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