Chapter VIII

‘We’re nearly there, boys!’ Corax’s shout could not be ignored. The centurion was pointing at the imposing stone walls that were looming above them, some 150 paces away. ‘Steady yourselves. Pray to your favourite deities. When the captain gives me the order, the crew will raise the ladder. The instant it hits that rampart, I want you scrambling up there as fast as you fucking can. Do you hear me?’

‘YES, SIR!’ they roared at him, their nerves, their desire for vengeance adding volume to their voices.

Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! The noises came from straight ahead. Quintus had stood before enough enemy volleys to recognise the sound of arrows. His gaze shot to the top of the wall, took in the slits positioned below the actual ramparts. His stomach clenched. ‘They’ve got more artillery, sir,’ he yelled. ‘Short-range pieces!’

Corax had already seen. Bounding to the captain’s side, he bellowed in his ear. ‘Increase rowing speed. NOW!’

A flurry of missiles began to land all around them: in the water, skittering off the oars and slicing through the fabric of the mainsail. These ones were long iron arrows, and they were striking men aplenty too, ripping their flesh apart like a hot knife through cheese. A flautist had his jaw shorn off right in front of the captain. Keening like a grief-stricken madman, he ran to the edge of the deck and leaped into the sea. Shaken, the captain roared at the remaining flautist, and then at his counterpart on the other quinquereme.

He should have done it the other way around, thought Quintus in alarm. It took a few heartbeats for the captain’s demand to register and within that time, the oarsmen on Corax’s vessel had begun to row at ramming speed. The rowers on the second ship tried to take up the same rhythm, but they were a pace or two off the beat. As a result, the paired quinqueremes’ prows turned and aimed at a different part of the wall.

‘It’s higher in that section,’ hissed Quintus in dismay. ‘Will the damn ladder reach to the top?’

‘I fucking well hope so!’ snarled Urceus. ‘If it doesn’t-’

‘RAISE THAT LADDER!’ yelled Corax. ‘I want it in the air, and I want it there now. We’ll have fuck all time to get up it before the enemy start dropping rocks and the gods know what else on us. MOVE!’

The groups of sailors who’d been assigned to the task didn’t wait for confirmation from the captain. They went to work with alacrity. Grabbing the thick ropes that lay ready at their feet, they began hauling them through the pulleys that had been fastened to the timbers. The slack section sped through their hands, and the cable grew taut. For a moment, nothing happened. Shit, thought Quintus, it’s too heavy. Fear gave the crewmen extra strength, however. That, and Corax’s vine cane, which was slapping down on their shoulders.

The top of the ladder lifted a hand span from the deck, and then another.

‘Put some effort into it, you fucking maggots!’ roared Corax. ‘Our damn lives depend on it!’

The purple-faced sailors bent their backs and heaved. The ladder moved up again, until even a tall man couldn’t touch the end of it. It didn’t stop this time; the men lifting it had found their rhythm. Up it went now, silhouetted against the sky, directly overhead. Quintus had to squint as it flashed across the glaring orb that was the sun.

‘HOLD!’ bellowed Corax. ‘HOLD IT, I SAY!’

The ladder jerked to a halt.

Quintus’ eyes shot to the base of the wall, which was about fifty paces away.

The captain conferred with his counterpart, and they both ordered the flautists to slow their tune. The oarsmen obeyed at once, and the vessel slowed in the water.

Whizzzz! Whizzzz! A pair of bolts shot in at an acute angle from the slits in the wall in front of them. One thumped into the deck by Corax’s feet, the other hit a sailor holding one of the ropes holding up the ladder. It passed straight through his body and drove into the belly of the man behind him. Both dropped to the deck, roaring in agony, and the ladder lurched to one side as its weight proved too much for their comrades.

‘The filthy dogs are aiming at the sailors on the ropes,’ Quintus spat.

‘Hades take them!’ cried Urceus.

‘Two men! I need two men here!’ Corax had leaped in and taken the place of one of the casualties. ‘I want a dozen more holding their shields up to protect the sailors. MOVE!’

None of them wanted to unsling their scuta from their backs, where they had put them in order to be able to climb the ladder. Putting them on again would be tricky when packed as tightly on the deck as they were. But if they didn’t obey Corax’s command, there would be hell to pay — and likely no ladder to climb. Quintus and Urceus shoved their way forward; Unlucky followed. With some of their comrades, they formed a line alongside the sailors. Quintus was near the front of the file, Urceus was right behind him and Unlucky to his rear.

Quintus swiftly undid one of the two straps that suspended his shield, and with the ease of long practice, twisted the opposite shoulder so that the scutum slipped around to the front. Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Heart thumping, Quintus grabbed the shield rim, and then the grip on the inside. He lifted the curved scutum up and over himself and the sailor to his right.

Thump! Bang! Bang! Thump! The bolts landed. More screams, more choked sounds of pain, more bodies hitting the deck. Thankfully, none were close to Quintus. Because of the throng, he could not see the base of the walls. ‘How far have we to go?’ he yelled to no one in particular.

‘Almost there,’ Corax replied. ‘Hold steady, lads!’

Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Now Quintus could hear the cries of the defenders. He made out shouted orders in Greek, curses and demands for more ammunition. The air filled with agonised shrieking; there were splashes as men who’d been hit fell overboard. Quintus’ guts roiled, and he closed his eyes, offering up yet another beseeching prayer. Mars, keep your shield over us still.

‘Urceus?’

A wave of relief washed over him when his friend replied. ‘I’m all right. You?’

‘So far, yes,’ said Quintus, grinning like a fool.

With a solid thump, the ram on their quinquereme struck the rocks that formed the breakwater at the base of the fortifications.

This is it, thought Quintus. This is fucking it. His eyes shot to those of the sailor whom he was shielding. In them, he saw utter fear, but determination too. ‘Do your job,’ the sailor muttered, ‘And I’ll do mine.’

Encouraged, Quintus nodded.

‘LOWER THAT LADDER!’ Corax cried.

The sailor beside Quintus began to let the rope slide between his fingers. Quintus watched it with a mixture of dread and fascination. When it went slack, the ladder would be resting against the enemy battlements. The artillery barrage would become even heavier, and he and Urceus would be stuck here, on the deck, which was not where he wanted to be.

Clunk. Amid the crescendo of sound, Quintus somehow heard the ladder come to a halt.

‘UP! UP! UP!’ yelled Corax. ‘Fast as you can!’

If Quintus turned his head away from his shield, he could see beyond the sailor to a section of the ladder which extended from about his own height to ten paces above him. Already the wood was creaking and moving beneath the weight of men ascending it. A heartbeat later, he saw the first hastatus appear. It didn’t surprise him that it was one of the oldest and steadiest men in the maniple, a veteran who wouldn’t have flinched from Corax’s order to take the lead. Gods, but I’m glad that it isn’t me, thought Quintus. ‘Fortuna be with you,’ he shouted, but the soldier didn’t hear him. A scowl of determination twisted his face as he went up the rungs as fast as a man could with a scutum on his back and a long sword dangling from his right hip. A moment later, he vanished inside the hide framework that extended almost to the ladder’s top. Its purpose was to shield the attackers from enemy missiles, and it would now be put to the test.

Another hastatus immediately came into view, and then another and another. The rain of enemy bolts and stones was still hammering down, but Quintus couldn’t resist a look around the side of his shield, up at the wall. It towered above their position, an imposing rampart of stone blocks that was at least thirty paces in height. The defenders’ faces were clearly distinguishable: so too were their arms as they leaned out and hurled spears or loosed sling bullets at their foes. Quintus recalled again the Syracusan officer he had interrogated. Where was Kleitos? Looking down at him right now? Twang! went a catapult that he could actually see. He jerked back in reflex as it shot a bolt at the ladder.

‘Up you go, that’s it! Come on, brothers!’ roared Corax. ‘To the top!’

Five or so men fitted on the ladder. More than a score were waiting their turn at the bottom. He and Urceus wouldn’t have to move for a bit yet. Quintus’ head twisted. To their left, another pair of quinqueremes had come to rest; its crew were in the process of elevating its sambuca. Bolts and stones were hissing down in response. He saw a number of sailors killed, but the officers on board soon did as Corax had, rushing soldiers forward to protect the crew on the ropes. Hastati began swarming up the rungs the instant that it reached the ramparts. Quintus’ stomach lurched as he saw a group of defenders push a long, forked piece of wood out from an embrasure to one side of the point where the ladder met the defences. ‘Look out!’

Of course he was too far away to be heard, too far away to do anything but watch in horror as the fork made contact and was swiftly pushed outwards, forcing the ladder into a vertical position. There it stayed for a sickening moment before the Syracusans heaved again and tipped the ladder backwards. The hastati at the bottom were able to jump clear, but the rest were hurled to their deaths on the deck of their own ship, or in the sea. The ladder came to rest against the mast with one soldier still hanging on for dear life near the top. ‘Thank the gods,’ whispered Quintus. ‘Hold on.’

An enemy bolt lanced out from the walls and punched the hastatus clean off the ladder. He dropped into the water below without a sound.

Quintus swallowed and looked away. Forget him, he told himself. Concentrate on what’s happening here. THUMP! The force of the impact threw him back on his heels. Regaining his balance, Quintus gaped at the barbed head that had slammed through his shield. It had missed his left fist, holding the central grip, by two fingers’ width, and his head by less than that.

‘Are you hit?’ shouted Urceus from behind.

‘No! A bollock hair nearer and I would have been dead, though,’ Quintus gasped. He wouldn’t be able to hold up his shield for long, that was clear. The weight of the iron bolt was already telling on his arm muscles. With a few wrenches, he managed to tug the thing through his scutum and drop it to the deck. A large hole remained in the shield, but at least he was able to raise it aloft again.

‘Your comrades have a foothold up there, lads!’ roared Corax. ‘Keep climbing!’

Quintus peered around the edge of his shield again. To his delight, he saw that their centurion was correct. Somehow, a handful of hastati had reached over the battlements and secured the top of the ladder so that others could follow. His heart leaped. Perhaps they would make it after all?

His hopes continued to rise as two and then three more of his comrades clambered over the defences to join the fray. Corax continued to urge his men onwards, but they had seen what was going on. Now, they were eager to ascend.

A moment later, Quintus’ heart stopped. ‘What in fucking Hades’ name is that?’ he heard Urceus say. An outlandish-looking device was emerging over the edge of the ramparts. It was a long, broad piece of wood, about fifty paces in length. From its end dangled a chain and a great three-pronged hook. Even as he watched, the chain was lowered down, towards their ship. Quintus had never seen anything like this before, but he didn’t need to be told what it might do. ‘Fuck!’

‘Is it going to pick us up?’ growled Urceus.

‘I’d say so.’ Quintus looked at his mail shirt and cursed. The bloody armour would be the death of him. Urceus’ decision to wear a chest and back plate like Unlucky’s seemed more than wise now.

Corax had noticed the new weapon too. ‘Climb that ladder!’ he screamed. He blew his whistle to try and attract the attention of the soldiers on the battlements, but they were enmeshed in their own struggle for survival.

Plus, Quintus reckoned, those men were too far from the device to make a difference anyway. At least a hundred paces and scores of defenders separated them from its position. It couldn’t be taken. Perhaps the hooks could be cut off the arm? he wondered desperately.

The air was filling with shouts of dismay. Everyone had seen the iron claw.

‘Crespo, Urceus, Unlucky. Put down your shields. With me.’ Corax went striding past, towards the prow. Towards where the hook looked as if it would hit.

Sweat sluiced down Quintus’ back the way it might if he were in a caldarium. ‘Here.’ He handed his scutum to the sailor whom he’d been protecting and hurried after Corax. ‘What’s your plan, sir?’

Corax’s expression was bleak. ‘I don’t have a fucking plan, Crespo. But if we don’t stop that thing, we’re all going to drown.’

They weaved their way to the front of the ship, through their fearful comrades. Quintus studied the hook as it loomed overhead. There appeared to be no cables or bindings that they could use their swords on. Panic bubbled up inside him. What could they do with their bare hands? A quick glance at Urceus and Unlucky told him that they were no less unhappy. They were here, as he was, because of their devotion to Corax. Quintus’ lead foot caught on something and he stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding falling overboard. Cursing, he kicked at the coiled length of rope that had been responsible, and then an idea flashed into his mind. ‘Sir!’

Corax turned with a scowl. ‘What?’

Quintus lifted the rope. ‘If we could throw this around one of the prongs, we might be able to pull it out of the way. Stop it grabbing hold of the ship.’

‘That’s bloody clever! Bring it here!’

The men nearest the prow didn’t need to be told to make way. A space cleared around Corax, Quintus and the rest as they unrolled the rope and tied one end into a great loop with a sliding knot. ‘Are any of you used to roping cattle?’ asked Corax.

Feeling stupid, Quintus shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ muttered Urceus, ‘but I’ll give it a go.’ Unlucky didn’t say a word.

Corax’s lips turned downwards. ‘Fuck it. It’s my job.’

‘I can do it, sir,’ said Unlucky out of the blue.

Their eyes turned in unison. ‘Speak up. Quickly!’ ordered Corax.

‘It’s been a few years, sir, but I used to help round up the cattle on our farm every summer. Time was that I could catch a cow from thirty paces away.’

‘Now’s your chance,’ said Corax, handing over the rope.

Quintus shot an encouraging glance at Unlucky, who looked as if he wished he’d said nothing. Urceus slapped him on the back. Unlucky moved to stand in front of them, hefting the loop of rope in his right hand. The hook was now little more than twenty paces over their heads. Quintus was alarmed to see that it no longer appeared to be aiming for the deck. Instead, the men controlling it were going to try and snag the bronze ram that protruded from the front of the ship. Unlucky’s task had just been made immeasurably harder. His first attempt failed. So too did his second, and Quintus’ hope began to vanish. Then, against all odds, the loop landed on the hook and caught on one of its prongs. Unlucky yelled with delight and tugged on the line, sliding the knot closed. ‘I’ve done it, sir!’

‘Grab the rope, all of you!’ roared Corax. ‘Pull on it like you’ve never pulled your cocks!’

Quintus, Urceus and Corax made to seize the rope. Their fingers were just closing on it when an arrow took Unlucky in the chest, to the left of his pectoral plate. Whoever had aimed the shot — no coincidence, surely — was a master bowman. Unlucky’s grip on the rope slackened; it pulled through his palm, leaving the others scrabbling to catch it. Unlucky’s eyes bulged with pain; he looked down at the rope, knowing he had to keep hold of it. Instead of regaining control, however, he dribbled pink-red froth from his lips and let go entirely. Before their horrified gaze, the rope ran over the side, where it dangled from the hook into the sea. Unlucky dropped to the deck in a tangle of limbs. Corax bellowed his frustration. Quintus stooped and picked up another length of rope. ‘Here!’ he said to Urceus. ‘You have a go. We might still manage to grab it.’

Cursing, Urceus tied a running knot as before. Holding the rope with both hands, he approached the point where the low rails that ran along the ship’s sides came together at the prow. Quintus watched with jangling nerves. Already the hook was being lowered into position over the ram. Urceus threw and missed; he pulled in the rope and tried again. That attempt failed too.

‘Help us, Fortuna,’ Quintus cried. He wanted to add, but didn’t dare, ‘You old bitch, like you should have helped poor Unlucky.’

Urceus was readying himself for one last effort when an enemy bowman — the same one who’d slain Unlucky? — loosed an arrow that scythed down to take him through the left arm. With a scream of pain, he dropped the rope. Even as Corax and Quintus grabbed for it, the hook struck the ram with a resounding clang. It was raised at once, but it hadn’t found a purchase and rose into the air again. The men operating it manoeuvred the hook a fraction and lowered it once more. Corax threw the rope, but it fell short, into the sea. With a despairing curse, he hurled it a second time. Quintus didn’t see it miss, because his eyes were locked in horror on the hook, which dropped neatly into the water alongside the ram. The chain suspending it began to rise a heartbeat later and Quintus almost vomited when it jarred to a stop. It had snagged the ram.

‘It’s caught. Pull as you’ve never pulled!’ The shout in Greek, from above, could not be missed.

Insults and roars of triumph carried down from the battlements.

‘The arm’s going to shoot up in the air, sir!’ Quintus roared at Corax.

‘Save yourselves,’ yelled Corax at the gaggle of soldiers and crew who were watching them. ‘Jump! Jump overboard!’ He began shoving men towards the rail. ‘There’s no time. Jump, if you want to live!’

Quintus looked down at his mail shirt, which would pull him under, and then at Urceus, whose injured arm would be the death of him in the water. He wouldn’t be able to help his friend with his armour on, but with it off, he had the slimmest of chances. Moving as fast as he could, he unbuckled his belt and baldric, grabbed the hem of the mail and heaved it up to the middle of his chest. He stooped. Normally, this was the point when a comrade grabbed it with both hands and pulled it over his shoulders. On one’s own, it was damn tricky. Quintus shook his torso, but nothing happened. His bladder twinged painfully, and he tried not to panic. Drowning would be bad enough, but to die with a mail shirt over his head was a horror that plumbed the depths. He could have wept with relief as he felt a hand — Urceus’ good one — take hold of the armour and wrench it up towards his head. Quintus used all the strength in his arms to force it up and off his body. It landed on the deck with an almighty crash.

‘Mind my feet,’ said Urceus with a crooked grin.

‘You mad fuck!’ retorted Quintus. Already the deck had started to tilt upwards. Men were shouting in alarm, leaping into the sea. Corax was shoving anyone who came within his reach after them. ‘Hold on to me,’ directed Quintus. He reached out to Urceus’ right side and grabbed him around the midriff. ‘To the edge of the deck.’

They had just reached the railing when the world turned upside down.

The decking beneath their feet came up to meet them; the sky tilted at a crazy angle; both of them lost their balance. In quick succession, Quintus saw the prow rise up until it was almost vertical, the ramparts lined with cheering defenders, a jumble of men and weapons and armour — the other soldiers on the ship — the sun, the sea and Urceus’ mouth, which was screaming a curse that he could not hear.

And then he was falling, falling into the sea.

Quintus hit the water still somehow gripping Urceus. At the last moment, he held his breath, hoped his friend did the same. The force of the impact ripped them apart; Quintus had no time to react, to hold on to Urceus. He was lost at once in his own war for survival. Buffeted, spun this way and that, he lost all sense of direction. Swirling streams of air bubbles surrounded him; the bodies of men, alive and dead, flashed past too. What filled Quintus with more terror, however, was the knowledge that when the claw was released from the arm — for that was surely its purpose — anyone beneath it would be drowned. The instant that he’d stopped sinking, he began kicking his legs like a maniac. Up, he had to get up to the surface and away to the side. But which way? Underwater, he had no idea where the ship lay. He twisted his head frantically, and through the debris of weapons and corpses, was rewarded with the sight of a great black mass — the stern of their quinquereme, which was pointing down into the depths.

It moved a little, shifting towards a more upright position, and Quintus wasn’t sure if he wet himself with fear. He began to swim away from the ship, arms and legs powering him with all of his strength. Neptune, I beg you, he prayed. Do not drag me down to your kingdom.

One, two heartbeats later Quintus felt rather than saw the quinquereme being dropped. A wall of water hit him from behind. He was picked up and bowled along like a twig dropped on to the surface of a fast-flowing river. His feet swept past his head as he was turned end over end. Everything went light, dark, light, dark as the depths and the sky above flashed by Quintus’ straining, disorientated eyes. Thunk. Something solid — a man, an oar? — struck him in the midriff. Pain lanced through him and it took a mighty effort not to suck in a lungful of seawater.

Then another object hit him on one shin — smack — and Quintus’ lips almost opened in reflex agony. He couldn’t take much more. His lungs were bursting with the need to take in fresh air. He had to get to the surface, quickly. Another impact was a certainty, and when it happened, he would die. I’m not going to make it, he thought. Let go and all of the pain will go away …

Somewhere deep inside, he found a last glowing ember of hope. One last effort. You can make one last effort. Quintus twisted his head, saw the light, prayed that his mind was not playing him false and struck out for it. Kicked with his legs. Swept forward with his arms. Did it again, and again. Blackness tugged at the edge of his vision. He took another stroke, and another, but the strength was fast leaching from his muscles.

Just as he had lost all faith, his head burst out of the sea. Quintus gasped in air as he’d never done in his life, great juddering mouthfuls of it. He inhaled some water, but he was able to cough it up. His nose ran, his eyes stung from the salt, but he didn’t care. He was alive.

His eyes swivelled, trying to make out what was going on. Around him, scores of heads bobbed on the water. Men roared at each other, cursed and pleaded with the gods, cried for their mothers. Quintus saw few faces that he recognised. Of Urceus and Corax there was no sign. Beyond the survivors, some fifty paces away, floated the battered shape of his quinquereme. Half its oars had been shorn away and the mast had been smashed. The ladder hung out over the side, like a tree blown down in a storm. The decks were empty. Everyone had been hurled overboard, thought Quintus numbly.

Whizz. Whizz. Whizz. Fresh fear clawed at him. A heartbeat later, the missiles struck the water nearby. A muffled cry signified another man who would now either drown or die from his injuries. Quintus’ gaze shot upwards. Bastards, he mouthed. It wasn’t just the artillery that was aiming at them: the ramparts were lined with archers and slingers who were determined not to miss out on this fresh sport. It would only be a matter of time before they singled him out. I’m fucked, he thought. The rocky shore at the foot of the walls offered some solid ground: he could see men hauling themselves up on it, but the defenders had seen them. Soon boulders had been heaved up on to the edge of the parapet and dropped on the unfortunates below, maiming some and killing others. There would be no respite there, or anywhere along the shoreline below the city’s walls. Quintus remembered the distance that they had rowed in from the open sea, far beyond which lay their camp, and despair filled him. Even without his armour, he wasn’t that strong a swimmer. What other option did he have, however? It was that, or tread water until an enemy missile sent him down to Neptune with the others.

Quintus struck out towards the east, offering up more prayers. It was ironic how he made requests of the gods in times of danger, he knew. At other times, he barely believed in their very existence — they never really offered proof of such — but now, here, he wanted every scrap of hope that might be on offer. Let Urceus be alive somewhere, he asked. Corax too. And as many of my maniple as you can spare. Do not take them all, please.

‘Help me, brother!’ croaked a soldier to his left. ‘I can’t swim.’

Quintus forced himself to look the man in the eye. ‘I’m not a good swimmer. If I help you, we’ll both drown. I’m sorry.’

The soldier reached out an arm. ‘I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.’ His tone was frantic, and Quintus knew that if the man grabbed hold of him, they would both sink faster than a stone. Without a word, he swam away as fast as he could. Guilt tore at him, but he did not let up until the man’s pleas had vanished into the crescendo of voices and the noise of missiles landing.

After a time, he stopped for a rest. There were fewer projectiles coming down here, because the enemy artillerymen were concentrating on the Romans directly below their positions. Some way off to his right, the sambuca on the craft that had come in at the same time as theirs had just been grabbed by another iron claw. Quintus’ eyes were riveted to the horrifying sight. Soldiers on board were frantically trying to do what he and his comrades had done — land a rope on it — but they too failed. It didn’t take long for the Syracusans to catch one of the quinqueremes’ rams. Commands rang out at once from the rampart, and a few heartbeats later, the chain holding the claw snapped taut. The prow of the ship was jerked out of the water, pulling the vessel a substantial distance into the air as well. Shrieks filled the air. The tiny figures of men fell away from the decks like ants falling off a disturbed log. That was bad enough, but as the claw was released another arm appeared over the battlements. This one bore a massive stone, the size of three men’s torsos. Fresh wails rose from the men who had survived the fall as they saw a new terror looming over them. Quintus could bear to watch no longer, but he was unable to block his ears to the noise of the block striking the ship and the wave that followed in its wake.

Clenching his jaw, he began swimming again. The pain from where he’d been struck in the midriff and leg slowed his progress, and he began having to rest more often. During these breaks, he scanned the area, hoping to see a ship that might be able to pick him up. His search was in vain. Every vessel within sight had either been wrecked beyond redemption by the enemy’s missiles, or was in the process of sinking to the bottom of the harbour. Not since Cannae had Quintus seen such wholescale carnage.

He studied the faces of the closest men, praying that he would recognise no one. He didn’t. There was no point examining the corpses — there were too many. So when Quintus bumped into yet another body, he gently pushed it away. The man, who was lying on his back, bobbed off to his left. Quintus was about to swim on, when something made him look again. The dead soldier’s ears stuck out from his head. He blinked. It was Urceus.

He swam to his friend’s side, grief tearing at him anew. Urceus’ eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked dead, but Quintus placed two fingers on the side of Urceus’ neck, just under the angle of his jaw. Heart thudding, Quintus waited. For a moment, he felt nothing, but then, to his utter joy, he sensed a weak pulse. ‘You’re as tough as an old fucking sandal, Urceus,’ he muttered, uncaring that tears were running down his face. ‘Thank you, Neptune, for leaving this man to float rather than sink.’

Quintus’ joy was short-lived. There was no chance that he could support Urceus all the way to the mouth of the harbour and beyond. Despair began to creep over him once more. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered savagely. ‘Urceus wouldn’t give up if it was him helping me. Think of something!’

He glanced about, trying to ignore the horror, trying to see a way out. His gaze settled at last, unwillingly, on the vessel that he and his comrades had arrived on. It lay in the water like a dead thing, useless to everyone. The realisation hit Quintus from nowhere. The pair of quinqueremes didn’t appear to be sinking. Yes, they could not move anywhere. Yes, they were right under the enemy’s noses, but therein lay the beauty of it. In the Syracusans’ eyes, there was no need to continue raining missiles on the pair of ships because they presented no further threat to the city. ‘We’ll be safe there,’ Quintus murmured to Urceus as he hooked an arm around his friend’s chest from behind. ‘For a time at least.’

It seemed to take an age to reach the nearest quinquereme. Quintus could have reached the stricken ship sooner if he’d aimed for its middle, but there were still missiles landing there. At the stern, perhaps even in the gap between the two vessels, they would be hidden from the ramparts entirely. The enemy artillerymen’s attention was concentrated on visible targets. As they drew near to the back of the ship, he spotted a cluster of heads in the water. Quintus’ spirits rose a little. The more of them there were, the more hope they had of surviving. He redoubled his efforts. The arrow in Urceus’ arm needed to be looked at. Extra pairs of hands would make that possible. ‘We’ll get you sorted out soon, you’ll see,’ he said to Urceus, longing for his friend to answer.

There was no response, and Quintus’ worries surged back. He fumbled again for the pulse in Urceus’ neck and was mightily relieved to find it. Then he heard a distinctive voice among the group. Corax! All was not lost, he decided. The gods had not completely abandoned them. It was as well, because he was weakening. Much further, and he would have begun to struggle with Urceus.

About twenty paces from the stern, he called out: ‘I have an injured comrade here. Can anyone help?’

Faces turned, and three men struck out towards them.

The first one to arrive had black hair and blue eyes. Quintus recognised him as a hastatus in the other century of their maniple, but he didn’t know the man’s name. ‘Where’s he hurt?’ the newcomer asked.

‘He has an arrow through the left arm. But he’s been unconscious since I found him, so there might be a head injury I haven’t seen.’ Do not let that be the case, Quintus prayed.

‘Let me take him,’ said the black-haired soldier. ‘Head for the centurion. He’s the-’

‘I know,’ Quintus butted in. ‘Corax is my centurion, thank all the gods.’

‘Seems like a good man.’ With great care, the black-haired soldier took ahold of Urceus around his chest. ‘I’ve got him.’

Happy that Urceus was in good hands, Quintus swam towards Corax. The hastatus and his companions followed.

When the centurion recognised Quintus, an expression of real pleasure crossed his face. ‘Look who Neptune just spat out! By all the gods, Crespo, it’s good to see you.’

‘And you, sir,’ replied Quintus fervently. ‘I didn’t think you’d made it.’

‘Nor I you. I haven’t seen a man of my century until you showed up. This lot are mostly from the unit that split itself between our ship and the other one. A few sailors too, and a handful of Vitruvius’ lot. Who have you got there?’ He gestured behind Quintus.

‘Urceus, sir.’

‘More good news,’ said Corax, smiling. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. He’s unconscious.’

Corax’s face blackened with anger and concern. ‘We’ll have to do our damnedest to make sure he survives then, eh? Hades can fuck off if he thinks he’s taking a soldier as good as Jug. I’ve lost too many good men today already.’

The faces to either side registered shock at Corax’s blasphemy, but Quintus didn’t share in their opinion. Corax was here, alive, and that was what mattered.

‘Let’s get him tied to this for a start,’ ordered Corax, lifting a rope out of the water. Quintus saw that it ran in a big loop, giving everyone something to hold on to. It was secured to an iron ring that hung from the timbers of the stern, just above their heads. The black-haired soldier swam in with Urceus a moment later, and using a short length that Corax produced, they looped it around his comrade’s chest.

‘Which arm is it?’ enquired Corax.

‘His left, sir.’ Quintus reached down and felt for Urceus’ hand. Gently, he lifted it sideways, away from his friend’s body, so that the arrow wouldn’t catch his torso. As it emerged, he blinked. The front half of the arrow had snapped off, leaving only the feathered end sticking out of Urceus’ flesh.

‘That’s a stroke of luck and no mistake,’ muttered Corax. With a steady pull, he withdrew the shaft. A thin stream of blood followed it, and Urceus moaned. His eyelids fluttered open.

‘Urceus, can you hear me?’ asked Quintus.

Urceus’ eyes came into focus. ‘Fuck … my head is sore. I must have … hit it on something in the water.’

Quintus wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ demanded Corax.

Urceus registered the centurion’s presence, bobbed his chin respectfully. ‘Er, no, sir. I don’t think so.’

‘Excellent. One of you rip a strip off your tunic,’ Corax ordered. ‘I want a bandage tied around Urceus’ arm, to stop the bleeding.’

The black-haired soldier was first to proffer a piece of fabric, and Quintus warmed to him further. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked as Corax set to tying it in place.

‘Mattheus.’ He saw Quintus’ surprise. ‘I’m as Roman as you are, but my maternal grandfather was Hebrew. I’m the last of four boys. My mother nagged my father until he gave in about the name.’

‘Crespo, they call me.’ He reached out a hand, and they shook. ‘I’m one of Corax’s men, as you can tell. You?’

‘I’m in Festus’ maniple.’ A grimace. ‘Or I was. He’s probably as dead as the rest of my lot.’

‘You were at Cannae?’

‘I wouldn’t be here in fucking Sicily if I hadn’t been, would I?’ Mattheus winked to show he meant no offence.

‘There have been some new recruits, but not that many, I suppose,’ replied Quintus, relieved that Mattheus was a veteran, like him. ‘We’re going to need more of them after today, and that’s no lie.’

‘Don’t get cocky, Crespo. Don’t think that those bastard Syracusans won’t be on the lookout for survivors later, when we try to get away,’ warned Corax. ‘We’ll have to be as sly as you like to succeed.’

‘You painted us a picture like that at Trasimene, sir,’ croaked Urceus. ‘And Cannae.’

‘And you got us out both times, sir,’ added Quintus. ‘You’ll do it again.’

‘Damn right,’ said Urceus.

For once, Corax seemed at a loss for words. He muttered something like, ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up,’ before swimming to peer around the stern, towards the city walls.

‘You trust him then?’ Mattheus’ expression was appraising.

‘He’s saved my arse even more times than this reprobate here,’ growled Urceus. He gave Quintus a grateful glance that needed no words.

‘Mine too,’ said Quintus. ‘He’s the best damn centurion in the whole army.’

‘I’d heard him spoken of highly,’ said Mattheus, nodding. ‘It’s good that he’s in charge, eh?’

‘Aye.’ Quintus was thirsty, sunburnt, up to his neck in the sea, and grief-stricken because of the comrades he’d lost. Thousands of the enemy were only a few hundred paces away. That didn’t stop his heart from singing.

They would see tomorrow. Somehow, he was certain of that.

Corax was here.

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