Masters of the Sea - Master of Rome (15 page)

‘Citizens of Rome,’ he began. ‘I stand before you this day to bring you glorious news. In our hour of greatest need, the gods of our forefathers have taken a guiding hand in our fate. Carthage desires peace and has offered us terms—’

Shouts of disbelief and protest met his words and Regulus was forced to pause, disquieted by the attitude of his peers. He recalled his own initial abhorrence to the concept of surrender, but that was before he had been persuaded of its merits. He raised his voice, determined to complete his prepared speech, anxious to explain how lenient the Carthaginian terms were, confident that the senators’ initial objections would soon dissipate in the face of his logic.

‘Senators, Senators,’ he shouted. ‘The Carthaginians terms merely dictate that we withdraw from Sicily. Given our losses and their strength these are generous terms, worthy of acceptance. We—’

Again he was forced to stop as the level of protest grew, many Senators now on their feet, pointing angrily at him. His confidence began to waver and he re-examined every facet of his argument, finding no flaw. He raised his hands and continued through the hail of protest.

‘Our fleet is no more, taken by the gods,’ he shouted. ‘We have been defeated in open battle. We must accept these terms, if only to give us time—’

‘Silence!’ a voice roared, and Regulus turned to the source, immediately recognizing Scipio. He had been present the entire time, sitting anonymously amidst the crowd while Regulus spoke. With a rising sense of dread, he watched Scipio stand and make his way across the Senate floor.

‘Follow me,’ he said disdainfully, and Regulus complied, departing the Senate chamber amidst a renewed barrage of protest.

Scipio led him to the senior consul’s chamber at the centre of the Curia. It was a familiar path and Regulus followed without comment, his mind in turmoil. Only when he reached the room did he feel some semblance of calm return. This had once been his chamber and he felt a renewed sense of confidence as he remembered his achievements as senior consul.

The room was a perfect circle, an anomalous shape in the heart of a rectangular building, and the domed ceiling was dominated by an oculus that threw an ever-changing shaft of sunlight on the marble walls. Scipio moved behind the table that dominated the centre of the chamber, watching Regulus intently. Initially, like everyone in the Senate chamber, Scipio had been shocked by the sudden arrival of Regulus. He had watched the proconsul move with a determined stride to the podium but, as Regulus began to speak, that shock had been surpassed by disbelief. He had smiled inwardly as he felt the growing sense of anger among the senators around him.

Scipio had been elected senior consul because he had promised the Senate victory over the Carthaginians and they had believed him. Since that day he had carefully tended that flame of belief, stoking it into a raging fire when he needed their vote to commission a new fleet of quinqueremes, allowing it to recede when he needed to temper their belief with fear, but always ensuring he maintained in them a level of faith in Rome’s ultimate victory. His success was confirmed in the immediate reaction of the Senate to Regulus.

Scipio levelled his gaze at the proconsul, feeling nothing but contempt for the man who had once defied him. ‘So, you have become the Carthaginians’ puppet.’

‘I am no puppet, Scipio,’ Regulus replied angrily. ‘I am on parole, as an ambassador of peace, and I bring with me lenient terms that Rome must accept.’

‘You are a fool on a fool’s errand, Regulus,’ Scipio said mock-ingly. ‘And Rome must accept nothing.’

‘Look beyond your pride, Scipio. We are beaten,’ Regulus said. ‘A peace treaty is our only chance to keep our mainland inviolate. If we continue to fight, we will be driven from Sicily by force and the Carthaginians will not stop at the Straits of Messina.’

‘The Carthaginians will be defeated. I have promised the Senate of that. I have given them faith. You just witnessed the strength of that belief in the Senate chamber.’

‘That faith is misplaced, Scipio. I have seen the enemy’s strength in the harbour of Carthage. We cannot stand against them, not now that we are weak.’

‘The fleet is being rebuilt even as we speak,’ Scipio said resolutely. ‘Soon Rome will be strong again, and when she is I will lead her to victory.’

Regulus noticed the maniacal edge to Scipio’s voice, the look of absolute self-belief in his eyes, and he realized that – despite the precariousness of Rome’s position – Scipio was determined to continue the war. Perennis had told him of the new fleet, but Regulus had hoped the Greek was misinformed. Now there was no doubt. He was about to continue his argument when he suddenly paused. In the two years since he had cast Scipio aside in this very room, he himself had changed immeasurably, but he realized that Scipio was essentially the same man. He was not seeking to continue the war for the glory of Rome; he was doing so to further his own personal objectives. Despite everything, Scipio still placed his own ambitions above the needs of the state. The realization angered Regulus and he leaned in over the table.

‘I once sat in that chair,’ he said. ‘I remember the power one holds as senior consul and I know how the Senate can be manipulated by words and empty promises. You have led the Senate astray for your own ends.’

‘You sat in this chair because I put you there,’ Scipio replied viciously. ‘And you repaid that debt with treachery.’

‘What I did, I did for Rome,’ Regulus replied.

‘And that is why you fail,’ Scipio shouted as he stood up. ‘Why you falter now, when Rome’s strength falters. Rome is powerful because of men like me, Regulus, men whose strength of will carry the city forward. Rome will not surrender because I will not surrender, and she will be victorious because I will be victorious.’

Regulus stepped back from the table, knowing any further argument was useless, and he returned the full measure of Scipio’s malignant gaze as he made to leave.

‘I am honour bound by the terms of my parole to return to Lilybaeum in Sicily via Lipara,’ he said. ‘But know this, Scipio. Your ambition threatens the very survival of Rome, and when the eyes of the senators have been opened to that reality, they will remember men like me – men who place the good of Rome above all else – and they will call for me.’

‘No, Regulus,’ Scipio said slowly. ‘You will be forgotten.’ And he turned away as the proconsul left the chamber.

In the silence that followed, Scipio found he could not be still, his temper on edge, and he paced the room, walking aimlessly around the large marble table. He had already decided where his first attack would take place, a stronghold of the Carthaginians that had been a thorn in the Roman campaign’s side since the beginning of the war, and a focal point for every attack launched by the enemy on the northern coast of Sicily.

The new fleet was far from ready, and so Scipio would need to call up the remnants of the storm-lashed fleet in Agrigentum to complete his plan. He thought again of his first choice to command the naval arm of his attack and, as before, his reason and his pride were in disagreement. Logically, given the paucity of qualified Roman officers, the Greek was the obvious choice. In his narrow field, he had knowledge that few others possessed. Scipio thought of how the Greek had warned Paullus of the storm, only to have his advice ignored by the idiotic consul. Simultaneously Scipio felt his anger rise that he would even countenance accepting the Greek into his ranks, but again reason prevailed and Scipio thought of the traitor he retained on the prefect’s ship. He would keep the Greek at arm’s length and use Baro to keep a watchful eye on his enemy, a compromise that sickened him but one he knew was necessary, for now.

The decision made, Scipio turned his thoughts to the other aspects of the campaign. He became engrossed in the minutiae, his sharp mind dealing with each detail in turn while all the while his anticipation rose steadily, the pace of his stride increasing as he moved about the room. He stopped suddenly and looked over to the door, striding towards it with a determined step. He had planned enough, waited enough. Now it was time to put those plans into action, time to fulfil the promise he had made the Senate: time to go to war.

A
single alarm bell was heard across the wide sweep of the bay, followed moments later by a dozen more, the sound rapidly succeeded by the horns of the galleys in the outer harbour, their clamour combining to fuel the panic of the inhabitants inside the walls of the town. Panormus was in turmoil, its streets crammed with people and animals, some fleeing deeper into the town and the docks, others towards the gates, now shut tightly against the advancing Roman legions. The noise was deafening, whipping up the panic of the populace, while above it the shouted commands of officers held sway, sending men racing to the walls, their shields and spears giving them headway in the throng.

Atticus stood on the aft-deck of the
Orcus
, breathing in the atmosphere of the ancient port. Fewer than a dozen Carthaginian galleys were in the bay, their hulls down as they drew deeper into the safety of the inner harbour, the sight of so many Roman galleys hastening their flight. Behind and around the
Orcus
sailed seventy galleys, newly formed from the remnants of the fleet from Agrigentum, which had regained its strength over the previous month. Atticus was in overall command and he nodded to Gaius as he watched the last of his ships round the eastern approaches.

The
Orcus
slowed, coming once more to standard speed. The wings of the formation unfolded as a blockade was formed, a flurry of orders and signals reaching across the length of the fleet until each galley knew its place. Atticus took a moment to look at the trim of his own ship, focusing on the actions of his new crew. Every moment of the long voyage from Rome to Agrigentum and thence to Panormus had been spent in training the raw recruits, and Atticus was satisfied with their progress.

Almost all of the senior sailing crew of the Orcus had been transferred to provide experienced personnel for the new fleet of 220 galleys being built at Fiumicino, and when Atticus had sailed south from Rome some three weeks before, half of those ships were already afloat and undergoing sea trials. It was only a matter of time before they would be unleashed upon the enemy.

Atticus had applied to retain Gaius, a request that was granted because of his rank, but he had been surprised and delighted when Baro also escaped transfer. Many of the experienced seconds-in-command had been chosen to captain new galleys, and the retention of Baro was a stroke of luck that immeasurably speeded up the training of the new crew.

Atticus acknowledged another flood of signals and the
Orcus
came to a stop, her bow swinging neatly to point directly into the inner harbour, her position making her the lynchpin for the entire right flank of the blockade. Atticus moved to the foredeck to get a better view, bringing with him the signalman from aft. Aside from the dozen or so Carthaginian war galleys, there were over fifty trading vessels of all sizes, many of them tethered to the docks, while others milled around the in visible boundary between the inner and outer harbour. Nightfall would bring the first attempts to break out, particularly amongst the smaller trading ships, and Atticus studied their form and disposition, trying to decipher which ones were the more aggressive given their proximity to the blockade.

Blockades were notoriously difficult to maintain given the small range of a galley. They had limited space for supplies, particularly water, a resource quickly devoured by the rowing crew in the late summer heat. It was necessary therefore to set up a system whereby individual ships could disengage from the formation to resupply nearby on land, the ranks thinning around its position until it returned, only to allow another ship to disengage and repeat the process. Any sailor who had witnessed a blockade, and doubtless there were some in Panormus, would know of such limitations and would therefore try to exploit the weakness. Atticus knew of only one solution to this problem, and that was to keep the disengagements random, allowing no advantage to an observant enemy. Even still, in an unfamiliar harbour, there would certainly be some escapees, and Atticus’s main concern was that some of those might sail directly to Lilybaeum to warn the enemy there about the blockade.

The high-pitched clarion call of the legions caught Atticus’s ear and he turned towards the shore beyond the walls of Panormus. The marching formations of the newly formed Ninth were stark red against the green hills sweeping up from behind town, and even from a distance Atticus could sense their latent energy, a coiled serpent waiting to strike against the walls of Panormus. Atticus turned away from the sight, forestalling the drift of his thoughts to one in particular amongst the legion. He refocused his concentration on the formation of galleys around him, conscious that the battle would soon be joined and the blockade would need to stand firm.

Septimus cursed loudly as he roared at the new recruits in his maniple. In the brief minutes that he had been distracted by observing the walls of Panormus, the strict formation of the unit had once more lost cohesion. The defined gaps between the grades had disappeared and the formerly rigid square was again bowed outwards on both flanks, inviting similar curses from the centurions who commanded the maniples on either side.

The recruits were interspersed with experienced men, but their majority in numbers gave them weight, and the stumbling efforts of one man had an instant ripple effect on the whole. An experienced unit would constantly dress its own ranks, compensating immediately for any uneven terrain underfoot, but the recruits allowed themselves to be shuffled out of position, forgetting even the most basic rules of drill in their heightened state of anticipation. The nervous tension of his men further aggravated Septimus, and the whiplash of his commands brought them once more into formation, a status the centurion knew would not last.

The maniple, indeed the entire legion, was built on the solid premise that experience was essential in maintaining dis cipline in battle. For that reason the front ranks, the
hastati
, were often the most junior of the soldiers and invariably the lightest. They were backed up by the
principes
, the inner strength of the formation and, to the rear, the
triarii
, the veterans of many battles. These second and third ranks ensured that the legion did not take one step back unless ordered, denying the junior
hastati
the opportunity should they falter under the stress of battle. In the newly formed Ninth, however, the rapid recruitment of its ranks meant that both the
hastati
and
principes
were, in the main, raw recruits, with only the physical size of each man deciding their rank. Only the
triarii
were experienced, drawn from other legions; in the fight to come, they would be the bulwark of the Ninth.

The sound of thundering hooves interrupted Septimus’s invective and he spun around as another squad of cavalry shot past on a headlong dash to the approach road on the far side of the town. That western side had been assigned to the Second Legion and they were already sweeping across the flat tillage fields that separated the landward walls of Panormus from the towering hills that framed the bay. Septimus watched their advance with a studious gaze, noting the ordered ranks of the experienced legion, and he knew it was not by chance that the Second had been assigned the road that led from the enemy stronghold at Lilybaeum.

The command to halt echoed across the Ninth and Septimus instinctively repeated it, an order that triggered a weary sigh from the troops behind him. He frowned at the sound, conscious that his men didn’t even possess the basic level of stamina that campaigning required. With Fortuna’s blessing, unless the Carthaginians sallied forth from Panormus, there would be no fighting that day, but the day was far from over. Septimus glanced left and right, immediately spotting the men laying out the boundaries for the rectangular encampment that would need to be completed before nightfall. Their marks would delineate the trench to be dug, ten foot wide by five deep, with the earth thrown inwards to form a rampart, on top of which the
sudes
, the six-foot-long pointed oak stakes that travelled with the legion, would be implanted and intertwined with lighter oak branches. It was a task that a seasoned legion could complete in less than three hours, but one that the Ninth had struggled to complete in five on the previous nights during their march from Brolium. Under the watchful gaze of the enemy, Septimus could only hope that any ineptitude would go unrecognized.

Scipio braced his feet in his stirrups and stood tall in his saddle. The horse shifted beneath him, adjusting its balance, and Scipio instinctively murmured a soothing word, settling his mount once more. She was an Andalusian, a Spanish horse, fifteen hands high, and Scipio had specifically selected her from his own stables, one of three war horses that had accompanied him to Sicily. Specially bred and trained, the horse responded instantly to his shifting body weight and the press of his legs, eliminating the need for reins in battle, allowing the rider to wield weapons in both hands.

Scipio stood motionless as his eyes scanned the width and breadth of the walls of Panormus. They were formidable and, despite the obvious sounds of panic from within the walls, he realized that no military commander would relinquish the town without a fight. Beneath his gaze marched the Second Legion. They moved without command, their only sound a thousand individual rhythms as kit and armour clanged in time with the beat of the march. They were a hardened legion, tried and tested, and would bear the brunt of the assault.

To his right Scipio spied the Ninth deploying to build their encampment. They were legionaries only by virtue of their uniform and were far from being a useful fighting unit. Scipio had ordered them on campaign only as a last resort, wanting their numbers as a show of outward strength, knowing that the Carthaginians on the walls of Panormus would see only the legion and not their fragility.

The march from Brolium had been arduous, over the more difficult inland mountainous terrain, a route taken by necessity to detour around the Carthaginian-held port of Thermae. It was a bold strike, one which had some detractors in the Senate, but Scipio had insisted, wanting to retake the initiative in the war, knowing that a piecemeal, timid approach would rapidly sap the limited time of his consulship without achieving any noteworthy gains. If he could take Panormus, he could begin a campaign to retain proconsul command of the army after his tenure, a prize that could only lead to further possibilities.

He sat back in his saddle and the tribunes around him became immediately alert, waiting anxiously for his command. He looked to the walls again, and to the massive gate that barred the eastern entrance to the town. There was a similar gate no doubt on the western approach, both firmly shut against the Roman legions.

Scipio called a tribune to his side. ‘Take a detachment of cavalry and ride to the walls,’ he ordered. ‘Seek out an enemy commander, someone of rank, and give them this message: “If they surrender without a fight, every man of military age will be enslaved, but their lives will be spared, as will those of the inhabitants. If they resist, when we breach the walls, and we will, there will be no mercy.”’

The tribune slammed his fist to his chest in salute and rode off in a cloud of dust, shouting orders as he passed a squad of cavalry. A dozen riders peeled off from the formation and pursued the tribune, catching up with him only as he neared the walls. Scipio watched them with mild disinterest. The offer of mercy was a mere formality, extended on the remote possibility that the military commander was a coward or the inhabitants had somehow overcome the garrison, leaving a civilian in charge. Otherwise these offers were rarely, if ever, accepted.

The minutes drew out and Scipio stood once more in his saddle to get a better view of the cadre of Roman horsemen beneath the walls of the town. Above them he could see a group of Carthaginians on the battlements, the sun glinting off their helmets as they peered down from the heights. Without warning a flight of arrows struck the horsemen from further along the wall, and Scipio watched in anger as the Carthaginians loosed spears directly down on the Roman cavalry. The horsemen broke away instantly, leaving dead and wounded in their wake, and a roar of anger rose up from the previously quiet Second Legion, as those that had witnessed the malicious attack gave vent to their fury. The Carthaginians had given their answer: there would be no surrender.

Scipio’s mount became skittish as it sensed the tension of its rider. Scipio spurred his horse to a full gallop, his startled coterie of tribunes reacting more or less quickly in following him as he rode to cut off the retreating detachment of cavalry. He halted their flight and quickly scanned their number. Two of the remaining seven were injured, with arrow shafts protruding from grievous wounds. The tribune was not amongst them, and Scipio looked beyond to the crumpled figures lying in the shadow of the town walls. It was a senseless, wasteful death and Scipio burned the sight into his consciousness. Panormus would fall, of that he had never had any doubt, but now he was determined that the fall would take the town, and all who dwelt within, to the very depths of Hades.

Dawn afforded Atticus his first proper view of the captured trading boat; he rubbed the tiredness from his eyes as he moved to the side rail for a better view. It was a small boat, lateen-rigged for coastal trading, and the trader had tried to slip through the blockade three hours before sunrise. It had been a moonless night, putting the odds firmly in his favour, but Fortuna had taken a hand in his fate and his attempt to slip through a gap in the blockade had coincided with the return of a galley, the
Corus
, to its station.

The trader had been quickly discovered and the skirmish that ensued had been both brief and one-sided. The shouts of alarm and commands had roused Atticus from his sleep; he had rushed on deck to witness the confused encounter that was illuminated only by scattered torches less than a hundred yards away. Orders rang out for the release of grappling hooks, and Atticus judged that at least two other Roman galleys that flanked the
Corus
came to her aid, but it was all over before any other ship could intervene.