‘Gods, but I needed that,’ said Urceus, returning. ‘There was enough in my bladder to put out a burning house.’
‘It’s the wine you drank last night. If Corax caught you tipsy on sentry duty, he’d fucking kill you.’
‘But he won’t, because we’re two of his best men, so he leaves us be,’ Urceus said, grinning. ‘Besides, I wasn’t tipsy. Just happy.’
Quintus snorted, but Urceus was probably right. He could hold wine the way a barrel of sawdust soaked up water. Quintus’ tolerance was far lower, which annoyed and pleased him in equal measure. He could do without the ribbing he got from his comrades for holding back, but it was good to feel normal the morning after a piss-up when the rest of them were grey-faced, sweating and vomiting. His eyes roved the landscape again. Far off to the south, a flash of light on the road drew his attention like a vulture to a corpse. ‘Look!’
Urceus shot to his side, the banter forgotten. ‘What?’
Quintus pointed. ‘I saw sun glinting off metal. There it is again. And again. That’s more than a couple of travellers.’
‘It isn’t going to be a merchant caravan. They’re rare nowadays.’
‘A Syracusan patrol then.’ They watched as the group drew nearer. Corax would want details, and the newcomers were far enough away to risk waiting. That didn’t stop them both gripping the hilts of their swords. Eventually, they could see the force was made up of horsemen and foot soldiers.
‘How many?’ asked Urceus.
‘I’d say upwards of fifty riders, and four or five times that number of infantry. You?’
‘About that. What in Hades’ name are they up to?’
‘Scouting around Leontini, perhaps? They won’t be happy that we took it a while back.’
‘You could be right. Maybe Hippocrates and Epicydes want to prove that they’ve got balls. This lot could be scouts for a larger force that will attack Leontini.’ Urceus gave him a huge nudge. ‘Either way, Corax will want to know. You keep an eye on them. I’ll go.’
‘Fine.’ Quintus was already preparing himself for the fight. Since Hippocrates and Epicydes had taken control of the city, all Syracusans had become enemies. Corax wouldn’t let this force by. His duty was to defend the road that led north. It wouldn’t matter that the Syracusans outnumbered his men. He would want to give the enemy troops a bloody nose at the very least.
It was a pity that the approaching soldiers weren’t Carthaginians. They were the ones who had started this damn war, who had killed his father. The Syracusans had reneged on a time-honoured treaty with Rome, though. They were the foe here. If we kill enough of the whoresons, Quintus decided, if we slay so many of them that we can build a bridge to the mainland with their skulls, the Senate will have to reinstate us. Frustration stung him, because even if they displayed such extreme savagery there was no certainty that it would convince the Senate of their loyalty. It seemed more likely that he would end his days on Sicily. That he would never see his mother or Aurelia again.
‘What have we got to look forward to?’
The familiar voice dragged Quintus back to reality. He spun, saluted. ‘A strong enemy patrol, sir.’
Corax, a middle-aged man with a narrow face and deep-set eyes, returned his salute casually. His eyes scanned the road to the south. ‘I see the miserable dogs — moving along as bold as brass, eh? Like they own the damn place.’
‘They must think we have no forces in the area, sir,’ said Quintus.
‘A stupid mistake to make,’ replied Corax with a nasty leer. ‘We’ll have to teach them the error of their ways, eh?’
Quintus and Urceus exchanged a look. Corax had always been a tough taskmaster, but since he’d saved all of their lives at Cannae, his status had risen close to that of a god. Despite the familiar nervous feeling that presaged combat, they both grinned. ‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison.
‘Best get a move on. We want to be in position long before they reach us.’
Corax had picked a spot for their camp close to a massive old holm oak that had been torn down in a winter storm some months prior; its fall had entirely blocked the road. In peacetime, local landowners would have removed the obstruction. These days, travellers had simply hacked away enough of the smaller branches to be able to pass single file along one side of the carriageway.
‘Marcellus will want the trunk shifted when he leads the legions to Syracuse,’ Corax had declared when they’d arrived, ‘but until then we’ll leave it be.’
‘Good idea not to move the tree, wasn’t it?’ Quintus whispered now. ‘It’s a perfect place for an ambush.’
‘Damn right,’ Urceus replied, chuckling.
Quintus didn’t voice the concern that kept twisting in his guts. What if the Syracusans saw them?
Corax, who was pacing up and down behind them, whacked Urceus across the calves with his vine cane, and they fell silent.
Quintus, Urceus and the rest of the eighty men in Corax’s century were hidden in the thick scrub nearest the ‘passage’ through the branches of the fallen tree. Sections of juniper bushes had been cut and laid in great heaps to conceal them. Every fifteen paces or so, there was a ‘gateway’ in the roughly made ‘wall’, covered over by a wedge of branches; a hastatus had been assigned to each, his job to pull the vegetation out of the way when Corax gave the word. Half of Corax’s hastati had been placed some way beyond the blockage, and half before it. Quintus and Urceus were with Corax in the latter group; Ammianus, the century’s second-in-command, led the former. Vitruvius, the maniple’s junior centurion, lay on the other side of the road with his eighty soldiers, his force similarly divided.
Their hiding places would pass a casual glance, but Corax’s tactic was risky. If the Syracusans were being vigilant, they would be exposed before the trap was sprung. Corax had said that if things went against them, they were to retreat towards their camp. At least the enemy cavalry wouldn’t be able to follow them there. But Quintus didn’t fancy being pursued by a superior number of infantry either. They won’t see us, he told himself. Mars has his shield over us.
Through carefully cut gaps in the vegetation, they had glimpses of the road for about two hundred paces towards Syracuse. There was still no sign of the enemy troops — a final sighting from the sentry point had confirmed them as that — but it couldn’t be long until they appeared. Quintus’ mouth was bone-dry. He wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic, one by one, uncaring who saw. There was no shame in feeling scared. Any man who didn’t was a fool, his father had said once, and he’d been right. Courage was about standing and fighting despite one’s fear. Great Mars, he prayed, guide my sword into enemy flesh, and keep my shield arm strong. Bring me through this. Help my comrades in the same way, and I will honour you afterwards, as I always do.
An elbow in the ribs, and his attention shot back to the present.
‘They’re here,’ hissed Urceus, who was squatting alongside.
Quintus peered again at the road. A file of riders, perhaps five abreast, had come into view. Sunlight glinted off their bronze cuirasses and Boeotian helmets. Their horses were also equipped in the old-fashioned Greek style, with chest plates and face guards — so they were definitely Syracusan. They looked unconcerned, which was promising. One man was whistling. Two others were arguing good-naturedly about something, shoving at each other and oblivious to their surroundings. Don’t worry about them, Quintus thought. Unless there’s a balls-up, we won’t have to face the cavalry. That’ll be up to Ammianus and his lot.