‘Instead of the fucked-up chaos and carnage that it was, eh?’ Macro gave a dry laugh. ‘Maybe. But right now, I don’t give a shit about historians. I want a drink, something to eat, get this wound sorted out and then some sleep. A drink mostly.’
‘That’ll have to wait.’ Cato’s tone became serious. ‘There’s work to be done first.’
‘I know.’ Macro was quiet for a moment and then jerked his thumb towards the bedraggled prisoners. Caratacus was leading the folorn-looking party, unbowed, head held high as he strode with a measured pace. ‘What do you want done with our merry little band?’
Cato forced his weary mind to concentrate. ‘They’ll need stockades. A separate one for Caratacus, well away from the others. I want to keep him isolated from his kin in case he tries anything on.’
Macro nodded.
‘And I want them all in chains.’
‘They’ll be bound to kick up a fuss.’ Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Prisoners they may be, but the quality are the same the world over. They think they can demand better treatment.’
‘Then we’ll have to disabuse them,’ Cato replied firmly. ‘They’ll be treated well enough, but the days of being king are over for Caratacus.’
‘What do you think the Emperor will decide to do with him? Be a damn shame if they did for him the same way they did for Vercingetorix.’
‘It would be a shame,’ Cato agreed, recalling the grim fate of the leader of the Gauls who had been defeated by Julius Caesar. Left to rot in a dark cell for several years, he had finally been dragged out and strangled when Caesar eventually came to celebrate his triumph over the Gauls. It had been a poor end for so noble and gifted an enemy and Cato shrank from the idea that Caratacus would meet such a death. Even though Caratacus had prolonged a struggle that had cost so many lives, he had done so out of a desire to resist the Roman invaders, if only to secure the primacy of his own tribe. Few men, Celt or Roman, could have done as much with the forces available. If it was up to Cato, he would spare the life of his enemy, and find a comfortable place of exile for Caratacus and his family. But the decision was not his. Emperor Claudius would pronounce the fate of this long-standing enemy of Rome, and the Emperor would be swayed by what he thought would please the mob most. Cato pushed thought of his prisoners’ fate from his mind.
‘Nothing we can do about it though. What we have to worry about is making sure they don’t escape, and they don’t do themselves in.’
‘Do you think they would?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want to take the risk. They’re to be watched at all times, understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll make sure of it.’
By the time the small column returned to the camp the storm had enveloped the mountainous landscape in earnest. Rain roared down from dark clouds in a constant torrent, turning the ground inside the ramparts into a muddy morass and forming growing puddles, shimmering with silvered spray. The wind had whipped up into a gale and moaned over the palisade like a frenzied giant beast, battering the tent lines and straining the guy ropes that held them up. Several of the tents had already collapsed and lay in sodden heaps.
Cato dismissed most of the men. The Blood Crows led their drenched horses away to feed them and check for wounds. The legionaries fell out and hurried off to secure their tents. Cato held Macro and his men back to construct the two stockades.
‘I’ll be back once I’ve written my report,’ Cato said and turned towards his tent, leaving Macro to get on with it.
The larger stockade, for Caratacus’s brothers and the rest of his family, was erected between the tents of the Blood Crows and those of the legionaries. The second, much smaller, was for Caratacus alone and that was placed a short distance from Cato’s command tent. Night was falling as they were completed and the prisoners taken inside. There, despite their protests, they were placed in chains fastened to a stout post driven deep into the ground in the centre of each stockade. Macro ensured that the chains were secure.
When all was done he sent word to Cato and the prefect emerged from his tent to conduct a brief inspection of the work and pronounce himself satisfied. As he turned to leave the larger stockade, his gaze fell on the children huddled in the embrace of their mother. Even they had been placed in chains and now they squatted down, eyes wide in terror and limbs trembling with fear and cold. It was a pathetic sight and despite his earlier resolve not to give his special prisoners any preferential treatment he was moved by their plight.
‘Have a simple shelter erected for them, Macro. Nothing elaborate. just enough to keep them out of the rain.’
Macro looked at him in surprise but knew better than to question his friend. ‘Yes, sir. There’s some spare tent leather in the wagons. It’s not much but it’ll do.’
‘Good.’ Cato tore his eyes away from the children and left the stockade through the narrow gate at the side. He turned to the two legionaries taking the first watch. ‘You watch ’em closely. No harm is to come to them for any reason. Even if they try to escape. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato led the way back towards his tent and the other stockade. He paused at the roughtly hewn timbers of the gate. Two heavyset legionaries stood guard. Cato nodded at them as he and Macro approached. ‘What about them? Good men?’
‘The best. Picked ’em myself. As tough and reliable as they come. They’ll be relieved at midnight by two more of my veterans. More than a match for Caratacus if he tries anything on.’
Cato nodded with satisfaction and then turned the conversation to a necessary but unpleasant topic ‘Macro, I want the strength returns for both units as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the centurion replied. ‘And the butcher’s bill. I’ll see to it. And anything else that needs doing. You should get some rest, sir. You look done in.’
‘I’m fine.’ Cato smiled wearily. ‘Besides, in this storm, I doubt sleep will come easily.’
They exchanged a salute before Macro turned and strode off to his tent to begin work on the sober task of discovering the fate of the men who had gone into battle that day. Cato had done a rough count after the fighting and noted that two-thirds of his men had survived. There would be more rejoining his small command during the night — those who were having their wounds dressed. Some would be more seriously injured, carried off the battlefield to the tents of the legions’ surgeons. Many would recover and return to their units, proudly displaying their fresh scars. For others their soldiering days would be over. They would eventually be discharged, with only their savings, share of booty and a small bonus from the imperial coffers to support them. There were few jobs that men crippled by war could find and unless they had family to return to, a dismal life awaited them. They would be only marginally more fortunate than those who perished from their wounds, Cato reflected.
There had been times when he had been tortured by visions of himself sharing such a plight. A broken man, eking out a precarious existence on the streets of Rome or some provincial town. With marriage to Julia the stakes had been raised even higher. Would she accept a husband mutilated by war? Even if she did not abandon him, Cato feared a worse fate — living with her pity as a constant companion. A pity shared by their child one day. That he could not endure. He would rather take his own life. But the chances of such a dismal fate had diminished considerably, he reminded himself. Today’s victory would surely put an end to the gravest danger facing the new province. Without Caratacus to unite the tribes, resistance to Rome would crumble.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded to one of the legionaries standing guard by the door to the stockade. ‘Open it.’
The man did as he was ordered and stepped to one side to let his superior pass. Cato ducked inside. The stockade was no more than eight feet on each side, with the sharpened posts rising up above the height of a man. Cato nodded his approval. There was little chance of escape, especially as the prisoner was securely chained about the wrists and ankles. Caratacus was sitting in the middle of his prison, leaning against the post to which his chains were fastened. He raised his head as he became aware of his visitor and stared defiantly at Cato through the rain.