Bravado's House of Blues (10 page)

“Here,” he said, closing the bag in his thick fist and walking toward one of his guards. “Take this to the fire,” Atticus said with a growl, “and we shall see what we can see.”

“Yes, Legate,” the stout warrior said. The centurion took the bag and made his way toward the back of the gathering men. Atticus watched as all but the most experienced men flinched, as if the bag held their worst nightmare.

Atticus returned his attention to his scout. Bellicus appeared to be at least forty summers old, but that could just be hard campaigning. Young or old, he had served the legion well.

“Is there more to report?”

“Adun fell to the barbarians.”

Atticus thought back to the young scout, barely old enough to leave his mother’s side. “What happened?”

“The Gauls, they swarmed over him like rats, pulling him from his horse and into the brush before we could stop them.”

“Damn. Did they take him alive?”

“I believe so, sir. We saw no blood on the saddle.”

“Pluto’s balls!” Atticus struck his fist into his hand. “Which way did they go?”

Bellicus shook his head. “We lost them, Legate. My apologies, but we did have one bit of luck.”

“What is that?” Atticus looked the grizzled man in the eyes.

“My men spotted an eagle, sir,” he said with a shy smile. “An eagle that is ahead of us and leading us into the very heart of the enemy. That portends well, does it not?”

Atticus looked back over his assembled men. “Jupiter’s servant oft brings hope of victory,” he said to the smiling scout. “But as oft it portends great suffering.”

“Aye,” said Bellicus, his smile slipping a notch.

“I wonder what it portends for young Adun?” Atticus said.

Bellicus’ face fell.

“It will be another long night. Come, let us see to your little prisoner.”

Atticus soon determined he would gather no information from the pixie. Perhaps it would serve to bolster his men’s courage instead. He gathered the troops, forming a semi-circle around the legion’s altar—the symbol where new recruits swore their oath to Rome, and to the legion. It would serve another purpose this day.

Bellicus held the squirming creature, distaste and fear warring on his scarred face. Atticus took four nails from the dwindling supplies and held them up as he walked around the circle of his troops. These men needed something to raise their spirits, fire their blood. Once he’d completed a full circuit, he returned to Bellicus’ side and looked down at the tiny winged monster. “Suffer,” he hissed between clenched teeth, as he drove the first nail into the tiny arm, pinning it to the legion’s altar. The eerie cries of the pixie rang in his head as he drove the second nail into its arm. The sound paled in comparison to Adun’s nightly torment. By the time he’d nailed the legs, the cries had stopped and blood flowed freely from the mutilated limbs.

Atticus collected the blood from the crucified pixie into a bowl. He held it aloft and cried to his men: “Each of you come forth and dip your thumb in this bowl. Then rub this foul blood onto your blades so that they know the taste of the enemy.”

*

Candace listened as Calliope Smith led the other children in carols up in the sanctuary.

“Christ wasn’t born in December,” Mabel said, snapping her fingers in Candace’s face. “Pay attention child.”

Candace turned to face the old woman, putting on her best smile.

“Scholars have always thought he was born in the spring, during lambing season,” Mabel finished.

“Then how come Christmas is in December?” Candace asked.

“Paul decided that the best way to bring the pagans into the fold would be to take over some of their festivals and symbols.”

“Oh,” Candace said. She watched her mother twisting her apron in her lap, obviously uncomfortable with the whole conversation.

“So, when Paul set out to build him a church, he took the celebration for the Winter Solstice and made it into a Christian holiday. Gave the pagans a comfortable transition into the faith, so to speak.”

“So, are we pagans then?” asked Candace.

The women around the room stopped their stitchery, waiting for the answer.

“What we believe is very old,” Mabel said. “Older than Christ. But one thing does not discount the other.”

“So you’re saying we are pagans?”

“Hush, child, and let me get on with my story.”

Atticus jerked awake as the night’s first agonizing scream broke over the camp. He rose, flinging aside the warmth of the animal pelts. A second, more guttural cry, echoed through the chill night air. He pulled on his boots and threw open the flap of his tent. The moon soared above the tree line. Somewhere out there, one of his own suffered under the beaten copper knives of the enemy. He stomped toward the fire, toward those who also stood and watched the moon, dreading the next tortured cry.

Another shriek sounded through the night. The horses picketed along the southern edge of camp whinnied and stamped. The guards moved closer to the watch fires.

Atticus paced from the fire to the horses and back. His men watched him, eyes begging for action. The attempt at finding Adun the previous night had cost him fourteen good men. The enemy toyed with them, but Atticus would not act until light.

*

Reverend Sykes and his boys made their way across the open country through the thickening snowstorm. They’d left the vehicles parked along the side of the main road and packed in the climbing gear, the baskets, and the scythes into the deepest part of the Daniel Boone National Forest. The men struggled to find their way, wading through thigh-high snow that filled the dips and leeward side of trees. Great gouts of condensation swirled up around their faces as they breathed the frigid air. They made their way toward a huge stand of laurels and oaks where they would harvest the best of the trimmings in celebration of the hope of eternal life.

*

They followed the circling eagle as the sun vanished in the early afternoon gray. The remaining scouts, who had been out since the last meal break, returned near dark with an unexpected surprise—a living prisoner. Atticus watched the scouts moving towards the rest of the men, walking at a man’s pace. Behind Bellicus trailed the prisoner, a druid. Proudly the man stepped, more returning prince then captured foe. His deep brown robes were fine wool. His hair was long, braided like a woman’s, and his beard, though white as the snow, was full and long, trimmed with care. He nodded at Atticus as the scouts stopped before their leader.

“What say you?” Atticus asked Bellicus when the man dismounted.

“We found the old man conversing with one of the fey,” he said with a frown. “The eagle led us to him. He seemed to be waiting for us. The Fey retreated as we approached, but this druid remained.”

The druid bowed his head briefly and spoke in thickly accented Latin. “I am Leucix. I have come to answer your prayers.”

Atticus turned at the words. “So, graybeard, you speak Latin?”

The old man nodded.

“And what prayer do you answer?”

“Why, your desire to find my queen.” The smile that stretched his face lent no joy to the hazel eyes.

“Bind our new friend near the fire,” Atticus said to Bellicus. “I will question him on his desire to lead us onward.”

Bellicus nodded. “As you say, Legate.”

Atticus stared into the gray sky, looking for the eagle. What games were the gods playing at?

His first inclination had been to torture the information out of the old man and leave his crucified body behind for others to see. As he approached the druid with his dagger drawn, the eagle cried into the bright, cold sky. It circled the camp before perching atop one of the nearby laurels. Atticus shook away his trepidation and looked toward his new prisoner.

The guards pointed toward the eagle and talked amongst themselves.

The prisoner watched with a smile. “Even
your
gods believe me, Roman.”

Atticus frowned at the eagle but could not discount its significance.

“The gods are fickle, druid. They act on their own designs.” Atticus shook his head. The signs were pointing toward the druid, toward following him into the heart of the land. “But, who am I to discount so obvious an intervention by father Jupiter? I will listen to your words and judge them. If you speak plainly, perhaps I will allow you to guide me to your misbegotten queen.”

“You are wise to be cautious,” the druid said with a slow nod of his head. “Your essence burns bright against the soothing green of our mother’s tapestry. Our worlds will be changed in the fires of your spirit.”

The next morning Bellicus on horseback led the prisoner on a long rope tether. Within an hour of sunrise, Atticus found his troops on a broad path, straighter than the game trail they’d been following. This lane appeared well groomed, yet no tree seemed to have been felled to clear it. It was as if the trees had grown away from it, or had moved out of the way.

By midday, things began to change. Works of men—totems and markers—began to appear. Then just before nightfall they discovered the carrion trees.

All along the road, as far as they could see, the trees dangled with the dead, grinning down upon the moving column. Wooden cages hung among the branches. Each held the broken corpse of a Roman soldier. He recognized several of them from their armor. Crows stripped the flesh from one soldier whose broken hand hung down from the cage as if reaching for the newly arrived troops.

Leucix spoke as they passed under them. “So heralds her coming.”

“Who comes?” Atticus asked his wearisome prisoner.

“Titania. Marabus calls to her with the screams of your dead.”

“Shut it, you,” Bellicus growled, yanking the rope that bound the old man.

The druid stared at the scout, cocking his head to the side like a crow. “She will peel your skin from you while you yet breathe.”

The blow intended for the prisoner stopped in the open palm of Atticus’s outstretched hand.

“’Ware, Bellicus,” Atticus said. “We have further need of this old man. Better to save the anger for those ahead of us.”

Bellicus glared at the old man. “Apologies, Legate.”

“How much farther then?” Atticus asked, bending down from his horse.

“Oh, you draw further and further into her web.”

Atticus closed his eyes and ground his teeth. “Days, man. How many days until we reach the center of this tangled weave?”

“Oh, a few more nights I would think, master,” the druid said. “Do you chase your death so?”

“I chase not my death, foul sorcerer, but the death of your brethren. Now tell me again what the pixie told you.”

“The Fey spoke of many things, tree-killer. But mostly she spoke of your end.”

Atticus bit back the retort that sprang forth.
Patience
. “Did she say anything particular about our end?” he asked through a forced smile. “Or did she just babble like an old man?”

Leucix grinned. “Oh, she spoke of your blood flowing to feed the roots of the most ancient of trees,” he said.

What useless drivel, Atticus thought. Caesar was a fool to parley with these savages. Putting the entire country to the sword would be a service to Rome.

*

For the better part of an hour, the reverend and his men struggled through the intense undergrowth, trying to find their way in the increasing snowfall.

“I don’t like this,” Deacon Smith said. “The night seems to have turned against us.”

“Now, Deacon, don’t you fret,” said Kyle Pruitt. “We know the road’s back south of here. We walk an hour in that direction; we’ll hit the interstate even if we miss Slade.”

“I’m sure we’ll find what we are looking for, even if we don’t find the exact spot,” said Reverend Sykes. “God will provide.”

They turned to continue when, to a man, they spotted the laurels and oaks atop the hill to the right.

“See,” said the reverend. “The Lord parts the curtain and shows us the path to our salvation. Gentlemen, I give you Drynemeton, the temple of the oaks.”

They left the ridge and waded into the dip before the rising hill. The snow lay deep here and the bracken grew thick. As they fought through, the air seemed to grow thicker, more difficult to breathe. After several minutes of intense effort, they broke out of the underbrush and into the clearing as if they had pierced a thick membrane. The stifling air became light and clear.

For the briefest of seconds, each man held his breath, and the stillness of the glade washed over him.

The moment passed. Their ragged breathing echoed in the stillness once again. The snow here blanketed the wood with a pristine coat. Not one branch or fallen twig marred the white surface. The laurel they had spied from the ridge rose tall and proud around two stately oaks.

“These trees must be hundreds of years old,” Tim Farley said in a whisper. “I ain’t never seen trees grow like this. They’ve formed a circle.”

“That’s interesting.” Deacon Smith blew moist steam into his thick brown mittens. “The opening faces to the east.”

“Gentlemen,” said Reverend Sykes. “Before you lies the work of our Lord and Savior, whose hand guided the placement of these trees.”

The men turned slowly, taking in the splendor of the grove. The full moon broke through the clouds and shone down on them, and the air twinkled.

“Jiminey,” said Kyle Pruitt.

*

Atticus rode through the thickening snowstorm toward a huge forest clearing. He halted the troops just before a shimmering haze, which cut across their path like a wall.

“Here your fate awaits you,” the druid croaked, pointing with one bony hand.

Atticus stepped his horse forward a few paces, and the world seemed to fade around him. One minute he struggled through the whirling snow and bracken of thick winter forest, the next his horse carried him into a bright spring glade. He looked around wildly, losing sight of his men. As he stared, a few men seemed to pop through the barrier to trample the grass that covered the glade in a thick blanket. Bellicus, Leucix and a dozen men entered before the fog firmed into a thicker wall, cutting off the wintry world.

“And so the trap is sprung,” Atticus said as he looked back toward his men on the other side of the barrier. “Just we few to stand before the queen of the Gauls?” he asked no one. He glanced backwards for a moment; his men hammered against the translucent wall in vain.