by Angus Watson
“I hope that’s not an omen,” said Ragnall.
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Cicero, “but it’s a useful lesson. Never underestimate your opponent, even when they seem beaten. Now, I must be going.” He gripped Ragnall by the shoulder. “I don’t expect you to heed my words, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Caesar has been a great benefit to you, but following others should not be a lifelong pursuit. One day, Ragnall, you should have the courage to remember who you are and pursue your own goals.”
“Right.”
Cicero smiled sadly. “Few have the courage to be their own person, but it is a noble goal.”
Chapter 6
Far from Rome, deep in the Roman-controlled western Alps, the druid Titus Pontius Felix sat on his bed in the well-insulated longhouse that he’d made his winter quarters. He’d had his pleasure with a dark-skinned slave and she’d left, whimpering but grateful to be alive. It was funny, Felix mused, that people always seemed grateful when you stopped being cruel to them rather than angry that you’d been cruel in the first place, assuming they were alive enough to display gratitude.
Muffled sounds of his legion training outside penetrated the log walls. His Celermen and Maximen needed several hours of exercise a day and they didn’t seem to mind the bone-piercing cold of the mountains. Felix did, but he was cosy in the longhouse with furs and a large fire built from the wood of smashed grain stores and the corpses of the valley’s former inhabitants. There were gigantic baskets on either side of the fire, one full of wood, one full of bodies, both filled from larger piles outside. Semi-frozen bodies burnt marvellously well once they got going, radiating rosy heat and a wonderful smell. He wondered why more people didn’t use corpses as fuel. Bodies were easier to come by than trees in Gaul those days. It was possibly a waste to burn so much meat, Felix conceded, but he and his legion had herds of livestock which the mountain tribe didn’t need now, he didn’t like the taste of human flesh, and besides, there was a pile of dead the height of Pompey’s theatre, nicely preserved in the sub-zero temperature. If any of his troops wanted to eat human flesh, there was plenty to go round.
Despite the warmth, the little Roman was unhappy. He’d recently ejaculated, which always put him in a black mood, but that wasn’t the underlying reason. There were two larger, more important things sullying his humour.
First off, he was pissed off to be billeted up here in the mountains for the winter. His dark legion had killed so many in the Alps over the previous winter that Caesar had insisted that Felix stay with them this year to control them. He was, after all, the only one who could tell them what to do. It would have been a reasonable request if you gave a shit about the lives of a few thousand Gauls and Helvetians, but he didn’t and he knew that Caesar didn’t either. The general was more worried that the legion would become common knowledge in Rome if it killed too many people. Felix thought the opposite was true, since dead people didn’t spread rumours, but one didn’t argue with Caesar.
The second, more irksome thing was that he’d have had Spring’s body by now if his assassination squad had succeeded, so he had to assume that she was still alive. Jupiter’s cock, it was annoying. He hadn’t told Caesar the details, but he had told him that there was a powerful druid in Britain whose magic could be used to conquer the world. It was at least part of the reason for charging up through Gaul to invade Britain. But Felix didn’t want to wait. He wanted to kill Spring, specifically to eat her heart, to inherit her magic and become unstoppable.
He’d taken Thaya’s magic by eating her heart all those years ago. He’d known it was the right thing to do in the same way, he guessed, that birds knew how to fly and which berries to eat.
He might send more assassins at Spring immediately after the winter, but probably he’d have to wait until they invaded Britain. Most annoying. He had little desire to go back to the island, although the notion of having his revenge on Lowa was rather delicious. He’d had a good thing going with Zadar until she and Spring had spoiled it all. He cursed himself. If he’d only worked out that Zadar’s daughter was the super-druid they’d all been waiting for, he could have eaten her heart years before and never needed Zadar or Caesar. He smiled to himself. Yes, he needed Caesar now, but once he got his hands on Spring’s corpse, he wouldn’t need anybody else ever again.
A pop from the fire startled him, but it was just something bursting in one of the burning bodies. He returned to his fantasising, picturing himself marching on Rome at the head of fifty dark legions of Maximen and Celermen, killing, torturing, enslaving–doing whatever he wanted. He’d build a palace in the centre of Rome that would make every other building look like a British hut. He’d send out armies to conquer the world. He would go with them and kill someone from every tribe on earth. He’d build thousand-pace-tall statues of himself in every town and port. He’d live forever, king of the world, ruler of all, worshipped as a god. Egypt! He’d take Egypt! Those arrogant crocodile worshippers would queue up to lick his feet. He’d build a pyramid that would make Khufu’s great mausoleum look like an anthill next to a mountain. And Greece! The things he could to do to the beautiful, haughty young men of Greece…
So for now he’d put up with his shitty billet in the Alps. He’d bide his time. Once he had Spring in his hands, everything would be his and he would never be unhappy again.
Chapter 7
At the end of each British winter, Chamanca was always surprised by the day that came along and proved that the world could be warm again. It was the morning of that day–high-skied and clear with a sun that actually managed to warm her skin–when she, Atlas and Spring boarded the merchant ship to Gaul. The captain, a squat Dumnonian woman, commanded them to give their packs to the crew to be stowed, then chivvied them to a place by the port rail where they’d be out of the way.
“I know they all say that I made the wave,” said Spring as they leant on the rail, “but I didn’t. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”
“Sure,” said Atlas Agrippa.
“Why not?” asked Chamanca.
“Because—” Spring was cut off by the captain’s shouts as she ordered her crew through the processes of leaving the quay and setting sail. The complex commands were unnecessary if the crew knew what they were doing, thought Chamanca, and by the look on the crew’s faces they agreed with her.
The Iberian had no desire to talk about the wave but she didn’t like to be told what to do by anyone, let alone a fifteen-year-old girl. She wasn’t sure about Spring. Lowa had insisted she’d be useful as a replacement for Carden Nancarrow in their mission to destabilise the Roman army, so she’d sent Chamanca to Dug’s farm to find her. The girl had refused to come back to Maidun, mumbling something about not wanting to see Lowa, but had been happy enough to meet them at the port. Other people might have questioned her further about avoiding Lowa, but Chamanca neither liked to pry into others’ business (because she didn’t like other people prying into hers), nor did she really give a crap for the girl’s motives.
The child was certainly brighter than the previous member of their trio but, much as she’d liked him and was sorry that he’d died saving her on Karnac Bay, Chamanca had met dogs brighter than Carden. Atlas and Chamanca had all the brains they’d ever need between them. The question was, would Spring be so loyal, dependable and, above all, as useful in a fight as Carden?
The girl was perhaps a quarter of Carden’s weight, if that. She was a head taller than Chamanca, but much narrower from neck to toe; Atlas could have put his hands around her delicate waist. By the way she moved, she was strong-limbed under her loose shirt and long skirt, but how would she fare against one campaign-hardened legionary, let alone a group of them? She carried the same type of longbow as Lowa, as well as Dug’s hammer, but Chamanca was sure she wouldn’t be able to use either of them effectively. There was the magic, of course, which had beaten Chamanca in a fight when Spring had channelled it through Lowa, but the girl claimed that her magic powers had died with Dug a
nd the wave. So why exactly was she coming?
Chamanca reckoned Lowa wanted her out of Britain. Many had lost friends or family to the wave, so Spring was a likely target for revenge attacks. The Iberian had seen it when she’d been young herself–a group of twats could easily whip themselves into a vengeful, murderous communal rage, even if their target had only drunk a little blood… That might be the case, but it was still no reason to send Spring on their dangerous mission. The last thing they needed was a tagalong. One weak link would get them all killed.
She did like the girl–she was amusing and quite beautiful–but the Iberian liked herself more. If it looked like she was going to get them all killed, Chamanca would kill her first. No, in fact she wouldn’t kill her. She would break her leg and pay a village or a farm to look after her until she healed. Was she getting soft in her old age, she mused? Maybe that’s why she was having these bizarre feelings of affection–of attraction!–for sensible, boring, dependable, old, handsome, muscular, mighty Atlas…
“I’d just rather you didn’t mention the wave,” Spring said when the palaver of setting sail was over and the boat was creaking its tubby way out to sea. Her voice was a strange mix. Mostly it was a melodious and refined British accent like Zadar’s, but she pronounced some sounds in the German way like Lowa and others in Dug’s strange northern accent. It was rather a pleasant effect, Chamanca thought.
“Don’t worry, Spring, we won’t talk about the wave, will we, Chamanca?” Atlas spoke quietly, his Kushite bass even lower than normal.
“What wave?” asked Chamanca.
Atlas nodded. “Remember, when we get to Gaul we will not do or say anything to draw attention to ourselves. Not to begin with, at least.”
Chamanca thought that simply being a massive African Warrior carrying an axe that could chop an ox in two would draw plenty of attention, and that the Gauls would be certain to notice the most attractive and well-dressed women they’d ever seen, but she held her tongue. The nondescript girl would go unnoticed, at least.
“Why don’t you tell me all you found and did in Gaul?” asked Spring. “It would probably be best if I know as much as possible. About the Romans, too?”
“Sure thing,” said Atlas. “The first thing to understand about the Romans and the Gaulish is that they are not Britons…” and on he droned, as the boat slipped through the night.
The next day, after some badgering from Spring, Chamanca found herself filling in the gaps that Atlas had left, especially about the most recent expedition when it had been just her and Carden. It helped pass the time as the boat bobbed on, and the girl proved to be a pleasingly perceptive audience.
They arrived at a small beach shortly after sunset two days later. Walfdan, the elderly Fenn-Nodens druid from the Gaulish town of Sea View, was waiting. So he’d escaped the Roman purges, Chamanca was glad to see. Most druids were idiots, but she liked this one. He welcomed them effusively and offered food and rest after their long journey. They were grateful for the food but Atlas insisted that they were ready to move on and would eat on the hoof–not literally, since they’d be walking to begin with, to limit chances of detection. As they climbed the steep dunes that back-dropped the beach, Chamanca glanced at Spring for signs of shirking or fatigue, but the girl looked sprightly.
As they paced quietly through the night, inland and eastward, Atlas explained to Walfdan that Lowa’s army was all but destroyed so they needed to delay the Roman invasion until she could muster and prepare a new one.
Walfdan already knew about the situation in Britain from merchants and had a reply ready. “Gaul is finished,” he said. “The land is united for once, but unfortunately it is united in a mood of beaten, dejected submission. Tribes all over Gaul, vastly more numerous than the invader, with much greater resources than the Bel-cursed Romans, have capitulated with little more than a whimper. Some of them did not even whimper. A little backbone and cooperation would have seen us triumph, but most Gauls have behaved like self-interested cowards. I’ve lived a long time and hitherto been proud to call myself a Gaul. Now I am ashamed.”
Atlas said a few consoling things about the Romans’ military training and the Gaulish tribes’ lack of cohesion, but Chamanca stayed quiet. She agreed with Walfdan. Ducklings with their beaks removed would have given ravening wolves more of a challenge than most of Gaul had offered the Romans. Walfdan’s own tribe, the Fenn-Nodens, had almost all died in the struggle against the invaders so at least, she thought, he had that rock of pride to cling to.
Atlas finished by telling Walfdan that the Britons sang the praises of the Fenn-Nodens and toasted their valour, then asked, “So what can we do?”
“My plan is to go helmet in hands to the Germans to see if they can help. A vast German army has crossed the Renos river. They are the best chance of defeating the Romans, or at least delaying their invasion of Britain.”
“Your information is a year old,” Atlas said. “Caesar massacred a huge host of Germans under Harry the Fister last year.”
“These are different Germans–two tribes from further east, the Ootipeats and the Tengoterry. They were all set to wage glorious war and conquer Harry the Fister’s territory in Germany and Gaul, but they arrived and found nobody to fight apart from the old, the young and the few blind Warriors who had survived the Romans’ torture. Now they have a gigantic army which they’ve never used. I do not think it will be hard to persuade them to march against our common foe. I suspect that Caesar knows this, and is already on his way north to meet them.”
Atlas grunted his assent. It did seem like the best option; the only option in fact. They walked on, Atlas and Chamanca leading, Walfdan and the girl behind.
A short time later they were surprised by a Roman patrol. Chamanca cursed herself for not hearing or sensing them, but when the cheating bastards hid in woodland, downwind in the dark, there wasn’t much you could do. As soon as legionary silhouettes appeared on the road ahead she reached for her weapons, but Atlas put a hand on her arm. He was right, they couldn’t fight. Dozens of Romans emerged from the trees all around them, many holding aloft previously concealed torches which shone off their weapons and armour.
They held their hands up in submission as the legionaries parted to let through a centurion. He was possibly the tallest man Chamanca had ever seen; certainly the tallest Roman. He had a cheery face and the stoop of a man who had banged his head on many doorframes.
“So!” he said in broken Gaulish. “What do you?”
“These two are a merchant and his daughter,” said Atlas in Latin, pointing at Walfdan and Spring. “We are their guards, escorting them back to Soyzonix land.”
The centurion laughed and replied in Latin. “Can I buy something then?”
“We have no wares.”
“Exactly!” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Of all the terrible excuses! You really should have carried a cauldron and a ladle or two if you’d wanted me to believe that you’re merchants. You don’t even have a donkey! Oh, it’s too much. You are morons. Men, take—”
“We sold all our wares to the Romans at Karnac,” said Walfdan.
“Including your donkey?”
“We sold our cart and two oxen. As you know, you are building a fleet so demand there is high and they are selling nothing. It is what we merchants call a sellers’ market. Only my daughter’s protestations stopped me from selling our clothes and having us walk home naked.”
“Hmmm, well that’s a tiny bit more plausible.” The centurion rubbed his chin and Chamanca thought that they might get away with it. “But it’s still pretty thin. I’ll send you back to the garrison and—”
“You will send us nowhere,” said Spring, in faultless Latin. Everyone turned to look at her, Chamanca more surprised than the Romans.
“You’re very astute,” she continued, “although any fool could see through my guard’s idiot tale. We are not merchants.”
“Well, you’re a cocky one,” said the centurion. “And I knew you we
ren’t merchants. You can explain exactly who you are back at—”
“You will let us pass now, unmolested, or you will regret it,” said Spring. “I am Persomanima, daughter of Queen Galba of the Soyzonix. This is my adviser and these are indeed my guards. We have been in Karnac, in secret talks with your commander there. Now, tell me your name so that I can tell him how helpful you’ve been, letting us pass. I’ll tell my mother, too, and perhaps she’ll pass it on to Caesar, who is, after all, a great friend of hers.”
“I see!” said the Roman. “Well, if you’ve been in secret talks with the commander at Karnac then you’ll know his name.”
“This is your last warning,” said Spring. “Let us through now, or your family will rue your decision for generations to come.”
“The commander’s name first.”
“Let us pass.”
“It’s a simple thing. Perhaps your talks were secret, but the name of the commander is not. If you can tell me that, I will let you go. Unless your talks were so secret that he didn’t tell you his name?” The centurion chuckled and beckoned his men to seize them.
“All right, if I must accede to your insolence–the commander at Karnac is Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus.”
“Oh!” The centurion held up a hand to stop the legionaries, looking surprised and suddenly nervous. “Very well. Be on your way.”
They legionaries parted and they walked on.
“Well done, Spring,” said Atlas a little while later.
“Indeed,” said Walfdan. “Where did you learn Latin?”
“Maidun Castle, from a Roman girl. My father took her from a merchant he killed, and told her to teach me Latin.”
“I am glad he did. You saved us all then.”
“She taught me how to write it, too. We were friends.”
“What happened to her?”
“She wanted to go back to her mother in Rome, so I tried to help her escape. But we were very young and we mucked it up and we were caught. Zadar gave the Roman girl to Felix and he killed her.”
