Macerio had been incandescent with jealousy at being passed over; their enmity had grown even deeper as a result. Rutilus was now Quintus’ only friend in the unit, and he had formed a relationship with Severus, one of the new arrivals. Quintus barely saw him any more, except when they were marching. His father was alive — a couple of sneaky trips to the cavalry tent lines had established that Fabricius had come through Trasimene unscathed — but Quintus couldn’t exactly approach him for a friendly chat. With no one to turn to, he had grown to prefer solitude. In the midst of an army, that wasn’t often possible. The hours after the day’s duties ended were therefore his favourite time. As soon as the evening meal was over, it had become his norm to steal away to the camp’s rampart for some peace and quiet. As long as he kept out of the way of the duty officer, the sentries let him be.
In the blackness, he could grieve and let his guilt gnaw at him afresh. Several weeks had passed since the defeat at Trasimene, but the magnitude of those events and what had happened since still hadn’t quite become real. Against all the odds, Corax had led them through the surrounding ring of enemy troops after their breakout during the battle. More than five thousand of the legionaries who’d followed in their footsteps had not been so lucky; apart from a few senior officers, the citizens among them had been slain. Quintus felt a burning fury about their deaths, as he did about the thousands more who had died by the lake. He was sorry too that Big Tenner was gone — he’d been a decent man. But by far the greatest sorrow — and remorse — that he felt were reserved for Calatinus.
His friend was dead. He had to be. Shocking news had come a few days after the battle. Servilius’ four thousand cavalry had been annihilated. Hearing of Flaminius’ defeat, the other consul had sent his horse to reconnoitre the area. They had been ambushed by an enemy force and virtually wiped out. The very thought of it made Quintus feel sick with remorse. Despite his father’s orders, he should have been with Calatinus and the rest. For his friend to survive the Trebia only to be killed a few months later seemed too cruel. It proved how capricious the gods could be.
Quintus Fabius Maximus seemed of the same mind. Upon his appointment as dictator, he had ordered the priests to consult the Sibylline Books. Like the election of a dictator — a magistrate with supreme power over the Republic — this was something that was only done in times of great crisis. Innumerable other religious rites had been performed; dedications and vows had been made in an attempt to win the gods’ favour. None of it had made Hannibal disappear, thought Quintus bleakly. The bastard was still leading them a merry dance. The last he’d heard, the Carthaginian was laying waste to half of Apulia. That was bad enough, but what if Hannibal led his army over the Apennines and into Campania? Fabius had ordered that unfortified towns and farms near the enemy were to be abandoned, and all property and crops that could not be removed should be destroyed, but Quintus couldn’t envisage his mother leaving their home, let alone torching their stores of grain and wine. She was too stubborn. He closed his eyes, imagining a band of Numidians — like the men they’d ambushed — riding up to their farm. That made him feel guilty about not obeying his father. Jupiter, never let that happen, he prayed with all his might. By way of reply, he heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing. As usual. He wanted to shriek his frustration, to curse the gods, but he did not dare. Had they abandoned Rome altogether? Much of the time, it felt like it. Quintus wondered about sending his mother a warning letter, something that his father might have done already. It would serve a second purpose, that of telling her and Aurelia that he was alive. But he wouldn’t be able to tell them about joining the velites, so they would think he was even more of a coward. The idea increased his misery.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
Rutilus’ soft voice made Quintus jump. ‘Hades, you’re as quiet as a cat.’
His friend grinned. ‘I can be silent when I want to. Feel like some company?’
Quintus bridled. ‘Won’t Severus miss you?’
‘He’s asleep.’
‘I should have known that would be the reason.’
Rutilus thumped him on the arm. ‘You know what first love is like — when you can’t get enough of the other person. When every spare moment has to be spent together.’
‘I’ve heard it talked about.’ Quintus could feel Rutilus’ eyes on him, but he didn’t turn his head to meet them. Instead he stared out beyond the rampart, angry at himself for resenting Rutilus — and Severus — and the fact that he’d never been in love.
‘You’ve never been with a woman?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He thought longingly of Elira, the attractive slave at home whom he’d bedded on countless occasions. ‘I haven’t been in love with one, that’s all.’
‘One day, it will happen to you. Eros’ arrow will strike, and your life will never be the same again.’
‘Not while this damn war is on, it won’t.’
‘Meeting women in the army is hard,’ Rutilus agreed. ‘You could always seek out male company.’
Quintus spun. Rutilus’ smile made him even angrier. ‘Stop making fun of me!’
‘My apologies. I was only trying to lift your mood.’
Quintus didn’t answer. They stood in silence. Overhead, a shooting star shot across the heavens and winked out. It’s gone, just like Calatinus, he thought sourly.
‘What has you so downhearted?’ asked Rutilus after a while. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
His anger eased. Rutilus was a good friend. ‘You have to promise not to tell a soul.’
‘Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Not even Severus, Rutilus, I mean it.’
‘What have you done, raped a Vestal Virgin?’ Rutilus saw his mood and nodded. ‘All right, I swear it, before Jupiter, Juno and Minerva.’
Mention of the sacred triad was reassuring. ‘My name’s not Crespo. It’s Fabricius. Quintus Fabricius.’
Rutilus’ surprise was palpable, even in the gloom. ‘Why did you use a false identity to join the army? Did you commit a crime?’
‘You could say that. I am — I was — a cavalryman, but my father ordered me home months ago. I hadn’t been discharged from the cavalry, so by enlisting in the velites, I broke my original oath.’
Rutilus’ eyes were wide. ‘You’re an equestrian?’
‘Shhhh!’
Rutilus came closer. ‘Why in all the gods’ names would you want to become a veles?’
‘It’s complicated.’ In low tones, Quintus sketched him a brief outline of his past.
‘Well, that’s a story and a half, and that’s no mistake,’ said Rutilus when he was done.
Quintus’ guilt felt more raw than ever. ‘Do you think the gods will punish me? Strictly speaking, I am still in the cavalry.’
‘The gods have already had the last laugh, by letting you join the velites!’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I. If the gods can’t see that you’re a loyal servant of Rome, then there’s no hope.’
‘I should have been serving with Servilius’ cavalry. I should have been there when they were ambushed. A good friend of mine is dead, Rutilus. I should be too.’
‘But your father ordered you home, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Quintus.
‘So you wouldn’t have been there anyway. Even if you had been with your friend, you wouldn’t have deserted him if you’d known about the ambush. Would you?’
‘Of course not! I would never have left Calatinus on his own.’
‘Stop blaming yourself, then. For all you know, you might die in the next battle against the guggas. It’s not your choice when or how it will happen.’
Quintus cast his gaze up to the stars. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am, so cheer up,’ ordered Rutilus. He raised the wine skin he had been holding by his side, unseen. ‘Let’s drink a toast to your dead friend, Calatinus.’