Captain of Rome by John Stack Page B

concentrated in the tormented muscles of his legs. He noticed the senior tribune of the Second Legion glance briefly in his direction and he straightened his back in anticipation, fighting the impulse to quail under the tribune’s undisguised look of scorn, his shame rising unbidden again to manifest itself on his face.
    Varro retreated inward as the conversation raged about him, his mind reaching back to the surety of the days and weeks before the disaster that was befalling his ambitions. He was so certain, so convinced, as his father had been, that the capture of Thermae was a mere formality, a stepping stone that would open every door in the corridors of power in Rome. The events of yesterday had reversed those aspirations. He replayed the battle in his thoughts, his mind’s eye flashing images before him, his latent anger building slowly as he watched the sequence of events that had forged his fate, his pride baying for retribution as he remembered the insubordination of the Greek captain. The strike across his face was unforgivable, that blow the senators travelling with him had later claimed not to have witnessed, their confederacy with a lesser man adding grievous insult to his injury, their contemptuous looks beginning a pattern that Varro had seen mirrored in the senior tribune’s face.
    When the Aquila had pulled alongside the docks at Brolium, Varro had disembarked without looking back at the aft-deck, not sure that he could control his temper should he see the captain watching him. With the senators firmly on the captain’sside Varro had realised that any accusation he levelled, without eye witness support, would likely be seen by others as a desperate attempt to apportion blame on a man who had proved himself at Mylae. It was therefore a simple matter of honour between two men and Varro’s accusation would have to be followed by a challenge, a challenge the young tribune knew he could not win against a man ten years his senior and ten times his better in fighting skills. Varro had decided in the darkness of his cabin as the Aquila fled Thermae, that there would be no spoken accusation, no open challenge. There would be only revenge.
    As Varro’s gaze refocused on the present he noticed all eyes in the room were upon him and he realised they were waiting for him to answer a question he had not heard.
    ‘I…’ he hesitated, his expression exposing his lapse in concentration; ‘I didn’t…’
    ‘The camp prefect asked you a question, Varro,’ the senior tribune of the Ninth barked, indicating the eldest man in the room. ‘When will you be ready to sail?’
    ‘To sail?’ Varro asked uncertainly, furious at himself for having drifted off from the conversation.
    ‘For Rome man, for Rome!’ the senior tribune said impatiently.
    Varro’s mind raced as he considered the question, realising that he had no idea how long it took to ready a galley for sea.
    ‘We’ll need to restock…’ he began, trying to hide his lack of knowledge.
    ‘I’ll see that all necessary stores are made available from the barrack’s stores,’ the port commander of Brolium interjected; ‘we can have the Aquila fully stocked before the tide turns, two hours at most.’
    Varro nodded his assent but the port commander didn’t seem to notice, looking instead to the senior tribune for approval.
    ‘Make it so,’ the senior tribune commanded, usurping Varro’s position.
    ‘We’re agreed then,’ the officer of the Ninth continued, turning his attention to his opposite number in the Second. ‘Tacitus, you will take two thousand of the Second west on a forced march to intercept the retreating soldiers of the Ninth. I will take the remainder of the fleet on a parallel course along the coast.’
    ‘But the fleet is…’ Varro said, cutting himself short, instantly regretting his remark.
    ‘Is what, Varro? Yours?’ the tribune replied with a sneer. ‘Your fleet was destroyed at Thermae. Now your only task is to sail to