‘What the fuck are they up to?’ Magnus asked.
‘I think that we’ve just witnessed a conflict of interests between the chief’s adviser and his priest,’ Corbulo said, adding with a wry smile: ‘Much like Sejanus arguing with the chief Vestal, only this time the Vestal seems to have won.’
‘It’s not his priest,’ Faustus said. ‘Their priests wander around the country going from tribe to tribe; they belong to no one but their gods.’
More shouting came from further off in the camp and, a few moments later, the warriors returned leading five young men with ropes around their necks and hands tied behind their backs. The russet colour of their tunics identified them immediately.
‘They’re our lads,’ Vespasian said. ‘What are they going to do with them?’
‘Something that I don’t think will work,’ Corbulo replied.
The terrified legionaries were herded down to the edge of the camp where a line of fifty Thracians with shields had assembled. With the ropes still around their necks they were driven before the shielded line as it advanced down the slope, the burial party following close behind.
‘Come on, Gallus, do what you must and really piss those bastards off,’ Corbulo whispered, almost to himself.
The line reached the Thracian dead, clambered across and stopped. The captives fell to their knees; their shouts and pleas carried up the hill. The burial party started to remove some bodies. The Roman cohorts began to bang their pila against their shields. Gallus could be seen riding in front of them with his arm in the air, he stopped in the centre, turned towards the Thracians and brought his arm down. Fifty arrows sped across the river and the captives were silenced; the Romans fell quiet.
‘Well done, Gallus,’ Corbulo said.
‘He just shot our lads, sir.’ Vespasian was outraged.
‘Of course he did, and if they were sensible they would have been begging him to. It may well be that any one of us would happily trade places with them in a hour or so.’
Another volley clattered into the wall of shields, then another into the burial party dragging bodies up the hill behind it, bringing down a good many. The rest dropped their loads and ran.
With their human shields dead the Thracian shield wall began to retreat, but, lacking the discipline of regular soldiers, did so piecemeal, leaving gaps which the archers brutally exploited; a little over half of them made it back up the hill.
To Vespasian’s right the weasel man howled curses and shook his severed head at the Romans, whilst the chief sat impassive with his fists clenched on his knees. The fork-bearded man said something to the chief, who nodded and dismissed him. The priest wailed as he watched him make his way down the hill to the remnants of the burial party.
This time the Thracians retrieved the Roman dead left on the higher reaches of the hill, and made a separate pyre for them. Cheers rang out from the opposite bank.
Corbulo looked pleased. ‘The chief seems to have an adviser with some manners; he might have a few more men alive to command if he’d listened to him in the first place, rather than to that disgusting-looking priest.’
‘I don’t fancy getting too close to him,’ Magnus said, ‘but I’ve got a nasty feeling we might get to meet him if we don’t find a way out.’
Vespasian glared at Magnus. ‘I think it would be best if you keep those thoughts to yourself.’
‘He’s right though, sir,’ Faustus said, having another attempt at loosening his bonds.
Down the hill only the dead by the river were left untended. The burial party again approached under a branch of truce. They took the Roman dead first, including the recently shot captives, and then untangled the Thracians. No arrows disturbed their work. One body in particular was treated with more reverence than the rest, and placed on a small pyre on its own.
Eventually the field was cleared of bodies and severed limbs; only dark red stains on the grass and the occasional pile of offal marked where men had fallen.
The Thracians lit the Roman pyre with no ceremony whatever, before turning their attentions to their own.
The weasel-faced priest stood before the massed Thracians and began a series of short chants, to which his congregation responded with ever-increasing intensity. Even the guards around the cage joined in. During this the chief made his way down to the foot of the smaller pyre that bore the solitary warrior. The chants reached a crescendo, and then abruptly stopped. The chief opened his arms in a gesture of supplication and let out a cry of profound grief.
‘No wonder they were so keen to reclaim the dead by the river,’ Corbulo concluded. ‘Looks like their chief lost a family member down there.’
‘Or lover?’ Magnus suggested.
‘No, they’re not like the Greeks,’ Faustus said. ‘From my experience they’re strictly women, boys and sheep; though not necessarily in that order, or separate.’
The crowd of Thracians parted, and another struggling man in a russet tunic was hauled out.
‘How many more have they got?’ Vespasian asked.
‘If we all survived, one more after him; then us four,’ Faustus replied.
The priest kept up a constant stream of prayers and ululations as the legionary was stripped, then pegged out on the ground between the two pyres; his mouth was gagged to quell his screaming. Ten men, naked to the waist, started to circle the writhing sacrifice on horses; each had a huge log or rock across his saddle. The priest drew a knife from his belt and raised it to the heavens. The first horseman lifted his log and hefted it down on to the Roman. It smashed his ribcage. A second followed, then a rock, then another log, each crushing and mangling the body part it landed on. The man was dead before the last rock landed on him.
Vespasian watched and understood what was being acted out; he could guess what would happen next. He put a hand to the pendant that Caenis had given him as the priest stepped forward brandishing his knife. He grabbed the dead man’s genitals in one hand and with a flash of the blade severed them. The Thracians roared. The priest then presented the blood-dripping pile of flesh to the chief who took it in two hands and held it over the small pyre. He muttered a private prayer and laid his grisly offering on his dead kinsman’s chest. A torch was plunged into the oil-soaked wood and the pyre burst into flames.
‘They do weird stuff here,’ Magnus said, making the sign to ward off the evil eye. ‘What was all that about?’
Vespasian remained silent, thinking of the story that Caenis had told him when she had given him his pendant.
‘It’s like something in Publius Ovidius’ Metamorphoses,’ Corbulo said, but got no further. Whatever literary observation he was going to make was interrupted by screaming from the large pyre.
A wooden cage, similar to theirs, was being hauled up the side of the huge mound of seven hundred or more corpses. In it was the last russet-clad legionary. He knew what fate awaited him, but was helpless to prevent it. Once the cage had reached the top the priest embarked on another set of prayers. Men with burning torches surrounded the pyre. The caged legionary screamed out pleas to the gods, his comrades, his mother, none of whom could help him. They drowned out the voice of the weasel-faced priest, who pressed on regardless.
From across the river the men of the first and second cohorts crashed their pila against their shields three times and then began to sing the Hymn of Mars. The doleful voices booming out the ancient hymn carried up the hill to their comrade and seemed to settle him. He stopped his cries, raised himself to his knees and bowed his head in silent prayer to the gods below.
On a signal from the priest the torches were thrust into the base of the pyre. The flames caught, consuming first the hair, then the tunics and cloaks of the fallen, before taking hold of the flesh itself. That in its turn blistered, then sizzled and spat, giving off the aroma of roast pork as the fat within melted and oozed flaming droplets that were consumed as they fell into the blaze below. The heat had become intense; no smoke was given off, only flames. They licked their way ever upward until the top layer of bodies caught.