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and stared out into the blackness.
    ‘If I find her, rest assured that I will tell her,’ said Bomilcar.
    ‘Thank you,’ replied Hanno gruffly.
    The knowledge would make his journey to Sicily that little bit easier.

Chapter III

    North of Syracuse, Sicily
    LIFTING A HAND against the rising sun’s rays, a Roman legionary squinted into the distance.
    A tall man with black hair, Quintus Fabricius was in a clearing, halfway up a small, tree-covered hill. Below his position, a road led south, to Leontini and, beyond that, Syracuse. It was empty of traffic. So it had been since he and his comrade Urceus had taken over from the previous sentries in the pre-dawn chill, several hours before. Satisfied, Quintus glanced casually around him. There was no great need to worry about attack from anywhere other than the south, but it paid to be vigilant. To his back, about a mile away, loomed the mass that was Mount Etna, its lower slopes covered in farms and vineyards. Northwards, the road ran up towards Messana, into Roman-held, secure territory. To the east, the sea was a deep, inviting blue. The mainland was only a mile or so across the strait; the mountains that ran down to the point of the ‘boot’ were clearly visible. There were no sails on the water yet – it was too early. Yawning, Quintus stood; he leaned his pilum and shield against the rock that had been his seat and walked up and down a few paces, stretching his muscles to get the blood flowing again.
    ‘Cold?’ asked Urceus. Short, brave, funny, he’d been nicknamed Urceus, which meant ‘jug’, because of his prominent, handle-like ears. No one, even Quintus, knew what his real name was. It was a source of endless interest to the maniple. Corax, their centurion, might have known – he’d been the one to take Urceus’ oath when he joined up – but he never let on.
    ‘Two tunics and a heavy cloak and I’m still chilled to the bone,’ Quintus grumbled.
    ‘You shouldn’t sit on your arse so much then.’
    ‘Piss off!’ retorted Quintus, his grey eyes dancing.
    ‘At least there’s been sod all to look out for,’ said Urceus. ‘For the moment anyway.’
    ‘It’s peaceful around here,’ agreed Quintus. ‘It makes me think of home.’ His mind turned to his family, and sadness took him. In Rome, the sun was rising on his mother Atia, his beloved sister Aurelia, and her little son Publius. The gods keep you safe, he prayed. One day, I’ll see you again. Lucius, Aurelia’s husband, might be with them, but according to Aurelia’s most recent letter, it was more likely he’d be in Rhegium, on business. Quintus saluted in the direction of the port, which kept supplies flowing to the Roman troops on the island. He had met Lucius once, just after Cannae; he’d seemed a decent man, and Aurelia made no complaints.
    Urceus threw him a quizzical look. ‘What’s that for?’
    ‘My brother-in-law. The one I told you about, who has business in Rhegium.’
    ‘Loved ones. It’s hard not to think of them when we’re stuck here, eh?’
    ‘It is.’ The familiar bitterness rolled in, and Quintus spat. ‘We fought until we could fight no more at Cannae. We retreated when the battle was lost, so that we could fight another day. And our reward?’
    ‘To be exiled to Sicily – for life,’ snarled Urceus. ‘Fuck the Senate and everyone in it.’
    Once, Quintus would have been shocked by such sentiments. Now, he nodded in agreement.
    ‘May Fortuna be smiling on my brothers,’ muttered Urceus. ‘They’ll be seeing more action than we are.’ His two brothers had joined the army after Cannae, and had been assigned to a different legion. Roman soldiers in Italy saw more frequent action, the troops of many areas having gone over to Hannibal.
    ‘Still no word?’ asked Quintus. He knew the answer, but it showed solidarity to enquire.
    ‘Course not. Paying a scribe to write a letter would seem like a waste of money to my brothers, same as me! We can but pray to