old stuff Chapter two - Sacrifice

Chapter II - “Sacrifice”

“What you give up

may be that which brings you more.”

-- Scribonius Largus

There stood before Caradoc large blocks of uncut granite, which rested on other stones of similar size. They made a table like structure -- the Druid altar of sacrifice. Monoliths of this type of stone stood in fields, not forests. They were natural but not local.
Kenjar, once again, wrapped the twin boys in the cloak and positioned them on the cold stone.
“So, this is what they do on nights like this – in secret,” Caradoc said to the giant still tied to the tree. “What is their purpose for such things?”
The man looked up at Caradoc and said nothing.
“They believe they are connected to the land, but not to the gods. So, they attempt to approach the gods through these paltry sacrifices. If it appeases the gods, fine, as long as it does what I came here for. Bull’s breath! Certainly, this is not the first time this Druid has sacrificed for something other than blessing the land.” He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Ha! But I’ll wager, it’s the first time they have sold power to a man.”
He watched as the ritual played out before him. The men were all dressed in robes; but not of the same cloth. Some of the men wore dark woolen robes, others in drab white. Kenjar, with his bright red splotch on his shoulder, stood out from the rest.
“Tonight, you and I will see the things no ordinary man is allowed to witness,” Caradoc said. He looked down again at the man below him and kicked him. “Unconscious, again? Hmmpf, well at least I will witness this evil.” Crossing his arms to his chest, he leaned against the tree. “This is going to be interesting.” At first, he had only the idea of ridding himself of the twins, but now Kenjar’s suggested ritual gave him a greater purpose. His mustache twitched as his lips stretched into a sly grin of content.
Through the flickering torchlight and smoke, Caradoc watched as the priests fell into solemn reverential preparation. They chanted softly – eyes closed, palms upward as if to receive something from above. Caradoc wiped his nose back and forth with the back of his hand and sniffed haughtily in disgust at the piety of what he still considered nothing more than butchers and men-wives. “We are both takers of men’s souls. They kill in the name of gods; I kill in my own name.” He repeated.
The Druids who were dressed in black then placed their hoods over their shadowy faces and their chant became a lilting, melodious incantation. Two men in white stepped up to the table and removed the black blanket from around the babes, tossing it aside leaving the boys naked on the hard stone. As Caradoc watched, he saw those in dark robes as they moved to the outer rim of the grove, forming a circle around the stone table before him. They walked in a sun-wise direction and made low guttural sounds like a calf moaning for its mother’s milk. Caradoc strained forward as Kenjar took a thick cord from the assistant. The warrior’s eyes grew wide as Kenjar stretched it out to its length. It glowed and shimmed in the firelight. It seemed to Caradoc to be woven together with pure gold. Kenjar then took the ends of the strand and as his assistants lifted the infants, skillfully wound the cord, tying the two together.
“What I do is not to immobilize the bodies, but to provide a conduit for the spirit-energy between them.” Kenjar explained.
“Good. Makes sense,” Caradoc said. Then as he moved closer through the Druid circle of power he touched the braided bronze torc around his own throat. “Gold is hard to come by.”
The babies cried as the priest took alabaster wine-flasks and poured the cold fluid over the top of their heads and down to their kicking feet. One child sneezed.
“This wine is the life-force. Energy placed into the children.” Kenjar said, and then turned to Caradoc and in a whispered tone that could barely be heard above the growing noise in the grove, “The life-force of the land will fill the bodies with power and purify them until they shine. Soon they will hold such power that you will be able to look right through them like a skin that is pulled and stretched too tight on a drum. As a drum must be struck to release its magic, you must strike at just the right time. Just before the skin appears as if it will break, you must strike to release their spirits. Did you bring a knife?”
Caradoc reached for his sword.
“No, that will not do. It is too large.” Kenjar said as he gently placed his hand over Caradoc’s.
“Yes, I know this -- you fool.” Caradoc jerked away. “Hacking is for battle, not sacrifice. Everyone knows that. If it was to be a sword I would have just killed them on my own.” He clinched the hilt of his sword tightly. “Haven’t you got a knife?”
“Druids have knives for sacrifice, but this particular ritual requires a blade not of our own making.”
“Where do you think you might find one?” Caradoc said sarcastically. He shook his head in wonderment at the novice. “Maybe one of your sacrifices has a blade for us. Surely you don’t let them take all their weapons to the other world with them.”
As he perused the area, Caradoc noticed a metallic glint on the ground before the large prisoner still tied to the tree. He went over, bent down and picked it up.
“Is this yours?” he said pointing it towards the man, “Of course not, Horse-face!”
He pulled the blade from its sheath – an old leather scabbard burnished with age, bound by tarnished bronze filigree. Grasping the metal hilt, the weapon slid from its casing as though he had drawn it from a vat of new butter. He let the scabbard drop to the ground as he felt the weight of the blade in his hands.
“Some kind of alloy.” He said as he held it to the light. “Never seen anything like it, the color of the noonday sun it is.”
Bigger than a dagger, yet not quite a sword, he examined it carefully. A street-wench seeking solace for the evening could not have drawn his attention as did this blade. Caradoc reveled in its beauty. The hilt had carvings of bird’s wings, battles, and what appeared to be a wolf giving suckling to children. There was writing, but he could not distinguish its purpose. He turned the blade over and over in his hand feeling the perfect balance.
“Roman pugio, an officer’s blade, I would surmise.” Kenjar said breaking the enchantment.
“We will use this!” Caradoc pointed the blade at Kenjar’s face.
Kenjar reverently took the blade from the warrior, looked at the carvings, smiled, and said “Yes, this will do well.” Caradoc heard him then say as though he spoke through a thick cloth. “You must ready yourself for the thrust.”
Nodding his head, Caradoc said, “I am always ready. Just tell me when to strike.”
Kenjar took his arm and guided him closer to the table. Caradoc shrugged him off and removed his cloak tossing it to the ground next to the horse-faced man. Underneath he had no tunic –only trousers. He raised his arms to allow the priest’s ministrations.
Gesturing for Caradoc to kneel, the Druid then took a cruse of perfumed oil from an attendant and poured it over Caradoc’s head. As it ran down the warriors back, the attendant spread it evenly on Caradoc’s tense muscles. His flesh shimmered brightly in the flickering reflected firelight of the sacred grove. Caradoc breathed in the oil’s pungent vapor as he allowed the men to stand him at the foot of the stone table.
The Druids danced in frenetic rapturous ritual display. They placed the severed head of Tasciovaunus on the end of the table.
Caradoc hardly noticed. If not for the random shouts and piercing cries from the infants, Caradoc would have succumbed to the droning spell-chants. He swayed. Gritting his teeth. Squeezed the pugio, letting the feel of the solid metal keep him in conscious thought. Grasped in both hands he raised it to the sky. His knuckles whitened. Sweat and perfumed oil dripped down his long braided mustache. He licked spicy oil from his lips in anticipation. Let it linger on his tongue. Smelled the aroma. Drew it into his lungs. Longed for the moment when Kenjar would tell him time for the fatal strike had arrived.
He stayed there looking through the tree canopy to the sky above. The moon, the stars, the dark expanse. Caradoc took it all in; the sounds, the lights, the smells, the taste. “All for me.” He murmured. Felt the hilt of the ornate weapon.
A movement at the corner of his vision caught his attention. He turned to where the horse-faced man was waking. The giant was watching everything, like a spectator on the first row at the Beltane games.
Caradoc grinned broadly and said to him, “You see? You see? This is better than I could have imagined. I almost rode away from this!” He pointed with the blade to the table. “The gods - blast them – they give me their consent!” He shook the blade, his eyes wide.
Turning back to the man he thought he saw him nod in agreement. “You are right to agree. Not only do I, this night of nights, rid myself of my opposition, but now I will dispose of these vermin half-breeds, and in the process, gain the power I want. The power I need.” He looked to the sky again, his chest swelled, and through clenched teeth he hissed, “Power I deserve!”
The cacophony of noise deafened, like the sound of many crows -- cawing, screaming, and praising him -- announcing to the world, “You are the greatest of all Catavelauni. Better than Tasciovaunus. Better than Cunebelinos your father. Better than Adminius,” His chest heaved as he heard it in his mind. He couldn’t remain still. “…and by my own hand,” He glared at the pugio, “I am better than my enemies! I will rule them all!” Then, looking one last time to the foreigner, he bellowed, “I will stop Rome itself!”
The Druids wailed as they swayed to the musical sounds of their chant. Kenjar spoke indecipherable words as they reached in together and lifted the babes up over the table. One of the men in white then poured water on the table to clean a pure spot to place them; they dried it with sheep’s wool and carefully put the naked newborns down again onto the purified stone. The Druids then cut upon their own forearms with polished deer horns. They stepped forward, lowered their arms, and one by one, circling the table, let the blood flow down onto the children and the stone of sacrifice.
Caradoc could see the two little boys tied to each other, struggling against the golden cord. Their chubby legs kicked. Then, as he watched, to his amazement, they turned toward each other, looked into the mirror image of themselves, and then relaxed into an unnatural calm. As they quieted, they both turned and looked right at their father.
Caradoc noticed for the first time that their curly black hair was like their mother’s, but their eyes were grey like his own. Then, as if they knew what was about to happen, he watched them reach up and join their tiny hands.
The Druid song came to an abrupt halt. The sudden silence cut through the grove like a knife and for some reason Caradoc heard in his mind his wife’s prayer for the twins.
“Great Jehovah, protect my sons…”
Caradoc felt a shudder run down his back.
“Great Jehovah, protect my sons…”
His arms relaxed.
“Great Jehovah, protect my sons…”
He lowered the blade. In a low voice he growled, “They are together in this.” He grunted, shook back his long locks of hair and lifted the blade high again.
The babes then let out a wail - like rabbits caught in a trap. Caradoc shivered.
The Druid song returned. Reached a higher pitch than before. Echoed the little one’s cries. When the melodic rhythm reached a crescendo, Caradoc watched Kenjar reposition the head of Tasciovanus - the gift of power to the gods – and set it now before the feet of the two boys on the table. It was wrapped in a thin cloth.
The white-robed Druids came forward. One carried a torch. The other, a vial. They doused the gruesome head of the once majestic king with the liquid until it saturated the muslin cloth. And as the men set the head on fire with the torch, Caradoc raised himself on the balls of his feet. His face beamed.
Fat and blood sputtered and splattered onto the table as the muslin quickly burned away in a splendid spray of sparks. The exposed hair quickly burst into flames with a sickening smell. He could hear a noticeable sizzling sound coming from inside the cranium. The two boys struggled in the golden cord, thrust their legs back and forth in the mingled wine, oil and blood; their mouths open wide in cries that could not be heard over the noise of the priests.
Caradoc raised his tense arms and his own voice strained to be heard. “This is it,” Caradoc screamed. “This is the time. My time. I can feel it!” His nostrils flared, as he smelled the burning flesh and hair. His lungs burned. Every muscle tightened. Power pulsed in his muscles and the sinews of his upraised arms. His shoulders ached. He reveled in the feeling.
“My plan will work, I know it.”
Caradoc clamped his eyes shut. He tensed every muscle. Stretched his arms. Forced the knife to its zenith.
Caradoc felt pleasure. Pain. Power. It rose from deep inside him in his body. Like a notched arrow on a bowstring stretched beyond its measure – he strained for release. Then, from deep within the warrior, there welled up an uncontrolled tribal guttural war cry. He raged, “Now! I will do it now!”
Clouds moved over the moon above creating an eerie shadow over the scene. Caradoc felt off balance as he tensed to slash the blade downward. He closed his eyes tighter in concentration. Dizziness flooded in.
Suddenly, in the background, the tone changed. The singing halted. Something was not right. Something bumped into Caradoc. He stepped backwards. Opened his eyes. He watched in angry confusion as the men backed away from the table of sacrifice. They screamed out in anguish and put their hands to their faces. Some fell to the ground and put their heads between their knees, hands out in front of them in supplication to their gods.
“What in blazes is going on? This isn’t right.” He cried out. “Get out of the way!” He grabbed one of the men by the throat and squeezed hard.
“Finish the sacrifice, we were there, I was ready. I felt it. I knew it was time! It WAS time! What are you doing? Finish it!” Caradoc flung him to the ground as he lunged past him to strike with the dagger before it was too late.
“No, stand back!” Kenjar said as he forcefully grabbed Caradoc’s arm at the wrist, holding him with both hands. “They desecrated it! They dessss-e-crat-ed it!” He screamed. Caradoc saw the man’s face – red as flame, eyes now white in the depths of those dark sockets. “We can’t proceed! Don’t you understand? It is finished. They have no souls.” Kenjar turned him to the table. “They have NO SOULS!”
Caradoc looked in the direction he was pointing. “What? Speak. What are you saying man?”
Kenjar pointed “There. There. Can’t you see?”
There on the table Caradoc saw the blood, smelled it, and another odor; a sick putrid smell. Worse than a pigsty at midsummer. Worse than the burning flesh of the high king’s head still smoldering on the table. Then he saw it; the dark and sickly meconium mess on the table between the legs of the kicking babies. One of the twins had released his bowels. The stool spewed and spread over the table. The smell made his stomach jump. “It’s just dung, you fool!” He stepped toward the table and raised the blade again. Perhaps it was not too late. “They are still on the table. The words have been spoken. Let’s do it!” He swung the blade upwards.
“NO! The power. The spell has been cast.” Kenjar yelled. He tried to step in front of the warrior. Tried to block the blow. “The power must be sent somewhere, it cannot remain here!”
Caradoc did not understand. The druid moved fast. He batted at Caradoc’s arms. He stretched his fingers for the blade
“The power,” Kenjar repeated, jumping up and down, “we gave the spell of power. It cannot remain with the babes!”
Then, suddenly, the golden blade tore from Caradoc’s clutching grip and flung away into the smoky air.
Caradoc’s fingers pulsated with pain. Had Kenjar in his excited attempt to stop the blow, knocked the blade free? He reached for his sword. “I will take care of this one way or another. Out’ta my way, man!”
As he slung the druid aside, he stopped. There before him stood the horse-faced foreigner holding Caradoc’s cloak and the pugio in his hand.
Caradoc said,“Number Nine.”
He then drew his sword and lunged at the giant. The big man stepped aside. Barely missing the children, Caradoc’s blade hit the stone table hard. The jolt sent the flaming head of Tasciovaunus rolling off the table to the dry grass of the grove below. The ground blazed before him. The flames barred his path to the man who was now the object of his wrath. Caradoc swung his blade into the flame as though the stroke would kill it. He looked for a way to attack. A way to reach the foreigner. As he fought at the flame, the fire reached one of the white-robed priests. Bright flames spread quickly to his waist as the man ran frantically to the edge of the grove, right into one of the large oak trees. Hitting the dark obstacle in his way, the man dropped a cruse of sacred incense. The cruse exploded and aromatic dry powder sprayed into the flames lapping at his robe. As he fell to the ground, the incense flashed a bright colorful explosion upward into the trees.
Caradoc could see that he would never reach the horse-faced man this way. He turned back to the table.
There, the giant leapt over the flames, undid the golden bonds, and grabbed the two boys into his arms.
“Noooo!” the warrior yelled as he saw the man swaddle the children in a bright red cloak, and then bound straight into the thick smokey blackness.
Caradoc hunted. His eyes searched for answers and a path to stop the man from taking the children. He looked to the now empty table, then to the sacrificed bodies and their entrails sizzling in the sacred grove. Fearless. Uneasy. “This has all gone wrong.” He said.
He stood there in the midst of the fray. He pulled at his mustache. He brushed against the torc around his neck.
“Power.” he said grabbing the torc at his neck. He put his hands to the side of his head to block the sounds. The smells and smoke was thick. He gagged. He looked down and spied the remains of Tasciovaunus’ smoldering head. He kicked it. “I need to escape, but not without the power I was promised!”
He searched. The druids scrambled. They erratically tossed dirt and water into the flames. Back and forth, they darted. It was a dance of dazed confusion. One of them bumped into the warrior.
“Move!”
Caradoc instinctively swung his sword catching the druid under the left arm. He felt the blade sink to the rib cage and bite hard as the man’s bones cracked. The warrior set his jaw, squinted his eyes, and then smiled. He withdrew his sword from the slumped body, and in a single motion attacked another.
“Here’s my sacrifice!”
Every swipe of his blade was calculated; every move, impulse. He felt more powerful with each killing stroke.
“If two sacrificed babes would make me strong, eight sacrificed priests would make me more powerful than any man.”
One by one, he sought them out in the grove. In his battle rage, he leapt through flame and smoke. He attacked. He counted. He cut them to the ground.
Reaching the sacrificial table again, he thought he had killed them all.
A whimper.
With one great shove, he sent the stone tumbling to the ground. There, underneath the table, crouched a man. He was dressed in white save a red spot on his shoulder.
Caradoc grabbed Kenjar, yanked him erect, and pointed the great sword under the druid’s ash and mud covered chin.
“You are the last. You are mine, you goat! You will not tell anyone about this night.”
The man paled.
“From now on you will do as I say. Cheat, steal, lie…kill! Can you do that?”
The man stared at Caradoc’s face. He pushed the sword closer until a trickle of blood ran down Kenjar’s taught neck. “Do you understand? I offer you a path for your own desires of power. Only a fool would reject me. Are you a fool?”
Kenjar stiffened, and then relaxed as though he had weighed the opportunity in balance to his fear. Caradoc glared into Kenjar’s face. The man’s deep-socked eyes diverted downward. Kenjar raised one bushy eyebrow. It was only a tiny gesture. Caradoc recognized the softening resignation and released the man. Then to Caradoc’s pleasure, the man sank slowly to the ground and knelt in obeisance. Caradoc breathed deeply and smiled.
A baby cried in the dark.
“Though I have taken much from them this night, I have given the gods a great offering. The flames confirm their acceptance and fire will finish the deed.” Pushing Kenjar away he laughed, and touched his torc. “There is much left to do before all is as it should be.” He looked as Kenjar slowly stood.
Ignoring the man, he turned to go, sheathing his sword. Flames jumped from limb to limb above him.
He walked to the edge of the trees.
Kenjar followed.
The horse was where Caradoc had left him. Although the horse was wide-eyed and skittish, Caradoc grabbed the reigns and mounted the steed. Smoke rose above him through the trees and concealed the carnage from the sky itself.
“Yes. Yes, this will work out well.” Caradoc’s chest rose. When his lungs were at their fullest, he held his breath and closed his eyes.
As the fire roared into the night, Caradoc was sure nothing had survived. Not even the horse-faced man could escape those flames. Caradoc turned the steed to face the grove one more time. “Good-bye Horse-face, take the paltry rubbish with you to your death. The blaze will cover the truth of this night; but soon all of Albion will see my glory.”
Then he bellowed a triumph into the night. ”Victory is mine!”
A startled Kenjar grabbed his robe and ran into the dark woods. Caradoc knew he would see him again.
The warrior laid the reins tight on the neck of his steed, turning him towards the mountains. He then leaned down into the horse’s neck, held tight enough to rip out the mane itself, and kicked the animal hard. Caradoc rode into the dark.
In the opposite direction, a giant shadow of a man took great galloping steps, and he too ran away from the grove. In his long arms, wrapped securely in a red Roman cloak, he carried two very frightened little boys, a golden cord, and the pugio.




Next chapter - Chapter Three posted Dec 26,2007