Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  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 thick-set, 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.

  ‘You want it, boy?’ Pulcher had curled his lips into a sneer. ‘Then you take it.’

  ‘Give it back to me.’

  ‘Make me.’

  Cato winced at the memory and his conscience once again demanded of him whether this was really the behaviour of a proper soldier. A proper soldier would have struck the man at once and taken the flask back. But, the rational side of his mind argued, a man would have to be built like a brick shithouse to take on Pulcher, with his solid limbs and hands like shovels. As if reading his expression, Pulcher had snarled and Cato instinctively stepped back, causing everyone to laugh. He had burned with shame, and still did, even though he told himself that retreat from superior forces was perfectly reasonable, intellectually virtuous in fact. A kindly soldier from the escort had retrieved the flask and tossed it back to Cato with a laugh. Pulcher spat in his direction before the soldier prodded him back into line with the butt of his spear.

  ‘I’ll see you in camp, boy,’ Pulcher snarled, raising his chains. ‘As soon as I get rid of these.’

  Since their arrival at the fortress the army had kept the recruits busy and Cato hoped that Pulcher had forgotten about him. He had striven to keep as far from the man as possible, not even meeting his gaze, in a bid to become invisible. Now, he had returned to the barracks rather than remain with the other recruits after they had been dismissed at the end of the day. It was essential, he reflected, to make some friends quickly. But how? And who? The others had bonded into little groups during the journey from Aventicum – while he had been reading bloody Virgil, he angrily reminded himself. What he would give to begin that journey afresh, knowing what he did now.

  Alone, and a long way from his friends back in Rome. For a moment misery welled up inside him and Cato’s eyes stung with tears. He turned towards the wall and buried his face in the coarse material of the straw-stuffed bolster. He felt his chest shudder and suddenly felt angry, angry at himself, angry that he wasn’t man enough to cope without tears and angry that nothing in his life had prepared him for this. All his smug Greek tutors and their stupid admiration for only the finest rhetoric and poetry – what bloody good were they now? How could poetry protect him from that animal, Centurion Bestia? At this moment he would have exchanged all his learning for a single friend.

  Pyrax paused and looked up, needle poised above the tunic. He had heard the new boy turn over and recognised the stifled sob for what it was. Pyrax shook his head sadly. Most recruits were old enough and hardy enough to cope. Then there were boys, like this one, who really shouldn’t be in the army. It might be the making of them, as some soldiers argued, but equally it might destroy them.

  The boy sobbed again, muffled as much as possible by the bolster.

  ‘Hey!’ Pyrax said harshly. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to concentrate here.’

  Cato stirred. ‘Sorry. I think I’ve got a cold.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Pyrax nodded. ‘Sure. Bound to happen in this weather.’

  Cato rubbed his face on the corner of the rough military blanket, drying his tears and trying to make it look as if he was blowing his nose. ‘There.’

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Cato replied, grateful that someone was taking interest in him. Then he was immediately worried that his chance to talk to Pyrax alone might be stalled if anyone interrupted. ‘Where are all the others?’

  ‘Dice game in the mess room. I’m going to join ’em once I’ve fixed this. Want to come with me and meet the lads?’

  ‘No thanks. I need some sleep.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Cato suddenly turned and propped himself up, ‘is that Centurion Bestia as much of a bastard as he seems?’

  ‘How do you think he got the name Bestia? But don’t take it to heart, he treats all recruits the same way.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Cato said doubtfully, ‘but he seems to have it in for me in particular.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ Pyrax said through gritted teeth as he pulled the end of a knot tight and then cut off the spare thread. ‘You’re in the camp for one night and you’re promoted to a rank most of us have to wait years for.’

  Cato watched the man closely before speaking. ‘You resent it?’

  ‘Of course. You’ve not proved yourself in any way. You’re just a boy.’ He shrugged. ‘It ain’t right.’

  Cato flushed with guilt and embarrassment, glad that the dim light partially hid his expression. ‘I didn’t ask for it.’

  ‘It don’t make sense. Direct appointments are made for men with some kind of army experience but you? I’d dearly love to know the reason why.’

  ‘It was a reward for my father.’

  ‘Hah! That’s a good one!’

  The light had finally died outside and Pyrax put his tunic and sewing kit to one side. ‘By the way,’ Pyrax paused at the door, ‘don’t fall asleep in your kit. It’ll need to be cleaned for the morning. Bestia hates untidy soldiers. If he has taken a dislike to you, don’t give him any opportunity to make the most if it, eh?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sleep well, new bo
y.’

  ‘My name’s . . .’ Cato started to say, but the door had already closed behind Pyrax and the darkened room swallowed up the protest. He was still for a moment, and nearly fell asleep, but Pyrax’s warning jolted him back to consciousness. He sat up, groping with his tired fingers for the buckles at the side of the leather jerkin. The drill instructors had kept the new recruits on their feet since that day’s dawn had broken what seemed like an age before. He had been kicked out of bed while it was still dark and pushed outside into the street where the other recruits were being rounded up. Still half asleep, shivering in the chill of the pale dawn light and shrinking from the fine drizzle in the air, their breaths had risen in grey wisps as they were led to the quartermaster’s stores where the external trappings of civilian life were peeled away and replaced with the uniform of a legionary.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Cato had called out. ‘Excuse me.’

  The quartermaster’s assistant looked back over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, this tunic, it seems a bit big for me.’

  The assistant laughed. ‘No, mate. It’s the right size. You’re the one that’s the wrong size. You’re in the army now. One size fits all.’

  ‘But look! This is ludicrous.’ Cato held the tunic up in front of his body, it was far too wide for his thin frame, and his height drew the hem well above his knees. ‘My legs will freeze. Is there nothing else?’

  ‘No. You’ll grow into it.’

  ‘What?’ Cato replied incredulously. ‘I’m the shape I am. I’m not suddenly going to shrink and grow outwards. Now find me something the right size.’

  ‘I told you. That’s all there is, and you’re stuck with it.’

  The raised voices were audible right through the storeroom and all the other recruits and assistants paused to look in their direction. In the small office behind the counter, a chair screeched back on the flagstone floor and a burly man emerged angrily from the door.

  ‘What’s all the bloody shouting about?’

  ‘Are you in charge here?’ asked Cato, glad to see someone in authority he could make a complaint to. It was as bad as some of the shops in Rome. Everyone was using cheap help these days, staff who neither cared nor knew about their goods. He had been forced to complain about such matters to managers many times before when purchasing for the palace and knew the best approach to adopt. ‘I was trying to explain to this man . . .’

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ The quartermaster bellowed.

  ‘Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort.’

  The quartermaster frowned for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve heard all about you! Optio! Hah! Well then, optio,’ he smiled. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Look here. I just want this man to provide me with a garment my size.’

  ‘May I!’ The quartermaster reached out for the tunic, and Cato gladly returned it to him. The quartermaster made an elaborate show of examining the tunic, running his hand over the crude stitching and finally holding it up to the light coming in from the open shutters.

  ‘Yes,’ he concluded. ‘This is a standard-issue tunic all right. Nothing wrong with it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Shut it!’ The quartermaster flung the tunic back across the counter. ‘Now take the bloody thing and don’t waste any more of my time.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And call me “sir” – you snotty little upstart!’

  Cato opened his mouth to utter a horrified protest, but managed to bite his tongue at the last moment. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now get the rest of your kit.’ The quartermaster turned back to his office, then noticed that everyone had stopped to enjoy the performance. ‘What the hell are you lot gawping at?’

  The stores building instantly turned back into heaving activity as the new recruits collected their kit allocations. With a shrug, Cato folded the tunic and stood at the counter as the assistant piled his clothing and equipment on to the battered wooden surface. In addition to the tunic was a pair of woollen breeches, a yellow leather jerkin, a thick red cloak waterproofed with animal fat, boots shod with iron nails and a mess tin. The assistant shoved a slate towards him. ‘Sign here, or make your mark.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Receipt for your civvy clothes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not allowed to keep your clothes. You give ’em to me after you change into uniform. We sell them for you in the local market and give you the proceeds.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Cato said firmly.

  The assistant turned back towards the office and opened his mouth to call out.

  ‘Wait!’ Cato stopped him. ‘I’ll sign. But do you have to sell them? I want to keep my boots and travel cloak.’

  ‘Recruits have to be in uniform. Can’t just wear any old thing. Anyway there’s no room to store clothes. But I promise we’ll get you a good price.’

  For some reason Cato doubted he would see much of a return on his clothes. ‘How can I be sure you’ll give me the full sum?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of dishonesty?’ the assistant replied in mock horror.

  Cato slowly stripped naked and pulled on the standard-issue tunic. It was as ill-fitting as he had feared, reminding him of the short tunics worn by the prostitutes back in Rome. The breeches were uncomfortable and had to be tied tightly above his skinny hips to stop them falling down. And they itched terribly. Almost as uncomfortable were the heavy military boots made of thick-cut leather and laced with tough thongs. The nail studs on the bottom made a clattering sound on the stone floor and some of the younger recruits were amusing themselves by kicking sparks off the paving, until the quartermaster tucked his head round the door and shouted at them to stop. When the boots were laced and tied Cato pulled the heavy leather jerkin over his head and fastened the buckles on each side. It was difficult, as the leather of the new jerkin was stiff. It was hard to bend forward and he could only just reach his laces with a great deal of straining. He noticed that, for some reason, his jerkin had a piece of white linen stitched over the right shoulder – a quick look round the room revealed that his was the only jerkin with a patch.

  The main door to the stores building momentarily darkened and Cato looked up to see Centurion Bestia enter and stand just inside the room shaking his head pitifully as he surveyed the new recruits, tapping his silvered greaves with the tip of his cane.

  ‘Stand still!’ he shouted and the room instantly fell silent. As he slowly strolled down the length of the storeroom the recruits nervously fell back against the wall.

  Bestia snorted derisively. ‘Hah! I’ve never seen such a bunch of women! Right then, girls – outside now!’

  The drizzle had cleared away with the dawn and the sun glowed through a slight haze. The air was just cold enough to be fresh to the skin and, all around, the fortress bustled with activity. Training raw recruits was something Bestia greatly enjoyed. Like every drill instructor, he had amassed a collection of useful invective for all occasions and comfortably slipped into the required role of rock-hard intolerance with subtle hints of a warmhearted concern for his charges. In time they would come to regard him as a father figure – though perhaps not all of them.

  As Bestia’s eyes swept down the ranks they fixed on Cato, looming nearly half a head above the rest – his height emphasised by the fact he stood immediately to the left of Pulcher.

  ‘You! Yes, you, Mister-I’ve-got-a-bloody-letter-from-my-friend-the-Emperor!’ Bestia bellowed as he strode towards Cato and sharply poked his vine cane into the white shoulder patch. ‘What the bloody hell is this?’

  Cato winced. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Don’t know! How long have you been in the army? Almost half a bloody day and you still can’t recognise badges of rank!’ Standing right in front of Cato, he glared up into the youngster’s face barely a span apart. ‘Just what kind of fucking soldier are you?’

  ‘I don’t know s
ir, I. . .’

  ‘Don’t look down at me!’ Bestia screamed, splattering saliva. ‘Keep your fucking eyes straight ahead! At all times. Do you understand me?’

  Cato flicked his eyes up and stiffened. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So what the hell are you doing with optio’s insignia?’

  ‘I am an optio, sir.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Bestia shouted. ‘We do not promote ladies overnight.’

  ‘I was, in matter of fact, made an optio last night, sir,’ Cato explained.

  ‘So then, optio today, centurion tomorrow, tribune the day after . . . At this rate you’ll make fucking Emperor by the end of the week! You take me for a fool, boy?’

  ‘Er, excuse me, sir,’ one of the drill instructors said quietly from behind Bestia.’ He is an optio, sir.’

  ‘What?’ Bestia jerked a thumb at Cato. ‘Him?’

  ‘Afraid so, sir. Direct commission from the legate. It’s been entered on the new recruit roster, sir.’ The drill instructor held out a wax board and pointed out Cato’s name.

  ‘Quintus Licinius Cato, optio.’ Bestia read out loud. Then he turned back to Cato with clear menace in his eyes. ‘So that’s what the letter was about! Friends in powerful places, eh? Well, it won’t help you. Optio you may be, but while you’re on basic training you get the same treatment as the rest. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In fact,’ Bestia leaned close to him, whispering, ‘I’ll treat you worse. You got the promotion – now you’re fucking going to have to earn it.’

  Then he spun round and strode away. He took up a position ten paces ahead of the front rank of recruits. ‘First lesson, ladies. The attention pose. Your drill instructors have placed you in four ranks, exactly one pace apart from the man beside you, and two paces between ranks. Memorise your position. In future, when I tell you to form ranks you will go to the position you are now in, at once. The correct posture for unarmed attention position is this.’

  Bestia dropped his cane and stiffened, his chest thrust out, shoulders back, head up, arms straight down with palms flattened against the sides of his thighs. He paused a moment. ‘You all see that? Right then, let’s see you do it.’