‘Your Thracian lads aren’t quite the ticket, are they?’
‘Sir?’
‘They look like a bunch of ruffians with those beards, black tunics and cloaks and so on. Not quite what I’d expect from a regular army unit. You should insist on higher standards, Cato.’
‘They fight well enough.’
‘That’s as maybe, but they create something of a bad impression.’
Cato smiled. ‘That’s the effect my predecessor was going for. It’s also the reason why they have their own banner. The enemy fear them and know their name.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard. The Blood Crows.’
Cato nodded.
‘I think scarecrows would be more appropriate. .’ Horatius nodded at Macro and gestured to his cup. ‘If you don’t mind.’
Macro frowned slightly but did as he was bid then set the jug down heavily before picking up his own cup. He took a healthy swig and smiled.
‘That’s good stuff. Nice to see the general looks after his officers.’
Horatius smiled thinly. ‘I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. This is the first time he’s put on a feed for months. The old boy’s scenting the kill. Maybe that’s what minded him to lay on the hunt. Venison tomorrow, Caratacus the day after, eh?’
‘I’ll drink to that!’ Macro raised his cup and took another swig.
Cato lifted his wine and took a sip, conscious that his friend would drink to pretty much anything. The wine’s refinement surprised him. A rich, smooth, musty flavour, quite unlike the sharp tang of most of the cheap wine imported into the island where it could be sold for a substantial profit, regardless of its quality. His thoughts shifted back to the other prefect’s comment.
‘Let’s not cook the deer before we catch it. I doubt the enemy’s going to let us run them down as easily as tomorrow’s prey.’
Horatius scratched his jaw. ‘I hope you’re wrong. Not just because I’ve had enough of chasing those bloody barbarians around these mountains. It’s Ostorius I’m worried about.’ He lowered his voice as he glanced quickly towards the head of the table. Cato followed his gaze and saw the general staring into a silver goblet as he listened to the conversation of the two legates. The verve of the man who had delivered the briefing shortly before had evaporated. Now the general looked tired and his lined face inclined forward as if his head was a burden on his thin shoulders. Horatius let out a sigh. ‘Poor bastard’s just about done in. This will be his last campaign, I’m thinking. And he knows it. That’s why he’s so determined to catch Caratacus before it’s too late. His military career is going to end here in the mountains. Victory or defeat, or the humiliation of sitting in Rome while his replacement finishes the job and reaps the rewards. .’ He sipped his wine. ‘Be a shame, that, after all the groundwork that Ostorius has put in.’ The prefect smiled at Macro and Cato. ‘Still, there’s every chance we’ll corner the enemy soon, eh?’
‘I hope so.’ Cato made himself smile encouragingly. ‘Even if we only get to watch proceedings from the rear of our lines.’
Horatius made a sympathetic noise. ‘You have to pay your dues, my boy. Command of the baggage train escort ain’t likely to win you any medals but it’s a necessary job. Do it well and you’ll get your chance to win a name for yourself in due course.’
Cato stifled the urge to tell the other officer that he had seen his share of action across the years of his service in the army. Along with Macro he had faced, and overcome, more danger than most of Rome’s soldiers would ever face in their careers. He had most definitely paid his dues. But his experience had taught him that life seldom bestows its rewards in proportion to the efforts men have taken to earn them. It had also taught him never to underestimate his enemy. Even now, with the might of the Roman army breathing down his neck, Caratacus might yet cheat Ostorius of the final triumph of his long and glorious career.
His thoughts were interrupted as two of the general’s servants entered the tent with a sizzling, glazed roast pig. It was skewered on a stout wooden shaft, the ends of which were supported by the servants’ shoulders. They struggled to a small side table and laid their burden down. The tent filled with the rich aroma of the cooked meat and the officers eyed the main course of the feast appreciatively. One of the servants looked to the general for permission to continue and Ostorius flicked his hand in curt assent. Taking out a sharp knife from his belt, the servant began to hack off chunks of pork on to a platter for his companion to distribute to the officers, starting at the head of the table. While the rest of the most senior officers ate hungrily, Ostorius simply picked at his meal, Cato noticed.
Once he had been served, Cato drew his dagger and cut his chunk of pork into more manageable pieces. Opposite, Macro tore at his meat, jaws working furiously. He caught Cato’s eye and grinned, juice dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Cato returned the smile before turning back to his neighbour.
‘What do you know about the new arrival?’
Horatius pointed the tip of his knife up towards the head of the table. ‘Tribune Otho?’ He paused briefly to think. ‘Not much. Only what I’ve heard from a mate who was reporting from Lindum a few days ago. Our lad arrived from Rome less than two months ago, the ink still wet on his letter of appointment. Popular enough, though he’s still got plenty to learn about the army. Like most of them broad-stripers. Give ’em a couple of years and they’ll do us no harm. Best we can hope for really.’
He paused to eat another mouthful and then, when he did not continue, Cato cleared his throat. ‘Nothing else? Is that all your friend had to say about Otho?’
‘Near enough. There was something else.’ Horatius lowered his voice and leaned closer. ‘There was a rumour about the reason behind his fetching up here on this miserable island.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know how it is, Cato. One servant mutters something to the next and before you know it they’re saying two and two make five. In this case, it seems that our friend Otho was sent here on the orders of the Emperor, as a punishment. If you’re going to punish someone, that’s the way to do it, sure enough — send ’em to Britannia.’
Cato’s curiosity was piqued and he swallowed hurriedly in order to urge his comrade to say more. ‘What was the punishment for?’
Horatius winked. ‘Something to do with his wife. She insisted on coming with him from Rome. Read into that what you will. According to my mate, she’s quite a looker.’
Cato sucked in air between his teeth. He had wondered about bringing his own wife, Julia, with him, but had decided against it due to the danger posed by an unsettled province, swarming with the enemies of Emperor Claudius. If Otho had chosen to permit his wife to accompany him then it was possible that he felt she would be in greater danger if she remained in Rome. That, or perhaps the tribune was obsessively jealous and dare not leave his wife to her own devices in the capital.
The thought sparked off a stab of jealousy in Cato’s gut and unbidden images and anxieties about Julia’s fidelity rushed into his thoughts. She was part of the social world of the aristocrats; there were plenty of wealthy, powerful, well-groomed men to catch her eye, and with her beauty she could have the pick of them if she wished. He forced such fears from his mind, furious and ashamed with himself for doubting her. After all, was he not availed of the same opportunities to indulge himself in the towns and tents of the camp followers, albeit that the company was somewhat less select and self-regarding? And Cato had not broken faith. He must trust that Julia had similarly honoured him. What else could he do? Cato asked himself. If he tormented himself with such fears it would be a dangerous distraction — for him and, more importantly, for his men.