Around midday, as he steered his horse further into the wilderness, he was met by a scattering of forest animals heading in the opposite direction. Several deer came out of the woods to his front and passed him on both sides. Animals that would have normally stayed clear of a man practically brushed his leg as they scurried away. He even had to steer his horse out of the way of one disoriented, large-horned elk.
Then, he heard a rumble in the ground. It sounded as if the earth itself had a heartbeat. Divitiacus instantly knew what was coming. He wheeled his mount around and started in the other direction, but then the thunder of hooves to his right and left made him rein in.
It was too late. The flankers had gotten past him.
Grabbing the low hanging branch of a large tree, Divitiacus pulled himself up into the giant boughs and began to climb, pausing only once to swat the rump of his horse to send it running. He climbed as fast as he could, up and up, until he was hidden within the leaves and branches in the tree’s high top.
Then, what he had expected came.
A wall of men moved through the forest. Rank after rank of spearmen, swordsmen, and skirmishers. There were thousands of them, a seemingly endless mass of warriors filing through the trees beneath as if the trunks of the trees had been overtaken by a flood of humanity. Every opening in the branches, every piece of ground beneath him, was covered with the marching soldiers, and they were moving quickly, unencumbered by baggage. The woad-covered warriors were marching to war. They marched southeast, they marched silently, and Divitiacus knew that they were headed to intercept the Roman army.
Divitiacus sat in the tree for nearly three hours as the horde passed beneath him, holding his breath each time he saw a blue-painted face turned skyward. But, they never saw him. When he finally dared to come down, he set foot onto ground that had been trampled into mud.
As he looked at the torn-up ground, stretching off in all directions beneath the trees, a massive scar on the earth that could only have been made by fifty thousand men or more, Divitiacus suddenly remembered why the Aedui had never gone to war against the Belgic tribes.
XIX
The old druidess stood on the barren hilltop speaking incantations as the yellow moon crept over the eastern horizon. Her druids were beside her and they repeated her words. The previous night’s bonfire still smoldered, a mound of red embers and blackened bones. The elevation afforded a view of the darkened treetops, stretching out as far as the eye could see, and the woman raised her hands as if to bless the direction in which the horde of Belgic warriors had taken in their rapid march to head off the approaching invaders. Far away to the south, almost to the visible horizon, a glow hung above the forest. It marked the campfires of the Roman army, only a day’s march away. The sight made her stomach turn, though she did not know why. There was something about the infidels that frightened her to the core, something that drew her to them yet repulsed her at the same time. They were so strange, and yet so familiar to her. It was as if she understood their nature and all that they intended for the lands they conquered. They would drive her kind from the land. The druids would fade into nothingness.
She felt at the ring on her finger, the strange ring, the only thing she had brought with her from the other world. All those years ago, when the god of the sea had deposited her onto the beach, she had been naked but for the single ring that marked her as an endowment by the gods to the world of men. The druids had found her and cared for her, and when they saw that her mind was blank and undefiled by the knowledge of men, they knew that she had been sent to fulfill a purpose. She was a gift from the gods, a spotless soul to learn the arts and to bring the people back into harmony with the spiritual world. She had learned quickly, and had quickly become the seer for many tribes. In her first years as a druidess, she had crossed the length and breadth of Gaul and Belgica, learning the arts of the various druid sects, even travelling to Britannica, where they practiced magic long since forgotten by civilized man. Her knowledge had made her powerful, and her prophecies had given her renown. For hers always came true. But the years had passed, and she had seen the tribes of the land succored by the temptations of trade. They traded openly with the heathens that lived around the great southern sea, and the influence had been most corrupting.
Now, she felt old and frail, and she found herself looking at the ring more often, wondering when she would be called back to the spiritual world. She could still feel the wound in her side, a pain that ran all the way through her, where the Roman had driven the spear. By the will of the gods, she had survived. Her fellow druids had recommended burning an effigy of the soldier and summoning curses to ensure that his soul was damned for all eternity. But, as painful as the wound was, she could not bring herself to do it, and she thought that very strange. Something about the Roman lingered with her, even now. She hated all Romans with every bit of her existence. Had she not been put on earth to stop them? But there was something about that one soldier’s face that had awoken unfamiliar feelings in her. And then there were the troubling dreams of late, the dreams in which she imagined herself as a young Roman woman with a Roman husband and several children, all speaking the accursed language of the Romans, and living in a Roman colony. Such outlandish dreams could only portend wicked times.
The Romans had to be stopped. They would be stopped. She had foreseen it. The omens from last night’s sacrifice were all favorable. Boduognatus and his mighty army would bring the invaders to their knees.
Just then, a crackle sounded behind her, and she turned to see several of the druids rushing away from the smoldering bonfire as one of the larger logs holding up a good portion of the structure cracked and sent the embers on top of it crashing down, releasing a shower of sparks that shot in every direction and singed the robes of several of the nearby priests. At the same time, a lone wolf howled in the distance, clear and distinct in the night. When the sparks had finally settled, all of the priests turned to look on the druidess, a look of horror on their faces. She looked back at them, equally disturbed.
It was the worst possible of omens. What had they done wrong? Why would the spirits have encouraged them up to this point, only to remove their favor on the eve of battle?
“What has happened?” she said accusingly to the assembled druids. “Which of you has an impure heart? Tell me, or I will find him out!”
They all remained silent, and each averted his eyes as the black-hooded woman limped around to study each face.
“I can find nothing in any of you,” she said, out of breath after examining the last. She thought for a moment, and then asked, “Last night, after I left the circle, were all of the rites performed, and the words said, just as I told you?”
“Yes, sacred one,” the chief priest replied. “All was as you directed. The Romans were burned alive, just as you instructed.”
“And you are certain that all died?”
The priest gave a hint of a smile. “No man could have survived that inferno, sacred lady, and none escaped.”
One of the other priests spoke up. “None, but the one Roman we pulled out of the line.”
“One Roman did not burn?” the druidess snarled incredulously, suddenly enraged. She spun around and limped over to the man who had spoken. She moved so abruptly that he took a few steps back at her approach. “Why was he spared? Tell me why!” She demanded.
“Boduognatus instructed us to remove him. His daughter wanted the Roman spared as a slave.”
The sacred lady closed her eyes, fearing the worst, for this was certainly the source of the ill omens. Then, at that moment, another terrifying thought suddenly crossed her mind.
“This Roman,” she said evenly. “Did he have a scar on his face?”
The priest’s eyes widened with amazement before he answered. “Yes.”
“All of you, come with me!!” the sacred lady snapped at the assembled druids. There was not much time. It was worse than she had feared. They had to act now or all would be lost. “Quickly! We m
ust move quickly!”
XX
“Gertrude, daughter of Boduognatus!” the voice intoned outside. “Come forth! Come forth and surrender the heathen!”
The voice was haunting, and it woke Gertrude from a deep sleep, a sleep in which she had dreamt that she was a queen of a mystical kingdom on the shores of the great sea, and the Roman her slave, and how she ordered him to bathe in front of her every day.
Gertrude rose and donned a cloak to answer the call. A stick rapped impatiently on the doorframe. She opened the door and was met by a cluster of white-robed druids flanking the slight figure of the sacred lady. Their faces were grim. Two of the men carried torches, and the rest held freshly cut wood and kindling.
“Where is the infidel?” the old woman said curtly. Gone was any trace of the affection that normally trimmed her tone when she spoke to Gertrude. “Bring him forth, at once!”
Gertrude looked at the old woman for several long moments. Her father was a chieftain, and she a chieftain’s daughter. She would stand up to these fanatics.
“The Roman is my father Boduognatus’s property,” she said. “You may not have him until my father agrees to yield him to you.”
“Your father is away leading the army, girl!” one of the priests spat.
“Then you will have to wait for his return.”
The priest was enraged. “Your father would never defy the will of the seer. Surrender the heathen, now, girl! He must burn in flame. The spirits of oak and fire have spoken!”
Gertrude half wished that the guards were still around. These priests might not be so bold if they were facing swordsmen. Still, she was determined not to back down.
“You are not welcome here. When my father returns, you may discuss such matters with him. But for now, the Roman is a slave, and he shall remain in my keeping.”
“The man must die, child,” the sacred lady said, this time in a more congenial tone, as a mother might tell a child of things that must be. “He brings death to our people. He brings death to your father. Would you choose the Roman over your own father?”
Gertrude fought to keep her voice firm. She was confused, torn between what her heart told her, and the prophecies of these extremists which she only sometimes believed.
“Enter this house, and you risk facing the wrath of Boduognatus! I will tell him how his daughter and his property were treated by you of the forest. He will not forget!”
“Hold her!” the old woman commanded.
One of the druids near Gertrude lunged for her hands, but she batted him away and swiftly kicked him in the groin. As the man groaned with pain, another of them came at her, but she had retreated inside the door, and already had the door shut by the time he could reach her. She had hoped to bar the door, but before she could a set of white-robed arms grabbed her from behind. The druids had sent some of their number to the rear of the house without her noticing, and had entered through a back window while she was distracted by those at the door. It took three of them to finally restrain her, but not before she had scratched one across the face and crushed the testicles of another.
The slave quarters were located in an adjoining structure, entered from inside the main house, and the druids rushed into the chamber while she watched. After several exclamations and curses, the priests emerged from the room empty-handed.
“He is not here!” the chief priest exclaimed. “No one is here, sacred lady!”
“Where is he, child?” the old woman asked after stumbling over to Gertrude and wrapping her bony fingers around the young woman’s thin neck.
Gertrude winced from the pain. It was like being squeezed by a skeleton – a skeleton with a surprisingly strong grip.
“Where is he? He must die! He must die!” The old woman sounded desperate, and shook Gertrude as she spoke each word, as if she might wrench the information out of her.
“I don’t know!” Gertrude screamed as the iron grip closed more tightly around her neck.
The old woman’s jagged teeth gritted, her face set in a hateful scowl, as Gertrude had seen it when she had issued the vilest of curses. She looked as though she might crush the life out of her.
“Please…sacred…lady,” Gertrude struggled to speak as tears streamed from her bulging eyes.
Her pleas had no effect, initially, but something of their long-standing relationship must have broken through the druidess’s anger. Eventually, the old woman’s face softened, and she released her grip. Struggling to regain her breath, Gertrude fell to her knees and rubbed the claw-like red marks left on her neck.
“Find the Roman!” the druidess snapped at the others. “Search every house, if you must, but find him, and bring him to me!”
After the rustle of white-robed men had left to carry out her orders, the old woman turned to the coughing Gertrude.
“I warned you of him, my child. You failed to heed my counsel.”
“You said…he would bring life to me, sacred lady. I only wished to preserve him from the flame, that the prophecy might be fulfilled. I intended no harm.”
“He did bring you life. He saved you before. His thread was woven with yours for a purpose, and that purpose has been fulfilled. If his thread continues it will bring about chaos. The fragile balance we have maintained so long between your people and the spirits of the forest. The Roman’s thread must be cut off or your people will be doomed to serve under the yoke of the infidels.”
Gertrude’s eyes were full of tears, and the old woman reached out a hand and began gently stroking her hair.
“Rest easy, my child,” the druidess said. “It is out of your hands, now.”
With that, the druidess left, leaving Gertrude crying softly on the floor.
Gertrude felt ashamed at having put herself above the welfare of her tribe. She felt ashamed at having stirred the wrath of the sacred lady, whom she had shared a special relationship with for so long. Most of all, she felt ashamed because the search of the town would turn up nothing. The Roman was not in the town, nor anywhere within several miles of this place, she reckoned.
She knew this because she had helped the Roman to escape.
XXI
"This way," Alain called, turning his head once to glance back at the lagging Lucius.
The boy moved like a gazelle, and even Lucius, who took pride in his own stamina, had trouble keeping up with him. Add to that, he carried in his hands an ancient, heavy spear that had been propped in a corner of Gertrude’s house. It was his only weapon.
"Are you certain?" Lucius said between breaths. "How can you be sure?"
"I've travelled this path many times, running errands for my mistress."
Lucius might have thought the boy mad, if the lad had not had such confidence. There was no path that he could see. The cross-hatched hedges of the Nervii countryside, made one place look like another. Lucius had followed Alain through the rough country all morning, and it seemed that each time they broke through a cut in one of the hedgerow barriers they found another several hundred paces beyond. The small hills they had surmounted on their trek had only allowed Lucius to see so far, but he thought he had seen a line of dust hanging above the trees in the distance, and he surmised it to be the Roman column on the march.
Alain led Lucius through some of the most rugged country he had yet seen, but the boy seemed to know every hollow, every stream, and every hidden opening through the living barriers. The paths were well-concealed, but they were there. Of course, they had to be, Lucius considered. How else could the Nervii so easily shadow the Roman columns marching on the road?
As Lucius ducked the low branches, trying hard to keep up with Alain, he began to worry that they might come across Belgic troops using these same paths.
"The army won't go this way," the boy said, as if reading his thoughts.
"Why not?"
"Hardly anyone knows about it. This is the spy path. The way the Nervii get their infiltrators to and from enemy lands. The chieftains don't let the commoners know about
it."
"And how do you come to know of it?"
"Gertrude is a stubborn daughter," he grinned. "She never does what she's told. Many a time she brought me with her to nose about her father's business. She likes to know all. Her father wishes she would stay home and have babies, but I don't think that will ever happen. She's too headstrong."
Alain had said it cheerily, as if every thought of his mistress brought him delight. Lucius knew that she had fulfilled a mother's role for the boy. Though Alain was her slave, she loved him like a son, and he loved her like a mother. That was one of the reasons Alain had agreed to help him escape and guide him through the forest to the Roman column. Not just because Gertrude had ordered him to do it, but because saving Caesar's life seemed to be the best chance for his mistress to survive the coming Roman storm. No matter how long it took, no matter how many battles had to be fought, Rome would prevail in the end. Lucius felt Gertrude understood that. The things he had said about Senator Valens seemed to have struck a nerve with her, too.
After her anger had calmed that night, she had returned to the hut.
"He will betray my father. You are sure of this?" Alain had translated for her.
"Yes," Lucius had replied, surprised that she was so apt to take his word to heart. "Your Druids call Caesar a devil. Maybe he is, but he's not half the devil Valens is. I know the man. Even if your father wins the battle, he will savor the victory but a short time. Valens will come back and annihilate your people. He will show no mercy. Your only hope of stopping Valens is to kill him."
"And if I help you escape," she had said hesitantly. "You think you could do this?"
"I've told you what he did to my family. I want nothing more than to cut off his lying head." Lucius saw Gertrude considering, and then added, "And I vow, on my honor, ma'am, that you and the boy will be under my personal protection. No Roman will touch you. Not while I draw breath."
Rome: Fury of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 16