‘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?’