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.’
‘Yet here we are, outside a Greek-speaking city.’
‘That’s true, sir.’ Again Quintus contrived ignorance, but his heart had started hammering again. They were to be sent into Syracuse, then. Great Mars, protect us, he prayed.
‘Direct attacks have got us nowhere. And while the guggas continue to sail in with supplies, our siege will not starve the defenders into submission,’ said Marcellus. ‘Treachery from within is what we need. It has always been the best method to take a besieged city.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Quintus, continuing to pretend not to understand.
‘We need therefore to recruit men inside Syracuse. Men who will open the gates for us.’
‘That sounds like a good plan, sir.’
‘The Syracusan nobles who call themselves friends of Rome are too scared to enter,’ declared Marcellus angrily. ‘For weeks, I have been unable to find anyone who is trustworthy enough to take on this most important of tasks. That was, until I spoke to my cousin.’ He glanced at Pera with a smile. Pera positively preened himself, and Quintus reeled. Marius, on the other hand, looked happy.
‘Centurion Pera speaks fluent Greek. He has volunteered to go into Syracuse and locate those who might be persuaded to come over to Rome,’ said Marcellus. ‘You will both go with him.’