Shadows in the Night (40 page)

Then the young warriors came forward one by one, and the chief Druid dipped a finger into the cauldron of blood, and made a mark on each man’s forehead. The drumming increased its tempo, and a cymbal added its clashing rhythm. Then the flutes took up another eerie tune, joined by some double-pipes, weaving yet more strands of melody in and out.

My throat was dry. Now we were getting to the heart of the dedication. The warriors in front of the altar began to dance in line, leaping and gyrating, making thrusts with their swords in a vivid imitation of battle. They formed a column and made a circuit of the clearing, displaying themselves to the tribe. Their movements were violent and strong, representing real fighting, not a theatrical parody, yet these were fit and well-trained young men, so they contrived to be graceful too. In any other circumstances I might have enjoyed the show, and the congregation certainly did; they started stamping in rhythm with the drums, their bodies swaying in time, and some of the men, presumably the older warriors, repeated the less energetic movements of the dancers.

The procession came back to the altar, and the warriors re-formed their line. There was a thunderous clash from the cymbals, and the youths leapt high in the air, uttering their war-cry; then they knelt down, laying their weapons and helmets in front of them. As they waited there, I was surprised to notice that Vitalis had disappeared, and somebody had cleared the bull’s body from the altar. We had all been too engrossed in the dancing to notice. For all its primitive trappings, this ceremony was efficiently organised.

The senior Druid swung round to face away from the river, and raised his hand. The music faded and died. He called out, “Let the Shadow of Death accept the newest warriors into our tribe,” and from the darkness near the roundhouse stepped a tall figure. He strode out, clothed in kilt and scale armour, with a big helmet and a drawn sword. His face was hidden by a mask in the form of a skull.

He was a horrible and yet awe-inspiring sight, with his death-mask and staring eye-holes, like something out of one’s worst nightmare, grotesque and unfamiliar. I’d assumed that when I actually saw the Shadow of Death, I would recognise the man behind the mask, but this apparition didn’t look like anyone I’d ever seen. Well of course it didn’t, that was the whole point! The handsome, familiar figure of Vitalis had been transformed into something alien and frightening.

There was complete silence in the clearing, and a vibrating tension in the air that you could have cut with a knife, even a real gold one. I didn’t know what was coming next, but it was easy to tell it was to be the high point of the ceremony.

The tall, masked figure announced in ringing tones: “The time has come to seek for guidance from our gods. We pray to the Dagda and to Taranis and to the Three Mothers, and to all the holy ones of this river and this wood. Send us a sign that these young men, the flower of our tribe, will be acceptable to you, to fight and die in your service. Receive this our sacrifice, and give us your blessing.” He raised a hand in signal, and out from the shadows came two more Druids, holding between them a skinny boy with an angular face and hair that, despite the deceptive light, I recognised as red.

Titch!

The world seemed to lurch, the ground to heave under my feet, and I opened my mouth to scream. I knew that when I did we’d be dead; but I also knew I couldn’t stand there silent and watch them murder Titch.

I felt a sharp pain in my arm. Quintus was pinching me so hard he drew blood, and I gasped, but it brought me to my senses and I made no real sound. I stood there feeling sick and numb, and not knowing what to do. But I must do
something.
Quintus probably wouldn’t do anything, I thought with a sudden surge of bitterness. When I’d rushed out to protect the foal he’d told me I was stupid to take risks. Well, stupid or not, I’d have to think of some way to get the boy out. I measured the distance between the altar and us. If I raced out into the clearing creating as much din as possible, causing a diversion, perhaps he could make a run for it. He looked half-asleep, as if he was drugged like the bull, but knowing Titch he could be pretending, waiting for his chance. Working out what the great Julius Caesar would have done….

The great Julius Caesar would have had half a legion of soldiers to back him up in a situation like this. I knew I was quite mad, even thinking of rescuing him. And yet…I had to do something.

“It’s Titch,” I whispered in Quintus’ ear. “We’ve got to get him out.”

He leaned close, shaking his head. “No,” he breathed. “Not Titch.”

“It is—”

“No, Aurelia. I swear. It’s not.”

I looked again. They had brought the boy to the altar stone, for everyone to see in the silvery light; he wore a skimpy tunic and no shoes, and stood upright but swaying slightly between his captors. Yes, surely it was Titch!

“His hair’s too long,” came the whisper in my ear. “Look. Titch had short hair. It’s like him, but it isn’t. I promise.”

As I stared and stared, I realised that Quintus was right. This was a similar-looking youngster, short and wiry, but his hair grew down past his ears. Titch’s ears stuck out. Whatever else had happened in the few days he’d been missing, Titch couldn’t have grown so much hair on his head.

An enormous flood of relief engulfed me; then immediately I felt guilty. This lad, whoever he was, was about to be murdered in a disgusting ritual. But we couldn’t help. I knew we couldn’t do anything.

The senior Druid stepped up to the boy, this time holding a long, shiny dagger. “Do you go willingly as a sacrifice to the immortal gods?” he asked.

The lad muttered something, so quietly we couldn’t hear it. The priest chose to interpret it as “Yes,” because he announced loudly, “Bear witness, all folk here assembled, that this prisoner goes willingly to meet his fate.” Then he said to the boy, in a quieter, almost kindly tone, “Though in your life you were an enemy of us and our gods, yet now you have the chance to make amends, by giving yourself to death. Your soul will live on. Death is not the end of life, just a stage upon the way.”

He nodded to the two priests holding the boy. They turned him so that his back was to the Druid, who grasped his knife and plunged it into the lad’s body at the base of his spine. He made a sound halfway between a groan and a sob as he fell forward onto the altar, and his blood mixed with the bull’s blood. All three of the Druids paid careful attention, looking closely as he fell and lay face down. The omens were being interpreted from the way he twitched as he died. I closed my eyes, I couldn’t watch.

There was a pause, and then the senior priest addressed the others. “What are the omens?”

“The omens are good,” each man answered in turn. I opened my eyes again.

“The omens are good!” the senior Druid proclaimed. “The sacrifice is pleasing to the gods.” He turned to face the kneeling warriors. “The gods accept you, and I proclaim you warriors in the service of the Shadow of Death, full and trusted members of the Shadow-men!”

There was a huge cheer from the crowd, and from the youths too as they leapt up, put on their helmets and grasped their swords, and started to dance around the big stone. Their gyrations were wilder than ever, and their leaping bodies hid the altar and its sad sacrifice, until they started in procession round the clearing again. The tension was gone now, the air full of joyous, exultant music.

Eventually the triumphant dancers returned and formed their line once more before the altar, standing proud and tall in their armour, the sweat shining on their faces. The Shadow of Death, who stood beside the Druid, beckoned to a tall lad, apparently the leader of the group. He approached, and bowed first to the Druid, then to the masked chief.

“Are you ready to take your oath before the gods of this place, and before the people of your tribe?” the Shadow of Death asked.

“We are,” declared the young warrior.

“And are you all of the same mind?”

“We are,” they said in chorus.

“Speak the oath,” the chief commanded.

The tall lad took a breath. “I swear that I will not rest content until we have restored to the gods the holy place known as Dru Nemeton, which is now defiled by the Romans. I dedicate my life and my sword to killing every Roman who lives there, and tearing down their buildings, so that the gods may once again come into their own. I swear this by Taranis and by the gods of the wood and of the river.” He stepped up to the Shadow of Death and knelt, holding out his sword. The Chief touched it, and gestured the lad to rise.

There was a low growl of assent from the crowd. Then each of the other new warriors took the same oath and presented his sword. That’s how I come to know it by heart. Not that I needed to hear it more than a couple of times, for those foul promises to be burned into my brain.

With each dedication the crowd’s approving roar was louder. As the last lad said his piece and offered his sword, the whole clearing erupted into a battle-yell. The Druid raised his arms, and called out, “Go then, to battle and to glory!”

The crowd cheered itself hoarse, and the ceremony was at an end. The priests walked back into the shadows of the wood. The masked chief raised his sword and signalled the young warriors to follow him, and they formed a column and began to move off at a jog-trot, towards the river.

The suddenness of it caught both Quintus and me by surprise; we were used to more measured and formal rituals, I suppose. But the lads’ excitement was at fever pitch, so it made sense to send them into battle straight away. And somebody, perhaps, had observed that Quintus and I were not among the defenders at the mansio.

We moved quickly back from the edge of the clearing and started as fast as we could, making for the track that led to our horses. We tried to run but it wasn’t possible; the moon had almost set, its beams hardly reaching among the thick leaves, and we blundered clumsily through the shadowy trees and undergrowth, until we knew we were well and truly lost.

At last we stopped, breathless. “We can take our direction from the moon,” Quintus said, “and head for the road, or for the river. Which is quicker?”

“The river path. But it’s riskier—that’s the way the warriors are going.”

“They won’t be hard to avoid. We can hear them whooping and yelling from here.”

So we forced a way through till we could see the river glinting between the trees, and started moving along roughly parallel with it. We could hear men to our left, following the river bank, and occasional battle yells split the air. Now the darkness was to our advantage, and we’d almost reached the first of our paddocks when there was a sudden shout very close to us, and three men ran past, so near I was convinced they must see us. One of them yelled, “They went this way, towards the mansio! Call the others and circle them in! Don’t let them get across the fields!”

“I think it’s the innkeeper and the spy,” another voice called out, slightly farther away, but still much too close for comfort. “Someone tell the Shadow of Death. He wants to be in at the kill.”

“All Romans will be killed!” the first man bellowed, and there were whoops of delight from at least three directions, and several more voices took up the chant. “All Romans will be killed! All Romans will be killed!”

“They must have heard us thrashing about in the dark,” Quintus breathed. “If we move now they’ll hear us again.”

“But if we stay put they’ll surround us and trap us here.”

“Can we get across the big paddock?”

“Not without being seen. We’ll head for the round stone byre on this side of it.”

“What?” He almost forgot to whisper. “We can’t hide in that!”

“Yes we can. And there’s cover from the trees most of the way. Come on!” I started forward, and heard him following me. We were in familiar territory now; Lucius and I had played in every part of these woods, and I knew my way, day or night. We kept to the shadows, and then for just fifteen paces had to race across open ground, full in the low moonlight. Nobody saw us.

The building’s wide entrance was in shadow, facing away from the moon. I pulled Quintus inside. “There’s a kind of loft at the back. Like a big shelf for hay.”

He looked up and saw the rough boards over our heads. “Is there a ladder?”

“Stone footholds in the wall.”

Easier said than done, when you were no longer an agile child; as I struggled upwards, clinging to the tiny protruding stones, I realised how many years it was since I’d climbed them. Quintus gave me a push from below and I scrambled over the edge of the boards; then he followed me up. The old timbers creaked, but they held; we burrowed down in the hay, right against the wall of the byre, in deep shadow. As we lay back, a loud voice nearby shouted, “Try that round byre there!”

Footfalls sounded at the entrance, and we hardly dared breathe as three figures came into the byre below us. Despite the darkness I made out that two of them were helmeted warriors with pale faces, but the third had a dark skull for a face. So the Shadow of Death had come, to be in at the kill.

If they’d had torches we’d have been caught, but they hadn’t. They stood bunched together at the entrance, peering into what must have looked like total darkness. We were invisible to them, as long as we kept still and they stayed where they were.

One of them shouted, “They’ve got to be in here. There’s nowhere else they could have gone.”