searched out the target of Scaevola's anger. Standing out, as usual, was that infernal new boy, examining his wooden short sword as he held it by the tip of the point.
'But, sir. This isn't a proper sword. It's wood.'
'Of course it's bloody wood.'
As Centurion Bestia pushed his way through the crowd of recruits to see what the fuss was all about he bawled out. 'What? You causing trouble again? What's the matter now? Sword the wrong size?'
'No, sir. It's wooden. Not a proper sword, sir.'
'Wooden? Of course, it's bloody wooden. It's not a proper sword because you're not a proper soldier. If you become a real soldier, then you get to play with the real thing.'
Bestia filled his lungs to address all the recruits. 'As some of you may have realised, like sonny boy here, the weapons you have been given are not real. Because you do not yet deserve the real thing. If we just handed out dangerous weapons to you ladies you'd be injuring each other in no time. The army does not wish to save our enemies the effort. Before you can hold a sword you must respect it. You must learn how to use it properly. Same goes for the spear. You may find your weapons heavy. That's because they're twice the weight of the standard issue. You are soft, idle scum and we need to build you up and make men of you. We can only do that by training and exercise, and there'll be plenty of it, ladies. So get used to the weight. Now then, the sword belt is fastened with the sword hanging to the right, NOT to the left — like I've got it. That's for officers only… Hold your spear in your right hand, shield in the left and get into four ranks outside… Now!'
The recruits placed their shields and spears down and struggled with the stiff buckles of their swordbelts before grabbing their equipment and fleeing towards the door.
'Excellent stuff this wine,' Scaevola hinted. 'Shall we have another?'
There was hardly any left in the flask and Macro made sure that Scaevola had the lion's share, saving the dregs for himself.
'What were we talking about?' Scaevola asked.
'Drink. You were saying there's no good drink where the Legion's going.'
'Did I?' Scaevola raised his eyebrows.
'I suppose that means the far east,' Macro carried on casually. 'Nothing decent to drink, just that crap they make out of fermented goat's milk, so I've heard. Or worse, it might even be Judea.'
He watched Scaevola's face for any flicker of response, but the chief armourer merely took another draught of wine and nodded. 'It might be Judea… It might not.'
Macro sighed with frustration — getting information out of the canny old veteran was harder than getting the clap off a vestal virgin. He decided to attempt a new line of enquiry.
'Well, have you indented for any lightweight tunics?'
'Now why would I do that?' Scaevola frowned. 'Why on earth would I indent for those?'
Macro took a deep breath, fighting back his growing irritation at Scaevola's smug avoidance of the one answer he sought. 'Look here, Scaevola. Just tell me what you know. Just one word. Just the name of the place we're going. Just the name of the province will do. And I promise I won't tell another soul. You have my word.'
'Sure.' Scaevola smiled. 'Until someone comes up to you with a flask of wine and tries to loosen your tongue. I have my orders. The legate wants to keep it quiet for as long as possible.'
'But why?'
'Let's just say that the men won't be best pleased when they find out where we're being sent.' Scaevola drained his cup. 'Now I must get back to work. Vespasian wants the inventory completed as soon as possible.'
'Well, thanks,' Macro said bitterly as he rose from the table. 'Thanks for nothing.'
'Not at all!' Scaevola beamed. 'Drop by any time.'
Macro didn't reply as he turned and made for the door.
'Oh, Macro!' Scaevola called after him.
'Yes?'
'If you do drop by, feel free to bring some more of that wine along.'
Macro ground his teeth and stamped out of the armoury.
Chapter
'But, sir. This isn't a proper sword. It's wood.'
'Of course it's bloody wood.'
As Centurion Bestia pushed his way through the crowd of recruits to see what the fuss was all about he bawled out. 'What? You causing trouble again? What's the matter now? Sword the wrong size?'
'No, sir. It's wooden. Not a proper sword, sir.'
'Wooden? Of course, it's bloody wooden. It's not a proper sword because you're not a proper soldier. If you become a real soldier, then you get to play with the real thing.'
Bestia filled his lungs to address all the recruits. 'As some of you may have realised, like sonny boy here, the weapons you have been given are not real. Because you do not yet deserve the real thing. If we just handed out dangerous weapons to you ladies you'd be injuring each other in no time. The army does not wish to save our enemies the effort. Before you can hold a sword you must respect it. You must learn how to use it properly. Same goes for the spear. You may find your weapons heavy. That's because they're twice the weight of the standard issue. You are soft, idle scum and we need to build you up and make men of you. We can only do that by training and exercise, and there'll be plenty of it, ladies. So get used to the weight. Now then, the sword belt is fastened with the sword hanging to the right, NOT to the left — like I've got it. That's for officers only… Hold your spear in your right hand, shield in the left and get into four ranks outside… Now!'
The recruits placed their shields and spears down and struggled with the stiff buckles of their swordbelts before grabbing their equipment and fleeing towards the door.
'Excellent stuff this wine,' Scaevola hinted. 'Shall we have another?'
There was hardly any left in the flask and Macro made sure that Scaevola had the lion's share, saving the dregs for himself.
'What were we talking about?' Scaevola asked.
'Drink. You were saying there's no good drink where the Legion's going.'
'Did I?' Scaevola raised his eyebrows.
'I suppose that means the far east,' Macro carried on casually. 'Nothing decent to drink, just that crap they make out of fermented goat's milk, so I've heard. Or worse, it might even be Judea.'
He watched Scaevola's face for any flicker of response, but the chief armourer merely took another draught of wine and nodded. 'It might be Judea… It might not.'
Macro sighed with frustration — getting information out of the canny old veteran was harder than getting the clap off a vestal virgin. He decided to attempt a new line of enquiry.
'Well, have you indented for any lightweight tunics?'
'Now why would I do that?' Scaevola frowned. 'Why on earth would I indent for those?'
Macro took a deep breath, fighting back his growing irritation at Scaevola's smug avoidance of the one answer he sought. 'Look here, Scaevola. Just tell me what you know. Just one word. Just the name of the place we're going. Just the name of the province will do. And I promise I won't tell another soul. You have my word.'
'Sure.' Scaevola smiled. 'Until someone comes up to you with a flask of wine and tries to loosen your tongue. I have my orders. The legate wants to keep it quiet for as long as possible.'
'But why?'
'Let's just say that the men won't be best pleased when they find out where we're being sent.' Scaevola drained his cup. 'Now I must get back to work. Vespasian wants the inventory completed as soon as possible.'
'Well, thanks,' Macro said bitterly as he rose from the table. 'Thanks for nothing.'
'Not at all!' Scaevola beamed. 'Drop by any time.'
Macro didn't reply as he turned and made for the door.
'Oh, Macro!' Scaevola called after him.
'Yes?'
'If you do drop by, feel free to bring some more of that wine along.'
Macro ground his teeth and stamped out of the armoury.
Chapter
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