Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (40 page)

A shadow fell across the faces of the dead and Macro looked back towards the entrance to see Cordus hovering at the threshold.

‘Come here, Optio.’

Cordus reluctantly advanced, hand over his mouth, and squatted down beside Macro. ‘What happened, sir? Who did this? Caratacus?’

‘No. Not him,’ Macro shook his head sadly. ‘Look at the wounds.’

Each of the dead had been killed with a thrust, or a series of thrusts, the classic killing blow of a legionary’s sword. ‘Celtic warriors tend to use slashing blows. They let the impact of their heavy blades do the killing.’

Cordus looked at him with a frown. ‘So who did this? One of our patrols?’

‘No. I don’t think so. But it was Romans all the same.’

The two officers exchanged looks filled with sad understanding, then Cordus looked at the bodies again. ‘Where are the women?’

Before Macro could reply there was another shout. They rose up and hurried from the foul atmosphere of the hut, greatly relieved to burst back into the cleaner air outside. Macro gulped down several breaths to purge the odour of death from his lungs. A short distance away one of the legionaries was beckoning to Macro with his javelin.

‘More bodies, sir. In here!’

Cordus was several paces ahead of him by the time they reached the hut and he glanced quickly inside and, after a short pause, withdrew his head and turned to face the centurion.

‘It’s the women, sir.’

‘Dead?’

Cordus stepped to one side. ‘See for yourself, sir.’

With a soul-wearying sense of sadness Macro peered into the hut. In the gloom he saw three naked bodies, one little more than a girl. The older women had bruised faces and all had been killed with the same thrusts. One of them was missing a breast, and a congealed mass of dry blood and butchered tissue sat alongside the mottled skin of the remaining breast. Macro felt a dreadful weight bear down on his heart as he stared at the scene. What had happened here? Only Cato’s men could have done this. But surely Cato would not have allowed this? Not the Cato he knew. But that would mean that Cato no longer controlled his men. Or - a dark thought crossed Macro’s mind - perhaps the reason for Cato’s men being out of control was because Cato was no longer around to command them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Over the following days Caratacus sent for Cato almost every evening, and continued with his curious interrogation. On the second night he offered Cato some food, and before the centurion could help it he had snatched up a leg of lamb and was about to sink his teeth into the meat when he paused. The scent of it wafted up to his nose and tormented him for a moment, before he lowered his arm and set the meat down on the wooden platter Caratacus had pushed across the floor towards him.

‘What’s the matter, Roman? Afraid I’d poison you?’

That thought had never occurred to Cato as the gnawing hunger had taken over his senses an instant before.

‘No. If my men go hungry, then so must I.’

‘Really?’ Caratacus looked amused. ‘Why?’

Cato shrugged. ‘A centurion has to share the privations of his men, or he’ll never earn their respect.’

‘How would they ever find out? You’re hungry. Eat it.’

Cato looked at the leg of lamb again and felt his gums moisten in anticipation. His imagination of the flavour of the meat was almost overwhelming in its intensity and the power of the temptation to yield suddenly filled him with shocking self-knowledge. He was weak, a man without control over his own body. How quickly his will began to crumble against the urge to indulge himself. He clenched his fists tightly behind his back and shook his head.

‘Not while my men go hungry . . .’

‘Suit yourself, Centurion.’ Caratacus reached down, grasped the shank and tossed the leg towards a hunting dog curled up against the side of the hut. The joint deflected off the ground and struck the animal on the muzzle. The yelp of surprise was quickly stifled as the dog seized the joint in its huge jaws and, holding the end down with a shaggy paw, it began to chew. Cato felt sick with hunger and despair at the sight of the long pink tongue slathering over the meat. He tore his gaze away and turned back towards the enemy commander. Caratacus was watching him closely, with wry amusement.

‘I wonder how many of your centurions would have turned that down.’

‘All of them,’ Cato replied quickly, and Caratacus laughed.

‘I find that hard to believe. I think you are not as typical of your kind as you make out, Roman.’

Cato assumed that this was some kind of compliment, and that realisation made him feel like even more of a sham.

‘I’m not typical. Most centurions are far better soldiers than me.’

‘If you say so,’ Caratacus smirked. ‘But if you are the worst of them, then I must fear for my cause.’ He tore off a small strip of meat from another joint and began to chew slowly, gazing abstractedly into the shadows between the roof supports of the hut. ‘I find myself wondering if we will ever be able to better such men. I have seen thousands upon thousands of my best warriors die on your swords. The cream of a generation. We shall never see their like again. The great muster of the tribes will soon be no more than a memory of the few who still live and fight at my side. As for the rest . . .the lamentation of their wives and mothers fills the land and yet their deaths have bought no victory, only honour. If our fight is futile, then what is the value of an honourable death? No more than a gesture.’

He stopped chewing and spat out a small piece of gristle.

Cato cleared his throat softly, and spoke. ‘Then send a message to General Plautius. Tell him you wish to seek terms. Honourable terms. You don’t have to be our enemy. Embrace peace, and find a place for your people in our Empire.’

Caratacus shook his head sadly. ‘No. We’ve talked that over already, Roman. Peace at any price? That is a licence for enslavement.’

‘The choice before your people is peace, or death.’

Caratacus stared at him, still and silent as he pondered Cato’s words. Then he frowned and lowered his forehead on to the palm of one hand and ran his fingers slowly through his hair.

‘Leave me, Cato. Leave me be. I must . . . I must think.’

To his surprise Cato felt a great swell of sympathy rise up within him. Caratacus, so long the ruthless and tireless enemy, was in the end a man. A man tired of war, yet so versed in its lore, from the very first moment that he was old enough to bear a weapon, that he did not know how to make peace. Cato watched him for a moment, almost tempted to offer his enemy some word of encouragement, or even sympathy. Then Caratacus stirred, aware that the Roman was still in his presence. He blinked, then straightened up on his chair.

‘What are you waiting for, Roman? Get out.’

As he was escorted back to the foul-smelling pen where the prisoners were still being held Cato felt his spirits rise for the first time in many days. No, even longer than that, he reflected. After two long and bloody campaign seasons it seemed that the enemy was close to accepting defeat. The more he thought about the words and demeanour of his captor the more Cato was certain that the man wanted to have peace for his people. After a most desperate and determined attempt to defeat the legions, even he had recognised that Rome’s resolve to make the island a part of the Empire was unshakeable.

In truth, Cato knew he had been deceitful in his responses to Caratacus. The charge that the natives’ resistance to Rome was futile rang hollow in Cato’s mind. The legions had been forced to fight almost every mile of the distance they had advanced across this island. Always watching their flanks, glancing anxiously over their shoulders, tensely waiting for the enemy to charge in, kill quickly, and then disappear and look for the next chance to whittle down the invaders.

The legionaries who were still awake in the pen barely looked up when Cato was shoved through the gap in the fence and chained back to the others. Figulus at once shuffled closer to his centurion.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘Yes . . . fine.’

‘What did he want?’

It was the same question Figulus asked each time that the officer returned from his interrogation and Cato smiled at the routine they had settled into.

‘I think we might get out of this alive after all.’

Cato quietly related what Caratacus had said, and what he had observed.’But keep it to yourself. No point in building up the men’s hopes if I’m wrong.’

Figulus nodded. ‘But you think he’s going to do it? Surrender?’

‘Not surrender. He’s too proud for that. He’ll never surrender. But he might do something just short of that.’

‘That’ll do me, sir.’ Figulus smiled. ‘That’ll do nicely for us all.’

‘Yes.’ Cato leaned his head back against the fence and looked up at the stars. Scattered across the black depths of the night sky they shone like tiny beacons. The air was quite clear and there was almost none of the agitated shimmering and twinkling that the heavens were usually prone to. The stars looked still and serene, at peace. Cato smiled at the thought. The signs were good. If a Celtic king and the stars were in some kind of harmony of spirit, then anything might happen. Even peace.

Figulus leaned closer to whisper. ‘What happens then?’

‘Then?’ Cato thought for a moment. He really hadn’t any idea. Almost since the time he had joined the Second Legion it had been embroiled in action with an enemy. First that tribe on the Rhine, and then the great invasion of Britain. Always fighting. But once it was over, they would return to the ordered routine of training and patrols. But what that would feel like, he could not imagine. ‘I don’t know. But it’ll be different. It’ll be good. Now let me rest.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Figulus shuffled a short distance away and Cato settled back against the fence, face still raised towards the stars. For a while he simply stared, only conscious that a great burden had been lifted from his spirit. Slowly his eyes began to close and the stars drifted out of focus and before long he had fallen into a deep sleep.

Rough hands wrenched him from his slumber, hauling him to his feet in one savage movement. Cato blinked and shook his head, momentarily confused and alarmed. The warrior who had been tasked to escort him into the presence of Caratacus was busy freeing the peg that bound him to the rest of the prisoners. Close by, some more men had detached six others and shoved them out of the pen. Most of the legionaries were awake and muttered anxiously to one another.

‘What’s going on?’ Cato asked. ‘Where are they being taken?’

Without replying the warrior suddenly struck Cato across the face with the back of his hand. The shock and the stinging pain jolted Cato into full consciousness and he staggered back a pace.

‘What-’

‘Shut up,’ the man grunted. ‘Open your mouth and I’ll hit you again.’

He turned Cato towards the entrance to the pen and thrust him through the gap, sending the centurion sprawling on the ground outside. The wicker gate was closed and a guard rammed the locking peg back into its bracket.

‘Get up, Roman!’

Hands still bound, Cato rolled on to his knees and struggled to his feet. Immediately he was thrust forward, away from the pen, towards a group of horsemen mounting up a short distance away, a handful of shadowy figures in the pre-dawn twilight. As they got closer Cato recognised Caratacus sitting silently in his saddle. Their eyes met briefly and before Caratacus glanced away Cato saw the cold, bitter hatred in the man’s expression and felt a chilling tremor of fear trickle up his spine. Something had happened. Something dreadful, and now any hope he might have had that Caratacus was considering coming to terms with Rome had been swept away. There was pure murder in the eyes of the enemy commander now. Cato looked round, and saw the other six men who had been dragged from the pen being herded away into the shadows at spearpoint. He turned back to Caratacus.

‘Where are they being taken?’

There was no reply, no sign that he had even been heard.

‘Where are-’

‘Silence!’ his guard roared, slamming his fist into Cato’s stomach. The breath was driven from him and he bent double, gasping for air.

‘Get him on a horse,’ Caratacus said quietly. ‘Tie him over the saddle. I don’t want him escaping.’

As Cato wheezed painfully, strong arms raised him and tossed him across a woollen saddle, face down. A rope was bound tightly around his ankles and then secured to the bindings between his wrists and secured with a knot. Cato was looking down the side of the horse towards the dark ground beneath. He twisted his head and tried to catch Caratacus’ eye, but there was no sight of him from this angle and Cato let his head hang down, resting his cheek against the coarse, bitter-smelling, saddle-cloth. At once someone clicked their tongue and the horse lurched forward, at the tail end of the small party of horsemen.

They trotted out of the camp, across the narrow causeway and on to a trail whose details slowly became clearer as the light strengthened. Cato’s mind raced as he tried to work out the reason for this sudden shift in the mood of Caratacus. Where was he being taken, and what had happened to the other prisoners? But there were no ready answers, only a growing fear that he was being delivered to his death, and that soon the rest of the Roman prisoners would be following him to theirs. From the chilling hatred he sensed in the men around him, Cato was sure that death, when it came, would be a welcome escape from the torments these warriors had planned for their captives.