The general was the last to arrive, riding up accompanied by the two legates and his personal bodyguard of eight hand-picked legionaries. He wore a thick cloak about his body, even though the sun shone and bathed the mountainous landscape in its warm glow. Despite his cheery demeanour Cato realised that he was putting on a performance of hearty good health and humour for his subordinates.
Ostorius dismounted and took some wine, cupping his gnarled fingers tightly round the goblet. Cato watched him as he moved through the gathering, greeting his officers. Then the prefect’s eye caught a movement down the valley in the direction of a camp. A horseman was galloping up on a sleek black mount. As he got closer, Cato saw that it was the tribune who had arrived the previous day. He reined in a short distance from the other officers and wagons, spraying clods of earth on to one of the general’s servants. Dropping from the saddle, he thrust the reins into the man’s hands and swiftly joined the others, breathing heavily from his ride. The sudden arrival had caused a moment’s lull in the conversation and Ostorius rounded on the tribune with a frown.
‘Young man, I don’t know what passes for good manners in Rome these days, but I’ll thank you to ensure that you never arrive late to any meeting or gathering where your commanding officer is already present.’
Tribune Otho bowed his head. ‘My apologies, sir.’
‘And what reason explains your tardiness?’
Otho looked up and hesitated a moment before he replied. ‘There is no excuse, sir. I woke late.’
‘I see. Then clearly you need training in the art of wakefulness. Five days’ command of the night watch should suffice.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato and Macro exchanged a quick look. The general had just condemned the young tribune to five days with almost no chance to sleep. The officer in charge of the night watch was obliged to distribute the password to each sentry and then do the rounds of the camp between changes of watch to ensure that every man was alert and gave the right challenge. It was a tiresome business, all the more so after a day’s march. That was why the duty was shared amongst the tribunes of an army.
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Cato muttered.
Macro shrugged. ‘It’ll teach the young pup a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry. It’ll be good for him.’
‘Good for him? He’ll be on his knees by the end of it.’
‘It’ll be the making of him.’
‘Or the breaking of him.’
Macro looked at him. ‘Cato, you know how it is with training. You have to push a man further than he thinks he can go. That’s how it works. That’s why you’ve turned out as well as you have.’
It was true, Cato admitted to himself. Youngsters like Otho needed to be tamed and become inured to the hard conditions of the army as soon as possible, for their own good, and for the good of the men they commanded.
Ostorius dismissed the tribune with a curt wave of his hand and turned to the centurion from the Twentieth who had been appointed the day’s master of the hunt.
‘Are we ready?’
The centurion saluted and gestured into the vale. ‘Nearly, sir. The beaters are getting into position.’
Cato looked up and saw the tiny figures extending into a line amid the mottled green and brown of the distant bracken. Already he could pick out other movement as large animals scurried away from the beaters. There was a small forest growing either side of a stream that flowed into the main valley. A small group of deer were visible in the shadows of the treeline. Plenty of game, then, just as the general had said.
The centurion turned to the men working on the wicker screens. Already the makings of a large funnel angled into the mouth of the vale with pens at the end. There were gaps between each panel to provide shooting positions for the hunters. The lines were set at a right angle so that the arrows would provide a crossfire without endangering any of the officers in the party. ‘Just finishing that off, sir, and we’re ready for you to give the signal to begin.’
Ostorius nodded approvingly and then addressed his officers. ‘Pick your weapons, men. We’ll start with the shoot.’
Cato, Macro and the others moved across to the bows and quivers filled with broad-pointed hunting arrows that lay on the leather goatskin covers. They chose their weapons and bracers and some of the more experienced officers tested the draw weights to get a feeling for the power of their chosen bow. Cato and Macro had never trained as archers and took what came to hand before making their way over to the wicker screens and taking their places at the gaps left between the screens. As Cato slipped the small iron hooks of the quiver over his sword belt, Tribune Otho approached and took the adjacent shooting position. They exchanged a nod before Cato held out a hand.
‘Haven’t had the chance to make your acquaintance yet. Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato of the Second Thracian Cavalry.’
The younger man grasped Cato’s forearm and smiled cheerfully. ‘Tribune Marcus Silvius Otho.’ He glanced past Cato with an enquiring expression. ‘And this is?’
Macro leaned his bow against the screen and stepped forward. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, commanding the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion, sir. Though at the moment my cohort is attached to the prefect’s command, escorting the baggage train.’
‘Oh, that sounds like quite a responsibility.’
‘Not as much as we’d like, sir.’ Macro smiled faintly.
Otho pursed his full lips briefly, unsure how he should phrase his next words. ‘Pardon me, Prefect, but I’m still somewhat new to this game and there weren’t any auxiliary units at Lindum. Do I call you sir? Or do you call me sir?’
Cato was taken aback. Any tribune, broad-stripe or otherwise, should have taken the effort to learn such basic facts of military life. He cleared his throat and made to explain. ‘You are second-in-command to your legate, Hosidius Geta. Technically. In practice the camp prefect takes command if Geta falls or is absent. In the normal course of things I would call you sir. But as you command a detachment from the Ninth Legion, you are a minor formation commander and therefore an equal. In which case I call you Tribune and you call me Prefect. In formal situations. Today, I am simply Cato.’
Otho’s eyes bulged as he struggled to take it all in. Then he nodded. ‘Cato it is. And Centurion Macro calls me sir. Is that right?’
Macro nodded. ‘And that ain’t going to change unless the world gets turned upside down and some lunatic makes me a senator. Or you foul up spectacularly and get broken down to legionary, sir.’
The tribune glanced over his shoulder in the direction of General Ostorius. ‘I trust it won’t come to that. Not before I serve my time out and return to Rome.’
Cato recalled the comment of Horatius the night before. ‘I take it you are keen to get your military service over with.’
‘Rather!’ Otho replied with feeling. ‘Much as I like the fresh air and earthy companionship, there’s no place like Rome, nay?’
‘Thankfully,’ Macro added, burdened by bad memories of the capital.
‘I could stand to return there soon,’ said Cato. ‘I was married recently and had to leave my wife behind. Though, as I understand it, your wife has accompanied you on campaign.’
‘That’s right. Poppaea and I can’t be parted from each other.’
‘Although you are now.’
‘Not at all. Her carriage is with the cohorts marching to join Ostorius. To be honest, that’s why I reached the hunt late. I was hanging on just in case the column made the camp this morning. No such luck. And now I am in bad odour with the general as a result.’
Cato puffed his cheeks as he appraised the younger officer. He appeared to be the most unsoldierly tribune Cato had ever encountered. And the presence of his wife here on the frontier either spoke volumes for their mutual feeling, or there was something more to it, as Horatius
had hinted. Cato decided to probe a little further. ‘It’s quite unusual for an officer to bring his wife. I certainly wouldn’t want mine enduring the hardships of camp life, regardless of how much I miss her.’
Otho lowered his gaze and turned his attention to positioning his quiver comfortably. ‘It’s not as simple as all that, actually.’
‘Oh? How so?’
The tribune clicked his tongue. ‘We left under a bit of a cloud. The thing is, Poppaea was married to another chap. Dreadful, dour fellow with large ears and precious little of interest between them, or indeed anywhere else on his body. Rufus Crispitus.’ He looked sharply at Cato. ‘You know of him?’
‘No.’
‘Not surprised. He makes an art of being invisible at social gatherings. The sort of fellow who could stand as a model for those tiresomely dull sculptures of provincial magistrates, if you know what I mean.’
Macro looked at Cato with a puzzled expression and shook his head.
‘Anyway,’ Otho continued. ‘To cut a long story somewhat less so, I seduced Poppaea.’ He smiled. ‘As it happens, she seduced me. She’s a bit of a game girl in that respect.’
‘I like her already, sir,’ Macro chipped in with a grin.
The tribune shot him a cross look, before he continued. ‘Before you know it we’re quite madly in love. Our joy was unbounded.’
‘And I’m willing to bet Rufus Crispitus did not approve,’ said Cato.
‘Not half! The chap was furious. First time in his life he ever showed any kind of emotion. So he makes a beeline to the imperial palace and demands that the Emperor punish us both. As he was still married to Poppaea he was fully within his rights to give her a good hiding. However, Crispitus – ever the fool – made rather too much of his demands and annoyed the Emperor. Claudius still had to do something for appearances’ sake. So he demanded that Crispitus divorce Poppaea and we were offered a choice. Exile to Tomus, or I join the army and take Poppaea for my wife and we both disappear from Rome for a year or two until the scandal was forgotten. Well, I’ve read enough Ovidius to know that Tomus is the last place in the world to spend any amount of time. Or at least that’s what I thought until we came here.’ He shrugged. ‘So there you have it. My tale of love and woe, to coin a phrase.’
They were interrupted by the sound of a horn and Cato looked round to see that the other officers were all in position, with Ostorius and the legates at the mouth of the wicker funnel.
‘Here we go,’ said Macro, drawing his first arrow and notching it to the bowstring. All along the line of the panels the other officers were similarly making ready and Cato watched as Otho drew a shaft and fitted the knock in one swift and clean motion.
‘You’ve done this before.’
The tribune nodded. ‘Brought up on an estate in Umbria. Started hunting as soon as I could walk.’
The sound of horns answered from the far end of the vale as the beaters began their advance, some thrashing at the heather with sticks while others beat mess tins together and paused every so often to blow on the horns. Ahead of them Cato could see the heather come alive with flurries of motion and then he saw the first of the deer spring up and appear to bounce down the slope towards the seeming safety of the trees. The game was still some distance off and Cato held his bow down, arrowhead pointing safely towards the grass between his feet.
‘By the gods,’ said Macro. ‘There’ll be plenty of meat on the table tonight. The old boy was right about this place. It’s alive with game.’
The sound of the beaters’ horns grew steadily louder and now Cato could hear the rattle of their mess tins and the faint swishing of their sticks. He felt his heart quicken and half raised his bow, fingertips of his right hand closing on the drawstring. The edge of the forest was no more than two hundred paces away and abruptly a doe burst from under the branches and bounded into the open. Two more followed and then a stag, tossing his antlers as he came into view. Cato made to raise his bow.
‘Not yet, Prefect!’
He lowered his arms a little and turned towards Otho. ‘What?’
The tribune’s bow was grounded and he gestured towards the general close to the open end of the funnel. ‘Don’t know where you learned to hunt, but the protocol back home is to let the host shoot first.’
Cato flushed, cross with himself for not realising that would be the case. He had only ever hunted boars before in the army, from horseback, and though it was a different pursuit, the basic formalities were the same. The subordinates rode patiently behind their leader until the first beast was spiked, then it was free for all.
‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you for reminding me.’
Otho looked surprised. ‘Didn’t your people take you out shooting game when you were young?’
Macro shook his head in amusement and muttered, ‘Your people? By the gods, it’s a different world in Rome.’
Cato’s embarrassment deepened. His origins were far from aristocratic. It was easy to understand the tribune’s assumption about his origins. The auxiliary prefects of younger years tended to be appointed from the ranks of the senatorial families. His pain over being reminded of his humble past quickly turned his shame into bitterness. He turned on Otho.
‘No. They didn’t.’
‘Too bad. Then you would have known what to do.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Anyway, here they come!’ The tribune’s voice rose in pitch as he pointed towards the first deer to approach the funnel.
Cato turned and saw the stag and its three does skittering from side to side as they were driven towards the waiting hunters. At the end of the far line of panels General Ostorius raised his bow and drew back his arm, trembling slightly with the effort. He sighted along the arrow shaft and picked his target. Cato, once more caught up by the excitement of the atmosphere, held his breath as he watched. The first of the does entered the funnel, but Ostorius still held back, waiting for the stag. Then, just as it approached the opening of the panels, Cato saw the arms of the general’s bow snap forward and the arrow flew in a shallow arc towards the stag. It flashed past the animal’s rump and disappeared into the grass.
‘Oh, bad luck!’ Otho muttered. ‘Should have led the target more.’
Ostorius quickly notched another arrow as the stag quickly drew closer. He took aim and loosed the string, and there was no mistake this time. The shaft struck the animal in the shoulder and the sharp thwack of the impact was heard by all. The officers and men cheered their commander as the stag let out a wrenching bleat of pain and staggered to the side. Blood, red and glistening, streamed down its hide from the large wound torn in its flesh by the hunting arrow. The general had already strung another arrow and took aim again. The stag was a difficult target now as it kicked and bucked, trying to dislodge the shaft. The second arrow struck it in the rump and it stumbled into the grass before struggling back on to its legs just as a third arrow pierced its neck. Now the blood was flowing freely and every movement sprayed flecks of crimson through the air. The does kept their distance, fearful of the stag’s violent movements. Cato regarded the spectacle with spellbound fascination. Though he knew he would be mocked for admitting it, he felt pity for the noble creature. The parallel with Caratacus was easily suggested to his restless mind. Both stag and enemy driven to their destruction. It felt like an omen. Another Roman triumph tinged with regret at the loss of a noble spirit.
But the stag had not given up yet. Bleeding heavily, it lowered its antlers and half ran, half stumbled towards the wicker panels extending either side of Cato. Then, with a shock, Cato realised that he stood directly in the line of the beast’s charge. He froze.
‘Cato!’ Macro called out close by. ‘Shoot it!’
CHAPTER SIX
The spell broke and he raised his left arm. The arrow was still notched, but slipped loose as his arm
came level.
‘Shit!’ Cato hissed, frantically fumbling to refit the shaft. He was aware of the blur of movement a short distance away and the bellowing breath of the stag. When he looked up it was no more than ten feet from him. There was a flicker of movement from his left and a sharp thud as an arrow struck the stag in the chest and the iron barb tore through its heart. The stag fell forwards and rolled on the ground before crashing into the panel in front of Cato, flattening it and knocking him back on to the ground. An instant later Macro grabbed his arm and pulled him up, struggling to suppress a grin.
‘All right, lad?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me. Thank the tribune there. If he hadn’t acted you’d be all over that stag’s horns right now.’
Cato looked round and saw Otho watching him, bow in hand, and another arrow already plucked from his quiver. ‘I’m grateful.’
Otho shook his head. ‘An easy shot. Think nothing of it.’
‘LOOSE ARROWS!’ the hunt master bellowed from the neck of the funnel. The tribune turned back to the funnel and prepared his next shot. By the time Cato had picked up his bow and retaken his place, the open ground in front of the funnel was thick with flying arrows. The does went down in quick succession, shafts protruding from their hides, and then there was a brief pause before more game came rushing forward, driven on by the beaters. Cato saw several more deer, and the first of the boars, head down as it launched into a charge. There were hares as well, bounding through the heather and into the expanse of grass in front of the hunters. He took a calming breath and securely fitted his arrow and raised the bow. Choosing the boar as his target, Cato lined up the tip of the arrow, drawing his hand back until he felt the back of his thumb come up against his cheek. He led the boar, aiming a short distance in front of its snout, then tracking it as it angled towards the opening of the funnel thirty paces away. Holding his breath, Cato closed his left eye and narrowed the right . . . then released his string with a flick of his fingers. The bow lurched in his hand and the arrow sped towards its target, striking it high on the shoulder behind the head.
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