Clash of Iron (38 page)

“It is.”

“I see. Bring me maps of Nervee territory!” Caesar spoke just a little more loudly, calling to the clerks who sat outside the tent, day and night, ready to do his bidding.

“We don’t need to change our plan or our route,” said Felix, after the clerks had rushed in and rushed out again. There was the sound of a large scroll being unrolled. “We can use the attack against them. Here is the valley. There is space for manoeuvres here and here and fortifications here. All we need is time.”

There was a pause, in which Ragnall guessed that Caesar was looking quizzically at Felix.

“I can control Bodnog,” said the druid. “He has the plan fixed in his mind that he will not attack until he sees the baggage train of the first legion come into view after you and your guard. I’m certain that I can make him hold the attack until he sees the baggage train. He is that straightforward a man. So we hold back the baggage train, pile as many troops as we like into the valley and dig them in. As long as we don’t show him a baggage train, he will not attack.”

“How certain are you?”

“I know. His stubbornness provides the means. Nobody will be able to make him change his mind.”

There was a pause.

“All right. You have never let Caesar down before. The plan is clear. Every legionary will enter the valley and form up before Bodnog sees any baggage. Thank you, Felix.”

“There is one more thing. High up on the clear side of the valley, they are preparing some sort of rockslide.”

“Do you have any more detail?”

“I do not.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“And one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to use my legion. If I take them here, at the top of the map, and come into the trees here, the legionaries won’t see them.”

“But the Nervee will.”

“It will be the last thing they see. If any do escape, all they will have is stories of monsters in the forest. Moreover, my legion will kill a great many of them. They could mean the diference between victory and defeat and they will certainly save the lives of many legionaries.”

“…All right, but take care that they are not seen by our men. You may go.”

Ragnall sat, wondering what to do. He probably shouldn’t have heard that part about Felix’s legions. He might be able, he thought, to sneak back and under the tent flap …

“Ragnall!” called Caesar, interrupting his planning.

Ragnall went around the screen into the body of the tent.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make myself known. I was working late—”

“Never mind that. Caesar assumes you knew that Felix is up to something mysterious, you’re bright enough to have worked it out. Just never mention it to anyone or Caesar will have you crucified. Now, I have heard that you are interested in joining the cavalry. You were on horseback in a battle in Britain, were you not?”

“I was, but—”

“Good. Look at this map. We are now off the edge of it somewhere here, almost exactly at the centre of this chair. You will liaise with the praetorian Rufus and show him this. Take him and his horsemen to this point here.” Caesar jabbed the map by a series of green splodges. “There you will find the enemy preparing the rockslide that you heard Felix talking about. Find them, disarm the trap.”

“What are these green lines?” asked Ragnall, pointing at the map.

“Hedges. Thick ones, built by the Nervee to hamper cavalry. You will need the map that links to this one, ask the clerks for it. The hedges are easy to navigate when you know where they are. You may go.”

“But Caesar, I haven’t fought—”

“Rufus will show you what to do. It will not be difficult. Go.”

Ragnall went.

“Y
ou two, out.”

Pomax bent through the door, torch in one hand. The moustached guards fell over each other scrambling from the hut. Pomax closed the door behind them. Lowa was sitting on the floor, naked save for her neck iron, chained hands resting on her chained legs. She flinched as Pomax squatted down in front of her and lifted her clawed hand. The big woman smiled, took Lowa’s chin in her taloned fingers and studied her face in the torchlight. Lowa didn’t resist.

“You look terrified,” said Pomax in her girly northern voice. “I almost feel sorry for you, because today you really have a reason to be. Not because I’m going to hurt you – although I am going to hurt you, a lot – but because it’s wicker woman day.”

So Lowa had nothing to lose. She shot both arms up, fists bunched, towards Pomax’s chin. The northern queen’s head shot back like a snake striking in reverse. She let go of Lowa’s chin and caught her wrist chain.

“I don’t blame you for trying,” Pomax carried on conversationally as she pulled Lowa’s hands back down to rest on her legs. “I would, too, if I was going to be tortured then die screaming in agony.” She put the torch on the ground and gripped Lowa’s chin. “Shall I tell you a story?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Last year, I broke one of my fingers in a battle. Badly. Not one of those ‘oh I think I might have broken my finger’ things when you haven’t actually broken your finger. This one was a proper big snap and my finger was all dangly and useless. See, it was this one, it’s still swollen.” Pomax took her hand from Lowa’s chin and held up the index finger. It was, indeed, quite badly swollen at the base.

Lowa did not like where this was going. Pomax continued: “It was so painful, I had to leave the battle. I was dead surprised. I’ve broken my leg and stayed in a battle. The finger hurt more. I couldn’t do a thing with that hand for weeks and it was so sore that I became quite morose. And do you know, I thought at the time, what would it be like if you broke all ten fingers? You would not be able to do a thing and you’d be so miserable that you wouldn’t want to. I think you’d just want to die. Especially if you were something like an archer and used to using your fingers.”

Lowa felt something very like fear creeping into her chest.

“So you’ve probably worked out what’s going to happen now,” said Pomax. Lowa, mustering all her strength from years of bending the bow, tried to pull away, but Pomax didn’t even seem to notice as she took Lowa’s little finger between two of her own and snapped it at the base.

She managed not to scream. She tried to wrench her arms free again, but her captor was too strong.

“Oh, very brave,” said Pomax. “I reckon you might manage to stay quiet for the second one, too. You’ll scream on the third.”

“I will not,” Lowa spat.

“We’ll see!” said Pomax.

It turned out that Pomax was right, but Lowa was in too much pain by then to be angry about it.

R
agnall and Rufus rode at the head of a dozen black-clad praetorian guards along the crest of the hill through a damp, first-light mist. As the horses clopped gently along, hooves muffled by cloths and the wet air, they talked in whispers about Rome. Rufus knew some fascinating stories about Crassus, and was enthralled by Ragnall’s tales of Clodia Metelli’s house.

Some people, thought Ragnall, were lucky to have the sort of happy, sparkly eyes that made others warm to them immediately. Or perhaps their friendly characters gave them sparkling eyes? Whatever it was, Rufus was one of these sparkle-eyed affection-magnets. Ragnall had liked him instantly; the more he liked him, the more they spoke.

As they approached their target, Ragnall suggested that the two of them might meet after the battle and see how much headway they could make into an amphora of wine. Rufus agreed with much enthusiastic nodding. He knew where they could get some great stuff.

They’d left camp with the vague goal of preventing something being rolled from the valley side on to the Roman army marching below, then learnt from the heavy-handed questioning of an unlucky but knowledgeable farmer that their exact goal was a collection of logs and boulders next to a copse, guarded by a handful of Nervee warriors.

As they rode, Rufus marvelled at Caesar’s abilities. How could he possibly know about the trap, both the large-scale one in the valley and this little part of it? Ragnall didn’t say anything, but felt a little smug that he knew Caesar’s information source. At the same time he admitted to himself that he was sure to tell Rufus everything he knew before they’d got to the end of that amphora.

The farmer had said that they’d find the collection of ready-to-roll projectiles on the north side of the copse, and, indeed, up ahead was a stand of trees exactly as he had described. They hobbled their horses and advanced on foot from the south across short grass, swords drawn. Sheep skittered away from the line of soldiers, but there was no sign that the Nervee had seen them coming, or, indeed, that there were any Nervee in the copse. That didn’t mean that there weren’t. For all Ragnall knew, twenty arrows might have been aimed at them right then, ready to fly in a heartbeat. Without fully admitting to himself that he was doing it, he slowed his pace to let the others get ahead of him.

They arrived at the copse without being perforated. They crept over a low bank and through the trees. Ragnall could hear voices ahead, speaking a version of his language.

“Oh, she’s lovely. And did you hear what she did at Wesont?” said a male voice.

A female one countered, “You believe anything. Did you know that she drinks blood? She’s horrible.”

“I spoke to her a couple of days ago,” said another voice. “She was surprisingly approachable, and she had plenty of time for me. I find a lot of these top Warriors are like that. They like it if you just go up and chat to them because most people don’t have the balls. I said we might get together for a drink some time and she didn’t say no.”

“Yeah? Well, she didn’t say yes, did she? Don’t think you’ve got a chance. Iberian women’s legs are about as easy to open as a stone clam. Even if you did get near her, she’d rip your tackle off with those pointed teeth. Anyway, she prefers women. I was talking to Serenax and—”

Ragnall realised that they must be talking about Chamanca. The story in the Roman camp was that she’d died of her wounds after attacking Caesar at Vesontio (although he’d also heard that she’d recovered, drained a centurion’s blood, turned into a bat and flown away). She’d been the cause of his nightmare days with Ariovistus, yet he was still glad to hear that she was alive. Weird, he thought.

They reached the other side of the copse. A few paces clear of the trees were several huge boulders and four large oak tree trunks covered in pitch. There was a fire burning ready to light the trunks, and each boulder and trunk had long iron levers primed under it. It would have taken only a few moment’s effort to fire up the logs and send the massive weight of wood and stone crashing down the steep valley side.

On the near side of the trunks and boulders were five Nervee, two men and three women, all dressed in tartan and leather, and, seemingly, unarmed. They were all looking eastward along the valley, waiting for the Roman army.

“OK you lot, hands above your heads.” Rufus strode from cover, sword raised, followed by the praetorians. Ragnall realised that he should probably come too and he hurried from the trees. “There’s no need for you to die unless you want to,” Rufus continued, “keep your hands in the air and we’ll tie you up one by one.”

Ragnall was just marvelling at Rufus’ clemency when a Nervee woman shot a hand down, plucked a dagger from her belt and flicked it into Rufus’ neck. Rufus dropped his sword and reached for his throat. His sparkly eyes goggled and blood sprayed between his fingers. The praetorians launched forwards, knocked the Gauls to the ground and put swords to their necks. Ragnall ran to Rufus. Rufus raised a hand, as if to say “no, I’m fine, really”, then fell back. Ragnall crouched next to him and felt for a pulse. It was weak, then it was gone.

“What will we do with these?” asked a praetorian. He was talking to Ragnall. They were all looking at him and he realised that he was in charge now. He stood and looked at the kneeling Gauls. They glared hatred back at him. At his feet, Rufus’ eyes were already staring into the Underworld, their spark gone. His mouth was still curled in half a smile.

“Find out their plans from the woman who threw the dagger,” he said. “Kill the rest.”

L
owa stumbled down the dry valley to the cliff top, alongside Pomax. Here and there, lone sheep stared at them. She was, on the face of it, free. Pomax had removed her neck iron and her wrist and ankle chains. There was no need for them any more.

“Are we going slowly enough for you, dear?” Pomax asked.

“Yes,” said Lowa.

They weren’t. It would have been impossible to go slowly enough. Her useless hands were hanging by her side. Every step, no matter how careful, sent bolts of pain up her arms. She tried cradling her hands in each other, but the relief it gave one set of fingers was outweighed by the pain it caused the other.

Pomax had been right. All ideas of flight had flown. Before Pomax had broken her fingers, Lowa had not actually believed for a moment that she would burn in the wicker woman. She’d been in stickier situations and escaped. But now she could do what Pomax told her to and nothing else. She’d given up all ideas of flight and accepted that she was going to die.

“I must say, you’re doing very well, considering,” said Pomax.

“Thank you,” said Lowa.

C
arden, Chamanca, Atlas, Bodnog and a few of the Nervee commanders were crouched on the springy woodland floor, watching the Romans march along the road on the far side of the valley. The multitudinous Nervee army was hidden in the woods behind them. Few of them were well-trained, full-time soldiers like the Romans, but they outnumbered the invader hugely, they seemed disciplined enough, and if they were half as fearsome as they looked, Chamanca reckoned that the battle was all but won. She pictured Lowa’s face when she told her that the Romans had been stopped. She wondered if the queen would be able to hide the disappointment that she hadn’t got to defeat them herself?