Clash of Iron (22 page)

“Good soldiers of Rome and people of Vesontio!” Caesar’s clear shout rang out in the still summer’s day. “We are further north than any Roman army has ever ventured. We have come to protect our Gaulish allies from the German barbarians. We are here to guarantee the safety of their women and children. That is our primary cause but do not forget, my fine legionaries, that we are also here for the glory of ourselves and for Rome! To shine the light of our great race into the darkness!”

A short, unified and manly cheer rang out from the Roman ranks.

“We have defeated the Helvetians in two glorious battles,” Caesar continued. He looked to the south and pointed there with three fingers, his middle finger bent under his thumb. This was an orator’s trick that Ragnall had seen him use before. He didn’t understand what it did, but it seemed to work. There was another shouted cheer. “These battles were won by the bravery of the legionary, and the stalwart leadership of the centurion!” His gaze and his three-finger point swept back to the men. Another cheer.

“But we are not gods! We are only men. We will make mistakes. We have made one here.” He paused, looking around and nodding. Even though he didn’t catch his eye, Ragnall felt as if Caesar was talking specifically to him. It was another oratory skill. “Exhaustion and sheer distance from home have weakened our minds! Many of us have been fooled by treacherous Gaulish tongues.” Caesar pointed and glared at the long-haired prisoner. He was a weedy fellow. “This man is a German!” he shouted. “We captured him in the forest, twenty miles west of here. He is one of the monsters which has caused you all so much terror!”

The general waited for everyone to have a good look at the pathetic captive, then commanded: “Guard! Remove his chains.” A praetorian did so. “Now give him your sword and make some space.” The praetorian hesitated.

Caesar turned to his audience. “My guard is sworn to protect me and to obey me. You see his dilemma! I have ordered him to give the German his sword, yet he thinks that this will put me in danger. I say this. I am in no danger from any German with a sword! The Germans are not devils. Nor are they trolls, nor winged dragons. They are men. They are German men. And I have nothing to fear from a German man, because I AM A ROMAN!”

Three short cheers rang out this time. Ragnall knew it was pantomime, little more than a bard’s act, but it worked. He himself was on tiptoes, excited to see what would happen.

Caesar unsheathed his sword and nodded. Felix and the others shuffled back. The praetorian gave the prisoner his own weapon. The German screamed, lifted the sword and launched at Caesar. Caesar parried high, then cracked the flat of his sword into the side of the prisoner’s head. The prisoner reeled. Caesar lifted a leg, planted the sole of his foot on the prisoner’s buttock, and propelled him off the tower. The man fell towards his spectators without a sound and landed face first on the packed earth. His neck broke with a snap and his body crumpled into a pile.

“The invincible German!” Caesar shouted.

Three more cheers resounded from the Romans. The people of Vesontio, encouraged by a few of the better dressed men and women, clapped unenthusiastically.

“But what of the stories?” Caesar continued. “Where did they come from? I could tell you, but why would I, when I have here the Jezebel from whom the lies flowed? Let her speak!”

Kapiana strode forward purposefully. “I am Kapiana of Vesontio!” she shouted. “I made up the stories about the Germans. I encouraged my people to spread them. My goal was to demoralise. I see now that I was wrong. I understand that we need the Romans. That they are a great people. I accept my punishment. I am no better than the conniving Carthaginian Jezebel. She was pushed from a tower to be devoured by dogs. I willingly deliver myself to the same fate.” She walked towards the edge of the tower. Behind her, Felix smiled.

“Wait!” shouted Caesar. She paused. “We made a mistake in believing her lies. It will not be our last mistake. History will measure us not by the mistakes we make, but by how we respond to them.

“I will let this brave young woman kill herself. But that will be the end of it. Her sacrifice will be the Skawney tribe’s sole punishment. Another general might burn this town and enslave the townspeople for their treachery. I will not! We will leave these people free and unmolested, and we will remove the scourge of the Germans from their lands. Thus we will show the decency and the power of Rome!”

This time, the cheers from Vesontio’s ranks was as loud as the Romans’.

Caesar continued: “This woman, Kapiana, has accepted her errors, and has agreed to bear Vesontio’s punishment. We despise her deceitfulness, but we salute her bravery. Kapiana, continue.”

Kapiana stepped up onto the tower top’s low wall.

C
hamanca, Carden and Atlas were lying on a flat roof at the edge of town, level with the top of the tower from which Caesar was addressing his troops. The three Warriors were concealed among large earthenware pots of herbs which supplied a communal eating house below them. They peered through herbal fronds to the tower, where a black-clad praetorian guard was removing chains from the bearded captive.

“By the way he’s moving, he’s drugged, or—”

“Felix. It’s Felix’s doing,” said Carden.

They’d discussed Felix’s powers earlier. Atlas and Carden had both claimed that there were times during Zadar’s rule when Felix must have controlled their minds – when they’d killed Lowa’s women and tried to kill Lowa herself, when Carden had watched passively as Chamanca had murdered his brother. Chamanca had nodded in agreement and stayed quiet. Her mind had never been controlled. She’d done everything Zadar had asked, including slaying Carden’s brother Weylin, because she enjoyed killing people. She suspected that the other two hadn’t found it too hard to carry out orders and the magical explanation was a convenient excuse, but she kept quiet.

They watched as Caesar kicked the little man off the tower and turned his attention to Kapiana. Atlas stiffened and reached for his sling. Chamanca put a hand on his arm. “No. Remember why we’re here.”

“I can’t let them—”

“You cannot do anything against thousands; not here, not now. You and Carden must go to the German king – Hari the Fister. Explain Roman tactics, help him plan. If the Germans have half as many as these townspeople claim, and they’re led by someone with half a brain, they’ll stop Caesar before he gets anywhere near Britain. So go. Make sure they don’t fuck up as badly as the Helvans did.”

Atlas nodded. “That makes some sense. And you?”

“Me? I’ve never been good with orders so I’m going to make a little display here. I want to show the people of Wesont that the Romans are vulnerable. I want to show the Romans that the Romans are vulnerable.”

Atlas poked his head up. He looked along the roofs to where they came closest to the wall. Chamanca followed his gaze. It was perhaps fifty paces from the tower where Caesar held Kapiana. Along that stretch of wall were maybe forty Romans, most of whom were heavily armed, and … “That’s Ragnall,” he said.

Chamanca nodded. “It is him, definitely. He must have joined the Romans. That’s why we received no word from him and the old druid.”

“Why would he do that?” Carden asked, poking his own head up.

“A young man sent to a city full of temptation,” said Atlas, “with information to sell and a story that will get him into any party? We should have known he’d turn.”

“Where’s the old guy?” said Carden.

“Drustan,” said Atlas, “Can’t see him. Maybe he’s back in Rome. Look at Ragnall smiling. He’s certainly no prisoner. He’ll have told Caesar everything he knows about Britain’s army and defences.”

“I’m going to spoil his day.” Chamanca leapt into a crouch.

Atlas put a hand on her leg. “Chamanca, you may get as far as Ragnall. But no further. Those Romans have trained all their lives—”

“But I am the best.”

“Yes, but there are many more of them, and, besides, Felix will stop you with his magic. You can’t fight that. Only magic can fight magic.”

“You think I have no magic? How then do you think I move so quickly? Why am I still alive when so many have tried to kill me?” Chamanca slapped his hand away, jumped over a plant pot and then onto the neighbouring roof.

She sprinted along the building tops and leapt between them, ball-mace in one hand, short sword in the other. By good fortune the last roof was thatch, so it provided the bounce she needed to clear the wide gap on to the town wall. By another stroke of luck, everyone on the wall was looking away from her, towards Caesar’s show on the tower.

She used the momentum of her leap to drive her sharp blade though the neck of the first guard. Blood jetted and she heard a gasp from several spectators. Good, she thought. Her show had begun.

The praetorians on the wall turned to face her. She dropped into a slide, cracked open a kneecap with her ball-mace and severed an Achilles tendon with her sword. She leapt out of the skid, smashed a cheekbone with a back-handed mace flail and severed a windpipe with a forehand sword-slice. She dodged a downward strike, jabbed her slim blade into the sword-swinger’s guts and withdrew, leapt another praetorian’s side swipe and crowned him with her mace.

The trick with fighting, she thought, carving and whacking the life out of the next three praetorians before they could strike at her, was neither to think nor to stop. She didn’t know that her ability to move so quickly and instinctively was magic, as she’d told Atlas. She didn’t care. It worked and she liked it.

Two non-soldier types threw themselves off the wall. Probably a good thing. She had no qualms about killing unarmed people, but her display would work better if she killed only the armed ones.

The next two looked like the stiffest challenge so far. They pushed others away to give themselves space then flashed their swords about as she came at them, presumably hoping to dazzle and demoralise with their skill and teamwork. She dived at their feet, spun on to her back and drove her sword up one man’s anus. The oh-so-clever Romans should have worked out a way of protecting their lower halves, she thought.

Then, as she crunched her ball-mace into the other praetorian’s balls, the arse-spitted guard stabbed down with his blade. It pierced the bare skin between her ribs and pelvis and deep into muscle before she twisted away. Hypocrisy, she thought, the curse of all people. Just when she’d been thinking the Romans needed more lower armour, she’d been reminded that she was clad only in leather shorts and a light iron chestpiece. She always told people that she wore so little because she needed the movement, but really she dressed like that because she looked amazing. That sort of vanity, if the gods had any say in anything, was always going to lead to trouble.

So, her first wound of the day. Quite a serious one, by the blood pulsing out of it, but not enough to slow her down yet. She somersaulted her legs over her head and whirled. Four praetorians came at her and she spun through them, leaving them dying in her wake.

Her sliced side throbbed with potentially debilitating waves of pain. Her right leg was soaked in blood. Bel! But not far now. Ahead was one more praetorian, then a very surprised looking Ragnall, then a bunch of terrified toga-wearers who probably weren’t going to be a bother, then the tower.

Kapiana was standing on the edge of the wall, facing the massed soldiers and townspeople. Caesar’s guards were standing along the near side of the tower, swords ready to hack her down when she tried to climb up.

Felix appeared between two of the praetorians. He grabbed one and sliced his throat open while pointing at the guard between her and Ragnall. That was a surprise. The guard shuddered as if struck by lightning, then came at her faster than she’d ever seen a man move before. He stuck downwards with his sword. She parried with her mace, but he was stronger. His sword chopped into her shoulder and lodged in bone. She dropped her mace and tried to push his sword arm away. She couldn’t. She cut into his thigh, but he grabbed her sword arm in a superhuman grip.

He smiled like a madman and sliced his blade deeper into her shoulder. She heard the squeak of iron cutting through bone. Not a nice noise. She punched his side. Ribs cracked under his leather armour. He didn’t notice. She punched, harder, again and again. She felt his ribs splintering into soft organs, but he was unfazed. His eyes rolled back so only blood-flushed whites were showing, but still he sliced that sword into her shoulder.

She gave up punching, grabbed his sword arm again, craned her head forward and bit deep into his wrist. Arteries popped and she drank. Delicious blood. She felt power flow into her stomach and out along her limbs. She wrenched her sword arm free of his grip and stabbed her blade up into his armpit, severing tendons. His arm went limp. She pushed his sword out of her shoulder. He staggered back. She crouched, leapt and spun, walloping the side of her foot into his shoulder. He tumbled sideways, off the wall.

She walked towards the tower, blood-drenched. She’d dealt with the praetorians on the wall. The remaining toga-wearers gave up trying to open the heavy, locked door that led into the tower, climbed over the edge then leapt down from the battlements, leaving only her and Ragnall on the walkway. On the tower above Ragnall five praetorians waited, swords ready.

“Chamanca…” Ragnall said.

She winked at him and launched. She landed on his shoulders, crouched and sprang for the top of the wall and the waiting praetorians.

“Thank you Ragnall!” she shouted in Latin as she flew, loud enough for the furthest watching soldiers to hear.

One blade pierced her cheek, another cut into her calf, but she landed firm on the tower. She felt calm. The woman Kapiana was standing on the low parapet, looking outwards, unruffled by events behind her – clearly under some kind of glamour or heavily drugged. Caesar was in the far corner, brandishing a sword next to Felix. The five praetorian guards were behind her.

Felix thrust his hands at her, palms flat, as if pushing an invisible boulder. Suddenly she felt like she’d been wrapped in an impossibly heavy iron blanket. She shook her head and felt the foul force seep in through every pore of her skin. As it entered her veins, the cloying tendrils of magic changed from foul to fair, and the power that had rendered her motionless suddenly fizzed energy into her muscles. The guards were coming at her, but to her they seemed no faster than statues. A praetorian raised a sword. She whacked its sharp blade into the throat of the man next to him.