Reign of Iron: Iron Age Trilogy: Book Three

by Angus Watson

  The druid walked away, grinding his teeth and trying not to scream.

  “I am fine.” Atlas shivered, disproving his statement.

  “Fenn’s tits,” said Chamanca, “I will be seriously pissed off if you die because of your bull-headedness. Go and see Maggot, now.” Toughness she liked. Stupidity was unappealing and Atlas was being about as stupid as can be.

  “Maybe later–look.”

  Chamanca turned and saw Lowa running into the village centre.

  “Adler,” called the queen, “Atlas, Chamanca, Mal, to me!”

  Atlas staggered as he stood. His skin, usually a shining brown-purple, was turning muddy grey.

  “Sit down again, Atlas,” said Lowa. “You,” she pointed at a nearby soldier. “Find the druid Maggot, send him here.”

  “There’s no need,” said Atlas. “I have put a poultice on the wound. It is all that can be done.”

  Lowa shook her head. “Maggot will be the judge of that.” Chamanca could have kissed her. “Right, everyone gather in round Atlas. I want your opinions.”

  “On what?”

  “On how we’re going to defeat the Romans tonight.”

  As they discussed and debated, Atlas stayed silent. His eyes were bloodshot and flickering.

  “Atlas,” said Lowa, “you will go and lie down until Maggot—”

  “Until I what?” said Maggot, jogging up, his adornments jingling like a cart decorated with bells, followed by “Ah” when he saw the Kushite. “Can you walk, Atlas?” he asked.

  “Course I can walk.” The big man stood, then fell back down.

  “You and you,” Maggot called to two burly onlookers. “Take his arms and follow me.” The men helped Atlas to his feet. “This way, come on, it’s not far.”

  Lowa resumed the discussion of the battle to come, but Chamanca wasn’t listening. She was watching the African’s broad back heading off between the huts.

  Ragnall followed Spring and the praetorian to the physician. There were several ranks of medical tents and Ragnall insisted that the praetorian took her to the highest, the one for legates and other important people. He waited outside while the doctor worked on her wounds.

  Seeing Spring again had hit him like a plank to the face. Even though he’d known her for only a few months, here was someone from his previous life, someone who’d known Lowa and Dug–and Drustan, his dead mentor and friend. Seeing someone from that world and that time surrounded by Romans and Roman things was like a dream in which people and situations from different places and times muddle together in bright confusion. The nostalgia radiating from Spring was so weighty that his breath caught in his throat and he had to swallow to avoid weeping. The look, sound, even the smell of the girl made memories swirl into his head, not just of things that had happened in Britain, but of how it had felt to be happy. Well, not massively happy–his parents and brothers had just been killed when he met Spring–but he’d been a child, an innocent, lost in the world and looking to older people for guidance. He’d grown up so much since then, and not out of choice.

  “You can go in,” said the physician on his way out.

  She was sitting on a camp bed. There were five other beds and three tables in the airy tent. Two were draped with cloths, the other held an array of gleaming little bronze tools–miniature pliers, knives, saws and other implements that Ragnall did not recognise. Only one other bed was occupied, by the sleeping or unconscious aquilifer of the Tenth Legion. He was the hero of the landing, apparently. Plenty of other people had been as brave, but none of them had been carrying a great gold “Look at me!” eagle on a pole, so it was the aquilifer who’d been noticed and who qualified for the best medical care. That was how the army worked. Lying on the bed next to the aquilifer was his golden standard, the letters SPQR under the eagle’s claws. The letters stood for “the senate and people of Rome”. Ragnall felt proud to be part of something so proud and mighty, although arguably the motto “for Caesar” might have reflected the legionaries’ motivation more accurately.

  “What happened to him?” Spring asked, nodding at the aquilifer, her voice muffled. Her jaw was swollen and one eye bruised, but colour had returned to her cheeks and the sparkle was back in her eye. Her hands were tied in front of her, attached to her shackled ankles by a thin chain which ran off the bed and disappeared under it.

  “Battle happened to him. Never mind that, though, what happened to you?”

  “Got caught trying to kill Caesar.”

  “Ah. We don’t like that.”

  “We?”

  “I’m a Roman now.”

  “That’s like a horse deciding that it’s a dog.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. Why did you come here?”

  “Me, or all the Romans?”

  “You first.”

  “To bring the Roman way of life to Britain. You should see Rome, Spring. Just saying its name now makes me feel warm, excited. It’s amazing… and we can have it all here in Britain, we really can. Clean water everywhere, warm homes in winter, governed by a rule of law that’s the same for everyone and not subject to the whims of kings and—”

  “And why are all the other Romans here?”

  “Same reason.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! Why else—”

  “Ah, here she is.” Caesar swept into the tent, flanked by a couple of praetorians. “Good. Spring. May Caesar call you Spring?”

  Spring looked at him blankly, so Ragnall translated.

  “May I call him baldy cuntface?” replied Spring.

  “She says she’s honoured that you should speak to her at all,” said Ragnall.

  “Good, good. So, a princess.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Come to assassinate Caesar, but Caesar will not trouble with details for such an esteemed guest.”

  “And…” Ragnall wondered whether to tell Caesar about Spring’s magic. He was almost certain that he’d seen her give Dug the power to fight like a god… but then she’d claimed she couldn’t use magic any more and she certainly hadn’t in the battle against the Dumnonians, when it would have been very handy. He decided to keep quiet, for now at least. “And she’s the daughter of King Zadar.”

  “Is she? Not your close relative?”

  “Not my relative at all, other than the daughter of the man who slaughtered my family, but–oh.”

  Caesar was smiling, looking from him to the girl. Oh, Bel’s tartan trousers, thought Ragnall. He realised all at once what Caesar was about to demand, why he wanted it and that there was no reasonable argument against it.

  “She’s too young!” was the only thing he could think of saying.

  Caesar peered at her. “Too young? She’s well past twelve, is she not? She’s sixteen? Seventeen?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Good. More than old enough. We will keep her chained for now, but you will look after her. Caesar will send you praetorians to protect her. She will be trained and as keen as you were to be Roman by the time you marry this winter.”

  Ragnall looked horror-struck at Spring, who grinned back at him as if she’d understood every word and was enjoying his discomfort. Ragnall had been fantasising recently about marrying a sophisticated, high-born Roman girl. Spring might have grown into an attractive woman, but her expressions, the way she moved, everything about her still screamed that she was a savage ragamuffin who wasn’t above trying to solve problems by biting people. It would be like marrying a wolf cub.

  “Caesar, I will do your bidding, but… Spring was about ten when I last saw her, but even then she was angrier and more wilful than a wildcat yet she was… capable. She sparked and organised the revolution that brought down her father. Given a chance, she will kill you, and she will do her best to undermine our mission… I did not translate entirely accurately when I said she was honoured to be spoken to.”

  Caesar looked down his nose. “Ragnall, Caesar is not an idiot and he does not pass
through an invaded land without picking up the most popular insults. British is close enough to Gaulish for him to know that the word ‘cunt’ is not an honorific. You will make sure that her claws are kept away from Caesar and you will marry her.”

  “She won’t want to marry me.”

  Caesar looked at him as if a singing squirrel had burst from the top of his head. “What, by all the gods, does that matter? Caesar’s own sister Julia had to marry that oaf Pompey when she was the same age as this girl. She is lucky to be marrying a dashing prince and not a fat blowhard like him. And you should be glad–she is beautiful beneath the bruising and she has spirit. She will be an entertaining wife. You will marry in Rome this winter. When the army returns, the rightful king of Britain will be at its head, the rightful queen at his side.

  “When the army returns…? We’re going?”

  “This is a reconnaissance mission. It is too late in the year for a full-scale invasion; surely you have learnt enough by now to realise that? We leave today, before the autumn storms take hold. We will return next year with an invasion force.”

  Ragnall could not believe what he was hearing. A reconnaissance mission was a couple of men in a boat sneaking ashore and having a look around. Twelve thousand armed men who hadn’t left their landing site was the opposite of a reconnaissance mission. Could Caesar be fleeing? Surely not. But if so, why? Was Lowa’s army as huge as their trumpets had suggested?

  The general ignored his confusion. “Caesar must go. Gather whatever you must gather and bring the girl to the flagship.”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “And a piece of advice. Do not teach her Latin and do your best to prevent her learning it. She will be less trouble if she depends on you.”

  Caesar swept from the tent.

  “What was that all about then?” asked Spring. “And when can I go home?”

  Lowa crept up the dunes on her elbows, Chamanca at her side. She and her commanders had come up with many ideas about how to attack the Romans, but all of them were flawed. There were plenty of ways that they could harm the invaders, but if she was going to attack, Lowa wanted to kill or capture all of them, partly so that they wouldn’t come back and partly so that she could rescue Spring. The only realistic tactics they could come up with involved the Romans leaving the spit and marching inland, which they showed no sign of doing. She hoped that inspiration might strike if she had a long look at their camp.

  She’d brought Chamanca with her partly to help deal with any overly alert sentries, but mostly to stop her brooding over Atlas. Maggot had done all that he could, but the African’s wound had become septic and already spread its poison too far into his body. Given his great strength, Maggot guessed that he might live for another moon, perhaps a little longer. One man was a small price considering the number of Romans that they’d killed, but Lowa wished that it hadn’t been Atlas. He was arguably their best fighter and a good leader, and seeing someone as indestructible as Chamanca brought low reminded Lowa just how much they had to lose by taking on the Romans. Atlas had advised flight. He would not be dying now if Lowa had taken his advice.

  She’d hoped that they might encounter a guard or two for Chamanca to tap, but so far they’d seen nobody. It was so quiet that Lowa was certain there was something afoot, but when they reached the top of the dunes and saw what it was, it was the last thing she had expected.

  The transports were inshore, legionaries streaming onto them. In no time at all, the transports were full, the warships were refloated and all were sailing away. As the last act of their first invasion of Britain, the Romans put their camp to the torch. Chamanca and Lowa sat silently atop their dune and watched it burn.

  Chapter 11

  Spring leant on the ship’s rail as the sun set, watching the Roman camp burn through a blur of tears. She didn’t give the tiniest rat’s cock that she’d been caught. She was crying because she’d told Dug she’d look after Sadie and Pigsy and instead she’d killed them both.

  “Don’t cry, Spring,” said Dug, squinting back at the burning base. “The dogs chose to save you and they’re with me now.”

  “In the Otherworld?”

  “Aye.”

  “So you are a real ghost and not just part of my mind!”

  “No, I am in your mind, but you think I’m in the Otherworld.”

  “But then how would you—”

  “Don’t overthink it. The point is the dogs were glad to die saving you and they’re glad to be back with me. It wasn’t for nothing. It was a good idea to kill Caesar and you nearly did it. Now you might get another chance.”

  Spring looked over her shoulder. Caesar was perhaps six paces away, talking to a scribe who was scribbling furiously. It was a shame she was attached to the rail by a pace-long chain, with nothing lethal within reach to throw.

  “What the badger’s arse bristles is that man doing?” Dug asked.

  “Talking.”

  “The other one.”

  “Writing.”

  “I’d wondered what that looked like.”

  “I know how to do it. The girl who taught me Latin showed me,” said Spring, expecting Dug to be surprised, but he’d gone.

  Spring and the Roman merchant’s daughter who’d taught her Latin at Zadar’s behest had invented a wide range of abusive terms. Spring had been within a heartbeat of unleashing the lot of them on Caesar back in the physician’s tent, but then decided that it would be more interesting if she kept her linguistic abilities to herself. Already it had proved a good decision; she was enjoying Ragnall’s discomfort around her, looking forward to his awkwardness when he told her they were to be married, and planning a whole range of suitable responses.

  Back in Britain, the flames were dying. She wondered if Lowa was watching the same fire, whether she’d noticed that she was missing yet, and if she’d care even a little bit when she did.

  The wind dropped and she could hear what Caesar was saying to the scribe. It was an account of his trip to Britain, sort of. She listened in, increasingly amazed. The general’s story was detailed, plausible–and utterly fabricated. He finished off by saying how he had put the Britons to flight, burnt a number of villages and secured hostages. Due to a lack of space on the ships, only two of these hostages were returning to Gaul with him–Spring guessed he must mean her and Ragnall–but he’d be back to collect the rest.

  No space for hostages? thought Spring. It had been pretty convincing until that part. Surely nobody would ever believe that you’d leave hostages behind because you had no space for them! There’s always a bit more room on a ship and it was not a long journey.

  They arrived in Gaul at dawn and rode to a Roman camp, Spring under Ragnall’s and the praetorians’ guard. Over the next days she was allowed to walk around their boring, regular camp a little, but she remained chained and was watched constantly by four praetorians operating in shifts of two. To stay fit and strong–ready to slay Caesar then escape–she jumped on the spot, lifted heavy things and performed all the exercises that Lowa had taught her. The stony-faced praetorians didn’t seem to mind.

  They were near the sea, but she was forbidden to go to the port area, presumably to stop her seeing the extensive shipbuilding that was going on to prepare for the next invasion. Even if she hadn’t been able to listen to everyone talking about it, the constant stream of timber-laden carts that trundled seaward and returned empty gave the game away. She heard that these boats were to be larger than the previous lot, so that they might carry livestock, horses and elephants, and that they were to have a shallower draught, so that the next landing wasn’t such a cock-up. She wondered what elephants were.

  Ragnall forbade the praetorians from speaking when they were near her–he was paranoid about failing Caesar and letting her learn Latin–but they only stuck to his orders when he was there. The rest of the time, despite their tough looks, they chatted away like elderly sisters who hadn’t seen each other for ages. Spring learnt that the men loved and trusted Caesar.
They were confused about the recent trip to Britain, why it had changed from an invasion to a reconnaissance mission, and quite why the general had taken twelve thousand men on what had turned out to be a camping trip, then burnt the camp. Even Caesar’s most zealous supporter among the four praetorians conceded that his hero had made a mistake–the clincher being that they’d come away with no loot–but they all agreed that it was his first error in three years of successful campaigning and he would set it right soon enough.

  There were rumours that he would cross next year with ten legions as well as these things called elephants that they all thought were pretty amazing. None of them ever mentioned Felix’s Ironmen and Leatherman so Spring guessed they didn’t know about them. She was dying to ask, but managed not to. The most difficult thing was keeping the horror from her face when they talked about her. Perhaps some women might have been flattered but Spring was disgusted. The things they said! Did men really talk like this when there were no women around? She was sure that British men didn’t. Several times she nearly said something pithy and complicated in Latin just to see the looks on their faces, but she resisted.

  One surprising thing she did learn was that the praetorians held Ragnall in some grudging respect. Not enough to not talk in front of her as he’d asked, obviously, but apparently he had killed a German king and that had impressed everyone. Spring knew all about Harry the Fister, or Ariovistus as this lot called him, from Atlas’ tales. Killing him probably had been a feat, and she waited for Ragnall to tell her the story of how he’d done it, but he never did. She’d thought he was the type of man who’d be unable to refrain from talking about his own successes, but actually he never talked about himself at all. She didn’t like him; he was a deluded dick who saw no flaws in Caesar’s murderous warmongering, but he wasn’t a show-off.