The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (10 page)

‘Who is he?’ Ostorius demanded. ‘What is the fellow’s name?’

Cato had a better view from the watchtower and could easily make out the dark robes and wild flowing hair of the rider. He already knew the answer even before the translator could reply to the governor.

‘He’s a Druid, sir. And he says his name is known only to his followers, as is their custom. And he, uh, requests that you bring your men and follow him now.’

‘Requests? I suspect that he put it more forcefully than that. I need you to interpret as accurately as possible. Tell me the precise words he used and let me deal with the nuances.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then tell him we will come at once.’ Ostorius turned to his officers. ‘Don’t forget what I said. No man does, or says, anything without my express order.’

‘What if anything happens to you, sir?’ asked Tribune Decianus.

‘In that event, I think you can rely on instinct.’ Ostorius smiled wryly. ‘The line of command is clear. If I fall, Prefect Cato will be the senior officer present. Look to him.’

Several of the men glanced up at Cato who was climbing down from the watchtower. Although he understood his duty well enough, the prospect of being thrust into command in what could only be a desperate situation caused him some anxiety.

The horses, used to the routine of being unsaddled at the end of the day and given their feed, whinnied and snorted in protest as their saddlecloths were replaced and then the heavy saddles and the rest of their tackle. Decimus saw to the mules, relieved that he would not have to ride out with his two masters. Night had fallen by the time the gates of the outpost opened and Ostorius led the column out to meet their Druid escort. The latter had not moved and now waited until Ostorius reined in a short distance from him. There was a pause, then the Druid clicked his tongue and walked his horse forward. Cato and Macro sat in their saddles a short distance behind the governor and his interpreter and could just make out the features of the Druid as he stared haughtily at Ostorius. Up close he appeared even more wild, and unworldly with his unkempt hair and dark robes.

‘If he thinks that staring routine is going to scare me, then he’d better think again,’ Macro said under his breath. ‘If it weren’t for orders, I’d have the bastard.’

‘Early days, Macro,’ Cato whispered. ‘If I’m any judge of the situation, you’ll get your chance.’

The Druid turned his attention from the governor and slowly rode down the column. Ostorius stared fixedly ahead, not willing to let the Druid’s scrutiny unsettle him. As the latter passed beside Macro and Cato, Macro gave a broad wink and the Druid growled what sounded like a curse back at the Roman officer. He continued, passing the tribunes who were taking a lead from their commander and striving not to look anxious. Then the Druid stopped in front of Prasutagus and his retinue. There was a long silence and the Druid sniffed the air, before his nose wrinkled with distaste and he spat on the ground in front of the Iceni King. Then he spoke.

‘What did he say?’ Ostorius asked calmly.

‘He said that the Iceni have been spending too long in the company of Romans. They are, ah, beginning to stink like Romans.’

Macro chuckled softly. ‘That’s rich. Coming from a bog-hopping, hairy-arsed barbarian.’

Cato glanced at him. ‘Shhh . . .’

With a sudden, harsh cry the Druid wheeled his shaggy mount round and rode back to the head of the column. He gestured to Ostorius to follow him as he trotted away from the outpost towards the distant fires. The night air was filled with the thud of hoofs and the chink of the bits of the horses and the armour of the riders.

‘He’s going too fast,’ Tribune Decianus complained. ‘It’s madness in this darkness.’

‘If he can do it, then so must we,’ Cato called back to him.

Soon the grass beneath gave way to the packed earth of a track and Cato realised they must have rejoined the route from Calleva, and his concern for the safety of their horses abated a little.

Ahead of them the track passed through a small wood before climbing to the crest of a low ridge. The Druid, more familiar with the track, had stopped to let them catch up and as Cato’s mount slowed and crested the rise, he saw the sacred stones of Avibarius in the shallow vale below him. The spectacle caught his breath. An avenue of fires, half a mile long and some fifty feet wide, stretched across a levelled strip of ground. On either side he could make out the pillars of stone, lit a lurid red by the fires spaced between them. At the end of the avenue was a ring of earth, within which stood yet more stones, and more fires blazed from the top of the earth embankment. An open gateway stood at the point where the avenue pierced the earthworks and on the opposite side of the ring stood two monumental obelisks with a slab laid across their tops. Before it lay a large stone altar, barely visible even by the light of the flames, due to the blood that had stained it across uncounted years. A steady stream of figures was making its way down the avenue towards the gateway. The Druid gestured towards the near end of the avenue where hundreds of people and horses milled in an open area and urged his mount on.

They rode down a gentle slope and soon reached the throng, which instantly drew aside at the sight of the Druid, and those that followed him. As they made their way through the natives, Cato was aware of hundreds of eyes watching them pass. But there was no shout of greeting, or any cries of hostility hurled at the Roman governor and his retinue, just a silence that surrounded them as they rode towards the start of the avenue. There the Druid halted and slipped down from the back of his horse. Several boys darted forward to take the reins of the new arrivals and once the Roman governor and the others were ready, the Druid waved them on with a curt word of command and entered the avenue.

Most of those attending the meeting had already entered the ring and only the tail end of the earlier procession remained in the avenue of stone and fire. The Druid walked quickly but Ostorius led his men at a more sedate pace, refusing to hand the initiative to the Druid. As he looked back, the Druid saw that a gap had opened up and his teeth bared in anger. He stopped and waited, and then led at the pace set by the Romans. Cato was aware of figures on either side of them, barely visible as they watched from the fringe of the loom cast by the fires. The silence, and the spectacle of the setting, filled him with a sense of foreboding.

‘I don’t like this,’ Macro muttered, his hand moving towards the handle of his sword before he was aware of it. He forced it back to his side. ‘If there’s trouble we’ll be a long way from the horses, even if we did manage to fight our way out.’

‘If there’s trouble we won’t even make it out of the ring,’ said Cato.

‘Thanks. You’re going to be a real inspiration to the men of your cohort.’

‘A bitter truth is better than the sweetest lie, my friend.’

‘Pffftt!’ Macro spat scornfully and then marched on in silence, keeping a wary watch on each side. At length they approached the gates to the ring and Cato saw that it was studded with what looked like large pearls. It was only as they got closer he realised that they were skulls hanging face down from nails.

‘Oh, sweet Jupiter . . .’ Decianus muttered. ‘What is this place? A temple or a slaughterhouse?’

‘A bit of both actually,’ Marcommius answered him in an undertone. ‘Our gods demand blood sacrifices from time to time.’

Decianus looked at the interpreter with a disgusted expression. ‘Barbarians.’

‘No one asked you to come here, Roman.’

‘Then it’s as well we did. Time to put an end to these atrocities.’

Ostorius looked back angrily. ‘Quiet there! Keep your tongues still.’

They passed between the gates, fifteen feet high and made of oak. There must have been over a hundred skulls fixed to the timbers, Cato estimated, and he could almost sense the spirits of the dead looking on, sinister and hostile to those who came to Britannia unasked. The ring opened out before them, a hundred paces in diameter. The tribesmen who had already arrived had taken their places round the perimeter. The Druid pointed across the ring, to the left of the altar, where there was open ground, and spoke briefly to the interpreter.

‘He says we are to stand there, sir. The Iceni are to stand by you.’

Ostorius nodded. ‘Very well.’

Every face turned towards the last arrivals and watched them as they crossed the beaten earth at the heart of the sacred site.

‘Are the mountain tribes here?’ Cato asked Marcommius. ‘The Ordovices and the Silures?’

The interpreter scanned the tribesmen lining the ring. Cato had noted the subtle differences in clothing and hair styling between the groups.

Marcommius shook his head. ‘And no sign of Caratacus either. Hardly surprising, given how badly you Romans want to get your hands on him.’

‘The governor gave his word that all would be given safe conduct. Even Caratacus.’

‘Such guarantees are easily broken.’

Cato looked at Ostorius. ‘Not by some Romans, at least.’

A figure emerged from between the stone pillars behind the altar. Robed in black from shoulder to toes, the Druid wore a leather headpiece from which a set of antlers protruded like the bare branches of a tree in winter. As the Romans and the Iceni took their places, the Druid who had brought them here hurried to join the others standing beside the altar. There was a silence before the antlered figure stepped up to the altar and slowly raised his hands into the air, fingers spread so that his untrimmed nails looked like claws in the red hue of the fires burning on top of the earth rampart. Then he spoke, or rather chanted, in a high-pitched sing-song, and at intervals the other Druids joined in.

‘What are they saying?’ Macro whispered to Marcommius.

‘It is a prayer that all who are gathered here show wisdom, and do the will of the gods of their tribes. The High Druid asks that the spirits of the gods speak through us . . . He asks this in return for the offering.’

Cato turned to him. ‘What offering?’

Before Marcommius could reply, another figure emerged from between the pillars, a boy, barely into his teens, clad in a white robe with a garland of mistletoe about his neck. His eyes were wide and his lips trembled as he walked slowly towards the altar.

CHAPTER NINE

Behind the boy walked a man in a richly patterned cloak. He rested one hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other hung limply at his side. He struggled to contain his grief. When the boy reached the altar, the man stepped forward and kissed him tenderly on the top of his head and was still for a moment before the High Druid snapped a word of command. The man shrank away in fear, his mouth opened to cry out to the boy. But no sound came, and then two Druids took him by the arms and held him in place.

‘What in Hades’ name is going on?’ Macro growled. ‘This better not be what I think it is. Marcommius, tell me.’

‘This is the sacrifice demanded by the gods. An unblemished child. The man is his father.’

‘What? What father would play any part in this fucking horror show?’

‘It is an honour to be chosen, Roman. See, the boy goes quite willingly. And the father will be held in respect by his people when it’s all over.’

‘How could any man be respected for leading his son to the slaughter?’

There was genuine anger and outrage in Macro’s voice and Cato knew his friend well enough to fear that he would charge forward at any moment to put a stop to the ritual, with no thought to the consequences.

‘Macro, for pity’s sake, control yourself.’ Cato clamped his fingers round the wrist of the centurion’s sword arm. ‘There’s nothing we can do. We cannot change what is going to happen.’

‘We’ll see about that!’ Macro snarled, shaking off his grip.

‘No.’ Cato stood in front of his friend, blocking Macro’s view of the altar. ‘Stand your ground. That is an order.’

Macro looked at him with a shocked expression. ‘An order? Cato . . . lad, you can’t be serious.’

There was a sick feeling wrenching at Cato’s guts as he heard the pleading tone in his friend’s voice. Part of him wanted to tell Macro he understood – he shared – his revulsion and a desire to stop this macabre ceremony. But there was also the soldier in him, the man who obeyed orders. But it was the need to protect Macro that decided him. He turned to two of the bodyguards.

‘Hold him. If he struggles, or shouts out, knock him senseless.’

One of the legionaries shook his head. ‘Sir?’

‘Do as you are ordered!’ Cato snapped fiercely. ‘Do it! Before he gets us all killed.’

The legionaries quickly grabbed Macro and held him firm, though he was too shocked to react at first. Instead he stared at Cato. ‘Why?’

‘We cannot save the boy.’

‘What’s going on here?’ Ostorius demanded as he edged through his men towards the commotion. The legionaries’ attention was broken and Macro pulled himself free. The governor ordered in a low voice, ‘Shut your mouths and stand still, damn you. Prefect, speak up, man. What in Hades’ name is happening?’

Cato turned towards his superior. ‘It’s sorted out, sir. Isn’t that right, Macro?’

Cato’s eyes pleaded with his friend and Macro glared back for a moment before he lowered his head and his shoulders drooped in despair. Cato turned about, so that his back would be in Macro’s way. The boy was struggling to climb on to the altar, whether because he was too scared or too weak, Cato could not tell. The High Druid stepped forward, grasped the boy by the waist and heaved him on to the top of the altar before forcefully pressing him down, his arms outstretched. The Druid turned the boy’s head to the side so that he was facing into the heart of the ring, and then raised his own arms to the heavens, tilting his antlered head back as he chanted. The sound of his voice was rich and melodic and he delivered his words with a steady cadence. A phrase was repeated, and the other Druids joined in, and then the rest of the tribesmen followed – even the boy as he lay on the altar, eyes wide as his lips moved as if they had a will of their own. The volume steadily rose until the chant was deafening and Cato felt as if his ears were being assaulted by the din driving into his skull, his body and his bones until he felt almost consumed by the rhythm.

Then, when it seemed that the chant could not get any louder, the high priest bent and rose up with a narrow-bladed dagger clutched in both hands. He raised it slowly and the polished steel of the blade reflected the glitter of the flames. All eyes were fixed on the spectacle being played out at the altar. Cato glanced at Macro and saw the clenched jaw and his left hand tightly clutching his right fist as if to stop it creeping towards the handle of his sword. As Cato’s eyes turned back towards the altar, the chanting stopped abruptly, as if the breath had been torn from the lungs of every one of the natives at precisely the same instant. The silence was as awe-inspiring as the sound had been a moment before and there was only the soft distant rustle of a light breeze and the faint crackle of the fires.

With a shrill, inhuman scream the High Druid stabbed his blade down with all his savage strength. The point plunged into the white tunic over the boy’s heart with such force that his arms and legs jerked wildly and the air exploded from his lungs with a half cry, half grunt. Then his head snapped back, jaw agape as he screamed briefly and writhed beneath the dagger that pinned him to the altar. The blood quickly soaked through the cloth and pooled on the stone surface before a dark stain began to trickle over the edge and streak down the side of the altar. Then the boy was still and the natives whispered a sibilant sound to mark his death. ‘
Sa . . . sa . . . sa
.’

‘Sick bastards,’ Macro groaned through his teeth. ‘Sick, savage fucks.’

Cato hissed a warning. As the people round the ring looked on, the High Druid set to work with his knife, opening up the dead boy’s chest, and Cato could see wisps of steam curling into the chilly air. Then the Druid leaned forward and dipped a hand in and wrenched out a bloody lump of flesh and examined it closely. The boy’s heart, Cato realised, and his throat tightened with nausea. After a lengthy delay, the Druid lowered the organ and looked round his audience before he made an announcement. There was an audible sigh of relief from the tribespeople.

‘The High Druid says that the heart is good and strong and will make a fine offering to the gods,’ Marcommius explained to the Romans in a hushed voice. The Druid turned to a small brazier burning close by the altar and tossed the heart into the flames. The fire instantly flared brightly and a large cloud of smoke billowed into the night sky. Some sleight of hand, Cato reasoned. The Druid had somehow thrown something in with the heart. Still, the effect was impressive and certainly had an impact on the audience who had instinctively flinched at the brief burst of light. Then he realised that the High Druid had disappeared at the same time, just as if the ground had swallowed him up. There was an anxious muttering before the Druid who had escorted the Romans and Iceni to the rings stepped forward and raised his hands to quiet the crowd.

‘He says the meeting of the tribes can begin.’

The governor nodded and stood ready as the Druid continued to address the crowd and Marcommius interpreted.

‘He says that you have asked them here to discuss terms for a lasting peace between Rome and the tribal kingdoms of Britannia. Some tribes have already pledged their allegiance to Rome, while a handful still offer resistance. Even without Rome, there are grievances between a number of tribes that had been the cause of long feuds and conflicts. He reminds those who have gathered here that this is the consecrated ground of the Druids and only they have the right to shed blood within the ring. Furthermore, Rome has pledged to give free passage to all who gather here, ally and enemy alike, and there are to be no fights or honour challenges for the duration of the meeting. Any who break these terms do great dishonour to themselves and their people and will surely reap the wrath of the gods as a result. If any of those present refuse to accept these conditions, they are free to go . . .’

The Druid fell silent and waited for a response, but none came, and no one moved.

‘Very well. Then I welcome the governor of that part of our lands presently called the province of Britannia to address the tribes.’

The Druid bowed his head to Ostorius and backed away to the side of the altar. The governor gestured to his interpreter to attend him and walked steadily into the centre of the ring. There was no sound as he reached his position and stopped, and stared round at the faces watching him. There were no cries of support or jeers or shouts of anger. Just silence. Ostorius cleared his throat and began to speak, and his interpreter broke into the rhythmic delivery of the Celtic tongue to convey his meaning to the gathering.

‘I am Ostorius Scapula, praetor of Rome, governor of Britannia and commander of all land and naval forces currently based on the island. I bid you welcome. All of you. Even those who represent the Silures and the Ordovices, sworn enemies of Rome and all that Rome stands for.’ The governor paused for a moment. ‘It has been nearly eight years since the legions landed on these shores. Within the first months we had defeated the most formidable army that the tribes could concentrate against us under the command of Caratacus. Not just once, but three times. Since then nothing has stood before the might of Rome. Not your armies, brave as your warriors are. Nor your hill forts, formidable as they must once have seemed to your eyes. You cannot beat us in battle, no matter how courageous you are. Our soldiers are better trained and better equipped. They have triumphed over the finest warriors of Carthage, Greece and Gaul. We have fought across the tallest mountains, penetrated the darkest forests of Germania and no river has been so fast flowing or wide that we have not thrown a bridge across it in a matter of days. Nothing stands in our way, however long it may take. Once our emperors have given the order, there can only be one outcome: victory. That is the way it is. Rome is good at war. The cost of defying us is to have your towns, villages and farms burned to the ground. Your warriors slaughtered, your women and children led off in chains to become slaves . . . Yet, as we are good at war, so we are good at peace. Rome brings order and wealth for those who embrace us as allies and accept our protections. Yes, there are taxes. But that is the price of living in peace. Accept our laws, our ways, and in time you will come to understand that the Roman way is your future and in your best interests.’

A warrior stepped forward from one of the tribal contingents, a tall, powerfully built figure. He spoke bitterly, stabbing his finger at the governor to drive home his point.

‘That’s Venutius, of the Brigantes,’ said the interpreter. ‘Husband of Queen Cartimandua.’

‘Then he’s the king?’

‘No, sir. The queen rules the tribe. He is her consort, and does not share her liking of Rome.’

‘I see. And what does the consort have to say?’

‘He is angry at the effrontery of your words. That you should tell the tribes to adopt Roman ways, here on the ground that has been sacred to the tribes from time beyond memory. He accuses you of forcing us to give up our gods.’

Venutius’s words had provoked angry muttering and Ostorius raised his hand and called for silence. Once the muttering died away he spoke again through his interpreter.

‘Rome has no intention of taking away your gods, or your sacred sites. You are free to hold to your beliefs. Or choose ours, as you will. You can embrace our ways or live much as you do now. That is your choice. But you must learn to live under our rule and our laws. It is a small price to pay for an end to the bitter conflict of recent years. And before that, the continual raids and small wars that raged between your tribes.’

Venutius listened to the words and responded immediately, in the same angry tone as before.

‘He says that is the way of the tribes. How else is a warrior supposed to prove himself? He must show his courage and his skill in battle. If you take that away from him then you take away his purpose in life.’

Ostorius replied firmly. ‘Then the warriors must find a new purpose. They must learn to be farmers, or they can volunteer to serve Rome in the ranks of our auxiliary forces. That is their only future. You must accept the truth. Your warriors must give up the old ways, or die in battle against the legions.’

Venutius laughed harshly.

‘He says you give him no choice.’

‘On the contrary. I am offering him the choice between life or certain death.’

When the governor’s words were translated there were cries of protest and angry shouts from around the circle and Cato feared that his superior was in danger of pushing the tribal leaders too far. Then another man emerged into the open. He raised his hand and commanded the attention of the others. He was solidly built but had run to fat and his jowls hung heavily, fringed with a neatly trimmed beard. Though he was clad in a woven cloak and leggings, beneath he wore a Roman-style tunic and his hair was cut much shorter than the other natives. He strode confidently into the middle of the ring and waited until he had silence before he addressed the gathering.

‘Who in Hades’ name is that clown?’ asked Macro.

‘I can guess,’ said Cato. ‘Cogidubnus, of the Regni.’

‘The one who sold out to us even before the first boot was planted on British soil?’

‘That’s the one.’

Macro saw the looks of contempt on the faces of many of the other natives. ‘I can’t help wishing he wasn’t speaking up for our side.’

The man in the centre of the ring spoke with a clear, deep voice as his words were translated. ‘First I would like to offer my sincere gratitude to the governor for offering us this chance to make a lasting peace . . . You all know me. I am King Cogidubnus. I wish to speak plainly, to speak the truth. I too was raised as a warrior, and have led my men into battle. I have no need to prove my worth to back up my words. I come here to support the arguments of Governor Ostorius Scapula. Rome has indeed proved a mighty friend and ally to me and my people. I can swear to the fact that we have profited from the coming of Rome and what is true for the Regni can be true for any tribe that accepts the hand of friendship extended by the governor.’

‘Traitor!’ a voice called out in Latin, and then repeated the cry in the native dialect.