Hannibal: Clouds of War (42 page)

‘A good choice,’ said Quintus. ‘Don’t start for a moment, though. I need a piss.’

‘Me too,’ added Urceus.

‘Make it quick,’ Marius ordered.

The two friends walked together to the nearest latrine trenches, which were situated under the ramparts in the camp’s southeast corner. The sounds of ships being unloaded in the port of Trogilus, which lay close by, carried over the timber walls. The site from which their initial disastrous assault had been launched was now a supply base for the whole army. On the way back, they had to pass Corax’s tent for a second time. Because of the angle of their approach, the pair were concealed by their centurion’s tent until they were quite close. Quintus pricked his ears. It seemed that Corax had been joined by Vitruvius; the pair were deep in conversation, but in hushed tones.

Curiosity and a little devilment took Quintus. Nudging Urceus, he put a finger to his lips and indicated that they should go closer. Urceus looked a little unhappy, but he didn’t walk away. Together they crept to within a few paces of Corax’s position.

‘Has there been any further development with Marcellus’ pet Syracusan nobles?’ asked Vitruvius.

‘Not really. They’ve been trying to contact their friends inside the city, but Epicydes has spies everywhere. Anyone who’s suspected of treachery is being denounced and killed.’

‘Have none gone into Syracuse themselves?’

A derisive snort from Corax. ‘They value their precious skins too much. So far, they’ve only bribed fishermen to carry their messages.’

‘We need to get someone inside the city.’

‘Aye, that’s clear. But who?’

‘What about a slave belonging to one of the pet Syracusan nobles? They must have plenty.’

‘That’s been suggested, but Marcellus doesn’t trust a single one. Greasy Greeks, all of them. He thinks that they’ll give themselves up to Epicydes’ men and reveal their mission in the hope of manumission.’

‘Bloody slaves. They never think about anything else. Why can’t they know their station?’

‘Human nature, Vitruvius. Unless he’s a simpleton, what man wants to be the property of another? Why do you think that so many slaves volunteered to train as legionaries after Cannae?’

‘Aye, well, maybe you’re right. But the less said about slaves being manumitted to serve as legionaries, the better.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘Putting pressure on the Syracusan nobles won’t work either. They’d just enter the city and change sides. Tell Epicydes our troop numbers, the locations of our ships and so on.’

‘Exactly,’ said Corax. ‘Whoever goes in has to be a Greek speaker, and as trustworthy as possible.’

‘We need a reliable Syracusan deserter!’ declared Vitruvius with a chuckle. ‘Or better still, a Roman.’

‘None of our men could do it,’ said Corax.

‘Why not? You mentioned some time ago that a couple of your lot spoke Greek.’

Quintus tensed. Vitruvius had to be referring to him – and who else?

‘Crespo?’ Corax responded.

‘That’s the one.’

‘He’s brave enough, certainly, but his educated accent would give him away. Epicydes would be torturing him within an hour of his arrival. I’d forgotten about Marius, though. He would suit.’

Marius speaks Greek?
Quintus had had no idea.

‘Marcellus would prefer two men,’ said Vitruvius.

‘True. Marius’ accent is rough enough to pass notice, but not Crespo’s.’ There was a short pause – Quintus wondered later if it had been Corax’s conscience? ‘Still, he might do. I’ll mention it to Marcellus.’

Fear began bubbling up inside Quintus. Being sent into Syracuse was tantamount to a death sentence. Even to his own ear, his Greek accent had been noticeably different to that of the Syracusan officer Kleitos. He tried to feel angry towards Corax, but failed. This didn’t smack of vindictiveness on the centurion’s part, more of doing what was right for Marcellus and the army. In the greater scheme of things, it didn’t matter if he and Marius were lost on a spy mission.
Fuck it.
Jerking his head at Urceus, he tiptoed away from Corax’s tent a few steps and then loudly walked back towards it, so that he could be heard. They rounded the corner and saluted. Quintus was relieved that neither centurion appeared suspicious.

‘Shit, I’m glad I don’t speak Greek,’ muttered Urceus when they’d walked on.

‘Aye, well,’ said Quintus as stoically as he could, ‘If I’m ordered to become a damn spy, I’ll do my duty.’

‘Make an offering to Fortuna. Maybe it won’t happen,’ said Urceus, clapping him on the shoulder.

Quintus grimaced. In his experience, such gifts did not affect the future, but he would not say so aloud.

The pair had to endure a barrage of insults for delaying Placidus’ storytelling, but silence soon fell once he began his tale. It washed over Quintus, however, as dark thoughts of Syracuse filled his head. When it ended, he was still brooding.

Marius nudged him. ‘A fine telling, eh?’

‘Yes,’ replied Quintus absently.

Marius gave him a shrewd look. ‘You didn’t hear a damn word! What’s up with you?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Quintus demurred, but Marius wouldn’t let up. After a moment, he gave in. Marius was to be part of it, after all, and their comrades wouldn’t think worse of them for not wanting to be sent on a suicide mission. To his amazement, though, Marius’ face lit up at the prospect.

‘How come you speak Greek?’ asked Quintus.

‘I grew up in Bruttium. Even today, Greek is the main language of many towns along the coast.’

Urceus let out a slow whistle. ‘I know you have a Hades-may-care attitude, Marius, but to
want
to do this?’

‘My time’s not up yet.’ Marius’ grin was confident. ‘And they say that the Syracusan women are stunning – as well as easy with their favours!’

‘He’s thinking with his cock again. A man’s a lost cause when that happens. A
didrachm
that you come back without having buried it in a Syracusan’s cunny.’ Urceus stuck out his hand.

‘Done!’ Marius shook with him.

‘Your word is your bond,’ warned Quintus, smiling despite himself. ‘No lying!’

‘Agreed. May Vulcan hammer my cock into nothing if I lie.’

‘That is something I would hate to watch. Your cock’s so small that Vulcan would have trouble finding it,’ said Urceus, smirking.

Marius’ expression grew serious for a moment. ‘It’s not just the pussy. Imagine the thrill of it! And if we succeeded? There’d be promotions in it, for sure. We’d be able to get drunk on the story for months.’

Quintus tapped his head. ‘You’re mad.’

Marius laughed, and Quintus realised that for all his fear, he wouldn’t be happy for Marius to be sent in alone. The man was his comrade, for better or for worse.

‘Anyway, it won’t happen,’ said Marius. ‘Marcellus will find better candidates than us, surely?’

Nothing happened for a couple of days, and Quintus’ worries began to recede. Marcellus had found the men for his secret operation. When one morning Corax disappeared, leaving Vitruvius in charge of exercising the maniple, he did not feel alarmed. Centurions’ meetings were common enough, and Vitruvius’ ebullient mood didn’t leave any time for thought. He soon had men running sets of sprints in full kit, while others had been ordered to fight one another with the heavy wooden weapons normally used by new recruits. Some were even wrestling in their armour – a chance, Vitruvius said, to freshen up their hand-to-hand combat skills. The hastati weren’t happy – few centurions made their men train in this manner – but they went at their tasks with gusto, because Vitruvius was every bit the disciplinarian that Corax was. If he singled a man out for not trying hard enough, far worse would be on offer.

Quintus was finishing a set of sprints with Urceus and the rest when he heard Marius’ name – and his – being called out. There were still four more lengths to run, but it was Vitruvius who was summoning them. They trotted over to the junior centurion, who had been standing with the optiones. A sense of foreboding began to sink in as Quintus spotted the soldier by Vitruvius’ side. He wore the triple-disc breastplate of a Samnite, which made him one of the
socii
. The realisation hit home an instant later. Corax was with Marcellus, and this was an
extraordinarius
, one of the finest allied soldiers who served as bodyguards to the consul.

Distinctly uneasy now, Quintus said, ‘You called us, sir?’

‘You’re both to go with this soldier. Marcellus wants to see you.’

‘Like this, sir?’ He had no desire to meet the commander of all Roman forces on Sicily – whom he’d only ever seen from a distance – while red-faced and drenched in sweat. Even Marius looked a little less eager than he had a moment earlier.

‘Yes,’ Vitruvius snapped. ‘Now.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Quintus saluted and eyed the bearded Samnite, who was only a little older than he.

‘Follow me.’

Throwing a minute shrug at Marius, Quintus followed the Samnite. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked when they were some distance from Vitruvius.

‘Sattio.’

‘Do you have any idea why we’ve been sent for?’

‘The consul wants a word.’

Quintus gritted his teeth, but Marius seemed not to mind. Why can’t I be as carefree? Quintus wondered. ‘I know that,’ he said lightly to Sattio. ‘But why?’

‘It’s not my job to question the consul,’ answered Sattio, his beard bristling.

Prick, thought Quintus.

‘It’s got to be because we speak Greek,’ muttered Marius.

‘Aye.’ Quintus could think of no other reason that they would be singled out. We will return safely, he told himself. As they drew near Marcellus’
praetorium
, however, such confidence felt increasingly hollow.

Marcellus’ headquarters was in the army’s main camp, a vast affair that housed two legions. Reaching it, Quintus’ apprehension soared. He had been inside such grand quarters once, it was true, but that had been an age before, when he was still in the cavalry. The man he’d met, Publius Cornelius Scipio, who had helped to lead Rome’s legions at the outset of Hannibal’s invasion, had also been well disposed towards his father. Their meeting had been formal but pleasant; today’s encounter would be radically different. Quintus’ stomach knotted as they passed through the perimeter fence that ran around the praetorium.

At the entrance to Marcellus’ tent, Sattio spoke with the officer in charge, a centurion of the
extraordinarii
who bore a passing resemblance to Corax. Multiple silver and gold
phalerae
adorned a harness over his mail shirt; a scar that ran from his right knee to his ankle was further testimony of his stature. The centurion eyed Quintus with distaste. ‘You are Crespo and Marius, hastati in the maniple of Marcus Junius Corax?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they answered.

‘And this is how you would meet your consul?’

‘We were at training when the messenger arrived, sir. Our centurion ordered us to come at once. There was no time to change, sir.’

A
phhhh
of contempt. ‘Come with me.’

The pair shared a resentful glance, and obeyed.

As Scipio’s had been, the tent was opulently decorated. Thick carpets lined the floors, heavy candelabras hung from the ceilings, grand pieces of furniture were set out in style. Finely carved, painted statues – of gods, goddesses, satyrs and nymphs – eyed them from numerous vantage points. At the entrance to Marcellus’ meeting chamber, the centurion called out their names. An order to enter was given. Quintus held his breath as they walked inside.

A large table occupied the centre of the rectangular space; on it, Quintus spied a detailed map of Sicily, and another of Syracuse. Both were dotted with black and white stones – marking the position of Roman, Syracusan and Carthaginian forces, he judged. That wasn’t surprising. Nor was the presence of Marcellus and Corax. But Pera? What in Hades’ name was he doing here? Fresh sweat ran down Quintus’ back as they halted a respectful distance from Marcellus and saluted.

‘These are the men you wanted to see, sir.’

‘Thank you, centurion. That will be all.’

‘Sir.’ With a frosty look at Quintus and Marius, the centurion retreated.

Marcellus was a tall, thin man with neat brown hair. He wasn’t dressed in uniform, but he looked every part the consul. His plain tunic, gilded belt and ornate dagger exuded quality. A magnificent ring decorated with a ruby flashed on his right hand; a bronze ram’s head bracelet decorated the opposite wrist. He studied the pair for a moment. Both men squirmed beneath the scrutiny. From the corner of his eye, Quintus could see Pera smirking. He risked a glance at Corax, who gave him the smallest of nods. Quintus felt a degree of calm return. Perhaps they weren’t here to be turned into spies?

Marcellus spoke at last. ‘Your names?’

‘Quintus Crespo, sir. Hastatus in Centurion Corax’s maniple.’

‘Gaius Marius, sir. The same.’

Marcellus eyed Corax, who said, ‘They’re both good soldiers, sir. Crespo has been with me since before Trasimene.’

Again the consul stared; again Quintus writhed mentally.

‘Your centurion’s opinion carries weight with me, hastatus,’ said Marcellus.

‘Thank you, sir.’ If anything, Quintus’ unease had increased. He hadn’t been dragged here to be congratulated. Nor had Marius.

‘Do you know why you and your tent mate have been summoned?’

Quintus glanced at Marius, and decided that feigned ignorance was the best option. ‘No, sir.’

‘It’s because you speak Greek.’

New fear clutched at Quintus. Had Corax revealed his status? Beside Marcellus, Pera’s expression verged on the hawkish. Quintus felt sick. ‘Er, I do, sir. Yes.’ There. He had admitted it. After more than four years, his status as an equestrian was about to be revealed.

‘Corax tells me that your father died when you were but young,’ said Marcellus in Greek. ‘You had an old neighbour who was originally from Athens; the man taught you your letters, and also to speak his tongue.’

Quintus felt a rush of gratitude towards Corax, who
hadn’t
given his game away. He’d been summoned here to become a spy, but not to be betrayed. ‘That’s correct, sir,’ he replied, also in Greek. ‘I haven’t had reason to speak it much of recent years, of course.’