Reign of Iron (40 page)

He gazed eastwards, in the direction the woman had flown on her horse. She’d beaten him in a fair fight and she’d killed three of his elephants, so she was good, but she was no goddess. Next time he met her he would break her limbs and feed her to Bandonda.

Ragnall stood on the smouldering wall surveying the scene of dead men, women, horses and elephants. On the far side of the field, the bronze-helmeted African leader put down three injured elephants. It was not an everyday sight. Seeing such incredible and fascinating events and, even better, being part of them, was one reason – perhaps the main reason – why Ragnall had joined Caesar on his campaign and become a Roman. The exotic and the epic excited him. Surely, he’d told himself, he was born to live in the thrilling Roman world, not the boring British one. If his life had run as his parents intended, he would have returned from the Island of Angels, married Anwen and helped his elder brothers with the mundane machinations of managing a medium-sized tribe until mortality claimed him. That would have been it.

Zadar had put paid to that by slaughtering his family and changing the course of his life for ever. There were moments when he allowed himself to thank Zadar for freeing him from the shackles of background and parental expectation that held so many others back. But more and more he was realising that Zadar had ruined his life, and he would have been happier, much happier, as one of the top cows in the small field of Boddingham.

The battleground didn’t thrill him; the idea of being king of all the British tribes appealed no longer. Nothing about being Roman excited him any more. He wanted to go back in time, save his tribe from Zadar and live the comfortable, easy life he was meant to live.

Out on the plain, the African leader whacked one of his own men with a club then called over an elephant to eat him. Ragnall hardly noticed, because he was clenching his fists and thinking that the person who’d ruined his new life was Zadar’s daughter, Spring. Since he’d saved her life – saved her life! – she’d belittled him at every turn. He’d been a hero when they’d found her, he’d been Ragnall the dashing new young Roman who’d killed the German King Ariovistus. Now, every day, he felt less of a hero in her presence. She questioned everything he said and somehow she’d managed to dig at everything he thought. Everything! She was always wrong, but her arguments aggravated him like sand in his sandals. Little by little, he’d begun to doubt his convictions and like himself less until finally he had come to loathe himself. He hated his toga, his cut hair, his excellently shaved face and his childish pretence that he could just choose to be a Roman.

More than that he hated that he’d been beaten up by a girl. Most of all, he hated that he’d attacked her when she was tied up. He was a coward who’d lost a fight with a child then attacked that child when someone else had restrained her. Few people hearing that story were going to be rooting for him.

He could picture everyone he’d ever loved – his parents, Anwen, his brothers … Drustan – all watching him from the Otherworld, all shaking their heads in sanctimonious disappointment. Sanctimonious? Maybe not. Let’s face it, rarely had disappointment been so justified. He was a failure as a Briton, as a Roman, as a person.

He clenched his fists. Tears sprang and sobs shuddered through him. Where had it gone wrong? He’d been the golden child of his tribe! He’d been the best pupil on the Island of Angels! When had he become the sort of man who lost a fight to a girl half his weight and attacked her as soon as she was defenceless?

He knew when. It started when Zadar – and Lowa – had massacred his tribe. Then it had got worse when Lowa had made him fall for her and then tossed him aside like a gnawed bone. As if to reinforce his point, out on the battlefield the elephant flung away what was left of the man it had been chewing on.

Now, finally, when he’d been happy again, Spring had come along and spoiled it all. It was all their fault! He wiped snot from his nose and tears from his cheeks. He wasn’t going to cry any more.

First Zadar, then Lowa, now Spring. They were in some Bel-driven scheme to ruin his life … That was it! He was a plaything of the gods. They all were. Perhaps one god had control of Zadar’s bloodline and another was running his, and losing. Zadar’s god had killed his family, used Lowa to make him betray Anwen, made Drustan believe he could control magic when really it had been Spring all along. Yes! The god that was controlling him was losing, but maybe through no fault of its own. Ragnall himself was meant to act! His god was giving him these thoughts even now. It was time for the next move in the game and for once it was going to be Ragnall who made it. And that move was clear. He had to kill Spring.

He couldn’t do it himself. Caesar would be angry, there would be an investigation, Tertius and Ferrandus would tell all and Ragnall would be shamed and crucified. Then there was the practical side, of course. First, she was a better fighter. He shouldn’t let that upset him. He was a thinker, not a fighter; she was a brute and he was pretty much a genius. But he didn’t want to be bested by her again. Second was her magic. He’d seen no evidence of magic since they’d met again, and guessed – hoped – that she’d lost it. Surely she would have used it to escape if she could still control it? But if her life was threatened, it might just surface.

So, he couldn’t kill Spring himself. But he knew a man who could, or at least who would have a much better chance of ending the spiteful girl’s life.

He smiled, happy to have a project. He climbed down off the wall and walked into the camp, heading for the legate’s sick tent. If Quintus Cicero wasn’t there any more, they’d know where he was.

While the Romans regrouped, Lowa went to send her son away. There were two points she had to weigh up in making the decision. On one side were twenty thousand or so Romans about to storm her wooden wall, its defences greatly weakened by the Haxmite treachery. On the other was the dream of a ghost. It wasn’t much of a contest. She’d heed Dug’s warning, she’d listen out for the shout
Demons attacking from the north-west
, but soon this fort was going to a bad place for an eighteen-moon-old child. It was time to remove him.

“Now you be a good boy for Mummy,” said Lowa, pulling down Dug’s little cotton dress so it wasn’t so rucked at his shoulders.

“Haaarbs!” said little Dug, pointing at the horse that was to carry him and Keelin away to the south and then west.

“Horse,” said Lowa. “Horse.”

“Haaaaaarrrbs!” shouted Dug, with a throaty giggle and a cheery scream.

Lowa picked him up and hugged him tightly to her. He smelt of warmth and life. He hugged her back, then grabbed her ear in a fat little hand and pulled.

“No, Dug, not Mummy’s ear,” she said, reaching up and prising his paw free. He was strong. Behind him Keelin mounted the horse. Lowa squeezed him one more time and handed him up to his nanny.

Dug smiled uncertainly down at his mother, wrinkling his nose and showing his sharp little white teeth. His eyes were huge and brown in his oversized head.

“Goodbye, little Dug,” she said. “Look after Keelin.”

The queen turned and jogged away. She could almost feel the child sucking in air behind her and she hadn’t gone far when a wail to waken the dead rang out. She didn’t turn. She didn’t want the boy to be upset, but she was also glad that he was so sad to see her go. A little voice said yes, but he screams like that if you take away the stick he was playing with. Lowa told the voice to bugger off.

Back on the tower, she saw that the Romans were coming. One legion had been all but destroyed by her incendiary attack, but four more were marching at her. They were outside even her range, but their shields were already up.

She looked across the hills to the east, towards the Roman base camp and their ships. The sky over there remained stubbornly blue, unblemished by smoke. Caesar had brought five legions here, which meant he’d left one defending the camp, possibly alongside his elephants. Shouters had reported that the African beasts were heading north, towards the camp. Had they repelled Chamanca’s assault before they’d managed to set the camp and the ships alight?

She scanned the land around. She would have heard from her shouters, but it was good to see for herself. The Romans hadn’t encircled the fort, they were still coming only from the north, and there was no sign of Felix’s dark legion. The latest shout about the demons, from her best shouters who were skilled at throwing their voices in only one direction, said that they were still on the coast. Lowa didn’t know why they had stopped there, but she hoped they stayed.

The Romans advancing towards Big Bugger Hill had found only one of her hidden shouters, which was a testament to how well they hid, since they must have walked right over several of them. Simshill the shouter’s final shout – “Shouter Simshill discovered!” – had been a poignant one, made worse because Lowa had known her. She was a merchant whom Lowa had persuaded to join her army as a shouter because of her excellent voice. Yet another life Lowa was responsible for throwing away …

She looked to the east again. Was that a tendril of smoke rising up into the summer sky or just a weird cloud?

Back on the plain she saw that a handful of Roman cavalry had come within her longbow range. Idiots, she thought, wondering how many she’d get before the survivors galloped out of range, and wishing she had Spring with her. She would have taught somebody else to shoot the longbow, but she knew that nobody would take to it like Spring, and, besides, it was Spring’s bow and she didn’t want anyone else touching it. The queen had brought it with her from Maidun, telling herself that it was a spare in case hers was broken, but really she was hoping beyond hope that she could somehow free the girl and give it back to her herself.

W
ithout fresh kills, Felix reckoned that his Maximen and Celermen were probably right up there with the most dreary creatures in the world. They were never conversationalists at the best of times, but at least when they were vibrating with the power of others’ deaths they did interesting things. Now they were just sitting about under the trees, where grass met the sand, staring into nothingness, as stimulating as a pot of slugs. A few of them had walked about a bit earlier, but that had angered Felix because he’d noticed that none of the fucking idiots would cross the high-water mark of dead seaweed. They were terrified of the tide rushing in and drowning them. They’d happily charge an army of any size, but they were scared of dead marine plants. Jupiter’s tits, thought Felix.

So he was overjoyed when a centurion turned up, followed by a century of eighty legionaries on foot. Their leader dismounted, removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm.

“Centurion Lucius Aurelius Dolabella reporting, sir! With the first century, second maniple, sixth cohort, Seventh Legion!” He smiled in readiness, then furrowed his brow and said: “Sorry, that’s wrong. We were moved. They didn’t tell me why and I still don’t know. It’s first century,
fourth
maniple,
fifth
cohort, Seventh Legion. No, wait, that can’t be right, there are only three maniples to a cohort so we can’t be in the fourth. By Diana, it’s confusing. Sorry! We’re here and we’re a century, that’s the point. Sorry.”

Dolabella was probably not even in his twenties, yet he had hair like an old man’s – dry, orange-brown and naturally curly, but combed furiously so that the top of his head looked like a minute, precisely ploughed field. He had a long, thin and bony nose, no chin and a small mouth, all of which combined to create a face like an inquisitive rodent’s. He was taller than Felix, but he seemed smaller. He had the look of a high-born young man, but shit high-born. The kind of man that Rome’s greatest families produced every now and then to their dismay. It was traditional to send sons like him off to their deaths in the furthest flung corners of the empire. And here he was.

“What are your orders?” asked Felix.

“They come from Caesar himself! He spoke to me! He is attacking the Gaulish fort, and he wants you to cover any possible retreat. He said he hoped I’d give my all, and that I was to tell you that I’m completely at your disapproval. No! Sorry! Disposal! My men and I are completely at your
disposal
.”

Felix smiled. “We’d better get going right now then.”

“Yes, there is one thing. We got really very lost on the way to you, so we took a jolly long time getting here, so … there’s a good chance the battle’s already
started
. I am sorry. But I am sure that I know the way back.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Yes, and one more thing. We were with one of your leather chappies – Brutus?”

“Bistan.”

“That’s the fellow. When night fell last evening, he went off to find the route. He wasn’t back this morning so we carried on and found you as much by mistake as anything else…”

“And no sign of Bistan?”

“No. He went north. Or possibly west. Probably not north or he’d be here. Are we north, here?”

Felix shook his head but smiled as well. He genuinely didn’t always like ordering people’s deaths. But sometimes he did.

Lowa knocked three of the cavalry from their horses and stuck one more in the leg on the extremities of her range as he tried to gallop clear. The Maidunites cheered each dismounting and she got a long “Oooooh!” for the leg shot. It was good to hear them confident and cheery after the Haxmite treachery.

She looked back to the east. There was definitely smoke coming from the direction of the Roman beachhead. Could have been some oblivious forester in the woods in between her and the camp, of course, but it looked further away …

“Roman camp ablaze!” came the shout.

The Maidunites cheered. Lowa smiled and beckoned her shouter over.

“Shout that again,” she said, “and ask every shouter who isn’t hidden to spread it through the land.” The shouter did so and the words “Roman camp ablaze!” were repeated twice from all directions, then again more faintly, then again almost imperceptibly. It was a good sound, thought Lowa, a shout going out, even better now that she’d decreed each shout was repeated, hopefully to avoid the misheard shouts as they’d sometimes had in Zadar’s day, which had had both hilarious and tragic consequences.