John Stack - Ship of Rome

‘Enough!’ Longus shouted, his words bringing an end to the butchery.

‘Senator!’ a voice called, and Longus spun around to its source.

‘The four Carthaginians in the guardroom have been killed, Senator,’ the guard reported.

‘Very well,’ Longus announced, struggling to regain his composure after the incredible savagery he had just witnessed.

He cursed the death of Demades. Not because he believed he deserved to live, but because he had value as a source of information regarding the Carthaginian plans in Lipara.

Longus began to stride from the room, a guard falling in behind him as he went. He dismissed his concern for the loss of Demades. It was true that he might have had some more use, but the reality was that he had delivered the most important piece of information at the outset. The Roman fleet was sailing into a trap.

Scipio stared at the sea opened out before him, the waters sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. He was alone on the foredeck, a position he had made his own on the ship, with orders to the praetoriani guarding the approach to the deck to let none pass without his express permission.

The senior consul held out his wine goblet and immediately a slave rushed forward with an amphora of wine to recharge his drink. He brought the goblet up to his mouth and took in the rich smell of the wine, a vintage from one of his own land-holdings north of Rome. Scipio’s thoughts ran to the days ahead, days that would be filled with glory and personal success. Already he knew his consulship would be marked in history as one that witnessed tremendous adversity, adversity that he had and would overcome with fortitude and bravery. His immortality was already being assured, and Scipio would seize any chance to enhance the living legend being created. He knew that Sicily would give him that chance.

The Carthaginian invasion was a gift from the gods, an opportunity for Scipio to write his name into history. His father before him, Lucius Cornelius Scipio, had gone down in the annals as a great general, victor at the Battle of Volaterrae, conqueror of the Etruscans, a champion of Rome. He had been given the cognomen, Barbatus, conqueror of the Barbarians, and it was against this benchmark that the young consul now set his ambition. His position as senior consul gave him a guiding hand on the direction of his beloved Rome, a hand he fully intended to use to his own ends.

The arrival of a Carthaginian fleet off the northern coast of Sicily had thrown up a barrier to victory, but Scipio was unconcerned. He had faced many challenges in his life and had overcome them all. He was wholly confident that he could overcome the enemy fleet. He would bring order to Sicily and cast out the Carthaginian hordes. History would remember him as the conqueror of the Punici, founder of the Roman province of Sicily. Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio Sicilianus, he thought, testing an imagined cognomen. He liked it. Smiling, he raised his glass to make a silent toast to the future, and his destiny.

As he heard the shout, Gaius Duilius looked up from the table in his study, his shallow attention easily broken from the halfhearted attempt to immerse himself in matters other than the departure of the new fleet under Scipio’s command. He listened intently, waiting with his breath held until he heard the call again. It was someone shouting his name. Duilius rose from behind his desk and walked out into the peristyle, the small, colonnaded garden at the back of his town house. From his position he looked down the long axis of the house through the main dining room and the atrium beyond. As his eyes focused on the distant point, he heard the call again, and then watched as a servant opened the main door of the house. Duilius immediately recognized Longus.

The junior senator pushed his way past the servant and entered the atrium, renewing his calls. Duilius frowned at the discourteous interruption. Longus was a useful ally, one that had proved resourceful in the past, but he was also sycophantic, a fawning, immature man who constantly looked to the junior consul for guidance. Duilius recalled that when he was Longus’s age he was already a self-made man and owner of the largest estate in Rome.

Duilius walked into the main dining room to intercept the young senator. He moved in silence, refusing to raise his voice in an uncivil manner even as Longus destroyed the tranquillity of his house. Longus spotted him from the atrium and made towards him, his face a mask of concern mixed with relief at having found his mentor.

‘Thank the gods you are here, Consul,’ he began.

‘What is it, Longus?’ Duilius cut across irritably.

‘The fleet are sailing into a trap.’

For a second Duilius did not register the words, their meaning seemingly impossible.

‘A trap?’

‘Yes, Consul. The councillor from Lipara, Demades, informed me.’

Again Duilius paused. ‘Where is this councillor now?’

‘Dead. Killed by his own guard. They were Carthaginians.’

Duilius absorbed the information, his mind dismissing impractical questions, searching as always for the crux of the problem. There was a trap. The fleet were unaware. Time was against him. He instantly decided which problem needed to be tackled first. Time.

‘Saddle two of my fastest horses,’ he shouted to an attendant nearby. The man rushed away, the urgency of the order infectious.

‘Longus, you and I will ride to Ostia. With luck there will be a galley there to take us south in pursuit of the fleet. As they are unaware, they will not be rushed. We may yet catch them.’

Duilius walked out into the atrium and looked up into the afternoon sky. Scipio had left Rome hours before. Even allowing for time to prepare the fleet, the head start seemed insurmountable.

Atticus looked out over the now unfamiliar sight of the empty castrum dock at Ostia. It was an hour before sunset and the crew of the Aquila were using the last of the day’s light to make final preparations for the galley’s planned return to Fiumicino at dawn. Atticus’s eyes ranged over their activities without absorbing the detail, his mind firmly fixed on the sudden departure and unknown course of the Classis Romanus.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching horses and he turned to see two men arrive at speed. They were experienced horsemen, weaving their mounts along the approach paths to the docks, avoiding the stockpiles of military supplies that littered the whole area. Atticus walked from the foredeck to the head of the gangway in anticipation of their arrival. The horsemen stopped directly beside the Aquila and both men dismounted.

‘Sailor,’ the older of the two shouted, ‘where is the captain of this vessel?’

‘I’m the captain,’ Atticus replied, ‘Captain Perennis.’

The older man nodded and strode up the gangway, ignoring the protocol that dictated that all should first ask for permission before boarding. Atticus backed away from the head of the gangway, giving the approaching men room to come onto the main deck. Both wore senatorial robes, although it was obvious that the younger man deferred to the older.

‘Captain Perennis,’ the older man began, ‘when can you be ready to sail?’

‘On whose orders?’ Atticus replied, asserting his authority as captain.

‘On mine, Gaius Duilius, junior consul of the Senate of Rome.’

Atticus immediately noted the unyielding, authoritative voice and bearing.

‘Within thirty minutes, Consul,’ he replied.

‘Very well, Captain, make it so.’

Atticus turned and issued curt orders to his ever-attentive second-in-command. The crew redoubled their efforts to finish preparing the galley, the imminent departure changing nothing except their pace. A runner was sent below to find Septimus.