Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome

Gaius Duilius, junior consul of the Roman Senate, sat comfortably in the first row of the three-tiered inner chamber of the Curia. He was a novus homo, a new man, the first in his family line to be elected to the Senate. It was an achievement of which Duilius was extremely proud – and with good reason, for he was a self-made man who, from humble beginnings fifteen years before, had risen to the second most powerful position in Rome. When Duilius was nineteen, his parents and two younger sisters had succumbed to one of the many plagues that frequently swept the countryside around Rome, and he found himself the sole surviving inhabitant of the modest family villa that sat astride the Via Appia. This vital artery, the main road to the distant city of Brindisi, in the southeast of the country, was a thriving thoroughfare with a constant flow of traders passing the estate entrance on their way to the capital four miles beyond.

Duilius became master of his own estate and, free to make his own decisions, he gambled everything in a bid to capitalize on the estate’s ideal location. Using his land as collateral, he borrowed heavily from the usurers of Rome, who were only too eager to deal with him, confident that the young man would quickly default on the loans, allowing them to seize the estate. Duilius used the money to buy slaves and seed and quickly turned every arable inch of his land over to the growing of fresh produce. The markets of Rome had always been supplied by the outlying farmers, small land-holders, many of whom concentrated on individual seasonal crops; although the farmers worked in isolation, they were also careful not to directly compete with their neighbours. For years prices had remained relatively stable with little in the way of competition. Duilius planned to change that system.

In his first season, by using his entire estate, including the landscaped gardens that had been his mother’s pride, Duilius had more land under tillage than four average-size farms. He disregarded the delicate balance maintained by the other farmers and planted every commercial crop he could, utilizing a two-tier crop-rotation method that ensured his land was constantly producing. As his first crop was being harvested, Duilius propositioned every passing trader with an offer they could not decline. He sold them fresh produce below market price, taking advantage of the larger volumes he could command, leaving the traders free to transport the produce the mere four miles to the city, where they were free to profit from the margin in the city markets.

Within the first year Duilius was able to purchase his own wagons to transport his produce to the city, and within two more he had paid off his debts in full. Not content with the success of his own estate, he quickly borrowed even greater amounts and bought the two estates adjoining his own, paying the owners above market value, once again turning every inch of arable land over to production. It was then that Duilius got his first taste of the power that money could wield.

With the price of fresh produce falling in the market due to the unexpected competition, the farmers fought back by banding together to lobby the Senate to re-establish the status quo. Duilius had used his new-found wealth to ensure the ensuing vote in the Senate went in his favour, learning two valuable lessons in the process that had stayed with him ever since. The first was the power of money in guaranteeing the loyalty of unscrupulous men. The second was the value of information. Before the vote ever took place, Duilius knew exactly who he controlled, who he did not but, more importantly, who he could not control and who he dared not approach. Over time Duilius refined the dual revelations into one principle: ‘Money is only the method, information is the true wealth.’

Now, fifteen years after the death of his parents, Duilius owned the largest single tract of land straddling the city. Many other estates had tried to reproduce his methodology and achievements, but few had succeeded, and none to the same degree. Produce from his estates supplied the city with eighty per cent of its fresh vegetables and fruit, with all of the small farmers driven out of business by the cutthroat competition. These men had seen their livelihoods disappear almost overnight, and the cries of their hungry children had driven their attempts to assassinate Duilius on three occasions over the years. Each failed attempt brought terrible retribution from the Senate where Duilius held a seat, his position easily obtained years before from the votes of a grateful populace of Rome who craved the lower prices in the markets. The senator had used each occasion to further crush the farmers, and both guilty and innocent were forced off their land as punishment in the name of the State, their lands immediately put on the open market where Duilius snatched them up for half their true value.

Six months before, using the fortune that had propelled him into the realms of Rome’s elite, he had engineered a nomination to the position of senior consul from one of the sycophantic junior members of the Senate. The vote had been close and costly, but in the end he had been narrowly defeated by Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, one of the wealthiest men in Rome and one whom Duilius knew he could never control. The defeat had been bitter for Duilius, his first setback since setting out over fifteen years before, and the enmity between the two men had now divided the Senate into three segments: those firmly for Duilius, those firmly for Scipio, and a malleable majority in the centre whose votes were surreptitiously sold to the highest bidder.

Lucius Manlius Vulso Longus, a recently elected senator, quickly adjusted his gaze to the gloomy interior and rapidly searched the room for the man whose acceptance he craved more than anything in the world. He spotted Duilius and crossed the floor, his appearance putting an end to the honeyed words that Duilius had been speaking to a senator beside him, a senator whose vote Duilius had purchased many times. The junior consul looked up irritably.

‘What is it, Longus?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Scipio has returned!’ the young man said, his impatience to be the first to inform Duilius causing him to blurt out the words.

‘What …? When?’ Duilius said, standing, his voice loud in the muted chamber, the seated senator beside him forgotten.

‘Just now. I saw him crossing the Forum.’

Duilius’s mind raced to understand the reason behind the senior consul’s sudden reappearance. Why over a week early? And why unannounced? As he contemplated the answers his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the speaker’s gavel being struck on the marble lectern in the centre of the chamber. He looked up to see one of Scipio’s brats with the gavel in his hand.

‘The senior consul has returned from Sicily to inform us of a matter of grave import,’ he announced, his words holding everyone’s attention.

‘What matter?’ Duilius asked in the silent pause, his question drawing the speaker’s ire at the interruption.

‘I know not, Consul,’ Fabius replied, relishing Scipio’s adversary’s ignorance. ‘The senior consul will return to the Curia in the afternoon to speak in person to those members of the Senate who are available.’

Fabius left the lectern, to be immediately surrounded by Scipio’s allies who bombarded him with questions, none of which he had the answer to.

Senator Duilius looked around the chamber to see the eyes of his own allies looking to him for guidance, their faces blank, their minds filled with the same questions as everyone else’s.

Fools, Duilius thought, don’t they understand? There is only one step that must now be taken.

With a determined stride, the junior consul walked out of the inner chamber, his departure marked by silence as all watched him leave.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_4ccc295d-ec7c-519a-b922-ef60f8dc3fa9)

Atticus and Septimus followed Scipio and his guard into the courtyard of the senior consul’s Roman residence. The house was on the lower slopes of the northern side of the Capitoline Hill, an elevated site that afforded the residents an uninterrupted view of the expansive flood plains of the Tiber beyond the Servian Wall. The air at this height was fresher than that of the confined streets of the insulae, and Atticus breathed the earth-scented breeze deeply. Both men dismounted and followed Scipio into the house, hearing the heavy wooden courtyard gate closing firmly behind them, locking the world outside. The trio entered the atrium of the house, a large open-centred square surrounded by high-ceilinged porticoes on all sides, the roofs of which sloped inwards to collect rainwater in the shallow pool dominating the space. Although Septimus knew of such senatorial residences, he had never set foot inside a house such as Scipio’s. For Atticus, the house represented the individual version of the opulent wealth that he had witnessed in the Forum. The air inside the atrium was still and near silent, the hustle and bustle of the streets outside forgotten, the house seemingly deserted. The side of the atrium opposite the entrance was opened, leading further into the recesses of the building. The consul walked towards it with the others following in awed silence before he suddenly stopped and turned.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered; ‘my servants will attend you and bring you to one of the bathing rooms. After that, report to the guards’ quarters and await my orders.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ both men answered in unison, the senator already striding out of the atrium to the room beyond.

Septimus whistled tonelessly as he looked around the atrium. The area was sparsely furnished to give the impression of space, but the few items in view spoke of the wealth of the master of the house, from exquisitely carved marble busts of the Scipio family to gold inlaid mosaics on the walls. Moments later a slave arrived. Without comment he led them into the recesses of the enormous house.

Scipio lowered himself slowly into the near-scalding water. The steam in the room had already brought sweat from his every pore and, although the moist air had raised his body temperature, his mind protested at the additional intensity of the water in the mosaic-covered bath. Scipio fought the intense heat until his body temperature adjusted to match its surroundings, and he lay back to allow his mind to clear. There was much to think about, but he had always found that following the simple rituals of life, such as bathing, was a powerful method for ordering his thoughts. The first step in that process was to allow the ritual routine to become his focus. Only then would he experience the calm that was necessary to see the hidden solutions for every problem.

‘More heat,’ he murmured, and his mind registered the slap of bare feet as a slave scuttled to attend to his command, adding fuel to the fire that fed the underfloor heating of the large caldarium bath. Once again his body registered the change as heat built upon heat and his heart rate increased, giving him a light-headed, euphoric feeling.

When Scipio reached the edge of his level of endurance he signalled his attendant slaves to lift him from the bath. Two muscular slaves, sweating stoically in the heated chamber, rushed forward and lifted the near-limp senator over to a marble, towel-covered table. A female slave rubbed perfumed oil into every supple, heated muscle before removing the oil with a strigil, a curved metal tool that scraped off the dirt that had risen from the open pores. Scipio, feeling clean for the first time in many days, made his way into the tepidarium, the lukewarm bath in the adjoining room, and once again plunged himself into the crystal-clear waters, taken directly from the aquifer beneath the bathhouse. The water in this bath was a mere two degrees above body temperature, and Scipio lay back in the silence of the chamber, the only other presence an attendant male slave who stood ever ready for an immediate summons. Scipio totally ignored the man, considering the slave to be merely part of the surroundings in his private bathhouse; after the confines of the galley that had transported him here from Sicily, he relished the solitude.

A gentle knock on the door of the tepidarium chamber disrupted his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to look to the door, knowing who stood on the other side, smiling at the thought of seeing the familiar face.

He paused for a heartbeat, prolonging the sensation of anticipation.

‘Enter,’ he said.

The door opened inwards and a woman entered. She moved with a practised ease born of her privileged upbringing and social status, her bearing making her look taller than her average height. She was classically beautiful with dark brown eyes and long auburn hair, her mouth slightly open in a half-smile. She took a seat near the edge of the bath, facing her husband.

‘Welcome home, Gnaeus,’ she said, her voice sweet in the once-quiet chamber.

‘It’s good to be home, Fabiola,’ Scipio replied, his joy at seeing his wife and the truth of his statement evident in his voice.

Fabiola was wearing an elegant light woollen stola, parted slightly above her knee, and the hint of the fine line of her inner thigh caused Scipio to stir slightly in the bath, his loins remembering past nights in the privacy of their bedroom. She noticed the change in her husband and smiled inwardly, drawing pleasure from arousing the most powerful man in Rome.

‘I wasn’t expecting you home so soon,’ she said, concern in her voice at his sudden return.

‘Things have turned against the army’s favour in Sicily,’ Scipio replied. ‘The Carthaginians have blockaded the coast and cut our supply lines. If the situation isn’t remedied, our army there will not last the campaign season.’

The senior consul watched his wife intently, waiting for her reaction. She was a highly intelligent woman, and Scipio often used her as a sounding board for his ideas. Her thoughts and judgements on any matter were always of value, and he had found that her reaction to his ideas was always in line with his own views.

‘This is an opportunity,’ she said after a full minute, ‘an opportunity for you, Gnaeus.’

Scipio nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly,’ he replied. ‘The Punici have already been beaten on land by our forces. Given time we would push them back into the sea from whence they came. Another victory for the legions. Another province for the Republic. Nothing new and exciting for the populace of Rome.’

‘But now the Carthaginians have raised the stakes,’ Fabiola added, prompting the continuation of Scipio’s thoughts, knowing his idea’s end.

‘Yes,’ Scipio said, ‘they have raised the stakes, and they have changed the rules of the game. Our legions have never before faced such a challenge. This threat will fire the imagination and excitement of the plebeians. Their attention will be drawn to the previously insignificant campaign on Sicily by the new struggle developing.’

‘And you will save the legions,’ Fabiola said with a smile, her own body tingling with the excitement of her husband deciding the fate of so many.

‘I will save the legions,’ Scipio agreed. ‘I will create the navy that will defeat the Carthaginians and the people will cheer this new show of strength, this new extension of our power.’

‘They will love you and demand you break tradition and stay to serve another year,’ she said, speaking of the prize they had often discussed.

‘And I will finally break the asinine rules that bound my term as senior consul and extend my power into another year,’ Scipio said with a triumphant smile.

Fabiola suddenly stood up, her eyes locked to those of her husband, the power emanating from him intoxicating, charging the air in the room with an unseen energy that drew her towards him. Her body ached to feed off that power, to draw directly from its source.

‘Leave us,’ she commanded the attendant slave, and he instantly vanished.

She stepped to the side of the bath and unbuckled the shoulder straps of her stola, allowing the outer dress to fall around her ankles, revealing the thigh-length silk tunica intima beneath. Fabiola slowly lowered herself down the marble steps of the bath into the waist-deep warm water. Standing directly opposite her husband, she bent her knees and immersed herself completely beneath the surface before standing once more.

The silken slip clung to her body as she rose out of the water, the feminine swell of her breasts accentuated by the slow deep breathing of her anticipation, her arousal obvious by the darkened circles of her nipples under her tunica.