‘Agreed,’ he said.
‘Good,’ Hanno replied. ‘I will take command of those forces by the end of the week.’
‘And what of Xanthippus?’ Hamilcar asked.
‘The mercenary?’ Hanno replied with disdain. ‘That Spartan has served his purpose. Pay him off.’
Again Hamilcar made to speak but his father forestalled any further conversation. ‘It will be done,’ Hasdrubal said.
Hanno nodded curtly and left the room without another word.
Hamilcar waited until the councillor’s footfalls receded before turning to his father.
‘I needed those men in Sicily,’ he said angrily. ‘You conceded too much, too quickly.’
Hasdrubal’s eyes narrowed. ‘I agree the army at Tunis is a heavy coin to pay for a provincial fleet,’ he said. ‘But if we are to continue the war in Sicily, then Hanno must be appeased, now more than ever. He will be suffet this year, nothing can prevent that, and as leader of the Supreme Council he will have considerable influence on the uncommitted Council members, perhaps enough to permanently tip the balance in his favour.’
Hamilcar was silent, unable to see a way through the enemies ranged against him. Previously his thoughts had dwelt solely on overcoming the massive naval force of the Romans. But now he realized that the political threat to his flank, which he had believed neutralized, was re-emerging. He looked to his father, regretting his earlier criticism. He knew Hasdrubal’s political instincts were far superior to his own.
Hasdrubal saw the uncertainty in his son’s expression and he reached out, placing his hand on his shoulder. ‘Look to Sicily, Hamilcar,’ he said. ‘Your enemy is there. Hanno is my responsibility.’
‘But what of my men? I will need land forces if I am to defeat the Romans.’
‘I will petition the Council to make mercenaries available when you need them. Until Hanno becomes suffet, I can garner enough support for such expenditure.’
Hamilcar nodded, his renewed trust in his father allowing him to focus his mind once more. Whatever the internal conflicts with the Council, Rome was the true enemy and Sicily the battleground. The northwest of the island was still firmly in Carthaginian hands, but it was only a matter of time before the Romans launched an attack.
Hamilcar clasped his father’s hand in farewell and left the antechamber, passing quickly out on to the busy streets. He paused and looked briefly up at the Byrsa citadel, the sight steeling his determination as he set off towards the harbour below.
The cutwater of the Orcus sliced cleanly through the crest of the wave, the galley sailing close-hauled, with the wind sweeping in over the starboard forequarter, catching the spray and whipping it away towards the Sicilian shoreline two miles away. The mainmast creaked against the press of the mainsail, the canvas whacking like a clap of thunder; Baro’s shouted commands sent the crew racing to tighten the running rigging as Gaius dropped the galley off a touch.
Atticus stood at the tiller with the helmsman, his eyes on the southern horizon, the wind striking him directly in the face, pushing tears back from the corners of his eyes, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sea spray. He was silent, as was Gaius and many of the crew, their unease creating a tension that stifled every word. The sea around the Orcus was crammed with the galleys of the Classis Romanus, their formation loose and pliable, with each individual ship guarding its own sea room as the crews struggled against the adverse wind using a subtle mix of oar and sail power.
Septimus came up from below decks and made his way towards the aft-deck, shifting his balance with every step like a drunken man on solid ground, the centurion cursing softly with every pitch of the deck. He nodded to Gaius but the helmsman seemed not to see him. Septimus moved around to stand before Atticus, his friend’s intense stare causing him to look over his shoulder.
The sky to the south was shrouded in iron-grey clouds, reaching from the distinct line of the horizon into the towering heavens, the anvil-head formations clawing ever upward, while beneath the cloudscape the sea was streaked with dark bruises as enormous shadows moved across the troubled surface. Septimus was mesmerized by the sight, his gaze locked on a cloud as it seemed to consume the remnants of the blue sky above it, unable to believe that when he had gone below deck an hour before the southern horizon had been all but clear. He turned to Atticus.
‘This is the weather you warned Paullus about, isn’t it?’
Atticus nodded, taking no pleasure in seeing his prediction fulfilled. Septimus turned back to the storm front, the wind flattening his tunic against his chest, the sea spray holding it there. ‘Have you sailed through weather like this before?’ he asked.
‘Not with that thing on board,’ Gaius answered, indicating the corvus with a scowl.
Atticus ignored the helmsman’s reply, concentrating instead on the seascape. ‘I sailed the Aquila through twenty-five-knot winds once,’ Atticus said, ‘but I had a lot of sea room. If that storm advances, we’ll have the shoreline on our flank.’
‘How far is Agrigentum?’ Septimus asked.
Atticus looked to the coastline, not recognizing any feature that would indicate their position. An hour before, the fleet had been off the Carthaginian-held city of Selinus but, as the storm front developed, a general order had swept through the fleet to turn southeast and beat along the coast to Agrigentum, a forty-mile journey.
‘Too far,’ Atticus replied, and he looked once more to the southern horizon. ‘Do you see there, where the line of the horizon is obscured, where the sky and sea are the same colour?’
Septimus followed Atticus’s pointed finger and nodded. In places a curtain seemed to fall from the sky, a dark wall interspersed with shafts of sunlight from high overhead. It was moving across the horizon, the vertical lines expanding and receding, almost as if the storm were breathing.
‘That’s the squall line,’ Atticus said, ‘where the rain is falling in sheets. When that reaches us we’ll be in the grip of the storm.’
Even as Septimus watched, the storm seemed to advance, the squall line surging forward with every gust, the sheer size of the front making it difficult to judge its distance. He felt sick, his stomach swooping with every pitch of the deck; despite the cold sea spray on his face, he felt hot and nauseous. And something else, something Septimus had never felt away from the battlefield: fear.
He heard his name being called above the howl of the wind and turned. Atticus was looking at him and pointing to the main deck. ‘Septimus, I need your men to clear the deck. Get them below. We’re going to seal the hatches.’
Septimus nodded and moved purposefully to the main deck, glad to have something to do. He ordered his men below and set Drusus the task of dispersing the legionaries throughout the lower deck. A hammering sound caught his attention and he turned to watch three crewmen fixing a cover to the forward hatch of the main deck, the men moving off quickly as the last dowel was hammered home, heading towards Septimus. He looked down the open hatchway below him into the darkened lower deck, the thought of being imprisoned and powerless abhorrent to him; he turned his back and moved once more to the aft-deck, the crewman slamming the hatch cover into place behind him.
A sudden roll of the deck caused Atticus to stagger, and Gaius shot out his hand to hold him upright, the helmsman never taking his eyes from the bow of the Orcus.
‘The wind is shifting,’ he said, and Atticus looked to the mainsail. A ripple shot across the canvas, followed by another and another.
‘Can you hold it?’ Atticus asked, but before Gaius could answer, the deck pitched violently beneath them, the bow striking deeply into the crest of a wave, the water sweeping across the foredeck.
Gaius leaned on the tiller and the mainsail tightened up, but a sudden gust defied his efforts and the sail flapped once more.