Free Brothers in Blood by Simon Scarrow Page A

stinging nettle.’
    ‘Interesting notion.’ Cato stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’ll see if Thraxis has the recipe.’
    It was mid-morning before the hunting party had gathered at the entrance to the vale General Ostorious had chosen for the site of the day’s entertainment. There were over a hundred officers, with their mounts, and twice as many soldiers and servants, together with several carts carrying the necessary equipment and provisions. A table had been set up beside a brazier and as the officers arrived they were given a cup of heated wine. Macro downed his with an appreciative smack of his lips as if the previous night had never happened. The soldiers assigned to act as beaters began to quietly file up the vale and work their way around the sides to the far end. Other men set to work erecting the wicker screens that would funnel the deer and boar into the killing zone. Once that was done they began to take out the hunting bows and arrow-filled quivers from one of the carts and lay them out on a leather groundsheet to keep them off the dew-dampened grass.
    The general was the last to arrive, riding up accompanied by the two legates and his personal bodyguard of eight hand-picked legionaries. He wore a thick cloak about his body, even though the sun shone and bathed the mountainous landscape in its warm glow. Despite his cheery demeanour Cato realised that he was putting on a performance of hearty good health and humour for his subordinates.
    Ostorius dismounted and took some wine, cupping his gnarled fingers tightly round the goblet. Cato watched him as he moved through the gathering, greeting his officers. Then the prefect’s eye caught a movement down the valley in the direction of a camp. A horseman was galloping up on a sleek black mount. As he got closer, Cato saw that it was the tribune who had arrived the previous day. He reined in a short distance from the other officers and wagons, spraying clods of earth on to one of the general’s servants. Dropping from the saddle, he thrust the reins into the man’s hands and swiftly joined the others, breathing heavily from his ride. The sudden arrival had caused a moment’s lull in the conversation and Ostorius rounded on the tribune with a frown.
    ‘Young man, I don’t know what passes for good manners in Rome these days, but I’ll thank you to ensure that you never arrive late to any meeting or gathering where your commanding officer is already present.’
    Tribune Otho bowed his head. ‘My apologies, sir.’
    ‘And what reason explains your tardiness?’
    Otho looked up and hesitated a moment before he replied. ‘There is no excuse, sir. I woke late.’
    ‘I see. Then clearly you need training in the art of wakefulness. Five days’ command of the night watch should suffice.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Cato and Macro exchanged a quick look. The general had just condemned the young tribune to five days with almost no chance to sleep. The officer in charge of the night watch was obliged to distribute the password to each sentry and then do the rounds of the camp between changes of watch to ensure that every man was alert and gave the right challenge. It was a tiresome business, all the more so after a day’s march. That was why the duty was shared amongst the tribunes of an army.
    ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Cato muttered.
    Macro shrugged. ‘It’ll teach the young pup a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry. It’ll be good for him.’
    ‘Good for him? He’ll be on his knees by the end of it.’
    ‘It’ll be the making of him.’
    ‘Or the breaking of him.’
    Macro looked at him. ‘Cato, you know how it is with training. You have to push a man further than he thinks he can go. That’s how it works. That’s why you’ve turned out as well as you have.’
    It was true, Cato admitted to himself. Youngsters like Otho needed to be tamed and become inured to the hard conditions of the army as soon as possible, for their own good, and for the good of