‘What the hell are you at?’ Macerio’s voice dripped scorn.
‘I’m here,’ he growled, emerging. He made an obvious show of keeping his hand on his sword hilt.
Macerio regarded him mockingly. He was also wearing a woollen cloak, but his hands were empty. Quintus flushed, but he didn’t move his hand. Not after what had happened to Rutilus. His eyes flickered left to right, and behind him, over the tent. He saw no one. Relaxing a fraction, he glared at Macerio.
‘Looking for someone?’
‘Fuck you, Macerio. You know what I’m doing, and why,’ he said, almost amiably. ‘What does Corax want?’
‘Buggered if I know. I was on the way back from the latrine trench, minding my own business, when he collared me by his tent. Told me to get you, double quick.’
Quintus grunted, unwilling to admit his confusion. Macerio said no more, and the conversation died. In silence, they walked past the tents of the hastati. To Quintus’ even greater surprise, Corax was waiting for them by the entrance to his tent. An enigmatic smile played across his face. ‘Crespo. Macerio.’
Stamping their feet, the pair snapped to attention. ‘Sir!’ they bellowed in unison.
‘You’re probably wondering why I ordered you here on such a miserable bloody day, when you’ve only just returned from patrol.’ Corax’s smile broadened. ‘Course you’re both too smart to say so. Well, I’ve got a little surprise for you. Step inside.’ He indicated that they should enter.
Forgetting their enmity for a moment, Quintus and Macerio exchanged an astonished look. Neither had ever received such an invitation.
‘Come on, come on. All the heat is escaping.’
Quintus expected to find Pullo within, but instead he found a familiar figure with prominent ears. Beside him, he heard Macerio’s gasp of shock. ‘Urceus!’ Quintus cried. ‘You’re back.’
‘Didn’t think you could try to end the war without me, did you?’ Urceus limped forward and embraced Quintus.
Even Macerio’s perpetual sour expression eased into a grin. ‘Welcome,’ he said warmly, clapping Urceus on the shoulder. ‘You’re recovered, then?’
Urceus stepped back with a grimace. He rubbed his left thigh. ‘This still pains me, but I can fight. And I wanted to get back to you boys. All of you.’ His face darkened. ‘I was sorry to hear about Rutilus.’
Not half as sorry as you’d be if you knew what happened to him, thought Quintus, feeling his grief scraped raw yet again. ‘He will always be missed,’ he said.
Beside him, Macerio muttered something that at face value sounded genuine.
‘Many good men have already died. Plenty more will lose their lives in Rome’s service before Hannibal has been defeated,’ said Corax sombrely. He moved to stand before them, with his back to the brazier that stood in the middle of the large tent. ‘But none of us will rest until the job has been done, will we?’
‘No, sir!’ the trio chorused.
‘You’re good soldiers, the three of you. That’s why you are here. You are veterans too, not just of this summer’s campaign, but of Trasimene as well. Urceus, you were also at the Trebia.’
Quintus wished that he could reveal the same about himself.
‘Men like you are in short supply right now,’ the centurion went on. ‘You’ll have heard that they’re raising new, larger legions in Rome. The socii are enlisting many thousands more, but the vast majority of these new soldiers will be raw recruits. I don’t know when the day to face Hannibal on a battlefield will come around again. But I do know that when it happens, we’ll need soldiers with real backbone to stand and meet his troops. A rabble they might be, but they’re not short of courage.’
‘We’ll fight, sir. Have no fear of that!’ said Quintus.
Urceus and Macerio loudly voiced their agreement.
‘Aye, you will,’ cried Corax. ‘And as hastati!’
For a moment, a shocked silence filled the tent. It was broken by the centurion’s laughter. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘You’re promoting us to hastati, sir?’ Quintus’ voice was incredulous.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘It’s a great honour, sir,’ said Urceus gruffly. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m very grateful, sir,’ added Macerio. He shot a spiteful look at Quintus. ‘As you know, when Urceus and I enlisted, we had to prove our income and, with it, our right to promotion to the infantry. Shouldn’t Crespo here have to do the same?’
Quintus’ stomach lurched. The filthy bastard. Macerio couldn’t know his real background, but he knew well enough that Corax had taken him into the unit with few questions. It must have roused Macerio’s suspicions. If he were questioned now, he could say nothing about his true identity without the risk of being thrown out of the velites and returned to his father’s authority. That might not be quite what Macerio had intended, but it would still wreck his chances of staying in the infantry.
Corax’s brows lowered. ‘That won’t be necessary. Crespo here has earned his salt, and he’s proved his courage enough times for me to accept him at face value. In any case, I spend my time looking at damn paperwork. I have no desire to look at any more. He can produce the necessary details when this is all over.’
‘As you say, sir,’ Macerio said, failing to conceal his unhappiness.
Quintus threw the centurion a grateful look. ‘I’ll be sure to do that, sir.’
‘Have yourselves an evening off duty,’ ordered Corax. ‘See the quartermaster. Tell him that I have promoted you. You might be able to persuade him to give you an advance on your pay.’ He gave them a broad wink. ‘The three of you can start training with the hastati in a couple of days, when your heads have stopped pounding.’
The three stood, not quite believing what they had just heard.
‘Dismissed!’
They saluted and beat a hasty retreat. ‘It’s not that far to Larinum,’ said Urceus the instant that they were outside. ‘I say that we head there and get pissed out of our heads.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Quintus. He glanced at Macerio, dreading that the blond-haired man would come along too. He couldn’t think of anything worse than having to spend an evening in his company. To his relief, Macerio made some excuse about having a bellyache; he congratulated Urceus upon his return again and headed back to his tent, there ‘to get some rest’.
Urceus gave an expressive shrug. ‘All the more wine for us, eh?’
Quintus’ loud agreement was as much from relief as a desire to get drunk. Nonetheless, he’d stay on his guard in Larinum. A dark alleyway there would be as good a place for Macerio to strike as in the middle of a battle.
Chapter XIII
In the event, Quintus’ and Urceus’ visit to Larinum passed off without incident. If Quintus were to be cynical about it, he knew that did not mean Macerio had not been lying in wait for him somewhere. The fact was they had both got so drunk that they each ended up taking a whore to the tiny rooms over the inn where they’d been drinking. They had spent the night there. Afterwards, Quintus couldn’t remember if he’d actually lain with the woman, an attractive Gaul; she had told him with a knowing wink that he’d not been up to it but that if he wanted to come back another time, she’d only charge him half price. It appeared that she had been telling the truth, because when Urceus contracted a nasty bout of the pox soon afterwards, Quintus was (to his relief) unaffected. The incident reminded him of the advice his mother had given him once: if visiting brothels, it was best to frequent the more expensive ones.
Even if Quintus could have afforded such establishments, there was no chance of searching any out in the weeks that followed. Their move to the hastati proved so physically demanding that all he and Urceus wanted to do when they were off duty was sleep. Corax had always been a hard taskmaster, but now that they were real infantrymen, as he was fond of telling them, they actually had to be tough instead of just thinking they were. Velites were soft in comparison, he roared as they and the rest of the new recruits floundered along muddy tracks, carrying more armour and weapons than they’d ever had to in their lives. The centurion’s forced marches happened at least two times a week, and were up to twenty miles in distance. On the intervening days, Corax had them train using wooden swords and shields that were twice as heavy as the real thing, swim in the nearby river, despite the temperature, or exercise by wrestling and running.