Reign of Iron: Iron Age Trilogy: Book Three

by Angus Watson

  Then, in the middle of possibly her most fun chat with Clodia yet, on the morning of the fourth day, Ragnall and Quintus arrived.

  Chapter 20

  Clodia’s flamboyant guards might have guarded Spring effectively, but they were no match for Quintus’ squad of ten legionaries and six Cretan archers. Swords to their necks, the guards stood aside as the toughs kicked open the gate and ran in.

  Ragnall followed. Quintus limped in behind him.

  Tertius and Ferrandus brandished swords, ready to fight, but the Cretan archers’ bows were drawn and aimed.

  Spring held up her arms and gestured for the praetorians to stand down. She glanced at Ragnall and he felt his resolve shake. He looked away. No, she had to die. She was bent on ruining him and he had to stop her. He would make his own destiny from now on. In memory of his parents and for his own sake, Zadar’s daughter had to die. He knew he was right. It had been difficult, but spending the last few days drinking heavily and talking to Quintus had helped. Alcohol opened the mind, and Quintus had helped him see his predicament from a Roman man’s point of view. The Britons were fools to allow women so much power, because they twisted it and used it against decent men like Ragnall. It had been happening all his life and it had to stop. He had to harden his heart and stop treating women as equals. Spring had to die.

  “Give me your swords,” said one of Quintus’ toughs. The praetorians looked at Spring. She nodded. In unison they flip-tossed their swords, caught them by the blades, and handed them to the legionary.

  “Hands on your heads,” he said.

  They complied as Clodia emerged from her tent, looking, Ragnall had to admit, fantastic. She spotted him.

  “Oh, Ragnall, you poor thing, you look simply awful. What has happened to you? Why don’t you ask your fellows to leave, and rest here for a while. You’ve had a terrible time, it’s clear. You need to recuperate. Stay here. I will make you feel better.”

  Her lovely smile and the invitation in her voice might have stopped a charging elephant, but Ragnall’s days of being wowed and pushed around by evil women were over. Over! From now on he’d be tougher than a charging elephant.

  “I don’t need to feel better,” he said, “I need a Roman man to see justice visited on his barbarian attacker.”

  “Ragnall, she is your wife. You know what happened.”

  “She’s not my wife. We didn’t marry properly.” Tougher than a charging elephant, he told himself. “But even if she was my wife, she is a barbarian who attacked a Roman and she must face justice.”

  “If I might cut in here,” said Quintus with a smile, his voice as quiet and calm as a giant wave heading for shore, “Ragnall, I’d like you to leave. I don’t want you to see this.”

  Ragnall looked at Spring, for the last time he hoped, and strode from the compound.

  Atlas walked from his bed, out of the hut and sat in the chair. Nan smiled and nodded. “You’ll be right soon!” she said, reddening as she did so.

  The short journey had exhausted him, but it was encouraging nonetheless. It was only that morning that he’d stood unaided for the first time. After Elann’s talk, he’d been wolfing down Nan’s stew and he did feel a lot stronger. He felt sick most of the time, too–the stew was vile–but definitely stronger.

  As he mustered the strength for the return journey to the bed, Elann appeared.

  “Manfreena has enchanted twelve Maidunite cavalry who came looking for you,” she said without preamble. “We will move against her as soon as you are able.”

  Atlas looked at Elann. She was stocky but child-height, with black eyes bulging from a head almost as large as her torso. Her disproportionally massive hands were flecked with countless pink burn scars. Her dark hair wasn’t cut short, it was burnt short by constant forge accidents.

  “Why will you help me?” he asked.

  “Get better. I’ll be back every day until you’re ready.” She turned and walked away, leaving Atlas confused in his chair.

  Spring’s first thought, once she’d stopped Tertius and Ferrandus from sacrificing themselves, was how awful Ragnall looked. In the few short days since he’d fled their tent, he’d lost much of the fat he’d gained in Rome. His usually pristine toga was wine-stained and hanging off him like a cloth draped over a pole. His eye sockets were so sunken and black that it looked like he’d found Clodia’s make-up trunk and used all of it in one go.

  She was about to say something to him, something kind, something helpful, but Clodia came out and did it herself, in a much better way than Spring could have. But Ragnall rejected Clodia’s offer and called Spring a barbarian, which was just weird, considering they came from the same place so if she was a barbarian then so was he.

  When Quintus sent Ragnall out, things got scary. Ragnall had had the chance to kill her before, when he’d been in a rage, but she’d never thought for a second that he would. Quintus, she was certain, would not think once, let alone twice, before chopping her head off or crucifying her or something else horrid. The only bright lining was that he wouldn’t be able to rape her first. Although, of course, he could get someone else to do it. Oh no, she thought, that’s probably what he’s going to do… Surely Clodia wouldn’t let him? But what could she do?

  Clodia stood in the entrance to her tent. Quintus regarded her calmly, legionaries at each shoulder. His six archers still had their bows drawn and arrows nocked, one of them pointing at Spring, one at Clodia and the other four at Tertius and Ferrandus. The praetorians were glowering with rage, alert and ready to leap into action, but they were unarmed with their hands on top of their heads, so she hoped they weren’t going to try anything.

  “Why don’t you come into my tent for a moment so we can talk about this?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Quintus. “Can you go into your tent and stay there, please? I’d like to have a word with young Spring here.”

  “But surely—” Clodia tried.

  “Now,” interrupted Quintus.

  Clodia looked at the legionaries and the archers, sighed and ducked into her tent.

  The legate turned to the praetorians. “You two, sit on the ground.”

  “And keep your hands on your heads while you do it,” snarled a legionary. They looked about as far from happy about it as Spring had seen anyone ever look, but she nodded frantically at them, trying to look confident, and they did as they were told.

  Quintus turned to her for the first time and looked at her with his incongruously avuncular eyes. Spring felt like she had spiders running all over her skin. He beckoned her over. She went quickly, keen to prevent Tertius and Ferrandus from trying anything. He walked to Clodia’s summer seat, an ornate iron bench with room for two, sat down, and tapped the cushion next to his. Spring sat. Quintus took her hands and looked into her eyes.

  “I want to thank you, Spring,” he said, “from the bottom of my previously black heart.”

  Spring peered at him. She could see no duplicity. He looked sincere.

  “Um?” she said.

  “I know you can’t understand me, but I’m going to tell you this anyway. I didn’t like what I was. I thought about sex all the time, and I took it whenever I wanted it. I always hated myself immediately afterwards, but I couldn’t stop. I had dozens of comely young slave girls and boys in Rome and I used them horribly. Some of them pretended to like it, possibly some of them even did, but mostly I could see that they hated it and they hated me. I’d feel so, so bad afterwards, but I’d soon forget and I’d do it again. All men get these urges.”

  No, they don’t, thought Spring.

  “And then I came for you,” he continued, “which was simply unforgivable. I used the excuse of Ragnall hitting me, but I deserved that hit. And now I’d like to thank you from the depths of my heart for chopping my balls off.”

  She almost laughed. He did not seem to be joking.

  “I mean it, I really do. I don’t think about sex at all now. I’ll be a much better man from here on, a better soldier, and
, ironically enough, a much better husband to poor, poor Pomponia.” He chuckled. “Well, hopefully. She’s still a fearfully unpleasant woman but I daresay much of that is my fault because I was a much worse man. But I’m not any more, all because of you!”

  So are you going to let me go? Spring wondered.

  Quintus chuckled. “Now, having said all that, you may have made me a better man, but you still castrated me, and for that you have to die.”

  Chapter 21

  Felix ordered his Celermen to chain the new prisoners while Maximen stowed the provisions. They’d intended to use captive Britons as magic fodder, but they had only the ones that the Maximen had carried from the battle. Luckily there was an army of Romans nearby, and in a group of people that size there were always some who needed to be punished and others that commanders wanted to be rid of for a variety of reasons. A selection of these were sent to Felix daily, the unwanted guarding the miscreants. While the Celermen chained the criminals, he’d give their guards a couple of amphoras of the strongest wine and ask them to drink with him. Once they were relaxed, the Celermen would restrain them. Drinking with them was usually a bore since they were mostly boorish men, but he had to incapacitate them to ensure none escaped and talked about the secret legion.

  Thinking of escapes… It had been close, far too close, but the Celerman had brought him a captive in time and Felix had mended his own injured chest. Thank Mars he’d managed to shift so the man had stuck him on the wrong side, and only destroyed one lung instead of his heart.

  He’d cured the wounds of several others, but four Celermen and six Maximen had been killed. Six Maximen! From the British perspective, it had been a successful attack. All fifty Maidunite raiders had died, but they had given their lives expensively. One of them had very nearly killed Felix himself. He’d never had a wound like it before and he had not enjoyed it one little bit.

  It would never happen again. He’d been certain nobody would attack his unbeatable legion and he’d been a fool. They probably wouldn’t strike a second time, but from now on he’d light up the camp every evening like Rome on a Triumph night, and have one third of his men on a rotating, constant guard. One third of his twenty-three remaining men. Twenty-three, down from sixty at the start of the previous year… It was bad. He would certainly not tell Caesar that he hadn’t posted any guards.

  Thank Jupiter some of the Celermen had woken in time. Used well, his twelve Celermen and eleven Maximen could still destroy any army. If Caesar let him, of course. He’d been incensed the general had called off his attack on the retreating Maidunites. Felix had had to obey, though, his legion was powerful but it couldn’t take the Britons alone. Once they’d defeated Lowa’s army the chance to kill Caesar would come, and Felix would be ready.

  Quintus’ guards grabbed Tertius and Ferrandus and held blades to their necks.

  The legate stood and unsheathed his sword. Spring jumped back, putting the bench between them. Quintus advanced.

  The compound gates crashed open and black-armoured praetorians rushed in.

  “Swords and bows down now! All of you!” shouted a man who epitomised the word “beefy”. By his golden helmet, Spring realised he must be the praetorian centurion, the only man apart from Julius Caesar who could give orders to Tertius and Ferrandus.

  One of the archers was too slow. The centurion’s sword flashed, smashing the bow and opening his throat. The Cretan went down with a gurgle.

  “Stop, stop, everybody calm down,” Quintus raised his hands. “There’s no need to—”

  And the only other man whom Tertius and Ferrandus took orders from marched into the compound, Clodia looking hot at his heels.

  “Quintus is right,” said Caesar. “There is no need to. Everyone stand down.” He glanced at the dying archer and his eyebrows flicked, in what looked like distaste rather than surprise. He turned to the legate. “And what is happening here, Quintus? What business do you have with Clodia Metelli and the queen of the Britons?”

  “None, Caesar. In fact I was just going.”

  Caesar nodded once.

  Quintus limped out, followed by his troops, the Cretan archers carrying their dying compatriot.

  Chapter 22

  Ragnall walked into Caesar’s little tent town in the middle of the tent city, next to Clodia’s stockaded compound. The praetorians let him through as if he were expected. He had come to join the army. Having nothing to do all day was driving him mad, and he envied the industry and the camaraderie of the Roman soldiers. He’d had a dream the night before in which he’d explained this to Drustan, who’d told him that lack of achievement was causing his misery. The secret to happiness, the elderly druid had explained, was to impress oneself every now and then. The path to impressing oneself was endeavour, and the army would provide Ragnall with plenty of endeavour. Moreover, it would stop him drinking so much.

  He’d woken and known that Drustan was right. He needed to do something, to be a part of something, and the army was the obvious solution.

  Caesar was pacing in a canvas-sided courtyard, dictating to scribes. “The Britons have no corn nor other crops, they live on milk and meat. They shave their entire bodies other than their upper lips and heads, where they grow the hair long. Their shaved bodies they dye blue. They have no sense of love or marriage, instead woman are shared between groups of men, especially brothers and fathers—”

  He spotted Ragnall, held his finger up to indicate that he should wait, and continued: “We will come back to the British later. Back to the campaign. To repair the storm’s destruction the legionaries worked day and night. They brought the repaired ships ashore into the enlarged camp to avoid further ravages from the weather. More ships arrived from Gaul and these too were taken into the camp. The Britons, fearful of the might of the Romans, remained at bay while Caesar consolidated his foothold.”

  The general waved a hand to indicate he was finished dictating for now and strode over to Ragnall.

  “Hail, king of the Britons! You are looking well. Not so fat.”

  “Thank you, Caesar. I would like to march inland as a legionary.”

  “You cannot. You will be king, Caesar has decreed. Your queen must not be disappointed.”

  “The queen is dead.”

  “Is she? She looked alive earlier today.”

  What was this? Was he joking?

  “Clodia Metelli is her keeper now,”

  “But I thought—”

  “Ragnall, Caesar does not care for the details of domestic disputes. He understands that you argued with your wife. This happens. It will happen again. Although Caesar is no great paragon when it comes to matrimony and should not seek to lecture, he advises two things. First, do not take these spats seriously. Second, keep your arguments private. To have one’s public business known by all is noble, to have one’s private business known is not.”

  Ragnall nodded. So Spring was alive. He was glad. He’d been ashamed of his role in attempting to have her killed. But at the same time he still wanted her dead for all that she’d done to him, and for her father’s murder of his family. He was confused. Again! It was exactly quandaries like this that made him want to be a soldier. Forget Drustan’s “impress yourself” lecture, Ragnall simply wanted a simple life.

  “Please, Caesar, can I be a legionary? I want to be part of the victory over Lowa and… I want something to do. Inactivity is driving me mad!”

  Caesar raised his eyebrows, then nodded, as if he’d asked himself a question and decided an answer. “Caesar understands. Idleness is a curse. You cannot be a legionary because they are trained and you are not. They will be in battle soon, and an untrained man is a liability. However, I have something for you. Caesar should have left you with the cavalry after he defeated the Nervee. You may rejoin them. Report to Labienus and tell him Caesar’s bidding.”

  “Thank you.” Ragnall turned to go.

  “Wait. You are troubled, Ragnall. Caesar senses that you are somewhat… lost.”

&nb
sp; “I… well… I suppose…” Ragnall was surprised at the personal observation.

  “There is only one person who can help you find yourself again. You know who it is.”

  “No.” Ragnall didn’t have a clue. “Is it Labienus?”

  Caesar blew a small laugh through his nose. “No, fool, it’s you. You need discipline and exercise as a framework, but within that you must force yourself to have the confidence to be the man you want to be, not the man that you believe others expect you to be. Caesar went through this process when he was several years younger than you, but he had the advantage of a Roman upbringing. It is time you caught up. The cavalry will help. Farewell.”

  “Farewell” from Caesar meant “Go away,” so Ragnall went, eyes wide in surprise and joy at receiving such personal advice from probably the greatest man in the world. He would do it, he’d do for Caesar, and for Drustan too. He was lucky to have their advice, and receiving direct instruction from two such fine men on the same day was surely no coincidence. He would heed their words. He would become a better man.

  Part Five

  Britain

  54 BC

  Chapter 1

  Caesar dismounted, looked around slowly, turned to Felix and raised half a disdainful lip.

  Felix saw his point. He had forgotten how squalid his camp had become. Because it made training more fun and because they had a surfeit of captives, Felix had allowed his Celermen and Maximen to make some kills the morning before. They were messy murderers and reluctant housekeepers, so body parts, guts and sheets of skin were strewn over the ground and draped over tents and training equipment like clothes at an orgy. Although he liked it, Felix knew the stench of the dead wasn’t to everybody’s taste. The captives chained nearby added to the smell, as did the dozens of corpses not far away along the tideline.