‘Well, it’s something,’ said Cato. ‘We’ll spread them thin to start with and hope that we injure enough of them to slow the rest down the next time.’
‘Then you think Caratacus will attack, regardless of your threat?’
‘I’m certain he will. In his place I would.’
‘And you’ll go through with it? What you said you would do to the prisoners?’
Cato took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I have to. In the first instance at least. Then he might be wary of causing the death of his brother. It’ll be a bad business, Macro. A very bad business. But it will have to be done.’
‘You don’t have to be the one,’ Macro said gently. ‘Just give the order. Someone else can do it. I’ll do it if you want. Or ask Quertus. He’ll be happy to kill the prisoners since he never wanted them in the first place.’
‘No. It has to be me,’ Cato said in a resigned tone. ‘Caratacus must see that I carry my threats through. It’ll also do the men good to see that I am as ruthless as that Thracian. I want no one to be in doubt that when I say I’ll kill someone, I will do it. Good for discipline.’
Macro raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Well, if you’re sure, lad. .’
Cato smiled at his friend. ‘I’m just glad Julia isn’t here to see it.’
‘Don’t worry about her. She knows the meaning of being a soldier. Julia’s seen more than her share of death. She’d understand.’
‘Killing in the heat of battle is one thing. This is quite another.’
Macro shrugged. ‘It’s all the same in the end, however you dress it up.’
Cato looked at him searchingly. ‘You really think so?’
‘I know it.’ Macro picked up a strip of cloth and dabbed his face. ‘Killing is killing, whether you call it murder or war. It’s just that when some high-up bastard has made a policy of dealing out death, it makes it more acceptable. Try telling that to the victims!’ Macro laughed drily, then frowned as he saw one of the farrier’s assistants slump down on a stool and reach for a canteen. ‘Back on your feet, you! No slacking off! We see this through until I say we’re done.’
The legionary rose stiffly and took up his hammer and tongs and reached for the next two hoops of glowing iron to fashion another caltrop.
‘I had better get back to work, sir.’
‘Very well. Make sure you rest tonight. If Caratacus makes another attempt before dawn, I want you fresh for the fight.’
‘And you? Will you sleep?’
‘I’ll try.’
Macro shook his head with a sad smile, and returned to overseeing the production of the small but effective weapons.
Cato was relieved to leave the hot confines of the forge and enjoyed the cool bite of the breeze outside. The clouds still lowered overhead and although it would not be dusk for an hour or so the light already seemed to be fading. He turned towards the stable block being used to hold the prisoners and prepared himself for the tough task that lay ahead.
He had not gone more than a few paces before he saw Quertus emerging between the officers’ mess and one of the barrack blocks assigned to the Thracians. The centurion spotted him at once and came striding across the street.
‘Sir, a word.’
Cato stopped and replied tersely, ‘What is it?’
‘I need permission to water the horses, sir. As I mentioned earlier. I’ll take them down to the river one squadron at a time, and have pickets posted upstream and downstream in case the Silurians try anything on.’
Cato nodded. It was a sensible enough plan. ‘Very well. Make sure that you don’t take any risks. At the first sign of trouble you pull your men back into the fort at once. If Caratacus tries to cut us off from the river and we get short of water then we may have to get rid of the mounts sooner than we thought.’
Quertus hesitated before he replied, ‘As you command.’
The Thracian turned away and strode back in the direction of the officers’ mess. Cato stared after him for a moment and muttered, ‘Well, that’s something of a change in attitude. .’ Perhaps the man was beginning to accept that he could no longer challenge authority. It was a pity that it had taken the present dire situation before Quertus had conceded, Cato thought. At least that was one problem less to vex his overburdened mind. Or one more thing to be suspicious about, a voice at the back of his mind warned. Cato chewed his lip as he watched the Thracian walk away. Damn the man, he thought.
‘Get your people on their feet,’ Cato ordered Maridius. The conditions in the stable were as tolerable as they could be for prisoners in a fort under siege. Every man was needed on the wall so half a section, four men, had been given the duty of guarding the Silurians. The latter were manacled with their hands behind their backs and then a chain was passed through the iron loop and they were fastened to the stout timbers that supported the stable’s beams. There was no chance of the prisoners breaking loose and turning on the defenders of the fort. There was equally no chance of using the latrine and the air was foetid with the stench of human waste and the sour smell of sweat that became pronounced whenever people were constrained in close quarters for any length of time.
The Catuvellaunian prince sat with a straight back and returned Cato’s gaze defiantly. He made no attempt to respond to the order. Cato turned to the legionaries who had entered the stable with him. ‘Get ’em up.’
The legionaries strode forward and kicked the prisoners into action with their heavy boots and prods from the butts of their javelins. The sudden burst of violence caused the prisoners to cry out in protest and pain but they rose quickly enough and soon stood in a loose cluster in the middle of the stable, gradually falling silent under Cato’s stern gaze, until only the clink of the chains swinging from the posts and the shuffling of feet in the straw could be heard. Cato looked them over, noting the filth caked on their clothes, skin and hair. There were a few older men and women amongst them and a handful of frightened children pressing themselves to their parents. Their wretched appearance instinctively provoked Cato’s pity, but he forced himself to quash the sentiment.
He needed ten of them. Ten to execute the next day if Caratacus made any attempt to attack the fort. But who to choose? Cato felt a slight nausea in the pit of his stomach. This power over life and death appalled him. Yet it was his own words that had made the choice necessary. He must face up to the consequences of his promise to the enemy commander. But who should he pick? The old? They had led a full measure of life and had least to lose. The young? They would be easiest to lead to the slaughter and their deaths would have a far greater impact on the enemy than the loss of the old. But why should there be any greater sense of loss over a life hardly lived than the loss of a wealth of experience? Where was the logic in that? And what of the men of military age? In a war it was their deaths that should be felt most keenly, if only because they had most to contribute to the ability of their nation to wage war, yet their deaths would weigh least of all in the hearts and thoughts of their people.
One of the legionaries coughed and Cato realised that he had been staring at the prisoners for some time. He felt angry with himself for deliberating at length over the fates of these people. The simple truth was there was no right answer to the question of selecting who should die. He was a soldier with a job to carry out and there was no depth to the issue beyond that. Cato stepped forward and pointed to the nearest tribesman.
‘Take him and nine others out of the stable. Chain them to the gatehouse.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the optio in charge of the guard party.
‘And have Maridius locked in the strongroom below headquarters. Place one of your men outside. I want him watched. He’s too precious to allow anything to happen to him. If he tries to take his life, your man will be answerable for the consequences. Is that understood, Optio?’