Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts (32 page)

'What?' Boudica turned angrily towards him.

'Hush!' Macro nodded towards the island. 'If we find the general's family but don't make it back, someone has to ride to the legion and let them know.'

'And how precisely would you let me know?'

Macro smiled. 'You don't make centurion unless you can be heard at a distance.'

'He's right enough there,' muttered Cato.

'But why me? Why not leave Cato here. You'll need me to translate.'

'There won't be much need for talking. Besides, Prasutagus and me are coming to an understanding of sorts. He can speak a few words now. A few words of a proper language, that is. Ain't that right?'

Prasutagus nodded his shaggy head.

'So, keep your ears pricked. If I call your name, or if any of us does, that's the signal. We've found them. You don't wait a moment. You get back to the horses, take one and ride like the wind. Report everything to Vespasian.'

'What about you?' asked Boudica.

'If you hear any of us shout, chances are those will be our last words.' Macro raised a hand and gently held her shoulder. 'Are you clear about all that?'

'Yes.'

'Right then, this is as good a place as any to wait. Stay here. As soon as it's dark enough, we'll strip down to tunics and swords and follow Prasutagus over to the island.'

'And just for a change,' said Macro softly, 'we're up to our balls in freezing water.'

The smell of decay that rose from the disturbed waters about their legs was so pungent that Cato thought he might throw up. This was worse than almost anything he had ever smelt before. Even worse than the tannery outside the walls of Rome he had once visited with his father. The hardy tanners, long immune to the stench, had laughed themselves silly at the sight of the small boy in the neat livery of the imperial palace heaving his guts up into a tub of sheep entrails.

Here in the mangrove the pungency of decayed vegetation combined with the odour of human waste and the sweet stench of rotting flesh. Cato covered his nose with his hand and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. At least the darkness concealed the detritus floating about his knees. Ahead of him, beyond the broad dark bulk of Macro, he could just see the tall figure of Prasutagus leading the way through the rushes. The stalks rustled as the Briton slowly waded from one coppice stake to the next. Most were still in place, and Prasutagus had lost his way only once, suddenly splashing down into deeper water with a sharp cry. All three had frozen, ears straining for any indication of alarm from the dark mass of the Druids' island above the slopping of the water. When the disturbed water had stilled again, Prasutagus gently eased himself back onto more solid ground and flashed a dim grin at the centurion.

'Long time gone before I here,' he whispered.

'All right.' Macro said softly. 'Now just keep your mouth shut and your mind on the job.'

'Huh?'

'Get a fucking move on.'

'Oh. Sa!'

At length they emerged from the rushes and Prasutagus halted. The island still seemed some distance away but Cato noted that the rushes reached most closely towards it at this point and could see why Prasutagus had picked this route for his night-time assignations. The open water contained no more stakes to guide them. Prasutagus was shifting his position and staring hard at the island. Following his gaze, Cato could see two dead pine trunks standing out above the rest of the trees on the island. They were so close together that from certain angles they looked like a single trunk, and Cato realised that their alignment was how Prasutagus guided himself across the open water to the island. The Icenian shuffled to his left and then motioned to the others to follow him.

Moving slowly, the water gently swirling around their knees, the small party headed across towards the dark foreboding shadow of the Druids' island.

The stench slackened as they moved further out from the rushes. Cato allowed himself a few deep breaths as he carefully followed in line behind the others. Underfoot, the bottom felt strangely soft and yielding, with the occasional firmness of a branch. For a moment he wondered how Prasutagus could possibly have constructed this underwater walkway. Then he decided it must just be the tangled accumulation of dead and fallen matter which the Briton must have found by chance, and put to good use. Cato smiled to himself. Good use, maybe. But it had caused him to be expelled from the order of the Dark Moon.

Thought of the Druids drew his mind sharply back to the present. The dark outline of the island loomed closer against the fainter shadow of the night sky, and it seemed that the island floated not on water but on the ethereal mist rising from the lake. It certainly seemed sinister enough, Cato reflected. The dread in Prasutagus's expression whenever he had talked of this place over the last two days suggested there was worse to come. But what, in this world, could be terrible enough to frighten the huge warrior? Cato's imagination went to work to provide an answer and he felt a chill finger of horror trace its way up his spine. He cursed himself for this superstitious self-indulgence but as they silently glided through the dark waters, his heightened senses continued to magnify every sound and shift of shadow. It took a great effort of will to prevent his imagination conjuring up the demons lurking invisibly on the shores of the sacred Druid isle.

They were now close enough to the shore for the outermost boughs of its ancient trees to overhang them. Looking up through the twisted black tendrils of the outermost branches, Cato gazed up at the stars, cold and unblinking above the mist. Then he turned and gazed back across the gloomy water to where Boudica waited for them. He wondered if he would ever see her again, and found himself desperately wanting to see her face once more. The unbidden longing was quite shocking and Cato wondered at this instance of self-revelation.

He started as Macro grasped his arm, flinching backwards and splashing the water.

'Keep still!' hissed Macro. 'Want to let every bloody Druid in Britain know we're here?'

'Sorry.'

Macro turned back to Prasutagus, who was muttering something under his breath. The whispered words flowed with a cadence and rhythm that was not like everyday speech and Macro realised this must be some kind of charm. When the Briton paused, Macro gently touched his shoulder.

'Let's go, mate.'

Prasutagus stared at him for a moment, silent and still as a stone, before nodding gravely and then creeping forward once again. This section of the shore was lined with wicker reinforced with timber piles and stood two feet above the icy water. They heaved themselves across it as quietly as possible, but inevitably water dripped and splashed, sounding dangerously loud. Prasutagus glanced anxiously into the shadows beneath the trees, certain that they must be heard. But nothing stirred, no breath of air even lifted the lightest of the dark branches. All three were still for a while, squatting and listening. Cato shivered as he waited for Prasutagus to wave them forward. They made their way along the shore for a short distance, until they came to a track leading into the dark trees. It seemed to Cato that the night suddenly became colder, as if a breeze was blowing, but the air about him was perfectly still.

'Down there?' Macro whispered.

'Sa. You come, but shhh!'

As they made their way silently along the track, darkness closed in on them, impenetrable as ink, and the air seemed to grow yet colder, with a clammy edge to it now. Cato counted the paces he took, trying to keep a clear mental image of the island as they penetrated further. Soon after he had counted a hundred, the trees opened out, admitting a welcome faint glow from the stars. The path ended abruptly at a wooden screen, within which was a door. It was held closed by a simple latch operated by a pull rope. For a moment Prasutagus listened, but the heart of the island was as oppressively silent as its fringes, and the only sound Cato could detect above the rapid pounding of his heart was the occasional booming of a bittern away in the marshes. Prasutagus gently pulled on the rope, the latch eased up and he nudged the door open. He stepped through, leaving the two Romans squatting at the side of the entrance; a moment later his head reappeared and he beckoned to them.

Beyond the screen, a large clearing opened out. It was roughly circular and lined with thatched huts. The ground was bare and hard; the army boots of the two Romans clumped on its surface for the first few paces before Cato and Macro took care to set each foot down as softly as possible. Dominating the centre of the clearing was a huge circular hut, in front of which was a raised platform. A carved wooden chair of immense proportions rested on the middle of the platform, and fixed to the tall backrest was the biggest pair of antlers Cato had ever seen. In front of the platform stood the remains of a fire in a huge iron grate. The dying embers imparted a faint orange hue to the wisps of smoke curling up into the night.

Nothing moved in the clearing. None of the torches was lit in the iron stands positioned in front of every hut. There was no sign of life. And yet a brooding presence seemed to hang over the clearing, as if they were being watched from every shadow. Not that Cato sensed a trap of any kind, just a feeling that their presence had been sensed by somebody, or some thing. Silently they made their way to the entrance of the first hut and crept inside. It was dark, too dark to make out any details, and Macro cursed softly.

'It's no good, we need some light,' he whispered.

'Sir, that's madness!' Cato hissed. 'We'd be seen at once.'

'Who by? There's no one here. Hasn't been for hours — look at the fire.'

'Then where are they?'

'Ask him.' Macro jerked a thumb at Prasutagus.

The Briton got the gist of the question and shrugged. 'Druids gone. All gone.'

'In that case, let's get ourselves some light to see by,' Macro insisted. 'We need to be sure we don't miss anything.'

He removed the nearest torch from its holder and thrust it into the embers, sending a swirling cloud of brilliant sparks flying into the air. The torch flared. Raising it in front of him, Macro strode back to the first hut and ducked inside. The flickering glare of the torch illuminated the interior in a wavering light. Several beds were to one side, covered with blankets and furs. On the other side was a shrine, against which leaned a pair of small harps. A set of wooden eating platters and earthenware cups was stacked by a tub of water.

'No cooking fire,' mused Cato.

'No cooking,' Prasutagus said. 'Others bring food for Druid.'

'Leeching off the common folk, eh?' Cato shook his head. 'Same the world over, as far as priests are concerned.'

Macro clicked his fingers. 'When you two have finished your fascinating theological conversation, we've got some huts to search. Look for any signs of the general's family.'

They went through each hut thoroughly, but aside from the sparse possessions of the Druids they found nothing that indicated that any Roman had ever been there.

'Let's try the big hut,' suggested Cato. 'I'd imagine that's where the chief of the Druids lives.'

'All right then,' Macro agreed.

'Na!'

The Romans turned to look at Prasutagus. He stood rooted outside the entrance of the last hut they had searched, a look of utter terror on his face. He shook his head imploringly.

'I not go in!'

Macro shrugged. 'Suit yourself. Come on, Cato.'

The entrance to the hut was as imposing as the hut itself. A huge timber frame, twice the height of a man, was topped by a carved lintel bearing impressions of dreadful, inhuman faces, savage and howling with jagged teeth. In their maws lay the half-consumed bodies of men and women, mouths gaping with terror. So compelling were the images that Macro paused at the threshold and raised his torch for a better look.

'What the hell is this?'

'I imagine it's what the future holds for mankind when Cruach rises up and stakes his claim, sir.'

Macro turned to Cato, eyebrows raised. 'You think so? Don't think I'd want to run into this Cruach character on a dark street.'

'No, sir.'

Just inside the entrance hung a series of heavy animal skins, totally blocking the interior from sight. Macro pushed them aside and stepped into the chief Druid's quarters. He raised the torch up and whistled.

'Quite a contrast!'

Cato nodded as his eyes swept over the furs covering most of the floor space, the great upholstered beds set to one side, and the vast oak table and ornately carved chairs. The table held the remains of a half-eaten feast. Large wooden platters lay before the chairs, covered with joints of meat still resting in their congealed juices. To the side of each platter lay chunks of bread and cheese. Drinking horns rested in intricate gold stands decorated in the Celtic style.

'Seems the senior Druids know how to live well.' Macro smiled. 'No wonder they wanted to keep prying eyes out. But what made them leave in such a hurry?'

'Sir!' Cato pointed to the far side of the hut. A small wooden cage rested on bare earth. The door was ajar. They crossed over to it. The inside was bare, apart from a piss pot, the top of which was mercifully covered. Cato looked closer, and leaned into the cage, reaching for the covering which was no more than a scrap of fabric.