Brooding about his father, melancholic from the wine, he didn’t see the four figures steal out behind him. The first thing he knew was when the strip of cloth was fed over his head and jerked backwards into his mouth. Quintus staggered backwards; he nearly fell. Even as his hands reached up to free himself, they were pinioned by his sides. His gaze shot from side to side to the man in front of him. Shock filled him. One was a new recruit from Macerio’s contubernium; the other two were veteran hastati from his own maniple. As the dreadful realisation sank in, a familiar voice whispered in his ear, ‘I take it that the equestrian has finished fucking you?’
Macerio! Frantic, Quintus tried to free his arms. He bit down on the gag, tried to spit it out, all to no avail. Legs kicking, he was bundled between lines of tents to a gap between two sets of horse pens and thrown to the ground. A few of the mounts nickered and most moved away from the fence, but here, Quintus realised with a sick feeling, there was far less chance of anyone hearing what was done to him. Up, I have to get up, he thought. Before he could even get on his knees, however, the kicks and stamps rained down on his chest, head and belly. Quintus went down hard, agony radiating all over his body. When the blows stopped, he drew in a ragged breath, fought the urge to vomit. Looked up at his attackers.
‘I always knew you had to be a man lover,’ hissed Macerio, kicking him again. ‘Who else would befriend a mollis like Rutilus?’
‘Are you sure this one isn’t a Greek?’ asked one of his companions, sniggering.
‘He should be,’ agreed Macerio, spitting on Quintus. ‘Renting out his arse to an equestrian just like one of the lowlifes you’d find in the worst type of brothel. Filthy mollis!’
Quintus tried to rise again, but a hefty kick to the face felled him. Stars burst across his vision; he felt a dull crack as his cheekbone broke. You’re attacking the wrong man, he wanted to scream. I’m not the one who murdered one of my own — Macerio is! The only sounds he could make, though, were muffled groans that made no sense to anyone. Before long, he began to lapse in and out of consciousness. With a supreme effort, Quintus formed a coherent thought. He had to act, to do something. Otherwise this beating would be the death of him, if not from his injuries, then from lying outside all night after it.
His fingers scrabbled uselessly on his tunic. Felt the outline of his baldric. Followed the leather down to the hilt of his dagger. He squinted up at his attackers, outlined against the sky above. None seemed to have noticed. Quintus’ stomach twisted. There would be one chance only. He tugged the blade free, lifted his arm and hammered it into the nearest piece of flesh he could make out.
A shriek of agony. The knife was wrenched from Quintus’ hand as his victim jerked away. The kicks stopped. Another bellow of pain. A man stooped over him and tugged at his foot with a savage oath.
‘Shut up, you fool!’ Macerio’s voice.
‘He’s stabbed me in the fucking foot!’
‘I don’t give a shit! You’ll bring down the damn watch on us.’
The dull glint of silver as Quintus’ blade was lifted high. ‘I’ll finish him now, then. Can’t talk if he’s dead, can he?’
‘Do it,’ said Macerio with a cruel laugh. ‘But be quick.’
With the last of his strength, Quintus rolled to his left. His feet collided with something — a man’s legs, a post? Pulling in his knees, he kept rolling. Under the fence and into a pen full of horses. The smell of manure filled his nostrils. All he could see were hooves, dancing uneasily around him. He rolled on regardless, desperate to put as much distance between himself and his attackers. Whinnies filled the air. Hooves stamped on the ground. There were curses too, from beyond the fence. And then, the most welcome thing Quintus had ever heard: ‘Hey! What in Hades’ name are you lot doing?’ Another voice: ‘Arm yourselves, boys! Someone’s trying to steal our horses!’
More oaths; then the sound of men running away.
Quintus sagged on to the cold ground with relief. The last thing he saw was the starlit sky, arching overhead in a glittering display of light. How beautiful it was, he thought, before oblivion claimed him.
Pain. Waves of pain from his cheek, his ribs, his groin. They alternated in a sickening rhythm, an unending cadence that bore Quintus irresistibly along. A pulse hammered off the back of his eyelids, at the base of his throat, deep inside his head. He felt sweat trickle down the side of his head, between his hairline and the corner of his eye. I must still be alive, he thought fuzzily. His eyelids felt as if they had been stuck together with glue, but he forced them open to find a dark-skinned man studying him. Behind him, Quintus could see Corax, who didn’t look happy at all.
‘Good. You’ve woken.’ Corax moved forward, but the surgeon lifted a hand. The centurion frowned, but he stopped.
Quintus tried to speak, but his tongue was as thick as a plank.
‘Drink some of this.’ A cup was held to his lips.
The watered-down wine tasted like nectar. After a couple of swallows, the surgeon took it away. ‘Not too much. I don’t want you vomiting.’
‘Where am I?’ asked Quintus.
‘In the camp hospital,’ replied Corax. ‘Along with your friend.’
Quintus turned his head carefully from side to side, but was pleased not to see the hastatus in any of the beds nearby. The soldiers he could see were pretending not to listen, but he had no doubt that their ears were twitching. ‘My friend, sir?’
‘The piece of shit whom you stabbed in the foot. I assume it was you who did that?’
With a displeased look, the surgeon moved back to let Corax take his place. ‘You’re not to talk to him for long, sir,’ he chided. ‘He needs to rest.’
Corax didn’t even reply. The Greek backed away, lips pursed.
‘Well, Crespo?’ The centurion’s eyes were like chips of flint.
‘I stabbed him, yes, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘He was going to kill me.’
‘Why in damnation would he try to do that, in the middle of the night, so far from our tent lines? Eh?’
Quintus tried to collect his scrambled thoughts. He wanted to tell Corax everything but as before, when Macerio had attacked him, he felt wary. For one thing, too many men were listening. Whether they heard or not, ratting out would make him a total outcast in the maniple. It didn’t matter that Macerio and his cronies had tried to murder him. Maintaining the unit’s code of silence was vital to keeping the other soldiers’ respect. He’d have to sort out his vendetta with Macerio without official intervention. By himself.
‘I asked you a question, soldier!’ Corax bent over the bed. ‘I don’t give a shit what the surgeon says about you needing rest. Answer me, or you’ll be stuck in this place for a month after the beating I give you!’
Corax must have talked to the hastatus already, thought Quintus. What would he have been told? He clawed for a credible response. ‘We were having an argument, sir.’
Corax’s lips thinned. ‘Clearly. Tell me more.’
‘You know how it is, sir. He’s a veteran; I’m not. He was taking the piss out of me. We came to blows. I came off worst.’
Silence. Quintus tried not to squirm under Corax’s scrutiny.
‘You’d been drinking?’