Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts (33 page)

'I doubt they're hiding in there,' said Macro.

'No, sir.' Cato retrieved the material and held it up for closer inspection by the light of the torch. It was silk, with an embroidered hem. The middle was soiled.

'Nice smell you've uncovered!' Macro wrinkled his nose. 'Now put it back.'

'Sir, this is the proof we're looking for. Look!' Cato held the material out for his centurion to see. 'It's silk. Patterned in Rome, and the maker has stitched a small emblem in the corner.'

Macro stared at the neat design: an elephant's head — the family motif of the Plautii.

'That's it then! They're here. Or were here, at least. But where are they now?'

'Must have gone with the Druids.'

'Maybe. We'd better just check the site for any other signs of the general's family — or what might have become of them.'

Outside the hut Prasutagus could not hide his relief at being in the company of other humans again. Macro held out the silk.

'They were here.'

'Sa! Now we go, yes?'

'No. We keep looking. Is there any other place on the island they might have been taken to?'

Prasutagus looked at him blankly. Macro tried to make his meaning simpler.

'We keep looking. Another place? Yes?'

Prasutagus seemed to understand, and turned to point at a track leading into the trees directly opposite the antlered chair.

'There.'

'What's up that way?'

Prasutagus did not answer, and continued staring towards the track. Macro saw that he was trembling. He shook the warrior's shoulder. 'What's up there?'

Prasutagus wrenched his gaze from the track and turned to face him, eyes wide with terror.

'Cruach.'

'Cruach? That dark god of yours? You're taking the piss.'

'Cruach!' Prasutagus insisted. 'Sacred grove of Cruach. His place in this world.'

'Quite talkative when you're shitting yourself, aren't you?' Macro smiled. 'Come on, mate. Let's have a little word with this Cruach. See what he's made of.'

'Sir, is that wise?' asked Cato. 'We've found what we came for. Wherever the general's family are, they're not here now. We should get moving before we're discovered.'

'Not until we check the grove,' Macro replied firmly. 'No more nonsense. Let's go.'

With Macro at their head, the three men strode across the clearing and started down the track. With the torch flickering before them, they could see the gnarled trunks of oak trees lining the route on either side.

'How far to the grove?' asked Macro.

'Near,' Prasutagus whispered, keeping close to the flickering torch.

The trees were silent all about them; nothing stirred, not an owl or any other creature of the night. It was as if the island was under some kind of spell, Cato decided. Then he realised the smell of decay was back again. With every step along the track, the scent of death and putrid sweetness grew stronger.

'What was that?' Macro stopped abruptly.

'What was what, sir?'

'Shut up! Listen!'

The three of them paused, ears straining to hear anything above the unnaturally loud crackle and hiss of the torch. Then Cato heard it: a low moan that rose and fell to a whimper. Then a voice muttered something. Strange words that he could not quite make out.

'Draw swords,' Macro ordered quietly, and the three men eased the blades from their scabbards.

Macro stepped forward, and his companions followed nervously, senses straining for any sign of the source of the noise. Ahead of them, the track began to widen, and out of the darkness loomed a stake with a lumpen shape jammed on top. As they approached, the light of the torch illuminated the dark stains running down its length, and the head impaled on the end.

'Shit!' muttered the centurion. 'I wish the Celts wouldn't do that.'

They came upon more stakes, each bearing a head, in varying stages of decay. All of them were arranged to face the track so that the three trespassers were walking under the gaze of the dead. Once again the air felt colder than it should to Cato, and he was about to comment on it when a fresh moan broke the silence. It came from the far side of the grove, beyond the wavering pool of light cast by the torch. This time the moan increased in intensity, and became a piercing wail of agony that tore through the darkness and froze the blood of the three mortals.

'We go!' Prasutagus whispered. 'We go now! Cruach comes!'

'Bollocks!' replied Macro. 'No god makes a sound like that. Come on, you bastard! Don't chicken out now.'

He half dragged the Briton towards the sound and Cato followed reluctantly. In truth, he would have gladly turned and run from the grove, but that would have meant leaving the security of the glow cast by the torch. The thought of being lost and alone in this terrible dark world of the Druids made him stick as close to the others as possible. Another cry rose through the night, much closer now, and ahead of them loomed the flat stone of an altar, and beyond it the being giving voice to the cries of agony that seemed so much a part of this dreadful place.

'What the hell is that?' Macro cried out.

No more than fifteen paces away, on the far side of the altar, the figure of a man slowly writhed. He was suspended from a wooden beam, his forearms lashed to its rough surface. From below he was impaled on a long shaft of wood which entered his body just behind his testicles. As they watched, the man tried to raise himself, straining at the ropes that bound his arms. Astonishingly he managed to do this for a moment, before his strength gave out and he slid down again, causing him to let loose another terrible wail of agony and despair. The inhuman noise subsided into prayers and curses, in a language that was almost as familiar to Cato as his own Latin.

'That's Greek he's speaking!'

'Greek? That's not possible… Unless…' Macro strode closer to the man, raising the torch as he approached. 'It's Diomedes…'

The Greek stirred at the sound of his name, and forced his eyelids to open. He stared down at them with a desperate glint in his eyes.

'Help me!' he mumbled in Latin through tightly clenched teeth. 'For pity's sake, help me!'

Macro looked round at his comrades. 'Cato! Get up that beam and cut him free. Prasutagus! Keep his weight off that stake!'

The Briton tore his gaze from the terrible spectacle and stared blankly at Macro who quickly mimed a lifting action with his spare hand and pointed at Diomedes. Prasutagus nodded and hurried over. He grasped the Greek's legs and eased him up, bearing Diomedes's full weight in his powerful arms without difficulty. Meanwhile Cato, never terribly athletic, was struggling to shin up one of the supporting posts. With a sigh of impatience, Macro came over and stood with his back to the post.

'Use my shoulders to get up!'

Up on the crossbeam Cato crawled along to the first binding. His sword cut through the coarse rope with some difficulty before the Greek's left arm came free, flopping down to his side. Cato reached over to the other binding and a moment later the other arm was freed. The optio dropped down from the crossbeam.

'Now then, let's get him off the stake. Lift him up, you idiot!'

Prasutagus understood, and with straining arms he began to raise the Greek up the stake that penetrated deep into his body. There was a wet sucking sound from the wound, then a muffled grating of bone. Diomedes threw his head back and shrieked to the heavens.

'Shit! Be careful, you fool!'

With a heave Prasutagus lifted the Greek clear of the point and gently set him down on the altar. A dark gush of blood spilled out of the gaping wound where Diomedes's anus had once been and Cato winced at the sight. The Greek trembled fitfully and his eyes rolled in their sockets as he fought the terrible, mortal agony. He was very close to death.

Macro leaned close to the Greek's ear. 'Diomedes. You're dying. Nothing can stop that. But you can help us. Help us get back at the bastards who did this to you.'

'Druids,' Diomedes gasped. 'Tried to… make them pay… Tried to find them.'

'You found 'em all right.'

'No… Caught me first… Brought me here… and did this.'

'Did you see any of the other prisoners?'

A spasm of pain twisted his features. When it subsided a little, he nodded. 'The general's family…'

'Yes! You saw them?'

Diomedes clenched his teeth. 'They were… here.'

'Where are they now? Where have they been taken?'

'They've gone… Heard someone say… they'd take shelter in… the Great Fortress. They call it Mai Dun… Only safe place… once they found out they'd been… betrayed by a Druid.'

'The Great Fortress?' Macro frowned. 'When was this?'

'This morning… I think,' Diomedes whispered. His strength was fading fast as his blood pumped from the open wound. He convulsed as another spasm of agony ripped through his body. One of his hands grabbed the centurion's tunic.

'For pity's sake… kill me… now,' he hissed through his teeth.

Macro stared down into the wild eyes for a moment and then replied gently, 'All right. I'll make it quick.'

Diomedes nodded his gratitude and clenched his eyes shut.

'Hold the torch,' Macro ordered and passed it to Cato. Then he lifted the Greek's left arm to one side, exposing the armpit, and looked into Diomedes's face.

'Know this, Diomedes. I swear by all the gods that I'll get revenge for you and your family. The Druids will pay for all they've done.'

As the Greek's expression softened, Macro thrust his sword deep into his armpit and through to his heart with an animal grunt of effort. Diomedes's body tensed for an instant and his mouth opened with a gasp as the impact of the blow drove the dying breath from his lungs. Then his body went limp, and his head rolled to one side, eyes glazed in death. No one spoke for a moment. Macro wrenched the blade free, and wiped it on the dirty remnants of the Greek's tunic. He raised his eyes to look at Prasutagus.

'He said the Great Fortress. Do you know it?'

Prasutagus nodded, hearing the words but unable to tear his gaze from Diomedes.

'You can take us there?'

Prasutagus nodded again.

'How far?'

'Three days.'

'Then we'd better get moving. The Druids have a day's head start on us. If we push it, we might catch them before they reach this Great Fortress of theirs.'

Chapter Twenty-Seven

'We're not going to catch them, are we?' Cato said to Boudica as he chewed on a leathery piece of hardtack.

After Diomedes had died, they had hurried back to find Boudica to begin their pursuit of the Druids at once. Even after dawn had broken, Macro had ordered that they continue; the need to catch up with the Druids and their prisoners before they could take shelter in the Great Fortress outweighed the risk of discovery. From the rushed translation provided by Boudica, it was clear that once inside the vast ramparts of the fortress, protected by a large garrison of selected warriors — the bodyguard of the King of the Durotriges — the hostages would be beyond any hope of rescue. The general's family would either be exchanged — if Aulus Plautius allowed himself to be so humbled that it would destroy his career — or they would be burned alive in a wicker effigy under the eyes of the Druids of the Dark Moon.

So the two Romans, and their Iceni guides, had ridden their horses hard all through the night and well into the next day until it was clear that the animals were spent and would collapse and die if they were pushed any further. They hobbled the horses in the ruined pen of an abandoned farm, and gave them the last of the feed carried by the ponies. Tomorrow, before first light, they would set off again.

Prasutagus stood the first watch, while the others ate and tried to sleep, huddled in their cloaks in the cold air of early spring. Macro, as usual, fell into a deep slumber almost as soon as he had curled up under his cloak. But Cato's mind was restless, tormented by Diomedes's terrible fate and the prospect of what lay ahead, and he fidgeted and fretted. When he could take no more, he threw back his cloak and stood up. He added some wood to the glowing embers of the fire and helped himself to one of the air-dried strips of beef in his saddlebag. The meat was as hard as wood and could only be swallowed after a great deal of chewing. Which suited Cato, who needed something to occupy him. He was on his second strip of dried beef when Boudica joined him in front of the fire. They had risked a small fire, concealed by the crumbling walls of an abandoned farm. The thatch roof had fallen in and now lazy flames licked around the remains of the roofing timber Cato had chopped to bits for fuel.

'We might catch them up,' she answered him. 'Your centurion thinks we will.'

'And what happens if we do?' Cato said quietly, with a quick glance towards the bundled form of his snoring centurion. 'What will three men be able to achieve against who knows how many Druids? There'll be some kind of bodyguard as well. It'll be suicide.'

'Don't always look for the dark side of a situation,' Boudica chided him. 'There's four of us, not three. And Prasutagus is worth any ten Durotrigan warriors that ever lived. From what I know of your centurion, he's a pretty formidable fighter as well. The Druids will have their work cut out with those two. I have my bow with me, and even my small hunting arrows can kill a man if I'm lucky. Which leaves you. How good are you in a fight, Cato?'