‘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.’
