by Ben Kane
Atia struck her across the face. ‘How dare you speak to me in that manner?’
‘I hate you!’ Aurelia turned and fled the way they had come.
Her mother’s cries followed her, but she paid them no heed.
Chapter VI
Near Arretium, north-central Italy
UNSURPRISINGLY, CALATINUS WASN’T too happy about Quintus’ plan. They’d had their first real argument over it, but Quintus would not back down. As a placatory gesture, he’d asked Calatinus to come with him, but his friend had laughed. ‘If you think I’m going to give up being a cavalryman to become a veles, you’re insane.’ Calatinus had thought for a moment. ‘Clearly, you are insane, or you wouldn’t be doing this. Desertion is a serious crime. The oath you swore when you enlisted in the cavalry hasn’t been set aside yet, remember?’
‘I’ll still be serving,’ Quintus had shot back.
‘Your father won’t know that. No one will, except me, and I won’t be able to say. You’ll be called a traitor, and worse. All that risk, when you might well be back serving within the year?’
‘What if Hannibal is defeated in the next few months? I would forever be known in Capua as the man-child sent home by his father, who missed all the fighting. Could you live with that?’
Calatinus had seen the resolve in his eyes and thrown his hands in the air. ‘You’re going on your own. I’m having nothing to do with it.’
‘Fine,’ Quintus had said, more determined than ever. The draw of fighting with men who hadn’t run away from the Carthaginians was too great, especially when compared to helping run the family farm, which is what his mother would have him do. His fear that he would be known as someone who had not quite done his duty was very real. More than once, he had heard of the guilt suffered by soldiers who had missed a critical battle through injury.
They had got drunk together afterwards, and the following morning, when they’d had to leave, there had been no hard feelings. Calatinus had sworn not to say a word to anyone. Two days out from Flaminius’ camp – Quintus had ridden with his friend ostensibly to spend a last period of time together – he stopped to answer a call of nature and casually told the others not to wait for him. Calatinus had whispered a blessing and then ridden off with a cheery wave, saying he didn’t want to be around to smell the results of Quintus’ efforts.
Quintus waited for a short while before he headed back the way they had come. He rode hard but with care, moving off the road if he saw any Roman troops. Until he got close to the camp, it was imperative that he avoid being seen by anyone in Flaminius’ forces. After the comradeship of the previous months, it was odd sleeping out in the open and alone, but solitude, a little fire and the sound of wolves howling from the nearby mountains soon won him over. The following day, he rode to within five miles of Flaminius’ camp before reluctantly setting free his mount. There was little else he could do with it. He had to appear as poor as possible. With a little luck, the animal would be caught by a patrol. His few personal possessions were with Calatinus, and in the shelter of a thicket, he dumped his helmet, spear and shield, retaining only a simple dagger. Quintus stripped naked and donned his oldest clothes: a worn licium, or undergarment, and a roughly spun, off-white wool tunic. He even threw away his beloved calf-high leather boots in favour of a pair of caligae that he’d bought a few days earlier.
The magnitude of what he was about to do began to sink in as he set out on the road once more. The first patrol that passed by, a troop of Numidians, almost rode him down when Quintus didn’t move out of the way in time. A group of hastati were next, tramping by without so much as a second glance. Quintus doubted that many of them even saw him. His determination faltered a little. The things that he had thought about – dreaded – were about to become reality. He was starting life at the bottom of the social ladder. Apart from the few slaves in camp, everyone would regard him as inferior. It would take months, if not years, to achieve any kind of recognition. That was if he wasn’t killed in the first battle he took part in. Casualty rates among velites were often high. Quintus rallied his courage. I should have died at the Trebia, he told himself, but I didn’t. There’s no reason to suppose I’ll do so any quicker as a skirmisher. By doing this, I get to stay and fight Hannibal instead of being stuck at home. The certainty that he was doing the right thing solidified.
Quintus couldn’t help but think of his father, incandescent with fury, hearing the news that he hadn’t arrived home. It was very satisfying and brought a smile to his face. Seeing the gates of the camp, his pace increased. When he reached the velites on the gate, his pretence would begin. Quintus’ nerves jangled, but he had his story ready. They would ask what his business was, and he’d tell them that he was one of Fabricius’ servants. That would be enough to get him inside, to gain an audience with an officer. Then he’d find a section of velites. He wanted to approach the skirmishers who were attached to a maniple of triarii or principes, but there was no way that would work. As a ‘raw’ recruit with no officer to sponsor him, he would have to join the velites who served with a unit of hastati. On the upside, that meant he could seek out Corax, who had seemed a decent sort.
He found the centurion easily enough this time. As was standard, the tents of the maniple’s two centuries faced each other across a rectangular space perhaps a hundred paces in width. The side nearest the camp avenue lay open. Opposite it were the maniple’s wagons and mule pens. Corax was sitting by a table outside his large tent, spooning stew into his mouth. The other manipular centurion sat alongside, hacking a small loaf into pieces with a dagger. A servant was pouring wine. No one noticed Quintus, which made him even more nervous. He kept moving, until eventually the second centurion, a blocky man with receding black hair, looked up with a frown. ‘What do you want?’
‘I came to have a word with Centurion Corax, sir, if I may.’
Corax threw him a casual glance. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I met you once before, sir, during the winter,’ said Quintus, keeping his accent coarse. ‘I brought a message. You mentioned that there were places for men like me in the velites.’
Corax put down his spoon and eyed him up and down. ‘Ah, yes. You’re the servant of that cavalry commander.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Please don’t ask me about him, thought Quintus, his heart racing. With any luck, Corax would have forgotten his father’s name.
‘So you’ve changed your mind, eh?’
Quintus had his story ready. ‘It’s time for me to do my bit, sir. Hannibal has to be stopped, or the whole of the Republic could go up in flames.’
A nod of approval. ‘Has your master given his consent?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus threw up another prayer that there were no more questions.
‘You have no farm, no land?’
‘My father works a tiny patch, sir, but it’s not worth much. He has to work on the local estate to make ends meet,’ lied Quintus, humbly. He couldn’t make any pretence of being richer, in case Corax asked him to prove his status.
‘As I thought. What’s your name? Where are you from?’
‘Quintus Crespo, sir,’ said Quintus. He couldn’t use his real family name just in case his father ever heard it. ‘I’m from near Capua.’
‘What age are you?’
‘Eighteen, sir.’ There was a short pause, and Quintus began to feel sick.
‘Clearly, there’s no chance of taking your oath in Rome, so you can enlist right now.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ Quintus couldn’t stop himself from grinning.
‘Sixteen years you’ll be signing up for.’ Corax’s deep-set eyes regarded him unwaveringly.
‘Maybe twenty – if we don’t defeat Hannibal soon,’ added the other centurion with a laugh.
‘It won’t take that long to beat the gugga, sir,’ Quintus declared.
‘Not with you in our army, eh?’ The centurion chuckled, and Quintus flushed.
‘He’s eager, Pullo. Nothing wrong with that.’ Corax stood
up and approached Quintus. ‘Ready?’
Quintus swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Repeat after me: I, a citizen of the Republic . . .’
‘I, a citizen of the Republic . . .’ said Quintus.
‘. . . swear to bear allegiance to the Republic, and to defend it against its enemies.’ Corax paused to let Quintus echo his words. ‘I will obey my officers, and execute their orders as far as is in my power. This I swear before the sacred triad of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva.’
Worrying about how his new promise might affect the vow he’d made when first enlisting, Quintus repeated the last words. With luck, he thought, the gods would see his desire to fight for Rome as more important than the fact that he had disobeyed his father’s orders, thereby effectively deserting from the cavalry. Acid roiled in his belly. He had to hope that they didn’t disapprove, or he’d be a dead man in the first action he saw.
‘Excellent.’ Corax clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the velites, Crespo, and to my maniple!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Quintus, feeling his nerves settle a little.
‘First things first. You need to be assigned to a tent unit. Then a trip to the quartermaster to get your equipment and weapons. Your training starts tomorrow.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Corax pointed. ‘Do you see the mule pens on this side?’
Quintus peered. ‘I do, sir.’
‘The velites’ tents are down there, beside them.’
Where the smell of piss and manure will be strongest, thought Quintus. ‘I see them, sir.’
‘The second last tent is one man down. Go and make yourself known. One of the others will tell you where to find the stores. I will see you at dawn tomorrow. Dismissed.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ Quintus saluted, turned about face and walked off. ‘The lad is still wet behind the ears,’ he heard Pullo say. His anger flared, but he kept walking.
‘Maybe so, but he’s eager. I think he’ll do all right,’ replied Corax.
Quintus’ fury subsided. Corax saw something in him. It was up to him to prove it to the centurion, and to the gods, so that they let him get away with breaking his cavalry oath.
A few hastati nodded as he passed, or muttered a greeting, but most gave him nothing more than a hard stare. Quintus stopped smiling, and set a scowl to his face. Life here wasn’t going to be easy.
Outside the second last tent, half a dozen young men in dirty tunics sat in a circle, finishing off the last of their meal. No stew, as Corax and Pullo had had. It looked to be bread and cheese. A couple of them looked up.
‘Centurion Corax sent me,’ said Quintus.
‘Oh yes?’ sneered a tall soldier with vivid blond hair. ‘To kiss my arse?’
‘I’ve just joined. Crespo is the name.’
‘What do I care?’
‘I’m to sleep in this tent.’
There were universal groans. ‘Bloody typical. Just as we’re getting used to a little more space, Corax has to ruin it,’ complained a short man with ears like jug handles.
Quintus was confused.
The short man explained. ‘There are eight hastati to a contubernium, but not when it comes to the velites. Your arrival brings us back to full strength, so ten of us have to sleep in that.’ He jabbed a thumb at the tent behind him. ‘Someone like Rutilus here’ – and he indicated an effeminate-looking man – ‘doesn’t mind, but the rest of us find it a tight fit.’
There were loud chortles, and Rutilus shrugged. ‘What can I say? I love it.’
‘Arse-lover,’ snarled the tall soldier.
‘Don’t worry, Macerio, I don’t find you attractive,’ retorted Rutilus. ‘You won’t ever find me crawling into your blankets. Unless you ask, of course.’
‘Watch your mouth!’ Macerio lunged forward, but Rutilus danced out of range.
More laughter, and Quintus smiled.
‘You think it’s funny, do you?’ Macerio’s attention was on him like that of a hawk.
A first test. Although Macerio was bigger than him, it was vital that he wasn’t seen as a pushover. ‘It was amusing, yes,’ Quintus replied calmly.
Macerio came at Quintus with swinging fists. ‘Time you learned a lesson in manners then, new boy!’
‘This is stupid.’ Quintus backed away from the first punches, but Macerio followed, scorn twisting his face.
‘Look, lads! We’ve got ourselves a coward as a tent mate.’
Quintus thought of the ambush he’d survived, and of the Trebia, where he’d stood his ground until his father had led him away. His blood boiled. For all he knew, Macerio hadn’t even been in the velites then. ‘I’m no coward!’
‘No?’ Macerio jabbed at his face, one-two. The second half connected with Quintus’ cheek, sending stars shooting across his vision. He dodged backwards. ‘No!’ he growled. Worry clawed at him. If he lost, his life in the velites would be even more of a struggle. He had to win. Anger makes a man lose his cool, he thought. ‘You know what? Rutilus was being kind. You’re the ugliest son of a whore I’ve seen in many a day. Who’d want to fuck you?’
‘Cocksucker!’ Spittle flew from Macerio’s lips.
‘Get him, Macerio!’ a man called out.
Quintus heard at least two others voicing their support. Other than the fact that it wouldn’t have been Rutilus, he had no time to dwell on who the tall man’s allies might be. His reach was less than Macerio’s, so he was going to have to close to make contact. Protecting his face with his fists and hunching his shoulders, Quintus went on the attack. He moved so fast that Macerio was caught off guard. A punch whistled over his head, and then he was through. Thump, thump. He landed two solid blows on Macerio’s belly. There was a squawk of pain. Quintus delivered another punch for good measure before bobbing away on dancing feet. Hopefully, that would teach Macerio to leave him alone.
‘You bastard!’ wheezed Macerio, his eyes bulging with anger.
‘You started it,’ Quintus replied, rubbing his bruised cheek.
‘Aye, and I’m going to finish it.’ Enraged, Macerio came on again.
Quintus cursed silently. He should have put Macerio on the floor. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. They traded blows for a time, neither able to gain an advantage over the other. Macerio’s right fist was lethally fast. He caught Quintus a couple of times with it in the side of the head, leaving a ringing in his ears. A few more of those, Quintus thought, and the fight would be over. Concerned that his new life would be made infinitely harder if Macerio won, he resolved to win by whatever means necessary. It wasn’t as if the blond-haired man wouldn’t act in the same way. Quintus had narrowly avoided a kick in the balls a moment before, and he’d seen Macerio throwing meaningful looks at his watching comrades. If I’m not careful, thought Quintus, a shove in the back from one of them will give the prick all the advantage he needs.
Quintus never usually fought dirty, but being outnumbered so greatly really made him want to hurt Macerio. He scooped up a short, bent nail from the ground, the likes of which were used to scratch an owner’s initials on his equipment.
Macerio’s expression turned evil. ‘Going to try and blind me with a handful of dirt, are you?’ His gaze shifted. ‘Knock the fucker over if you get a chance, lads!’
Several men cheered, and Quintus’ stomach twisted. Macerio hadn’t seen the nail, but he had still just made things worse for himself. There was nothing for it. Using the nail was imperative now. He launched a ferocious attack on Macerio, throwing punch after punch with his left fist, but saving his right, which held the nail. Surprised, the blond-haired man fell back before his assault, and Quintus managed to thump him hard in the belly several times. Macerio’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, and Quintus took his chance. With the nail protruding between his second and third fingers, he raked a blow across Macerio’s cheek. A shriek of pain tore the air as the iron ripped a deep furrow in his opponent’s flesh. Quintus didn’t let up. With all of his strengt
h, he threw a left uppercut at Macerio’s chin. There was a loud crack; Quintus felt an intense pain in his left fist, and Macerio went down on to the flat of his back.
Quintus stood back, chest heaving, nursing his left hand. Macerio lay unmoving before him. The fight was over. The gods be thanked, Quintus thought. I’ve won. Rutilus and the jug-eared man were cheering, while Macerio’s comrades had rushed to his side. Casually, Quintus let the nail drop. In the chaos, no one would see. He scanned the watching faces and was relieved to see respect in a few. More scowled at him, however, and Quintus knew that he might well have to fight them later. An already-enlisted man being beaten by a new recruit would not be popular.
‘You piece of filth! No one pulls a trick like that on me!’ Macerio’s voice came out of the blue.
Quintus turned in shock. The blond-haired man had been helped up by his friends. Runnels of blood were flowing down his left cheek, and there was murder in his eyes. ‘Let’s finish this. Properly,’ he snarled, hooking his fingers into claws. ‘Be interesting to see how you fare as a veles when missing an eyeball.’
Astonished that Macerio was on his feet again and genuinely worried how the fight might now end, Quintus stepped forward. Intent on second-guessing the other’s next move, he didn’t see the foot that had been stuck in his path. Quintus tripped over it and went sprawling forward on to his face. Even as he tried to roll away and get up, Macerio was on him as fast as a hunting dog on a hare. A kick to his belly drove the air from Quintus’ lungs in a whoosh of agony. As he struggled to catch his breath, Macerio dropped to his knees alongside him. He began raining punches on to Quintus’ torso and head. ‘Think you can just strut in here like you own the place, do you?’
‘That’s enough, Macerio,’ said a voice.
‘Piss off, Rutilus, or I’ll do the same to you!’ Macerio shot back.
Quintus tried weakly to protect himself, but Macerio just swatted his arms aside and landed another flurry of blows to his face. The pain was intense. Quintus was unable to retaliate, even less to stop his opponent. His vision was already blurred and he could taste blood in his mouth. A faraway voice was telling him to get up, to fight back, but his strength was gone. He’s going to beat me into unconsciousness, he thought dimly. Then blind me.
