Corax had set them this task. ‘It was your observation that made this possible.’ He’d chuckled wryly. ‘But you lot weren’t ever going to get away with such a dereliction of duty. Abandoning one’s sentry post is inexcusable, whatever the reason. If you survive the attack, however, I’ll forget what happened – this once.’
That was fair enough, thought Quintus. His bladder twinged; irritated, he did his best to ignore it, and his churning guts. It was as if he hadn’t emptied his bladder and bowels before they left the camp. He had, twice. Everyone had been at it: packing out the latrine trenches and making overloud jokes. I’ll forget about it when the fighting starts, he told himself, trying not to imagine what would happen if he never got that far. If a Syracusan sentry heard him climbing the ladder—
Corax materialised out of the blackness and put his face close to Quintus’. ‘Ready?’ he mouthed.
Quintus nodded.
Corax pointed at the wall. ‘Go,’ he meant.
With a final look at the ramparts, Quintus set about getting down into the ditch. The process was nerve-racking. He felt as if a warning cry would issue from above at any moment, or that a massive rock would be dropped on his head. Maybe the lunatic with the carnyx, he who had so terrified a patrol on the south side of the city the night before, would even appear. Nothing of the sort happened, but that didn’t make Quintus feel any better. With gritted teeth, he and Urceus took the first ladder from Placidus’ hands. When more men had joined them in the ditch, they passed it over the bundles of sharp-ended branches. Quintus took a moment then to listen for sentries. Apart from some singing a little way off, he heard nothing. Without further ado, they lifted the ladder up and laid it against the wall. Despite their best efforts, there was a soft noise on impact. They froze, but no challenge rang out.
Quintus burned to ascend at once, but their orders were not to begin the assault until at least five of the ladders were in place. They just had to stand there, hearts pumping, as the rest of their maniple copied what they had done. Eventually, it was done. Hastati packed the ditch like fish in a pool. Scores of others were visible at the edge of the trench, waiting their turn. Pera was out there somewhere too. Gods grant that he comes within reach of my blade later, thought Quintus bitterly. He was determined to utilise the chaos granted by the sack of a city to take his revenge. Urceus agreed with him. If the chance came, they would kill Pera.
‘Fortuna be with you,’ whispered Corax in Quintus’ ear. ‘Go.’
Quintus hated climbing ladders in full kit. In the darkness, it was even harder than he expected. What it would have been like with his shield as well, he could only imagine. With every step, his scabbard threatened to betray him by knocking against the wood of the ladder. Through trial and error, he worked out that by tucking his sword hilt into his armpit and keeping his upper arm clamped against his body, he could minimise the gladius’ movement. With luck, Urceus and the men behind him would work the same thing out.
Up, up, keep going up. Dry-mouthed, sweating, stomach churning, Quintus counted the rungs as a way of getting through the terrifying experience. The tactic didn’t stop images of the soldiers who’d been flung to their deaths during the first assault on the city from filling his mind. When his head popped over the rampart, he almost cursed out loud with surprise. A glance to the left, to the right. Exultation filled him. There was no one in sight. Fifty paces to Quintus’ left, Galeagra loomed. He could hear nothing from within. Stay in there, sleeping off your wine, he prayed, throwing a leg over the top of the wall and easing himself on to the stone walkway beyond. That done, he leaned out and beckoned to Urceus, who was already halfway up.
Before long, there were five of them atop the defences. Then it was ten. Corax appeared with the next set of men; on his orders, they waited until thirty of them had gathered. ‘Remember, stealth is everything still. We kill everyone in the tower, so that it remains in our hands, but our main objective is the Hexapyla.’ Leaving ten soldiers to guard the ladders – yet more hastati were climbing – the centurion ordered the rest to draw their swords and led them towards Galeagra. For the first time, Quintus began to feel naked. The troops they’d be facing would have shields; he and his comrades did not. Fuck it, stop worrying. They’ll all be asleep, he told himself.
But the first man wasn’t. They came upon him right by the door into Galeagra. Yawning, rubbing his head, clearly drunk, he didn’t see them. With his cock in his one hand, he pissed out over the top of the wall. Corax darted forward before anyone else, grabbing the man around the mouth with his left hand and sawing through his throat with the gladius in his right. Black blood showered down into the ditch below as the man struggled. His heels drummed a hypnotic rhythm on the walkway, and then he went limp, like a sacrificed beast at the altar.
Corax lowered him down with care. When he straightened, he pointed to Quintus, and to the door, which was ajar.
Quintus moved before fear froze his muscles. The strip of light cast on the paving meant there were lights burning inside. With infinite caution, he peered around the jamb. His eyes took a moment to readjust. He took in the slumped shape of a man propped up against the outer wall of the room within. There was a trapdoor to the chambers below, and that was it. ‘One soldier,’ he mouthed at Corax. The centurion motioned him in.
Around the doorframe. In, sliding his feet over the timber floor, sword raised. His victim didn’t stir, even when Quintus stood right over him. His eyes opened wide with shock, however, as Quintus’ blade thrust deep into his chest cavity via the point where shoulder met neck. Quintus shoved his left hand over the man’s mouth to keep him silent and ripped out his sword. As blood showered everywhere, they stared at one another in the brief, bizarre exchange that Quintus hated – and loved so well. The Syracusan was dead a few heartbeats later. Quintus propped him against the wall and went to get Corax and the rest.
It didn’t take long to seize control of the rest of Galeagra. Its entire garrison was asleep; discarded jars and beakers of wine lay in every chamber. Level by level, the hastati stole down the ladders and slew the occupants, most of whom were in their beds. Corax summoned the rest of his men from the ramparts and then liaised with another centurion. The decision was taken to move at once for the Hexapyla with two maniples. The rest of the hastati, who were still climbing the ladders, could follow on with all speed. With that, Corax led them out of the Galeagra and on to a narrow way that led along the inside of the wall. It was lined with two- and three-storeyed brick houses that faced on to the defences, but not a soul was to be seen. Despite the almost complete darkness, and the danger that they were in, Quintus was beginning to enjoy himself. There was an insane delight to be taken in their mission. They were but two maniples. If the alarm were raised, thousands of Syracusan defenders would rise from their beds, drunk or not, and annihilate them. If it weren’t, the rewards would be immeasurable.
They moved as fast as was possible, cursing under their breaths at the uneven paving and the rubbish strewn everywhere. Scrawny cats eyed the group with suspicious eyes. An occasional cur stood chewing on the scraps dropped by drunken revellers or thrown from the windows above.
The massive stone towers that formed the Hexapyla had just come into sight, profiled against the starlit sky, when they came across a postern gate. Its bolts were fastened with padlocks, but that didn’t stop Corax grinning and summoning the other centurion. After a brief conferral, Corax’s maniple continued on for the Hexapyla while the second unit waited by the gate. They were to wait for a count of five hundred – enough time for Corax’s hastati to gain a foothold in the towers – before breaking the gate down with axes.
It would have taken Hercules himself to stop Quintus and his comrades from reaching the ramparts over the Hexapyla gate. The momentousness of what they were doing had really sunk in now. The tower’s garrison, some hundred soldiers, was as deeply asleep as that at the Galeagra had been. They died without waking in their beds, on the floors where they had fallen down
drunk, and in the latrines, where several had collapsed. Inevitably, a couple of men were roused by the muffled sounds; they cried out as they died, but the noise made no difference to the final outcome. Groups of hastati were moving through all the other rooms, thrusting, hacking, stabbing. By the time that Quintus and his comrades stood atop the massive gate, the light of the rising sun revealed them to be spattered with blood from head to foot. From below, they could hear other soldiers heaving back the great bolts that sealed the portal. Soon after, a hastatus arrived to tell them that the postern gate was also in Roman hands.
‘We’ve done it,’ said Urceus, chuckling like a maniac. ‘We’ve fucking done it.’
‘Almost. We find Pera next,’ Quintus added in a whisper.
They would do this together, without involving Placidus or the rest. No blame could be laid on their tent mates if they’d been with the maniple for the entire duration of the attack. Corax might notice that the pair were gone, but he wouldn’t be able to do a thing until they returned. Quintus already had a story concocted about being swept away from the unit in a fight and not being able to find it again in the confusion.
Corax appeared from the gate below. ‘It’s open, but I want no overconfidence. The army isn’t inside yet.’ There was a trumpet in his hands. ‘This is Roman. It must have been taken after our first assault. Crespo, can you sound it?’
Quintus’ heart sang. This was another acknowledgement of what he’d done. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ He raised the instrument to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew with all his might. The discordant noise that emerged had a smiling Corax and Urceus stick their fingers in their ears. Quintus sounded it again and again, shredding the night air with his cacophony until he felt breathless.
Still chuckling, Corax cupped a hand to the side of his head and leaned out over the rampart. ‘Listen.’
First, Quintus heard the shouts of officers. Then, the familiar tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of sandals hitting the ground in unison. Marcellus’ legions, which had been assembling under the cover of darkness for this moment, were answering his summons. ‘Syracuse is ours, sir,’ he said proudly.
‘I don’t owe you that wine just yet, Crespo,’ warned Corax. ‘But I’d say it could be yours by the day’s end if the gods continue to smile on us as they have done this night. Our orders now are to take Epipolae, the area to the west of here, first. We’re to be ready to face enemy attacks from every direction. The most likely responses will come from the east or southeast, towards Achradina and Ortygia. That’s where our intelligence tells us that Epicydes is. He won’t want to let his city fall without a fight.’
‘Let them come, sir,’ said Urceus fiercely.
Corax looked pleased. ‘It’s time to send the fear of Hades into the hearts of everyone inside the walls. Make as much noise as you can from this point. We’ll head south, to the limits of Epipolae. Assemble with the rest of the men, outside.’ He was gone even as they replied.
‘Now’s our moment,’ hissed Quintus.
Urceus lifted his gladius, which was red from tip to hilt. ‘Aye. It’s time to avenge Marius.’
Aurelia rolled over and sleepily reached out a hand to where Hanno should have been. Her fingers met only cold blankets. Waking, she remembered. This was the second night running that he hadn’t been there. She still wasn’t used to Publius’ absence, which meant that she missed Hanno’s warmth in the bed even more. Yet she couldn’t deny him the pleasure of a couple of big drinking sessions. What he and Kleitos had done the previous evening was already the stuff of legend. The story of how they had daringly sacrificed to Artemis outside the walls, before putting to flight a large Roman patrol, had swept through the city as if borne by the wind itself.
It might have been so different if the legionaries hadn’t been panicked by Kleitos’ carnyx, but Aurelia had refrained from mentioning that. Such a huge boost to everyone’s morale had been worth it, for the long months of siege had taken their toll. Even Hanno, who like her had had the freedom of a period in Akragas, had grown tired of it all. She was heartily sick of it; of the shortages of foodstuffs and essentials such as lamp oil; of the refugees who, having fled the Roman legions as they closed in, were packing the city until it bulged at the seams; of the soldiers who felt that it was their god-given right to harass every able-bodied woman they saw. An image of Pox Face came to mind, and Aurelia sighed. So far there had been no instances like that – she didn’t go out very often, and wore a hooded cloak when she did – but any hope of getting back to sleep had just vanished.
Aurelia looked down to the foot of the bed, where the cat was still curled up, asleep. Bless him, she thought. She fed him some scraps from her plate when Hanno wasn’t about, but meat was far too scarce a commodity to give to a pet cat. If it weren’t for the young boys in the neighbouring apartments who hunted rats for sport, Hannibal would have had precious little to eat. With a little luck, they’d deliver one or two later. The small silver coin that Aurelia gave them once a week meant that they tended not to forget. It was fortunate that the boys also liked feeding the cat, because it meant that Aurelia didn’t have to handle the dead rodents. She had insisted it was done in one of the nearby alleys.
After a little while, she rose and got dressed. Sunlight was starting to creep through the gaps in the shutter slats, which meant that it was nearly time to begin the day. If she went to the bakery now, there was more chance of getting some bread. It was nicer hot from the oven too. The fishermen would have returned from their night’s activities, Aurelia realised with a flash of excitement. Fish was one of the few commodities in abundant supply, and Hanno might appreciate a plate of fried tuna or mackerel later. It was worth walking several streets to the fishmonger’s to check what he had in. While she was there, she could look in the market for some vegetables.
A sharp pang of grief struck home. It still felt odd to consider going out without Publius. I miss you every day, little one, she thought. May the gods look after you in Elysium. I will join you there one day. When he’d died, she had wanted to follow him daily, but her love for Hanno had changed that. There was only one life, and it had to be lived, not ended prematurely. She’d see Publius again when her time came. Before that, she hoped to have children with Hanno. Not now, for that would be insane, but when the peace that she longed for arrived. Until then, she would continue to take the herbs sold by certain midwives.
A boy shouted on the street, and she smiled. It was the red-haired, sturdy leader of the rat-catchers. Hanno had said that – red hair aside – the boy reminded him of himself when he was young. The idea of having a miniature version of Hanno to look after warmed Aurelia’s heart. Gathering up her wicker basket and purse, she prepared to go out.
Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. The sound repeated, over and over. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.
The sound dragged Hanno up from the depths of unconsciousness. That’s a trumpet, he thought dully. A fucking trumpet. Whoever’s blowing it needs the thing shoved up his arse. That would soon shut him up.
Other men stirred, shouted irritably. ‘Piss off!’ ‘We’re not on duty.’ ‘It’s a festival day, you idiot!’
To Hanno’s frustration, the trumpeter remained unaware of their discontent. The noise went on and on, until he was awake enough to take in his surroundings. He was lying on a dirty floor, partially under a table. Kleitos sprawled beside him, oblivious. Between them was a half-full jug of wine, miraculously unspilled. They were still in Poseidon’s Trident, he realised. He reached out with a foot and kicked Kleitos.
‘Urrrrr,’ Kleitos groaned. ‘Gods, my head hurts.’
‘Mine too,’ said Hanno, trying to find enough moisture in his tacky mouth to spit. Failing, he leaned up on an elbow and took a swallow of wine. Its acid taste made him choke. He forced it down anyway, and took a second mouthful. ‘The hair of the dog that bit us,’ he muttered, offering it to Kleitos. ‘Want some?’
Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.
K
leitos’ face, which had been slack and exhausted-looking, changed. He stared at Hanno, mouth agape. ‘Has that been going for long?’
‘A little bit. Why?’
‘Greeks don’t use trumpets.’ Kleitos lunged upwards, using the table to help himself stand. ‘UP! UP, YOU FUCKING MAGGOTS! THE ROMANS ARE INSIDE THE CITY! UP! UP!’
There was instant uproar.
The nausea that had been threatening Hanno’s stomach grew a lot worse. He swallowed it down and stood with an effort. ‘How? How can they have got in?’
‘You tell me!’ yelled Kleitos. Wild-eyed, he darted about, coming up a moment later with his sword and baldric. ‘It’ll have been a traitor,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘That’s always how cities get taken, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose.’ Hanno found his own weapon further under the table; his helmet was there too. At least they had come to the inn without going home to change. He and Kleitos were still in their armour. ‘Where was the trumpet sounding from?’
‘Who fucking knows? Let’s get outside and find out.’
Hanno studied the men around them, who were from a mixture of units and clearly of varying quality. Some looked to be veterans, but the majority were young men who could have only been pressed into service when the siege began. Their panicked faces told him plenty.
‘You! You. You, and you!’ Kleitos yelled. The four soldiers he’d pointed at – veterans – responded, which was something, thought Hanno. They shuffled closer. ‘Sir?’ asked one.