Chapter III

North of Syracuse, Sicily

Lifting a hand against the rising sun’s rays, a Roman legionary squinted into the distance.

A tall man with black hair, Quintus Fabricius was in a clearing, halfway up a small, tree-covered hill. Below his position, a road led south, to Leontini and, beyond that, Syracuse. It was empty of traffic. So it had been since he and his comrade Urceus had taken over from the previous sentries in the pre-dawn chill, several hours before. Satisfied, Quintus glanced casually around him. There was no great need to worry about attack from anywhere other than the south, but it paid to be vigilant. To his back, about a mile away, loomed the mass that was Mount Etna, its lower slopes covered in farms and vineyards. Northwards, the road ran up towards Messana, into Roman-held, secure territory. To the east, the sea was a deep, inviting blue. The mainland was only a mile or so across the strait; the mountains that ran down to the point of the ‘boot’ were clearly visible. There were no sails on the water yet — it was too early. Yawning, Quintus stood; he leaned his pilum and shield against the rock that had been his seat and walked up and down a few paces, stretching his muscles to get the blood flowing again.

‘Cold?’ asked Urceus. Short, brave, funny, he’d been nicknamed Urceus, which meant ‘jug’, because of his prominent, handle-like ears. No one, even Quintus, knew what his real name was. It was a source of endless interest to the maniple. Corax, their centurion, might have known — he’d been the one to take Urceus’ oath when he joined up — but he never let on.

‘Two tunics and a heavy cloak and I’m still chilled to the bone,’ Quintus grumbled.

‘You shouldn’t sit on your arse so much then.’

‘Piss off!’ retorted Quintus, his grey eyes dancing.

‘At least there’s been sod all to look out for,’ said Urceus. ‘For the moment anyway.’

‘It’s peaceful around here,’ agreed Quintus. ‘It makes me think of home.’ His mind turned to his family, and sadness took him. In Rome, the sun was rising on his mother Atia, his beloved sister Aurelia, and her little son Publius. The gods keep you safe, he prayed. One day, I’ll see you again. Lucius, Aurelia’s husband, might be with them, but according to Aurelia’s most recent letter, it was more likely he’d be in Rhegium, on business. Quintus saluted in the direction of the port, which kept supplies flowing to the Roman troops on the island. He had met Lucius once, just after Cannae; he’d seemed a decent man, and Aurelia made no complaints.

Urceus threw him a quizzical look. ‘What’s that for?’

‘My brother-in-law. The one I told you about, who has business in Rhegium.’

‘Loved ones. It’s hard not to think of them when we’re stuck here, eh?’

‘It is.’ The familiar bitterness rolled in, and Quintus spat. ‘We fought until we could fight no more at Cannae. We retreated when the battle was lost, so that we could fight another day. And our reward?’

‘To be exiled to Sicily — for life,’ snarled Urceus. ‘Fuck the Senate and everyone in it.’

Once, Quintus would have been shocked by such sentiments. Now, he nodded in agreement.

‘May Fortuna be smiling on my brothers,’ muttered Urceus. ‘They’ll be seeing more action than we are.’ His two brothers had joined the army after Cannae, and had been assigned to a different legion. Roman soldiers in Italy saw more frequent action, the troops of many areas having gone over to Hannibal.

‘Still no word?’ asked Quintus. He knew the answer, but it showed solidarity to enquire.

‘Course not. Paying a scribe to write a letter would seem like a waste of money to my brothers, same as me! We can but pray to the gods and hope that all of us make it.’ He threw Quintus a sympathetic look. ‘It’s the same even if you can write, isn’t it? Sicily is far enough from the mainland that it might as well be the damn moon.’

Quintus nodded in agreement. Not for the first time, he remembered the messages he’d sent to Gaius, his oldest friend from Capua. There had been no replies. Was Gaius dead, or had he and his father Martialis gone over to Hannibal? The latter notion wasn’t unlikely, Quintus had reluctantly concluded. Gaius and his father held Roman citizenship, but they were Oscan nobility through and through. Their people had only been conquered by Rome two generations before. When Capua had changed sides after Cannae, severing its ties with Rome, the majority of its leaders and ruling class had done so too. Quintus couldn’t think of a reason that Gaius wouldn’t have done the same. He didn’t have it in himself to hate his friend if that was the case. They’d known each other since they were babies, had shared almost every experience of life from early childhood to the date that they had taken the toga. Wherever you are, Gaius, he thought, I hope you are well. If you fight for Hannibal, I pray that we never meet.

‘To my brothers. To old friends and comrades!’ said Urceus. He poured a small measure of wine from his skin on the ground as a libation before taking a swig. He handed the bag to Quintus, who echoed his salutation. To Gaius, he said silently. Out loud, he added, ‘To Calatinus.’ Then he took a mouthful. The wine was vinegary, but Quintus enjoyed the warming feeling as it went down his neck. He slugged another.

‘Calatinus was your cavalry comrade from the battle of the Trebia.’

‘Good memory,’ said Quintus. ‘I’ve hardly seen him since joining the infantry.’ Until Urceus came along, Calatinus had been the comrade he’d missed the most. Fortunately, they had bumped into one another before Cannae, and afterwards too. The mere fact that they’d both survived the bloodiest defeat in the Republic’s history had been enough excuse to get drunk together. That was the last time they had met. Quintus had no idea where on the Italian mainland Calatinus was serving now, so he saluted from northeast to southeast, encompassing the entire peninsula. ‘May Mars keep his shield over you, my friend. May we meet again, in happier times.’

Urceus was watching. ‘You made it happen. Not seeing him again, I mean. Ordinary foot soldiers don’t mix with equestrians, Crespo.’

Quintus smiled. Crespo was the name he’d taken when he had enlisted in the infantry. It had taken him a long time to reveal his true name, and identity — that of an equestrian — to Urceus. Finally, though, he’d mentioned it one night when they’d had plenty to drink. His friend had made little of it, which had been a relief, but even now, more than a year later, Quintus was wary of talking frankly about the life he’d led before joining the infantry.

‘You were mad to leave the cavalry,’ opined Urceus, not for the first time. ‘You wouldn’t be stuck here, on fucking Sicily, if you’d stayed.’

Quintus had thought about this countless times, yet he still wouldn’t have changed the way he’d done things. Humble citizens they might be, but Urceus and his comrades were as dear to him — dearer — than anyone but his family. ‘If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have anyone to keep you out of trouble,’ he shot back.

Urceus chuckled. ‘Listen to you! It’s the other way round, you know that! If not for me, you’d be dead a dozen times over.’

The truth of it was that they had both saved each other’s lives more than once, but the banter was part of their routine. ‘Enlisting in the velites was the only way that I could continue to fight Hannibal. My father, gods rest his soul, was so angry with me that he’d ordered me back to Capua.’

‘I remember. But the lowliest class of infantry?’ Urceus tapped his head with a finger. ‘Choosing that, when you could have been sunning yourself on the family farm?’

‘You know as well as I do that I wasn’t going to sit at home, not with Hannibal roaming the land. Becoming a veles was the best choice I had.’

‘Bloody fool,’ said Urceus, but the affection in his voice took all the sting from the insult.

‘Besides, I’ve risen in the world since.’

‘A fine hastatus you may be, but I’d wager your mother still doesn’t approve.’

‘She will have come to accept it by now,’ Quintus said. Once she had recovered from the shock and relief of seeing him alive after Cannae, Atia had been quick to express her displeasure that he was a foot soldier. Until that point in his life, Quintus had always obeyed his mother. Not that day. He’d listened to her outburst and then told her that he would be remaining in the infantry. To his surprise, she had backed down. ‘Just stay alive,’ she had whispered.

‘Mothers are good at accepting what their sons do. It’s part of their job. Least that’s what mine used to say.’ Urceus jabbed a thumb at the trees. ‘I’m going for a piss.’

Quintus grunted. He was thinking about his former friend Hanno. Was he dead? Four and a half years had passed since their last meeting. In that time, there had been scores of battles between the legions and Hannibal’s army. Hanno could easily have been slain. If he had survived, he would be on the mainland, for none of Hannibal’s troop had yet landed on Sicily. That knowledge made Quintus grateful. Hanno was one of the enemy, and it would be preferable if they never met again. He couldn’t prevent a sneaky thought that wished Hanno still alive. There were worse men in the Roman ranks than he. Quintus couldn’t quite bring himself to pray for Hanno, but he did not wish him dead. Enough good men had lost their lives, including his father, at Cannae.

‘Gods, but I needed that,’ said Urceus, returning. ‘There was enough in my bladder to put out a burning house.’

‘It’s the wine you drank last night. If Corax caught you tipsy on sentry duty, he’d fucking kill you.’

‘But he won’t, because we’re two of his best men, so he leaves us be,’ Urceus said, grinning. ‘Besides, I wasn’t tipsy. Just happy.’

Quintus snorted, but Urceus was probably right. He could hold wine the way a barrel of sawdust soaked up water. Quintus’ tolerance was far lower, which annoyed and pleased him in equal measure. He could do without the ribbing he got from his comrades for holding back, but it was good to feel normal the morning after a piss-up when the rest of them were grey-faced, sweating and vomiting. His eyes roved the landscape again. Far off to the south, a flash of light on the road drew his attention like a vulture to a corpse. ‘Look!’

Urceus shot to his side, the banter forgotten. ‘What?’

Quintus pointed. ‘I saw sun glinting off metal. There it is again. And again. That’s more than a couple of travellers.’

‘It isn’t going to be a merchant caravan. They’re rare nowadays.’

‘A Syracusan patrol then.’ They watched as the group drew nearer. Corax would want details, and the newcomers were far enough away to risk waiting. That didn’t stop them both gripping the hilts of their swords. Eventually, they could see the force was made up of horsemen and foot soldiers.

‘How many?’ asked Urceus.

‘I’d say upwards of fifty riders, and four or five times that number of infantry. You?’

‘About that. What in Hades’ name are they up to?’

‘Scouting around Leontini, perhaps? They won’t be happy that we took it a while back.’

‘You could be right. Maybe Hippocrates and Epicydes want to prove that they’ve got balls. This lot could be scouts for a larger force that will attack Leontini.’ Urceus gave him a huge nudge. ‘Either way, Corax will want to know. You keep an eye on them. I’ll go.’

‘Fine.’ Quintus was already preparing himself for the fight. Since Hippocrates and Epicydes had taken control of the city, all Syracusans had become enemies. Corax wouldn’t let this force by. His duty was to defend the road that led north. It wouldn’t matter that the Syracusans outnumbered his men. He would want to give the enemy troops a bloody nose at the very least.

It was a pity that the approaching soldiers weren’t Carthaginians. They were the ones who had started this damn war, who had killed his father. The Syracusans had reneged on a time-honoured treaty with Rome, though. They were the foe here. If we kill enough of the whoresons, Quintus decided, if we slay so many of them that we can build a bridge to the mainland with their skulls, the Senate will have to reinstate us. Frustration stung him, because even if they displayed such extreme savagery there was no certainty that it would convince the Senate of their loyalty. It seemed more likely that he would end his days on Sicily. That he would never see his mother or Aurelia again.

‘What have we got to look forward to?’

The familiar voice dragged Quintus back to reality. He spun, saluted. ‘A strong enemy patrol, sir.’

Corax, a middle-aged man with a narrow face and deep-set eyes, returned his salute casually. His eyes scanned the road to the south. ‘I see the miserable dogs — moving along as bold as brass, eh? Like they own the damn place.’

‘They must think we have no forces in the area, sir,’ said Quintus.

‘A stupid mistake to make,’ replied Corax with a nasty leer. ‘We’ll have to teach them the error of their ways, eh?’

Quintus and Urceus exchanged a look. Corax had always been a tough taskmaster, but since he’d saved all of their lives at Cannae, his status had risen close to that of a god. Despite the familiar nervous feeling that presaged combat, they both grinned. ‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison.

‘Best get a move on. We want to be in position long before they reach us.’

Corax had picked a spot for their camp close to a massive old holm oak that had been torn down in a winter storm some months prior; its fall had entirely blocked the road. In peacetime, local landowners would have removed the obstruction. These days, travellers had simply hacked away enough of the smaller branches to be able to pass single file along one side of the carriageway.

‘Marcellus will want the trunk shifted when he leads the legions to Syracuse,’ Corax had declared when they’d arrived, ‘but until then we’ll leave it be.’

‘Good idea not to move the tree, wasn’t it?’ Quintus whispered now. ‘It’s a perfect place for an ambush.’

‘Damn right,’ Urceus replied, chuckling.

Quintus didn’t voice the concern that kept twisting in his guts. What if the Syracusans saw them?

Corax, who was pacing up and down behind them, whacked Urceus across the calves with his vine cane, and they fell silent.

Quintus, Urceus and the rest of the eighty men in Corax’s century were hidden in the thick scrub nearest the ‘passage’ through the branches of the fallen tree. Sections of juniper bushes had been cut and laid in great heaps to conceal them. Every fifteen paces or so, there was a ‘gateway’ in the roughly made ‘wall’, covered over by a wedge of branches; a hastatus had been assigned to each, his job to pull the vegetation out of the way when Corax gave the word. Half of Corax’s hastati had been placed some way beyond the blockage, and half before it. Quintus and Urceus were with Corax in the latter group; Ammianus, the century’s second-in-command, led the former. Vitruvius, the maniple’s junior centurion, lay on the other side of the road with his eighty soldiers, his force similarly divided.

Their hiding places would pass a casual glance, but Corax’s tactic was risky. If the Syracusans were being vigilant, they would be exposed before the trap was sprung. Corax had said that if things went against them, they were to retreat towards their camp. At least the enemy cavalry wouldn’t be able to follow them there. But Quintus didn’t fancy being pursued by a superior number of infantry either. They won’t see us, he told himself. Mars has his shield over us.

Through carefully cut gaps in the vegetation, they had glimpses of the road for about two hundred paces towards Syracuse. There was still no sign of the enemy troops — a final sighting from the sentry point had confirmed them as that — but it couldn’t be long until they appeared. Quintus’ mouth was bone-dry. He wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic, one by one, uncaring who saw. There was no shame in feeling scared. Any man who didn’t was a fool, his father had said once, and he’d been right. Courage was about standing and fighting despite one’s fear. Great Mars, he prayed, guide my sword into enemy flesh, and keep my shield arm strong. Bring me through this. Help my comrades in the same way, and I will honour you afterwards, as I always do.

An elbow in the ribs, and his attention shot back to the present.

‘They’re here,’ hissed Urceus, who was squatting alongside.

Quintus peered again at the road. A file of riders, perhaps five abreast, had come into view. Sunlight glinted off their bronze cuirasses and Boeotian helmets. Their horses were also equipped in the old-fashioned Greek style, with chest plates and face guards — so they were definitely Syracusan. They looked unconcerned, which was promising. One man was whistling. Two others were arguing good-naturedly about something, shoving at each other and oblivious to their surroundings. Don’t worry about them, Quintus thought. Unless there’s a balls-up, we won’t have to face the cavalry. That’ll be up to Ammianus and his lot.

‘See them, lads?’ Corax whispered, stooping over the friends. ‘Remember, not a fucking sound. We attack on my signal — when the horsemen have gone by. Javelins first, then a charge. Kill plenty, but not them all. I want prisoners. Marcellus needs to know what’s going on inside Syracuse.’

‘Yes, sir,’ they muttered back.

But he was already gone, repeating his words to the rest of the hastati.

On the Syracusans came. The tension among the Romans was palpable. Men shifted from foot to foot; they gripped their javelin shafts until their knuckles went white. Lips moved in silent prayer; eyes were cast skyward. A man close to Quintus grabbed his nose in an effort not to sneeze. It didn’t work, and he buried his face in the crook of one arm to deaden the sound. Veins bulged in Corax’s neck, but he could do nothing to stop it. Close up, the choked sneeze seemed incredibly loud, and Quintus readied himself to charge forward. The ambush would be ruined, but they could still give the Syracusans something to remember them by.

His spirits rose as the enemy troops continued to advance. The noise of fifty horses and riders had concealed the sound of the sneeze.

No more than a hundred paces now separated the Syracusans from the holm oak.

A chorus of complaints rose as the obstacle became fully apparent. The patrol ground to a halt. Shouts carried to and fro as the situation was relayed to the commander. Eventually, two riders urged their horses right up to the fallen tree. Men were always aware of being looked at, so Quintus stared at the ground, his heart thumping in his chest. There was nothing stopping his ears, however. Greek. Of course they were speaking Greek, he thought. Syracuse had been founded by Greeks. Like any equestrian, Quintus had had to learn the language as a boy. For the first time since his childhood, he was glad of the fact.

‘This damn tree wasn’t here the last time we rode by,’ said a deep voice. ‘It’s probably a trap.’

There was a derisive laugh. ‘A trap? Who’s going to cut down a thing this size, Eumenes? It’d take Herakles himself to push the damn thing over. Look at its roots — pointing to the sky. It fell over in a storm, most likely that one that lifted all the roof tiles in the city two months back.’

‘Maybe it was blown over, but this is a perfect place for an ambush,’ Eumenes grumbled. ‘Thick bush on both sides. Most of the road blocked. We’ll have to lead the horses through, break up the infantry’s formation.’

‘There hasn’t been hair nor hide of a Roman patrol since we left Syracuse. They’re all further north, I tell you. Here, take my reins. I’m going to take a look past the tree.’

Quintus glanced at Urceus, saw the tension in his face, realised that he had no idea what was being said. ‘It’s all right,’ he mouthed. He risked a slow, careful look at the road, and his heart nearly stopped. Eumenes, a big, bearded man, appeared to be staring right at him — from twenty paces away. Two horses were visible right behind him. Shit! thought Quintus, dropping his gaze. For long moments, he remained frozen to the spot, uncomfortably aware of the rapid breathing of the men to either side, the little clicks from knee joints that had been bent for too long. To his intense relief, there was no cry of alarm from the road.

‘Ho, Eumenes! Stop scratching your balls.’

‘Piss off, Merops. Well, did you see anything?’

‘Not so much as a Roman sandal print. I walked round the corner, had a good look to either side. The coast is clear.’

‘Sure?’

‘I’d stake my life on it.’

That’s what you’ve just done, you fool, thought Quintus, beginning to hope that Corax’s plan might work.

‘C’mon. The boss will want to know what’s going on.’

Next, the sound of men mounting up, horses walking away.

Quintus breathed again.

‘What the fuck were they saying?’ Urceus’ lips were against his ear.

Quintus explained. Seeing the fear on the face of the hastatus to Urceus’ right, he muttered, ‘Tell your neighbour. I’ll do the same on my side.’

Corax evidently spoke some Greek too, because he came along the line, telling men to be calm, that the enemy had no idea they were there. Reassured, the hastati settled down to wait. A message was sent to Ammianus to inform him of what was going on.

It wasn’t long before the Syracusan horsemen dismounted. Quintus could hear them grumbling as they walked in single file towards the tree. Someone’s horse was lame. Another rider’s arse was sore. Who cared about that, complained a different man: he was starving! More than one said that their commander was a pain in the neck, or asked how much further they would have to ride that day? Quintus’ lips tugged upwards. Soldiers everywhere were the same, whatever their allegiances. Be that as it may, they were the enemy, he reminded himself. They were no different to the Carthaginians who had slain his father. They were here to be killed, taken prisoner or driven from the field.

Stealthy looks told him how many of the cavalrymen had gone by. Progress was slow, and the tension unbearable, but the Syracusans remained focused on negotiating their way around the fallen holm oak. Five riders led their horses by, then ten, and twenty. Few men even glanced at the bushes skirting the roadside. It was as well, thought Quintus nervously, more conscious than ever of the stacked branches that served to hide him and his comrades.

Perhaps thirty of the horsemen had reached the other side when the hastatus who’d sneezed earlier convulsed in a new effort not to do so again. Corax was on his feet in a flash; darting over, he shoved a fold of the bottom of his tunic into the man’s face.

Despite the danger, Quintus felt a smile creep on to his face. He saw the same amusement in Urceus’ eyes. The idea of blowing snot on to Corax’s clothing defied belief. Quintus had no doubt that the unfortunate soldier would pay for his mistake later. If he survived the fight, that was. Gods willing, we both will.

Chooo! Corax’s attempt to kill the sound of the sneeze failed. The hastatus threw a terrified look at Corax, but the centurion was staring at the road, his jaw clenched.

Quintus’ heart hammered out a new, frantic rhythm. His eyes shot to the enemy troops. So did everyone else’s.

A short rider with a tidy-looking roan was next in line to work his way past the tree. Instead of moving forward, however, he was peering in their direction.

Shit, thought Quintus, he heard it. His gaze moved to Corax, who was as still as a statue.

The short rider glanced again, scowled. He turned to the man behind him. ‘Look over to our left,’ he said in Greek. ‘The branches about twenty paces in, do they seem stacked to you?’

Fuck it! Quintus’ mouth opened to warn Corax-

‘Ready javelins! Aim high! LOOSE!’ roared the centurion.

Quintus stood, flexed his right arm and lobbed his pilum in one smooth motion. He didn’t try for a particular target. With the enemy soldiers filling the road, there was no need. Forty javelins flashed up into the air with his, a beautiful and deadly sight. Orders rang out from the far side of the fallen tree, and from the bushes over the road. Another shower of pila shot up, landing a couple of heartbeats after the first one. The screams from men and horses were just reaching their ears when Corax ordered a second volley. Quintus hurled his javelin skywards, praying that it too found a target. His next moves were reflex: drawing his sword, hefting his shield, muttering yet another prayer. Everyone was doing the same.

‘Open the gaps,’ Corax bawled. ‘Men to the left, move first, then those to the right. Spread out. Hit the bastards, hard. GO!’

Quintus and Urceus were among the first hastati to advance. They had to move single file to the ‘gateway’, which felt slow, too slow. The instant that they were out the other side, however, they fanned out and formed a ragged line. Everyone broke into a loping run. Branches ripped at their faces, and the uneven ground made the footing treacherous, but there was no stopping the charge. The thrill and fear of combat had seized control.

‘ROMA!’ shouted Quintus. Urceus repeated the cry. So did his companions.

‘ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!’ the hastati opposite yelled in reply.

They covered the twenty paces at speed. Quintus’ heart lifted at the scene that greeted them. Everything on the road was chaos. The javelin volleys had had maximum impact on the horses. Riderless mounts barged about, some wounded, some not, but nearly all out of control. A few horses were down, neighing in pain and lashing out with their hooves. A number of riders were still mounted, but there was no space for them to manoeuvre. To their front loomed the holm oak, and to their rear, the mass of infantry.

The cavalrymen were finished as a fighting force. Best to panic the rest of the Syracusans, thought Quintus. If they realised that they outnumbered the hastati, things could go bad, fast. ‘That way!’ He pointed at the enemy foot soldiers.

He led the way; Urceus and half a dozen of their comrades followed.

A pair of cavalrymen jumped into their path, brandishing kopis swords. Only one had a shield. Raising his scutum, Quintus made to slam it into the shieldless man’s chest. He hadn’t counted on his opponent’s curved kopis blade coming in over the metal rim of his shield. Quintus jerked his left arm up, partly taking the blow on the metal rim of his scutum, but the tip of the kopis still struck the top of his helmet. The force of it buckled his knees. A heartbeat later, the pain arrived, a great wave of it that rushed from the side of his skull, filling his brain with stabbing needles. Reflex, training, the bitter knowledge that if he didn’t keep moving, he’d be dead, kept Quintus from collapsing.

Straightening his legs, he drove forward, hoping that the cavalryman wouldn’t react in time. A metallic clang as his scutum hit the man’s cuirass told him that he hadn’t. The weight of the kopis vanished from his shield, and he was staring down at the cavalryman, who had fallen on to the flat of his back. Naked fear filled the man’s eyes. It’s you or me, thought Quintus harshly, ramming his sword into his enemy’s mouth. In. Twist. Feel the flesh open, the muscles part, the bone grate. Out. Gouts of blood chased his retreating blade. Quintus felt, but didn’t see, the red tide that showered his lower legs and feet. He looked left, right. The other cavalryman was down, savage hacks in his neck and arms evidence of Urceus’ efficiency. A horse with a javelin in one haunch came backing towards them, snorting with fear, but one of the other hastati smacked it with the flat of his sword and it bolted forward again. Then, a moment of calm in the madness.

Quintus touched his helmet where the kopis had hit. He felt a massive dent, but no break.

‘You were fucking lucky there,’ said Urceus. ‘Head sore?’

‘Worse than after a night on the piss,’ replied Quintus ruefully.

‘Can you fight?’

Fury replaced Quintus’ embarrassment. He had to make amends for such a basic mistake, even if he wasn’t quite ready. Had to stick with his comrades. ‘Aye.’

Urceus knew him well enough not to argue. He nodded at the Syracusan infantry. ‘They’re scared, see? Not formed up tight yet. None of our lads have hit them at the front either. Let’s take them. Four wide, two deep. Now!’

Their companions growled in agreement. They formed up, Quintus grateful that his friend had taken charge. He and Urceus stood side by side, each flanked by another man. The remaining four shoved in behind them, where they would provide momentum to their advance and be ready to step into the front rank if needs be.

‘Move,’ ordered Urceus. ‘At the double!’

Skirting the bodies of the cavalrymen and that of a dead horse, they advanced towards the Syracusans. Had every enemy officer been injured or killed? Quintus wondered. Or were they that ill disciplined? None of the infantry were facing them. Instead they had wheeled to meet the attacks of the hastati from both sides of the road. Seeing the opportunity this granted, a swelling roar left his throat. If it went well, this had the potential to rout them in one fell swoop.

It was too good to be true.

A figure in a magnificent Attic helmet turned and saw them. He spat an obscenity, bawled orders. Men began to react, to face Quintus and the other hastati. Within a few heartbeats, a wall of shields had formed. Only ten or so of them, but they were the massive Greek ones, which protected the men behind from eyes to toes, and which locked in with their partners on either side.

‘Nothing for it. We’ve got to charge,’ said Urceus, baring his teeth. ‘If we don’t break the mangy sheep-humpers now, we’ll never do it.’

Quintus’ temples felt as if they were about to burst; he could taste bile at the back of his mouth, but there was no going back. He could not desert his comrades, could not run. Could not betray his father, who had died for Rome. ‘Let’s go.’

‘With us, lads?’ shouted Urceus.

‘Aye!’ came the response.

For all Quintus’ fear, he loved the comradeship in such moments. Loved the feeling of men standing shoulder to shoulder with him, and at his back. They would stay by him because he would do the same for them. If he was to die, this was a better place than any.

Fifteen paces separated them from the Syracusans. It was close enough to see the designs on their shields, the deadly tips on their thrusting spears. As the eight hastati charged, the enemy line wavered, but it did not break. The officer behind continued to roar encouragement. Quintus hated him in that moment. A leader like that made the difference between men standing and running. This one was far beyond their reach, though. He’d be the death of them. Spears had a greater reach than gladii.

Thirteen paces. Ten.

Astonishment overcame Quintus as a javelin arced down from nowhere. It took the Syracusan officer in the face. His hands reached up to grab at the shaft, but his strength had already gone. He was a dead man, standing. With a horrible choking noise, he fell from sight. A wail of dismay rose from the soldiers around him. The heads of the men in the front rank turned to see what was happening. They moved back an involuntary step.

‘Hit them — NOW!’ It was Corax’s voice.

In the blink of an eye, the balance of power changed. The confidence ebbed from the Syracusans and flowed back into the hastati. It had been Corax who had thrown the javelin, somehow Quintus knew it. The Syracusans would break when they struck them; he knew that too.

As they’d been trained, the hastati slowed down just before meeting the Syracusans. Hit an enemy too fast and you risked losing your footing. All the same, an almighty crack went up as they met. For a heartbeat, Quintus was back at another battle, when the sound had been as loud as thunder, when the very ground had trembled. That had been on the fields of blood. Today won’t be like that, he thought fiercely. Break the shield wall, and they’ll run. A spear scythed forward at him, but he ducked behind his shield and it shot over his head. He repeated the move that he’d used on the cavalryman, using the power of his thighs to drive up and at the Syracusan. His opponent rocked back on his heels, but the shields to either side held his one in place. The Syracusan wasn’t ready for Quintus’ sword, however, which Quintus thrust over the top to take him in the neck. Instead of pulling back his right arm, Quintus shoved it forward again, at the same time pushing with his scutum. As the Syracusan died, he could do nothing to stop Quintus from forcing his shield from its position in the wall.

His headache forgotten, Quintus roared a battle cry and drove into the gap. It was an incredibly dangerous thing to do — he’d seen more than one man die by hurling himself at the enemy like this — but the opportunity could not be ignored. To his relief, there were no Syracusans in front of him. All he could see was the backs of two shield walls, the formations that were trying to contain the Roman attacks from each side of the road. In between stood another officer, shouting orders first at one group and then at the other. He hadn’t seen what Quintus had done.

Quintus spun and stabbed an enemy soldier in the back, ramming his blade through the man’s linen cuirass and doubling the size of the hole in the enemy line. Urceus came storming into it as Quintus half turned and cut down the Syracusan who’d been standing on the other side of the man he’d first killed. He had a chance to scan the scene. ‘They’re holding their own against the rest of our lads, but only just.’

‘Whichever lot we hit from behind will break,’ replied Urceus, panting.

‘If that happens, the other group will shatter as well.’

‘Aye.’

A moment later, five of their six comrades arrived, having killed or put to flight the remaining Syracusans. Two were bleeding from minor wounds, but all had fierce grins plastered across their faces.

Quintus laughed. It wasn’t amusement; escaping Death’s grasp did odd things to a man. ‘Ready? One more effort and we’ll nail the bastards’ hides to the wall.’

The hastati roared their bloodlust back at him. Quickly, they formed up again, four wide with the three remaining men behind.

Quintus roared, ‘ROMA!’ and they charged.

Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

Even with the battle fury running through him, Quintus heard Corax’s whistle. He spat in the direction of the fleeing Syracusans whom he was pursuing, a mob of perhaps thirty men. They were in full flight to the south. Shieldless, weaponless, many not even wearing their helmets, the enemy soldiers did not look back as they ran. Their injured comrades who had fallen were forgotten. Everything was forgotten in their overwhelming desire to get away.

Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep!

Quintus’ training kicked in, and he came to a gradual halt. Sanity returned with each heaving breath. Soon he was glad to have been called back. Cutting down the Syracusans had been easy when they’d broken, and for the first few hundred paces of their headlong retreat. Yet a stage had come, as it always did, when chasing men who were no longer encumbered by weapons and armour became a real test of one’s endurance. Quintus was grateful for the extra protection of his mail shirt, but it weighed ten times more than the bronze chest- and backplates that he’d worn as a newly promoted hastatus.

He shouted after his companions who appeared not to have heard the summons. Nearby, Urceus was doing the same. Only a handful of men who needed recalling. They had all been through enough war to know when to call it a day. Everyone knew of soldiers who had pursued so eagerly that they had become isolated and turned on by their prey. And that, Corax had drummed into them, was yet another stupid way to die.

They wandered back up the road, twenty-odd hastati, stripping the dead of water skins and dispatching the badly wounded Syracusans as they went. It was hard to be sure how many enemy infantry lay scattered around, but it was easily a hundred. The cavalrymen had fared even worse. Quintus had seen two or three riders galloping away from the slaughter, but that was it. Despite the sneezing hastatus, the ambush had been a resounding success. Those of the enemy who could walk were herded towards the main ambush site, some distance to the north.

Corax was interrogating a prisoner. He broke off from his questioning with their arrival. The side of his mouth lifted a fraction: it was his excuse for a smile. ‘You heard my whistle?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Quintus.

‘Any fools still chasing the Syracusans?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. Any officers among those you’ve got there?’

‘Not a one, sir.’

‘Kill them then. I’ve got the second-in-command here. One way or another, he’ll sing like a canary.’

‘Sir.’ Quintus wasn’t surprised. Corax wanted information, and if they couldn’t provide that, captives were of no use. They had scant rations for themselves as it was; they could spare neither food nor men to guard even a few prisoners. He took no joy in killing men in cold blood, but the order had to be obeyed. He eyed his companions, readied his sword arm. ‘You heard the centurion, brothers.’

‘Not you, Crespo.’

Quintus stared at Corax in surprise. ‘Sir?’

‘Speak any Greek?’

The mere fact that the centurion had asked spoke volumes. Quintus had long wondered if Corax suspected that his origins were not what he’d said when enlisting. Quintus didn’t know why; it was just the way that Corax looked at him sometimes. He hesitated for a heartbeat, aware that the longer he left it before replying, the more it appeared as if he were lying. ‘A little, sir, yes.’ Feeling awkward, he began to lie, ‘I learned it when-’

‘Save the explanation. Mine is as rusty as hell. Come here and translate.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Doubly relieved — that he’d escaped further questioning, and that he wouldn’t have to help execute the prisoners — Quintus turned his back on the sobbing Syracusans, who were bunching together as Urceus and the rest closed in on them.

The well-built officer, who was bearded and a few years older than Quintus, had a shallow cut on his right arm but was otherwise unharmed. He regarded Quintus proudly. ‘Are all of my men to be slain?’

Corax understood. ‘Yes. Each one dead is a sword arm less on the walls of Syracuse,’ he said.

Quintus looked at the officer. ‘Did you understand that?’

A lip curl. ‘Not really.’

Quintus translated.

‘Is the same going to happen to me?’

Quintus didn’t answer at once, and the officer said, ‘Your commander’s Greek is shit.’

Quintus glanced at Corax, who laughed. ‘He’s a confident prick, I’ll give him that,’ Corax said. ‘He’s right too. I’ve gathered that his name is Kleitos, and that he’s second-in-command of a phalanx, half of which was on patrol. The commander was one of the cavalrymen. He’s lying over there, missing half of his head. I can’t make out any more of what he says.’

‘What do you want me to ask him, sir?’

‘The purpose of their patrol. Are there more of their forces in the area? Start with that.’

Quintus regarded Kleitos. ‘Do you speak any Latin?’

‘A few words, that’s all.’ This with a disdainful shrug. ‘Decent Syracusans don’t have much use for your tongue. Why would we?’ He jerked his chin at the captives taken by Quintus and Urceus, many of whom had already been slain. ‘You’re fucking savages.’

‘As if your soldiers aren’t capable of the same,’ Quintus replied, unmoved. ‘I’m surprised by your lack of interest in Latin. Hiero was a faithful ally to the Republic for half a century.’

Another scornful look. ‘He was a damn tyrant! Not everyone supported him, you know. There are plenty of nobles who are happy to see power now resting in the hands of Hippocrates and Epicydes.’

‘I see.’ Quickly, Quintus translated for Corax before regarding Kleitos again. ‘What were you doing here?’

‘Taking the air. Around Mount Etna, it’s meant to be especially good for the health.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Quintus, his temper flaring. ‘We’ll get the information from you, the easy way or the hard. Those men being executed are only the start. Trust me, you don’t want to piss off my centurion.’

Kleitos looked a little less certain, but then his chin jutted again. ‘Why would I tell you anything? You’ll kill me anyway.’

‘Are there more Syracusan troops in the area?’

Kleitos stared balefully at him.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Corax.

‘He thinks that we’re going to get rid of him when we’re done, sir,’ replied Quintus. In an undertone, he added, ‘Are we?’

‘That depends,’ rumbled Corax. ‘If the dog tells me something worth knowing, I could release him. If he doesn’t, well-’

Quintus felt uneasy at the idea of pushing his centurion, but he didn’t want to lead Kleitos on under false pretences. ‘Have I your word on that, sir?’

‘You’ve got some balls, boy.’ Corax’s gimlet eyes pinned Quintus, but he didn’t back down. After what seemed a long time, the centurion nodded. ‘As long as his information is useful, he can go free. Tell the sewer rat that I’ll be watching him, though. If I suspect the slightest treachery, the smallest lie, I will cut his damn throat myself.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus turned to Kleitos. ‘Tell us what you know. If it’s of use to us, my centurion guarantees that you will be set free.’

‘How can I trust you?’

‘You have his word, and mine,’ said Quintus. There was silence for a moment. He could see Kleitos was warring with himself. ‘There’s no glory in dying just because your men have to,’ he urged.

‘What would you know?’

‘I was at Cannae,’ replied Quintus soberly. ‘You must have heard of the slaughter that day. By the time the sun was going down, there was barely a Roman alive. Those of us still living had given up hope, but not my centurion. He led us out, and we fought our way to safety. Our reward for that was to be sent in disgrace to Sicily. For all that, I’d rather be here, breathing, than for my bleached bones to be lying in the mud in Italy.’

Kleitos threw him a look of grudging respect. ‘Very well. We were sent out to scout the area; to see if there were any Roman forces moving south yet. Hippocrates and Epicydes know that Marcellus will advance on the city; they want to know when.’

Quintus explained to Corax, who said in poor Greek, ‘That sounds reasonable. Go on.’

‘Are there more of your troops nearby?’ demanded Quintus.

‘Nowhere close.’

This pleased Corax. ‘What is the current strength of the garrison in Syracuse?’

Quintus translated.

Kleitos scowled; then, oddly, he smiled. ‘What does it matter if you know? You will never take the city. Upwards of thirty thousand men are under arms within the walls.’

‘Thirty thousand?’ repeated Corax, who had understood the number. ‘How many of those are professional soldiers?’

Quintus asked the same in Greek.

‘More than two-thirds. There will be time to train the rest when the siege begins,’ replied Kleitos proudly. ‘In addition, the slaves freed by Hippocrates and Epicydes number perhaps five thousand. Those are being armed and trained as well.’

Corax took a moment to digest that, but he didn’t comment further.

That many defenders would mean fierce resistance to any attack. Quintus had never thought it was going to be easy, but this was bad news.

‘What about catapults and the like? How many of those are there?’ asked Corax.

‘Catapults?’ Kleitos had recognised the word. ‘I don’t know exactly, but it’s a lot. Scores and scores of them, from small ones up to the beasts that can throw a stone the size of a temple altar.’ He winked. ‘We have no shortage of ammunition.’

Corax frowned when Quintus told him that. ‘It’s to be expected, I suppose,’ he growled. ‘A city like Syracuse isn’t going to have stood there for hundreds of years without strong defences. It will have its own wells, and enough food to last many months. That’s without supplies coming in from the sea, which will be difficult for us to prevent. It might be a long siege.’ He eyed Kleitos. ‘But Rome will prevail in the end.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ answered Kleitos when Quintus had interpreted. ‘Carthage will soon come to our aid.’

The word ‘Carthage’ and the tone of Kleitos’ reply needed no explanation, although Quintus did so. Corax grinned when he was done, which made him look even more fearsome. ‘One day, we’ll see who was right, and I wager my left bollock that it won’t be him. Tell the dog that. Then he can go.’

‘I’ve no wish to take just one of your centurion’s balls,’ said Kleitos. He smiled but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes, which promised something else altogether.

Quintus didn’t bother translating. ‘You’re free.’

Kleitos inclined his head at Corax, who returned the gesture. ‘Can I have my blade?’ he asked, indicating a fine kopis on the ground nearby.

Quintus had to admire his bravery. ‘He wants his sword, sir.’

‘He must swear not to attack any of my men for a day and a night,’ said Corax.

Quintus went and picked it up. Its blade was covered in blood. Roman blood, he thought angrily. Warily, he approached Kleitos. He had never returned a weapon to an enemy. ‘You must take an oath not to harm any of us for a day and a night.’

‘I swear before Zeus Soter not to do so,’ said Kleitos, reaching out for the kopis.

Quintus hesitated for a heartbeat. They stared at each other over the sword.

‘May he strike me down if I break my oath,’ said Kleitos in a firm tone.

Quintus handed it over.

Kleitos’ eyes smouldered. ‘If we meet again, I will kill you. And your centurion.’

‘You can do your best. We’ll be ready for you,’ retorted Quintus angrily. ‘Now, go.’

Without another word, Kleitos strode past, over the bodies of his men, towards Syracuse.

‘A courageous man,’ observed Corax. ‘If all the defenders of Syracuse are like him, the siege might take longer than Marcellus thinks.’

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