sending him home. Nothing had been said since the defeat at the Ticinus. Whether it was because of the number of riders who had fallen, or because Fabricius had become reconciled to the idea of him serving in the cavalry, Quintus did not know — or care. His good humour was added to by the bellyful of wine and hearty stew that his father had provided, and he left in much better spirits than he’d arrived.
His good mood did not last long, however. The currents of air that whipped around Quintus as he struggled back towards his tent were even more vicious than earlier in the day. They cut clean through his cloak, chilling his flesh to the bone. It was so easy to imagine the gods sending the storm down as punishment. There was an awful inevitability about the snow that began falling a moment later. His worries, only recently allayed, returned with a vengeance.
What few soldiers were about rapidly vanished from sight. Quintus couldn’t wait to climb beneath his blankets himself, where he could try to forget it all. He was amazed, therefore, to see the Cenomani tribesmen outside. They stood around blazing fires, their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing low, sorrowful chants. The warriors were probably mourning their dead, thought Quintus, shivering. He left them to it.
Licinius was first to catch Quintus’ eye when he entered the tent. ‘Sorry about earlier,’ he muttered from the depths of his blankets. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’
‘Don’t worry about it. We were all feeling down,’ Quintus replied, shedding his damp cloak. He moved to his bedroll. It lay alongside that of Calatinus, who also gave him a sheepish look. ‘You might be interested to know that Publius knows nothing of a Carthaginian fleet attacking Sicily.’
An embarrassed grin creased Calatinus’ face. ‘Well, if he hasn’t heard of it, we have nothing to worry about.’
‘What about the Boii?’ challenged Cincius aggressively.
Quintus grinned. ‘No. Good news, eh?’
Cincius’ glower slowly faded away.
‘Excellent,’ said Calatinus, sitting up. ‘So we just have to wait until Longus gets here.’
‘I think we should raise a toast to that day,’ Cincius announced. He nodded at Quintus as if to say that their disagreement had been forgotten. ‘Who’s interested?’
There was a chorus of agreement, and Quintus groaned. ‘I can feel the hangover already.’
‘Who cares? There’s no chance of any action!’ Cincius leaped up and headed for the table where they kept their food and wine.
‘True enough,’ Quintus muttered. ‘Why not, then?’
The four comrades were late getting to sleep. Despite his drunken state, Quintus was troubled by bad dreams. The most vivid involved squadrons of Numidian horsemen pursuing him across an open plain. Eventually, drenched in sweat, he sat up. It was pitch black in the tent, and freezing cold. Yet Quintus welcomed the chill air that moved across his face and arms, distracting him from the drumbeat pounding in his head. He squinted at the brazier, barely making out the last glowing embers. Yawning, he threw back the covers. If the fire was fed now, it might last until morning. As he stood, Quintus heard a faint noise outside. Surprised, he pricked his ears. It was the unmistakable crunching of snow beneath a man’s feet, but rather than the measured tread of a sentry, this was being made by someone moving with great care. Someone who did not want to be heard.
Instinctively, Quintus picked up his sword. On either side and to the rear, the next tents were half a dozen paces away. In front, a narrow path increased that distance to perhaps ten. This was where the sound was coming from. Quintus padded forward in his bare feet. All his senses were on high alert. Next, he heard whispering. Adrenaline surged through him. This was not right. Groping his way back through the darkness, Quintus reached Calatinus and grabbed his shoulder. ‘Wake up,’ he hissed.
The only answer he got was an irritated groan.
At once the noise outside stopped.
Quintus’ heart thumped with fear. He might have just attracted the attention of those on the other side of the tent leather. Letting go of Calatinus’ tunic, he frantically pulled on his sandals. His fingers slipped on the awkward lacing, and he mouthed a savage curse. Finally, though, he was done.
As Quintus straightened, he heard a soft, choking sound. And another. There was more muttering, and a stifled cry, which was cut short. He rushed to Licinius’ bedroll this time. Perhaps he wasn’t so pissed. Placing a hand across the Tarentine’s mouth, Quintus shook him violently. ‘Wake up!’ he hissed. ‘We are under attack!’ He made out the white of the other’s shocked eyes as they opened. Licinius nodded in understanding, and Quintus took away his hand. ‘Listen,’ he whispered.
For a moment, they heard nothing. Then there was a strangled moan, which swiftly died away. It was followed by the familiar, meaty sound of a blade plunging in and out of flesh. Quintus and Licinius exchanged a horrified glance and they both leaped up. ‘To arms! To arms!’ they screamed in unison.
At last Calatinus woke up. ‘What’s going on?’ he mumbled.
‘Damn it, get up! Grab your sword,’ Quintus shouted. ‘You too, Cincius. Quickly!’ He cursed himself for not raising the alarm sooner.
In response to their cries, someone pushed a blade through the front of the tent and sliced downwards. Ripping the leather apart, he stepped inside. Quintus didn’t hesitate. Running forward, he stabbed the figure in the belly. As the man folded over, bellowing in pain, a second intruder entered. Quintus hacked him down with a savage blow to the neck. Blood spattered everywhere as the intruder collapsed, screaming. Unfortunately, a third man was close behind. So was a fourth. Loud, guttural voices from outside revealed that they had plenty of back-up.
‘They’re fucking Gauls!’ yelled Licinius.
Confusion filled Quintus. What was happening? Had the Carthaginians scaled the ramparts? Ducking underneath a swinging sword, he thrust forward with his gladius, and was satisfied by the loud cry this elicited. Licinius joined him. Side by side, they put up a desperate resistance against the tide of warriors trying to gain entry. It was soon obvious that they would fail. Their new enemies were carrying shields, while they were in only their underclothes.
More ripping sounds came from Quintus’ left and he struggled not to panic. ‘The whoresons are cutting their way in. Calatinus! Cincius! Slash a hole in one of the back panels,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We’ve got to get out.’ There was no response, and Quintus’ stomach clenched. Were their comrades already dead?
‘Come on!’ Calatinus screeched a moment later.
Relief flooded through Quintus. ‘Ready?’ he bellowed at Licinius.
‘Yes!’
‘Let’s go, then!’ Quintus delivered a desperate flurry of blows in the direction of his nearest opponent before turning and sprinting for the rear of the tent. He sensed Licinius one step behind. Quintus reached the gaping hole in the leather in a few strides. He hurled himself bodily through it, landing with a crash at the feet of the others. As they hauled him up, he peered inside, and was horrified to see Licinius — almost within arm’s reach — trip and fall to his knees. Quintus had no time to react. The baying Gauls were on his comrade like hounds that have cornered a boar. Swords, daggers and even an axe chopped downwards. The poor light was not enough to prevent Quintus seeing the spurts of blood from each dreadful, mortal wound. Licinius collapsed on to the tent’s floor without a word.
‘You bastards,’ Quintus screamed. Desperate to avenge his friend, he lunged forward.
Strong arms pulled him back. ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s dead. We have to save ourselves,’ Cincius snarled. Quickly, he and Calatinus dragged him off into the darkness.
There was no pursuit.
‘Let me go!’ Quintus shouted.
‘You won’t go back?’ insisted Calatinus.
‘I swear it,’ Quintus muttered angrily.
They released him.
Quintus gazed around with horrified eyes. As far as he could see, pandemonium reigned. Some tents had been set on fire, vividly illuminating the scene. Groups of Gaulish warriors ran hither and thither, cutting down the confused Roman cavalrymen and legionaries who were emerging, half-clothed, into the cold night air. ‘It doesn’t look like an all-out attack,’ he said after a moment. ‘There aren’t enough of them.’
‘Some of the whoresons are already running away,’ swore Calatinus, pointing.
Quintus squinted into the glow cast by the burning tents. ‘What are they carrying?’ His gorge rose as he realised. A great retch doubled Quintus over, and he puked up a bellyful of sour wine.
