Captain of Rome by John Stack

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 weightand 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