‘Which of you has the highest rank?’
Even if the accent was thick the Latin was good enough to understand, and Cato made to raise his arm. At once Figulus restrained him with a warning shake of the head and prepared to volunteer himself. But Cato spoke first.
‘Me!’
The warrior looked round at Cato and raised his eyebrows. ‘You? I asked for your commander, not your goat-herder. Now which of you is it?’
Cato flushed angrily and cleared his throat to reply as clearly as possible. ‘I am Centurion Quintus Licinius Cato, commanding the Sixth Century, Third Cohort of the Second Legion Augusta. I hold the senior rank here!’
The warrior could not help smiling at the umbrage he had provoked. He looked Cato up and down and laughed, before he continued in his own tongue.
‘I had no idea the men of your legions were led by little boys. Why, you look barely old enough to shave.’
‘Maybe,’ Cato replied in Celtic. ‘But I’m old enough to know you Britons are full of shit. How else could I have cut so many of you down?’
The warrior’s smile faded and he fixed the young centurion with a cold glare. ‘I’d watch your tongue, boy. While you still have one. You’re the one who’s up to his neck in shit, not me. You’d do well to remember that.’
Cato shrugged. ‘What did you want me for anyway?’
The warrior bent down, undid the shackle around Cato’s ankle and slipped the collar off the centurion’s leg. Then he hauled Cato roughly to his feet and snarled into his face, ‘Someone wants to see you, Roman.’
Cato wanted to recoil from the bared teeth and wide-eyes of the barbarian, and he knew that the man wanted him to flinch, to show some sign of fear. Cato was equally aware that his men were watching him closely; in fear, yes, but also to see if he could face up to the enemy.
‘Fuck you.’ Cato spoke in Latin. A smile flickered across his lips and then he spat into the warrior’s face. His mouth had been dry and it was more air than spittle that struck the warrior. Even so, it had the desired effect and Cato doubled up as the man slammed a fist into his stomach. He sank to his knees, doubled over and gasping for breath, but Cato’s ears rang with the cries of support and defiance from the legionaries. The warrior grabbed the centurion by the hair and yanked him back to his feet.
‘How funny was that, Roman? Next time I’ll crush your balls like eggs. Then you’ll never get to speak like a man again. Let’s go.’
He threw Cato out of the byre and as he followed he noticed a guard approaching with the basket of food for the prisoners. As the guard neared the entrance to the byre the warrior suddenly lashed out with his fist and knocked the basket flying, scattering the scraps all around. At once a handful of chickens scurried over from beside the nearest hut and began to peck at the stale morsels. The warrior nodded in satisfaction before he turned back to the startled guard. ‘No food for the Romans today.’
The guard nodded and warily bent down to retrieve the basket as the warrior clamped a hand round Cato’s arm and dragged him away into the heart of the camp. The evening meal was being prepared and the smells of cooking filled the air, tormenting Cato even as he slowly caught his breath. Despite the agony in his stomach he was still aware enough to keep looking around as he was hauled through the camp. There were many warriors here, tough-looking men who looked up as the warrior passed through them with his prisoner. Cured meat hung from racks, and grain pits were filled almost to the brim. These men clearly had the will and supplies to continue the fight and act as a cadre around which further resistance to Rome could be built. If the legions were ever to bring this island under the control of the Emperor then these men had to be utterly destroyed, Cato realised. Not that it was his problem any more. He was no longer a Roman soldier. Indeed, it was almost certain that he would not be anything in the near future. Perhaps he was even now being dragged to his execution – a sacrifice for some druid ritual of the night.
At length, as darkness closed round the camp, Cato was shoved through the opening of one of the larger huts, and with his hands still tied together, he fell awkwardly on to the rushes strewn across the floor. Rolling on to his side, Cato saw a small fire crackling at the centre of the hut. Sitting on a stool behind the fire was a large man with sandy hair tied back from his face. He was wearing a simple tunic and leggings that emphasised the bulk of muscle they covered. Solid arms, ending in long interlaced fingers, supported a bearded jaw. A thick moustache curved down either side of compressed lips. The glow of the fire revealed the face of a man in his late thirties with a prominent brow and broad forehead. A gold torc glinted around his neck, and Cato recognised the design at once. He felt a wave of terrible apprehension.
‘Where did you get that torc?’ he snapped in Celtic.
The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he tilted his head with a look of bemusement.
‘Roman, I don’t think I had you brought here to discuss your taste in jewellery.’
Cato struggled to his knees and forced himself to calm down. ‘No, I don’t imagine you did.’
The binding around his wrists was uncomfortable, and Cato eased his backside on to the ground, sitting cross-legged, so that he could rest his arms. Then he examined the other man more closely. He was clearly a warrior, and had about him the composed aura of a natural commander of men. The torc was identical to the one that Macro wore about his thick neck. Macro had taken it from the body of Togodumnus, a prince of the powerful Catuvellaunian tribe and brother of Caratacus. Cato gave a brief bow of his head.
‘I assume you are Caratacus, King of the Catuvellaunians?’
‘At your service.’ The man bowed his head with mock modesty. ‘I had that honour, until your Emperor Claudius decided our island would make a nice addition to his collection of other people’s lands. Yes, I was a king - once. Still am, although my kingdom has shrunk to this small island in the marsh, and my army is made up of those few warriors who survived our last encounter with the legions. And you are?’ ‘Quintus Licinius Cato.’
The king nodded. ‘I gather your people prefer to be known by the last of the names they list.’
‘Amongst our friends.’
‘I see.’ A faint smiled flickered across Caratacus’ face. ‘Very well, since the last name’s the easiest to use, you’ll have to consider me a friend, for now.’
Cato did not reply, and kept his face clear of expression as he sensed some kind of trap.
‘Cato it is then,’ the king decided.
‘Why have you sent for me?’
‘Because I willed it,’ Caratacus replied imperiously, stiffening his back and staring down his nose at Cato. Then he relaxed and smiled. ‘Are you Romans so accustomed to asking impertinent questions?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. From what I’ve heard, your emperors don’t take kindly to being addressed directly by the common folk.’
‘No.’
‘But we’re not in Rome now, Cato. So speak freely. More freely than you might amongst your own.’
Cato bowed his head. ‘I will try to.’
‘Good. I’m curious to know exactly what you and your comrades were doing camped in the marsh. If you had been armed legionaries I would have had you killed at once. But for your appalling appearance and handful of weapons you would be dead. So tell me, Roman, who are you? Deserters?’ He looked at Cato hopefully.
Cato shook his head. ‘No. We are condemned men. Unjustly condemned.’
‘Condemned for what?’
‘For letting you and your men here fight their way over the river crossing.’
Caratacus’ eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘You were with those men on the far bank?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it was you who trapped my army. By Lud! Those men on the island fought us like devils. So few, but so deadly. Hundreds of my warriors fell to them. Were you there, Roman?’
‘Not on the island. That unit was commanded by a friend of mine. I was with the main body on th
e far bank.’
Caratacus seemed to stare right through Cato as he recalled the battle. ‘You almost had us. If you had held your ground a little longer we’d have been caught and crushed.’
‘Yes.’
‘But how could you hold against an army? You held us for as long as you could. No commander could ask for more of his men. Surely your General Plautius did not condemn you for failing to achieve the impossible?’
Cato shrugged. ‘The legions will brook no failure. Someone had to be called to account.’
‘You and those others then? That’s bad luck. What was your fate?’
‘We were condemned to be beaten to death.’
‘Beaten? That’s harsh … though perhaps no harsher than the fate in store for you as my prisoner.’
Cato swallowed. ‘And what fate would that be?’
‘I haven’t decided. My druids need to prepare a blood sacrifice before we return to the fight. A few of your men should appease our gods of war nicely. But, as I said, I haven’t decided yet. Right now, I just wanted to see what you men of the legions are like. To understand my enemy better.’
‘I’ll tell you nothing,’ Cato said firmly. ‘You must know that.’
‘Peace, Roman! I do not mean to torture you. I merely wish to discover more about the manner of the men who fill your ranks. I have tried to speak to your gentlemen officers, the handful of tribunes who have fallen into our hands. But two killed themselves before I could question them. The third was cold, haughty and contemptuous, and told me I was a barbarian pig, and that he would die rather than suffer the indignity of talking with me.’ Caratacus smiled. ‘He had his wish. We burned him alive. He kept control of himself almost to the end. Then he screamed and wailed like a baby. But I got nothing out of him, except for contempt of the deepest and most vile kind. I doubt I will learn much from your betters, Cato. In any case, it is the men in your legions I want to know about — to understand them; to know a little more about the men against whom my warriors were dashed to pieces, like waves on a rock.’ He paused, then stared directly at Cato. ‘I want to know more about you. What is your rank, Cato?’
‘I’m a centurion.’
‘A centurion?’ Caratacus chuckled. ‘Aren’t you a little on the young side to hold such a rank?’
Cato felt himself blush at the casual dismissal. ‘I’m old enough to have seen you defeated time and again this last year.’
‘That will change.’
‘Will it?’
‘Of course. I just need more men. I grow in strength every day. Time is on my side, and we will have our revenge on Rome. We cannot lose for ever, Centurion. Even you must see that.’
‘You must be tired of fighting us, after so many defeats,’ Cato said quietly.
Caratacus stared at him across the glow of the fire. For a moment Cato feared that his defiance had been overdone. But then the king nodded. ‘Indeed, I am tired. However, I swore an oath to protect my people from all comers, and I will fight Rome until my last breath.’
‘You can’t win,’ Cato said gently. ‘You must realise that.’
‘Can’t win?’ Caratacus smiled. ‘It’s been a long year for all of us, Roman. Your legionaries must be weary after so much marching, and fighting.’
Cato shrugged. ‘That’s our way of life. It’s all we know. Even when my people are not at war we train for the next one, every day. Every bloodless training battle our men fight increases their appetite for the real thing. Your people have fought bravely, but they are mainly farmers … amateurs.’
‘Amateurs? Maybe,’ the king conceded. ‘Yet we have come within a hair’s breadth of defeating you. Even a proud Roman must concede that. And we’re not beaten yet. My scouts report that your Second Legion is camped to the north of the marsh. Your legate has posted one of his cohorts to the south. Imagine, one cohort! Is he really so arrogant as to think that one cohort will contain me?’ Caratacus smiled. ‘Your legate needs to be taught a lesson, I think. Maybe soon. We’ll show him – and the rest of you Romans – that this war is far from over.’
Cato shrugged. ‘I’ll admit that there were times when the success of our campaign looked in doubt. But now …?’ He shook his head. ‘Now, there can be only defeat for you.’
Caratacus frowned and looked pained for a moment before he replied. ‘I’m old enough to be your father and yet you speak as if to a child. Be careful, Roman. The arrogance of youth is not tolerable for very long.’
Cato looked down. ‘I’m sorry. I meant no offence. But with all my heart I know you cannot win, and there must be an end to the needless sacrifice of the people of these lands. They would beg it of you.’
Caratacus raised his fist and jabbed a finger at the centurion. ‘Do not presume to speak for my people, Roman!’
Cato swallowed nervously. ‘And who exactly do you speak for? Only a handful of tribes remain loyal to your cause. The rest have accepted their fate, and come to terms with Rome. They are now our allies, not yours.’
‘Allies!’ The king spat into the fire in contempt. ‘Slaves is what they are. They are less than the dogs who feed on the scraps from my table. To be allied to Rome is to condemn your kingdom to a living death. Look at that fool, Cogidumnus. I hear that your emperor has promised to build him a palace. One worthy of a client king. So he’ll condemn his people to become the property of Rome when he dies, just so that he can live out his life in a gilded cage, despised by your emperor and by his own people. That is no way for a king to live.’ He gazed sadly into the glowing heart of the fire. ‘That’s no way for a king to rule … How can he live with such shame?’
Cato kept silent. He knew what Caratacus said about client kings was true. The story of the growth of the empire was littered with tales of kings who had welcomed client status, and had been so besotted with the baubles laid before them that they became blind to the ultimate fate of their people. Yet what was the alternative, thought Cato. If not a client king, then what? A futile attempt at resistance and then the cold comfort of a mass grave for those kings and their peoples who prized liberty from Rome over life itself. Cato knew he must try to make the king see reason, to end the senseless slaughter that had already drenched these lands in blood.
‘How many of your armies has Rome defeated? How many of your men have died? How many hillforts and villages are now no more than piles of ashes? You must sue for peace, for your people. For their sake …’
Caratacus shook his head and continued to stare into the fire. For a long time neither man spoke. They had reached an impasse, Cato realised. Caratacus was consumed by the spirit of resistance. The weight of tradition and the warrior codes with which he had been imbued from the cradle unswervingly bore him down the path to tragic self-destruction. Yet he was sensible to the suffering that his course of action implied to others. Cato could see that his point about their needless suffering had struck home with the king. Caratacus was imaginative and empathetic enough for that, Cato realised. If only the king would accept that defeat must be inevitable, then the impasse would be broken.
At length Caratacus looked up, and rubbed his face. ‘Centurion, I’m tired. I cannot think. I must talk with you another time.’
He called out for the guard and the man who had escorted Cato from the pen ducked into the hut. The king indicated, with a brief nod of his head, that he had finished with the Roman, and Cato was roughly hauled to his feet and shoved out into the darkness. He glanced back, and before the leather curtain slipped back across the entrance he had one final sight of the king: leaning forward, his head cradled in his hands, locked in a posture of solitude and despair.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘He’ll get us all killed.’ Centurion Tullius nodded towards the cohort commander. Maximius was briefing the optios in charge of the day’s patrols. Each officer commanded twenty men and had a native assigned to them to act as a guide. Every one of them was a prisoner, iron collars chained to the belt of legionary guards. Since their children were being hel
d hostage it was unlikely that they would offer any resistance, or attempt to escape or betray their Roman masters. But Maximius was taking no chances. He had few enough men as it was. Centurion Tullius tapped his vine cane against the side of his greave, making a dull clattering noise. Macro glanced down irritably.
‘Do you mind?’
‘What? Oh, sorry!’ Tullius lifted the cane, tucked it under his arm and glanced back towards the cohort commander. ‘I thought we were here to find Cato and the others. Had no idea we were going to try and stir up a bloody revolt as well. Couldn’t have done a better job if he had tried … the bastard.’
‘Perhaps that’s just what he’s been ordered to do,’ Macro wondered aloud.
‘What do you mean?’
Macro shrugged. ‘I’m not really sure. Not yet. Just seems to be an odd way to get the locals to help us.’
‘Odd?’ The old centurion shook his head. ‘You weren’t there when we ran those natives down by the river. He really lost his head.’ Tullius lowered his voice. ‘He was like a man possessed – wild, dangerous and cruel. He should never have been given a command. As long as he’s running the Third Cohort, we’re in deep trouble. He’s already disgraced us. My service is nearly up, Macro. Two more years to my discharge. I’ve earned it – spotless record — until now. Even if he doesn’t get us killed, the decimation is going to ruin our careers. You and the other centurions are still on the young side, still got years to go. What chance of promotion do you think you’ll have with that on your records? I’m telling you, as long as that bastard’s in command we’re in the deepest of shit.’ He looked away from Macro, towards the distant cohort commander and continued softly, ‘If only something would happen to him.’
Macro swallowed nervously and stiffened his back. ‘I’d be careful what I said if I was you. He’s dangerous, all right, but so is that kind of talk.’ Tullius looked closely at the other centurion. ‘You do think he’s dangerous then?’
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