‘Yes, sir,’ the pair replied.
Their tone made Marcellus’ nostrils flare. ‘You are happy to do this, I take it?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Quintus hesitated for a heartbeat. Corax’s eyes bore a degree of sympathy, but he hadn’t protested. Pera’s expression was gloating; that of Marius, excited. Quintus felt world-weary. His accent might give him away. Who knew what Pera was capable of? Kleitos might even see him. This was a direct order from his consul, however, and Rome’s need came before his life. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’
‘Me too, sir,’ Marius quickly added.
Marcellus looked more satisfied. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘The Republic will be grateful.’
Quintus lay back and tried not to breathe. The stench from the fishing nets that covered him from head to toe was overpowering. Two nights had passed since Marcellus’ edict, and now there was no turning back. They were on board a fishing vessel, heading from the western shore of the great harbour of Syracuse to the enemy-held eastern side. After a time, his lungs were bursting. He had to exhale. And inhale again. He gagged.
‘Get used to the smell, hastatus. Find some way to breathe silently,’ hissed Pera, who was lying beside him and similarly covered.
You filthy cocksucker, thought Quintus, wishing that it was Pera who was on the second boat, alone, and not Marius. ‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered.
‘Quiet!’ It was the old fisherman whose vessel they were on. Quintus felt the man’s gnarly foot kick at the pile of netting. ‘Quiet, or we’re fucked.’
Quintus’ pulse pounded an urgent rhythm at the base of his throat. Hard as it was to do, he lay back on the rough deck and forced himself to relax. His nostrils filled once more with the smell of fish and salt. The net’s rough threads rubbed his cheeks. Under him, the planking moved gently as the little craft moved through the water. Timber creaked, water slapped off the hull and the fabric of the sail flapped in the breeze. The crew of three talked to each other in low voices. All was as it should be, but the knowledge gave Quintus no comfort. The danger wouldn’t start until they crossed the harbour and drew near to the small jetty where the local fishermen — needed by the city’s inhabitants, and ‘ignored’ by the Romans because of their usefulness in running messages into and out of Syracuse — docked their craft.
It was at that point that he, Marius and Pera would have to rise up and become Syracusans. Their first hurdle would be the guards at the gate through which the night’s catch was taken. By most accounts, they paid scant attention to the fishermen — other than to collect their unofficial toll of a box of fish — but that didn’t mean that there was no risk involved. Presuming it went well, however, the trio would stay for what remained of the night in the house belonging to the old soak who owned the boat.
After that, their work would really begin. Quintus felt a tide of bile rush up his throat. He could think of nowhere he’d like to be less than where he was right now. To walk, or rather sail into the middle of an enemy-held city, speaking their language with noticeable accent, reeked of stupidity. Yet the alternative — refusing a direct order from Marcellus — would have meant the fustuarium — him being beaten to death by his tent mates. He couldn’t have let Marius go alone either. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, thought Quintus bitterly. May the girls be as beautiful as Marius says they are, he prayed, and may I get to lie with at least one before we’re caught.
Despite his worries, things went smoothly in the hours that followed. The guards didn’t even look up as they shuffled into the city, and they made their way to the old fisherman’s house without hindrance. When they rose the following morning and went out on to the streets, no one gave them a second glance. The names and addresses they’d been supplied with proved to be accurate. Pera decided that he alone would enter the houses to talk to the nobles, which made Quintus wonder why they’d been made to accompany him. It proved truly nerve-racking to wait outside, wondering if every passer-by would denounce them. Nothing of the sort happened, though, and Pera never emerged with anything less than a pleased air. Moreover, Quintus and Marius rarely had to open their mouths, thereby risking discovery.
Quintus found it fascinating to be within the besieged city. It was clear that Marcellus’ plan to take the place through subterfuge was a wise one. Morale seemed high both among the residents and the soldiers. The defences were in good repair, and the batteries of catapults even more numerous than Quintus had guessed. Syracuse had plenty of public wells, so water would never be in short supply. The market stalls weren’t overflowing with fresh produce, but nor were they empty. Grain, oil and wine, the most important commodities, were available, and in a wise move, Epicydes had capped their prices. Fresh fish arrived daily, caught by the same fishermen who’d ferried the trio in. While the women were not as stunning as Marius had boasted, there were plenty of beauties to make their heads turn. Pera’s short leash meant that there were no opportunities to pursue relations of any kind, however. The friends had to content themselves with just looking. When Pera couldn’t hear, Quintus ribbed Marius mercilessly about his bet with Urceus. Marius’ response was always the same: ‘At least I’d have been in there. Women fall for my looks, but they run a mile from ugly bastards like you!’ That was the cue to start trading insults. The banter helped them to while away the hours, to ignore the constant, gnawing fear.
Over the following five days and nights, in excess of a dozen high-ranking Syracusans were smuggled out and back in the fishing boats — ostensibly as crew — to talk with the nobles already with Marcellus. Once won over, Pera told Quintus and Marius, their mission was to convince more of their fellows to join the Roman cause. When there were enough to ensure that a gate could be taken by force at night, the time would be ripe.
‘How many will they need, sir?’ Marius asked. Quintus wanted to know too. With a core group recruited, it felt as if it were time to leave. The longer they remained in the city, the more peril they were in.
‘I don’t know, hastatus,’ replied Pera, ambition glinting in his eyes. ‘Sixty? Eighty?’
‘Can the Syracusans we’ve spoken with not do the rest, sir?’ ventured Quintus, his gaze wandering uneasily around the dingy tavern in which they were drinking.
‘Maybe they could, but the task will be completed faster if we’re also playing our part.’ With a malevolent curve to his lips, Pera waited to see if Quintus would rise to the bait.
‘I see, sir,’ Quintus replied in a monotone. Marius also looked unhappy-by now his previous enthusiasm had waned considerably-but Pera’s rank prevented further protest.
Quintus tried not to think about being taken as a spy. Marcellus’ orders hadn’t mentioned staying this long. What was Pera up to? A man pushed open the door and entered the inn. A customer who was about to leave stood to one side, letting the newcomer within — and it came to Quintus. Pera wanted to remain until the actual attempt to admit their fellow legionaries into the city took place. If he were Roman, the soldier who let Marcellus’ troops into Syracuse would gain considerable glory. A bitter taste flooded Quintus’ mouth. No one would remember him and Marius, if they even survived. Pera, a centurion, would take all of the credit. The devious bastard.
‘Have you anything to say on the matter?’
Quintus realised with a start that Pera was addressing him. He had no idea if a time to challenge the centurion would ever come, but it was certainly not now. ‘No, sir. We do as you say.’
A wintry smile. ‘To our success, then.’ Pera raised his cup.
Trying to ignore their worries, Quintus and Marius did the same.
Chapter XIX
‘There are close on eighty men involved now. That’s as many as Demosthenes feels will turn readily,’ Pera revealed to Quintus and Marius two days later. He’d just met with the chief conspirator in the agora. ‘The gods are smiling on us, because the moon is on the wane. Acting tonight or tomorrow night would be best. Demosthenes will make the decision when it’s dark.’