Sometimes the centurion let them have a ‘day off’ — which consisted of marching in formation with the rest of the hastati and learning to respond to the trumpeters. If anything, that was harder than the other activities, but eventually Quintus and the others learned to assume close order, form the ‘saw’ and charge at a moment’s notice, stopping only to hurl their javelins. Teaching them to assume the position they would take in the triplex acies formation also came high on Corax’s list of priorities. Maniples marched into a battle situation one century in front of the other. At a signal, the rearmost century had to be able to move rapidly to stand alongside the other century, ready to fight. The soldiers had to learn how, if things were going badly, to do the reverse in order to let the principes advance to the attack, and how, after a period of rest, they might be expected to return to the fray through similar gaps in the principes’ maniples. The centurions had the hastati do this over and over again, sometimes on their own, and the rest of the time in concert with other maniples of principes and fellow hastati.
It was hardly surprising therefore that Quintus was delighted to be eventually given three days’ sentry duty with Urceus, watching over the tent of one of the legion’s tribunes. Two contubernia had been assigned the job: theirs and that of Macerio. The remaining soldiers, thirteen youngsters from the farmland to the south of Rome, were no less pleased at what was regarded as a soft duty. ‘Guarding this is a damn sight better than training. Or having to keep the via principalis clean, like the others in our maniple,’ said Urceus happily.
Quintus murmured in agreement. It was the second afternoon of their duty, and, as it had the previous day, the sun was shining from a pale, watery blue sky. The temperature wasn’t warm, but as long as he walked to and fro, it was acceptable. Macerio and his comrades were stationed at the rear of the tent, so he didn’t have to worry. After weeks of hard training, anything was better than sweating his balls off while Corax stood nearby, roaring abuse and bringing down his vine cane on anyone who didn’t do exactly as he’d ordered. He didn’t have to suffer the barbed comments of the hastati whom Macerio had befriended either. Quintus wondered if he had missed a trick when he had been promoted by not bothering to make himself popular within the maniple. His enemy had lost no time in ingratiating himself with soldiers who’d been in the unit for a while. So far, nothing had come of it, but there were half a dozen men who had taken a dislike to Quintus purely because of Macerio’s poison.
There were other benefits to sentry duty, Quintus mused. Here they were able to observe the comings and goings of very senior officers. They had even seen Gnaeus Servilius Geminus, the surviving consul, and his colleague, Marcus Atilius Regulus, who had been elected to replace Flaminius. These two men had led the army since the dictator Fabius and Rufus, the Master of the Horse, had left office near the previous year’s end. The evening before, both consuls had ridden past as dusk was falling. As usual, a large troop of extraordinarii, the best of the allied infantry and cavalry, had accompanied them. Quintus had looked for Gaius, but not seen him.
‘Who d’you think will replace the consuls in March?’
Urceus looked at him as if he were mad. ‘How should I fucking know? Who cares anyway? They’re all the same as each other’ — here he lowered his voice — ‘a shower of arrogant arseholes who think they’re better than us.’
Quintus snorted with laughter. There had been a time when he would have partially fallen into that category. Living as an ordinary infantryman had been an eye-opener, and often in a good way. Men such as Urceus and Rutilus had taken him at face value; he had learned to do the same. ‘Fabius was all right.’
‘He didn’t needlessly throw our lives away, I suppose,’ Urceus admitted. ‘He probably looks down his nose at the likes of us, though.’
‘Course he does,’ said a familiar, mocking voice. ‘They’re all the same, those bloody senators and equestrians.’
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Quintus, bridling at the mention of his own class. ‘You’re meant to be at the back of the tent.’
Macerio looked unconcerned. ‘Corax isn’t about, nor is the optio. The new lads have things covered. I thought I’d keep you company for a while.’
‘You can piss off, more like,’ snapped Quintus.
‘Nice welcome, eh?’ said Macerio to Urceus, who shrugged his shoulders. Once again, Quintus wondered if he should have confided in Urceus, told him what he thought — knew — had happened to Rutilus. It was almost as if he’d lost his chance, though. Macerio had acted the instant that Urceus had returned, seeking out his company, sharing his wine, treating him like the oldest of friends. Urceus, pleased by this welcome, had taken greatly to Quintus’ enemy, which had made Quintus feel a little like an outsider. He worried that accusing Macerio of murdering Rutilus now might endanger his friendship with Urceus. That was not something he wanted to happen. The short, jug-eared man was now the only real comrade he had left. He got on well enough with Severus, but it wasn’t the same as it had been with Rutilus, or even Big Tenner. Gods, but he missed Calatinus, and Gaius, his old friend. He even missed his father, if truth be known. But Calatinus was dead, and so too were Rutilus and Big Tenner. There was no way of contacting his father without endangering his position in the infantry. Quintus hardened his heart. He was immensely proud to be a hastatus, and he was not about to throw that away.
As Macerio fell into conversation with Urceus, Quintus tried not to let his displeasure show. The sooner an opportunity presented itself for him to slip a blade between his enemy’s ribs, he thought, the better. The clatter of hooves brought him back to the present. As a small party of cavalrymen rode up to the tribune’s tent, he was stunned to recognise Calatinus. Older, leaner, with new lines on his thin face, but still the same sturdily built man whom he’d known since before the Trebia. Quintus turned his head so that Calatinus wouldn’t see him. Whatever happened, Macerio must not get so much as an inkling that they knew each other. One of the riders jumped down from his horse and approached. Quintus saluted. Beside him, he heard the others do the same. He eyed the man, similar in age to his father, whom he was relieved not to recognise. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Is the tribune about?’
‘No, sir. You’ll find him at the camp headquarters.’
‘I see. My thanks.’ He turned away.
‘Sir.’ Quintus looked at the ground, willing Calatinus not to see him. A moment or two passed; he heard the rider who’d questioned him mount up and tell his companions what had been said. The horses began to move off. A relieved breath left Quintus’ lips.
‘Soldier!’
Quintus froze. It was Calatinus’ voice.
‘Soldier! A word.’
‘One of them’s calling you,’ said Urceus.
Quintus made a show of appearing surprised.
‘Best go and see what he wants,’ advised Urceus.
‘Get a move on, or we’ll all find ourselves on a charge thanks to you,’ added Macerio spitefully.
Quintus threw his enemy a filthy look and walked towards Calatinus, his heart pounding. He was grateful that the other cavalrymen had already ridden off. ‘You called me, sir?’ he asked loudly.
Calatinus made a show of lowering his voice a fraction, as if being conspiratorial. ‘Where might a man find an extra supply of wine round here?’