Duilius’s task was made easier by the invisible yet explicit divide that existed in the Senate. On his side of the chamber, he was surrounded by men who daily challenged the established order of Rome, progressive senators, many of whom were novi homines, new men, the first of their family to be elected to the Senate. The other side of the chamber was dominated by members of the senior patrician families of the city, descendants of the men who had founded the Republic and whose strength depended on the status quo being maintained.
Duilius studied the expression of each man surreptitiously, discounting many out of hand, knowing them to be insignificant pawns or sycophants. Equally he disregarded those he knew for certain were within the inner coterie of the opposition, senior senators who were no doubt cognisant of the full details of the report but had the presence of mind to look surprised and alarmed. Instead Duilius focused on the remainder, searching for telltale signs of awareness, subtle indications of composure that would reveal their foreknowledge of the report and therefore their inclusion in the inner circle. He knew from experience that often the newest members of any coterie, many of them young senators, lacked the political sense to bury their awareness behind impassive expressions, and so this was a rare opportunity to advance his knowledge of the opposition’s ranks.
Despite recognizing the brevity of his opportunity, Duilius froze as his gaze settled on one of the senators, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio. He was an austere-looking man and his head was bowed slightly, as if to partially hide his expression, although Duilius knew that posture was unnecessary. Scipio was a skilled pretender and his self-discipline was matched only by his ruthlessness. He was the leader of the opposition, although few knew him as such, including those who were his closest allies, as Scipio’s greatest talent lay in his ability to manipulate events sub rosa. For that reason alone, Duilius knew him to be his worthiest and most dangerous adversary.
Duilius had learned a great deal from Scipio over the years since they had shared the consulship. That tenure had ended in ignominy for Scipio, his defeat and capture at Lipara earning him the cognomen Asina: ‘donkey’. Yet he had survived politically, wielding his power behind the scenes, and already his machinations had led to the election of two senior consuls, Regulus and, in turn, Paullus. Duilius had fully adopted Scipio’s approach, disguising the significant power he held during his tenure as censor to influence voting in the Senate, and the hatred and rivalry between the two men had deepened with every confrontation.
As if realizing he was being studied, Scipio glanced in Duilius’s direction and their eyes met. He smiled coldly, a gesture that Duilius returned. Regulus’s defeat in Africa would have repercussions, the balance of power in the Senate would be affected and careers could be advanced or impeded depending on how the aftermath was controlled. Neither Duilius nor Scipio were openly recognized as the leaders of the two factions fighting for supremacy in the Roman Senate, but with that one brief exchange across the crowded chamber, the two men had signalled the escalation of hostilities.
Hamilcar hesitated in the quiet of the entrance to the temple, the complete silence and his apparent solitude unsettling him. The afternoon sun was warm upon his back, raising drops of sweat at the base of his neck that ran down inside his tunic. The light framed his shadow as it reached into the interior of the vaulted inner chamber. He took a step forward and stopped again, hindered by a growing sense of unworthiness, a feeling that his gratitude would somehow sully the incredible feat accomplished by the deity that dwelt within the hallowed space before him.
The first rumours had arrived in Carthage the day before, the news sweeping the streets like a wildfire borne on the mighty ghibli. Hamilcar had immediately rushed to the port, anxious for more news from arriving ships, for confirmation that such a miracle had indeed occurred; but for the following twenty-four hours he was frustrated with further unsubstantiated rumours. Only that morning had a military galley arrived from Selinus and its captain had confirmed the report, prompting Hamilcar’s flight to the temple of Yam.
Hamilcar stepped forward once more, moving through the unadorned porch and into the inner room, his gaze slowly sweeping over the engravings on the granite walls representing the untamed sea, the depictions sending a shiver of unearthly fear through his stomach. The statue of Yam was at the far end of the chamber. The shadows played across its form and Hamilcar held his breath as he looked upon it. In the war against the Romans, he had often called on the support of many of the gods, calling down their favour or the power of their wrath, but never before had he prayed to this minor deity, the overlord of violent tempests and the raging sea.
Hamilcar fell forward as if struck from behind, and the temple echoed with the crashing sound of his body hitting the floor. He spread out his arms and prostrated himself, pressing his forehead on to the marble slab as he began to whisper his thanks. The prayers came slowly at first, his humility robbing him of the words, but soon the strength of his gratitude overwhelmed him and he spoke without pausing for breath, humbling himself unashamedly in the quiet of the inner temple.
After a time, Hamilcar became silent. He raised himself up and looked to the statue once more, wanting to remember every detail. Nodding, he turned to leave; as he left the inner chamber he saw a number of other people approaching, many of them carrying garlands and amphorae of wine, offerings for the previously ignored god. In time, as the news of the destruction of the Roman fleet spread, the temple would become inundated with grateful worshippers. Hamilcar was glad he had been given this time alone to express his gratitude.
He quickened his step as he made his way through the oncoming crowd, eager to return to the city and continue the development of his plan, born of the idea that had formed in his mind when he heard the first rumours of the storm. Soon he would sail for Sicily, but first he needed to plant the seed of his plan to take maximum advantage of the Roman fleet’s destruction. The last of Hamilcar’s doubts fell away as he walked towards the city. It was time to go on the attack, and with the gods on the side of Carthage, there was none who could stand against him.
Atticus stood with his face up to the sun, his eyes closed against the glare as he felt the heat infuse his body. The overlapping sounds of carpenters’ tools filled the air, and Atticus’s memory was stirred by the noise, his mind drifting back to that day in Aspis before the fleet sailed to Sicily, and the awe he had felt as he gazed at the assembled fleet. The thought made him open his eyes and he looked out over the eighty galleys anchored in the harbour of Agrigentum.
Many of the ships were listing badly, their hulls still partially flooded. Atticus noticed that some of the crews were using the new screw pump to drain the bilges, a curious-looking device recently invented by a young Syracusan. Of the remaining galleys, every one of them showed signs of storm damage, from splintered oars to severed mainmasts, and Atticus counted a half-dozen ships in the waters immediately surrounding the Orcus that would never be seaworthy again.
He moved to the side of the deck and rubbed his hand across the rail, his fingers finding and tracing the outline of a crack in the weathered pine. Eighty galleys saved. Over three hundred lost, amongst them the Concordia. Atticus scowled darkly as he observed that the majority of the surviving ships were Carthaginian galleys captured at Cape Hermaeum, the absence of a corvus giving them a vital advantage during those first chaotic minutes when the squall line overtook the fleet.