The dozen prisoners were all Roman. The Gallic prisoners had already been put to the sword. The Romans had been spared for this most sacred of occasions. They brandished bruises on their faces and streaks on their backs that spoke of harsh treatment earlier, but now, no one dared to touch them. They seemed the only ones permitted inside the circle of flame.
As the Belgae hurled insults and clots of mud at the defenseless prisoners, two armed warriors emerged from the crowd and shoved another bound prisoner into the circle to join the others. Delighted at the sight of this new captive, the crowd of war chiefs burst into wild jeers. This new prisoner was a tall, well-built man with shoulder and back muscles that glistened in the firelight. Obviously, this man was a powerful warrior, and this only increased the crowd’s invective. Someone threw a slimy cabbage which struck the newcomer squarely in the back, much to the amusement of the onlookers.
As Lucius felt the muck oozing down his back, he moved in next to the other prisoners. Though his head still throbbed, he saw that the prisoner next to him was in much worse shape. The man’s right eye was swollen blue from an earlier beating, but his remaining eye was wide and full of fear. The man squirmed to the side to dodge a thrown ball of mud, just as he made eye contact with Lucius.
“My name’s Drusus,” the man said nervously. “Drusus Dardanius. Second Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. What’s yours?”
“Lucius Domitius. Seventh Legion.”
“What do they plan to do with us?” the man asked, his voice full of dread.
“There’s no telling,” Lucius replied, rolling once to dodge a thrown cabbage.
“I never knew it would be like this,” Drusus said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve hardly been a soldier long enough to break in my boots. Now, I’m a prisoner of these savages. Oh, how I wish I were back home in the Po valley!”
Lucius nodded but said nothing. The Fourteenth was a new legion, recently recruited in Cisalpine Gaul and largely manned by green troops on their first campaign. Many of the young men, like Drusus, had been simple farmers only a few months before, lured away from their quiet lives by the thrilling tales of Caesar’s conquests. In dire need of more legions, Caesar had sent centurions throughout the countryside south of the Alps, conscripting citizens and provincials alike, promising a life of adventure and a pension to all who signed on. The part about possibly ending up as the offering at a Belgic sacrifice was usually left out.
“Do you think they’ll ransom us?” Drusus asked hopefully.
“Maybe.”
Of course, there was not the least possibility of that. But Lucius saw no sense in stirring the youth into a panic. The faces staring at them from all sides were filled with rage. They were the Belgic war leaders, obviously, but there also appeared to be a few curious peasants watching, including several women.
A hush descended on the crowd as a procession of white-robed, hooded figures entered the circle. They moved in complete silence and, judging from the sudden reverence exhibited by the hitherto rowdy mob, Lucius assumed these were the druids so renowned by the people north of the Alps. In their arms, they carried bundles of freshly cut oak that still bore green leaves. Forming a circle around a great pile of cut wood and branches that stood directly in the center of the ring of torches, they ceremoniously added their bundles to it, one by one. Lucius had earlier dismissed the woodpile as the makings of a bonfire. But now, a flicker of the torches revealed the base of a structure stretching up out of the pile of kindling and into the night sky. It was hard to make out the entire structure in the dim light, but it looked like a crude statue of a man, constructed entirely of cut wood and brambles. The head and shoulders of the towering effigy were shrouded in darkness, but Lucius could clearly see the legs, each one the size of a large man. The massive legs led up to a torso that bulged heavily at the waist and appeared to be largely hollow.
The silence continued, and a new figure in a black, hooded robe now limped into the light. This druid was a woman, and Lucius instantly saw that she bore a striking resemblance to the old woman that Vitalis had supposedly slain days ago. Could it possibly be her?
As she walked, she was aided by two others who held her arms deferentially, as if it was crucial that she be present at the ceremony. In fact, she seemed to be the one presiding over it.
“Silence while the sacred lady speaks!” One of the druid men said. He spoke in the common Celtic tongue. There was really no need for such an announcement since the crowd was already captivated by the old woman.
A young she-goat was brought to the druidess, still living. As the crowd watched, she produced a wicked looking dagger from the folds of her robes and proceeded to slit the throat of the animal. Then, with a fervency and viciousness not expected in one so frail, she tore the animal to shreds, allowing the bloody bones and flesh to fall away until only the beast’s liver remained in her slickened hands. This she held up as if it were a rare gem that had just fallen from the sky. She studied the slippery organ intently, turning it over in her hands several times. Finally, with arms outstretched, she spoke to the assembled Belgae.
“The threads of time have been woven and knotted,” she said, in that same haunting voice Lucius had heard outside the camp that day. “The spirits of oak and fire have spoken. They speak to you of the brave Atrebates, and you of the fearless Viromandui, and you of the valiant Nervii. They speak auspicious tidings of a coming victory, a victory that will be yours!”
At this, the crowd erupted in cheers and wild howling, and it took some time for the white-robed druids to silence them again so that the old woman could continue.
“The mighty will be brought low. Woe unto he who calls himself Caesar!” She said this in a sinister tone, pointing a trembling, bony finger at the prisoners.
Lucius could not see the face within her darkened hood, but he felt as though she was looking right at him.
“Your fortune tellers have told lies,” she continued. “Your line will vanish as a flash of lightning retreats across the sky. The sword is drawn and polished for your slaughter. It shall fall on your neck and that of your people. It shall not return to the sheath until you are utterly destroyed and your memory wiped from existence. The Roman people shall be as the slag that remains after smelting. They shall be plundered and scattered to the corners of the earth, a broken and soulless people. The spirits of oak and fire have spoken!”
The war chiefs burst into wild cheering again, the tumult even greater than before. Either the druids concluded they would not be able to get control of the crowd again, or the old woman was finished speaking, because she was escorted away and the remaining druids began to move in toward the prisoners.
“What the devil are they saying?” Drusus asked, panicking at the approach of the hooded figures. “Did you understand a word that hag said?”
Lucius did not answer. Instead, his eyes focused on a single face in the crowd that seemed to be staring at him. It was a woman’s face, round and perfect in the firelight. It carried the same striking beauty as it had when he saw it at the Nervii farm, on that rainy day, when Piso had tricked him into disobeying an order. It was the same blonde-haired maiden whom Piso had tried to rape, and whom Lucius had last seen retreating through the forest, stark naked. That she recognized him, there could be no doubt, and he fully expected her to join in the insults and castigation being thrown at them by the others. Strangely, she did not. Her face looked confused when she recognized him, and then concerned, and finally in a panic once the druids started to move in. She started clawing at the arm of a large-shouldered warrior, a bearded man with long braided hair who appeared old enough to be her father. She pleaded with the man for something, shooting desperate glances back at Lucius. The man appeared annoyed and slightly displeased with her, but this did not appear to dissuade her. But Lucius did not see how the argument ended, because the next moment she was hidden from view when the druid men hefted him and the other prisoners to their feet and began ushering them toward the woo
den effigy.
“Oh, Jupiter help us!” Drusus exclaimed, as they were marched single file to the base of the structure. “I don’t want to die! Jupiter help me! I don’t belong here!”
The young recruit tried once to break away, but it was a feeble attempt, and the druids had no difficulty in knocking him over the head with a club and forcing his wobbly legs back into line. At the base of the structure, two druids waited with long daggers, with which they cut the prisoners bonds and directed them to climb up into a small opening in the statue’s belly, one at a time. When it was Drusus’s turn, his legs were too shaky to even surmount the pile of firewood, let alone climb up into the structure. This changed when one of the druids jabbed the point of the dagger, dangerously close to his genitals, and that got him climbing quickly, though he pleaded for mercy the whole way up.
Lucius was not about to be led like a sheep to the slaughter, and he had watched carefully as the druid priests cut the bonds of the men that had gone before him. They were careless, and obviously trusting in the other druids hovering nearby with the clubs to keep the prisoners in check, should one of them try anything. Lucius felt certain that once it was his turn, he could quickly wrench the dagger from the hands of the one on the left. That one was slight of build, and did not have a firm grip on his weapon. Lucius would take the dagger and kill as many of the white-robed bastards as he could before they clubbed him to death. Either way, it would be a better death than the one in store for anyone who went up into that statue.
As the small druid motioned for Lucius to turn around that he might cut his bands, Lucius obeyed meekly, but waited for the instant he felt the pressure on his wrists release. The dagger started to cut, but then stopped when another druid approached and said something to the man with the dagger. They were speaking too quickly for Lucius to make out any of it, but when they finished, he found himself being ushered away from the statue by two druids with clubs, while the small hatch in the statue was quickly nailed shut by the other priests, sealing the other prisoners inside.
“Lucius! Where are they taking you? Lucius!” Drusus’s voice shrieked from the statue’s belly. The small gaps in the hastily built structure allowed the victims trapped inside to clearly see what was going on around them. As a circle of druids holding burning torches began to converge on the stacks of wood at the base of the statue, the prisoners inside began to squirm and panic.
As the fires were started, and the screams of the trapped men rang in his ears, Lucius realized that he was being taken to the edge of the sacred circle. There, a grim-faced warrior waited for him. This was the same big man he had seen with the blonde woman only moments before. The warrior seemed none too pleased to see Lucius, but he did receive Lucius from the priests and quickly passed him back into the crowd to two other warriors who appeared to be waiting for him. Without much gentleness, they pulled him along through the crowd, practically dragging him, but also protecting him on both sides and parting the angry onlookers who tried to get punches and kicks in on Lucius. But the crowd soon lost interest in Lucius and turned its attention to the structure, which had been set alight now, and was quickly being consumed. The two warriors quickened their pace to take advantage of the lull, and did not allow Lucius to look back – not that he wanted to. As the flames lapped up into the belly of the statue the condemned men cried in terror, some of them invoking their ancestors, some their gods, and others cursing the Belgae with the foulest approbations they knew. Lucius had experienced many horrors in his years in Gaul, but the screams of those men chilled his very soul. He prayed that they would all meet a quick death, especially Drusus, whom he thought he could hear above the rest.
Stripped bare and with his hands bound behind him, Lucius had no choice but to go wherever the two warriors led him. They were clad in mail and armed with swords, and he could tell by their manner that they were not common soldiers. They led him down the hill, through the massed camps of the tribal armies, where lounging Belgae warriors looked up with curiosity and then hatred as he passed by. Finally, he was led through the gates of the oppidum, the streets of which were crowded with peasants gazing at the burning statue atop the distant hill. It was an inferno now, bathing the thatched roofs of the Nervii huts in an orange glow. The screams had long since stopped, replaced by the roar of the frenzied crowd. They had sacrificed their enemies to their gods. The blood price had been paid.
They were now ready to face Caesar’s army.
XVI
They had spent a day and a night tracking the unknown riders. Now, on the morning of the second day, as they continued their trek north through the overgrown countryside, Divitiacus and Adalbert came upon a new set of tracks that merged with those they had been following. They were following at least six horsemen now. The forest grew ever thicker and they came upon mosquito-ridden marshes through which they dared not steer their horses, lest some patch of quicksand take them under. Around midday, they encountered a dense, deep hedge, as high as two men and as impenetrable as any fortress palisade. The giant barrier ran for miles and miles in either direction, forcing any man or beast to go around. The Aeduan chieftain and the scout saw that the tracks of their prey had turned at this point and now ran along the edge of one of the hedge barrier. They followed the tracks for several miles without problem before the tracks suddenly disappeared, as if the gods had sent a whirlwind to snatch the six riders from the face of the earth.
Divitiacus had seldom visited these lands, but he knew enough about them from the tales told of the Nervii and their strange ways. They were a proud and intensely paranoid people, always suspicious of foreigners and their corrupting influences. Legend had it that the mass of maze-like, living barriers was planted and cultivated by the ancient inhabitants of these woods to stave off invaders. If one wished to enter the heart of the Nervii lands, one must do so using the few roads available. Any invading army, such as Caesar’s, would have to stretch out over several miles if it wanted to make any speed at all. Such boundaries also rendered cavalry nearly useless.
There were, of course, secret paths through the Nervii heartland, the locations of which were known only to a choice few. Some said that there were entire networks of roads and paths running through the seemingly impassable wilderness, all well-maintained and wide-enough to convey entire armies, including wagon trains, with great speed.
Thus, Divitiacus was not too surprised, when, after a few moments of searching, he found a spot in the hedge where vines had been carefully draped to conceal a large opening. The tracks continued through this passage and the two Aedui followed them deeper into the dense wood, the floor of which had not seen direct sunlight in many ages. The enormous oaks looked down on them like giant sentinels, suspicious of the newcomers passing beneath their intertwined boughs.
“The tracks go on and on, my lord,” Adalbert said bleakly. “How long shall we? We are already deep in enemy territory. I suspect these forest paths are watched.”
“Very likely,” Divitiacus nodded. “How far ahead of us are they?”
“Half a day. Maybe more.”
“I believe these Romans have met up with a band of Nervii and are heading for the big Nervii oppidum north of the Sabis,” Divitiacus said it more for his own benefit than for Adalbert’s.
“Perhaps, my lord,” the scout replied, uncertainly.
Divitiacus cursed inwardly in frustration. Adalbert was right. If they continued on they would most certainly be discovered. The further north they went, the more likely they would be spotted. It was his own concerns that had driven them this far. If Valens’s men were making a deal with the Nervii, then he could only assume the Roman senate was behind it. Were they attempting to undermine Caesar’s authority in the province? If the Nervii were to be the favored tribe with the Roman senate, and if Caesar was somehow removed from his position, what would that mean for the Aedui, who had spent the last several years subjugating many lesser tribes under the approving eye of the proconsul? But, it seemed now, that all of t
hat was out of his control.
Divitiacus was about to turn his horse about and head back when he saw Adalbert’s hand shoot up in a motion for him to be silent. The Aeduan chieftain instantly brought his mount to a halt and listened as the scout indicated. There were voices coming from the trees up ahead, not of alarm, but of men in casual conversation. Someone was coming up the path from the other direction.
Divitiacus gestured for Adalbert to follow him, and both men guided their mounts quietly off the path and behind a patch of brush. There, they dismounted.
“Your bow,” Divitiacus whispered to the scout, who quickly retrieved the four-foot bow from his saddle, along with a quiver full of arrows. Within moments, Adalbert had the bow strung, and a feathered shaft notched and ready.
They did not have to wait long before three riders came into view. The lead rider was several paces out ahead of the other two who were riding abreast. The man in the lead was a Nervii warrior, wearing a spherical bronze helmet. An iron-tipped lance rested loosely across his horse’s neck and dipped rhythmically with the gait of his mount. The men behind were Roman. They were two of the nobles from Senator Valens’s staff, and they were dressed as Divitiacus had seen them before, in black cloaks and bronze breastplates. The two men chatted as they rode, quite at ease. The Nervii warrior was obviously their guide, and was presumably leading them back out of the Nervii heartland. He was no more alert than the others and was too busy fingering his nose and swatting at a cluster of buzzing flies to notice anything, let alone the two hidden Aeduans.
“The horse of the Nervii first,” Divitiacus whispered. “Understood?”
Rome: Fury of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 13
