Reign of Iron (46 page)

No, they don’t, thought Spring.

“And then I came for you,” he continued, “which was simply unforgivable. I used the excuse of Ragnall hitting me, but I deserved that hit. And now I’d like to thank you from the depths of my heart for chopping my balls off.”

She almost laughed. He did not seem to be joking.

“I mean it, I really do. I don’t think about sex at all now. I’ll be a much better man from here on, a better soldier, and, ironically enough, a much better husband to poor, poor Pomponia.” He chuckled. “Well, hopefully. She’s still a fearfully unpleasant woman but I daresay much of that is my fault because I was a much worse man. But I’m not any more, all because of you!”

So are you going to let me go? Spring wondered.

Quintus chuckled. “Now, having said all that, you may have made me a better man, but you still castrated me, and for that you have to die.”

F
elix ordered his Celermen to chain the new prisoners while Maximen stowed the provisions. They’d intended to use captive Britons as magic fodder, but they had only the ones that the Maximen had carried from the battle. Luckily there was an army of Romans nearby, and in a group of people that size there were always some who needed to be punished and others that commanders wanted to be rid of for a variety of reasons. A selection of these were sent to Felix daily, the unwanted guarding the miscreants. While the Celermen chained the criminals, he’d give their guards a couple of amphoras of the strongest wine and ask them to drink with him. Once they were relaxed, the Celermen would restrain them. Drinking with them was usually a bore since they were mostly boorish men, but he had to incapacitate them to ensure none escaped and talked about the secret legion.

Thinking of escapes … It had been close, far too close, but the Celerman had brought him a captive in time and Felix had mended his own injured chest. Thank Mars he’d managed to shift so the man had stuck him on the wrong side, and only destroyed one lung instead of his heart.

He’d cured the wounds of several others, but four Celermen and six Maximen had been killed. Six Maximen! From the British perspective, it had been a successful attack. All fifty Maidunite raiders had died, but they had given their lives expensively. One of them had very nearly killed Felix himself. He’d never had a wound like it before and he had not enjoyed it one little bit.

It would never happen again. He’d been certain nobody would attack his unbeatable legion and he’d been a fool. They probably wouldn’t strike a second time, but from now on he’d light up the camp every evening like Rome on a Triumph night, and have one third of his men on a rotating, constant guard. One third of his twenty-three remaining men. Twenty-three, down from sixty at the start of the previous year … It was bad. He would certainly not tell Caesar that he hadn’t posted any guards.

Thank Jupiter some of the Celermen had woken in time. Used well, his twelve Celermen and eleven Maximen could still destroy any army. If Caesar let him, of course. He’d been incensed the general had called off his attack on the retreating Maidunites. Felix had had to obey, though, his legion was powerful but it couldn’t take the Britons alone. Once they’d defeated Lowa’s army the chance to kill Caesar would come, and Felix would be ready.

Quintus’ guards grabbed Tertius and Ferrandus and held blades to their necks.

The legate stood and unsheathed his sword. Spring jumped back, putting the bench between them. Quintus advanced.

The compound gates crashed open and black-armoured praetorians rushed in.

“Swords and bows down now! All of you!” shouted a man who epitomised the word “beefy”. By his golden helmet, Spring realised he must be the praetorian centurion, the only man apart from Julius Caesar who could give orders to Tertius and Ferrandus.

One of the archers was too slow. The centurion’s sword flashed, smashing the bow and opening his throat. The Cretan went down with a gurgle.

“Stop, stop, everybody calm down,” Quintus raised his hands. “There’s no need to—”

And the only other man whom Tertius and Ferrandus took orders from marched into the compound, Clodia looking hot at his heels.

“Quintus is right,” said Caesar. “There is no need to. Everyone stand down.” He glanced at the dying archer and his eyebrows flicked, in what looked like distaste rather than surprise. He turned to the legate. “And what is happening here, Quintus? What business do you have with Clodia Metelli and the queen of the Britons?”

“None, Caesar. In fact I was just going.”

Caesar nodded once.

Quintus limped out, followed by his troops, the Cretan archers carrying their dying compatriot.

R
agnall walked into Caesar’s little tent town in the middle of the tent city, next to Clodia’s stockaded compound. The praetorians let him through as if he were expected. He had come to join the army. Having nothing to do all day was driving him mad, and he envied the industry and the camaraderie of the Roman soldiers. He’d had a dream the night before in which he’d explained this to Drustan, who’d told him that lack of achievement was causing his misery. The secret to happiness, the elderly druid had explained, was to impress oneself every now and then. The path to impressing oneself was endeavour, and the army would provide Ragnall with plenty of endeavour. Moreover, it would stop him drinking so much.

He’d woken and known that Drustan was right. He needed to do something, to be a part of something, and the army was the obvious solution.

Caesar was pacing in a canvas-sided courtyard, dictating to scribes. “The Britons have no corn nor other crops, they live on milk and meat. They shave their entire bodies other than their upper lips and heads, where they grow the hair long. Their shaved bodies they dye blue. They have no sense of love or marriage, instead woman are shared between groups of men, especially brothers and fathers—”

He spotted Ragnall, held his finger up to indicate that he should wait, and continued: “We will come back to the British later. Back to the campaign. To repair the storm’s destruction the legionaries worked day and night. They brought the repaired ships ashore into the enlarged camp to avoid further ravages from the weather. More ships arrived from Gaul and these too were taken into the camp. The Britons, fearful of the might of the Romans, remained at bay while Caesar consolidated his foothold.”

The general waved a hand to indicate he was finished dictating for now and strode over to Ragnall.

“Hail, king of the Britons! You are looking well. Not so fat.”

“Thank you, Caesar. I would like to march inland as a legionary.”

“You cannot. You will be king, Caesar has decreed. Your queen must not be disappointed.”

“The queen is dead.”

“Is she? She looked alive earlier today.”

What was this? Was he joking?

“Clodia Metelli is her keeper now,”

“But I thought—”

“Ragnall, Caesar does not care for the details of domestic disputes. He understands that you argued with your wife. This happens. It will happen again. Although Caesar is no great paragon when it comes to matrimony and should not seek to lecture, he advises two things. First, do not take these spats seriously. Second, keep your arguments private. To have one’s public business known by all is noble, to have one’s private business known is not.”

Ragnall nodded. So Spring was alive. He was glad. He’d been ashamed of his role in attempting to have her killed. But at the same time he still wanted her dead for all that she’d done to him, and for her father’s murder of his family. He was confused. Again! It was exactly quandaries like this that made him want to be a soldier. Forget Drustan’s “impress yourself” lecture, Ragnall simply wanted a simple life.

“Please, Caesar, can I be a legionary? I want to be part of the victory over Lowa and … I want something to do. Inactivity is driving me mad!”

Caesar raised his eyebrows, then nodded, as if he’d asked himself a question and decided an answer. “Caesar understands. Idleness is a curse. You cannot be a legionary because they are trained and you are not. They will be in battle soon, and an untrained man is a liability. However, I have something for you. Caesar should have left you with the cavalry after he defeated the Nervee. You may rejoin them. Report to Labienus and tell him Caesar’s bidding.”

“Thank you.” Ragnall turned to go.

“Wait. You are troubled, Ragnall. Caesar senses that you are somewhat … lost.”

“I … well … I suppose…” Ragnall was surprised at the personal observation.

“There is only one person who can help you find yourself again. You know who it is.”

“No.” Ragnall didn’t have a clue. “Is it Labienus?”

Caesar blew a small laugh through his nose. “No, fool, it’s you. You need discipline and exercise as a framework, but within that you must force yourself to have the confidence to be the man you want to be, not the man that you believe others expect you to be. Caesar went through this process when he was several years younger than you, but he had the advantage of a Roman upbringing. It is time you caught up. The cavalry will help. Farewell.”

“Farewell” from Caesar meant “Go away,” so Ragnall went, eyes wide in surprise and joy at receiving such personal advice from probably the greatest man in the world. He would do it, he’d do for Caesar, and for Drustan too. He was lucky to have their advice, and receiving direct instruction from two such fine men on the same day was surely no coincidence. He would heed their words. He would become a better man.

C
aesar dismounted, looked around slowly, turned to Felix and raised half a disdainful lip.

Felix saw his point. He had forgotten how squalid his camp had become. Because it made training more fun and because they had a surfeit of captives, Felix had allowed his Celermen and Maximen to make some kills the morning before. They were messy murderers and reluctant housekeepers, so body parts, guts and sheets of skin were strewn over the ground and draped over tents and training equipment like clothes at an orgy. Although he liked it, Felix knew the stench of the dead wasn’t to everybody’s taste. The captives chained nearby added to the smell, as did the dozens of corpses not far away along the tideline.

On top of all this, since the day was hot, the Celermen and Maximen who weren’t on guard were naked. Other than the pustules all over the Celermen’s heads, they were fine specimens of leanly fit and very muscular young men. Felix thought they looked fantastic strutting about free from their armour, but the Roman army’s view was that male nudity should be left to the perverted Greeks.

“Follow. Caesar will talk to you somewhere that does not stink like the latrines of Hades and looks like a Spartan’s wet dream.” He strode away.

Felix trotted behind the general’s long stride across the beach and out on to a grassy spur that probed the wide estuary. The day was still. Sun sparked off the sea and Caesar’s gold-plated armour, and seabirds glided lethargically overhead. Felix hoped that enough supplies had come from Gaul and it was time, finally, to stop dallying. The sooner they conquered this backward land, the sooner Felix could reveal his plans and stop chasing after Caesar’s toga tail.

As they arrived at the end of the spit, the faint echoes of a shout drifted across the water.

“What was that?” asked Caesar.

“You have good ears. It was a British shout reporting our position. I’ve searched for the shouters but they are tiresomely competent at concealing themselves and we haven’t winkled any out yet. They’re also good at throwing their voices in certain directions, so we hear them only out here when the wind is in the south or west.”

“How do these shouters operate?”

Felix told the general about the network of shouters set up by Zadar to yell messages across the country, how they could direct their voices, use codes to cut certain areas out of a shout, and so on.

Caesar nodded throughout with uncharacteristic patience, and when he was finished said: “You will use the speed and stealth of your Celermen to capture as many of these shouters as you can. Bring them unharmed to Caesar.”

“We will try.”

“You will
do
.”

“Sorry, yes, of course.”

“Do they have an emergency shout, to inform the network that they are captured?”

“Yes, I think they do.”

“Ensure that none are able to make this shout.”

“That will be difficult.”

“Yes.”

“But it will be done,” Felix added.

“Good. Now, the legions are marching west,” said Caesar. “You will shadow the army to the north, keeping contact through your man Bistan.”

“Bistan is missing.”

“How careless, but no matter, any of your Celermen will do, it is not a taxing duty. Ensure they come at night. The British are dug into a fortified position some hundred and fifty miles west of our beachhead. Scouts report a barren country between here and there. You should not meet any opposition. Caesar will continue to send you those who meet his displeasure to fuel your troops. He commands you to remember that these are Romans and our allies, and should be treated as such. Are these men being fed?”

“Yes,” lied Felix. When food was scarce, why feed doomed men? If they needed to march he would give them sustenance, however.

“Good. Now fetch Caesar’s horse. He will never again come within two miles of your mephitic camp.”

Lowa leant on the north-east wall of Saran Fort, next to the high, intertwined banks and gates which made up the eastern entrance. There were no clouds, the moon had not yet risen and the bright stars stretched from one wide horizon to the other. She wasn’t normally given to whimsy, but so brilliant and enveloping were the stars that she could almost feel that she was up among them, floating and free from the terrible burden of responsibility she bore for those who’d already died and for those who were going to.

The smell of smoke and the background carousing of her army kept her thoughts anchored to the earth. The aroma of freshly cut wood from the new gates reminded her of the day that the old gates had been destroyed, when Zadar had sacked the place. She remembered it well. The double walls had been high but rampart-free and so collapsed that a horse could charge up them. Zadar’s Fifty, his elite cavalry to which Lowa had recently been elevated, had ridden up the first wall, through a shallow point of the ditch and onto the interior wall. They’d galloped around the edge and shot arrows into the fort until the defenders surrendered. It had been fun, an exciting sport. She hadn’t considered for a moment that these were real people with families and lives that she was spitting with iron and wood. Her only concern back then had been her own and her sister’s survival.