint of the frustration that lurked just beneath the surface.

‘Scipio plans to attain the censorship,’ he said simply.

Longus nodded slowly, his mind racing to find the exact reason why Duilius was concerned, eager to place his thoughts on a parallel to his mentor’s. He could not discern a reason however; in fact he thought Scipio’s appointment would be a godsend as it would place him further from the centre of power in the Senate.

Duilius watched Longus impassively, examining his transparent facial expressions, knowing within a minute that the young senator had not seen the overwhelming problem that Scipio’s appointment would bring. He smiled sardonically to himself at the senator’s ignorance. How often had he seen it before in the young pups who inherited their place in the Senate? Their casual indifference to money, their ignorance of how wealth was created and maintained, the skilled brilliance of their ancestors who created the family fortune lost and forgotten, diluted by generations who simply fed from the cornucopia.

‘What are the duties of the censors?’ Duilius asked, suddenly impatient with Longus and his inability to see beyond his own privileged world, a world that Duilius had entered through ambition and not the womb.

Longus was taken aback and took a second to answer, forming his reply before he spoke. ‘They are mainly responsible for the census.’

‘And in completing the census, what information must each citizen divulge?’

Again Longus paused, sensing Duilius’s impatience, still searching for the key. ‘He must register his holdings, his property both in the city and elsewhere.’

‘For what purpose, what do the censors dictate with that information?’

‘They set the property tax for every citizen.’ Longus said slowly in answer as understanding flooded his mind. ‘But surely Scipio could not target you directly without upsetting everyone whose holdings are similar?’

Duilius laughed derisively, his gaze penetrating.