Quintus had known that Corax wasn’t around. He, Vitruvius and the optiones were in Pinarius’ quarters, attending the daily debriefing on the day’s events. The hastati who were guarding the door of the house that Quintus’ contubernium was stationed in — two soldiers of their own century — weren’t taken in by their story of going for a walk. ‘Fresh air, is it?’ one had asked, grinning. ‘Eight of you, battle ready at this time of night?’ Smiling, Quintus had told them to shut their damn mouths and get out of the way. Advising them that the wine, whores or both had better be worth whatever punishment Corax devised for them all, the pair of sentries had stood aside.
It was just after sunset, and the streets were empty apart from an occasional leper or stray dog. Even in small towns, people didn’t like to be abroad once the light went from the sky. The seven men that Quintus had taken with him — his entire contubernium — didn’t carry torches. It wasn’t far to the Harvest Moon, and they didn’t want to attract any more attention than they already would with their hobnailed sandals. Quintus heard the rattle of shutters above as they tramped down the main thoroughfare; he felt the unfriendly stares of those who watched from their houses. Sick of the inhabitants’ antipathy towards him and his comrades, he ignored the sounds. Let them come if they dislike us that much, he thought fiercely. We’re fully armoured, and they’ll get a sharp iron welcome from my gladius.
They reached the entrance of the Harvest Moon without incident, however. The door was shut and barred from within. Not a chink of light came from behind its shuttered windows. Undeterred, Quintus hammered on the timbers.
There was no response.
‘You’ve brought us on a fool’s errand, Crespo,’ said Marius. ‘It’s shut. There’s no one at home, or if there is, he ain’t opening for business tonight.’
Quintus banged on the door again.
Nothing.
His comrades stamped unhappily from foot to foot.
‘Let us in!’ cried Quintus. This time, he used the iron butt spike of his javelin on the door. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. ‘Open up, I say!’
‘Or we’ll burn your tavern to the ground,’ said Urceus with a snigger.
The others chuckled, and Quintus was glad that they were his comrades, and were still sober. In different circumstances, especially if their blood was up, they might well be capable of such a thing. He used his javelin butt a second time. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
At last he heard movement within. Feet shuffled up to the door, stopped just the other side. There was silence for a moment. He’s probably terrified, thought Quintus. We might be Pera’s men, returned for our revenge. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he said in Greek. ‘It’s the two soldiers who saved your daughter.’
A heartbeat’s pause, and then a short laugh. ‘You must be thirsty!’ Iron grated off iron as the bolt was thrown back, and the door opened a fraction, revealing the innkeeper’s face. He gasped at the sight of so many legionaries, and Quintus quickly said, ‘It’s all right, they’re my tent mates. I’m not alone in being thirsty, you see.’
The innkeeper didn’t look too happy, but he pulled open the door nonetheless.
Quintus, Urceus and the rest barrelled in, and the door slammed shut behind them. The room — empty of customers — was even more dimly lit than before, but the hastati didn’t care. Setting aside their shields and pila, they sat themselves down at a couple of benches near the bar.
‘What have you got for us to drink?’ cried Marius, slapping his hand on the wooden top.
‘Your finest vintage!’ added Mattheus, leering.
‘After what your friends did, I’m more than happy to give you an amphora of my best wine,’ replied the innkeeper.
‘Excuse my friends,’ said Quintus. ‘We’ll drink whatever you give us.’
‘Only the best for the men who saved my daughter’s virtue.’ He hurried off behind the bar, and Quintus shot a reproving look at Urceus, who was already waxing lyrical about the girl’s attractions.
The wine produced by the innkeeper, whose name was Thersites, was delicious. The hastati raised their cups in appreciation, and he half bowed, clearly pleased. They set to with a vengeance, and before long the small amphora had been drained. Another was brought forth from the back, and it too was of fine quality.
Quintus felt a tinge of guilt. ‘We’ll beggar him if this keeps up,’ he said behind his hand to Urceus.
‘No chance! He’s been in the trade for years; anyone can see that. The next amphora that comes out, or maybe the one after that, will be the cheap stuff. We won’t be able to tell by then, and he knows that.’
Urceus’ simple explanation made Quintus feel a little foolish. Even after years spent with ordinary soldiers, his privileged upbringing still showed him up on occasion. He began to watch Thersites like a hawk each time he appeared with fresh wine. Sure enough, the fourth amphora was newer looking than the previous ones. He nudged Urceus. ‘It’s clean, so it’s from the most consumed stock — in other words, the cheapest.’
Urceus gave him a solemn wink. ‘It’ll do us fine, though, eh?’
‘Aye.’ Despite his best efforts, Quintus found it impossible to taste the difference between the fresh wine and that which they had drunk up to that point. ‘It tastes good to me,’ he said ruefully.
Urceus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re half pissed.’
‘True.’ He gazed around at their comrades and took in their flushed faces and loud voices. ‘We’d best not have too much more, or Corax will string us up by the balls.’
‘One more, for the road, and to ask the gods that we leave the shithole they call Enna soon!’ declared Urceus, clinking his cup off that of Quintus.
Quintus drank deep, relishing the warm feeling as the wine slid down his throat.
At that point, Thersites emerged with a platter of bread, cheese and olives. The hastati descended on it with eager cries, Quintus among them. Another amphora of wine immediately followed, and he forgot about getting back to their quarters. Neither Urceus nor his comrades spoke up. The occasion was fast becoming one of those all-night affairs, when tomorrow is another day and the only thing that matters is the banter and the next drink.
Late on in the night, Quintus’ fuddled gaze chanced upon Thersites. Something made him look again. The innkeeper appeared troubled. Assuming that he and his friends were the cause, he lumbered over to the bar.
‘More wine?’ Thersites was already reaching for the amphora on the rack behind him.
‘I’ve had enough for the moment. You seem unhappy. Do you wish us to leave?’
‘No, no. You can stay as long as you wish.’
The wine had washed away Quintus’ inhibitions. ‘What is it then?’
Thersites stared at him, as if in assessment, before saying, ‘You’re a decent man. So is your friend.’
‘We try to do the right thing,’ he admitted.
‘And these men are your friends, so they must be the same.’
‘I suppose,’ said Quintus.
‘The town’s leaders tell us that all Romans are bloodthirsty killers, who are incapable of any kindness.’
‘Well, that’s not true,’ replied Quintus, bristling.
‘I’ve never really believed it. Having met you and these others, I now know it to be a lie. You are men, the same as us.’ Thersites lowered his voice. ‘Nor are the Carthaginians all good, as they would have us believe.’
Quintus suddenly felt very sober. ‘They talk of the Carthaginians in that way?’
Thersites’ eyes were dark pools of concern. ‘Yes. Our leaders want the town to switch allegiances, as so many others have done of recent weeks. Remember the old days, they say, before Rome took Sicily for itself. Things were so much better then. Carthage is a more gentle master.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘As far as I remember, those times were no different to the years before this war began. Powers such as Rome and Carthage care nothing for places such as Enna, as long as the taxes are paid and the grain supplies flow.’