by Angus Watson
Caesar regarded the younger man without blinking. His dark, sparkling eyes seemed to look through Ragnall’s and into his mind and the young man shifted uncomfortably, even half drunk as he was. Finally the general said:
“Felix does command something like a legion, and, yes, it did rout the Usipete and Tencteri forces. Caesar has judged that its existence should be kept a secret from Rome, and, as far as possible, the rest of the army. So you will tell nobody about it, and discuss it with nobody, even if you think that they also know about it.”
“Right,” said Ragnall, thinking that was that, and reckoning it unwise to probe further, but Caesar continued.
“The legion has only two companies, each smaller than a century but larger than a contubernium. One is made of large, powerful men whom we call the Maximen. The other is comprised of men who are blessed with the speed of Mercury–the Celermen. With their combined talents, despite their meagre number, they could defeat any army on earth–including any Roman one.”
“Where are they from?”
Caesar sat back, stretched out his legs, made a pyramid of his fingers and looked down his bony nose as if deciding whether to say more. Torchlight glinted in the remainder of the general’s silver hair and shone off his freshly shaven shins. Finally, he leant forward. “The short answer, Ragnall, is that Caesar does not know. Neither does Felix understand the mechanisms that have created his little army. The longer answer is that when Crassus defeated Spartacus, he gave Felix a multitude of captured rebel slaves. Most of these, six thousand men, Felix had Crassus crucify in a line that stretched shore to shore across Italy. Felix used the energy–for want of a better word–released by the death of these men to bring about a metamorphosis in some of the remaining captives. Almost all of them died in the process, but a few became larger and stronger. A few more became quicker. Now, they both still feed from death. Killing gives them their power.”
“How…?”
“Only the gods know.”
“And you have no worries about—”
“Of course there must be concern about their utilisation. It is done sparingly, only to save Roman life.”
“And when they can operate secretly, out of sight of anyone who might get word of them back to Rome?”
Caesar breathed in sharply through his nose and Ragnall thought he had gone too far, but the general said: “Caesar has sent them into battle three times. Once to obliterate Ariovistus’ cavalry when it threatened to starve his army. Once to clear the Nervee ambush from the forest. And once. Before Caesar leads the legions to Britain, he needs to neutralise the German threat to his Gaulish territories. Caesar could use his legions to achieve this, but it would take a year, perhaps two, and he needs to be in Britain this year. After today’s battle with the Usipetes and Tencteri, and the harrying of the Germans which Felix’s legion will now carry out, Caesar need fear no interference from the east.”
“What did Felix’s legion do? What will they do?”
“Do not trouble with the means, only the outcome. Now, return to your tent and sleep. Tomorrow the army will head west, towards your throne.”
Ragnall felt a rush of excitement–he was going to be a king! He nodded, stood, and thanked the general for the wine. He left the headquarters and walked away between the rows of tents, step jaunty and arms swinging. He looked about, assessing his new allies–his new tribesmen.
A British army camp would have been full of men and woman drinking, shouting stories at each other, dancing and otherwise preparing for the long day ahead in the most idiotic way possible. The Roman camp, in anticipation of the morrow’s march, was silent, other than for the odd whinnies from horses and snorts from snorers.
The Roman way was so much better and Britain would benefit from it to an immeasurable degree. And if Caesar used Felix’s dark magic troops to conquer Britain? If this unstoppable host was unleashed against Lowa and her army…? Well, that was all the better. Fewer Romans would be killed, as Caesar had pointed out, and surely Britain would capitulate and surrender the moment they saw what the dark legion could do, so fewer Britons would be killed as well?
Chapter 16
Lowa rode back over the rise and there was Maidun Castle, shining like a white beacon fire from a sea of mud. They’d managed to keep grass from growing on the walls while she was away, which was a good sign. Hopefully everything else would be in similarly good order.
Riding next to her was Mal Fletcher, then came the Two Hundred followed by three thousand men and women, mostly on foot. After two moons travelling around Britain, Lowa had hoped for at least twice the amount of infantry recruits. She now had around ten thousand foot soldiers in total. According to Atlas and the others’ previous reconnaissance, the Romans could send double that, possibly more. She had a much smaller number of chariots and cavalry as well as the infantry, but the Romans would have cavalry, too, and in a full-force, pitched battle on open ground–the kind the Romans would strive to make her fight and she might not be able to avoid–infantry numbers would be the most important factor. Unless Felix’s dark legion slaughtered all the Britons before they so much as clashed swords with a legionary, that was, as it had done to the Nervee in the woods. She wished she had more information. Knowing next to nothing, as she did, she couldn’t plan counter-measures, other than encouraging and bullying her soldiers until they became tough and skilled enough to fight anything. That, and hope that reports of the demons were exaggerated.
Monsters aside, Rome’s legions were professional soldiers, rigorously trained for years, with several seasons of battle experience. A great deal of Lowa’s force were pressed farmers, craftsmen and layabouts, many of whom were more likely to trip over and spear themselves to death than kill an enemy. Still, they had to try.
She left Mal and others to billet the new recruits–there were plenty of spare tents after the previous year’s battle at Frogshold–and headed up to the castle, the eyrie and little Dug. She hadn’t expected to miss her son while she was on the road, and she’d been right; she hadn’t much. When she’d left, he’d been screaming, snotty and shit-smelling and she’d been glad to hand him over to Keelin. On the road she had sometimes found herself picturing his small face smiling or sleeping, or imagining his tiny fingers encircling one of her own, but most of the time she’d been too exhausted by the time she went to bed for such imaginative frivolities, and too busy during the day to consider anything but immediate business.
The Haxmites had been the most obstructive, but, by Bel, what a bunch of whingers the rulers of the British tribes had proven to be. You’d have thought the threat of a conquering horde coming to kill or enslave them all was reason enough to give as many people as possible for her army, but, no, she’d heard tales of how palisades needed rebuilding, religious rituals needed to be observed, ponds needed draining–countless excuses not to send every single adult south and learn the skills they’d need to fight the invaders. It had taken her every ounce of patience and persuasion to garner even the meagre, inadequate number that she had.
Keelin was waiting inside the main gate, baby on one arm. The child saw his mother, stuck his whole fist in his mouth and ducked his head into Keelin’s capacious chest.
“Hello, Keelin, hello, Dug,” said Lowa, wondering if babies were meant to be able to fit their fists in their mouths.
Dug waggled a saliva-dripping hand at her, said, “Ba! Ba! Ba!” and smiled. The change since she’d last seen him was startling. He was enormous. His comically round head was nearly as large as Keelin’s. He’d been more or less bald and eyebrow-free when she left, but now a thick fuzz of blond-brown hair had overrun his scalp and pale arcs heralded the growth of eyebrows. He raised one of these proto-brows at her quizzically, just as his father had done. Six moons old. He didn’t look like a baby any more, he looked like a little boy–a big-eyed, clear-skinned little Dug. Lowa felt her breath catch and tears press.
“Do you want to hold him?”
Lowa nodded and Keelin held him
out. The fat little boy’s face purpled instantly, his arms flailed and he screamed as if his legs were being torn from his body. The queen retracted her hands. Keelin hugged him into her bosom.
“It’s because he’s late for his sleep,” she said, in the pause while Dug was sucking in breath to scream again. “I was just putting him down”–Dug wailed and Keelin paused–“when I saw you coming. I’ll take him back now. He’ll be better after his morning nap.”
She walked away, clutching Dug. The baby quietened, looked over Keelin’s shoulder with tear-filled eyes, saw Lowa and began to wail again. Lowa watched them go.
“He looks a lot like Dug,” said Atlas. Lowa snapped round. Atlas and Chamanca nodded greetings. She’d been so focused on her baby that she hadn’t seen them.
“Send a shout, alert the tribes,” said Lowa, “a baby looks like his father.”
“Don’t worry about him crying like that when he saw you,” said Chamanca. “Babies do that with new people. He was the same with us yesterday.”
“When did you get back?” said Lowa, thinking I am not a new person.
“Yesterday.”
“Where’s Spring?” Lowa suddenly feared the worst.
“Dug’s farm,” said Chamanca. “She said there were dogs to check and chickens to feed, but really she blames you for Dug’s death and seeks to avoid you.”
“She told you this?”
“No, but I could tell.”
“OK, thanks for letting me know… And have you stopped Caesar’s armies? Should I send all my new recruits home?”
“Not just yet,” said Chamanca. “We have some shit news, some really shit news, and some even shittier news.”
“I see. You’d better come back to the eyrie and tell me all.”
The day was fine so they sat on the grassy expanse outside her hut. Atlas and Chamanca took turns to tell her about the Ironmen and the Leathermen. They were sitting so that their knees touched, and Lowa had noticed immediately that there was a change in them. Before, they’d both been about the most individual people Lowa had met; now they moved and acted like a couple, each constantly aware of the other. So they’d got it on, she thought, stifling a sting of jealousy that Dug had died and Atlas had survived.
They told her about being captured, the German massacre, their escape, the inefficacy of the famous Tengoterry cavalry against the demons, then the astonishing rate at which the Roman super-soldiers had built a bridge forty paces across and five hundred long. Lowa asked why they hadn’t harried the crossing’s construction.
“We did,” said Chamanca. “Spring shot at them. It had no effect on the big ones. The little ones dodged her arrows–they are faster even than me–then they found a couple of boats and some shields, at which point we decided it was best to…”
“Live so we could report back,” filled in Atlas.
“Yes. We were lucky to make it home,” said Chamanca. “Without Spring’s bow the big black one and I would have been killed. She took down three Leathermen. Atlas and I killed one between us.”
“Or, put another way,” said Atlas, “Chamanca killed none and I killed one.”
Chamanca scowled, Atlas smiled and Lowa felt a surprising flush of pride for Spring’s prowess and the endless hours of longbow training that the two of them had endured. She resolved to head to Dug’s farm at the first possible opportunity and sort out Spring’s silliness. The girl was crazy to blame her for Dug’s death when she would have done anything to prevent it.
“And after that?” she asked, dragging herself back into the role of a queen planning a war.
“Sensibly, the Germans put as many miles as they could between themselves and the Rhenus,” said Atlas. “They had a plan to make a stand a few hundred miles east, but we don’t know if Felix’s monsters pursued them that far because we travelled west and crossed back over the river. There we found the Roman army mobilising, about to head this way. So we came home to warn you. We had some setbacks and two or three minor adventures, but nothing relevant to report. Most of Gaul is cowed and surrendered to the foe—”
“But some north-western tribes are still holding out against the invaders,” Chamanca interrupted, “running from the marshes, poking the Romans and running back into the marshes. It is not a gallant way of fighting, but it is effective, and it means that the Romans will be able to send fewer troops over here than they planned.”
“Although,” continued Atlas, “it will not delay the enemy for long, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some Gaulish tribes actually joined the Roman invasion. Of course, most importantly of all, the number of legionaries or any ancillary forces becomes irrelevant when we consider Felix’s monsters. I cannot see a way to defeat them. To avoid our own extinction, I suggest we cede this land to the invader and relocate west to Eroo, south to Africa or perhaps further west, across the great sea.”
Lowa nodded, but discarded his council. There would be no retreat.
“How many Romans will cross the Channel–standard humans, not demons?”
“Impossible to tell how many he’ll bring across. Maybe two legions, maybe four,” said Atlas.
“So maybe twenty thousand legionaries.” Lowa sucked air over her teeth.
“Plus slingers, archers and cavalry.”
“Yes.”
“And of course you cannot ignore the demons. Retreat is an option that should not be dismissed.”
It already had been, but Lowa didn’t want to argue further.
“I will consider our moves.”
She sent for Mal, Adler, Elann Nancarrow the weaponsmith and Maggot the druid.
While they were waiting, Keelin appeared with Dug, fresh from his nap. When he spotted his mother, the baby screamed like a happy seagull then chirruped merrily, all the while wiggling his fingers towards her and kicking his legs. She took him from Keelin and he cackled throatily as if this development was the funniest, most all-consumingly joyous thing that could possibly have happened.
“He does that finger waggling thing when he sees horses and running water, which are his favourite things,” said Keelin, “but I’ve never seen him react like that to a person.”
“I’m flattered,” said Lowa, holding the cheery boy at arm’s length. He was shaking with chuckles, his big, shining brown eyes staring into hers. Keelin had dressed him in a hooded cotton suit but his limbs stuck out, bracelet and anklet-like fat folds where podgy arms and legs met hands and feet.
She played with the baby until Elann and Maggot arrived. She found that he had one of two reactions to everything. Anything that he could reach was jammed into his mouth and anything out of his reach was hilarious. At one point he grabbed her by the ear and clamped his lips around her nose, which was a little disgusting, but she found herself laughing along with him and even Chamanca chuckled. The baby’s unfettered happiness was infectious and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so freely, or in fact if she ever had. She wondered from where the child had inherited his cheeriness. Certainly not from her.
Even Elann cracked half an awkward smile when Dug greeted her with a happy shout. Childbirth might be an absolute bastard, thought Lowa, but the gods of creation had done a better job with babies. She handed him back to Keelin reluctantly. He stared at her over the girl’s shoulder as she took him away, bursting into tears after a dozen paces, which was satisfying.
“Right,” said Lowa, breathing out. “I’ll go first, then Mal, Adler, Elann and Maggot–in that order–tell Chamanca and Atlas what we’ve done so far to prepare for the Romans. Then Chamanca and Atlas will tell us what they’ve seen and we’ll discuss how the new information changes our plans.”
Part Two
Britain and Gaul
Late summer 55 BC
Chapter 1
Late one evening towards the end of the Roman month of August, Julius Caesar set sail for Britain with almost ten thousand legionaries from the Tenth and Seventh legions, plus two thousand auxiliary slingers and archers from Crete and the B
alearic Islands.
Ragnall stood at the bow of Caesar’s ship, the first to leave the broad Gaulish beach, listening to the creak of oars, looking at the golden light of the setting sun dancing on the wavelets. Rolling in their wake came eleven more warships like the one he was on, then eighty troop transport ships, then a swarm of boats crewed by merchants and adventurers eager for the glut of slaves and booty that flowed wherever Caesar went. Similarly minded seagulls swirled overhead, eager for the surfeit of human carrion that the great general had never failed to provide.
Ahead, the usually white cliffs of Britain were blood-red in the sunset. Home. Finally, after more than five years of exile, he was going home. Home is the true destination of all journeys, a drunken philosopher had told him once and now he could see his point. The moment he’d boarded that boat with Drustan all those years before and left Britain for Rome, he’d been at the beginning of a loop that ended where it started. Finally that loop was almost closed, and he was a returning king! He did not expect an affectionate reception, in fact the opposite, but they’d learn. In a few years the Britons would live in paved cities, with luxurious bathhouses and aqueducts bringing clean water into the middle of thriving marketplaces that didn’t reek of shit. Then they’d thank him. King Ragnall, the man who bathed Britain in clean water and the bright light of civilisation. He would be remembered for ever in stories and statues all over the land. He’d have to take a wife, of course. Might he forgive Lowa? In a way it was her he had to thank for his current position. He would see. Whatever he decided, he couldn’t wait to see her face when she saw him riding tall at the head of the Roman army.
The furtive chat among the legates and other high rankers was that Caesar was not taking enough troops because he had only two legions, the rest having been left behind to protect their conquered lands against the few remaining rebellious Gaulish tribes. They didn’t know what Ragnall knew. To the south there was another ship heading for Britain with a secret cargo that might ensure Britain’s surrender without any legionaries having to so much as hurl a pilum.