Hannibal: Fields of Blood (39 page)

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.