‘What?’ Cato demanded. ‘What about Quertus? Speak!’
But it was too late. The Thracian’s head lolled back lifelessly and Cato glared at him for a moment before releasing his grip on the neckcloth and withdrawing his hand angrily. ‘Bastard!’
As he stood up, Macro removed his boot and wiped it in the grass nearby to get some of the blood off. The centurion stared down at the body and clicked his tongue. ‘Have to hand it to Quertus, he inspires loyalty in his men.’
‘Loyalty?’ Cato spat the word out bitterly. ‘Loyalty to what? Not Rome. Only to that sick bastard who wants to bathe himself in blood.’
Macro looked at his friend. ‘I was being ironic.’
They stared at each other before Cato smiled nervously, glad to release the tension that had built up in his chest. Macro grinned. ‘There you go. I think I must have known you for too long, Cato. Irony — now that’s not something that used to come so easily to me. Anyway, what in Hades’ name is going on? Do you think these bastards were acting on their own, or on the orders of Quertus?’
‘What do you think? He’s behind this. He wants me dead, just like the last prefect, so he can carry on running Bruccium like his own little kingdom.’
Macro puffed. ‘He’s taking a big risk. One dead prefect looks like bad luck. Two looks like a conspiracy.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘Fuck. . Conspiracy. It hangs about us like a bloody cloud. I thought we’d be living the good life once we got back to the army. Not this. . Are you sure Quertus is behind this?’
‘I’m certain. I was set up, Macro. The standard-bearer must have been in on it. He let the Silurians take the standard, knowing that I would give chase and be led away from the fight. As soon as I was separated from the rest of the cohort, these two went after me. They gave the enemy a chance to do for me first, before they stepped in to finish the job. All very neat. I’d have died a good death trying to save the standard and Quertus would have a story he could sell to you, and report back to headquarters when the time came.’ Cato nodded grimly. ‘He’s as cunning as a snake.’
Macro prodded the dead Thracian with the toe of his boot. ‘What do we do? He’s failed in his attempt, and you’re still alive. What now? Stick a knife between Quertus’s shoulder blades? Bastard deserves as much.’
Before Cato could reply, they heard the sound of approaching horses and looked up to see Quertus leading one of his squadrons down the slope towards them. Macro readied his sword as he turned to face them, his expression grim. Cato moved to his side, and placed his hand on top of the pommel of his sword.
‘Macro,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re in great danger. Let me do the speaking.’
His friend nodded, keeping a wary eye on the approaching riders.
Quertus reined in a short distance away and his men rumbled to a halt on either side. There was a brief stillness during which Cato scrutinised the face of the Thracian officer and saw the cold look of frustration there that confirmed his suspicions. Quertus gestured towards the standard.
‘You saved it, then. Saved the cohort’s honour.’
‘I saved the standard,’ Cato replied deliberately. Then he gestured to the bodies of the Thracians. ‘But I could not save these men.’
Quertus glanced at the bodies and then his dark eyes fixed on Cato. ‘What happened here?’ he asked in a flat tone.
‘They tried to take the standard from that Silurian. He slew them both before I could intervene.’
Macro stirred beside him; the explanation had taken him by surprise. Cato fervently prayed that Macro would hold his tongue for the next few moments. Quertus nodded slowly.
‘Then they died heroes.’
‘It would seem so.’
At length the Thracian gestured towards Cato’s face. ‘You’re wounded, sir.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Cato turned away and strode across to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Macro hesitated a moment, glaring at Quertus, before he followed suit. Cato looked round the valley and saw the distant figures of the men and women of the tribe running for their lives, clutching their children by the hand as they made for the trees each side of the valley. He wiped the blood from his lips. Already it was beginning to clot in his nose and the flow was no more than an oozing trickle. He cleared his throat.
‘Centurion Quertus, order your men to round up prisoners. They are only to kill those who resist. The prisoners, and our casualties, are to be taken up to the chieftain’s hut. Is that clear?’
Quertus nodded.
‘I said, is that clear, Centurion?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better. Then see to it at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus wheeled his horse round and barked out orders to his men. Riders set off at once to inform the other squadrons as Cato and Macro rode back up the slope. Quertus beckoned to the rest of his men and they fell in behind the prefect and his companion. At the top of the slope, Cato made his way round to the open area in front of the large hut and saw twenty or so of the enemy sitting on the ground, guarded by several of the Thracian auxiliaries. Amongst the prisoners was the blond man, conspicuous by his stature and the lightness of his hair compared to the mostly dark-haired Silurians. He had been stripped of his weapons, his shield and his helmet, and now Cato had a clearer view of his features. He reined in a short distance away and stared at the man.
‘Macro, see that one?’ Cato pointed. ‘He seems very familiar. Do you recognise him?’
Macro looked and shrugged. ‘Can’t say that I do.’
Cato frowned. ‘I’ve seen him before. Recently. Sure of it. .’
Cato steered his horse over towards the man and stopped six feet from where he sat. The native looked up defiantly.
‘On your feet!’ Cato ordered, gesturing with his hand.
The man did not move and Macro trotted up, red-faced. ‘You heard the prefect! On your fucking feet, you mangy dog!’
Slowly, and with as much haughty dignity as he could manage, the warrior stood up and squared his shoulders, regarding his captors with a contemptuous expression.
‘Who are you?’ Cato demanded. ‘You’re not a Silurian.’
‘I am of the Catuvellauni,’ the man replied in lightly accented Latin.
‘Then what are you doing here? Your tribe surrendered to us years ago.’ Cato forced himself to sound cold. ‘Which makes you an outlaw.’
‘Outlaw? I am no outlaw. I pledged to fight Rome to my last breath. Like many in my tribe, I chose to follow Caratacus.’
At the mention of the enemy leader’s name Cato felt a thrill of realisation flow through his mind. That was where he had seen him before. At the stone ring, standing amongst the entourage of the native king who had resisted Rome from the very first moment that the legions had landed on British soil. Like many of the Catuvellauni, he had light-coloured hair, but there was something more about him. His build and his face reminded Cato of Caratacus himself.
‘What is your name?’
‘My name?’ The warrior’s lips curled in a sneer. ‘My name is for my people and those men who fight at my side as brothers.’
‘Is that so?’ Macro smiled cruelly. ‘Sir, if he won’t give us his name, he has no need of his tongue any more. Let me cut the bastard’s tongue out.’
Macro reached for his dagger and drew the blade, holding it up so that the warrior could see it clearly. Cato said nothing for a moment, allowing Macro’s bloodthirsty request to do its work. He saw the warrior look away from the dagger as his mask slipped and he revealed a glimpse of the fear in his heart.
‘Tell me your name,’ Cato ordered. ‘While you still have a tongue in your head.’
The warrior looked up, hurriedly composing himself, and stared back at his captors. ‘Very well. I am Maridius.’
‘Maridius,’ Cato repeated. ‘Warrior of the Catuvellauni and, if I am not mistaken, brother of King Caratacus.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE