“Capital,” said Crassus. “I’m ready.”
“Then there’s Cecil,” said Mark; “who’s he?”
“Cecil!” said Phil. “Cecil—Cis—Cis—Scipio, of course.”
“First-rate,” said Mark. “Scipio Cecil, that’s your name.”
“Write it down on the roll,” said Bevis. The names were duly registered; Pompey’s lieutenants as Val Crassus and Phil Varro, and Caesar’s as Mark Antony and Scipio Cecil. After which there was a great flinging of stones into the water and more shouting.
“Let’s see,” said Ted. “If there’s fifteen each side, there will be five soldiers to each, five for captains, and five for lieutenants.”
“Cohorts,” said Phil. “A cohort each, hurrah!”
“Do be quiet,” said Ted. “How can we go on when you make such a row? Caesar Bevis, are all the swords ready?”
“No,” said Bevis. “We must fix the length, and have them all the same.”
They got a stick, and after much discussion cut it to a certain length as a standard; Mark took charge of it, and all the swords were to be cut off by it, and none to be any thicker. There were to be cross-pieces nailed or fastened on, but the ends were to be blunt and not sharp.