by Ben Kane
‘We’re honoured, sir,’ said Quintus. ‘When is the meeting to take place?’
‘Tomorrow. Just after dawn, before it gets too hot.’
‘What other troops will there be, sir?’ asked Quintus.
‘A century of extraordinarii. You all know what those stuck-up pricks think of themselves, so your gear will have to be parade-ground standard. Anyone’s that isn’t will have me to answer to.’
Quintus’ comrades grumbled under their breaths at the extra work that Corax had handed to them, but they were happy enough. The prospect of seeing the enemy defences close up was exciting, and best of all, thought Quintus, Pera wouldn’t be present.
Corax inspected his century when the rising sun was still tingeing the eastern horizon. They had formed up in the square space created by their tents and mule pens, eight men abreast and six deep. The fifteen velites stood off to one side in a small block. Hypothetically, there would have been eighty soldiers in total, but that hadn’t been the case as long as Quintus could remember. Four men were in the camp hospital with fevers, or inflamed eyes. Two were recovering from injury and the rest were dead. Replacements would come in time, but there was no knowing when or where. The legions on Sicily weren’t exactly a priority to the Senate.
Despite their diminished numbers, they looked good, Quintus conceded. The triple feathers atop their shining helmets moved gently in the dawn breeze. Mail shirts that were normally obscured by rust glistened silver. Vigorous polishing had turned the bronze fittings on belts and straps an alluring gold colour. The hastati seemed to stand more proudly as a result.
Quintus felt a trace of nerves as Corax began his inspection. Being on constant campaign didn’t have many consolations, but one was that kit inspection and parade duties were almost non-existent. It had been so long since Quintus had had to prepare his gear for Corax’s eagle-eyed scrutiny that he worried he’d forgotten all the details. It appeared that others found themselves in the same predicament. Every few paces, Corax growled his disapproval over a belt that hadn’t been sufficiently polished, or a fingerprint that was visible on a shield boss. To Quintus’ surprise, though, he didn’t come in for any criticism. He muttered his thanks to Urceus. His friend, who also survived Corax’s examination, had helped him to get ready.
Corax gave the hastati he’d picked out a short time to right their mistakes; the rest were allowed to stand at ease. When he was happy with the penitents, he marched the century to the area of open ground that lay just inside the camp walls. They arrived moments before the extraordinarii, which was pleasing. Their centurion scowled as Corax greeted him, which increased the hastati’s enjoyment. Quintus spotted Sattio, who looked as pissed off as his commander about being second to arrive. Good enough for him, he thought, the dour prick.
Yet his spirits fell as the group of officers who were to undertake the negotiations appeared. It wasn’t the two tribunes who concerned him, but Pera. Smug-faced as ever, he was resplendent in a transverse-crested helmet and shining cuirass.
‘The whoreson gets everywhere,’ Quintus muttered to Urceus.
‘He’s Marcellus’ cousin. Do I need to say more?’
Urceus’ attempt to reassure Quintus was partially successful. Nonetheless, he was careful to lower his helmet a little so that it covered more of his forehead, and to aim his gaze at the ground. Pera would know he was here because of Corax’s presence, but if he kept himself from view, nothing could go wrong. Could it?
The party set out with the extraordinarii in the lead, as they would be when the army marched. Pera and the tribunes came behind the allied soldiers, along with a number of trumpeters, scribes and slaves. Corax and his hastati were positioned next, and the velites took up the rear.
The party took the safest route, the track that ran along the inside of the Roman fortifications. Only when they were close to the Galeagra tower did they pass through a gate into no man’s land. To the credit of the extraordinarii, their pace did not slow, but that didn’t stop a frisson of nervousness rippling up and down Quintus’ spine as they left the safety of their lines. His comrades’ faces were marked with tension, and even Corax seemed on edge. Yet the truce held. No missiles were launched as they drew close to the city walls.
Their destination lay to the east of the Hexapyla and adjacent to the Trogilus harbour, an anchorage that had formerly been used by the Syracusans to unload merchant goods for transport into the city. The area was now under Roman control, but it had fallen into disuse, thanks to the enemy artillery. When the chance arose, Quintus and his comrades were fond of swimming in its shallows – under the cover of darkness.
Leaving the water at their backs, the column made its way towards the Galeagra, a squat, hexagonal affair that guarded the point where the fortress walls met both sea and land. It was unsettling to see defenders lining the parapet in silence, their weapons kept from sight. Yet as Corax muttered, they couldn’t show the bastards anything but a brave face. So the hastati marched on, chins jutting, with their shields held high. Knowledge that a truce was in place didn’t mean that treachery was out of the question. There were plenty of men whispering prayers. There was nothing wrong with asking the gods for protection that might not be needed; Quintus did the same. Better that than to end up dead.
Nearing the gate, the column came to a halt. The extraordinarii took up a position to the left, nearest the sea, while the hastati stood to their right. The tribunes, with Pera and their entourage in attendance, advanced a short distance before the soldiers. The trumpeter sounded his instrument. It was a mangled version of the ‘recall’, a derisive set of notes that delivered a peremptory summons to the Syracusans and which amused every Roman present.
The Syracusans must have realised the insulting nature of the trumpet call because there was no response for over an hour. During this time, the tribunes had the trumpeter play twice more, but it made no difference. Although the ramparts remained full of spectators, the gate remained firmly shut until the sun was high in the sky. The legionaries were cooking in their armour, and a couple of men reached for their water skins, but Corax’s threats soon put paid to that. Appearances were everything, and so their thirst had to wait.
When the gate did finally open, there was no warning. The tension shot up, but Corax was quick to mutter reassurances, and his men settled. The troops who emerged in a double file were similar to the Syracusan infantry that Quintus had encountered before. Dressed like Greek hoplites, they bore large round shields and long thrusting spears. He counted them as they formed a defensive line. At eighty, a party of officers in muscled cuirasses and Hellenic helmets walked out. They watched the Romans from a spot by the gate as the first section of their troops moved into a mini phalanx some fifty paces from Corax’s maniple. A second set of eighty soldiers followed; they formed up opposite the extraordinarii. The Syracusan officers then paced to stand facing their Roman counterparts.
‘This feels bloody weird,’ said Urceus, glaring at the Syracusans. ‘Let’s fight these goat-fuckers!’
As he so often did, Corax overheard. ‘That’s not why we’re here,’ he called in a low voice. ‘We keep a watchful eye on this lot, and that’s it, unless one of the tribunes says so. So help me, great Jupiter, if a single man among you as much as scratches his balls without my saying so, I will personally shove a sword in his guts.’ He broke formation and marched up and down the front rank, eyeballing every hastatus. Urceus in particular was careful not to meet his gaze. ‘Do you hear me?’ His tone was low but threatening.
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied meekly.
A moment later, one of the Syracusan officers approached the tribunes. He was shieldless, and held his hands up to indicate his peaceful intentions. Twenty steps from the Romans, he stopped. After a brief pause, Pera paced out to meet him. They spoke, and each man returned to his superiors. Next, Corax was summoned by the tribunes. He came back wearing a big grin. ‘We’re to guard the officers, not the sodding extraordinarii.’
A p
leased murmur rose from the hastati. This was more honour than they’d expected. It was always a sore point among citizen infantry that a group of allied troops protected the consul. Tradition or no, it rankled. This went a small way to redress the balance.
Corax didn’t waste any time. He took the first five ranks of eight men, Quintus and Urceus among them, and had them form in an open square. With the tribunes and Pera safely inside, they marched to meet the Syracusans, who responded by also moving forward with a similar number of men. The tension rose once more. Not a soldier present – on either side – had ever been this close to the enemy without intending to kill them. Who would order his men to stop first? wondered Quintus. They drew close enough to see the strain they all felt mirrored in the Syracusans’ faces, and then the sweat beading below the rims of their helmets. Still no order came to halt. Shit, thought Quintus. What will happen if we hit them?
Five paces separated the groups when a command in Greek had the enemy soldiers grind to a stop. It was followed a heartbeat later by a similar order from the senior tribune. The victory, while tiny, gave the hastati an instant feeling of superiority. They sneered over their shields at the Syracusans, who glowered back.
‘Open ranks!’ cried Corax.
The same instruction was repeated in Greek.
The four Romans came together with a quartet of Syracusans not a dozen paces from where Quintus stood. To his surprise, Kleitos was one of the enemy officers. He looked as arrogant as ever. Like Pera, he appeared to be there to act as an intermediary for his superiors.
Quintus and every other man within earshot – Roman or Syracusan – listened in with all his might as polite greetings were exchanged, in Greek and Latin, and each set of officers introduced themselves. The decision was made to talk in Greek, as the tribunes – and particularly Pera – spoke it better than the Syracusans did Latin. Quintus was pleased; he’d be able to eavesdrop on the entire process. Enquiries were made as to the health of both Epicydes and Marcellus; both parties thanked the other for honouring the truce.
The flowery courtesies ceased at last, but the negotiations did not move fast. Initially, the tribunes denied that they were holding Damippus captive. Even when they had admitted it, their manner seemed to indicate that Marcellus’ commands were to spin things out as slowly as possible. The Syracusans responded in kind, acting as if they did not care one way or another whether Damippus was repatriated to them, or whether he ended up crucified. When Corax’s eyes were elsewhere, Quintus explained what was going on to Urceus.
The dialogue continued in similar vein. Pera seemed to be playing a larger role than Quintus would have thought, which annoyed him intensely. Pera’s reputation would grow from this. He diverted himself by studying the hoplites. As was to be expected, they seemed a solid lot. It wasn’t long before his eyes strayed to the Galeagra tower. Its size and position oozed strength and impregnability. One day, it might have to be taken, and an opportunity to study it was rare indeed.
Quintus tried not to think of the enemy artillery. It was best to assume that in any theoretical assault, he and his comrades would reach the wall in one piece. Things would not improve at the base of the tower, however. There they would have to resist withering barrages from the bolt throwers that poked from the gaps in the rampart. Many more men would die. Attacking the gate might seem preferable to climbing a ladder, but there were many paths to Hades. Even if they were under vineae, manmade tunnels covered with water-soaked leather panels, while they tried to batter down the gate, the Syracusans could kill them from above.
The damn city would never be taken, Quintus decided angrily. He and his comrades would spend the rest of their miserable lives besieging it, never free to return to Italy. About the only way to leave was to die at the foot of these defences.
His eyes wandered over the tower again. It was so well constructed. Great blocks of limestone had been stacked on top of each other with incredible precision. There wasn’t a trace of mortar present in the gaps between the stones. Quintus doubted that he could shove even the very tip of his gladius between them. Rumour from the legionaries stationed to the south of the city had it that the stone had been quarried from a site used to house Athenian soldiers taken prisoner by the Syracusans more than two centuries before. Some said that in ‘Dionysus’ Ear’, a leaf-shaped tunnel where the stonemasons’ chisel marks could still be seen, echoes and cries of the Athenians were regularly heard, that their essence had somehow soaked into the stones, giving the walls an invisible layer of protection.
An uneasy feeling settled over Quintus. It’s bullshit, he thought, remembering his father, who had been excellent at rubbishing such rumours. ‘Unless you can talk to the man who saw stones falling from the sky, or statues moving on their plinths,’ Fabricius had been fond of saying, ‘do not believe a word you hear.’ The wall needed no unearthly aid anyway. Its sheer solidity and height were enough to keep out any attackers. To either side of the Galeagra, it was eight large blocks tall. The tower itself was two courses higher than that.
He blinked.
A hoplite had just walked out of the gate. Raising a hand to his eyes against the sun, he moved to the left of the entrance and stood for a moment, searching for someone. That didn’t interest Quintus especially. What did was the fact that the hoplite had placed himself right at the base of the wall, and that he was roughly twice the height of one of the stone blocks. The realisation hit him like a lightning bolt. Far away, and without a man standing before it, the wall appeared much taller than it actually was. ‘The damn thing’s not as high as it looks!’ he hissed.
Urceus gave him an odd look. ‘Eh?’
‘Look,’ ordered Quintus, but the hoplite had moved. Ignoring Urceus’ confusion, Quintus craned his head to see where Corax was. His centurion was busy talking to Pera for some reason; Quintus had to bite his lip. He wanted to tell Corax, but it was out of the question at that moment. And if he did it later, there’d be no way of proving his theory. Corax wouldn’t go to Marcellus unless he had proof. There was nothing he could do.
They were all out at Galeagra again the next morning, but not the junior tribune. According to the gossip, he had come down with a fever. In his absence, Pera played more of a part than he had during the first meeting with the Syracusans. This was to become the tone of the next two days: the lone tribune and Pera haggling with the enemy officers over the price for Damippus. Progress was slow but steady. One evening, Quintus was utterly incensed to hear Corax complaining to Vitruvius. He’d been in the mule pen to feed the beast belonging to the contubernium when the two centurions appeared. It had been a gut instinct to duck out of sight, and their conversation had proved his intuition right.
‘At this rate, the prick will be made an equestrian,’ Corax growled. ‘I wouldn’t mind if Pera had any real ability, but I’ve yet to see any. He’s an arrogant fucking hothead, who happens to have a golden tongue.’
‘He’s also related to Marcellus,’ said Vitruvius wryly. ‘That helps.’
‘Aye.’ Corax spat. ‘And if his hare-brained plan comes to ought, we’ll never hear the end of how Pera was responsible for the fall of Syracuse.’
‘What plan?’
Quintus listened with all of his might.
Corax snorted. ‘Apparently Pera has been getting on well with one of the Syracusans, who has a real taste for Gaulish wine. It’s in short supply at the moment, for obvious reasons. Pera’s been telling the tribune that they should run in a shipload of wine to the Syracusan, using the fishermen. That would be the start, but if he proved amenable, gold would follow. So too would the promise of a position of high authority – once the city has been turned over to our forces.’
‘It’s audacious, I’ll give Pera that. Would it work, though?’
‘Even if it doesn’t, it keeps Pera’s nose in Marcellus’ arse crack.’
While he hated to hear of Pera’s successes, this was a welcome revelation to Quintus. Corax might side with a fellow centurion against
him, but the truth of it was that he detested Pera.
‘It might be a little smelly, but it’s a good place to be if you want to climb the social ladder,’ said Vitruvius with a chuckle.
‘You and I aren’t built like that, old friend.’
‘We’re not, thank the gods, but there are plenty of men like Pera. The worst of it is that Marcellus can’t see sycophants for what they are.’
‘Aye, he just laps up the attention. And Pera …’ Corax paused for a moment before adding: ‘I don’t think that there’s much he wouldn’t do to get where he wants.’
‘I hope you’re wrong there,’ said Vitruvius.
‘As do I.’
The centurions’ voices diminished as they walked away.
Pera’s strategy with the Syracusan officer might come to nothing, thought Quintus, but if it did, his rise to pre-eminence would be assured. He would be posted elsewhere, and Quintus would lose his chance to avenge Marius’ death. That stuck in his gullet like a splintered chicken bone. At this point, a mad plan hatched in his brain. What if he were the one to hand Corax the means to take the city?
Chapter XXI
‘YOU WANT ME to leave my post, climb down into no man’s land in the pitch dark and walk to the bottom of the city walls, so that you can measure them?’ Urceus’ voice cracked a little on the second last word.
‘Not so loud,’ urged Quintus. It was night-time in the Roman camp, and some time since they’d retired to their blankets, but that didn’t mean the four others were asleep, or that the men in the neighbouring tents were.
‘Do I sound as if I have taken leave of my senses?’ Urceus’ eyes were pools of black disbelief. ‘I grant you that the Syracusans might not hear us, but what if you’re wrong about the height of the stones? What if this is all for nothing?’
