Reign of Iron (5 page)

Cicero asked a man who he knew about the combatants. They heard that the Roman was a real legionary, fighting for money. The young fat one was a minor aristocrat who’d crawled onto the wrong man’s wife at an orgy. Ragnall would have bet everything he owned on the legionary, but nobody would take the wager because all agreed it was going to be more of an execution than a battle. Ragnall thought it was pretty distasteful, and guessed that Cicero did too but, without saying anything, they not only stayed to watch, but climbed up a few steps to get a better view.

The fight began. The soldier was infinitely quicker and fitter and his blade was wickedly sharp. He could have finished the faux German in seconds, but he played to the crowd, cutting slices into legs, arms and torso that made the spectators wince and the aristocrat yell, all the while ducking and sidestepping the flabby youth’s increasingly clumsy club swipes. The younger man bellowed and swore, then cried. The legionary gave him plenty of time and space to stare with disbelief at the depth of the cuts on his limbs and body, then nipped in and carved into his flesh again. With the fat young man woozy from blood loss, heaving and panting, the soldier dropped his sword, darted around his opponent and leapt onto his back. The youth staggered, trying to throw his limpet-like mount and prying uselessly at muscle-hard limbs with weakened fingers. The legionary pretended to ride him as if he were a horse, then thrust his index fingers into the young man’s eyes and gouged them out. Many of the spectators loved this, whooping as they clapped. The legionary jumped from his fat, blinded mount, removed his helmet, raised his arms and turned to bask in the citizens’ adoration. Behind him, the young man staggered, bleeding from empty eye sockets and a hundred cuts, lifted his club and flailed blindly with the last of his strength. The sweet spot of the club met the legionary’s head with a cracking thud.

Both men fell and lay still.

There was a pregnant pause of gaping disbelief, then many of the crowd howled with laughter. Ragnall and Cicero did not.

“I hope that’s not an omen,” said Ragnall.

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Cicero, “but it’s a useful lesson. Never underestimate your opponent, even when they seem beaten. Now, I must be going.” He gripped Ragnall by the shoulder. “I don’t expect you to heed my words, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Caesar has been a great benefit to you, but following others should not be a lifelong pursuit. One day, Ragnall, you should have the courage to remember who you are and pursue your own goals.”

“Right.”

Cicero smiled sadly. “Few have the courage to be their own person, but it is a noble goal.”

F
ar from Rome, deep in the Roman-controlled western Alps, the druid Titus Pontius Felix sat on his bed in the well-insulated longhouse that he’d made his winter quarters. He’d had his pleasure with a dark-skinned slave and she’d left, whimpering but grateful to be alive. It was funny, Felix mused, that people always seemed grateful when you stopped being cruel to them rather than angry that you’d been cruel in the first place, assuming they were alive enough to display gratitude.

Muffled sounds of his legion training outside penetrated the log walls. His Celermen and Maximen needed several hours of exercise a day and they didn’t seem to mind the bone-piercing cold of the mountains. Felix did, but he was cosy in the longhouse with furs and a large fire built from the wood of smashed grain stores and the corpses of the valley’s former inhabitants. There were gigantic baskets on either side of the fire, one full of wood, one full of bodies, both filled from larger piles outside. Semi-frozen bodies burnt marvellously well once they got going, radiating rosy heat and a wonderful smell. He wondered why more people didn’t use corpses as fuel. Bodies were easier to come by than trees in Gaul those days. It was possibly a waste to burn so much meat, Felix conceded, but he and his legion had herds of livestock which the mountain tribe didn’t need now, he didn’t like the taste of human flesh, and besides, there was a pile of dead the height of Pompey’s theatre, nicely preserved in the sub-zero temperature. If any of his troops wanted to eat human flesh, there was plenty to go round.

Despite the warmth, the little Roman was unhappy. He’d recently ejaculated, which always put him in a black mood, but that wasn’t the underlying reason. There were two larger, more important things sullying his humour.

First off, he was pissed off to be billeted up here in the mountains for the winter. His dark legion had killed so many in the Alps over the previous winter that Caesar had insisted that Felix stay with them this year to control them. He was, after all, the only one who could tell them what to do. It would have been a reasonable request if you gave a shit about the lives of a few thousand Gauls and Helvetians, but he didn’t and he knew that Caesar didn’t either. The general was more worried that the legion would become common knowledge in Rome if it killed too many people. Felix thought the opposite was true, since dead people didn’t spread rumours, but one didn’t argue with Caesar.

The second, more irksome thing was that he’d have had Spring’s body by now if his assassination squad had succeeded, so he had to assume that she was still alive. Jupiter’s cock, it was annoying. He hadn’t told Caesar the details, but he had told him that there was a powerful druid in Britain whose magic could be used to conquer the world. It was at least part of the reason for charging up through Gaul to invade Britain. But Felix didn’t want to wait. He wanted to kill Spring, specifically to eat her heart, to inherit her magic and become unstoppable.

He’d taken Thaya’s magic by eating her heart all those years ago. He’d known it was the right thing to do in the same way, he guessed, that birds knew how to fly and which berries to eat.

He might send more assassins at Spring immediately after the winter, but probably he’d have to wait until they invaded Britain. Most annoying. He had little desire to go back to the island, although the notion of having his revenge on Lowa was rather delicious. He’d had a good thing going with Zadar until she and Spring had spoiled it all. He cursed himself. If he’d only worked out that Zadar’s daughter was the super-druid they’d all been waiting for, he could have eaten her heart years before and never needed Zadar or Caesar. He smiled to himself. Yes, he needed Caesar now, but once he got his hands on Spring’s corpse, he wouldn’t need anybody else ever again.

A pop from the fire startled him, but it was just something bursting in one of the burning bodies. He returned to his fantasising, picturing himself marching on Rome at the head of fifty dark legions of Maximen and Celermen, killing, torturing, enslaving – doing whatever he wanted. He’d build a palace in the centre of Rome that would make every other building look like a British hut. He’d send out armies to conquer the world. He would go with them and kill someone from every tribe on earth. He’d build thousand-pace-tall statues of himself in every town and port. He’d live forever, king of the world, ruler of all, worshipped as a god. Egypt! He’d take Egypt! Those arrogant crocodile worshippers would queue up to lick his feet. He’d build a pyramid that would make Khufu’s great mausoleum look like an anthill next to a mountain. And Greece! The things he could to do to the beautiful, haughty young men of Greece …

So for now he’d put up with his shitty billet in the Alps. He’d bide his time. Once he had Spring in his hands, everything would be his and he would never be unhappy again.

A
t the end of each British winter, Chamanca was always surprised by the day that came along and proved that the world could be warm again. It was the morning of that day – high-skied and clear with a sun that actually managed to warm her skin – when she, Atlas and Spring boarded the merchant ship to Gaul. The captain, a squat Dumnonian woman, commanded them to give their packs to the crew to be stowed, then chivvied them to a place by the port rail where they’d be out of the way.

“I know they all say that I made the wave,” said Spring as they leant on the rail, “but I didn’t. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”

“Sure,” said Atlas Agrippa.

“Why not?” asked Chamanca.

“Because—” Spring was cut off by the captain’s shouts as she ordered her crew through the processes of leaving the quay and setting sail. The complex commands were unnecessary if the crew knew what they were doing, thought Chamanca, and by the look on the crew’s faces they agreed with her.

The Iberian had no desire to talk about the wave but she didn’t like to be told what to do by anyone, let alone a fifteen-year-old girl. She wasn’t sure about Spring. Lowa had insisted she’d be useful as a replacement for Carden Nancarrow in their mission to destabilise the Roman army, so she’d sent Chamanca to Dug’s farm to find her. The girl had refused to come back to Maidun, mumbling something about not wanting to see Lowa, but had been happy enough to meet them at the port. Other people might have questioned her further about avoiding Lowa, but Chamanca neither liked to pry into others’ business (because she didn’t like other people prying into hers), nor did she really give a crap for the girl’s motives.

The child was certainly brighter than the previous member of their trio but, much as she’d liked him and was sorry that he’d died saving her on Karnac Bay, Chamanca had met dogs brighter than Carden. Atlas and Chamanca had all the brains they’d ever need between them. The question was, would Spring be so loyal, dependable and, above all, as useful in a fight as Carden?

The girl was perhaps a quarter of Carden’s weight, if that. She was a head taller than Chamanca, but much narrower from neck to toe; Atlas could have put his hands around her delicate waist. By the way she moved, she was strong-limbed under her loose shirt and long skirt, but how would she fare against one campaign-hardened legionary, let alone a group of them? She carried the same type of longbow as Lowa, as well as Dug’s hammer, but Chamanca was sure she wouldn’t be able to use either of them effectively. There was the magic, of course, which had beaten Chamanca in a fight when Spring had channelled it through Lowa, but the girl claimed that her magic powers had died with Dug and the wave. So why exactly was she coming?

Chamanca reckoned Lowa wanted her out of Britain. Many had lost friends or family to the wave, so Spring was a likely target for revenge attacks. The Iberian had seen it when she’d been young herself – a group of twats could easily whip themselves into a vengeful, murderous communal rage, even if their target had only drunk a little blood … That might be the case, but it was still no reason to send Spring on their dangerous mission. The last thing they needed was a tagalong. One weak link would get them all killed.

She did like the girl – she was amusing and quite beautiful – but the Iberian liked herself more. If it looked like she was going to get them all killed, Chamanca would kill her first. No, in fact she wouldn’t kill her. She would break her leg and pay a village or a farm to look after her until she healed. Was she getting soft in her old age, she mused? Maybe that’s why she was having these bizarre feelings of affection – of attraction! – for sensible, boring, dependable, old, handsome, muscular, mighty Atlas …

“I’d just rather you didn’t mention the wave,” Spring said when the palaver of setting sail was over and the boat was creaking its tubby way out to sea. Her voice was a strange mix. Mostly it was a melodious and refined British accent like Zadar’s, but she pronounced some sounds in the German way like Lowa and others in Dug’s strange northern accent. It was rather a pleasant effect, Chamanca thought.

“Don’t worry, Spring, we won’t talk about the wave, will we, Chamanca?” Atlas spoke quietly, his Kushite bass even lower than normal.

“What wave?” asked Chamanca.

Atlas nodded. “Remember, when we get to Gaul we will not do or say anything to draw attention to ourselves. Not to begin with, at least.”

Chamanca thought that simply being a massive African Warrior carrying an axe that could chop an ox in two would draw plenty of attention, and that the Gauls would be certain to notice the most attractive and well-dressed women they’d ever seen, but she held her tongue. The nondescript girl would go unnoticed, at least.

“Why don’t you tell me all you found and did in Gaul?” asked Spring. “It would probably be best if I know as much as possible. About the Romans, too?”

“Sure thing,” said Atlas. “The first thing to understand about the Romans and the Gaulish is that they are not Britons…” and on he droned, as the boat slipped through the night.

The next day, after some badgering from Spring, Chamanca found herself filling in the gaps that Atlas had left, especially about the most recent expedition when it had been just her and Carden. It helped pass the time as the boat bobbed on, and the girl proved to be a pleasingly perceptive audience.

They arrived at a small beach shortly after sunset two days later. Walfdan, the elderly Fenn-Nodens druid from the Gaulish town of Sea View, was waiting. So he’d escaped the Roman purges, Chamanca was glad to see. Most druids were idiots, but she liked this one. He welcomed them effusively and offered food and rest after their long journey. They were grateful for the food but Atlas insisted that they were ready to move on and would eat on the hoof – not literally, since they’d be walking to begin with, to limit chances of detection. As they climbed the steep dunes that backdropped the beach, Chamanca glanced at Spring for signs of shirking or fatigue, but the girl looked sprightly.

As they paced quietly through the night, inland and eastward, Atlas explained to Walfdan that Lowa’s army was all but destroyed so they needed to delay the Roman invasion until she could muster and prepare a new one.

Walfdan already knew about the situation in Britain from merchants and had a reply ready. “Gaul is finished,” he said. “The land is united for once, but unfortunately it is united in a mood of beaten, dejected submission. Tribes all over Gaul, vastly more numerous than the invader, with much greater resources than the Bel-cursed Romans, have capitulated with little more than a whimper. Some of them did not even whimper. A little backbone and cooperation would have seen us triumph, but most Gauls have behaved like self-interested cowards. I’ve lived a long time and hitherto been proud to call myself a Gaul. Now I am ashamed.”