Fields of Blood h-2

by Ben Kane

  As Macerio fell into conversation with Urceus, Quintus tried not to let his displeasure show. The sooner an opportunity presented itself for him to slip a blade between his enemy’s ribs, he thought, the better. The clatter of hooves brought him back to the present. As a small party of cavalrymen rode up to the tribune’s tent, he was stunned to recognise Calatinus. Older, leaner, with new lines on his thin face, but still the same sturdily built man whom he’d known since before the Trebia. Quintus turned his head so that Calatinus wouldn’t see him. Whatever happened, Macerio must not get so much as an inkling that they knew each other. One of the riders jumped down from his horse and approached. Quintus saluted. Beside him, he heard the others do the same. He eyed the man, similar in age to his father, whom he was relieved not to recognise. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Is the tribune about?’

  ‘No, sir. You’ll find him at the camp headquarters.’

  ‘I see. My thanks.’ He turned away.

  ‘Sir.’ Quintus looked at the ground, willing Calatinus not to see him. A moment or two passed; he heard the rider who’d questioned him mount up and tell his companions what had been said. The horses began to move off. A relieved breath left Quintus’ lips.

  ‘Soldier!’

  Quintus froze. It was Calatinus’ voice.

  ‘Soldier! A word.’

  ‘One of them’s calling you,’ said Urceus.

  Quintus made a show of appearing surprised.

  ‘Best go and see what he wants,’ advised Urceus.

  ‘Get a move on, or we’ll all find ourselves on a charge thanks to you,’ added Macerio spitefully.

  Quintus threw his enemy a filthy look and walked towards Calatinus, his heart pounding. He was grateful that the other cavalrymen had already ridden off. ‘You called me, sir?’ he asked loudly.

  Calatinus made a show of lowering his voice a fraction, as if being conspiratorial. ‘Where might a man find an extra supply of wine round here?’

  From the corner of his eye, Quintus saw Macerio’s and Urceus’ knowing smiles. That was clever, he thought, as they began talking to each other. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, moving closer to Calatinus’ horse, ‘the man you want to talk to is. .’

  ‘Hail, Quintus!’ whispered Calatinus, struggling not to smile, and failing. ‘I prayed that you had made it this far.’

  ‘Gods, but it’s good to see you!’ Quintus couldn’t stop grinning either. He was glad to be holding his pilum and shield, otherwise the impulse to pull Calatinus into a bear hug might have been overwhelming. ‘How is it that you survived the ambush after Trasimene?’

  Calatinus’ face darkened. ‘Fortuna’s tits, I don’t know! The dogs came out of nowhere. My horse threw me when it was hit by an enemy spear. I was knocked out by the fall. When I woke up, there were two bodies on top of me. It was dark, and the enemy had vanished. All I had to do was crawl off into the woods and walk away.’ Shame filled his eyes. ‘I didn’t even strike a blow.’

  ‘That’s not your fault,’ hissed Quintus. ‘I’m glad. Because of what happened, you’re here.’ He glanced at Macerio, who was watching again. His stomach twisted. ‘As I say,’ and he pointed, ‘you’ll find him in the quartermaster’s offices.’

  Calatinus realised at once what he was about. ‘Near the quaestor’s tent?’

  ‘That’s the one, sir,’ Quintus replied.

  ‘Let’s have a talk tonight. My unit’s tents face on to the via praetoria. We’re the third lot in from the porta decumana,’ said Calatinus in an undertone. Then, at full volume, ‘I’m grateful, soldier.’ A silver coin flashed into the air.

  ‘I’ll find you,’ muttered Quintus, catching it. ‘Glad to be of service, sir,’ he added for Macerio’s and Urceus’ benefit. Calatinus rode off without as much as a backward glance; Quintus walked back to his comrades. He brandished the coin, a drachm. ‘That was easily earned!’

  ‘The things a man will do for the produce of the vine,’ said Urceus with a wicked grin.

  ‘It took a long time just to tell him where to find someone who’ll flog him some wine.’ Macerio’s eyes were bright with suspicion.

  ‘He asked me a few other things as well.’ Quintus tapped the side of his nose. ‘But they’re between him and me.’

  ‘Not happy with the arse bandit Severus, eh?’ jibed Macerio. ‘Urceus, he’s looking to be a cavalryman’s wife!’

  Quintus thumped his scutum into Macerio’s, sending the blond-haired man stumbling backwards. ‘Watch your fucking mouth!’

  ‘Can’t you take a joke?’ taunted Macerio.

  ‘Peace, lads.’ Urceus stepped between them. ‘We can’t be seen brawling outside a tribune’s tent. Not unless you want to spend the rest of the winter digging latrines.’

  At that moment, Quintus didn’t care. His pilum was already levelled at Macerio. If his enemy moved, he would skewer him through his shield.

  ‘Crespo,’ Urceus cried, ‘calm down! Someone will see. Macerio, step away.’

  Quintus shook his head, regained control. Urceus was right. It wasn’t worth being caught fighting by an officer. A few steps away, Macerio was already smiling as if nothing had happened. ‘It was just a joke,’ he said with a laugh.

  No it wasn’t, you whoreson, Quintus thought. I’ll get you, one day.

  ‘What’s got into you, Crespo?’ demanded Urceus. ‘Macerio was only trying to get a rise out of you. Everyone knows you’re not interested in men, like Severus or poor old Rutilus.’

  ‘Rutilus, eh?’ Quintus’ temper boiled over again. ‘Why don’t you ask Macerio here about him?’

  Urceus looked confused. ‘Ask him what?’

  ‘How he came to die from a wound in his back,’ said Quintus from between gritted teeth.

  ‘Well, there’s only one reason that men take an injury like that,’ replied Macerio smoothly. ‘And we all know what it is.’

  ‘You piece of filth!’ cried Quintus, pushing against Urceus. ‘Rutilus was no coward. He would never have run from the enemy.’

  ‘What are you saying then?’ growled Urceus, glancing from one to the other.

  ‘He’s just trying to cover up for his arse-loving friend,’ said Macerio with a snicker.

  The approach of the tribune whose tent they were guarding cut off all conversation. From then on, there were regular comings and goings, and Quintus had a chance to calm down. By the time Urceus asked him again and Macerio had returned to his post to the rear of the tent, he was able to explain what had happened the night that Hannibal had stampeded the cattle over the mountains.

  Urceus swore loud and long. ‘Can you prove this?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘How do you know it was Macerio then?’ Urceus gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Just because Rutilus had never run before doesn’t mean that he didn’t that night. Stranger things have happened, you know.’

  ‘It was Macerio. I’m sure of it,’ said Quintus adamantly. He recounted what had happened when they had ambushed the drunk Numidians, a lifetime before.

  Urceus became thoughtful. ‘It was stupid to throw so close to you, but it must have been a mistake. I’ve made throws like that during combat myself. Macerio and you have never got along, right from the beginning, but he’s a good lad at heart. He’s not the type to try and murder a comrade, let alone two.’

  Quintus could see that he was banging his head against a wall. ‘You believe the best of people, that’s why you don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Macerio is a snake in the grass.’

  ‘I’m sorry you think that.’ Urceus shook his head. ‘It’d be easy enough to sort out your differences over a few drinks. I’d make sure you didn’t come to blows.’

  ‘I’d rather throw myself off the Tarpeian Rock!’

  ‘Fair enough,’ replied Urceus regretfully.

  An awkward silence fell. It lasted for the remainder of their duty. Quintus fell to thinking about Calatinus. The knowledge that his friend was alive and well lifted his spirits no end. Tonight, they’d
be able to catch up with one another. He’d bring some wine; it would be just like old times, when they had got pissed together in Cisalpine Gaul. For an instant he sobered, remembering that he and Calatinus were the only survivors of the four tent mates from that period, a year before. When the war started again, how long would it be before either — or both — of them were also killed? All the more reason to live in the present, Quintus told himself, for tomorrow we die. A jar of wine and a good natter with Calatinus — that was what counted at this moment.

  Quintus cast frequent but casual looks behind him until he was out of sight of the maniple’s tent lines. He made towards the open space that lay inside the earthen wall. From there, he could go straight to the porta decumana and then up the via praetoria. Moving between the tents would have been quicker, but he risked breaking his neck on guy ropes in the dark. He’d told Urceus that he was going to chat to a possible contact who could obtain sheepskins at a reasonable price. ‘This will help me get a good bargain,’ he had said, waving the beaker of wine. Urceus hadn’t argued; used to his comings and goings, the rest of the contubernium had hardly noticed him leave the tent.

  Other soldiers were about too; searching out locations where there was gambling or wine to be bought, or just talking outside their tents. There were even some madmen sprinting against each other, watched by a cheering crowd of their friends. The atmosphere was relaxed, even party-like. Quintus felt much the same way. Everyone knew that there would be no real fighting until the spring; with their day’s duties done, it was time to relax. Soldiers were free to come and go until the second watch of the night, so why not make the most of it? For those who were on duty, however, it was a different matter. Atop the wall, the sentries — velites all — marched to and fro. Quintus was grateful that he no longer had to perform this, the coldest of duties.

  It wasn’t hard to find the cavalry tent lines, which, apart from the first unit, faced on to the via praetoria. Their rectangular layout was the same as those of the infantry: an open side, two lines of tents opposite each other and, at the far end, the pens for the horses making up the fourth side. Counting carefully, Quintus made his way to Calatinus’ section. It was here that he began to feel self-conscious, and a little wistful. As a cavalryman, he had taken his elevated status for granted. Now he was a lowly hastatus, far below the social status of Calatinus and the rest of his turma. Life would have been much easier if he’d stayed where he was. That fantasy lasted until Quintus thought of his father, and his intention to send him home. Squaring his shoulders, he made for a group of figures standing outside one of the tents. Engrossed in conversation, they did not notice him approach through the gloom.

  Quintus coughed. No one noticed. He coughed again, with the same result. ‘Excuse me,’ he said loudly.

  A ring of surprised faces regarded him. Several twisted with scorn. ‘A hastatus. What’s he doing here?’ demanded one man. ‘Tell him to piss off,’ added another. ‘But not before he gives us that beaker of wine.’ Loud chuckles met this comment, and Quintus really had to bite his tongue. Arrogant bastards! He was grateful when one of the cavalrymen asked him what he wanted in a civil tone. There were curious glances when he replied that he was looking for a rider called Calatinus. Nonetheless, he was directed to a tent in the line opposite. Halfway across the open space, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. Quintus was grateful for the darkness that concealed his face. Not ten paces away, his father was talking to a decurion. His heart twisted. Despite the bad terms they had been on before he had vanished, he loved his father. In that instant, Quintus realised how much he had missed him. How good it would be to walk up and greet him. As if he’d welcome me! Quintus ducked his head and cut off at a different angle, putting as much distance as possible between them.

  A sour-faced man emerged from Calatinus’ tent as he approached.

  ‘Is Calatinus inside?’

  That got him a jaundiced grin. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘My name is Crespo, hastatus.’

  Now, a lip curl. ‘What might Calatinus want with the likes of you?’

  Quintus had had enough. ‘That’s my own business. Is he there or not?’

  ‘You impudent-’ began the cavalryman, but he was interrupted by Calatinus shoving his head outside.

  ‘Ah, Crespo!’ he cried. To his companion, ‘Leave us, will you? I’ve got some business to deal with.’

  The man walked off, grumbling.

  ‘Come in!’ Calatinus beckoned.

  With a last look at his father, Quintus entered. To his relief, there was no one else in the tent. Calatinus laced the flap behind him, and then waved him to a stool by the central brazier. ‘Welcome, welcome. Crespo — is that your name now?’

  ‘I couldn’t use my own, could I?’ Quintus grabbed him in a bear hug. ‘I thought you were dead, damn you,’ he muttered in Calatinus’ ear.

  Calatinus squeezed him back. ‘It takes more than a few guggas to kill me.’

  They grinned at each other like fools before Calatinus pulled away and produced some wine. When Quintus offered his own, his friend retorted, ‘We can have that afterwards. There’s a whole night’s drinking ahead of us.’

  ‘Won’t your tent mates return soon? I got enough strange looks just asking where to find you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Luckily for us, the turma next door is holding a party. No one will be back for a long time yet.’

  ‘My father was outside, talking to a decurion,’ Quintus blurted. ‘I didn’t expect that.’

  ‘Vulcan’s hairy arse! Did he notice you?’

  Quintus shook his head. ‘It was a real shock, though. I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t, obviously. I realise that I have missed him — more than I thought I would.’

  ‘He has missed you too,’ said Calatinus soberly.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We talk now and again.’ Calatinus saw Quintus’ surprised look. ‘He seeks me out. I think it’s because he knows that you and I were’ — a grin — ‘are friends.’

  ‘What does he say about me?’

  ‘He wonders why you disappeared, and if you were killed by the enemy.’ Calatinus hesitated, and then said, ‘I’m not sure, but I think he wonders if he was too harsh on you.’

  Quintus started forward. ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘The sadness in his eyes when he talks about you.’

  Quintus swallowed the unexpected lump that had formed in his throat. ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t you come back to the cavalry? I don’t think your father would be too hard on you. He’d be so glad to know you’re alive.’

  It was an appealing prospect in many ways. Comrades such as Calatinus. More glory. Better rations. Best of all, no Macerio. Quintus shoved away the idea. Don’t be a coward, he thought harshly. Only cowards run away, forgetting their friends who were murdered. ‘He hasn’t heard from my mother then? I sent a letter, telling her that I was all right.’

  ‘He’s mentioned nothing like that.’

  ‘He’ll hear eventually. I’m not leaving my unit. Not now, when I’ve just been promoted to the hastati.’ Not when I’ve got Macerio to kill, he added silently.

  ‘What are you trying to prove, Quintus?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he retorted. This was something he had to do on his own, for himself. For Rutilus. ‘Let’s drink some of this wine, and you can tell me properly how you survived when so many others were killed.’

  ‘Fine. But only if you tell me how you managed not to end up as fish food on the bottom of Lake Trasimene.’

  They both grinned, the randomness of their still being alive making the reunion all the sweeter.

  Quintus woke with a start, blinking away the nightmare in which Macerio had been attacking him with a sword while he’d had nothing to defend himself with. There was a sour taste of wine in his mouth and a thick-headed feeling encasing his brain. Wiping a dribble of saliva from the corner of his lips, he sat up. An empty am
phora lay beside him. The oil lamps had gone out. By the brazier’s dim glow, he could see Calatinus flat on his back, a few steps away, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Quintus kicked him. A grunt. He kicked him again. ‘Wake up!’

  ‘Huh?’ Calatinus’ head lifted.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘How should I know?’ grumbled Calatinus, struggling on to one elbow. ‘Gods, but my mouth is bone dry.’ He reached for a water skin and sucked at it greedily.

  Quintus peered at the tent fabric. No trace of light. ‘It’s still dark. I’d best be heading back.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘No need, thanks. Besides, it isn’t a good idea for us to be seen together. In fact, it’s best if we don’t do this again for a while. People would start asking questions.’

  ‘If anything was said, I’ll maintain that you were the son of a tenant on our estate at home.’

  ‘That might work once, but not after that. When was the last time you drank with an ordinary citizen?’ retorted Quintus. ‘I don’t like it any more than you, but there’s not much we can do.’

  ‘I suppose we could meet outside the camp, especially when the weather gets better.’

  ‘That might work,’ admitted Quintus. He rose to go, shrugged on his cloak and patted the handle of his dagger. ‘Stay safe, my friend.’

  Calatinus struggled up to embrace him. ‘You too.’

  Quintus had reached the tent’s entrance when Calatinus spoke again. ‘Shall I say anything to your father?’

  ‘Of course not! He would disown me as likely as anything else.’

  ‘I just thought you could let him know-’

  Quintus, still befuddled with drink, grew angrier. ‘How, Calatinus? Just call by his tent and deliver him a letter?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Quintus,’ said Calatinus, looking crestfallen. ‘I only wanted to help.’