Reign of Iron (43 page)

No, there, sprinting from the trees, was it…? It had to be. No normal man could run that fast. It was a solitary Leatherman, heading straight for Keelin and little Dug. Lowa did not have her recurve, only her longbow, which was too long to shoot while mounted. She dragged the reins, commanded her horse to stay still and leapt to stand on its back. She nocked an arrow, drew, followed the Leatherman’s course with the arrow tip, compensated for his speed and the wind, and loosed.

The demon ducked, the arrow sailed over his head and he ran on, closing on Keelin and Dug, certain to get there before Lowa. She dropped, slammed her heels into her mount’s flanks and shouted at it to gallop as fast as it could.

The Maidunites had seen their ambusher. Other arrows launched. Six cavalry sallied out to meet him, swords ready. Others gathered round Dug and Keelin. After the Two Hundred’s last stand on the beach, Lowa had drummed the danger of the demons into her troops and it looked like they’d taken her seriously. It was as good a defence as could be offered by their numbers.

The Leatherman tore into the six cavalry, spun, leapt, hacked and sliced and ran on moments later, leaving four of the Maidunites unhorsed and the other two slumped in their saddles. He reached the knot of riders surrounding her son and jumped into it, sword flashing. One went down, then another, then she saw Keelin fall, still holding little Dug. The demon loomed over them.

Lowa hurled her bow, jumped from her galloping horse, rolled, snatched the bow from the air and an arrow from her quiver and fired at the demon’s back.

He went down. Whether he’d dived on to her son or been hit by her arrow, she did not know.

She ran to the site of the skirmish, jumped over an injured, kicking horse and found them.

Keelin was lying on her back, little Dug next to her.

“Hello,” said Keelin.

“Mum!” said Dug.

Next to her son lay the Leatherman, her arrow sticking out of his back. She nocked another one and shot it into his head.

“That’s the first time he’s said ‘Mum’, isn’t it?” asked Keelin.

Lowa nodded, then looked around frantically. There did not seem to be any more demons around.

“Keep him safe, will you?” she said, already turning to run to her horse and gallop back to the attack on the rear.

Atlas heard the second shout, “Roman ships destroyed!” more clearly. It was a relief to hear that Lowa was managing without him, but maddening not to know more. So the fleet and the camp were burnt, but at what cost? And what of the rest of the army? For all he knew Caesar’s legions, elephants and demons could be tearing into the outnumbered Maidun forces at that very moment.

“Did you hear that, Nan?” he asked the old woman, who was bustling at her bench. She didn’t reply or even acknowledge that he’d spoken.

He tried to sit up and managed only to lift his head. He let it fall back with a sigh.

L
owa’s horse was lame by the time she got to the battle site because she’d pushed it so hard, but the fighting was over. The dead and parts of the dead were spread across the valley, horses and men strewn between and across broken chariots and carts. Their injuries were horrifying, the worst she’d seen on a battlefield, even though in her youth she’d regularly fought beside Atlas, whose speciality was cleaving people from shoulder to hip with an axe.

Huddles of survivors were dotted around, crouching over friends who were moaning, screaming or silent.

She rode past one dead Maximan, a sword protruding from the eye slit of his bucket helmet. He had a giant sword in one hand and was holding a man’s leg attached to part of a torso in the other. He was the only enemy dead she could see. The armour was almost identical to that worn by Tadman Dantadman the day Dug had killed him in the arena. Was Tadman the forerunner of these monsters that Felix had created, or had they already existed? Surely they had to be more than six years old? Or were they men, twisted and grown by magic generated by the slaughter of Danu knew how many? Focusing on questions like that stopped her from confronting the horror around her. So many had died in such a short time …

Sickening waves of guilt flowed up from her stomach. She should have been here. She should have met the assault. But then her son would be dead. She couldn’t have stopped all these people from dying and she probably would have been killed herself. And there was the shameful knowledge that, given the choice of saving her son or all these friends, allies and subjects, she would have chosen her son every time. She had chosen her son.

She asked around and found Mal. He was sitting on a shattered cart. Lying on the ground in front of him was the throat-slit corpse of Taddy Ducktender, the woman Lowa had punched for letting the scorpion bolt off early. Seeing Lowa, Mal laid Taddy’s head down and stood. He seemed strangely calm.

Never explain, never apologise
was a maxim she’d heard. It was meant to be particularly useful for rulers, and most of the time she agreed with it. This wasn’t one of those times. Mal and her troops needed to know why she’d missed the battle. She explained where she’d been and apologised.

“And little Dug is safe?” said Mal

“As far as I know, yes.”

“And he would have been killed if you hadn’t gone?”

“Yes.”

“Then you did the right thing.”

“Thank you, Mal.” She put a hand on his arm and he nodded. “Tell me about the attack here.”

Mal shook his head wearily and pointed at a hill to the west of the smoking remains of the fort.

“The demons ran down that hill. We spotted them in time to turn the carts, hand out arrows and string bows, but the Ironmen led their attack and Elann’s arrows did nothing more than dent their armour. We might as well have been shooting at rocks.”

“Where were the Leathermen at this stage?”

“Sheltering behind the Ironmen.”

“How ordered was the Ironmen’s attack?”

“Not at all. Other than Ironmen first, Leathermen second, they had no order. But they didn’t need order. Before they reached us, I gave the signal for the heavy chariots to attack their flank from those trees.” He pointed westwards. “The Leathermen saw the threat and ran to neutralise it. Before the chariots had a chance to swing round and bring their bows to bear or dismount their infantry, the Leathermen were among them. They were even faster than the Ironmen. They leapt from chariot to chariot, killing the crews with astonishing efficiency. Rather than tire and slow down they appeared to speed up.”

Mal closed his eyes and Lowa could see he was struggling not to weep. She held out a hand to him.

“Sorry.” He pushed her arm away, sniffed back his grief and carried on. “When they were almost on us, I led a charge. Up close, the armoured giants looked even bigger. They’re not human, Lowa. Men don’t get that big. They hit us and they ran through us. They didn’t even try to parry our attacks. They ran through us, chopping our people apart as they came. It was bad. I was knocked aside – only Danu knows how their blades missed me – then they were past us, among the archers. They lifted and smashed the carts as if they were toys, killing dozens. We killed just one. Taddy put a sword through his eye slit.”

“That was well done.”

“It was, but the beast killed her with his arm blade as he died.” He nodded down at her body and shook his head.

“How many Leathermen were killed?”

“Ten in total, I think, two by infantry arrows and eight by the heavy charioteers.”

“Why did the attack stop?”

“There was a double whistle blast. They withdrew immediately and ran back the way they’d come. Each of the giant men took two captives, one under each arm. Given what you said about how they get their power, I ordered archers to shoot those captives.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Did I? It didn’t feel right, and we didn’t hit many of them.”

“Did you see the whistle blower?”

“Yes, it was Felix. He was with a man in a gold chest plate and red cloak, Caesar, I guess, and several black-clad legionaries. All were on horseback. When the monsters ran off up the hill Felix rode with them. The others headed back to the fort.”

“Any idea why they retreated?”

“No. They could have killed us all.”

Lowa looked about. The number of corpses made her catch her breath as much as the stink of spilled guts. “Any idea of our losses?”

“Nothing accurate, but the heavy charioteers say half of their chariots – about three hundred – are destroyed and maybe three hundred charioteers are dead. Many of the survivors are injured. For the infantry, deaths are around six hundred, and injuries … I don’t know. A lot.” He looked down at Taddy, dead on the ground. “I…” Finally his tears came. “I’m sorry…” he managed, turning and walking away.

Lowa felt sick. This was a defeat. It was her fault. Soldiers she could fight, but these things … What could she do?

Quintus Cicero was surprisingly genial when Ragnall found him at his collection of tents. He already knew that Spring was sheltering with Clodia and intended to head there as soon as he was able to walk.

“Stay with me until then! It will be a couple of days at most,” said Quintus. “The doctor johnnies told me to drink wine to dull the pain between my legs and that is what I have been doing. I suspect they mean to dull the anguish of losing my manhood, but really there is none. Although that may be because I have been following their advice. You there! Bring more wine and a cup for the king of the Britons!”

On his way to see Quintus, Ragnall had begun to doubt his plan of encouraging the man to murder Spring. On the one hand he had to stand up for himself. He owed it to his ancestors to win this game of the gods. All he’d done so far was to be pushed about by others. Killing Spring was the start of pushing back. On the other hand, he was encouraging a man he despised to kill a young woman.

He was confused, and the drink was very welcome. He downed the cup in one and sat down next to Quintus.

“Ha!” Quintus raised his cup in salute. “Bring more wine for the king and me! More!”

The following afternoon, while Quintus slept off the morning and lunchtime’s drinking, Ragnall walked into the camp. It was brighter than usual and sounds echoed boomily in his head. He was drunk, but not that drunk. He’d been right. Drinking had been exactly the right thing to do. It hadn’t resolved his quandary but he no longer cared about it.

Stopping to eavesdrop here and there, he learnt that the five legions had returned overnight after attacking a fortress which the British had burnt before the legionaries could take it. Almost an entire legion had been lost in the first attack, and the rest of them had returned to the camp with no gain. Very few British had been killed and they’d retreated intact.

Meanwhile, the British chariot assault on the ships had destroyed all of the warships and half the transports. The mood in the camp was a strange mix of subdued and bellicose. Some were whispering that there was nothing but death in this wild land, that they should cram onto the remaining ships and return to Gaul. Others were exercising and sparring with swords, eager to return to battle.

Soon all began to flow into the centre of the camp, for Caesar’s address. Ragnall joined them and stood in a crowd of legionaries, auxiliary soldiers, smiths, cooks, quartermasters and others.

The general climbed up on to his speaking platform and the men cheered as if he’d just won a great battle. He waved, nodded, gestured for silence, then congratulated the troops on two great victories. His words punctuated by much manful cheering from the crowd, he described how the legion left behind to guard the camp had shown its mettle in repelling the cowardly chariot attack on a supply centre. Meanwhile, the other five legions had successfully conquered the south-east of the country. Yes, they had lost some boats, but this was due to their inferior Gaulish construction. There had also been some fire damage to the camp, but it was already repaired.

“First,” Caesar finished, “we will rebuild this camp, larger and mightier so that it may serve as a Roman town and the link between Roman Gaul and Roman Britain. Then, countrymen, the legions will march inland and shine the light of Roman glory on this benighted isle!”

Ragnall walked away with the masses, much cheered by Caesar’s words. He hadn’t thought of the British chariot attack as cowardly, after all a relatively small number had attacked a stout fortress garrisoned by five thousand men but, when you thought about it, the hit-and-run method of attack was pretty spineless.

He headed back to Quintus’ camp. Hopefully he’d be awake by now and they could resume drinking.

“Caesar demands you pay compensation to the families of those that your elephants killed.”

Jagganoch bristled. He took orders from nobody apart from his father, and his father was Sobek knew how many miles away. The little general was afraid of him, that much was certain. If Jagganoch had needed to see the general he would have gone by himself. Caesar had ridden to the Yonkari camp hidden among a gaggle of large men in black leather armour. The guard was pointless. Had Jagganoch wanted to kill the general, they would not have stood in his way.

“I have none of your sestertius coins to pay the families of the men who threw themselves under the feet of my elephants as we defeated your enemy. And I would claim from them reparations for the six elephants killed. Had not your worthless men got in their way, none of the noble beasts would have died.”

“The legionaries would have defeated the chariots without you. You acted against orders and caused the death of Romans, and for that you must pay. However, given that your intentions were to defend Rome and strike against her enemy, Caesar will not take anything that you already have. Your reparations will come from your portion of the proceeds of the invasion.”

“Fine.” Jagganoch cared nothing for his “portion of the proceeds of the invasion”. If he wanted something, he took it.

“Now you will return to your base in the south with your beasts and await the order to move inland.”

“There is no food. The land is stripped. My elephants and troops were promised bountiful farms and slaves. There are none of these things.”