Chapter XIX

‘There are close on eighty men involved now. That’s as many as Demosthenes feels will turn readily,’ Pera revealed to Quintus and Marius two days later. He’d just met with the chief conspirator in the agora. ‘The gods are smiling on us, because the moon is on the wane. Acting tonight or tomorrow night would be best. Demosthenes will make the decision when it’s dark.’

After so many days of living on his nerves, Quintus felt overwhelming relief. Oddly, a mad part of him exulted. It might be suicidal to stay, but it would feel incredible to be one of those who let their men into the city. The manic gleam in Marius’ eyes told its own story about how he felt. Before Pera, however, Quintus put on a surprised face. ‘We’re to take part, sir?’

‘Aye, we are.’ Pera revealed his teeth. ‘I think that we should have some wine to celebrate.’

Marius looked delighted, but Quintus held back. There was yet one more name on their list. Even a single man might be the difference between success and failure when they came to seize the gate, he thought. ‘There was one last noble you were to talk to, wasn’t there, sir? Attalus — was that his name?’ Pera’s scowl proved that he had forgotten all about him.

‘We have sufficient numbers, damn it,’ Pera snapped.

Quintus caught the warning shake of Marius’ head and decided not to antagonise Pera further. ‘As you say, sir.’ Great Mars, let nothing go wrong from this point, he prayed.

After a quick drink, Pera had them retire to the fisherman’s house, which had continued to be their refuge. The dwelling was located in a tiny lane populated entirely by the old soak’s crewmembers and their extended families. From the first day, no one had paid them any attention, which had helped to relieve the strain that Quintus and Marius felt each time they’d ventured beyond the rundown quarter and into the city proper. Pera ordered Quintus to stay alert while he retired to his room.

Marius slipped Quintus a wink and whispered, ‘If a nap’s good enough for the centurion, it is for me too,’ and disappeared.

Some of Quintus’ concern slipped from his shoulders as he sat in the tiny, sunlit yard behind the house, watching their host repair his nets. Neither he nor the old man spoke, but Quintus enjoyed watching him. There was a hypnotic quality to the repetitive movement of needle and thread to and fro, the tying of knots, and the way that the fisherman used his last few teeth to bite through the ends each time he was done.

After a while, Quintus felt his eyelids droop. Normally, he would have fought the drowsiness, but in the calm of the yard, there seemed little harm in letting them close. They had finished scouring Syracuse for conspirators. Nothing would happen before nightfall, and the languorous feeling induced by the wine he’d drunk was proving too hard to fight. Quintus slipped into a most enjoyable dream; it involved Elira and her wondrously talented mouth.

A hand shook him.

Quintus dreamed that Elira had gripped his shoulder as they were locked together in passion.

He was shaken again, felt a hot breath on his ear. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’

Quintus opened his eyes and recoiled. There was no perfume in the air, only body odour, no alabaster smooth skin, just the warty chin and the straggly beard of the old fisherman. ‘What? What is it?’ Quintus demanded.

‘Soldiers. Soldiers are coming!’

Quintus’ stomach did a neat somersault. ‘How long have we got?’

‘The warning signal came from my nephew’s house, at the mouth of the alleyway. You have a few moments. Get on the roof’ — he gestured at the red tiles above — ‘and drop down into the lane beyond. Go right, and follow it until you come to the temple to Athena. From there, you’ll know where you are. Make your way to my boat and hide yourselves. If they find no one here, their suspicions will be allayed. I’ll take you across the harbour when it’s dark.’

‘My thanks.’ Quintus was already on his feet, scrambling through the doorway to the room he shared with Marius. He considered not waking Pera — to seal the centurion’s fate, he would have to do nothing more than that. Two things stopped Quintus: the fate of the old fisherman if Pera was found, and the fact that the centurion had saved his life in Enna. He owed Pera for that.

By the time that Quintus had roused the others, and the three had started climbing on to the house’s roof, men’s voices were audible outside. Pera, who had gone up first, reached down for Marius. You miserable fucker! thought Quintus. I save your hide and this is how you repay me?

A fist banged on the door, and a voice demanded: ‘Open up, in the name of Epicydes!’ The old fisherman, who was watching, indicated with his hands that he would take his time responding to the summons.

Marius crouched on the tiles and shoved out a hand. Quintus took the grip and scrabbled up the wall with his feet. One of the tiles half lifted from its position as he clambered up, and he cursed under his breath as it dislodged, fell to the floor of the yard and smashed into fragments.

Quintus and Marius looked at each other. Would the old man have time to clear up the broken tile? If not, things boded ill for all of them.

Pera beckoned from the outer edge of the roof. Then, without a word, he jumped.

The friends followed as fast as they could. The alley beyond was tiny and filthy but fortunately the drop was less than the height of two men. Thud. Thud. The mud softened the sound of their fall.

‘Which way?’ demanded Pera, his voice agitated.

‘Right, sir, until we reach the temple to Athena.’

Pera turned and was gone.

‘The prick is shitting himself,’ pronounced Marius with a grin.

‘I don’t think he’s realised the danger we were in until now,’ said Quintus, also amused. His own fear was far more manageable knowing that Pera was terrified.

They took a moment to listen. Metal hobs clashed off the concrete floor, telling them that the soldiers had entered the house. Marius tugged at Quintus’ arm, but he resisted. Knowing whether the fallen tile had caused suspicion or not was vital.

‘What’s this?’ The angry cry needed no explanation.

‘We can’t stay in the boat,’ Quintus muttered to Marius as they loped off. ‘They’ll come for us, sure as the sun rises in the east.’

‘I’ve got a knife, but you don’t even have that. What the fuck do we do?’

Instinct made both men slow as they came to the end of the alley. Running would draw attention. Quintus scanned the square beyond, which was dominated by the shrine that the old man had mentioned. It was as busy as he’d expect for the time of day. Stallholders proclaimed the quality of their wares; gossiping housewives walked together in twos and threes, inspecting what was on offer. Slaves carrying baskets of shopping walked behind the richer ones. Hawkers of everything from statuettes of the goddess to good-luck charms worked the crowd, smiling and bowing. A pair of cripples — soldiers who’d been injured in the defence of the city? — held up beseeching hands from their positions near the temple steps. Fresh blood glistened on the altar in the centre of the square. A small crowd watched as two acolytes manhandled a dead goat off it. A grey-bearded priest spoke with the merchant who’d paid for the sacrifice that had just taken place.

There was no sign of Pera.

‘The fucker’s gone and left us,’ said Quintus.

‘Maybe he thought we’d look suspicious walking together.’

‘I suppose.’ In Quintus’ mind, however, this was proof of Pera’s cowardice. ‘I can’t see any soldiers.’

‘Nor I.’ They set out across the square.

‘How in Hades’ name did the bastards know where we were?’ asked Marius.

‘Someone must have talked.’

They chewed on the rancid fat of that for a moment. The danger they had been in until that point was as nothing to what it would be in the hours that followed. Epicydes would ransack the city to find them, and all of the conspirators. ‘The boat is our best bet,’ said Quintus. ‘Our only bet,’ he added grimly.

‘But what then?’ hissed Marius as they headed in the direction of the fishermen’s jetty. ‘I can’t sail, or swim. Can you?’

‘I can swim, but I’ve never sailed.’

Marius mouthed a curse.

‘Come on. It’s our best chance,’ urged Quintus. ‘If necessary, I can help you.’

‘If Pera can’t swim, he’ll order you to help him instead.’

‘I’ll leave the cocksucker to sink.’ Waking him up had repaid the debt, Quintus decided.

Marius gripped his arm in gratitude.

They began to see parties of soldiers everywhere as they threaded their way through the streets — far more than usual. Quintus tried to tell himself that it was nothing more than coincidence but that idea was crushed when he saw one of the men whom they’d recruited being dragged from his house.

‘I’m innocent, innocent, I tell you!’ shouted the captive.

‘Not according to what Attalus says,’ retorted the officer in charge.

Quintus’ head turned at the name. Had Attalus found out that he hadn’t been included in the conspiracy and betrayed it out of pique? Panic flared in Quintus’ guts as his captors headed in their direction. If the prisoner saw them, and said as much as a single word-

He shoved Marius into a street-side restaurant.

‘This is no time to eat,’ snarled Marius, but his outburst was quelled by Quintus’ warning look. They took a seat at a nearby table and ordered soup from a serving girl. Quintus told Marius in an undertone what he’d seen.

‘You mean this is Pera’s fault?’ Marius said indignantly. ‘We should have left the stupid bastard behind.’

‘Let’s concentrate on getting out of here,’ warned Quintus, but he still felt a stab of pleasure at Marius’ solidarity. They kept an eye on the street as they waited. To their relief, the soldiers and their prisoner moved on without halting.

The soup appeared and they shovelled it down. Quintus slapped a coin on the counter and they set off again, studying the crowds with apparently casual eyes. Although they saw more soldiers, the friends spotted no other conspirators, which allowed them to pass unrecognised. They didn’t see Pera. Quintus hoped that the centurion had been taken captive, that he would never see him again. Sweat drenched him as they neared the little gate in the wall that gave on to the jetty. He could sense the same tension in Marius. If the guards here had been alerted — by Pera, or by their own side — they were dead men. In silent consensus, they stopped by Arethusa’s spring, a source of fresh water since antiquity. The place was a hubbub of householders coming and going with buckets. It was easy to pretend to be two passers-by, slaking their thirst.

‘What do you think?’ whispered Marius.

Quintus stared as he raised his cup, provided by an old crone in return for a copper. There were four soldiers by the gate, the usual number. That was good. So too was the fact that their spears were leaning against the wall. They didn’t look any more alert than normal, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a trap. Then one of the guards wandered out through the gate, saying that he was bursting for a piss. The most senior of the soldiers, a man whom Quintus knew by sight, didn’t stop him. ‘They don’t know anything yet,’ he said, explaining. ‘I’d bet my life on it.’

‘That’s what you are betting, and mine with it,’ retorted Marius sourly, but he didn’t argue further. ‘What’s our story for going to the boat at this hour?’

‘The old man found a leak last night. He wants us to take a look and sort it out if we can.’

‘That tale isn’t out of the realms of possibility, I suppose. And some of the guards know us by sight at this stage, which is something.’

‘Let’s hope that Pera hasn’t already ballsed it up for us by spinning a different yarn.’

Marius frowned. ‘What if they don’t believe us?’

‘We will have to kill them all,’ Quintus grated, ‘quietly enough that the men on the walls above don’t hear us. Then we stroll to the boat. If Pera’s there, he’s there. If not, there’s no point waiting for him. We can force a fisherman to sail us across the harbour.’

‘Jupiter’s hairy arse,’ muttered Marius. ‘I’m not even going to think about the catapults.’

‘Good,’ said Quintus, trying also not to imagine what it would be like helping Marius swim to safety. ‘Come on.’

‘If I don’t make it but you do-’ Marius began.

‘Shut up!’

‘Let me finish. Tell Urceus that I did screw a Syracusan girl.’

Quintus felt a smile push its way on to his lips. ‘Very well. But you can tell him yourself.’

‘With the gods’ help. I’ll have to admit that I was lying afterwards, though, or else Vulcan will hammer my cock to a pulp.’

Any trace of humour fell away as they approached the entrance, a narrow affair that was actually a tunnel protected by a gate at each end. Soon Quintus’ pulse was hammering so fast that he worried it was audible. The fourth guard hadn’t returned, which left three. The most senior was squatting on his haunches, playing dice with one of the others. The last man was the one monitoring who came and went. He eyed Quintus sourly, which wasn’t any different to his normal manner. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The chief found a leak in the boat last night,’ mumbled Quintus, mimicking the Syracusan accent as best he could. ‘He wants us to sort it out.’

‘Ha! He sends you to do the dirty work while he sleeps, is that it?’

‘Pretty much.’ Quintus hawked and spat.

‘It’s always the same old story.’ He rolled his eyes at the senior guard. ‘On you go.’

Quintus felt overwhelming relief. He nodded his thanks and together, he and Marius stepped towards the tunnel that led through the wall to the jetty.

‘Just a moment,’ said a voice, and Quintus’ fear resurged. He half turned, saw the senior guard getting to his feet. Quintus warned Marius with his eyes. ‘Yes, sir?’ he asked humbly.

‘Bar their path, you damn idiot!’ barked the senior guard at the man who’d let Quintus by. ‘When their friend went through a little while back, he was going on about renewing the sail. Someone’s telling lies!’

‘I’ll take the leader,’ said Quintus in Latin to Marius. He leaped for the spears leaning against the wall. Grabbing one, he used it to skewer the senior guard through his padded cuirass. While he was doing that, Marius was stabbing the second man to death. Together they dispatched the last soldier before Quintus finished off his first opponent with a thrust to the neck.

The fight took barely fifty heartbeats. The instant that it was over, Quintus became aware of being watched. Every single person by Arethusa’s spring was staring at them in complete shock. ‘Shit! They’ll alert the men on the walls. Let’s go.’

‘Look,’ growled Marius.

Quintus’ heart sank. A group of soldiers had appeared on the other side of the fountain. There were far too many to fight. ‘Go!’

They barged into the tunnel, spears in hand. The narrow space echoed to their pounding feet and heavy breathing. It was perhaps thirty paces to the far side. Before they reached it, however, a shape loomed in the entrance. The last guard, thought Quintus.

‘Pericles?’ called the man. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes,’ Quintus replied from behind a hand. He readied his spear. Great Jupiter, do not let the new soldiers shout out, he asked silently.

‘You’re in a damn hurry. Have you got the shits?’ asked the guard with a snigger.

Quintus ran him through and pushed past. Marius stabbed him again for good measure. He fell, gurgling on his own blood. Quintus glanced back down the tunnel. No one was visible — but he could hear raised voices. ‘It’s a shame that we can’t seal the outer door.’

‘That’s the least of our worries,’ replied Marius, shoving him onward.

They emerged on to the rocks that sprawled below the base of the walls. The jetty poked out at sea level, a rickety arrangement of planking with ten or more fishing vessels tied up to it. A couple of fishermen were pottering about on their boats, and on the old man’s craft, Quintus spotted Pera. With him was another figure, who appeared to be untying the mooring rope.

‘Fucking Pera,’ Quintus said.

‘The piece of shit isn’t waiting for us!’

‘We can still make it!’

They scrambled down the rocks and thumped on to the planks, which swayed beneath them. ‘Sir!’ Quintus called out in a low voice. ‘Wait!’

When Pera saw them, he muttered to the fisherman — a man Quintus didn’t recognise — who pulled the last of the rope into the boat.

Quintus had no breath to curse, but rage filled him that Pera would desert them so deliberately. They began to sprint, with Quintus in the lead. He had covered half the distance when there was an almighty crack from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he was horrified to see Marius half disappear through a hole in the rotten timbers. He skidded to a halt, noticing soldiers emerging from the tunnel. Fuck!

Quintus glanced at the boat. It had only moved a length away from the jetty; the fisherman hadn’t yet run up its sail. They might still catch it by swimming. He lay down and reached down towards Marius, swearing because of the splinters in the broken planks. ‘Grab my hand!’

‘I’m hurt,’ groaned Marius as Quintus hauled him up.

‘Up, up on your feet. We can look at you on board,’ said Quintus. His gaze slid down below Marius’ waist. So much blood and bone poking through the skin was really bad news, especially now that they needed to swim. His eyes lifted; he saw the soldiers already at the end of the jetty. He tried to grab Marius, but his friend pushed him away. ‘Leave me.’

‘No!’ Quintus made another effort to pick him up, but there was nothing wrong with Marius’ arms. He resisted fiercely.

‘I’m done, Crespo! If you don’t go, we’ll both die. Where’s the point in that?’

Quintus wanted to weep, but Marius was right. The first soldier was no more than twenty paces away.

‘Get me up on my feet. I’ll hold them back so that you can jump.’

Quintus’ throat was closed with emotion. All he could do was nod. With an arm around Marius’ shoulders, he managed to lift his friend upright. Marius roared with pain as he tried to stand on his injured leg. He took a deep breath, fixed Quintus with his eyes. ‘Give me your spear.’

‘Here.’

‘Save yourself. Pera will pull you on board if you get to the boat. Go!’

‘I will.’ Quintus gripped Marius’ arm hard. Then he turned and fled.

‘Come on, you stinking Greek arse-humpers!’ he heard Marius shout in Greek. ‘One Roman is worth ten of you any day!’ The Syracusan soldiers roared abuse in reply.

Quintus felt the timbers move as they advanced on to the jetty, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. There was an open space at the end of the planking and he hared towards it. The boat’s sail was up now. Despite the shelter provided by the walls, there was some breeze to fill it. He would have one chance before the craft was beyond his reach.

Quintus slowed up enough to plunge into the sea head first, with his arms outstretched. He was no expert, but he’d often seen the men who dived for shellfish off the coast of Campania. The water was shockingly cold. Kicking out with his arms and legs, Quintus shot above the surface in a great spray of droplets. The boat was perhaps fifteen paces from him, and picking up speed fast. Pera was watching him, his face inscrutable. Quintus swam for the vessel with all of his strength. From the jetty came the sound of men fighting. Marius was still alive, then. Despite his growing distance from the vessel, new determination filled Quintus. His comrade’s sacrifice must not be in vain.

Quintus’ sense of time and space vanished. He felt the sting of salt in his eyes, the burn of it at the back of his mouth, and his limbs powering him along. Ahead, he saw only the boat. Finally, incredibly, he was almost within reach of it. With a huge effort, he swam close enough to touch its hull. The fisherman saw him, and Quintus prayed that it was he who reached out a hand. But it was Pera whose face appeared over the side, whose hand bore an oar like a weapon. Shocked, Quintus swallowed a mouthful of water and flailed backwards, trying to get away. He’s going to brain me.

‘Two people rowing would give us more speed,’ said a voice — the fisherman.

Disappointment flickered in Pera’s eyes; he changed his grip on the oar and extended it to Quintus. ‘Grab a hold!’

Still wary, Quintus obeyed. To his relief, Pera pulled him in and held out his other hand. They shared a look — of mutual dislike, even hatred — before Quintus lifted his arm from the water towards Pera’s.

‘Quickly, quickly,’ urged the fisherman as Quintus landed sprawling on the deck. ‘The artillerymen won’t sit about!’

Quintus’ gaze shot not to the ramparts but to where Marius had stood. He saw only a bloody corpse. You died well, brother, he thought sadly. Several enemy soldiers had run to the end of the jetty, from where they hurled their spears. None had the range to reach the boat, nor, it seemed, did they know how to sail. Not a man among them climbed into any of the other fishing craft. Heartened by this, Quintus made obscene gestures at them. ‘Fuck you, you whoresons!’

‘Don’t waste your breath.’ An oar was shoved at him. ‘Take this and row,’ ordered Pera.

‘Sir.’ Quintus took the oar, little more than a length of wood with one end that was slightly thicker than the other, and lowered it into the crude rowlock, and thence into the water.

‘On my count. One. Two. Three. Pull!’ said Pera. ‘One. Two. Three. Pull!’

With the wind filling the sail, their efforts helped the boat to travel over the waves at a respectable clip. It was two thousand paces to the far side, but at four hundred, they’d be out of range of the enemy artillery. Quintus judged that the boat had already travelled a quarter of that distance. He eyed the ramparts nervously. Still no activity there.

‘I can’t remember the last time there was an east wind in this harbour,’ said the fisherman. ‘It never happens.’

‘Fortuna must have sat on Eurus’ cock today,’ Pera pronounced. ‘He’s in a good mood.’

Quintus had to smile, for all that he hated Pera. Eurus, the Greek god of the east wind, was regarded as the bringer of ill fortune, yet it was thanks to him that the boat was moving so fast.

Whizzzz!

The all-too-familiar sound made Quintus’ gorge rise. There was a blur of movement some distance off to his right, and a splash as a large arrow scythed into the sea.

‘Row! Row!’ yelled the fisherman.

Quintus and Pera bent their backs. Their oars rose and fell in near unison, over and over.

It was as if the first missile had been a sign to the other artillerymen. Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! The air filled with the deadly noise, and the water around the boat was struck again and again as the arrows landed. One hit the deck by the base of the mast, and another punched a hole in the sail, but that was the only damage. A second volley came close on the heels of the first, but again the little boat and its occupants escaped serious damage.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the volleys ended. Quintus felt nervous rather than pleased. They were at the limit of the bolt-throwers’ range, which meant that the stone-throwers would be next. They began shooting an instant later, yet this barrage too was desultory. About half a dozen rocks were loosed before the boat was left alone to complete its voyage.

Perhaps their ammunition was too valuable to waste on a couple of spies, thought Quintus. He didn’t wait for Pera’s command. Lifting his oar from the water, he slumped down beside it on the deck. The centurion glared, but then he too did the same. They sat in silence. Quintus couldn’t put Marius’ death from his mind, nor the image of Pera ordering the fisherman to move off from the jetty without them. His grief morphed into white-hot anger. ‘You were going to leave us behind, sir.’

‘Bullshit. I thought you had been caught.’

‘Even when we were on the jetty, sir?’

‘It was imperative to get the boat out into the harbour. I assumed you could both swim,’ snapped Pera.

‘Marius couldn’t, sir.’ He wanted to add, ‘If you’d also been there, we might have saved him,’ but didn’t dare.

‘Well, we’ve all heard the tale of how you saved a comrade from drowning. You would have been able to get out to the boat!’

Quintus didn’t answer. What point was there? Pera would deny every accusation, and even more so when they got back to their own kind. There, Quintus’ lowly status would render his testimony worthless. I should have left the prick to be discovered by the soldiers, he brooded. If I had, the guards at the gate wouldn’t have been suspicious of us, and Marius would still be alive. Right then and there, Quintus considered killing Pera. As before, it was the presence of another that stopped him. To ensure that he didn’t talk afterwards, Quintus would have to murder the fisherman in cold blood — and that he was not prepared to do.

‘I wonder who it was that told Epicydes of our plan?’ mused Pera.

That detail came crashing back, and again Quintus had to bite his lip. The officer in charge of the soldiers with the captive had mentioned Attalus. It couldn’t be coincidence, Quintus decided. This was no longer just about Marius’ death, and how Pera would have left them both to die. The whole damn conspiracy — Marcellus’ great plan to end the siege — had gone up in flames because Pera had not been prepared to win over one more man. Gods, but what would Marcellus do if he found that out?

Quintus eyed Pera sidelong. The centurion hadn’t heard what he had, or he wouldn’t be wondering how their efforts had come to nothing. Yet Quintus couldn’t say a word about that either, or Pera would try to murder him for the second time. A mixture of fury and frustration stung him. It would be best to keep his mouth shut entirely.

It was a bitter medicine to swallow. Even Urceus would have to be kept in the dark, in case his temper got the better of him. Quintus didn’t want another death on his conscience. Impotent rage swelled within him now. Pera would emerge from this as the courageous officer who had risked his life for Rome, only to see his efforts come to nothing through events beyond his control. Quintus would be nothing more than the hastatus who had followed orders, and Marius the soldier who had died in the line of duty.

When an old adage that Quintus’ father had been fond of came to mind, he was grateful. ‘If the time to strike an enemy isn’t right, stay your arm. Retreat if needs be. Keep your blade sharp. Keep it ready. One day, your opportunity will come.’

‘Ho, Hanno!’

Hanno turned his eyes from the magnificent view of Ortygia and the Great Harbour. He was standing on the battlements of the Euryalus fort, and had been looking south. Kleitos was hailing him, so he walked to meet his friend, who was climbing the staircase from the courtyard below. ‘What’s brought you all the way over here?’

‘The wine, of course!’ Kleitos clapped him on the shoulder; Hanno did the same back.

Kleitos’ unanticipated appearance in Syracuse a couple of weeks after his and Aurelia’s return — a consequence of Hippocrates wanting further news relayed to his brother — had been a joy to them both. Their duties kept them apart most days, but they had made up for that in the evenings, meeting up for regular drinking sessions. Kleitos rarely mentioned what had happened in Enna, but it was obvious that he appreciated Hanno’s company. With Kleitos still his only friend in Syracuse apart from Aurelia, Hanno felt the same.

‘You were taking the air and enjoying the vista, I assume?’ Kleitos gestured grandly over the rampart.

‘Yes. It’s not as spectacular as Akragas, but it’s worth a look.’

‘Aye. It was nicer there because there were no Romans in sight.’ Kleitos spat in the direction of the enemy fortifications, clearly visible beyond the marshy land that led from the walls to the River Anapos, which discharged into the Great Harbour.

‘That was part of it,’ admitted Hanno. His command when he’d first arrived in Syracuse had been on the seaward-facing defences. After the initial naval assault, it had been unusual to see the Romans at all, apart from an occasional trireme in the distance. It was a different matter here and at his new unit’s position, not far from the Hexapyla gate. Marcellus’ enclosing walls were a constant reminder that the siege continued. ‘But you didn’t come looking for me to go on the piss. It’s not late enough.’

‘You know me too well.’ Kleitos’ face grew more serious. ‘Is Aurelia about?’

‘She’s in the house. You know how it is,’ Hanno replied, registering the first traces of alarm. Since her encounter with Pox Face in Akragas, she had stayed indoors as much as possible during daylight hours. It was hard on her, but they both agreed it was better than another guard recognising her from her time in the palace. Remaining incognito was another reason that they were living here, far from the centre of Syracuse. Hanno hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, but he had also picked out Euryalus because of the network of tunnels that ran beneath it. Their main purpose was to allow defenders to appear from unexpected points and fall upon any attackers who made it within the strongly defended gates. But there was one — kept secret from all except senior officers — that ran under the walls for three stadia, emerging in a little defile. If the city ever fell, Hanno wanted a way out. Escape might be possible by sea, yet it was always best to have more than one plan. ‘I hope you haven’t come about her?’

‘No, no. There’s no reason to be concerned for Aurelia.’ He saw Hanno’s frown. ‘Nor about yourself.’

‘That’s good. You know that I’m as loyal as anyone, but with all the denunciations, well … How many men have been executed now?’

‘There was a real plot to turn the city over to the Romans, my friend. The spies killed a number of soldiers during their escape, and they were seen sailing off from the fishermen’s jetty close to Ortygia.’

‘I know.’ Hanno had heard the tale of the three Romans who had tricked and fought their way past the sentries and stolen a boat. Two of them had managed to get completely away, somehow avoiding the artillery barrage. Brave men, he thought. ‘So many of them confessed when they were arrested that Attalus must have been telling the truth. I’ve heard rumours, however, that some of the men who were seized were guilty of nothing more than being an enemy of his. I’ve had few dealings with him, but those that I’ve had have been unpleasant. He’s a little rat of a man. We’re fortunate that the conspirators didn’t include him in their plot. If they had, Attalus would have had no cause to feel left out, and I’d wager that he would have happily joined them. By now, the city would be in Roman hands.’

‘I won’t argue with you about that,’ said Kleitos. ‘But Attalus wouldn’t be stupid enough to accuse you. Hannibal sent you, for a start!’

For the first time in an age, Hanno thought of Hostus, one of his father’s enemies in Carthage. ‘Believe it or not, some of my people would sell us out to the Romans.’

‘Maybe so, but you’re not one of them. In fact, your loyalty is why I’m here.’ He winked as Hanno’s interest grew clear. ‘A little bird told me that you’re to be ordered to the palace in the morning. Epicydes is sending an envoy to Philip of Macedon, and he wants to talk to you about it before the messenger leaves.’

Surprise filled Hanno. Hannibal will want to hear about this, he thought. ‘Really?’

‘Maybe it’s because that prick Hippocrates isn’t here. He’s the more dominant brother, but Epicydes has a cooler head on his shoulders.’

‘He does,’ replied Hanno. Epicydes hadn’t mistreated him since his return, but nor had he asked anything of him but the most ordinary duties. ‘It’s excellent news that he’s asking Philip for help. Once Hannibal secures a port, the Macedonians could land in Italy — as well as my people, obviously.’

‘I hope to see that day. And if I have anything to do with it, Syracuse will also send Hannibal aid when the Romans have been beaten here.’

‘This calls for a drink,’ declared Hanno, delighted. ‘You’ll come back to the house?’

‘Only if you insist,’ replied Kleitos with a smile.

‘Aurelia will be glad to see you. She finds the confinement hard.’

‘Well, it won’t last forever. When Himilco arrives with his army, the balance will tip in our favour again.’

‘That’s what I tell her, but she worries about what may happen when Hippocrates returns,’ said Hanno, scowling. May the gods grant me the chance to kill him then.

‘We’ll keep her hidden until the Romans have been smashed, my friend, never fear. When your mission is complete, you can travel to Italy with her.’

Hanno nodded and made as if he were pleased, which he was — mostly. It wasn’t ideal that Aurelia should become a camp follower once more, and follow him all over Italy, but it seemed the only way that they could avoid being parted.

Spotting the enemy camps in the distance, he put his concerns aside. It was pointless to cross bridges before they were reached. Until the Romans outside the city were beaten, everything else was irrelevant. In the meantime, he and Aurelia were still together.

Besides doing his duty, and sending messages to Hannibal, that was what mattered.

Aurelia was tired of secreting herself away, tired of the lack of company. She had been quick to seek out Elira when she and Hanno had returned, but had been upset to find that the Illyrian no longer wished to see her often. Elira’s reason — which hadn’t altogether surprised Aurelia — was that she had met a soldier in the months that Aurelia had been away. It was understandable that she wanted to spend her time with him, but it meant that the rare, joyful occasions such as Kleitos’ visit the night before were all the more poignant. From the moment that Hanno left each morning, every passing hour felt like ten. I live in a prison, Aurelia thought bitterly, gazing around the main living area. She had to admit that it was large, and well furnished — Hanno had seen to that — and there were two windows, so light was not an issue. She had Hannibal the cat for company — Aurelia had insisted on retrieving him from Elira, with whom he’d been left. Yet these things helped only a little. The three chambers: living room, bedroom, and a kitchen area with a small latrine off it, were in effect, a jail.

In the past, Aurelia would hardly have noticed the everyday noises that carried in from the street below. Now, they felt like torture, because they represented a normal world, one that she could never be part of. Children shrieked with pleasure as they played; shopkeepers vied for the attention of passers-by, promising that their bread, their ironmongery, their wine was the best in Syracuse; men greeted soldiers whom they knew, and grilled them about the state of the defences and the disposition of the enemy. Women bemoaned the prices of food, their children’s behaviour, their husbands’ failure to listen to what was being said. Aurelia had taken to standing by the side of the windows, out of sight, and listening longingly to the carryings on. Hearing soldiers joking with each other made her think of Quintus, who might be only a few miles away, for all the good it did her. What Aurelia found hardest, however, was hearing a baby cry, or a very small child calling for its mother. Her barely healed grief for Publius would be scraped raw yet again, reducing her to a sobbing wreck. Why had she decided to travel to Rhegium? Why had she not stayed in Rome? The fact that Publius might have as easily been carried off by disease there as in Syracuse was of little solace. In a part of her mind, she lived in Rome with a happy, healthy son, and received occasional letters from her brother.

She wished again that the war was over, that she and Hanno could settle down and live a normal life. They didn’t talk much about the struggle — what was the point? — but it was clear that he felt the coming campaign would deliver a decisive victory for Carthage and Syracuse. The size of Himilco’s army, and his elephants, lent credence to this theory. It felt a touch traitorous to wish for such a result, for Aurelia still felt very much a Roman, but it seemed the only way that they would ever be able to leave the city, the only way that any kind of ordinary existence could be resumed. Yet even that would be transient, she thought wearily. Hanno’s oaths would mean a return to Italy, and to Hannibal’s army. For her, that signified life in a followers’ camp. Hanno asserted that she would be safe there, but after the few days she’d spent in one, Aurelia knew that her existence would be far from easy.

There was another way, one that she didn’t even like to admit to. After all that Hanno had done for her — rescuing her from Hippocrates and helping her to bury Publius were just two of the things — to consider leaving him felt like the ultimate form of betrayal. When her loneliness and grief overwhelmed her, however, she couldn’t help revisiting the idea: she fantasised about escaping to the Roman camps outside the city, there to find Quintus. After that, she could travel to Rhegium, to find out if her husband Lucius had lived or died. A different guilt scourged her now. What if he had recovered from his injuries? Would he have given her up for dead as easily as she had him? She doubted it. Did that mean that she should have remained loyal to Lucius, instead of betraying him with Hanno? No, Aurelia decided. Her union with him had been serviceable but sterile, and typical of an arranged marriage. There had been none of the fire she felt with Hanno. Publius had been the cement that had held them together. With him gone, there would have been nothing left but grief-laden memories.

Neither could she return to the family farm, because fighting still raged in Campania thanks to Capua’s continued support for Hannibal. Quintus would not return to it until the war was over. Her only other option was Rome, and the house that she had shared with Lucius. Picturing that brought home a stark realisation. To go back would merely move what she had here to another place, with the obvious absence of Hanno.

Aurelia sighed. Life had to be accepted as it was, but that didn’t mean that she had to remain incarcerated forever. There could be little real harm in venturing beyond her door, surely? The guards from the palace were unlikely to frequent this part of the city. In broad daylight, other men would not accost her. If she didn’t speak to anyone, her Roman accent would go unnoticed. Moreover, the baths that Hanno had taken her to once weren’t far.

Her mood lifted at once.

Life could go on. Life would go on.

With Hanno.

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