‘That’s a bad way to die,’ said Piso without thinking.
‘Sounds as if he deserved it, though,’ Vitellius put in.
‘He did. Him and the others.’
Piso was quick to mutter his agreement, but he wondered if he’d seen a flicker of distrust in Gaius’ eyes. He swallowed a last spoonful of porridge, and said in a regretful tone, ‘I don’t know about you, ’Tellius, but I need my bed. Gratitude once again, Gaius.’
Accepting their bowls with a nod, Gaius looked Piso up and down. ‘What legion are you in?’
‘The Twentieth,’ lied Piso, not knowing which legion was best to say.
‘Which cohort?’
The casual question fell with the speed and lethality of an incoming sling bullet. Gaius knew men in one cohort or another, Piso decided, perhaps several. He was trying to catch them out. If Piso named a cohort in which Gaius had friends, he and Vitellius would be denounced before the scrapings of porridge in their bowls had gone cold. ‘The Tenth,’ he answered, his tongue rasping off the dry roof of his mouth.
Gaius’ calculating expression eased into one of dissatisfaction. ‘I’ve got mates in the third and fourth.’
‘I might know them to see, but not to talk to,’ said Piso. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Aye,’ said Gaius sourly. He cast a look at his tent. ‘Marcus! Didn’t you say once that you knew some men in the Tenth Cohort of the Twentieth?’
‘One or two,’ came the reply.
Piso wanted to rage at the heavens. Why me? Why now? He cast a quick look at Vitellius. What should we do? he mouthed. If they ran, Gaius and his comrades would be on them like a pack of hounds on a lame hare. By staying, they ran the risk of being exposed as frauds, which would result in the same thing. They were caught between Hannibal and his army, and the deep blue sea, as Piso’s grandfather had been fond of saying. Screwed, in other words, he thought with supreme bitterness.
‘Get out here,’ called Gaius.
‘I’m having a nap,’ came the irritated reply.
‘It won’t take a moment,’ said Gaius, smiling at Piso, who was reminded of the jagged-edged teeth he’d seen once in the mouth of a shark, hauled up in a fisherman’s net.
‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Marcus.
‘You’re bound to know Marcus’ friends,’ said Gaius, putting down the bowls.
Piso nodded in what he hoped was an enthusiastic manner. I’m not fool enough to stand here and die, he decided. Vitellius’ stiff-legged posture, like a male dog facing up to another, seemed to say the same thing. Cut down Gaius and they could be thirty paces away before Marcus emerged, or any of Gaius’ other tent mates reacted. Duck down that avenue and they stood a decent chance of losing themselves among the tent lines, from where they could trace a path back to the principia.
The option was fraught with risk. Failure to kill Gaius would result in a sword fight here, against overwhelming odds. The guy ropes holding up the tents were difficult to wend past at a walk, never mind a sprint. One trip, and either he or Vitellius would have a snapped ankle – the prelude to a far nastier fate. The legionaries they’d meet during their flight – of which there would be many – might obstruct their path, or even attack them. Scaling the rampart at the principia would render them as helpless as babes.
Hannibal or the sea? Piso wondered, pulse hammering, mouth bone dry. The sea or Hannibal?
‘Stop him!’
Every head turned towards the cry, which had originated further up the avenue. The distinctive sound of hobnails pounding off the earth came next.
‘Halt that officer! He’s making for the principia!’
Like every man within earshot, Gaius’ attention had moved, in his case away from Piso and Vitellius. Piso was about to suggest, sotto voce, that they make a run for it, but the sight of scores of legionaries charging towards them put paid to that idea. If Gaius denounced them, as he would, half the mob could easily split away from their prey – a lone officer – to pursue him and Vitellius.
They had to remain where they were, and as Vitellius tugged out his sword, Piso realised with horror that he had to copy the move. Not to do so would reveal his loyalty more truly than a wrong answer to any of Gaius’ probing questions.
‘With me, brothers,’ roared Gaius, moving to the middle of the avenue. ‘We can’t let the cocksucker escape!’
Piso took up a position to Gaius’ right – which brought him closer to the tent lines opposite. Vitellius did likewise. Gaius’ comrades, with Marcus among them presumably, soon joined them, swords and shields in hand. So too did a dozen other legionaries from their unit. It took no time to form a solid line across the avenue. Piso’s palms grew sweaty as he saw that the officer – a centurion, from the look of his phalerae and other decorations – was aimed straight for him. Was he going to have to murder a man to save his own skin? Piso didn’t know if he could, but the bloodlust-filled faces swarming behind the terrified centurion were a strong persuader.
In twenty paces, he would have to decide.
Eighteen.
‘Come on, you maggot,’ shouted Gaius, neck veins bulging. ‘There’s no way through for you here.’
Sixteen.
Bile stung the back of Piso’s throat. He swallowed it down, gripped his sword until his fist hurt.
Fourteen.
‘Gut him!’ screamed one of the centurion’s pursuers. ‘He murdered the sentry outside his tent!’
An animal roar went up from Gaius and the rest. Vitellius’ voice joined in, and Piso was ashamed to hear his own too. The centurion was so close now that he could make out the scars left on the man’s cheeks by the pox, the sweat beading his brow and even the colour of his eyes – slate grey.
Eight steps, and Piso tensed. He would stab the centurion if he had to. The man’s death was certain – why add his own, and possibly that of Vitellius, to the ugly mixture?
The centurion had conquered his fear – or at least made peace with it. Slowing his pace, he dropped a shoulder towards Piso and readied his right arm, which held a bloodied gladius.
Crushing panic suffused Piso’s every pore. Chances were he was going to die in the next few heartbeats. Like the centurion, he had no shield, which made sliding a blade into him that much easier.
‘Die, you filth!’ bawled Gaius, darting forward.
Too late, the centurion’s gaze moved from Piso. Too slow, he tried to twist and face the new threat. His eyes widened with shock, then fear, then pain as Gaius’ sword rammed deep into his groin. A cracked wail left his lips and there was a thump as, carried forward by their momentum, the two men collided, chest to chest. Gaius delivered a savage head-butt, and blood spurted from the centurion’s smashed nose.
Gaius gripped the centurion’s shoulder with his left hand, steadying him so that he could drive his blade even deeper. ‘How d’you like that, you mongrel?’
The answer was a low, awful moan. The sound of a man in mortal agony. It had the same effect as a trussed-up criminal revealed in the arena to a pride of starving lions. Legionaries drove in from every side, their sword points searching for a home in the centurion’s flesh. Eight, ten, twelve wounds blossomed on his neck, arms and legs.
Struck rigid, Piso watched in horror.
‘Let’s go!’ Vitellius’ breath was hot in his ear.
Like a drunk waking, sore-headed, in an alley, Piso came back to life. He stared at Vitellius. ‘Eh?’
‘They’ll kill us next. Come on.’ Vitellius took his right wrist in a grip of iron.
With shame scourging every part of him, Piso turned and ran.
Chapter VIII
Fortune had favoured Piso and Vitellius, thought Tullus when they reported to him that evening. Fortune, and the bloodlust that had swept over Gaius and the rest. No one had pursued them into the tent lines. After a hundred paces, and three sharp turns – left, right, right – which had taken them out of the line of sight of the avenue, Piso explained how he’d thought to slow to a walk. Everyone looks at the man who is running, he told Tullus, but the man who walks draws no more than passing attention. So it had proved. Emboldened by their success – and intimidated by the reception Tullus would have given them if they returned early – the pair had continued with their mission. Because Gaius’ friend Marcus had acquaintances in the Twentieth Legion, they had visited the First’s tent lines.