Quintus coughed. No one noticed. He coughed again, with the same result. ‘Excuse me,’ he said loudly.
A ring of surprised faces regarded him. Several twisted with scorn. ‘A hastatus. What’s he doing here?’ demanded one man. ‘Tell him to piss off,’ added another. ‘But not before he gives us that beaker of wine.’ Loud chuckles met this comment, and Quintus really had to bite his tongue. Arrogant bastards! He was grateful when one of the cavalrymen asked him what he wanted in a civil tone. There were curious glances when he replied that he was looking for a rider called Calatinus. Nonetheless, he was directed to a tent in the line opposite. Halfway across the open space, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. Quintus was grateful for the darkness that concealed his face. Not ten paces away, his father was talking to a decurion. His heart twisted. Despite the bad terms they had been on before he had vanished, he loved his father. In that instant, Quintus realised how much he had missed him. How good it would be to walk up and greet him. As if he’d welcome me! Quintus ducked his head and cut off at a different angle, putting as much distance as possible between them.
A sour-faced man emerged from Calatinus’ tent as he approached.
‘Is Calatinus inside?’
That got him a jaundiced grin. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘My name is Crespo, hastatus.’
Now, a lip curl. ‘What might Calatinus want with the likes of you?’
Quintus had had enough. ‘That’s my own business. Is he there or not?’
‘You impudent-’ began the cavalryman, but he was interrupted by Calatinus shoving his head outside.
‘Ah, Crespo!’ he cried. To his companion, ‘Leave us, will you? I’ve got some business to deal with.’
The man walked off, grumbling.
‘Come in!’ Calatinus beckoned.
With a last look at his father, Quintus entered. To his relief, there was no one else in the tent. Calatinus laced the flap behind him, and then waved him to a stool by the central brazier. ‘Welcome, welcome. Crespo — is that your name now?’
‘I couldn’t use my own, could I?’ Quintus grabbed him in a bear hug. ‘I thought you were dead, damn you,’ he muttered in Calatinus’ ear.
Calatinus squeezed him back. ‘It takes more than a few guggas to kill me.’
They grinned at each other like fools before Calatinus pulled away and produced some wine. When Quintus offered his own, his friend retorted, ‘We can have that afterwards. There’s a whole night’s drinking ahead of us.’
‘Won’t your tent mates return soon? I got enough strange looks just asking where to find you.’
‘Don’t worry. Luckily for us, the turma next door is holding a party. No one will be back for a long time yet.’
‘My father was outside, talking to a decurion,’ Quintus blurted. ‘I didn’t expect that.’
‘Vulcan’s hairy arse! Did he notice you?’
Quintus shook his head. ‘It was a real shock, though. I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t, obviously. I realise that I have missed him — more than I thought I would.’
‘He has missed you too,’ said Calatinus soberly.
‘How do you know?’
‘We talk now and again.’ Calatinus saw Quintus’ surprised look. ‘He seeks me out. I think it’s because he knows that you and I were’ — a grin — ‘are friends.’
‘What does he say about me?’
‘He wonders why you disappeared, and if you were killed by the enemy.’ Calatinus hesitated, and then said, ‘I’m not sure, but I think he wonders if he was too harsh on you.’
Quintus started forward. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘The sadness in his eyes when he talks about you.’
Quintus swallowed the unexpected lump that had formed in his throat. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you come back to the cavalry? I don’t think your father would be too hard on you. He’d be so glad to know you’re alive.’
It was an appealing prospect in many ways. Comrades such as Calatinus. More glory. Better rations. Best of all, no Macerio. Quintus shoved away the idea. Don’t be a coward, he thought harshly. Only cowards run away, forgetting their friends who were murdered. ‘He hasn’t heard from my mother then? I sent a letter, telling her that I was all right.’
‘He’s mentioned nothing like that.’
‘He’ll hear eventually. I’m not leaving my unit. Not now, when I’ve just been promoted to the hastati.’ Not when I’ve got Macerio to kill, he added silently.
‘What are you trying to prove, Quintus?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he retorted. This was something he had to do on his own, for himself. For Rutilus. ‘Let’s drink some of this wine, and you can tell me properly how you survived when so many others were killed.’
‘Fine. But only if you tell me how you managed not to end up as fish food on the bottom of Lake Trasimene.’
They both grinned, the randomness of their still being alive making the reunion all the sweeter.
Quintus woke with a start, blinking away the nightmare in which Macerio had been attacking him with a sword while he’d had nothing to defend himself with. There was a sour taste of wine in his mouth and a thick-headed feeling encasing his brain. Wiping a dribble of saliva from the corner of his lips, he sat up. An empty amphora lay beside him. The oil lamps had gone out. By the brazier’s dim glow, he could see Calatinus flat on his back, a few steps away, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Quintus kicked him. A grunt. He kicked him again. ‘Wake up!’
‘Huh?’ Calatinus’ head lifted.
‘What time is it?’
‘How should I know?’ grumbled Calatinus, struggling on to one elbow. ‘Gods, but my mouth is bone dry.’ He reached for a water skin and sucked at it greedily.
Quintus peered at the tent fabric. No trace of light. ‘It’s still dark. I’d best be heading back.’
‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘No need, thanks. Besides, it isn’t a good idea for us to be seen together. In fact, it’s best if we don’t do this again for a while. People would start asking questions.’
‘If anything was said, I’ll maintain that you were the son of a tenant on our estate at home.’
‘That might work once, but not after that. When was the last time you drank with an ordinary citizen?’ retorted Quintus. ‘I don’t like it any more than you, but there’s not much we can do.’
‘I suppose we could meet outside the camp, especially when the weather gets better.’
‘That might work,’ admitted Quintus. He rose to go, shrugged on his cloak and patted the handle of his dagger. ‘Stay safe, my friend.’
Calatinus struggled up to embrace him. ‘You too.’
Quintus had reached the tent’s entrance when Calatinus spoke again. ‘Shall I say anything to your father?’
‘Of course not! He would disown me as likely as anything else.’
‘I just thought you could let him know-’
Quintus, still befuddled with drink, grew angrier. ‘How, Calatinus? Just call by his tent and deliver him a letter?’
‘I’m sorry, Quintus,’ said Calatinus, looking crestfallen. ‘I only wanted to help.’
‘I know.’ Quintus let out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s too risky, though.’
Calatinus waved a hand in weary acknowledgement.
Feeling bad for reprimanding his friend and guilty about not making contact with his father, Quintus ducked outside. Apart from the raucous noise from the tents of the neighbouring turma — the party was clearly still going on — all was quiet. His breath plumed before his face; a moment later, he felt the chill night air creep under the bottom of his cloak. The wind of earlier had died down, allowing a frost to form. Moonlight glittered off the frozen, hard-packed earth of the via praetoria. His head turned from left to right, searching for a patrol of the watch. Nothing. Quintus padded out on to the wide avenue. This was riskier than walking back through the tent lines, but he trusted his sense of balance even less than he had earlier. As long as he kept a close lookout, he’d keep out of sight of hostile eyes. Or so he thought.