The blacksmiths assented meekly.
'Thank you.' Macro breathed a sigh of relief.' Then please get on with it. Send word the moment you have the first batch ready.
Now go.'
Macro strode to the do or and wrenched it open, ushering them out of his office. As soon as the last one had gone, he shut the door, returned to his desk and sat down, gazing at the caltrop as his temper began to subside.
'Greeks…' he muttered. 'Never use one word when a thousand will do.'
In addition to the improvements to the city's defences, Macro took charge of recruiting men to supplement the fighting strength of the auxiliaries. At first Sempronius had appealed for volunteers, but when fewer than a hundred of the city's menfolk turned up at the parade ground Macro had marked out a short distance beyond the wall, sterner measures were called for. Several sections of auxiliaries were sent out to scour the city for fit men and have them marched out to the parade ground. There, they were brought before Macro, where he made his selection of those he would use to bolster Gortyna's garrison. Details of each man's name, family, home street and occupation were carefully noted before he was presented to Macro, sitting at a campaign table under an awning.
It was dispiriting to see a succession of unhappy or angry men who were capable of bearing arms but resented the opportunity to defend their families and their city. One such was a tall, well-muscled young man in an expensive tunic. His dark hair was neatly cut and a finely trimmed beard graced his jawline. At first Macro could not place him, then in a sudden flash he recalled that he had been amongst Glabius's coterie up on the acropolis the day the tax collector had been deposed.
'Name?'
'Pandarus, son of Polocrites.'
Macro glared at him.' From now on you call me sir. Is that understood?'
'I see no need to call you sir, Roman.'
'And why is that?' Macro smiled invitingly.
'Because I am not a soldier, nor will I ever be. Furthermore, I will protest about my treatment here through the highest channels. My father has political contacts in Rome. Once they are informed that a lowly officer has dared to pluck a free man from his home and forcibly conscript him at the point of a sword, there will be no limit to the retribution that is brought down on your head.' Pandarus was pleased with his brief monologue and offered a placating smile to Macro. 'It's not too late to put an end to this sad little drama of yours. Comedy, more like.' He turned and gestured to the line of men standing in the sun, waiting to be seen by Macro. There was a muted chorus of support. 'Let us all go, and I will do you a favour, Roman, and not report your criminal activities to your superiors in Rome.'
He drew himself up and crossed his arms as he stared down at Macro. The latter stared back for a moment and then lowered his stylus on to the wax slate with a weary sigh.
'Have you finished, Pandarus?'
'Finished?' Pandarus frowned, then be came angry. 'You don't think I'm serious, do you?'
'Oh, I'm sure you're serious; it's just that I am not inclined to take you seriously' Macro replied. 'I mean, look at you. Dressed up like a cheap tart. Is that perfume I can smell?'
'It is a male scent. An extremely expensive scent.'
'So you look like a male tart, and you smell like one. That I can forgive…just about. What I cannot forgive is that people like you think you're too good to get your hands dirty by taking up a sword and defending what's yours: this city, your family and your friends — assuming you have any. What makes you so fucking special that you should be excused from taking your place alongside the other men who are prepared to fight?'
'My father pays his taxes,' Pandarus protested.' He pays them so that his family doesn't fight, and we can leave that to little people like you.' He could not resist the sneer, yet the moment the words were spoken he realised he had made a mistake. 'What I meant to say was — '
'Shut your mouth!' Macro shouted into his face. 'You miserable little coward! You're the little people. You and all those others who have so little heart, so little courage, so little sense of honour and duty that they think that money can buy themeverything. Well, money is the least of your worries now. There's an army of slaves out there who are waiting for their moment to launch an attack on this city. Do you really think they are not going to butcher you and your family because you have connections in Rome? Fucking idiot.'
Macro shook his head in anger and exasperation. 'There is only one way we are going to survive this, and that's if every man who can fight is up there on the wall, ready to kill or be killed. Right now I could not give a toss whether you are some dandy pervert or the son of the emperor himself. You will take up a sword with the rest of the men in the line. You will be trained to fight with the auxiliaries. You will fight like a lion to keep those rebel bastards out of the city, and if need be you will die like a bloody hero, sword in hand, spitting curses into your enemy's face. Do I make myself clear?'
Macro thrust his face forward, inches from that of Pandarus, and the latter nervously backed off a step.
'I m — meant no offence.' Pandarus flapped his hands.
'Sir!' Macro shouted, hooking his booted foot behind the young man's heel and then thrusting him hard in the chest so that he stumbled back and crashed to the ground. Macro pounced on him, knee on Pandarus's chest as he snatched out his dagger and thrust the blade to within an inch of the other man's eyes. 'Last time I say it. You call me sir when you address me. Got it?'
'Yes, yes, sir!' Pandarus whimpered.
'Better!' Macro eased himself up.' Now get your kit, and report to the centurion on the drill ground with the other recruits. Get up! Get moving!'
Pandarus scrambled to his feet and scurried off towards the wagon where an optiofrom the auxiliary cohort and four of his men were busy issuing sword, helmet, armour and shield to each man sent their way. Macro turned back to the line of waiting men. Most were ordinary townspeople, but there were some better dressed amongst them. He walked down the line inspecting them, then returned to the shade of the awning.
'Is there anyone else who takes exception to fighting at my side, and the side of our heroic friend Pandarus? Well?'
The men refused to meet his glare and stood in silence. Macro nodded. 'Good.'
He turned and made his way back to his stool, then sat down at the desk and picked up his stylus.
'Next man!'
Eight days after Cato had set off for Alexandria, Macro joined Senator Sempronius and his daughter for dinner: a thin stew of pork and beans served with bread by one of the few remaining slaves of Hirtius. The rest had run off to the hills, or to swell the ranks of Ajax's rebel army.
The slave was an elderly man, stooped and frail-looking. He had long been conditioned to being silent and avoiding the eyes of his masters. Macro watched him for a moment, won de ring what it must be like to live as a slave. He had been used to seeing them on the streets of Ostia and Rome as a child, and so had never really considered what it must mean to be one. Since then, he had spent long years in the army, where the slaves he had encountered had mostly been when he was off duty. There had also been a handful of occasions when he had seen proud enemy warriors taken captive, chained up and marched away into slavery. Indeed, he had profited from his share of such prisoners, and the money he had gained had rather obscured the fates of those who had thus enriched him.
As the slave finished serving and retired to stand still against the wall, Macro continued to examine him while he casually dipped a chunk of bread into the steaming bowl before him. It was tempting to ask the man what he thought of Ajax. And what he thought of the Romans and Greeks who were determined to defeat the rebel gladiator and his followers. If indeed he thought anything about them.
Macro paused. How could a slave not think about the revolt, when there was little other topic of conversation in the city? Could this slave, so taciturn, be harbouring deep hatred for his masters and a yearning to be part of the uprising? Might he be listening alertly to any conversation to which he was privy, and then wait for a chance to escape and reveal his information to Ajax? What if his plan was more treacherous still? It would not take much effort to procure sufficient poison to kill all three of those to whom he had just served their evening meal.
Macro glanced down at his stew with a look of suspicion. He lowered his bread, dripping with gravy from the stew, on to his platter and turned towards the slave.
