Fields of Blood

Chapter XIII

In the event, Quintus’ and Urceus’ visit to Larinum passed off without incident. If Quintus were to be cynical about it, he knew that did not mean Macerio had not been lying in wait for him somewhere. The fact was they had both got so drunk that they each ended up taking a whore to the tiny rooms over the inn where they’d been drinking. They had spent the night there. Afterwards, Quintus couldn’t remember if he’d actually lain with the woman, an attractive Gaul; she had told him with a knowing wink that he’d not been up to it but that if he wanted to come back another time, she’d only charge him half price. It appeared that she had been telling the truth, because when Urceus contracted a nasty bout of the pox soon afterwards, Quintus was (to his relief) unaffected. The incident reminded him of the advice his mother had given him once: if visiting brothels, it was best to frequent the more expensive ones.

Even if Quintus could have afforded such establishments, there was no chance of searching any out in the weeks that followed. Their move to the hastati proved so physically demanding that all he and Urceus wanted to do when they were off duty was sleep. Corax had always been a hard taskmaster, but now that they were real infantrymen, as he was fond of telling them, they actually had to be tough instead of just thinking they were. Velites were soft in comparison, he roared as they and the rest of the new recruits floundered along muddy tracks, carrying more armour and weapons than they’d ever had to in their lives. The centurion’s forced marches happened at least two times a week, and were up to twenty miles in distance. On the intervening days, Corax had them train using wooden swords and shields that were twice as heavy as the real thing, swim in the nearby river, despite the temperature, or exercise by wrestling and running.

Sometimes the centurion let them have a ‘day off’ — which consisted of marching in formation with the rest of the hastati and learning to respond to the trumpeters. If anything, that was harder than the other activities, but eventually Quintus and the others learned to assume close order, form the ‘saw’ and charge at a moment’s notice, stopping only to hurl their javelins. Teaching them to assume the position they would take in the triplex acies formation also came high on Corax’s list of priorities. Maniples marched into a battle situation one century in front of the other. At a signal, the rearmost century had to be able to move rapidly to stand alongside the other century, ready to fight. The soldiers had to learn how, if things were going badly, to do the reverse in order to let the principes advance to the attack, and how, after a period of rest, they might be expected to return to the fray through similar gaps in the principes’ maniples. The centurions had the hastati do this over and over again, sometimes on their own, and the rest of the time in concert with other maniples of principes and fellow hastati.

It was hardly surprising therefore that Quintus was delighted to be eventually given three days’ sentry duty with Urceus, watching over the tent of one of the legion’s tribunes. Two contubernia had been assigned the job: theirs and that of Macerio. The remaining soldiers, thirteen youngsters from the farmland to the south of Rome, were no less pleased at what was regarded as a soft duty. ‘Guarding this is a damn sight better than training. Or having to keep the via principalis clean, like the others in our maniple,’ said Urceus happily.

Quintus murmured in agreement. It was the second afternoon of their duty, and, as it had the previous day, the sun was shining from a pale, watery blue sky. The temperature wasn’t warm, but as long as he walked to and fro, it was acceptable. Macerio and his comrades were stationed at the rear of the tent, so he didn’t have to worry. After weeks of hard training, anything was better than sweating his balls off while Corax stood nearby, roaring abuse and bringing down his vine cane on anyone who didn’t do exactly as he’d ordered. He didn’t have to suffer the barbed comments of the hastati whom Macerio had befriended either. Quintus wondered if he had missed a trick when he had been promoted by not bothering to make himself popular within the maniple. His enemy had lost no time in ingratiating himself with soldiers who’d been in the unit for a while. So far, nothing had come of it, but there were half a dozen men who had taken a dislike to Quintus purely because of Macerio’s poison.

There were other benefits to sentry duty, Quintus mused. Here they were able to observe the comings and goings of very senior officers. They had even seen Gnaeus Servilius Geminus, the surviving consul, and his colleague, Marcus Atilius Regulus, who had been elected to replace Flaminius. These two men had led the army since the dictator Fabius and Rufus, the Master of the Horse, had left office near the previous year’s end. The evening before, both consuls had ridden past as dusk was falling. As usual, a large troop of extraordinarii, the best of the allied infantry and cavalry, had accompanied them. Quintus had looked for Gaius, but not seen him.

‘Who d’you think will replace the consuls in March?’

Urceus looked at him as if he were mad. ‘How should I fucking know? Who cares anyway? They’re all the same as each other’ — here he lowered his voice — ‘a shower of arrogant arseholes who think they’re better than us.’

Quintus snorted with laughter. There had been a time when he would have partially fallen into that category. Living as an ordinary infantryman had been an eye-opener, and often in a good way. Men such as Urceus and Rutilus had taken him at face value; he had learned to do the same. ‘Fabius was all right.’

‘He didn’t needlessly throw our lives away, I suppose,’ Urceus admitted. ‘He probably looks down his nose at the likes of us, though.’

‘Course he does,’ said a familiar, mocking voice. ‘They’re all the same, those bloody senators and equestrians.’

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Quintus, bridling at the mention of his own class. ‘You’re meant to be at the back of the tent.’

Macerio looked unconcerned. ‘Corax isn’t about, nor is the optio. The new lads have things covered. I thought I’d keep you company for a while.’

‘You can piss off, more like,’ snapped Quintus.

‘Nice welcome, eh?’ said Macerio to Urceus, who shrugged his shoulders. Once again, Quintus wondered if he should have confided in Urceus, told him what he thought — knew — had happened to Rutilus. It was almost as if he’d lost his chance, though. Macerio had acted the instant that Urceus had returned, seeking out his company, sharing his wine, treating him like the oldest of friends. Urceus, pleased by this welcome, had taken greatly to Quintus’ enemy, which had made Quintus feel a little like an outsider. He worried that accusing Macerio of murdering Rutilus now might endanger his friendship with Urceus. That was not something he wanted to happen. The short, jug-eared man was now the only real comrade he had left. He got on well enough with Severus, but it wasn’t the same as it had been with Rutilus, or even Big Tenner. Gods, but he missed Calatinus, and Gaius, his old friend. He even missed his father, if truth be known. But Calatinus was dead, and so too were Rutilus and Big Tenner. There was no way of contacting his father without endangering his position in the infantry. Quintus hardened his heart. He was immensely proud to be a hastatus, and he was not about to throw that away.

As Macerio fell into conversation with Urceus, Quintus tried not to let his displeasure show. The sooner an opportunity presented itself for him to slip a blade between his enemy’s ribs, he thought, the better. The clatter of hooves brought him back to the present. As a small party of cavalrymen rode up to the tribune’s tent, he was stunned to recognise Calatinus. Older, leaner, with new lines on his thin face, but still the same sturdily built man whom he’d known since before the Trebia. Quintus turned his head so that Calatinus wouldn’t see him. Whatever happened, Macerio must not get so much as an inkling that they knew each other. One of the riders jumped down from his horse and approached. Quintus saluted. Beside him, he heard the others do the same. He eyed the man, similar in age to his father, whom he was relieved not to recognise. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Is the tribune about?’

‘No, sir. You’ll find him at the camp headquarters.’

‘I see. My thanks.’ He turned away.

‘Sir.’ Quintus looked at the ground, willing Calatinus not to see him. A moment or two passed; he heard the rider who’d questioned him mount up and tell his companions what had been said. The horses began to move off. A relieved breath left Quintus’ lips.

‘Soldier!’

Quintus froze. It was Calatinus’ voice.

‘Soldier! A word.’

‘One of them’s calling you,’ said Urceus.

Quintus made a show of appearing surprised.

‘Best go and see what he wants,’ advised Urceus.

‘Get a move on, or we’ll all find ourselves on a charge thanks to you,’ added Macerio spitefully.

Quintus threw his enemy a filthy look and walked towards Calatinus, his heart pounding. He was grateful that the other cavalrymen had already ridden off. ‘You called me, sir?’ he asked loudly.

Calatinus made a show of lowering his voice a fraction, as if being conspiratorial. ‘Where might a man find an extra supply of wine round here?’

From the corner of his eye, Quintus saw Macerio’s and Urceus’ knowing smiles. That was clever, he thought, as they began talking to each other. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, moving closer to Calatinus’ horse, ‘the man you want to talk to is. .’

‘Hail, Quintus!’ whispered Calatinus, struggling not to smile, and failing. ‘I prayed that you had made it this far.’

‘Gods, but it’s good to see you!’ Quintus couldn’t stop grinning either. He was glad to be holding his pilum and shield, otherwise the impulse to pull Calatinus into a bear hug might have been overwhelming. ‘How is it that you survived the ambush after Trasimene?’

Calatinus’ face darkened. ‘Fortuna’s tits, I don’t know! The dogs came out of nowhere. My horse threw me when it was hit by an enemy spear. I was knocked out by the fall. When I woke up, there were two bodies on top of me. It was dark, and the enemy had vanished. All I had to do was crawl off into the woods and walk away.’ Shame filled his eyes. ‘I didn’t even strike a blow.’

‘That’s not your fault,’ hissed Quintus. ‘I’m glad. Because of what happened, you’re here.’ He glanced at Macerio, who was watching again. His stomach twisted. ‘As I say,’ and he pointed, ‘you’ll find him in the quartermaster’s offices.’

Calatinus realised at once what he was about. ‘Near the quaestor’s tent?’

‘That’s the one, sir,’ Quintus replied.

‘Let’s have a talk tonight. My unit’s tents face on to the via praetoria. We’re the third lot in from the porta decumana,’ said Calatinus in an undertone. Then, at full volume, ‘I’m grateful, soldier.’ A silver coin flashed into the air.

‘I’ll find you,’ muttered Quintus, catching it. ‘Glad to be of service, sir,’ he added for Macerio’s and Urceus’ benefit. Calatinus rode off without as much as a backward glance; Quintus walked back to his comrades. He brandished the coin, a drachm. ‘That was easily earned!’

‘The things a man will do for the produce of the vine,’ said Urceus with a wicked grin.

‘It took a long time just to tell him where to find someone who’ll flog him some wine.’ Macerio’s eyes were bright with suspicion.

‘He asked me a few other things as well.’ Quintus tapped the side of his nose. ‘But they’re between him and me.’

‘Not happy with the arse bandit Severus, eh?’ jibed Macerio. ‘Urceus, he’s looking to be a cavalryman’s wife!’

Quintus thumped his scutum into Macerio’s, sending the blond-haired man stumbling backwards. ‘Watch your fucking mouth!’

‘Can’t you take a joke?’ taunted Macerio.

‘Peace, lads.’ Urceus stepped between them. ‘We can’t be seen brawling outside a tribune’s tent. Not unless you want to spend the rest of the winter digging latrines.’

At that moment, Quintus didn’t care. His pilum was already levelled at Macerio. If his enemy moved, he would skewer him through his shield.

‘Crespo,’ Urceus cried, ‘calm down! Someone will see. Macerio, step away.’

Quintus shook his head, regained control. Urceus was right. It wasn’t worth being caught fighting by an officer. A few steps away, Macerio was already smiling as if nothing had happened. ‘It was just a joke,’ he said with a laugh.

No it wasn’t, you whoreson, Quintus thought. I’ll get you, one day.

‘What’s got into you, Crespo?’ demanded Urceus. ‘Macerio was only trying to get a rise out of you. Everyone knows you’re not interested in men, like Severus or poor old Rutilus.’

‘Rutilus, eh?’ Quintus’ temper boiled over again. ‘Why don’t you ask Macerio here about him?’

Urceus looked confused. ‘Ask him what?’

‘How he came to die from a wound in his back,’ said Quintus from between gritted teeth.

‘Well, there’s only one reason that men take an injury like that,’ replied Macerio smoothly. ‘And we all know what it is.’

‘You piece of filth!’ cried Quintus, pushing against Urceus. ‘Rutilus was no coward. He would never have run from the enemy.’

‘What are you saying then?’ growled Urceus, glancing from one to the other.

‘He’s just trying to cover up for his arse-loving friend,’ said Macerio with a snicker.

The approach of the tribune whose tent they were guarding cut off all conversation. From then on, there were regular comings and goings, and Quintus had a chance to calm down. By the time Urceus asked him again and Macerio had returned to his post to the rear of the tent, he was able to explain what had happened the night that Hannibal had stampeded the cattle over the mountains.

Urceus swore loud and long. ‘Can you prove this?’

‘Of course not!’

‘How do you know it was Macerio then?’ Urceus gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Just because Rutilus had never run before doesn’t mean that he didn’t that night. Stranger things have happened, you know.’

‘It was Macerio. I’m sure of it,’ said Quintus adamantly. He recounted what had happened when they had ambushed the drunk Numidians, a lifetime before.

Urceus became thoughtful. ‘It was stupid to throw so close to you, but it must have been a mistake. I’ve made throws like that during combat myself. Macerio and you have never got along, right from the beginning, but he’s a good lad at heart. He’s not the type to try and murder a comrade, let alone two.’

Quintus could see that he was banging his head against a wall. ‘You believe the best of people, that’s why you don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Macerio is a snake in the grass.’

‘I’m sorry you think that.’ Urceus shook his head. ‘It’d be easy enough to sort out your differences over a few drinks. I’d make sure you didn’t come to blows.’

‘I’d rather throw myself off the Tarpeian Rock!’

‘Fair enough,’ replied Urceus regretfully.

An awkward silence fell. It lasted for the remainder of their duty. Quintus fell to thinking about Calatinus. The knowledge that his friend was alive and well lifted his spirits no end. Tonight, they’d be able to catch up with one another. He’d bring some wine; it would be just like old times, when they had got pissed together in Cisalpine Gaul. For an instant he sobered, remembering that he and Calatinus were the only survivors of the four tent mates from that period, a year before. When the war started again, how long would it be before either — or both — of them were also killed? All the more reason to live in the present, Quintus told himself, for tomorrow we die. A jar of wine and a good natter with Calatinus — that was what counted at this moment.

Quintus cast frequent but casual looks behind him until he was out of sight of the maniple’s tent lines. He made towards the open space that lay inside the earthen wall. From there, he could go straight to the porta decumana and then up the via praetoria. Moving between the tents would have been quicker, but he risked breaking his neck on guy ropes in the dark. He’d told Urceus that he was going to chat to a possible contact who could obtain sheepskins at a reasonable price. ‘This will help me get a good bargain,’ he had said, waving the beaker of wine. Urceus hadn’t argued; used to his comings and goings, the rest of the contubernium had hardly noticed him leave the tent.

Other soldiers were about too; searching out locations where there was gambling or wine to be bought, or just talking outside their tents. There were even some madmen sprinting against each other, watched by a cheering crowd of their friends. The atmosphere was relaxed, even party-like. Quintus felt much the same way. Everyone knew that there would be no real fighting until the spring; with their day’s duties done, it was time to relax. Soldiers were free to come and go until the second watch of the night, so why not make the most of it? For those who were on duty, however, it was a different matter. Atop the wall, the sentries — velites all — marched to and fro. Quintus was grateful that he no longer had to perform this, the coldest of duties.

It wasn’t hard to find the cavalry tent lines, which, apart from the first unit, faced on to the via praetoria. Their rectangular layout was the same as those of the infantry: an open side, two lines of tents opposite each other and, at the far end, the pens for the horses making up the fourth side. Counting carefully, Quintus made his way to Calatinus’ section. It was here that he began to feel self-conscious, and a little wistful. As a cavalryman, he had taken his elevated status for granted. Now he was a lowly hastatus, far below the social status of Calatinus and the rest of his turma. Life would have been much easier if he’d stayed where he was. That fantasy lasted until Quintus thought of his father, and his intention to send him home. Squaring his shoulders, he made for a group of figures standing outside one of the tents. Engrossed in conversation, they did not notice him approach through the gloom.

Quintus coughed. No one noticed. He coughed again, with the same result. ‘Excuse me,’ he said loudly.

A ring of surprised faces regarded him. Several twisted with scorn. ‘A hastatus. What’s he doing here?’ demanded one man. ‘Tell him to piss off,’ added another. ‘But not before he gives us that beaker of wine.’ Loud chuckles met this comment, and Quintus really had to bite his tongue. Arrogant bastards! He was grateful when one of the cavalrymen asked him what he wanted in a civil tone. There were curious glances when he replied that he was looking for a rider called Calatinus. Nonetheless, he was directed to a tent in the line opposite. Halfway across the open space, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. Quintus was grateful for the darkness that concealed his face. Not ten paces away, his father was talking to a decurion. His heart twisted. Despite the bad terms they had been on before he had vanished, he loved his father. In that instant, Quintus realised how much he had missed him. How good it would be to walk up and greet him. As if he’d welcome me! Quintus ducked his head and cut off at a different angle, putting as much distance as possible between them.

A sour-faced man emerged from Calatinus’ tent as he approached.

‘Is Calatinus inside?’

That got him a jaundiced grin. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name is Crespo, hastatus.’

Now, a lip curl. ‘What might Calatinus want with the likes of you?’

Quintus had had enough. ‘That’s my own business. Is he there or not?’

‘You impudent-’ began the cavalryman, but he was interrupted by Calatinus shoving his head outside.

‘Ah, Crespo!’ he cried. To his companion, ‘Leave us, will you? I’ve got some business to deal with.’

The man walked off, grumbling.

‘Come in!’ Calatinus beckoned.

With a last look at his father, Quintus entered. To his relief, there was no one else in the tent. Calatinus laced the flap behind him, and then waved him to a stool by the central brazier. ‘Welcome, welcome. Crespo — is that your name now?’

‘I couldn’t use my own, could I?’ Quintus grabbed him in a bear hug. ‘I thought you were dead, damn you,’ he muttered in Calatinus’ ear.

Calatinus squeezed him back. ‘It takes more than a few guggas to kill me.’

They grinned at each other like fools before Calatinus pulled away and produced some wine. When Quintus offered his own, his friend retorted, ‘We can have that afterwards. There’s a whole night’s drinking ahead of us.’

‘Won’t your tent mates return soon? I got enough strange looks just asking where to find you.’

‘Don’t worry. Luckily for us, the turma next door is holding a party. No one will be back for a long time yet.’

‘My father was outside, talking to a decurion,’ Quintus blurted. ‘I didn’t expect that.’

‘Vulcan’s hairy arse! Did he notice you?’

Quintus shook his head. ‘It was a real shock, though. I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t, obviously. I realise that I have missed him — more than I thought I would.’

‘He has missed you too,’ said Calatinus soberly.

‘How do you know?’

‘We talk now and again.’ Calatinus saw Quintus’ surprised look. ‘He seeks me out. I think it’s because he knows that you and I were’ — a grin — ‘are friends.’

‘What does he say about me?’

‘He wonders why you disappeared, and if you were killed by the enemy.’ Calatinus hesitated, and then said, ‘I’m not sure, but I think he wonders if he was too harsh on you.’

Quintus started forward. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘The sadness in his eyes when he talks about you.’

Quintus swallowed the unexpected lump that had formed in his throat. ‘I see,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you come back to the cavalry? I don’t think your father would be too hard on you. He’d be so glad to know you’re alive.’

It was an appealing prospect in many ways. Comrades such as Calatinus. More glory. Better rations. Best of all, no Macerio. Quintus shoved away the idea. Don’t be a coward, he thought harshly. Only cowards run away, forgetting their friends who were murdered. ‘He hasn’t heard from my mother then? I sent a letter, telling her that I was all right.’

‘He’s mentioned nothing like that.’

‘He’ll hear eventually. I’m not leaving my unit. Not now, when I’ve just been promoted to the hastati.’ Not when I’ve got Macerio to kill, he added silently.

‘What are you trying to prove, Quintus?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he retorted. This was something he had to do on his own, for himself. For Rutilus. ‘Let’s drink some of this wine, and you can tell me properly how you survived when so many others were killed.’

‘Fine. But only if you tell me how you managed not to end up as fish food on the bottom of Lake Trasimene.’

They both grinned, the randomness of their still being alive making the reunion all the sweeter.

Quintus woke with a start, blinking away the nightmare in which Macerio had been attacking him with a sword while he’d had nothing to defend himself with. There was a sour taste of wine in his mouth and a thick-headed feeling encasing his brain. Wiping a dribble of saliva from the corner of his lips, he sat up. An empty amphora lay beside him. The oil lamps had gone out. By the brazier’s dim glow, he could see Calatinus flat on his back, a few steps away, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Quintus kicked him. A grunt. He kicked him again. ‘Wake up!’

‘Huh?’ Calatinus’ head lifted.

‘What time is it?’

‘How should I know?’ grumbled Calatinus, struggling on to one elbow. ‘Gods, but my mouth is bone dry.’ He reached for a water skin and sucked at it greedily.

Quintus peered at the tent fabric. No trace of light. ‘It’s still dark. I’d best be heading back.’

‘I’ll walk with you.’

‘No need, thanks. Besides, it isn’t a good idea for us to be seen together. In fact, it’s best if we don’t do this again for a while. People would start asking questions.’

‘If anything was said, I’ll maintain that you were the son of a tenant on our estate at home.’

‘That might work once, but not after that. When was the last time you drank with an ordinary citizen?’ retorted Quintus. ‘I don’t like it any more than you, but there’s not much we can do.’

‘I suppose we could meet outside the camp, especially when the weather gets better.’

‘That might work,’ admitted Quintus. He rose to go, shrugged on his cloak and patted the handle of his dagger. ‘Stay safe, my friend.’

Calatinus struggled up to embrace him. ‘You too.’

Quintus had reached the tent’s entrance when Calatinus spoke again. ‘Shall I say anything to your father?’

‘Of course not! He would disown me as likely as anything else.’

‘I just thought you could let him know-’

Quintus, still befuddled with drink, grew angrier. ‘How, Calatinus? Just call by his tent and deliver him a letter?’

‘I’m sorry, Quintus,’ said Calatinus, looking crestfallen. ‘I only wanted to help.’

‘I know.’ Quintus let out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s too risky, though.’

Calatinus waved a hand in weary acknowledgement.

Feeling bad for reprimanding his friend and guilty about not making contact with his father, Quintus ducked outside. Apart from the raucous noise from the tents of the neighbouring turma — the party was clearly still going on — all was quiet. His breath plumed before his face; a moment later, he felt the chill night air creep under the bottom of his cloak. The wind of earlier had died down, allowing a frost to form. Moonlight glittered off the frozen, hard-packed earth of the via praetoria. His head turned from left to right, searching for a patrol of the watch. Nothing. Quintus padded out on to the wide avenue. This was riskier than walking back through the tent lines, but he trusted his sense of balance even less than he had earlier. As long as he kept a close lookout, he’d keep out of sight of hostile eyes. Or so he thought.

Brooding about his father, melancholic from the wine, he didn’t see the four figures steal out behind him. The first thing he knew was when the strip of cloth was fed over his head and jerked backwards into his mouth. Quintus staggered backwards; he nearly fell. Even as his hands reached up to free himself, they were pinioned by his sides. His gaze shot from side to side to the man in front of him. Shock filled him. One was a new recruit from Macerio’s contubernium; the other two were veteran hastati from his own maniple. As the dreadful realisation sank in, a familiar voice whispered in his ear, ‘I take it that the equestrian has finished fucking you?’

Macerio! Frantic, Quintus tried to free his arms. He bit down on the gag, tried to spit it out, all to no avail. Legs kicking, he was bundled between lines of tents to a gap between two sets of horse pens and thrown to the ground. A few of the mounts nickered and most moved away from the fence, but here, Quintus realised with a sick feeling, there was far less chance of anyone hearing what was done to him. Up, I have to get up, he thought. Before he could even get on his knees, however, the kicks and stamps rained down on his chest, head and belly. Quintus went down hard, agony radiating all over his body. When the blows stopped, he drew in a ragged breath, fought the urge to vomit. Looked up at his attackers.

‘I always knew you had to be a man lover,’ hissed Macerio, kicking him again. ‘Who else would befriend a mollis like Rutilus?’

‘Are you sure this one isn’t a Greek?’ asked one of his companions, sniggering.

‘He should be,’ agreed Macerio, spitting on Quintus. ‘Renting out his arse to an equestrian just like one of the lowlifes you’d find in the worst type of brothel. Filthy mollis!’

Quintus tried to rise again, but a hefty kick to the face felled him. Stars burst across his vision; he felt a dull crack as his cheekbone broke. You’re attacking the wrong man, he wanted to scream. I’m not the one who murdered one of my own — Macerio is! The only sounds he could make, though, were muffled groans that made no sense to anyone. Before long, he began to lapse in and out of consciousness. With a supreme effort, Quintus formed a coherent thought. He had to act, to do something. Otherwise this beating would be the death of him, if not from his injuries, then from lying outside all night after it.

His fingers scrabbled uselessly on his tunic. Felt the outline of his baldric. Followed the leather down to the hilt of his dagger. He squinted up at his attackers, outlined against the sky above. None seemed to have noticed. Quintus’ stomach twisted. There would be one chance only. He tugged the blade free, lifted his arm and hammered it into the nearest piece of flesh he could make out.

A shriek of agony. The knife was wrenched from Quintus’ hand as his victim jerked away. The kicks stopped. Another bellow of pain. A man stooped over him and tugged at his foot with a savage oath.

‘Shut up, you fool!’ Macerio’s voice.

‘He’s stabbed me in the fucking foot!’

‘I don’t give a shit! You’ll bring down the damn watch on us.’

The dull glint of silver as Quintus’ blade was lifted high. ‘I’ll finish him now, then. Can’t talk if he’s dead, can he?’

‘Do it,’ said Macerio with a cruel laugh. ‘But be quick.’

With the last of his strength, Quintus rolled to his left. His feet collided with something — a man’s legs, a post? Pulling in his knees, he kept rolling. Under the fence and into a pen full of horses. The smell of manure filled his nostrils. All he could see were hooves, dancing uneasily around him. He rolled on regardless, desperate to put as much distance between himself and his attackers. Whinnies filled the air. Hooves stamped on the ground. There were curses too, from beyond the fence. And then, the most welcome thing Quintus had ever heard: ‘Hey! What in Hades’ name are you lot doing?’ Another voice: ‘Arm yourselves, boys! Someone’s trying to steal our horses!’

More oaths; then the sound of men running away.

Quintus sagged on to the cold ground with relief. The last thing he saw was the starlit sky, arching overhead in a glittering display of light. How beautiful it was, he thought, before oblivion claimed him.

Pain. Waves of pain from his cheek, his ribs, his groin. They alternated in a sickening rhythm, an unending cadence that bore Quintus irresistibly along. A pulse hammered off the back of his eyelids, at the base of his throat, deep inside his head. He felt sweat trickle down the side of his head, between his hairline and the corner of his eye. I must still be alive, he thought fuzzily. His eyelids felt as if they had been stuck together with glue, but he forced them open to find a dark-skinned man studying him. Behind him, Quintus could see Corax, who didn’t look happy at all.

‘Good. You’ve woken.’ Corax moved forward, but the surgeon lifted a hand. The centurion frowned, but he stopped.

Quintus tried to speak, but his tongue was as thick as a plank.

‘Drink some of this.’ A cup was held to his lips.

The watered-down wine tasted like nectar. After a couple of swallows, the surgeon took it away. ‘Not too much. I don’t want you vomiting.’

‘Where am I?’ asked Quintus.

‘In the camp hospital,’ replied Corax. ‘Along with your friend.’

Quintus turned his head carefully from side to side, but was pleased not to see the hastatus in any of the beds nearby. The soldiers he could see were pretending not to listen, but he had no doubt that their ears were twitching. ‘My friend, sir?’

‘The piece of shit whom you stabbed in the foot. I assume it was you who did that?’

With a displeased look, the surgeon moved back to let Corax take his place. ‘You’re not to talk to him for long, sir,’ he chided. ‘He needs to rest.’

Corax didn’t even reply. The Greek backed away, lips pursed.

‘Well, Crespo?’ The centurion’s eyes were like chips of flint.

‘I stabbed him, yes, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘He was going to kill me.’

‘Why in damnation would he try to do that, in the middle of the night, so far from our tent lines? Eh?’

Quintus tried to collect his scrambled thoughts. He wanted to tell Corax everything but as before, when Macerio had attacked him, he felt wary. For one thing, too many men were listening. Whether they heard or not, ratting out would make him a total outcast in the maniple. It didn’t matter that Macerio and his cronies had tried to murder him. Maintaining the unit’s code of silence was vital to keeping the other soldiers’ respect. He’d have to sort out his vendetta with Macerio without official intervention. By himself.

‘I asked you a question, soldier!’ Corax bent over the bed. ‘I don’t give a shit what the surgeon says about you needing rest. Answer me, or you’ll be stuck in this place for a month after the beating I give you!’

Corax must have talked to the hastatus already, thought Quintus. What would he have been told? He clawed for a credible response. ‘We were having an argument, sir.’

Corax’s lips thinned. ‘Clearly. Tell me more.’

‘You know how it is, sir. He’s a veteran; I’m not. He was taking the piss out of me. We came to blows. I came off worst.’

Silence. Quintus tried not to squirm under Corax’s scrutiny.

‘You’d been drinking?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Grateful that Corax didn’t interrupt, he hurried on. ‘I bumped into the filth on my way back from a friend’s tent. That’s how we ended up fighting.’ Aware of how implausible that sounded, but unable to think of a better story, he stopped.

‘What a pile of horseshit,’ said Corax coldly. ‘The soldiers who heard the fight said that several men ran away. Did you see any of their faces?’

‘No, sir,’ said Quintus stolidly, avoiding Corax’s gaze.

‘You have no idea who they were?’ The centurion’s tone was disbelieving.

‘That’s right, sir.’ Quintus glanced at Corax, his heart thumping. Had his version been anywhere near to the hastatus’ version of events?

A long pause.

‘Luckily for you, Crespo, the hastatus says the same thing, that you were just brawling for no particular reason. Don’t think I don’t know that you’re both lying through your teeth. The instant that you get out of here, you’re on latrine duties for a month. That’s as well as having to cook for your contubernium every day for the same period. You’ll also report to me each morning at dawn for a ten-mile run, in full kit. Consider yourself lucky that I’m not demoting you as well.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Let the hastatus receive the same, he prayed.

For once, his request was answered. ‘In case you’re wondering, your friend will be doing the same as you once he’s discharged from the hospital.’ Corax paused before adding, ‘He’s also to receive ten lashes.’

Curiosity and delight mixed in equal measure. ‘Why’s that, sir?’

‘He’s a veteran, for Jupiter’s sake! He should have been able to thrash the living daylights out of you, not get stabbed in the damn foot. The whipping might teach him not to be so fucking useless.’

Quintus almost thought he imagined Corax’s fleeting wink. Almost. He tried hard not to smile. ‘I see, sir.’

‘Report to me when you get out.’ Corax was all business again. ‘The surgeon estimates that will be in two to three days.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Feeling slightly happier despite the punishment that awaited him, he watched Corax go. There was no way of proving it, but his gut told him that the centurion was more on his side than that of the hastatus, which meant in turn that Macerio and the others would have to watch out. If Corax caught them doing anything untoward, Quintus had no doubt that they would live to regret it. That didn’t mean he could relax. Macerio was too dangerous. Anger filled him that he had been ambushed so easily. That was three times now. It must not happen again. It was time for him to surprise Macerio, once and for all. Yet even as sleep claimed him, Quintus knew that would not be easy. Corax would also be watching him like a hawk.

Two days later, the surgeon pronounced him fit for active duties, as long as he avoided weapons training for six to eight weeks. The reason for that, the Greek explained, was that a blow to his face could permanently cave in his cheek, making it difficult to speak or eat. Quintus was relieved when Corax didn’t argue with the surgeon’s directions. His healing injury made no difference to the extra duties — all light — laid upon him by the centurion, however. Quintus sweated from dawn until dusk, running or digging latrines, watched by either Corax or one of the junior officers. Evenings were spent with his tent mates, who had grown fiercely protective of him since the fight. Even if Macerio had wanted to do anything, there would have been no chance of doing so.

There was no sign of the hastatus for about three weeks; when he did appear, complete with a limp, Corax had him whipped and then set to shovelling earth on a different latrine trench. After a day or two, Quintus happened to catch the other’s gaze. The veteran scowled at him, and he returned the look. Next time, I’ll stick the knife in your chest, Quintus mouthed. In reply, he got an obscene gesture. There was scant comfort in the mini-confrontation; Macerio and the two other hastati also gave him hard looks at every opportunity.

Perhaps the best thing to come out of it was the fact that Urceus now believed Macerio was a serious threat. The first time he’d visited Quintus in the hospital, the jug-eared man had demanded an account of the night’s activity. He had listened in silence to Quintus’ tale of selling some of the wine that they had stockpiled to an equestrian for a healthy profit. Even when he’d revealed who it was that had attacked him, Urceus had not interrupted. When he had finished, his friend had sat for a few moments, drumming the fingers of one hand off his cheek. ‘You don’t have to tell me what you were really doing in that part of the camp. That’s your business. I don’t believe the nonsense about you being a mollis either. Arse-lovers don’t eye up whores the way you do.’ He’d held up a meaty hand to stop Quintus replying. ‘I’m sorry that I doubted you about Macerio before. I’ve seen the looks he and his mates have been giving you since you got out of the hospital.’

‘Do you believe me about Rutilus too?’

A heavy sigh. ‘I don’t want to, but yes, I do. If the bastard’s prepared to try and kill you on the sly, he’s capable of doing the same in the middle of a battle.’

‘It won’t end until one of us is dead. And it’s not going to be me.’

‘I’ll help make damn sure of that,’ Urceus had growled.

Knowing that he now had a friend to watch his back eased Quintus’ burden. It helped him to sleep better at night, although he was often troubled by nightmares about Macerio. The sooner he could end the feud, the better. He wondered if it would be when the month of punishments was up, but there was no let-up in the officers’ supervision of either him or the hastatus. A couple of other soldiers in the maniple who were caught fighting were severely flogged. Corax was letting them all know what to expect, Quintus surmised. The worst of the winter weather passed, and the days grew longer. Bands of enemy soldiers were spotted more often, resulting in an escalation of Roman patrols. Quintus never found himself on the same mission as Macerio or his cronies, which made it even more likely that Corax knew of the enmity between them. Whatever the reason, it distracted him from the problem, for a while at least. As the weeks passed, he buried his hatred of Macerio for another time. Vengeance for Rutilus’ death could wait, but the war with Hannibal could not.

And war it would be once more. Although Servilius and Regulus still led the army, and had followed their instructions from the Senate not to engage significantly with Hannibal during the spring, the gossip that ran through the camp daily was of only one thing: confrontation with the enemy. When Lucius Aemilius Paullus and Gaius Terentius Varro, the new consuls for the year, arrived to take charge, they would bring with them four newly raised legions and the same number of socii troops. Together with the soldiers who were encamped near Gerunium, they would command a total of more than eighty thousand men. With that vast force, the braggarts cried, defeat was impossible. Quintus found it hard to argue with such logic. As the days lengthened and the temperatures rose, their training renewed with added ferocity. A number of clashes with the enemy went the Roman way too, and his spirits rose along with everyone else’s. There would be no rest until total victory had been achieved. It would come soon, before the summer’s end — which meant that if he survived, the possibility of autumn leave would become real. He could potentially be reunited with his family. For all that he wanted to walk his own path, Quintus also longed to see his mother and Aurelia again. His father too, if he admitted it. If he distinguished himself in the battle that saw Hannibal defeated, perhaps his father would forgive him for disobeying his orders? Quintus suspected that that thought was a wishful fantasy. Nonetheless, he guarded it jealously, telling no one.