Again Atticus’s remarks drew angry mutterings from some of the tribunes as he openly praised the enemy, but he continued undaunted. ‘The only successful strategy will be to defeat them in battle and destroy the blockade,’ he concluded, his final opinion greeted with icy silence.
Two of the tribunes snorted in derision and turned their backs on the captain, their focus returning to the consul, waiting for him to aggressively refute Atticus’s opinion, but Scipio simply nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said. Scipio addressed his senior officers once more.
‘While time may be on our side, the next few weeks are vital if we are to overcome this threat. Any indecisiveness in our actions will be catastrophic. I will therefore leave for Rome now, immediately. Word must reach the Senate and I must be the one to deliver it. As the sea is still the fastest route to Rome, I will trust my life to those who have already bested the Punici. I will travel to Rome on the Aquila.’
Both Atticus and Septimus straightened up as once again all eyes in the room turned to them. Their course had been set…to Rome, to the centre of the Republic and the civilized world, escorting the most important man of the Republic.
‘We leave in one hour,’ Scipio said, dismissing the officers of the Aquila.
‘Marcus! You old bastard,’ Septimus called as he and Atticus entered the junior officers’ mess, immediately recognizing his old commander from the IV maniple of the Ninth.
‘Septimus!’
The two men met in the middle of the room and shook hands, smiling happily at each other, their meeting the first since the Battle of Agrigentum over a year before. Marcus was ten years older than Septimus, a tall, thin man and, although he was in the declining years of his prime, he still possessed an iron-hard physique and a will and discipline to match.
‘How is Antoninus?’ Marcus asked. ‘Still the same old tyrant?’
‘As hard as ever,’ Septimus replied, proud of his father’s reputation as one of the toughest centurions who had ever commanded a maniple of the Ninth.
‘Marcus,’ Septimus continued, turning to Atticus, ‘this is Captain Atticus Milonius Perennis of the Aquila.’
The centurion was about to proffer his hand but he stayed the gesture, his eyes suddenly unfriendly.
‘A Greek? By the gods, Septimus,’ he said, turning to the marine, ‘I cursed the day you accepted your promotion to centurion in the marines, but now I find you command with the very people your father and I fought at Beneventum.’
Atticus stepped forward, incensed by the unwarranted insult, but Septimus stepped into his path, his hand raised across Atticus’s sword arm.
‘Atticus has fought for the Republic for as long as I have, for as many years as half the men in this room. His loyalty is without question.’
Marcus was about to retort but he held his tongue, recalling the bond of friendship he had with Septimus and what a mentor Septimus’s father, Antoninus, had been. He slowly proffered his hand once more, his expression this time unreadable.
Atticus remained motionless, his own gaze hostile.
‘Any friend of Septimus’s is a comrade of the Ninth,’ Marcus prompted.
The words seemed hollow to Atticus; however, he shook the centurion’s proffered hand.
‘A naval captain, eh?’ Marcus asked, measuring him. ‘What brings you and this orphan of the Ninth to our camp?’
‘Grave news,’ Septimus said, recapturing Marcus’s attention, all humour now gone from his voice.
Marcus indicated a crowded table with a nod of his head and all three sat down. The other centurions looked on in silence, many leaning in to hear the news that had wrought such a change in the expression of the young marine.
‘Go on…’ Marcus said, prompting Septimus to begin.
‘Carthaginians,’ he began, ‘a whole fleet of them, Marcus. Off the northern coast. We expect a full blockade within weeks.’
‘Merciful Jupiter,’ Marcus breathed.
The centurion was a keen disciple of logistics, as were all centurions by necessity. The success and readiness of his maniple depended in large part on how well it was supplied. No supplies meant no replacements of armour, weapons, and the myriad simple but necessary items needed to keep a modern, effective army in the field.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Marcus finally asked, breaking the silence, the younger centurions deferring to the most experienced man in the room.
‘We sail for Rome…’ Septimus replied ‘…to escort the senior consul to the Senate.’
‘And the legions?’
‘Scipio ordered that the legions must act as if nothing has changed,’ Septimus said, remembering the senior consul’s words in the earlier meeting, ‘so the Ninth and Second will march out to battle as planned.’
‘We’ll march out as planned all right,’ Marcus remarked, anger in his voice as forces beyond his control threatened to place a stranglehold on his legion, his maniple, his men, ‘but if a blockade is enforced those plans will rapidly change. We’ll become survivors not fighters, scavengers of food instead of hunters of men.’ The room went quiet again as each man contemplated this change of fortune.
‘Septimus,’ Marcus said suddenly, a hard edge to his voice, ‘Antoninus was like a father to me and to serve as optio in his maniple at Beneventum was an honour I was proud to repay when I promoted you to my second-in-command. I know there was another reason behind your acceptance of a promotion out of the Ninth and into the marines after the Battle of Agrigentum, and I also know you are a man like your father, a man of honour.’
Septimus nodded, remembering the strength of the bond between the two senior officers of every maniple.
‘As my optio I always had your back and you had mine,’ Marcus continued. ‘I call on that bond again, Septimus. If a blockade develops, you and your captain must break it. Whatever needs to be done, you need to do it. We’re facing six months of fighting and I need to know that you have our backs covered, that you’ll make sure we can fight on and not be hamstrung by the Carthaginians.’
Marcus stood up as Septimus nodded his assent.
‘Do I have your word?’ he demanded, his tone that of a maniple centurion, a commander of one hundred and twenty men.
Septimus stood opposite him.
‘Yes, Centurion,’ he replied, their ranks equal but Marcus’s experience commanding and earning Septimus’s respect.
Marcus looked to Atticus, noting the hard expression on the younger man’s face.
‘And you, Greek. Will you fight for the legions?’
Atticus stood up slowly beside his friend.
‘I’ll fight,’ he replied simply after a moment’s pause.
‘Good,’ Marcus said.
Marcus extended his hand and Septimus shook it solemnly. Atticus paused for a heartbeat before following suit, his hesitation raising a sly smile at the edge of Marcus’s mouth.
‘What’s the name of your ship?’ Marcus asked.
‘The Aquila,’ Atticus replied, his back straightening.
Marcus nodded, noting the name. ‘Good hunting, men of the Aquila,’ he said.
‘Give ‘em cold iron, wolves of the Ninth,’ Septimus replied, his connection to the legion that forged