‘Oh?’
‘Remember that nobleman back at Bibracte? He was a friend of the druids but no friend of Ambiorix, apparently. If that’s the case, Ambiorix will not be here.’
The Remi noble nodded thoughtfully. ‘You realise that druids are not going to meekly surrender?’
‘A dozen men? I have more than that number of singulares, without your thousand cavalry, Galronus.’
‘But you must take at least one of them alive, for Caesar to interrogate.’
Fronto nodded. ‘I’ll do you a favour. None of your lads are going to be stunningly happy at ravaging a sacred grove. You lot surround the place and prevent escapes and we’ll go in and deal with it.’
Galronus nodded. It would sit better with his men not to be arresting and executing druids.
Moments later, they were moving off along the route the native scouts had taken, down into the shallow dip that led in a gentle curve around to the west of Asadunon, and then out onto a gentle incline that rose to the north beyond.
The terrain here looked like a ruffled blanket, with gentle humps and dips. The analogy brought back a flash of memory, and Fronto had a mental image as clear as day of the gentle and soft-spoken Crispus sitting opposite, surrounded by their friends, some three years ago and a lifetime away.
‘This land is somewhat like a lumpy sleeping pallet,’ the young legate had said. ‘You cannot sleep comfortably, so you have to flatten out the lump, but then a lump forms somewhere else. No matter what you do, there will always be a new lump forming somewhere. And the more you play with it, trying to make it comfortable, the more lumps you have until, in the end, there is nothing else for it but to discard the pallet and begin again with a new one.’
Asadunon and the Epona shrine were yet another bump in this seemingly-interminable lumpy pallet. And Crispus. Poor, young, promising Crispus, had been brutally murdered by Gallic traitors. A lump to be flattened. Caesar’s current policy may be dangerous, but there were times when Fronto could hardly deny the pull of it. Crispus would never rest well until revenge had been taken.
‘You stay safely outside. I’d send my Belgic singulares out with you, but they have to be reliable, and I have to know that they will do what must be done.’
Again, Galronus nodded.
As they neared the top of the slope they slowed, remembering the words of the scouts. Asadunon was now lost in the mist almost half a mile to the south. The white blanket that covered the rumpled pallet of the land deadened noise so effectively that he could hear no sign of the thousands of men less than a mile away, moving to take Asadunon.
At the crest of the low hill, they were afforded their first view of the shrine compound of Epona.
A low rampart with a palisade surrounded a circular area perhaps fifty paces across. Despite what the scouts had said, the rampart here was, to the experienced eye of a Roman officer, nothing like the one that enclosed the village. This was lower and simpler. More a social divide than a defence. Inside, the trees had been trained into two concentric circles, surrounding what appeared to be a paved, central oval, bounded by low steps and squat standing stones. At the northern end stood a small hovel — a shrine apparently, built in the stone-and-timber style of almost all northern Gallic structures. There appeared to be tall wooden posts standing to either side of that temple building, and half a dozen other structures evenly-spaced around the outer edge.
Only two figures were visible from here, both at the near edge of the central oval, one seated on a stone, while the other appeared to be raking or hoeing the ground. It looked so sickeningly peaceful and pleasant that Fronto had momentary cause to doubt his plan. Only momentary, though. Images flashed through his mind of druids cursing him, defiant as they drove the Gauls to rebellion, of the maiming and burning of horses and riders by Germanic priests back in their first year in Gaul, of that bastard druid with the sword and the iron crown in Britannia who had tried to carve him into a new shape.
Don’t be fooled by their apparent pacifism! He grunted to himself.
‘How do you want to do this?’ Galronus muttered.
‘Quickly and simply. Send your men out in both directions and surround the place, then close in until you’re just outside the rampart. In this fog there’s little chance of us getting a signal and Asadunon could already be under attack. We’ll go straight in.’
Galronus nodded and, with a couple of simple gestures, sent his riders off to the east and west to surround the sacred enclosure.
Fronto looked back at his small force. They were still short three men, until they returned to the rest of the army — Palmatus and Masgava had been adamant about saving space for someone, but with sixteen in total, and all fighting men, they could hardly expect trouble from a dozen priest-folk.
With the assurance of a force superior in every way, Fronto and his singulares rode down the gentle slope and towards the gate which still stood wide open. As they approached the defences, Fronto felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. For a moment, he chided himself on his over-superstitious nature, but then Bucephalus wrenched his black head this way and that, his muscles bunching unnecessarily, breath coming in short heavy snorts, steaming in the air, betraying his state of heightened nerves.
The shiver began and Fronto noted that several of his companions were looking apprehensively back and forth. The place was exuding an almost tangible aura of something unpleasant, and everyone felt it, especially the horses.
‘There’s no wildlife,’ Masgava whispered on his left side. Fronto cocked his head. There was certainly no birdsong and no rustle in the grass or undergrowth, but that was not necessarily a surprise, given the conditions.
‘Could be entirely natural.’
‘Why are the horses nervous?’ Palmatus added, struggling to control the steed over whom he had minimal mastery at the best of times.
‘Same reason as us, I guess.’
‘But isn’t this a shrine to a horse Goddess?’
Fronto’s shiver came back and brought some friends.
‘Swords out, lads. Something’s amiss.’
The men around him unfastened the carrying straps and lifted their shields from their backs, each still encased in its leather cover for travelling, shouldering the shields and drawing their swords.
Knowing that despite his nerves it was his duty to enter first, he pushed Bucephalus out front, Masgava and Palmatus hurrying to join him, the rest following on closely.
The gate remained open. There was no sound of movement from within. No shouts of alarm or running feet. All there was, floating almost ethereal on the top edge of the air, was a haunting melody of strings and a hollow, childlike voice, raised in sad song.
The family of shivers formed into a thorough, spine-tingling shudder as Fronto passed across the threshold of the sacred site and between the carefully manicured trees towards the central oval. It reminded him — somewhat unpleasantly — of walking down a darkened corridor to enter the oval floor of an arena, something he’d done once or twice in his life.
‘Can we just leave and say there was nothing here?’ muttered Palmatus, his horse struggling for dominance over the rider. Even Masgava, a master horseman, and a man Fronto had never yet seen fazed by anything, looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Just be prepared. Things could turn horribly ugly at very short notice.’
The Roman force, walking their beasts, moved into the centre of the sacred enclosure and Fronto reined in close to where they had observed the two men. A long rake stood leaning against one of the taller stones, the gravelled ground surrounding the oval ‘arena’ perfectly weeded and raked flat and neat. The taller figure had disappeared. The shorter one was still seated on the stone and Fronto now realised, as they closed on the youth with the delicate lyre, picking out a sad tune and warbling along to it, that it was a girl. With surprise, he found himself suddenly re-evaluating his plans. The death of pre-pubescent girls was not high on his list of priorities, whatever her religion or people.