The man in the centre of the ring spoke with a clear, deep voice as his words were translated. ‘First I would like to offer my sincere gratitude to the governor for offering us this chance to make a lasting peace. . You all know me. I am King Cogidubnus. I wish to speak plainly, to speak the truth. I too was raised as a warrior, and have led my men into battle. I have no need to prove my worth to back up my words. I come here to support the arguments of Governor Ostorius Scapula. Rome has indeed proved a mighty friend and ally to me and my people. I can swear to the fact that we have profited from the coming of Rome and what is true for the Regni can be true for any tribe that accepts the hand of friendship extended by the governor.’
‘Traitor!’ a voice called out in Latin, and then repeated the cry in the native dialect.
Cogidubnus frowned as he, and everyone else, turned towards the source of the accusation. There was movement in the native ranks and then a large warrior thrust his way to the front. He wore a hooded cloak and drew it back to reveal his long fair hair. At once there was a chorus of excited muttering. Marcommius shook his head in surprise.
‘Caratacus. .’
CHAPTER TEN
The old enemy of Rome strode forward and stopped a sword’s length from Cogidubnus. He scrutinised the King of the Regni with contempt, his fists resting on his hips. Then he spoke, his voice carrying clearly to the fringes of the crowd as Marcommius translated for the Romans.
‘You have profited all right. All of us know about the fine palace the Romans are building for you. A luxury kennel for the Emperor’s favourite lapdog. That’s what you are. A mongrel, half Briton and half Roman, begging for fancy tidbits from the table of your master. You have sold your honour for fripperies, Cogidubnus, to your eternal shame.’
Cogidubnus opened his mouth to protest, but the other man took a menacing step towards him and he wilted, backing away towards his contingent. Caratacus glared at him for a moment, before making a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if swatting away an irritating insect before he addressed the crowd.
‘You all know me. You all know that I have fought against the Romans from the first. I have never given in to the enemy, our enemy. It is for our freedom that I have fought so long. While the eagle standards of the legions fly over our lands we can only be slaves. That is the way of it. The Roman governor says that we must change. We must forget who we are and become part of the Roman empire. Is it so easy to give up all that we are?’ He pressed his hand against his chest. ‘I am Caratacus, King of the Catuvellauni. Even though my kingdom no longer exists, I carry it here in my heart. My people, our history, all the honour that we have won in battle, all here in my heart, and I live for the day when the Romans are thrown back into the sea, as they were before when their great general, Julius Caesar, first attempted to steal our land. That day will come, I believe it as surely as I believe in our gods.’ He thrust his finger at Ostorius. ‘The Roman governor tells us we must give up the old ways, or die in battle. He offers us a simple choice between saving our honour or submitting to slavery, like dogs. I have chosen honour and freedom!’
He paused to let his words have their effect. Some in the crowd cheered him, but many looked on in silence as he continued.
‘The governor tells us that our struggle can only end in our defeat. It is true that we were defeated in the early battles, but our will to resist lives on. For long years we have defied Rome. We have forsaken the battlefield for a different kind of warfare. We have attacked their outposts, burned their supplies and picked off their patrols. Slowly but surely we are eating away at the mighty Roman legions, consuming them a piece at a time. All the while, we have been gathering our strength and taking ever more bold action against our common enemy. In token of which, I give you this.’
He turned and waved a signal to the Silurians. Some men came forward, two holding a third who had the hood of his cloak up. The man stumbled, as if he was drunk, and the others held him up and half dragged him across to the centre of the ring amid the silence of all watching. The three men stopped before Caratacus, who leaned forward and flipped the hood back to reveal a mop of dark curly hair above a thin, drawn face within which there were two darkened and scarred patches where the eyes had been. As he felt his hood being removed, the man shuddered and opened his mouth and let out a guttural animal moan of panic.
‘They’ve cut his tongue out,’ said Macro. ‘Whoever he is.’
Cato swallowed. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’
Caratacus gave the order for the man to be released and then he thrust him forward so that he staggered a few steps and fell on to his hands and knees with a muffled squawk of pain and then felt his way forward across the hard-packed soil, crawling away from the harsh laughter of Caratacus and his companions. The enemy leader turned to face Ostorius and his retinue and made a flourishing gesture.
‘I return him to you. We took him prisoner a few months ago, along with some others who have since been disposed of. This man was passed from village to village and sorely abused in the process. A pity, since I am certain he would have had a promising future. But it was necessary to prove that the men of the legions are flesh and blood like the rest of us, and just as easily broken. Even men like your Centurion Quertus who we will deal with in due course. For now, we have grown tired of using this tribune for our amusement and it is time for him to rejoin his comrades. Isn’t that right, Tribune Marcellus?’
He strode up behind the helpless captive and with his boot he shoved the man towards the governor so that he collapsed on to his face. A ripple of cruel laughter sounded from certain sections of the gathered tribes. Others looked on in shock, fearing the inevitable wrath of the Romans when they reacted to this outrage. Governor Ostorius pressed his lips together as he fought to control his anger. Then he turned back to his men and spoke in a quiet cold voice. ‘Pick him up. Get him out of here.’
Macro was the first to move, striding forward, jaw clenched, and Cato followed him. The centurion leaned down and gently took the tribune’s arm. The other man flinched and instinctively recoiled with a meaningless croak.
‘Let’s get you up on your feet, sir,’ Macro said evenly, even as he felt sick to his core at the ruined features of the face that turned blindly towards him. Cato took his other arm and between them they lifted Marcellus up and led him towards the other tribunes and the bodyguards, who looked aghast.
‘It’s all over now, sir,’ Macro continued. ‘You’re back with your own kind.’
Cato gestured to two of the bodyguards. ‘Over here. Take care of the tribune. Get him to the outpost at once and see that his wounds are treated and he is fed.’
The legionary nodded as he and his comrade took over from the two officers and led the tribune away round the periphery of the circle. Macro watched them for a moment before he muttered, ‘If that ever happens to me, then swear you’ll cut my throat.’
‘And answer to your mother?’
Macro turned to his friend with a dark expression. ‘You’ll be sparing her as much as me, Cato. Promise me.’
Cato nodded. ‘As you wish.’
‘Swear it!’
Cato was surprised by the intense glare in Macro’s eyes. ‘I swear it, on my life.’
Macro let out a deep breath. ‘And I’ll do the same for you.’
Cato cocked an eyebrow at Macro’s readiness to end his life. Then the image of the tribune’s ruined face filled his mind and he felt an icy squirm in the pit of his stomach as he imagined himself in the tribune’s place, returning home crippled and useless, and the looks of horror, disgust and pity that would distort Julia’s face when she saw him. Not that he would see it. But he would hear it in her voice. Perhaps there was a woman waiting for Marcellus in Rome, he reflected, doomed to endure for real what he was only imagining.
Caratacus had allowed his moment of theatre to play out, standing to one side. Now he occupied the centre of the circle again and continued to address the gathering.
‘The tribun
e was in command of nearly a thousand legionaries. All were killed or captured in just one raid. If such a powerful column can be overwhelmed then I find it hard to share the governor’s certainty that Rome will win this conflict. There is not one outpost on the frontier with the lands of the Silures and Ordovices that is safe from my army, not one supply convoy; nor are any of the roads safe for Romans and their allies to travel on. This is how it will be from now, until the day that we have worn away our enemy’s will to continue the fight. Even mighty Rome cannot endure steady losses of men and morale forever. And I say to you all that our will to defend our homeland and fight for our liberty is greater than their will to conquer! In the end victory will be ours. .’
He glared defiantly at Ostorius as those who followed him cheered. Looking round, Cato could see that, in addition to the mountain tribes, some of the Brigantes were joining in, as well as warriors from the other northern and western tribes of the island. The governor stepped forward to confront Caratacus and the cheering slowly died away. When Ostorius spoke, there was no trace of the reasonable tone he had used earlier. His voice was cold and ruthless.
‘Your torment of one of my officers will not go unpunished. From now on, I will execute ten of your followers for every man of mine that you kill or take prisoner. The same holds true for any other tribe foolish enough to join your ill-fated cause. I can see now that my offer of peace was a wasted effort. The time for talking is over. Instead I swear an oath now, on my life, and by all the gods that I worship, that I will not rest until you are defeated and taken, together with your family, to Rome, where the humiliation you visited upon Tribune Marcellus will be repaid tenfold upon you and those who share your blood. Furthermore, I swear that I shall not rest until the mountain tribes are crushed. The Ordovices and Silures will be utterly erased. Only memory of them will endure, as a reminder to every other tribe on this island of the cost of defying Rome.’
‘That’s told the bastard,’ Macro nodded approvingly.
Caratacus laughed. ‘Swear what you like, Roman. It changes nothing. We will continue to defy you, and kill your men, until your spirit breaks.’
Before Ostorius could respond, another figure entered the debate. Prasutagus stepped forward and waited for silence before he spoke. Marcommius listened to the opening phrase and translated for the Roman officers.
‘The Iceni King says that there has been enough bloodshed already. Too many have died on both sides. It is time to put an end to conflict. He says it is true that the Roman peace comes at a price, but that price, onerous as it is for the present, is better than the continued suffering of those caught up in the struggle against Rome. He knows from personal experience the quality of the men of the legions. He has fought at their side and knows they cannot be beaten, and they will never give in until they have achieved victory.’ As he interpreted, Marcommius shifted his words to the first person. ‘I beg you, Caratacus, to seize this chance to put down your sword and embrace peace, and follow the example of the Iceni.’
‘Follow your example?’ Caratacus snorted with derision. ‘You, who became King only after the last noble with the balls to resist Rome had been cut down? And how long did it take the brave Iceni to turn on the Romans in the first place? Years after they had sold their souls to the Emperor in exchange for his silver coin. Too late did your people learn the cost of their perfidy. Too late to help us when we first faced the legions. Too late to make a difference when it counted. And now you live under the heel of the Roman boot. Just like the spineless Trinovantes who now play unwilling host to a veterans’ colony and are squeezed for every last coin in tax to pay for the cost of a temple in honour of Emperor Claudius. So much for leaving us free to worship the gods we choose to!’ He lowered his voice marginally. ‘Prasutagus, your people suffer from the same burden. Your warriors have been forced to surrender their weapons. You stand defenceless before the will of Rome. What is to stop them treating you like slaves? You think the Iceni will endure the situation forever? One day they will have had enough and they will rise up. On that day they will see your treachery clearly. You say that you want to save lives and have peace. The truth is that you had to choose between dishonour and war. You chose dishonour. . and you will have war. As surely as night follows day.’ He turned to point his finger accusingly at all the rulers and their tribes who had made treaties with Rome. ‘When your warriors and tribesmen have had their fill of Roman peace they will sweep you away like chaff. You will perish in the flames, alongside your Roman friends. Think on it! If you come to your senses, then seek me out in the mountains.’
He stared defiantly at the assembled rulers and then approached Ostorius and his officers and spoke in Latin. His accent had much improved since he had summoned Cato to his hut many years before.
‘The war continues. You cannot defeat us. Save yourselves and quit this island. Only then can we have peace. The peace that exists between equals.’
Ostorius shook his head. ‘I have my orders. The Emperor has spoken and his word is law. Britannia will become a part of the empire.’
‘Then there is no more to be said.’ Caratacus looked at the officers standing behind Ostorius. ‘Take heed, you will end up like your governor. Old and exhausted in pursuit of the impossible. Britannia will be your grave.’ He paused as his gaze fell on Cato and frowned. ‘I know you. .’
‘We met once before, sir. When I was your prisoner. Back when we fought in the marshes to the west.’
The enemy commander thought a moment and then his eyes widened as he recalled. ‘Yes! You seemed much younger then. Now you are scarred and marked by the years of war you have endured.’
‘As are you.’
Caratacus smiled briefly. ‘You can’t imagine. As I recall, when you were my prisoner we talked at length.’
‘We did, sir. I hoped to persuade you to give up the struggle.’
‘And here we are, years later. You are older but no wiser, it seems.’
It was Cato’s turn to smile. ‘I was thinking the same thing about you, sir.’
Caratacus’s expression was fixed for a moment before he smiled sadly. He clasped Cato’s forearm. ‘Well said. It is a pity that we should be enemies.’
‘Then let us not be enemies, sir.’
‘It is too late for that. Rome should have treated us as partners, rather than try to be our masters. If we ever meet in battle, I shall kill you without pity or regret.’
Cato pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps. Or maybe the next time we meet, you will be my prisoner.’
Caratacus’s expression darkened. He released Cato’s arm and strode back across the ring towards the gateway, summoning his followers. Macro watched him leave and then muttered to his friend, ‘It seems that the time for talking is over. Now we’ve got a fight to the finish on our hands.’
Cato said heavily, ‘There was never going to be any real negotiation. It was already too late. Caratacus wants a war, and Ostorius is all too willing to give him one. This was all a waste of time. Now it’s about to become a waste of good men.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As soon as the governor and his party returned to the outpost he dismissed his bodyguards and retired into the optio’s cramped quarters to confer with his officers. The meeting with the tribes had been far shorter than Ostorius had anticipated and there was no prospect of it being resumed the following day. After Caratacus and the Romans had withdrawn, several other contingents had followed suit, some setting off immediately for their homelands even though night had fallen. It was clear that any attempt to agree terms for peace across the island had failed.
‘If Caratacus wants to continue the war then he shall have it,’ Ostorius announced to his officers as they crowded round the small table which, together with a stool and bed, constituted the only furniture. ‘I shall not be returning to Londinium but making for the army headquarters at Cornoviorum at first light. Decianus, you will ride back to Londinium and inform the staff of my decision. They are to pack up and join me as
soon as possible. Send word to the commanders of the Ninth and Second Legions that I shall be commencing the campaign as early as possible, and they will be responsible for ensuring the security of the province behind the frontier zone. Prefect Cato, you and Macro will ride to Glevum and report to Legate Quintatus.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Gentlemen, my plans are made, it only remains to put them into effect as swiftly and fully as possible. There will be no mercy shown to those who side with Caratacus. My orders are that there is no requirement to take prisoners. Such women and children as are spared will be marched to the rear and sold to the slave contractors at the depots. All hostile settlements we encounter are to be torched and razed. I meant what I said earlier. Those who take up arms against Rome are to be crushed. Is that quite clear?’
His officers nodded.
‘Then you had best retire for the night and get what sleep you can. That’s going to be something of a luxury in the days ahead. Dismissed.’
The officers saluted and filed out of the room into the darkness. Macro saw that the small garrison was under arms and spread out along the palisade. The optio must have spoken to some of the governor’s bodyguards and heard what had taken place in the sacred ring. He was taking no chances and had ordered his men to keep watch through the night. The legionaries of the bodyguard had settled round the garrison’s cooking fire and were warming themselves as they muttered in low, anxious tones about what they had witnessed. To one side Decimus was carefully bathing the wounds of Marcellus. The tribune had stripped to his loincloth and was carefully spooning gruel into his mouth and making a gurgling noise as he struggled to swallow. As he ate, the servant washed the grime from his pitifully emaciated body, revealing the bruises and cuts that told of the brutal treatment the tribune had been subjected to.
‘What will become of that poor sod?’ Macro wondered.
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