Under The Eagle

Chapter Three

Late the following afternoon, as dusk gathered around the fortress and the sharp winter air began to bite, an exhausted Cato hauled his feet into the barracks. The section room was quiet but, as he shut the door, Cato saw that he was not alone. He felt a twinge of irritation at this intrusion into the moment of privacy he had been looking forward to. Pyrax was sitting on his bunk darning a spare tunic by the fading light of the open shutter. He looked up as Cato crossed to his bunk and climbed up on to it fully clothed.

‘Hard day, new boy?’

‘Yes,’ Cato grunted, not wanting to provoke any discussion.

‘It only gets worse.’

‘Oh.’

‘Think you can hack it?’

‘Yes,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I will.’

‘Nah!’ Pyrax shook his head. ‘You’re too soft. I give you a month.’

‘A month?’ Cato replied angrily.

‘Yeah. A month if you’re sensible… More if you’re a fool.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘There’s no point in you being here. You ain’t cut out for it — just a wet kid.’

‘I’m nearly seventeen. I can be a soldier.’

‘Still young for a soldier. And you ain’t in shape. Bestia’s going to break you in no time.’

‘He won’t! I promise you that.’ Cato unwisely allowed himself a display of adolescent bravado. ‘I’d rather die.’

‘It may come to that.’ Pyrax shrugged. ‘Can’t say many’d be sorry.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing…’ He shrugged again and continued sewing as Cato glared at him, quite oblivious to the burning shame he had provoked in the youngster. Instead Pyrax concentrated on making sure that he kept the line of stitches quite straight as he worked along the seam. Cato watched without interest; he had seen the palace slaves at work repairing clothes all his life. All the same, spinning, weaving and sewing had always been the work of women and it was something of a novelty to see a man wielding a needle so adroitly.

Cato was sharply aware that his appointment as optio was causing him a lot of enmity. Already he seemed to have fallen foul of Bestia, the centurion in charge of training. Worse still, some of the recruits were openly hostile to him, particularly a group of men sent to the legion from a prison in Perusia, bound in chains for the entire journey. Their self-appointed leader was a thickset, ugly man who excelled in the latter description, so much so that it was inevitable that he be named Pulcher — the beautiful. One day on the march Cato had found himself immediately behind Pulcher when the man had demanded a drink from Cato’s flask of wine. It was a small thing, but the tone with which the demand had been made was so loaded with menace that Cato had handed the flask over at once. Pulcher drank deeply, then, when Cato asked for the flask to be returned, had passed the wine to his friends.