Cato glanced around the room, but he was trapped in the corner with nowhere to run to that Pulcher couldn’t reach first. A sudden roar of laughter from the next room attracted his eyes to the wall.

‘You shout and I’ll gut you here and now!’ Pulcher hissed. Then he shifted his weight forward.

Cato could see the attack was imminent and, in desperation, lunged forward, grabbing at the wrist behind the blade with both of his hands. Pulcher had not been expecting the terrified boy to move first and tried to withdraw his hand — too late. The boy’s grip was surprisingly strong and no amount of shaking and jerking could free his knife arm.

‘Let go!’ Pulcher snapped. ‘Let go, you little piece of shit!’

Cato made no reply and, instead, suddenly sank his teeth into Pulcher’s forearm. Pulcher cried out and instinctively smashed his free hand into the side of Cato’s head, knocking him back against the bunk. There was an explosion of white inside Cato’s skull before the room swirled back into vision. Pulcher was looking down at a dark oval patch on his arm where Cato’s teeth had broken the skin.

‘You’re dead!’ Pulcher stooped into a crouch, knife at the ready. ‘You’re fucking dead!’

Suddenly a broad shaft of light from the corridor flowed into the room as the door was swung open.

‘What the hell is this?’ Macro growled. ‘Is this a fight?’

Pulcher drew himself up. ‘No, sir. Just showing the boy how to handle himself in a fight. We’re friends, sir.’

‘Friends?’ Macro repeated doubtfully. ‘Then what happened to your arm?’

‘Lad got carried away, sir. Didn’t mean no harm. Ain’t that right?’

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.