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.’