Ben Kane - Fields of Blood

The worst thing about his convalescence was that he couldn’t train with Calatinus and his comrades, or go on patrol, during these, the last opportunities he would have for a long time, possibly ever. His ribs had healed and the strength was returning to his left arm, but Quintus still couldn’t hold a shield for long. He spent a couple of hours every day riding his horse, but his interest in that had palled long since. Fabricius kept him busy running errands around the camp, but that felt demeaning. Quintus had taken to avoiding his father. He would lurk in his tent after his comrades had left for the morning, playing endless games of Three in a Line on Calatinus’ small clay board. In between, he’d lift his shield to strengthen his left arm. Of course Fabricius knew where to find him, which was no doubt why he was here now. Quintus thought about retreating further into the tent, but there was no point. He threw his shoulders back and stepped outside instead. ‘Father.’

‘I find you here, again.’

Quintus gave a careless shrug. ‘I was lifting weights with my arm.’

Fabricius’ lips thinned. ‘You were supposed to come to my quarters first thing.’

‘I forgot.’

Slap! Fabricius’ palm struck his cheek, and Quintus yelped.

‘You’re not too big yet for me to take a whip to your back. Is that what you want?’

‘Do what you wish,’ said Quintus with a curl of his lip. ‘I can’t stop you.’

Fury flared in Fabricius’ eyes. ‘Lucky for you, I need an important message taken somewhere. Otherwise, I would tan your hide right now!’

Quintus felt a sour delight at his father’s frustration. He waited.

Fabricius produced a tightly rolled parchment. ‘You’re to find a centurion by the name of Marcus Junius Corax. He serves in Longus’ first legion, and commands a maniple of hastati .’

‘What does it say?’ Fabricius rarely told him anything, but Quintus was curious. Cavalry and infantry didn’t often have much to do with each other.

‘None of your business!’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Just deliver the damn message.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Biting his lip, Quintus took the parchment.

‘Wait for a reply, and then find me on the open ground beyond the camp.’ Fabricius was already half a dozen paces away.

Quintus threw a poisonous stare after him. Upon his return, he’d have to traipse around after Fabricius, acting as his unofficial messenger for the rest of the day. He rubbed at the purple scar on the front of his bicep, willing it to recover. It was time for another offering to Aesculapius, the god of healing. He could do that this evening. Donning his cloak, Quintus set out for the legionaries’ tent lines. Taking his horse didn’t appeal; holding the reins quickly tired out his weak arm.

Despite the losses at the Trebia, the camp had still been erected as a double consular one, albeit smaller than usual. The fact that Corax was in one of Longus’ legions meant a long walk indeed. The consuls’ quarters were placed back to back and the legionary tent lines extended to the furthest rampart.

Quintus’ spirits rose a little as he walked. His interest in legionaries and what made them the men they were had persisted, but he never got to spend any time with them. Cavalrymen were a social class above infantry, and the two rarely mixed. Quintus longed to push through that barrier, if only for a while. He wanted to know what it had felt like to drive through the Carthaginian centre. Perhaps Corax wouldn’t give him an immediate reply, which would give him time to talk to some of his men.

His search took a long time, but Quintus finally came upon Corax’s maniple’s tent lines. They lay not far from Longus’ headquarters, but the centurion wasn’t there. As a cynical-looking hastatus told him, Corax liked to get out and about. He was drilling his men, ‘Somewhere on the training ground.’ Trying not to feel frustrated, Quintus headed for the porta praetoria , the entrance that lay furthest from his own tent.

Beyond the walls and the deep defensive ditch lay the area designated for the soldiers’ training. As usual, it was filled with thousands of men. The four types of legionary were for the most part easy to differentiate one from another, which made Quintus’ task a little easier. Many of the velites , or skirmishers, had been on sentry duty at each of the gates, but the rest were hurling javelins while junior officers looked on. These were the youngest and poorest members of the army. Some could be distinguished by the strips of wolf skin adorning their helmets. In another section, the triarii, the most experienced legionaries who formed the third rank in battle, stood out thanks to their mail shirts and long thrusting spears. The hastati and principes , who made up the first and second ranks respectively, were harder to differentiate. Both these types of soldier wore simple bronze helmets, although some had triple feather crests; square breastplates protected their chests. Only the wealthiest men wore mail shirts similar to those seen on the veteran triarii. Their weapons and shields were similar too. There were thousands of them marching, halting, presenting arms and assuming battle formation in maniples, or double centuries. Volleys of javelins followed, and then a charge, before the whole procedure was repeated. Centurions and optiones looked on, roaring orders and reprimands in equal measure. The maniples’ standards were present, but the writing on each was so small that Quintus would have to approach each one. With a sigh, he walked to the nearest.

By the tenth maniple, he was getting angry. From the occasional snickers that followed him, Quintus felt sure that he was deliberately being sent astray. The eleventh unit he approached was some distance from the rest. The two centurions had separated their soldiers into their individual centuries. Each man carried a wooden shield and sword. Over and over, they charged each other, slowing at the last moment before smashing together in a loud crash that wasn’t dissimilar to what Quintus had heard in battle. The thrusts he saw being delivered were as savage as the real thing too. It was so very different to fighting from the back of a horse, which, thanks to its mobile nature, rarely involved more than an exchange of one or two blows. Engrossed by the scene, Quintus drew quite near to the centurions without realising.

‘It’s tough work,’ said a voice.

Quintus looked around, startled. One of the centurions, a man in early middle age with deep-set eyes and a narrow face, was staring straight at him. ‘It looks it, sir.’

‘You’re here on business.’ He pointed at the parchment in Quintus’ fist.

‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to be taken as the spoilt son of a cavalry officer. He adopted a rougher accent than his usual one. ‘Have you any idea where I’d find Marcus Junius Corax, centurion of hastati in Longus’ First Legion?’

A sardonic smile. ‘Look no further. Why do you want me?’

‘This, sir.’ Quintus hurried forward. ‘It’s from Gaius Fabricius, cavalry commander.’

‘I’ve heard of him.’ Taking the parchment, Corax slit the wax seal and unrolled it. His lips moved silently as he read. ‘Interesting,’ he said after a moment.

Quintus didn’t hear. All his attention was on the nearest hastati, who were striving to knock one another over with great shoves of their scuta .

‘It’s filthy, dirty work,’ said Corax. ‘Not like the glory stuff the cavalry boys get to take part in.’

‘There isn’t too much glory being in the cavalry these days,’ Quintus replied bitterly.

‘No, I don’t suppose there is. I’ve heard good things about Fabricius, though.’