Reign of Iron (42 page)

With each reveal, more and more archers were hit by stones. Lowa saw a young man she knew – he’d been an apprentice baker when she’d recruited him – stagger and fall from the wall. With the archers trying to spot where the next gang of slingers would rear their heads, and ducking to avoid their salvos where they did, the number of arrows shot at the legionaries was much reduced. They took advantage. Many dropped their shields and rushed in with poles, spades and spears to finish off the oxen and pile up bovine carcasses, crashed carts, earth and rubble against the wall. With the amount of debris hurtling towards the fort, it wouldn’t be long before they could just run up on to the wall. Clever, she thought, shooting one of the ramp-building legionaries, then another.

A slingstone whizzed past her ear and she fell to the ground as several more whooshed through the space she’d occupied moments earlier.

It was about time, she thought, to—

“Demons heading for Big Bugger Hill!” came the shout. Followed by “Shouter Touchnight discovered!”

“Makka’s tits,” said Lowa, fear lurching through her. They weren’t the words that Dug had said would herald her son’s death, but they weren’t far off. But she had to forget about that and focus on the battle

She peeked over the palisade. The Roman ramp was already halfway up the wall. Had she intended to keep the fort, there were a couple of things she might have done about it. As it was, the plan had always been to flee and the time had come. She shouted the order, Mal repeated it and the archers streamed off the wall and out of the gate to the waiting carts. The only ones who didn’t run immediately were the couple of dozen who’d been instructed to remove a few key planks and set fire to the dried twigs and grass that was packed throughout the wall’s interior.

Lucius Aurelius Dolabella’s troop contained enough men for the Maximen and Celermen to have two each – one to fuel the journey, and one for the attack. Felix shouted the order and held Dolabella at sword point while his Maximen and Celermen killed one and crippled one man each.

Dolabella gibbered at the sight of his men being massacred and disabled. Felix apologised for the inconvenience and, while the death-fuelled Celermen chased down a couple of the faster-running legionaries, he told Dolabella who he was, about his legion and how he’d created them, and how they were working for Caesar.

When he’d finished, Dolabella said: “A secret mission! How exciting!”

They ran inland, the Maximen carrying wailing legionaries. Dolabella led the way on horseback like a true hero of old, Felix galloping behind him, grinning and looking around to see if he could spot Bistan. Where could his head Celerman have got to?

To Felix’s surprise, Dolabella not only found the way to the battle, but took them to probably the best vantage point, a hill to the west where they were hidden from the Roman army but could see the British position and their route away from the Romans.

The battle was over. The fort was ablaze and the Britons were retreating to the south in fast carts along a broad road. It gave him a little thrill to see a mounted blonde figure riding alongside the carts – Lowa. They were clear away from Caesar’s legionaries, who hadn’t yet passed the fort, and there were only a couple of thousand retreaters in view, so he guessed that the main body of the army was long gone. That didn’t really matter because his men would be able to chase down and kill all the ones he could see, and that included Lowa.

“Dolabella, get off your horse.”

The idiot boy did as he was told.

“Come over here.” Felix pointed to the nearest Celerman. “You, hold him.”

Dolabella looked worried but didn’t try to flee as the Celerman took his skinny arms in strong, leather-encased hands. Felix put his own hands round Dolabella’s neck and pressed his thumbs into his windpipe. The centurion’s eyes bulged as Felix squeezed with all his strength.

As the boy goggled and tried to breathe, his reddening eyes staring terrified into Felix’s, the druid was surprised to feel an erection growing in his leather riding trousers. Even more of a surprise was a sudden and powerful urge to press against the boy and lick his face as he died.

Why the Hades not?
he thought. Pretty soon he’d be king of the world, so he might as well get used to doing exactly what he wanted all the time. He thrust himself against the centurion’s shuddering groin and lapped his face from chin to eye. He licked again, this time lingering on the lips, all the while squeezing his neck and grinding his hips against his victim like an enthusiastic older man on a drunkenly compliant girl at a dance.

When it was done, Felix stood, panting, watching the British army retreat. His skin prickled with a mixture of excitement and something else, something he hadn’t felt for a long time … It was shame, he realised. Oh yes, there was shame there, for sure. Frotting young men as he murdered them was not what his father had brought him up to do, and it was a pretty long way from societally acceptable behaviour, even in Rome. Surely it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel disapproval emanating from the hooded Celermen. But neither others’ disproval nor his own shame was going to stop him. The feeling was too good. Ideas of what else he could get up to flooded in, but there was work to be done, so he held them back. For now.

He gathered his troops around.

“In a moment, I’m going to order you to kill the remaining legionaries, and attack that.” He pointed to the fleeing column of Britons. “However, there are three important things to remember. Are you all listening?”

Iron helmets and leather hoods nodded.

“Good. First, is that the Maximen will be first to attack, the Celermen behind them. As you’ve seen, the British have good arrows, very good arrows. If they begin to shoot before we’re among them, then the Maximen should raise an arm like this,” he held a protective forearm across his forehead, “to protect the eye slits in your—”

“Which arm?” Gub’s voice sounded out, all the more booming from inside his thick iron helmet.

“The one that’s not holding your sword.”

“OK!”

Felix shook his head. “Second, when I blow on the whistle twice, you will stop the massacre, even if there are more men and women to kill.” He did not want them running amok at the Roman legions. “Got it?”

They all nodded.

“Sure?”

More nodding.

“Good. Third thing. There is a blonde woman on a horse called Lowa. She will have a bow which is very dangerous. Avoid her arrows, and, more importantly, catch her but do not kill her. Got it? Hold her unharmed, or as unharmed as can be.”

They all nodded.

Felix smiled and climbed back on his horse. “Right. Kill one legionary each and FOLLOW ME!”

He galloped towards the fleeing British, leading the charge while they were well out of range, knowing it wouldn’t be long before his legion caught up and overtook.

Lowa pulled her horse to a stop, leapt up and stood on the well-trained animal’s back, looking at the burning fort and scanning the low wooded hills to either side. There was no sign of Roman pursuit; neither Caesar’s infantry, nor cavalry, nor Felix’s legion.

But where were the demons? Judging by when Touchnight had shouted they should have seen them by now. Perhaps Caesar had held them back? Or perhaps … perhaps they had unseen scouts that had divined the direction of their flight. Perhaps the demons had been sent to head off the retreat. Foremost in the retreat were little Dug and Keelin.

Sudden fear for little Dug gripped her. Without thinking, she kicked her horse and galloped up the line. The carts were fast, for carts, but on horseback she was much faster. People shouted at her as she passed but she didn’t hear them. She had to get to her son.

Then she heard the shout she’d been dreading. “Demons attacking from the north-west!” It came from behind her, nearer the fort, and it meant that the demons were attacking the rear of the retreat that she’d just left. Little Dug was at the head, but those were the
exact words
that his ghost father had claimed would precede his death.

She was torn. Her place was where she knew the demons were attacking, back behind her, leading the defence. But she already knew what she was going to do.

Pleading with the gods to let her get there in time, as the carts of infantry archers turned to meet the foe, she kicked her horse and sped westwards, away from the attack.

A
s the three of them marched through the Roman camp, Tertius puff-chested and threatening on one side and Ferrandus watchful and ready to pounce on the other, Spring chewed the inside of her cheek, looking up each new road or gap between the tents, expecting to see Ragnall, Quintus and a gang of legionaries charging at them. She was fairly confident that Clodia would take her in. Yes, she’d returned Spring to Ragnall the last time, but things were different now and she was sure that Clodia would understand. She hoped she’d understand.

Around them all the fires were already extinguished and the camp was sensibly abuzz with its usual well-ordered business. Surely, Spring thought, immediately after a massive attack there should be an air of desperation in the camp, or at least mild panic. But no, panic would be irrational and the sensible course of action was to pragmatically carry on, so that’s what they were doing. Many of them had been killed that morning, yet, other than the smoke still rising from the remains of the east wall, anyone waking up late and leaving their tent would think it was just another day in the garrison. By Toutatis, she thought, these Romans were marvellously efficient and boring as boring could be.

Finally they arrived at Clodia’s quarters.

“Fuck me, she does all right for herself this one, doesn’t she?” said Ferrandus.

Indeed she did. Next to Caesar’s tent complex, Clodia had the same little wooden stockaded camp as she’d had in Gaul, complete with gate and four gate guards dressed in newer-looking, shinier and more colourful versions of legionaries’ armour. Instead of legionaries’ gladiuses they were armed with long, curved swords.

“Nice swords,” said Ferrandus to the guards.

“Queen Spring of the Britons, to see Clodia Metelli,” said Tertius.

A gate guard raised an eyebrow at Ferrandus, then turned to Tertius, nodded and headed into the enclosure. He came back moments later and said, “In you go then.”

“Spring! Spring!” Clodia came loping towards them across an immaculately swept courtyard. Smart little tents lined the walls to either side and ahead was her own great purple and white construction. Clodia was wearing a simple, short white dress, brought in at the waist by a broad leather belt with scabbards on either side, each holding a curved dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt. “I am
very
glad to see you. I wasn’t sure if you’d come across the sea and— Oh, but look at your face! What
has
happened? Come, come into my tent. I’m sure we can work out some kind of sign language so you can explain. You praetorians – Secundus and Ferrandus, isn’t it – you can stand guard if you like?”

“Tertius,” said Tertius.

“Tertius, how silly or me, of course.” She smiled winningly.

“I’d rather we came in—” started Ferrandus, blushing a purple to match Clodia’s tent.

“And I’d rather you didn’t. I admire your dedication to the girl but she looks like a gladiator who’s just had the thumbs-down, so your protection isn’t
that
effective, is it? Do stand guard, though, if you’d like. She’ll be fine with me and you can dart in if you hear screaming.”

Clodia walked backwards into her tent, beckoning Spring with both arms like a farmer encouraging a calf into a stall. Spring nodded at her praetorians that everything was all right and followed the Roman woman through the wide porch.

Spring’s first thought was that Dug would have liked Clodia’s tent because it was cleverly ventilated. Outside the air was thick with the heavy tang of burnt palisade and ship, but, despite four open roof vents that allowed the faintest of breezes to shimmer the drapes, Clodia’s vast tent smelt of fresh and floral incense. It was the same scent, Spring realised, as the one that Clodia wafted wherever she went. So Clodia had paid people to create a fragrance for her tent that matched her personal perfume. That pretty much summed up for Spring all that was impressive and awful about Rome.

Clodia poured two silver cups of watered wine from a long-necked silver jug and handed one to Spring. Smiling at the girl, she unbuckled her dagger belt, dropped it clatteringly onto a table that might have been made of bronze, then sat on a purple couch and tapped it with a palm to indicate that Spring sit next to her. She did. Clodia crossed her long, deeply tanned legs and leant in, wafting a briefly stronger wave of that musky floral scent. Spring blinked.

“Tell me what happened,” the socialite gasped, sounding thrilled.

Spring told her. Clodia made appropriate concerned noises and shocked faces throughout. At the end she said: “So you want me to protect you, because my brief acquaintance with you is more important to me that my years of friendship with Ragnall?”

Spring nodded.

“And you hope that, after meeting you twice, I’m prepared to take on a man as powerful as Quintus Cicero and risk all this?” Clodia waved her hand to indicate the riches surrounding them. Spring followed her gesture and took in the giant vases, intricately painted screens, lustrous golden furs and other luxuries that Clodia had decided were essential invasion kit.

“If you wouldn’t mind?” asked Spring.

Clodia leant back, her mouth a taut line. Her eyes sparkled as a corner of her lips lifted into a mischievous smile.

Lowa crested a hill and the front of the long column came in sight. It was marching on, no demons in sight. She could even make out Keelin just back from the head of it, some four hundred paces away, trotting along carefree, holding a bundle that was surely little Dug.

She’d been a fool. She’d believed a ghost, a figment of her imagination, and she’d deserted her army in its moment of need on a paranoid dickhead’s errand. What had she been thinking …