The Eagles Prey

'I'm a centurion.'

'A centurion?' Caratacus chuckled. 'Aren't you a little on the young side to hold such a rank?'

Cato felt himself blush at the casual dismissal. 'I'm old enough to have seen you defeated time and again this last year.'

'That will change.'

'Will it?'

'Of course. I just need more men. I grow in strength every day. Time is on my side, and we will have our revenge on Rome. We cannot lose for ever, Centurion. Even you must see that.'

'You must be tired of fighting us, after so many defeats,' Cato said quietly.

Caratacus stared at him across the glow of the fire. For a moment Cato feared that his defiance had been overdone. But then the king nodded.'Indeed, I am tired. However, I swore an oath to protect my people from all comers, and I will fight Rome until my last breath.'

'You can't win,' Cato said gently. 'You must realise that.'

'Can't win?' Caratacus smiled.'It's been a long year for all of us, Roman. Your legionaries must be weary after so much marching, and fighting.'

Cato shrugged.'That's our way of life. It's all we know. Even when my people are not at war we train for the next one, every day. Every bloodless training battle our men fight increases their appetite for the real thing. Your people have fought bravely, but they are mainly farmers… amateurs.'

'Amateurs? Maybe,' the king conceded. 'Yet we have come within a hair's breadth of defeating you. Even a proud Roman must concede that. And we're not beaten yet. My scouts report that your Second Legion is camped to the north of the marsh. Your legate has posted one of his cohorts to the south. Imagine, one cohort! Is he really so arrogant as to think that one cohort will contain me?' Caratacus smiled. 'Your legate needs to be taught a lesson, I think. Maybe soon. We'll show him – and the rest of you Romans – that this war is far from over.'

Cato shrugged. 'I'll admit that there were times when the success of our campaign looked in doubt. But now…?' He shook his head. 'Now, there can be only defeat for you.'

Caratacus frowned and looked pained for a moment before he replied.'I'm old enough to be your father and yet you speak as if to a child. Be careful, Roman. The arrogance of youth is not tolerable for very long.'

Cato looked down.'I'm sorry. I meant no offence. But with all my heart I know you cannot win, and there must be an end to the needless sacrifice of the people of these lands. They would beg it of you.'

Caratacus raised his fist and jabbed a finger at the centurion. 'Do not presume to speak for my people, Roman!'

Cato swallowed nervously. 'And who exactly do you speak for? Only a handful of tribes remain loyal to your cause. The rest have accepted their fate, and come to terms with Rome. They are now our allies, not yours.'

'Allies!' The king spat into the fire in contempt. 'Slaves is what they are. They are less than the dogs who feed on the scraps from my table. To be allied to Rome is to condemn your kingdom to a living death. Look at that fool, Cogidumnus. I hear that your emperor has promised to build him a palace. One worthy of a client king. So he'll condemn his people to become the property of Rome when he dies, just so that he can live out his life in a gilded cage, despised by your emperor and by his own people. That is no way for a king to live.' He gazed sadly into the glowing heart of the fire. 'That's no way for a king to rule… How can he live with such shame?'

Cato kept silent. He knew what Caratacus said about client kings was true. The story of the growth of the empire was littered with tales of kings who had welcomed client status, and had been so besotted with the baubles laid before them that they became blind to the ultimate fate of their people. Yet what was the alternative, thought Cato. If not a client king, then what? A futile attempt at resistance and then the cold comfort of a mass grave for those kings and their peoples who prized liberty from Rome over life itself. Cato knew he must try to make the king see reason, to end the senseless slaughter that had already drenched these lands in blood.

'How many of your armies has Rome defeated? How many of your men have died? How many hillforts and villages are now no more than piles of ashes? You must sue for peace, for your people. For their sake…'

Caratacus shook his head and continued to stare into the fire. For a long time neither man spoke. They had reached an impasse, Cato realised. Caratacus was consumed by the spirit of resistance. The weight of tradition and the warrior codes with which he had been imbued from the cradle unswervingly bore him down the path to tragic self-destruction. Yet he was sensible to the suffering that his course of action implied to others. Cato could see that his point about their needless sacrifice had struck home with the king. Caratacus was imaginative and empathetic enough for that, Cato realised. If only the king would accept that defeat must be inevitable, then the impasse would be broken.

At length Caratacus looked up, and rubbed his face. 'Centurion, I'm tired. I cannot think. I must talk with you another time.'

He called out for the guard and the man who had escorted Cato from the pen ducked into the hut. The king indicated, with a brief nod of his head, that he had finished with the Roman, and Cato was roughly hauled to his feet and shoved out into the darkness. He glanced back, and before the leather curtain slipped back across the entrance he had one final sight of the king: leaning forward, his head cradled in his hands, locked in a posture of solitude and despair.

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

' He'll get us all killed.' Centurion Tullius nodded towards the cohort commander. Maximius was briefing the optios in charge of the day's patrols. Each officer commanded twenty men and had a native assigned to them to act as a guide. Every one of them was a prisoner, iron collars chained to the belt of legionary guards. Since their children were being held hostage it was unlikely that they would offer any resistance, or attempt to escape or betray their Roman masters. But Maximius was taking no chances. He had few enough men as it was. Centurion Tullius tapped his vine cane against the side of his greave, making a dull clattering noise. Macro glanced down irritably.

'Do you mind?'

'What? Oh, sorry!' Tullius lifted the cane, tucked it under his arm and glanced back towards the cohort commander. 'I thought we were here to find Cato and the others. Had no idea we were going to try and stir up a bloody revolt as well. Couldn't have done a better job if he had tried…the bastard.'

'Perhaps that's just what he's been ordered to do,' Macro wondered aloud.

'What do you mean?'

Macro shrugged. 'I'm not really sure. Not yet. Just seems to be an odd way to get the locals to help us.'

'Odd?' The old centurion shook his head. 'You weren't there when we ran those natives down by the river. He really lost his head.' Tullius lowered his voice. 'He was like a man possessed – wild, dangerous and cruel. He should never have been given a command. As long as he's running the Third Cohort, we're in deep trouble. He's already disgraced us. My service is nearly up, Macro. Two more years to my discharge. I've earned it – spotless record – until now. Even if he doesn't get us killed, the decimation is going to ruin our careers. You and the other centurions are still on the young side, still got years to go. What chance of promotion do you think you'll have with that on your records? I'm telling you, as long as that bastard's in command we're in the deepest of shit.' He looked away from Macro, towards the distant cohort commander and continued softly, 'If only something would happen to him.'