John Stack - Ship of Rome

‘This will send a message to Rome and her legions,’ Gisco said, the fire of victory in his words. ‘From this moment, from this day, the seas belong to Carthage.’

Hamilcar nodded, bridging the gulf of honour between them with the common belief in their cause.

‘We have become messengers of Mot, the god of death. His message is: Death to the Romans.’

Hamilcar’s expression remained hard as he absorbed the words, the finality and the determination of the battle-hardened man before him. Gisco fought out of hatred for the enemy, Hamilcar because of his belief in Carthage. In the end their objective was the same, a connection forged as Hamilcar repeated Gisco’s vow.

‘Death to the Romans!’

The Aquila swept northwards through empty seas, her sail raised at the end of a long day, the slaves below deck resting at their posts, their bodies draped over the oars that defined their existence. Atticus stood on the aft-deck, staring out at the rapidly descending sun in the western sky. He was joined there by Septimus, the two men talking silently, their thoughts with the transport fleet lost over the horizon.

The sky was burnt red by the fading sun’s light, the sight a fitting backdrop to the day’s slaughter, as if the gods were accepting the souls of the dead, their passage to Elysium marked by the bloodstained sky. Atticus had watched the earlier battle for as long as possible, the details rapidly blurring as the Aquila escaped unopposed, until all that remained in view was a huge pall of black smoke. It was a sight that shamed him and the centurion who had stood beside him in silence.

The breeze was light in Atticus’s face as he turned away from the sunset to look out over the quiet deck of his ship. He had been on the aft-deck all day, over fourteen hours in total. Throughout the day his stamina had been fuelled by anger, by bitter frustration at his inability to wield the fearsome weapon under his feet in defence of his countrymen who were dying in their droves just beyond his reach. That stamina was now waning, the battle already becoming a single entity in his mind rather than a series of individual horrors.

Scipio had gone below as soon as the Aquila had secured her escape, Atticus noticing that the senior consul had never once looked back at the condemned fleet. He replayed in his mind his earlier confrontation with the consul and, although he realized his challenge to Scipio’s authority had been foolhardy, Atticus was also convinced his argument had been just and honourable. The thought of Scipio’s cold detachment from the fate of the transport fleet reignited Atticus’s latent anger and he cast aside his unease at the repercussions of challenging the consul’s order.

Atticus’s thoughts turned to the Punici. Their blockade had not been expected to materialize for weeks, but somehow they had located the Romans’ supply hub and had caught the Romans unawares, driving a wedge between Sicily and the mainland, a separation which spelled death for forty thousand Roman legionaries.

Atticus re-examined their trap, the sky darkening around him. It had been perfect, a true mark of their incredible seamanship. Coupled with this deadly skill, the Carthaginians, having built their empire on the back of their fleet, had scores of galleys in addition to the fifty Atticus had seen. Now, all that naval power was weighted against the dozen triremes of the Roman Republic; lighter smaller galleys designed for coastal patrol and skirmishing. The odds were insurmountable.

As the Aquila fled north, the first stars began to appear in the evening sky. Their arrival gave Gaius his first opportunity to accurately set the Aquila ’s heading, and Atticus felt the deck heel slightly under his feet as the adjustment was made. Their course was now firmly fixed for Rome.

CHAPTER FOUR

Scipio allowed Khalil to massage his shoulders and back as he lay on his cot in the main cabin. He had left the aft-deck hours before, preferring to spend his time in solitude below decks, away from the company of lesser men. His confrontation with the captain remained at the forefront of his mind. The man had challenged him openly, a defiance Scipio would not forget. He regretted his own loss of composure, a slip that exposed his inner thoughts, and for this reason, even more than the blatant insubordination, he cursed the captain for forcing the argument.

In the Senate, appearance and deception were the cornerstones of a man’s survival. At all times a politician had to appear calm, never allowing his true emotions to surface and reveal his inner thoughts. Emotions, once mastered, allowed a politician to invoke them at will, a skill that engendered support from the people and fellow senators, a skill that was vital if one was to become a leader.

Beneath the calm exterior lived the art of deception, the ability to dissemble when the situation required it, to allow men false pretences and to be the puppeteer who controlled the lives of lesser mortals to the point where they fought your battles without even realizing it. Scipio was the embodiment of this type of man, his rise to the height of power in Rome a testament to his command of both himself and others. At the centre of this was control of his emotions.

Scipio now used that control to compartmentalize his mind, to push his self-censure to the back of his thoughts. Coupled with Khalil’s strong and practised hands, Scipio’s self-control helped to ease the tension in his body and he was asleep within minutes, his anger for the captain stored away to be drawn forth when the time was right.

Sensing that his master had drifted off, Khalil eased the pressure of his hands before withdrawing them from the oiled skin. Suddenly and unexpectedly his latent hatred rose in a wave, threatening to consume him, and his arms shook with the force of his restraint. The daily humiliation he felt at serving at another man’s whim was a constant open wound to his pride, and the realization that he could kill the Roman easily was like fire in his veins. He breathed deeply, trying to invoke the patience he had acquired in the four years he had been a slave.

Khalil had been seventeen when he was taken captive. His family had chosen to remain at Napata when the Nubian people of the Kush kingdom migrated to Meroë. It was a choice that was to cost them dearly. The city declined and its dwindling power made it a prime target for the Persians, who constantly raided the east coast of Africa. In just one attack the Persians overwhelmed the pitiful defensive forces of the city and took the population into slavery. Khalil had last seen his family in a slave market on the northern shore of Egyptus, his mother and two sisters sold to the whorehouses of Alexandria while his father was sent to the salt mines of Tuzla. Khalil was sent in chains to Rome, the price for his life a mere five sesterces.

Khalil’s first two years were spent enduring backbreaking labour in a fired-brick factory in Tibur, east of Rome. The infernal heat and relentless toil had honed his body and spirit into a rock of strength and had brought him to the attention of his master, who saw in him the opportunity to return a substantial profit on the price he had paid for the pathetic boy of two years before. He was sold into the house of Scipio, a fate that had revealed the duality of every turn in fortune. On the one hand Khalil was taught the deadly art of combat, a skill that spoke to his latent ferocity and burning aggression. On the other, the Roman senator treated Khalil as a plaything, a fighting dog to train and send out against the other trained dogs. The shame of servitude had never diminished in all his four years of slavery and his hatred burned like the furnaces of Tibur.

As a renewed sense of dishonour enveloped his heart, Khalil slowly withdrew his hands from where they were poised over Scipio’s neck. If he killed the senator now, he too would be dead within minutes – and Khalil was not ready to die. Patience and fate had taught him that revenge and freedom could be achieved together, that the opportunity would one day present itself and he would be free to find and save his family from the slavery that bound them all. Khalil would wait.