Brothers in Blood by Simon Scarrow Page B

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!’

CHAPTER SIX
    T he spell broke and he raised his left arm. The arrow was still notched, but slipped loose as his arm came level.
    ‘Shit!’ Cato hissed, frantically fumbling to refit the shaft. He was aware of the blur of movement a short distance away and the bellowing breath of the stag. When he looked up it was no more than ten feet from him. There was a flicker of movement from his left and a sharp thud as an arrow struck the stag in the chest and the iron barb tore through its heart. The stag fell forwards and rolled on the ground before crashing into the panel in front of Cato, flattening it and knocking him back on to the ground. An instant later Macro grabbed his arm and pulled him up, struggling to suppress a grin.
    ‘All right, lad?’
    ‘Fine, thanks.’
    ‘Don’t thank me. Thank the tribune there. If he hadn’t acted you’d be all over that stag’s horns right now.’
    Cato looked round and saw Otho watching him, bow in hand, and another arrow already plucked from his quiver. ‘I’m grateful.’
    Otho shook his head. ‘An easy shot. Think nothing of it.’
    ‘LOOSE ARROWS!’ the hunt master bellowed from the neck of the funnel. The tribune turned back to the funnel and prepared his next shot. By the time Cato had picked up his bow and retaken his place, the open ground in front of the funnel was thick with flying arrows. The does went down in quick succession, shafts protruding from their hides, and then there was a brief pause before more game came rushing forward, driven on by the beaters. Cato saw several more deer, and the first of the boars, head down as it launched into a charge. There were hares as well, bounding through the heather and into the expanse of grass in front of the hunters. He took a calming breath and securely fitted his arrow and raised the bow. Choosing the boar as his target, Cato lined up the tip of the arrow, drawing his hand back until he felt the back of his thumb come up against his cheek. He led the boar, aiming a short distance in front of its snout, then tracking it as it angled towards the opening of the funnel thirty paces away. Holding his breath, Cato closed his left eye and narrowed the right . . . then released his string with a flick of his fingers. The bow lurched in his hand and the arrow sped towards its target, striking it high on the shoulder behind the head.
    ‘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