Quertus glanced at the bodies and then his dark eyes fixed on Cato. ‘What happened here?’ he asked in a flat tone.
‘They tried to take the standard from that Silurian. He slew them both before I could intervene.’
Macro stirred beside him; the explanation had taken him by surprise. Cato fervently prayed that Macro would hold his tongue for the next few moments. Quertus nodded slowly.
‘Then they died heroes.’
‘It would seem so.’
At length the Thracian gestured towards Cato’s face. ‘You’re wounded, sir.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Cato turned away and strode across to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Macro hesitated a moment, glaring at Quertus, before he followed suit. Cato looked round the valley and saw the distant figures of the men and women of the tribe running for their lives, clutching their children by the hand as they made for the trees each side of the valley. He wiped the blood from his lips. Already it was beginning to clot in his nose and the flow was no more than an oozing trickle. He cleared his throat.
‘Centurion Quertus, order your men to round up prisoners. They are only to kill those who resist. The prisoners, and our casualties, are to be taken up to the chieftain’s hut. Is that clear?’
Quertus nodded.
‘I said, is that clear, Centurion?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better. Then see to it at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus wheeled his horse round and barked out orders to his men. Riders set off at once to inform the other squadrons as Cato and Macro rode back up the slope. Quertus beckoned to the rest of his men and they fell in behind the prefect and his companion. At the top of the slope, Cato made his way round to the open area in front of the large hut and saw twenty or so of the enemy sitting on the ground, guarded by several of the Thracian auxiliaries. Amongst the prisoners was the blond man, conspicuous by his stature and the lightness of his hair compared to the mostly dark-haired Silurians. He had been stripped of his weapons, his shield and his helmet, and now Cato had a clearer view of his features. He reined in a short distance away and stared at the man.
‘Macro, see that one?’ Cato pointed. ‘He seems very familiar. Do you recognise him?’
Macro looked and shrugged. ‘Can’t say that I do.’
Cato frowned. ‘I’ve seen him before. Recently. Sure of it. .’
Cato steered his horse over towards the man and stopped six feet from where he sat. The native looked up defiantly.
‘On your feet!’ Cato ordered, gesturing with his hand.
The man did not move and Macro trotted up, red-faced. ‘You heard the prefect! On your fucking feet, you mangy dog!’
Slowly, and with as much haughty dignity as he could manage, the warrior stood up and squared his shoulders, regarding his captors with a contemptuous expression.
‘Who are you?’ Cato demanded. ‘You’re not a Silurian.’
‘I am of the Catuvellauni,’ the man replied in lightly accented Latin.
‘Then what are you doing here? Your tribe surrendered to us years ago.’ Cato forced himself to sound cold. ‘Which makes you an outlaw.’
‘Outlaw? I am no outlaw. I pledged to fight Rome to my last breath. Like many in my tribe, I chose to follow Caratacus.’
At the mention of the enemy leader’s name Cato felt a thrill of realisation flow through his mind. That was where he had seen him before. At the stone ring, standing amongst the entourage of the native king who had resisted Rome from the very first moment that the legions had landed on British soil. Like many of the Catuvellauni, he had light-coloured hair, but there was something more about him. His build and his face reminded Cato of Caratacus himself.
‘What is your name?’
‘My name?’ The warrior’s lips curled in a sneer. ‘My name is for my people and those men who fight at my side as brothers.’
‘Is that so?’ Macro smiled cruelly. ‘Sir, if he won’t give us his name, he has no need of his tongue any more. Let me cut the bastard’s tongue out.’
Macro reached for his dagger and drew the blade, holding it up so that the warrior could see it clearly. Cato said nothing for a moment, allowing Macro’s bloodthirsty request to do its work. He saw the warrior look away from the dagger as his mask slipped and he revealed a glimpse of the fear in his heart.
‘Tell me your name,’ Cato ordered. ‘While you still have a tongue in your head.’
The warrior looked up, hurriedly composing himself, and stared back at his captors. ‘Very well. I am Maridius.’
‘Maridius,’ Cato repeated. ‘Warrior of the Catuvellauni and, if I am not mistaken, brother of King Caratacus.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘So what do we do with him, this Maridius?’ Macro asked as he warmed his hands over the brazier. Even though summer was not far off, the Silurian mountains were wreathed with cold winds and frequent mists and rain. Outside the walls of the headquarters building a breeze gusted in the night, rattling the shuttered window of Cato’s office. Decimus had brought them a simple meal of stew. Some of the horses injured in the recent attack had not been passed fit for any further service by the horsemaster of the Thracian cohort and had been slaughtered for their meat. The garrison of Bruccium relished the addition of fresh meat to their diet for a few days before the usual issue of gruel would resume.
Cato poured himself a cup of posca, the common legionary’s drink of cheap wine, watered down. ‘We were damned lucky to get our hands on him.’
‘True,’ Macro agreed with feeling. ‘But what was he doing in that village in the first place?’
Cato took a sip, and thought a moment. ‘It’s likely he was sent there by Caratacus. Perhaps to recruit more men. Or perhaps to see at first hand the effect that Quertus was having on their allies and try to rally them. Unless he tells us, we can’t be sure.’
‘He hasn’t said a word. I’ve had some of Severus’s lads work him over, but the bastard is as tough as he looks. We haven’t got anything useful out of him yet. Perhaps we’ll have better luck this evening.’
‘I hope so. I’ve told Quertus to send some of his men to do the interrogating tonight.’
Macro looked up sharply. ‘Why involve him?’
‘I am the prefect of the Thracian cohort as well as commander of the fort. I need to make sure I take every opportunity to remind him, and the rest of his. . my men.’
Macro sighed wearily. ‘I doubt the Thracians will have any more luck than my boys. Although the way they look might just give them an edge in putting the frighteners on Maridius. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’
‘Well, if we can’t make him talk, then he might serve as a hostage — assuming there’s any fraternal sentiment between him and Caratacus. In any case, he’ll need to be taken to Glevum. He’s too important to keep here.’
Macro nodded and then turned to another matter. ‘What do we do with the rest of the prisoners? We can’t keep ’em here.’
Only fifty or so of the Silurians had been captured in the valley eight days previously. Many more had chosen to die fighting, or had been cut down by the Thracians before they could make a choice. When the column had returned to Bruccium the captives had been herded into one of the empty barrack blocks and the doors locked behind them. They were fed meagre rations once a day and allowed to slop out their latrine tubs each morning. The garrison had already consumed much of the food looted from the village and would soon start eroding the limited reserves held inside the fort’s granary.
‘I’ve made a decision about them,’ Cato replied from behind the simple trestle table that acted as his desk.
