Captain of Rome - John Stack

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balanced hull of the Aquila swung instantly beneath his feet as he traversed the main deck towards the aft, his eyes locked on a reference point on the coast and as he reached Gaius at the tiller he ordered him to straighten the galley’s course.

      ‘Steerage speed, lookouts to the fore!’ he ordered and the crew scrambled to the task, Lucius reiterating the order as the Aquila settled low in the water, her two knot speed giving her a gentle headway against the off-shore breeze. Septimus approached Atticus with a quizzical look on his face.

      ‘Something in the water,’ Atticus said in answer, ‘two hundred yards off the bow.’

      ‘Understood,’ Septimus nodded and made his way to the foredeck to inform the lookouts stationed there.

      Below deck in the main cabin, Varro felt the sudden change in the galley’s course and her drop in speed. He sat up in his cot and planted his feet firmly on the deck, his sudden action triggering a scurrying sound on the floor as cockroaches fled the unexpected movement. Varro reached up for the porthole above him, pulling back the shutter, allowing the early sunlight to flood the narrow confines of the cabin and he caught sight of the last of the ubiquitous insects as they fled for the dark recesses of the room.

      He stood up slowly and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, digging his knuckles in deeply until his vision exploded with tiny stars before returning to the gloom of the twilight world below deck. He had barely slept, the constant motion of the world around him still completely alien, the confines of the room and the sudden inexplicable sounds that punctured the darkness keeping him constantly on edge. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, his mind filled with nightmarish visions of everyone he had ever known turning their back on him in vile condemnation, their faces haunting him even now in his waking hours and he cursed his fate and the ship that bore him anew.

      Varro dressed quickly and mounted the steps to the main deck, squinting in the dawn light as looked about him to the frenzied activity of the crew. The majority of them were looking over the side—and forerails, shouting instructions to each other as they searched the waters around the galley. Varro moved quickly to the side-rail, pushing a crewman aside to see out over the water but he saw nothing in the empty sea. He turned to the aft-deck and his eyes sought the captain, seeing him instantly as he stood beside the helmsman, his easy confident stance evident, even from a distance, and Varro felt a resurgence of his hatred. He was about to stride back to the captain when a shout cut through the cacophony of voices on deck.

      ‘Two points starboard. Someone in the water!’

      All eyes on the Aquila spun to that point, Varro following the gaze of others as he sought the point indicated. It was there, fifty yards off the bow, a small mass of indeterminate shapes in the gentle swell, hidden one moment and exposed the next but amidst the tangle Varro could see the shoulders and head of at least one person.

      ‘All stop,’ Atticus shouted and he ran the length of the galley to the foredeck, not noticing Varro as he passed him by, his attention firmly fixed on the figure of Septimus standing by the rail, his arm outstretched in indication of what Atticus had spotted minutes before from afar.

      ‘One survivor,’ Septimus said as the captain reached them. ‘Lashed to some debris.’

      Atticus nodded and turned to the crewmen beside him.

      ‘You two, over the side,’ he said and the men instantly obeyed, each one swan-diving into the sea eight feet below to surface once again a couple of yards short of the inert people in the water. The crewmen were both able swimmers, as was every man on the Aquila, a skill Atticus strictly ensured that every sailor who joined his crew was taught. It was an ability that many of the more traditional sailors who found themselves serving on the Aquila thought irrational, believing it better that a sailor should die a quick death if his ship was sunk rather than suffering a lingering struggle before the sea inevitably claimed you.

      ‘He’s alive but unconscious,’ one of the crewmen shouted and they struck off towards the Aquila again without command, each man swimming with one hand while the other dragged the makeshift raft behind them. Two more sailors jumped overboard as the group reached the hull of the Aquila and the survivor was quickly cut from the debris and hauled by rope up and over the side-rail. The crew formed a rough circle around him as he was laid on the deck but it parted again for Atticus and Septimus, the centurion kneeling down and listening intently at the unconscious man’s chest, his knowledge qualified only through years of experience in the military.

      Atticus was given a moment to study the man as Septimus’s steady hands searched for the signs that would indicate the strength of his life-force. The man was dark, almost certainly Roman, his young angular features made prominent by the sea water that had seemingly washed the very blood from his face, his skin stark against the deep red of the tunic which had caught Atticus’s eye.

      ‘He’s dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion,’ Septimus said without looking up, putting his head to the man’s chest once more. He stood up. ‘He’ll need rest and fresh water.’

      ‘Will he live?’ Atticus asked.

      Septimus nodded. ‘He’s young and strong,’ he said, and as if bidden the man stirred slightly, his hand rising and falling again across his stomach.

      Atticus instantly ordered the crew to pick him up. ‘Take him to the main cabin,’ he ordered without thinking, suddenly catching Varro’s eye at the edge of the circle, the tribune looking up with an aggravated expression, ‘with your permission, Tribune.’ Atticus added.

      Varro nodded curtly and spun around, his exit creating a gap in the circle through which the crewmen carried the man to the main cabin below. Septimus followed, the young man now in his charge.

      Regulus stepped warily through the throng of senators on the floor of the Senate house, catching the eye of many as they nodded a greeting. The men were clustered in groups, talking animatedly before the familiar hammer of a gavel, signalling the beginning of the first session of the day, would hasten them all to their seats. Their discussions were almost frenetic in their tempo, as if the dreary debates scheduled for the day could be mitigated by a couple of minutes of interesting conversation about the consulship elections that were due on the morrow.

      Regulus engaged with no-one, skirting the groups to avoid being dragged into a discussion. His gaze sought many of the senators however, surreptitiously watching them, eavesdropping on their conversations as he moved past, trying to guess which ones might be the junior senators that Scipio claimed to secretly control. As he reached the edge of the throng, Regulus spotted the consul seated alone in the centre of the semi-circular seating that framed the central podium of the chamber. Scipio sat with an emotionless expression, his eyes scanning the room, ever restless. Regulus made to approach but thought better of the idea, turning away instead to make his way to his own seat.

      A loud hammering sound filled the vaulted chamber and the three hundred senators took to their seats, the men sitting as individuals, loose confederations and close-knit factions, the fluid ever-changing political landscape placing former confederates beside current adversaries. Regulus sat on the right hand of the speaker, a side increasingly associated with the Patrician class of the ancient Roman families although it was near impossible to gauge the loyalties of every senator and dividing lines were only as stable as the last vote taken in each session.

      ‘Senators of Rome,’ the speaker of the house called as the chamber came to order, the underlying murmur of a hundred conversations dissipating in the still morning air. ‘Before we begin the business of the day, Gaius Duilius,’ the speaker continued, as he nodded towards the junior consul seated firmly in the centre of the left, ‘the junior consul, has requested a brief audience with the chamber.’

      Duilius stood and acknowledged the speaker with a nod, his unscheduled request prompting a light patter of applause that rose in intensity as Duilius made his way towards the podium. Regulus’s heart skipped a beat at the sight and he clapped unconsciously, his mind racing to the conversation he had had the night before with Scipio and the premonition made that was transpiring before his very eyes. He looked briefly to Scipio

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