As the column approached the encampment, they passed the advanced stations of the legions. These guard posts were located two hundred yards from the camp on each approach road and were manned by four legionaries. Septimus could see that they had been forewarned of the consul’s possible arrival, as all four soldiers stood to attention outside the guard hut where normally one would stand while the other three rested inside. They did not challenge the column but let it pass in silence, their eyes looking straight ahead, not daring to look up at Scipio for fear of drawing his attention.
The main camp was rectangular in shape, built of two squares, one for each legion, and the long axis of the camp ran parallel to the road. The whole area was surrounded by a deep trench, fifteen feet across and five deep with the excavated earth thrown inward to form a formidable rampart, on top of which stood the wall. Near the main gate, the Porta Praetoria, the wall had been reinforced with stone; however, the majority of the palisade was constructed from wooden stakes cut from young oak trees. The branches of the stakes had been sharpened and interwoven with each other to form a near-impenetrable obstacle, and at each corner of the rectangle a twenty-foot-high watchtower stood, giving the sentries advance warning of any approaching force on the uninterrupted surface of the valley floor.
The column passed through the open gates of the camp, again without challenge or check, to be confronted, immediately inside the walls, by the massed ranks of the Second and Ninth legions. They had been drawn up in manipular formation; a legion stood on each side of the road running directly down the centre of the camp to the officers’ quarters in the centre. As Scipio rode under the archway of the gate, the legionaries roared with one voice:
‘Rome Victorious!’
Scipio rode on at the measured pace of the march, never looking left or right. A man born to command, the blood rushed in his veins at the sound of twenty thousand shouting in his honour. His expression was imperial, a look of fraternal pride, as if each man before him was a younger brother, a brother of Rome. Drawn up across the road before him were the senior officers of the legions. The commander of the praetoriani called a halt to the column and Scipio dismounted, covering the last few steps of the journey on foot.
‘Greetings, Senior Consul,’ a tall authoritative man at the head of the officers declared. ‘Welcome to Sicily.’ He was Lucius Postumius Megellus, legate of the Roman legions and a member of the Senate.
‘Thank you, Lucius,’ Scipio replied, his words genuine. Scipio had spent the past seven years in the Senate, all the while gaining in influence and power. His rise had given him many enemies, and on more than one occasion the man before him had clashed with him, but always honourably, always without subterfuge, and for that Scipio respected him.
Legate Megellus turned to introduce Scipio to the assembled officers. The introductions were brief, the salutes formal and exact.
Septimus ignored the confluence of senior officers before him, his gaze firmly fixed on the banners held aloft over the legion to his left. The preying wolf of the Ninth looked balefully from each linen standard, its eyes locked on a former son of the ranks. Septimus had not seen the Ninth in over a year, his reassignment to the Aquila severing his link to the only legion he had ever known. He remembered the moment acutely, the moment of choice so many months before, the decision to accept a promotion to centurion in the marines over remaining as optio of the IV maniple. It was a decision he had wrestled over but once made he had never looked back. Until now.
Septimus searched the ranks for the signifer of the IV maniple, suddenly feeling the need to reconnect to his old command and the standard he had fought and lived under for so many years. The order to advance the column was given as he found his mark deep within the ranks, the men beneath the banner of the IV hidden by the mass of soldiers around them.
‘How reliable is this man’s word?’ Legate Megellus asked, his question directed at the port commander.
‘Captain Perennis has been in Rome’s service for fifteen years. I have personally known him for ten. His word is beyond question,’ the commander answered, confidence in his voice as he looked over at the young captain.
Atticus stood motionless beside Septimus in the meeting room of the officers’ quarters. His expression never changed at the questioning of his report, although he was glad he could rely on his commander for backup. He had retold the salient parts of his report to the group of officers, paying particular attention to what he had seen of the strength and course of the Carthaginian fleet, sticking only to facts and avoiding subjectivity and opinion.
‘So you see, gentlemen,’ Scipio said as he scanned the faces of the assembled officers before him, the men still reeling from the news they had just heard, ‘the Carthaginians have raised the stakes considerably. At best we are faced with dwindling supplies, at worst we are faced with starvation and ruin.’
Scipio’s face remained inscrutable as he spoke, the men waiting for his next words. Megellus smiled to himself. He had seen the senior consul in discussion with other men before, and knew his habit of drawing out a silence, a silence which unnerved some men, especially the younger ones, who felt compelled to fill the void. A junior tribune was the first to break the quiet.
‘We must accelerate our campaign and strike while we are still strong!’ he blurted.
The words emboldened the other junior tribunes and they echoed this view, calling for immediate action, immediate countermeasures, their thoughts and words directionless, overlapping.
‘Enough!’ Megellus ordered above the rising sound.
The silence reasserted itself.
‘What are your thoughts, Consul?’ he asked Scipio.
The senior consul looked down at the maps and charts on the table before him, studying the outline of the northern coast of Sicily on one in particular. For the past twenty years the Punici had occupied the entire island west of Halaesa, a dividing line some fifty miles west of Brolium. Fifty miles to the east of Brolium was the kingdom of Syracuse, the two territories separated by the natural obstacle of Mount Etna and a mutual agreement of noninterference. The Roman legions had filled that vacuum and so, as yet, their supply hubs were still a closely guarded secret.
‘I believe we have time on our side for the moment,’ Scipio began, every man now hanging on his words, the same officers nodding agreement who moments ago had advocated haste. ‘The Carthaginians hold ports further west of our location,’ he continued, pointing to the ports of Thermae and Panormus. ‘They will need time to discover and confirm our supply routes. That time will give us the opportunity to implement some minor countermeasures. Measures such as using circuitous routes to port and forming smaller fleets of transport barges to make detection more difficult. It will also give me time to consult the Senate before making my decision on how best to proceed with annihilating this new threat. For now, the legions must act as if nothing has changed. We still have a campaign to win and an enemy to beat.’
The officers voiced their agreement in unison, trusting the senior consul, who seemed completely confident in his assessment of the threat. Scipio raised his hand for silence and looked over at Atticus, who now stood outside the circle of officers around the table. He consciously swept aside his intuitive mistrust of the non-Roman, knowing he had to take advantage of the younger man’s experience.
‘And you, Captain Perennis,’ he asked of Atticus. ‘As the only naval commander here, what are your thoughts on the matter?’
All the officers turned around to look at Atticus, many with a look of mild astonishment and disdain that the opinion of a lowly captain was being sought. Once again Atticus had been taken off guard by a question from the consul. He had expected to be dismissed after giving his report and so he and Septimus had drifted back to the periphery of the group. Now he was once again the centre of attention.
‘I agree that we may have time on our hands as the Carthaginians organize their blockade of the northern and eastern coasts. However, I would advise against sending supplies once that blockade is in place, even