Hannibal: Fields of Blood (38 page)

As she reached the heights of ecstasy, she felt no guilt.

Calena, Samnium

It was a cold, blustery afternoon. The sun had vanished behind banks of grey cloud. Looming, swirling, ever changing in shape, they filled the sky from one horizon to the other, as they had since daybreak. The gale had risen at some stage during the night, and it showed no sign of abating. The Roman troops had learned to expect such weather. Mid-winter storms off the Adriatic were a regular occurrence in this part of Italy. The camp’s position on high ground didn’t help. Gusts of wind battered the tents, alternately pulling taut and slackening the guy ropes in a way that threatened to see at least some become airborne before the day’s end. The bitter air meant that the only soldiers who were abroad were those who had to be. Sentries on the ramparts of the large camp huddled below the level of the wooden battlements, with barely their heads visible. An occasional messenger hurried down one or other of the avenues. A mule-driver led his charges back from whatever scant grazing they’d found that day. Groups of unfortunate legionaries, who were being punished for misdemeanours, manoeuvred miserably to and fro on the open ground beyond the defences, threw javelins or went at each other with wooden swords and shields. Their officers stood in thick woollen cloaks nearby, pouring scorn on their efforts.

In the lines of Corax’s and Pullo’s maniple, everything was quiet. Men huddled in their tents, only venturing outside to answer a call of nature or to fetch fuel for the braziers that the more resourceful
contubernia
had obtained. Like his comrades, Quintus was not on duty – he had been on a two-day patrol that had returned the previous evening. He was inside too, lying in the midst of the nine other men who shared the tent. As the most senior, he had the best spot, by the small, three-legged brazier. Even better, he had a number of sheepskins to lie on: some bartered for, others the winnings from dice games – or plain stolen. Three months in camp with just an occasional skirmish against the Carthaginians meant that the priorities in life had changed somewhat. They were now all about how to make one’s existence in a leather tent in the cold and damp of winter more bearable. Fuel and bedding were always needed; so too were rations that warmed a man’s insides. Choice items like cheese or wine fetched premium prices.

Quintus had soon discovered that Severus, Rutilus’ former lover, was a born scavenger. It didn’t seem to matter what was needed; Severus could find it. Quintus had learned equally quickly to turn a blind eye to his soldier’s pilfering. The reason for this was simple. Everyone in the camp was at it; the trick was never to be caught. It helped that experienced centurions such as Corax tended ‘not to notice’ what was going on. At the start of winter, he’d made one pronouncement: that anyone caught stealing from their own maniple or those that directly neighboured it would receive thirty lashes. It hadn’t taken much to read between the lines that the units further away, or property outside the camp, were fair game.

There had been a tasty stew for the midday meal: the best food Quintus had had in days. Luxuriating in the comfort of his warm bedding, he lay back and let the chatter wash over him. For the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, he didn’t want to brood over Rutilus. That was all he’d done since the fight at the pass: simmer, and plot how he could revenge himself upon Macerio. Trouble was, it was hard to accomplish such a thing when there was no fighting going on. In the camp, everyone lived cheek by jowl; a man could barely take a shit without half a dozen others watching. The best opportunities to be had were in the thick of combat. At times like that, most men didn’t see what was happening five paces away, let alone ten. To his frustration, the war had ground to a halt since the onset of winter. That was the way it would remain until the fine weather returned in the spring. I’ll get the bastard eventually, thought Quintus. One way or another. Until then, it wasn’t a crime to relax a little in the safety of his tent mates’ company. To distract himself, he focused on what was going on around him. Five of the men were loudly playing dice. Filthy jokes filled the air; many concerned the farts one of them was emitting. Severus was whispering with two of the others, no doubt planning an expedition to thieve something new. The last man was dozing. At moments like this, Quintus reflected, life wasn’t too bad.

‘Crespo!’ The voice came from outside the tent.

With a silent curse, he ignored it.

‘Crespo! Corax wants you. Now.’

The request was unusual enough, but why was Macerio the messenger? Wide awake now and full of suspicion, Quintus sat up. His men were staring at him. ‘Don’t just look at me,’ he barked. ‘One of you unlace the flap!’ To Macerio, he growled, ‘I’m coming.’ Quickly, he strapped on his sword belt and donned his helmet. Throwing on his cloak, he stepped over the huddle of bodies and blankets to the entrance. Caution stopped him from exiting the tent. Was Macerio capable of trying to kill him in broad daylight, in the midst of their own unit? Surely not. Quintus could feel his men’s eyes on his back, and he began to move. The danger from Macerio was small, and he could not be seen to be indecisive.

‘What the hell are you at?’ Macerio’s voice dripped scorn.

‘I’m here,’ he growled, emerging. He made an obvious show of keeping his hand on his sword hilt.

Macerio regarded him mockingly. He was also wearing a woollen cloak, but his hands were empty. Quintus flushed, but he didn’t move his hand. Not after what had happened to Rutilus. His eyes flickered left to right, and behind him, over the tent. He saw no one. Relaxing a fraction, he glared at Macerio.

‘Looking for someone?’

‘Fuck you, Macerio. You know what I’m doing, and why,’ he said, almost amiably. ‘What does Corax want?’

‘Buggered if I know. I was on the way back from the latrine trench, minding my own business, when he collared me by his tent. Told me to get you, double quick.’

Quintus grunted, unwilling to admit his confusion. Macerio said no more, and the conversation died. In silence, they walked past the tents of the hastati. To Quintus’ even greater surprise, Corax was waiting for them by the entrance to his tent. An enigmatic smile played across his face. ‘Crespo. Macerio.’

Stamping their feet, the pair snapped to attention. ‘Sir!’ they bellowed in unison.

‘You’re probably wondering why I ordered you here on such a miserable bloody day, when you’ve only just returned from patrol.’ Corax’s smile broadened. ‘Course you’re both too smart to say so. Well, I’ve got a little surprise for you. Step inside.’ He indicated that they should enter.

Forgetting their enmity for a moment, Quintus and Macerio exchanged an astonished look. Neither had ever received such an invitation.

‘Come on, come on. All the heat is escaping.’

Quintus expected to find Pullo within, but instead he found a familiar figure with prominent ears. Beside him, he heard Macerio’s gasp of shock. ‘Urceus!’ Quintus cried. ‘You’re back.’

‘Didn’t think you could try to end the war without me, did you?’ Urceus limped forward and embraced Quintus.

Even Macerio’s perpetual sour expression eased into a grin. ‘Welcome,’ he said warmly, clapping Urceus on the shoulder. ‘You’re recovered, then?’

Urceus stepped back with a grimace. He rubbed his left thigh. ‘This still pains me, but I can fight. And I wanted to get back to you boys. All of you.’ His face darkened. ‘I was sorry to hear about Rutilus.’

Not half as sorry as you’d be if you knew what happened to him, thought Quintus, feeling his grief scraped raw yet again. ‘He will always be missed,’ he said.

Beside him, Macerio muttered something that at face value sounded genuine.

‘Many good men have already died. Plenty more will lose their lives in Rome’s service before Hannibal has been defeated,’ said Corax sombrely. He moved to stand before them, with his back to the brazier that stood in the middle of the large tent. ‘But none of us will rest until the job has been done, will we?’

‘No, sir!’ the trio chorused.

‘You’re good soldiers, the three of you. That’s why you are here. You are veterans too, not just of this summer’s campaign, but of Trasimene as well. Urceus, you were also at the Trebia.’

Quintus wished that he could reveal the same about himself.

‘Men like you are in short supply right now,’ the centurion went on. ‘You’ll have heard that they’re raising new, larger legions in Rome. The socii are enlisting many thousands more, but the vast majority of these new soldiers will be raw recruits. I don’t know when the day to face Hannibal on a battlefield will come around again. But I do know that when it happens, we’ll need soldiers with real backbone to stand and meet his troops. A rabble they might be, but they’re not short of courage.’

‘We’ll fight, sir. Have no fear of that!’ said Quintus.

Urceus and Macerio loudly voiced their agreement.

‘Aye, you will,’ cried Corax. ‘And as hastati!’

For a moment, a shocked silence filled the tent. It was broken by the centurion’s laughter. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

‘You’re promoting us to hastati, sir?’ Quintus’ voice was incredulous.

‘That’s what I said.’

‘It’s a great honour, sir,’ said Urceus gruffly. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m very grateful, sir,’ added Macerio. He shot a spiteful look at Quintus. ‘As you know, when Urceus and I enlisted, we had to prove our income and, with it, our right to promotion to the infantry. Shouldn’t Crespo here have to do the same?’

Quintus’ stomach lurched.
The filthy bastard.
Macerio couldn’t know his real background, but he knew well enough that Corax had taken him into the unit with few questions. It must have roused Macerio’s suspicions. If he were questioned now, he could say nothing about his true identity without the risk of being thrown out of the velites and returned to his father’s authority. That might not be quite what Macerio had intended, but it would still wreck his chances of staying in the infantry.

Corax’s brows lowered. ‘That won’t be necessary. Crespo here has earned his salt, and he’s proved his courage enough times for me to accept him at face value. In any case, I spend my time looking at damn paperwork. I have no desire to look at any more. He can produce the necessary details when this is all over.’

‘As you say, sir,’ Macerio said, failing to conceal his unhappiness.

Quintus threw the centurion a grateful look. ‘I’ll be sure to do that, sir.’

‘Have yourselves an evening off duty,’ ordered Corax. ‘See the quartermaster. Tell him that I have promoted you. You might be able to persuade him to give you an advance on your pay.’ He gave them a broad wink. ‘The three of you can start training with the hastati in a couple of days, when your heads have stopped pounding.’

The three stood, not quite believing what they had just heard.

‘Dismissed!’

They saluted and beat a hasty retreat. ‘It’s not that far to Larinum,’ said Urceus the instant that they were outside. ‘I say that we head there and get pissed out of our heads.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Quintus. He glanced at Macerio, dreading that the blond-haired man would come along too. He couldn’t think of anything worse than having to spend an evening in his company. To his relief, Macerio made some excuse about having a bellyache; he congratulated Urceus upon his return again and headed back to his tent, there ‘to get some rest’.

Urceus gave an expressive shrug. ‘All the more wine for us, eh?’

Quintus’ loud agreement was as much from relief as a desire to get drunk. Nonetheless, he’d stay on his guard in Larinum. A dark alleyway there would be as good a place for Macerio to strike as in the middle of a battle.

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.