Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER TWELVE

The men let out a cheer and spurred their mounts on, surging over the trampled grass, up to the crest, from where the bloody struggle below was revealed in all its detail. In an instant, Cato took in the broad sweep of the spectacle. The enemy was holding their ground for full three-quarters of their defences, but the critical section of the battlefield was directly ahead and to the right where Macro’s force was fighting for survival while the flank of the Fourteenth Legion was only just starting to feed into the battle. The hillside between Cato’s men and their comrades was thick with enemy warriors charging down on the legionaries, yelling their war cries.

Cato’s vision narrowed to the way directly ahead of him. The time to command was over. He was a fighting man now, just like the rest of the Blood Crows, who became no more than fleeting shapes on either side. Cato raised his cavalry sword up and out, ready to strike, and slashed down at the first warrior he came down upon, laying open his shoulder and back. Then the man was gone and the horse knocked another to the ground and there was a dull crack as a bone gave way beneath the hoofs pounding over the body. The horse shied at a third man who turned and roared at the mounted figure looming over him and Cato snatched at the reins to keep the beast from swerving too far and unseating him.

Cato’s shield smashed into the warrior. Half turning in his saddle, Cato swung his sword across in an arc and the edge of the blade split his opponent’s skull down to the jaw. The warrior’s back arched as his arms snapped out and the movement threatened to wrench the sword from Cato’s grasp. He held on and pulled with all his strength. He felt the blade give, and pulled again and it came free, causing him to lurch in his saddle. His horse had stopped, and Cato looked round.

The Blood Crows had broken the men who had been bearing down on Macro’s cohort and the slope around Cato was a heaving mass of native warriors and horsemen. The enemy’s cries of triumph had turned to panic and scores were fleeing towards the left of the line while their leaders tried to stop them and thrust them back towards the bloody melee on the flank. There were Druids there as well, Cato saw. Robed figures with wild hair, screaming curses at the Romans and those amongst their people who refused to turn and fight.

A movement to his side caught Cato’s attention and he turned his head to see two men armed with spears rushing towards him. He pulled the reins and turned his horse towards them, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks. The men were forced to either side and a spear thrust towards the right of Cato’s chest. He cut down savagely with his sword and there was a ringing clash as the edge struck the iron spearhead and knocked it aside. The wet ground meant that it was hard for the man to change direction and his shoulder slammed into Cato’s leg. The warrior looked up with a snarl, his eyes gleaming through the dark hair plastering his scalp. Cato instinctively smashed the pommel of his sword on the top of the man’s skull and he fell away.

His shield hand suddenly jerked and the reins snapped tightly, causing the horse to turn. The second man staggered back, one hand still trying to rip the Roman’s shield aside to open a gap through which his spear could strike. Cato pulled his shield back, throwing his weight to the other side and the spear point glanced off the flat surface and tore a shallow gash in the horse’s side. The beast leaped beneath Cato and he clamped his legs to its sides as it kicked out, a hoof catching the warrior and knocking him on to his back.

It took a moment to regain control and Cato saw that Macro had re-formed his men into a line, two deep, extending from the barricade a short distance up the slope. The first men from the other cohorts were taking position to his left. All the time, more men were passing through the gap in the barricade as Crispus and his legionaries worked to widen the breach. The battle was beginning to turn in their favour, Cato realised. But he and his men had to keep the enemy distracted for as long as possible. The Blood Crows were scattered amongst the horde of warriors, fighting on in little knots, or singly, and Cato could see he had already lost a quarter of his men. He must hold them together if they were to stand any chance of survival. The standard-bearer was a short distance away, together with four other men clustered around him as they struggled to prevent the enemy from capturing the standard. Cato spurred his horse over to them, keeping his shield close and his sword out, ready to strike or parry. One of the riders saw him approach and moved aside to let him pass. Cato reined in by the standard-bearer, sheathed his sword and cupped his hand to his mouth to call out over the battlefield, ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows on me! On me!’

Then Cato turned to the men about him. ‘Keep close, lads. We’ll make for the Fourth Cohort.’

One by one, his men worked themselves over to the standard and joined the growing party of riders as they cut a path through the native warriors towards the steadily strenghtening line of legionaries forming up the slope. Cato noticed that the enemy’s spirit was wavering. Fewer men were willing to attack the small party of mounted Romans. Others were drifting away from the fight, seeking safety in the direction of the centre of their line. Only a handful grasped the importance of the desperate fight on the flank, Caratacus amongst them. He raged through their ranks, shouting and thrusting men towards the enemy, struggling to drive them forwards through the rain and the glistening mud.

By the time the last survivors of the two squadrons had rejoined the standard, they had forced their way through to the waiting legionaries, presenting their shields in an unbroken line.

‘Make a gap!’ Cato ordered as he urged his horse forward. ‘Open ranks!’

The men directly ahead of him shuffled aside and Cato led the riders through and a short distance beyond before the shields closed behind him. Macro hurried to his side and looked up with a relieved expression.

‘Fine work, sir! Bloody marvellous. You arrived just in time. Else Caratacus and his bastards would have been all over us and we’d have lost the breach.’

Cato grinned back, struggling to control the tremor in his limbs. He looked up and saw that at least two hundred men had already formed on the flank of Macro’s cohort and more were taking position all the time. Ahead of them a gap had opened between the two sides and no amount of shouting and cajoling by their leaders could persuade the native warriors to return to the furious struggle that had erupted on their flank. The churned mud between the two sides was littered with bodies, splintered shields, abandoned weapons and puddles of bloodstained rainwater.

The tops of Roman standards appeared behind the breach and a moment later Legate Quintatus led his officers and the colour party through the gap and up to Cato.

‘I heard what had happened at this end. Excellent work, Prefect!’ He grinned. ‘How the hell did you get up here? You’re supposed to be guarding the camp.’

‘We were the last reserve available to the general, sir. Once your attack stalled,’ Cato explained briefly, not wanting to reveal that he had acted on his own initiative. There would be time for repercussions later, and Cato had little doubt that there would be. Whatever he may have achieved, he had also abandoned his post in the middle of a battle. He had left the army’s camp defenceless.

‘Desperate measures, eh?’ Quintatus said. ‘Still, no time to waste. We must press our advantage.’

The legate turned to the nearest of his junior tribunes. ‘I want the flank cohorts up here on the double. Send word to Tribune Otho to reinforce us. The rest are to hold their position and cross the barricade when practicable. Go!’

The young officer saluted and turned to race back towards the breach.

‘Prefect Cato, take your cavalry up to the crest. You’ll cover our flank. You’ve had your fun, now leave the rest to the legions.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted but the legate had already moved on, striding up the slope to take his place behind the centre of the line. Macro watched him briefly and shook his head.

‘Fun, he says. I wonder what it’s like when things get serious.’

Cato shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps one day we’ll really find out. Meanwhile, well done, Macro.’

They exchanged a smile and then Cato gathered the remains of his cohort and led them back up the slope, behind the legionaries, to take their place on the crest. Miro, and a handful of the men he had rallied from his own squadron, joined them. The plateau had turned into a mass of fugitives. Fear and panic was spreading through Caratacus’s army and hundreds of his men had joined the flight of the wounded, women and children streaming towards the far side of the hill as they sought to escape the legions. Cato regarded them with pity. All they would find was the screen of auxiliary troops sent to cut off their retreat. Even if the gathering storm provided some of them with cover to get away, most would be taken prisoner and condemned to slavery as spoils of war.

As soon as the first two cohorts had passed through the breach and formed up, the legate gave the order to advance and the legionaries tramped forward as their optios called the time. The large rectangular shields, spattered with mud, faced the enemy, while the points of short swords glimmered in the gaps between shields. Behind, the men peered over their shield trims, only exposing a fraction of their faces as they paced across the slope towards their foes. Cato and his men covered the open flank as the formation moved along the line of the barricade.

Only a handful of battle-crazed warriors dared to stand their ground, wielding their swords, spears and axes more with rage than skill, before they were cut down and trampled into the mud as the legionaries passed over them. Caratacus remained out in front of his men, imploring them to stand, before he too had to move to avoid death or capture. With a last look of anguish, he turned his horse and trotted through his men towards the centre of the line.

The dark rain clouds had grown thicker, blotting out the sky, and a shadowy gloom closed over the mountainous landscape as the rain fell even harder and the wind strengthened with moaning gusts that swept over the hill, chilling Cato to the bone. His fear for the fate of the army had left him. Caratacus had gambled on fighting a setpiece battle and lost. Ahead, Cato could see the enemy melting away and then there was a sudden surge in the distance and the glimmer of helmets revealed that the Romans had forced their way through, or round, the enemy’s other flank and now they were caught, as if in an iron vice.

From his vantage point on the crest, Cato could see the centre of what remained of the enemy line. A body of armoured men with helmets and patterned cloaks still stood in formation a short distance back from the barricade. Above them flew the standard of Caratacus, rippling furiously in the wind. There were perhaps three hundred warriors in his bodyguard. Not nearly enough to retrieve the situation, Cato calculated. Sure enough, the formation did not move to engage the Romans, but instead began to climb the slope towards the camp, fending off those tribesmen hindering their progress. In the middle rode Caratacus and a small party of horseman, one of whom carried the standard, holding it steadily and keeping it aloft.

As they saw their commander falling back, the last of the men still holding their position along the barricade turned away and joined the rout. Soon nothing stood between the two Roman forces advancing towards each other and Quintatus ordered his men to make for the enemy general’s bodyguard, moving in for the kill that would finally place the seal on the conquest of the new province.

Then, as the bodyguards reached the crest, Cato saw three riders leave the formation and gallop towards the tents in the centre of the camp. The standard still flew above the men who had halted and turned to face the Romans closing on them from either side. But the ruse was clear to Cato at once. The three horsemen must be Caratacus and his closest lieutenants, determined to escape the defeat and keep their struggle alive. Once again he faced a dilemma. If he pursued them he would be overriding his orders and leaving Quintatus’s flank uncovered. Once again he knew what he must do.

‘Blood Crows! Follow me!’

He spurred his horse forward towards the heart of the enemy camp. His men followed at once, spilling out on either side as they raced after their prefect. Cato saw that Caratacus and his companions had made good use of their head start and would reach the tents first. That could not be helped, but there was a chance that whatever they sought there would delay them long enough for Cato and his men to catch up. Around them the plateau was filled with drenched figures running for their lives. At the sound of the approach of the horsemen under the dreaded banner of the Blood Crows they turned aside and fled from the path of the riders. Some, too badly injured, or too tired, to move aside were run down and trampled into the sodden earth.

Ahead, Cato could just make out through the pouring rain that the three riders had reached the tents. One slipped from his saddle and entered a tent, no more than two hundred paces away. Cato leaned forward in his saddle and slapped the flat of his blade against the flank of his mount, determined to wring the last measure of effort out of the blown horse. Saliva from its muzzle flicked back into his face as it pounded towards the tents. Then he saw the man emerge again, leading a small party of women and children. The other riders leaned down to help them up.

‘Miro!’ Cato called out. ‘Go left. Cut them off!’

‘Yes, sir!’ came the instant reply and several of the riders sheared off to prevent Caratacus escaping. Cato charged on towards the tents. The riders looked up anxiously as the Roman horsemen reined in and surrounded them, swords out, ready to rush their enemy the moment their prefect gave the word.

Cato’s chest heaved as he struggled for breath. Before him, not twenty feet away, he recognised Caratacus. At his side, clutching his arm, was a sturdy woman with dark hair. In her other hand she clutched the hand of a boy, no more than ten, Cato guessed. Behind her stood two teenage girls, with terrified expressions on their faces as they gazed at the Roman cavalrymen surrounding them. Caratacus snatched out his sword as he stepped forward to protect them. The other men dropped from their saddles, weapons in hand, to stand by their leader. From their features it was clear that they were related. Brothers, thought Cato, as he walked his horse forward and pointed his sword.

‘Lay your arms down and surrender, Caratacus!’

‘Fuck you, Roman!’ one of his brothers snarled in Latin. ‘Come and get them!’

Cato stared back in silence before he lowered his blade and spoke again. ‘You cannot escape. You either surrender or die.’

‘We can still fight, Roman!’ Caratacus lifted his chin defiantly. ‘You will not kill us before we have taken several of your men with us into the afterlife.’

‘And what of them?’ Cato pointed to the women and the boy.

Caratacus raised his spare hand and pulled a dagger from his belt and passed it to the woman with a brief exchange of words before he faced Cato again. ‘I have told my wife to kill my children and then herself once I have fallen. Your men shall not rape my daughters. You will not raise my son as your slave!’

Cato quickly sheathed his sword and held out his hand. ‘I swear, by all the gods that I worship, that your family will not be harmed. Nor will you, if you surrender.’

‘And who are you to guarantee this?’

‘I am your captor. Prefect Cato, commander of the Second Thracian Cavalry.’

‘Prefect Cato?’ Caratacus frowned. ‘I know you. .’

‘Yes, sir. We have met before. I am a man of my word and you are my prisoner. I swear no harm will come to you before you are handed into the custody of the imperial palace. On my honour.’

Caratacus stared at him in an agony of indecision and Cato slipped his shield strap over a saddle horn and eased himself to the ground. He walked forward slowly and stopped a sword’s length from the enemy commander. He spoke gently.

‘Sir, there has been enough bloodshed today. Your army is defeated. Your war against Rome is over. All that remains is for you to choose life for you and your family, or death.’

Caratacus half lowered his sword and glanced over his shoulder at his wife and children, then he turned back to Cato and closed his eyes as he gave an order to his brothers. They stared at him with bitter reproach, but held on to their swords, until Caratacus straightened up again, and repeated his order firmly, eyes open and fixed on Cato. He threw his sword at the prefect’s feet. His brothers hesitated a moment longer before they followed suit and then one slumped on to the ground and hugged his knees while the other folded his muscular arms and regarded Cato defiantly. Caratacus turned away and folded his arms about his wife and lowered his head on to her shoulder.

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 followers 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.’

Cato turned away and ducked out of the door. He was about to order the guard to close it when he saw two figures approaching him through the haze of rain. One was in the armour of a Roman officer. The other was a woman, attempting to pick her way across the muddy ground to spare her robe from the filth as much as possible.

‘Prefect Cato!’

He recognised the voice of Otho and cursed under his breath. There were matters he needed to attend to, just as there should be for the tribune. Yet Otho seemed to have the time to take his wife for a stroll around the camp. He cleared his throat and called back, ‘Tribune. What can I do for you?’

The younger officer and his wife hurried over and Cato saw at once the excited expression on the man’s face. His wife, Poppaea, was somewhat less cheerful as she peered out of the hood covering her head. The rain had startd to soak through the cloth and wet tendrils of hair clung to her forehead. Otho reached out and grasped Cato’s hand.

‘First, let me congratulate the hero of the day. The man who won the battle and captured Caratacus.’

‘Hmmm,’ Cato grumbled in his throat, acutely irritated by the excessive praise. Excessive and dangerous. The last thing he wanted was to be seen to compete with General Ostorius for taking credit for the victory. Ostorius had powerful connections in Rome, while Cato had his father-in-law, a backwoods senator, and Narcissus, an imperial adviser who was struggling to retain his influence over the Emperor. It would be inadvisable to make unnecessary enemies.

Otho ignored his discomfort and continued, ‘You deserve a triumph of your own, my dear Prefect! What an outstanding piece of work. Pompey the Great couldn’t have done better himself. What do you think, my love?’

He turned, beaming, to his wife. Poppaea forced a smile and glanced down at the muddied hem of her robe.

‘Oh yes. . Outstanding.’

‘I, uh, was just doing my duty,’ Cato muttered, wincing inwardly at the triteness of his words.

‘You were doing hero’s work, Cato,’ Otho gushed, slapping his hand against his thigh. Then he peered past Cato and lowered his voice. ‘Is the beast caged within?’

‘If you are referring to King Caratacus, then yes.’

‘Oh marvellous! We must see him.’

Cato frowned. ‘See him? Why?’

Otho looked surprised. ‘Why? Because he’s the barbarian who has defied an empire. He’s the barbarian it has taken the best part of ten years to bring to heel. When my wife returns to Rome she will be able to say she saw him on the very day he was humbled by our legions. She will be quite the envy of high society. Isn’t that right, Poppaea?’

‘Yes,’ she responded curtly and fixed Cato with a hard stare. ‘So let’s hurry things along a bit so that I can return to my husband’s quarters and change into dry clothes before I catch my death.’

Cato shook his head. ‘My prisoner is resting. I suggest you come back in the morning, when the storm has passed and you can inspect him at your leisure.’

Otho’s brow creased. ‘I say, that’s a bit off, Prefect. We’ve had to wade all the way across the camp to get here and now you’re telling us we can’t see the damned fellow?’

Too weary to get into an argument, and keen to see these aristocrats leave, Cato gritted his teeth. ‘Very well. Quickly then. Open the door.’

The legionary slipped the locking bar out and swung the door back for the two visitors. The tribune stepped warily into the stockade and edged along the wall to make room for his wife. Cato watched from the threshold, pained to see Caratacus displayed like some exotic beast. Poppaea glanced round the close confines before fixing her attention on the man chained to the post.

‘He doesn’t look much like a king,’ she said with disdain. ‘More like a roadside beggar.’

Her young husband simply stared at the prisoner with an awed expression while his wife continued.

‘I can’t believe this. . animal has been the cause of so much trouble,’ Poppaea leaned a little closer as her nose wrinkled. ‘I mean, really.’

Caratacus was staring straight ahead, apparently unmoved by her remarks. Then he lurched forward against his chains and let out a roar, his face contorting into a feral expression of savagery. Poppaea let out a high-pitched scream and stumbled back against the posts of the stockade. Her husband flinched then reached for his sword as his wife dived back through the door. Otho hurried out after her. Caratacus continued to rage, his chains clanking as he attempted to shake his fists.

‘Bloody fellow is wild!’ Otho exclaimed as he released his sword and put an arm round his wife to comfort her. ‘Quite wild. Well, erm, I thank you, Prefect. And once again, well done. Now, my dear, it’s time we got you into some warm, dry clothes. Come.’

They turned and hurried away towards the heart of the camp, pursued by a few more deep-throated cries and curses from Caratacus. Then he stopped, caught Cato’s eye, and burst into laughter.

‘Seems I’m not the only one who needs to change out of soiled clothing.’

Cato smiled, as did the legionaries on either side of the entrance, until their superior glanced severely at them and they faced forward and adopted the stern expression of sentries on duty. Caratacus’s laughter subsided but there was still a slight smile on his face as he looked up at Cato.

‘I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a change of clothing, Prefect Cato.’

‘I’ll have my servant bring it to you.’

Their eyes met for a brief moment longer before Cato spoke again. ‘It’s a pity we had to be enemies. I should have counted it an honour to fight at your side.’

A flicker of surprise crossed the Celt’s face. ‘You may think that, Prefect Cato. But we could never have been anything but enemies. I know that now. And if you believe that were our positions reversed I would be offering you the comfort of dry clothes, then you are mistaken. I would have taken your head and mounted it on top of my standard.’

The warmth of a moment earlier had gone and Caratacus’s eyes were filled with bitterness once again. Cato turned to the guards and nodded. The door was closed and secured.

‘Once Thraxis has given him a fresh tunic and cloak, no one else is to disturb him. If anyone comes then tell them that they have to ask for permission from the general first. Understood?’

The two men nodded and Cato squelched over the mud to his tent. He was bone weary and looking forward to removing his armour and having Thraxis warm him some wine. He flipped the leather flaps open and ducked inside, then froze as he caught sight of the figure seated at his desk, warming his hands at the brazier.