Shadows in the Night (39 page)

The tribunes’ bodies were sent off to Eburacum in a good stout cart, with an escort of four of Saturninus’ toughest patrol men, plus Junius’ servant. Marius’ man had disappeared. Quintus dictated letters of explanation for the garrison commander, and for the commander of the Ninth Hispana, the tribunes’ legion. I wrote a few lines to Lucius, hoping my wandering brother would soon be there to read them.

By mid-afternoon we’d done all we could, and Milo drove us home. I felt sorry to leave Silvanius all alone, sunk in such complete despair, but I needed to get back to the mansio, where another gloomy task awaited me—to tell Albia about Junius. But by the time we reached the Oak Tree, she’d heard the gist of it already; I should have known such hot news would spread at lightning speed. I found her alone in the garden, crying her eyes out.

She was heartbroken at the news of Junius’ death, and frantic to be reassured that her lover hadn’t been a traitor. I repeated what he’d said before he died, word for word, and more than once, till she understood that Marius had been the only one to betray us. As Quintus and I had already decided, if Junius had blotted his papyrus and been tempted by the rebels, he’d made amends at the finish; it comforted Albia to regard him as a fallen hero, and this no doubt would be some consolation to his father as well.

As the shadows grew longer I was doing my rounds outside, with Taurus close by in case I needed a guard, when I caught sight of a thin brown-green figure flitting round a corner into the apple orchard. I followed among the trees, and greeted him.

“Hawk! You’re a welcome sight. You’ve heard what happened at the new temple?”

He nodded sadly. “I have. A dreadful impiety. There doesn’t seem to be any end to the evil these Shadow-men will do. How’s poor Albia?”

“Pretty devastated. But at least she knows for sure that Marius, not Junius, was the traitor.”

“I’ve some news for you,” Hawk said. “Well, for Quintus Valerius, about the Druid ceremony. It’ll be tonight, as soon as it’s full dark. Down near the river, in that clearing where the mistletoe has magically sprung up.”

“Tonight? Excellent! Thanks, Hawk.”

He looked doubtful. “Not quite the reaction I’d expected. It means trouble for you, you know. They plan to attack the mansio again.”

“I’d prefer to face the trouble head-on than have to wait for it, not knowing when it’ll catch up with me.”

“Is Valerius still intending to go to the ceremony?”

“We both are. We’re hoping we may discover who are their secret supporters.”

“You’re going too? For Epona’s sake! I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope so too! But my mind’s made up. We’ll be well disguised. Are you planning to go along there yourself?”

“Yes, I’ll take a look. But I’m used to being invisible. You two….Try just this once to make less noise than a herd of charging aurochs!” He turned to go, then swung back to face me. “You haven’t seen my son Teilo anywhere, have you? He’s been in the woods, still looking for your boy Titch, and he isn’t home yet. I don’t want him out after dark.”

“Not a sign, I’m afraid. I’m beginning to be quite worried about young Titch. If he’d simply been driven away from the mansio and got lost somehow, he should have come back to us by now.”

Hawk grunted. “Boys wouldn’t be boys if they didn’t get into mischief! Still, if you do see Teilo, send him home straight away, will you? And Aurelia….”

“What?”

“Don’t take any chances tonight. May your gods protect you both.” He melted away into the trees.

I went to find Quintus. He was delighted with Hawk’s news, and like me, relieved to know when the next attack would come. We held a brief council of war with Albia, Brutus, Hippon and Taurus, and then set about getting together a couple of good disguises. It would be dark in the woods, and we intended to stay well hidden among the trees, but we didn’t need Hawk to remind us not to take any chances.

By the time we’d finished, helped by Albia and Carina, I don’t think our own mothers would have recognised us. Quintus looked like an old farmer in a worn brown tunic made of hemp, sloppy sandals, and a dingy brown cloak with a hood which hid most of his head. Albia dyed his hair with some black liquid which had the effect of darkening it to a sort of muddy brown, and after a bit of experimenting, used the same stuff on his face and hands to give them a genuine weather-beaten colour. I borrowed some red hair-dye from Carina, and actually it looked better on me than on her; a grey tunic, a tattered blue hooded cloak, and shabby black boots finished off my outfit nicely.

It seemed almost a game, this dressing-up; we found we were light-hearted, cracking jokes, and full of confidence. And Albia, who had the hardest part, staying behind and guarding the mansio, put on a brave face for us. I’ve never appreciated her or loved her more than I did that evening, because only I, who know her well, realised what an effort she was making.

We brought the animals in well before dark, and set sentries; Albia kept everyone busy preparing hay-bundles and boiling pots of water. There was no knowing when the enemy would come, and it was possible Quintus and I would not get back in time to help.

At dusk we said goodbye to Albia, and cheerfully parried the sentries’ ribald teasing as they barred the gate behind us. Only in the fading evening glow when we began to ride away from lights and people did I find myself wondering if I’d ever see the Oak Tree again.

Chapter XXVI

It wasn’t quite dark, and the moon was about half full, although low in the sky. We had plenty of light, and we went by road on horseback as far as we safely could. When we reached the big holly-bush, we tethered our horses out of sight among the trees and walked quietly into the dark wood, along the small game-track that Hawk had used to bring us to see the mistletoe. It wasn’t easy to follow the faint, twisting path in the patchy moonlight, but we had time to go cautiously, and we reached the clearing without incident.

The oaks all around it were dark, but the open space in the middle was brightly lit, and the river gleamed like pewter through the gap in the trees. We worked our way round to a point on the clearing’s edge, about midway between the roundhouse and the river, but on the opposite side. From here, safely concealed in shadow, we could see the house as a blacker bulk looming in the dark of the wood, and the path that emerged from beside it, most of which was in shadow too. We had a good view of the whole clearing, which at present was empty, except for some statues and the large stone altar slab in the middle.

But small groups of people were walking along the shadowed path, some talking quietly, others glancing around, and all with a sense of excitement in their movements. They mostly wore dark cloaks and hoods, even though it was a warm night. The only exceptions were some youths dressed in full warrior gear, kilts and bronze-reinforced jerkins, bronze helmets with crests, shields and short swords. These young men came out briefly into the moonlight, and then disappeared into the shadows near the roundhouse, presumably to await their dedication.

The cloaked figures fanned out as they reached the end of the path, walking round the edges of the clearing and taking up positions all around, until eventually there was a ring of people two or three deep everywhere. They kept clear of the big open space, as this was the centre of their temple, if you can use that word—it was as different from Silvanius’ Marble Monster as it was possible to imagine. They don’t use buildings in their holy places; worshippers of the Druids’ gods prefer to be in the open, with the trees for colonnades and the sky for a roof.

The big, flat altar stone, about ten feet square, was supported on short stone pillars so it was at about waist height off the ground. Near it in an arc with its open side towards the river were some wooden statues, crudely cut out of blocks or stumps of wood. They were grotesque figures of godlings, and to any civilised eye pretty horrible. There was one with a huge deformed head; one with three heads; several with no arms and one with no limbs at all, just a torso and a head with horns. The only half-decent carvings were of animals: a horse, a boar, and a bird with outstretched wings.

I couldn’t see the point of such ugly things, and when I remembered the beautiful bronzes in Silvanius’ temple, I felt an oppressive foreboding. If the statuary was so hideous, what could we expect the ritual itself to be like?

There was another big, square slab of stone, lower than the first because it wasn’t on pillars, which must be either a table or a smaller altar, near where the path came out of the wood. I noticed that most of the people strolling past it paused briefly to glance at the carvings on it, which were a series of human heads. Then I was nearly sick, because I realised they weren’t carved heads; they were real ones.

I nudged Quintus and pointed, but he’d already seen them. I tried to count them—more than a dozen, but it was too horrible. So I sent up a quick prayer to Diana, hoping she was near even in this alien setting. “Don’t abandon us just when we’ve come to confront the barbarians’ gods,” I prayed. “Protect us now, and help us.”

And in my head, a thought, almost a voice came to me: “Don’t be afraid. I will protect you.” I’ve never managed to explain this properly, to myself or anyone else; all I know is, hearing the goddess herself speak to me was like wonderful music, or a draught of strong wine. I felt a sudden rush of courage, and was ready for anything.

It was full dark now, and no more people were arriving in the clearing. There was a tense, expectant feel in the air. We strained our eyes looking at the dark figures, but it was impossible to recognise anybody. “I can’t identify anyone,” Quintus whispered crossly. “Can you?”

“No. They’re all wearing hoods. I’d be lucky to spot my own grandmother.”

“I’d be rather surprised to spot mine,” he whispered back, and he smiled at me and touched my hand. “Disappointing though. I bet we’d know some of the faces if we could only see.”

We were talking in British. Although we were careful to keep our voices very low, we couldn’t risk anyone overhearing Latin. I moved closer till we were just touching, which made me feel safer. “I wish they’d get on with it, whatever it is,” I murmured, and as if on my cue, the ceremony started.

First came the low, powerful boom of drums: two of them, beating slowly and quietly but insistently, like a pulse. Then the rhythms became quicker and more complicated, and after a while a couple of flutes joined in, each weaving its own melody, making weird harmonies and patterns of sound. It was quite unlike any music I’d ever heard—wild, savage, undisciplined, and compelling. The rhythm was becoming gradually faster, leading on to a climax, and I felt the power of it, even though I didn’t want to; the pulse got into my very bones, vibrating in my blood.

We couldn’t spot the musicians at first, but eventually picked them out just in front of the ruined house, in the shadows where they could watch the clearing but not be seen. I don’t know how long the music went on before we saw movement on the path, and a Druid stepped out from the dark trees into the full light of the moon and began chanting. He was an imposing figure, tall and stately, in white robes with a silver belt, and a silver head-dress with white birds’ feathers that fluttered as he moved his head.

He stood alone for a few heartbeats, and then out into the light strode another imposing figure, tall and slim, in full war-gear, with bright silver buckles and studs which flashed in the moonlight; he had a silver crest on his helmet, and carried a long sword. And I recognised him by his movements. Vitalis!

He stood beside the priest, who raised his hands and prayed, using an archaic dialect, some form of religious language presumably, but it was near enough to the modern Britons’ speech for us to follow. He prayed to Taranis the Thunderer to bring victory to their tribe, and to give courage and strength to the new soldiers who were to be dedicated tonight.

Vitalis turned and beckoned, and a dozen young warriors came out of the trees. The moonlight reflected off the metal of their armour and helmets, making them look like dream soldiers of silver. Vitalis presented each of the youths to the Druid, and each of them laid an offering of bread and mead in front of the altar, and took his place in a line facing the Druid and Vitalis.

Then the Druid moved to the foot of the tree with the mistletoe sticking out of it. He intoned another prayer, thanking his gods for showing their favour by allowing the holy plant to grow on the oak, and then three more Druids came out of the shadows, holding a large white cloth between them, for all the world as if they were off to shake down apples.

The next part was pure theatre. The first Druid took up a small sickle which glowed darkly in the moonlight; it was bronze presumably, although I’d heard stories about them using gold tools in their rituals, but a real gold sickle wouldn’t have cut a piece of cheese. He held it aloft for everyone to admire, and then, with impressive agility, he climbed up the oak tree and cut off a tuft of the mistletoe, letting it fall into the middle of the white cloth which his three assistants were holding ready underneath. It was neatly done, especially as he had to be careful not to pull too hard on the mistletoe, or he’d dislodge the entire clump in one go, which would give the game away, even to gullible natives.

So far the whole event struck me as rather trivial—entertaining and dramatic, like a well-made play, but not alarming. Then abruptly the tone became more sinister. The three Druids with the mistletoe went and placed it reverently, still on its white cloth, in front of one of the crude statues, and then disappeared, returning straight away with a young white bull which they led on a rope. It was a nice-looking beast, strong and sturdy with long horns, and it had presumably been drugged, as it was placid, with drooping head and gently swishing tail. They led it to the altar without trouble, and the senior Druid cried, “O gods of our fathers, accept this sacrifice and grant us your favour!” Then he swung his sickle and cut its throat. It fell with a subdued bellow. One of the other priests held a small cauldron out to catch its blood, but then they put the cauldron aside and let the blood simply drip down over the edge of the big, flat stone, and each of the Druids in turn bowed low beside the altar, letting the blood spatter onto them. The congregation gave a kind of sigh of content, and I tried to distract my mind from the horrible spectacle by sparing a thought for the laundry slaves who’d be expected to wash all the blood off those snow-white ceremonial robes. But silly flippant thoughts couldn’t help me now; this was deadly serious, and I felt the tension mounting with every heartbeat.