Quintus was still feeling like shit. He was in Pinarius’ quarters, with Corax. The good news was that Corax had believed the story that Thersites had told him; the bad that his centurion had dragged him along in case Pinarius wanted to question him. They had arrived in time for a meeting of all six centurions in the garrison. Leaving Quintus in the atrium of the large house that Pinarius had requisitioned, Corax had hurried into the courtyard where the other officers were already talking.
Quintus tried to distract himself from what Pinarius might do to him by wondering who owned the house. It had to have been built by a Roman, or someone who admired Roman building designs. It stood in contrast to most of the larger dwellings in Enna, which were styled in the Greek fashion — with a courtyard just inside the front porch, rather than the central position favoured by Romans. His efforts didn’t work for long. The headache that had been threatening all day erupted into a full-blown skull-splitter. And no matter where Quintus stood, the death masks of the owner’s ancestors seemed to glower at him from the walls to either side of the lararium. Unsettled by this and shaking from his severe hangover, he offered up a swift prayer to placate them.
‘Crespo.’
His wait was over at least. Quintus spun to see Corax framed in the doorway to the tablinum. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Pinarius wants to see you.’
‘Sir.’ Quintus moved to Corax’s side. ‘Did he believe you, sir?’
‘He did, I think, but he wants to hear it from you as well.’ He looked at Quintus and sighed. ‘Why did you have to get so pissed? You look fucking dreadful.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Quintus, flushing.
‘Don’t be sorry. Be convincing.’
At this stage, Quintus felt wary of asking Corax anything at all, but he had promised Thersites that he would do his best. ‘The innkeeper, sir? Will some soldiers be sent to guard him?’
‘I might have to send a few of you lot, but yes,’ came the gruff reply. ‘It will only be until the suspects have been arrested, mind.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Let that be enough, prayed Quintus. He couldn’t be Thersites’ permanent protector.
In the courtyard, they found Pinarius and the others by a pattering fountain. Pinarius was a short, thin man with a perpetually severe expression. Quintus had never seen him this close, but he had a reputation for being a martinet. He knew Vitruvius, and Pera, but not Pera’s junior centurion or the centurion who was second-in-command of Pinarius’ maniple. They all watched him as he and Corax approached. Vitruvius’ was the one face showing any friendliness, and Quintus’ stomach tied itself in new knots. His troubles weren’t over yet.
They came to a halt before Pinarius. Quintus saluted.
‘This is Crespo, the soldier who brought me the news.’
‘The dog looks as if he’s still pissed,’ drawled Pera.
There were a couple of chuckles, but Pinarius didn’t join in. ‘You certainly look the worse for wear, hastatus.’
‘Sir.’
‘I am told that you came to your centurion with this news in the full knowledge that you would be severely punished for disobeying his orders. Which were to stay in your quarters, and not to visit any establishments that sold wine.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Quintus, meeting Pinarius’ gaze.
‘Corax also says that a day or two before, you and a comrade prevented some other legionaries from raping the innkeeper’s daughter?’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was a short pause as Pinarius stared at him. ‘Very well. You’re either a good liar, or telling the truth. Corax is an officer of the finest quality, and if he vouches for you, that’s good enough. Dismissed.’
‘Sir.’ Quintus saluted again and turned to go.
‘Wait outside,’ ordered Corax.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you sure about this, Pinarius?’ cried Pera as Quintus walked out. He moved as slowly as he dared in order to catch what was being said.
Pinarius’ reaction was instant. ‘I am. Are you calling into question Corax’s word?’
‘Of course not,’ said Pera, sounding flustered.
‘Then I suggest you keep quiet.’
Hiding his delight at Pera’s embarrassment, Quintus made his way to the atrium. If things went to plan from this point, the men on Thersites’ list could be seized before the meeting went ahead. Not only would the Carthaginians be prevented from taking the town at night, but a vote by the townsmen in favour of remaining loyal to Rome was far more likely.
His mood dampened a little. Despite this success, he and his tent mates were still to be punished.
And his head felt like a well-beaten piece of iron on the smith’s anvil.
In the event, things did not go exactly as Pinarius would have wished. The Carthaginian sympathisers, Simmias and Zenodoros, were nowhere to be found. Ochos was not in his house; neither were most of the rest of the fifteen men on Thersites’ list. Urged on by their centurions, small parties of legionaries searched Enna from top to bottom, but their attempts were hampered by their lack of numbers — an attempt not to raise the suspicions of the populace. By the time that the meeting in the agora was due to start, only two suspects had been detained. Both were taken straight to Pinarius’ house. This news shot around the town as fast as legionaries could carry it.
Not long after, Corax’s maniple started deploying in the agora, which was already more than half full. Most of the glances thrown in their direction were unfriendly, but no one hurled any insults or, worse still, missiles. A continuous stream of men emerged from the little streets that opened on to the space, meaning that no one lingered beside the legionaries. The new arrivals were a cross section of the population. There were labourers and farmers in short, dusty chitons, potters with clay-encrusted hands, butchers in stained aprons, black-faced smiths and well-dressed merchants with supercilious expressions. Old men with sticks limped along, complaining about the pace of their peers. Small boys darted in and out of the crowd, playing catch and annoying their fathers, while their older brothers made derogatory comments.
The press was greatest around the steps up to the temple of Demeter, one of the most important goddesses on Sicily. This shrine, a grand affair with an six-columned frontage, took up the northern face of the agora. Corax’s hastati took up position along the southern side of the large, rectangular space, and Vitruvius’ soldiers covered more than half of the eastern. Pera’s maniple spread out along the western side. It wasn’t long before a messenger from Pinarius appeared to the rear of Corax’s maniple. He passed on a message quietly, and moved off in search of Pera.
Quintus and his comrades were close enough to hear Corax talking to Vitruvius after the messenger had gone. ‘There was only time for a short interrogation, because of this damn gathering. They pleaded ignorance at first, but once one of them had his toes in the kitchen stove, he sang his heart out. The innkeeper was speaking the truth.’
‘They were going to let the stinking guggas in at night?’
‘So it seems,’ replied Corax grimly. A rumble of anger erupted from the hastati, and he did nothing to quell it.
‘Where are the rest of the treacherous arse-lovers on the list?’
‘Here.’ Corax waved a hand at the agora. ‘We’ve got no hope of finding the fuckers.’
The sacred fountain at its centre was now all but obscured by the throng. Boys were clambering up on to statues to get a better view of what was going on. The colonnaded rows of shops and businesses that bordered its two longer sides were no longer visible. Even the steps to the minor temples which lay on the shorter faces, one of which was behind them, were lined with loudly talking men. Yet no one was standing close to the hastati. It was understandable, thought Quintus. Pinarius’ deployment was meant to intimidate.
‘They’ll show their ugly faces when Pinarius starts to speak, surely? We can snatch them that very moment,’ Vitruvius declared.
‘We’d start a riot. No, we have to play it softly, as Pinarius said. Otherwise, things could get out of hand,’ Corax muttered. ‘One suspect mentioned that some of their supporters have armed themselves. We’d sort them out if it came to it, but it could be nasty. There are an awful lot more of them than there are of us.’
‘What are we to do?’ asked Vitruvius.
‘Stay calm,’ replied Corax. ‘Keep our position. Any moment, Pinarius will get here. His soldiers will split up to cover the sections of the east and west sides closest to the temple of Demeter. He will address the townsmen on the issue of who should retain control of the keys to the gate, and then invite its leaders to speak. If they speak for Rome-’
‘That won’t happen,’ hissed Vitruvius.
‘True. If they speak against us, we’re to do nothing as long as their words are peaceable. We’ll let the assembly finish, and seal off all but two streets that lead away from the agora. Pinarius has the suspects with him. One will be placed at each exit point so that they can identify the bastards on the list. We can grab them one by one.’
‘And if they say that we are the enemy? If the crowd turns on us?’
Every hastatus within earshot craned forward to hear Corax’s response.
‘If that happens — or if any other treacherous move is made — Pinarius will clench his fist by his waist. In that case, we are to fall on every man present with drawn blade.’
‘Very well,’ said Vitruvius grimly. ‘If it comes to it, we shall do our duty.’
‘Hades, I hope it doesn’t come to that,’ muttered Quintus to Urceus.
‘So do I. But if it does, it does. They’re not Romans, are they?’
It was shocking but true. The hastati would follow orders — no matter what. So would he. Corax was his superior, and he had sworn to obey him, even if the order was to slay unarmed men. Gods above, let this go off without violence, Quintus prayed, wondering if it had been wise to take Thersites’ list to Corax. Yes, it had, he decided, harsh though that judgement was. If he hadn’t, countless legionaries, his friends among them, would have had their throats slit in their sleep.
The tramp of studded sandals on paving stones drew everyone’s attention. It was Pinarius, arriving at the head of his maniple. Sunlight flashed off his polished helmet and breastplate, and his crimson horsehair crest had been freshly dyed. He looked truly impressive. So did his men. In the midst of the soldiers, Quintus caught a glimpse of a pair of bruised, bloodied faces — the suspects, surely — before their heads were covered with old sacks and they were whisked off to the designated exits. Pinarius spoke a few words to Corax and then, in a clear exercise of intimidation, he marched his legionaries straight across the middle of the agora. The silent crowd parted like a block of wood split by an axe. Pinarius stalked up the steps of Demeter’s temple with about twenty men. The rest of his maniple spread out until they met up with Vitruvius’ and Pera’s troops. All four sides of the agora were now manned by legionaries. The multitude of locals shifted about unhappily.
‘We’re prisoners in our own town,’ one man near Quintus shouted. ‘You can’t frighten us,’ cried another. ‘Go back to Rome!’
Quintus wasn’t the only one to tense. Corax paced up and down, glaring at the nearest locals. Thirty paces away, Pera snapped an order at his soldiers, who raised their scuta. When Corax saw, a vein bulged in his neck and he hurried over to Pera. There were angry gestures, and heated words, but Pera told his men to ground their shields. Corax returned, looking furious. ‘No one makes a move unless I say so. Clear?’ he barked.
‘Yes, sir,’ the hastati replied.
It took a moment before the calmer heads in the crowd quietened the unhappy ones. A troubled silence fell.
Corax and his men were positioned directly opposite where Pinarius was standing. They could see him, but it wasn’t yet clear if they’d be able to hear his words.
The blare of a single trumpet pierced the air. It drew all eyes to where Pinarius stood, at the top of the temple steps. ‘People of Enna!’ he shouted. ‘I thank you for answering your leaders’ call and coming to this assembly.’
There were plenty of angry mutters. The crowd moved to and fro a little. Men spat on the ground, but that was all. For the moment, thought Quintus uneasily.
‘The meeting today was called by the town’s leaders,’ said Pinarius in reasonable Greek. He raised a hand against the sun. ‘If we are to talk, they must be present, but I see none here. Where are they?’
‘We are here, Pinarius,’ called a voice from the midst of the throng, some way off to Quintus’ right. ‘And here!’ said another. ‘I, Ochos, am here.’ ‘Simmias is present.’ ‘So too is Zenodoros!’
Half a dozen other names were shouted at Pinarius, who smiled. ‘Come and speak with me here, where everyone can see us,’ he said, gesturing at the temple steps.
‘We’ll remain where we are, Pinarius. You’re here with your full strength, and with two of our number in custody. Only a fool sticks his head into the lion’s mouth.’
Mutters of anger rose from the gathering. Corax moved up and down the ranks, muttering, ‘Steady, brothers. Nothing has happened. Steady.’ Quintus hoped that Vitruvius and the other centurions were following Corax’s example, not Pera’s.
‘Those men are helping us with our enquiries about the grain that was tampered with,’ said Pinarius smoothly.
‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ retorted Ochos.
‘I do. If it hadn’t been for this meeting, they would have been already freed. I merely have to finish questioning them,’ Pinarius said. ‘But we are not here to talk about grain. It’s these that brought us here, isn’t it?’ He held up a bunch of long iron keys.
There was a loud Aaaaahhhh from the crowd.
Pinarius was playing a risky game, thought Quintus. The townsmen should be persuaded by his show of force, but it had become apparent that violence wasn’t far away.
‘I, Simmias of Enna, wish to speak!’ cried a man near the sacred fountain.
The crowd subsided.
‘Pinarius!’
‘I am here.’
‘I say to you that we, the people of Enna, entered into alliance with Rome as free men. We were not slaves handed to you for safekeeping. If we request that the town’s keys be handed over to us, it is only right that you do so. Loyalty is the strongest bond of an honest ally and the Roman people and Senate will be grateful to us that we remain their friends willingly, and not by compulsion.’
Cheers broke out. Shouts filled the air. ‘Simmias is right!’ ‘He speaks the truth!’ ‘Give us back the keys!’
Pinarius let the townsmen speak for a few moments before raising his hands. A reluctant calm fell. ‘Worthy people of Enna! I was given this command and these keys by the consul Marcellus, the officer who governs Sicily for Rome. It is my duty to defend the town on behalf of the Republic. It is not for me, or for you, to decide what shall be done with the keys. The only person who can make a decision of that gravity is Marcellus. If needs be, a deputation of your leaders should petition him. His camp is not far, and I can promise you that he will receive you with all courtesy.’
‘Ha!’ cried Simmias. ‘I know what kind of welcome we would get.’
‘You’d get your arse kicked because of the extortionate prices of your grain!’ bellowed a skinny man in a ragged tunic. ‘Send an embassy to Marcellus, I say!’
There was a burst of laughter.
‘Aye!’ cried another ill-fed-looking man. ‘Perhaps the consul can set the price of grain at a level that normal people can afford!’
Relief swept through Quintus as he saw many heads nodding. Some men seemed unhappy, but they were in the minority. More and more voices joined in the cry. ‘Send an embassy! Send an embassy!’
‘Give us the keys!’ shouted Simmias, undeterred. His supporters repeated the demand, and the noise in the agora swelled as the opposing sides vied with each other to be heard.
Pinarius had his trumpeter sound a few notes, which forced a silence.
‘Let us take a vote,’ yelled Pinarius at the top of his voice. ‘Those in favour of sending an embassy to Marcellus, raise your right hand!’
Go on, urged Quintus silently. A hand went up near him and he blinked in surprise. It was none other than Thersites. Quintus warmed towards the innkeeper. Despite his concerns for his personal safety, Thersites wanted to cast his vote, to help keep the peace. He was busily talking to those around him, and a moment later, a number of men in his vicinity raised their hands. They were joined by a group to Quintus’ right, who were standing in front of Pera and his soldiers. In the following moments, it was as if a wind swept across the agora. Scores more hands went up, and then it was hundreds. Good numbers didn’t lift their arms, but they were in the minority.
Quintus let out a gusty sigh. The crisis had been averted. The embassy would go to Marcellus. It would likely never reach him, for Pinarius would detain every man in it whose name had been on Thersites’ list, but at least the arrests could be done out of the public eye. In the meantime, those leaders in the town who were well disposed to Rome could be set to work. Some blood might have to be spilled, but it wouldn’t be much, and it wouldn’t be here. Quintus felt glad. Thersites and his daughters would be safe.
‘You’re all cowards!’ screamed a voice from Quintus’ right. A young man, barely out of childhood, pushed his way free of the throng to stand in the space between the townsmen and Pera’s position. ‘Give us the keys!’ he roared at Pera and his hastati. ‘Give us the keys!’
‘Fucking idiot!’ hissed Quintus to Urceus.
The young man fumbled in the leather bag that he was carrying and produced an overripe fig. He cocked his arm and was about to throw it when an older, portly man with a beard stepped forward and grabbed him by the wrist. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded in Greek.
‘Showing these Roman bastards that we’re not all yellow-livered, Father!’ He wrenched his arm free and threw the fig, hard. It shot through the air and burst in the face of a hastatus not ten paces from Pera.
Several things happened at once.
Pinarius smiled at the clear majority of men who were voting to send the embassy to Marcellus. The portly man cried out and threw his arms around his son’s waist.
‘You Greek filth!’ shouted Pera, his face purple with rage. Somehow the young man had another fig in his right hand. His father tried to grab his arm again but the second piece of fruit flew straight and true, bursting on Pera’s breastplate.
‘Give us the keys!’ yelled the young man.
Another voice joined in. ‘Give us the keys!’ Faces in the crowd turned away from Pinarius and towards what was happening behind them.
Pera’s face twisted with fury. Stepping out of rank, he drew his sword and pointed it at the father and son. ‘Get back! Get back, I say!’
‘Move,’ urged the father. ‘Walk away.’
His son would not listen. ‘Give us the keys, you Roman cocksuckers!’ he said in poor Latin.
Pera didn’t answer. Instead Quintus watched aghast as he strode forward and shoved his gladius deep into the young man’s belly. A shocked, gurgling cry rent the air. The father screamed, ‘No!’ Pera twisted the blade for good measure and, using his left hand, pushed the young man away from him. His victim staggered back a step, moaning and clutching his bloody chiton. He fell to his knees, and then on to his face.
‘Curse you! You murdered him!’ cried his father, pointing a finger at Pera. ‘For throwing a damn fig?’
‘Get back!’ ordered Pera, advancing.
The portly man retreated a step, but continued to shout accusations, tears streaming down his face.
Another youth darted out of the assembled men and launched a stone at Pera. It clanged off his helmet. With a muffled curse, Pera jumped forward. The portly man got in his way, and with another oath, Pera stabbed him in the chest. Blood gouted everywhere as he tugged free his sword. Without a word, the portly man toppled on top of his son.
A low, baying sound of fury rippled the air. It seemed as if every man in the crowd near Pera turned as one. Those in front of Corax’s century did the same.
Pera retreated to the security of his men. ‘Close order!’ he bawled.
‘You heard Centurion Pera!’ shouted Corax. ‘CLOSE ORDER!’
Shields rattled off one another as the hastati obeyed.
‘Hold!’ Corax bellowed, his call clearly aimed at Pera as well.
‘Give us the keys! Give us the keys! Give us the keys!’ The chanting swelled in volume, until, in the confined space of the agora, it seemed loud as thunder.
Fear clawed at Quintus, and his headache receded before his desire to draw his sword. He could see the same longing in his comrades’ faces, but Corax hadn’t given the order. Remarkably, nor had Pera. Over the heads of the angry crowd, he could see Pinarius shouting in vain at the locals who were near him.
‘Give us the keys!’ A youth — a friend of the fig-thrower? — moved to stand by the bodies of father and son. ‘The keys, you murdering bastards!’ Without warning, he flung a stone at Pera.
Pera ducked behind his shield, and the piece of rock shot over his head and out of sight. Up came Pera like a striking snake. He grabbed a javelin from one of his soldiers and threw. At such close range, he could not miss. The youth went down, skewered through the chest, and the crowd screamed their fury.
‘You stupid fool!’ said Quintus under his breath.
Three, seven, a dozen stones were thrown, and then it was as if a dam had burst. The air went dark with the number of missiles. The legionaries scarcely needed to hear the order ‘RAISE SHIELDS!’ Every Roman in sight was being targeted. Vegetables, stones, bits of broken pottery, cracked roof tiles banged and thumped off scuta. Mattheus went down, struck by what had to be a slingshot bullet. Quintus and the rest roared their anger, and Urceus, who was nearest to their friend, began roaring, ‘Mattheus! Mattheus!’
There was no answer. Quintus still hoped that Mattheus had only been injured, but when Urceus straightened, he just shook his head bitterly. ‘It caved in his forehead. You fuckers!’ he roared.
Over the rim of his shield, Quintus also stared across the agora. It’s Pera’s fault, he wanted to scream. Mattheus is dead, and it’s all that bastard’s fault! There was no way that Pinarius could have heard him, however. Even if he could, thought Quintus, the outcome would have been the same. Bloodshed was inevitable, and while many innocents would die, part of Quintus was glad. Mattheus was gone, and for that, men had to pay.
Their garrison commander had climbed to the top of the temple steps. His trumpeter stood alongside, his instrument at his lips. A word from Pinarius, and a clarion set of notes issued forth. It was the signal to attack. In the same moment, Pinarius clenched his right fist by his waist and screamed something that was lost in the general uproar.
Corax was ready. ‘READY JAVELINS!’ His order was being echoed to left and right of their position. ‘AIM SHORT. LOOSE!’
The enraged legionaries drew back and threw their pila in a flat trajectory. Quintus did the same. This close, the javelins were deadly. They flew towards the densely packed mass of people, taking little more than a heartbeat to travel fifteen or twenty paces. They made soft thumping sounds as they landed. The townsmen had no armour or shields to protect them; they were cut down in droves. Scarlet flowered on dusty chiton and clean white robes alike as labourers and rich men bled and died together. Wails of pain and anguish rose from the injured and those whose friends or family had been hit.
Some stones and pila were thrown in retaliation, but they were few in number. The townsmen were reeling.
‘SECOND JAVELINS, READY. AIM SHORT. LOOSE!’ cried Corax.
Another cascade of pila went up; another wave of destruction followed. Old and young men, cripples and whole-bodied, it didn’t matter. Whether screaming their defiance at the legionaries or begging for mercy, they were scythed down by the devastating close-range volleys.
Next came the order to draw swords, to stay close, to advance at the walk. Quintus followed the orders as if in a dream. As he had so many times before, he could sense the man to either side of him, could feel the top of his shield touching his chin and the reassuring solidity of his wooden sword hilt in his fist. The knowledge that they were not facing enemy soldiers but civilians was there, floating around his mind, but it was being swamped by fear, the desire to avenge Mattheus, and the will to survive.
‘Murderers!’
Quintus hadn’t seen the grain merchant Simmias until that point, but he recognised his distinctive voice. Thickset, with muscled, hairy arms, he still looked like the farmer he had been before turning to the more profitable buying and selling of grain. Gone was the friendly mien that Simmias had displayed on every previous occasion that Quintus had seen him. Simmias’ face was dark with rage; his tunic was spattered with blood. A cloak had been wound around his left forearm in place of a shield, and in his right hand he clutched a sword. Close behind him came ten or more men, similarly armed. The crowd cheered their arrival, and Simmias levelled his blade at the line of legionaries. ‘They’re murdering scum, the lot of them!’
An incoherent, rumbling growl of anger left the throats of the nearest townsmen.
‘Arm yourselves, men of Enna. Pluck the javelins from the flesh of your brothers,’ ordered Simmias. ‘KILL THE ROMANS!’
‘Forward!’ Corax yelled. ‘Put the arse-lovers in the mud. All of them! Otherwise they’ll do the same to us.’
A disorganised, writhing mass, the mob swept towards Corax’s hastati.
Quintus was glad that Simmias had rallied his fellows and led them to the attack. They might be in the confines of a town, but this felt like war. That was easier to deal with.
A man in a smith’s apron came running straight at Quintus, a pilum clutched in both fists like a harpoon. Quintus braced and met him head-on. The javelin punched through his scutum and skidded off his mail. The smith’s momentum carried him forward until he collided with Quintus’ shield: so close Quintus could smell the garlic on his breath — and see shock flare in the smith’s eyes as he stabbed him in the guts. The blow would have felled most men, but the smith was built like a prize ox. With a roar, he tugged on the javelin so hard that it came free of Quintus’ scutum. Time stopped as they stared at each other over its iron rim. Both were panting: the smith with pain, and Quintus with battle fever.
There wasn’t time to withdraw his blade, so Quintus twisted it. Viciously, with all his strength. The smith groaned in agony, and his right arm dropped away. Quintus wrenched back his sword and stabbed the smith twice, less deeply this time, one-two. Down he went, screaming like a baby taken off the tit too soon.
Quintus was aware that his comrades to either side were also fighting. Shouts, curses, cries of pain and the sound of iron striking iron rang in his ears. A man wielding an axe replaced the smith, swinging his weapon from on high down at Quintus’ head. It would have split Quintus’ helmet in two, and with it his skull, but he met the blow with his shield. Pain lanced up his left arm from the massive impact; there was a sound of splintering wood; Quintus ignored both. He looked around the side of his shield and thrust his sword deep into the man’s armpit. The axeman was dead — the large blood vessels in his chest sliced to ribbons — before Quintus pulled it free. Mouth agape, pink froth bubbling from his lips, he collapsed on top of the smith. He left the axe buried in Quintus’ scutum.
By some small twist of fate, the hastati had pushed forward a few steps. There was no one immediately facing Quintus. Bellowing at his comrades to close up the line, he fell back a little and, having no earth to stick his sword into, used a body. Upright and by his side, he could grab it if needs be, whereas sheathing it could prove fatal. A moment or two of sweating, and he had freed the axe from his scutum. The shield was ruined, but it would suffice until the battle was over.
The slaughter, he corrected himself.
Urceus had just slain Simmias. Most of Simmias’ followers had vanished from sight, either slain or injured. The remainder of the townsmen were not warriors. Dismayed, they turned and tried to flee. Except there was nowhere to go, other than the centre of the agora. They were trapped like a shoal of tuna in a fisherman’s net. The hastati pursued them with fierce, eager cries. Quintus moved to join them before his heart stopped pounding and reason came back into the equation. There was no avoiding what had to be done now.
Thersites! his conscience shouted. He is here! A modicum of sense returned, yet there was nothing he could do. No way to stop the madness, no way to find Thersites and bring him to safety.
Afterwards, Quintus would recognise the time that followed as his most horrendous experience since joining the army. Among his comrades and the other legionaries, all sanity had been lost. What mattered was to kill, something that they were expert at. In an enclosed space against unarmed victims, their skill was terrible to behold. When it was done, the only living beings would be Romans. Shorn of everyone who could fight, the townsmen shoved and scrabbled to get away from the legionaries’ hungry blades. They punched and kicked at one another, trampled the weakest underfoot and called on their gods for help. None of it made any difference. Quintus, his comrades and the rest of the garrison closed in, a lethal cordon of curved wood and sharp metal.
Punched from behind by shields, the townsmen sprawled forward, easy targets to stab in the back. Any that hadn’t been mortally injured could be stamped on or run through again as the legionaries pressed on. Those few who turned to face the hastati fared no better. They died pleading, shouting that they were loyal subjects of Rome, that they had wives and children. Pierced through the chest, the belly, the neck; losing arms, legs and sometimes heads. Blood showered the air, misted over the living and slain alike. Soon the legionaries’ right arms were red to the elbow, their faces daubed in crimson, their shield designs obscured by a glistening, scarlet coating. At one point, Quintus tried to wriggle the numbed fingers of his sword hand and found he couldn’t, thanks to the gluey layer of blood that coated his entire fist. He shrugged and continued killing. His comrades were also beyond noticing their appearance, beyond caring if they had seen. Any person who came within reach of their blades was fair game.
When the slaying in the agora was done, the hastati ran down the nearest streets, yipping like wild dogs. The officers did not stop them; indeed some gave encouraging waves. Quintus was about to follow, his intention to participate as well. Then, at close range, he saw two hastati run a boy of no more than ten through, over and over. The boy shrieked and wailed, twisted and spun in his efforts to get away. All the while, he bled and bled, like a stuck pig. Quintus stopped in his tracks, aghast with horror. Thersites was dead — he had to be by now — but what about his daughters? Quintus’ mind began to spin. It was bad enough that the innkeeper had perished. He could not leave Thersites’ innocent daughters to their fate as well. Dropping his cracked shield, he ran alone in the direction of the Harvest Moon.
The carnage was spreading fast through Enna. Every street, every alley rang with the sound of doors being kicked in and the inhabitants’ screams and pleas for mercy, which were all too often suddenly cut short. Mutilated bodies lay everywhere in the dirt: a slave with a spilled basket of bread and vegetables; an old cripple with a makeshift crutch; a small girl who still clutched a doll in one hand — ordinary people who had been going about their business when death arrived. Quintus saw a matron of his mother’s age being pursued from her house by four legionaries. They caught her and ripped off her dress. Then, laughing, they urged her to run naked. When she would not, they slapped her with the flat of their sword blades until she did. Quintus averted his gaze and ran on, praying that the matron had a swift end, though he knew that was not what the legionaries intended for her. A few steps on, new horror confronted him. A woman of about Aurelia’s age threw herself from the top of a three-storey building rather than be caught by a group of jeering hastati. After she’d broken her neck on the street below, they leaned out of the window and called down to Quintus: ‘You can screw her first!’ Nauseous, he didn’t answer; instead, he put his head down and began to sprint.
As he reached the Harvest Moon, however, his heart sank. The door was ajar, and from within came the sound of smashing pottery and screaming. Quintus wished that Urceus were with him, but he was alone. Time for a deep breath, a moment of calm. He needed to take great care if he wasn’t to end up oozing his lifeblood on to the inn’s floor, as so many innocents were bleeding throughout the town. Pillaging soldiers did not much care whom they killed. Watch over me, great Mars, he prayed. With a tight grip on his gladius, he entered.
Only a couple of lamps were burning within. The room appeared empty, but Quintus did not let down his guard. Within a few steps, he came upon one of Thersites’ daughters, on her back in front of the bar. Just beyond the slack fingers of one hand lay a rusty hammer. The floor around her was slick with blood. On tiptoe, Quintus approached. The girl was younger than Aurelia. He peered, gagged. Her throat had been cut. At least she had died before her assailants had had time to violate her, he thought.
The same didn’t apply to Thersites’ other daughter, assuming that it was she who was screaming. The thin, distressing sound was coming from behind the bar. He stepped over the eldest girl’s body, feeling sick at what he was about to discover. She wasn’t in the first chamber — the storeroom — which was filled with laughing hastati. Some were moving along the racks, smashing the necks off amphorae and sticking their open mouths beneath the tide of wine that flowed as a result. There was far too much for them to swallow; they were soon drenched in it, which seemed to amuse them even more. No one even noticed Quintus. He moved silently on to the second room. From the hanging pots and pans, oven and workbench, it appeared to be the inn’s kitchen. At the far end, several more hastati stood over the bare arse of one of their fellows. Underneath him, Quintus could see a girl’s legs.
Steeling himself to spill Roman blood, he stole forward, placing his feet down softly so that his hobs didn’t give him away.
‘You stupid bitch! This for your trouble!’ snarled the soldier on the floor. There was a soft, choking sound, such as someone makes when their throat fills with blood, and Quintus knew with a horrible certainty that he had come too late.
‘Hey!’ cried one of the spectators. ‘I hadn’t had my turn.’
‘You can fuck her now. She’s still warm!’ With a dirty chuckle, the soldier wiped his dagger on the girl’s dress and sheathed it. He got to his feet, oblivious to Quintus’ presence behind him.
‘It wouldn’t be for the first time,’ added another hastatus.
Everyone except the thwarted man laughed.
Quintus fought back the bile that had rushed up his gullet. Part of him wondered about falling on the hastati with his blade, but he discounted the notion. Not only would he die here — there were at least ten soldiers in the inn — but it would not bring back Thersites or his unfortunate daughters. Lowering his sword arm, he called out, ‘Ho, brothers! What have we here?’
The group turned as one, and their hard faces relaxed a little when they saw one of their own. ‘You’re not one of Pera’s lads, are you?’ demanded the hastatus with the dagger.
‘No. I’m with Corax.’
‘If you’ve come for pussy, you’re too late, comrade.’ A snicker. ‘But there’s plenty of wine in the storeroom yonder. I’d wager that we can spare you a drop, even if you aren’t one of ours. What do you say, brothers?’
The other hastati whooped their agreement. ‘Wine! Wine!’ they shouted. Quintus caught a glimpse of a pathetic, bloody bundle of limbs before he was led away, and his heart wrenched. He could not let his emotions show, however. He stayed for a short time to avoid suspicion, swilling down wine with his new comrades and hoping the memories of what he’d seen that day would be wiped away. More than once, he let some wine spill on to the floor. It looked like an accident, but each time Quintus was pouring a libation to the gods revered by Greek-speakers such as Thersites and his family. Accept their souls into the afterlife, he asked silently, for they were innocent of any crime.
With toasts of eternal friendship that were feigned on his part at least, he left the hastati to their celebration.
New scenes of horror greeted him on the streets, and he was stricken with remorse for what he had done in the agora. Not initially, when the hastati had been attacked, but after that, when the fighting had turned to slaughtering. The situation could have been — should have been — averted. A new purpose gripped Quintus. Corax had to know that it was Pera’s action that had pushed the crowd into violence. If it hadn’t been for him, he thought with a mixture of fury and sadness, Mattheus, Thersites and his family would not have died. Nor would many hundreds of the town’s inhabitants.
He went hunting for his centurion. Corax would have some chance of convincing Pinarius that one of their own was responsible for the rivers of blood that had been shed in Enna that day. What would happen after that, Quintus didn’t know, but he wasn’t prepared to stand by and do nothing.
His search ended before it had started, in the corpse-filled agora. Corax was on the steps of Demeter’s temple, deep in conversation with Pinarius and all of the other centurions. Approaching him in front of both Pera and Pinarius was out of the question, so Quintus first set himself the miserable task of trying to find Thersites. He had only a vague memory of where he’d seen the innkeeper. Other soldiers were pilfering the dead, so he didn’t look out of place.
His job was stomach-wrenchingly awful. Some of the men Quintus rolled over were still alive. Drenched in blood, maimed or with loops of shiny gut hanging out, they moaned and wept and begged him for help, or for an end to their suffering. This was something that soldiers did for fallen comrades when necessary, but Quintus could not bring himself to do it here. The savagery of what he and his comrades had done weighed too heavily on his conscience. To send yet more innocents to the afterlife was beyond him. He averted his gaze and moved on.
When he found Thersites, Quintus was relieved that he was already dead. The innkeeper had taken a thrust to the chest, which would have killed him instantly. It was a small blessing, Quintus decided sadly, in that he had not known what had happened to his daughters. He wanted to apologise to Thersites, but the words died in his mouth. It was futile. Thersites was gone.
Preoccupied, he did not see the figure behind him rise from the piles of dead.
‘Murdering Roman filth!’
Quintus felt someone grab him by the right shoulder. At the same time, he felt a punching sensation in his lower back. There was a squeal of metal as the rings of his mail were put to the test, and then a blinding pain shot through his entire body. Crying out, Quintus lurched away a step and grabbed the hilt of his sword, tried to turn and face his attacker. A punch to his chin sent him sprawling on to his back, however. Quintus lay helpless as a slightly built man with a flesh wound to his face loomed over him, knife in hand. ‘I’ll take one of you to Hades with me at least!’ He stooped and came up with a gladius. ‘Slain by one of your own weapons. That seems fitting.’
Quintus kicked out with his sandals, but the bodies underfoot gave him no purchase. He closed his eyes, resigned himself to death. This was it.
But the killing blow did not fall.
Quintus opened his eyes and was amazed to see his assailant toppling from sight with a pilum buried deep in his chest. He scrambled to his feet and was shocked to find Pera watching him from about twenty paces away.
‘I’d imagined that a veteran of your standing would watch his back better,’ mocked Pera.
He was right, and Quintus flushed scarlet.
‘Are you hurt?’
Quintus put a hand to his lower back and felt beneath his armour. Ignoring the darts of pain, he probed the area with his fingertips. His hand came away a little bloody, but the wound couldn’t be that bad. The hole in his mail was too small, so only the tip of the knife had gone through. ‘No, sir, I don’t think so.’ His brush with death had wiped out his deference to Pera’s rank, for a moment anyway. ‘I thought you would have been pleased to see me dead, sir.’
‘For all that you’re a piece of shit, you’re still a Roman. That’s more than can be said for the sewer rat who tried to kill you.’ With a look that said things might have been different if it had been he who’d wielded the blade, Pera walked away.
Bewildered by what had happened, Quintus hobbled over to the colonnaded market. There he was pleased to find Urceus, swigging from a skin of wine. His friend helped him to take off his mail shirt. ‘Pah!’ Urceus exclaimed. ‘It’s only a scratch. A wash with some acetum and a light dressing will see you right. The blade must have been blunt, or the man wielding it a weakling.’
‘He was skinny, that’s for sure,’ said Quintus, relieved.
‘Fortuna smiled on you twice just now,’ Urceus pronounced. ‘If the knife had gone in there, you’d have bled to death inside or I’m no judge. Then for that cocksucker Pera to save your life too! Well-’
‘Here, give me some of that.’ Quintus reached out, suddenly very thirsty indeed.
They drank in companionable silence, oblivious to the scene of carnage that lay so close by. The pair were still there some time later when Corax came striding along, with Vitruvius in tow. He slowed up; a tiny grin creased his lips. ‘I should have known you two would find some wine without having to stray far! Is it any good?’
‘Not too bad, sir,’ replied Urceus. Both of them struggled to their feet and tried to salute at the same time. ‘Would you like some, sir?’ asked Urceus. He glanced at Vitruvius. ‘And you, sir?’
Corax held out a hand. ‘I’ll have a drop. I’m parched.’ He and Vitruvius shared what was left in the skin. ‘You’re right, Jug, it was tasty. Best find yourself some more, eh?’
‘There’ll still be plenty to be had,’ said Vitruvius with a wink.
Quintus knew that a better time for him to say something wouldn’t present itself. ‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘About what happened here today.’
Corax’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s clear what went on, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not so sure, sir. Pinarius wanted a decision on whether to send the embassy or not. Most of the men were voting in favour of that, sir. They were being compliant, not aggressive. A fool threw a fig at Centurion Pera, it’s true, but the situation was far from lost at that stage.’
Corax’s lips tightened. ‘Go on.’
‘It was Pera’s killing of the fig-thrower that made the mob turn on us, sir. If he hadn’t done that, I think the vote would have been carried.’ Quintus hesitated before adding, ‘The bloodshed could have been avoided, sir.’
Silence fell. Urceus’ expression had gone studiously blank. Corax’s face was worryingly dark, and Vitruvius appeared equally unhappy. The moments dragged on, and Quintus began to feel uncomfortable.
‘If this had come from anyone other than one of my veterans, I would beat the man responsible until he was unconscious. Either that, or throw him off a cliff.’ Corax paused and then added, ‘Pera just told me how you were jumped by someone who’d been playing dead. You’d have been killed if it hadn’t been for him, he said.’ A glare. ‘Is that right?’
Shit! He hadn’t thought that Pera might tell Corax. ‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered.
‘Yet you have informed on him.’ Corax’s matter-of-fact tone was menacing.
Quintus struggled to meet his gimlet stare. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Because it’s you, Crespo, I will answer you. I’m not interested in a blow-by-blow account of what went on earlier. Nor is Pinarius, and nor, I suspect, is Consul Marcellus — especially from the likes of you. Today, Centurion Pera helped to kill a crowd of rebellious townspeople who would have sold us out to the guggas. That’s all.’
Quintus felt foolish, and more than a little scared.
‘I never want to hear of this again, Crespo.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Piss off out of my sight. You too, Jug.’
Quintus beat a hasty retreat.
‘Sometimes I worry for your sanity,’ hissed Urceus the moment that they were out of earshot of Corax. ‘I hate Pera. Corax probably does too, but to criticise the man in front of him? He was only ever going to defend his own.’
‘I know,’ said Quintus with a sigh.
‘Consider yourself lucky that he was in a good mood. It’s time to put your head down and forget about Pera, and what happened here today.’