On the other hand, if Macro gave the orders to have them disposed of here in the marsh, questions would be asked. And it wouldn't take a genius to guess at the reasons behind his desire to have them silenced quickly.
Besides, Macro was not sure that he cared to have Cato and Figulus killed if they fell into his hands. It was a wretched situation in every way and he had yet to carry out the subtle orders Maximius had issued him with before he set out.
As the patrol continued along the path behind the overweight guide Macro fell into step beside Cordus.
'Hot work.'
The optio raised his eyebrows. 'Er, yes, sir.'
'Could do with a swim when we get back,' Macro said thoughtfully, as his subordinate tried to work out if this was a statement or an invitation.
'A swim, sir. Right… that's just what we all need.'
Macro nodded.'Especially after a day beating a path through this shitty marsh. If we ever find those bastards, I'll make 'em regret the day they ever decided to go on the run.'
'Yes, sir.' Cordus spat on the ground to clear his throat. 'Them, and that bastard who helped 'em escape in the first place.'
Macro glanced at him quickly. 'Whoever he is.'
'Yes, sir. He's got a lot to answer for all right.' Cordus swatted away a large wasp that had been hovering in front of his eyes.
'Yes, he has.' Macro paused for a moment. 'I suppose you can see why the general had to do it. Order the decimation, I mean.'
'Can you, sir?' Cordus frowned, seemed to think about it a moment, and then shrugged. 'Maybe. But ain't decimation taking it a bit too far?'
'You think so?'
Cordus pursed his lips and nodded. 'Course it is, sir. We fought 'em tooth and nail at the river. There was just too many of them, and we got pushed back. That's the way it goes. Some fights you just can't win. You don't bloody go and throw away forty-odd men to punish a cohort for not achieving the impossible. That's just mental, that is.'
'I suppose. But that doesn't excuse our man from going and setting them free, does it?'
'No. But it makes it understandable.' Cordus looked straight at him. 'Wouldn't you agree, sir?'
'I suppose so. Would you have done it?'
Cordus looked away.'I don't know. I might have done…if someone hadn't beaten me to it. How about you, sir?'
Macro paused a while before he replied. 'It ain't an option for a centurion. It's our job to enforce the discipline, no matter how unfairly it's applied.'
'And if you weren't a centurion, sir?'
'I don't know.' Macro looked away with a pained, guilty expression. 'I don't want to talk about it.'
Cordus glanced at him quickly and then dropped back a pace in deference to Macro's rank. As the patrol wearily continued its march Macro considered Cordus' attitude to the fugitives. If the hardened optio had sympathy for the condemned men, then how many more men in the cohort felt the same way? And Cordus had gone beyond mere sympathy. The optio had hinted at a willingness to have helped the men escape. If that was the common feeling among the men, then the pool of suspects was sufficiently broad to offer Macro some hope of concealment. He felt a momentary lessening of the burden of his complicity in the escape. At least until the fugitives were tracked down.
'That's it?' Macro nodded down the track towards the silent round huts. A faint heat haze wavered across the track and made it look as if the nearest of the huts was floating on a sheet of water.
'Sa!' The guide nodded.
The two men were lying down and peering cautiously through some tufts of grass that grew either side of the track. Ahead of them the track opened out on to a wide area that rose up from the surrounding marsh. The space was covered with barley crops, interspersed with a few penned areas where sheep stretched out in whatever shade they could find, fat flanks rising and sinking as the beasts rested. It was a good place to have settled, Macro realised. Hidden away from the rest of the world, and from the eyes of any raiding parties from hostile tribes. If it became necessary, the narrow track leading into the farmland could be barricaded to discourage any raiders. But there had been no one left to watch the track, and there was no sign of life from the huts.
Macro ran a hand over the sweaty dark curls plastered to his head. He had taken off his crested helmet and left it with Cordus before creeping ahead with the guide. It had been a huge relief to free his head from the tight, confining discomfort of the helmet and the felt liner that was prone to itch when drenched in perspiration.
He jabbed a finger back down the track, away from the farm. 'Come on!'
Cordus and the others were tense and impatient and looked up expectantly when Macro and the guide returned. Cordus held out the centurion's helmet and Macro pulled on the liner, then the helmet, as he reported what he had seen.
'Nothing's moving. No sign of anyone at all.'
'Think it's a trap, sir?'
'No. If it was a trap, they'd want to lure us in; make it look peaceful and harmless before they sprung their surprise. It just looks deserted.'
'Or abandoned?'
Macro shook his head. 'There are crops, and I saw some animals. We'll enter the farm in close order and stay formed up until it looks safe.'
As the patrol marched between the nearest round huts the legionaries kept their heavy shields up and darted anxious glances at the entrances and towards any place that might conceal an enemy. But the silence persisted and added to the oppressive atmosphere of heat and stillness that smothered the landscape.
Macro raised his hand. 'Halt!'
The patrol shuffled their boots for a moment and then all was quiet. Macro indicated the largest huts.'Search them! Two men each!'
As the legionaries peeled away and began to approach the structures cautiously Macro slumped down on a heavily scored tree stump that served the farmers as a base for log-splitting. He reached for his canteen and was about to pull out the stopper when there was a shout from the nearest hut.
'Over here! Over here!'
A legionary backed out of the dark entrance to the hut, his arm raised to cover his nose and mouth. Macro let go of his canteen, sprang up, and ran over to the man. As he reached the hut a foul stench of decay assaulted his nostrils and he slowed down involuntarily. The legionary turned round as he sensed the centurion's approach.
'Report!'
'Bodies, sir. The hut's full of them.'
Macro eased the legionary to one side, swallowed and then, grimacing at the smell, he ducked his head inside the hut, keeping to one side to let the light penetrate the shadows within. The place was alive with the buzzing of flies and Macro saw perhaps ten bodies heaped like discarded dolls in the centre of the hut. Propping his shield up against the door frame, Macro squeezed inside, stepped over to the corpses and kneeled down, fighting back the urge to vomit. There were three men, one old and wrinkled, and the rest were children, twisted grotesquely and staring sightlessly from unblemished faces beneath the usual tousled hair of Celtic youngsters.
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 th
e 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.
05 The Eagles Prey
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.
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