John Stack: Captain of Rome

Atticus walked into the room and stood to attention before Regulus, Longus walking around the table to stand at the consul’s shoulder. Regulus studied the man before him, the vicious scar across his jaw-line, the hard determined features, his green eyes almost unfocused in their intensity. The consul had seldom seen a more charged expression, as if latent fury was but a shade beneath the exterior and Regulus silently confirmed his earlier decision.

‘You are to be commended, Captain Perennis,’ Regulus began, his voice expansive, his expression affable. ‘You have done Rome a great service, showing courage and daring against a determined enemy.’

The consul paused, waiting for the captain to accept the complement but the young man stood unmoved.

‘Rome has found in you a son she can be proud of,’ Regulus continued, ‘and I hereby promote you to the newly formed rank of Praefectus Classis, Prefect of the fleet, reporting directly to the commander of the Classis Romanus.’

Again Regulus paused, waiting for a reaction. He glanced at Longus, his expression perplexed but the junior consul merely shrugged in reply, unable to explain the captain’s apparent indifference. Regulus turned once more to the captain.

‘This is a singular honour, Perennis,’ he said, a slight note of irritation in his voice. ‘You will be the only Prefect who is not a citizen of Rome.’

A silence drew out once more.

‘Perennis?’ Regulus snapped, standing up suddenly. ‘Do you have anything you wish to say?’

Atticus remained silent for a moment longer before turning his gaze directly to the consul. ‘Rome victorious,’ he said, striking his chest with a fist in salute, snapping back to attention before turning around and walking from the room.

Atticus paused in the courtyard of the barracks. He turned his face briefly up to the sun, closing his eyes against the light as he breathed in deeply, his mind overwhelmed by a dozen thoughts. The senior consul had been hearing reports all morning from many of the captains in the fleet, no doubt in a bid to create a complete account of the battle and although there was no indication that anyone had witnessed Varro’s death, Atticus had prepared himself for the worst when the consul’s summons had arrived, imaging a scenario that had been completely shattered by Regulus’s offer of promotion.

Atticus lowered his gaze and saw Septimus approach, the centurion in full battledress. His brow creased in puzzlement. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked, having left Septimus an hour before on the Orcus.

‘The legate of the Ninth requested to see me,’ Septimus replied, indicating over his shoulder.

‘What about?’

‘Nothing important,’ Septimus said and he looked intently at Atticus. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Promotion,’ Atticus replied off-handedly. ‘To a new rank, Prefect of the fleet.’

Septimus looked relieved and he clasped Atticus on the shoulder. He left his hand there for a moment, studying his friend, surprised to see none of the relief he himself felt. Atticus looked up over his shoulder to the windows of Regulus’s office, the consuls reverting to shadowy figures in his mind’s eye, indistinctive men, Roman commanders.

‘Who are these men?’ he asked, almost to himself.

‘Who?’ Septimus asked, causing Atticus to turn back.

‘These Romans,’ Atticus replied, confused emotions giving an edge to his voice. ‘These men we fight for. By the Gods, Septimus, I don’t know who the enemy are anymore.’

Septimus removed his hand. ‘I know who they are,’ he said, remembering the fury that had gripped him when he threw his sword after a fleeing Carthaginian galley. ‘The Punici, Atticus. They’re the enemy.’

‘The Carthaginians?’ Atticus replied. ‘Men who fight with honour. Men who face their enemy regardless of the odds, who never shirk from the fight.’

‘Would you rather fight for them?’ Septimus asked, anger compounding his confusion at Atticus’s words. ‘Look around you, man. Look to your front. I’m Roman and I fight with honour. Fight for that Rome, not for men like the consuls.’

‘I do,’ Atticus replied, all his frustration and loss rising to the surface. ‘I sacrificed the Aquila to save the men of the Ninth, to save Roman men, and how is that repaid, how was Lucius repaid? Attacked from behind by a Roman.’

Septimus’s retort died in his throat at the mention of Lucius, remembering the older man, the gruff sailor who had never hidden his dislike of legionaries but who had always shown Septimus respect.

‘I won’t forget why Lucius died,’ he said, ‘and I’ll make sure men like Marcus and his command knows too. They’re honourable men, Atticus. They won’t forget.’

Atticus nodded and Septimus held out his hand in comradeship, holding it steady.

Atticus noticed the gesture and looked to Septimus, seeing past his uniform to the man, the Roman, who had become his friend. He remembered Marcus, the centurion of the IV Maniple, and remembered why he had sailed the Aquila to her doom, knowing then as now that he could do nothing less for the legions. Thoughts of the Aquila turned his mind once more to Varro, the poisoned viper that had hidden amongst the honourable men he served with, a whoreson spawned from the very corruption that festered in the heart of the Republic and yet again Atticus knew of one amongst them, Duilius, a new man, an outsider in many ways, but an honourable man, a Roman.

Atticus’s eyes refocused once more and he looked to Septimus’s proffered hand, the conflict raging unabated within him, the loss of the Aquila and Lucius too raw to allow him to think clearly. In seeing Septimus he thought, as many times before, of Hadria, of his love for her and his friend’s refusal to accept that relationship. Hadria was sure of her brother’s motives but Atticus could not grasp that same conviction, his friendship for Septimus tainted by the actions of his fellow Romans. Not today, Septimus had said and Atticus turned that resolution to his own conflict. In Septimus he had an ally and a friend and he took his hand, the grip firm between them. In time, Atticus thought, he might discover the same loyalty to Rome that Septimus took for granted, but not today.

Hamilcar walked quickly down the gangway of the Alissar onto the docks of the military harbour, pushing his way through the press of men on the quayside, stepping over the injured and dead alike who littered the narrow walkway. He sighted the Baal Hammon on the far side of the harbour, knowing she had only recently docked; Hanno’s section of the fleet only an hour ahead of Hamilcar’s on the flight south to the safety of Carthage. Hamilcar walked on, realising that Hanno was now long gone, no doubt to the council chamber to announce the defeat in terms that exonerated the councillor.

Hamilcar had thought of little else over the previous days, replaying every moment of the battle in his mind, searching for the point when victory assured turned to ignominious defeat, re-examining his strategy again and again; every time his conclusion gathering greater conviction. Hanno’s retreat had cost Carthage the battle. Hamilcar rounded a corner into the city proper, the breath catching in his throat as he sensed the palpable fear in the city. Panic seemed to emanate from every man, woman and child on the street as anxious eyes turned north to the horizon and the certain Roman invasion to come. He stopped dead, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as the shame of that fear struck home. He stepped forward again, his gaze focusing on the street ahead that would lead him to the council chamber.

Suddenly he stopped, the shame he felt instantly replaced by anger and a spasm of bile rose in his throat. Not twenty feet away, in the shadow of an awning stood Hanno with a squad of soldiers fanned out before him, their faces grim, their eyes sweeping the street. They were looking for him, Hamilcar realised and he reached for his sword, silently cursing Hanno, vowing to take as many of his henchmen as he could before death claimed him.