Paetus nodded and whispered a few words to Ansigar as Thumelicus led them off at a crouch. As they came closer to the grove the mist became more translucent and Vespasian could see how the trees thinned leaving a clearing that had four ancient oaks at its heart; in the middle of these, resting on two large flattened stones, was a slab of grey granite next to which was piled a mound of wood. Above it dangled a cage, swinging gently, made of thick wicker, the exact shape of, but slightly larger than, a crucified man.
Magnus spat and clenched his right thumb in his fingers. ‘It looks like they were planning one of their wicker sacrifices that they seem to be so fond of.’
‘There’s no one in it,’ Vespasian said, edging forward, ‘I can see light coming through the gaps. Thumelicus, what do you think?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; if the Eagle’s here it’ll be close to the altar, but the lack of guards makes it seem unlikely.’ He walked out into the clearing, his men either side of him; Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus followed nervously, poking the ground with their javelins, fearful of stakes concealed in hidden pits.
A search of the altar and the surrounding area proved fruitless. They searched the wood pile and checked for crevices in the trees, all the time aware that capture could mean a ghastly fate burning in the wicker man above them.
‘It’s not here,’ Thumelicus concluded eventually, ‘we should move on to the next one about half a mile north of here.’
Vespasian signalled back to Paetus waiting on the edge of the clearing to move his men out as they began to head north.
This time they proceeded with even more caution, a turma, split up into pairs, scouting ahead with Thumelicus and his men, just visible in the ever-thinning mist. The ringing cacophony of battle had escalated but had drawn no closer as they moved onwards. The fresh scents of damp vegetation, musty leaf mulch and clean bracing air made Vespasian wish he was taking a morning stroll in the woods on his estate at Cosa, so far away from this strange land full of danger and alien practices. With a quick, silent prayer to Mars, his guardian god, he asked never to have to return to Germania Magna should he escape this time. An answer seemed to form in his heart; it was not that: all would be well; it was one word: Britannia. He shivered as he imagined the terrors that awaited the Roman legions on that fog-bound island almost completely untouched by Roman civilisation, and for the first time it occurred to him that he and the II Augusta might be a part of the invasion force.
He pushed the unsettling thought from his mind and stalked on, glad of Magnus’ and Sabinus’ comforting presence either side of him; ahead, Thumelicus raised a hand and went down on one knee. Vespasian and his companions padded forward to join him.
‘Sacred horses,’ Thumelicus whispered.
The second clearing was larger than the first and this time had a small grove of elm trees in its midst. Surrounding these was a henge of rough wooden columns, ten feet high and a pace apart; each had a skull placed upon its top. Four tethered white horses grazed on hay spread out for them on the patchy snow around the circle, reminiscent of what they had seen on their way to meet Thumelicus; and, in an echo of that scene, three heads, one fresh and the other two decomposing, hung from the branches of the grove above a wooden altar.
After waiting for a few heartbeats it became apparent that, again, there was no one else around. The horses looked up at them curiously as they moved towards the grove and then resumed their meal, satisfied that the intruders neither posed a threat nor possessed any equine treats.
Vespasian passed between two of the wooden columns and into the grove; scattered around on the ground were more heads in various stages of decomposition. Clumps of hair tied to branches above showed where they had hung until decay had eaten away the scalp and they had fallen free. ‘Who were these men, Thumelicus?’
‘Slaves probably; or sometimes a warrior from another tribe captured in a skirmish; any man who is taken prisoner will know what he can expect.’ Thumelicus swept the dusting of snow from the altar; the wood was ingrained with dried blood.
‘Lovely,’ Magnus muttered, prodding the ground with a javelin and looking for signs of something being recently buried. ‘I suppose your gods lap it up.’
‘Our gods have kept us free so, yes, they must appreciate human sacrifice.’
‘Free to fight each other,’ Sabinus pointed out, checking the underside of the altar for anything attached beneath it.
‘That is the way of all men: your biggest enemy is closest at hand until foreign invasion makes that enemy your most valuable ally. But come, it’s not here; there’s one more grove to try to the east, if I remember rightly.’
They made their way deeper into the forest; here the mist remained in patches, clinging to ferns and low branches. Although they were travelling away from the battle the noise of it seemed to be growing.
‘It sounds like our lads are pushing them back,’ Magnus observed after a while. ‘For once I’d say that ain’t a good thing.’
Sabinus shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it other than hurry up. I don’t fancy being caught by Gabinius with the very thing that he’s after; that would make for an interesting exchange of views.’
‘Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,’ Vespasian said as Thumelicus signalled for silence and crouched down.
‘What is it?’ Vespasian whispered, squatting down next to him.
Thumelicus cocked his ear and pointed ahead. Faintly through the mist, voices could be heard, talking quietly. ‘They’re no more than a hundred paces away, which means that they must be guarding the grove; I think we’re in luck.’
Vespasian beckoned Paetus to join him. ‘Send a man forward to find out how many there are.’
The prefect nodded and slipped back to his men; moments later a Batavian crept forward into the mist and Paetus returned.
‘They’ll be expecting an attack from either the north or west,’ Vespasian said softly, ‘so we’ll split up. You take two turmae around to the north and I’ll take the other two to the south where, hopefully, they won’t be anticipating a threat. Wait until you hear us charge and make contact, then take them in the rear.’
‘I’ll give you Ansigar’s and Kuno’s turmae.’
Vespasian nodded his thanks and then peered forward. Not long later the scout reappeared. ‘Fifty, maybe sixty,’ he said in a heavy accent.
Vespasian looked relieved. ‘Thank you, trooper.’ He turned back to Paetus. ‘Nothing we can’t manage. Get going, we’ll give you a count of five hundred to circle around them.’
‘These men will give no quarter,’ Thumelicus warned the prefect as he left. ‘They’ve sworn to protect the Eagle with their lives.’
‘If it’s there,’ Magnus pointed out.
‘Oh it’s there all right; why else would they be guarding this grove and not the other two?’
Magnus checked his sword was loose in its scabbard. ‘Fair point.’
Sabinus got to his feet. ‘Come on then, up and at them.’
The clearing came in and out of view as a light breeze got up and started playing with the mist. The Chauci warriors could be occasionally seen standing to the northeast of the grove of twenty or so trees of mixed species.
‘Donar, sharpen our swords and give us victory,’ Thumelicus mumbled, clutching a hammer amulet that hung on a leather thong around his neck. ‘With this Eagle we shall rid our Fatherland of Rome forever.’
‘And you’re welcome to it,’ Magnus added.
All along the line, men were going through their pre-combat rituals, checking weapons, tightening straps and muttering prayers to their guardian gods.
‘Right, let’s get this done,’ Vespasian said, having made another entreaty to Mars Victorious to help him control himself in the heat of the fight; he had managed it against the Chatti, he could do it again. He signalled to Ansigar to his left and Kuno on his right to move out.