Clash of Iron

by Angus Watson

  “Might that not cause more problems than it solves? I don’t know how much I’d welcome an invasion that killed members of my family.” Ragnall thought of Lowa killing his family, which made him think of Carden on the wall. He felt very guilty. He really should have told the other two about him and now it was too late. If he told Publius he’d seen the Briton, he’d be signing his own execution warrant. And now he was defending the hostages? What had got into him?

  “I know, I don’t like it either. There’s no joy in killing women and children, and it could snowball into a full-scale rebellion, but it’s standard practice. If I don’t kill at least one hostage for every one of ours that they’ve taken, Caesar will want to know why.”

  “Is he on his way?”

  “No. They’re saying in Rome that his political machinations are as difficult and dangerous – and as brazen – as anything he’s ever done on the battlefield. I’ll send a messenger about the envoys, but I don’t expect him to rush back.”

  Chapter 9

  Two shouts echoed over the hills that day. The morning one came from Mal from his lookout on the mound of Frogshold to say that there was no sign of the Eroo invasion. The second one, from the north, said that the Murkan army had left Mallam and was marching south.

  More shouts came over the next two days. The Murkan army was fifty thousand strong, which made it nearly twice the size of the Maidun army. It was mostly infantry, with about five thousand cavalry and no chariots.

  “The problem,” said Lowa, “is not knowing what Eroo is doing, how big its force is, where its force is … If Grummog is headed for Maidun, then we should ride out to meet him nearby.”

  “On Sarum Plain,” Dug replied. They were in Lowa’s hut, eating a breakfast of eggs and bread. Sarum Plain, where she’d defeated the Dumnonians, was the obvious spot: wide and flat, favouring their chariot-heavy army.

  “If he’s stupid enough to go that way,” she said. “He’s a canny fucker.”

  “But if he heads for the Haffen Estuary and links with the Eroo army when they land…”

  “Then we’re in trouble, even if we can persuade them to a battleground that suits our chariots.”

  “So the answer is…”

  “To take the army north,” said Lowa. “Defeat the Murkans before Eroo lands.”

  “And if Manfrax does come in the next couple of days?”

  “Then we’ll be in the right place. We can use Gutrin Tor or Frogshold as our fort and supply via Forkton if necessary.”

  “Which one do you favour?”

  “They’re both similar mounds protruding from the marshes, but Frogshold is better fortified and nearer the coast, so probably Frogshold. But the main thing, do you agree with me that we should mobilise and march now?”

  “Yup,” he nodded.

  She’d known that was the answer, but it was good to have Dug to agree.

  “So that’s that,” she said. “We go to war today.”

  Chapter 10

  Bran appeared at Chamanca and Carden’s open hut door at dawn and asked them to come to the central clearing. They walked through the misty morning and muted sounds of a village waking up and found Chief Vastivias, Walfdan the druid and Modaball the Warrior debating hotly. Vastivias was stabbing the air with a finger, Modaball was windmilling his arms and Walfdan was stroking his beard.

  “Caesar has killed my son and my daughter,” said Vastivias when he saw them. “In fact, he didn’t even have the balls to do it himself. A deputy gave the order. Caesar is in Italy.”

  “Ah,” said Carden.

  “I am sorry,” Chamanca added.

  Vastivias nodded. “I could say that it was your fault and that we should boil you in whale blubber right now, but you were right. I made a mistake when I gave them as hostages without taking any in return. Their blood is on my hands, not yours. And on Caesar’s.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Chamanca.

  “I’m going to destroy the Roman army and kill Caesar. I’m on the brink of sending out riders to gather forces. There’s only one Roman legion in Armorica – five thousand men. We will take them without too much bother. Then Caesar will come with more men, and we’ll kill all of them, too.”

  “It won’t be easy defeating even the one legion,” said Carden. “They don’t fight like decent people. They link shields so they’re like a giant crab with a thousand claws.”

  “We will smash them!” said Modaball, jumping on the spot, the fat on his chest and arms rippling.

  “I’m sorry, but you won’t,” said Chamanca, “no matter how brave and skilled your warriors are. The Roman battle tactics are difficult to beat, impossible if your army is not coordinated. You Armorican tribes tolerate each other and coexist peacefully enough, but there are too many chiefs for you to work together on the battlefield. No matter your total numbers nor your passion, you will have many small groups attacking the Romans, rather than one coordinated army. And that, I am sorry to say, is exactly how to get wiped out by the Romans.”

  “What a load of boarshit!” Modaball puffed out his chest. “I could take the whole lot on myself. I could—”

  Vastivias put a hand on Modaball’s arm. “Quiet,” he said. “It does not make us shy to listen to an independent, prudent voice, especially when our blood is boiling. Are we cowards if we circle a lion and wait for an opportunity with the spear rather than putting our head in her mouth? What do you suggest, Chamanca?”

  “Last year, King Hari the German used attrition, the piece-by-piece destruction of their forces. Had he carried the strategy through, we wouldn’t be having this conversation because the Romans would have been defeated last year. However, he became frustrated, committed all his forces into one battle – a much larger force than the Armoricans might muster – and he was destroyed by a smaller number of legions than you will face when Caesar returns. I suggest you learn from his fatal mistakes. Watch the Romans in Karnac. Any Roman leaves the base, he does not go back. You have an advantage over King Hari in that your Romans are already short of food. It won’t be long before they’re starving. Their morale will dissolve and they will have to retreat.”

  “And when Caesar’s other legions return?” Bran asked.

  “Fenn-Nodens towns have been built well, in good locations, and are almost all defendable. So you hold out. You have wells, your food comes from the sea. You are perfectly placed to resist, much more so than any of the other Gaulish tribes that Caesar has defeated. And if the Romans do breach your walls, you have boats, so you sail to an ally. You could go to Britain even. You will be welcome in Maidun’s lands.” Chamanca hoped this was true. It probably was. She continued: “The Romans do not have the numbers to garrison your towns, so when they leave, you return.”

  Vastivias shook his head. “And rebuild our smashed buildings? Not to mention our smashed pride.”

  “Buildings and pride will be a great deal easier to restore than the lives of your people should you attack the Romans head-on. Stone, wood and swagger are disposable. Your riches, your lives and your children you can take with you on your boats and save for another day.”

  “Your aim,” said Walfdan the long-bearded druid, “is to prevent the Romans invading Britain. You intend to use Sea View to this end, as a desperate forest tribe might cut down trees to prevent a fire reaching their huts. Your plan will kill us all, but that is unimportant to you as long as the Romans are slowed.”

  The old man held her gaze.

  “You’re right,” she said, “when you say that we mean to stop the Romans from invading Britain. But why do we want to hold the Romans back? I’ll tell you. When the Romans take a land, they keep it. They will kill anyone that they see as the slightest threat, like a farmer killing one animal to prevent its disease spreading to another. They will lie. They will break treaties like they break kindling to fit a forge. Under the Romans, as a people, you will cease to exist. You may live, but it will be a living death. I have seen it in Iberia. The men and women beca
me no more than miserable sheep. Thousands were put to work in mines so poisonous that birds flying overhead dropped dead from the sky, and so brutalised were they that they went to this work with no complaint. So that is why I want to stop the Romans from invading Britain, and it is why you should want to stop them from taking Armorica. If you do not panic, if you plan intelligently, if you understand the Romans, then you have every chance of beating them.”

  “You make a good argument,” said Vastivias. “And I have no desire to become a sheep. Bran, Modaball, send messengers at once to all the other towns and tribes. Tell them that Armorica’s men and women may be divided by geography, but we are one people. Together, we will defeat Caesar. Meanwhile, where are those Roman hostages? Let’s get them out and have some fun. Modaball, find our largest cauldron and fill it with whale blubber, there’s a good chap.”

  Chapter 11

  Caesar’s legions arrived back in Armorica but Caesar did not. Publius was sent south to quell an uprising against the invader and replaced with someone who was apparently a naval expert. Ragnall, keen to assuage his guilt for allowing Titus and Quintus to be taken hostage, headed to the command tent to introduce himself to the new legate and find out how he could be useful.

  To his surprise and annoyance the guards refused to let him in at first, relenting only when Ragnall said that people had been boiled in olive oil for less than barring Caesar’s chief envoy from entry.

  The tent was busy with smartly dressed Romans whom Ragnall had never seen before. They parted to allow him through. A dough-faced, black-eyed man looked up from Publius’s map table, saw Ragnall, and looked back to the maps.

  Ragnall knew that face. It was Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus. Ragnall had met him several times at Clodia’s in Rome, where Brutus had used connections to wheedle a place in the party house. Unfortunately he was blessed with neither looks nor wit, so almost everyone had shunned him. Ragnall, remembering what it was like to be an outsider, hadn’t. He’d tried his best to have Brutus included in the fun. Brutus proved too self-centred and dim for party games, so Ragnall had dragged himself from the revelry and chatted to the awkward Roman, or, more accurately, listened to Brutus’ self-promoting stories and boorish opinions. Time rarely went as slowly, Ragnall realised, as when your friends were having fun within earshot and you weren’t. The more he heard from Brutus, the more he disliked him, but he’d also felt increasingly sorry for a man with such an unpleasant disposition and such unfortunate looks, so he’d kept up an amicable pretence and invested a good few hours in him that could have been spent with vastly more entertaining, interesting people. Brutus owed him for that.

  “Hello, Brutus,” said Ragnall, holding out an arm to shake. “Welcome to the far side of the world.”

  “…And who might you be?” Brutus ignored Ragnall’s outstretched arm. Instead he looked to each of his gathered advisors, smiling like an obnoxious man who’s just proved a point.

  Ragnall was speechless.

  “I swear I’ve never seen him before in my life!” Brutus added. “Run along, will you? There’s a good fellow. We’ve work to do here.”

  “Brutus, I’m Ragnall. Ragnall Sheeplord. We met several times in Rome. I spent hours talking to you at Clodia’s. You told me a lot about sailing.”

  “Really? You can’t have made much of an impression. But then again, Clodia doesn’t pick her party companions for their brains, does she?” He rolled his eyes at his cronies. A couple of them chuckled. “Now will you go or should I have you removed? We have work to do.”

  “I’m Caesar’s chief envoy. I know the land around here. I’ve visited almost every tribe that’s rebelling and can give you invaluable intelligence. I understand the—”

  “Guards?” interrupted Brutus mildly, nodding at two hefty legionaries. They stood forward.

  “I’m going!” said Ragnall, holding up his hands.

  Ragnall walked away in a funk, oblivious to the noises and smells of the Roman camp. Why, by Makka, had Caesar sacked Publius and sent Brutus to command? Actually, it was pretty obvious. Publius’s war against the Armoricans had not been going well. Foraging party after foraging party had been killed. Every time Publius approached a town with his army, the Armoricans took to the water in their boats like ducks fleeing from leopards. The tactics were cowardly but successful and however much Ragnall liked Publius, he had to admit that he had failed as a general. The Armorican problem needed a naval solution, so Caesar had sent a man with a maritime background.

  He looked back across the bay. Yup, there were many more ships bobbing about than usual. Brutus must have called them all in from the various harbours and shipyards. They had been built for carrying troops to Britain, but first, Ragnall guessed, they’d serve well enough to block the Fenn-Nodens’ escape routes. It was what Publius should have done. Amazing how easy answers were when they were placed in front of you, and annoying that Brutus had thought of this one.

  Chapter 12

  Vastivias’ ship crashed through the waves. Up ahead four whales surfaced, low sun glaring off their fat wet backs as they spumed spray into the immense morning sky. Following the flagship, rolling before the stiff wind, were hundreds of ships, leather sails full. Above, a multitude of seagulls kept pace, no doubt mistaking the armada for an oversized fishing expedition. As far they were concerned it was no different; there would be plenty of fresh meat bobbing on the bay before the day was out.

  Chamanca stood on the plunging prow, shivering with pleasure after every blast of brine. A captured legionary had told them the Romans’ naval plans. The answer, as Vastivias had grasped straight away, thank Fenn, was to amass the Fenn-Nodens’ ships and destroy the Roman fleet before it could attack individual tribes. Chamanca was content. Thus far, her and Vastivias’ plans had worked. The Fenn-Nodens had killed a good number of the enemy with few losses by attacking vulnerable Romans then immediately fleeing in their boats when retribution threatened. It had been far from heroic, but it had worked.

  Now the Romans had a navy, but it was doomed. The Fenn-Nodens simply could not lose a naval battle. Their salt-crusted men and women had been sailing for countless generations, while the Romans’ ships were new and their crews inexperienced. They hadn’t seen the Roman fleet yet, but reliable reports said it was half the size of the Fenn-Nodens’. The Roman boats were smaller and more lightly built, designed for one fair-weather crossing to Britain rather than years of pounding through storm waves. The enemy’s boats were lower-sided too, so it would be nigh on impossible for them to board the Fenn-Nodens’. All that would point to victory, but, on top of all of it, there was the clincher that all the Roman ships were oar-powered. The Fenn-Nodens had sailing ships. That made them reliant on the winds, yes, but all the old salts had said that this particular breeze came every year, and would blow for several more days. With this wind the sailing boats were faster and more manoeuvrable than the rowing ships. Once the Fenn-Nodens had taken out enough rowers with the sling men and broken enough oars by ramming them with their heavier boats, the Romans would be dead in the water, vulnerable as injured lambs separated from the herd.

  Who needed Atlas? Chamanca’s plan was nicely whittling away Caesar’s invasion force, and now they were about to destroy its only means of reaching Britain.

  She looked back along the boat. Vastivias was at the stern, pointing at the coast and talking to the helmsman. Nearer, Carden had arranged a competition among the slingers to see who could hit a seagull. She almost shouted at him to stop wasting ammunition, but there were so many bags of slingstones hanging from the edge of the boat that it didn’t matter, and it was no bad idea for them to practise shooting from a rolling platform.

  Up ahead to their right was a craggy island. To the left was the headland that marked the western extreme of Karnac Bay, where, if their information was correct, the Roman fleet was waiting.

  The first Roman boat came into sight. Its hundred or so oars were all awry, sprouting from the sides like straw from a badly pack
ed bale. The Roman ship must have spotted them a moment later, because the oars all suddenly moved, but in different directions. A few snapped. The wrenching crack of splintering wood reached Chamanca across the water a good heartbeat after it happened, followed by shouted Roman curses. Chamanca patted her sword and her mace, and smiled. Brilliant sun sparkled off the sea and the prow’s white spray below a rich blue sky, and there was blood to come. It was a beautiful day.

  Chapter 13

  Mal rode out and met Atlas and the Maidun infantry, come to garrison Forkton. He didn’t need to guide them in, the lone hill of Frogshold was impossible to miss, but he’d seized the excuse to spend some time away from it. Despite his best efforts, he’d had a crappy time at Frogshold. The people were a bitterly dour lot, he’d missed Nita and he’d been put off frog meat for life. Two thousand paces from the sea, and the only animals the people of Frogshold ate were frogs from the marshes. No wonder they were so unhappy. Mal had survived mainly on bread. The bread was actually pretty good, and always fresh. The Frogsholders had drained the marshes for a few miles around their hillfort to create several large wheat fields, nicely irrigated by the drainage channels chopped into the fertile peat. It was an impressive feat which should have cheered them up but hadn’t. The good bread had cheered Mal up for a while, but by Toutatis he’d had enough of it now.

  “Who’s this then?” asked Tayden Mottker, chief of Frogshold, when the Maidun forces reached the bottom of the knoll. She’d walked down from the hillfort accompanied by her usual gang of po-faced followers. Her eyes bulged as they flicked up and down Atlas’ oversized frame.

  “This is Atlas Agrippa, general of the Maidun infantry,” said Mal.

  “Charmed,” said Atlas, holding out his hand. Tayden took it reluctantly.