Clash of Iron (42 page)

“Lowa?” he whispered, gently pulling her into him.

She gave a little gasp, shifted backwards towards his embrace, breathed in a long, rasping breath, and began to snore.

Dug chuckled, then lay awake for a long while.

T
en days after Caesar had wiped out the Nervee, Atlas, Carden and Chamanca were by the rocky Gaulish coast. They’d escaped the battleground by heading up through the trees, in the path of Felix’s mysterious warriors. They’d found no trace of a dark legion, only hundreds of dead Nervee, some killed cleanly, some chopped into pieces, some ripped apart and some crushed.

Late one morning, they walked past more ancient standing stones than Chamanca had ever seen in one place and into the coastal town of Karnac, in the land of the Fenn-Nodens tribe. The Fenn-Nodens, Atlas told them, were a collection of clans and tribes, part of a larger agglomeration called the Armoricans. They occupied a broad peninsula which did much trade with the Dumnonians, a short sail across the Channel in Britain. The Armorican tribes’ territory stretched further north, along the coast opposite Maidun’s lands and south-east Britain.

Atlas had insisted that the famously indomitable Armoricans were their best hope for preventing an invasion of Britain. They were also, Chamanca had pointed out, the last. Annoyingly, though, the Armoricans had rolled over in front of the Romans like a puppy snarled at by a war dog. They hadn’t capitulated officially, but Caesar had insisted that a couple of the offspring of each tribal leader should visit him and stay for a while, and the children had been sent. So the Romans had hostages.

Worse, as if he were an imperious guest taking the elder of the house’s seat nearest the hearth while the householders watched in meek acquiescence, they’d let Caesar commandeer every boatyard and dock along the entire Armorican coast, and more on the broad river that led inland from Fenn-Nodens territory. The general had set them all to building the ships that would carry his forces across the Channel.

As they walked along Karnac’s industrious wharf, all around was the busy sawing, banging and shouting of people who were being paid more than they’d ever been paid before, assembling ships at an unprecedented rate.

“Nobody would ever work this hard in Britain,” said Carden.

“Indeed,” said Atlas.

Atlas had insisted that they come to Karnac to find the leader of the Fenn-Nodens, but, seeing that the leader was already kissing the hem of the Roman toga, he’d decided not to rush straight in and start advising on war tactics. So right now they were, according to Atlas, on reconnaissance, judging what their next move should be. Chamanca reckoned they were wandering about like clueless idiots.

They came to the end of the dock. Here was an area that had once sprouted with well-placed trees, for fishers and workers to relax in the shade. Now it was a grassy area of freshly cut tree stumps, the wood taken for boat building. A couple of entrepreneurs had inevitably spotted a market, and were selling mugs of beer. The Fenn-Nodens who were too old, infirm or laid back to work on the boats were here, sprawled about on the grass, drinking in the sun.

“Might as well have a beer,” said Atlas.

“Best plan yet,” Carden nodded.

A short while later, a musician came wandering along, lyre in hand. He was an unlikely looking bard. He was old, perhaps fifty, but still with a full head of grey-black, curly hair. He wore the tight leather trousers and figure-gripping jerkin of a younger man, which seemed an odd choice to Chamanca, given that he was skinny to the point of feebleness, but with a belly like an eight-moons’ pregnant women. If she’d had his figure, she’d have worn an ankle-length frock smock.

Despite his appearance, Chamanca saw that he was respected. As people noticed him they stopped their own conversations to watch him pass. When he arrived at the beer table, two men squabbled over who would buy him a drink until he magnanimously agreed to accept one from each of them.

He stood, surveying his potential audience.

“What’s the news, Cathbad?” someone shouted.

“Tell us what’s happening!” cried another.

Cathbad looked over his listeners. He had a long, pudgy face and an irreverent glint in his eye.

“I’ve ridden all night, from the seat of the Haddatookey tribe. Or, what was once the Haddatookey tribe. Because the Haddatookey tribe are no more. I have just witnessed…” He paused. His audience were silent. “…the biggest disaster in the world.”

“What happened? Were there survivors? Are the Romans coming here?” people shouted.

Cathbad waited until they were quiet. “Julius Caesar is not a man to cross,” he said in a low voice to draw his audience in; then, louder: “as the Haddatookey found out, to a dreadful, dreadful cost.”

He took a long draught of beer and burped. “King Thaldor agreed to help the Romans against the Nervee. But Thaldor is a man who’s always had trouble differentiating his arse from his elbow.” Cathbad waited for the laugher and calls of “Too right!” to subside. “So he didn’t manage to send his army in time, and he missed the battle. Caesar won anyway and this terrified simple Thaldor. He was convinced the Romans would think that he’d planned to help the Nervee and be out to get him. But what could he do?”

Cathbad rolled his eyes bardishly. Everyone was gripped by the story.

“I’ll tell you what he did. He made a terrible mistake. The Haddatookey capital is the most impenetrable town in the world. Cliffs guard three sides and a high double wall protects the other. Thaldor and the Haddatookey must have felt safe there, because when Caesar and his army arrived they stood on the walls, showed the Romans their arses, and mocked them for…” – Cathbad looked around as if checking for something – “…being such ugly dwarfs!” Chamanca realised he’d been making sure there were no legionaries about.

This got more cheers. The Romans were generally shorter than the Gauls, and the Gauls loved to tease them about it, although rarely to their faces.

“The Romans, efficient people that they are, ignored the gibes, walked back to their camp and started to assemble siege engines. Now, can anybody guess how many they’d built before Thaldor crapped in his red woollen trousers and surrendered?”

“Ten?”

“A hundred?”

“A thousand?”

Cathbad smiled and shook his head. “One. One siege engine went up, and Thaldor crawled from the town like a worm. Now, as your rulers have had the sense to see, Julius Caesar is a reasonable man. I’ve met him and he’s a good chap, some interesting views. But you don’t want to cross him.

“Caesar ordered the Haddatookey to surrender all their weapons, and that was all. Such a decent guy. He even told them to lock their gates again, so that his own soldiers couldn’t come in and trouble their young women or silversmiths.

“That should have been the end of it. But Thaldor, a man who makes seagulls look bright, kept some of his weapons. That night, he guessed that the Romans would throw a party then sleep the sleep of the drunk, because that’s what he and the Haddatookey would have done after another tribe’s surrender. So he armed as many as he could and led an attack from the gates.”

Chamanca knew what was coming next. She looked at Atlas, who shook his head in disappointment.

“The Romans, being Romans, were waiting for them. They let Thaldor and his force walk into their apparently sleeping camp, poured from their tents, slaughtered the lot, then marched through the unarmed town’s open gates.”

Cathbad set down his beer mug and looked serious.

“Any children might want to block their ears. This is where it gets nasty.”

Chamanca looked about. The few children there were bouncing with excitement. One man tried to put his hands over a young girl’s ears, but she squirmed from his grasp.

Cathbad shook his head. “All the remaining weapons had gone out with the assault, so there was no resistance. The Romans got to raping. They’re not a particular lot and they raped everyone in the town. Everyone.”

The drinkers were quiet. Cathbad nodded and continued: “When they’d finished, they slapped all of them in chains. The next afternoon I spoke to a slave trader. She reckoned that Caesar had taken seventy thousand Haddatookey captive. I think it was more.”

Cathbad smiled, ruefully. “And that, my dear Fenn-Nodens people, is why you do not fight Rome. And you never, ever tease them about their height. The little men don’t like it!”

There was a hubbub of agreement.

“Come on,” said Atlas, “there’s no point staying here. Let’s go.”

“Home?” asked Carden.

“Not yet. First we’ll tour the Armorican chiefs and see if we can find anyone with the courage to face the Romans.”

D
ug woke on the bed in the hut to find Lowa’s snores had been replaced by Spring’s.

They waited for night to move, then kept to woodland tracks. They were certain that Grummog would have sent patrols looking for them, but they saw nobody. Initially Dug was awkward talking to Lowa and she didn’t seem overly happy talking to him either. After trying and failing to convince himself that their silence was comfortable he fell back to ride alongside Spring. The girl, however, insisted that he and Lowa should ride ahead to bear the brunt of an ambush, and that she should ride behind, listening with her better ears for followers.

Slowly, a few observations here and a joke there turned into a conversation. By dawn, they were talking like old friends after the third drink. It was mostly about Lowa’s rule of Maidun, preparing for the Romans, and this new threat from Eroo. Dug was surprised to hear Lowa asking for his council and listening intently while he gave it. He was more surprised to hear himself coming up with sensible sounding plans and logical solutions for logistical problems. When they finally got on to the subject of Dug’s farm, Lowa seemed genuinely interested, and had some great ideas for what to do with all his surplus honey.

When he rode next to her, his jarringly bony mount became a bouncing cushion of air. Despite Dug looking for one, they didn’t find a handily abandoned one-bed hut again, so when they rested behind thickets and banks, Dug couldn’t find an excuse to repeat the curled-up sleeping arrangement. However, Spring kept herself busy making camp, foraging and scouting while Dug spent all his time with Lowa, feeling as happy as a drowning sailor who’s been hoicked from the sea, lain on a warm feather mattress and is being massaged dry by the breasts of beautiful, busty mermaids. Nothing physical happened between them – nothing sexual anyway – but every time they touched – passing a waterskin or just brushing along – that part of Dug fizzed as if tickled by tiny bolts of lightning.

So he was sad when the journey ended and he was faced by the prospect of returning to his farm, alone.-This depite the retinue of farmworkers and merchants cheering the return of Queen Lowa, jogging and hollering alongside them even before they crested the final hill and Maidun Castle burst into view. By the time they reached the hillfort, it seemed that all of Maidun had flocked to greet them and they rode along buffeted by cheers and joyous shouting.

At the foot of the castle hill, Lowa climbed on to a wall and addressed the people, thanking them for their kind reception and, in advance, for the massive effort and sacrifices they’d have to make to meet the coming threats.

Dug was going to head off when she’d finished, but he loitered for a while then tried not to look too pleased when she beckoned for him to follow her through the gates and into the castle. He looked about for Spring, but she’d disappeared. He caught up with Lowa.

The wide body of Maidun Castle was more sparsely populated than its environs, but there were still plenty of people pressing up to express their joy at her return. Even Elann Nancarrow left her forge briefly to nod approval at the returning queen.

They walked up to the Eyrie and there were more people to greet them. Mal whooped with joy, and even surly Nita cracked a big smile and hugged Lowa, Dug and then Lowa again.

Finally, the gates of Lowa’s compound closed behind them and they were alone.

Dug had been to Zadar’s old compound only briefly before, but little had changed. At the far end, protected by a sunshade suspended by ropes from the wall, were chairs for the summer court. On the left was the palisade between the Eyrie and the body of the fort. To the right were three big huts. The only difference he spotted was a circle of bright flowers surrounding one of them.

“Not very queenly, I know,” said Lowa, seeing him notice it, “but I like flowers.”

“Aye, no, they’re very nice. I’ve done a similar thing back at mine, although more blues. I find that … well, it’s not really interesting. Listen, I ought to be getting back there. I’ve got some sheep which … I ought to go.”

Lowa smiled at him, head tilted, eyes bright. “I was hoping,” she said, “that you’d stay.”

“Ba…” said Dug. “Urb?” he managed.

“Here, in Maidun. I’d like you to help me with the army’s training.”

“Oh, right, yeah, I could do that. I’ll need to go home first and sort some things, but yeah. Would I get a hut in the fort?”

“You can have a hut in the fort if that’s what you’d like.” She looked strangely vulnerable. “But, if you’d like to, you could stay here. With me. In my hut. Our hut.”

She raised her eyes to his. Tears welled.

The earth burst open, the sky collapsed and he strode forwards, took her in his arms and kissed her.

J
ulius Caesar marched south followed by his loot. So numerous were the slaves from all over Gaul and the wagonloads of plunder that they said the vanguard of the booty parade made camp every evening before the tail had set off from the previous one. “They” were exaggerating as usual, Ragnall reckoned but it was true that the Romans headed home that autumn with an obscene quantity of pillaged and reluctantly donated treasures, and a multitude of enslaved men, women and children.