Find Decimus and tell him to bring some food and water, and some wine for myself and the centurion.’
Trebellius untied the rope and the Silurian collapsed on to the ground with a pained grunt as the impact drove the air from his lungs. While the decurion left the room to fetch some water and bread, Trebellius wrenched the spear shaft away from the prisoner, freeing his arms. The Silurian lay on his side, panting, until his breath returned and then he eased himself on to his backside and shuffled towards the wall and sat propped up, glaring at the two Roman officers.
Macro finished his soup and pushed the bowl to one side. He wiped his lips on the back of his forearm. ‘You know, I don’t think he likes us, Cato.’
Cato smiled thinly.
‘We come all this way to share the benefits of civilisation,’ Macro continued, ‘and this is the thanks we get. Sometimes I wonder if these barbarians deserve us. What do you plan to do with him, once Trebellius has finished his work?’
Cato tapped the end of his crutch against the instep of his boot. ‘I rather think this one’s going to present a bit of a challenge to the decurion. He’s a hard case, right enough. We’ll have to take him on with us. Tie him down over one of the mules and try questioning him again once we reach Bruccium. I’m sure Quertus has an interrogator in the garrison.’
The Silurian looked up sharply and for an instant Cato saw the look of fear in his expression before the prisoner clenched his jaw and glared back at him.
‘You see that, Macro?’
‘What?’
‘How he reacted when I mentioned Quertus’s name. Seems the centurion’s reputation amongst the local tribes is as infamous as we’ve been told.’
The door to the mess opened and Trebellius held it ajar as Decimus entered carrying a sturdy wooden tray bearing a jug, three plain Samian cups, a canteen and a small hunk of bread. He set the tray down on the table and poured wine into the cups and passed them to each of the officers.
‘Give him some water,’ Cato ordered. ‘And feed him the bread.’
Decimus nodded and approached the prisoner warily before he knelt at his side. He pulled the stopper from the waterskin and held it out for the prisoner to see. The Silurian hesitated a moment before nodding curtly and opening his lips so that the Roman could angle the nozzle into his mouth. He gulped greedily, spilling water down his front. Once he’d done, he drew back and waited for Decimus to press the bread into his hands. He strained to reach up to his mouth and tore a chunk off to chew. Cato let him eat a moment before he turned to Trebellius.
‘Ask him what his name is.’
‘His name?’ Macro frowned. ‘What do you need to know that for? You’re not planning on being his best mate.’
‘Macro, let me deal with this.’ Cato indicated to the decurion to translate his question. The Silurian viewed the prefect suspiciously for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of giving his name, and then he made his decision and gave his answer.
‘Turrus, he says.’
‘I see.’ Cato nodded and then tapped his chest. ‘Prefect Cato. The surly one there is Centurion Macro.’
Given that Trebellius had been beating the prisoner for the last hour or so, Cato decided there was no profit to be had from introducing the decurion’s name. Instead he continued with his attempt to find a crack in the prisoner’s tough veneer. The man looked to be in his late twenties and Cato hazarded a guess.
‘Do you have a woman, Turrus? A family?’
After the decurion had translated, the Silurian deliberately took another mouthful of bread and chewed slowly to buy himself a little time. Cato indulged him, while Macro leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. At length the man swallowed the final morsel of bread and nodded.
‘
Cato smiled slightly. ‘I have a wife, back in Rome. She worries about me. Can’t wait for this campaign to be over so that I can return to her. Or she can join me here, once the new province is settled and we have peace.’
Turrus listened to the translation and then replied.
‘He says that if the Romans returned across the sea and left this island to its people then everyone could return to their families.’
Cato shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, it’s not so simple. Most of the tribes have already become our allies, and accepted the rule of Rome, along with all the benefits that come with that. Benefits that come at a price, admittedly. We can’t abandon our new friends to the ravages of Caratacus and his warriors. Moreover, the reputation of the Emperor depends upon bringing peace to Britannia, no matter what the cost, or how long it takes. And you should know that when Rome sets her mind to achieving something, it will be achieved and no one can stand in the way. Tell him, Trebellius.’
The Silurian listened and then nodded thoughtfully before he responded.
‘He says that Romans and Silurians have much in common. Neither is prepared to give way to the will of the other. It will be a long war.’
Cato shrugged. ‘That may be so. But I doubt it. Our soldiers are the best in the known world. The result is not in doubt, Turrus. Believe it. If the Silures continue to follow Caratacus then they will be led down a path that ends in destruction. Along the way, there is only suffering, for both sides. It would be far better to face up to realities and for the warriors of the Silures to seek peace with Rome. Then I can return to my wife, and you, Turrus, can return to your family. Surely that is for the best?’
The prisoner smiled and replied in a regretful tone.
‘Even if I agreed with you, our desires would never sway those of our leaders. Your Emperor and Caratacus will continue this conflict until the last drop of our blood. So we must fight on.’
‘Not you,’ Macro growled. ‘The fighting’s over for you, sunshine. One way or another.’
Cato ignored his friend and focused his attention on the prisoner. He felt a small thrill of satisfaction at the Silurian’s last comment. So, he was disenchanted with his leader. No doubt there were others like Turrus, many others, tribesmen who had answered the call to arms with full hearts, thinking that it would be a more glorious cause than the usual round of tribal feuds and minor conflicts. Caratacus knew how to inspire the hearts of warriors and the proud tribes of the mountains would have responded eagerly. But instead of marching to battle they had been dragged into a drawn-out war of attrition that had become more bitter with each passing month. Unlike the soldiers of the Roman army, the Silurians were farmers and herders. They would surely long to return to their families and the warmth of their hearths, rather than stalking the Romans through the icy winds and rain of the mountains. It was time to press home his advantage, Cato decided. He forced a smile as he spoke to Trebellius.
‘Ask him why he’s afraid of Centurion Quertus?’
The decurion seemed surprised by the question but shrugged and turned to the prisoner and translated. At once Turrus stopped chewing, then swallowed nervously and stared down at the ground.
‘That got his attention,’ said Macro. He made his way across the room and dug his boot into the man’s thigh. ‘Speak up.’
The tribesman drew his legs close to his body and hunched down, like a whipped dog, and he began to speak in a low, haunted voice.
‘He says Quertus is a devil. That he has burned many villages and slaughtered every living thing in his path. Right down to the last infant, dog and lamb. He is evil and cruel and he worships dark gods and makes blood sacrifices in their name. There is no black deed that he does not inflict upon the Silures. When he rides into battle, he wears the skins of the greatest of the warriors he has defeated. He drinks the blood of those he kills and eats their flesh. Those that follow him are slaves to his will, and follow his example. Wherever they go, they leave death and devastation in their wake. They are. .’
Trebellius asked the man to repeat his final words and there was a brief exchange before he turned to the two officers. ‘The nearest Latin word for it is barbarians.’
‘Barbarians?’ Macro burst into laughter. ‘Barbarians! Our side? The cheeky fucking sod! Here, Trebellius, stand aside. I’ll show him fucking barbarians.’
