But despite the enormity of it, he had just about come to terms. Velius was dead and a new position had opened up in the centurionate of the Tenth. A new chief training officer would have to be selected. It seemed ironic that there was a good chance that whoever was selected would themselves have been trained by Velius.
Suddenly the legionaries parted, having spotted the officers approaching the scene, and Fronto felt the bile rise in his throat.
“Gods!”
The smell of meat, both raw and burned, assailed his nostrils. Sabinus, next to him, had gone white.
A frame had been hastily constructed by bending two saplings and nailing them to the boles of trees, resulting in a diagonal cross between two trunks. On the frame was tied the remains of a man, his headless body, missing both hands and feet and opened from neck to groin, hanging limp from the vines that held him. For a moment Fronto almost asked how they knew this was Velius, but then his roving gaze caught the sight of the head, impaled on a spear nearby.
The charring smell came from the ashes of a small fire, where the hands and feet and what was presumably a pile of internal organs had been burned, presumably in some sort of ritual. He averted his eyes. Looking at the head was making him an unpleasant mix of queasy and angry.
“Druids!” a voice barked.
His head snapped round to Sabinus, who was still pale, but now displaying a grim snarl.
“What?”
“Druids,” the man repeated. “This is what they do: death rituals. This wasn’t the work of ordinary men. I know the ordinary plebs back in Rome think all barbarians are nine feet tall and eat babies, but you and I know the truth. Look at Galronus. It’s not Celts that do this; or even Belgae. It’s druids that do this.”
The legate couldn’t find a reason to argue. Sabinus was probably right. And Fronto just couldn’t think straight; was frightened to open his mouth in case the sight and the stench made him vomit.
Priscus took one look at the senior officers and addressed the optio and his men.
“Get this cleared up. All the body parts need to be put away in a bag for cremation and funeral, but the guts and all the wood… just burn it.”
He took a deep breath.
“But leave the head. I’ll bring the head.”
The optio saluted and he and his men began the grisly task as Priscus stepped in front of the three officers. Fronto blinked.
“Why the head?”
“Because that’s what you need to see. That’s why I brought you.”
The primus pilus turned and strode in a business-like fashion across to the head, sitting atop its spear and glaring at them, in a manner that looked disturbingly accusative to Fronto.
The officers walked across behind him, focusing on the head, while at the same time trying not to think too hard about it. Priscus, in a no-nonsense fashion, marched up to the grisly object and pointed.
“There.”
“What?” Fronto frowned as he examined the remnant of his officer. It was extremely unpleasant, messy, and clearly a statement to the commanders of the Roman army, but it was equally clearly just Velius’ head on a spike.
“The mouth.” Priscus jabbed with his finger.
“What’s that?” Fronto leaned closer, swallowing against the unpleasant smell and the bile that threatened to rise. There was something in the mouth of the severed head; something dark, smooth and oily.
Priscus shrugged.
“Don’t know. Thought I’d better wait so that you’d seen it first. Want me to take it out?”
Fronto wavered for a moment. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what the object was.
“Yes. Take it out.”
The three men watched tensely as Priscus reached in and, slowly and carefully worked the object loose with his fingers before withdrawing it. As the small, oily object came loose with an unpleasant noise, a gobbet of thickened blood followed it. Once more bile rose into Fronto’s mouth and he had to turn and spit into the undergrowth. Velius’ tongue had been removed to make room, probably burned in the fire along with the rest of the viscera.
“What the hell is it?”
Priscus turned the object over in his hands several times, frowning at the unpleasant liquids that ran across his knuckles.
“It’s a bag. A pouch. Leather but waxed or oiled for waterproofing.”
Fronto stared.
“So what’s in it?”
Priscus stared down at the unpleasant article.
“I think finding that out’s the commander’s prerogative, sir.”
Fronto stared at the small, shiny bag. Funny how the chain of command and all proprieties of officerhood came out when they were trying to decide who would do the worst tasks.
“I can’t. I’ve only got one working hand.”
Priscus glared at his commander for a moment and the clearing was blanketed in an uncomfortable silence. Moments passed until Sabinus stepped forward.
“Alright then, children. I’ll look.”
Clenching his teeth, fighting back the urge to retch at the coagulated blood on the smooth leather, he retrieved the pouch and began to work at the tiny string at one end. As he unknotted it and gently worked the aperture open, Fronto found he was holding his breath.
“Well?”
Sabinus held the pouch up, allowing the light to illuminate the opening. He stared into it for a moment.
“Sabinus…” Fronto prompted.
With a frown and a shrug, the staff officer tipped the pouch up and its contents tumbled out onto his palm.
“It’s a ring. And a note.”
“A note?” Balbus frowned at it quizzically. “That’s parchment! Where in the name of Jupiter did a barbarian druid get hold of good Egyptian parchment?”
Fronto stared.
“And that’s a Roman ring. A good one, too.”
He reached out and grasped the parchment, struggling one-handed to unroll the small sheet.
“It’s in Latin. Well-written too.”
“What does it say, though?” Priscus was tense and staring.
“Gods, I can hardly read it, it’s so small.” He held the paper up to his face and squinted.
“It says…” he took a breath. “No matter how many tribes you make bend to your will, the Gods and their priests will never accept you. Savour your petty victory for, in time, all of Gaul will pucker to spit you back out.”
He paused.
“Crap, who is this man? ‘All Gaul will pucker’? He sounds like a slave in a Plautus comedy!”
Balbus nodded.
“May sound all very literate, but don’t ignore what that message is actually saying. He's warning us… or possibly threatening us, I suppose… that the Druids will continue to raise resistance to us. We can pacify all of Gallic and Belgic lands, but there's always the German tribes and even Britannia to the north that look to the druids. And, of course, we may have pacified places now, but what happens as soon as we withdraw the legions?”
Fronto nodded.
“Given the amount of influence these druids have over the barbarians, I think maybe if Caesar really does want Gaul, he’s going to have to deal with the druids somehow.”
“Fronto…”
The legate turned to Sabinus, who was staring at him and holding out the ring.
“What?”
The staff officer swallowed.
“This is Paetus’ ring.”
The four officers fell silent, staring at the small item of jewellery in Sabinus’ hand.
“Then I suppose we know what became of our runaway” muttered Balbus.
Fronto nodded sadly.
“Poor bastard can’t have got far. I hope they dealt with him quickly and not like this!”
Priscus cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen? Time to return to camp. I’ve got to deal with this.”
Fronto was about to argue until his primus pilus wrenched the disembodied head from the spear tip with a crunch, a squelch, and a rush of dark blood.