“I’m a cub too,” he admitted.
“But with the best blood in your veins of any of them, you can be sure of that. By the way, how old are you?”
Twenty, Constantine said, adding a good two years to his real age
So? Crocus raised his eyebrows. “I would not have thought you quite that old. But the other two are older, so you’ll have to fight for your rights.” He gave Constantine a quizzical glance. “Or do you know that already?”
I know why I’m here, if that’s what you mean.”
From outside came the sound of a trumpet. “There’s the call to the evening meal,” Crocus said. “I’ll show you where we eat.”
Most of the remainder of the building was open space, with no interior walls, as the cubiculae boasted. Every two paces, rows of pegs had been driven into holes drilled into the wall. From them hung military and other gear and beneath each cluster of pegs was a pallet, neatly rolled up and secured with heavy cords.
The petty officers of the Imperial Guard sleep here,” Crocus explained. “The two private cubiculae there at the end of the barracks are for the tribunes; their quarters are somewhat larger than ours. The men of the guard itself sleep in another building adjoining this and the eating place is between us, since everyone fares the same.”
Constant roar of conversation
They passed along a roofed walkway to another structure, from which came the aroma of cooked food. When Crocus pushed open the door, a blast of sound greeted them, made up of human voices apparently shouting at each other to be heard over the constant roar of conversation and the clatter of utensils. Undisturbed by the noise and exchanging greetings and insults along the way for he seemed to be quite popular Crocus moved down the room toward a table in the comer where two other young men were already eating.
One, introduced by Crocus as Maxentius, was tall and thin, with a languid and foppish manner that repelled Constantine at the first glance. The other was Maximin Daia, a sturdy dark-skinned young man, who looked to be in his early twenties. Daia seemed surly, an attribute which Constantine was to learn characterized him much of the time, while the elegant Maxentius was much too languid to show enthusiasm for anything except the wine he drank steadily.
The food was good, though rough: a thick soup eaten from wooden bowls, followed by goat flesh with boiled lentils and hard cakes of bread. The wine had been thinned with water but was still of a good flavor, for the hill country along the southern shore of the Sea of Marmara and the Gulf of Nicomedia was famous for its vineyards.
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