Captain of Rome

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5d1155ad-c392-5fdd-8c3c-bfeaa702e3f0)

He couldn’t breathe; the fetid air was too thick, too laced with the smell of fear and human waste. His mind was filled with the sounds of despair, of men dying slowly in the pitch blackness. He tried to stand, to break out, but the ceiling closed in on him, pushing him down until he thought his back would break from the pressure. His skin began to crawl, the sensation assailing his extremities first, forcing him to draw his arms and legs until he was curled into a foetal position, the tiny filthy creatures finding every inch of his skin, feeling their way up his back and across his chest, their clicking sound smothering all other in his tormented mind. They reached his neck, and he stretched his head up with forlorn hope to escape them, their advance inexorable. The first of them touched his face, scuttling across his cheek and into his hair. It was followed by a dozen others, then a hundred, the clicking noise roaring in his ears; his face was alive with them.

Scipio shot up and screamed a cry of despair from the depths of his soul. His wife was instantly awake, her hand outstretched to touch her husband and release him from the bounds of his nightmare, the horrific dream that visited him every night without fail. He sat upright in the bed, swallowing huge breaths of air as if to cleanse his lungs, his eyes wide open, focusing intently on the soft light of the lantern that was now constantly lit during the hours of darkness.

‘Gnaeus…’ Fabiola began, her voice gentle, searching for the man lost in that terrible place he had described to her only once, a place that had forever stolen part of his courage.

Scipio shrugged off her hand, throwing his feet out over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed the last vestiges of the nightmare from his face.

‘Go back to sleep Fabiola,’ he said knowing he himself would not sleep again that night. He rose and walked naked across the room, brushing aside the silken drapes that led to the cool night air of the balcony. On the lower reverse slope of the Capitoline Hill of Rome, the view from the balcony took in the flood plains of the Tiber, now bathed in the soft half-glow of a crescent moon. It was a beautiful calming sight but Scipio took no pleasure from it, his anger and shame still raw from the nightly reminder of his downfall.

Scipio had no idea how long he had been held prisoner in the lower hold of the Carthaginian galley after his capture at Lipara; weeks, a month, eternity, time had lost all meaning in the blackness of that space but one thought had always remained with him during that sentence, one thought he had coiled around his heart—revenge; a vindicta against the men who had robbed him of his rightful fate. Scipio’s dark memories were interrupted and he started slightly as Fabiola’s naked body, still warm from the bed, pressed against his back, warming the skin that had cooled in the pre-dawn air. Her arms enfolded around him and he raised his hands and encased hers in his across his chest. He knew she never slept either after his nightmares and whereas most nights he preferred his own company at this time, on this night, the night before he would take his first step on his road to vengeance, he accepted her presence without hesitation. He turned around and looked into her face, her delicate features made more beautiful by the half-light. He gazed deeply into her eyes, seeing the intelligence there, but also the cold ruthlessness that she hid from all except her husband. A smile crept onto her face and he nodded slightly, his anticipation rising at the thought of the hours ahead and the plan made possible by his wife’s incredible instincts.

‘Soon…’ she whispered.

He nodded again. The word had become a mantra for him, a talisman for the time when the men who had crossed him would pay for their crime.

‘Soon…’ he replied, taking his wife by the hand and leading her back through the rippling folds of the silk curtains.

The cool blue-green water of Brolium harbour removed every thought from Atticus’s mind as he swam deeper beneath the hull of the Aquila, her recently caulked keel illuminated by the distorted light of the mid-morning sun refracting through the gentle swell of the waves above. The pressure in his lungs deepened as he hung suspended beneath the water, his brief exhalation of air to achieve neutral buoyancy prompting his body to protest at the rationing of its sustenance. Atticus ignored the slight burning sensation in his chest, his intimate knowledge of his body’s limits, tested many times, allowing him to clear his mind and take in the sweep of his galley’s hull. They had hit the Carthaginian ship hard and three of the strake timbers of the bow port quarter were deeply scored where the galleys had connected. With an experienced eye Atticus surveyed the damage, searching for telltale air bubbles that would foretell a weakness but the hull was sound. A reflexive reminder to breathe interrupted Atticus’s thoughts and he thumped the hull twice with his fist before striking out for the surface.

Atticus broke the water’s skin just shy of the forward anchor line and he reached out for the tether, breathing the morning air deeply, the two minutes underwater refreshing him after a fitful night’s sleep. He scanned the seventeen galleys clustered around the Aquila at the eastern end of the busy harbour, their separation from the hustle and flow of the port’s normal activities a self-imposed exile to lessen the shame of their defeat.

The fleet had arrived in Brolium as dawn was breaking, their unexpected appearance drawing curious crowds to the dockside where the galleys quickly disembarked the soldiers of the Ninth before retiring to take station in deeper waters, the legionaries marching in loose formation to their encampment beyond the town. Varro, his guard, and the four senators had also disembarked, the tribune making directly for the port commander’s residence straddling the hill above the town. Atticus remembered tracking Varro’s departure from his ship intently, expecting the tribune to approach and challenge him on his insubordination but Varro had walked directly from the hatchway to the gangplank, and thence to the dock, never once looking back.

A rogue cloud eclipsed the sun, its passing accompanied by a light on-shore breeze that animated the wave tops and cooled Atticus’s shoulders above the waterline, prompting him to strike out once more for the rope ladder hanging from the main deck. He clambered up the steps and crossed the main deck, shrugging on the tunic he had left on the side rail as he went. Septimus was on the aft-deck and Atticus nodded a welcome to him as he approached the centurion.

‘Drill?’ Atticus asked, noticing the weighted wooden training sword held loosely by Septimus’s side.

‘Definitely,’ Septimus replied, his eyes ranging over the drawn ranks of the marines on the main deck, ‘anything to stop their minds dwelling on the last twenty-four hours!’

Atticus nodded, smiling inwardly. It was the type of order he had come to expect from Septimus; a return to routine at all costs.

‘No sign of the Tribune returning?’ Atticus asked, looking beyond Septimus to the empty waters between the Aquila and the docks two hundred yards away.

‘Not yet,’ Septimus replied, conscious of his friend’s unease over the inevitable confrontation that was yet to occur.

Atticus seemed not to hear the reply and so Septimus did not pursue the subject, aware of the situation from Atticus’s earlier remarks. He slapped his friend on the shoulder as he passed him to leave the aft-deck, raising his sword and testing its weight as he went, his concentration switching to his marines. Septimus checked his pace slightly as he noticed the gaping holes in their ranks, gaps left by the dead and injured and he mindfully shrugged off his grief, determined as always that his men would know him only as a disciplined commander.

Scipio slowly surfaced from beneath the crystal-clear water, his right hand wiping away the vestiges of water running down his face as he lay back once more in the lukewarm bath, his breathing deep and controlled. The circular bath was positioned in the very centre of the square tepidarium chamber, affording Scipio a view of the three doors of the room. Two of these led to the first and third chambers of the bath house annexed to his home, the third, the one that now held his attention, led to the slave quarters. He glanced at the third door surreptitiously, his ears tuned in the tranquillity of the tiled room to any telltale sound that would announce the arrival of the bath attendant.

The door opened and a middle aged man entered. He was stooped at the waist, as if bowed over by an invisible weight and his head followed the contour of his back, his face downcast in the ubiquitous manner of a slave. Scipio was careful not to reveal his interest in the man’s arrival, conscious that any overt attention would be out of character and he suppressed the malicious smile that threatened his face as he recognised the slave. His name was Amaury, his pale skin marking him as a native of some foreign tribe beyond the great mountain range north of the Republic’s borders. Slaves came and went in Scipio’s household, often without stirring his attention, his indifference making them invisible. But Amaury, and one other, a stable lad named Tiago, were unique among the slaves of Scipio’s household, a point discovered nearly three months ago by his wife Fabiola.

The door from the first chamber opened suddenly and Fabiola walked in amidst a cloud of steam from the scalding bath of the caldarium chamber. Scipio unconsciously marvelled at her poise and grace, her elegant stride acutely accentuated by the fact that she was completely naked, her innate confidence intensely alluring. She acknowledged her husband with a wry smile and slipped into the consuming waters in one fluid movement, her eyes never straying to the bath attendant who was considered nonexistent. Fabiola began to talk to her husband in light tones, her conversation ethereal, skipping from one trivial topic to another. Scipio simply nodded in reply, smiling briefly when Fabiola’s words warranted the expression, his attention focused on the rehearsed question to come.

‘Have you made a decision on your future in the Senate?’ Fabiola asked, her tone never changing.

Scipio straightened imperceptibly, his thoughts touching briefly on how effortlessly Fabiola had introduced the topic into their conversation. He paused as if in contemplation before answering.

‘I have,’ he replied, his gaze never leaving his wife, his other senses intently focused on the slave in their midst. ‘I will pursue the censorship.’

Fabiola nodded, feigning unspoken approval. ‘So you believe you can gain the support of the censores?’ she asked, referring to the two magistrates entrusted with bestowing the censorship.

‘I am confident I can,’ Scipio replied. ‘I have been a consul, I am eligible for the position and with Duilius focused on the senior consulship, I will gain the censores implicit approval prior to the election, long before Duilius is even aware of my intention.’

Fabiola’s face hardened at the mention of Duilius’s name, an expression she did not have to fake.

‘It is unthinkable that that shop steward, that farmer, will rise to the highest rank in the Senate,’ she spat, her words not part of their carefully rehearsed conversation, her hatred for the man who had outmanoeuvred her husband temporarily overwhelming her normal self-control. She instantly regretted the slip and continued as if her invective had never been spoken.

‘His power will surpass yours in the Senate,’ she said. ‘You will be at his mercy.’

‘In all areas save one,’ Scipio replied, his face also betraying the hatred he could not suppress, ‘and using that all important, untouchable power the censor holds, I will make Duilius pay.’

Fabiola smiled maliciously at her husband’s words and for a heartbeat Scipio forgot the charade they were playing, his thoughts focused instead on the sudden overwhelming attraction he felt for his wife, captivated by the malevolent beauty of her.

‘Leave us,’ he commanded brusquely over his shoulder to Amaury. The slave withdrew instantly. Scipio watched him leave, his triumphant expression finally giving voice to his emotions. He turned once more to his wife, noting immediately her expression, one that acutely mirrored his own. He moved slowly around the bath to her side, his eyes locked on beauty, his excitement and arousal combining to create an intoxicating potion that chased every thought from his mind.

Amaury quietly closed the oak door to the tepidarium chamber, his shaking hand the only outward sign of his inward elation, his continually downcast face as always showing only mute servility. He paused in the corridor for a heartbeat, glancing left and right, making certain he was alone before dropping the towels in his hand to the floor, his feet already taking him unerringly to the stables at the rear of the house. A rare smile formed at the edges of his mouth as he walked, the thought of his master’s gratitude causing him to unconsciously quicken his pace as his senses picked up the pungent smell of the stables and the rhythmic sound of the black-smith’s forge. He turned the corner at the end of the corridor and pushed open the reinforced door to the courtyard beyond, the white sunlight of late summer spilling past him to briefly mark his exit from the confines of the house. Again he glanced furtively left and right, conscious of his anomalous presence in the courtyard. He spotted Tiago grooming a bay foal and made directly for him, his mind wilfully forming the news he had just heard into the brief report that the stable lad would deliver before the day’s end.

Varro felt a flush of shame build again in his cheeks as his eyes swept back and forward between the faces of the four other men in the room on the ground floor of the port commander’s residence. They were ignoring him completely, talking amongst themselves as if he had silently departed after he had finished relaying the events of the past twenty-four hours. Twice he had interjected with a comment, his carefully prepared words dying mid-sentence as his voice was lost in the agitated debate, his opinion regarded as beneath consequence. Varro shifted once more on his feet, the deep fatigue of his body concentrated in the tormented muscles of his legs. He noticed the senior tribune of the Second Legion glance briefly in his direction and he straightened his back in anticipation, fighting the impulse to quail under the tribune’s undisguised look of scorn, his shame rising unbidden again to manifest itself on his face.

Varro retreated inward as the conversation raged about him, his mind reaching back to the surety of the days and weeks before the disaster that was befalling his ambitions. He was so certain, so convinced, as his father had been, that the capture of Thermae was a mere formality, a stepping stone that would open every door in the corridors of power in Rome. The events of yesterday had reversed those aspirations. He replayed the battle in his thoughts, his mind’s eye flashing images before him, his latent anger building slowly as he watched the sequence of events that had forged his fate, his pride baying for retribution as he remembered the insubordination of the Greek captain. The strike across his face was unforgivable, that blow the senators travelling with him had later claimed not to have witnessed, their confederacy with a lesser man adding grievous insult to his injury, their contemptuous looks beginning a pattern that Varro had seen mirrored in the senior tribune’s face.

When the Aquila had pulled alongside the docks at Brolium, Varro had disembarked without looking back at the aft-deck, not sure that he could control his temper should he see the captain watching him. With the senators firmly on the captain’s side Varro had realised that any accusation he levelled, without eye witness support, would likely be seen by others as a desperate attempt to apportion blame on a man who had proved himself at Mylae. It was therefore a simple matter of honour between two men and Varro’s accusation would have to be followed by a challenge, a challenge the young tribune knew he could not win against a man ten years his senior and ten times his better in fighting skills. Varro had decided in the darkness of his cabin as the Aquila fled Thermae, that there would be no spoken accusation, no open challenge. There would be only revenge.

As Varro’s gaze refocused on the present he noticed all eyes in the room were upon him and he realised they were waiting for him to answer a question he had not heard.

‘I…’ he hesitated, his expression exposing his lapse in concentration; ‘I didn’t…’

‘The camp prefect asked you a question, Varro,’ the senior tribune of the Ninth barked, indicating the eldest man in the room. ‘When will you be ready to sail?’

‘To sail?’ Varro asked uncertainly, furious at himself for having drifted off from the conversation.

‘For Rome man, for Rome!’ the senior tribune said impatiently.

Varro’s mind raced as he considered the question, realising that he had no idea how long it took to ready a galley for sea.

‘We’ll need to restock…’ he began, trying to hide his lack of knowledge.

‘I’ll see that all necessary stores are made available from the barrack’s stores,’ the port commander of Brolium interjected; ‘we can have the Aquila fully stocked before the tide turns, two hours at most.’

Varro nodded his assent but the port commander didn’t seem to notice, looking instead to the senior tribune for approval.

‘Make it so,’ the senior tribune commanded, usurping Varro’s position.

‘We’re agreed then,’ the officer of the Ninth continued, turning his attention to his opposite number in the Second. ‘Tacitus, you will take two thousand of the Second west on a forced march to intercept the retreating soldiers of the Ninth. I will take the remainder of the fleet on a parallel course along the coast.’

‘But the fleet is…’ Varro said, cutting himself short, instantly regretting his remark.