While his eyes took in every part of the nemeton, a part of him wondered what the tune was, though a quick glance at the Remi and the Condrusi among his party suggested that he’d be better off not knowing. The colour had drained from their faces.
Despite the eerie stillness and the neatness of the place, there was a faint aroma of horse dung that they had not brought with them. Remembering the nature of this shrine, Fronto wondered if Epona had sacred horses in her groves and — if so — were they in one of the huts rather than roaming free among the trees?
Shudder.
‘This compound,’ he announced, his voice cracking irritably, ‘is now under the control of Rome, as is the oppidum of Asadunon across the hill.’
The girl seemed to ignore him completely, continuing her song. The reaction unnerved him more than ever. Quietly, he turned to the nearest of the Remi riders, who looked close to panic.
‘Your druids have girls with them?’
‘Uidluia.’ The man announced, his voice shaky.
‘And for those of us with less command of Gaulish?’
‘A seer-poet, sir. Revered. Blessed. Sacred.’
Well, Fronto thought to himself, he had wanted to test the loyalty and obedience of his new unit, and this looked like it would probably be the strongest test he could ever throw at them.
‘You,’ he gestured. ‘Girl? Where are the others?’
Expertly edging the lyre into the crook of her elbow so that she could continue the tune one-handed, the girl used her other to point to the small temple of Epona on the far side of the oval. He gestured to the capsarius in his group.
‘Damionis, come out front and watch her. Don’t hurt her.’ His words seemed to resonate well with his Belgic men, and they settled their skittish horses as best they could, as the reedy, pale figure of the capsarius rode out to the girl.
Fronto gestured for Masgava and Palmatus to follow him and, dismounting, he led Bucephalus to one of the larger standing stones which had iron rings driven into it, almost as if designed for a hitching post.
The three men continued on foot, crossing the oval and approaching the shrine. The structure was the same as most of the better class of Gallic buildings — of stone courses half way up the door frame, and then of timber and thatch. A step up from the wattle and daub of peasant dwellings, but still poor compared to the great temples of the Roman world. There were no windows in evidence, and the door was shut.
Fronto quickly pictured every possibility, from hidden archers in the darkness to traps devised to behead in the doorway, and approached the door nervously, reaching up with his free hand, the other wrapped whitened around the hilt of his glorious sword.
He swung the door open…
…and had to swallow down the bile that rose to his mouth. The smell of an abattoir hit him in the face, filling his nostrils with the stench of meat and blood and faeces and flies. He took a step forward, coughing up bile, and his foot skidded on the mess that had leaked as far as the door on its way outside. After all, the small temple was at least a finger-breadth deep in liquid.
But the source of that liquid…
Both Palmatus and Masgava gasped behind him.
The two horses, which had apparently been fine beasts, had been killed quickly, with a slice across the throat, but someone — actually at least three someones from the animals’ size — had taken the time and effort to prop them in a pose, slumped to either side of the old woman, their big, sad, dead heads on her lap. The woman had removed her own tongue and then cut her own throat, as was evident from the open mouth, the sheets of blood, and the knife still gripped in her hand.
It was a grotesque parody of the frieze that stood behind her, spattered with their blood, which showed the Goddess Epona with her twin sacred horses by her side, nuzzling her.
Around the floor were the rest of the druids and helpers from the shrine, all suicides, apparently — no warriors like that British nightmare with the crown, just old men in robes.
Getting as much of a grip on himself as possible, Fronto leaned down and prised open the mouth of an ancient, grey-bearded man, confirming his fears. The druid had also removed his tongue before slitting his own throat.
‘What in the name of seven hills of shit happened here?’ Palmatus breathed as he stepped back into the light with Masgava.
‘Defiance.’ Fronto sighed as he stepped out and joined them. ‘Defiance and certainty. They’re informing us they will never be taken alive, and the tongues are to be certain that they will never talk to us, whatever world they find themselves in. Stupidity.’
‘Why the girl alive, then?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘Don’t know, but let’s get her back to the army before…’
He heard a shout and turned to look across the oval arena, his heart sinking as he realised all too late that the song had ended just as they stepped back outside. He had only moved two steps before the dead girl fell from the stone, the lyre clattering across the ground beside her. The capsarius had leapt from his horse and run across, not quite in time to catch her.
‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ he yelled at the rest of his singulares. But he knew the answer. Well he knew it for two answers: None of them had expected it. And even Damionis, close by, had failed to react in time, so entranced was he by her song. And even if they’d had a week to react, the Remi who were nearest would not have stopped her. While he could easily throw his weight around and bring them up on charges, in all fairness, Fronto was not at all sure that he’d have stopped her in the same circumstances. There was something almost otherworldly about the whole event.
‘Saddle up. Ambiorix’s men are long gone and Asadunon is dead to us. We’ll find out nothing here, so let’s get back and hand the good news to Caesar.’ He looked down at Damionis. ‘You can’t help her; or any of the others.’
Reaching out to untie Bucephalus, he breathed deep of the fresh, misty air, trying to clear his nostrils of the stench of death and his throat of the taste of bile. He tried not to look down at the girl’s twisted, leaking corpse as he passed. The sooner this land was under Roman control the better, if only to get rid of the damned, sickening, idiotic and dangerously-unbalanced druids!
* * * * *
‘So what now?’ Antonius sighed, leaning against the gatepost of Asadunon and watching the last of the slaves being led away. The legionaries were occupied removing anything of value from the village, torching the buildings and tearing down the ramparts. In an hour’s time all that would remain to show that Asadunon had existed would be an encircling mound and a pile of carbonised timbers.
The general, his face lined with fatigue — and bubbling, barely subdued anger — looked around at his senior officers.
‘Since there is no sign of Ambiorix or any other Eburones here, we need to turn our attention beyond the Nervii. Their power centre is gone, the place of their treaty is empty and burned. Our trail has run cold and left us at their most distant border empty-handed.’
‘So which tribe is next?’ Rufio asked quietly. Despite having looked over the maps whenever he’d had the chance, the new officer still had only a tenuous grasp of tribal geography.
‘The Menapii,’ Priscus sighed where he leaned beside Antonius.
‘Is that a problem?’ Rufio asked, seeing the weary look on the camp prefect’s face.
‘We’ve gone at them before, but they just melt away into the delta and the forest and swamps like fog on a hot day — which I wish this was, incidentally. Then it’s a matter of hunting down and taking out endless small settlements on reedy islands or hidden in wet woods. Awful.’