Cato let out a long, deep sigh of relief before he turned to the nearest of his men and gestured at the swords. ‘Take those. The rest of you, form a cordon around the tents. Keep the enemy away!’
He turned his attention back to his prisoners again and regarded them with mixed emotions. The war was over, as he had said. There would be no more lives lost and for the first time the new province might live in peace. But there was something terribly affecting about the air of utter despair and exhaustion that hung about Caratacus, and the fear with which his children regarded their captors. Cato lowered his head, aware for the first time just how tired the battle had left him. He tied the reins of his horse to a tent pole and then stood a short distance from his prisoners while around them the shattered remains of the native army fled through the rain.
‘Sir!’
Cato’s head snapped up, immediately alert. ‘What is it?’ He strode towards the man who had called out.
‘Officers approaching, sir. Looks like the general.’
Cato braced himself and took a calming breath as he ordered his men to clear a path for the general. A moment later the sound of horses’ hoofs reached his ears and then he saw a large party of riders approaching through the rain. The gilded helmets, drenched plumes and scarlet military cloaks confirmed what Cato’s man had said. He felt a cold dread clench his guts at the prospect of facing the general and justifying his actions. Around the tents the last of the enemy had left the plateau and small parties of legionaries were scouring the ground, looking for survivors hiding amongst the dead, and looting the bodies.
General Ostorius reined in and walked his horse towards Cato with a confused expression.
‘Prefect Cato? What on earth are you doing here? I had heard that you had deserted your post. A capital offence in the face of the enemy, as you know. What is the meaning of this?’
It would take too long to make a full report, Cato decided. That could wait. Instead he stepped aside and gestured towards the desultory group of prisoners sitting in the rain. ‘General Ostorius. It is my honour to present to you King Caratacus, his family and two brothers.’
Ostorius’s jaw sagged as he looked on the enemy who had caused him so much trouble over the long years of his generalship. He swallowed and looked back at Cato.
‘Caratacus?’ His lips stretched into thin smile of relief. ‘By the gods, then it’s over . . . At last it’s over.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If the spectacle of a defeated army was one of the most miserable sights in the professional soldier’s world, Cato reflected as they returned to camp, then sometimes the victors ran it a close second. Throughout the afternoon and into dusk the exhausted soldiers of the Roman army trudged back into the camp through the heavy rain. Many had been detailed to help recover their injured comrades and carry them back from the battlefield, groaning and crying out from the agony of their wounds. Others had been assigned to guard the prisoners. Hundreds had been taken and herded down from the hill under the watchful eye of their Roman captors. Outside the camp they were chained together and when the chains ran out, the remainder had their hands bound behind their backs and their feet were hobbled by ropes so that they could only take short steps. Then they were left exposed to the elements, shivering in the rain, and surrounded by guards. There would be many more taken by the auxiliary units that had been sent to block the enemy’s escape. Some would slip through the cordon and return to their villages, chastened by the great defeat that they had suffered, and they would be wary of ever taking up arms against Rome again.
The men of the baggage train escort had been amongst the first units ordered back across the river. The Blood Crows and the survivors of Macro’s two centuries formed a column around their prisoners and escorted them off the hill and back to the camp. The legionaries they passed along the way stood and stared, and then, as word of the capture of the enemy commander spread, they cheered Cato and his men, their acclaim drowning out the sound of the rain. Cato felt the warm glow of pride in his heart and glancing round at this men he saw his feeling mirrored in their expressions. He turned and could not help smiling at Macro, trudging along at his side. Macro laughed.
‘Does you a power of good to hear that, eh, lad.’
‘We’ve earned it.’
‘You’ve earned it. You took quite a risk acting on your own initiative. If things had turned out differently . . .’
Cato pursed his lips. ‘A risk, yes. But it was the best course of action in the circumstances.’
Macro raised his eyebrows. The prospect of abandoning his post in the middle of a battle would never have occurred to him. ‘If you say so.’
‘Think it over. If we had not acted, then it’s likely the legions would have battered themselves to pieces on the enemy’s defences. Caratacus only had to wait long enough for that to happen before unleashing his men and driving our lads back down the hill and routing them. In which case the camp would have fallen and we’d have been massacred along with the rest of the army. In such circumstances there is only one logical course of action, no matter what the risks involved.’
Macro puffed his cheeks and sighed. ‘I’d hate to ever gamble against you, lad.’
‘Gambling is only worthwhile if you have thoroughly appraised the odds.’
‘Exactly. You’d take all the fun out of it.’
Cato turned to him with a frown and then saw the gently mocking expression on his friend’s face and could not help a quick laugh. ‘Whatever the reasoning, good fortune played its part, as ever. The nearest viable ford could have been much further along the river, delaying us until it was too late to make a difference. The enemy could have posted a flank guard – they should have. Even a small force would have stopped us in our tracks and given time to warn Caratacus.’ He shrugged. ‘The truth is that the battle could have gone either way for any number of reasons. We’re lucky that it didn’t, but that will never be the version given in the official record. Ostorius got his victory and by the time he celebrates it back in Rome, everyone will consider the outcome as inevitable. That’s what the historians will say. A good general leading professional soldiers triumphing over the valiant but amateur barbarians. In time I dare say even we will look back on it as a foregone conclusion.’
‘Instead of the fucked-up chaos and carnage that it was, eh?’ Macro gave a dry laugh. ‘Maybe. But right now, I don’t give a shit about historians. I want a drink, something to eat, get this wound sorted out and then some sleep. A drink mostly.’
‘That’ll have to wait.’ Cato’s tone became serious. ‘There’s work to be done first.’
‘I know.’ Macro was quiet for a moment and then jerked his thumb towards the bedraggled prisoners. Caratacus was leading the folorn-looking party, unbowed, head held high as he strode with a measured pace. ‘What do you want done with our merry little band?’
Cato forced his weary mind to concentrate. ‘They’ll need stockades. A separate one for Caratacus, well away from the others. I want to keep him isolated from his kin in case he tries anything on.’
Macro nodded.
‘And I want them all in chains.’
‘They’ll be bound to kick up a fuss.’ Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Prisoners they may be, but the quality are the same the world over. They think they can demand better treatment.’
‘Then we’ll have to disabuse them,’ Cato replied firmly. ‘They’ll be treated well enough, but the days of being king are over for Caratacus.’
‘What do you think the Emperor will decide to do with him? Be a damn shame if they did for him the same way they did for Vercingetorix.’
‘It would be a shame,’ Cato agreed, recalling the grim fate of the leader of the Gauls who had been defeated by Julius Caesar. Left to rot in a dark cell for several years, he had finally been dragged out and strangled when Caesar eventually came to celebrate his
triumph over the Gauls. It had been a poor end for so noble and gifted an enemy and Cato shrank from the idea that Caratacus would meet such a death. Even though Caratacus had prolonged a struggle that had cost so many lives, he had done so out of a desire to resist the Roman invaders, if only to secure the primacy of his own tribe. Few men, Celt or Roman, could have done as much with the forces available. If it was up to Cato, he would spare the life of his enemy, and find a comfortable place of exile for Caratacus and his family. But the decision was not his. Emperor Claudius would pronounce the fate of this long-standing enemy of Rome, and the Emperor would be swayed by what he thought would please the mob most. Cato pushed thought of his prisoners’ fate from his mind.
‘Nothing we can do about it though. What we have to worry about is making sure they don’t escape, and they don’t do themselves in.’
‘Do you think they would?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want to take the risk. They’re to be watched at all times, understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll make sure of it.’
By the time the small column returned to the camp the storm had enveloped the mountainous landscape in earnest. Rain roared down from dark clouds in a constant torrent, turning the ground inside the ramparts into a muddy morass and forming growing puddles, shimmering with silvered spray. The wind had whipped up into a gale and moaned over the palisade like a frenzied giant beast, battering the tent lines and straining the guy ropes that held them up. Several of the tents had already collapsed and lay in sodden heaps.
Cato dismissed most of the men. The Blood Crows led their drenched horses away to feed them and check for wounds. The legionaries fell out and hurried off to secure their tents. Cato held Macro and his men back to construct the two stockades.
‘I’ll be back once I’ve written my report,’ Cato said and turned towards his tent, leaving Macro to get on with it.
The larger stockade, for Caratacus’s brothers and the rest of his family, was erected between the tents of the Blood Crows and those of the legionaries. The second, much smaller, was for Caratacus alone and that was placed a short distance from Cato’s command tent. Night was falling as they were completed and the prisoners taken inside. There, despite their protests, they were placed in chains fastened to a stout post driven deep into the ground in the centre of each stockade. Macro ensured that the chains were secure.
When all was done he sent word to Cato and the prefect emerged from his tent to conduct a brief inspection of the work and pronounce himself satisfied. As he turned to leave the larger stockade, his gaze fell on the children huddled in the embrace of their mother. Even they had been placed in chains and now they squatted down, eyes wide in terror and limbs trembling with fear and cold. It was a pathetic sight and despite his earlier resolve not to give his special prisoners any preferential treatment he was moved by their plight.
‘Have a simple shelter erected for them, Macro. Nothing elaborate. just enough to keep them out of the rain.’
Macro looked at him in surprise but knew better than to question his friend. ‘Yes, sir. There’s some spare tent leather in the wagons. It’s not much but it’ll do.’
‘Good.’ Cato tore his eyes away from the children and left the stockade through the narrow gate at the side. He turned to the two legionaries taking the first watch. ‘You watch ’em closely. No harm is to come to them for any reason. Even if they try to escape. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato led the way back towards his tent and the other stockade. He paused at the roughtly hewn timbers of the gate. Two heavyset legionaries stood guard. Cato nodded at them as he and Macro approached. ‘What about them? Good men?’
‘The best. Picked ’em myself. As tough and reliable as they come. They’ll be relieved at midnight by two more of my veterans. More than a match for Caratacus if he tries anything on.’
Cato nodded with satisfaction and then turned the conversation to a necessary but unpleasant topic ‘Macro, I want the strength returns for both units as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the centurion replied. ‘And the butcher’s bill. I’ll see to it. And anything else that needs doing. You should get some rest, sir. You look done in.’
‘I’m fine.’ Cato smiled wearily. ‘Besides, in this storm, I doubt sleep will come easily.’
They exchanged a salute before Macro turned and strode off to his tent to begin work on the sober task of discovering the fate of the men who had gone into battle that day. Cato had done a rough count after the fighting and noted that two-thirds of his men had survived. There would be more rejoining his small command during the night – those who were having their wounds dressed. Some would be more seriously injured, carried off the battlefield to the tents of the legions’ surgeons. Many would recover and return to their units, proudly displaying their fresh scars. For others their soldiering days would be over. They would eventually be discharged, with only their savings, share of booty and a small bonus from the imperial coffers to support them. There were few jobs that men crippled by war could find and unless they had family to return to, a dismal life awaited them. They would be only marginally more fortunate than those who perished from their wounds, Cato reflected.
There had been times when he had been tortured by visions of himself sharing such a plight. A broken man, eking out a precarious existence on the streets of Rome or some provincial town. With marriage to Julia the stakes had been raised even higher. Would she accept a husband mutilated by war? Even if she did not abandon him, Cato feared a worse fate – living with her pity as a constant companion. A pity shared by their child one day. That he could not endure. He would rather take his own life. But the chances of such a dismal fate had diminished considerably, he reminded himself. Today’s victory would surely put an end to the gravest danger facing the new province. Without Caratacus to unite the tribes, resistance to Rome would crumble.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded to one of the legionaries standing guard by the door to the stockade. ‘Open it.’
The man did as he was ordered and stepped to one side to let his superior pass. Cato ducked inside. The stockade was no more than eight feet on each side, with the sharpened posts rising up above the height of a man. Cato nodded his approval. There was little chance of escape, especially as the prisoner was securely chained about the wrists and ankles. Caratacus was sitting in the middle of his prison, leaning against the post to which his chains were fastened. He raised his head as he became aware of his visitor and stared defiantly at Cato through the rain.
‘I’ve given orders for shelters to be erected for you and the others,’ Cato told him.
His words were not met with any response. No hint of gratitude. Just the steady glare of an enemy.
‘You will be fed soon. Aside from that, is there anything you need?’ Cato gestured to his drenched and mud-stained tunic. ‘Fresh clothes, for example? I have some spare tunics, cloaks.’
Caratacus hesitated and then shook his head. ‘No. Not unless you have enough for all my men you hold prisoner.’
Cato smiled thinly. ‘Sadly not.’
‘What will become of them? Are they to be slaves? Or executed?’
‘They are far too valuable to be executed. They will be sold into slavery.’
Caratacus sighed. ‘Better that they were executed. Slavery is not life, Roman. And certainly no life for a Celt warrior.’
Cato shrugged, uncertain how to respond. He had come close to death enough times to value life with the same ferocity with which a drowning man will clutch at anything that floats upon a stormy sea. Yet slavery was a kind of living death for many. Some were treated well by their masters, but many were simply regarded as living tools, mere possessions. He could well imagine how that would shame the proud warriors who had followed Caratacus.
‘I can’t answer for slavery. All I know is that your follo
wers will live. Unlike the tens of thousands that have died during the course of the war that you have waged against Rome.’
Caratacus stirred and his eyes blazed angrily. ‘The war that I have waged? I was defending my home. It was you who invaded my lands. The bloodshed is on your hands, Roman.’
‘Your lands?’ Cato responded sharply. ‘The same lands that you took when you conquered the Trinovantes and waged war against the Atrebates and the Cantii? Spoils of war, King Caratacus. Just as these lands are now our spoils of war. The difference is that Rome will bring peace and prosperity to the province.’
‘Peace?’ Caratacus spat the word. ‘You create a wasteland out of our villages and towns, and sow the ruins with the corpses of our people, and you call it peace? Is your empire not yet vast enough for you that you have to gorge yourselves on the blood and land of our island? Could you not have traded with us for our silver? Our furs? Our dogs? Could you not have entreated us to be your allies? Why must Rome treat the world like a master treats his dogs? Why must we all be your slaves? Or perish if we refuse that humiliation?’
Cato mentally flinched from the accusations thrown at him. He knew the real reason behind the invasion well enough: Claudius had needed a military triumph for political reasons, and the conquest of Britannia had promised to be a ready solution. Cato sucked in a breath.
‘I do not make policy. I am a soldier. I carry out orders. I suggest that you put your questions to the Emperor when you get the opportunity. Now, if you change your mind about dry clothes, let the guards know.’
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