Reign of Iron (12 page)

“Do you want to hold him?”

Lowa nodded and Keelin held him out. The fat little boy’s face purpled instantly, his arms flailed and he screamed as if his legs were being torn from his body. The queen retracted her hands. Keelin hugged him into her bosom.

“It’s because he’s late for his sleep,” she said, in the pause while Dug was sucking in breath to scream again. “I was just putting him down” – Dug wailed and Keelin paused – “when I saw you coming. I’ll take him back now. He’ll be better after his morning nap.”

She walked away, clutching Dug. The baby quietened, looked over Keelin’s shoulder with tear-filled eyes, saw Lowa and began to wail again. Lowa watched them go.

“He looks a lot like Dug,” said Atlas. Lowa snapped round. Atlas and Chamanca nodded greetings. She’d been so focused on her baby that she hadn’t seen them.

“Send a shout, alert the tribes,” said Lowa, “a baby looks like his father.”

“Don’t worry about him crying like that when he saw you,” said Chamanca. “Babies do that with new people. He was the same with us yesterday.”

“When did you get back?” said Lowa, thinking
I am not a new person
.

“Yesterday.”

“Where’s Spring?” Lowa suddenly feared the worst.

“Dug’s farm,” said Chamanca. “She said there were dogs to check and chickens to feed, but really she blames you for Dug’s death and seeks to avoid you.”

“She told you this?”

“No, but I could tell.”

“OK, thanks for letting me know … And have you stopped Caesar’s armies? Should I send all my new recruits home?”

“Not just yet,” said Chamanca. “We have some shit news, some really shit news, and some even shittier news.”

“I see. You’d better come back to the eyrie and tell me all.”

The day was fine so they sat on the grassy expanse outside her hut. Atlas and Chamanca took turns to tell her about the Ironmen and the Leathermen. They were sitting so that their knees touched, and Lowa had noticed immediately that there was a change in them. Before, they’d both been about the most individual people Lowa had met; now they moved and acted like a couple, each constantly aware of the other. So they’d got it on, she thought, stifling a sting of jealousy that Dug had died and Atlas had survived.

They told her about being captured, the German massacre, their escape, the inefficacy of the famous Tengoterry cavalry against the demons, then the astonishing rate at which the Roman super-soldiers had built a bridge forty paces across and five hundred long. Lowa asked why they hadn’t harried the crossing’s construction.

“We did,” said Chamanca. “Spring shot at them. It had no effect on the big ones. The little ones dodged her arrows – they are faster even than me – then they found a couple of boats and some shields, at which point we decided it was best to…”

“Live so we could report back,” filled in Atlas.

“Yes. We were lucky to make it home,” said Chamanca. “Without Spring’s bow the big black one and I would have been killed. She took down three Leathermen. Atlas and I killed one between us.”

“Or, put another way,” said Atlas, “Chamanca killed none and I killed one.”

Chamanca scowled, Atlas smiled and Lowa felt a surprising flush of pride for Spring’s prowess and the endless hours of longbow training that the two of them had endured. She resolved to head to Dug’s farm at the first possible opportunity and sort out Spring’s silliness. The girl was crazy to blame her for Dug’s death when she would have done anything to prevent it.

“And after that?” she asked, dragging herself back into the role of a queen planning a war.

“Sensibly, the Germans put as many miles as they could between themselves and the Rhenus,” said Atlas. “They had a plan to make a stand a few hundred miles east, but we don’t know if Felix’s monsters pursued them that far because we travelled west and crossed back over the river. There we found the Roman army mobilising, about to head this way. So we came home to warn you. We had some setbacks and two or three minor adventures, but nothing relevant to report. Most of Gaul is cowed and surrendered to the foe—”

“But some north-western tribes are still holding out against the invaders,” Chamanca interrupted, “running from the marshes, poking the Romans and running back into the marshes. It is not a gallant way of fighting, but it is effective, and it means that the Romans will be able to send fewer troops over here than they planned.”

“Although,” continued Atlas, “it will not delay the enemy for long, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some Gaulish tribes actually joined the Roman invasion. Of course, most importantly of all, the number of legionaries or any ancillary forces becomes irrelevant when we consider Felix’s monsters. I cannot see a way to defeat them. To avoid our own extinction, I suggest we cede this land to the invader and relocate west to Eroo, south to Africa or perhaps further west, across the great sea.”

Lowa nodded, but discarded his council. There would be no retreat.

“How many Romans will cross the Channel – standard humans, not demons?”

“Impossible to tell how many he’ll bring across. Maybe two legions, maybe four,” said Atlas.

“So maybe twenty thousand legionaries.” Lowa sucked air over her teeth.

“Plus slingers, archers and cavalry.”

“Yes.”

“And of course you cannot ignore the demons. Retreat is an option that should not be dismissed.”

It already had been, but Lowa didn’t want to argue further.

“I will consider our moves.”

She sent for Mal, Adler, Elann Nancarrow the weaponsmith and Maggot the druid.

While they were waiting, Keelin appeared with Dug, fresh from his nap. When he spotted his mother, the baby screamed like a happy seagull then chirruped merrily, all the while wiggling his fingers towards her and kicking his legs. She took him from Keelin and he cackled throatily as if this development was the funniest, most all-consumingly joyous thing that could possibly have happened.

“He does that finger waggling thing when he sees horses and running water, which are his favourite things,” said Keelin, “but I’ve never seen him react like that to a person.”

“I’m flattered,” said Lowa, holding the cheery boy at arm’s length. He was shaking with chuckles, his big, shining brown eyes staring into hers. Keelin had dressed him in a hooded cotton suit but his limbs stuck out, bracelet and anklet-like fat folds where podgy arms and legs met hands and feet.

She played with the baby until Elann and Maggot arrived. She found that he had one of two reactions to everything. Anything that he could reach was jammed into his mouth and anything out of his reach was hilarious. At one point he grabbed her by the ear and clamped his lips around her nose, which was a little disgusting, but she found herself laughing along with him and even Chamanca chuckled. The baby’s unfettered happiness was infectious and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so freely, or in fact if she ever had. She wondered from where the child had inherited his cheeriness. Certainly not from her.

Even Elann cracked half an awkward smile when Dug greeted her with a happy shout. Childbirth might be an absolute bastard, thought Lowa, but the gods of creation had done a better job with babies. She handed him back to Keelin reluctantly. He stared at her over the girl’s shoulder as she took him away, bursting into tears after a dozen paces, which was satisfying.

“Right,” said Lowa, breathing out. “I’ll go first, then Mal, Adler, Elann and Maggot – in that order – tell Chamanca and Atlas what we’ve done so far to prepare for the Romans. Then Chamanca and Atlas will tell us what they’ve seen and we’ll discuss how the new information changes our plans.”

L
ate one evening towards the end of the Roman month of August, Julius Caesar set sail for Britain with almost ten thousand legionaries from the Tenth and Seventh legions, plus two thousand auxiliary slingers and archers from Crete and the Balearic Islands.

Ragnall stood at the bow of Caesar’s ship, the first to leave the broad Gaulish beach, listening to the creak of oars, looking at the golden light of the setting sun dancing on the wavelets. Rolling in their wake came eleven more warships like the one he was on, then eighty troop transport ships, then a swarm of boats crewed by merchants and adventurers eager for the glut of slaves and booty that flowed wherever Caesar went. Similarly minded seagulls swirled overhead, eager for the surfeit of human carrion that the great general had never failed to provide.

Ahead, the usually white cliffs of Britain were blood-red in the sunset. Home. Finally, after more than five years of exile, he was going home. Home is the true destination of all journeys, a drunken philosopher had told him once and now he could see his point. The moment he’d boarded that boat with Drustan all those years before and left Britain for Rome, he’d been at the beginning of a loop that ended where it started. Finally that loop was almost closed, and he was a returning king! He did not expect an affectionate reception, in fact the opposite, but they’d learn. In a few years the Britons would live in paved cities, with luxurious bathhouses and aqueducts bringing clean water into the middle of thriving marketplaces that didn’t reek of shit. Then they’d thank him. King Ragnall, the man who bathed Britain in clean water and the bright light of civilisation. He would be remembered for ever in stories and statues all over the land. He’d have to take a wife, of course. Might he forgive Lowa? In a way it was her he had to thank for his current position. He would see. Whatever he decided, he couldn’t wait to see her face when she saw him riding tall at the head of the Roman army.

The furtive chat among the legates and other high rankers was that Caesar was not taking enough troops because he had only two legions, the rest having been left behind to protect their conquered lands against the few remaining rebellious Gaulish tribes. They didn’t know what Ragnall knew. To the south there was another ship heading for Britain with a secret cargo that might ensure Britain’s surrender without any legionaries having to so much as hurl a pilum.

Night came, finally, and Felix led his legion from the trees – twenty Maximen, thirty-six Celermen and a captive for each of them. The single ship’s tender could take only one of the armoured giants at a time, so ferrying them aboard took a frustrating age. Loading the Gaulish captives, carried as strengthening fodder for the landing in Britain, was as difficult, since they were chained three together by iron poles and neck loops. He could have undone their shackles, but they might have escaped. He could have killed some of them to give his Maximen the strength to haul the ship onto the beach and lift it off again, but he had only captives enough to fuel his legion for the landing in Britain. So he had to be patient. It was excruciating. As the first glow of the false dawn began to lighten the sky, almost half the Ironmen were still waiting to board. They’d been ordered to leave in darkness and they were late. Caesar was not going to be happy, although it was entirely his fault.

Felix had assumed they were going embark from a port, and that his legion would simply walk along a reinforced gangplank onto the ship. Mars knew that there were enough deserted ports around since they’d killed most of the Fenn-Nodens. But no, Caesar was so paranoid about word of the legion getting back to Rome that he’d insisted they set sail from a deserted cove. As if some Gaulish pleb was going to see them and go running back to the Senate! As if they’d believe him if he did!

At least, thought Felix, he’d learnt a lesson. He resolved that from then on he’d work out the largest number of captives he’d need to fuel his legion’s missions, then double it. Triple it even.

A much greater consolation was that soon he’d have Spring’s magic and he’d no longer need to heed Caesar’s demands. Maybe by the time the sun set that night! Probably not that quickly, but it wouldn’t take him long to find her … He’d make do as king of Britain first, where he’d produce more legions. He rubbed his hands together and grinned, imagining the troops that might be created by combining the girl’s magic with his own.

The day before a centurion had told him, with a straight face, that they were in fact invading Britain to restore the rightful king – Ragnall! It amused Felix that Ragnall thought he might become king, that Caesar felt the need for societally acceptable excuses to invade these shithole territories like Britain and Gaul, but most of all it amused him that everybody – the general included – seemed to believe these excuses as soon as they’d been invented. Felix had thought the delusion was an act at first, but now he was pretty sure that Caesar was plain insane, so full of his own success and glory that he’d become disconnected from reality. Felix was very much looking forward to reintroducing him to it. When he took over, he’d keep Rome’s hero alive for a year or so and humiliate him every day. Hades would thank Felix for taking Caesar a rung or two down the ladder of self-worship before he sent the conqueror to the Underworld. Ragnall he’d kill straight away. He’d never liked the British boy. Actually, he’d take a long while to kill him, but he’d
start
straight away.

His daydreaming was interrupted by a booming splash as a Maximan fell over while trying to climb into the tender. The mighty man lay in the shallows, face down, arms flapping. They really were useless without a recent kill. A few of his comrades lumbered over to help him. Felix hoped that the whole lot didn’t end up drowning themselves.

Walfdan found the track again and stole towards the headland and the next bay along from the demons, where Maggot was waiting in the little sailing boat.

Something in the dark bushes rustled loudly and the Gaulish druid jumped, stifling a cry. It was nothing, a rabbit or some other scurrying creature. He tiptoed on, sweating and light-headed, turning every few paces. Every shadow in the nebulous twilight looked like a Roman monster.

He was not a brave man. He’d suspected that espionage would terrify him and he’d been right. It had been impossible to disagree with Atlas’ suggestion that he spy on the Romans in Gaul, however, because being a coward was not argument enough and because the sharp-witted African had been right. Walfdan was a Gaul, he knew the country and its people and he’d been sailing since he could walk, so he was best suited for finding out everything he could about the invasion force and getting back to Britain ahead of it. Thankfully the British druid, Maggot, had offered to go with him, so he hadn’t been alone when they crossed the Channel, then walked around the ports and discovered how many Romans were sailing and when. Felix’s dark legion had been harder to find, but they’d followed the trail of deserted, blood-spattered villages and eventually narrowed down the location to one bay. At that point Maggot had said that Walfdan had better creep up on his own and see how many they were while he waited in the boat, since the jangling of his jewellery might give them away.