Quintus was pacing. The section of fortification that he and his tent mates had to man measured approximately eight hundred paces. The hastati marched in four pairs, and each set had a quarter of the distance to cover. Two hundred paces, six stops. At each, a pause to scrutinise the ground that separated Roman-held terrain from the walls of Syracuse. Quintus and his comrades had been patrolling the same part of the rampart since returning from Enna the previous summer. They’d tramped up and down for the whole winter. Now, in early spring, all of them knew it like the back of their hands.
Syracuse lay half a mile away, which meant safety from even the most powerful of Archimedes’ catapults. Before the siege, the no man’s land had been farmed, but the inhabitants had long since fled or been killed. Their grain had been reaped the previous autumn by the legionaries. No one had tilled the soil after that, or planted new crops, not on such dangerous territory. The harsh winter weather had rotted the stubble into the ground whence it came, leaving only mud.
It was a pity that there would be no wheat to harvest in the summer, Quintus mused, but the lack of vegetation made the sentry’s job easy. Movement of any kind could be spotted at once. Not that the Syracusans ever ventured beyond the confines of their city. There hadn’t been an enemy patrol sighted in this area since the previous autumn. With their defences secure, the Syracusans had no need to assault the Roman fortifications. It was far wiser to stay behind the safety of their massive walls, Quintus thought sourly, warmed no doubt by the fires in the regular towers that decorated the parapets. There had been no Roman attacks either, since that horrendous first day, almost a year previously. Instead Marcellus had tightened the blockade around Syracuse as much as possible. Frustratingly, that didn’t stop the Carthaginians from running in regular supply convoys. In its current form, the siege would not end soon.
The wind whistled in from the north and Quintus hunched his shoulders. Yet again, he cursed the feathers on his helmet that prevented him from lifting up the hood of his cloak. Having a warm head wasn’t worth the risk of taking the helmet off. If an officer saw him, severe punishment would follow. Wearing two woollen neck cloths, one overlapping the other, was the best he could do.
‘Cold?’ asked Urceus.
‘Of course. You must be too!’
‘Not at all.’
Quintus aimed a kick at Urceus, which he avoided by walking away. They played out the same types of routine every day. It helped to alleviate their boredom.
‘How long left, d’you think?’ asked Urceus.
Quintus aimed a look at the sun, which was nearing the horizon. ‘Not long.’
‘That’s what I thought, thank the gods. Back to the tent. Warm blankets. A fire. Best of all, it’s not my bloody night to cook!’
‘Ha! You’ve forgotten whose turn it is, though.’
Urceus scowled. ‘Not Marius?’
‘How could you not remember that?’ asked Quintus, laughing.
‘Fuck. Burned bread. Raw meat, and boiled vegetables still covered in mud. I’ll be lucky to escape a dose of the shits.’
‘You could always offer to cook for him.’
‘No bloody way!’ retorted Urceus. ‘I’ll take my chances. Maybe tonight will be better than his last effort.’
They walked on, reaching the end of their section. There they met Marius, and Mattheus’ replacement Placidus, a sleepy type who suited his name. Urceus took the opportunity to rain abuse on Marius about his cooking. ‘You’d better produce something edible tonight,’ he threatened. ‘Me and the boys won’t eat any more of your slop.’
Marius laughed. ‘Careful I don’t piss in your stew, Jug.’
Urceus purpled. ‘Do that and I’ll shit in your blankets!’
Quintus and Placidus stood by and chuckled. This too was part of the routine. No one would do such a thing to the rest of his tent mates, but the same did not apply to the men in different maniples. Practical jokes such as dropping a dead mouse or a rotten cabbage into the cooking pot weren’t unknown, although of late it had become increasingly difficult to get away with this. Soldiers in other units became suspicious if any of their neighbours came calling around meal times.
A trumpet blared from their camp, and they all grinned.
‘Time to go!’ said Urceus. ‘I’m so bloody hungry that I’m even looking forward to the shit you produce, Marius.’
‘You’ll love tonight’s offering,’ declared Marius. ‘Stewed neck of mutton, with vegetables. Delicious! It’s an old recipe that my mother used to prepare.’
Urceus gave him a jaundiced look. ‘No disrespect to your mother, but I’ll be the judge of whether it’s tasty or not.’
Some time later, the eight hastati were arranged comfortably around the ring of stones that formed the fireplace outside their tent. An iron tripod was still in place over the flames, but the bronze vessel that had contained Marius’ offering for the night lay by Urceus’ feet. Everyone had agreed that the mutton stew was good, yet it had been Urceus, Marius’ greatest critic, who had insisted on scraping the pot clean. ‘I’ll expect that standard from now on,’ he’d said. Typically, Marius had promised nothing of the sort.
‘The weather’s getting warmer,’ said Quintus with a smile. ‘It wasn’t that long ago that we couldn’t have sat outside like this.’
Urceus belched. ‘Aye. Soon we won’t need our blankets wrapped around us, or a fire, apart from to cook on.’
‘There’ll be a few weeks of lovely weather and then it’ll be too hot again. Months of humping water from the river, sunburn all day and mosquitos all night,’ said Placidus dolefully.
‘Shut it!’ growled Marius. ‘Don’t remind us.’
‘Have some wine,’ said Quintus, passing over the skin that they were sharing. ‘And cheer up, for Jupiter’s sake.’
Glowering at the laugh that this produced, Placidus took the skin and drank deep.
‘Tell us a story,’ said Quintus, feeling a little bad. As the newest member of the contubernium, Placidus bore the brunt of everyone’s ribbing. His major redeeming feature, however, was his ability to weave a yarn.
‘Aye.’
‘I want the one about Hercules’ Twelve Labours.’ ‘No, the tale of Romulus and Remus!’ The tent mates’ voices competed with one another.
Placidus seemed appeased. ‘I’ll choose,’ he said importantly.
‘Make it a cheerful one,’ urged Urceus. ‘I don’t want to go to bed feeling miserable.’
Placidus thought for a moment. ‘How about the one with Horatius, Herminius and Lartius on the bridge?’
‘A good choice,’ said Quintus. ‘Don’t start for a moment, though. I need a piss.’
‘Me too,’ added Urceus.
‘Make it quick,’ Marius ordered.
The two friends walked together to the nearest latrine trenches, which were situated under the ramparts in the camp’s southeast corner. The sounds of ships being unloaded in the port of Trogilus, which lay close by, carried over the timber walls. The site from which their initial disastrous assault had been launched was now a supply base for the whole army. On the way back, they had to pass Corax’s tent for a second time. Because of the angle of their approach, the pair were concealed by their centurion’s tent until they were quite close. Quintus pricked his ears. It seemed that Corax had been joined by Vitruvius; the pair were deep in conversation, but in hushed tones.
Curiosity and a little devilment took Quintus. Nudging Urceus, he put a finger to his lips and indicated that they should go closer. Urceus looked a little unhappy, but he didn’t walk away. Together they crept to within a few paces of Corax’s position.
‘Has there been any further development with Marcellus’ pet Syracusan nobles?’ asked Vitruvius.
‘Not really. They’ve been trying to contact their friends inside the city, but Epicydes has spies everywhere. Anyone who’s suspected of treachery is being denounced and killed.’
‘Have none gone into Syracuse themselves?’
A derisive snort from Corax. ‘They value their precious skins too much. So far, they’ve only bribed fishermen to carry their messages.’
‘We need to get someone inside the city.’
‘Aye, that’s clear. But who?’
‘What about a slave belonging to one of the pet Syracusan nobles? They must have plenty.’
‘That’s been suggested, but Marcellus doesn’t trust a single one. Greasy Greeks, all of them. He thinks that they’ll give themselves up to Epicydes’ men and reveal their mission in the hope of manumission.’
‘Bloody slaves. They never think about anything else. Why can’t they know their station?’
‘Human nature, Vitruvius. Unless he’s a simpleton, what man wants to be the property of another? Why do you think that so many slaves volunteered to train as legionaries after Cannae?’
‘Aye, well, maybe you’re right. But the less said about slaves being manumitted to serve as legionaries, the better.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘Putting pressure on the Syracusan nobles won’t work either. They’d just enter the city and change sides. Tell Epicydes our troop numbers, the locations of our ships and so on.’
‘Exactly,’ said Corax. ‘Whoever goes in has to be a Greek speaker, and as trustworthy as possible.’
‘We need a reliable Syracusan deserter!’ declared Vitruvius with a chuckle. ‘Or better still, a Roman.’
‘None of our men could do it,’ said Corax.
‘Why not? You mentioned some time ago that a couple of your lot spoke Greek.’
Quintus tensed. Vitruvius had to be referring to him — and who else?
‘Crespo?’ Corax responded.
‘That’s the one.’
‘He’s brave enough, certainly, but his educated accent would give him away. Epicydes would be torturing him within an hour of his arrival. I’d forgotten about Marius, though. He would suit.’
Marius speaks Greek? Quintus had had no idea.
‘Marcellus would prefer two men,’ said Vitruvius.
‘True. Marius’ accent is rough enough to pass notice, but not Crespo’s.’ There was a short pause — Quintus wondered later if it had been Corax’s conscience? ‘Still, he might do. I’ll mention it to Marcellus.’
Fear began bubbling up inside Quintus. Being sent into Syracuse was tantamount to a death sentence. Even to his own ear, his Greek accent had been noticeably different to that of the Syracusan officer Kleitos. He tried to feel angry towards Corax, but failed. This didn’t smack of vindictiveness on the centurion’s part, more of doing what was right for Marcellus and the army. In the greater scheme of things, it didn’t matter if he and Marius were lost on a spy mission. Fuck it. Jerking his head at Urceus, he tiptoed away from Corax’s tent a few steps and then loudly walked back towards it, so that he could be heard. They rounded the corner and saluted. Quintus was relieved that neither centurion appeared suspicious.
‘Shit, I’m glad I don’t speak Greek,’ muttered Urceus when they’d walked on.
‘Aye, well,’ said Quintus as stoically as he could, ‘If I’m ordered to become a damn spy, I’ll do my duty.’
‘Make an offering to Fortuna. Maybe it won’t happen,’ said Urceus, clapping him on the shoulder.
Quintus grimaced. In his experience, such gifts did not affect the future, but he would not say so aloud.
The pair had to endure a barrage of insults for delaying Placidus’ storytelling, but silence soon fell once he began his tale. It washed over Quintus, however, as dark thoughts of Syracuse filled his head. When it ended, he was still brooding.
Marius nudged him. ‘A fine telling, eh?’
‘Yes,’ replied Quintus absently.
Marius gave him a shrewd look. ‘You didn’t hear a damn word! What’s up with you?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Quintus demurred, but Marius wouldn’t let up. After a moment, he gave in. Marius was to be part of it, after all, and their comrades wouldn’t think worse of them for not wanting to be sent on a suicide mission. To his amazement, though, Marius’ face lit up at the prospect.
‘How come you speak Greek?’ asked Quintus.
‘I grew up in Bruttium. Even today, Greek is the main language of many towns along the coast.’
Urceus let out a slow whistle. ‘I know you have a Hades-may-care attitude, Marius, but to want to do this?’
‘My time’s not up yet.’ Marius’ grin was confident. ‘And they say that the Syracusan women are stunning — as well as easy with their favours!’
‘He’s thinking with his cock again. A man’s a lost cause when that happens. A didrachm that you come back without having buried it in a Syracusan’s cunny.’ Urceus stuck out his hand.
‘Done!’ Marius shook with him.
‘Your word is your bond,’ warned Quintus, smiling despite himself. ‘No lying!’
‘Agreed. May Vulcan hammer my cock into nothing if I lie.’
‘That is something I would hate to watch. Your cock’s so small that Vulcan would have trouble finding it,’ said Urceus, smirking.
Marius’ expression grew serious for a moment. ‘It’s not just the pussy. Imagine the thrill of it! And if we succeeded? There’d be promotions in it, for sure. We’d be able to get drunk on the story for months.’
Quintus tapped his head. ‘You’re mad.’
Marius laughed, and Quintus realised that for all his fear, he wouldn’t be happy for Marius to be sent in alone. The man was his comrade, for better or for worse.
‘Anyway, it won’t happen,’ said Marius. ‘Marcellus will find better candidates than us, surely?’
Nothing happened for a couple of days, and Quintus’ worries began to recede. Marcellus had found the men for his secret operation. When one morning Corax disappeared, leaving Vitruvius in charge of exercising the maniple, he did not feel alarmed. Centurions’ meetings were common enough, and Vitruvius’ ebullient mood didn’t leave any time for thought. He soon had men running sets of sprints in full kit, while others had been ordered to fight one another with the heavy wooden weapons normally used by new recruits. Some were even wrestling in their armour — a chance, Vitruvius said, to freshen up their hand-to-hand combat skills. The hastati weren’t happy — few centurions made their men train in this manner — but they went at their tasks with gusto, because Vitruvius was every bit the disciplinarian that Corax was. If he singled a man out for not trying hard enough, far worse would be on offer.
Quintus was finishing a set of sprints with Urceus and the rest when he heard Marius’ name — and his — being called out. There were still four more lengths to run, but it was Vitruvius who was summoning them. They trotted over to the junior centurion, who had been standing with the optiones. A sense of foreboding began to sink in as Quintus spotted the soldier by Vitruvius’ side. He wore the triple-disc breastplate of a Samnite, which made him one of the socii. The realisation hit home an instant later. Corax was with Marcellus, and this was an extraordinarius, one of the finest allied soldiers who served as bodyguards to the consul.
Distinctly uneasy now, Quintus said, ‘You called us, sir?’
‘You’re both to go with this soldier. Marcellus wants to see you.’
‘Like this, sir?’ He had no desire to meet the commander of all Roman forces on Sicily — whom he’d only ever seen from a distance — while red-faced and drenched in sweat. Even Marius looked a little less eager than he had a moment earlier.
‘Yes,’ Vitruvius snapped. ‘Now.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Quintus saluted and eyed the bearded Samnite, who was only a little older than he.
‘Follow me.’
Throwing a minute shrug at Marius, Quintus followed the Samnite. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked when they were some distance from Vitruvius.
‘Sattio.’
‘Do you have any idea why we’ve been sent for?’
‘The consul wants a word.’
Quintus gritted his teeth, but Marius seemed not to mind. Why can’t I be as carefree? Quintus wondered. ‘I know that,’ he said lightly to Sattio. ‘But why?’
‘It’s not my job to question the consul,’ answered Sattio, his beard bristling.
Prick, thought Quintus.
‘It’s got to be because we speak Greek,’ muttered Marius.
‘Aye.’ Quintus could think of no other reason that they would be singled out. We will return safely, he told himself. As they drew near Marcellus’ praetorium, however, such confidence felt increasingly hollow.
Marcellus’ headquarters was in the army’s main camp, a vast affair that housed two legions. Reaching it, Quintus’ apprehension soared. He had been inside such grand quarters once, it was true, but that had been an age before, when he was still in the cavalry. The man he’d met, Publius Cornelius Scipio, who had helped to lead Rome’s legions at the outset of Hannibal’s invasion, had also been well disposed towards his father. Their meeting had been formal but pleasant; today’s encounter would be radically different. Quintus’ stomach knotted as they passed through the perimeter fence that ran around the praetorium.
At the entrance to Marcellus’ tent, Sattio spoke with the officer in charge, a centurion of the extraordinarii who bore a passing resemblance to Corax. Multiple silver and gold phalerae adorned a harness over his mail shirt; a scar that ran from his right knee to his ankle was further testimony of his stature. The centurion eyed Quintus with distaste. ‘You are Crespo and Marius, hastati in the maniple of Marcus Junius Corax?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they answered.
‘And this is how you would meet your consul?’
‘We were at training when the messenger arrived, sir. Our centurion ordered us to come at once. There was no time to change, sir.’
A phhhh of contempt. ‘Come with me.’
The pair shared a resentful glance, and obeyed.
As Scipio’s had been, the tent was opulently decorated. Thick carpets lined the floors, heavy candelabras hung from the ceilings, grand pieces of furniture were set out in style. Finely carved, painted statues — of gods, goddesses, satyrs and nymphs — eyed them from numerous vantage points. At the entrance to Marcellus’ meeting chamber, the centurion called out their names. An order to enter was given. Quintus held his breath as they walked inside.
A large table occupied the centre of the rectangular space; on it, Quintus spied a detailed map of Sicily, and another of Syracuse. Both were dotted with black and white stones — marking the position of Roman, Syracusan and Carthaginian forces, he judged. That wasn’t surprising. Nor was the presence of Marcellus and Corax. But Pera? What in Hades’ name was he doing here? Fresh sweat ran down Quintus’ back as they halted a respectful distance from Marcellus and saluted.
‘These are the men you wanted to see, sir.’
‘Thank you, centurion. That will be all.’
‘Sir.’ With a frosty look at Quintus and Marius, the centurion retreated.
Marcellus was a tall, thin man with neat brown hair. He wasn’t dressed in uniform, but he looked every part the consul. His plain tunic, gilded belt and ornate dagger exuded quality. A magnificent ring decorated with a ruby flashed on his right hand; a bronze ram’s head bracelet decorated the opposite wrist. He studied the pair for a moment. Both men squirmed beneath the scrutiny. From the corner of his eye, Quintus could see Pera smirking. He risked a glance at Corax, who gave him the smallest of nods. Quintus felt a degree of calm return. Perhaps they weren’t here to be turned into spies?
Marcellus spoke at last. ‘Your names?’
‘Quintus Crespo, sir. Hastatus in Centurion Corax’s maniple.’
‘Gaius Marius, sir. The same.’
Marcellus eyed Corax, who said, ‘They’re both good soldiers, sir. Crespo has been with me since before Trasimene.’
Again the consul stared; again Quintus writhed mentally.
‘Your centurion’s opinion carries weight with me, hastatus,’ said Marcellus.
‘Thank you, sir.’ If anything, Quintus’ unease had increased. He hadn’t been dragged here to be congratulated. Nor had Marius.
‘Do you know why you and your tent mate have been summoned?’
Quintus glanced at Marius, and decided that feigned ignorance was the best option. ‘No, sir.’
‘It’s because you speak Greek.’
New fear clutched at Quintus. Had Corax revealed his status? Beside Marcellus, Pera’s expression verged on the hawkish. Quintus felt sick. ‘Er, I do, sir. Yes.’ There. He had admitted it. After more than four years, his status as an equestrian was about to be revealed.
‘Corax tells me that your father died when you were but young,’ said Marcellus in Greek. ‘You had an old neighbour who was originally from Athens; the man taught you your letters, and also to speak his tongue.’
Quintus felt a rush of gratitude towards Corax, who hadn’t given his game away. He’d been summoned here to become a spy, but not to be betrayed. ‘That’s correct, sir,’ he replied, also in Greek. ‘I haven’t had reason to speak it much of recent years, of course.’
‘Yet here we are, outside a Greek-speaking city.’
‘That’s true, sir.’ Again Quintus contrived ignorance, but his heart had started hammering again. They were to be sent into Syracuse, then. Great Mars, protect us, he prayed.
‘Direct attacks have got us nowhere. And while the guggas continue to sail in with supplies, our siege will not starve the defenders into submission,’ said Marcellus. ‘Treachery from within is what we need. It has always been the best method to take a besieged city.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Quintus, continuing to pretend not to understand.
‘We need therefore to recruit men inside Syracuse. Men who will open the gates for us.’
‘That sounds like a good plan, sir.’
‘The Syracusan nobles who call themselves friends of Rome are too scared to enter,’ declared Marcellus angrily. ‘For weeks, I have been unable to find anyone who is trustworthy enough to take on this most important of tasks. That was, until I spoke to my cousin.’ He glanced at Pera with a smile. Pera positively preened himself, and Quintus reeled. Marius, on the other hand, looked happy.
‘Centurion Pera speaks fluent Greek. He has volunteered to go into Syracuse and locate those who might be persuaded to come over to Rome,’ said Marcellus. ‘You will both go with him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the pair replied.
Their tone made Marcellus’ nostrils flare. ‘You are happy to do this, I take it?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Quintus hesitated for a heartbeat. Corax’s eyes bore a degree of sympathy, but he hadn’t protested. Pera’s expression was gloating; that of Marius, excited. Quintus felt world-weary. His accent might give him away. Who knew what Pera was capable of? Kleitos might even see him. This was a direct order from his consul, however, and Rome’s need came before his life. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’
‘Me too, sir,’ Marius quickly added.
Marcellus looked more satisfied. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘The Republic will be grateful.’
Quintus lay back and tried not to breathe. The stench from the fishing nets that covered him from head to toe was overpowering. Two nights had passed since Marcellus’ edict, and now there was no turning back. They were on board a fishing vessel, heading from the western shore of the great harbour of Syracuse to the enemy-held eastern side. After a time, his lungs were bursting. He had to exhale. And inhale again. He gagged.
‘Get used to the smell, hastatus. Find some way to breathe silently,’ hissed Pera, who was lying beside him and similarly covered.
You filthy cocksucker, thought Quintus, wishing that it was Pera who was on the second boat, alone, and not Marius. ‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered.
‘Quiet!’ It was the old fisherman whose vessel they were on. Quintus felt the man’s gnarly foot kick at the pile of netting. ‘Quiet, or we’re fucked.’
Quintus’ pulse pounded an urgent rhythm at the base of his throat. Hard as it was to do, he lay back on the rough deck and forced himself to relax. His nostrils filled once more with the smell of fish and salt. The net’s rough threads rubbed his cheeks. Under him, the planking moved gently as the little craft moved through the water. Timber creaked, water slapped off the hull and the fabric of the sail flapped in the breeze. The crew of three talked to each other in low voices. All was as it should be, but the knowledge gave Quintus no comfort. The danger wouldn’t start until they crossed the harbour and drew near to the small jetty where the local fishermen — needed by the city’s inhabitants, and ‘ignored’ by the Romans because of their usefulness in running messages into and out of Syracuse — docked their craft.
It was at that point that he, Marius and Pera would have to rise up and become Syracusans. Their first hurdle would be the guards at the gate through which the night’s catch was taken. By most accounts, they paid scant attention to the fishermen — other than to collect their unofficial toll of a box of fish — but that didn’t mean that there was no risk involved. Presuming it went well, however, the trio would stay for what remained of the night in the house belonging to the old soak who owned the boat.
After that, their work would really begin. Quintus felt a tide of bile rush up his throat. He could think of nowhere he’d like to be less than where he was right now. To walk, or rather sail into the middle of an enemy-held city, speaking their language with noticeable accent, reeked of stupidity. Yet the alternative — refusing a direct order from Marcellus — would have meant the fustuarium — him being beaten to death by his tent mates. He couldn’t have let Marius go alone either. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, thought Quintus bitterly. May the girls be as beautiful as Marius says they are, he prayed, and may I get to lie with at least one before we’re caught.
Despite his worries, things went smoothly in the hours that followed. The guards didn’t even look up as they shuffled into the city, and they made their way to the old fisherman’s house without hindrance. When they rose the following morning and went out on to the streets, no one gave them a second glance. The names and addresses they’d been supplied with proved to be accurate. Pera decided that he alone would enter the houses to talk to the nobles, which made Quintus wonder why they’d been made to accompany him. It proved truly nerve-racking to wait outside, wondering if every passer-by would denounce them. Nothing of the sort happened, though, and Pera never emerged with anything less than a pleased air. Moreover, Quintus and Marius rarely had to open their mouths, thereby risking discovery.
Quintus found it fascinating to be within the besieged city. It was clear that Marcellus’ plan to take the place through subterfuge was a wise one. Morale seemed high both among the residents and the soldiers. The defences were in good repair, and the batteries of catapults even more numerous than Quintus had guessed. Syracuse had plenty of public wells, so water would never be in short supply. The market stalls weren’t overflowing with fresh produce, but nor were they empty. Grain, oil and wine, the most important commodities, were available, and in a wise move, Epicydes had capped their prices. Fresh fish arrived daily, caught by the same fishermen who’d ferried the trio in. While the women were not as stunning as Marius had boasted, there were plenty of beauties to make their heads turn. Pera’s short leash meant that there were no opportunities to pursue relations of any kind, however. The friends had to content themselves with just looking. When Pera couldn’t hear, Quintus ribbed Marius mercilessly about his bet with Urceus. Marius’ response was always the same: ‘At least I’d have been in there. Women fall for my looks, but they run a mile from ugly bastards like you!’ That was the cue to start trading insults. The banter helped them to while away the hours, to ignore the constant, gnawing fear.
Over the following five days and nights, in excess of a dozen high-ranking Syracusans were smuggled out and back in the fishing boats — ostensibly as crew — to talk with the nobles already with Marcellus. Once won over, Pera told Quintus and Marius, their mission was to convince more of their fellows to join the Roman cause. When there were enough to ensure that a gate could be taken by force at night, the time would be ripe.
‘How many will they need, sir?’ Marius asked. Quintus wanted to know too. With a core group recruited, it felt as if it were time to leave. The longer they remained in the city, the more peril they were in.
‘I don’t know, hastatus,’ replied Pera, ambition glinting in his eyes. ‘Sixty? Eighty?’
‘Can the Syracusans we’ve spoken with not do the rest, sir?’ ventured Quintus, his gaze wandering uneasily around the dingy tavern in which they were drinking.
‘Maybe they could, but the task will be completed faster if we’re also playing our part.’ With a malevolent curve to his lips, Pera waited to see if Quintus would rise to the bait.
‘I see, sir,’ Quintus replied in a monotone. Marius also looked unhappy-by now his previous enthusiasm had waned considerably-but Pera’s rank prevented further protest.
Quintus tried not to think about being taken as a spy. Marcellus’ orders hadn’t mentioned staying this long. What was Pera up to? A man pushed open the door and entered the inn. A customer who was about to leave stood to one side, letting the newcomer within — and it came to Quintus. Pera wanted to remain until the actual attempt to admit their fellow legionaries into the city took place. If he were Roman, the soldier who let Marcellus’ troops into Syracuse would gain considerable glory. A bitter taste flooded Quintus’ mouth. No one would remember him and Marius, if they even survived. Pera, a centurion, would take all of the credit. The devious bastard.
‘Have you anything to say on the matter?’
Quintus realised with a start that Pera was addressing him. He had no idea if a time to challenge the centurion would ever come, but it was certainly not now. ‘No, sir. We do as you say.’
A wintry smile. ‘To our success, then.’ Pera raised his cup.
Trying to ignore their worries, Quintus and Marius did the same.