Besides, the victory had been easily won. The enemy had been careless. No doubt they had grown used to freely scouring the lands of the Atrebatans for easy pickings. When they were fast enough to elude the legions and strong enough to overcome any pitiful attempts at resistance offered to them by the Atrebatans, it was small wonder that they had fallen so readily into the trap. A successful ambush was one thing, but how would these barely trained men cope when drawn up in front of an enemy prepared to fight a pitched battle? How quickly would their current high spirits fail them? Their proud boasting would soon die away. Their mouths would dry up. The icy grip of fear would tighten on their imaginations, squeezing out every dark dread that plagued men poised on the threshold of battle.
Now that he had been appointed to the rank of centurion the impulse to scrutinise himself was worse than ever. Despite the vibrant mood of celebration washing around him on all sides, Cato was consumed by a bitter melancholy and had to force himself to smile as he turned and met the inane grin of Bedriacus the hunter as the latter raised the Wolf standard high over his head and waved it from side to side.
Ahead the excited crowd was spilling forwards along the sides of the two cohorts, and Verica’s bodyguards struggled to protect their king from being jostled. The cheers of the people of Calleva were ringing in Cato’s ears as their ruddy features beamed into his face and rough hands clapped him on the shoulders. All attempt at preserving any sense of marching discipline collapsed and the men of the two cohorts merged with the rest of their folk. Here and there proud warriors were holding up the heads of their enemies for family and friends to admire. Cato felt a little sickened by the display, much as he had come to like and, in some small way, admire these men. Once the island had been pacified, the Atrebatans could be induced to adopt more civilised ways, but for now he must tolerate the quaint Celtic war traditions.
There was a sudden scream in the crowd, sliding into a high-pitched wail of grief and those nearby turned to look for its source. A woman stood with her hand to her mouth, teeth clenched into the flesh above her thumb as she gazed wide-eyed at a head being held up to the crowd by one of Cato’s men. She wailed again, then lurched forward, snatching at the lank locks of hair, matted with dry blood. The warrior raised the head higher, out of her reach, and laughed. The woman shrieked, tearing at his arms, until the warrior cuffed her to the ground with his spare hand. From there she lapsed into sobbing that welled up from the pit of her stomach, and she shuddered as she clasped the hem of the warrior’s tunic and begged.
‘What’s that all about?’ asked Cato.
Like everyone else, Tincommius had been watching the confrontation. ‘Seems that the head belongs to her son. She wants it for burial.’
‘And its new owner wants it for a trophy?’ Cato shook his head sadly. ‘That’s tough.’
‘No,’ muttered Tincommius. ‘It’s dishonourable. Here, take this.’
He thrust the Wolf standard at Cato and pushed himself between the woman and the warrior still holding the severed head aloft. Dragging the man’s arm down, Tincommius spoke angrily, indicating the woman as he did so. The warrior shifted the head behind his back and responded with equal anger and indignity. At his words the people crowded around and shouted their support, although, Cato noted, a handful kept silent, implicitly on the side of Tincommius. The Atrebatan prince was in no mood to brook any disrespect of his rank, and suddenly smashed his fist into the warrior’s face. The people around them shrank away as the warrior staggered back. Tincommius instantly kicked him hard in the stomach to wind him and keep him down. As the man snatched for breath, open-mouthed and staring wildly at his attacker, Tincommius calmly eased his fingers from the stiff hair of the severed head and gently offered it to the woman. For a moment she was still, then with a pained grimace she reached out for all that was left to her of her son. Oblivious to her grief, most of the crowd howled in protest and angrily pressed forward round Tincommius.
‘STOP!’ Cato cried out, drawing his sword and raising the Wolf standard above his head to command attention. ‘SILENCE!’
The protests died away, and everyone looked towards Cato with hostile expressions, resentful of his intervention, yet nervous enough of the men of Rome to be wary of his wrath. Cato’s eyes swept over the crowd, daring them to defy him, then came to rest on the woman sitting on the ground, cradling the head in her lap as she stroked its cold cheek.
Cato felt a great pain inside his chest as he watched the woman for a moment, empathising with her heart-rending sorrow. Then he swallowed and steeled himself before he looked up again at the crowd. He had to please these people, give them what they wanted for the sake of the alliance between Rome and the Atrebatans, however much it revolted him.
‘Tincommius!’
‘Centurion?’
‘Give the head back to this man.’
Tincommius frowned. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘Return the head to this man. It’s his trophy.’
Tincommius stabbed a finger at the woman. ‘It’s her son.’
‘Not any more. Now do it.’
‘No.’
‘I order it,’ Cato said quietly as he stepped up to Tincommius so that their faces were no more than a foot apart. ‘I order you to do it. . . right now.’
For a moment Cato read the determination to defy the Roman in those striking blue eyes. Then Tincommius breathed deeply and glanced away at the faces of the crowd. He nodded slowly.
‘As you command, Centurion Cato.’
The Atrebatan prince turned towards the woman and spoke gently to her as he reached out a hand. She looked at him in terror, hand still on her son’s cheek, then shook her head. ‘Na!’
Tincommius squatted beside her, speaking softly and he nodded towards Cato as he eased her hands away from the head. She regarded the centurion with a look of icy, fanatic hatred, until she was aware that the head was being taken from her. With a scream she snatched at it, but Tincommius pushed her down with his spare hand as he thrust the grisly trophy back to the warrior with the other. The man could not disguise his surprise and joy at having the head returned to him and instantly raised it up high; the crowd roared in triumph at the gesture.
The woman reached forlornly towards the head one last time, but Tincommius held her down, and she suddenly turned on him and spat into his face. The Atrebatan prince recoiled in surprise and with a last snarl the woman curled into a ball on the ground and wept bitterly. Cato pulled Tincommius away from the scene, back towards the other standard.
‘It had to be done. There was no other way. You saw how the crowd reacted.’
Tincommius slowly wiped the spittle from his brow before replying.
‘But it was her son. She had a right to do him honour.’
‘Even after he’d betrayed his people? Betrayed her?’
Tincommius was still for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so. I suppose it was necessary. I just felt. . .’
‘I know how you felt.’
‘Do you?’ Tincommius looked startled for an instant, before his expression recomposed and he nodded. ‘I suppose even a Roman understands grief.’
‘You can count on it.’ Cato gave him a faint smile. ‘Now take the standard, and get yourself back to Centurion Macro.’
Fortunately there were no more such scenes as Cato and Bedriacus pushed themselves through the throng towards the entrance to Calleva. To one side of the gate Verica stood on a wagon, surrounded by his nobles and the royal bodyguard. Cato caught sight of the Boar standard unsteadily making its way over towards Verica and turned round to pull Bedriacus within earshot. The centurion pointed towards the Atrebatan king.
‘Come with me!’
The hunter nodded, and before Cato could stop him, Bedriacus ploughed into the throng, roughly shoving his people aside to make way for his centurion. For a moment Cato feared that the mood might turn nasty, but the Atrebatans were in too good a humour to take offence. A huge quantity of the local beer
had already been consumed during Calleva’s celebration, and the returning soldiers were doing their best to make up for lost time as unstoppered jugs were passed around. Despite the hunter’s best efforts it still took a long time before Cato finally joined Macro and Tincommius. After the tight, heaving mass of the excited tribe Cato was relieved when he finally managed to squeeze through the shields of the bodyguards into King Verica’s presence.
‘Centurion Cato!’ Verica smiled, raising a hand in greeting. ‘My heartiest congratulations on your victory.’
‘The victory is yours, sir. Yours, and your people’s. They deserved it.’
‘High praise indeed, from an officer of the legions.’
‘Yes, sir. And I’m sure the men will continue to justify your pride in them.’
‘Of course. But for now’ we must let them celebrate.’ Verica turned to Macro. ‘I’d like to hear the whole tale after you’ve rested. Please be my guests tonight in my great hall.’
Macro bowed his head. “We’d be honoured, sir.’
‘Very well, until then.’
Verica was helped down from the wagon. He turned towards the gate and his bodyguard quickly formed round him and opened a path through the crowd.
‘Come on,’ said Macro, after he had passed the word for the cohorts to reassemble in the depot the following morning. ‘We’ve got to get that convoy inside the depot before the locals recover their wits enough to ransack it.’
Once Macro and Cato had escorted the supply wagons through the gatehouse into Calleva, it quickly became clear that many of the Atrebatans were not in a celebratory mood. Small groups of men squatted outside some of the huts, staring silently at the wagons as they trundled along the rutted street towards the depot. Only the children seemed oblivious to the tense division of sympathies in Calleva, and ran happily alongside the wagons, laughing and teasing the drivers. A rumour had carried through the town that some of the supplies would be distributed to the townspeople, and even the children were excited by the prospect of filling their bellies.
At the sight of Macro and Cato the children ran over to the two centurions who had defeated the Durotrigans and crowded round them, babbling away in their singsong Celtic.
‘All right! All right!’ Macro grinned as he raised his hands. ‘See? I’ve got nothing for you. Nothing!’
Cato’s grim expression had deterred all but the most thick-skinned of the children and he glared at the others who finally got the point and turned their attention to Macro.
‘Why so glum? Hey, Cato!’
Cato looked round. ‘Glum?’
‘You look like someone who just lost a bloody fight, not won it! Come on, lad. Join the celebrations.’
‘I will, later.’
‘Later? What’s wrong with now?’
‘Sir.’ Cato nodded down at the children.
One of the urchins, more daring than the others, was fiddling with the fastening of one of the silver medallions on Macro’s harness.
‘Why, you little bastard!’ Macro cuffed the boy heavily on the ear. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re up to, sunshine? All of you! You’ve had your fun, now piss off!’
He swept them away with broad strokes of his arm, sending several sprawling on the street with a shrill chorus of shrieks and screams. The others kept out of the centurion’s reach and giggled as he made a wild face at them. ‘Grrrrr! Get out of here before the big bad Roman eats you all for his supper.’
When the children continued to dog his footsteps Macro’s tiredness soon won out over his good spirits, and he turned and drew his sword. At the sight of the glinting blade the Atrebatan children fled screaming into the narrow alleys between the huts.
‘That’s better.’ Macro nodded with satisfaction. ‘Though they don’t give up easily, that lot.’
‘Blame it on the parents,’ Cato smiled humourlessly. ‘The speed the general’s campaign is going, I shouldn’t be surprised if those children are old enough to fight the Durotrigans before we’re through. Or fight us.’
Macro stopped and looked at his junior centurion. ‘You really are in a shitty mood, aren’t you?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Only thinking. That’s all. Just ignore me.’
‘Thinking?’ Macro raised his eyebrows, then shook his head sadly. ‘Like all things, there’s a time and a place for that, my boy. We should be celebrating, like our lads. You, particularly.’
Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘Me?’
‘You’ve proved the quacks wrong. A few weeks ago they were all for giving you a medical discharge. If only they could have seen you in action! So let’s celebrate. In fact, the moment we’ve seen these wagons safely inside the depot, you and me are going to have a drink. My treat.’
Cato tried not to show his alarm at the prospect of one of Macro’s drinking binges. Unlike his friend, who enjoyed a cast-iron constitution, and quickly recovered from any amount of drink, wine and beer went straight to Cato’s head, and he suffered the appalling consequences for days. Much as he was relieved to prove the surgeon wrong, there were other matters that required his attention.
‘Sir, we must make a report to the legate, and the general, at once. Then we have to join Verica tonight.’
‘Screw Verica. Let’s get drunk.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Cato continued patiently. ‘We dare not cause any offence. Vespasian’s orders were very firm about that.’
‘Bloody orders.’
Cato nodded sympathetically, and then tried to change the subject. ‘And we need to think about how the men performed at the river crossing.’
‘What’s there to think about? We kicked the stuffing out of the Durotrigans.’
‘This time, maybe. When we next face them we might not have the advantage of surprise.’
‘The lads did well enough,’ protested Macro. ‘Got stuck into the enemy like pros. Well, maybe not professionals – they’ll never match up to the legions.’
‘Quite. That’s what worries me. They’re overconfident. That can be a very dangerous thing. They need more training.’
‘Of course they do!’ Macro slapped him on the shoulder. ‘And we’re just the men to give them it. Why, we’ll drill ‘em into the ground, make them curse the day they were born. In the end they’ll be as good as any auxiliaries serving with the Eagles. Mark my words!’
‘I hope so.’ Cato forced himself to smile.
‘That’s the spirit! Now let’s get back to the depot and see if we can find a jar or two of wine.’
Chapter Thirteen
As soon as he left the celebrating crowd King Verica returned to the royal enclosure and summoned his council of advisors and the most trusted members of his family. He waited until the last of the kitchen slaves had left the chamber before he spoke. His audience was seated at a long table, watching their king with keen expectation. Each man had a drinking goblet, and several pitchers of wine had been left for them to share. Although Verica wanted sober heads to consider the situation, this was balanced with a need for each to speak his mind as honestly as possible, and wine, consumed in quantity, was generally a sound way to loosen tongues.
Besides his wise council, made up of the most ancient and respected of the Atrebatan nobles, the younger blades of nobility were represented by Tincommius, Artax and the captain of the royal bodyguard, Cadminius. Verica needed to sound out the broadest range of opinion in those upon whose loyalty his rule of the Atrebatans depended. The youngsters were looking excited and not a little awed to have been consulted in this manner.
After the latch on the door clanked down there was a moment of silence before Verica began. He knew the value of silence as a means of focusing attention. He cleared his throat and began.
‘Before we get to the substance of this meeting I want you to swear an oath that whatever is said here this afternoon goes no further than these walls. Swear it now!’
His guests slid their hands down to their dagger hilts and made the vow in a collective low mumble. One o
r two looked slightly offended by the instruction.
‘Very well, let’s begin. By now you all know about the Atrebatan prisoners taken by our men at the ambush. Most of you were there to welcome the cohorts home. You may have witnessed the unfortunate scene when that woman discovered her son’s head amongst the war trophies.’
Cadminius grinned at the memory, and a cruel sense of mirth at the woman’s grim discovery caused some of the others to chuckle. Verica’s face remained expressionless, except the eyes, which involuntarily widened with mild shock and a little anger at the laughter. When the laughter had died away he leaned forward slightly.
‘Gentlemen, there’s nothing in the situation that should amuse you. When our own people are killing each other there’s no room for rejoicing.’
‘But, sire,’ protested an old warrior, ‘the man betrayed us. All those men betrayed us. They deserved their fate, and that woman should never have shamed herself grieving for a son who turned on his own people, turned against his own king.’
There was a mumble of approval for these words, but Verica quickly raised his hand to quiet them.
‘I agree, Mendacus. But what of the people out there? The people of Calleva, and our lands beyond the walls of the town? How many of them agree with us? Surely not all. How could that be when so many of them are now fighting with Caratacus? Fighting against us, as well as our Roman allies. Answer me that!’
‘Such men are fools, sire,’ Mendacus replied. ‘Hot heads. The kind of impressionable young men who are easily talked into anything. . .’
‘Fools?’ Verica shook his head sadly. ‘Not fools. Not that, at least. It’s no easy thing to turn your back on your people. I should know.’
The king raised his eyes and scanned the faces around the table. His shame was mirrored in their expressions. He had fled for his life when Caratacus had marched on Calleva several years earlier. Fled in the night like a coward, and run to the Romans to throw himself on their mercy. They had seen that the old man might yet have a part to play in the Empire’s designs and had given him shelter and looked after him well. But such hospitality is not without its price. When the time came, the favour was called in and the Emperor’s chief secretary, Narcissus, made it quite clear to him that the price demanded by Rome for returning him to his throne was eternal obedience. Nothing short of that would do. And Verica had readily agreed, as he and Narcissus had both known he would. So when the legions landed in Britain, Verica marched with them. His kingdom had been returned to him at the point of a Roman sword and the many who had clung to their Catuvellaunian overlords ran into exile, or resisted and died.
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