Cato rose from the floor. His first instinct was to tell the truth. Then he realised that this wasn't the soldier's way. If he was to earn any respect from his new comrades he couldn't afford to be seen as running to authority for protection. Besides, if he covered for Pulcher now then maybe the thug would have cause to be grateful to him. Any advantage was worth securing at this stage.
'Yes, sir. That's right. We're friends.'
'Hmm.' Macro scratched his chin. 'Well, if you really are friends then I'd hate to be one of your enemies. Right, optio – I want a word with you in my quarters right now, so I'm afraid your friend here will have to leave.'
'Sir!' Pulcher replied smartly. 'I'll see you tomorrow, Cato.'
'Yes…'
'We can continue our practice then.'
Cato smiled weakly then Pulcher turned and left the room, leaving an amused Macro in his wake.
'So that's your friend, is it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I'd be a little more careful in my selection of friends if I were you.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now then, we need to talk. Come with me.'
Macro led the way down the corridor to the administration section of the barracks block where his quarters were situated. Cato was ushered, with a friendly wave, into the centurion's office where two desks were set against opposite walls. The larger desk was completely clear while the smaller was covered in neatly arranged piles of papyrus and waxed slates.
'Over there.' Macro pointed to a trestle chair by the larger desk and Cato sat down quietly while the centurion found another chair and placed it behind the desk.
'Drink?' Macro asked. 'It's good stuff.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Macro poured them each a small cup from a large jar and then eased himself back into his chair. A good deal of wine had already passed his lips that day and he felt uncommonly good-natured. Experience should have told him that today's good nature is tomorrow's skull-crunching hangover – but the gods of wine and memory never were on speaking terms.
'I need to talk about your duties, as far as being an optio is concerned. For the moment I just want you to help Piso with the paperwork. There's no way I can let you give orders to the other men in the century – they'd die laughing. I know you outrank them, officially, but you just have to accept that you can't act as an optio for the moment. Understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Given time, once you've trained… then we'll see. But for now I need a clerk more than I need a second-in-command. Piso will show you what you need to know in the morning.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now I expect you could use some sleep, you'll need it. You can go.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'I will arrange for Piso to show you the ropes after training ends tomorrow.'
'Yes, sir. I'll look forward to it.'
Chapter Five
The time passed quickly, to Cato's consternation. There simply did not seem to be enough time in the day to do all that the army required of him. Apart from the relentless drilling at the hands of Bestia, Cato had administrative duties to carry out each evening, and then he had to ensure that his equipment was thoroughly cleaned for the next morning. Bestia had the eyes of a hawk and any speck of dirt, broken strap or missing buckle was instantly spotted and resulted in fatigues, or a thrashing with his cane. Wielding a vine cane was something of an art, Cato had discovered. The trick was to inflict as much pain with as little lasting damage as possible – soldiers were supposed to be disciplined, not hospitalised. Accordingly, Bestia restricted his blows to the fleshy parts of the legs, shoulders and buttocks. Cato had occasion to sample Bestia's expertise one day when he had failed to fasten the chin strap of his helmet. Bestia had pounced on him, ripping the helmet off – almost taking one ear with it.
'That's what will bloody happen to you in battle, you stupid bastard!' he shouted into Cato's face. 'Some bloody German will rip your fucking helmet off and smash his sword through the top of your skull. Is that what you want?'
'No, sir.'
'Personally, I don't give a toss about what happens to you. But I will not let the tax-payer's investment in you go to waste just because you're an idle bastard. You we can replace, but a dead soldier means lost equipment and I will not let you give the quartermaster any excuse to get on my back!'
Bestia swung his cane and, before Cato could respond, there was a sharp blow to his left shoulder and his arm went numb. The nerveless fingers loosened their grip on the wicker shield and it fell to the ground.
'Next time you forget to fasten your helmet, it'll be your fucking head.'
'Yes, sir,' Cato gasped.
At the start of every day the recruits had to assemble fully dressed and fully equipped as the dawn trumpet calls blared out across the fortress. Kit inspection was followed by a breakfast of porridge, bread and wine, dolloped into their mess tins by a resentful cook's assistant appointed to rise with the recruits. Then came parade-ground drill. Marching in step, halting, turning, changing face at a word of command. Every mis-step, wrong turn or mistimed movement brought forth a stream of invective from Bestia and his drill instructors and the slash of a vine cane. Eventually the recruits could respond instantly to his commands and training proceeded to the next stage – formation changes. From close order to open order, line to column and back to line. Learning how to march in wedge formation and tortoise formation – and all this while carrying the heavy training equipment.
After the midday meal it was even worse as the drill instructors moved their squads on to fitness training. For the first month, each afternoon was spent marching round the outside of the base, again and again and again until the burnished winter sun dipped into the wispy grey of dusk and, at last, Bestia led them back through the main gate at the same unrelenting pace. In the first weeks, numerous recruits fell out of line only to be promptly pounced on by a drill instructor and thrashed back on to the end of the column.
After the incident in the barracks, Cato made strenuous efforts to keep away from Pulcher and he was quite content to let the other man believe it was through fear. And fear it was, fear tempered by a logic which told him that there could only be one outcome from an open confrontation with Pulcher – being beaten to a pulp. To Cato's mind it made little sense to satisfy one's pride at the expense of one's body. If Pulcher thought him less of a man because Cato denied him the opportunity of beating him up then that was the measure of Pulcher's stupidity, and of any man who felt the same. And yet others did feel the same. Cato slowly became aware of the pitying glances directed at him by other recruits, and the way in which they drew back from him in the few spare moments between training sessions.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
'You're going to have to fight him,' said Pyrax one evening as they sat on a bench in the century's mess room.
Cato took a swig of the rancid wine he had bought to share with Pyrax. The foul liquid rasped down his throat and he coughed.
'You all right?'
Cato nodded. 'Just the wine.'
Pyrax looked down into his cup and took a thoughtful sip. 'Nothing wrong with it.'
'Perhaps if I fight him when I'm drunk I won't notice the pain,' Cato wondered. 'He gets to win easily, I get a few knocks and then it's all over.'
'Maybe. But I wouldn't count on him letting it go at that. I know the type, once they know they've got you beaten they can't resist coming back and doing it again and again. But you keep avoiding Pulcher and people are going to start wondering. I say face him, take a beating – but don't give in too early. Try and stick it to him. Land a few painful blows and he'll leave you alone. Maybe.'
'Maybe? Is that the best I can hope for? Accept a swift kicking on the off chance that Pulcher may decide to leave it at that? What if he doesn't?'
Pyrax shrugged.
'Oh thanks! That's really helpful.'