by Ben Kane
‘I know.’ Quintus let out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s too risky, though.’
Calatinus waved a hand in weary acknowledgement.
Feeling bad for reprimanding his friend and guilty about not making contact with his father, Quintus ducked outside. Apart from the raucous noise from the tents of the neighbouring turma — the party was clearly still going on — all was quiet. His breath plumed before his face; a moment later, he felt the chill night air creep under the bottom of his cloak. The wind of earlier had died down, allowing a frost to form. Moonlight glittered off the frozen, hard-packed earth of the via praetoria. His head turned from left to right, searching for a patrol of the watch. Nothing. Quintus padded out on to the wide avenue. This was riskier than walking back through the tent lines, but he trusted his sense of balance even less than he had earlier. As long as he kept a close lookout, he’d keep out of sight of hostile eyes. Or so he thought.
Brooding about his father, melancholic from the wine, he didn’t see the four figures steal out behind him. The first thing he knew was when the strip of cloth was fed over his head and jerked backwards into his mouth. Quintus staggered backwards; he nearly fell. Even as his hands reached up to free himself, they were pinioned by his sides. His gaze shot from side to side to the man in front of him. Shock filled him. One was a new recruit from Macerio’s contubernium; the other two were veteran hastati from his own maniple. As the dreadful realisation sank in, a familiar voice whispered in his ear, ‘I take it that the equestrian has finished fucking you?’
Macerio! Frantic, Quintus tried to free his arms. He bit down on the gag, tried to spit it out, all to no avail. Legs kicking, he was bundled between lines of tents to a gap between two sets of horse pens and thrown to the ground. A few of the mounts nickered and most moved away from the fence, but here, Quintus realised with a sick feeling, there was far less chance of anyone hearing what was done to him. Up, I have to get up, he thought. Before he could even get on his knees, however, the kicks and stamps rained down on his chest, head and belly. Quintus went down hard, agony radiating all over his body. When the blows stopped, he drew in a ragged breath, fought the urge to vomit. Looked up at his attackers.
‘I always knew you had to be a man lover,’ hissed Macerio, kicking him again. ‘Who else would befriend a mollis like Rutilus?’
‘Are you sure this one isn’t a Greek?’ asked one of his companions, sniggering.
‘He should be,’ agreed Macerio, spitting on Quintus. ‘Renting out his arse to an equestrian just like one of the lowlifes you’d find in the worst type of brothel. Filthy mollis!’
Quintus tried to rise again, but a hefty kick to the face felled him. Stars burst across his vision; he felt a dull crack as his cheekbone broke. You’re attacking the wrong man, he wanted to scream. I’m not the one who murdered one of my own — Macerio is! The only sounds he could make, though, were muffled groans that made no sense to anyone. Before long, he began to lapse in and out of consciousness. With a supreme effort, Quintus formed a coherent thought. He had to act, to do something. Otherwise this beating would be the death of him, if not from his injuries, then from lying outside all night after it.
His fingers scrabbled uselessly on his tunic. Felt the outline of his baldric. Followed the leather down to the hilt of his dagger. He squinted up at his attackers, outlined against the sky above. None seemed to have noticed. Quintus’ stomach twisted. There would be one chance only. He tugged the blade free, lifted his arm and hammered it into the nearest piece of flesh he could make out.
A shriek of agony. The knife was wrenched from Quintus’ hand as his victim jerked away. The kicks stopped. Another bellow of pain. A man stooped over him and tugged at his foot with a savage oath.
‘Shut up, you fool!’ Macerio’s voice.
‘He’s stabbed me in the fucking foot!’
‘I don’t give a shit! You’ll bring down the damn watch on us.’
The dull glint of silver as Quintus’ blade was lifted high. ‘I’ll finish him now, then. Can’t talk if he’s dead, can he?’
‘Do it,’ said Macerio with a cruel laugh. ‘But be quick.’
With the last of his strength, Quintus rolled to his left. His feet collided with something — a man’s legs, a post? Pulling in his knees, he kept rolling. Under the fence and into a pen full of horses. The smell of manure filled his nostrils. All he could see were hooves, dancing uneasily around him. He rolled on regardless, desperate to put as much distance between himself and his attackers. Whinnies filled the air. Hooves stamped on the ground. There were curses too, from beyond the fence. And then, the most welcome thing Quintus had ever heard: ‘Hey! What in Hades’ name are you lot doing?’ Another voice: ‘Arm yourselves, boys! Someone’s trying to steal our horses!’
More oaths; then the sound of men running away.
Quintus sagged on to the cold ground with relief. The last thing he saw was the starlit sky, arching overhead in a glittering display of light. How beautiful it was, he thought, before oblivion claimed him.
Pain. Waves of pain from his cheek, his ribs, his groin. They alternated in a sickening rhythm, an unending cadence that bore Quintus irresistibly along. A pulse hammered off the back of his eyelids, at the base of his throat, deep inside his head. He felt sweat trickle down the side of his head, between his hairline and the corner of his eye. I must still be alive, he thought fuzzily. His eyelids felt as if they had been stuck together with glue, but he forced them open to find a dark-skinned man studying him. Behind him, Quintus could see Corax, who didn’t look happy at all.
‘Good. You’ve woken.’ Corax moved forward, but the surgeon lifted a hand. The centurion frowned, but he stopped.
Quintus tried to speak, but his tongue was as thick as a plank.
‘Drink some of this.’ A cup was held to his lips.
The watered-down wine tasted like nectar. After a couple of swallows, the surgeon took it away. ‘Not too much. I don’t want you vomiting.’
‘Where am I?’ asked Quintus.
‘In the camp hospital,’ replied Corax. ‘Along with your friend.’
Quintus turned his head carefully from side to side, but was pleased not to see the hastatus in any of the beds nearby. The soldiers he could see were pretending not to listen, but he had no doubt that their ears were twitching. ‘My friend, sir?’
‘The piece of shit whom you stabbed in the foot. I assume it was you who did that?’
With a displeased look, the surgeon moved back to let Corax take his place. ‘You’re not to talk to him for long, sir,’ he chided. ‘He needs to rest.’
Corax didn’t even reply. The Greek backed away, lips pursed.
‘Well, Crespo?’ The centurion’s eyes were like chips of flint.
‘I stabbed him, yes, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘He was going to kill me.’
‘Why in damnation would he try to do that, in the middle of the night, so far from our tent lines? Eh?’
Quintus tried to collect his scrambled thoughts. He wanted to tell Corax everything but as before, when Macerio had attacked him, he felt wary. For one thing, too many men were listening. Whether they heard or not, ratting out would make him a total outcast in the maniple. It didn’t matter that Macerio and his cronies had tried to murder him. Maintaining the unit’s code of silence was vital to keeping the other soldiers’ respect. He’d have to sort out his vendetta with Macerio without official intervention. By himself.
‘I asked you a question, soldier!’ Corax bent over the bed. ‘I don’t give a shit what the surgeon says about you needing rest. Answer me, or you’ll be stuck in this place for a month after the beating I give you!’
Corax must have talked to the hastatus already, thought Quintus. What would he have been told? He clawed for a credible response. ‘We were having an argument, sir.’
Corax’s lips thinned. ‘Clearly. Tell me more.’
‘You know how it is, sir. He’s a veteran; I’m not. He was taking the piss
out of me. We came to blows. I came off worst.’
Silence. Quintus tried not to squirm under Corax’s scrutiny.
‘You’d been drinking?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Grateful that Corax didn’t interrupt, he hurried on. ‘I bumped into the filth on my way back from a friend’s tent. That’s how we ended up fighting.’ Aware of how implausible that sounded, but unable to think of a better story, he stopped.
‘What a pile of horseshit,’ said Corax coldly. ‘The soldiers who heard the fight said that several men ran away. Did you see any of their faces?’
‘No, sir,’ said Quintus stolidly, avoiding Corax’s gaze.
‘You have no idea who they were?’ The centurion’s tone was disbelieving.
‘That’s right, sir.’ Quintus glanced at Corax, his heart thumping. Had his version been anywhere near to the hastatus’ version of events?
A long pause.
‘Luckily for you, Crespo, the hastatus says the same thing, that you were just brawling for no particular reason. Don’t think I don’t know that you’re both lying through your teeth. The instant that you get out of here, you’re on latrine duties for a month. That’s as well as having to cook for your contubernium every day for the same period. You’ll also report to me each morning at dawn for a ten-mile run, in full kit. Consider yourself lucky that I’m not demoting you as well.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Let the hastatus receive the same, he prayed.
For once, his request was answered. ‘In case you’re wondering, your friend will be doing the same as you once he’s discharged from the hospital.’ Corax paused before adding, ‘He’s also to receive ten lashes.’
Curiosity and delight mixed in equal measure. ‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘He’s a veteran, for Jupiter’s sake! He should have been able to thrash the living daylights out of you, not get stabbed in the damn foot. The whipping might teach him not to be so fucking useless.’
Quintus almost thought he imagined Corax’s fleeting wink. Almost. He tried hard not to smile. ‘I see, sir.’
‘Report to me when you get out.’ Corax was all business again. ‘The surgeon estimates that will be in two to three days.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Feeling slightly happier despite the punishment that awaited him, he watched Corax go. There was no way of proving it, but his gut told him that the centurion was more on his side than that of the hastatus, which meant in turn that Macerio and the others would have to watch out. If Corax caught them doing anything untoward, Quintus had no doubt that they would live to regret it. That didn’t mean he could relax. Macerio was too dangerous. Anger filled him that he had been ambushed so easily. That was three times now. It must not happen again. It was time for him to surprise Macerio, once and for all. Yet even as sleep claimed him, Quintus knew that would not be easy. Corax would also be watching him like a hawk.
Two days later, the surgeon pronounced him fit for active duties, as long as he avoided weapons training for six to eight weeks. The reason for that, the Greek explained, was that a blow to his face could permanently cave in his cheek, making it difficult to speak or eat. Quintus was relieved when Corax didn’t argue with the surgeon’s directions. His healing injury made no difference to the extra duties — all light — laid upon him by the centurion, however. Quintus sweated from dawn until dusk, running or digging latrines, watched by either Corax or one of the junior officers. Evenings were spent with his tent mates, who had grown fiercely protective of him since the fight. Even if Macerio had wanted to do anything, there would have been no chance of doing so.
There was no sign of the hastatus for about three weeks; when he did appear, complete with a limp, Corax had him whipped and then set to shovelling earth on a different latrine trench. After a day or two, Quintus happened to catch the other’s gaze. The veteran scowled at him, and he returned the look. Next time, I’ll stick the knife in your chest, Quintus mouthed. In reply, he got an obscene gesture. There was scant comfort in the mini-confrontation; Macerio and the two other hastati also gave him hard looks at every opportunity.
Perhaps the best thing to come out of it was the fact that Urceus now believed Macerio was a serious threat. The first time he’d visited Quintus in the hospital, the jug-eared man had demanded an account of the night’s activity. He had listened in silence to Quintus’ tale of selling some of the wine that they had stockpiled to an equestrian for a healthy profit. Even when he’d revealed who it was that had attacked him, Urceus had not interrupted. When he had finished, his friend had sat for a few moments, drumming the fingers of one hand off his cheek. ‘You don’t have to tell me what you were really doing in that part of the camp. That’s your business. I don’t believe the nonsense about you being a mollis either. Arse-lovers don’t eye up whores the way you do.’ He’d held up a meaty hand to stop Quintus replying. ‘I’m sorry that I doubted you about Macerio before. I’ve seen the looks he and his mates have been giving you since you got out of the hospital.’
‘Do you believe me about Rutilus too?’
A heavy sigh. ‘I don’t want to, but yes, I do. If the bastard’s prepared to try and kill you on the sly, he’s capable of doing the same in the middle of a battle.’
‘It won’t end until one of us is dead. And it’s not going to be me.’
‘I’ll help make damn sure of that,’ Urceus had growled.
Knowing that he now had a friend to watch his back eased Quintus’ burden. It helped him to sleep better at night, although he was often troubled by nightmares about Macerio. The sooner he could end the feud, the better. He wondered if it would be when the month of punishments was up, but there was no let-up in the officers’ supervision of either him or the hastatus. A couple of other soldiers in the maniple who were caught fighting were severely flogged. Corax was letting them all know what to expect, Quintus surmised. The worst of the winter weather passed, and the days grew longer. Bands of enemy soldiers were spotted more often, resulting in an escalation of Roman patrols. Quintus never found himself on the same mission as Macerio or his cronies, which made it even more likely that Corax knew of the enmity between them. Whatever the reason, it distracted him from the problem, for a while at least. As the weeks passed, he buried his hatred of Macerio for another time. Vengeance for Rutilus’ death could wait, but the war with Hannibal could not.
And war it would be once more. Although Servilius and Regulus still led the army, and had followed their instructions from the Senate not to engage significantly with Hannibal during the spring, the gossip that ran through the camp daily was of only one thing: confrontation with the enemy. When Lucius Aemilius Paullus and Gaius Terentius Varro, the new consuls for the year, arrived to take charge, they would bring with them four newly raised legions and the same number of socii troops. Together with the soldiers who were encamped near Gerunium, they would command a total of more than eighty thousand men. With that vast force, the braggarts cried, defeat was impossible. Quintus found it hard to argue with such logic. As the days lengthened and the temperatures rose, their training renewed with added ferocity. A number of clashes with the enemy went the Roman way too, and his spirits rose along with everyone else’s. There would be no rest until total victory had been achieved. It would come soon, before the summer’s end — which meant that if he survived, the possibility of autumn leave would become real. He could potentially be reunited with his family. For all that he wanted to walk his own path, Quintus also longed to see his mother and Aurelia again. His father too, if he admitted it. If he distinguished himself in the battle that saw Hannibal defeated, perhaps his father would forgive him for disobeying his orders? Quintus suspected that that thought was a wishful fantasy. Nonetheless, he guarded it jealously, telling no one.
Chapter XIV
Hannibal’s camp, outside the town of Gerunium, Samnium, spring
Hearing Sapho’s voice close by, Hanno scowled. It was too late to leave his tent without being seen. What did Sapho want? he wondered.
; His relationship with his eldest brother had always been prickly, but during the period of his enslavement, he had largely forgotten the details. When he had been reunited with him, Hanno had fancied things had changed between him and Sapho. They had got on famously for a short while, but then the pair had fallen into their old pattern of clashing regularly.
Most recently, there had been the look on Sapho’s face when he had nearly drowned. As he had before, Hanno had convinced himself that that had been his imagination running riot. Had Sapho not revealed Hannibal’s plan to him before the battle at Lake Trasimene? They had also spent many subsequent nights drinking wine together. Which was why his brother’s reaction when Hanno had returned from patrol with Mutt and his men the previous year had not been what he expected. Sapho had looked smug, to say the least. Knowing, as well. That hadn’t surprised Hanno overmuch. What had was the edge to Sapho’s voice. ‘Emptied your balls, have you?’ his brother had repeatedly asked. Startled and angered, Hanno had denied everything, but Sapho had persisted until he’d demanded to know who in his phalanx had been telling tales. Sapho had winked and said he had his source, who’d told him that their commander had vanished in the direction of Capua. ‘Gone for three days, I hear. It must have been a good whorehouse to risk your skin like that!’
Despite the double edge to this comment — Sapho could have meant the threat of either the Romans capturing him or Hannibal finding out what he had done — Hanno had breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t thought it was Mutt who had informed on him, but this was proof. Sapho didn’t know why he’d left his soldiers; he had been making a shrewd guess as to the reason. Yet Hanno had felt most uneasy that someone had spoken out of turn. If Sapho knew, others might also find out. Hanno had no doubt, either, that his brother had been showing his power over him: if he said a word to any of the senior officers, Hanno’s life was over. When he’d challenged Sapho about it, his brother had laughed it off, saying he’d never do anything of the kind.
