Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome. John Stack
I am Senior Consul Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio. I need eight of your finest mounts immediately to bear us to Rome. My slave and our baggage are to be escorted in our wake.’
‘Yes, Consul,’ the port commander replied, his mind racing to understand the sudden presence of the most powerful man in Rome in the military camp of Ostia.
‘Now!’ Scipio shouted, the momentary pause of the commander fuelling his impatience to be in Rome.
The effect on the commander was immediate and he quickly turned and ordered his men to run to the stables to assemble and prepare the necessary mounts. He turned again to face the consul, but Scipio was already brushing past him, striding off in the direction of the entrance to the courtyard that would lead to the stables. The port commander was left standing in their wake before his wits returned once again and he took off in pursuit.
The barracks at Ostia were almost identical to those at Brolium on the northern coast of Sicily. Both, like all others in the Republic, were based on a standard design, a two-storey quadrangle with an archway in the centre of each side leading into the central courtyard. The stables were beyond the eastern archway and it was through this that the contubernia now led eight horses of the light cavalry. They were Maremmano, a breed of horse from the plains of Tuscany. The horses were unattractive beasts in comparison to other breeds and, although they were not fleet of foot, they were strong and hardworking, a perfect match for the harsh life of the legions.
Scipio, his four guards and guard commander, and the two men of the Aquila, mounted together and rode out through the southern archway, swinging left to travel east along the busy harbour road that led to the city. As they rode along by the water’s edge, Atticus’s senses were again overwhelmed by the sights and smells in the maelstrom of the busy port. The transport barges, recently arrived from all the ports of the known world, were disgorging their wares onto the dock, with the city traders standing ready to strike a deal with a returning regular or an inexperienced beginner. Gold quickly changed hands as bargains were struck and goods were hauled off by the army of slaves who stood poised behind every trader. Atticus had never seen such a wealth of goods, such a display of appetite, as the voracious city traders insatiably devoured each new barge-load of cargo. Within the space of the first quarter-mile of the dock, he had seen bolts of silk so numerous as could clothe an entire legion, exotic animals that clawed and snarled at the slaves who nimbly handled their cages, birds of every size and hue, the air filling with their song, and, everywhere in between, countless amphorae of wine and baskets of food. It seemed an impossibility that any one city could consume such an abundance, and yet Atticus got the impression that what he was witnessing occurred every day, that the city’s hunger would devour the cornucopia before him and then return tomorrow for more.
Atticus felt a tug on his arm and he dragged his attention away from the seemingly chaotic scene to answer the summons. Septimus nodded his head to the left, indicating the sudden change in course of the mounted party, and Atticus wheeled his horse to follow the others as they turned away from the docks and headed into the port town. Here, as before, the streets were crammed with all manner of goods, this time on the move inland towards the city over twelve miles away. The horsemen wove their way around the multitude of slaves and bearers, slowing their progress until they emerged beyond the confines of the town into the open countryside. Within half a dozen miles they reached Via Aurelia, the recently constructed road that ran northwards along the coastline from Rome. They turned south and within ten minutes were crossing the Tiber over the Pons Aemilius, a magnificent stone-pillared bridge with a wooden superstructure of five arches effortlessly spanning the one-hundred-yard-wide stretch of water. Atticus could only marvel at the engineering feat beneath him and he leaned out of his saddle to peer over the thirty-foot drop to the fast-flowing waters below.
‘You haven’t seen anything yet,’ Septimus smiled as he noticed his friend’s eyes take in every detail of the bridge. Atticus looked up and Septimus nodded his head to the road before them, to the sight that was opening before them: Rome.
The horsemen entered the city through Porta Flumentana, one of twelve gates in the Servian Wall, which ran nearly seven miles around the entire city. Built by the sixth king of Rome, the wall was twelve feet thick and twenty high, a mammoth defensive barrier built as a reaction to the sacking of the city over one hundred and thirty years before by the seventy-thousand-strong Gaulish army of Brennus. As the group passed under the great arch of the gate, inscribed with the omnipresent SPQR denoting Senatus Populusque Romanus, ‘the Senate and the People of Rome’, Atticus’s eyes were drawn upwards to the height of the Palatine Hill, soaring two hundred feet above the level of the valley floor, upon which the foundation stones of Rome had been laid nearly five hundred years before by the demigod Romulus.
The group wound its way through the bustling streets, swinging north of the Palatine Hill into the valley formed with the Capitoline Hill, itself dominated by the Capitolium Temple dedicated to the three supreme deities, Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus. Atticus had never seen such a multitude of people before. Having spent his whole adult life at sea, he had quickly become accustomed to living in close proximity with others, the limited space of a floating galley isolated at sea creating a claustrophobic and intrusive atmosphere on board. In comparison to the press of the streets and buildings surrounding him, however, the galley seemed capacious. The insulae, the apartment blocks on all sides of the narrow streets, rose five or more storeys high, with balconies reaching out to form a near roof that robbed the street of much of its daylight. Atticus felt an undeniable sensation of oppression in the enclosed corridor, and he inwardly sighed in relief as he noticed an end to the street ahead, a brighter, more open space beyond.
Atticus was the trailing member of the group and so was the last to breach the confines of the narrow street out into the Forum Magnum, the central plaza of the sprawling city. His heart soared as he gazed upon the imperial heart of the Republic. When Atticus was young, his grandfather had regaled him with stories of the great city of Athens, a city his ancestors had called home before the Milonius clan fled before Alexander of Macedon and settled in southern Italia. The tales told of soaring temples and godlike statues, of civilization’s birthplace and home, a city that only the Greeks in their power could create. As a child, Atticus had let his imagination fashion a city of incredible presence, a vision he had often dismissed in his adult years, the boasts of an old man longing for his homeland. Now, standing on the cusp of the magnificent Forum Magnum, Atticus was presented with the very visions of his youth transplanted to another city, a city that surely exceeded all others in splendour and power.
Septimus reined in his horse and brought himself back alongside his open-mouthed friend.
‘Well?’ Septimus asked. ‘What do you think?’ he added with a smile.
‘By the gods, Septimus, I never believed it would be so … so …’
‘Big?’ the marine offered.
‘I was going to say amazing,’ Atticus replied, instantly understanding how the city before him could be the focal point for the power it held over the whole peninsula.
‘My father’s father spat on the name of Rome when the legions came to Locri, believing them and the city that bore their citizenship to be inferior to any in Greece,’ Atticus continued, shaking his head in silent criticism of the belief his grandfather had held.
Septimus began to name the sights of the Forum as they passed through the expansive and busy commercial and governmental centre. To their left was the Temple of Vesta, a towering circular shrine dedicated to the virgin goddess of home and family. Within, Septimus explained, the untouchable Vestal Virgins tended the eternal flame of Vesta, a symbol of the very source of life, the flame connected through the eastern opening of the temple to the ultimate source, the sun. The Virgins, once the daughters of the king of Rome, were now the daughters of the most important Roman families, and their thirty-year vow of chastity and acceptance into the only order of priestesses in Roman religion brought them and their families great honour and prestige.
Standing next to the temple was the Regia. Originally it had served as the centre for the kings of Rome, but now, with power residing in the Senate, the building was home to a spiritually more impressive figure, the pontifex maximus,