"These mad priests used their power and their place within our lives to instill deep fear of the ancient gods in those people who would listen to them. And many people did, many people from all levels of our folk. Powys was not the only Chief or lesser chieftain they seduced. And they moved quickly, once they had decided to go forward with their plans. They enforced their viewpoints and their commands in secrecy, using blood oaths and dreadful threats of punishment for betrayal, exercising fear as the potent force that it is. Their movement, if you could even call it that, was a kind of insurrection against Llew the Chief Druid and his ways. It came to naught, as it turned out, because that single incident of the Tir Manha burning brought about their end.
"When we arrived from Camulod that night, sunset had caught us within several miles of home, but since we anticipated no danger there in our own lands, we decided to press on in the darkness and sleep in our own beds in Tir Manha . . . You can have no idea how much, or how often, I have regretted that decision."
"No, I believe you. But wait you . . ." There came another silence, and then Uther heard the sound of more footsteps approaching from a distance.
"Caius?" he heard his grandfather ask, his voice tight with irritation. "What are you doing in here? You know you're not supposed to bring your friends clattering through the house like raiding Outlanders."
"We're looking for Uther, Uncle."
"That matters not to me, lad. If you have eyes in your head and the sense with which to use them, you will see that Uther is not here. Now, off with you and seek him somewhere else. Your Uncle Uric and I are trying to talk, so away you go and leave us to our affairs. But go quietly, because if your Aunt Luceiia finds you charging through the house like that, you'll all be in trouble. And close those doors as you go out, if you please."
Moments later, after the footsteps had retreated more quietly than they had approached, Varrus spoke again.
"So, I gather that you arrived home to find this sacrifice already underway. But you must have known what was happening, from all the light and the activity. Surely you could have spirited your wife away from all of it? The glow from thirty-two fires must have been bright indeed."
"Thirty-two—? No, there was but one fire, Publius, in the burning pit. The prisoners were all confined in cages, suspended above it." In the space of a few stark moments, Uric outlined the sight that had awaited the returning party on their arrival, and Uther listened, fascinated, as his mind tried to recreate what the scene must have looked and sounded like.
When Uric had finished speaking, Publius Varrus remained quiet for a while, absorbing what he had been told.
"By the Christ," he said eventually in a flat, stunned voice. "I remember your father describing this pit to me, years ago. But he made no mention of that kind of thing. This is barbarism beyond anything I have ever known or heard of. And Ullic did nothing to stop it?"
"He was as confused as all the rest of us. Nothing like that had ever happened in living memory, and none of us really knew what to expect."
"Your Druids must have known!"
"Aye, the dark ones did—the Black Brethren—but they were the only ones. And they had had time to work on those of us who had stayed home by invoking the three-day law. The prisoners had been captive for three days by then, you see. And our ancient laws decree that if a prisoner is to die, he should be killed within three days of being taken. Failing that, he should be kept as a working slave or else set free. If he is killed after three days, however, his spirit remains to haunt and terrify his murderers."
"That is nonsense."
"No, Publius, that is our ancient law . . . Druidic law."
"Based upon fear and superstition."
"Based upon our beliefs. Cambria isn't Camulod, Publius." Uther heard his father pacing anxiously and the exasperation in his voice when he spoke again. "You have open spaces, high walls and Roman comforts. You have warmth and light in abundance—line, pure tapers and candles of beeswax, with bright, coal-burning braziers and blazing torches fuelled by carefully rendered tallow and clear oils. Not so with us. We are ruled by the night and the darkness, and our people fear the beings that infest the night. You, with your Roman-bred beliefs, you can smile at us for being superstitious, but we must live with who we are and what we know. We believe that the spirits of the dead walk freely among us in the dark of night, and that only the goodwill of our gods keeps them from terrorizing us. When the gods are not pleased, we are at the mercy of the night. We are Celts, Publius, not Romans. That is not superstition to us . . . it is the very stuff of life and truth, and believe me when I tell you it is difficult to feel that you are being foolish and superstitious when your blood has turned to water and your bones to jelly because of the blind terror that has eaten you whole."
"Aye, I suppose . . . and your Druids encourage you in all of that"
"Of course they do. They are our priests."
"So what of this Llew, what did he do that night?"
"Nothing. He was overpowered and knocked unconscious by the rebel priests as soon as he arrived, captured out of our sight and carried off before any of us knew what was going on. Then my father's father's councillors came to us, suborned as they had been by the black priests, and convinced him that it was the will of all the gods— and all the Druids—that the sacrifice proceed and that the spirits of the prisoners be freed, since plainly we could not turn them all loose or keep them all penned up as slaves and prisoners. My father saw the truth of that and thus permitted them to proceed, albeit with great reluctance, and the sacrifice began. Only then did I begin to realize what was really happening.
"The burning pit had always been there, since before I was born, and I had seen it used on several occasions to burn the remains of high-born men, chiefs and Druids. But I had never known of its being used to burn the living. I tried to take Veronica out of there then, finally aware of what might happen, but in seeking to protect her, I made the mistake of not telling her what was really taking place, and so she balked and ran away from me towards the fires and the smoke and the sacrifice, not knowing what was there . . ."
"And . . . ?"
"It was a full month and more before she spoke another word, to me or anyone. It was as though she lay in a trance, even though she ate and drank when meat and drink were offered her. I almost lost my wits before the end of that."
"Why did we hear nothing of this?"
"Because that was how Veronica wished it to be. As she recovered, she decided that it could serve no useful purpose to upset you and her mother with word of what she had endured. And by that time, she was well swollen with little Uther and no one wanted to talk much of anything other than that."
"Aye. And your own people, how did they react to what was done that night by these Black Brethren?"
"Well, talking about offering a human sacrifice and actually performing a human sacrifice are not at all the same thing. Once our people saw the smoke and heard the screams and smelled the stink of charring flesh, they quickly lost all their lust for the old days. Tir Manha was a quiet, shame-filled place for long, long weeks after that night."