‘What a pleasant young man. He’s from a good family. I think one of his grandfathers might have been an aedile. He’s handsome, polite too, and not scared of helping someone in trouble. Didn’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Aurelia, hating the colour that gave the lie to her vague answer.
‘There’s no need to play coy with me. Did you like him or not?’
Aurelia looked around, self-conscious. Yet in the throng, no one would hear, or care. ‘He was nice, yes.’
‘So you wouldn’t object to meeting him again?’
Does nothing put her off? Aurelia thought of Gaius, but couldn’t mention him. The last time she had, her mother had said that Martialis wasn’t wealthy enough. It was so unfair! Why could she never do what she wished?
‘Well?’
‘Does Father really owe Phanes forty thousand drachms?’
‘Lower your voice, child.’
Atia looked most discomfited, and Aurelia grew daring. ‘Well, does he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘The crops have been poor several times in the last few years, you know that. The money from the sale of the grain provides most of our income. If Father hadn’t borrowed from Phanes and. .’ Atia hesitated for a heartbeat, before continuing, ‘. . from Phanes-’
Aurelia interrupted, ‘He owes money to more than one moneylender?’
Shame flitted across Atia’s face. ‘It’s none of your concern.’
‘It is if we are to lose the estate. Our house. That’s what will happen if you can’t meet Phanes’ and the others’ demands, isn’t it?’
‘Gods grant me patience. Where do you get this attitude? If we weren’t in public, I would give you a good whipping!’
They glared at each other for a moment.
‘We are in some financial trouble, yes. But it’s nothing that your father and I cannot see through.’
Something in Atia’s tone gave Aurelia insight. ‘That’s it,’ she murmured in shock and anger. ‘That’s why you’ve been so keen to find me a husband, isn’t it? If I marry into a rich, powerful family, then the moneylenders will leave you and Father alone. Melito is just the latest candidate.’
Unusually, Atia could not meet her gaze.
Aurelia’s anger gave her courage. ‘Is that all I am to you? A belonging, to be sold to the highest bidder?’
Atia struck her across the face. ‘How dare you speak to me in that manner?’
‘I hate you!’ Aurelia turned and fled the way they had come.
Her mother’s cries followed her, but she paid them no heed.
Chapter VI
Near Arretium, north-central Italy
Unsurprisingly, Calatinus wasn’t too happy about Quintus’ plan. They’d had their first real argument over it, but Quintus would not back down. As a placatory gesture, he’d asked Calatinus to come with him, but his friend had laughed. ‘If you think I’m going to give up being a cavalryman to become a veles, you’re insane.’ Calatinus had thought for a moment. ‘Clearly, you are insane, or you wouldn’t be doing this. Desertion is a serious crime. The oath you swore when you enlisted in the cavalry hasn’t been set aside yet, remember?’
‘I’ll still be serving,’ Quintus had shot back.
‘Your father won’t know that. No one will, except me, and I won’t be able to say. You’ll be called a traitor, and worse. All that risk, when you might well be back serving within the year?’
‘What if Hannibal is defeated in the next few months? I would forever be known in Capua as the man-child sent home by his father, who missed all the fighting. Could you live with that?’
Calatinus had seen the resolve in his eyes and thrown his hands in the air. ‘You’re going on your own. I’m having nothing to do with it.’
‘Fine,’ Quintus had said, more determined than ever. The draw of fighting with men who hadn’t run away from the Carthaginians was too great, especially when compared to helping run the family farm, which is what his mother would have him do. His fear that he would be known as someone who had not quite done his duty was very real. More than once, he had heard of the guilt suffered by soldiers who had missed a critical battle through injury.
They had got drunk together afterwards, and the following morning, when they’d had to leave, there had been no hard feelings. Calatinus had sworn not to say a word to anyone. Two days out from Flaminius’ camp — Quintus had ridden with his friend ostensibly to spend a last period of time together — he stopped to answer a call of nature and casually told the others not to wait for him. Calatinus had whispered a blessing and then ridden off with a cheery wave, saying he didn’t want to be around to smell the results of Quintus’ efforts.
Quintus waited for a short while before he headed back the way they had come. He rode hard but with care, moving off the road if he saw any Roman troops. Until he got close to the camp, it was imperative that he avoid being seen by anyone in Flaminius’ forces. After the comradeship of the previous months, it was odd sleeping out in the open and alone, but solitude, a little fire and the sound of wolves howling from the nearby mountains soon won him over. The following day, he rode to within five miles of Flaminius’ camp before reluctantly setting free his mount. There was little else he could do with it. He had to appear as poor as possible. With a little luck, the animal would be caught by a patrol. His few personal possessions were with Calatinus, and in the shelter of a thicket, he dumped his helmet, spear and shield, retaining only a simple dagger. Quintus stripped naked and donned his oldest clothes: a worn licium, or undergarment, and a roughly spun, off-white wool tunic. He even threw away his beloved calf-high leather boots in favour of a pair of caligae that he’d bought a few days earlier.
The magnitude of what he was about to do began to sink in as he set out on the road once more. The first patrol that passed by, a troop of Numidians, almost rode him down when Quintus didn’t move out of the way in time. A group of hastati were next, tramping by without so much as a second glance. Quintus doubted that many of them even saw him. His determination faltered a little. The things that he had thought about — dreaded — were about to become reality. He was starting life at the bottom of the social ladder. Apart from the few slaves in camp, everyone would regard him as inferior. It would take months, if not years, to achieve any kind of recognition. That was if he wasn’t killed in the first battle he took part in. Casualty rates among velites were often high. Quintus rallied his courage. I should have died at the Trebia, he told himself, but I didn’t. There’s no reason to suppose I’ll do so any quicker as a skirmisher. By doing this, I get to stay and fight Hannibal instead of being stuck at home. The certainty that he was doing the right thing solidified.
Quintus couldn’t help but think of his father, incandescent with fury, hearing the news that he hadn’t arrived home. It was very satisfying and brought a smile to his face. Seeing the gates of the camp, his pace increased. When he reached the velites on the gate, his pretence would begin. Quintus’ nerves jangled, but he had his story ready. They would ask what his business was, and he’d tell them that he was one of Fabricius’ servants. That would be enough to get him inside, to gain an audience with an officer. Then he’d find a section of velites. He wanted to approach the skirmishers who were attached to a maniple of triarii or principes, but there was no way that would work. As a ‘raw’ recruit with no officer to sponsor him, he would have to join the velites who served with a unit of hastati. On the upside, that meant he could seek out Corax, who had seemed a decent sort.
He found the centurion easily enough this time. As was standard, the tents of the maniple’s two centuries faced each other across a rectangular space perhaps a hundred paces in width. The side nearest the camp avenue lay open. Opposite it were the maniple’s wagons and mule pens. Corax was sitting by a table outside his large tent, spooning stew into his mouth. The other manipular centurion sat alongside, hacking a small loaf into pieces with a dagger. A servant was pouring wine. No one noticed Quintus, which made him even more nervous. He kept moving, until eventually the second centurion, a blocky man with receding black hair, looked up with a frown. ‘What do you want?’