Macro cleared his throat to shout to his men. ‘Hold!’
The legionaries stood still, swords poised, but made no attempt to advance or strike at their enemy. A stillness filtered out across the area around the gate as the fighting stopped and the enemy threw down their weapons.
‘Round them up!’ Macro ordered, breaking the spell. ‘Get ’em away from the gate but don’t harm the buggers.’
As his men edged forward again, indicating with their swords that the Brigantians should move aside, Macro withdrew his sword and gestured to Venutius’s followers to help him up. Once he was on his feet Venutius clasped a hand over his wounded arm and looked down in shame, refusing to meet Macro’s gaze.
‘Macro!’
He turned and saw Cato striding through the gatehouse, the men of the follow-up centuries of the Eighth Cohort moving aside to let him through. Vellocatus followed at his heels. The prefect was smiling with relief as he approached his friend. ‘Thank the gods! You’ve done it, Centurion Macro. Fine work, my friend.’ Then Cato saw Venutius and he grinned. ‘Fine work indeed!’
He scanned the faces of the men around the rebel leader. ‘But no sign of Caratacus. Ask him where Caratacus is.’
Vellocatus spoke hurriedly and Venutius looked up with a sneer as he recognised the voice but made no reply. Vellocatus asked again, more insistently, and still there was no reply. Instead Venutius spat on the ground in front of his shield-bearer.
‘We must find him and make sure that the queen is safe. Come on!’ Cato led the way past the defeated warrior with Macro, Vellocatus and a body of legionaries following on behind. The Brigantians parted before them, like whipped dogs. Passing beyond the ranks of the enemy, Cato and the others hurried between the huts until they emerged on the open stretch of ground in front of the great hall of the tribe’s ruler. Some women and children saw them and ran for the cover of the huts. Outside the hall, guarding the entrances, were several men armed with spears. They hefted their weapons when they caught sight of the approaching Romans.
‘Tell them Venutius has surrendered. Tell them the rebellion is over and they’re to throw down their arms.’
Vellocatus called out to his compatriots as they approached. There was only the briefest of hesitation before the men saw the legionaries emerging from between the huts and accepted the truth of the shield-bearer’s words and laid down their weapons.
‘Macro, see to them,’ Cato ordered as he continued to the entrance of the hall. He stepped warily across the threshold into the gloomy interior and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw that the benches and tables had been cleared to the side and over a hundred people were sitting on the floor, faces turned towards him, relieved to see the Roman officer and knowing what his entrance meant. Cato had no time for them but looked to the far end of the hall. Queen Cartimandua was standing in front of her throne. Beside her stood Caratacus, one hand clamped tightly round her wrist. Cato approached them steadily, the sound of his nailed boots on the flagstones loud in the stillness.
‘The fort has fallen and Venutius has surrendered,’ he said clearly. ‘The rebellion has been crushed. Now you too must surrender.’
‘Liar!’ Caratacus called back. ‘Venutius would never surrender.’
‘He did, and now he’s our prisoner. As you are. It’s over, Caratacus.’
‘No! I shall never be your prisoner.’
There was an intensity to his words that alarmed Cato and he slowed to a stop, ten paces from the Catuvellaunian. He feared the man might mean to end his life rather than be captive once again, to be sent to Rome and his fate decided by the Emperor. As if in answer to Cato’s thoughts, Caratacus suddenly drew the dagger from his belt. Then, with a violent jerk, he pulled Cartimandua in front of him, locked his left arm round her throat and pressed the tip of the blade against her breast, directly over the heart. Cartimandua’s mouth opened in surprise and she gave a strangled gasp of terror.
‘You’ll let me go,’ Caratacus said, ‘if you want her to live.’
Cato drew a deep breath and shook his head. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Not any longer. Your war against Rome is over. It’s finished.’
‘That’s what you think. I’ll find another tribe. Other warriors with more courage than Venutius demonstrated. The war will go on.’
‘No. It won’t. I can’t let you leave here.’
‘If you don’t, she dies. Do you really want to be responsible for the death of an ally of your Emperor? He’ll have your head for letting it happen.’
Cato shrugged. ‘He might. But until then, I think your capture is more important than the queen’s death. If you surrender now, you may live. If you harm the queen, then I will kill you by my own hand. I swear this on my honour.’
‘Kill me? Do you think you could defeat me in a fight? Man to man?’
More footsteps sounded as Macro and a section of legionaries entered the hall and approached the confrontation. Cato smiled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
‘Not just me, it seems.’
Caratacus glared bitterly at the Romans as Macro came forward and stood beside Cato, shield in one hand and bloodied sword in the other.
‘Let her go,’ Cato said gently. ‘Let her go and surrender.’
Caratacus jerked his head, more of a nervous tic than a refusal, as if he could not even contemplate the thought of surrender.
‘Think it over,’ Cato urged. ‘If you kill this woman in cold blood, then the name of Caratacus will be reviled the length and breadth of Britannia. Is that what you want? Would you not rather be remembered for being the most indomitable of the Britons? You still have your honour. You have fought until the last. That is something no one can ever take from you. . If you release her and surrender now.’
Caratacus’s jaw set hard and he looked to be in agony. A low keening groan sounded in his throat. Then he slowly lowered his arms and gently pushed Cartimandua aside. She backed away swiftly and jumped down from the dais and hurried towards the protection of her Roman allies. Cato kept his eyes on the man standing alone and forlorn, then his gaze fell down to the dull gleam of the blade.
‘Don’t do it, sir. I beg you. You still have your life, and your family. They wait for you at Viroconium.’
Caratacus stood still and looked at him fixedly, an expression of pure desolation and grief etched into his face. Then he gave a deep sigh and sheathed his dagger. Cato approached him cautiously and held out his hand. ‘I’ll take that. If you don’t mind.’
Caratacus thought for a moment and then pulled the blade out again and offered the handle to Cato.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He breathed a soft sigh of relief and turned to the nearest of the legionaries. ‘Take King Caratacus to join the other prisoners.’
The soldier saluted and approached the enemy leader, watching him closely. Caratacus climbed down and allowed the man to take his arm and steer him down the length of the hall towards the light streaming in through the entrance.
Cato turned to the queen. ‘Are you all right, your majesty?’
She smiled nervously. ‘I am now, thank you.’
‘And these people?’ Cato indicated the prisoners who were stirring now that the drama was over.
‘We were treated well enough. No one was harmed.’ She nodded towards the entrance. ‘If you don’t mind, we’ve been cooped up in here since yesterday. Some fresh air would be welcome.’
For the first time since entering the hall, Cato realised how hot it was inside and he nodded. ‘By all means. The rebels have been disarmed. Your people here might want to take their weapons.’