Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Fine morning for it!’ Cato stretched his back and looked up into the clear heavens. Not a cloud was in sight and there was no wind. The air was still damp and cool and he breathed deeply. He had tried his best to dismiss his concerns the previous night when he returned to his tent. Instead he forced himself to think of Julia and the house he planned to build in Campania one day, once he had amassed a fortune from booty earned during his duty. There had been precious little of that so far, but if the campaign in Britannia came to a successful conclusion there would be riches to be made from selling prisoners to the slave dealers. That, and a share of any gold and silver taken. More than enough to buy a slice of the peace and quiet of Campania, where he and Julia could raise a family, and he could take his place amongst the magistrates of the nearest town. Perhaps Macro might choose to live nearby and they could drink and recall the old days. On such wistful thoughts he had easily drifted off to sleep.

‘What’s that?’ Macro growled, his head in his hands. He was sitting on the other stool warming himself by the freshly lit fire in front of Cato’s tent. ‘Fine morning? What’s fine about it?’

Cato could not help smiling at his friend’s discomfort. Macro never drank with any thought of the consequences.

‘Clear skies, clean air and the prospect of a day’s hunt. Cause enough to feel in a fine mood.’

‘So you say.’

‘Ah, here’s Thraxis.’ Cato sat down as his servant walked up with a heavy iron pot, a thick rag wrapped round the handle to protect his hand. He placed it close to the fire before removing the lid. In his other hand he carried two mess tins and a wooden ladle.

‘What do you have for us?’ asked Cato with a quick wink as he craned his neck to peer into the pot.

‘Thought you could use something hearty to fill your stomachs for the day, Prefect.’ The servant dipped the ladle in and stirred the thick grey contents of the pot.

‘It’s gruel with bacon, fat and some honey I bought in the traders’ market last night.’ He leaned forward and sniffed. ‘Ah! That’s good.’

Thraxis hefted a dollop out of the pot and flicked it into one of the mess tins with a dull splat. He handed it to Cato along with a spoon. ‘There you are, Prefect.’

Cato nodded his thanks and raised the mess tin. He took a small spoonful and blew across it before tentatively taking his first taste. It was hot and flavoursome and he eagerly helped himself to another, while his servant filled the next mess tin for Macro and offered it to the centurion.

‘Sir?’

Macro looked up, bleary-eyed and with a thick growth of stubble on his cheeks. He reluctantly took the mess tin.

‘Thraxis,’ Cato intervened. ‘Have our boots, cloaks and canteens ready for us once we’ve eaten.’

‘Yes, Prefect.’

Cato turned his attention back to his friend. It was several days since Macro had been to the barber for his last shave and he was starting to look more untamed than the wildest of Celts, Cato mused. His friend’s hair was beginning to go grey at the temples and, if Cato was not imagining it, receding a fraction from his forehead. Hardly surprising as Macro was in his fortieth year and had spent twenty-four years in the army, having lied about his age to join at sixteen. Cato paused before eating his next spoon of gruel and cleared his throat.

‘Any thoughts about what you’re going to do when we get to the end of the year?’

Macro had been staring at the mess tin in his lap, wondering if he dare try to eat some of the concoction Thraxis had produced, suspicious that Cato’s servant had deliberately gone for a meal that was guaranteed to turn the stomach of even the hardest old soak in the legions. He looked up at Cato. ‘Mmmm?’

‘This is your demob year. You’re on the short enlistment. So?’

Macro worked his spoon round the gruel. The legions discharged time-served men every other year, which meant that soldiers served a twenty-four or twenty-six year enlistment. He braced himself and took a spoon and chewed it slowly, forcing himself to swallow before he replied.

‘Had a letter from my mum in Londinium. The inn she bought is making a packet and she wants me to join her and expand the business.’

‘Oh?’

This was the first Cato had heard of the letter, and he felt a twinge of anxiety as he regarded his friend, the man he had served with ever since joining the Second Legion as a pasty-faced recruit ten years ago. Life in the army without Macro was unthinkable, but he had to accept that his friend was reaching the end of his enlistment and might well choose to take his discharge bounty and retire.

Macro considered a second spoonful and decided against it for the moment. He looked up at Cato. ‘I don’t know, lad. Sometimes I think I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for soldiering. Can’t deny the prospect of running a drinking hole for the rest of my days isn’t tempting.’

‘And you handle your drink so well,’ Cato smiled.

‘I don’t get as much practice as I’d like.’

‘I think regular practice would kill you, on the evidence of this morning.’

‘If anything is going to kill me, it’s this bloody poison your servant has mixed. Might as well cut out the middle man.’ Macro turned and flicked the contents of the mess tin into the fire where the gruel steamed, bubbled, spat and hissed for a moment. He scratched his chin in thought. ‘I don’t know, Cato. My limbs are getting a bit stiff. I ain’t as strong or as quick as I used to be, and in this trade that isn’t good. I’ve been in plenty of fights. Good times, eh? Up until this year I’ve fought well enough. But lately? I get the feeling that I’ve already been as good a soldier as I am ever going to be. From here, it’s downhill. At some point, I’m bound to run into an enemy I can’t beat. When that day comes the chances are I’ll be cut to pieces. It might be for the best if I quit before that happens.’

Cato had been listening with a sinking heart. When Macro finished he looked at him to see how he would respond.

Cato shook his head slowly. ‘Well, I have to say, I’m surprised. I’d never have thought you’d be the one to jack in soldiering to run an inn. There’s still plenty of fight left in you as far as I’m concerned, and of course it’d be a sad loss for the army. .’ The string of platitudes dried up and Cato sat in awkward silence, not quite certain how to voice his real reasons for not wanting Macro to take his discharge.

His friend was watching his downcast expression closely and suddenly he could contain his mirth no longer and let out a roar of laughter.

‘If you could see your face! It’s a bloody picture!’

Cato was startled by the sudden transformation. ‘What are you talking about?’

Macro shook his head. ‘Just fucking about with you, lad! Paying you back for that shit you had Thraxis put together. Think I didn’t see that wink?’

‘You mean. . You aren’t thinking of leaving the army?’

‘What? Are you mad? What else can I do? I’d be bloody useless on civvy street.’

It was hard not to show his relief, even though he was annoyed by the petty trick. Cato wagged a finger at him.

‘Next time, I’ll give orders for your discharge myself. Just to make certain.’

‘Oh sure. Anyway, you’ll not get your chance. I’ve already handed in my request to extend my enlistment. Just waiting to hear back from the legate, and then I’m signed up for another ten years.’ He leaned forward and clapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily!’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Cato said with feeling and hurriedly turned his attention back to his breakfast, determined not to let his relief show.

The grizzled veteran smiled to himself, touched by the sentiment of his younger friend. His gaze returned to the pot by the fire. A thin trail of steam curled up from the gruel and he felt his stomach lurch in disgust at the very idea of trying to eat.

‘You should try some,’ Cato urged. ‘Or you’ll be hungry later on.’

‘Eat that? No fucking chance. I’d sooner lick a turd off a stinging nettle.’

‘Interesting notion.’ Cato stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’ll see if Thraxis has the recipe.’

It was mid-morning before the hunting party had gathered at the entrance to the vale General Ostorious had chosen for the site of the day’s entertainment. There were over a hundred officers, with their mounts, and twice as many soldiers and servants, together with several carts carrying the necessary equipment and provisions. A table had been set up beside a brazier and as the officers arrived they were given a cup of heated wine. Macro downed his with an appreciative smack of his lips as if the previous night had never happened. The soldiers assigned to act as beaters began to quietly file up the vale and work their way around the sides to the far end. Other men set to work erecting the wicker screens that would funnel the deer and boar into the killing zone. Once that was done they began to take out the hunting bows and arrow-filled quivers from one of the carts and lay them out on a leather groundsheet to keep them off the dew-dampened grass.

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!’