Altar of Blood

4

‘I thought you might want to know, Governor …’

Albinus replied without looking up from the paperwork laid out before him, illuminated by the flickering light of half a dozen lamps.

‘Yes?’

The single word was laced with acid, a state of affairs with which the governor’s long-suffering secretary had become at first accustomed and then reluctantly resigned. He advanced into the office from his place in the doorway, adopting the slightly supplicatory stance that experience had taught him tended to defuse the cutting edge of his master’s temper.

‘I thought you might want to know that the Tungrians are on the move, Governor. From the look of their preparations I would expect them to march for Novaesium early tomorrow.’

Albinus looked up at him with a calculating expression.

‘Novaesium? Why Novaesium? Why not just cross the river here?’

The other man inclined his head in agreement.

‘Indeed sir, I find myself in total agreement with you, if …’

The governor’s temper was as volatile as ever, his voice rising as he scowled at the hapless secretary.

‘If? If bloody what, you half-wit? Stop talking in your damned riddles and get to the point!’

The secretary winced, bowing slightly once more.

‘If your colleague Tribune Scaurus has been charged with a task that requires him to engage with the Marsi tribe, then your surmise would be entirely correct. If, however, his mission requires him to enter Bructeri territory, perhaps to perform some kind of abduction …’

Albinus nodded slowly.

‘In that case he’d be far better off crossing further north.’

‘Indeed, Governor.’

‘At Novaesium, eh? Straight into Bructeri territory, more or less, and the minimum distance to be travelled to the tribal capital.’

He looked up knowingly.

‘You think they’ve been ordered to bring this priestess woman back with them, don’t you?’

The secretary allowed himself the merest hint of a shrug. Anything more expressive would probably have been deemed disrespectful.

‘It was my suspicion, Governor, especially as most of the questions that Tribune Scaurus and his officers asked were about the Bructeri, but …’

‘But what? Spit it out, man!’

‘Well sir, it’s just that most of their questions seemed to focus on the Bructeri capital. And the tribal treasury.’

Albinus sat back with a frown.

‘The treasury? Why the bloody treasury? Surely Scaurus has all the gold he could ever …’

He fell silent, staring hard at the far wall, then slapped his hand down on the desk before him with a loud crack that made the other man flinch.

‘Unless the young bastard has already spent his way through the gold he stole from me! Surely he couldn’t be planning to raid the Bructeri king’s personal fortune?’

His servant nodded slowly.

‘A deduction of some perception, Governor.’

‘Gods below, man!’ Albinus was out of his chair, aghast at the thought. ‘You think he intends to raid the treasury, and then make his escape with the Bructeri seer in the resulting chaos? It’d be enough to spark a full-scale war! The other tribes would be certain to rally to the Bructeri under that sort of provocation!’

The secretary shrugged again, more confidently this time.

‘The idea you postulate would seem to be a credible modus operandi for such a venture. Perhaps this man Scaurus’s instructions from Rome are simply to neutralise the potential for trouble that exists in the form of this Bructeri seer? An assassination, perhaps? And it could well be that he’s come to the conclusion that he might as well turn some profit from the whole thing. After all, given your belief that he uses the gold that he appropriated-’

‘Stole, more like!’

The secretary bowed his acquiescence with his master’s prejudice against Scaurus and his men.

‘Indeed, governor … if he uses the gold he stole to facilitate his clandestine activities against the throne, why wouldn’t he look to replenish his purse, given the opportunity?’

Albinus sat back in his chair, nodding slowly as a hard smile spread over his face.

‘In which case young Scaurus could fairly be deemed to have strayed just a little too far from his brief for me to ignore the likely results. After all, the Bructeri aren’t going to have to look very far to find a culprit for the theft, are they? And the last thing I can afford to countenance is for some wild stunt carried out in the emperor’s name to set the frontier alight again.’ He looked up with a look that the secretary had come to recognise as intended to appear decisive. ‘No, I can see that I’m going to have to take some action before this scheme of Scaurus’s gets out of hand. Send for Decurion Dolfus.’

The secretary bowed and turned away to do his master’s bidding.

‘Immediately, Governor.’

‘You want me to guide you into the land of the Bructeri?’

Scaurus nodded at the scout.

‘My mission requires me to put boots on the tribe’s soil, if only for a short time. I don’t expect to be doing any actual fighting, this is purely an in and out, three days at most and all of those with my detachment hidden deep in the forest. Is that a problem, Gunda?’

The German pointed to the rune tattooed onto the flesh of his forehead.

‘Do you see this, Roman? Do you imagine I wear it on my skin for decoration?’

The tribune sat back in his chair.

‘I was wondering.’

‘It is my tribe’s symbol for a man who has been condemned to the status of wargaz. Or, in your language, outlaw. I am banished from my tribe’s homeland under pain of death, to be administered by the priests of Wodanaz, if I am found anywhere within the borders.’

He stared at Scaurus for a long moment.

‘Let me guess. Your tribe being the Bructeri, right?’

‘Correct. So I’m hardly likely to want to go anywhere near their lands. I’m sorry, but the role of guide you’re offering is not one-’

‘How much?’

Gunda shook his head.

‘You seem not to be listening. I cannot do this.’

Scaurus smiled.

‘You clearly can. What you cannot afford is to be caught doing it. Or, from the sound of it, if you are caught, to remain alive for long enough that your estranged tribe’s priests get the chance to practice their sacrificial arts upon you. We’ve established that you have exactly the knowledge that I will need to lead a successful foray into Bructeri territory, the only question now is how much money it will take to convince you that the risk of being caught is outweighed by the reward to be gained for what, with your assistance, will be a fairly minimal level of risk.’

The German looked at him for a moment.

‘You’re serious. Very well … three gold aureii.’

Scaurus smiled at him.

‘Three? Let’s make it four. A hundred denarii is a nice round number, isn’t it?

Gunda looked up at the office’s roof in evident disbelief, then back at the officer.

‘Half now-’

‘One coin now, to let you buy whatever you need, the rest payable the moment that our boots are on Bructeri soil. If you do end up having to take a knife to your own throat at least you’ll have had the pleasure of possessing more gold than you’ve ever seen before in your life, eh?’

The Tungrians marched from the city shortly after dawn, Tribune Scaurus returning the gate sentries’ salutes as his party exited the fortress and headed up the road to the north. The river’s mist was still lying in patches across the countryside, thick curtains of vapour reducing visibility to almost nothing before another moment’s march brought the column back into the morning’s bright sunshine as they marched north towards Novaesium, thirty miles to the north.

After only half an hour’s march, Gunda nodded to Scaurus, pointing to a paved track that ran away from the main road towards the river to their east.

‘That’s the way.’

Scaurus looked up and down the main road to north and south, confirming that they were unobserved before nodding his consent. The German led them down the narrow track, which ran east to the Rhenus and then turned north to follow the river’s bank with heavy forest on the road’s left-hand side, another hour’s progress taking them to the spot he had decided would best suit Scaurus’s plan. Turning off the track where it deviated away from the river to avoid a rocky outcrop, he took them through a belt of trees that would screen them from the path, and on down to the Rhenus. A narrow strip of shingle beach ran along the river’s gently curving west bank, the river, like the track along which they had come, devoid of traffic.

‘Perfect.’

Scaurus called his centurions to him.

‘Get your men settled down. I don’t want anyone visible from either the river or the far bank. And have them ready to move at short notice, no taking boots off or opening packs. We’ll be away from here soon enough.’

Having trailed the Tungrians from the city at a distance, walking their horses on the road’s grassy verge to prevent any sound from alerting their unsuspecting quarry, Dolfus and his men had shared mystified looks as the Tungrians had diverted onto the patrol road that paralleled the river’s course.

Watching from the cover of the forest’s edge, as the detachment disappeared into the shelter of the trees that separated road from river, the decurion shook his head in bemusement.

‘Why stop there? And why in the name of all the gods are they on this road at all, it must be getting on for half the distance again, having to follow every bend in the river?’ A thought struck him. ‘Unless …’

He got to his feet, gesturing to his men to hold position.

‘Stay here. If anyone comes along you’re just getting a bit of sun while I go for a crap in the woods, right?’

He sprinted across the road and into the trees on the far side, instinctively following the slight rise of the ground until he judged that he’d reached the highest point possible. Gripping the lowest branch of a sturdy-looking oak he hauled himself up into the foliage, climbing nimbly upwards until he was high in the canopy. Judging that the higher branches were unlikely to take his weight he stopped climbing and inched out until he could see through the leaves, revealing a spectacular view across the river’s valley, the Rhenus visible for miles to either side. Staring out over the trees he smiled, shaking his head slowly in appreciation of his quarry’s audacity, as he realised what it was he was seeing moving slowly through the river’s mist.

‘You crafty bastards …’

Lowering himself carefully to the ground he ran back down the hill, hurdling fallen trees and kicking up leaves, stopping in front of his men breathing hard from the exertion.

‘You said that the two young gentlemen rode down to the dockyard yesterday. Tell me what happened again.’

The man who had tailed Marcus and Varus south from the city the previous day shrugged.

‘When they got there they just walked along the dockside like two men out for a stroll. One of the ship’s captains hailed them and they had a few words, but that was all. After that they did a round of the ship shed like they were on an outing and then made their way back to the barrack. Like I said at the time, Decurion, nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘And when they came back from the port?’

The trooper shrugged again.

‘I watched their barrack all day from the empty one next to it. They stayed in it all afternoon, then went and joined their tribune for a couple of hours. Eventually a pair of soldiers delivered a message of some sort and the officers went back to their own barracks.’

Dolfus stared at him for a moment.

‘These messengers. Were they about the same height and build as the young gentlemen in question?’

The man he’d set to watch Marcus and Varus frowned in concentration.

‘Yes, I’d say they were.’

Dolfus sank to the ground and lay on his back looking up at the clouds towering up into the sky above him.

‘So while they’re down at the docks someone knocks a hole in the wall between the officers’ quarters and the room next to it. Then when they get back from their outing they switch uniforms with a pair of soldiers who match them for size and while the decoys held your attention they were free to climb through the hole into the barrack next door and then go wherever they wanted as common soldiers. Clever. What better way to have a discussion that they didn’t want witnessed?’

He got back onto his feet.

‘You two, stay with the horses, you two come with me! Quietly now!’

The decurion eased into the cover of the trees, weaving through their thick trunks with his accomplices close behind. Something made him look over his shoulder, and he ducked into the cover of the nearest oak, gesticulating frantically to his comrades to do the same. The morning sunlight’s mist-hazed brilliance dimmed a little as a wall of wood slid past their hiding place, close enough for the lapping of the river’s water against the ship’s tarred side to be audible. Raising his head the decurion watched as the vessel passed their hiding place barely twenty paces distant, making out the name painted on her stern.

‘Mars.’ He looked at the man crouching next to him. ‘Was that …?’

The trooper nodded, understanding dawning on him.

‘The name of the ship whose captain had a good old chat with those two centurions? Looks like it.’

The decurion nodded to himself, his lips twisting in wry admiration.

‘It seems that our master has somewhat underestimated the resourcefulness of these Tungrians. Come on, let’s get a bit closer, and see if we can see or hear anything to reduce the sting of being left sitting here like fools while they sail away to who knows where.’

As Arminius stared in the direction that Scaurus was pointing he saw a shape resolve itself out of the mist. Rendered ghostly by the drifting vapour, a warship was sailing slowly down the river’s western bank, her tiered oars furled up against her sides as the river’s current pushed her gently downstream.

‘This is what we’re waiting for?’

Scaurus nodded without taking his eyes off the vessel.

‘That’s our ride. This, my friend, is where we simply vanish off the map. Centurion Varus!’

The young aristocrat rose from the cover of the trees and made his way down to the river’s bank, waving a hand at the oncoming vessel, which was now close enough for her identity to be clear. Varus lowered his hand as the ship coasted towards him on the river’s current, turning back to Scaurus with a broad grin.

‘That’s my cousin alright, see him in the bows? The man with the red hair?’

Standing on the vessel’s prow, the officer in question clearly had a hands-on approach to the task of command, bellowing orders back to the men on the steering oars in a manner that left little doubt as to who was in control of the vessel. His voice reached them across the water as he shouted another command over his shoulder.

‘Oars!’

The rowers responded with commendable speed and precision, dropping their wooden blades from their furled position to sit level with the river’s glassy surface.

‘Ready …’

The blades rotated, ready for the next order.

‘Back! Water!’

With the perfect synchronisation of long practice the oarsmen dipped their blades into the river as one, executing a series of swift, efficient strokes that took the way off the vessel and left her drifting towards the bank at a slow walking pace.

The commander roared another order, reinforcing it with a swift pointing hand gesture.

‘Stern anchor!’

The ship drifted a dozen paces and then stopped, held in place by her anchor. Her commander turned to the waiting Tungrians, shouting a greeting down to Varus.

‘You see Gaius? I told you I wouldn’t let you down! Have your men pull us in as close as possible and let’s get you fellows aboard!’

The Tungrians’ axemen nudged each other and guffawed in amusement at his patrician accent, but hurried to grab the ropes thrown ashore as their chosen man Angar bellowed orders and imprecations at them, swiftly dragging the ship in towards the bank until she touched bottom, close enough for boarding ladders to be lowered into the shallow water. The captain looked down at the detachment as they pondered the muddy water between ship and shore.

‘Come on then you men, we haven’t got all blasted day!’

Scaurus went first, wading into the river and climbing up the closest ladder, to be greeted by the ship’s commander as he climbed over the side.

‘Tribune Scaurus, it’s good to meet you after what I heard about your exploits in the east from young Gaius here when I met him in the city last night!’

Scaurus stood bemused as his hand was shaken vigorously by the big man.

‘The pleasure is mine, Prefect. And you have my thanks for entertaining this somewhat unorthodox diversion from your usual routine.’

The naval officer barked out a laugh.

‘Any diversion is welcome, Tribune! There are only so many times a man can sail up and down this blasted river before ennui sets in, I can assure you of that! The most excitement we’ve had in the last month was sighting a deer on the far bank last week, and even that came to nothing when we missed the bloody thing with both bolt throwers! Ah, here’s young Gaius now!’

He greeted his cousin over the ship’s side with a bear hug, leaving Varus red-faced.

‘Here he is! The black sheep of the family come good, and in no small part thanks to you, Tribune, giving him the chance to prove that he’s worthy of the family name! Any friend of my cousin’s is a friend of mine, eh? So let’s get these men of yours off the bank and be about our business, shall we?’

With the detachment aboard the vessel he ordered the crew to pull up the anchor and cast off from the shore, turning back to Scaurus once the Mars was underway down the river.

‘So tell me, Tribune, where exactly is it that you want putting ashore?’

Scaurus gestured to Gunda, who was standing by the ship’s rail with an even more lugubrious expression than usual.

‘I make a point of finding people who know the land intimately, wherever it is that my orders take me, and my native scout there says he knows the perfect place.’

He beckoned Gunda across to join them, the prefect calling for his pilot, and once the three men were in animated discussion as to the location the German had in mind, sidled away to join his officers at the vessel’s stern rail.

‘Well then, gentlemen?’

Dubnus shook his head, his expression rueful.

‘I saw nothing, Tribune. My colleague here, on the other hand …’

Qadir turned away from the receding beach with his customary gentle smile.

‘One man that I saw for certain, and enough movement besides to indicate another one or perhaps two with a little more skill at remaining concealed, if not sufficient.’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow at Dubnus.

‘Which just goes to show that all those years squinting into beakers in dimly lit taverns weren’t necessarily your best choice, eh Dubnus? Did you make out any detail, Centurion?’

Qadir shook his head.

‘Almost nothing, Tribune. Perhaps a momentary glint of sun on armour, but my eyes might have deceived me. I could not swear an oath on the matter.’

Scaurus looked at Marcus, who was standing in silence alongside his colleagues.

‘So it looks as if your suspicion that you were followed yesterday was well founded, and a good thing that you chose not to talk openly with your cousin about our needs but met him when you weren’t under observation. It would also appear as if our old friend Decimus Clodius Albinus does indeed still secretly harbour ambitions of clipping our wings.’

The younger man raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s hardly surprising, given the humiliations that his previous attempts to put you down have heaped upon him. It seems that those events have only served to fan the flame of his urge to see us dead and disgraced, and while we have to fend off his attempts time after time, he only has to enjoy sufficient good fortune to put the blade in just once. Perhaps this should be the last time he makes such an attempt …’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow, surprised at the vehemence in the statement given the younger man’s apparent loss of vigour of recent days.

‘You feel that strongly that he needs to die?’

Marcus looked out over the ship’s rail at the dark, forested hills to the east.

‘I’m the wrong person to ask, I’m afraid. My urge for justice has run its course, leaving me with nothing more than a feeling of emptiness at having been cursed with being the cause of so many deaths. I have killed enough men in pursuit of my revenge to know with absolute clarity that not one of them ever gave me any genuine satisfaction.’ He sighed. ‘At least not beyond the brief surge of joy to be had from spilling the blood of men who had done my family wrong. The only man I would raise a finger to kill in cold blood now is too well protected for it to be anything other than suicide, and I have a child to raise. Leaving him fatherless would be the final insult to my wife’s memory.’

Scaurus put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I understand, and I would never ask you to do such a thing. But it occurs to me that the only way to stop Senator Albinus from continually plotting my early death is to arrange for his own premature voyage across the river, and it sounds to me as if you agree.’

Marcus turned to face him, his face set in tired lines.

‘Tribune, if you’re asking me to condone a decision to kill the man, I can only repeat what I said before. He only has to enlist the services of Fortuna once, whereas we call upon her every time we cross paths with him. I think you know the answer to that question well enough yourself not to need me to provide it for you.’

‘The governor was right. That man Scaurus is slipperier than a bag full of eels.’

Dolfus shook his head in disgust, watching as the naval vessel pulled away from the river’s western bank and got underway, the rowers working to an efficient rhythm that propelled the Mars out into the river’s channel, and away to the north at the speed of a cantering horse.

‘And there’s no way we can keep up with-’

He reached up and pulled the trooper next to him down into the cover of the fallen tree behind which they were hidden.

‘Keep down you idiot! They’ve got Hamians with them, and those easterners have got eyes like hawks. And if they can see you then they can also put an arrow in you.’

He leaned back against the tree’s rotting trunk with a thoughtful look.

‘We’ll have to let the governor know about this, and then get after them as best we can. You …’ he pointed at the nearest of his men, ‘ride back to the city and with the following message. Tell him that we saw them board a warship, the Mars, under the command of that red-haired lunatic that commands the local squadron and who presumably has some sort of connection with one their officers given the party trick they pulled on us yesterday to get some time with him unobserved. They were last seen heading north, and likely to get off the ship on the other side of the river, and that’s all we know. We’ll pursue, but that bloody ship can sail downstream a good deal faster than the horses can manage for any length of time, so we’ve effectively been left for dead. We’ll meet you at Novaesium with whatever orders he gives you. Go!’

The trooper slithered away across the forest floor, and Dolfus lifted himself to squint over the tree’s bole, watching as the warship vanished around the river’s next bend.

‘They’ve fooled us alright, almost as if their tribune suspected that they might be followed.’ He shook his head with a sour expression. ‘Right, let’s get after them. Nice and easy, mind you, there’s no point exhausting the horses if we’ve no chance of catching them. They’ve got the jump on us for the time being, but if we play this right we can still find out what they’re up to.’

‘There.’

The prefect followed Gunda’s pointing hand and nodded his agreement.

‘Couldn’t have picked it better myself. A nice little anchorage on the outside of the bend where the current keeps the water deep close in to the bank. Oars!’

He marched back down the ship’s length barking orders, the rowers swiftly killing the vessel’s way to leave it drifting slowly into the bank’s leafy canopy. Scaurus glanced over at the western bank, looking for any sign that they were observed.

‘Your guide has chosen well, Tribune. The road veers away from the river’s western bank to avoid that outcrop of rock, and those cavalrymen who were following us will be miles behind us.’

The tribune nodded at Qadir’s words, turning to Dubnus.

‘Take them ashore, Centurion, and give me a perimeter for fifty paces in all directions, archers leading. The rules of engagement are to be as we agreed — if anything moves, we kill it.’

The Briton nodded and turned away, leading the detachment down the hastily lowered boarding ladders and splashing through the thigh-deep water to lead them away into the forest’s gloom. Pausing a dozen paces from the bank he looked about him at their expectant faces.

‘The Crescent, and just as we practised it. In pairs, keep your spacings and don’t lose sight of the men to either side. Fifty paces and go to ground, watch and listen. Archers, if we’re spotted and the man in question escapes we’re most likely already dead, and our mission over before it begins. If you see a man outside bow range you wait for him to either come closer or go away. If there’s more than one of them then you wait until they’re so close that you can get them all. The rest of you are only there to protect the archers at this point in time, so go to ground, shut your mouths and keep them shut until you’re relieved. Understood?’

The men gathered around him nodded confidently.

‘Good. Don’t fuck it up.’

He watched as they split into their predetermined groupings of archers and axemen, each pair heading away into the forest’s shadows along their allocated bearings.

‘All that practice seems to have borne fruit, I see? Perhaps now they can see the reason why you made them play that game so many times on the way north.’

He turned to find Marcus and Varus at his shoulder, the latter speaking softly as he watched the Tungrians disappear into the sun-dappled foliage. Dubnus nodded grimly.

‘I think the game just turned serious, don’t you? We looked at the map and said, “Yes, we can walk from the river into the heart of Bructeri territory,” but it’s not until you actually stand here on the ground that you realise just what a challenge we’ve set ourselves. We have no idea where we’ll have to go to find this woman, but what we do know is that we’ll have to walk all the way there through this. We’ll just have to hope that the Bructeri king is keeping her close at hand and not in some remote hiding place fifty miles up the River Lupia.’

He waved a hand at the seemingly endless expanse of trees before them, directing a question to Varus.

‘And when we’ve found her, and presuming that we can take her from her guards, we’ll have to do it all over again to get back here, more than likely with tribesmen hard on our heels. Are you still pleased that you were so set on coming with us?’

Before he could answer, Scaurus climbed over the riverbank’s crest and crouched next to his officers, watching in satisfaction as the detachment’s men slowly moved out into the forest.

‘Excellent. I see all that time spent drilling this little manoeuvre wasn’t entirely wasted. Once we’ve got the perimeter cleared you can leave the Hamians on watch while turning your axes to a little bit of tree-felling for me before we head off into the unknown. Just a precaution, but I do like to make sure the ground’s in my favour as much as possible.’

‘Purpose of crossing?’

Cotta looked steadily at his interrogator with a slight smile. Having left the fortress without fanfare at dawn the previous day, it had taken his party the best part of two days to make the forty-mile journey to the bridge and its protective fortress at Novaesium.

‘Trade.’

The legionary leaned forward, putting a hand on the hilt of his sword in a manner calculated to draw attention to the weapon.

‘Trade, sir.’

Cotta’s smile broadened.

‘You’re not a sir to me, sonny, I’ve already done my years. Left the army as a centurion, honourable discharge, handshake from the officers. You know, all that stuff you dream about when you’ve had a few.’

He turned his arm over to reveal the tattoo on his wrist, and the soldier’s look of contempt switched to the men standing behind the veteran, the biggest of them holding the reins of a decidedly unhappy-looking mule.

‘And this lot?’

The veteran waved an expressive arm at his immediate companions.

‘This long-haired item is Arminius, my German slave and business partner. The big bastard holding the mule is his brother Lugos, born mute, the poor sod. The ugly fat one standing by the cart is my money man, and the two-nasty looking lumps behind him are Saratos, he’s a Dacian, and a bit of a simpleton if the truth be told, and Sanga, who loves him like a son, which is why we tolerate his dim-witted ways and constant flatu-’

The soldier waved a hand to silence him.

‘Enough! I asked you who they were, not for their fucking life stories! Stay here.’

The soldier turned away, beckoning his superior over.

‘Traders, Chosen, asking for passage over to the far bank. Ex-army, or at least they say they are. This one says he was a centurion.’

The chosen man stalked across the road to stand face-to-face with Cotta, quickly summing up the veteran’s confident stance and hard smile.

‘So you’re a trader, eh Centurion? You wouldn’t be the first man to retire and reckon he can turn his local knowledge into profit. What are you trading then?’

The veteran shrugged.

‘The usual rubbish. Coloured pottery, hunting knives, cheap jewellery, and wine, obviously. They can’t get enough of that.’

The soldier nodded, familiar with the Germans’ eagerness for Roman products.

‘I’ve not seen you before. First time trading with the Bructeri?’

Cotta nodded equably.

‘It is. Been dealing with the Marsi mostly ’til now, but I thought I’d broaden my horizons so to speak. After all, how hard can it be?’

The soldier leaned forward, tapping his nose significantly.

‘I seen ’em come and go for years here, and most of them go out happy enough and come back a good deal less cheerful, or every now and then never come back at all. Drop the price of a few beers in my hand and I’ll tell you why.’

Cotta nodded to Morban, and a coin appeared in the veteran standard bearer’s hand with the dexterity of long practice. He dropped it onto the chosen man’s open palm, and Cotta grinned encouragingly at the soldier.

‘I was hoping you might be able to provide a fellow soldier with a tip or two.’

‘Well …’ The chosen man looked up at the sky for a moment, as if considering the words of what was undoubtedly a routine speech. ‘Two things to remember. Firstly, they really don’t like us, the Bructeri. Seems we fucked them over good and proper a hundred years ago or so, and they’re not the types to forgive and forget. Not even a little bit, and not any of them. So any idea you’ve got about charming their women to buy pretty coloured cloth or tempting the young ’uns with a smart new knife is out the window. The more you try to get them on your side, the more they’ll just tell you to fuck off and die. You need an angle to trade with these boys, and no mistake.’

‘And …?’

‘And what?’

And what’s the angle?’

The chosen man snorted derisively.

‘How would I fucking know? You’re the centurion!’

Morban nodded appreciatively at a fair point made well, while Cotta simply shrugged.

‘So what’s the other thing?’

‘Try to avoid paying the bridge tax.’

Morban raised a disgusted eyebrow.

‘The bridge tax.’

The chosen man nodded, clearly familiar with the hostile reaction of men asked to pay an unexpected tax simply for crossing a river.

‘I’d have thought you’d be familiar with the idea, if you’ve been trading with the Marsi. By order of the Emperor, all trade between the province of Germania Inferior and the German tribes is to be taxed at a rate of one coin in twenty.’ He leaned forward with a conspiratorial look to either side, as if to ensure that his next words were not overheard. ‘We’re not here to keep the long-haired bastards out, we’re here to collect the Emperor’s pocket money.’

‘Five per cent?’

The soldier stuck out his chin pugnaciously.

‘Ten per cent. Five going out and five coming back. We assess your goods going out, including the mule, the cart and those pretty swords you’re all wearing, tax you five per cent of their value, then five per cent on the way back too. If you’re lucky you can avoid paying on the cart and so on, since you clearly didn’t buy them over there, but that only works if you don’t get some bastard on duty. Someone like my officer. He’d tax the hole between your buttocks if he could work out its value.’

Morban’s face went white.

‘But that’s …’

The chosen man turned to him with a smile.

‘You must be the money man, given that face you’re pulling. That’s probably going to chew up a big piece of your profits? Seems that way to us too, what with all the unhappiness we get from the first-time traders we deal with when they get the good news.’

The standard bearer took a deep breath.

‘So, you mentioned avoiding this … bridge tax?’

The soldier nodded.

‘Two ways. Hire a boat …’ He pointed to a rickety-looking vessel waiting by the river’s bank. ‘Mind you, they know just how much to charge, and given that you can’t use the bridge to get back if you didn’t pay to use it to cross over, they can get downright greedy when the time comes for the return trip.’

‘Or?’

A slow smile spread across the chosen man’s face.

‘Seems your luck’s in, what with you being one of the lads, and given my officer’s away spending his salary on a spot of sausage hiding, you can pay the unofficial tax, rather than give ten per cent of everything you have to the emperor. We’ll write you up as having an empty waggon and nothing more than a few silvers to your name, say you were off to buy some skins to trade back this side of the river, and you can provide us with a nice little drink for our trouble.’

Morban nodded slowly, shooting Cotta an encouraging glance.

‘That would seem to be the most … pragmatic way to go.’

The chosen man smiled even more broadly.

‘I thought you might say that. Shall we call it three per cent?’

Having made slow but stealthy progress into the forest, covering four miles by Gunda’s estimate, the Tungrians camped in the shelter of a hollow, posting sentries around the rim of the depression and settling down for the night beneath the cover of their cloaks after a meal of bread and dried meat washed down with sips of water from their bottles. Scaurus had finally revealed the nature of their mission into Bructeri territory while the detachment sat around him eating the bread and dried meat they had carried with them from the fortress, looking about him as he talked, taking the measure of their collective resolve.

“So it’s simple. We find this woman, we deal with whoever’s been set to guard her and we take her back to the river. The Mars will be back here and ready to collect us from tomorrow morning, and they’ll stay on station right where they dropped us off yesterday until we come back with her, or until three days have passed. I think it’s reasonable for them to assume that if we’re not back after that long on the ground we either won’t be coming back or we’ve decided to march out overland.’

One of the pioneers raised a hand, and the tribune smiled, shaking his head at Angar as the man bristled at such temerity.

‘No Chosen, we’re all risking our lives to attempt this abduction, any man has the right to ask any question he pleases. We’re brothers in arms alone in a dangerous place, so only the most robust honesty will see us through this.’

Abashed, but encouraged by his commander’s gesture of solidarity, the man voiced the question that Scaurus already knew was on every man’s lips.

‘This priestess, Tribune. Is she really a witch? Can she …?’

‘Can she cast spells on us? Turn us into forest animals, or rip our bodies apart with a wave of her hands? I very much doubt it. I-’

‘Tribune?’

All heads turned to Gunda, who had raised his own hand, tentatively but with a clear need to speak.

‘Gunda?’

Aware that his presence in the detachment’s small and tight-knit world was barely tolerated by some of Scaurus’s men, and striving to ignore the fact that both Dubnus and Angar wore expressions which promised great tribulation if his words went astray, the guide spoke slowly and carefully, raising his open hands to demonstrate that he meant no harm.

‘Being of the Bructeri, before I was banished from this land, I can tell you something of Gerhild, if you will allow me to do so.’

Scaurus gestured for him to continue, and even Angar leaned forward to hear his words.

‘Gerhild is no witch. She is simply …’ He shook his head as he searched for the right Latin word, then nodded to himself. ‘Good. She is a good person, and her gifts should be considered with that in mind.’ He looked around the silent hollow, painfully aware that every man was hanging on his words. ‘She has three gifts given to her by the goddess Hertha at her moment of birth. She can heal the sick, on occasion, with her touch and her words, not simply those who are physically ill but also those who are troubled in mind. She can influence the minds of men, although she rarely chooses to do so. And she dreams what is yet to come. She-’

‘She sees the future?’ Gunda raised a hand as if to still the outburst from Dubnus, and to his own surprise the Briton froze just as he was in the act of rising to voice his disquiet.

‘She sees a little of the future, and only very rarely for herself, nearly always for others. And the gift is fickle. She might foretell the birth of a girl child accurately, but fail to see that the child’s mother will die in childbirth, which has made her wary of using it. Such a gift can be a curse, it seems.’

Scaurus pinned Dubnus in his place with a piercing stare, standing up and taking his man’s attention back from the scout.

‘So she cannot see us coming, and she has no witch powers for us to fear.’

‘No, Tribune, she does not.’ Gunda shook his head obdurately. ‘And even if she did, she is a child of Hertha, the earth goddess. She could no more take a life, anyone’s life, than fly to the moon.’

The tribune nodded decisively.

‘Good. And that, gentlemen, concludes this briefing. Those of you who didn’t draw guard duty would be well advised to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day.’ He caught the scout’s eye and gestured for the German to accompany him to the other side of their small camp. ‘You seem to know this woman Gerhild rather better than I would have expected, given your long exile from the tribe?’

Gunda nodded, holding the Roman’s stare.

‘Every man in our tribe knows of her, Tribune.’

‘And had you known this was our mission, would you still have accompanied us?’

The German laughed softly, tapping the purse at his belt.

‘Four gold aureii is a lot of money for a man with no tribe, and no one to care for him when times are hard. Yes, I would still have joined you. Although I might have been minded to demand more money, given the risks you run. If you manage to find Gerhild and capture her you will incur the fanatical enmity of every man in my tribe, and that would be a terrible threat for a hundred times your number.’

Scaurus nodded and turned away, then called back over his shoulder.

‘Gunda? You wouldn’t happen to have some clue as to her location you could share with me, would you?’

The guide laughed again.

‘No, Tribune. I have been away from these lands for half my lifetime. I do not know where Gerhild is to be found.’

Varus drew the first spell as watch officer, slowly walking the roughly circular perimeter and stopping at each sentry’s position to listen to the forest’s night-time noises. After two hours Marcus, unable to sleep as was so often the case, rolled out of his cloak and climbed the slope to join him. He found his friend squatting down next to the slight figure of a Hamian, both men’s heads tilted as they listened to something out in the darkness. Recognising the archer as Qadir’s chosen man, he squatted down next to him with exaggerated care to avoid making any sudden noise.

‘What is it, Husam?’

The easterner spoke quietly without taking his eyes off the almost invisible ranks of trees before him.

‘A boar, Centurion. Sow and piglets. They would make good eating if there was light to shoot.’

The Roman nodded, and opened his mouth to speak again only to fall silent as another, more distant sound reached his ears.

‘Can you hear …?’

He frowned, trying to distinguish whatever it was he was hearing from the wind’s gentle susurration through the branches above. Varus was silent for a moment, then leaned close to whisper in his ear.

‘It sounds like … chanting?’

As they watched, a faint glow appeared in the depths of the forest before them, so distant and well shielded by the intervening trees as to be almost invisible, no more than a rumour of what had to be a sizeable fire.

‘It sounds like some ritual or other. Who knows what gods these barbarians worship?’

Varus fell silent again as the chant’s tempo stepped up, a man’s voice now just audible over their incessant rhythm.

‘And there is the priest.’

Marcus nodded his agreement with the Hamian’s opinion.

‘It certainly sounds like one. He’s whipping them up into a frenzy.’

The priest shouted what sounded like a challenge to his followers, and the chanting started once more, louder than before. A scream reached their ears, its shrill, agonised note clearly audible over the chanting despite the distance, and Varus jumped at the unexpected sound.

‘Mithras!’

Marcus shook his head slowly, closing his eyes.

‘Mithras? I doubt it.’

The scream sounded again, more tormented than the first time, as if pain and outrage had suddenly been replaced by simple, agonised terror. They listened, the hair on their necks rising as the outraged voice rose to a horrified falsetto and then abruptly died away, as whatever was being done to the priest’s victim apparently took his life and gifted him peace from his torment.

‘What the fuck?!’

Dubnus was beside them with a hand on his dagger.

‘Keep your voice down, Centurion, unless you fancy being the next man to enjoy the attentions of a priest of Wodanaz.’

Scaurus had climbed the slope behind him, and stood looking out at the flickering mote of torchlight.

‘Wodanaz?’

‘The locals’ version of the god Mercury, as close as they can be matched. Like Mercury he is the god who acts as the spirit guide for the newly dead, leading them to the underworld. His priests tend sacred groves, clearings in the heart of the forest that are decorated with the bones and remnants of the tribe’s enemies, rusted weapons and scraps of armour. Each grove is surrounded by the most hair-raising warnings to come no closer without the blessing of the god, which is to be dispensed, of course, only by the priest. And in that grove, when the time is deemed to be right, captives are sacrificed to Wodanaz, perhaps burned alive above the altar and pierced with spears as they burn, their blood channelled to spill across the stone, perhaps eviscerated and torn open to allow their hearts to be torn bodily from their bodies.’ He stared out at the distant light for a moment. ‘We’re in no danger here, they’ll all be away to get drunk and sleep wherever they fall soon enough, which ought to make tomorrow a good day for making progress through this green underworld.’

He fell silent, and the three centurions looked at each other.

‘Have you ever seen a sacred grove, Tribune?’

The older man spoke without turning to face Varus, his voice suddenly bleak.

‘Yes. At night, with my face black with ashes and a dagger in my hand. And trust me in this, young man, once was enough for one lifetime.’

After a night spent comfortably enough in the mansio situated close to the bridge’s eastern end, Cotta and his companions made their way through the wooden walled fort that protected the crossing until they reached the gate through which they had to pass to enter Bructeri territory. Manned by a centurion and his command’s full strength, the gateway was built on a scale that they hadn’t seen before even on the northern frontier in Britannia. Massive timbers cut from mature trees were fixed in place by heavy iron nails driven in at different angles to ensure the gate’s ability to resist attack, and reinforced with thick bars of iron designed to spread the load of any attack. The century’s soldiers were arrayed along the thick wooden palisade on either side, their demeanour that of men equipped and ready for violence, given the opportunity. The centurion, by now well aware of Cotta’s status as an ex-soldier, strolled down to the gate to meet them.

‘Here we are, another group of lambs ready for the slaughter.’

His greeting was made without humour, or any hint of it being anything other than a blunt statement of his opinion.

‘Really, Centurion?’ Cotta put his hands on his hips and shook his head in apparent mystification. ‘What’s so bad about this particular set of long-haired lunatics? Me and my boys here have seen the same thing in every shithole from Britannia to Parthia, and it’s almost always never as bad as everyone tells us.’

The officer looked down at him with something akin to sympathy.

‘It’s very simple, Centurion. This lot don’t just resent our presence on their doorstep, they detest it. They hate us, they fucking loathe us, they want us all dead and preferably with our balls cut off and stitched into our mouths while we’re still breathing. Of course they don’t do anything to piss us off badly enough that the governor would sanction a punitive raid, and in any case my prefect says the man’s shit scared of upsetting the Bructeri and having a war on his hands, the prick. No, they leave us well enough alone, apart from their younger men prowling around out there every now and then, barking at the moon to let us know they’re there.’ His eyes hardened again. ‘But they must be getting Romans from somewhere, because every now and then we’ll hear them sacrificing a man out there in the forest.’

He bent close to Cotta, lowering his voice.

‘Do you know which word a man uses the most when there’s a knife being taken to his balls?’

‘No?’

‘Exactly. “No”. They shout it, they scream it, they roar their lungs out with it. Doesn’t change a thing of course. Sometimes they scream for their mothers, or their loved ones, but always, always in Latin, or at least to start with. After a while they sometimes go back to their native tongues, or just become impossible to understand. My theory is that they capture soldiers on the other side of the river, where they’re supposed to be safe, knock them on the head and spirit them across the river in small boats. After all, what’s one man going missing each month when you consider how many we lose to desertion? We’ve not lost a single man in all our time manning this shithole outpost, but my lads are all fucking terrified, and no wonder.’

He shook his head angrily.

‘We should just march back over that fucking bridge and burn it down to the water, but we’re not allowed to because that would make it impossible to gather the taxes that the governor’s expected to deliver to Rome.’ He spat on the ground in bitter disgust. ‘If it were left to me we’d put half a legion together and burn out every fucking town and village for ten miles, but all I get from command is that we’ve got no proof of any of what I’ve told you. And of course any proper punishment would upset the local tribes, and get in the way of trade, wouldn’t it? But one of these days, you mark me, we’ll get a legatus with some balls who’ll tell the governor to go and fuck himself, and turn us loose on that scum.’

Cotta nodded in genuine sympathy.

‘And on that day I’ll be cheering you on. No wonder your boys are scared shitless.’

The centurion looked at the veteran and his comrades with a sad expression.

‘And so should you be. They’ll greet you with indifference at first, ignore you and spurn your attempts to sell to them, but that’s the easy part. It’s what happens later, after dark, that I’d be worried about if I were you. Want my advice? Don’t hang around any of their villages after the sun’s down. Make your excuses mid-afternoon at the latest and head for the next village, only actually don’t go there, vanish into the forest and hole up somewhere hard to find. And don’t leave a fire burning after dark.’

He looked at the swords that the party had strapped on before leaving the mansio, raising an eyebrow at Lugo’s heavy iron war hammer.

‘Know how to use those?’

Sanga shrugged, his disdain for the officer’s nervousness barely concealed.

‘We’ve done our fair share.’

The centurion nodded.

‘I’m sure you have. Well, you’d best be on your way, if you’re going to have time to see their capital and find a hidey-hole in the woods. Open the gate!’

He watched as they walked out between the gate’s heavy doors, calling after them as they headed away down the road to the east.

‘Are you sure you can trust that German? Only I could always just cut his throat for you if you’re too attached to him to do it yourselves!’

By the time the sun was clear of the horizon the detachment were already on the move through the forest. Dawn had found the Tungrians awake and ready to march, the morning’s dew shaken off their cloaks and a hurried handful of bread taken to sustain them for the first part of the day. Scaurus had gathered his officers and the guide to him, looking at each man in turn as he issued his orders for the day.

‘The same as yesterday, we advance at the pace of a cautious Hamian. Nobody hears us and nobody sees us. Until we take this priestess from her tower we need to be nothing more than silence in the forest, if we’re going to get out of this with our skins. Oh, and Gunda?’

The scout raised his eyebrows in question.

‘Make sure we keep well clear of that sacred grove this morning, eh? The priests may be putting the final touches to their display of last night’s victim, and while there’s little that would give me greater pleasure than providing that hapless individual with a little revenge on the men who tortured him, the uproar that would follow might prove problematic.’

He pointed to the path, dismissing his men to their places in the march formation, until only Marcus remained.

‘Is it really that horrific, Tribune? Given all we’re seen on the battlefield?’

The tribune shrugged.

‘Not in terms of the simple physical reality, no. One headless corpse with its guts torn out is very much like any other, I suppose. But it’s not what they do to their victims that bothers me as much as the way in which they do it. And right now that poor dead bastard we heard screaming last night is no more than just another poor dead bastard, no matter how hard his exit from this life was. It’s always easier to take when the victim’s anonymous.’ He looked at Marcus for a moment with eyes that were suddenly empty of all emotion. ‘It’s a different matter when it’s your best friend.’

Cotta and his companions walked along the road east from the Novaesium bridgehead with a mixture of curiosity and foreboding, the four soldiers looking around them at the open farmland to either side of the road. Arminius grinned at their evident surprise at the landscape, spreading his arms to encompass the cultivated ground to either side.

‘Not what you were expecting? Wondering where all the mountains and bogs have gone?’

He laughed at their confused expressions.

‘Sure, the lands on this side of the Rhenus have mountains, and bogs, and forests that go on forever, but wherever a tribe makes its homeland you will find farm land. How else can they feed themselves?’

Morban shrugged and turned back to the road.

‘So you lot are a nation of farmers? Doesn’t seem likely.’

The German shook his head.

‘Your problem is that the Romans have long since forgotten what it is to work the land. Your masters are town dwellers, and they use slave labour to run their farms. Which means that you soldiers have often never lived on the land. You might be drafted in to collect the harvest every now and then, but that’s not the same as living on the soil that feeds you, suffering through the winter and sweating through the summer. I grew up on land like this, where the people know how to farm and how to fight …’

He looked out over the fields affectionately, pretending to ignore Sanga’s snort of disapproval.

‘Fucking onion-munchers. So if we’re here, where’s the centurion then?’

Arminius pointed away to the south-east, where a forest’s dark mass ran down the shallow hillsides to meet the cultivated land.

‘There. Somewhere in that forest, under the oak trees’ canopy where the sunlight is more green than gold, where the wild pigs grow to the size of this old girl …’ He slapped the mule’s rump, provoking a surprised whinny. ‘And where the tribal priests have their sacred groves, holy places where even the bravest men shrink in terror from entry without invitation.’

‘It’s so bloody quiet I think I can hear my damned heart beating.’

Varus’s whispered comment made Marcus smile as he took his next slow, careful pace along the ill-defined track as it rose slowly towards a ridgeline lost in the forest’s jumble of trees. The detachment was strung out along the hunting path with two paces between each man, each of them watching a different direction in turn to ensure that an approach from anywhere would be detected with enough time to send the Tungrians into cover. He stepped forward again, flicking his glance down to ensure that his footfall would touch only clear earth, and that no twig or pebble could make a noise or unbalance him, then looked up again as his boot touched the path’s grassy track, searching the trees away to his right. A bow borrowed from Qadir rested easily in his right hand, the arrow nocked to its string tipped with a heavy-bladed three-lobed arrow designed for the express purpose of either killing its target outright through shock and blood loss, or by opening an unhealable wound in a man’s body that would eventually kill him through sepsis.

‘If we go any slower we’ll start moving backwards.’

Marcus grinned, as much at the tone in which the complaint was made as the words themselves.

‘A little patience will go a long way in this place.’

Varus snorted quietly.

‘Patience? I wasn’t born with very much of that commodity.’

Fifty paces up the column Dubnus raised his hand to indicate a halt, and the detachment’s men went to ground, alternately facing left and right to ensure continued vigilance. Marcus and Varus went forward to join their friend, finding him conferring with Scaurus and Gunda over what was effectively a crossroads in the forest, a track crossing their path from east to west in a wide clearing that had been cleared in the forest’s heart.

‘Where does it lead to, Scout?’

Gunda pointed his hand to the east.

‘In that direction there is little more than an empty expanse of forest and, eventually, the Marsi tribe.’

‘And to the west?’

The tribesman looked down the path for a moment before responding.

‘That way leads to one of my tribe’s sacred groves.’

‘Where they were torturing whoever it was we heard doing the screaming last night.’

The scout nodded.

‘Undoubtedly.’

Scaurus looked at Marcus with a calculating expression.

‘I’ve been thinking, Centurion. It would be useful to know what the local tribal priests are up to in their sacred groves, although I’ve no desire to give them any hint of our presence here. So, given that you seem in good humour this morning, I wondered if you might care to take one of our sharper-eyed men with you and take a look? Quietly, and without managing to betray our presence out here.’

Marcus nodded levelly.

‘There are good days and bad days, Tribune, and today that sounds like a good idea. And if I might be permitted to suggest that I be accompanied by-’

Scaurus nodded with a wry smile.

‘By all means take Centurion Varus with you. Anything to reduce the risk of his whispering frightening every beast within a mile into blind panic …’ He cocked an eyebrow at Varus, who had the good grace to look vaguely embarrassed. ‘Just remember, Vibius Varus, that if you end up roped to an altar with a saw-wielding lunatic standing over you, I’m unlikely to be able to do much about it.’

Varus frowned.

‘A saw, Tribune?’

Scaurus shook his head, turning to Qadir with an expression of apparent despair.

‘I think we’ll have a pair of your archers to escort these two young gentlemen, Centurion, the stealthiest men you have, to compensate for our colleague’s constant urge to express himself verbally.’ He turned back to Varus, tapping him on the breastbone. ‘This, young man, is too thick for a knife to cut with any ease, and protects that which a barbarian priest covets most, once he’s had the low-hanging fruit of your eyes, your tongue and most likely your sexual organs. So to get at your heart he’ll use a saw, a horrible, locally made thing with the crudest of teeth to be fair, but still a saw for all that. And he’ll hack away at your chest for all he’s worth, cutting a slot in your ribcage until he can crack it open and pull your heart out, with you conscious for the whole time if he’s any sort of artist, given that no major blood vessel will be disrupted by his excavations until he actually pulls the heart out. So if you don’t want to find yourself suffering that sort of indignity, I suggest you keep your head down, your ears open and your mouth shut.’

‘Thusila? What the fuck does that mean then?’

‘Roar.’

Morban turned to stare at Arminius with a look of disbelief.

‘Roar? They call their city “roar”?’

The German shrugged, looking down the hill’s slope at the sprawl of huts and wooden buildings that almost filled the space between the river that flowed through it, a tributary of the Rhenus, and the forest.

‘Both river and city. What you see there is the home of a tribe that four generations ago was almost wiped out. Attacked by two neighbouring tribes who saw their opportunity, or more likely had it put under their noses by the Romans. Reduced to a few thousand wandering women, boys and old men, their warriors either slaughtered in a one-sided battle or enslaved and sent to Rome to feed the arena. When the Marsi allowed them to settle here it was an act of charity, but they underestimated what was left of the Bructeri. Whoever it was that led that tattered remnant here from the battlefields to the north wanted some measure of dignity for what was left of their people, so they named their new tribal capital after the noise made by the river that runs through it.’

Sanga cocked his head to one side, listening ostentatiously.

‘Roar?’

Arminius shrugged.

‘You have to exercise a little imagination.’

They marched down the gently sloping road’s gradient past the outlying buildings, noting with seemingly casual glances the stares that greeted and followed them in their progress. Saratos looked about him with a look heavy with the promise of violence.

‘Like he say, nobody happy to see we.’

Morban shook his head in apparent disgust.

‘To see us, you barbarian. And I couldn’t give a fuck whether they’re happy to see us or not as long as they show a little respect. I didn’t fight long-haired cunts like this lot all the way across the empire and back again to have my dignity spat on by the likes of this unwashed rabble.’

Sanga grinned at his back.

‘As it happens Morban, you didn’t actually fight your way across anything more fucking dangerous than the mud between a tavern and a whorehouse, you usually stood behind us men and squealed every now and then when the barbarians got close enough for you to smell them.’

The standard bearer stopped and fixed a stare on Sanga that made the soldier suddenly acutely aware of the older man’s role in controlling his portion of the century’s burial club.

‘But as it happens I can pretty much see your point. Although I think you’re going to be disappointed when it comes to the spitting on your dignity thing.’

‘It’s not exactly subtle, is it?’

Marcus nodded grimly, looking up at the bleached skull of a bull, complete with horns, that had been nailed to a tree adjacent to the almost invisible track the four men had cautiously followed away from the point where the two paths crossed, stalking with slow and deliberate care towards the apparent source of the previous night’s screams. He gestured the other men closer, speaking in a soft voice barely louder than a murmur.

‘They do it to scare off the locals, which means we’re getting close. From here we’re silent, right? Move slowly, be careful with your feet and don’t even breathe hard.’

He gestured to Husam to lead them on down the path’s slight gradient, following the Hamian’s example and examining the ground before him with exaggerated care before stepping forward, the arrow nocked to his bow ready to loose in an instant. As the four men drew closer to the grove, the number of bull’s skulls set to warn off the unwary multiplied, drawing nervous glances from the easterners, while a faint buzzing sound caught their ears. Marcus raised a hand to his companions, gesturing for them to stop and hold their positions. Laying down his borrowed bow, he lowered himself to the forest floor and crawled forward down the path with slow, careful movements, pausing every few feet to listen for a moment before resuming his cautious progress. Twenty paces from what was apparently an entry to the grove, the trees on either side intricately carved with runic patterns, he slid off the path to the right and resumed his progress with such caution that he barely seemed to be moving. Worming his way between a pair of bushes, he found himself at the edge of a patch of forest from which all undergrowth had been stripped, towering oaks looming over the open space that was apparently deserted. He waited, breathing shallowly to avoid disturbing the leaves through which he was staring, grimacing as he realised that his assumption as to what was generating the pervasive buzzing sound was uncomfortably accurate.

In the middle of the grove a massive block of stone reared out of the ground, a huge boulder of white rock that had been cut down to form a flat surface and then painstakingly carved across every inch of it with runes of unknown purpose, the primitive symbols made distinctive by a dark brown inlay that made the ornately decorated rectangular slab’s purpose horribly familiar to the Roman. His prone position prevented him from seeing exactly what rested across its horizontal surface, but as he considered moving to a better viewpoint a crow swooped down from one of the trees, sending a cloud of flies up into the air above the altar and alighting atop what Marcus could only assume was the priests’ victim, pecking vigorously at the unseen body. Realising that the grove had to be deserted for the carrion bird to be so brazen, he pushed through the bushes’ cover and cautiously got to his feet with one hand on the ground, ready to thrust himself upright, the other gripping the hilt of his sword.

The sight that greeted him was horrific, if no more so than he had expected. The corpse of the sacrificial victim was stretched out across the altar’s smooth surface, black puddles of dried blood beneath the body apparently the remnant of what had pumped from veins opened during the unknown man’s torture. His eyes had been torn from their sockets, leaving only bloody pits in which flies were swarming, and his nose had been hacked off, leaving a repulsive opening in his face that turned the Roman’s stomach. His face was pocked with bloody craters where, Marcus suspected, the crows had feasted on his pallid flesh, and the skin that remained was tinged blue from the blood loss that had occurred prior to the man’s untimely death. His legs were twisted into unnatural lines, clearly broken and the injuries used to torment him, and their skin was covered in a dozen and more burns whose shape looked dreadfully familiar to the Roman. Stepping forward with the same deliberate care that he’d used to approach the grove, he struggled to ignore the horror as he looked slowly around the tribal shrine, trying to absorb every minute detail to recount later on. The trees were decorated with human skulls, dozens of which had been nailed to the trees, and by fragments of armour and helmets of a variety of ages and models, some almost rusted away, others still relatively new, testament to the tribe’s continuing enmity with Rome. Some of the prizes were accompanied by rusted swords and spearheads. Satisfied that there was no threat to him, he turned his attention to the dead man, frowning as he reached out a hand to touch the tunic that had been cut open to allow the priests’ knives easy access to his penis and testicles. The wool was finely woven, a high quality and expensive weave for a tribesman or slave to be wearing, and his expression hardened with anger as he turned the dead man’s arm over to look for proof of the suspicion that had formed in his mind. The corpse’s hand whipped out, clutching at his arm with the strength of despair, and the tongueless mouth moved in a silent entreaty from between his blue lips.

Resisting the urge to scream in horror the Roman pulled his arm free and whipped his hand up, reflex overcoming his sudden overwhelming feeling of being no more than an onlooker, detached from the scene before him, pinching the dying man’s throat closed and standing stock-still as the sacrificial victim shuddered, straining against the ropes that still restrained his body. With a final racking spasm the dying man contorted, his spine arching, then sank back onto the bloody altar, his death rattle almost inaudible with his throat still pinched shut. Marcus allowed a long, slow breath to escape his body, putting a hand out to steady himself as the shock of what had just happened washed over him. While he stood braced against the altar a quiet muttering from somewhere close to hand reached his ears, and he reflexively sank into the shelter of the massive stone block, looking about him with his sword half drawn.

The sound came again, and with a start Marcus realised that the source was so close that it seemed as if he could reach out and touch the speaker. Sliding the gladius from its scabbard, he stepped quickly and quietly round the altar to stand behind the dead man’s head, looking about him in mystification, then advancing around the stone again as the slurred, unintelligible words were repeated. Looking down as he rounded the block’s corner, the Roman raised his blade to strike, then realised that the man at his feet posed no threat, as a gentle snore escaped from his twitching mouth. The priest, his long black hair shot through with streaks of grey that had fallen to partially cover a face deeply scored with the creases and lines of age, was asleep, blissfully unaware that a cold-eyed nemesis was standing over him, his blade stayed only by the struggle between a need to take revenge for the dead man and his orders to leave no trace of his presence. The Roman stared down at him for a long moment, calculating the hue and cry that must surely follow what he was contemplating, at the same time almost willing the man to wake, and give him an excuse to put the blade through his throat. The sleeper shifted uncomfortably against the altar’s side, muttering more unintelligible words, then let out another snore, and Marcus backed slowly away with his eyes searching the trees around him as he retreated back towards the path.

Turning away from the grove, he hurried back up the slope to where he’d left Varus and the Hamians, raising a hand to forestall their questions.

‘Not now. You can hear the story when I tell it to the Tribune.’