Brothers in Blood by Simon Scarrow Page A

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