Reign of Iron (31 page)

Spring sat on a prettily tasselled chair in Clodia’s tent, centrepiece of Clodia’s own little fenced camp, and told her what had happened since the wedding, leaving out what she’d done to Quintus, then asked her what she was doing. The socialite explained that she had been allowed to follow the army with her own little legion of slaves and guards in return for a
whopping
donation to Caesar’s war chest.

“Being decadently rich doesn’t solve all your problems,” Clodia explained, “but it does make life more
interesting
.” Spring considered that she’d got to the same place without spending any coins, or owning any of the other goods like salt and lumps of iron that were money back in Britain, but didn’t mention it. “But, anyway, that’s enough of me going on about myself. We’d better get you back to Ragnall.”

“Couldn’t you…?

“What?”

“Let me escape? Help me get back to Britain?”

The big eyes again. “Oh, no. Everyone notices me, Spring, and about a thousand people saw me with you. If you disappear now I’ll be in trouble. Besides, you’re assuming that I’m your ally. I am not. I’m a Roman and you’re a Roman captive. You’re my captive. I have recaptured you. I’m really in the army now. Thrilling, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it’s that thrilling.”

“Oh, don’t sulk. Come on, let’s go.”

She stood up and Spring followed in her floral-scented wake.

The feeling that Felix was nearby evaporated shortly after Chamanca had set off up the road from his captor. She guessed what that meant, but refused to acknowledge it. She galloped the horse as hard as it would go, without a thought for the return journey. She arrived at what had to be the place – a solitary blacksmith’s dwelling – leapt off and sprinted into the hut, sword in hand. The short blade was more useful in enclosed spaces than her ball-mace.

She’d known what she’d find and she found it. Felix was gone. Autumn was dead.

She’d seen thousands of corpses, made hundreds of them herself. But this one hit her, even though she’d never seen her alive. Little Autumn, the innocent girl with no involvement in all this British and Roman nonsense, had had her life cut short before it had really begun. The comparison with Spring was obvious. It was more than the name. Just a bit older, and Autumn would have had Spring’s nous and she wouldn’t have gone near Felix. But the gods, presumably, had decided that they didn’t give a fuck about letting little Autumn grow any older.

Chamanca picked up the girl and laid her on the bed. It wasn’t difficult to make her look comfortable and she hoped that somehow this would soften the blow for the blacksmith returning to find his murdered daughter. There wasn’t a mark on her because, Chamanca guessed, Felix had suffocated her. That would have been a frightening way to die … She shook her head and left the hut.

The blacksmith was already in sight, marching up the road towards his misery, straight-legged, arms swinging. He was fast, despite his handicap.

Chamanca looked up to the blue sky. “By Makka the god of war, Fenn the god of fear and Danu the mother, I swear I will avenge this girl and all those innocents killed by the druid Felix. No matter what comes in my way, no matter what pain it might cause me, I will kill Felix and I will ensure that he suffers much, much more than that poor little girl.”

B
y the time Felix reached the assembly outside Caesar’s tent the general had worked himself into a frenzied but eloquent stream of oration. His freshly built wooden speaking platform was squeaking under bouncing heels as he waved his arms and elucidated his plans to the plume-helmeted generals, senior centurions and toga-wearing legates. In between the dramatic language and heroic claims, Felix heard that two legions were to stay in Gaul under command of Titus Labienus, and six legions – almost thirty thousand infantry – along with two thousand cavalrymen and their horses, were to cross the Channel, leaving at sunset that very day. The previous year’s reconnaissance had identified the perfect place to land and make camp under protection of the warships.

If anyone took exception to the word “reconnaissance” to describe the previous year’s aborted invasion, they didn’t show it.

“What about the elephants?” someone muttered.

Caesar peered about to see who had spoken, but couldn’t. “The few elephants that you may have seen are here as an aid to the engineers. They are not war elephants.” A few eyebrows were raised. Everyone had heard the story of the elephant pulping a merchant and splintering his ship. “Each of the beasts can bear the burden of twenty oxen, so we are testing their use as siege weapon transporters, camp constructors and builders of bridges. They are not to be described at any point, by anyone, as war elephants. This will be a victory for Roman men, not African animals. In fact, given that Caesar has employed the animals on a temporary basis as a favour to a friend, they will not be recorded as part of the Roman force.”

Felix smiled. He knew about Jagganoch and his elephants. During his war with the pirates a decade before, Pompey had captured a pirate king from the Yonkari empire. The Yonkari had conquered much land in Africa but few Roman explorers had reached it because it was beyond the near impassable sand sea. Pompey had taken a liking to the pirate, or, more specifically, to his descriptions of man-eating war elephants larger and fiercer than any Roman had seen before, and freed him on the understanding that he’d send back his son Jagganoch with a herd of the beasts. Pompey had never expected to see the elephants – he had so much booty that he didn’t care – but the king had been true to his word and some time later Prince Jagganoch of the Yonkari had arrived at one of Pompey’s estates with a crowd of slaves, a squad of elephant Warriors and forty armoured war elephants, which, going by the descriptions of history, were indeed larger and fiercer than Hannibal’s elephants that the Romans had faced a hundred and seventy years before, and the Persian animals that Alexander had defeated and then employed a couple of hundred years before that. They were also more trouble.

Pompey kept the elephants on his estate, but had been astonished at their expense; not so much their food, which was far from cheap, but the cost of the damage. As well as destroying buildings, they killed and ate horses, oxen, slaves and anything else that Jagganoch considered might be useful to their training. However, because Pompey was such a joker, as part of the previous year’s wranglings between him, Crassus and Caesar about how they were going to share the leadership of Rome, Pompey had insisted that Caesar take the elephants on his next campaign as a condition of the deal that allowed him free rein north of Italy. Caesar had escaped his pledge the year before, but Pompey had cornered him that winter and he’d been unable to wriggle out of it.

So they had the elephants. While others had complained of the murder of a merchant on the beach, Felix guessed that Caesar had been encouraged by it and decided that he would definitely take Jagganoch and his troop across to Britain. However, he had sensibly decided to keep the Africans and their elephants in their own camp, clear of the legionaries. It was fine to kill the odd merchant, but if the elephants started stomping on Romans then even Caesar’s fiercely loyal troops might have complained.

The general finished his briefing, asked if there were any questions in a tone that made it clear that there would be no questions, and beckoned Felix to follow him into his tent.

“This is a glorious day,” said Caesar, pouring water from a long-necked bronze jug into a plain wooden cup. “Tell Caesar the state of your legion.”

“The thirty-five Celermen and twenty Maximen are in full health and are ready to sail. I myself found a way of travelling to—”

“Just the essentials, thank you. The wind has changed and there is no time for storytelling. The northernmost ship on the beach is yours. Take it to wherever your legion is waiting. Your part of the plan is the opposite geographically to last year, but the same in essence. You will follow the fleet, see where it lands, then make landfall twenty miles to the north. The ship’s crew are expendable so expend them as you need. You may also take as many captives as you require – talk to Labienus about that. Once landed, make a good camp and remain there until you receive orders from Caesar. Kill anyone who sees you and stay out of sight of the Roman army. You will not fail this time.”

“I will not.”

“You will communicate in Britain by sending your head Celerman, only at night. Have you replaced the one killed by the British dogs?

“Yes. Kelter was killed, Bistan is the new leader.”

“Right. While you are camped, kill anyone who sees you. You should avoid killing Romans, but if a patrol discovers you, their deaths will be blamed on the British. Understand?”

“I do.”

“Good.”

Felix turned to go, then stopped. “There was one more thing…”

“If it’s about the British girl, the position has not changed. She will be vassal queen. You will keep clear of her.”

Felix nodded and left.

He strode away through the sea of tents, wondering which one was Spring’s. He could have found out and circumnavigated her guards by transporting into her tent, possibly, but it was not that precise a magic, and the girl would be certain to knife him before he knew where he was. She was not incapable; the gossip about her castration of Quintus had zipped through the camp like a winter pox. He bit his lower lip and told himself that he’d have her soon enough.

Unless, of course, she used her magic to escape. He didn’t know why she hadn’t done that immediately. Perhaps she didn’t know how to? Perhaps, like him, she could use her magic only for certain tasks, and these tasks changed? Or perhaps she had some design of her own which meant she needed to stay with the Romans? The latter seemed the most likely. So what was she up to?

Jagganoch punched the slave on the back of the head. “Polish harder! In smaller circles, you fly-blown jackal’s vomit.” The buck-toothed fool nodded rapidly and returned to his frantic rubbing of the bladed iron tusk cap. By Sobek, how Jagganoch hated the pathetic man. He despised all slaves. No matter how badly he treated them, as long as he fed and housed them they seemed content. Even worse, if he did show them the tiniest kindness – by speaking to them, for example, even if it was to insult them – they would fawn contemptibly. They were so much less than him and he hated them for accepting it. Had he been born a slave rather than prince, he would have killed his master and become a prince. These worms? They would rather lick his boot after he’d kicked them than rebel.

Bandonda trumpeted from the neighbouring ship. He knew all the elephants’ calls, but he knew his own Bandonda’s best of all. The animal was frustrated to be cooped up again like a common farm animal. Jagganoch felt the same, stuck on the beach surrounded by midget Romans. Soon, though, they would be in Britain and they would be let loose on the milk-white savages, to gore and trample.

“You’ll be wanting to have a look at the aurochs’ armour, I’m sure,” said Manfreena in her strong Eroo accent, Ula still clutching her scraggy arm.

Atlas nodded and the three of them walked back through the village, past smiling Aurochs tribespeople. He couldn’t remember feeling more uneasy. The village was clean and in good repair and the people were cheerful. Yet in the middle of it all was this Eroo witch. Perhaps she’d survived the wave, perhaps she’d taken part of her husband’s name to commemorate him, perhaps she was genuinely loveable. But it all seemed so unlikely.

Elann did not look up as they approached, but carried on beating her hammer on iron.

“Atlas, hold on a minute,” said Reena, “and bend down and touch your toes for me.”

“What?” He remained standing.

“I thought so. Ula, hold him.”

The queen of Kanawan was quicker than Chamanca. Before he realised that she’d moved, Ula was behind him, with one of his wrists in each hand, her fingers gripping so tight that it felt like they’d broken the skin.

“You’ve got magic in you,” smiled Reena, “not your own. There’s an evil in you that’s been killed by magic. It means I can’t control you like all these good people. Shame, I was hoping that you’d lead the aurochs’ charge into Lowa’s camp and chop her to bits with that big axe of yours, but it’s not a real problem. I’d take the magic out of you to control you, but you’d die straight away if I did that.” She grinned. “Hang on, that’s no bad idea. I’ll take the magic out of you. Kneel.”

Atlas strained to pull free, but Ula lifted and twisted his wrists and forced him down on his knees. The strength that Manfreena was giving her was amazing. The druid put her hands on his head, then stood back and jigged with her arms by her side, kicking her knees high, as she’d done on the beach two summers before.

Something rose from deep inside Atlas and he thought he was going to be sick, but instead it felt like an invisible vapour pouring from mouth, nose, eyes and ears.

“Throw the body deep in the woods,” he heard Manfreena say. Ula’s grip released and he slumped.

“I will take it.” It was Elann Nancarrow’s voice. “Bones burn hot.”

“I
t‘s an impressive bit of getting-togetherness, I would reckon, to gather this many ships and have them all sail at the same time. A clever thing to achieve,” said Spring, looking behind them and nodding.

Ragnall was suspicious. Ever since Spring had maimed Quintus Tullius Cicero she’d behaved impeccably, even praising the Romans and asking him to translate her words for anyone nearby.

He peered at her, searching for signs of sarcasm. As was now usual, he didn’t see any. She was looking towards Britain, smiling peacefully, hair blowing in the wind. There had been no repercussions from her attack on Quintus so far, and Ferrandus and Tertius had both sworn she’d acted in self-defence. But their testimony would mean nothing when Quintus was back on his feet. He was a powerful man and apparently he was recovering quickly. Ragnall reckoned Spring’s new “well, I do think the Romans are quite impressive” stance was intended to pull as many people as possible onto her side before Quintus resurfaced and sought revenge. It was a sensible policy but unlikely to work.