Clash of Iron (47 page)

“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 became 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.”

C
aesar’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.

V
astivias’ 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 packed 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.

M
al 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.

“Any sign of the enemy?” Atlas asked.

“Depends who you mean by enemy,” Tayden replied, looking pointedly at Mal. She was a tallish, strong looking woman of around Mal’s age. She had thinning fair hair decorated with shells, washy blue eyes and lips that looked like they were searching for something to suck on. Although there was definitely something of the frog about her, her features somehow combined quite pleasingly and Mal might have found her attractive if it hadn’t been for her constant suspicious hostility.

“But if you mean the Eroo fleet, then, no, there’s no sign,” Tayden said, then followed quickly with: “So you and your soldiers will have to stay down here.”

“The infantry will stay here. Mal and I are coming up the hill,” said Atlas. “Come on, Mal.” Atlas walked past her. There were two ways to the top of the mound: a more gentle road running round and round it for carts, and a steep path that led directly to the top. Atlas took the path.

“All right, but just you two, and you leave your weapons here!” she shouted after Atlas. Atlas carried on, his war axe bouncing on his back. Mal jogged to catch up with him, which actually meant, due to the gradient, trotting daintily on his toes, which was embarrassing. He looked up at Atlas. How did he always manage to look so tough?

As they crested Frogshold by the gates of the hillfort, the view of the ocean opened up and Mal saw them, spread all over the sea. It was like walking into your hut and seeing a million wasps clinging to every surface.

The broad Haffen Estuary, stretching from Dumnonia in the south to the wild land of Kimruk to the north, was dotted with dark ships. They would reach the coast not far from Frogshold in a couple of hours at most.

To the south, he could see the Dumnonian army on the march. Presumably they had spotted the Eroo fleet and were heading to contest its landing. No doubt they’d sent a shout to Maidun which Atlas and Mal had missed as they crossed the marshes from Gutrin Tor. The shout network was fallible, and the marshes between Gutrin and Frogshold were exactly the sort of place where shouts might not reach. That excused the Dumnonians for not alerting them, but not the Frogsholders …

There was a clang behind him. Mal spun to see Atlas blocking a sword blow from Tayden with his iron wrist-guard then pushing her away with the palm of his hand. As Tayden staggered back, the big Kushite grabbed his axe from his back and swung it at two guards who’d come at him, slicing through leather, flesh and bone.

Tayden regained her footing and launched herself at Atlas, sword first. Mal ran in, bashed her sword to the ground with his own and drove his hilt into her face. Another woman came in as the chief fell. He blocked her sword, leapt back to face her, but Atlas’ axe swung and she was headless.

Tayden and her guard were down, but there were many more Frogsholders watching from the wall of the hillfort. They shouted, “They’ve killed Tayden!”, “Get them!” and other such things.

“Shall we?” said Atlas, nodding towards the bottom of the hill.

“Let’s,” said Mal.

The two men sprinted down the slope. As he judged his footing, trying and failing to keep up with Atlas, Mal thought. There were, what, five hundred Eroo ships? Probably more. Allowing for supplies, each would be carrying about two hundred troops. Multiply five hundred by two hundred and … no, no, he thought. That simply could not be right.