Ben Kane - Clouds of War

He also wanted to reveal Pera’s role in Attalus’ treachery, but knew it for a fruitless exercise. As if to prove that his concerns were well grounded, Pera had taken to snooping around the maniple’s tents, ostensibly checking to see if Quintus was well. His real purpose was revealed one day when he casually dropped Attalus into the conversation. Quintus put on the blankest of faces, and said that there had been so many Syracusan dogs that he’d long since forgotten their names. Pera had seemed satisfied, but from that moment on, Quintus took care not to wander anywhere on his own, especially at night.

The siege dragged on with no signs of any change. The weather grew warm and pleasant, and the grey, cloudy days of winter became a distant memory. As the days passed, the temperatures climbed steadily, and Quintus and his comrades resigned themselves to another baking-hot summer, covered in dust, manning their fortifications outside the city. Inevitably, the maniple’s morale dipped. The thought of going on patrol, once something that they would have wanted to avoid, became every man’s dream. When Corax overheard Quintus and Urceus talking of this one day, he laughed and told them not to live in hope.

‘Just be grateful that we’re not stationed to the south of the city, near those damn marshes,’ he warned. ‘Men are dropping there like flies, from malaria, fevers, dysentery and the like. At least we don’t have to worry about such things.’

Corax’s words were of scant consolation as Quintus and Urceus paced up and down the ramparts day after day, with nothing to do other than stare at the distant, impregnable walls of Syracuse. It seemed that the monotony would never end.

Two evenings later, things changed. Corax came strolling over to where Quintus and his comrades were sitting outside their tent. There followed the usual salutes, the offers of wine, and some awkward chitchat. Like his comrades, Quintus was wondering what Corax’s purpose was. There was typically an ulterior motive to his visits, but it wasn’t for hastati to ask.

‘Have you heard about the Spartan that some of the naval boys captured today?’ asked Corax out of the blue.

Quintus’ ears pricked up. ‘No, sir.’

‘Damippus, his name is. It turns out he was being sent by Epicydes to talk with King Philip of Macedon.’ Now Corax had everyone’s interest. Hannibal and Philip had been allies for some time; the Macedonian king had attacked Roman colonies in Illyria two years previously. He had been defeated, but his hostility towards the Republic remained undimmed. It wasn’t surprising that Epicydes, who like most Syracusans was of Greek descent, would attempt to win Philip’s aid.

‘I take it that Damippus won’t be getting to Macedon any time soon, sir,’ said Urceus with a snicker that was echoed by the rest of the contubernium.

‘You’d think so, but Epicydes is desperate to ransom him,’ Corax replied. ‘An envoy was sent out from the walls within hours of Damippus’ capture.’

‘The consul’s not going to give him up, surely, sir?’ Urceus asked.

‘This is where it gets complicated, hastatus. Sparta is in alliance with the Aetolian Confederacy. Our Senate is angling to weave a similar union, because it always pays to have friends on the Greek coastline, especially if military action has to be taken against Macedon. By ransoming Damippus, we’d have more chance of the Aetolians looking favourably on our overtures of friendship.’

Corax had the hastati in the palm of his hand now, Quintus decided, gazing around the circle of rapt faces. As ordinary soldiers, they never heard information of this type. By including them, Corax deepened their loyalty to him — without them even realising it. Although he could see through his tactics, Quintus felt the same way. Corax was a great commander, and fighter. He led from the front, and always exposed himself to the same dangers as his men. He looked out for them as if they were his wayward children, and in return, thought Quintus fiercely, we love him.

‘Why are you telling this, sir?’ Urceus voiced the question in everyone’s mind.

‘You were bitching the other day about being bored.’

Urceus coloured, and Quintus took a sudden interest in the strap of a sandal.

Corax chuckled. ‘Relax. This isn’t a punishment duty. Marcellus has agreed to talks with the Syracusans about Damippus. The meeting is to take place at the Galeagra tower.’

‘The Galeagra, sir? That’s opposite our section.’ Quintus cringed at Placidus’ ability to state the obvious.

But Corax didn’t lambast him. ‘That’s right. Which is perhaps why Marcellus thought it fair that this maniple provides a century to accompany his officers to the negotiation.’ The hastati voiced their enthusiastic agreement and Corax smiled. ‘It should be straightforward enough, brothers. Unless something disastrous happens, there won’t be any fighting. You’ll get a chance to see the walls up close without the risk of stones from the enemy catapults smashing in your skulls, and to gauge the mettle of the soldiers who’ll be with Epicydes’ envoys.’

‘We’re honoured, sir,’ said Quintus. ‘When is the meeting to take place?’

‘Tomorrow. Just after dawn, before it gets too hot.’

‘What other troops will there be, sir?’ asked Quintus.

‘A century of extraordinarii. You all know what those stuck-up pricks think of themselves, so your gear will have to be parade-ground standard. Anyone’s that isn’t will have me to answer to.’

Quintus’ comrades grumbled under their breaths at the extra work that Corax had handed to them, but they were happy enough. The prospect of seeing the enemy defences close up was exciting, and best of all, thought Quintus, Pera wouldn’t be present.

Corax inspected his century when the rising sun was still tingeing the eastern horizon. They had formed up in the square space created by their tents and mule pens, eight men abreast and six deep. The fifteen velites stood off to one side in a small block. Hypothetically, there would have been eighty soldiers in total, but that hadn’t been the case as long as Quintus could remember. Four men were in the camp hospital with fevers, or inflamed eyes. Two were recovering from injury and the rest were dead. Replacements would come in time, but there was no knowing when or where. The legions on Sicily weren’t exactly a priority to the Senate.

Despite their diminished numbers, they looked good, Quintus conceded. The triple feathers atop their shining helmets moved gently in the dawn breeze. Mail shirts that were normally obscured by rust glistened silver. Vigorous polishing had turned the bronze fittings on belts and straps an alluring gold colour. The hastati seemed to stand more proudly as a result.

Quintus felt a trace of nerves as Corax began his inspection. Being on constant campaign didn’t have many consolations, but one was that kit inspection and parade duties were almost non-existent. It had been so long since Quintus had had to prepare his gear for Corax’s eagle-eyed scrutiny that he worried he’d forgotten all the details. It appeared that others found themselves in the same predicament. Every few paces, Corax growled his disapproval over a belt that hadn’t been sufficiently polished, or a fingerprint that was visible on a shield boss. To Quintus’ surprise, though, he didn’t come in for any criticism. He muttered his thanks to Urceus. His friend, who also survived Corax’s examination, had helped him to get ready.

Corax gave the hastati he’d picked out a short time to right their mistakes; the rest were allowed to stand at ease. When he was happy with the penitents, he marched the century to the area of open ground that lay just inside the camp walls. They arrived moments before the extraordinarii, which was pleasing. Their centurion scowled as Corax greeted him, which increased the hastati’s enjoyment. Quintus spotted Sattio, who looked as pissed off as his commander about being second to arrive. Good enough for him, he thought, the dour prick.