‘I’ve given orders for shelters to be erected for you and the others,’ Cato told him.
His words were not met with any response. No hint of gratitude. Just the steady glare of an enemy.
‘You will be fed soon. Aside from that, is there anything you need?’ Cato gestured to his drenched and mud-stained tunic. ‘Fresh clothes, for example? I have some spare tunics, cloaks.’
Caratacus hesitated and then shook his head. ‘No. Not unless you have enough for all my men you hold prisoner.’
Cato smiled thinly. ‘Sadly not.’
‘What will become of them? Are they to be slaves? Or executed?’
‘They are far too valuable to be executed. They will be sold into slavery.’
Caratacus sighed. ‘Better that they were executed. Slavery is not life, Roman. And certainly no life for a Celt warrior.’
Cato shrugged, uncertain how to respond. He had come close to death enough times to value life with the same ferocity with which a drowning man will clutch at anything that floats upon a stormy sea. Yet slavery was a kind of living death for many. Some were treated well by their masters, but many were simply regarded as living tools, mere possessions. He could well imagine how that would shame the proud warriors who had followed Caratacus.
‘I can’t answer for slavery. All I know is that your followers will live. Unlike the tens of thousands that have died during the course of the war that you have waged against Rome.’
Caratacus stirred and his eyes blazed angrily. ‘The war that I have waged? I was defending my home. It was you who invaded my lands. The bloodshed is on your hands, Roman.’
‘Your lands?’ Cato responded sharply. ‘The same lands that you took when you conquered the Trinovantes and waged war against the Atrebates and the Cantii? Spoils of war, King Caratacus. Just as these lands are now our spoils of war. The difference is that Rome will bring peace and prosperity to the province.’
‘Peace?’ Caratacus spat the word. ‘You create a wasteland out of our villages and towns, and sow the ruins with the corpses of our people, and you call it peace? Is your empire not yet vast enough for you that you have to gorge yourselves on the blood and land of our island? Could you not have traded with us for our silver? Our furs? Our dogs? Could you not have entreated us to be your allies? Why must Rome treat the world like a master treats his dogs? Why must we all be your slaves? Or perish if we refuse that humiliation?’
Cato mentally flinched from the accusations thrown at him. He knew the real reason behind the invasion well enough: Claudius had needed a military triumph for political reasons, and the conquest of Britannia had promised to be a ready solution. Cato sucked in a breath.
‘I do not make policy. I am a soldier. I carry out orders. I suggest that you put your questions to the Emperor when you get the opportunity. Now, if you change your mind about dry clothes, let the guards know.’
Cato turned away and ducked out of the door. He was about to order the guard to close it when he saw two figures approaching him through the haze of rain. One was in the armour of a Roman officer. The other was a woman, attempting to pick her way across the muddy ground to spare her robe from the filth as much as possible.
‘Prefect Cato!’
He recognised the voice of Otho and cursed under his breath. There were matters he needed to attend to, just as there should be for the tribune. Yet Otho seemed to have the time to take his wife for a stroll around the camp. He cleared his throat and called back, ‘Tribune. What can I do for you?’
The younger officer and his wife hurried over and Cato saw at once the excited expression on the man’s face. His wife, Poppaea, was somewhat less cheerful as she peered out of the hood covering her head. The rain had startd to soak through the cloth and wet tendrils of hair clung to her forehead. Otho reached out and grasped Cato’s hand.
‘First, let me congratulate the hero of the day. The man who won the battle and captured Caratacus.’
‘Hmmm,’ Cato grumbled in his throat, acutely irritated by the excessive praise. Excessive and dangerous. The last thing he wanted was to be seen to compete with General Ostorius for taking credit for the victory. Ostorius had powerful connections in Rome, while Cato had his father-in-law, a backwoods senator, and Narcissus, an imperial adviser who was struggling to retain his influence over the Emperor. It would be inadvisable to make unnecessary enemies.
Otho ignored his discomfort and continued, ‘You deserve a triumph of your own, my dear Prefect! What an outstanding piece of work. Pompey the Great couldn’t have done better himself. What do you think, my love?’
He turned, beaming, to his wife. Poppaea forced a smile and glanced down at the muddied hem of her robe.
‘Oh yes. . Outstanding.’
‘I, uh, was just doing my duty,’ Cato muttered, wincing inwardly at the triteness of his words.
‘You were doing hero’s work, Cato,’ Otho gushed, slapping his hand against his thigh. Then he peered past Cato and lowered his voice. ‘Is the beast caged within?’
‘If you are referring to King Caratacus, then yes.’
‘Oh marvellous! We must see him.’
Cato frowned. ‘See him? Why?’
Otho looked surprised. ‘Why? Because he’s the barbarian who has defied an empire. He’s the barbarian it has taken the best part of ten years to bring to heel. When my wife returns to Rome she will be able to say she saw him on the very day he was humbled by our legions. She will be quite the envy of high society. Isn’t that right, Poppaea?’
‘Yes,’ she responded curtly and fixed Cato with a hard stare. ‘So let’s hurry things along a bit so that I can return to my husband’s quarters and change into dry clothes before I catch my death.’
Cato shook his head. ‘My prisoner is resting. I suggest you come back in the morning, when the storm has passed and you can inspect him at your leisure.’
Otho’s brow creased. ‘I say, that’s a bit off, Prefect. We’ve had to wade all the way across the camp to get here and now you’re telling us we can’t see the damned fellow?’
Too weary to get into an argument, and keen to see these aristocrats leave, Cato gritted his teeth. ‘Very well. Quickly then. Open the door.’
The legionary slipped the locking bar out and swung the door back for the two visitors. The tribune stepped warily into the stockade and edged along the wall to make room for his wife. Cato watched from the threshold, pained to see Caratacus displayed like some exotic beast. Poppaea glanced round the close confines before fixing her attention on the man chained to the post.
‘He doesn’t look much like a king,’ she said with disdain. ‘More like a roadside beggar.’
Her young husband simply stared at the prisoner with an awed expression while his wife continued.
‘I can’t believe this. . animal has been the cause of so much trouble,’ Poppaea leaned a little closer as her nose wrinkled. ‘I mean, really.’
Caratacus was staring straight ahead, apparently unmoved by her remarks. Then he lurched forward against his chains and let out a roar, his face contorting into a feral expression of savagery. Poppaea let out a high-pitched scream and stumbled back against the posts of the stockade. Her husband flinched then reached for his sword as his wife dived back through the door. Otho hurried out after her. Caratacus continued to rage, his chains clanking as he attempted to shake his fists.
‘Bloody fellow is wild!’ Otho exclaimed as he released his sword and put an arm round his wife to comfort her. ‘Quite wild. Well, erm, I thank you, Prefect. And once again, well done. Now, my dear, it’s time we got you into some warm, dry clothes. Come.’