‘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?’
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.’