by Ben Kane
Marcellus spoke at last. ‘Your names?’
‘Quintus Crespo, sir. Hastatus in Centurion Corax’s maniple.’
‘Gaius Marius, sir. The same.’
Marcellus eyed Corax, who said, ‘They’re both good soldiers, sir. Crespo has been with me since before Trasimene.’
Again the consul stared; again Quintus writhed mentally.
‘Your centurion’s opinion carries weight with me, hastatus,’ said Marcellus.
‘Thank you, sir.’ If anything, Quintus’ unease had increased. He hadn’t been dragged here to be congratulated. Nor had Marius.
‘Do you know why you and your tent mate have been summoned?’
Quintus glanced at Marius, and decided that feigned ignorance was the best option. ‘No, sir.’
‘It’s because you speak Greek.’
New fear clutched at Quintus. Had Corax revealed his status? Beside Marcellus, Pera’s expression verged on the hawkish. Quintus felt sick. ‘Er, I do, sir. Yes.’ There. He had admitted it. After more than four years, his status as an equestrian was about to be revealed.
‘Corax tells me that your father died when you were but young,’ said Marcellus in Greek. ‘You had an old neighbour who was originally from Athens; the man taught you your letters, and also to speak his tongue.’
Quintus felt a rush of gratitude towards Corax, who hadn’t given his game away. He’d been summoned here to become a spy, but not to be betrayed. ‘That’s correct, sir,’ he replied, also in Greek. ‘I haven’t had reason to speak it much of recent years, of course.’
‘Yet here we are, outside a Greek-speaking city.’
‘That’s true, sir.’ Again Quintus contrived ignorance, but his heart had started hammering again. They were to be sent into Syracuse, then. Great Mars, protect us, he prayed.
‘Direct attacks have got us nowhere. And while the guggas continue to sail in with supplies, our siege will not starve the defenders into submission,’ said Marcellus. ‘Treachery from within is what we need. It has always been the best method to take a besieged city.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Quintus, continuing to pretend not to understand.
‘We need therefore to recruit men inside Syracuse. Men who will open the gates for us.’
‘That sounds like a good plan, sir.’
‘The Syracusan nobles who call themselves friends of Rome are too scared to enter,’ declared Marcellus angrily. ‘For weeks, I have been unable to find anyone who is trustworthy enough to take on this most important of tasks. That was, until I spoke to my cousin.’ He glanced at Pera with a smile. Pera positively preened himself, and Quintus reeled. Marius, on the other hand, looked happy.
‘Centurion Pera speaks fluent Greek. He has volunteered to go into Syracuse and locate those who might be persuaded to come over to Rome,’ said Marcellus. ‘You will both go with him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the pair replied.
Their tone made Marcellus’ nostrils flare. ‘You are happy to do this, I take it?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Quintus hesitated for a heartbeat. Corax’s eyes bore a degree of sympathy, but he hadn’t protested. Pera’s expression was gloating; that of Marius, excited. Quintus felt world-weary. His accent might give him away. Who knew what Pera was capable of? Kleitos might even see him. This was a direct order from his consul, however, and Rome’s need came before his life. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’
‘Me too, sir,’ Marius quickly added.
Marcellus looked more satisfied. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘The Republic will be grateful.’
Quintus lay back and tried not to breathe. The stench from the fishing nets that covered him from head to toe was overpowering. Two nights had passed since Marcellus’ edict, and now there was no turning back. They were on board a fishing vessel, heading from the western shore of the great harbour of Syracuse to the enemy-held eastern side. After a time, his lungs were bursting. He had to exhale. And inhale again. He gagged.
‘Get used to the smell, hastatus. Find some way to breathe silently,’ hissed Pera, who was lying beside him and similarly covered.
You filthy cocksucker, thought Quintus, wishing that it was Pera who was on the second boat, alone, and not Marius. ‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered.
‘Quiet!’ It was the old fisherman whose vessel they were on. Quintus felt the man’s gnarly foot kick at the pile of netting. ‘Quiet, or we’re fucked.’
Quintus’ pulse pounded an urgent rhythm at the base of his throat. Hard as it was to do, he lay back on the rough deck and forced himself to relax. His nostrils filled once more with the smell of fish and salt. The net’s rough threads rubbed his cheeks. Under him, the planking moved gently as the little craft moved through the water. Timber creaked, water slapped off the hull and the fabric of the sail flapped in the breeze. The crew of three talked to each other in low voices. All was as it should be, but the knowledge gave Quintus no comfort. The danger wouldn’t start until they crossed the harbour and drew near to the small jetty where the local fishermen – needed by the city’s inhabitants, and ‘ignored’ by the Romans because of their usefulness in running messages into and out of Syracuse – docked their craft.
It was at that point that he, Marius and Pera would have to rise up and become Syracusans. Their first hurdle would be the guards at the gate through which the night’s catch was taken. By most accounts, they paid scant attention to the fishermen – other than to collect their unofficial toll of a box of fish – but that didn’t mean that there was no risk involved. Presuming it went well, however, the trio would stay for what remained of the night in the house belonging to the old soak who owned the boat.
After that, their work would really begin. Quintus felt a tide of bile rush up his throat. He could think of nowhere he’d like to be less than where he was right now. To walk, or rather sail into the middle of an enemy-held city, speaking their language with noticeable accent, reeked of stupidity. Yet the alternative – refusing a direct order from Marcellus – would have meant the fustuarium – him being beaten to death by his tent mates. He couldn’t have let Marius go alone either. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, thought Quintus bitterly. May the girls be as beautiful as Marius says they are, he prayed, and may I get to lie with at least one before we’re caught.
Despite his worries, things went smoothly in the hours that followed. The guards didn’t even look up as they shuffled into the city, and they made their way to the old fisherman’s house without hindrance. When they rose the following morning and went out on to the streets, no one gave them a second glance. The names and addresses they’d been supplied with proved to be accurate. Pera decided that he alone would enter the houses to talk to the nobles, which made Quintus wonder why they’d been made to accompany him. It proved truly nerve-racking to wait outside, wondering if every passer-by would denounce them. Nothing of the sort happened, though, and Pera never emerged with anything less than a pleased air. Moreover, Quintus and Marius rarely had to open their mouths, thereby risking discovery.
Quintus found it fascinating to be within the besieged city. It was clear that Marcellus’ plan to take the place through subterfuge was a wise one. Morale seemed high both among the residents and the soldiers. The defences were in good repair, and the batteries of catapults even more numerous than Quintus had guessed. Syracuse had plenty of public wells, so water would never be in short supply. The market stalls weren’t overflowing with fresh produce, but nor were they empty. Grain, oil and wine, the most important commodities, were available, and in a wise move, Epicydes had capped their prices. Fresh fish arrived daily, caught by the same fishermen who’d ferried the trio in. While the women were not as stunning as Marius had boasted, there were plenty of beauties to make their heads turn. Pera’s short leash meant that there were no opportunities to pursue relations of any kind, however. The friends had to content themselves with just looking. When Pera couldn’t hear, Quintus ribbed Marius mercilessly about his bet with Urceus. Marius’ response was always the same: ‘
At least I’d have been in there. Women fall for my looks, but they run a mile from ugly bastards like you!’ That was the cue to start trading insults. The banter helped them to while away the hours, to ignore the constant, gnawing fear.
Over the following five days and nights, in excess of a dozen high-ranking Syracusans were smuggled out and back in the fishing boats – ostensibly as crew – to talk with the nobles already with Marcellus. Once won over, Pera told Quintus and Marius, their mission was to convince more of their fellows to join the Roman cause. When there were enough to ensure that a gate could be taken by force at night, the time would be ripe.
‘How many will they need, sir?’ Marius asked. Quintus wanted to know too. With a core group recruited, it felt as if it were time to leave. The longer they remained in the city, the more peril they were in.
‘I don’t know, hastatus,’ replied Pera, ambition glinting in his eyes. ‘Sixty? Eighty?’
‘Can the Syracusans we’ve spoken with not do the rest, sir?’ ventured Quintus, his gaze wandering uneasily around the dingy tavern in which they were drinking.
‘Maybe they could, but the task will be completed faster if we’re also playing our part.’ With a malevolent curve to his lips, Pera waited to see if Quintus would rise to the bait.
‘I see, sir,’ Quintus replied in a monotone. Marius also looked unhappy—by now his previous enthusiasm had waned considerably—but Pera’s rank prevented further protest.
Quintus tried not to think about being taken as a spy. Marcellus’ orders hadn’t mentioned staying this long. What was Pera up to? A man pushed open the door and entered the inn. A customer who was about to leave stood to one side, letting the newcomer within – and it came to Quintus. Pera wanted to remain until the actual attempt to admit their fellow legionaries into the city took place. If he were Roman, the soldier who let Marcellus’ troops into Syracuse would gain considerable glory. A bitter taste flooded Quintus’ mouth. No one would remember him and Marius, if they even survived. Pera, a centurion, would take all of the credit. The devious bastard.
‘Have you anything to say on the matter?’
Quintus realised with a start that Pera was addressing him. He had no idea if a time to challenge the centurion would ever come, but it was certainly not now. ‘No, sir. We do as you say.’
A wintry smile. ‘To our success, then.’ Pera raised his cup.
Trying to ignore their worries, Quintus and Marius did the same.
Chapter XIX
‘THERE ARE CLOSE on eighty men involved now. That’s as many as Demosthenes feels will turn readily,’ Pera revealed to Quintus and Marius two days later. He’d just met with the chief conspirator in the agora. ‘The gods are smiling on us, because the moon is on the wane. Acting tonight or tomorrow night would be best. Demosthenes will make the decision when it’s dark.’
After so many days of living on his nerves, Quintus felt overwhelming relief. Oddly, a mad part of him exulted. It might be suicidal to stay, but it would feel incredible to be one of those who let their men into the city. The manic gleam in Marius’ eyes told its own story about how he felt. Before Pera, however, Quintus put on a surprised face. ‘We’re to take part, sir?’
‘Aye, we are.’ Pera revealed his teeth. ‘I think that we should have some wine to celebrate.’
Marius looked delighted, but Quintus held back. There was yet one more name on their list. Even a single man might be the difference between success and failure when they came to seize the gate, he thought. ‘There was one last noble you were to talk to, wasn’t there, sir? Attalus – was that his name?’ Pera’s scowl proved that he had forgotten all about him.
‘We have sufficient numbers, damn it,’ Pera snapped.
Quintus caught the warning shake of Marius’ head and decided not to antagonise Pera further. ‘As you say, sir.’ Great Mars, let nothing go wrong from this point, he prayed.
After a quick drink, Pera had them retire to the fisherman’s house, which had continued to be their refuge. The dwelling was located in a tiny lane populated entirely by the old soak’s crewmembers and their extended families. From the first day, no one had paid them any attention, which had helped to relieve the strain that Quintus and Marius felt each time they’d ventured beyond the rundown quarter and into the city proper. Pera ordered Quintus to stay alert while he retired to his room.
Marius slipped Quintus a wink and whispered, ‘If a nap’s good enough for the centurion, it is for me too,’ and disappeared.
Some of Quintus’ concern slipped from his shoulders as he sat in the tiny, sunlit yard behind the house, watching their host repair his nets. Neither he nor the old man spoke, but Quintus enjoyed watching him. There was a hypnotic quality to the repetitive movement of needle and thread to and fro, the tying of knots, and the way that the fisherman used his last few teeth to bite through the ends each time he was done.
After a while, Quintus felt his eyelids droop. Normally, he would have fought the drowsiness, but in the calm of the yard, there seemed little harm in letting them close. They had finished scouring Syracuse for conspirators. Nothing would happen before nightfall, and the languorous feeling induced by the wine he’d drunk was proving too hard to fight. Quintus slipped into a most enjoyable dream; it involved Elira and her wondrously talented mouth.
A hand shook him.
Quintus dreamed that Elira had gripped his shoulder as they were locked together in passion.
He was shaken again, felt a hot breath on his ear. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’
Quintus opened his eyes and recoiled. There was no perfume in the air, only body odour, no alabaster smooth skin, just the warty chin and the straggly beard of the old fisherman. ‘What? What is it?’ Quintus demanded.
‘Soldiers. Soldiers are coming!’
Quintus’ stomach did a neat somersault. ‘How long have we got?’
‘The warning signal came from my nephew’s house, at the mouth of the alleyway. You have a few moments. Get on the roof’ – he gestured at the red tiles above – ‘and drop down into the lane beyond. Go right, and follow it until you come to the temple to Athena. From there, you’ll know where you are. Make your way to my boat and hide yourselves. If they find no one here, their suspicions will be allayed. I’ll take you across the harbour when it’s dark.’
‘My thanks.’ Quintus was already on his feet, scrambling through the doorway to the room he shared with Marius. He considered not waking Pera – to seal the centurion’s fate, he would have to do nothing more than that. Two things stopped Quintus: the fate of the old fisherman if Pera was found, and the fact that the centurion had saved his life in Enna. He owed Pera for that.
By the time that Quintus had roused the others, and the three had started climbing on to the house’s roof, men’s voices were audible outside. Pera, who had gone up first, reached down for Marius. You miserable fucker! thought Quintus. I save your hide and this is how you repay me?
A fist banged on the door, and a voice demanded: ‘Open up, in the name of Epicydes!’ The old fisherman, who was watching, indicated with his hands that he would take his time responding to the summons.
Marius crouched on the tiles and shoved out a hand. Quintus took the grip and scrabbled up the wall with his feet. One of the tiles half lifted from its position as he clambered up, and he cursed under his breath as it dislodged, fell to the floor of the yard and smashed into fragments.
Quintus and Marius looked at each other. Would the old man have time to clear up the broken tile? If not, things boded ill for all of them.
Pera beckoned from the outer edge of the roof. Then, without a word, he jumped.
The friends followed as fast as they could. The alley beyond was tiny and filthy but fortunately the drop was less than the height of two men. Thud. Thud. The mud softened the sound of their fall.
‘Which way?’ demanded Pera, his voice agitated.
‘Right, sir, until we reach the temple to Athena.’
Pera turned and was gone.
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‘The prick is shitting himself,’ pronounced Marius with a grin.
‘I don’t think he’s realised the danger we were in until now,’ said Quintus, also amused. His own fear was far more manageable knowing that Pera was terrified.
They took a moment to listen. Metal hobs clashed off the concrete floor, telling them that the soldiers had entered the house. Marius tugged at Quintus’ arm, but he resisted. Knowing whether the fallen tile had caused suspicion or not was vital.
‘What’s this?’ The angry cry needed no explanation.
‘We can’t stay in the boat,’ Quintus muttered to Marius as they loped off. ‘They’ll come for us, sure as the sun rises in the east.’
‘I’ve got a knife, but you don’t even have that. What the fuck do we do?’
Instinct made both men slow as they came to the end of the alley. Running would draw attention. Quintus scanned the square beyond, which was dominated by the shrine that the old man had mentioned. It was as busy as he’d expect for the time of day. Stallholders proclaimed the quality of their wares; gossiping housewives walked together in twos and threes, inspecting what was on offer. Slaves carrying baskets of shopping walked behind the richer ones. Hawkers of everything from statuettes of the goddess to good-luck charms worked the crowd, smiling and bowing. A pair of cripples – soldiers who’d been injured in the defence of the city? – held up beseeching hands from their positions near the temple steps. Fresh blood glistened on the altar in the centre of the square. A small crowd watched as two acolytes manhandled a dead goat off it. A grey-bearded priest spoke with the merchant who’d paid for the sacrifice that had just taken place.
There was no sign of Pera.
‘The fucker’s gone and left us,’ said Quintus.
‘Maybe he thought we’d look suspicious walking together.’
‘I suppose.’ In Quintus’ mind, however, this was proof of Pera’s cowardice. ‘I can’t see any soldiers.’
‘Nor I.’ They set out across the square.