by Angus Watson
“Oh.”
“I left Maidun shortly after that.”
Chamanca stayed quiet. She was a little impressed. She’d mentioned the name of the Roman commander only once when telling Spring about her time with the Fenn-Nodens. Moreover, she was reminded that a privileged childhood did not necessarily mean an easy one.
As the sky morphed gently from rich, star-studded blue to delicate pink, Walfdan told them about the Ootipeats and the Tengoterry in his careful, measured way. Spring listened with about a quarter of her mind. The rest of it watched out for more Romans and investigated the sights, smells and sounds of the new land. This was the first time she’d left Britain. She expected Gaul to be completely different–purple clouds, black trees, orange grass perhaps–but it was almost exactly the same. Same smells, same trees, same birds. The only odd thing she’d seen–bar the Roman patrol–were some small, rotund, overly fluffy hares. She’d thought they must be leverets, but they were very fat for baby hares and you never saw those in groups.
“They’re rabbits,” said Dug, ambling along next to her, apparently unseen by the others, arrow still sticking from his head.
“Rabbits?”
“The small fat hares. They’re animals called rabbits. We don’t have them in Britain. They’re reasonable eating–nothing compared to boar, mind you–but they ruin crops, so nobody’s brought them over the Channel.”
“Are you a ghost now then?”
“No, just in your mind still.”
“I see, hang on. Walfdan!”
The druid stopped his description of the excellent Tengoterry cavalry mid-sentence. “Yes, child?”
“Are those animals with long ears back there called rabbits?”
“Yes.”
“Different from hares?”
“Yes.”
“Can they swim?”
“Spring, that’s enough,” said Chamanca. “Don’t interrupt again unless we’re under attack.”
“OK!” said Spring, then, silently to Dug, “I’ve got you, you big cheat. You are a ghost! I didn’t know those were rabbits, and you did, so you can’t be part of my mind. Ha! What’s it like being a ghost? Tell me about it! What happens when you die?”
“I’m not a ghost. I am in your head. Look a little deeper and you’ll remember that your mother told you about rabbits when you were a wee girl.”
It was possible, Spring conceded. Her mother had told her a lot of things.
“And, anyway, if I was a ghost I wouldn’t be walking around with this stupid arrow sticking out of my face.”
“I suppose not…”
“How about you get rid of it?”
“All right,” said Spring, and the arrow was gone.
“See, part of your imagination. Nothing more!”
“That proves nothing. You could have done that. And another thing—”
But Dug had disappeared. Spring tried to conjure him back but he remained stubbornly invisible–proof, if proof had been needed, which it wasn’t–that it was Dug, the real Dug, happy and thriving in the Otherworld and not just a figment of her mind. Her steps sprightlier, Spring returned to investigating the passing countryside for further Gaulish aberrations like rabbits and gangs of gullible Romans.
The following day they commandeered horses and rode on across Gaul. Spring saw no new animals, which was a disappointment. She saw more rabbits and was increasingly charmed by their sniffing and hopping, but they were hardly the man-eating lizards or birds the size of cows that she’d been hoping for, and she didn’t see Dug again. Atlas and Chamanca were fairly rotten company, all wrapped up in each other and hardly talking to her at all.
The Gaulish people were even less impressive than the animals. It was like they were all sulking. Atlas told her that they were ashamed at letting the Romans beat them so easily. Chamanca said they’d always been miserable.
Finally, they arrived in eastern Gaul. The vast camps of the newly invading German army were easy to find. Chamanca had said that Germans wore nothing but tiny fur pants, so Spring had been looking forward to seeing them, but disappointingly there were no hairy tackle-pouches to be seen. These Germans dressed, looked and sounded much like Britons, with some differences. They were, on average, taller and blonder; Spring saw a couple who looked like Lowa, which made her growl. Many wore ornate armour, there was more fur than you’d have seen in the Maidun army (draped over shoulders and wrapped round legs, not cupping genitals as she’d been led to expect) and more people were on horseback. They didn’t seem to have any chariots. It was quite unnerving, she thought, this same but different world. When things were completely different, like in the merchants’ town of Bladonfort compared to Maidun’s army camp, for example, it was fun and exciting. When things were just a bit different from the norm, as they were here, it disquieted her. It was like she’d woken up one morning in a fake world, which the gods had built to trick her but got a few details wrong.
They rode through the slightly odd masses of Germans to the temporary court of Senlack and Brostona of the Ootipeats and Tengoterry tribes. Senlack had been king of the Ootipeats and Brostona queen of the Tengoterry, Walfdan told them. Each had murdered their spouses and united both themselves and their tribes.
Queen Brostona rose from the double throne and greeted the Britons. She did not look like a husband killer. She looked to be in her twenties with a big, even-toothed smile, light tan, high cheekbones, shiningly clean blonde hair and a sleeveless cream dress embroidered with a pattern of blue and red-petalled flowers. The dress’s material was taut over firm little breasts and a narrow waist, but then exploded out over a disproportionately large bottom half. It looked as if a person as slim as Spring had been chopped in two and stuck onto the arse and legs of Danu, the marvellously fat earth goddess. Brostona’s bare arms were slender like a young woman’s but she waddled. Spring thought initially that she had a wooden framework under her skirts to flounce them up like that, but, no, further subtle investigation confirmed that it was all bottom and limbs under there. It was hard not to stare.
Senlack, watching from his chair, seemed older, from what Spring could see of him. His hair was a spongy black ball of curls and his beard separated into two curly balls with little rat’s tail ends. His long, knobbly nose stuck out of this mass of hair like, Spring couldn’t help but think, the penis of a wild-pubed monster. At the top of his cock-nose, shadowed beneath his fringe, she could just make out two black eyes peering out. She smiled at them.
Walfdan congratulated Senlack and Brostona on their ascension as rulers, then said that he, Atlas, Chamanca and Spring were from the Fenn-Nodens tribe, come to help the Ootipeats and Tengoterry to wage war on the Romans. They had witnessed and studied Roman methods, he said, so would be invaluable advisers.
“Well,” said Brostona brightly, in an accent that sounded like a bard doing a parody of Lowa’s voice, “thanks so much for coming all this way, with such good intentions, however…”
She raised a small pipe to her mouth and blew out a piercing note. A moment later there were twenty spear tips levelled at Spring and the others. More men and women rushed in, slings twirling.
They were caught.
“The thing is,” Brostona continued, in the same chirpy tone, “we don’t intend to fight the Romans, you see? We’re going to tell them that the land west of our new territory is theirs, and our new territory is ours. We won’t interfere if they leave us alone. Lovely plan, don’t you think? Both empires gain a long, peaceful border. And since you’re Fenn-Nodens and therefore enemies of the Romans, we’ll be handing you over to them.”
Spring felt Chamanca tense beside her, as if about to leap and bite Brostona’s throat out. Atlas held out a hand, shook his head and the Iberian relaxed.
“The Romans will lie to you,” he said. “They will accept your treaty, then strengthen their position in Gaul. When they are ready, they will cross the Rhenus and they will crush you. You must strike now, before they are too powerful and while you have
your army gathered.”
“NO!” Brostona screamed and Spring finally saw evidence of the person who had murdered her husband so she could have more subjects. “They’re boring me now. Take them away. TAKE THEM AWAY!”
Chapter 8
The miles-long army train was marching through green mountains, next to a bright river boisterous with snowmelt, when a rider came galloping from the north. He brought news that more than four hundred thousand men, women and children from the German Usipete and Tencteri tribes had crossed the Rhenus river. Caesar nodded as if he been told that his chef had run out of pork so it would be beef for supper, called in the centurions and rearranged the marching order and direction.
Shortly after dawn and half a moon later, Ragnall was on horseback next to a curve of the Rhenus, part of Caesar’s retinue awaiting the king and queen of the Usipetes and Tencteri, who were late. The Romans chatted patiently. They weren’t unduly worried, since barbarians were always late. The valley here was perhaps two hundred paces across and thickly wooded. Ragnall had heard Titus Labienus, Caesar’s deputy, warn of possible ambush, but the engineers had cut down the nearest fifty yards of trees on their side of the river and the praetorians had swept the woodland beyond that and claimed all was clear. Ragnall looked across at the trees on the other side of the river, where they hadn’t swept. Nothing stirred, but those eastern woods brooded with menace. Perhaps it was a hangover from the stories about monsters in the German forests from the liars in Vesontio, but he was certain he could feel evil eyes staring at him from the darkness.
They said in Rome that no Roman had ever crossed the Rhenus. It wasn’t true: Rome’s traders and explorers had been everywhere, but it was a convenient mistruth that both excited Ragnall and filled him with fear for what was on the other side. He’d also heard in Rome that no Roman had ever been to Britain, and that Britain was populated by mustachioed cannibals who painted themselves blue, shaved their bodies and drank nothing but milk. The Romans’ notions of the rest of the world were usually wilder than the reality.
The Germans came into sight and Caesar kicked his horse a few paces ahead, beyond Titus Labienus and the praetorians. They were meeting the leaders of an unknown tribe who could easily be assassins, but Caesar rode forward, head high. Although much of Caesar’s reputation for bravery came from exaggerated reports, he was genuinely courageous. Ragnall was proud, and worried. He gripped the pommel of his sword.
Various other legates, including Felix, were behind Labienus and next to Ragnall, with two dozen of Caesar’s black-leather and iron-armoured praetorian guards fanning out on their mounts to either side.
The German queen and king approached, followed by a disorderly guard of perhaps a dozen. It looked, thought Ragnall with some relief, like Caesar was safe. It would have been hard to find a less likely looking pair of assassins. The king was a skinny man with shaggy black hair wrenched into what looked like three balls of hairy wool. The queen, by far the more impressive-looking of the two, was riding an aurochs–one of the giant oxen common in the German forests.
“Greetings, noble Caesar!” said the queen. “I am Queen Brostona of the Tengoterry and this is Senlack of the Ootipeats!” She swept a majestic hand to indicate her hirsute companion. Her voice was loud and haughtily enthusiastic. German accent aside, it reminded Ragnall of his mother.
Caesar gestured to the praetorians. They charged the Usipete and Tencteri guard. It was over in moments. The German soldiers were all unseated and dying, not a praetorian was harmed. The Romans closed in on the regal pair.
King Senlack flicked his reins. His horse gave a high-pitched snort, whipped round and sprang as if stung by a wasp. The king ducked one praetorian’s sword swipe, parried two more with his curved blade and then he was off down the road, horse galloping as if it was fleeing from the Underworld, the king’s big hair bouncing in rhythm with its stride. A knot of Romans set off in pursuit, but the Usipete’s horse was faster and he was away.
Brostona watched from her seat on the aurochs until Senlack had disappeared over a rise, then turned back to Caesar, still smiling as confidently as a queen whose entire guard hadn’t just been slaughtered. “Don’t worry, Caesar, he won’t come back with the army. They do only what I tell them. Now perhaps we can talk terms? If you look in that man’s satchel,” she pointed to a man on the ground who was scrabbling weakly at his slashed, blood-pulsing throat, “you’ll find a map that shows my plans.”
Caesar turned to his deputy. “Labienus, this woman amuses me. Have her disarmed and brought to my tent this evening.”
“I am not armed, and I look forward to seeing you as a peer in the evening. We will discuss terms. I have a plan that will surely…” She tailed off because Caesar had turned his horse from her and begun to talk to Labienus. Ragnall saw knuckles whiten on the hand holding her aurochs’ reins. She was angrier about the general snubbing her than the death of her entire retinue.
“Keep the praetorians here to hold the road,” Caesar continued to Labienus. “I’ll send up a cohort of the Tenth as well to cover the country around. No Roman is to go any further north than this point. Any Germans who attempts to come south of it will be killed.”
Labienus nodded agreement, but glanced at Felix, tightening his cheeks and pursing his lips as if he’d put something unpleasant in his mouth. Ragnall wondered what was going on.
Chapter 9
Little Dug lay on Lowa’s lap, wrapped in cotton and wool, breathing softly and staring into her eyes. He was a pretty little thing–thank Kornonos, since she’d seen some grotesque babies in her time–and she definitely felt some affection for him. But love? No. Why should she? Shitting, crying and sleeping, his sole activities thus far, were not endearing. Everyone said that being a mother would change the way she thought about everything forever, but she hadn’t expected it to and it hadn’t. She had a child and that was that. She liked him, but if he was taken away right then and she never saw him again? She’d live. She’d lost people before.
Perhaps other mothers saw more of their babies, and that’s why they fell for them. Lowa had hardly seen Dug since his birth because she spent most daylight moments and many of the nights training her army. She was in charge of the cavalry, Mal looked after the scorpion crews, Atlas was head of the infantry and Chamanca commanded the heavy and light chariots, but with those latter two in Gaul and Lowa as overarching chief, she spent as much time with the other sections as her own.
It was hard work. They were slowly learning new methods, and gradually mastering new weapons and equipment, but so many had been killed in the battle with the Eroo and their Fassites that their real problem was numbers. The coming Roman army was likely to be a good deal larger than hers, not to mention vastly more experienced, with years more training and, apparently, supported by a legion of unspecified but powerful demons.
As well as preparing to defend against an invincible foe, she had to continue to manage resources to avoid the famine that might have followed the Spring Tide–and might still–and she had to ensure her army and its ancillary support was fed, sheltered, fuelled, stopped from running wild, that its shit was taken away, outbreaks of disease contained, squabbles stifled before they could escalate… She’d put people in charge of all these tasks, but found herself having to intervene again and again. With a few exceptions, her commanders simply did not give nearly as much of a fuck about getting everything right as she did.
The only thing that she’d done since she’d been queen that could be considered selfish was learning to swim. Escaping from Zadar years before, she’d almost been caught because she couldn’t swim. She never wanted to be in that situation again, so on a succession of calm evenings she rode south to the sea alone, waded into the frigid water and worked out how to float and paddle about. She hadn’t expected it to be difficult–as she’d told herself all those years ago, many children could swim and children were idiots–and it hadn’t been.
With running a conglomeration of tribes and invasion
preparation taking up every heartbeat of her time, she reckoned Danu might forgive her if she didn’t go all weak in the limbs and gushy about her son.
People told her, all the time, that the boy looked exactly like his father, Dug. Yes, maybe there was some Dug in his eyes, but it was no big surprise that a baby looked like his father and not something to coo about like a brain-damaged hen. On the other hand, in her rare moments when she wasn’t obsessing about her army and she had enough energy left after the long day not to be cynical, it did please her that little Dug looked like big Dug. It was fitting that the line of the man who had died to save them all might be continued. But the cooers and gushers implied that this baby had replaced Dug. That was wrong. Very wrong. Dug Sealskinner had been the love of her life and nobody would ever replace him.
“Run a finger across his mouth and he’ll smile,” said Keelin Orton, who was standing and watching her. Her tone was brisk. She was brisk about everything, but she clearly adored the little boy. She didn’t wince when he was sick on her, and wiped the weird green shit from his little pink arse as if she were mopping spilled water.
The queen had been surprised when Keelin had turned up on the day of Dug’s birth and asked to wet-nurse the child. She hadn’t seen Keelin since the day she’d killed her lover, King Zadar, and shortly before she’d broken the girl’s jaw with a stool when escaping Barton. However, if Keelin wasn’t going to hold that that against her, then Lowa didn’t need to remember that Keelin had been sleeping with the man who’d murdered her sister and tried to kill her.
Moreover, Keelin seemed to have grown from a pouting sex chattel into a sensible young woman, and her breasts were even bigger now that they were making milk. Dug would get enough sustenance, and Lowa was pretty sure there was no truth in the jokes that any baby nursed by Keelin would become a wide-mouthed adult. Discreet enquiries revealed that Keelin’s own daughter had died shortly before little Dug had been born and that the child’s father had been killed fighting the Eroo, so Lowa was glad to give the girl a baby to mother and something to distract her from her grief.
