with each heaving breath. Soon he was glad to have been called back. Cutting down the Syracusans had been easy when they’d broken, and for the first few hundred paces of their headlong retreat. Yet a stage had come, as it always did, when chasing men who were no longer encumbered by weapons and armour became a real test of one’s endurance. Quintus was grateful for the extra protection of his mail shirt, but it weighed ten times more than the bronze chest- and backplates that he’d worn as a newly promoted hastatus.
He shouted after his companions who appeared not to have heard the summons. Nearby, Urceus was doing the same. Only a handful of men who needed recalling. They had all been through enough war to know when to call it a day. Everyone knew of soldiers who had pursued so eagerly that they had become isolated and turned on by their prey. And that, Corax had drummed into them, was yet another stupid way to die.
They wandered back up the road, twenty-odd hastati, stripping the dead of water skins and dispatching the badly wounded Syracusans as they went. It was hard to be sure how many enemy infantry lay scattered around, but it was easily a hundred. The cavalrymen had fared even worse. Quintus had seen two or three riders galloping away from the slaughter, but that was it. Despite the sneezing hastatus, the ambush had been a resounding success. Those of the enemy who could walk were herded towards the main ambush site, some distance to the north.
Corax was interrogating a prisoner. He broke off from his questioning with their arrival. The side of his mouth lifted a fraction: it was his excuse for a smile. ‘You heard my whistle?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Quintus.
‘Any fools still chasing the Syracusans?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Any officers among those you’ve got there?’
‘Not a one, sir.’
‘Kill them then. I’ve got the second-in-command here. One way or another, he’ll sing like a canary.’
‘Sir.’ Quintus wasn’t surprised. Corax wanted information, and if they couldn’t provide that, captives were of no use. They had scant rations for themselves as it was; they could spare neither food nor men to guard even a few prisoners. He took no joy in killing men in cold blood, but the order had to be obeyed. He eyed his companions, readied his sword arm. ‘You heard the centurion, brothers.’
‘Not you, Crespo.’
Quintus stared at Corax in surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘Speak any Greek?’
The mere fact that the centurion had asked spoke volumes. Quintus had long wondered if Corax suspected that his origins were not what he’d said when enlisting. Quintus didn’t know why; it was just the way that Corax looked at him sometimes. He hesitated for a heartbeat, aware that the longer he left it before replying, the more it appeared as if he were lying. ‘A little, sir, yes.’ Feeling awkward, he began to lie, ‘I learned it when–’
‘Save the explanation. Mine is as rusty as hell. Come here and translate.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Doubly relieved – that he’d escaped further questioning, and that he wouldn’t have to help execute the prisoners – Quintus turned his back on the sobbing Syracusans, who were bunching together as Urceus and the rest closed in on them.
The well-built officer, who was bearded and a few years older than Quintus, had a shallow cut on his right arm but was otherwise unharmed. He regarded Quintus proudly. ‘Are all of my men to be slain?’
Corax understood. ‘Yes. Each one dead is a sword arm less on the walls of Syracuse,’ he said.
Quintus looked at the officer. ‘Did you understand that?’
A lip curl. ‘Not really.’
Quintus translated.
‘Is the same going to happen to me?’
Quintus didn’t answer at once, and the officer said, ‘Your commander’s Greek is shit.’
Quintus glanced at Corax, who laughed. ‘He’s a confident prick, I’ll give him that,’ Corax said. ‘He’s right too. I’ve gathered that his name is Kleitos, and
He shouted after his companions who appeared not to have heard the summons. Nearby, Urceus was doing the same. Only a handful of men who needed recalling. They had all been through enough war to know when to call it a day. Everyone knew of soldiers who had pursued so eagerly that they had become isolated and turned on by their prey. And that, Corax had drummed into them, was yet another stupid way to die.
They wandered back up the road, twenty-odd hastati, stripping the dead of water skins and dispatching the badly wounded Syracusans as they went. It was hard to be sure how many enemy infantry lay scattered around, but it was easily a hundred. The cavalrymen had fared even worse. Quintus had seen two or three riders galloping away from the slaughter, but that was it. Despite the sneezing hastatus, the ambush had been a resounding success. Those of the enemy who could walk were herded towards the main ambush site, some distance to the north.
Corax was interrogating a prisoner. He broke off from his questioning with their arrival. The side of his mouth lifted a fraction: it was his excuse for a smile. ‘You heard my whistle?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Quintus.
‘Any fools still chasing the Syracusans?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Any officers among those you’ve got there?’
‘Not a one, sir.’
‘Kill them then. I’ve got the second-in-command here. One way or another, he’ll sing like a canary.’
‘Sir.’ Quintus wasn’t surprised. Corax wanted information, and if they couldn’t provide that, captives were of no use. They had scant rations for themselves as it was; they could spare neither food nor men to guard even a few prisoners. He took no joy in killing men in cold blood, but the order had to be obeyed. He eyed his companions, readied his sword arm. ‘You heard the centurion, brothers.’
‘Not you, Crespo.’
Quintus stared at Corax in surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘Speak any Greek?’
The mere fact that the centurion had asked spoke volumes. Quintus had long wondered if Corax suspected that his origins were not what he’d said when enlisting. Quintus didn’t know why; it was just the way that Corax looked at him sometimes. He hesitated for a heartbeat, aware that the longer he left it before replying, the more it appeared as if he were lying. ‘A little, sir, yes.’ Feeling awkward, he began to lie, ‘I learned it when–’
‘Save the explanation. Mine is as rusty as hell. Come here and translate.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Doubly relieved – that he’d escaped further questioning, and that he wouldn’t have to help execute the prisoners – Quintus turned his back on the sobbing Syracusans, who were bunching together as Urceus and the rest closed in on them.
The well-built officer, who was bearded and a few years older than Quintus, had a shallow cut on his right arm but was otherwise unharmed. He regarded Quintus proudly. ‘Are all of my men to be slain?’
Corax understood. ‘Yes. Each one dead is a sword arm less on the walls of Syracuse,’ he said.
Quintus looked at the officer. ‘Did you understand that?’
A lip curl. ‘Not really.’
Quintus translated.
‘Is the same going to happen to me?’
Quintus didn’t answer at once, and the officer said, ‘Your commander’s Greek is shit.’
Quintus glanced at Corax, who laughed. ‘He’s a confident prick, I’ll give him that,’ Corax said. ‘He’s right too. I’ve gathered that his name is Kleitos, and
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