Free Brothers in Blood by Simon Scarrow Page B

the men they commanded.
    Ostorius dismissed the tribune with a curt wave of his hand and turned to the centurion from the Twentieth who had been appointed the day’s master of the hunt.
    ‘Are we ready?’
    The centurion saluted and gestured into the vale. ‘Nearly, sir. The beaters are getting into position.’
    Cato looked up and saw the tiny figures extending into a line amid the mottled green and brown of the distant bracken. Already he could pick out other movement as large animals scurried away from the beaters. There was a small forest growing either side of a stream that flowed into the main valley. A small group of deer were visible in the shadows of the treeline. Plenty of game, then, just as the general had said.
    The centurion turned to the men working on the wicker screens. Already the makings of a large funnel angled into the mouth of the vale with pens at the end. There were gaps between each panel to provide shooting positions for the hunters. The lines were set at a right angle so that the arrows would provide a crossfire without endangering any of the officers in the party. ‘Just finishing that off, sir, and we’re ready for you to give the signal to begin.’
    Ostorius nodded approvingly and then addressed his officers. ‘Pick your weapons, men. We’ll start with the shoot.’
    Cato, Macro and the others moved across to the bows and quivers filled with broad-pointed hunting arrows that lay on the leather goatskin covers. They chose their weapons and bracers and some of the more experienced officers tested the draw weights to get a feeling for the power of their chosen bow. Cato and Macro had never trained as archers and took what came to hand before making their way over to the wicker screens and taking their places at the gaps left between the screens. As Cato slipped the small iron hooks of the quiver over his sword belt, Tribune Otho approached and took the adjacent shooting position. They exchanged a nod before Cato held out a hand.
    ‘Haven’t had the chance to make your acquaintance yet. Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato of the Second Thracian Cavalry.’
    The younger man grasped Cato’s forearm and smiled cheerfully. ‘Tribune Marcus Silvius Otho.’ He glanced past Cato with an enquiring expression. ‘And this is?’
    Macro leaned his bow against the screen and stepped forward. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, commanding the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion, sir. Though at the moment my cohort is attached to the prefect’s command, escorting the baggage train.’
    ‘Oh, that sounds like quite a responsibility.’
    ‘Not as much as we’d like, sir.’ Macro smiled faintly.
    Otho pursed his full lips briefly, unsure how he should phrase his next words. ‘Pardon me, Prefect, but I’m still somewhat new to this game and there weren’t any auxiliary units at Lindum. Do I call you sir? Or do you call me sir?’
    Cato was taken aback. Any tribune, broad-stripe or otherwise, should have taken the effort to learn such basic facts of military life. He cleared his throat and made to explain. ‘You are second-in-command to your legate, Hosidius Geta. Technically. In practice the camp prefect takes command if Geta falls or is absent. In the normal course of things I would call you sir. But as you command a detachment from the Ninth Legion, you are a minor formation commander and therefore an equal. In which case I call you Tribune and you call me Prefect. In formal situations. Today, I am simply Cato.’
    Otho’s eyes bulged as he struggled to take it all in. Then he nodded. ‘Cato it is. And Centurion Macro calls me sir. Is that right?’
    Macro nodded. ‘And that ain’t going to change unless the world gets turned upside down and some lunatic makes me a senator. Or you foul up spectacularly and get broken down to legionary, sir.’
    The tribune glanced over his shoulder in the direction of General Ostorius. ‘I trust it won’t come to that. Not before I serve my time out and