When the Eagle Hunts

'Nice smell you've uncovered!' Macro wrinkled his nose. 'Now put it back.'

'Sir, this is the proof we're looking for. Look!' Cato held the material out for his centurion to see. 'It's silk. Patterned in Rome, and the maker has stitched a small emblem in the corner.'

Macro stared at the neat design: an elephant's head – the family motif of the Plautii.

'That's it then! They're here. Or were here, at least. But where are they now?'

'Must have gone with the Druids.'

'Maybe. We'd better just check the site for any other signs of the general's family – or what might have become of them.'

Outside the hut Prasutagus could not hide his relief at being in the company of other humans again. Macro held out the silk.

'They were here.'

'Sa! Now we go, yes?'

'No. We keep looking. Is there any other place on the island they might have been taken to?'

Prasutagus looked at him blankly. Macro tried to make his meaning simpler.

'We keep looking. Another place? Yes?'

Prasutagus seemed to understand, and turned to point at a track leading into the trees directly opposite the antlered chair.

'There.'

'What's up that way?'

Prasutagus did not answer, and continued staring towards the track. Macro saw that he was trembling. He shook the warrior's shoulder. 'What's up there?'

Prasutagus wrenched his gaze from the track and turned to face him, eyes wide with terror.

'Cruach.'

'Cruach? That dark god of yours? You're taking the piss.'

'Cruach!' Prasutagus insisted. 'Sacred grove of Cruach. His place in this world.'

'Quite talkative when you're shitting yourself, aren't you?' Macro smiled. 'Come on, mate. Let's have a little word with this Cruach. See what he's made of.'

'Sir, is that wise?' asked Cato. 'We've found what we came for. Wherever the general's family are, they're not here now. We should get moving before we're discovered.'

'Not until we check the grove,' Macro replied firmly. 'No more nonsense. Let's go.'

With Macro at their head, the three men strode across the clearing and started down the track. With the torch flickering before them, they could see the gnarled trunks of oak trees lining the route on either side.

'How far to the grove?' asked Macro.

'Near,' Prasutagus whispered, keeping close to the flickering torch.

The trees were silent all about them; nothing stirred, not an owl or any other creature of the night. It was as if the island was under some kind of spell, Cato decided. Then he realised the smell of decay was back again. With every step along the track, the scent of death and putrid sweetness grew stronger.

'What was that?' Macro stopped abruptly.

'What was what, sir?'

'Shut up! Listen!'

The three of them paused, ears straining to hear anything above the unnaturally loud crackle and hiss of the torch. Then Cato heard it: a low moan that rose and fell to a whimper. Then a voice muttered something. Strange words that he could not quite make out.

'Draw swords,' Macro ordered quietly, and the three men eased the blades from their scabbards.

Macro stepped forward, and his companions followed nervously, senses straining for any sign of the source of the noise. Ahead of them, the track began to widen, and out of the darkness loomed a stake with a lumpen shape jammed on top. As they approached, the light of the torch illuminated the dark stains running down its length, and the head impaled on the end.

'Shit!' muttered the centurion. 'I wish the Celts wouldn't do that.'

They came upon more stakes, each bearing a head, in varying stages of decay. All of them were arranged to face the track so that the three trespassers were walking under the gaze of the dead. Once again the air felt colder than it should to Cato, and he was about to comment on it when a fresh moan broke the silence. It came from the far side of the grove, beyond the wavering pool of light cast by the torch. This time the moan increased in intensity, and became a piercing wail of agony that tore through the darkness and froze the blood of the three mortals.

'We go!' Prasutagus whispered. 'We go now! Cruach comes!'

'Bollocks!' replied Macro. 'No god makes a sound like that. Come on, you bastard! Don't chicken out now.'

He half dragged the Briton towards the sound and Cato followed reluctantly. In truth, he would have gladly turned and run from the grove, but that would have meant leaving the security of the glow cast by the torch. The thought of being lost and alone in this terrible dark world of the Druids made him stick as close to the others as possible. Another cry rose through the night, much closer now, and ahead of them loomed the flat stone of an altar, and beyond it the being giving voice to the cries of agony that seemed so much a part of this dreadful place.

'What the hell is that?' Macro cried out.

No more than fifteen paces away, on the far side of the altar, the figure of a man slowly writhed. He was suspended from a wooden beam, his forearms lashed to its rough surface. From below he was impaled on a long shaft of wood which entered his body just behind his testicles. As they watched, the man tried to raise himself, straining at the ropes that bound his arms. Astonishingly he managed to do this for a moment, before his strength gave out and he slid down again, causing him to let loose another terrible wail of agony and despair. The inhuman noise subsided into prayers and curses, in a language that was almost as familiar to Cato as his own Latin.

'That's Greek he's speaking!'

'Greek? That's not possible… Unless…' Macro strode closer to the man, raising the torch as he approached. 'It's Diomedes…'

The Greek stirred at the sound of his name, and forced his eyelids to open. He stared down at them with a desperate glint in his eyes.

'Help me!' he mumbled in Latin through tightly clenched teeth. 'For pity's sake, help me!'

Macro looked round at his comrades. 'Cato! Get up that beam and cut him free. Prasutagus! Keep his weight off that stake!'

The Briton tore his gaze from the terrible spectacle and stared blankly at Macro who quickly mimed a lifting action with his spare hand and pointed at Diomedes. Prasutagus nodded and hurried over. He grasped the Greek's legs and eased him up, bearing Diomedes's full weight in his powerful arms without difficulty. Meanwhile Cato, never terribly athletic, was struggling to shin up one of the supporting posts. With a sigh of impatience, Macro came over and stood with his back to the post.

'Use my shoulders to get up!'

Up on the crossbeam Cato crawled along to the first binding. His sword cut through the coarse rope with some difficulty before the Greek's left arm came free, flopping down to his side. Cato reached over to the other binding and a moment later the other arm was freed. The optio dropped down from the crossbeam.

'Now then, let's get him off the stake. Lift him up, you idiot!'

Prasutagus understood, and with straining arms he began to raise the Greek up the stake that penetrated deep into his body. There was a wet sucking sound from the wound, then a muffled grating of bone. Diomedes threw his head back and shrieked to the heavens.

'Shit! Be careful, you fool!'

With a heave Prasutagus lifted the Greek clear of the point and gently set him down on the altar. A dark gush of blood spilled out of the gaping wound where Diomedes's anus had once been and Cato winced at the sight. The Greek trembled fitfully and his eyes rolled in their sockets as he fought the terrible, mortal agony. He was very close to death.

Macro leaned close to the Greek's ear. 'Diomedes. You're dying. Nothing can stop that. But you can help us. Help us get back at the bastards who did this to you.'

'Druids,' Diomedes gasped. 'Tried to… make them pay… Tried to find them.'

'You found 'em all right.'

'No… Caught me first… Brought me here… and did this.'

'Did you see any of the other prisoners?'

A spasm of pain twisted his features. When it subsided a little, he nodded. 'The general's family…'