London - Edward Rutherfurd [18]
Taking one of the chickens, the druid murmured a prayer while the people watched, expertly slit the bird’s throat, and dropped it into the well, where a moment later they heard it splash into the water deep below.
Next, returning to their boats, they crossed the inlet and walked up the slope of the western hill. Here, just below the summit on the river side, there was a bare expanse of turf with a fine view over the water. In the centre of this grassy spot there was a little circle cut a few inches into the ground. This was the ritual killing place. Here the druid sacrificed the cock and the other two chickens, sprinkling their blood on the grass within the circle and muttering:
“We have shed blood for you, gods of the river, earth and sky. Protect us now in our hour of need.” Then he took the cock and the chickens, and, telling the villagers they could now return home, made his way across to the other hill to commune with the gods alone.
And this, for the people of the hamlet, should have been the end of the matter. They had been dismissed. As they trooped down to their boats and rafts, they were content that they had done all they should.
Except for Cartimandua.
Branwen continued to observe her mother. She was strange; the little girl knew that.
Why else, just as everyone was getting into their boats, should Cartimandua suddenly have begged one of the men to leave a coracle there for her, and then abruptly started back up the hill with Branwen and the baby again? Why, while the rest of the hamlet had reached the southern bank, had they spent all this time searching the two hills for the druid, who had mysteriously vanished? And why was her mother so pale and agitated?
Had the little girl only known it, the reason for Cartimandua’s behaviour was all too simple. If the druid had so abruptly and unexpectedly called for these sacrifices, it could only mean one thing. With his special powers and his contact with the gods, the priest had divined that danger was very near. Her own dreadful hour, therefore, had arrived. The Romans were coming. And once again, with a terrible force, the agony of her dilemma had thrust itself before her.
Had she done wrong? What could she do? Hardly knowing what to say or what to ask, she had returned in search of the druid. Surely he could guide her, before it was too late.
Yet where had he gone? Carrying the baby, and dragging little Branwen along by the hand, she had traversed the western hill, crossed, by stepping stones, the little brook between the twin hills, and mounted to the summit of the eastern hill, expecting to find the old man there. But there was no sign of him, and she was about to give up when she saw a thin column of smoke coming from the far side of the hill. She hastened towards it.
There was one other curious feature of the place called Londinos. On its downstream side, the eastern hill did not fall away evenly. Instead, a spur continued, before curving round and descending to the river. Thus, on the hill’s south-eastern flank, there was a sort of natural, open-air theatre, with a pleasant, grassy platform by the riverbank providing the stage, and the hill and its curving spur the auditorium. The slopes around this spacious stage were grassy and dotted with a few trees; the platform itself covered only with turf and some bushes. It was here, by the riverside, that the druid had built a little fire.
From the slopes above, Cartimandua watched, but hesitated to go down. This was for two reasons.
Firstly, from where she stood, she could see what the druid was doing. He had extracted bones from the birds he had sacrificed and was placing them in the fire. That meant he was telling oracles – one of the most secret rites the Celtic priests performed, and one that should not be audaciously interrupted. The second reason concerned the place itself.
It was the ravens.
On the curving slopes around this riverside site, for as long as anyone could remember, there had dwelt a colony of ravens.
Cartimandua knew, of course, that