‘A hit!’ Cato shouted, his heart leaping with surprised pride. He glanced at Macro. ‘I hit it. Did you see?’
Macro was drawing a bead on his own target and answered through clenched teeth. ‘Beginner’s luck!’ The centurion released his first arrow, and swore as it went wide of the mark. Cato turned to Otho, but the tribune’s concentration was fixed on the game rushing towards him. For a moment Cato watched in admiration as the young man loosed arrow after arrow in quick succession, never pausing to celebrate a hit or curse a near miss. It was as if he was born to be an archer, thought Cato.
‘Stand to, Cato,’ Macro urged him. ‘You’re missing the fun!’
He focused his mind on his bow once again, bringing it up as his fingers scrabbled for a fresh arrow. There was only time for three more shots before the hunt master shouted the order to cease. The sudden stillness after the frantic action was shocking and for an instant the officers stared over the open ground littered with the feathered arrows and the bodies of stricken animals, some still writhing as they bled out.
Then an officer let out a shrill whoop and punched his fist into the air. The cry broke the tense silence and others joined in or turned to their comrades to boast about their fine shooting.
‘What did you get?’ asked Macro.
‘Just one shot on the boar. The rest were misses.’ Cato clicked his tongue.
‘That big fellow must have unsettled your aim.’
Macro pointed to the stag, now lying still, head twisted to one side and tongue lolling from its open jaws.
‘Nice thought, Macro. But the misses came after the boar, and that came after the stag. No need to make excuses for me. I’ll have better luck with a spear against the boars later on.’
Macro leaned round Cato. ‘What about you, sir?’
Tribune Otho tapped his empty quiver. ‘Ran out. Shame, since I was starting to warm up nicely.’
‘Good on you. So, how many hits?’
‘How many?’ Otho cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why, all of them, of course.’
The hunt master called to his men and they entered the killing ground. The beaters headed back to their starting positions to prepare for the next shoot. Those animals that had survived the funnel were driven into the pens, with the deer and boars kept apart. Their escape was only temporary. While some men collected up the arrows that had missed and dug out the rest, others began to haul the carcasses to a spot a short distance from the carts to begin the messy work of gutting them. Servants replenished the officers’ quivers ready for the next round.
Throughout the rest of the morning Cato continued to miss most of his targets no matter how hard he tried to make use of the advice offered to him by Tribune Otho. It was deeply frustrating to make little, if any, progress and by the end he was starting to develop a wholly irrational hatred of the bow which seemed to defy his attempts at mastering it. Macro had much better fortune and his cheerful banter grated on Cato’s nerves as they made their way to the refreshment cart at midday.
The deer were hanging from wooden frames, limbs splayed with a dark slash across their stomachs. Their entrails were heaped a short distance away, a pile of glistening grey and purple that had already attracted crows who picked savagely at the unexpected bounty. Three boars lay on their sides beside the deer. A number of hares had been killed and these were thrown to the hunting dogs brought up from the camp for the afternoon’s sport. They snarled as they fought over the bloody scraps of fur and meat.
Baskets of bread and cheese were set on the ground for the officers and wineskins passed round as they talked over the morning’s shoot. Cato did his best to join in with the conversation of Macro and some of the other officers but his deplorable performance made him feel a bit of a fraud and he had to content himself with the odd nod and laugh as he stood on the fringe of the discussion. At the same time, he watched his comrades with an analytical eye and noted those who boasted freely, or seemed eager to please, and those who contributed to the conversation with the diffidence of professional soldiers. It would be useful to know more of the quality of the men he fought alongside.
A sudden commotion at the neck of the funnel drew Cato’s attention and he saw two soldiers dragging what, at first, looked like another animal carcass from the killing zone. Then it moved and Cato saw a face fringed with matted hair looking up from the folds of a fur cloak.
‘What’s this?’ Macro remarked. ‘Looks like the lads have found themselves a prisoner.’
The officers fell silent as the native was manhandled over to the feet of the general and thrown to the ground. The man rolled on to his side and groaned as Ostorius demanded a report from the soldiers.
‘We found him hiding up near the ridge, sir. There at the end of the vale. Lying in the heather.’
‘He didn’t try to escape?’
‘No point, sir. We were all round him. Didn’t have a chance.’
‘And he didn’t try to resist?’
‘He couldn’t, sir. He’s been wounded. Look there.’ The legionary leaned over the prisoner and grasped his arm and pulled it up for the general to see. There was a dark, crusted mouth of a large stab wound on his bicep. Ostorius examined it briefly before he spoke.
‘Looks like it was caused by one of our weapons. Most likely as a result of a skirmish with some of our scouts. He’s one of Caratacus’s men.’
Otho edged towards Cato and muttered, ‘How can he tell if it was a Roman weapon?’
‘The Silurians fight like the rest of the tribes in Britannia: they like a long sword. That tends to lead to slashing wounds. Not a pretty sight. A lot of blood and a large gash. Whereas our men are trained to use the point, so you end up with wounds that look like that. Not so spectacular, but the blade goes in deeper than a cut and tends to cause more damage.’
‘I see,’ said the tribune.
‘What shall I do with him, sir?’ asked the legionary. ‘Take him back to the camp? If we can sort the wound out, he could fetch a decent price.’
Ostorius stroked his chin as he considered the fate of the man lying before him. The Silurian was muttering away in his tongue in between groans caused by his wound and the rough handling he had received from the legionaries who had discovered him.
‘Does anyone understand this uncouth wretch?’ He looked round at his officers and men. ‘Well?’
No one replied and the general stared down haughtily at the native. ‘Then I have no use for another prisoner. We have enough already, and soon we’ll have many more of them to sell to the slave dealers. Once we’ve dealt with Caratacus. But this one can add to the day’s entertainment. It’s time my hounds were given some exercise.’
Cato felt the hairs on his neck rise in foreboding as the general turned to the hunt master.
‘We’ll use this fellow. Get him up and take him into the funnel. We’ll let him have a head start and then set the dogs on him.’
Cato took a step forward. ‘Sir, wait.’
Ostorius turned to him with a scowl. ‘What is it, Prefect Cato?’
‘We have native scouts back at the camp. They can help with the interrogation of the prisoner.’
‘There isn’t going to be any interrogation.’
‘But he might give us information about Caratacus, sir. At least he might have some idea where the enemy is heading.’
Ostorius shrugged. ‘The scouts will discover that soon enough. We don’t need this scum.’ He prodded the Silurian with his boot. The man had grasped that his fate was in the balance and that it was Cato who was trying to save him. He shuffled closer to the prefect and raised his hands imploringly as he continued muttering.
‘Why wait for the scouts to report, sir, if this man might give us the answer today?’
‘Because this devil could just as easily lie as tell us the truth.’ He crossed his arms and con
tinued with a slight sneer, ‘Now, if you have done with it, Cato, I’d like to continue with proceedings.’
Cato had no wish to see the prisoner torn apart by dogs but realised that he had already tested the general’s temper as far as it was sensible to. He took one last glance down at the pathetic individual huddled by his boots and tore his gaze away as he saw the man’s limbs trembling. Before he could protest any further Ostorius clicked his fingers at the legionaries and the soldiers grasped the man, pulling him to his feet and shoving him towards the wicker screens. The officers followed them and filed out to each side to get a good view of what was to come.
Macro fell into step with his friend and muttered, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Trying to save that prisoner’s life.’
‘Well, you ain’t achieved nothing except to piss the old man off. Ye gods! I thought I was the one who needed to watch his tongue around the quality.’
The legionaries held the man by his arms, causing him to grimace as his wound was squeezed. Fresh blood began to ooze from under the scabs.
‘Bring up the hounds!’ Ostorius ordered.
The hunt master gestured to two of his men and they unchained the dogs. There were six of them, large, shaggy hunting dogs bred by the natives. They brought them forward on leashes, fists bunched round the leather as the dogs strained against them.
‘Give ’em a scent of the prey!’
The hunt master approached the prisoner, drew his dagger and cut a large strip off his cloak. He sheathed the blade and returned to the dogs, holding the strip beneath their muzzles as they sniffed eagerly. The Silurian now fully understood what was going to happen and he stared over his shoulder at the general as he begged for his life.
‘Release him,’ Ostorius said coldly.
The legionaries did as they were ordered and stepped away. The Silurian glanced at the faces on either side, vainly looking for any sign of help. The general raised a hand and pointed to the far end of the vale. ‘Run . . . RUN!’
The prisoner did not move, until one of the legionaries drew his sword and brandished it in his face.
Cato drew a deep breath and muttered, ‘You heard the general, you stupid bastard. Run!’
He took a few faltering steps into the funnel and then increased his pace and suddenly broke into a sprint, racing through the bloodstained grass. The hunt master brought the hounds forward and looked at the general questioningly. ‘Now, sir?’
‘Not yet. Let’s give the man a chance. Or at least, let him think he has a chance,’ he added cruelly.
The Silurian had almost reached the mouth of the funnel when Ostorius gave the nod. At once the leashes were slipped from the hounds’ collars and they bounded forward into the funnel and after the Silurian. Cato could see that they would catch him long before he could even reach the edge of the forest. The Silurian looked back, saw the dogs, and tumbled over, causing most of the spectators to laugh. The laughter died in their throats as the leading hound suddenly stopped and lowered its head into the grass and came up with a bloodied maw. The other dogs broke off the chase to join in and Cato realised they must have come across the remains of one of the animals killed earlier.
Meanwhile the Silurian was back on his feet and making good his escape.
‘The bastard’s getting away!’ someone shouted.
But Cato knew that the man was wrong. The first of the hounds was already resuming the chase. Then Cato’s attention was drawn to one of the officers close by. It was Otho and Cato saw him snatch up a bow. It happened almost before Cato was aware of it. An arrow flew across the grass and struck the Silurian squarely in the back, over the heart. He collapsed to his knees, one hand feebly clawing at the shaft before it fell limply to his side and he toppled face first into the grass and lay still.
‘By the gods!’ Macro shook his head in admiration. ‘Fifty, sixty paces, and he shot him through the heart.’
Cato could not share his friend’s admiration. He turned to the tribune and regarded him closely before he spoke in a flat tone. ‘A mercy killing?’
Otho stared back. ‘There are some deaths from which a man should be spared, even an enemy.’
Not to be put off by his disappointment over the fate of the prisoner, the general gave orders for the boar hunt to begin. The horses were brought forward and the officers took up their hunting spears and mounted. There were only four boars that had survived the funnel earlier in the day and they were released one at a time to eke out the entertainment. Nervous and worn out, the beasts put on a poor show and were quickly run down and piked, with no injuries to any of the horses or riders.
By mid-afternoon the panels had been packed up, the victims of the day’s hunt piled on to the bed of a wagon and the column left the vale and made its way back to the army. As they came in sight of the nearest gate Cato saw the rear of a column of legionaries entering the camp, their kit hanging from the marching yokes resting on their shoulders.
‘Looks like the boys from the Ninth,’ said Macro and at Cato’s side the young tribune straightened up in his saddle, his eyes bright with excitement.
‘So it is!’
Without further ado, Otho grasped his reins tightly and swerved his horse out of the column, spurring it into a gallop.
‘Bit keen, isn’t he?’ said Macro.
‘Yes, and I dare say it’s not to rejoin his first independent command so much as his first dependent.’
Macro gave him a long-suffering look. ‘The boy’s not thinking,’ he commented. ‘The general’s not going to like this.’
Sure enough, at the sound of pounding hoofs Ostorius had turned in his saddle, just in time to see the tribune galloping past.
‘TRIBUNE OTHO!’ Ostorius roared.
For a moment Cato was sure that the tribune would keep going, but sense prevailed and he reined in and turned his horse.
‘Where do you think you are going?’ the general demanded.
‘If you please, sir. Those are my men, and my wife is with them.’
‘That’s no reason to behave like an excited schoolboy! I will not have my officers tearing around like dogs. What kind of impression does that give the men? Get back in line, Tribune Otho. I warn you. Do not give me any further cause to upbraid you or there will be severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?’
Otho bowed his head and muttered an apology. With a last look towards the rear of the column entering the camp he trotted his horse back along the column and rejoined Cato and Macro. No one spoke until they reached the camp and passed through the gate. The reinforcements from the Ninth Legion were resting on either side of the main route stretching through the camp to headquarters. They had downed their yokes and stood stretching their backs, or sat where the ground had not been too badly churned up. The four centurions in command of the cohorts were waiting beside a covered wagon halfway along the column and saluted Ostorius as he rode up to them. The general waved the rest of the hunting party on, and gestured to Otho to join him before he turned his attention back to the nearest of the centurions.
‘I was expecting you to reach camp earlier than this.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we had to keep pace with the wagon.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Cato saw there were two vehicles besides the standard supply wagons. One had a large wine jar painted on its cover, together with the legend, ‘Hipparchus, wine supplier to the gods!’ The other was a carriage covered with goatskin, with a laced flap over the opening at the rear. As he watched he could make out a delicate-looking hand unplucking the laces.
Ostorius sucked in a deep breath and addressed the centurions. ‘Has the camp prefect assigned you tent lines yet?’
‘Just doing it, sir. He’s shifting some of the camp followers.’
Cato shared a weary glance with Macro and sighed. There would b
e complaints from the civilians to deal with later on.
‘Very well. Tribune Otho!’
‘Sir?’
‘Take command of your men. Get the tents up and then report to headquarters to draw rations from the quartermaster.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ostorius flicked his reins and trotted back to the head of the hunting party, while Otho slipped from his saddle and landed with a squelch in the muddy track. Cato and Macro were passing the wagon when the flap opened and a head and shoulders emerged from the dim interior.
‘Poppaea, my love.’ Otho grinned in delight.
A servant hurried round from behind the wagon and lowered a set of wooden steps for his mistress to descend. As she came fully into view, Macro sucked in a breath.
‘Now I understand why our boy was so keen.’
Cato nodded as he ran his eyes over the woman. She was tall and slender, with tawny blond hair plaited back behind her delicate ears. Her cheekbones were high and her features finely proportioned with sculptural precision. But he was surprised. Poppaea was beautiful, all right, but she was clearly several years older than her new husband. As she set eyes on him she smiled and it transformed her face completely so that she became radiant against the backdrop of mud and tents. Before Cato could pass any comment to Macro, he heard shouts from ahead and saw one of the headquarters clerks running towards the general. He stopped at the general’s side and spoke hurriedly. The general snapped a few questions at the man before he dismissed him and turned to the hunting party that had stopped behind him.
‘Officers! On me!’
Cato and Macro joined the others, urging their mounts forward until they clustered about the general. All trace of Ostorius’s weariness had vanished from his face as he looked over their expressions eagerly.
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