Authors: Simon Scarrow
‘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
T
he 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.
‘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 continued 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?’