‘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.’

Under The Eagle

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!’