by Angus Watson
“Whatever Atlas said,” he replied.
So they stayed in their room, Atlas taking watch at the window since his dark face would be harder to spot from the street. Chamanca was nodding off to sleep again when Atlas gently closed the shutter.
“Sobek,” he said.
“What’s Sobek?” asked Carden.
Atlas ignored him. He looked to be deep in thought.
“He or she is a Kushite god, I think,” said Chamanca. “Atlas says it as a curse the whole time. You must have—”
“They’ve got Kapiana.” Atlas’ voice was quiet.
“What?” Carden asked.
“The Romans are leading her down the street at pilum-point. Only her. How could they know that she—?”
“Felix,” said Chamanca.
“How could he know?”
Chamanca had never seen Atlas this disturbed. It unnerved her. “Felix knows,” she said. “He knows we’re here, he knows why, he knows about you and Kapiana and he’s trying to draw us out.”
“If he knows we’re here,” said Carden, “why doesn’t he come and get us?”
“I don’t know? Because he’s a shit? Maybe he wants to be able to say that the British attacked the Romans first? It’s no coincidence that he paraded Kapiana under a window that Atlas was looking out of. He knows that Atlas will want to rescue her.”
“In that, he is correct.” Atlas picked up his axe.
Chamanca put a hand on her hip. “Atlas, what did you say about our mission here? I cannot remember. Are we acting for the good of Maidun and Britain as a whole, or is our goal to fall in love with a woman that we’ve spent one night with and jeopardise everything for her?”
Atlas narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils and seemed to hold his breath. “You’re right,” he said eventually, deflating. “So what should we do? Because I don’t see ‘nothing’ as an option.”
“Stay here,” said Chamanca, “I’ll have a look around, see if I can find out what’s happening.”
Chapter 10
Elann Nancarrow’s iron came from central Britain, several hundred miles north-west of Maidun Castle, where a fierce little tribe called the Kerbees controlled a rich source of the highest quality ore and used secret methods to produce the hardest, least brittle, most malleable metal. They defended their mines and their methods like a gang of vixens protecting cubs.
“Any idea how the Kerbee tribe make the iron?” Lowa had been walking up to Maidun’s Eyrie, but drizzle had become a deluge, so she’d ducked into the cover of Elann’s forge complex, along with one of Elann’s cats, which shook itself like a dog then curled up next to the fire.
Lowa was happy to shelter there. She liked watching Elann heat, hammer and cool rough bars of iron into exquisite weaponry.
“I know exactly how they make it.” Elann rarely said more than necessary. Lowa had never heard her ask anyone a question, or even seem to notice anything outside the direct parameters of weapons smithing. She’d accepted her change in boss from Zadar to Lowa without a murmur. Indeed, the day that Lowa had killed Zadar and walked up into Maidun, above the triumphant roars of the frenzied crowd, she’d heard Elann’s hammer beating away on iron as if it was just another day. Lowa supposed Elann must have hated Zadar for the murder of her son Weylin, but it didn’t show. Lowa had sent her other son, Carden, to Gaul. Elann had never asked after him.
“So if you know how to make this excellent iron…?” Lowa asked.
Elann scowled down at her work for a moment, then carried on hammering. She was a short woman, with an incongruously large head, a jutting jaw that was never troubled by a smile, and the bulging biceps of someone who hammered metal all day, every day. It was a mystery how a woman as short as Elann Nancarrow had produced two such hulking sons as Weylin and Carden. It was another mystery that she’d taken enough time away from weapon smithing to conceive them.
“Then we could make iron like theirs here,” elaborated Lowa, “in large quantities, and produce better weapons for the whole army.”
Elann hammered on.
“Couldn’t we smelt iron as fine as the Kerbees’ and make hundreds of swords with it?”
“We couldn’t’
“Why not?”
“Three reasons.”
“…Which are?” said Lowa eventually.
Elann hit the hot sword four more times, examined it, grunted with satisfaction and thrust it into a clay oven filled with hot charcoal. She pulled off her huge leather gloves, slapped her hands against themselves, swallowed a draught of water from a clay mug, then looked at Lowa.
“Reason one, the ore here is bad. The Kerbee tribe own and guard the best ore mines in the world.”
“So we could buy more iron from them, or, if you know their methods, buy ore and make the iron ourselves?”
“Reason two, they never sell their ore. I am the only person outside the Kerbee tribe to whom they sell their iron ingots, and they limit the number that I am allowed. They will never increase that number.”
“We could take it?”
“Reason three, to take their iron we’d have to kill all of them.”
“How many are there?”
Elann lifted one eyebrow. It was the most extreme display of emotion Lowa had ever seen from her. “It is difficult to think of a cause that would justify the extermination of a tribe. Besides that, they are protected by their god Crendin. She’s a mountain at the moment, but if the iron is threatened, she will become a giant and smite the Kerbees’ enemies.”
“And of course,” added Lowa. “The Kerbees have excellent weapons, so killing them would be a costly business.”
“Not far from impossible,” said Elann. She put her gloves back on and reached for a lump of iron. It was clear that the conversation was over. Lowa hadn’t been serious about killing all the Kerbees to get their metal. Or at least not totally serious … But where did one stop? If she could sacrifice one person to stop the Romans from taking Britain, she definitely would. A hundred? No bother. A thousand? Yup, probably. Ten thousand…? Tricky. More?
It wasn’t a simple question. Hopefully it would be made easier when Atlas, Chamanca and Carden returned with intelligence about the Roman army – if they returned. She was certain that the Romans needed to be stopped, even more since hearing what they were doing in Gaul. She knew that sending them back across the Channel would mean sending many, many troops to their deaths. So, if she could kill, say, a thousand Kerbees in order to gain weapons so good that ten thousand fewer of her own soldiers died, surely she should? No, she didn’t think she should. But why not? Zadar, she remembered, had always said that all his killing and destruction was for the greater good. She was still collecting many of his taxes, if not the slave quotas. She’d sent several friends to Rome and Gaul, possibly to their deaths, and those were just the first few of the many lives she was going to throw away to defend Britain from the Romans. What was her justification? Who was she to decide who died? Was she just another Zadar, fucking up others’ lives for her own ends?
Elann was hammering red-hot iron into the shape of a warhammer’s head. That got her to thinking about Dug. He was never far from her mind, not least because Spring never stopped talking about him. Lowa had done many things that she felt terrible about if she let herself, including killing a whole village’s worth of people under Zadar, maybe even a whole town’s. However, the only thing she’d ever done that made her feel sick with shame was shagging Ragnall in front of Dug. What had she been thinking?
She resolved to go to Dug’s farm, to apologise and throw herself on his mercy. Then she shook her head. It was a resolution she made often. She’d even started the journey once and got as far as Maidun’s gate before making an excuse to herself to turn back. She’d spoiled her relationship with Dug beyond repair. Lowa knew that she would rather face the entire Roman army on her own than stand in front of Dug and tell him that she would give up everything she owned to turn back time to that evening in the woods, to change what ha
d happened. To tell him, in fact, that she thought about him the whole time and she supposed that that meant she loved him.
Chapter 11
Ragnall stood on Vesontio’s wall with most of the senior clerical staff and a few of the praetorian guard. Along the wall from him, on top of the short gate tower, were Caesar, Titus Labienus, Felix, six praetorians and a long-haired man in chains whom Ragnall didn’t recognise. Held by two of the praetorians was Kapiana, the woman who’d told Ragnall about the German monsters. For a normal troop address, that entire space, wall top and tower would have been populated by senior centurions and just a few praetorians. Ragnall and the rest of the clerical staff would have had to watch from behind the soldiers, hearing second- or third-hand reports of what was being said at the front. However, with most of the centurions in disgrace for believing the Gaulish rumours, Ragnall and the others had been given the positions of privilege. It gave the young Briton a buzz to look down over so many people. Especially since he’d believed the Gauls’ stories too, but seemed to have got away with it.
Gathered below, stretching from the town wall to the Roman camp, were the entire army and all the townspeople, the latter guarded by the remaining praetorians and the trustworthy tenth legion. The other five legions were arranged in their usual no-nonsense parade-ground squares. Beyond them, the hangers-on and auxiliary soldiers milled about in unruly flocks.
The tower was only three paces higher than the walkway, so Ragnall could easily see Felix’s smirk, and that Kapiana, despite her attempt at a haughtily insouciant pose, was terrified. Probably with good reason, knowing Caesar and Felix.
“Good soldiers of Rome and people of Vesontio!” Caesar’s clear shout rang out in the still summer’s day. “We are further north than any Roman army has ever ventured. We have come to protect our Gaulish allies from the German barbarians. We are here to guarantee the safety of their women and children. That is our primary cause but do not forget, my fine legionaries, that we are also here for the glory of ourselves and for Rome! To shine the light of our great race into the darkness!”
A short, unified and manly cheer rang out from the Roman ranks.
“We have defeated the Helvetians in two glorious battles,” Caesar continued. He looked to the south and pointed there with three fingers, his middle finger bent under his thumb. This was an orator’s trick that Ragnall had seen him use before. He didn’t understand what it did, but it seemed to work. There was another shouted cheer. “These battles were won by the bravery of the legionary, and the stalwart leadership of the centurion!” His gaze and his three-finger point swept back to the men. Another cheer.
“But we are not gods! We are only men. We will make mistakes. We have made one here.” He paused, looking around and nodding. Even though he didn’t catch his eye, Ragnall felt as if Caesar was talking specifically to him. It was another oratory skill. “Exhaustion and sheer distance from home have weakened our minds! Many of us have been fooled by treacherous Gaulish tongues.” Caesar pointed and glared at the long-haired prisoner. He was a weedy fellow. “This man is a German!” he shouted. “We captured him in the forest, twenty miles west of here. He is one of the monsters which has caused you all so much terror!”
The general waited for everyone to have a good look at the pathetic captive, then commanded: “Guard! Remove his chains.” A praetorian did so. “Now give him your sword and make some space.” The praetorian hesitated.
Caesar turned to his audience. “My guard is sworn to protect me and to obey me. You see his dilemma! I have ordered him to give the German his sword, yet he thinks that this will put me in danger. I say this. I am in no danger from any German with a sword! The Germans are not devils. Nor are they trolls, nor winged dragons. They are men. They are German men. And I have nothing to fear from a German man, because I AM A ROMAN!”
Three short cheers rang out this time. Ragnall knew it was pantomime, little more than a bard’s act, but it worked. He himself was on tiptoes, excited to see what would happen.
Caesar unsheathed his sword and nodded. Felix and the others shuffled back. The praetorian gave the prisoner his own weapon. The German screamed, lifted the sword and launched at Caesar. Caesar parried high, then cracked the flat of his sword into the side of the prisoner’s head. The prisoner reeled. Caesar lifted a leg, planted the sole of his foot on the prisoner’s buttock, and propelled him off the tower. The man fell towards his spectators without a sound and landed face first on the packed earth. His neck broke with a snap and his body crumpled into a pile.
“The invincible German!” Caesar shouted.
Three more cheers resounded from the Romans. The people of Vesontio, encouraged by a few of the better dressed men and women, clapped unenthusiastically.
“But what of the stories?” Caesar continued. “Where did they come from? I could tell you, but why would I, when I have here the Jezebel from whom the lies flowed? Let her speak!”
Kapiana strode forward purposefully. “I am Kapiana of Vesontio!” she shouted. “I made up the stories about the Germans. I encouraged my people to spread them. My goal was to demoralise. I see now that I was wrong. I understand that we need the Romans. That they are a great people. I accept my punishment. I am no better than the conniving Carthaginian Jezebel. She was pushed from a tower to be devoured by dogs. I willingly deliver myself to the same fate.” She walked towards the edge of the tower. Behind her, Felix smiled.
“Wait!” shouted Caesar. She paused. “We made a mistake in believing her lies. It will not be our last mistake. History will measure us not by the mistakes we make, but by how we respond to them.
“I will let this brave young woman kill herself. But that will be the end of it. Her sacrifice will be the Skawney tribe’s sole punishment. Another general might burn this town and enslave the townspeople for their treachery. I will not! We will leave these people free and unmolested, and we will remove the scourge of the Germans from their lands. Thus we will show the decency and the power of Rome!”
This time, the cheers from Vesontio’s ranks was as loud as the Romans’.
Caesar continued: “This woman, Kapiana, has accepted her errors, and has agreed to bear Vesontio’s punishment. We despise her deceitfulness, but we salute her bravery. Kapiana, continue.”
Kapiana stepped up onto the tower top’s low wall.
Chapter 12
Chamanca, Carden and Atlas were lying on a flat roof at the edge of town, level with the top of the tower from which Caesar was addressing his troops. The three Warriors were concealed among large earthenware pots of herbs which supplied a communal eating house below them. They peered through herbal fronds to the tower, where a black-clad praetorian guard was removing chains from the bearded captive.
“By the way he’s moving, he’s drugged, or—”
“Felix. It’s Felix’s doing,” said Carden.
They’d discussed Felix’s powers earlier. Atlas and Carden had both claimed that there were times during Zadar’s rule when Felix must have controlled their minds – when they’d killed Lowa’s women and tried to kill Lowa herself, when Carden had watched passively as Chamanca had murdered his brother. Chamanca had nodded in agreement and stayed quiet. Her mind had never been controlled. She’d done everything Zadar had asked, including slaying Carden’s brother Weylin, because she enjoyed killing people. She suspected that the other two hadn’t found it too hard to carry out orders and the magical explanation was a convenient excuse, but she kept quiet.
They watched as Caesar kicked the little man off the tower and turned his attention to Kapiana. Atlas stiffened and reached for his sling. Chamanca put a hand on his arm. “No. Remember why we’re here.”
“I can’t let them—”
“You cannot do anything against thousands; not here, not now. You and Carden must go to the German king – Hari the Fister. Explain Roman tactics, help him plan. If the Germans have half as many as these townspeople claim, and they’re led by someone with half a brain, they’ll stop Ca
esar before he gets anywhere near Britain. So go. Make sure they don’t fuck up as badly as the Helvans did.”
Atlas nodded. “That makes some sense. And you?”
“Me? I’ve never been good with orders so I’m going to make a little display here. I want to show the people of Wesont that the Romans are vulnerable. I want to show the Romans that the Romans are vulnerable.”
Atlas poked his head up. He looked along the roofs to where they came closest to the wall. Chamanca followed his gaze. It was perhaps fifty paces from the tower where Caesar held Kapiana. Along that stretch of wall were maybe forty Romans, most of whom were heavily armed, and … “That’s Ragnall,” he said.
Chamanca nodded. “It is him, definitely. He must have joined the Romans. That’s why we received no word from him and the old druid.”
“Why would he do that?” Carden asked, poking his own head up.
“A young man sent to a city full of temptation,” said Atlas, “with information to sell and a story that will get him into any party? We should have known he’d turn.”
“Where’s the old guy?” said Carden.
“Drustan,” said Atlas, “Can’t see him. Maybe he’s back in Rome. Look at Ragnall smiling. He’s certainly no prisoner. He’ll have told Caesar everything he knows about Britain’s army and defences.”
“I’m going to spoil his day.” Chamanca leapt into a crouch.
Atlas put a hand on her leg. “Chamanca, you may get as far as Ragnall. But no further. Those Romans have trained all their lives—”
“But I am the best.”
“Yes, but there are many more of them, and, besides, Felix will stop you with his magic. You can’t fight that. Only magic can fight magic.”