Hannibal: Fields of Blood (40 page)

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.

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.