'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 boy.'

'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.

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

'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.'