Clash of Iron

by Angus Watson

  “He and she will forget that we were there. But he will remember what he agreed to do, and he will send a messenger. But we have to go. Now. I need to be on the cart before I pass out, or you’ll have to carry—” Maggot passed out.

  Bruxon slung him over his shoulder and was amazed by how little he weighed. He walked from Manfrax’s hall, wondering for the thousandth time why he’d invited an invasion from Eroo in the first place.

  Chapter 28

  Now that Ragnall was a free citizen, Caesar told him to do what he wanted in the winter break from campaigning. So he returned to Rome with the general and most of the army, and strode across town to Clodia Metelli’s palace. She welcomed him like a long lost pet and he spent the winter there, pirouetting between paroxysms of pleasure. The house was even more fun because Clodia’s husband Metellus Celer’s invisible but nevertheless looming presence was gone. He’d died shortly after Caesar had appropriated Ragnall.

  Everyone said that Clodia had poisoned her husband, but nobody accused her directly. Her reputation for having detractors gang-raped in public was an effective buttoner of lips. Ragnall didn’t think she’d done it anyway. She had no reason to. The massive beneficiary of Metellus Celer’s death had in fact been Caesar, who’d inherited the governorship of Transalpine Gaul from the dead proconsul, to add to his other two provinces of Illyricum and toga-wearing Gaul to the south of the Alps. Caesar had launched his attack on the rest of Gaul from Transalpine Gaul, so none of his previous year’s victories could have happened if Metellus hadn’t conveniently carked it. But nobody was pointing the finger at Rome’s latest and greatest hero.

  If there were any whispered allegations, they were drowned out by bellicose and jubilant shouting in the Senate, at the Forum, in houses, shops, inns, restaurants and on the streets of the magnificent city. Julius Caesar had won two wars! In one year! Everyone was saying that Caesar had pissed all over the Helvetians, and kicked the Germans so hard up their arses that they’d flown across the Renus river and would never be heard of again. This, if anyone had doubted it before, was proof that the Romans were the greatest people who had ever lived. The Senate, Tribunate and other ambitious types saw advantage in agreeing with the citizens, and granted an unprecedented fifteen days of public holiday to celebrate Caesar and Rome’s marvelousness.

  Everybody, including Caesar, was claiming that Caesar had conquered all of Gaul. Ragnall knew that this was a massively premature declaration. Gaul was a rough square, bounded by the Alps and Pyrenees mountains to the south, the Renus river to the east and the ocean and the British Channel to the west and north. Thanks to Caesar, Rome now controlled more or less the south-east quarter. The south-west was already so loyal to Rome that it might as well have been a province – again more or less, you never knew where you really were with those two-faced barbarians.

  The north of Gaul remained free and pissed off. Even as Caesar was marching on the Germans, the armies of northern Gaul and Belgium had begun to gather. Now, slowly assembling was a larger army that the Romans had ever faced before, the sort of eye-poppingly huge force that hadn’t been seen since the days of Alexander and the Persians.

  Caesar persuaded the Senate, consuls and Tribunate that this mass of ravage-minded barbarians, left unchallenged, would sweep south any day, destroying Roman interests in Iberia and Gaul, killing virtuous farmers and raping beautiful girls, before crossing the Alps like Hannibal, slaughtering Italians by the thousand and, most unthinkable of all, sacking Rome. Caesar said that even the wild, brutal British were sending legions of mercenaries into Gaul to fight the Romans, so the threat was more terrifying and severe than anyone in Rome could imagine. Moreover, Ariovistus, the conquered German king, was just one German king. There were plenty more who might cross the Renus any day and turn south to pillage their way through bountiful Italy and into Rome itself.

  Caesar’s doom-filled prophesies played perfectly on Rome’s favourite fear of invading barbarian hordes. It was three hundred and thirty years since the Gauls had sacked Rome and a hundred and sixty since Hannibal had routed Roman armies on Italian soil, yet Ragnall was amazed at how often people mentioned those disasters, and argued that they were due for another one. At the battle of Cannae, Hannibal’s Carthaginians had killed sixty thousand Roman legionaries in a day, yet there were statues of the general all over Rome. It was as if they enjoyed being reminded about it.

  He remembered Drustan telling him that all people like to create a preventable doom to give importance and urgency to their existence. Drustan had been talking about a tribe who thought the sky was falling on their heads, but the same applied here. They were on the brink of catastrophe, everyone said, and something had to be done!

  Luckily, Caesar knew exactly what that something was. They needed a buffer to defend their territories and soak up any invasion before it could pillage and rape decent people. For the sake of all those who relied upon Rome for protection, it was Rome’s duty to bring northern Gaul under its control.

  Ragnall knew this was disingenuous, Caesar knew it was disingenuous and everyone in Rome who wasn’t a chest-thumping jingoist knew it was disingenuous. You might use the same “buffer” argument to occupy your neighbour’s house. Moreover, where would and could it end? If northern Gaul became Roman territory, wouldn’t they need to conquer a new buffer to protect the Roman soil of northern Gaul? And once that next buffer became Roman soil, a new buffer would be needed, and so on.

  So the dupable populace were convinced by the threat of barbarians to the north. Something needed to be done, and Caesar was the man to do it. Had not Alexander swept aside the impossibly numerous Persian armies? Had not Caesar already shown that he was Rome’s Alexander? So Caesar was ordered to do what he would have done anyway, and march into northern Gaul to stamp out all threats to Rome.

  If Ragnall knew that Caesar’s’ justifications were dodgy, it didn’t stop him being swept up by the joyous fervour of the times. When Julius’ summons came for him to accompany the army again, Ragnall bade Clodia goodbye and headed north with a spring in his step.

  Chapter 29

  Chamanca was pleased to return to Maidun, but she was far from happy with the weather. Iberia had been cold at this time of year, but she remembered childhood winters as dramatic and bracing, with brilliant-white snow piled paces high under dazzlingly blue skies. It had been a time to play, sleep and eat the supplies they’d amassed in warmer times. There was no snow in Britain, brilliant-white or not, and it was, as Carden had put it, cold enough to shrivel the bollocks off an iron aurochs. And so miserably wet! The trees, the bushes, the very hills were depressingly, soddenly, soaked through. The people were much the same. Chamanca was so cold that it hurt, even wrapped as she was in the double wolf-pelt cloak that she’d liberated from a Roman patrol when the weather had turned. None of the people they rode past had anything nearly as warm. People recognised them and greeted them on their way north to Maidun, but you could have counted the smiles on one hand with all its fingers eaten off by frostbite.

  Finally they arrived at the Castle. Lowa met them in the main body of the fort and led them up to the Eyrie. She was limping, but said she’d almost recovered from a stupid running injury. It’s why she’d walked out to meet them. She was going on it a little further every day. Even half hobbled and wrapped in so many furs that she looked like a small bipedal bear, she still strode along full of life and purpose. Her exposed face was clear-eyed, smoothly radiant and blemish-free. She had developed none of the eye bags, wrinkles, grey hair, spots and other atrophies that had afflicted all the other rulers that Chamanca had known.

  Spring greeted them at Lowa’s hut. The girl was now taller than both Chamanca and Lowa; she’d morphed into a grown woman over the year. She had almost fully changed from pretty into beautiful, but like Lowa’s it was an odd beauty, a striking kind that would appeal only to some – very unlike Chamanca’s beauty of course. Everybody fancied the leather shorts off her. Not that they could see them in this cu
rsed weather.

  “How much older are you now?” asked Carden, reaching to pinch Spring’s cheek.

  “Half as young as twice the age I was before, plus a year.” Spring ducked his hand.

  “What?” said Carden. Atlas chuckled.

  The girl led them into the cavernous but cheerily warm queen’s hut. As she brought them stew and bread and stoked up the two fires, Miller, Mal and Nita, Lowa’s generals, welcomed them and quizzed them about their journey. Bruxon, king of the Dumnonians, was also there, but he greeted them with about as much warmth as the winter sun. That was his way, but Chamanca didn’t trust him. He clearly didn’t fancy her, which made him downright odd, bordering on insane and certainly untrustworthy.

  Atlas told them all that had happened in Gaul, with interjections from Carden and Chamanca. The others asked questions throughout, particularly on Roman battle tactics, Felix, and his rumoured dark force. There would have been more questions on the latter, Chamanca was sure, if they’d known more. One thing she had been able to confirm was that the druids had been right – Britain was the Romans’ target, or at least that’s what someone very close to Caesar had told her when she was their captive. The conquest of Gaul was useful for amassing wealth and boosting Caesar’s prestige, but its main function was as the launchpad for the British mission.

  “Why Britain?” asked Bruxon.

  “I don’t know, but, given their interest in magic, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t something to do with that. Perhaps some source of magic that will give them even greater powers?” Chamanca glanced at Spring. The girl got up to tend a fire.

  “So,” said Lowa, “when will they get here?”

  “According to Chamanca’s source,” rumbled Atlas, “they intend to come this summer. But they need a fleet, and they need to defeat the army mustering in northern Gaul.”

  “They could make peace with Gauls, buy or steal a fleet and be here by Beltane.”

  “They could, but I don’t think—”

  “So, we’ll continue to focus on mobile warfare, cavalry and chariots, we’ll continue to drill our infantry and—”

  “Should you not,” said Atlas, “shift your focus from the Romans for a moment and have a look around?” He raised his dark eyes until they met Bruxon’s. Bruxon held his gaze, but Chamanca saw an artery in his neck pulse unnaturally.

  “At what?” asked Lowa.

  “Three and a half years ago, Maidun was attacked by a very large Dumnonian army, much bigger than Maidun’s. Well led, that army could still defeat Maidun, especially if Maidun—”

  “That would not happen,” interrupted Bruxon, “We have sworn—”

  “Let him finish,” said Lowa.

  Atlas treated Bruxon to one of his looks that always made Chamanca feel about five years old, then continued. “So that army could defeat Maidun, especially if Maidun was fixated on looking in the other direction, towards a potential invasion across the Channel. Now, we also have the Murkans in the north, with whom we don’t have a pact, and, potentially, have a larger, more powerful army than Dumnonia. As well as that, I’ve heard talk that King Manfrax of Eroo is looking for new victims.”

  “Bruxon has a pact with the Murkans and with Eroo. Britain and Eroo are united against the Romans,” said Lowa.

  “Are you certain? Caesar would not have beaten the Germans so easily, perhaps not at all, if the Skawney tribe hadn’t aided him. That is how the Romans succeed. Spiteful tribes see a chance to defeat a hated neighbour, so they help the Romans. It is like a pig having his revenge on a fellow pig by opening the sty door to let the wolf in.”

  “My pacts are solid,” said Bruxon, “and I can personally guaran—”

  “Quiet, Bruxon,” said Lowa. “You do have a point, Atlas. I trust Bruxon, but, now we know that we have some space before the legions land, I’ll ensure the bonds are as strong as possible. As soon as the weather allows I’ll lead a delegation to the Murkans.”

  “A delegation? I would take the army,” said Atlas.

  “No, they must train more. We’ve had three years learning how to wage war with teamwork and intelligence, the Romans have had centuries. I will take a delegation. Besides, if you’re right about Eroo, and if the Dumnonians have been plotting behind Bruxon’s back and either invade, then we’ll need the army here.”

  “And us?” asked Carden.

  “You three are going to go back and keep an eye on the Romans. If you can stick a spear in the cartwheel of their advance, so much the better.”

  The three of them nodded resignedly.

  “There’s one other thing,” added Chamanca. “We found out what happened to Ragnall.”

  “Oh really?” said Lowa.

  Chapter 30

  Lowa rode at the head of the column, her recurve riding bow holstered, arrow-stuffed quiver on her back, slim sword scabbard slapping gently on her horse’s flank. Miller was beside her, also dressed in battle leathers, longsword at his side. Behind them were sixty variously armed Warriors of the Two Hundred, Lowa’s expanded and updated version of Zadar’s Fifty.

  Spring enjoyed the irony that if you didn’t want to fight you had to display your arms as if you were Makka the god of war and his retinue. She was riding at the rear of the group, green woollen hood covering her head, quiver on her back and bow in one hand. After two days of uncomfortable riding through sweeping rain showers, the day was finally sunny with splodges of white cloud, but it wasn’t warm yet. It was a good while since dawn, but if she breathed out from deep down she could still see her breath.

  Bright plants had risen bravely from the winter soil and bloomed into flowers that speckled the roadside and forest floors with a crazy range of colours. They didn’t impress Spring. Despite her name, she found spring the season too obviously lovely, with its show-off flowers and vomit-inducingly adorable baby animals. She preferred melancholy autumn, with hazy sunlight, pungent funguses and warm-smelling woodsmoke. As with music, sorrow was more beautiful than happiness in nature. She thought that if she was Spring, then Dug was probably Autumn. Did that mean she liked him more than she liked herself?

  The bark of a dog brought her back to the present. For the last two days, perhaps eighty miles, they’d ridden through the open countryside of a land at peace. All the hillforts they passed were overgrown and unused. Instead of walled towns and fortified ranches, there was a smattering of farmhouses and little hamlets with no defences; no ditches nor a spiked palisade to be seen. One of the Two Hundred told her that this was what it had been like in the south before Zadar’s time. People had moved away from the hillforts to undefended farms. When Zadar’s ravages had started, the palisades had gone back up.

  For the last dozen miles, nobody had run and hidden, as Spring would have done had she been a farmer or potter watching half a hundred heavily armed warriors ride towards her. The people had of course been wary, they weren’t mad, but good old Miller had soon put them at ease with a few friendly quips.

  That morning, the wide valley sides of the floodplain had narrowed in to a bouncing little stream, and they were following a track along its western bank. The barking dog was a sinuous, smooth-haired, happy little animal. It circled the horses a few times, then galloped up the road to a cluster of large huts next to a stone bridge. Smoke curls from the huts’ roof holes created a morning haze. A larger cloud of smoke to the east proclaimed the position of Mallam’s main settlement, but they weren’t headed there. They were bound for Grummog, king of the Murkans, at his cliff-top fort.

  They passed the huts without seeing a soul, wound uphill through some trees and the pale grey cliff of Mallam burst from the valley floor. Three hundred paces tall, the rock face filled the valley like an impossibly high and smooth wall. There were cliffs as high on the south coast near Dug’s place, possibly higher, but Spring had never seen anything like it inland. Sea cliffs seemed to be on the defensive, cowering from the power of the waves and regularly succumbing to it in crumbling rockslides. The landlocked cliff at Mallam
looked like it was on the attack, ready to rush down the valley like a great wave itself, to smash and crush everything before it. She looked away then quickly looked back. Had it moved forwards? Of course not. But it looked like it wanted to.

  “You know what they say, don’t you?” said Holloc, falling back to ride alongside her. He was one of Lowa’s Two Hundred, a nice enough guy. Spring would have found him attractive if he’d been as clever as he thought he was.

  “Depends who ‘they’ are and what they’re talking about?”

  Holloc looked surprised. He’d no doubt been expecting a standard “no, please do enlighten me oh clever older person” reply. Even though she was thirteen now and could fire a bow about as well as Lowa, people thought she was still a child. She couldn’t remember ever thinking of herself as a child.

  “Many, many generations ago,” Holloc swept an arm to indicate the length of the rock face, “a great river ran over a mighty waterfall, right here. The river runs underground now. One day it will come back to the surface and the waterfall will start again.”

  “And what will that mean?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what will that mean’?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, there’s usually something with these things, isn’t there? Something like the dead coming back from the Otherworld on the day the waterfall starts flowing again? Or the gods coming to the earth and smiting the tribes who have slightly different beliefs to our tribe?”

  “Not with this one, I don’t think. That’s it. They just say that the waterfall will come back.”

  “I see. Great story.”

  Holloc scowled at her and kicked his horse to rejoin the others. Spring shook her head at herself. That had been a bit mean. After so much time with Lowa, she’d become somewhat sarcastic herself. She liked it and thought it was funny, but sometimes it upset people. It was of course their fault for not getting she was joking, they should have been cleverer, but she still didn’t like it that they were hurt. When she was queen, she decided, she’d make everyone who didn’t get sarcasm or piss taking for fun to wear seagull feathers in their hats, so you knew not to joke with them.