Cato instantly turned in the direction of the shout and saw Figulus pointing away to the west, where a forest crept up the far end of the ridge. The angle of the rampart obscured Cato's view. He swore, and ran round the walkway to Figulus's position.
'What's up?'
'Men, sir! There!' Figulus jabbed his finger along the crest of the ridge towards the forest. Cato saw nothing unusual as his eyes swept the landscape.
'Use your drill!' he shouted. 'Indicate the direction properly!'
The recruit swung his javelin up and carefully sighted along it in the direction of the forest. 'There, sir.'
Cato moved behind Figulus and looked along the javelin's length. Past the wavering point, amid the trees at the edge of the forest, dark figures on horseback slowly emerged from the sylvan shadows within and picked their way onto the snow-patched open ground before the legion's ramparts. There they halted; ten men on horse, clothed in black, heads hidden in great hoods.
All around Cato the rest of the centuries from the stand-to cohort piled up onto the ramparts and dispersed along this side of the fortified camp, armed and ready to meet any sudden attack. A trumpet was blowing the signal for the cohort, and Macro sprinted along the walkway to join them.
The distant horsemen parted, and from within the group a man on the ground staggered forward, his arms tightly bound behind him. A rope curved up from a halter round his neck and into the hand of the rider walking his beast alongside. The mounted man, like his companions, was thickly robed in black and wore a strange headpiece that bore an elaborate pair of antlers that made him look like a thin tree stripped for winter. The two figures approached the fort, the man on foot stumbling to retain his balance without choking on the tether held tightly by his captor.
'What's going on?' Macro had arrived, breathing hard. 'Who are they?'
'Don't know, sir.'
'Who called out the guard?'
'Figulus, sir.'
Macro turned and looked for the recruit. 'Figulus! Over here! Smartly does it, lad!'
Figulus doubled along the rampart and drew up in front of his centurion with a thud as he grounded his javelin and stood stiffly at attention. Macro surveyed him with a harsh expression. 'Did you call out the guard cohort?'
'Yes, sir.' The legionary steeled himself for a stiff bollocking from his centurion. 'Sorry, sir.'
'Sorry? What are you fucking sorry for, lad? You've done well. Now back to your position.'
It took a moment for the slow-witted youngster to realise that he had been praised, and his face split into a gap-toothed grin.
'Today, Figulus! Today!'
'Oh, right, sir!' He turned and trotted away, leaving his centurion shaking his head in thin-lipped wonder at the quality of some of the men he had been forced to take into his century to bring it up to strength. Beyond Figulus he caught sight of the red crest of a tribune bobbing above the cluster of helmets, brightly gilded in the sunlight. Plinius pushed his way through the throng on the rampart and leaned up against the palisade, staring at the two figures now little more than half a mile from the outer ditch. The man on foot wore the tattered remains of a red tunic fringed with gold thread. Plinius turned and caught sight of Macro.
'That man in front's a Roman! Pass the word for the cavalry scouts to be mounted and ready for pursuit. I'm going to get the legate.'
'Yes, sir!' Macro turned to Cato. 'You heard him. Go find the scouts' centurion and give him his orders. I'll take charge of the men up here. Can't have them behaving like a bunch of louts at a chariot race.'
As Macro started bawling out curses and orders to the men milling along the rampart, Cato made for the stables, up by the legate's tent. By the time he returned, the men on the wall were evenly dispersed and watching the distant figures making their way across the snow towards the fort. The legate and the breathless senior tribune had arrived moments before, and were staring silently at the spectacle.
'What the bloody hell has that man got on his head?' muttered Vespasian.
'Antlers, sir.'
'I can see they're bloody antlers. But why has he got them on his head? Must be awkward.'
'Yes, sir. Some kind of religious apparatus.' Plinius shrank back from the glare his superior shot at him. 'Probably…'
Just beyond the range of slingshot, the horseman yanked hard on the halter and those on the wall could clearly hear the sharp cry of pain from his prisoner. The rider climbed down from his horse and tossed the halter aside. The Roman sank to his knees. He was clearly exhausted, and his head slumped forward onto his breast. But his respite was momentary. The rider struck him on the head and pointed towards the fort. The men on the rampart could hear shouted words, but could make no sense of them. The Roman raised his head, steadied himself and cried out to those on the wall.
'Hear me!… I have a message for the commander of this legion… Is he there?'
Vespasian cupped his hands and called back, 'Speak! Who are you?'
'Valerius Maxentius… prefect of the naval squadron at Gesoriacum.'
The men on the rampart gasped in surprise that so senior an officer was in the hands of the Druids, and anxious exchanges rippled out along the palisade.
'Silence!' Vespasian roared. 'The next man to speak will be flogged! Centurion, make sure you get their names!'
'Yes, sir.'
Beyond the wall, Maxentius was calling out to them again, his voice strained and thin, deadened by the snow lying on the ground. 'I have been told to speak for the Druids of the Dark Moon… My ship was wrecked on the coast, and the survivors, a woman, her children and myself, were taken by a Durotrigan raiding party… They handed us over to the Druids. In exchange for the release of these prisoners, the Druids want some of their comrades returned to them. Five Druids of the first ring were taken by the general last summer… This man, the High Priest of the Dark Moon, is their leader. He gives you until the Feast of the First Budding – thirty days from now – to respond to his demand… If the Druids are not released by the time of the feast, he will burn his prisoners alive as a sacrifice to Cruach.'
Vespasian recalled the words of Centurion Albinus and shuddered. The thought of his own wife and son screaming amid crackling flames filled his mind's eye and his fingers gripped the palisade tightly as he fought off the terrible image.
The rider leaned down, close to Maxentius's head, and appeared to be saying something to him. Then he stepped back and parted his black cloak. Maxentius called out to them once more.
'The Druid wishes you to have a… token of his determination in this matter!' Behind him, something flashed in the sunlight. The Druid had pulled a huge, broad-bladed sickle from the folds of his cloak. He gripped it with both hands, braced his feet widely, and swung the sickle back.
At the last moment, Maxentius sensed the terrible fate the Druid intended for him, and started to twist round. The sickle flashed through the air, into and through the side of the prefect's neck. It was so quickly done that for a moment some of those watching from the ramparts thought the Druid must have missed. Then the prefect's head rolled to one side and fell into the snow. An arterial spray gushed from the stump of his neck and splattered the white ground. The Druid wiped his bloodied blade in the snow. Then, sheathing it beneath his cloak, he kicked the prefect's torso over, casually mounted his horse, and spurred it back towards his comrades waiting at the edge of the forest.
Chapter Eight
Vespasian swung round, hands cupping his mouth as he bellowed, 'Send out the scouts! Get me those Druids!'
The legion's mounted men had not seen the beheading and were more alert than their stunned comrades lining the palisade. In a moment the gate was open and a dozen mounted scouts galloped out. The decurion quickly spotted the Druids on the fringe of the forest and gave the order to charge. Pounding hooves plucked up sprays of snow as the scouts fanned out, wool capes whipping out behind them. The Druid who had killed Maxentius turned his antlered head to look, then kicked his heels into the flanks of his mount, spurring his beast towards his comrades who were already melting back into the shadows of the forest.