Cato pointed towards the prisoner pens. ‘Over there. Can’t see any latrine trenches. They’re having to shit inside the pens.’
Both men paused to stare at the palisade before Macro muttered, ‘That’s no way for a fighting man to have to live.’
‘They’re not fighting men. Remember what Narcissus said: mostly criminals and any other dregs that could be scraped together to fill out the ranks on each side.’
Macro was silent for a moment. ‘Even so, they’ll be fighting soon enough and shouldn’t be treated like animals.’
‘You two!’ Fuscius cried out. ‘No dawdling! Get over to the wagons and fetch a tent for the section!’
A line of wagons had been parked at the far end of the campsite and the men of the cohort were busy unloading bundles of goatskin, tent poles, guy ropes and ground pegs. As Macro and Cato trudged over towards the wagons between the lines marked out for each century’s tents, Macro chuckled. ‘Seems the optio’s found his voice again. Bawling us out like a veteran. Or trying to at least. Funny, he reminds me of you back in the early days.’
‘Me?’ Cato looked at him with raised eyebrows.
‘Sure. Shrill, overkeen and making up with pickiness what you lacked in experience.’
‘I was like that?’
‘Near enough.’ Macro smiled. ‘But you came good, eventually. So will our boy, Fuscius, you’ll see.’
‘Maybe.’ Cato glanced at the optio and continued in a low voice. ‘If he’s smart enough to keep his nose out of any conspiracy.’
‘Do you think he’s involved?’
‘I don’t know.’ Cato thought a moment. ‘He was as unlikely a choice for preferment as Tigellinus, so I think I’ll reserve judgement for now.’
Macro shook his head. ‘You’re seeing conspirators everywhere, my lad. I wonder how long it’ll be before you start suspecting me.’
Cato smiled. ‘On that day, I think I’ll just go and quietly open my veins. If there’s one thing in this world that I know the true worth of, it’s our friendship. It’s seen us through—’
Macro smiled awkwardly and raised a hand to silence his friend. ‘Stick a boot in it, Cato, or you’ll make me fucking cry.’