Some hours later, after a long uncomfortable ride through the hot humid air of the marsh, they came to a small farmstead. Raising his head Cato could see a loose settlement of round huts, surrounded by farmland. Two more warriors were waiting for them and respectfully rose to their feet at their commander's approach. Caratacus halted his men and gave the order to dismount. Then he disappeared inside one of the huts and for a while all was still. Cato sensed an awful tension in the air as the warriors waited for Caratacus to reappear, and he felt afraid to move for fear of drawing any attention to himself. Instead he hung limply across the horse's back and waited.
How long it was, he could not say. At last the men stiffened in expectation, and Caratacus was standing beside Cato, knife in hand. The Roman twisted his head and looked up at an awkward angle, trying to gauge the other man's expression and wondering if this was the last view he would ever have of this life.
Caratacus glared back, eyes narrowed in disgust and hatred. He raised the knife hand towards Cato, and the centurion flinched and shut his eyes tightly.
There was a rasping tear and the length of rope that tied his hands to his ankles beneath the belly of the horse parted and fell away. Cato started to slide forward and just had time to duck his head between his arms before he toppled off and landed heavily on the ground.
'Get up!' Caratacus growled.
Cato was winded, but still managed to roll on to his knees and rise awkwardly to his feet. At once Caratacus grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards the hut he had entered earlier. The loud buzz and whine of insects filled Cato's ears and the warm sickly stench of decay hit him like a blow. A powerful shove propelled him through the small doorway and Cato fell into the dim interior. He pitched forward and landed on something cold and soft and yielding. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and as he raised his head Cato saw that he had landed, face first on the bare stomach of a woman, a fringe of pubic hair rasped against his cheek.
'Shit!' he cried out, scrambling away from the body. A small pile of sharp flints lay to one side and he stumbled on to them, painfully grazing the palms of his hands as he spread his fingers to cushion the landing, and then tightly clenched his fingers around one of the sharp-edged stones. There were more bodies in the hut, also naked, sprawled amid wide tacky patches of dry blood. It was then that Cato realised where he was, and who had done this terrible deed. 'Oh shit…'
The shock and the stench finally overwhelmed any last vestige of self-control and Cato vomited, spewing acrid gouts of sick on to his knees, until there was nothing left inside him, and the acid fumes wafted up to him and made him retch more. Slowly, he recovered and saw that Caratacus was staring at him from the far side of the hut, staring over the bodies that lay between them.
'Proud of yourself, Roman?'
'I – I don't understand.'
'Liar!' The king spat the word out.'You know who did this well enough. This is the work of Rome. This and another hut, filled with bodies of defenceless farmers and their families. This is the work of an empire you said would befriend us.'
'This is not the work of Rome.' Cato tried to make himself sound as calm as possible, even though his heart was beating like a drum roll in its mortal terror.'It is the work of madmen.'
'Roman madmen! Who else would have done this?' Caratacus raised his fist and stabbed a finger at Cato. 'Are you accusing my men?'
'No.'
'Then who else but your people could…would have done this? Only Romans would do this.' He dared Cato to disagree, and the centurion was aware that denial would cost him his life.
Cato swallowed nervously. 'Yes, but… but they must have been acting outside their orders.'
'You expect me to believe that? I've been receiving reports for days now about the punitive actions your legionaries have been conducting against the people who live in the valley. Flogging women and children, the firing of farms, and scores of killings… and now this. When we spoke last night you promised an end to war. I… I nearly believed you. Until now, until I have seen what the Roman peace is truly like. Now I can see it all clearly, and I know what I must do. There will be no peace between us. There can never be peace. So…I must fight your people with every fibre of my being while I still draw breath.'
Cato saw the wild expression, the fists clenched so tightly that knuckles stuck out like bare bones, and the tight line about Caratacus' jaw, and knew that there was now no hope of peace while Caratacus lived. His own life was forfeit, and so were those of the men still being held in the pen back at the enemy camp. All because Metellus could not control his desire for a decent meal. For an instant Cato hoped that Metellus would be amongst the first to die, and that his death would be long and lingering to compensate for all the suffering his appetite had brought to the world. It was sad that this bitter thought should be his last, Cato smiled, but there was no helping it. He looked up at Caratacus and resigned himself to death.
Before the enemy commander could act the sound of voices – anxious and alarmed – reached the ears of the two men in the hut and both turned towards the small entrance. Caratacus ducked and hurried outside, momentarily darkening the hut as he squeezed under the lintel. Then Cato rose up, took a last glimpse at the corpses, and followed his captor.
'What is it?' Caratacus called out to his men. 'What's happening?'
'Roman patrol, sire.' One of the warriors thrust an arm out, pointing down the track that led into the farmstead. 'Maybe twenty men, on foot.'
'How far away?'
'Half a mile, no more than that.'
'They'll have cut us off before we can ride out of here,' Caratacus said. 'Does anyone know if there's another way off this farm?'
'Sire,' one of his bodyguards cut in, 'I know this land. It's almost entirely surrounded by mud flats and marsh. We'd never get the horses through it.'
Caratacus smacked his hand against his thigh in frustration. 'All right then. Get the horses. Take 'em to the far side of the farm and keep them out of sight. They mustn't make a sound, understand?'
'Yes, sire.'
'Then go!'
The warrior shoved a companion ahead of him and both men ran towards the horses tethered to a rail in the middle of the ground between the huts. Caratacus beckoned the other three men. 'Take the prisoner, and follow me.'
Cato was grasped by the shoulder and pulled along in the wake of the enemy leader. Caratacus led the small party across the farm buildings, ducked between two animal pens and ran towards the only part of the farmland that seemed to rise any appreciable height above the surrounding landscape. A stunted copse grew on the low crown of the slope just over a hundred paces away and Caratacus led them towards the trees at a brisk pace. Cato knew this was a chance to wrench himself free and try to escape. He felt his pulse quicken and his muscles tensed. He tried to brace himself for the decisive moment and he briefly imagined how it would happen, and just as briefly saw himself cut down by a sword as he tried to make for the safety of his comrades. He might be under sentence of death, but he might yet redeem himself by passing on the information about the location of the enemy camp.
By the time these thoughts had raced through his mind it was already too late. They were close to the trees and the man holding Cato's shoulder tightened his grip painfully and thrust the centurion towards the shadows beneath the low boughs of the nearest tree. Cato tripped over a root and thudded down on the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. With a sickening rage of self-loathing he knew he had missed his chance to escape.