by Angus Watson
“So that’s their forces. Here’s our plan. While shouters keep a close eye on all the Romans, I will lead our infantry back to the newly fortified Saran Fort, halfway between here and Maidun and on the edge of the area we have cleared of people and forage. If we are lucky, the Romans will decide that there’s nothing for them in Britain and they will leave. However, having come this far for a second time, with so many more men, I do not expect Caesar to give up so easily. He will march inland.
“Now, the demons. Mal, you think Caesar made Felix call them off today?”
“I do, but before you go on, I have an idea for the demons.”
“Yes?”
“The demons think that they have us terrified, and they’d be right.”
“I am not terrified!” said Chamanca.
“So they won’t be expecting us to attack them,” Mal continued. “I will take a small force of fifty for a night raid on their base. If the gods are with us, the Ironmen will be out of their armour. We will kill as many as we can before they wake up.”
“When they’ll kill you,” said Lowa.
“Probably.” Mal held her gaze.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to. There are people in the Otherworld I’d like to catch up with.”
Lowa sighed. It was a good idea, but Mal and whoever went with him would be unlikely to make it back.
“I won’t help you escape, Spring,” said Clodia. “I am a Roman and you’re a Briton, so you’re my enemy, aren’t you?” She gripped Spring’s knee and smiled. “If you were a happy little peasant farmer who yearned for her hillsides and her sheep then I might let you out because I’m kind, but you’re not, are you?”
“No.”
“No.” Clodia shook her head, wafting a floral scent from her shiny hair so intense that Spring could taste it. “You are a beautiful barbarian princess with every intention of fighting against the Romans, using information that you’ve gathered during your time with us, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Apart from the beautiful barbarian princess bit.”
“Oh, Spring, there’s nothing more boring than a beautiful girl who claims that she doesn’t know she’s beautiful. You’ve seen the way people look at you and you’re not stupid, so no more of that. So, moving on. As well as intending harm to our war machine, you humiliated and insulted Ragnall, who is officially Roman, and you castrated Quintus, who is definitely Roman, and an attack on any of us is an attack on all of us.”
“They both asked for it. Anybody would have done what I did.”
“Spring, my sweet, no, they wouldn’t, but that doesn’t matter. They’re Romans and you’re not. Maybe you’d get away with assaulting Ragnall because he’s not a real Roman and you hardly hurt him. Quintus, however, is a senior legate with a good deal of influence and you castrated the old goat. Possibly Caesar might be able to explain to the consuls, the senate and the people why he didn’t allow Quintus to punish you for that, but it would be an effort and I don’t think he’d bother. I believe that you acted in self-defence. I believe both men were in the wrong. I’m particularly disappointed in Ragnall, who seems to have been ruined by his time in the army. However, they are Romans, you are not, so it doesn’t matter whether you were acting in self-defence or if you planned your attacks for months with the specific aim of undermining the Roman war machine. I should hand you to Ragnall and Quintus immediately.”
“Really?” asked Spring.
Clodia stood and poured herself some more wine, then held the jug out at Spring with an inquisitive twist of her head.
“No, thank you,” said Spring. “Can you send Tertius and Ferrandus away when Quintus comes to get me? They’ll defend me and I don’t want them being killed too.”
Clodia laughed, replaced the jug, walked back over, stroked Spring’s hair for a short but, for Spring, exquisitely awkward few moments, then sat back down. “So there’s no reason to help you, but I’ve never liked reason. You can stay here in my compound, in my tent with me.”
Spring’s eyes widened. Was this what the knee-touching and hair-stroking had been leading to?
“Not like that, don’t worry. I’ll have your own bed set up.” Clodia put her hand back on Spring’s knee, which rather weakened her reassurances.
“Can Ferrandus and Tertius stay, too?”
“They are commanded to guard you?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’ll have to, won’t they?”
“Oh, thank you!” Spring leant in and hugged her.
Clodia laughed and pushed her off gently. “Calm yourself, Spring, there’s a condition attached.”
“Which is?”
“You have to tell me everything. All about your life from the start, and everything you know about Britain and its people, particularly this Queen Lowa. In fact, let’s start with her then we’ll get on to you.”
Spring leant back. Did Clodia want information to help the Romans?
“Oh, don’t worry,” said the socialite, seeing the look on Spring’s face. “You don’t need to tell me anything that might help Caesar. I want to know about Britain because it fascinates me. That’s why I’m here. Not to fight, but to learn. There is nothing better in life, Spring, than to discover the world around oneself. Will you indulge me?”
“If you like. I am a good talker.”
“Good. We will start immediately. Wait here while I tell your loyal praetorians what’s happening and have someone find them a tent. And, while I’m gone, drink that wine. I cannot bear conversing with sober people.”
“OK!” said Spring as Clodia swept from the tent. She looked about for somewhere to tip the wine.
Ragnall couldn’t free his arms no matter how much he struggled, Spring’s legs were too strong, but when she stood up and towered above him, his arms remained pinned by his sides as if still clamped between her powerful thighs. She laughed at his pathetic attempts to free himself. As she laughed, she changed from Spring into Lowa, then whipped off her leather riding shorts with one tug and thrust her naked hips forward.
Where her vagina should have been was a penis, as big as Heracles’ from back in those early days at Clodia’s. She wiggled her hips and it slapped weightily from side to side. He watched, mesmerised. She took it in her hand and leant over him, so the tip was above his mouth. He thought, no, she’s not going to… But she did. A couple of spurts that made him blink at first, then a great wash of piss straight into his face. He thrashed his head from side to side, but couldn’t stop it going in his mouth. He wasn’t really trying to. It tasted like the finest white wine and he stopped struggling and opened his eyes and Lowa was urinating straight into his mouth and he was gulping it down like a thirsty man guzzling sweet water and looking her in the eyes and she was nodding, half a smile on her cruel, beautiful face. He didn’t try to move as she crouched down, straddling him again. She squeezed her legs, clenching him, and he quivered with pleasure as she guided her girthy cock towards his waiting mouth. She put a hand under his head to lift it, but she didn’t need to, he was eagerly craning forwards, straining to open his lips wide enough…
And she was gone and he was awake. He moaned with shame when he realised that his own real-life penis was burstingly erect, then moaned again as the tendrils of his hangover found his brain and penetrated deep into it, choking it with pain and filth. He pressed his hands into his eyes. Those evil women had found their way into his dreams. They had humiliated him time and time again, and now this! There was no escape.
But there was, of course. Today was the day. Quintus was going to kill Spring. Lowa would be dead soon after that. And then, surely, his dreams would be happier?
Chapter 19
Elann and Nan took an arm each and helped Atlas outside. He slumped down into a low-slung but sturdy wooden chair, exhausted. How, he wondered, was he going to get out of this chair? Let alone defeat the entire Aurochs tribe and Manfreena the druid, then get two hundred armoured aurochs to Lowa’s army before it was too
late?
The clearing around Nan’s hut was green and leafy, with what seemed to be an unnatural number of butterflies all flitting through it in the same direction to some unguessable common destination. Elann stood nearby, silent as usual. Nan had shuffled off into the woods again. It was great to be out here, free from the noisome air of the hut, with the sun on his face, even if it wasn’t in the most convivial company. As he waited for his strength to return sufficiently so that he might speak, he wondered which god it was who’d decided to make a joke out of his life. Dwyn, the British god of mischief perhaps? Who else would find a man who could hardly talk and give him the two least talkative women in the world for company?
“I thought Manfreena had you under her spell?” he managed eventually. Elann looked at him then looked away and Atlas remembered that you needed to ask her direct questions, not just make a statement that invited embellishment.
“Why are you not under Manfreena’s control?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Elann.
Slowly, Atlas discovered that when Lowa had sent Elann to the Aurochs tribe to make armour for their giant cattle, Manfreena had welcomed her and delegated people to help. Elann had known immediately that Manfreena was a druid who had both the Aurochs and Ula’s Mearhold tribe under her spell, and that she was likely to use the armoured aurochs against Lowa rather than giving them to her, but Elann had been sent to make armour for the aurochs, so that’s what she did. On her visit to Big Bugger Hill, she hadn’t told Lowa or anybody else about Manfreena because nobody had asked. It seemed to Atlas that Elann was blind to everything that didn’t directly concern smithing. Even on the day that Zadar had died and Lowa had become queen, hammer blows had rung out from the blacksmith’s hut from dawn till dusk as Elann had carried on smithing.
However, she’d acted out of character by carting his unconscious body to Nan, a druid who lived in the woods, whom Elann knew from her younger days. Atlas guessed she’d done it because he had been a good friend of her dead older son, Carden, but, no, she said it was for her dead younger son, Weylin. Atlas was one of very few people who’d treated Weylin almost like an equal and she’d appreciated it.
“Well, I’m grateful,” said Atlas, “but maybe you could have found a more communicative druid?”
“Are you unhappy with Nan’s care?” Elann asked, surprising Atlas with an unsolicited comment.
“No. Although she ignores my questions, her food is disgusting, her hut stinks and she’s away most of the time.”
“The chair you’re sitting on is her bed.”
“She sleeps outside?”
“She doesn’t choose to and at her age she shouldn’t. But there’s only room for one person on her bed in the hut.”
“Oh.”
“And she is almost totally deaf.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. The drink she’s been giving you is to purge the evil magic with which Manfreena riddled your body. These ingredients are rare, so she spends much time in the woods searching for them.”
“I see.”
“The stew is a stronger cure, containing ingredients that are even more difficult to find and unpleasant to prepare. Her hut does not usually smell like that.”
Atlas shook his head.
“She speaks only when necessary because she’s worried how she sounds, since she can’t hear herself.”
“Oh no. You must take me for an ungrateful shit.”
“I do. But you’re a man. Men are shits. So are women.” As Elann was saying all this, Atlas was flattered at the same time. He was pretty sure that this was the most she’d ever said to anybody, her own sons included.
“I’m sorry to have been ungrateful to Nan, but I have been very ill and I need to—”
“Shits always try to blame their shitty behaviour on anything but themselves.”
“All right, I’m sorry. But can you help me get those aurochs and their armour to Lowa?”
Elann paused for so long Atlas wondered whether she was going to answer him at all. Finally, she said, “I have made some modifications to your axe which will enable you to defeat Manfreena, if you don’t fuck it up. But we cannot do anything until you are stronger. Eat more of Nan’s stew.”
“I will. Do you know what’s in it?”
“I do. It’s best that you don’t.”
Mal crouched in the trees a hundred paces from the demon camp. An eye-wateringly foul odour filled the air around like a thick fog. Originally he’d thought it came from the corpses of the Two Hundred which had been left to rot above the tideline, but he knew now that the gag-inducing reek came from the camp itself. If anything confirmed that the demons needed to be exterminated, it was their monstrous stench.
His volunteer fifty were hidden along the treeline. Almost all had lost friends or lovers at Big Bugger Hill to the demons, were itching for revenge and unafraid of consigning themselves to the Otherworld. Mal was looking forward to seeing Nita again. No doubt she’d ask him quite why he’d taken so long to join her and who the Bel was this Taddy he’d been chasing after. But he’d still be glad to see her. And Taddy too… how was that going to work?
A large, dark cloud obscured the moon and the time had come. Mal hooted like an owl. He felt shapes rise in the darkness all around him.
They ran from the trees, silent in their soft leather foot covers. He willed his feet to stay light, praying he didn’t step on a twig, or, worse, run into a demon sentry.
They reached the tents unimpeded. As planned, men and women peeled away, some ducking into the first tents they came to, some running on with him. He was heading for the newly built hut which reconnaissance had identified as Felix’s, taking care not to trip on guy-ropes.
There was a scream, a shout, another scream. Mal sprinted, all pretence at stealth gone, sword in hand. A shape blocked his way–a giant man. Mal thrust with his blade, but the shape melted to the side, flailing a backhand punch which Mal sensed more than saw. He ducked and stabbed and was surprised when his blade struck home, into flesh. So the Ironmen did take their armour off, he thought, as he thrust, up under ribs and into the creature’s heart. It fell with a sigh. Mal ran on, to Felix’s hut. The door opened as he raised his arm to push it. It was Felix. Mal slammed his blade into the druid’s chest.
Felix ran down the hill, then he sprinted into Rome’s forum. He couldn’t find anyone. They’d all gone. He was the only person left in the world! Finally he had power but they’d all gone! He knelt on the marble tiles, looked around and it was an empty Maidun Castle, spinning around him. He screamed.
His scream morphed into another scream and he was awake. And people were screaming, in his camp.
He leapt from the bed, tripped on his blanket, untangled it from his feet and rushed out, naked into the night air. He saw the man and the sword at the last moment and turned, but the blade sank into his chest.
“This is for Taddy,” said the man. “And you didn’t kill Nita, but it’s for her, too. Wouldn’t want her to feel left out.”
Felix wondered why the man’s face was dirty, then realised that the camp invaders must have muddied themselves as camouflage. He gasped, the man smiled and pumped his blade in and out. Felix could feel the metal inside him, tearing his lung to pieces. Then his attacker’s head was gone, replaced by a stump spouting blood. The headless assassin fell back and the sword went with him, sucking out of Felix’s chest. He would have fallen too but strong hands held him up. It was a Celerman.
“You all right, boss?”
“Get me…” He coughed blood. That wasn’t good. “Set me down, gently.” He sucked in the life-force flowing from his attacker, but it wasn’t enough. “Get me live captives, quick as you can.”
For the next two days Spring told Clodia everything. The Roman was infinitely more interested in Britain than Spring had ever been in anything. She questioned and probed and theorised as her eyes danced with the joy of knowledge. Spring rather regretted not making more of her time in Rome. She sho
uld have found out much more about the city and its people, she realised, not so that she’d know how to defeat them, but simply for the satisfaction of knowing. She resolved to be as inquisitive as Clodia from then on.
While Clodia took her daily rides up and down the coast–the ones that her guards had told her were too dangerous but that she went on anyway–Spring sat with Ferrandus and Tertius, questioning them about their own lives. They seemed surprised at first, and hesitant, but soon they were gabbling away and Spring realised that she’d be able to learn pretty much everything about Rome without going back there, which was a relief.
For now the whole Roman army was holding on the coast, being supplied from Gaul, repairing the few ships that could be repaired and rebuilding the camp. They were enlarging it so that the new ships and the mended ones could be taken out of the sea and kept safe within the camp’s walls. Spring had thought they must be joking or exaggerating, but Ferrandus assured her that, no, this was exactly the sort of crazy project that Caesar liked to undertake every now and then. The gates were widened and heightened and such mighty gate towers built that five hundred men guarded each gate, all the time, with thousands more ready armed and on call. Spring was rather proud that the Romans were going to so much bother to keep out little old Lowa.
Caesar’s tent complex, next to Clodia’s compound, was to stay in the same place as the whole camp was rebuilt, still the hub. However, on Spring’s second day there, two toga-wearing legates marched in and ordered Clodia to dismantle her temporary home and move it to a site that had been cleared for her, next to the stables by the new north wall. Clodia, smiling all the while, asked the legates to follow her into her tent. Shortly afterwards, they’d walked quickly from the compound, both red-faced. Clodia’s box stayed where it was and nobody else came to tell her to move. Spring asked, but Clodia wouldn’t tell her what she’d said to the legates.
Spring was enjoying herself a great deal in the mini camp. She was mindful that she needed to escape at some point soon, but Clodia insisted that her ankle was chained to something the entire time and her guards were permanently on watch. They weren’t as useless as they looked. There was no massive rush, though, as the army wasn’t going to move for a while. They were still waiting for the transports to fully resupply the army, and work was ongoing in the gigantic camp.