‘That sounds good, sir!’ Part of Hanno was delighted, part dismayed. He tried again not to worry about Aurelia.
Hippocrates’ expression grew spiteful. ‘Sadly, you won’t be part of the attack.’
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Hanno, fighting a sudden feeling of dread.
‘My brother Epicydes must know of our plan, so that he can launch a simultaneous assault on the enemy. You will carry word to him inside the city.’
Now, Hanno struggled to conceal his pleasure. Getting through the Roman lines would not be without danger, but if he could take Aurelia with him, this would be a way to remove her from the twin dangers of being a camp follower, and having her identity revealed for a second time. It was also a chance to get away from Hippocrates, and if he could send word, Hannibal would be pleased to learn of this development.
‘Have you nothing to say?’
‘As ever, I will follow your orders to the last detail, sir,’ replied Hanno stolidly, praying that in his message Hippocrates wouldn’t try to poison Epicydes’ mind towards him.
Hippocrates looked disappointed. ‘Entering Syracuse will prove risky,’ he warned. ‘The blockade is much tighter than when we broke out. Epicydes must receive my letter, so I will send a number of messengers. One of you will make it,’ he added with a touch more vitriol.
‘At least one of us, sir,’ said Hanno, giving thanks to the gods.
And if I have anything to do with it, he thought, two will.
Chapter XVIII
Quintus was pacing. The section of fortification that he and his tent mates had to man measured approximately eight hundred paces. The hastati marched in four pairs, and each set had a quarter of the distance to cover. Two hundred paces, six stops. At each, a pause to scrutinise the ground that separated Roman-held terrain from the walls of Syracuse. Quintus and his comrades had been patrolling the same part of the rampart since returning from Enna the previous summer. They’d tramped up and down for the whole winter. Now, in early spring, all of them knew it like the back of their hands.
Syracuse lay half a mile away, which meant safety from even the most powerful of Archimedes’ catapults. Before the siege, the no man’s land had been farmed, but the inhabitants had long since fled or been killed. Their grain had been reaped the previous autumn by the legionaries. No one had tilled the soil after that, or planted new crops, not on such dangerous territory. The harsh winter weather had rotted the stubble into the ground whence it came, leaving only mud.
It was a pity that there would be no wheat to harvest in the summer, Quintus mused, but the lack of vegetation made the sentry’s job easy. Movement of any kind could be spotted at once. Not that the Syracusans ever ventured beyond the confines of their city. There hadn’t been an enemy patrol sighted in this area since the previous autumn. With their defences secure, the Syracusans had no need to assault the Roman fortifications. It was far wiser to stay behind the safety of their massive walls, Quintus thought sourly, warmed no doubt by the fires in the regular towers that decorated the parapets. There had been no Roman attacks either, since that horrendous first day, almost a year previously. Instead Marcellus had tightened the blockade around Syracuse as much as possible. Frustratingly, that didn’t stop the Carthaginians from running in regular supply convoys. In its current form, the siege would not end soon.
The wind whistled in from the north and Quintus hunched his shoulders. Yet again, he cursed the feathers on his helmet that prevented him from lifting up the hood of his cloak. Having a warm head wasn’t worth the risk of taking the helmet off. If an officer saw him, severe punishment would follow. Wearing two woollen neck cloths, one overlapping the other, was the best he could do.
‘Cold?’ asked Urceus.
‘Of course. You must be too!’
‘Not at all.’
Quintus aimed a kick at Urceus, which he avoided by walking away. They played out the same types of routine every day. It helped to alleviate their boredom.
‘How long left, d’you think?’ asked Urceus.
Quintus aimed a look at the sun, which was nearing the horizon. ‘Not long.’
‘That’s what I thought, thank the gods. Back to the tent. Warm blankets. A fire. Best of all, it’s not my bloody night to cook!’
‘Ha! You’ve forgotten whose turn it is, though.’
Urceus scowled. ‘Not Marius?’
‘How could you not remember that?’ asked Quintus, laughing.
‘Fuck. Burned bread. Raw meat, and boiled vegetables still covered in mud. I’ll be lucky to escape a dose of the shits.’
‘You could always offer to cook for him.’
‘No bloody way!’ retorted Urceus. ‘I’ll take my chances. Maybe tonight will be better than his last effort.’
They walked on, reaching the end of their section. There they met Marius, and Mattheus’ replacement Placidus, a sleepy type who suited his name. Urceus took the opportunity to rain abuse on Marius about his cooking. ‘You’d better produce something edible tonight,’ he threatened. ‘Me and the boys won’t eat any more of your slop.’
Marius laughed. ‘Careful I don’t piss in your stew, Jug.’
Urceus purpled. ‘Do that and I’ll shit in your blankets!’
Quintus and Placidus stood by and chuckled. This too was part of the routine. No one would do such a thing to the rest of his tent mates, but the same did not apply to the men in different maniples. Practical jokes such as dropping a dead mouse or a rotten cabbage into the cooking pot weren’t unknown, although of late it had become increasingly difficult to get away with this. Soldiers in other units became suspicious if any of their neighbours came calling around meal times.
A trumpet blared from their camp, and they all grinned.
‘Time to go!’ said Urceus. ‘I’m so bloody hungry that I’m even looking forward to the shit you produce, Marius.’
‘You’ll love tonight’s offering,’ declared Marius. ‘Stewed neck of mutton, with vegetables. Delicious! It’s an old recipe that my mother used to prepare.’
Urceus gave him a jaundiced look. ‘No disrespect to your mother, but I’ll be the judge of whether it’s tasty or not.’
Some time later, the eight hastati were arranged comfortably around the ring of stones that formed the fireplace outside their tent. An iron tripod was still in place over the flames, but the bronze vessel that had contained Marius’ offering for the night lay by Urceus’ feet. Everyone had agreed that the mutton stew was good, yet it had been Urceus, Marius’ greatest critic, who had insisted on scraping the pot clean. ‘I’ll expect that standard from now on,’ he’d said. Typically, Marius had promised nothing of the sort.
‘The weather’s getting warmer,’ said Quintus with a smile. ‘It wasn’t that long ago that we couldn’t have sat outside like this.’
Urceus belched. ‘Aye. Soon we won’t need our blankets wrapped around us, or a fire, apart from to cook on.’
‘There’ll be a few weeks of lovely weather and then it’ll be too hot again. Months of humping water from the river, sunburn all day and mosquitos all night,’ said Placidus dolefully.
‘Shut it!’ growled Marius. ‘Don’t remind us.’
‘Have some wine,’ said Quintus, passing over the skin that they were sharing. ‘And cheer up, for Jupiter’s sake.’
Glowering at the laugh that this produced, Placidus took the skin and drank deep.
‘Tell us a story,’ said Quintus, feeling a little bad. As the newest member of the contubernium, Placidus bore the brunt of everyone’s ribbing. His major redeeming feature, however, was his ability to weave a yarn.
‘Aye.’
‘I want the one about Hercules’ Twelve Labours.’ ‘No, the tale of Romulus and Remus!’ The tent mates’ voices competed with one another.