Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato sensed Macro stirring a little uneasily, and shared his friend’s discomfiture at the way Rome’s struggle to control the British tribes was being presented in such optimistic terms. After ten years of hard fighting the legions had been dealt a humiliating blow and Rome was hanging onto what territory she controlled by her fingertips. One more push by the tribes who still fought on against Rome might well destroy the thinly dispersed forces garrisoning the island and force a humbling retreat from Britannia. If Caratacus had managed to evade capture and continued to lead the tribes fighting Rome then Cato had little doubt that the fate of the new province would already have been decided.

  ‘We are here today to celebrate the victory over King Caratacus, our greatest enemy in Britannia. A victory only made possible by the gallantry of Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro whose boldness in battle has struck fear into the hearts of our foes while offering an inspiring example to their comrades. It was through their direct action that Caratacus was defeated and captured, and for this signal achievement they are honoured with the gratitude of Rome and his imperial majesty!’

  Polidorus stepped aside with a sweep of his arm, and the two officers approached the dais and bowed to the Emperor. Claudius rose unsteadily from his throne and approached the edge of the dais, while two slaves stepped out from behind the throne carrying red cushions upon which rested two silver spears. The slaves knelt down to each side of the Emperor and proffered their burdens as they bowed their heads, not daring to meet his gaze. Cato could see the nervous tremor in the Emperor’s hands as his gnarled fingers closed around the shaft of the first spear. He lifted it up and held it in both hands.

  ‘Rome is g–gr–grateful, Prefect.’

  He offered the spear and Cato stepped forward and raised his arms, palms up. The weapon was heavier than he anticipated and close to he could see that the ornamental head was made of gold. It would be worth a small fortune, he calculated.

  ‘Thank you, Imperial Majesty.’

  Claudius was already reaching for the other spear and Cato caught sight of Polidorus gesturing to him to move back. Keeping his front towards the Emperor, Cato retreated a few paces as Macro moved forward to take his turn.

  ‘Rome is grateful, Centurion,’ Claudius repeated flatly as he handed over the prize and Macro mumbled some thanks and fell back to his position at Cato’s side. They both saluted the Emperor and a fresh cheer rose up from the crowd in the Forum. Then they turned to march back to their places on the fringe of the imperial party as the next recipient came forward to collect the sword that was brought to the Emperor to dispense. As the ceremony continued Cato and Macro examined their awards more closely.

  ‘Very nice, indeed,’ Macro said quietly. ‘Going to look good on the wall of the villa I buy when I retire.’

  ‘Thought you were going to buy a tavern, or a vineyard if funds allow, and spend the rest of your days in a drunken stupor?’

  ‘Still got to have a home to go to, haven’t I?’ Macro winked. ‘Yours will look very fine in your house. Something for young Lucius to admire as he grows up. Maybe it’ll even inspire the lad to follow in your footsteps. That’ll be something you can be proud of.’

  Cato had not given the matter any thought and the idea caught him by surprise. Was that the life he wanted for his son? All the hardships and dangers of serving on the frontiers of the empire? Never knowing when the barbarians might strike, and facing the hunger and cold of the northern provinces, or the heat and thirst of the eastern deserts? Lucius was only a small boy and it was hard to imagine him facing such a life at the moment. Nor was Cato too pleased at the prospect of placing his son in danger.

  Even so, there were aspects of the army life that Cato valued. The comradeship, facing perils and surviving them, and testing the limits of his endurance, mental as well as physical. It was the army that had made him what he was today. Before then he had been a bookish youth with disdain for the brute realities of life. If his father had not sent him to join the legions then he feared he would have ended up as some minor functionary in the service of the Emperor, or worse in the service of the likes of Narcissus or Pallas. One of those shady individuals who spied on the enemies of their masters and stuck a knife into their backs when they were deemed to be a threat to the security of the Emperor or the wider Roman state. The kind of men whom Cato and Macro had rightly come to despise. The army had indeed been the making of him, Cato reflected. The army, and his friend Macro. He glanced sidelong and saw Macro admiring his prize. Yes, if Lucius turned out like Macro, then Cato would be very proud indeed.

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Cato,’ said Macro, breaking into his thoughts. ‘I wish I had a son. Truly. To have a lad like Lucius would be a fine thing indeed.’

  ‘It’s not too late, brother. Just find yourself a woman and marry her.’

  ‘Easier said than done. Good women are hard to come by.’

  Thinking of Julia, Cato felt a twist of the knife in his guts. ‘Yes . . .’

  Macro picked up on the strained tone in his friend’s voice and looked at Cato with concern for a moment. Before he could ask anything there was a loud rumble of wheels and both turned to see the arrival of the prisoners’ cart into the temple precinct. As the last of the soldiers to be honoured by the Emperor received a gold torc, a section of Praetorians began to drag the prisoners down from their cart and herd them towards the rear of the platform where Polidorus was waiting for his cue. The last soldier was cheered by the mob as he waited until he had retreated a respectful distance from the Emperor and then faced the spectators and punched his fist in the air.

  The cheering continued in a deafening roar. Polidorus waited for the soldier to clear the front of the platform and then turned his attention to the Emperor. Claudius allowed the din to continue for a while before he nodded to the master of ceremonies. Polidorus called out an order to the prisoners’ escort and the Praetorians thrust Caratacus and his family forward. The noise from the crowd increased to an even higher pitch at the sight of the humbled enemy.

  ‘Not sure that I want to witness this part of the proceedings,’ Cato muttered to his friend.

  ‘Why? He had it coming to him the moment he chose to take up arms against us and try his hand against the legions. It was him or us, Cato. Besides, you know damn well that if the positions were reversed then we’d be given a far nastier end. You remember those giant wicker men they used to burn prisoners alive? Right?’

  ‘I remember.’ Cato shuddered at the image. ‘But that was the druids, not Caratacus.’

  ‘Sure, he and his warriors were content to just take the heads of our lads as trophies. So you’ll forgive me if I shed no tears for him. If he’d given in several years ago and spared us all a lot of bloodshed then I might feel differently.’

  Cato did not respond to his friend’s cold-hearted comment. He wondered if he was being sentimental. Perhaps Macro was right to feel no remorse over the death of this enemy of Rome, he reflected. There was no place for sentimentality in war, and those who waged it and lost had no right to expect any mercy at the hands of their victors.

  With the prisoners gathered in full view of those packed into the Forum, Polidorus signalled the executioner and his party to take their places. At the sight of the garrotte frame the cheers and jeering became more frenzied and bloodthirsty just as when the mob bayed for the blood of the gladiators and those condemned to death in the arena. It was the same savage appetite for suffering and death, and it made Cato feel a twinge of contempt for those who demanded the blood of their victims most vociferously. When the garotte was set up and the executioner stood ready, Claudius rose to his feet and surveyed his people with imperious disdain as they fell silent and watched him expectantly. Claudius opened his arms in an embracing gesture as he filled his lungs and began to address the people, his voice thin and shrill with the effort of trying to make himself heard.

 
‘It is time to b–b–bear witness to the final destruction of our greatest enemy, Caratacus, king of the barbarians of Britannia. Long has he defied our legions, and inflicted m–many a reverse upon them, but in the end nothing can resist the might of Rome, and the favour of Jupiter, best and g–g–gr–greatest!’ He soaked up the cheers that greeted his words. ‘But b–before I pass judgement on this man, Caratacus, and his family, does the prisoner have any last words to offer his conquerors – the Se–Se–Senate and People of Rome?’

  The words echoed off the towering basilicas, temples and the imperial palace that surrounded the Forum as the crowd turned their gaze to the solitary figure of Caratacus, standing apart from his family. The Briton did little to hide his disdain for the frail Emperor and those who surrounded him. Then his gaze fell on Cato and they exchanged a brief stare before he turned aside so that he could address Claudius and the crowd as equally as possible.

  ‘I am your prisoner, as is my family. Our fate is yours to determine, by right of conquest.’ He paused a moment before addressing the crowd more directly. ‘Let this be my testament, then, before I go to join the spirits of my forefathers, the great kings and princes of my people. I am Caratacus, King of the Catuvellauni – the most powerful tribe in all Britannia . . . until Caesar’s legions landed on our shores. We were a proud people, a warlike people, who knew no equal in battle. We humbled the Trinovantes, the Cantii and the Atrebatii and made them our vassels. When Rome invaded, it was I to whom all looked when a leader was needed . . .’ He raised his manacled fists and shook his chains.

  Macro chuckled. ‘Fuck me, but he’s a modest fellow, ain’t he?’

  A flicker of impatience showed in Cato’s expression. ‘He’s about to die, Macro. Let him make a decent end of it.’

  ‘Fair enough. As long as he doesn’t try to bore us to death in revenge.’ Macro was already thinking about the fleshy delights he would be seeking out when the ceremony and feasting were over.

  Caratacus lowered his fist and his tone was markedly less strident as he continued. ‘Three times we faced you in battle – three defeats – before our capital at Camulodunum fell. Even though we had the greater numbers, still we were defeated by your legions. Truly, the Roman soldier has no equal in this world. He is better armed, better trained, better disciplined than any other. The legionary is incomparable on the battlefield.’

  ‘He’s right on that score,’ said Macro.

  ‘True,’ Cato agreed quietly. ‘But Roman generals are a different matter, on occasion.’

  Macro grunted his assent with feeling.

  Caratacus took a deep breath. ‘Defeated on the battlefield, we continued the struggle as best we could in the years that followed, with some success. But always with the honour of our people in our hearts, and the desire to live free. Long before your legions set foot on my lands I had heard of Rome’s greatness. I had read of her fine cities and fabulous wealth. Why, when you have so much, do you covet our poor huts? Before you chose to make war on Britannia, I would have come to this city as an ally rather than a prisoner. But now I stand before you, defeated and humbled. I once had many horses, thousands of followers at my back and great wealth. Do you wonder that I was unwilling to lose such things? If it is your desire to rule everyone, does it surely follow that everyone should accept becoming your slaves? If I had chosen to surrender immediately then neither my long defiance of Rome, nor your glory in defeating me would be worthy of this great triumph you celebrate today. It is also true that if my family, and I, are put to death here today then all of that dies with us and will fade from memory.’ Caratacus now turned to speak to the Emperor directly. ‘On the other hand, if you show mercy and let us live, then we shall be an eternal example of the clemency, the greatness and the civilisation of Rome. Great Caesar, I, Caratacus, the last of the kings of the Catuvellauni, beg you to spare us.’

  Caratacus slowly lowered himself onto his knees, stretched out his arms towards the Emperor and bowed his head.

  Claudius regarded him sternly as those around the Emperor and the crowd in the Forum awaited his response, still and quiet. Only the distant hubbub of far-off streets and the chirping of swifts darting through the air broke the silence. Cato saw the Emperor’s right hand twitching as it rested on the cushioned arm of his throne, and then the thumb slowly began to ease away from the rest of the hand and Cato felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realised that the plea was not going to succeed. There was only the briefest moment, but in that time Cato reflected that he had little to lose. His wife was lost, his home was lost, and because of that it was likely that Lucius would have to be cared for and raised by his grandfather. He took a step forward and raised his silver spear to attract the crowd’s attention as he shouted, ‘Live!’

  Polidorus instantly turned towards the cry with a look of alarm and most of those around the Emperor turned in surprise to see the insane individual with the hubris to speak out against the imminent execution.

  ‘Live!’ Cato called out again, straining his lungs. ‘Live!’

  He turned to Macro with an imploring look and his friend’s broad shoulders heaved in a sigh as he also raised his spear and echoed the shout.

  Then, from below in the crowd, another voice joined in. There was a brief flurry of jeers and booing, but more voices rose in response to Cato and quickly competed with, and then overwhelmed, the protests of those whose bloodlust demanded satisfaction.

  ‘Live! Live! Live!’ The chant spread through the crowd and fists punched up to emphasise their wish.

  Polidorus hurried round behind the back of the throne and rushed up to Cato. ‘What do you think you are doing? Stop it!’

  Cato ignored him and used his spare hand to add urgency to his appeal. The palace official grabbed at his arm and pulled it down.

  ‘Enough, you fool! Stop it at once! Before it’s too late. Stop!’

  Cato shook his hand away and then struck Polidorus hard in the midriff, driving the air from his lungs as he bent double and staggered back, gasping.

  ‘Not so full of yourself now, eh?’ Macro laughed.

  Around them the other soldiers who had also been decorated grinned at Polidorus and then took up the cry. With the raucous sound coming from the side, Claudius glanced round, frowning, and Cato feared that he might order the German bodyguards to silence him and the others. But instead he saw that the Emperor’s thumb had folded back into his hand, tucking under the fingers against the palm and out of sight. Gradually the Emperor leaned forward and then rose stiffly to his feet and raised his hands to the crowd. But the cheering continued in a deafening roar like the beating of a great drum. ‘Live! Live! Live!’

  Cato saw the Emperor’s jaw working in frustration as his subjects ignored his gestures to call for calm. At length Claudius waved Pallas over and spoke into his ear. The freedman nodded and rushed over to the party of soldiers carrying long brass trumpets. The optio in charge beckoned to them to raise their instruments and they made ready to blow at his signal. The harsh notes cut through the chant and broke it up as some in the crowd stilled their tongues while others fell out of rhythm. Slowly the Forum fell quiet again and Pallas ordered the trumpeters to cease.

  Claudius took a step forward and looked down at Caratacus, who had not moved or shown any reaction to the plea for his life.

  ‘Rise, Caratacus, King of the Ca–Cat–Catuvellauni.’

  The Briton stood up and the Emperor took his hand and limped closer to the edge of the platform.

  ‘By my will, I declare that K–King Caratacus, and his family, be spared! That they live will be testament to the gracious m–mercy of Rome. Let no one say that your Emperor, the Se–Senate and P–P–People of Rome do not recognise an honourable man when they see him . . . Caratacus shall live! Live!’

  The crowd roared their approval and took up the cry again. Macro slapped Cato on the shoul
der. ‘You did it!’

  Cato nodded ruefully. ‘What worries me is what happens next.’

  He saw Polidorus gasping for breath, and the freedman’s expression was filled with anger. And there was little doubt that the Emperor, who had been on the verge of condemning Caratacus and his family to death, would not be so well disposed towards the man who had frustrated his intention.

  ‘Might be an idea if you kept your distance from me, Macro. Until this blows over.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ the centurion grinned. ‘Where you go, I go, my friend. It will be as it has always been as long as I have known you.’

  Cato clicked his tongue. ‘I hope you don’t have cause to regret that.’

  He looked over to see that Claudius had raised the Briton’s hand, as if he had just won a boxing bout in the arena. The Emperor was smiling broadly enough, and Cato could only hope that the expression was not only skin deep. At least the mood of the mob was behind Cato and his cause. That at least might soften the ire of the Emperor and his advisers. Or so Cato fervently hoped. If not for his sake, then for Macro’s.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The feasting hall of the imperial palace was festooned with garlands of bright flowers and tapestries depicting the victories and conquests that had occurred under the reign of Claudius. Cato was amused to see the sequence representing the Emperor’s short-lived visit to Britannia. There was Claudius in full armour leading the troops ashore against the hostile forces ranged on the cliffs above them, and again exhorting his troops as they fought their way across the River Tamesis, and finally accepting the surrender of the kings of twelve tribes outside the smoking ruins of Caratacus’ capital at Camulodunum. They were fine illustrations, Cato conceded. Full of colour and action and very detailed. The only reservation he had was that the Emperor had been at neither of the first two actions and, thanks to his interference, had nearly caused a catastrophic defeat outside Camulodunum. But the perpetual struggle between the claims of truth and those of posterity tended to favour the latter in Cato’s experience.