‘I’ll try.’
Macro shook his head with a sad smile, and returned to overseeing the production of the small but effective weapons.
Cato was relieved to leave the hot confines of the forge and enjoyed the cool bite of the breeze outside. The clouds still lowered overhead and although it would not be dusk for an hour or so the light already seemed to be fading. He turned towards the stable block being used to hold the prisoners and prepared himself for the tough task that lay ahead.
He had not gone more than a few paces before he saw Quertus emerging between the officers’ mess and one of the barrack blocks assigned to the Thracians. The centurion spotted him at once and came striding across the street.
‘Sir, a word.’
Cato stopped and replied tersely, ‘What is it?’
‘I need permission to water the horses, sir. As I mentioned earlier. I’ll take them down to the river one squadron at a time, and have pickets posted upstream and downstream in case the Silurians try anything on.’
Cato nodded. It was a sensible enough plan. ‘Very well. Make sure that you don’t take any risks. At the first sign of trouble you pull your men back into the fort at once. If Caratacus tries to cut us off from the river and we get short of water then we may have to get rid of the mounts sooner than we thought.’
Quertus hesitated before he replied, ‘As you command.’
The Thracian turned away and strode back in the direction of the officers’ mess. Cato stared after him for a moment and muttered, ‘Well, that’s something of a change in attitude. .’ Perhaps the man was beginning to accept that he could no longer challenge authority. It was a pity that it had taken the present dire situation before Quertus had conceded, Cato thought. At least that was one problem less to vex his overburdened mind. Or one more thing to be suspicious about, a voice at the back of his mind warned. Cato chewed his lip as he watched the Thracian walk away. Damn the man, he thought.
‘Get your people on their feet,’ Cato ordered Maridius. The conditions in the stable were as tolerable as they could be for prisoners in a fort under siege. Every man was needed on the wall so half a section, four men, had been given the duty of guarding the Silurians. The latter were manacled with their hands behind their backs and then a chain was passed through the iron loop and they were fastened to the stout timbers that supported the stable’s beams. There was no chance of the prisoners breaking loose and turning on the defenders of the fort. There was equally no chance of using the latrine and the air was foetid with the stench of human waste and the sour smell of sweat that became pronounced whenever people were constrained in close quarters for any length of time.
The Catuvellaunian prince sat with a straight back and returned Cato’s gaze defiantly. He made no attempt to respond to the order. Cato turned to the legionaries who had entered the stable with him. ‘Get ’em up.’
The legionaries strode forward and kicked the prisoners into action with their heavy boots and prods from the butts of their javelins. The sudden burst of violence caused the prisoners to cry out in protest and pain but they rose quickly enough and soon stood in a loose cluster in the middle of the stable, gradually falling silent under Cato’s stern gaze, until only the clink of the chains swinging from the posts and the shuffling of feet in the straw could be heard. Cato looked them over, noting the filth caked on their clothes, skin and hair. There were a few older men and women amongst them and a handful of frightened children pressing themselves to their parents. Their wretched appearance instinctively provoked Cato’s pity, but he forced himself to quash the sentiment.
He needed ten of them. Ten to execute the next day if Caratacus made any attempt to attack the fort. But who to choose? Cato felt a slight nausea in the pit of his stomach. This power over life and death appalled him. Yet it was his own words that had made the choice necessary. He must face up to the consequences of his promise to the enemy commander. But who should he pick? The old? They had led a full measure of life and had least to lose. The young? They would be easiest to lead to the slaughter and their deaths would have a far greater impact on the enemy than the loss of the old. But why should there be any greater sense of loss over a life hardly lived than the loss of a wealth of experience? Where was the logic in that? And what of the men of military age? In a war it was their deaths that should be felt most keenly, if only because they had most to contribute to the ability of their nation to wage war, yet their deaths would weigh least of all in the hearts and thoughts of their people.
One of the legionaries coughed and Cato realised that he had been staring at the prisoners for some time. He felt angry with himself for deliberating at length over the fates of these people. The simple truth was there was no right answer to the question of selecting who should die. He was a soldier with a job to carry out and there was no depth to the issue beyond that. Cato stepped forward and pointed to the nearest tribesman.
‘Take him and nine others out of the stable. Chain them to the gatehouse.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the optio in charge of the guard party.
‘And have Maridius locked in the strongroom below headquarters. Place one of your men outside. I want him watched. He’s too precious to allow anything to happen to him. If he tries to take his life, your man will be answerable for the consequences. Is that understood, Optio?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato took one last look at the prisoners. ‘Carry on.’ He turned and left. That was all it took to determine the fates of ten people, he reflected, an arbitrary decision and a single order. It should have felt like a liberation from the burden of responsibility, but it didn’t. The decision weighed on his heart like a great rock, grinding his soul to dust.
The light was fading when Cato left the prisoners and made one last circuit of the fort to ensure that his men were ready to face whatever the enemy might throw at them during the second night. As he made his way along the wall that overlooked the river he saw some of the Thracians below, leading strings of horses down the last stretch of the path to the river. More men, dismounted, were spread out along the slopes, keeping watching for the approach of the enemy. The unmistakable figure of Quertus was already in the shallows, watering his beast. Looking across to the far bank, Cato could see that the tribesmen were powerless to intervene. That would change soon enough, he mused. Caratacus was sure to post slingers along the bank to harry any further attempt by the defenders to lead their mounts to drink at the river.
When he completed his tour of the wall, Cato climbed into the gatehouse tower once again to check on the activity of the enemy before he returned to his quarters for a quick meal. Then once he had decided on the night’s password he would rest for a few hours. He had decided to entrust the second watch of the night to Macro, who could be depended upon to raise the alarm in good time if Caratacus decided to make another night attack. The climb up the ladder seemed exhausting and Cato realised he had had no sleep for nearly two days. Now that he thought of it, nothing seemed more welcoming than the prospect of his simple cot in the modest living quarters of the garrison commander.
The rain had stopped and down in the valley the evening gloom was pricked by the red glow of campfires. Cato could see a party hard at work trimming several tree trunks at the edge of the parade ground. The sight did not unduly unsettle him until his gaze came to rest upon another party of warriors busy bundling slender saplings together and binding them tightly. They were too big for faggots and then he realised that Caratacus had given orders to make fascines to bridge the ditch. The enemy would start dragging them forward as soon as night fell. They would tumble them into the ditch and slowly build up more causeways across the defences to enable them to bring the rams to bear against other sections of the wall. It was clear that the Silurians were determined to carry through their attack. Nothing was going to stop them taking Bruccium, Cato reflected. So much for his new command. It had lasted less than a month.
‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ Cato suddenly demanded of himself with a fierce whisper. He had no right to be defeatist, not while the lives of hundreds of men depended on his leadership. It was the most woeful and shaming self-indulgence and he felt disgust and loathing for himself. Not for the first time, Cato felt as if he was just playing the part of being a prefect and the real fear was that he would be found out. Other men, the real professional soldiers, would see through his façade. Worst of all was the prospect of Macro at last recognising him for what he was. To lose Macro’s respect would break his heart. It had been an odd friendship from the outset, Cato reflected. At first Macro had despaired of his efforts to learn the soldier’s trade, but in time he had shown enough courage and ingenuity to win the veteran over. It was Macro’s seal of approval that had given Cato the heart to fight on, up through the ranks, to surpass even his mentor. Macro had been more of a father to him than his own father, more than a brother. That was the peculiar bond of soldiers, he realised. A bond more powerful than family ties, not love perhaps, but something even more essential, and more
