Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘The fires mark the boundary of sacred stones. As the sun dies, the fire gives light to the world. When priests give the order.’

  ‘Priests?’ Cato took in a sharp breath. ‘You mean Druids.’

  Prasutagus nodded.

  Cato unconsciously raised his hand to touch his chest where a Druid had wounded him seven years before. There was only a scar there now, but suddenly he felt a chill on the flesh beneath the cloth of his tunic. ‘What does it mean, Prasutagus?’

  ‘They prepare the ground for the meeting. There are rituals they must perform, and sacrifices. To appease spirits and please our gods.’

  ‘What kind of sacrifices?’ Cato asked quietly but Prasutagus did not reply. He strained his eyes to try and make out more detail. At length he continued in his broken Latin.

  ‘They send for us soon.’

  ‘Already?’

  The Iceni king shrugged. ‘Why not? You have something else to do?’ He glanced meaningfully at his wife.

  Boudica scowled. ‘We were talking about the last time we were together. The four of us, my King.’

  ‘That was long time ago. Long time. Much has changed. You are my wife and Queen of the Iceni.’

  ‘And what of friendship?’ Cato asked. ‘Has that changed?’

  ‘Is a man a friend if he takes and takes, until he leaves nothing?’

  Cato smiled. ‘You are talking about Rome. What about Macro and me? What have we ever taken from you? Why should we not be friends, as we once were?’

  Prasutagus raised his eyebrows in surprise as he answered. ‘Because you are Romans.’

  ‘There’s some movement over there!’ the junior tribune who had spoken earlier piped up. ‘Horseman approaching.’

  ‘Thank you, Tribune Decianus,’ the governor replied tersely. ‘I may be getting old, but I’m not blind.’

  The outpost commander turned to him. ‘What are your orders, sir?’

  ‘Have your men stand to along the palisade. Let’s look smart and alert, eh? The kind of soldiers who will never be taken by surprise.’

  The optio smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’

  The governor turned to look up at Prasutagus. ‘It might be a good idea if you and your retinue stayed out of sight, rather than looking as if you are here under my protection.’

  Prasutagus gritted his teeth and growled, ‘The Iceni need no protection.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Ostorius replied soothingly. ‘It’s just a question of form. Best not have any of your peers jumping to conclusions.’

  Prasutagus hesitated a moment, then issued an order to his warriors and swung himself on to the ladder and began to descend from the tower. After a brief apologetic look, Boudica followed him. The tribesmen scrambled down to the base of the turf rampart and out of view of the horseman approaching the outpost. The soft thud of hoofs carried to the ears of those standing on the walkway and then the pace of the rider slowed. There was a tense silence as he made his way close enough to the outpost to address those within. Then the dim shadow stopped, fifty feet from the ditch, and a voice called out to them in a native tongue.

  ‘Where’s my damned interpreter?’ Ostorius demanded in a low voice. ‘Marcommius, on me, damn you. Quickly!’

  The interpreter thrust his way past the tribunes to join the governor.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asks for you, sir.’

  ‘Ask him how he knows that I am here?’

  There was a brief exchange before Marcommius relayed the words. ‘He says that we have been watched closely since we passed through Calleva, sir. Us and the Iceni contingent. The others have been waiting for us to arrive before the ceremonies began, sir. Now he asks us, and King Prasutagus, to follow him to the sacred rings.’

  ‘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 Avibariu
s 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 wa
s 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.