by Angus Watson
As if to confirm her resolve, little Dug stamped up to her, arms in the air, demanding to be picked up. She complied and he squealed with joy. Behind him, Spring was beaming.
“What will you do now, Spring?” Lowa asked.
“Thought I might come back to Maidun for a while and help you out? If you’ll have me?”
“You’ll be very welcome. But only for a while?”
“I’ve seen Rome, I’ve seen Gaul and I liked them, but both were too full of Romans. I want to see what’s in the other direction.”
Epilogue
Caesar left with all but one legion, within the moon as Lowa had demanded. He wrote that he’d crossed to Britain with five legions, won every battle and returned to Gaul with hostages and tribute promised. However, in reality, no hostage crossed the Channel and no tribute was ever paid. Nevertheless, to celebrate Caesar’s marvellous adventure in Britain, twenty more days holiday was proclaimed on his return to Rome that winter.
After 54 bc no Roman legionary set foot on British soil for ninety-seven years. They couldn’t quite manage the full hundred.
Historical note
Assuming you haven’t just turned to this page because you’re one of those people who reads the back of a book first in case they die before they finish it, congratulations for reaching the end of the Age of Iron trilogy. I hope you liked it. If you didn’t and you got this far, then you’re some kind of masochist and have only yourself to blame.
Right now, as I sit at my desk writing this, it’s 2 April 2015. Clash of Iron will be released two weeks from today and Reign of Iron, which I’m finishing right now, will come out in six months (probably. You can be even less certain about the future than you can about the past). I don’t know what I’m going to write next. I have some vague ideas, some of which include characters from Age of Iron. If you want to know what’s coming, you can sign up to my newsletter at www.guswatson.com. If you want to tell me what should come next, I’m on Twitter as @GusWatson.
Anyway, since this is officially a historical note, let’s get on with the history. I’ve covered the main points in the historical notes at the back of the first two books, and probably banged on enough about how I think that Caesar’s diary is fabrication, and how it’s unlikely that he crossed the Channel twice with two massive armies with the intention of returning to Gaul after a couple of months. There’s a bibliography in Clash of Iron if you’d like to read more about the period. Here, I’ll focus on how this third book does and doesn’t tally with official history.
British people and their stuff
We don’t know much about Iron Age Brits, but I’ve stuck largely to what we do. Throughout the trilogy, their huts, hillforts, clothes and so on mostly agree with the archaeologists. Those weapons and devices that I’ve invented–Lowa’s bow, the T-shaped anti-tortoise poles, multistorey huts, giant carts full of war dogs–would all have been feasible. However, all the British characters and tribes are my own creation (almost–you’ll find Dumnonia in the official list of tribes around at the time but that’s it). There were almost certainly plenty of druids in Britain, but we don’t know what they did.
Aurochs
The aurochs is an extinct species of giant cow, the last of which died in Poland in 1627. Officially aurochs died out in Britain about a thousand years before Age of Iron is set, but they really could have lived on as late as 54 bc. Just because we have no evidence for something doesn’t mean it didn’t happen (see “Numbers” section).
Numbers
According to Caesar, he brought two legions (ten thousand men) across the Channel in 55 bc and five legions (twenty-five thousand men) in 54 bc. To put that in perspective, William the Conqueror’s successful invasion in 1066 was between five and seven thousand strong. I’ve used the same number of ships that Caesar describes for both invasions, but have added one legion to the second invasion, which is left behind in Britain on Lowa’s demands (and therefore, in my reckoning, was left out of Caesar’s diary).
“Do we have any other evidence?” you might ask. “For example, what does archaeology tell us about the size of his armies? Perhaps from the remains of his camps we can work out how many—”
Let me stop you there. Quite interestingly, I think, archaeologists have found no physical evidence whatsoever that Caesar’s massive invasions of Britain in 55 and 54 bc took place at all. Not a shield, not any part of a boat, not a pilum point, not a Roman sausage. The invasions are mentioned by a couple of other Roman writers, but pretty much all our facts come from Caesar’s diary of the invasion.
Roman people
The Romans I’ve mentioned mostly did exist. Cicero’s younger brother, for example, actually was a renowned twat who hated his wife Pomponia and threw someone into a river in a bag of snakes. Cornelia Metella was married to Publius Licinius Crassus, and she was beautiful and good with a lyre. We don’t see Publius Licinius Crassus after Ragnall and Spring’s wedding for a good and (I think) interesting reason–google his name to find out why. Clodia Metelli was a glamorous socialite, but there’s no evidence that she came along on the invasion of Britain. The only Romans I’ve totally made up are Felix, a few minor characters like the legionary who enjoyed giving directions to Spring, and the two main praetorians. Ferrandus the praetorian is the only character in any of the three books based on a modern person. He is Luc Ferrand, my friend who died in January 2014. He’s in the book as a tribute, not because dead people can’t sue.
Elephants
Caesar does not mention elephants. A later Roman historian says that he took one.
Demons
As I’ve said before, a few years after the events of Age of Iron, many people accept that a chap came along who could raise people from the dead, turn water into wine and so on, so many would say that there was definitely magic around at the time. I think if an evil druid did use magic to create all-powerful Warriors to aid the invasions, then it’s exactly the sort of thing that Caesar would have stayed quiet about.
Acknowledgements
It’s all about my wife Nicola. We had a son, Charlie, a year and a half ago and since then have been hermits, only prised from our house on weekdays by compulsory social events and at weekends by trips to the zoo, aquarium, toddler-orientated theme parks, soft play centres, etc. So she has borne the whole brunt of my “Oh isn’t writing difficult” rants, without ever reminding me that she’s one of the top women in British finance and all my spouting is just irrelevant, childish nonsense compared to the serious things she does during the day. Massive thanks to her for indefatigable support. Thanks also to Charlie for being such a joy to be with and for teaching both Nicola and me the effects of sleep deprivation. I’d also like to thank Joyce, Nicola’s mother, who looks after Charlie during the day, which allows me to sit upstairs writing while he’s downstairs with her, waddling about and shouting at his Lego.
Thanks to Angharad Kowal, my agent at Writers House, who got me the book deal and without whom these books would never have existed; Jenni Hill, my editor at Orbit whose ideas and edits have made the books massively better; Joanna Kramer, Gemma Conley-Smith, Clara Diaz and Felice Howden all at Orbit for helping in their various ways; Richard Collins for another great copy-edit.
I’d like to thank my family–David, Penny, Tim, Camilla and Christo–who all had their parts shaping me into the sort of character who reckons he can write novels.
Finally, I’d like to thank the person who looked after me and my brother Tim for the first twelve years of my life and first fourteen of Tim’s, and is most responsible for who we both are today (Tim is a vet). When I was three my father ran off with our cleaner, then he went and died in a plane crash three years later. My mother, who’d already had a bout with cancer, devoted her life to Tim and me, working crazy hours to send us to good schools and teaching us about the world in all her spare time. My interests in history, geography and zoology are all entirely down to her. She also tried to teach us about botany and show-jumping, but my developin
g brain couldn’t accept those subjects (and still can’t).
When I was twelve, cancer had its evil way and my mother died, before either of us boys had achieved anything, or thanked her for all she’d done (we went to live with my uncle and aunt and their two children, in case you were wondering who David, Penny, Camilla and Christo–the people this book is dedicated to–are).
Keen readers may have discerned that I’m an atheist. After my childhood it would be nuts to believe in any god, and if there is one, he or she has been such a dick to me, my bro and my mum that I’m not going to believe in him or her out of spite. However, I guess I’m really an agnostic, because there is a grain of me that believes it’s possible that the dead live on, and can see what we’re up to. If that is the case, I’d like to say thank you very much to my mother, that I hope she is well and that I wish she was here.
extras
meet the author
Photo Credit: Nicola Watson
In his twenties, Angus Watson’s jobs ranged from forklift truck driver to investment banker. He spent his thirties on various assignments as a freelance writer, including looking for Bigfoot in the USA for the Telegraph, diving on the scuppered German fleet at Scapa Flow for the Financial Times and swimming with sea lions off the Galapagos Islands for The Times. Now entering his forties, Angus is a married man who lives in London with his wife Nicola and baby son Charlie. As a fan of both historical fiction and epic fantasy, Angus came up with the idea of writing a fantasy set in the Iron Age when exploring British hillforts for the Telegraph, and developed the story while walking Britain’s ancient paths for further articles. You can find him on Twitter at @GusWatson or visit his website at www.guswatson.com.
introducing
If you enjoyed
REIGN OF IRON
look out for
THE BLADE ITSELF
Book One of the First Law Trilogy
by Joe Abercrombie
Logen Ninefingers, infamous barbarian, has finally run out of luck. Caught in one feud too many, he’s on the verge of becoming a dead barbarian—leaving nothing behind him but bad songs, dead friends, and a lot of happy enemies.
Nobleman, dashing officer, and paragon of selfishness, Captain Jezal dan Luthar has nothing more dangerous in mind than fleecing his friends at cards and dreaming of glory in the fencing circle. But war is brewing, and on the battlefields of the frozen North they fight by altogether bloodier rules.
Inquisitor Glokta, cripple turned torturer, would like nothing better than to see Jezal come home in a box. But then, Glokta hates everyone: Cutting treason out of the Union one confession at a time leaves little room for friendship. His latest trail of corpses may lead him right to the rotten heart of government, if he can stay alive long enough to follow it.
Enter the wizard, Bayaz. A bald old man with a terrible temper and a pathetic assistant, he could be the First of the Magi, he could be a spectacular fraud, but whatever he is, he’s about to make the lives of Logen, Jezal, and Glokta a whole lot more difficult.
Murderous conspiracies rise to the surface, old scores are ready to be settled, and the line between hero and villain is sharp enough to draw blood.
The End
Logen plunged through the trees, bare feet slipping and sliding on the wet earth, the slush, the wet pine needles, breath rasping in his chest, blood thumping in his head. He stumbled and sprawled onto his side, nearly cut his chest open with his own axe, lay there panting, peering through the shadowy forest.
The Dogman had been with him until a moment before, he was sure, but there wasn’t any sign of him now. As for the others, there was no telling. Some leader, getting split up from his boys like that. He should’ve been trying to get back, but the Shanka were all around. He could feel them moving between the trees, his nose was full of the smell of them. Sounded as if there was some shouting somewhere on his left, fighting maybe. Logen crept slowly to his feet, trying to stay quiet. A twig snapped and he whipped round.
There was a spear coming at him. A cruel- looking spear, coming at him fast with a Shanka on the other end of it.
“Shit,” said Logen. He threw himself to one side, slipped and fell on his face, rolled away thrashing through the brush, expecting the spear through his back at any moment. He scrambled up, breathing hard. He saw the bright point poking at him again, dodged out of the way, slithered behind a big tree trunk. He peered out and the Flathead hissed and stabbed at him. He showed himself on the other side, just for a moment, then ducked away, jumped round the tree and swung the axe down, roaring loud as he could. There was a crack as the blade buried itself deep in the Shanka’s skull. Lucky that, but then Logen reckoned he was due a little luck.
The Flathead stood there, blinking at him. Then it started to sway from side to side, blood dribbling down its face. Then it dropped like a stone, dragging the axe from Logen’s fingers, thrashing around on the ground at his feet. He tried to grab hold of his axe-handle but the Shanka still somehow had a grip on its spear and the point was flailing around in the air.
“Gah!” squawked Logen as the spear cut a nick in his arm. He felt a shadow fall across his face. Another Flathead. A damn big one. Already in the air, arms outstretched. No time to get the axe. No time to get out of the way. Logen’s mouth opened, but there was no time to say anything. What do you say at a time like that?
They crashed to the wet ground together, rolled together through the dirt and the thorns and the broken branches, tearing and punching and growling at each other. A tree root hit Logen in the head, hard, and made his ears ring. He had a knife somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where. They rolled on, and on, downhill, the world flipping and flipping around, Logen trying to shake the fuzz out of his head and throttle the big Flathead at the same time. There was no stopping.
It had seemed a clever notion to pitch camp near the gorge. No chance of anyone sneaking up behind. Now, as Logen slid over the edge of the cliff on his belly, the idea lost much of its appeal. His hands scrabbled at the wet earth. Only dirt and brown pine needles. His fingers clutched, clutched at nothing. He was beginning to fall. He let go a little whimper.
His hands closed around something. A tree root, sticking out from the earth at the very edge of the gorge. He swung in space, gasping, but his grip was firm.
“Hah!” he shouted. “Hah!” He was still alive. It would take more than a few Flatheads to put an end to Logen Ninefingers. He started to pull himself up onto the bank but couldn’t manage it. There was some great weight around his legs. He peered down.
The gorge was deep. Very deep with sheer, rocky sides. Here and there a tree clung to a crack, growing out into the empty air and spreading its leaves into space. The river hissed away far below, fast and angry, foaming white water fringed by jagged black stone. That was all bad, for sure, but the real problem was closer to hand. The big Shanka was still with him, swinging gently back and forth with its dirty hands clamped tight around his left ankle.
“Shit,” muttered Logen. It was quite a scrape he was in. He’d been in some bad ones alright, and lived to sing the songs, but it was hard to see how this could get much worse. That got him thinking about his life. It seemed a bitter, pointless sort of a life now. No one was any better off because of it. Full of violence and pain, with not much but disappointment and hardship in between. His hands were starting to tire now, his forearms were burning. The big Flathead didn’t look like it was going to fall off any time soon. In fact, it had dragged itself up his leg a way. It paused, glaring up at him.
If Logen had been the one clinging to the Shanka’s foot, he would most likely have thought, “My life depends on this leg I’m hanging from—best not take any chances.” A man would rather save himself than kill his enemy. Trouble was that the Shanka didn’t think that way, and Logen knew it. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when it opened its big mouth and sank its teeth into his calf.
“Aaaargh!” Logen grunted, and squealed and kicked out as hard as he could with his bare heel, k
icked a bloody gash in the Shanka’s head, but it wouldn’t stop biting, and the harder he kicked, the more his hands slipped on the greasy root above. There wasn’t much root left to hold on to, now, and what there was looked like snapping off any moment. He tried to think past the pain in his hands, the pain in his arms, the Flathead’s teeth in his leg. He was going to fall. The only choice was between falling on rocks or falling on water, and that was a choice that more or less made itself.
Once you’ve got a task to do, it’s better to do it than to live with the fear of it. That’s what Logen’s father would have said. So he planted his free foot firmly on the rock face, took one last deep breath, and flung himself out into empty space with all the strength he had left. He felt the biting teeth let go of him, then the grasping hands, and for a moment he was free.
Then he began to fall. Fast. The sides of the gorge flashed past—grey rock, green moss, patches of white snow, all tumbling around him.
Logen turned over slowly in the air, limbs flailing point-lessly, too scared to scream. The rushing wind whipped at his eyes, tugged at his clothes, plucked the breath out of his mouth. He saw the big Shanka hit the rock face beside him. He saw it break and bounce and flop off, dead for sure. That was a pleasing sight, but Logen’s satisfaction was short-lived.
The water came up to meet him. It hit him in the side like a charging bull, punched the air out of his lungs, knocked the sense out of his head, sucked him in and down into the cold darkness…