‘You bastard!’ wheezed Macerio, his eyes bulging with anger.
‘You started it,’ Quintus replied, rubbing his bruised cheek.
‘Aye, and I’m going to finish it.’ Enraged, Macerio came on again.
Quintus cursed silently. He should have put Macerio on the floor. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. They traded blows for a time, neither able to gain an advantage over the other. Macerio’s right fist was lethally fast. He caught Quintus a couple of times with it in the side of the head, leaving a ringing in his ears. A few more of those, Quintus thought, and the fight would be over. Concerned that his new life would be made infinitely harder if Macerio won, he resolved to win by whatever means necessary. It wasn’t as if the blond-haired man wouldn’t act in the same way. Quintus had narrowly avoided a kick in the balls a moment before, and he’d seen Macerio throwing meaningful looks at his watching comrades. If I’m not careful, thought Quintus, a shove in the back from one of them will give the prick all the advantage he needs.
Quintus never usually fought dirty, but being outnumbered so greatly really made him want to hurt Macerio. He scooped up a short, bent nail from the ground, the likes of which were used to scratch an owner’s initials on his equipment.
Macerio’s expression turned evil. ‘Going to try and blind me with a handful of dirt, are you?’ His gaze shifted. ‘Knock the fucker over if you get a chance, lads!’
Several men cheered, and Quintus’ stomach twisted. Macerio hadn’t seen the nail, but he had still just made things worse for himself. There was nothing for it. Using the nail was imperative now. He launched a ferocious attack on Macerio, throwing punch after punch with his left fist, but saving his right, which held the nail. Surprised, the blond-haired man fell back before his assault, and Quintus managed to thump him hard in the belly several times. Macerio’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, and Quintus took his chance. With the nail protruding between his second and third fingers, he raked a blow across Macerio’s cheek. A shriek of pain tore the air as the iron ripped a deep furrow in his opponent’s flesh. Quintus didn’t let up. With all of his strength, he threw a left uppercut at Macerio’s chin. There was a loud crack; Quintus felt an intense pain in his left fist, and Macerio went down on to the flat of his back.
Quintus stood back, chest heaving, nursing his left hand. Macerio lay unmoving before him. The fight was over. The gods be thanked, Quintus thought. I’ve won. Rutilus and the jug-eared man were cheering, while Macerio’s comrades had rushed to his side. Casually, Quintus let the nail drop. In the chaos, no one would see. He scanned the watching faces and was relieved to see respect in a few. More scowled at him, however, and Quintus knew that he might well have to fight them later. An already-enlisted man being beaten by a new recruit would not be popular.
‘You piece of filth! No one pulls a trick like that on me!’ Macerio’s voice came out of the blue.
Quintus turned in shock. The blond-haired man had been helped up by his friends. Runnels of blood were flowing down his left cheek, and there was murder in his eyes. ‘Let’s finish this. Properly,’ he snarled, hooking his fingers into claws. ‘Be interesting to see how you fare as a veles when missing an eyeball.’
Astonished that Macerio was on his feet again and genuinely worried how the fight might now end, Quintus stepped forward. Intent on second-guessing the other’s next move, he didn’t see the foot that had been stuck in his path. Quintus tripped over it and went sprawling forward on to his face. Even as he tried to roll away and get up, Macerio was on him as fast as a hunting dog on a hare. A kick to his belly drove the air from Quintus’ lungs in a whoosh of agony. As he struggled to catch his breath, Macerio dropped to his knees alongside him. He began raining punches on to Quintus’ torso and head. ‘Think you can just strut in here like you own the place, do you?’
‘That’s enough, Macerio,’ said a voice.
‘Piss off, Rutilus, or I’ll do the same to you!’ Macerio shot back.
Quintus tried weakly to protect himself, but Macerio just swatted his arms aside and landed another flurry of blows to his face. The pain was intense. Quintus was unable to retaliate, even less to stop his opponent. His vision was already blurred and he could taste blood in his mouth. A faraway voice was telling him to get up, to fight back, but his strength was gone. He’s going to beat me into unconsciousness, he thought dimly. Then blind me.
In the same instant, he felt fingers gouging into his eye sockets. It was agonising. Crying out, Quintus raised his arms, but he was too weak to stop Macerio.
Someone spoke. Quintus couldn’t make out who it was, or what had been said, but the effect was immediate. The fingers dropped away from his face. He sensed Macerio stand up. Relieved his ordeal seemed to have ended, Quintus half rolled over; he coughed and spat out a tooth. Tears of pain spilled from his eyes. He wiped them away, and was intensely grateful that he could still see.
‘What’s going on here?’
This time, Quintus recognised Corax’s voice.
‘Nothing, sir,’ said Macerio. ‘Crespo and I were just getting to know each other. A little welcome to our contubernium. You know how it is.’
‘Is that what happened?’
A chorus of ‘Yes, sir’ filled the air.
‘Hmmm.’ Corax walked to stand over Quintus. His lips twitched with distaste; whether it was at what Macerio had done or how he had failed to defend himself, Quintus wasn’t sure. Corax tapped the vine cane in his right fist off the palm of his other hand. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
Sitting up, Quintus’ gaze flashed to Macerio, whose eyes were bright with malice and the expectation that he would tell Corax what had really happened. He would have liked nothing more than to have seen Macerio punished, but something told him to keep the centurion out of it. ‘It’s as Macerio says, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘Just a bit of horseplay.’
Corax scrutinised him with barely concealed disbelief. ‘Horseplay?’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Quintus.
‘In that case, Hannibal had best look out.’
The men guffawed, half amused, half nervous.
‘Macerio!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘In future, keep your aggression for the guggas. Clear?’ Corax’s voice was iron hard.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Both of you, clean yourselves up. The instant you’ve done that, Crespo, go to the quartermaster’s.’ With that, Corax walked off, tapping his vine cane off his leg.
Quintus got to his feet, wincing as his bruised abdominal muscles protested. He glanced around. The eyes of every man in the contubernium were on him. A few steps away, the other velites were watching too. Many hastati had clearly seen the fight too, but now that Corax had sorted it out, they turned away. Quintus scanned his tent mates’ faces again. Their reactions were far more important. Rutilus looked sympathetic; the jug-eared man did too. A couple of men threw him a filthy scowl; Macerio spat and muttered an obscenity. The others’ expressions were, if not friendly, on the verge of accepting. As the pain from his face began to take hold, Quintus took some satisfaction from the situation. He had not ratted out on his contubernium, and the majority of his new comrades recognised that. His good feeling did not last for more than a few heartbeats. A quick glance at Macerio told him that he had made a real enemy.
Quintus sighed. He hadn’t anticipated problems like this when he’d decided to join the velites. At least in the cavalry he had not had to worry about one of his own comrades wanting to do him harm.
He did now.
I’ve made my bed, he thought. I will have to lie in it.
The shore of Lake Trasimene, north-central Italy, summer