I was hurled back into the cell, my body bruised and battered. Balbus helped me up.

            ‘Thank you, brother’, I said, with a hollow emptiness inside. I had already told Cyprianus of my plan, but I couldn’t risk telling another; and I had made a promise to the roach, who had become a constant companion inside my head during these dark days, that I would not forsake him.

‘Here, Marcus. Let me tend to your wounds’, Balbus said in sympathy. With a filthy rag, he dabbed at the blood seeping down my forehead. I winced, and then smiled weakly.

            Later, I drifted through a broken sleep. Anxiety over the act of treason I was about to commit gnawed at my stomach. As I duelled within my own mind, I countered the terrible feelings of guilt with the knowledge that I would get out of here and would be able to describe the layout of the fortress, a way to attack it through the lagoon, and the desperate plight of those still held captive within it. But it was still a betrayal: I was letting down Balbus and all the others, dead, alive, and languishing in this stinking prison, by taking Hasdrubal’s honey-scented offer. I knew that there was every chance that the Senate would see me as a turncoat, and refuse to consider what I, a common legionnaire, had to say; it was entirely possible that the vital intelligence I carried would fail to reach the right ears. But the risk had to be taken, and I would retain some of my honour, which demanded that I recognise the parole I had given to Hasdrubal.

            ‘You must come back, Marcus’, he had said to me the day before. ‘That is part of our agreement. Remember that even Regulus gave parole to his captors, and returned to his own execution’ He had smiled unconvincingly at me. ‘Of course’, he finished, ‘your fate does not lie with Regulus, but with me.’

            The next morning, I was dragged from the cell. I put on a good show, cursing the guards and threatening divine vengeance on their families. Hasdrubal waited for me as usual in his study. A beaker of wine was handed to me, which I drank in one go. I felt sick, my nerves shredded.

            ‘Are you sure that you are ready to commit to this course of action?’ He eyed me sternly from across the desk.

            ‘Quite sure’, I said, as bravely as I could. ‘The war must end.’

            Hasdrubal scratched away on a piece of parchment for a few moments, and then affixed his seal using melted wax and the ornate ring that he carried on the fourth finger of his right hand. I set the empty beaker on the table.

            ‘I am ready, sir’, I said calmly.

From the cell I was taken down to the docks, where a fast warship and a detachment of Carthaginian marines waited for me. A few moments later, Hasdrubal descended the stone steps to the jetty.

            ‘You have treated me with kindness, Hasdrubal, son of Gisgo’, I said, and part of me meant it. ‘I have learned a great deal from our discussions over the past six months.’ In fact, I had enjoyed my debates with this calm, intelligent man, who had questioned everything that I had been told since I was a small child: questioned the unity of our Republican government, the wisdom of the consuls and the wizened old fathers in the Senate, the primacy of Roman arms. He had even questioned the education given to me by my father and the beliefs of the roach.   Questioned, yes, but not broken. I only hoped that my deception had been sound.

Hasdrubal handed the warship commander the parchment scroll, sealed inside a watertight leather tube.

            ‘Our message for the Senate in Rome’, he said. ‘I trust you to deliver it, as we agreed, and then return here with their answer.’

            ‘I will do ask you have asked. I ask only one thing in return.’

            Hasdrubal raised an eyebrow. The marine guards behind me stiffened in the rising sun.

            ‘Please provide better care for the men in the dungeon. They have fought you with honour; they deserve better than to die down there.’

            ‘I will consider your request. Now go!’ he ordered, and I was motioned on board the warship by two heavily armed marines. I was provided sleeping quarters, a narrow space where a hammock was slung for me. I was be guarded constantly, even while asleep. Hasdrubal might trust me, but the warship commander certainly did not. He kept the scroll locked in a strongbox in his cabin at the stern of the vessel. As we pulled away into the bay, I was glad that neither Balbus nor Cyprianus could see me leave.

My plan, as I had conceived it, was to save Rome—my country, my fatherland—by betraying it. Hasdrubal offered a ticket off the rock, and I carried with me vital knowledge of the citadel, its strengths, its weakness, and the precious human cargo buried deep within its bowels. Not only Romans, but Spaniards, too, who could be liberated and turned to our righteous cause. After all, our last and failed operation had been aimed at taking the stronghold to knock Carthaginian Spain out of the war, compel Hannibal to return there, allow a full concentration of our forces against him. This, I reasoned, could still be accomplished—and I had the knowledge to help our army make it happen. And so I had listened to the insistent voice of the roach in my head, and turned the enemy’s plan against him, working around his flank and into his confidence.

For two days, we scudded through an easy Mediterranean swell. We proceeded under sail, now, the oarsmen resting. Frigate birds followed our wake, and one of the men caught some fresh fish, which was cooked for our supper. It was delicious, salty with the sparkle of the sea, matched with bread and a little wine. The air and the food were invigorating after so long in that miserable hell-hole. My stomach, however, did not thank me for the change in diet, and I voided its contents over the taffrail as the commander and his guards looked on, laughing. I was excused duties on board, and was left to my own devices. Mostly, I sat on the quarterdeck, out of the way of the captain and the helmsman, watching the ocean clouds flit by and searching the horizon for other vessels.

On the third day, as lookouts scanned the grey-green waves around us, I was resting below decks, eating a light breakfast, when they came for me. Two marines hauled me up to the quarterdeck, where the commander was waiting.

            ‘On your knees’, he barked in poor Latin. A heavy hand pushed me to the smooth wooden planking. My heart raced as I tried to work out what was happening.

            The commander was holding the scroll. ‘Hasdrubal ordered me to open it when we were well clear of the shore’, he said, by way of explanation. His face was devoid of emotion. ‘It orders your immediate execution, Marcus Tiberius Varus.’ He snapped the scroll shut and tossed it over the side. ‘It’s not only the damned Spanish that we cannot trust in this war. You Romans are even worse.’

            Panicking, I searched my thoughts. I had been meticulous in my deception, genuine in my debates with Hasdrubal. And then it came to me. Cyprianus. The wretch. Not only had he surrendered, staining his honour, he must have told Hasdrubal of my plan that I confided in him one cold evening in the dungeon, when I so desperately needed a confessor. With a start I recalled that I had no memory of a Cyprianus in the Second… it was a large unit, to be sure, but we had fought long and hard together over the past few years. I was so eager to find solace in a comrade from my own unit that I had been swindled even as I tried to swindle Hasdrubal. I began to doubt everything. Was Cyprianus a shit-eating mole, placed there by Hasdrubal? All the time I thought I was fulfilling the roach’s training maxims, but I was being manipulated.

            ‘Do you have anything to say?’ the commander asked me.

            I just kneeled in stunned silence. I had survived the battlefield only to meet my death here, no sword in my hand, no glory in combat; just a Carthaginian trireme and a bottomless sea. So this was how it would end.

            ‘Alright, throw him overboard. Helmsman! Come right until the sun is directly to our rear. Shape course for Tarentum.’

            The marines picked me up. I was going to be tossed into the sea like so much garbage.

            ‘Sir, ships fine on the port bow!’ Came the shout of one of the lookouts. ‘Two… no, three! Triremes, no sails. Coming straight for us.’

            ‘Action stations!’ yelled the commander. ‘And get him out of here!’

            Numb with terror, I was picked up by the marines, and carried to the side of the vessel. They heaved me overboard; the painted transom of the vessel, showing a mermaid grasping a trident, flashed past my eyes and I hit the water, gulping in a mouthful as I went under. I was a decent swimmer, but this far out to sea I did not fancy my chances. Still, every nerve in me screamed for survival, and so I pulled myself to the surface, shook the water from my eyes, and then watched as the drama unfolded in front of me.

            Four triremes, not three, were bearing down hard on the Carthaginian warship, which had turned to face the threat. Two of the unknown ships veered sharply to the left in a flanking manoeuver, while the other two held their course. The Carthaginian sail was down now, and the oarsmen were at their posts, pulling hard. I could just make out the marines closed up on the quarterdeck, protecting their commander, as arrows from the attacking vessels rained down onto the enemy ship. In a flicker of movement, the Carthaginian ship was enveloped on each side, and the momentum of the attacking vessels sheared the Carthaginian oars from their mountings, slewing the Carthaginian vessel around and then bringing it to a halt. The marines were still there, I could see, desperately crouching behind their shields. I looked around frantically—I stood now at the edge of rescue or certain death, for the attacking vessels were undeniably Roman. They carried on their prows a boarding spike that could be buried into an enemy warship and allow our marines to swarm their opponents.

            Where were the other two ships? I treaded water, turning my head this way and that. And then a sickening crunch came as the lead vessel rammed the Carthaginian ship. The boarding spike dropped, and Roman marines pressed across the gangway, cutting down their opponents. If only they could see me! I waved madly and yelled as loudly as I could, but as the marines completed their butchery, they were called back by a trumpet blast as the Carthaginian ship began to settle rapidly by the bow. The ramming vessel backed oars with some urgency, extricating itself, and with the last Roman back on board, all four vessels began to back away.

            ‘Help! Help me!’ I screamed hoarsely. But nobody heard me. I was just another piece of detritus floating in a sea amidst the wreckage of a foundering warship. On board the Carthaginian vessel, the mast snapped in two and collapsed, and the stern rose, standing in the air at an impossible angle, dead men and bits of equipment falling into the sea, before the keel broke and the ship fell in on itself into the cool embrace of the waiting waves.

            ‘Help!’ I yelled again, but it was hopeless. The four triremes were receding into the distance, drawn along with the current, raising their sails and hunting for  fresh prey. With the Carthaginian ship sunk, I swam for those parts of it that were floating in the ripples and eddies that marked its passing. I hauled myself onto a piece of the hull, and lay down, my chest heaving, drained of all my energy. So here was my plan, come to fruition: the gods were surely playing with me, and punishing me for my betrayal.

I was shipwrecked, three days from land, and without a vessel in sight.  

Next Chapter: Chapter Ten - Rebirth