Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato nodded. ‘That’s the tradition.’

  ‘I hope it’s over quickly. Not for my sake. But for my wife and children . . . I wish that we had been allowed to remain together in this place. But even that was denied to me. Still, we will have a chance to say our farewells.’

  ‘There is that, my lord.’

  ‘My lord?’ Caratacus raised an eyebrow beneath his shaggy fringe. ‘It’s a long time since anyone treated me with such deference. Thank you . . . Do you know if they will execute me first, or last?’

  ‘They will save you to the end.’

  Caratacus sighed. ‘A pity. I had hoped to be spared the spectacle of watching my family put to death. But I imagine that your Emperor intends to make the most of my pain and humiliation. In that, he is no better than those black-hearted bastards, the druids of the Dark Moon sect.’

  Cato was surprised. ‘I thought they were your allies?’

  ‘Allies? No. More a case of my enemy’s enemy. If you had not invaded when you did, I would have had to deal with them in my own time. They were not having a healthy influence on some of the tribes. Bloodthirsty fanatics is what they are. It’s small consolation to know that Rome will send them to the grave after me.’

  ‘I hope so, my lord,’ Cato replied with feeling. He had encountered the sect himself and well knew of the horrors they had inflicted on their Roman enemies, and any others who chose to defy their will. It was good to know that Caratacus shared his feelings towards the druids. And there it was again, the pity. He leaned closer to the British king and lowered his voice. ‘There is an alternative to being executed, my lord. You might spare your family and yourself from execution.’

  ‘Really?’ And how would that happen?’ Caratacus raised his hands and the iron chain rattled harshly. ‘I think escape is out of the question. Even if we could get out of our chains and get out of these cells, I think we might find it something of a challenge to pass unnoticed through the streets of Rome.’

  ‘I was not thinking of escape.’

  ‘Oh? Then what were you thinking, Prefect?’

  ‘When the procession is over, and before the execution is carried out, you and your family will be presented to the Emperor who will pronounce your fate. That will be your chance to throw yourself on his mercy, my lord.’

  ‘I will not beg my enemy for my life,’ Caratacus sniffed. ‘Never. I would not dishonour myself before your Emperor and your people. I’d rather die.’

  ‘Then you will die. And so will your brothers, your wife and your children.’

  Caratacus glowered. ‘So be it.’

  ‘But it need not be that way. You could all live.’

  ‘If I beg for our lives.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what if Claudius orders that we be executed in any case? Then we die like cowards. Would you deny me and my kin an honourable death?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘There is no honour in the death you will be given. Just death. For you. For your family. But there might still be the chance of life, if you request it.’

  ‘Beg for it, you mean.’

  Cato bit back on his frustration. ‘It is only words, my lord. A form of words. It is not beyond the wit of a man like yourself to find a way to speak to my Emperor that plays on his vanity and sense of mercy. Make him respect you. Make him realise that you do more honour to him alive than dead. It is possible. I would rather see you live out your life in peace than end it put to death like a dog for the pleasure of the mob.’

  The intensity of Cato’s words struck home and Caratacus stared at the Roman officer fiercely. Then he breathed deeply and his shoulders sagged. ‘I am weary of life, Prefect. Death is merely a release from this dark hole I have been thrown down. I welcome death.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you leave me now. I wish to prepare myself for the end. I will be composed and set the example for my family. Please go.’

  Cato considered making one last appeal to his enemy, but then relented. Caratacus was right. It was his choice to decide on the manner of his death. So Cato stood up and bowed his head in farewell and turned to rap on the cell door. ‘I’m done here.’

  As the bolt on the outside scraped back, Caratacus cleared his throat. ‘Prefect Cato.’

  Cato glanced back.

  ‘I thank you for coming to see me,’ said Caratacus. ‘I will consider what you have said. You are a good man, and a worthy enemy, and I regret that we could not have been friends. But fate decided otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Fate is a hard master indeed . . .’ Cato had a passing memory of Julia, and he thrust it from his thoughts. ‘Goodbye.’

  The door opened and the glare of the flaming torch in the Praetorian’s hand cast a ruddy hue on Cato and the British king. Caratacus lifted his chin proudly. ‘Goodbye. I hope to see you one day in the afterlife, Prefect Cato. I shall feast you, and your friend Centurion Macro, in the halls of the heroes of my people.’

  Cato forced himself to smile. ‘Until then, my lord. Until then . . .’

  He bent his head to the low doorway and stepped out into the dank corridor. The door closed behind him, the bolt slammed back into place, and Cato gratefully followed the Praetorian out of the dank depths of the prison and back into the warmth of the early-morning sun that promised a fine day for the coming celebrations. But his thoughts were still with the prisoner, and his family, languishing in the clammy, stinking cells beneath the imperial palace.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ Macro leaned closer to Cato to make sure that he could be heard above the din of the cheering crowd. ‘At least they can still put on a good show in Rome, even if things are going tits up back in Britannia.’

  Cato grunted and nodded in acknowledgement. It was strange to think that they had been sent back from Britannia to answer for the crushing defeat of Legate Quintatus and his column, and instead he and Macro were being fêted as the heroes responsible for the capture of King Caratacus and his family. The fates will play their games, Cato reflected. In all kinds of ways, as the revelations about Julia had painfully demonstrated. He pushed the thought from his mind and concentrated instead on the spectacle surrounding him.

  The clear sky of dawn had remained unblemished by any clouds and was a deep cerulean within which the sun blazed bright and hot. On both sides of the thoroughfare the crowds pressed in, waving and shouting acclaim as two lines of Praetorians faced out to keep the processional route open. Far ahead, Cato could just make out the priests leading the imperial party. They wore bright, unblemished togas and led a string of white sacrificial goats that would be offered to Jupiter in thanks for Rome’s good fortune. Behind the priests came the magistrates and senators, with the two consuls and their escorts at the rear. Then the standards of the Praetorian guards at the head of the First Cohort in full armour, red horsehair crests rising above their polished helmets and white tunics. They were followed in turn by fifty of the German bodyguards, impressing the mob with their thick beards and barbarian appearance. And then came the first of the chariots bearing members of the imperial family. Britannicus rode in the first, one hand on the rail and one occasionally rising to respond to the greeting of the crowd. He was followed by Nero, smiling broadly and waving all the time and winning an even bigger cheer than his younger step-brother. His mother, Agrippina, came next, hair intricately arranged into a fan shape. Then ten more of the German bodyguards, selected for their enormous physique, before the dazzling white horses drawing the gilded chariot of the Emperor himself.

  Claudius did his best not to stoop as he held onto the rail and attempted to look as dignified as possible. The gold wreath encircling his white-haired head lay at a slight angle and every so often the body slave standing behind him would discreetly attempt to straighten it. Behind the imperial chariot paced the i
mperial retinue; senatorial advisers and freedmen, including Pallas and Narcissus, in modest tunics as befitted their social rank, even if they wielded almost as much influence as any other person in the procession. And then came Cato and Macro, at the head of a small column of other soldiers due to be honoured by the Emperor. Despite the heat of the day, they wore full armour, but were allowed to carry their helmets under their arms so that they could be clearly seen by the people on either side. Many people were already drunk and some of the women made lewd offers to the soldiers as they passed by. Macro had prepared plenty of small slivers of wood with the name of the nearest bar to Cato’s house written on them. Every so often he handed one out to the more promising candidates offering him sexual favours.

  He caught Cato giving him a disapproving look and shrugged. ‘No point in not milking this for all it’s worth. After all, I’ve served Rome well enough over the years. Now she can serve me.’

  Behind the small group of soldiers came the line of carts laden with bread and sweet cakes, from which slaves hurled the snacks into the crowds. The rearmost carts carried arrangements of weapons and armour captured in Britannia, and the very last of all carried Caratacus and his family, cleaned up and in fresh tunics, as they stood in haughty silence, affecting contempt for the mob who jeered as they passed by.

  ‘Centurion! Centurion Macro!’

  They turned to see a tall thin woman with dark hair lifting the hem of her tunic to reveal the top of her thighs and the triangle of pubic hair between them.

  ‘I’m yours, Centurion! My name’s Persilla, best lay in the Suburra. Special price for you!’

  Macro reached for his haversack and Cato shook his head. ‘I thought you were spoiled for choice? So why pay for it?’

  ‘No harm in seeing if she’s willing to haggle. She might even have a friend for you.’ Macro caught the warning look his friend shot him. ‘Or . . . I can manage a double helping.’

  Macro stepped aside to hand the slip of wood to the woman and rejoined the procession with a cheerful grin at the prospect of more fleshy pleasures. ‘I think I could get used to this hero lark.’

  They proceeded slowly through the heart of the Forum, past the steps leading up to the senate house and then began the steep climb up the Capitoline Hill towards the precinct of the Temple of Jupiter that vied with the imperial palace to dominate the centre of the city. The road zig-zagged up the slope and only the carts carrying the displays of enemy weaponry and the prisoners continued with the procession. The food carts turned aside and those on board threw the last of their contents to the mob. Meanwhile, a fresh team of slaves, who had been waiting in a side street, rushed forward to help the remaining wagons up the hill. They put their hands to the spokes of the wagons and strained to keep the vehicles moving up the steep incline. The head of the procession passed through the entrance to the precinct and out of sight of the crowd in the Forum. They moved into position on either side of the entrance to welcome the imperial family following them and lustily cheered the final chariot as it clattered to a halt. Claudius descended and limped across to the platform that looked out over the heart of Rome. As the mob caught sight of him again a fresh bout of cheering echoed back off the tall buildings rising up either side of the Forum. He took his seat on a throne and his family and closest advisers took position on either side, and behind him, followed by the senators.

  When those who were to be honoured entered the precinct a palace freedman with an anxious expression hurried over to address them.

  ‘Sirs! It is a great pleasure to meet you all.’ He bowed deeply before snapping erect. ‘I’m Polidorus, master of ceremonies at the palace. Just a few words on protocol before the final part of the triumph begins. The running order is that the priests will perform the sacrifice, consult to read the omens and present their findings to the Emperor. Then you’re up. You’ll be waiting over there, by the temple pediment. Once your name is called, there will be a brief citation, during which you come forward and kneel before the Emperor to await your reward. As soon as you have it, I’d be grateful if you left the platform as soon as possible. I’m afraid we’re already running late and there’s a banquet to follow and we don’t want the food to be past its best by the time the guests start tucking into it.’ Polidorus laughed nervously. ‘No sense in poisoning adding to the existing body count of the festivities. Once you’ve all been in front of the Emperor we’ll move on to the presentation of the prisoners. There’ll be a few words spoken before they’re handed over to the executioner.’

  He half turned and nodded to a figure at the far end of the precinct. Cato looked up and saw a man in a black tunic examining a large wooden device. A stout post rose up from a supporting framework. A hole had been cut through the post and a loop of rope hung from one side, while the ends had been tied round a shaft of wood on the other side. As they watched, two of his assistants manhandled a skeletal wretch in a loincloth up to the frame. While the prisoner struggled feebly, his hands were tied behind the post and the loop of rope passed over his head to rest on his collarbone. At once the executioner began to rotate the shaft of wood, winding the rope round and tightening the loop about his victim’s neck. The man began to struggle in earnest now that the rope was biting into his flesh and his shoulders and legs bucked wildly. But with his neck tight against the post there was nothing he could do to save himself as the executioner wound the shaft tighter and tighter, muscles bulging with the effort. The prisoner suddenly arched his chest, trembled violently, and then slumped in death.

  ‘What was that about?’ Cato demanded. ‘I thought the prisoners were all to be executed publicly.’

  ‘Just those who are a featured part of the triumph,’ Polidorus explained. ‘That was just to test the device.’

  ‘Test?’

  ‘Surely. We can’t afford to have the real executions botched if there’s a fault with the garrotte, can we? So we use a condemned prisoner for a dry run, to make sure there aren’t any cock-ups to spoil the show.’

  Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Well, we can’t be having that, can we?’

  His dry tone was lost on the master of ceremonies who shook his head. ‘Absolutely not . . . Ah! Here come the priests.’

  The soldiers turned to watch as a procession of white-garbed figures emerged from the Temple of Jupiter and approached the Emperor. Some had blood spattered on their togas and smeared over their hands from where they had cut the throats of the goats. The head of their order led them onto the platform and bowed before Claudius before quietly announcing the result of his examination of the entrails of the goat selected for the purpose of divining the will of the Gods. The Emperor listened attentively before nodding his assent, then the priest backed away a few paces before turning near the edge of the platform and slowly raising his arms as he commanded the attention of the multitude gathered below. A quiet fell over the mob as upturned faces gazed back expectantly. The priest milked the moment for as long as he could to add gravitas to the proceedings and then drew a deep breath.

  ‘Rome has beseeched Almighty Jupiter, Best and Greatest, for his blessing on the sacred ceremonies we share this day. In accordance with the rituals laid down by the college of priests of the Temple of Jupiter, we have slain a beast on the temple altar and opened its entrails for examination.’ He paused in order to build on his audience’s anticipation. ‘By the will of Almighty Jupiter, the omens are good!’

  At once the mob erupted in wild cheers of celebration, and the Emperor offered them a graceful wave of his hand. Cato watched the reaction of the crowd with disdain before he muttered to his friend, ‘Have you ever known an occasion when the omens weren’t favourable?’

  Macro sniffed. ‘Rome is the darling of the Gods, clearly. That, or the Gods are happy to bend the rules just so that they get to enjoy the sight of a few more barbarians being throttled.’

  Claudius allowed the cheering to continue for a
while before he gave the nod to Polidorus. The latter hurried over to the waiting soldiers.

  ‘Right, we’re up. Keep in order and be ready to move smartly when your name is called. Once you’ve had your turn, move to the rear of the platform and remain there until the last of the prisoners is executed and the Emperor and his retinue have left the platform. After that, please make your way to the palace as expeditiously as possible to take your places for the feast. One of my men will show you to the right table. Any questions? Good. Let’s begin.’ He consulted his wax tablet. ‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro.’

  Cato set his shoulders back and stiffened his neck before giving the nod to Macro and they marched out across the platform and halted directly before the dais on which the Emperor sat. Polidorus advanced to the edge of the platform and held up a hand to silence the crowd. At the same time a shrill blast of trumpets pierced the air above the capital. The mob gradually became quiet and still. A handful of children, overcome by the excitement, continued to wave strips of coloured cloth to and fro from their vantage point sitting on the shoulders of their fathers.

  Polidorus lowered his hand and cleared his throat before taking a deep breath. ‘His imperial majesty, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, supreme commander of the legions of Rome and conqueror of Britannia, bids you to join him in honouring those heroes who have served the Senate and People of Rome with unswerving courage and devotion to duty . . . He presents to you Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato and Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, recently returned from campaigning in Britannia, where our forces have been hunting down and destroying the last desperate bands of druids and their followers who are resisting the Roman peace . . .’