Cato saw the wild expression, the fists clenched so tightly that knuckles stuck out like bare bones, and the tight line about Caratacus’ jaw, and knew that there was now no hope of peace while Caratacus lived. His own life was forfeit, and so were those of the men still being held in the pen back at the enemy camp. All because Metellus could not control his desire for a decent meal. For an instant Cato hoped that Metellus would be amongst the first to die, and that his death would be long and lingering to compensate for all the suffering his appetite had brought to the world. It was sad that this bitter thought should be his last, Cato smiled, but there was no helping it. He looked up at Caratacus and resigned himself to death.
Before the enemy commander could act the sound of voices – anxious and alarmed – reached the ears of the two men in the hut and both turned towards the small entrance. Caratacus ducked and hurried outside, momentarily darkening the hut as he squeezed under the lintel. Then Cato rose up, took a last glimpse at the corpses, and followed his captor.
‘What is it?’ Caratacus called out to his men. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Roman patrol, sire.’ One of the warriors thrust an arm out, pointing down the track that led into the farmstead. ‘Maybe twenty men, on foot.’
‘How far away?’
‘Half a mile, no more than that.’
‘They’ll have cut us off before we can ride out of here,’ Caratacus said. ‘Does anyone know if there’s another way off this farm?’
‘Sire,’ one of his bodyguards cut in, ‘I know this land. It’s almost entirely surrounded by mud flats and marches. We’d never get the horses through it.’
Caratacus smacked his hand against his thigh in frustration. ‘All right then. Get the horses. Take ’em to the far side of the farm and keep them out of sight. They mustn’t make a sound, understand?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Then go!’
The warrior shoved a companion ahead of him and both men ran towards the horses tethered to a rail in the middle of the ground between the huts. Caratacus beckoned the other three men. ‘Take the prisoner, and follow me.’
Cato was grasped by the shoulder and pulled along in the wake of the enemy leader. Caratacus led the small party across the farm buildings, ducked between two animal pens and ran towards the only part of the farmland that seemed to rise any appreciable height above the surrounding landscape. A stunted copse grew on the low crown of the slope just over a hundred paces away and Caratacus led them towards the trees at a brisk pace. Cato knew this was a chance to wrench himself free and try to escape. He felt his pulse quicken and his muscles tensed. He tried to brace himself for the decisive moment and he briefly imagined how it would happen, and just as briefly saw himself cut down by a sword as he tried to make for the safety of his comrades. He might be under sentence of death, but he might yet redeem himself by passing on the information about the location of the enemy camp.
By the time these thoughts had raced through his mind it was already too late. They were close to the trees and the man holding Cato’s shoulder tightened his grip painfully and thrust the centurion towards the shadows beneath the low boughs of the nearest tree. Cato tripped over a root and thudded down on the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. With a sickening rage of self-loathing he knew he had missed his chance to escape.
As if reading the Roman’s mind the man who had been tasked with guarding him rolled Cato on to his front and, wrenching his hair back the Briton slapped the flat of his dagger blade against the throat of his captive.
‘Shhh!’ the warrior hissed. ‘Or I’ll slit you from ear to ear. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ Cato quietly replied through gritted teeth.
‘Good. Keep still.’
They lay still, peering through the long grass that grew under the outermost branches of the trees, and waited. Not for long. Cato saw the red of a legionary shield emerge round a bend in the track. For a moment he felt a desperate longing for the company of his own people. The scout trotted forward, glancing round at the huts as he reached the centre of the farm. The legionary stopped, looked round cautiously, head cocked to one side as if listening, then he backed away, turned, and ran off.
Shortly afterwards the patrol marched into the village, and Cato picked out the crests of a centurion’s helmet, and that of an optio. The two officers led their men into the loose circle of huts and halted the patrol. Then the centurion barked out a few orders, sending men running to search the nearest huts. He unbuckled the strap beneath his helmet and lifted it from his head. Cato took a sharp intake of breath as the dark hair and high forehead of Macro came into view. What the hell was Macro doing with such a small patrol? Cato’s heart rose at the sight of his friend and he lifted his head to see better. The blade at his throat slid round so that the edge rested on his skin and rasped painfully.
His guard thrust his face close to Cato’s and whispered fiercely. ‘One more move, Roman, and you die.’
Cato could only watch from afar, in an agony of despair and helplessness as the Romans searched the huts, and Macro glanced round, his gaze sweeping right over Cato and the other men still and hidden just inside the fringe of the copse. There was a muffled shout and Macro turned and hurried inside a large hut. He emerged shortly afterwards, in response to another shout and made his way to the very hut that Cato had been kneeling in shortly before. This time it was longer before he emerged, and Macro walked slowly from the dark entrance, a knuckled fist held to his mouth. For a moment all was quite still, as Macro paused and stared at the ground, shoulders slumped wearily. Then, as Cato and the warriors either side of him watched silently, Macro looked up, stiffened his back and shouted out a string of orders. The men of the patrol trotted over to him, closed ranks and stood facing the copse, waiting for the command to move.
‘Patrol!’ Macro’s parade-ground shout carried clearly to Cato, and the men either side of him tensed up, sword hands immediately reaching for their weapons. Macro’s mouth opened wide and the sound reached them an instant later. ‘Advance!’
The patrol tramped forward towards the concealed men, and Caratacus glanced towards the man still holding the knife at Cato’s throat.
‘When I say … kill him.’
The patrol marched up to a small hut, turned round it and began to head off down the track that led away from the farmstead. Caratacus let out a sibilant breath of relief and the warriors’ tension eased off as the Roman patrol marched away. Cato could only stare at the backs of the legionaries with a terrible longing.
As they reached the edge of the farm, Macro stopped out of line and let his men file past as he gazed back towards the silent huts one last time. Then he turned away, and moments later the scarlet horse-hair crest of his helmet dipped out of sight behind a line of gorse thicket. Cato lowered his head on to his arms and shut his eyes, fighting back waves of black emotions that threatened to engulf him and shame him in front of these barbarians.
A shadow came between him and the sunlit farmland beyond the copse. ‘Get up!’ Caratacus snapped. ‘Back to the camp. I’ve got something special in mind for you and your men.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘So they’re still around, then?’ mused Centurion Maximius. He looked past Macro, through the tent flap and into the dusk beyond. The sun had just set and he pulled one of the parchment maps across the desk and smoothed it out between himself and Macro. ‘This farmstead you were taken to was about … here.’
Macro looked down at the spot the cohort commander indicated and nodded.
‘Right. Then we can assume they’re somewhere close by. No more than half a day’s march, I’d say.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ asked Macro. He waved his hand across the map in a broad sweep around the tiny sketch that marked the farm’s location. ‘They could be anywhere.’
‘That’s true, but not likely.’ Maximius smiled. ‘Think about it. They’re hiding. They won’t venture too far simply because they want to avoid natives and Rom
ans alike. They have no access to guides, so they won’t be familiar with the paths, and will fear getting themselves lost, or cut off from each other. They’ll return to their lair each night, so we can narrow the search to the area around this farm. Assuming it was them who massacred the farmers.’
‘Had to be, sir. Injuries were almost certainly caused by short swords. In any case, it’s hardly likely that Caratacus and his men would go round bumping off their own people.’
‘No …’ Maximius tapped his finger on the simple sketch of the farm. ‘But it seems a little strange. I didn’t have much time to get to know Cato, but massacre, and rape? Doesn’t seem like his style.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Macro added quietly. ‘I don’t think he can be responsible for this.’
‘Well, somebody was.’ The cohort commander looked up. ‘I thought you knew him well?’
‘I thought I did, sir.’
‘Could Cato really have done this?’
‘No … I don’t know … I really don’t know. Might have been raiding for food, raised the alarm and then had to mix it with the locals. They got into a fight, and had to put them all to the sword.’
‘Is that what it looked like?’
Macro paused a moment to reflect, but after what he had seen at the farm, there was little doubt in his mind. ‘No.’
‘So Cato, or some of his men, have gone native. Or at least they’re pretty desperate. That’s good. Should make them easier to deal with, when the time comes.’
Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘When the time comes, sir? I thought that was the reason we were here.’
‘And so it is!’ Maximius laughed lightly. ‘Although it has been a good opportunity to teach the locals how to behave.’
Macro stared at him. If the brutality of the last few days was a lesson to the natives, then what exactly had they learned about their new masters? That Rome was as cruel and brutal as any horde of barbarians. That, Macro reflected cynically, was hardly likely to foster good relationships with the locals over that vital period when Roman laws and Roman rule were being established in the new province. The local tribe was getting brutalised by Maximius on the one hand and raided and massacred by Cato and his fugitives on the other. All of which could only strengthen their resolve to aid Caratacus and his warriors. Maximius had done a blinding job of bolstering support for the enemy all right.
And as for Cato … for a moment Macro could not think. He was sure that he had known Cato well, but the massacre at the farm was the work of another kind of man. The two memories did not sit well together. But then again, not much made sense to him at the moment. The decimation of the cohort as punishment for being pushed aside by overwhelming odds. The perverseness of fate for selecting the blameless Cato for execution when it was Maximius who bore the responsibility for the escape of Caratacus. Now this unaccountable cruelty of Maximius towards the natives of this valley, matched only by Cato’s heartless slaughter of the farmers and their families. It was as if reason itself had been driven from the world. With a chilling sense of foreboding it occurred to Macro that he lived at the whim of maniacs.
Maniacs like Centurion Maximius, who was grinning at him now. ‘I tell you, Macro, it’s all working out very nicely indeed. Soon the locals won’t even be able to take a shit without wondering how we’ll react. They’ll hate us more than they’ve hated anything before in their miserable lives. If they find Cato and the others before we do, then you can be sure they’ll show those bastards even less mercy than we will.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro cleared his throat uneasily. ‘As you say, it’s working out well.’
‘And once Cato’s been seen to, we can attend to Caratacus.’
Macro struggled to hide his astonishment. Tracking down a few pathetic fugitives was one thing. Taking on the likes of Caratacus was just this side of lunacy. A nasty thought abruptly intruded on his surprise, and he looked more closely at his commander and attended his words with a heightened concentration.
Maximius smiled. ‘If we can deliver Caratacus to the general, then we’ll be allowed to rejoin the legion. We’ll be the legate’s blue-eyed boys. You and me.’
‘What about the others? Tullius, Felix and Antonius?’
‘Tullius is an old woman,’ Maximius sneered. ‘And the others are young fools. Thank the gods they lacked the guile and treachery of that bastard Cato. You’re the only one I ever had any confidence in, Macro. Only you.’
‘Uh …’ Macro flushed. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure your confidence in me has not been misplaced. But I think you judge the other officers too harshly. They’re good men.’
‘You think so?’ Maximius frowned. ‘I doubt it. I’m surprised you can’t see their faults too, unless … unless you’re on their side.’
Macro made himself laugh. ‘We’re all on the same side, sir.’
Maximius did not respond, and there was a tense pause as the cohort commander scrutinised his subordinate. Then he relaxed a little. ‘Of course you’re right, Macro. Pardon me. I just had to be sure of your loyalty. Now then, on to other business, the real reason you were assigned to lead that patrol. Did you speak to anybody? Did you discover anything about the traitor who freed Cato?’
‘Not really, sir. From what I heard it could have been any of the men. No one is particularly happy to be hunting down their comrades, especially when they don’t believe they should have been condemned in the first place. Sorry, sir.’ Macro shrugged. ‘That’s all.’
‘That’s all,’ Maximius repeated mockingly. ‘That is not all, Centurion. Not by a long way.’
Macro felt the familiar chill of anxiety, and tried not to let his guilt show. ‘Sir?’
‘If that’s how the men feel, then they’re as good as traitors themselves.’ Maximius grasped his jaw in the palm of a hand and stroked the bristles on his chin nervously, gazing down into his lap. ‘If they think they can get away with that, they’re in for a great big bloody surprise. I’ll show them … It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with their kind. Oh no, but I showed ’em what I was made of then, and I’ll do the same again now. No one’s going to make a fool out of me and get away with it.’
Macro kept quite still during and after this outburst, trying not to draw any attention to himself while Maximius perceived threats in every corner. Then the cohort commander glanced up with a small start as he became aware of Macro’s presence again. He shook off the spell and smiled warmly.
‘You’d best get some rest, Macro. You’re going to need it over the next few days if we’re going to show those scum we mean business.’
Macro was uncomfortably aware that he was not sure which scum Maximius was referring to and he nodded in response as the cohort commander waved a hand towards the flap of his tent.
Macro quickly rose from his seat, anxious to quit the scene. ‘Good night, sir.’
He turned and strode away, ducking outside into the cool evening air, breathing its freshness in eagerly. Two clerks were working on trestle tables to one side of the entrance to the tent. One was filling a lamp with oil, to provide illumination when the last glow from the western horizon had died away. Macro made for the tent lines of his century and as he did so a figure passed him in the twilight. Optio Cordus saluted as he marched by. A few paces further on Macro glanced back over his shoulder, just in time to see the optio enter the cohort commander’s tent.
‘Curious,’ Macro said softly to himself.
Why should Maximius want to debrief Cordus as well? Didn’t he trust Macro enough to let him recount the details of the patrol?
Then it hit him, and Macro gave a bitter smile. Of course he was not trusted. Macro had not been sent on the patrol to sound out the men. He had been sent on the patrol to be sounded out by Cordus. Which meant that Maximius trusted him enough to suspect that he was the traitor. Plots within plots, Macro sighed. It was clear that during his service with the Praetorian Guard Maximius had spent far too much time in close proximity to the endless intrigue of the Imp
erial Palace. Well, if he saw plotters on every side, then let him. That was to Macro’s advantage: safety in numbers. With this vaguely comforting thought Macro returned to his tent, checked that his optio had nothing to report, undressed and then collapsed on to his bed and quickly fell asleep.
The following morning the enemy sent the Roman occupiers of the valley a clear message of defiance. As the dawn mist cleared it revealed six frames that had been set up a short distance from the fort. On each frame a man had been tied, spread-eagled in the tattered remains of their army tunics. Each was gagged securely so that their death agonies had not been overheard by the Roman sentries on watch during the night. Every one of them had been gutted; skin and muscle peeled back and pegged to their sides to expose the raw, red meat and bone of the chest cavity. Their guts lay beneath their feet, where they had fallen, and glistened in dull grey and purple heaps. Each man had been castrated and his genitals hung from a thong around his neck.
A horseman was waiting beside the frames. He remained, still and silent, as the alarm was raised inside the fort. The palisade above the rampart was quickly lined by fully armed troops. Still he waited, until a cluster of red crests appeared amongst the gleaming bronze and iron helmets on the wall. Then with a quiet word to his beast he edged closer so that all might hear his words.
‘Romans! Romans! I bring you a warning from my king, Caratacus.’ He swept his arm out, round and back towards the bodies in a dramatic gesture. ‘He offers you this example of what will happen to any Romans who fall into our hands if you dare to harm any more of the people of this valley, or those who dwell in the marsh beyond.’ The messenger paused, and continued in a voice that dripped with contempt. ‘My king wonders what kind of men wage war on women and children. If there are real warriors amongst you, then let them seek us out and fight us man to man. We grow weary of waiting for you to come and face us in battle. We had heard that the men of the Second Legion were the very best in General Plautius’ army. Prove it, or forever wither before the scorn and pity of better men!’
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