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the gods and hope that all of us make it.’ He threw Quintus a sympathetic look. ‘It’s the same even if you can write, isn’t it? Sicily is far enough from the mainland that it might as well be the damn moon.’
    Quintus nodded in agreement. Not for the first time, he remembered the messages he’d sent to Gaius, his oldest friend from Capua. There had been no replies. Was Gaius dead, or had he and his father Martialis gone over to Hannibal? The latter notion wasn’t unlikely, Quintus had reluctantly concluded. Gaius and his father held Roman citizenship, but they were Oscan nobility through and through. Their people had only been conquered by Rome two generations before. When Capua had changed sides after Cannae, severing its ties with Rome, the majority of its leaders and ruling class had done so too. Quintus couldn’t think of a reason that Gaius wouldn’t have done the same. He didn’t have it in himself to hate his friend if that was the case. They’d known each other since they were babies, had shared almost every experience of life from early childhood to the date that they had taken the toga. Wherever you are, Gaius, he thought, I hope you are well. If you fight for Hannibal, I pray that we never meet.
    ‘To my brothers. To old friends and comrades!’ said Urceus. He poured a small measure of wine from his skin on the ground as a libation before taking a swig. He handed the bag to Quintus, who echoed his salutation. To Gaius, he said silently. Out loud, he added, ‘To Calatinus.’ Then he took a mouthful. The wine was vinegary, but Quintus enjoyed the warming feeling as it went down his neck. He slugged another.
    ‘Calatinus was your cavalry comrade from the battle of the Trebia.’
    ‘Good memory,’ said Quintus. ‘I’ve hardly seen him since joining the infantry.’ Until Urceus came along, Calatinus had been the comrade he’d missed the most. Fortunately, they had bumped into one another before Cannae, and afterwards too. The mere fact that they’d both survived the bloodiest defeat in the Republic’s history had been enough excuse to get drunk together. That was the last time they had met. Quintus had no idea where on the Italian mainland Calatinus was serving now, so he saluted from northeast to southeast, encompassing the entire peninsula. ‘May Mars keep his shield over you, my friend. May we meet again, in happier times.’
    Urceus was watching. ‘You made it happen. Not seeing him again, I mean. Ordinary foot soldiers don’t mix with equestrians, Crespo.’
    Quintus smiled. Crespo was the name he’d taken when he had enlisted in the infantry. It had taken him a long time to reveal his true name, and identity – that of an equestrian – to Urceus. Finally, though, he’d mentioned it one night when they’d had plenty to drink. His friend had made little of it, which had been a relief, but even now, more than a year later, Quintus was wary of talking frankly about the life he’d led before joining the infantry.
    ‘You were mad to leave the cavalry,’ opined Urceus, not for the first time. ‘You wouldn’t be stuck here, on fucking Sicily, if you’d stayed.’
    Quintus had thought about this countless times, yet he still wouldn’t have changed the way he’d done things. Humble citizens they might be, but Urceus and his comrades were as dear to him – dearer – than anyone but his family. ‘If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have anyone to keep you out of trouble,’ he shot back.
    Urceus chuckled. ‘Listen to you! It’s the other way round, you know that! If not for me, you’d be dead a dozen times over.’
    The truth of it was that they had both saved each other’s lives more than once, but the banter was part of their routine. ‘Enlisting in the velites was the only way that I could continue to fight Hannibal. My father, gods rest his soul, was so angry with me that he’d ordered me back to Capua.’
    ‘I remember. But the lowliest class of infantry?’ Urceus