Brothers in Blood by Simon Scarrow

tribune’s concentration was fixed on the game rushing towards him. For a moment Cato watched in admiration as the young man loosed arrow after arrow in quick succession, never pausing to celebrate a hit or curse a near miss. It was as if he was born to be an archer, thought Cato.
    ‘Stand to, Cato,’ Macro urged him. ‘You’re missing the fun!’
    He focused his mind on his bow once again, bringing it up as his fingers scrabbled for a fresh arrow. There was only time for three more shots before the hunt master shouted the order to cease. The sudden stillness after the frantic action was shocking and for an instant the officers stared over the open ground littered with the feathered arrows and the bodies of stricken animals, some still writhing as they bled out.
    Then an officer let out a shrill whoop and punched his fist into the air. The cry broke the tense silence and others joined in or turned to their comrades to boast about their fine shooting.
    ‘What did you get?’ asked Macro.
    ‘Just one shot on the boar. The rest were misses.’ Cato clicked his tongue.
    ‘That big fellow must have unsettled your aim.’
    Macro pointed to the stag, now lying still, head twisted to one side and tongue lolling from its open jaws.
    ‘Nice thought, Macro. But the misses came after the boar, and that came after the stag. No need to make excuses for me. I’ll have better luck with a spear against the boars later on.’
    Macro leaned round Cato. ‘What about you, sir?’
    Tribune Otho tapped his empty quiver. ‘Ran out. Shame, since I was starting to warm up nicely.’
    ‘Good on you. So, how many hits?’
    ‘How many?’ Otho cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why, all of them, of course.’
    The hunt master called to his men and they entered the killing ground. The beaters headed back to their starting positions to prepare for the next shoot. Those animals that had survived the funnel were driven into the pens, with the deer and boars kept apart. Their escape was only temporary. While some men collected up the arrows that had missed and dug out the rest, others began to haul the carcasses to a spot a short distance from the carts to begin the messy work of gutting them. Servants replenished the officers’ quivers ready for the next round.
    Throughout the rest of the morning Cato continued to miss most of his targets no matter how hard he tried to make use of the advice offered to him by Tribune Otho. It was deeply frustrating to make little, if any, progress and by the end he was starting to develop a wholly irrational hatred of the bow which seemed to defy his attempts at mastering it. Macro had much better fortune and his cheerful banter grated on Cato’s nerves as they made their way to the refreshment cart at midday.
    The deer were hanging from wooden frames, limbs splayed with a dark slash across their stomachs. Their entrails were heaped a short distance away, a pile of glistening grey and purple that had already attracted crows who picked savagely at the unexpected bounty. Three boars lay on their sides beside the deer. A number of hares had been killed and these were thrown to the hunting dogs brought up from the camp for the afternoon’s sport. They snarled as they fought over the bloody scraps of fur and meat.
    Baskets of bread and cheese were set on the ground for the officers and wineskins passed round as they talked over the morning’s shoot. Cato did his best to join in with the conversation of Macro and some of the other officers but his deplorable performance made him feel a bit of a fraud and he had to content himself with the odd nod and laugh as he stood on the fringe of the discussion. At the same time, he watched his comrades with an analytical eye and noted those who boasted freely, or seemed eager to please, and those who contributed to the conversation with the diffidence of professional soldiers. It would be useful to know more of the quality of the men he fought alongside.
    A sudden commotion at the neck