taxes. But that is the price of living in peace. Accept our laws, our ways, and in time you will come to understand that the Roman way is your future and in your best interests.’
A warrior stepped forward from one of the tribal contingents, a tall, powerfully built figure. He spoke bitterly, stabbing his finger at the governor to drive home his point.
‘That’s Venutius, of the Brigantes,’ said the interpreter. ‘Husband of Queen Cartimandua.’
‘Then he’s the king?’
‘No, sir. The queen rules the tribe. He is her consort, and does not share her liking of Rome.’
‘I see. And what does the consort have to say?’
‘He is angry at the effrontery of your words. That you should tell the tribes to adopt Roman ways, here on the ground that has been sacred to the tribes from time beyond memory. He accuses you of forcing us to give up our gods.’
Venutius’s words had provoked angry muttering and Ostorius raised his hand and called for silence. Once the muttering died away he spoke again through his interpreter.
‘Rome has no intention of taking away your gods, or your sacred sites. You are free to hold to your beliefs. Or choose ours, as you will. You can embrace our ways or live much as you do now. That is your choice. But you must learn to live under our rule and our laws. It is a small price to pay for an end to the bitter conflict of recent years. And before that, the continual raids and small wars that raged between your tribes.’
Venutius listened to the words and responded immediately, in the same angry tone as before.
‘He says that is the way of the tribes. How else is a warrior supposed to prove himself? He must show his courage and his skill in battle. If you take that away from him then you take away his purpose in life.’
Ostorius replied firmly. ‘Then the warriors must find a new purpose. They must learn to be farmers, or they can volunteer to serve Rome in the ranks of our auxiliary forces. That is their only future. You must accept the truth. Your warriors must give up the old ways, or die in battle against the legions.’
Venutius laughed harshly.
‘He says you give him no choice.’
‘On the contrary. I am offering him the choice between life or certain death.’
When the governor’s words were translated there were cries of protest and angry shouts from around the circle and Cato feared that his superior was in danger of pushing the tribal leaders too far. Then another man emerged into the open. He raised his hand and commanded the attention of the others. He was solidly built but had run to fat and his jowls hung heavily, fringed with a neatly trimmed beard. Though he was clad in a woven cloak and leggings, beneath he wore a Roman-style tunic and his hair was cut much shorter than the other natives. He strode confidently into the middle of the ring and waited until he had silence before he addressed the gathering.
‘Who in Hades’ name is that clown?’ asked Macro.
‘I can guess,’ said Cato. ‘Cogidubnus, of the Regni.’
‘The one who sold out to us even before the first boot was planted on British soil?’
‘That’s the one.’
Macro saw the looks of contempt on the faces of many of the other natives. ‘I can’t help wishing he wasn’t speaking up for our side.’
The man in the centre of the ring spoke with a clear, deep voice as his words were translated. ‘First I would like to offer my sincere gratitude to the governor for offering us this chance to make a lasting peace. . You all know me. I am King Cogidubnus. I wish to speak plainly, to speak the truth. I too was raised as a warrior, and have led my men into battle. I have no need to prove my worth to back up my words. I come here to support the arguments of Governor Ostorius Scapula. Rome has indeed proved a mighty friend and ally to me and my people. I can swear to the fact that we have profited from the coming of Rome and what is true for the Regni can be true for any tribe that accepts the hand of friendship extended by the governor.’
‘Traitor!’ a voice called out in Latin, and then repeated the cry in the native dialect.
Cogidubnus frowned as he, and everyone else, turned towards the source of the accusation. There was movement in the native ranks and then a large warrior thrust his way to the front. He wore a hooded cloak and drew it back to reveal his long fair hair. At once there was a chorus of excited muttering. Marcommius shook his head in surprise.
‘Caratacus. .’
CHAPTER TEN
The old enemy of Rome strode forward and stopped a sword’s length from Cogidubnus. He scrutinised the King of the Regni with contempt, his fists resting on his hips. Then he spoke, his voice carrying clearly to the fringes of the crowd as Marcommius translated for the Romans.
‘You have profited all right. All of us know about the fine palace the Romans are building for you. A luxury kennel for the Emperor’s favourite lapdog. That’s what you are. A mongrel, half Briton and half Roman, begging for fancy tidbits from the table of your master. You have sold your honour for fripperies, Cogidubnus, to your eternal shame.’
Cogidubnus opened his mouth to protest, but the other man took a menacing step towards him and he wilted, backing away towards his contingent. Caratacus glared at him for a moment, before making a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if swatting away an irritating insect before he addressed the crowd.
‘You all know me. You all know that I have fought against the Romans from the first. I have never given in to the enemy,
He paused to let his words have their effect. Some in the crowd cheered him, but many looked on in silence as he continued.
‘The governor tells us that our struggle can only end in our defeat. It is true that we were defeated in the early battles, but our will to resist lives on. For long years we have defied Rome. We have forsaken the battlefield for a different kind of warfare. We have attacked their outposts, burned their supplies and picked off their patrols. Slowly but surely we are eating away at the mighty Roman legions, consuming them a piece at a time. All the while, we have been gathering our strength and taking ever more bold action against our common enemy. In token of which, I give you this.’
He turned and waved a signal to the Silurians. Some men came forward, two holding a third who had the hood of his cloak up. The man stumbled, as if he was drunk, and the others held him up and half dragged him across to the centre of the ring amid the silence of all watching. The three men stopped before Caratacus, who leaned forward and flipped the hood back to reveal a mop of dark curly hair above a thin, drawn face within which there were two darkened and scarred patches where the eyes had been. As he felt his hood being removed, the man shuddered and opened his mouth and let out a guttural animal moan of panic.
‘They’ve cut his tongue out,’ said Macro. ‘Whoever he is.’
Cato swallowed. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’
Caratacus gave the order for the man to be released and then he thrust him forward so that he staggered a few steps and fell on to his hands and knees with a muffled squawk of pain and then felt his way forward across the hard-packed soil, crawling away from the harsh laughter of Caratacus and his companions. The enemy leader turned to face Ostorius and his retinue and made a flourishing gesture.
‘I return him to you. We took him prisoner a few months ago, along with some others who have since been
