profit, regardless of its quality. His thoughts shifted back to the other prefect’s comment.
‘Let’s not cook the deer before we catch it. I doubt the enemy’s going to let us run them down as easily as tomorrow’s prey.’
Horatius scratched his jaw. ‘I hope you’re wrong. Not just because I’ve had enough of chasing those bloody barbarians around these mountains. It’s Ostorius I’m worried about.’ He lowered his voice as he glanced quickly towards the head of the table. Cato followed his gaze and saw the general staring into a silver goblet as he listened to the conversation of the two legates. The verve of the man who had delivered the briefing shortly before had evaporated. Now the general looked tired and his lined face inclined forward as if his head was a burden on his thin shoulders. Horatius let out a sigh. ‘Poor bastard’s just about done in. This will be his last campaign, I’m thinking. And he knows it. That’s why he’s so determined to catch Caratacus before it’s too late. His military career is going to end here in the mountains. Victory or defeat, or the humiliation of sitting in Rome while his replacement finishes the job and reaps the rewards . . .’ He sipped his wine. ‘Be a shame, that, after all the groundwork that Ostorius has put in.’ The prefect smiled at Macro and Cato. ‘Still, there’s every chance we’ll corner the enemy soon, eh?’
‘I hope so.’ Cato made himself smile encouragingly. ‘Even if we only get to watch proceedings from the rear of our lines.’
Horatius made a sympathetic noise. ‘You have to pay your dues, my boy. Command of the baggage train escort ain’t likely to win you any medals but it’s a necessary job. Do it well and you’ll get your chance to win a name for yourself in due course.’
Cato stifled the urge to tell the other officer that he had seen his share of action across the years of his service in the army. Along with Macro he had faced, and overcome, more danger than most of Rome’s soldiers would ever face in their careers. He had most definitely paid his dues. But his experience had taught him that life seldom bestows its rewards in proportion to the efforts men have taken to earn them. It had also taught him never to underestimate his enemy. Even now, with the might of the Roman army breathing down his neck, Caratacus might yet cheat Ostorius of the final triumph of his long and glorious career.
His thoughts were interrupted as two of the general’s servants entered the tent with a sizzling, glazed roast pig. It was skewered on a stout wooden shaft, the ends of which were supported by the servants’ shoulders. They struggled to a small side table and laid their burden down. The tent filled with the rich aroma of the cooked meat and the officers eyed the main course of the feast appreciatively. One of the servants looked to the general for permission to continue and Ostorius flicked his hand in curt assent. Taking out a sharp knife from his belt, the servant began to hack off chunks of pork on to a platter for his companion to distribute to the officers, starting at the head of the table. While the rest of the most senior officers ate hungrily, Ostorius simply picked at his meal, Cato noticed.
Once he had been served, Cato drew his dagger and cut his chunk of pork into more manageable pieces. Opposite, Macro tore at his meat, jaws working furiously. He caught Cato’s eye and grinned, juice dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Cato returned the smile before turning back to his neighbour.
‘What do you know about the new arrival?’
Horatius pointed the tip of his knife up towards the head of the table. ‘Tribune Otho?’ He paused briefly to think. ‘Not much. Only what I’ve heard from a mate who was reporting from Lindum a few days ago. Our lad arrived from Rome less than two months ago, the ink still wet on his letter of appointment. Popular enough, though he’s still got plenty to learn about the army.
‘Let’s not cook the deer before we catch it. I doubt the enemy’s going to let us run them down as easily as tomorrow’s prey.’
Horatius scratched his jaw. ‘I hope you’re wrong. Not just because I’ve had enough of chasing those bloody barbarians around these mountains. It’s Ostorius I’m worried about.’ He lowered his voice as he glanced quickly towards the head of the table. Cato followed his gaze and saw the general staring into a silver goblet as he listened to the conversation of the two legates. The verve of the man who had delivered the briefing shortly before had evaporated. Now the general looked tired and his lined face inclined forward as if his head was a burden on his thin shoulders. Horatius let out a sigh. ‘Poor bastard’s just about done in. This will be his last campaign, I’m thinking. And he knows it. That’s why he’s so determined to catch Caratacus before it’s too late. His military career is going to end here in the mountains. Victory or defeat, or the humiliation of sitting in Rome while his replacement finishes the job and reaps the rewards . . .’ He sipped his wine. ‘Be a shame, that, after all the groundwork that Ostorius has put in.’ The prefect smiled at Macro and Cato. ‘Still, there’s every chance we’ll corner the enemy soon, eh?’
‘I hope so.’ Cato made himself smile encouragingly. ‘Even if we only get to watch proceedings from the rear of our lines.’
Horatius made a sympathetic noise. ‘You have to pay your dues, my boy. Command of the baggage train escort ain’t likely to win you any medals but it’s a necessary job. Do it well and you’ll get your chance to win a name for yourself in due course.’
Cato stifled the urge to tell the other officer that he had seen his share of action across the years of his service in the army. Along with Macro he had faced, and overcome, more danger than most of Rome’s soldiers would ever face in their careers. He had most definitely paid his dues. But his experience had taught him that life seldom bestows its rewards in proportion to the efforts men have taken to earn them. It had also taught him never to underestimate his enemy. Even now, with the might of the Roman army breathing down his neck, Caratacus might yet cheat Ostorius of the final triumph of his long and glorious career.
His thoughts were interrupted as two of the general’s servants entered the tent with a sizzling, glazed roast pig. It was skewered on a stout wooden shaft, the ends of which were supported by the servants’ shoulders. They struggled to a small side table and laid their burden down. The tent filled with the rich aroma of the cooked meat and the officers eyed the main course of the feast appreciatively. One of the servants looked to the general for permission to continue and Ostorius flicked his hand in curt assent. Taking out a sharp knife from his belt, the servant began to hack off chunks of pork on to a platter for his companion to distribute to the officers, starting at the head of the table. While the rest of the most senior officers ate hungrily, Ostorius simply picked at his meal, Cato noticed.
Once he had been served, Cato drew his dagger and cut his chunk of pork into more manageable pieces. Opposite, Macro tore at his meat, jaws working furiously. He caught Cato’s eye and grinned, juice dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Cato returned the smile before turning back to his neighbour.
‘What do you know about the new arrival?’
Horatius pointed the tip of his knife up towards the head of the table. ‘Tribune Otho?’ He paused briefly to think. ‘Not much. Only what I’ve heard from a mate who was reporting from Lindum a few days ago. Our lad arrived from Rome less than two months ago, the ink still wet on his letter of appointment. Popular enough, though he’s still got plenty to learn about the army.
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