Reign of Iron (20 page)

The men were working as fast as was reasonable, and Felix knew that it was him being the arse, shouting at them like that, but he couldn’t help it. He was desperate to be at sea and alone with Spring. By the time he got back to pick up his demons he’d have so much magic he’d be like a god!

“
COME ON!
” he bellowed.

He looked over to the praetorian. He still had Spring in his grip. He could hardly believe he was so close now. The silly girl had delivered herself to him! No, no, it had been the gods, for sure. They wanted him to have her.

“Felix!” He spun round. It was Ragnall. Tits! The silly boy could ruin everything. “Let me have a look at that girl,” he said. His Latin was accent-free now, Felix noticed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have to give you a reason.”

“I am Caesar’s chosen king of Britain, you are on my island and I will see that girl.”

“No! Praetorian, take her aboard the ship now.” There’d been a time when he’d have been able to make all of them unite to carry out his wishes purely by thinking about it, as he’d done so often with Zadar’s troops at Maidun, but he seemed to have lost that power. Had he used up too much life-force? Or perhaps pouring all his energies into his Maximen and Celermen had meant forsaking the control skill? He tried it, focusing his mind and willing Ragnall to go away.

Ragnall pulled his sword, unaffected. “You will do no such thing. I will see that girl.”

“Will you ladies both calm down,” said the praetorian. “I take orders from two men, neither of whom are you. I will put the girl on the ship, as Caesar has commanded—”

“Do it now! Now!” Felix was bouncing on the sand, all sense gone. He had to get the girl on that ship!

“– however, I will not put her on board before the ship is floating, because, Felix, as you pointed out so eloquently a moment ago, that would be fucking stupid. In the meantime, I cannot see why Ragnall should not—”

“Hello, Ragnall, hello, Felix. How are you both?” said Spring groggily, returning to consciousness at exactly the wrong moment.

“Spring! I knew it was you,” said Ragnall.

“Praetorian! Kill them both! They are plotting in barbarian language against Caesar!”

The praetorian looked at Felix, shaking his head.

“We are plotting nothing,” said Ragnall. “We were greeting each other in the British tongue. This girl is a British princess. Her father was King Zadar of Maidun, as Felix well knows. I’m sure you told Caesar, didn’t you, Felix?” The druid looked at his feet. “You didn’t? Well, I’m sure the praetorian will agree that the general will want to know that he has such a valuable captive.”

The praetorian raised an eyebrow at Felix. Felix gibbered. The praetorian shook his head. “Ragnall, you’re right, I will take her to Caesar. Felix, come as well and explain why you didn’t tell the general who he had, and why you wanted her for yourself.”

Felix breathed in to scream orders at the praetorian, but then deflated. He’d got as far he had by being the master of his temper and knowing when to back down. It wasn’t the end. He would have the girl. There was only one thing he could do now.

“Hang on, let me have another look at her.” He walked over.

“Not too close, Felix.” The praetorian took a step back. “I don’t like this at all.”

Felix shook his head. “I didn’t mean her any harm. I’m just in a hurry … and actually, Ragnall, now you mention it, I
do
recognise her. I am
so
sorry and thanks
so
much for realising who she was. She’s much older than when I last saw her, that’s why I didn’t recognise her. Praetorian, please take her directly to the medical tent and have those bruises on her face looked at and have her checked for concussion. Then go on to Caesar. I certainly won’t harm her now I know who she is, and I look forward very much to seeing her on my return and having a good old catch-up. Goodbye, Ragnall, goodbye, Spring!”

The druid walked away, grinding his teeth and trying not to scream.

“I am fine.” Atlas shivered, disproving his statement.

“Fenn’s tits,” said Chamanca, “I will be seriously pissed off if you die because of your bull-headedness. Go and see Maggot, now.” Toughness she liked. Stupidity was unappealing and Atlas was being about as stupid as can be.

“Maybe later – look.”

Chamanca turned and saw Lowa running into the village centre.

“Adler,” called the queen, “Atlas, Chamanca, Mal, to me!”

Atlas staggered as he stood. His skin, usually a shining brown-purple, was turning muddy grey.

“Sit down again, Atlas,” said Lowa. “You,” she pointed at a nearby soldier. “Find the druid Maggot, send him here.”

“There’s no need,” said Atlas. “I have put a poultice on the wound. It is all that can be done.”

Lowa shook her head. “Maggot will be the judge of that.” Chamanca could have kissed her. “Right, everyone gather in round Atlas. I want your opinions.”

“On what?”

“On how we’re going to defeat the Romans tonight.”

As they discussed and debated, Atlas stayed silent. His eyes were bloodshot and flickering.

“Atlas,” said Lowa, “you will go and lie down until Maggot—”

“Until I what?” said Maggot, jogging up, his adornments jingling like a cart decorated with bells, followed by “Ah” when he saw the Kushite. “Can you walk, Atlas?” he asked.

“Course I can walk.” The big man stood, then fell back down.

“You and you,” Maggot called to two burly onlookers. “Take his arms and follow me.” The men helped Atlas to his feet. “This way, come on, it’s not far.”

Lowa resumed the discussion of the battle to come, but Chamanca wasn’t listening. She was watching the African’s broad back heading off between the huts.

Ragnall followed Spring and the praetorian to the physician. There were several ranks of medical tents and Ragnall insisted that the praetorian took her to the highest, the one for legates and other important people. He waited outside while the doctor worked on her wounds.

Seeing Spring again had hit him like a plank to the face. Even though he’d known her for only a few months, here was someone from his previous life, someone who’d known Lowa and Dug – and Drustan, his dead mentor and friend. Seeing someone from that world and that time surrounded by Romans and Roman things was like a dream in which people and situations from different places and times muddle together in bright confusion. The nostalgia radiating from Spring was so weighty that his breath caught in his throat and he had to swallow to avoid weeping. The look, sound, even the smell of the girl made memories swirl into his head, not just of things that had happened in Britain, but of how it had felt to be happy. Well, not massively happy – his parents and brothers had just been killed when he met Spring – but he’d been a child, an innocent, lost in the world and looking to older people for guidance. He’d grown up so much since then, and not out of choice.

“You can go in,” said the physician on his way out.

She was sitting on a camp bed. There were five other beds and three tables in the airy tent. Two were draped with cloths, the other held an array of gleaming little bronze tools – miniature pliers, knives, saws and other implements that Ragnall did not recognise. Only one other bed was occupied, by the sleeping or unconscious aquilifer of the Tenth Legion. He was the hero of the landing, apparently. Plenty of other people had been as brave, but none of them had been carrying a great gold “Look at me!” eagle on a pole, so it was the aquilifer who’d been noticed and who qualified for the best medical care. That was how the army worked. Lying on the bed next to the aquilifer was his golden standard, the letters SPQR under the eagle’s claws. The letters stood for “the senate and people of Rome”. Ragnall felt proud to be part of something so proud and mighty, although arguably the motto “for Caesar” might have reflected the legionaries’ motivation more accurately.

“What happened to him?” Spring asked, nodding at the aquilifer, her voice muffled. Her jaw was swollen and one eye bruised, but colour had returned to her cheeks and the sparkle was back in her eye. Her hands were tied in front of her, attached to her shackled ankles by a thin chain which ran off the bed and disappeared under it.

“Battle happened to him. Never mind that, though, what happened to you?”

“Got caught trying to kill Caesar.”

“Ah. We don’t like that.”

“We?”

“I’m a Roman now.”

“That’s like a horse deciding that it’s a dog.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. Why did you come here?”

“Me, or all the Romans?”

“You first.”

“To bring the Roman way of life to Britain. You should see Rome, Spring. Just saying its name now makes me feel warm, excited. It’s amazing … and we can have it all here in Britain, we really can. Clean water everywhere, warm homes in winter, governed by a rule of law that’s the same for everyone and not subject to the whims of kings and—”

“And why are all the other Romans here?”

“Same reason.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Why else—”

“Ah, here she is.” Caesar swept into the tent, flanked by a couple of praetorians. “Good. Spring. May Caesar call you Spring?”

Spring looked at him blankly, so Ragnall translated.

“May I call him baldy cuntface?” replied Spring.

“She says she’s honoured that you should speak to her at all,” said Ragnall.

“Good, good. So, a princess.”

“Sort of.”

“Come to assassinate Caesar, but Caesar will not trouble with details for such an esteemed guest.”

“And…” Ragnall wondered whether to tell Caesar about Spring’s magic. He was almost certain that he’d seen her give Dug the power to fight like a god … but then she’d claimed she couldn’t use magic any more and she certainly hadn’t in the battle against the Dumnonians, when it would have been very handy. He decided to keep quiet, for now at least. “And she’s the daughter of King Zadar.”

“
Is
she? Not your close relative?”

“Not my relative at all, other than the daughter of the man who slaughtered my family, but – oh.”

Caesar was smiling, looking from him to the girl. Oh, Bel’s tartan trousers, thought Ragnall. He realised all at once what Caesar was about to demand, why he wanted it and that there was no reasonable argument against it.

“She’s too young!” was the only thing he could think of saying.

Caesar peered at her. “Too young? She’s well past twelve, is she not? She’s sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Something like that.”

“Good. More than old enough. We will keep her chained for now, but you will look after her. Caesar will send you praetorians to protect her. She will be trained and as keen as you were to be Roman by the time you marry this winter.”

Ragnall looked horror-struck at Spring, who grinned back at him as if she’d understood every word and was enjoying his discomfort. Ragnall had been fantasising recently about marrying a sophisticated, high-born Roman girl. Spring might have grown into an attractive woman, but her expressions, the way she moved, everything about her still screamed that she was a savage ragamuffin who wasn’t above trying to solve problems by biting people. It would be like marrying a wolf cub.

“Caesar, I will do your bidding, but … Spring was about ten when I last saw her, but even then she was angrier and more wilful than a wildcat yet she was … capable. She sparked and organised the revolution that brought down her father. Given a chance, she will kill you, and she will do her best to undermine our mission … I did not translate entirely accurately when I said she was honoured to be spoken to.”

Caesar looked down his nose. “Ragnall, Caesar is not an idiot and he does not pass through an invaded land without picking up the most popular insults. British is close enough to Gaulish for him to know that the word ‘cunt’ is not an honorific. You will make sure that her claws are kept away from Caesar and you will marry her.”

“She won’t want to marry me.”

Caesar looked at him as if a singing squirrel had burst from the top of his head. “What, by all the gods, does that matter? Caesar’s own sister Julia had to marry that oaf Pompey when she was the same age as this girl. She is lucky to be marrying a dashing prince and not a fat blowhard like him. And you should be glad – she is beautiful beneath the bruising and she has spirit. She will be an entertaining wife. You will marry in Rome this winter. When the army returns, the rightful king of Britain will be at its head, the rightful queen at his side.

“When the army returns…? We’re going?”

“This is a reconnaissance mission. It is too late in the year for a full-scale invasion; surely you have learnt enough by now to realise that? We leave today, before the autumn storms take hold. We will return next year with an invasion force.”

Ragnall could not believe what he was hearing. A reconnaissance mission was a couple of men in a boat sneaking ashore and having a look around. Twelve thousand armed men who hadn’t left their landing site was the opposite of a reconnaissance mission. Could Caesar be fleeing? Surely not. But if so, why? Was Lowa’s army as huge as their trumpets had suggested?

The general ignored his confusion. “Caesar must go. Gather whatever you must gather and bring the girl to the flagship.”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“And a piece of advice. Do not teach her Latin and do your best to prevent her learning it. She will be less trouble if she depends on you.”

Caesar swept from the tent.

“What was that all about then?” asked Spring. “And when can I go home?”

Lowa crept up the dunes on her elbows, Chamanca at her side. She and her commanders had come up with many ideas about how to attack the Romans, but all of them were flawed. There were plenty of ways that they could harm the invaders, but if she was going to attack, Lowa wanted to kill or capture all of them, partly so that they wouldn’t come back and partly so that she could rescue Spring. The only realistic tactics they could come up with involved the Romans leaving the spit and marching inland, which they showed no sign of doing. She hoped that inspiration might strike if she had a long look at their camp.