Despite the losses at the Trebia, the camp had still been erected as a double consular one, albeit smaller than usual. The fact that Corax was in one of Longus’ legions meant a long walk indeed. The consuls’ quarters were placed back to back and the legionary tent lines extended to the furthest rampart.
Quintus’ spirits rose a little as he walked. His interest in legionaries and what made them the men they were had persisted, but he never got to spend any time with them. Cavalrymen were a social class above infantry, and the two rarely mixed. Quintus longed to push through that barrier, if only for a while. He wanted to know what it had felt like to drive through the Carthaginian centre. Perhaps Corax wouldn’t give him an immediate reply, which would give him time to talk to some of his men.
His search took a long time, but Quintus finally came upon Corax’s maniple’s tent lines. They lay not far from Longus’ headquarters, but the centurion wasn’t there. As a cynical-looking hastatus told him, Corax liked to get out and about. He was drilling his men, ‘Somewhere on the training ground.’ Trying not to feel frustrated, Quintus headed for the porta praetoria, the entrance that lay furthest from his own tent.
Beyond the walls and the deep defensive ditch lay the area designated for the soldiers’ training. As usual, it was filled with thousands of men. The four types of legionary were for the most part easy to differentiate one from another, which made Quintus’ task a little easier. Many of the velites, or skirmishers, had been on sentry duty at each of the gates, but the rest were hurling javelins while junior officers looked on. These were the youngest and poorest members of the army. Some could be distinguished by the strips of wolf skin adorning their helmets. In another section, the triarii, the most experienced legionaries who formed the third rank in battle, stood out thanks to their mail shirts and long thrusting spears. The hastati and principes, who made up the first and second ranks respectively, were harder to differentiate. Both these types of soldier wore simple bronze helmets, although some had triple feather crests; square breastplates protected their chests. Only the wealthiest men wore mail shirts similar to those seen on the veteran triarii. Their weapons and shields were similar too. There were thousands of them marching, halting, presenting arms and assuming battle formation in maniples, or double centuries. Volleys of javelins followed, and then a charge, before the whole procedure was repeated. Centurions and optiones looked on, roaring orders and reprimands in equal measure. The maniples’ standards were present, but the writing on each was so small that Quintus would have to approach each one. With a sigh, he walked to the nearest.
By the tenth maniple, he was getting angry. From the occasional snickers that followed him, Quintus felt sure that he was deliberately being sent astray. The eleventh unit he approached was some distance from the rest. The two centurions had separated their soldiers into their individual centuries. Each man carried a wooden shield and sword. Over and over, they charged each other, slowing at the last moment before smashing together in a loud crash that wasn’t dissimilar to what Quintus had heard in battle. The thrusts he saw being delivered were as savage as the real thing too. It was so very different to fighting from the back of a horse, which, thanks to its mobile nature, rarely involved more than an exchange of one or two blows. Engrossed by the scene, Quintus drew quite near to the centurions without realising.
‘It’s tough work,’ said a voice.
Quintus looked around, startled. One of the centurions, a man in early middle age with deep-set eyes and a narrow face, was staring straight at him. ‘It looks it, sir.’
‘You’re here on business.’ He pointed at the parchment in Quintus’ fist.
‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to be taken as the spoilt son of a cavalry officer. He adopted a rougher accent than his usual one. ‘Have you any idea where I’d find Marcus Junius Corax, centurion of hastati in Longus’ First Legion?’
A sardonic smile. ‘Look no further. Why do you want me?’
‘This, sir.’ Quintus hurried forward. ‘It’s from Gaius Fabricius, cavalry commander.’
‘I’ve heard of him.’ Taking the parchment, Corax slit the wax seal and unrolled it. His lips moved silently as he read. ‘Interesting,’ he said after a moment.
Quintus didn’t hear. All his attention was on the nearest hastati, who were striving to knock one another over with great shoves of their scuta.
‘It’s filthy, dirty work,’ said Corax. ‘Not like the glory stuff the cavalry boys get to take part in.’
‘There isn’t too much glory being in the cavalry these days,’ Quintus replied bitterly.
‘No, I don’t suppose there is. I’ve heard good things about Fabricius, though.’
‘I’m sure you have, sir.’ Quintus failed to keep all the sarcasm from his voice.
He was relieved when Corax didn’t comment.
‘When does he want a reply?’
‘He just told me to wait, sir.’
‘Fine. I won’t be long.’ Corax barked an order, and his men pulled apart, their chests heaving. He stalked over to them and issued new orders. This time, his soldiers formed into two lines and began trotting up and down, at speed.
Quintus watched, fascinated. This was fitness training as he’d never seen it. The wooden training equipment was twice as heavy as the real thing, and soon the hastati were sweating heavily. That was when Corax had them sprint back and forth ten times. His father never had his men train this hard, thought Quintus critically. Just because they rode horses didn’t mean that it wasn’t a good idea. He wondered again what it would be like to fight on foot, surrounded by dozens of comrades. Would it feel better than being a cavalryman?
‘You’re interested.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ever thought of joining the infantry?’
Quintus struggled for an answer. His assumed accent, simple cloak and plain tunic had made Corax think he was nothing more than Fabricius’ servant. ‘As it happens, I have, sir.’
‘Well, we need velites as much as any type of soldier.’
Quintus tried to look pleased. His fantasy had been that of becoming a heavy infantryman, but Corax’s words had put a madcap plan into his head. For it ever to have any chance of becoming reality, he had to continue the charade. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your master might not be too happy, but we’d be pleased to have you. If you make it through the initial training, of course. Some officers don’t bother making the new recruits do too much, but not me.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’d be honoured.’ Would I? Quintus wondered. He’d heard it said before that the velites were the dregs at the bottom of the amphora. Yet joining their number would be better than the shame of being sent home. Of never serving in the army again.
‘Don’t be honoured. Give some serious thought to it. Rome needs men like you in its legions. After a year or two’s service, you could be promoted. Become a hastatus.’
Excitement gripped Quintus at that idea, but a twinge from his left arm put paid to any sudden decisions. Even if he were to start training with the velites, his injury would soon be discovered. Explaining away a wound that had been caused by an arrow would be nigh-on impossible. Besides, he needed time to consider his options. ‘I’ll think about it, sir.’
Corax studied him for a moment, but then his optio shouted a question and he was gone.
Yet by the time that Corax had scribbled a reply at the bottom of Fabricius’ message, Quintus’ mind was racing. With his father’s threats to send him home about to be realised, what better way was there of remaining in the army? Moving to another cavalry unit wouldn’t work — Fabricius certainly wouldn’t allow that, and every officer knew who he was anyway. But this, this might work. If he fought well, he’d be promoted to serve as a hastatus. It seemed a good plan, and Quintus’ stride was light as he made his way back to the cavalry lines. All he needed to implement it was for his left arm to regain its strength.