Chapter VII

Even at a distance of more than half a mile, Syracuse could impress. Its wall filled the whole southern horizon, the limestone blocks that formed it turned golden by the setting sun. Westward from the sea’s edge it ran, across the coastal plain and up on to higher ground beyond, where it disappeared into the orange haze. According to the messengers who carried orders between the Roman camps, it extended for a good twenty miles around the city. Quintus and his comrades had only seen this section, opposite the vast camp that their legion had built on its arrival, but it was more than enough to impress. Assaulting it by land or sea would be no easy matter.

Quintus, Urceus and their tent mates were standing on the packed-earth rampart a short distance from their unit’s tent lines. A sentry would move them on soon, but until then the view was worth it.

‘Which is worse?’ asked Quintus, belching. ‘Having your skull smashed by a stone from a catapult, or drowning when your ship sinks?’

Urceus drank deep and smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘That’s not bad stuff,’ he said, proffering the wine skin. ‘Like some?’

His friend was dodging the question, but Quintus wasn’t surprised. He and the rest of Corax’s maniple were part of the force that would assault the defences of Achradina, which lowered over the smaller of Syracuse’s two harbours. They would be attacking by sea, and Quintus had no doubt that there would be catapults and bolt-throwers aplenty where they’d land.

‘Give it here.’ He lifted the skin up by its end. Misjudging how much there was in it, he was unprepared for the tide of wine that rushed down his throat. He managed to swallow a couple of gulps while hurriedly lowering the leather bag, but couldn’t stop himself from coughing a good amount of it on to the ground.

There were chortles from the rest.

‘Don’t waste it,’ Urceus cried, grabbing the skin from Quintus.

‘Sorry,’ muttered Quintus, hating the burning feeling of the wine that had gone up into his nostrils. He’d drunk more than he had thought. It was all in an effort not to think about the hell that awaited them the day after tomorrow.

‘I’d rather drown,’ pronounced Felix, a skinny man with buck teeth. Forever dogged by misfortune — mainly at gambling — he was always being ribbed about his name. ‘Unlucky,’ everyone called him. ‘I can’t swim. I wouldn’t know a thing about it after a few mouthfuls of water.’

‘You’d know more than you would if your brains were splattered ten paces in every direction by a stone from a ballista!’ challenged Quintus.

‘What if I saw it coming, though?’ retorted Felix with a shudder. ‘No. Drowning would be better.’

A couple of the other men voiced their agreement, but Wolf gave a vehement shake of his head. He was a taciturn man who’d been a sheep farmer before enlisting, and who still wore the strip of wolf skin on his helmet that had marked him out as a veles. ‘I hate every bastard wolf that lives and breathes,’ he’d say to anyone who listened. ‘This bit of skin reminds me of the day I get my discharge. The first thing I’ll do is to go hunting.’

‘What is it, Wolf?’ asked Quintus.

Wolf ran a dirty fingernail down the links of his mail shirt. ‘Imagine trying to get this damn thing off as you sink. I can’t think of a worse way to die.’

Unlucky snickered. ‘That’ll teach you to go all fancy with your armour. For once, I don’t mind only having a breast- and back plate.’

‘You’d like a mail shirt too, Unlucky, admit it! If you weren’t so shit at dice, you’d have had one long ago. Two of them, even,’ Wolf flung back at him to a chorus of laughter.

Unlucky flushed and muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t dare challenge Wolf, whose unpredictable temper had won him few friends.

Even though Wolf was right, Quintus felt a little sorry for Unlucky. Nearly all the hastati in the maniple had mail shirts now: bought with their saved pay, won on a bet or through gaming, or pilfered from the dead after battles. Unlucky had taken one once from the body of a bandit that he’d killed, but lost it the next day in a wager. If Corax hadn’t been such a disciplinarian — missing pieces of equipment was not tolerated — Quintus reckoned that Unlucky would have long since gambled away his square chest and back plates too. His desire to wager was like a disease. He’d bet on anything: two slugs crawling on the ground, who’d fart the most times in one sentry watch, what the weather would be like the next day. As a consequence, he never had two obols to rub together. Wine was a luxury beyond him. ‘Give Felix a sup,’ Quintus said to Urceus.

Urceus popped the stopper in and flung the skin through the air.

Unlucky shot a grateful look at Quintus as he caught it. ‘Which do you fear more?’ he asked Quintus.

‘Drowning, for sure.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not good at swimming and, like Wolf says, our mail shirts are damn heavy.’

‘Don’t wear it, then,’ advised Urceus with a leer.

‘If I did that, I’d get a sodding arrow in the chest,’ said Quintus.

‘It won’t make any difference what you do,’ said Wolf. ‘If Hades has picked your name, he’s picked it. You can’t do fuck all about it.’

Everyone laughed and Quintus finally let himself smile. There was no point in brooding over the coming offensive. It was going to happen, and he would be part of it. He had survived the fields of blood, had he not, and the years of war since? Plenty of men would die when Marcellus sent them to take Syracuse, but he didn’t have to be one of them.

‘Enjoying the wine?’ asked a familiar voice.

They all swung around, mumbling, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘At ease, at ease,’ said Corax, clambering up on to the rampart. He jerked a thumb at the skin, which Unlucky was still holding. ‘Anything left in that?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Unlucky passed it over.

Everyone watched as Corax drank several mouthfuls. ‘It’s not complete horse piss,’ he pronounced at length. ‘Who stole it?’ He eyed Wolf first, who was known for his ability to purloin everything from spare pieces of kit to rounds of cheese.

‘Not me, sir,’ protested Wolf, grinning.

‘You, Crespo?’

‘No, sir!’ replied Quintus.

‘I actually bought it, sir,’ said Urceus. ‘Thought I’d spend a bit of money on some half-decent stuff before the attack. In case, you know-’

‘That’s as good a reason as any.’ Corax lifted the skin. ‘Can I have another drop?’

‘Drink away, sir. Finish it if you like,’ urged Urceus.

‘I’m not about to do that. You might not say, but it’d piss you off,’ replied Corax after he’d slugged a final mouthful. ‘I need you on my side, to watch my back when we’re fighting those Syracusan bastards.’ He threw the skin back to Urceus.

‘I’d do that anyway, sir, you know that! We all would.’ A rumble of accord rose from the others. ‘See, sir? We look after you, because you look out for us.’

‘Damn right,’ said Wolf.

‘Aye!’ added Unlucky and Quintus. There were other loud echoes of agreement.

Corax seemed pleased. ‘Ah, you’re good lads,’ he growled. ‘May Mars keep his shield over every last one of us the day after tomorrow.’

Quintus wasn’t alone in repeating a quiet prayer in response.

‘Are the ships seaworthy, sir?’ asked Unlucky. ‘You know, the ones with those sambucae, the bloody great ladders, on them?’

Everyone’s eyes swivelled to the centurion. On Marcellus’ orders, six pairs of quinqueremes had been lashed together. Long, hide-encased scaling ladders had been laid on the decks of three, attached at their base to the ships’ bows. Pulleys and ropes secured the ladders to the vessels’ masts. When they were raised into the air, the structures resembled lyres, the musical instruments that had given rise to their nickname: sambucae. The three remaining pairs of quinqueremes, similarly attached to one another, had had siege towers several storeys tall placed on their decks. Every soldier in the army had been down to the water to see the outlandish-looking vessels. They were the object of morbid fascination, if not downright dread, and innumerable wagers had been made about how many men would die on them.

‘The sailors and carpenters have been readying those ships for weeks,’ answered Corax. ‘They’ve tested them out a few times. None have sunk yet.’

‘They haven’t had hundreds of soldiers on board, though, sir,’ said Quintus, emboldened by the wine.

To his relief, Corax didn’t bite his head off. ‘I’m not overly keen on the idea of setting to sea on ships with contraptions like the sambucae on board either, Crespo, but orders are orders. At least we don’t just have to sit below the battlements like the archers and slingers will, on their sixty ships. They’ll be easy targets for the enemy artillery. And it’s a huge honour for our unit to be selected as part of the initial attack. Imagine being the one to win a corona muralis! The Senate might not allow us the real things, but Marcellus has promised one of his own design, and a purse to match.’

Quintus didn’t dare to utter what he was thinking: that scores of men, if not more, would die before anyone reached the enemy rampart, let alone became the first one to scale it.

Mention of the crown had struck a chord with his comrades, however. ‘I wouldn’t mind one of them, sir,’ said Unlucky, grinning.

Corax winked. ‘Even you wouldn’t gamble an award like that away. The money, yes, but not the decoration.’

‘Never, sir!’ protested Unlucky to guffaws from the rest.

‘Well, may the gods grant that you or one of the others gets the opportunity to win a corona,’ declared the centurion. ‘And whatever happens, I know you’ll do me, and Rome, proud.’

Urceus raised the wine skin high. ‘For Rome, and for Corax!’

‘CORAX! CORAX! CORAX!’ Quintus and the six others roared back.

‘Enough,’ said Corax, but his voice held none of his usual iron. He raised a hand in acknowledgement of the acclaim, letting it wash over him for a moment or two. When it died down, he nodded in a pleased way at Quintus, Urceus and the rest. ‘I’d best move on, talk to some of the others. Enjoy your night.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ they all replied.

‘What a fucking officer,’ pronounced Urceus when Corax was out of earshot. ‘I’d follow him down a bottomless well.’

‘Aye,’ said Quintus. ‘Me too.’ He dreaded the day when he was promoted out of the unit to the principes. A centurion like Corax made what was to come more bearable. Often soldiers died in battle because their officers made stupid decisions, or because they couldn’t see how to react to the enemy. It wasn’t like that with Corax. I’ll be all right, Quintus thought. We all will.

Two days later, they were packed like sardines on a quinquereme, and bound for Syracuse’s smaller harbour, which lay a short distance to the south. The city’s imposing ramparts ran along to starboard, perching ‘on top’ of the sea as if by magic. Most men were studiously ignoring them. It was easier to concentrate on the glittering water on the port side, and the flotilla of vessels around them, or to talk among themselves of women or lovers left behind in Italy.

Because a set of oars had been removed from both ships, half of each quinquereme’s rowers had been left behind. On Quintus’ vessel, it was the port banks, and on the craft that it was lashed to, the starboard banks. The missing oarsmen’s cramped positions on each ship were now filled by 140 soldiers. The remainder of Corax’s maniple, twenty-odd hastati, who could not fit below, stood on the deck alongside the quinquereme’s complement of forty marines, and another half-century of men from another maniple. Quintus and Urceus were among these fortunate ones. Packed together they might be, thought Quintus, but at least he could see the sky, could see where they were going. Having the menacing enemy fortifications in sight was better than being crammed together for the entire voyage like beasts in a market pen.

Urceus grimaced. The normal ruddy colour of his cheeks had changed to grey. ‘I hope it doesn’t take much longer,’ he muttered.

‘Still feeling sick?’ For the hundredth time, Quintus cast an eye over the side, some three paces below. The sea was barely moving, yet Urceus wasn’t alone in looking queasy. Wolf seemed unhappy; so did Unlucky and many of the faces around him. Men aplenty were vomiting below.

‘Of course I fucking am! I’m not used to being on a ship.’

Quintus nodded in an understanding way, though on another day, he might have enjoyed the passage. It was a beautiful day, with scarcely a cloud in the sky. The temperature was pleasantly warm, but their destination ensured that there was no enjoyment to be had from it. As that Syracusan officer he’d interrogated with Corax — what was his name? Kleitos? — had admitted, the walls they would soon have to attack would be lined with catapults and bolt-throwers. As if to prove the Syracusan’s words true, a catapult twanged on the ramparts, some five hundred paces to their right. A few heartbeats later, the stone it had loosed came down in the water, a decent bowshot away. Quintus’ own stomach, which had been fine until that point, did a neat roll. We’re out of range, he told himself. ‘At least we’re on deck. Not below, with the others.’

‘Aye, I suppose,’ replied Urceus, but his eyes were on the spot where the rock had landed.

No more missiles were launched, and Quintus tilted back his head, grateful for the sea breeze.

The deck crew, men with nut-brown, weather-beaten skin and calloused feet, slipped between the soldiers as they went about their duties, resigned looks on their faces. They didn’t like the presence of the hastati on their ship any more than the hastati did, nor the purpose of their journey. The captain and helmsman stood together at the stern, talking to Corax. From time to time, the captain held a shouted conversation with his counterpart on the quinquereme to which they were attached. Beside him, a pair of flautists played the tune that had been agreed beforehand, a slow, easy-to-follow refrain that would not confuse the oarsmen on the two different vessels.

Quintus was determined to take Urceus’ mind away from his seasickness. ‘At least we’re not on one of those,’ he said, pointing. Three score quinqueremes were leading their ship and the others towards their destination. Their decks were packed with archers, slingers and javelin men. Every one of them had at least two light catapults as well. Their job was to rain down a covering barrage that would keep the city’s ramparts clear of enemy troops as the vessels with sambucae on board made their way to the base of the defences.

‘True,’ said Urceus. ‘Those poor bastards are going to have to sail right in under the walls and fucking stay there. At least we can move once we get into position.’

‘Like Wolf said to me the other night then, shut up,’ ordered Quintus with a crooked grin.

Urceus went to nudge him in the ribs, but wary of Quintus’ mail, held back. ‘Smartarse.’

‘It’s good advice. Whingeing just makes an unhappy man unhappier.’

‘A shame there isn’t room to play dice,’ chipped in Unlucky from the rank behind them. ‘That’d pass the time.’

Quintus twisted around. ‘Got your dice with you?’

Grinning, Unlucky pulled up a little leather bag on a thong from inside his tunic. ‘Always!’

‘Madman,’ said Quintus.

‘They bring me luck in battle. Fortuna might cheat me out of all my money, but she’s always true when it comes to saving my skin.’ Unlucky kissed the bag reverently.

Quintus nodded. Even Wolf didn’t pour scorn on Unlucky, for this, his little habit before combat. Wolf’s was to rub the strip of skin on his helmet. Quintus’ was to ask Mars for help. Urceus repeated the same short prayer over and over. Corax — even he — had a ritual: snapping his sword half in and out of its scabbard.

‘There it is,’ said Urceus. His tone made Quintus turn at once.

The walls to their right had begun to curve inwards, away from them. Quintus peered, eager to see what had previously been a sketch drawn by Corax in the dirt. Together with the island of Ortygia, which was connected to the rest of Syracuse by fortified bridges, the fortifications before them formed a three-sided harbour. Ortygia’s defences made up the southern side, while the western and northern ones were composed of part of the city’s main wall. The anchorage was exposed to the east, meaning it could not be used when inclement weather was coming from that direction. The lower or great harbour was much more protected from the weather, but the battlements there were a great deal higher, which was why Marcellus was directing his attack here, at the smaller harbour.

‘See that, boys?’ shouted Corax. ‘Achradina! By tonight, gods willing, we’ll be on the other side of those walls. For now, enjoy the view, and the sun on your face.’

His men laughed and cheered, but their reaction was a little subdued. Quintus felt the same way. The defences were the height of five men standing on each other’s shoulders, and they were manned by thousands of the enemy, whose armaments included an unknown quantity of artillery. Quintus knew some of his comrades — at the very minimum — would die today.

Corax made no recognition of their muted response. He waited until they had quietened. ‘You know the drill, but I’ll tell you again anyway. Check the straps on all of your kit. Helmet, breastplates if you have one, baldrics and belts. The straps on your shields. Don’t forget to look over your sandals: laces and soles. It’d be damn stupid if you slipped off the ladder because of a loose hob.’

There were a few nervous chuckles at this.

‘Run your hand down the shafts of your pila to make sure that there are no splinters. Your swords need to be loose in their scabbards. Have a piss over the side. A shit, if you need one. I for one don’t want someone’s mess all down my face when I’m climbing.’

‘No one would dare take a dump on you, sir. Not after the roasting you gave that lad who sneezed on you,’ called a voice from behind Quintus — Unlucky?

More laughs, happier this time.

Corax’s lips twitched; he let them enjoy the joke. ‘You’re probably right, soldier, but my advice remains the same. Odd things happen to a man’s guts when he goes into battle. It’s best to get bodily functions out of the way beforehand. There’s no shame in it. We’ve all seen each other’s cocks at this stage, and how small they are. Except for mine, of course, which rivals that of Priapus.’

The hastati below decks joined in the eruption of laughter that followed. Even the crew did.

Corax allowed himself a little smile. ‘Get on with it,’ he roared. ‘Down the back, where you won’t be pissing straight on top of the oarsmen.’

Soon a line of men had formed up on the port side of the deck, just behind the point at which the last sets of oars protruded from the hull. Jokes and insults flew, especially at those who needed to empty their bowels, but it was good-humoured. Morale had been preserved yet again, thought Quintus admiringly. ‘How does he do it?’

‘May the gods grant that he’s always there to look after us,’ said Urceus. ‘Fuck knows what would happen to us if he was-’

‘Don’t say it,’ interrupted Quintus.

Urceus cursed and reached for the phallus amulet that hung around his neck. He rubbed it furiously, as if that would retract his words.

Offering up a prayer of his own that their centurion would come through the assault safely, Quintus went to join the line. Urceus chased after him. Quintus had emptied his bladder before they had embarked, but he needed to go again. It was always the way. Still, he thought, watching a hapless soldier squatting at the deck’s edge as hoots of derision rained down on him, there was always time to lighten the mood by making fun of someone. ‘Get a move on,’ he roared. ‘Some of us want to fight rather than shit!’

His comment was met with widespread laughter. The crouching soldier finished as fast as he could and made his way past them, glowering with embarrassment.

A number of paces from where the friends were standing, the captain called across to his counterpart; they agreed a new course. The hastati muttered to each other as the helmsman spoke with the flautists, who changed their tune. The rowers on the starboard side smoothly lifted their oars from the water while those on the port continued to row. The quinquereme began to turn. Half a dozen heartbeats later, the flutes reverted to their previous refrain. The starboard oars slid back into the sea with soft splashes, and with barely a break in the rhythm, took up the same stroke as the port ones. Quintus peered towards the prow. They were heading straight for the centre of the little harbour. At least thirty of the quinqueremes with missile troops occupied the water ahead. Two of the ships with sambucae were a short distance in front, while the three vessels with siege towers were strung out behind with the remainder of the protective quinqueremes. They would follow as soon as there was space to do so.

A hush settled over the hastati as the walls, on either side now, drew closer. Even the sailors’ conversations became subdued, leaving the flutes’ music and the noise of the oars to fill the air. It would have been a beautiful accompaniment to any voyage, thought Quintus grimly, if it weren’t for the reason that silence had fallen. Every man aboard knew that at any moment, they would come within range of the enemy artillery.

‘Four hundred paces,’ said Urceus in a low tone. ‘That’s how far a good artilleryman can aim a large catapult. We’ve got to be close to that already.’

‘Aye.’ Quintus wished that Urceus hadn’t mentioned it.

Twang! All eyes shot towards the walls to their left. The stone came through the air in a blur, moving so fast that it was almost impossible to track. Quintus was relieved to see that it would come nowhere near their ship.

His relief lasted no more than a heartbeat.

Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang! The sound was coming from both sides, faster and faster. Suddenly, the sky was full of stones and arrows. Beneath the noise, Quintus could hear men shouting: the officers and men who judged the range of each shot. Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang! Quintus fought his fear, doing his best to ignore the deadly chorus. It was impossible of course. Beside him, Urceus was mouthing savage curses. Others were praying. Back where they’d been standing, Unlucky had the bag containing his dice clenched in his fist. Wolf was staring fixedly at the deck. Corax, on the other hand, was stalking from man to man, slapping their backs and telling them what fine soldiers they were. Quintus took heart, but he was relieved a moment later when it was his turn to piss over the side. There was far more urine than he’d imagined there would be. Job done, he hurried back to his position. Urceus wasn’t far behind him.

Fortunately, their captain had taken the decision to direct the ship down the middle of the entrance to the harbour. This kept them at the outer edge of the enemy catapults’ range. A good number of the quinqueremes in front and to the sides were not so lucky, however. The enemy artillerymen had ranged their weapons well. Quintus could not be sure of the size of the stones being hurled, but the damage they were causing was significant. He could see a number of vessels that had been holed, some near the waterline. One was sinking slowly, its crew and passengers jumping off in scores. Another ship had had its mast cracked; the tall piece of wood now leaned at a crazy angle. Shouts of dismay rose from the vessel’s crew. To continue, they would have to chop the mast down, thought Quintus, and the flotilla was so close together that that ran the considerable risk of hitting another quinquereme.

Crash! A stone struck the deck of a quinquereme perhaps a hundred paces off their port side. As if by magic, a gap appeared in the densely packed soldiers on board. The stone shot into the sea between the ships with a loud splash. The roars of pain reached Quintus a heartbeat later.

‘Shit, that’s not a pleasant way to go,’ said Urceus.

‘How many men did it kill?’ asked Quintus, fascinated and horrified. ‘Five? Ten?’

‘At least,’ replied Urceus with a grimace.

Crash! Crash! The enemy artillerymen were focusing on the quinquereme that had just been hit. Two more rocks landed, clearing swathes more space on its decks.

Quintus’ gorge rose, and he knelt and busied himself with the laces on one of his sandals. After that, he tried not to look at what was going on. His comrades were doing the same. It was an act of self-preservation. Nothing could block from their ears the screams of the injured and the piteous cries for help from the soldiers who were in the sea, however. Quintus gritted his teeth and wondered if it had been wise to wear his mail shirt. Even the strongest of men would struggle to swim wearing one. Mars, let us reach the bottom of the walls soon, he prayed. Do not let me die in the water.

Their ship ploughed on, with death and destruction showering down on either side. A stray stone ripped a great hole in the mainsail, but they took no other direct hits. There was a near miss with a quinquereme that had suffered heavy casualties among its oarsmen, and which could not move out of their way. Luckily, the soldiers at the front relayed the message, allowing the captains to order their rowers to back water. They came to a halt less than a javelin throw from the stricken ship. Many of the hastati shouted abuse at its crew, telling them to get the fuck out of the way or they would sink their damn vessel themselves.

Long moments passed, during which their craft had to sit motionless. It soon became a target for the enemy catapults. A number of stones smacked into the water just to the front of it, and two hit the decks of the quinquereme that their one was attached to, killing a dozen soldiers. Quintus and his comrades were helpless, able to do nothing but study the walls on both sides in utter dread, wondering when the next barrage would be launched. It was pure good fortune that their ship and, more importantly, the great ladder with which they would launch their attack, were not hit. After what seemed an eternity, the damaged quinquereme in front limped from their path, allowing them to continue.

‘That was a close one, lads,’ said Corax as he prowled past. ‘Be a shit way to die, colliding with some of our own, eh? Or to be mown down while we sat there?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the pair muttered.

There was to be no respite. More and more stones and arrows rained in. The enemy artillerymen had ranged their weapons by stages, Quintus concluded. There was no other explanation for their concentrated volleys to have been so efficient. Finally, inevitably, their ship’s luck ran out. Two men in the ranks ahead went down, both their skulls smashed by the same stone. Another was thrown to the deck, skewered through the chest by a bolt as thick as two of Quintus’ fingers. Blood pooled rapidly beneath his twitching body as he choked and gasped his way to oblivion. It left a crimson stain on the deck timbers. On the neighbouring quinquereme, a trio of soldiers were hurled overboard, falling into the gap between the two vessels. The screams as they were crushed to death or pushed under the water by the ships’ momentum were horrendous. Quintus prayed; around him, his comrades did the same. Corax seemed oblivious. He paced to and fro between the men, making no acknowledgement of the enemy artillery at all.

Corax was made of iron, Quintus decided. He himself managed not to soil his undergarment, and to appear calm, yet it was quite another to do as Corax did, and to defy death. Despite the centurion’s example, Quintus was grateful that they were nearing their destination. Hades beckoned in numerous new ways, but at least he’d have his feet on dry land.

Twang! Twang! Quintus held his breath; he did not look up. It was better not to. Wolf had been right. If the gods had marked him out to be wiped from existence, there was nothing he could do about it. Blood pulsed behind his eardrums nonetheless; fear gnawed at his guts. Crash! The roars of agony that followed were some distance to his rear; Quintus felt guilty relief that the stone had not hit him or Urceus, and then immediate terror about where the second stone would land. Crash! The deck trembled beneath his feet; there was the unmistakeable sound of a body hitting the ground, right behind him.

‘Wolf!’ wailed Unlucky.

Blood sprayed over Quintus’ lower legs as he turned; he winced at the sight. The stone had taken Wolf’s head clean off; there was no sign of it, or his helmet with its signature strip of fur. His truncated corpse sprawled before them, unrecognisable as their comrade. The severed arteries in the stump of Wolf’s neck pulsed with each slowing beat of his heart, showering the area with droplets of blood. A great gouge had been taken out of the deck planking beyond Wolf, but fortunately for the other hastati, the stone appeared to have bounced on into the sea.

‘Wolf,’ whispered Unlucky, his face as grey as week-old snow. ‘Wolf.

‘He’s gone,’ grated Quintus, seizing Unlucky’s chin and forcing his gaze away from the mangled body. Quintus stared into Unlucky’s eyes. ‘He’s gone. The gods will take care of him now. Get a grip of yourself.’

For a moment, it seemed that Unlucky would crack, but then he knuckled away his tears and nodded. ‘I’m all right,’ he muttered. ‘I’m all right.’

‘Good.’ Quintus released him, noting that Unlucky’s grip on his dice was so tight that his knuckles were glistening white through the skin of his fist. ‘Thank the gods that the wretch will be behind us on the ladder,’ he said to Urceus in an undertone. ‘Otherwise we’d have him falling on top of us.’

‘You’re not wrong there. Gods grant that it is soon.’ Urceus made an obscene gesture at the defences. ‘Wait until we get up there, you whoresons!’

Quintus felt the same fury. If he lived long enough to reach the enemy, he would make them pay dearly for Wolf’s life: yet another comrade to be avenged.

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