Somehow he remembered to reach up with his hands and grab whatever came within reach. His left hand found a branch; with his right, he sank his fingernails into the earth as deep as he could. Thankfully, his feet found a little purchase below him. There was no way of knowing if his weight would prove too much for his precarious holds, but he didn’t have time to check. One hundred and two, one hundred and three. Gritting his teeth, Quintus slid first one sandal up to knee height, and then the other. They didn’t slip, so he pushed up with his thighs, reaching out at the same time with his right hand and gouging his fingers into the dirt. The branch creaked a little and his pulse hammered out an even faster rhythm in his ears. He let go of the wood and scrabbled for a grip with his left hand. Found it, and thrust up again with his legs.
All of a sudden, he was up on the narrow strip of ground that ran along the base of the wall. He gave Urceus the thumbs up, but his friend’s response was to mouth ‘One hundred and eighteen’. Quintus’ exhilaration faded as fast as it had arrived. He moved to and fro along the wall, looking upwards to see where the most even blocks had been placed. One hundred and twenty-eight, one hundred and twenty-nine. Finding one, he stood close to it and placed a hand on the junction between it and the second course of blocks. It was almost two cubits in height, he judged. Standing back a little, Quintus carefully counted up to the battlements. There were eight slabs. He repeated the exercise, to be sure, reaching the same total. The wall was fifteen to sixteen cubits in height. One hundred and — he’d lost count. It was time to go. He was about to sit and repeat what he’d done to get down the other side, but Urceus’ urgent hand gestures stopped him dead. His friend’s fingers wiggled back and forth, telling Quintus that the sentry had come back sooner than anticipated. Acid roiled in his belly as he waited. For all that he expected a warning cry to ring out, there was no point staring upward. He could not see what Urceus could. After several nauseating moments, Urceus signalled him to move. Quintus slid down, uncaring that the back of his left thigh was gouged open by a sharp rock.
‘He’s gone into the tower. Only the gods know how long he will be,’ whispered Urceus in his ear. ‘We should keep moving, or we could be here all night.’
Quintus nodded. This time, he made a bridge so that Urceus could get out of the ditch. With a helping hand from Urceus, he climbed out too. Together they studied the ramparts yet again. There was no sign of the sentry. Grinning at each other like madmen, they began walking back to their own lines. They had succeeded.
When they reached the foot of their own fortifications, Quintus sent out the low whistle that they’d agreed beforehand. Placidus and the others sent the rope snaking down the wall a few heartbeats after. The friends went up it at speed, hand over hand, to the top. The questions started as their feet hit the walkway.
‘You did it?’ ‘No one saw you?’ ‘How high is the wall?’
‘Steady,’ replied Quintus, smiling. ‘Has anything happened here?’
‘There hasn’t been a soul about,’ said Placidus happily.
‘Eight blocks, each about two cubits high,’ announced Quintus. ‘Our ladders will need to be that long, plus a bit more to account for the ditch.’
‘Great news, brothers! All we have to do is find the right night and we can be up there before the molles know what’s hit them.’ Urceus looked like a small boy who’d been given the key to a shop selling pastries.
Placidus clapped Quintus on the back. ‘You’re going to tell Corax?’
‘Yes. First thing. We just need this damn sentry duty to be over, and we’re there.’
‘Aye. Back to our positions, then. Your equipment is here, and a couple of damp cloths to clean yourselves off.’ Looking pleased, Placidus and the others headed off in both directions.
‘We’d best make a good job of this,’ whispered Urceus. ‘Otherwise it’ll be bloody obvious that we were up to something.’
‘We can check each other over now, and again when it’s getting light,’ said Quintus. ‘That should do the trick.’
‘You’re a mad fucker, Crespo, do you know that?’ Urceus gave him a rough clout. ‘But you’re a clever one too. Let’s hope that Corax likes our story.’
‘He will,’ Quintus declared with more confidence than he felt.
Quintus was very relieved when the rest of their watch passed off without incident. The trumpet had barely sounded from the praetorium when he was at the foot of the ladder, urging Urceus and the rest down. ‘Get a move on! The sooner Corax hears, the better.’
Urceus stopped with his foot on the first rung. His face changed.
Quintus, who had his back to the camp, knew at once that there was someone behind him. Panicked, his mind went blank. Please, let it be Corax! He floundered for something to say. ‘H-he’ll want to hear that your twisted ankle is better,’ he stuttered at last.
Urceus stiffened to attention, saluted. So did the rest of their comrades.
When Quintus turned, his bowels went to jelly. It was Pera. What business had the bastard here? Quickly, he copied his friends. ‘Sir.’
Pera didn’t acknowledge any of the salutes. Curling his lip, he sauntered closer. ‘So you turned an ankle, did you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Urceus. ‘I slipped off the last few rungs of the ladder about a week ago. My own fault.’
‘And Corax will want to know that it’s all better, will he?’ Pera’s voice was honey-sweet.
Urceus looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know about that, sir. My brother here was just taking the piss, sir.’
Pera eyed Quintus as a snake might look at a mouse. ‘Is that what you were doing?’
‘Something like that, sir.’
Pera lifted an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t aware that Corax was such a caring soul. Things must be very different in your maniple to mine.’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ said Quintus humbly. Great Jupiter, I beg of you — make him leave.
But Pera stayed right where he was, rocking back and forth a little on the heels of his polished leather boots. ‘Finished your sentry duty?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You will be glad to get some wine in your belly, I’d say.’
‘That’ll be good, sir, yes.’ What’s he playing at?
‘You’re filthy. Doesn’t Corax insist on a certain level of hygiene?’ Pera sneered.
Quintus fought to stay calm. He wanted to check himself for patches of soot, but didn’t dare. ‘Aye, sir. He does.’
‘I have to disagree, if that’s how you look. Go on, then. Clear off, the lot of you.’ Pera walked away.
Quintus let out a long, slow breath. He felt as if he’d just run ten miles in full kit.
Urceus and the rest descended the ladder, their shields slung from their backs. Quintus kept a surreptitious eye on them. Placidus and one of the others had taken half of the rope each; to hide it, they had wound it around their waists, under their mail shirts. He exchanged a relieved look with each of them as they set off towards the maniple’s tent lines. To lighten the mood, he said, ‘Who’s preparing the food today?’
The usual dispute began. It was another well-worn routine. The man whose turn it was would accuse someone else of trying to foist the duty on him. The accusation would be vigorously refuted, so the duty cook would drag a third man into it. The banter didn’t end until everyone in the contubernium had been named.
Quintus was busy denying that he should have to make the day’s meals when they rounded a corner on to the avenue upon which their unit was stationed. Catching sight of Pera again, he stumbled over what he was about to say, before recovering his poise as best he could. ‘Don’t be stupid, Placidus,’ he said loudly. ‘We all know it’s your turn to cook.’ Then, as if he had just noticed Pera, he saluted. ‘Sir.’
‘You didn’t expect to see me again so soon,’ said Pera, falling in alongside them as they drew level.