‘Yes, sir.’ Grateful that Corax didn’t interrupt, he hurried on. ‘I bumped into the filth on my way back from a friend’s tent. That’s how we ended up fighting.’ Aware of how implausible that sounded, but unable to think of a better story, he stopped.
‘What a pile of horseshit,’ said Corax coldly. ‘The soldiers who heard the fight said that several men ran away. Did you see any of their faces?’
‘No, sir,’ said Quintus stolidly, avoiding Corax’s gaze.
‘You have no idea who they were?’ The centurion’s tone was disbelieving.
‘That’s right, sir.’ Quintus glanced at Corax, his heart thumping. Had his version been anywhere near to the hastatus’ version of events?
A long pause.
‘Luckily for you, Crespo, the hastatus says the same thing, that you were just brawling for no particular reason. Don’t think I don’t know that you’re both lying through your teeth. The instant that you get out of here, you’re on latrine duties for a month. That’s as well as having to cook for your contubernium every day for the same period. You’ll also report to me each morning at dawn for a ten-mile run, in full kit. Consider yourself lucky that I’m not demoting you as well.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Let the hastatus receive the same, he prayed.
For once, his request was answered. ‘In case you’re wondering, your friend will be doing the same as you once he’s discharged from the hospital.’ Corax paused before adding, ‘He’s also to receive ten lashes.’
Curiosity and delight mixed in equal measure. ‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘He’s a veteran, for Jupiter’s sake! He should have been able to thrash the living daylights out of you, not get stabbed in the damn foot. The whipping might teach him not to be so fucking useless.’
Quintus almost thought he imagined Corax’s fleeting wink. Almost. He tried hard not to smile. ‘I see, sir.’
‘Report to me when you get out.’ Corax was all business again. ‘The surgeon estimates that will be in two to three days.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Feeling slightly happier despite the punishment that awaited him, he watched Corax go. There was no way of proving it, but his gut told him that the centurion was more on his side than that of the hastatus, which meant in turn that Macerio and the others would have to watch out. If Corax caught them doing anything untoward, Quintus had no doubt that they would live to regret it. That didn’t mean he could relax. Macerio was too dangerous. Anger filled him that he had been ambushed so easily. That was three times now. It must not happen again. It was time for him to surprise Macerio, once and for all. Yet even as sleep claimed him, Quintus knew that would not be easy. Corax would also be watching him like a hawk.
Two days later, the surgeon pronounced him fit for active duties, as long as he avoided weapons training for six to eight weeks. The reason for that, the Greek explained, was that a blow to his face could permanently cave in his cheek, making it difficult to speak or eat. Quintus was relieved when Corax didn’t argue with the surgeon’s directions. His healing injury made no difference to the extra duties — all light — laid upon him by the centurion, however. Quintus sweated from dawn until dusk, running or digging latrines, watched by either Corax or one of the junior officers. Evenings were spent with his tent mates, who had grown fiercely protective of him since the fight. Even if Macerio had wanted to do anything, there would have been no chance of doing so.
There was no sign of the hastatus for about three weeks; when he did appear, complete with a limp, Corax had him whipped and then set to shovelling earth on a different latrine trench. After a day or two, Quintus happened to catch the other’s gaze. The veteran scowled at him, and he returned the look. Next time, I’ll stick the knife in your chest, Quintus mouthed. In reply, he got an obscene gesture. There was scant comfort in the mini-confrontation; Macerio and the two other hastati also gave him hard looks at every opportunity.
Perhaps the best thing to come out of it was the fact that Urceus now believed Macerio was a serious threat. The first time he’d visited Quintus in the hospital, the jug-eared man had demanded an account of the night’s activity. He had listened in silence to Quintus’ tale of selling some of the wine that they had stockpiled to an equestrian for a healthy profit. Even when he’d revealed who it was that had attacked him, Urceus had not interrupted. When he had finished, his friend had sat for a few moments, drumming the fingers of one hand off his cheek. ‘You don’t have to tell me what you were really doing in that part of the camp. That’s your business. I don’t believe the nonsense about you being a mollis either. Arse-lovers don’t eye up whores the way you do.’ He’d held up a meaty hand to stop Quintus replying. ‘I’m sorry that I doubted you about Macerio before. I’ve seen the looks he and his mates have been giving you since you got out of the hospital.’
‘Do you believe me about Rutilus too?’
A heavy sigh. ‘I don’t want to, but yes, I do. If the bastard’s prepared to try and kill you on the sly, he’s capable of doing the same in the middle of a battle.’
‘It won’t end until one of us is dead. And it’s not going to be me.’
‘I’ll help make damn sure of that,’ Urceus had growled.
Knowing that he now had a friend to watch his back eased Quintus’ burden. It helped him to sleep better at night, although he was often troubled by nightmares about Macerio. The sooner he could end the feud, the better. He wondered if it would be when the month of punishments was up, but there was no let-up in the officers’ supervision of either him or the hastatus. A couple of other soldiers in the maniple who were caught fighting were severely flogged. Corax was letting them all know what to expect, Quintus surmised. The worst of the winter weather passed, and the days grew longer. Bands of enemy soldiers were spotted more often, resulting in an escalation of Roman patrols. Quintus never found himself on the same mission as Macerio or his cronies, which made it even more likely that Corax knew of the enmity between them. Whatever the reason, it distracted him from the problem, for a while at least. As the weeks passed, he buried his hatred of Macerio for another time. Vengeance for Rutilus’ death could wait, but the war with Hannibal could not.
And war it would be once more. Although Servilius and Regulus still led the army, and had followed their instructions from the Senate not to engage significantly with Hannibal during the spring, the gossip that ran through the camp daily was of only one thing: confrontation with the enemy. When Lucius Aemilius Paullus and Gaius Terentius Varro, the new consuls for the year, arrived to take charge, they would bring with them four newly raised legions and the same number of socii troops. Together with the soldiers who were encamped near Gerunium, they would command a total of more than eighty thousand men. With that vast force, the braggarts cried, defeat was impossible. Quintus found it hard to argue with such logic. As the days lengthened and the temperatures rose, their training renewed with added ferocity. A number of clashes with the enemy went the Roman way too, and his spirits rose along with everyone else’s. There would be no rest until total victory had been achieved. It would come soon, before the summer’s end — which meant that if he survived, the possibility of autumn leave would become real. He could potentially be reunited with his family. For all that he wanted to walk his own path, Quintus also longed to see his mother and Aurelia again. His father too, if he admitted it. If he distinguished himself in the battle that saw Hannibal defeated, perhaps his father would forgive him for disobeying his orders? Quintus suspected that that thought was a wishful fantasy. Nonetheless, he guarded it jealously, telling no one.
Chapter XIV
Hannibal’s camp, outside the town of Gerunium, Samnium, spring
Hearing Sapho’s voice close by, Hanno scowled. It was too late to leave his tent without being seen. What did Sapho want? he wondered.