by Angus Watson
The bronze-helmeted leader of the elephants rallied his remaining riders and charged the thickest press of aurochs. His elephant, the largest animal in the field, tossed three aurochs with its tusks then grabbed a passing rider with its long snout and threw her twenty paces into the air. This one was wearing a blue dress rather than ringmail. Lowa couldn’t be sure at that distance, but it looked a lot like Ula. As she fell, the elephant swatted her with his snout, breaking her back.
The elephant counter combined with the legionaries’ missile attack was effective. Soon there were only a few aurochs standing. But there were fewer elephants. Two aurochs charged the great lead elephant from either side and skewered it. The lead elephanteer jumped on to one rider, brained man and aurochs with his club, jumped back over his own beast, somersaulting as Chamanca might have done, and killed the other rider and his mount. Attackers dispatched, he leapt back onto his dying elephant, beat his chest and wailed.
The elephants were defeated. A few thrashed about, but the aurochs tribe finished them. Only a dozen aurochs were left standing from the two hundred that had attacked, but many of the riders had survived to make short work of the elephant archers and hold their own against the legionaries. Several Africans fled but their bronze-helmeted leader fought on. He was doing well, running around and killing Britons with fearsome efficiency. Meanwhile, more and more legionaries were joining the battle, pressing towards the remaining Aurochs tribespeople.
Atlas reappeared, shouting at the Branwin foresters to rally to him and hewing down any legionaries who came within reach. He looked like he was searching the corpses and carcasses for something or someone–Chamanca, Lowa guessed. She looked about for the Iberian, but something else caught her eye, off to the north. Cantering into view with his praetorians around him was the unmistakeable red- and gold-clad figure of Julius Caesar. Running behind him were his remaining two legions, led by dozens of pairs of horses pulling scorpions and catapults.
Trapped between legions, her infantry were perfectly placed and contained for the Roman missiles to tear them to shreds. She told the trumpeter to blare out the command to speed the retreat to the fort. It was going to be tough; they still had two legions of Romans to fight through, plus a third if the legion in reserve to the south joined the battle.
“Big badgers’ balls,” she said.
Chapter 7
“Here comes the end.” Ferrandus pointed at Caesar’s advancing legions.
“They’re beating the legionaries,” said Spring.
“They’re holding the legionaries, but once those scorpions start shooting–and look, he’s got catapults, too–they’re fuc—They’re dead. The bolts and missiles will arc up nicely over the legionaries’ heads, then come down and mince your British friends.”
“Nicely put.” Spring glared at him.
“My tact-free friend is right,” said Tertius. “Surrender or death. Those are the options for the Britons. That’s assuming Caesar lets them surrender.”
Spring looked about desperately. Most of the charioteers had retreated back to the heavily armed hillfort, but they were few compared to the Roman forces. The cavalry were gone, the aurochs were gone and there were two legions between the infantry and the fort. The British men and women were doing amazingly well, surrounded but holding; more than holding–constantly refreshing their front lines from the centre, they were eating into the lines of attacking Romans. Moments before she had hoped and believed that the British might have been able to fight their way back to the fort. But now she saw that Ferrandus was right. As soon as the Roman projectile weapons rolled into range, things would get very messy for the remaining infantry. But it didn’t mean that they were beaten! It simply couldn’t mean that.
She strained her brain and clenched her fists and tried to pull magic from somewhere. She felt nothing. She hadn’t felt a flicker since Dug had died. And anyway, even if she could kill Dug all over again, what could it possibly achieve? Last time she’d wanted all the enemy armies dead and the wave had come. Now with the Romans and British so close, even if she could set the land on fire or make it rain spears, she’d kill the Maidunites, too. Even if she’d had magic, there was nothing she could do.
She looked at the small figure of the blonde woman, pacing the north wall of the hillfort. Spring could feel her frustration and anxiety even at this distance.
“Can I go, please?” she asked the praetorians.
Ferrandus looked at Tertius. Tertius turned to Spring.
“It’s possible that we could get away with letting you go, assuming Clodia went along with it. In a battle this size you can get away with pretty much anything by blaming it on the battle.”
“Clodia?” asked Spring. Clodia looked back at her. She’d never seen such a serious expression on the Roman woman’s face.
“But,” continued Tertius, “even if we were certain to never be discovered, we wouldn’t let you go.”
“We’ve come to like you, you see, even if you are a barbarian.” Ferrandus cocked his head. “And we’d rather you were alive.”
“And of course we might be found out and crucified, and we’d rather that we were alive, too,” added Tertius.
“There is that.” Ferrandus nodded.
“Let her go,” said Clodia.
“With all respect, your worship,” said Ferrandus, “it’s not your—”
Clodia nodded at her guards. They raised their bows and drew, arrows pointed at the praetorians. “If it were my people I’d want to be with them. I understand what Spring has to do and I know you do as well. Even if you don’t, your alternative is an arrow or two in the chest.” Clodia smiled.
“Well, if you put it like that,” said Tertius.
“I will tell Caesar that I forced you to free her,” said Clodia. “Would you like my guards to make it more convincing? Arrows in your legs perhaps?”
“I’m sure your word is good enough for Caesar,” said Tertius.
Ferrandus nodded and untied Spring. She gathered her reins.
“Before you go,” Tertius unwrapped a long leather bundle from their pack pony. “I’ve been keeping this for you. I was going to give it to you when they made you queen, but you might as well have it now.”
He peeled off the remaining leather and revealed Dug’s hammer.
Spring felt tears well in her eyes.
“I don’t know what to say!” she said.
“Don’t say anything, just bugger off and for Jupiter’s sake don’t get killed.”
Atlas found Chamanca propped against a dead elephant, blinking.
“All right?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. I was simply surveying the scene before—” She choked, heaved and coughed up a gush of blood.
Atlas had never seen anybody vomit that much blood and live much longer. He dropped into a crouch and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Cham—”
He was interrupted by a voice behind him. “Another African–a Kushite, I think?” said the voice in Latin. “Kushite is my elephant’s favourite food. He ate many in his youth.”
Atlas stood and turned. The leader of the Yonkari was walking towards him, swinging a club–the same sort of club that had killed his father. He looked exactly like the murderer from Atlas’ memories. It couldn’t be the same man, he was too young, but he could be the son of the man who’d killed his parents. Atlas decided that it definitely was. It would help him in the fight to come.
“Your dead elephant has no more need of sustenance,” said Atlas.
“It speaks Latin? What a clever Kushite it is.”
“It gets cleverer,” said Atlas, tossing his giant axe lightly from hand to hand.
Spring rode down through the woods on the flank of the hill. She could hear the clash of iron and the shouts of the fighters, but block that out and, in the cool of the trees, with butterflies flitting between shafts of sunlight, she might have been a million miles from the fighting. She might have been walking through woods with Dug on tha
t first day they’d met.
He was sitting on a branch of a dead tree where the track turned a corner.
“Are you sure that’ll take your weight?” she asked.
“Aye, I don’t think I weigh anything.”
“Well, it’s good to see you. I’ll be seeing you more permanently soon.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to join Lowa and fight to the end.”
“I see you’ve got my hammer back. That’s good and I’m sure you’d fight like an angry weasel, but I’ve a better plan than charging at the Romans and dying and losing my hammer again.”
“Which is?”
“Rescue wee Dug. He’s in the fort with Keelin. Fort’s surrounded on all sides but this one, for now. You can ride in, grab the bairn and ride out.”
“But—”
“I understand why you want to be at Lowa’s side, but save him, and you save all that’s left of me and Lowa. We can continue, through him.”
“I suppose…” She was half convinced, but then she realised.
“Hang on, I’ve created you in my head, yes?”
“… Aye.”
“So my coward mind must have made you appear now to get me out of doing what’s right.”
“Rescuing wee Dug is the right thing to do.”
“It’s not.”
“What would Lowa want you to do? What would I want you to do? And what’s the right thing to do? Is dying more noble than rescuing a wee child?”
Had Spring not been on a horse, she would have stamped her foot.
Chamanca was amused by the concern in Atlas’ eyes when she’d vomited blood. Had it been her own blood, he might have had cause to worry.
She tried to push herself up on her arms, but didn’t have the strength. Her legs she couldn’t feel at all. Maybe Atlas had been right to look so worried.
And now, as he squared up to the other African, she was worried. Atlas was a great fighter, but he didn’t have magical speed at the best of times and now he looked slower than normal. By the sallowness of his skin, he was unwell. Jagganoch did have magical speed and his skin shone like a healthy fox’s coat. She’d have to help her man, but that would require standing up at the very least, and she couldn’t quite run to that yet. She could feel the dreadful wound to her head healing, but not fast enough.
The two men circled, club poised, axe flicking from hand to hand. Atlas was huge and hulking in his tartan trousers, sleeveless leather jerkin and iron armbands. Jagganoch, in his lion skin and legionary’s skirt, was lithe, bouncy and terrifying.
Jagganoch darted in, his club blurring as he probed for a gap. Atlas parried with his axe handle, effectively but clumsily in comparison with the Yonkari. Jagganoch pressed. Atlas retreated and stumbled. A smile flashed onto the elephanteer’s face as he swung his club for the killing blow. Chamanca tried to leap to Atlas’ defence but could not.
Atlas’ stumble had been a feint. He tossed his axe to his left hand, grabbed the club as it whizzed down, pulled it to one side and darted in with a head butt which pulverised Jagganoch’s nose. Atlas threw the club aside, dropped his axe and stepped after the reeling Jagganoch, raising his fists. He jabbed his pulped nose once, twice. Jagganoch’s head lolled. The Kushite dropped his fists and set to punching the Yonkari man’s guts and ribs again and again, hammering hard as a horse trying to kick its way out of a burning stable. As Jagganoch began to falter and collapse, Atlas swung his fist down, around and up into the elephanteer’s chin, shattering his jaw and lifting him off his feet. Jagganoch flew four paces and landed hard, out cold.
Chamanca felt bad for underestimating Atlas. He’d had it under control from the start. He was a much better fighter than she’d ever given him credit for. Better than Jagganoch certainly and–maybe–even a little better than she was.
The Kushite strode up to the unconscious elephanteer, ripped off his bronze helmet and tossed it away, grabbed his wrist and pulled him over to Chamanca. Holding him by his hair and his lion skin, Atlas lifted Jagganoch’s head so that his neck was nicely in range of the Iberian’s teeth.
“Thought you might want a drink,” he said.
Unable to see the battle, Ragnall was frustrated. His section of cavalry had been ordered to ride around to the south of the fort to catch any Britons making a run for it. None of them had. They’d seen the aurochs charge past to the east and thankfully the aurochs hadn’t seen them, or at least had had bigger fish to charge at. That had been the only interesting thing all day and now a whole legion had joined them guarding the southern escape route, so his section of the cavalry’s role was redundant. However, orders were to stay there, so stay there they did. They could hear the battle. Ragnall was sure he could taste the adrenaline and battle lust thick in the air, but he didn’t know what was happening. He had to go and see.
He rode up to the captain. “I want to check the east of the fort.”
“Sure thing, whatever, go.” The cavalry, comprised of men from conquered tribes, was more relaxed than the legions.
Ragnall galloped to the east. He could see people watching from the walls of Saran Fort. He wondered if any of them recognised him. Then, riding from the woods to the east, heading for the fort, was someone he recognised.
Spring stopped when she saw him. “Still a Roman then?” she said.
“You’ve escaped” was all he could think to say. She looked good, in her leather shorts, white shirt and riding boots–exact copies of Lowa’s clothes, just like she was an exact copy of Lowa. They were evil female twins, twisted tools of the gods who existed only to bring him low.
“And you’re still observant,” she smirked.
Ragnall felt heat rise up his neck. Still she mocked him. He had started a new phase in his life. Hitting Spring had been a low. He was noble now. But she was such an insolent little bitch! She had no respect for him, not a scrap. Not as a man, not as her husband… He would have to teach her some. It had been a fair fight last time. He wouldn’t let that happen again. She had the Northman’s hammer at her side, he was surprised to see, but there was no way she was strong enough to wield it, so effectively she was unarmed. He pulled his sword from its scabbard.
“You’re recaptured,” he said. “Get off your horse.”
“Sure thing. When I get to the fort!” Spring kicked her horse and galloped away.
Ragnall followed. His horse was faster. She turned and it was a joy to see her expression slide from cocky to concerned when she realised that he was going to catch her. She jinked the reins to dodge and weave, but it was easy to cover her evasions. He caught up well outside the range of the British archers on the fort and cracked her on the back of her head with the flat of his blade. She fell off, bounced and rolled to a crumpled stop. He circled around and jumped down next to her prone body.
He was worried that he’d killed her, but she was breathing regularly. He’d take her to Caesar, so that the new king and queen could be in the thick of things when the old queen was defeated. He wouldn’t kill her, not yet, he decided. He’d keep her as a captive wife and teach her how to respect him.
He had nothing to tie her with. If she woke… he was stronger now from the exercise of riding all day and he was armed, but the idea of being bested by her again in a fight… There was a bulge in the pocket of her leather shorts. It was a bowstring. What a stroke of luck and a joyful irony! Praise Jupiter, said Ragnall to himself. It seemed like the gods were with him today. It was certainly his turn for it.
He turned the girl on to her front, laid Dug’s hammer on her back and tied her hands to its shaft.
Chapter 8
Chamanca stood and shook herself. Jagganoch’s blood was the best she’d ever tasted, and she felt fully restored. More than restored. Pressing her fingers to where he’d whacked her with his club, she could feel the bone swiftly reknitting.
Just as she was thinking what an amazing person she was, dozens of legionaries ran up, filing between dead aurochs and elephants, surro
unding her and Atlas, pilums poised. Atlas raised his axe, Chamanca crouched, ready to leap into action.
“Surrender, we have you surrounded,” said their leader, in a voice Chamanca recognised. He was wearing a plumed helmet, but she’d have known him anywhere.
“It’s the masturbating centurion I told you about,” she said to Atlas, in Latin so that all his men might hear. “He’s the one who came into the tent where I was chained and beat his little bit of meat while the other Romans were all fighting Ariovistus.”
“Silence! You cannot escape!” the wanker shouted, reddening as more legionaries piled in, some climbing onto dead elephants and aiming their spears at the British pair. There were dozens of them.
“He’s right,” said Atlas.
“I will not surrender.”
“I’m going to. I’ve died quite enough times recently. We get captured, we live to fight another day.”
“Maybe not, they might kill us.”
“I know,” said the mighty African Warrior. “But I also know I cannot win this fight and I don’t want to see you die.” He placed his axe on the blood-soaked ground and raised his hands.
Chamanca looked at her lover. His skin had a grey tinge and the spark had gone from his eyes. He was spent. She looked around. Maybe seventy legionaries looked back, all ready to hurl their spears. She still might have made it out of there, she’d faced tougher odds… Actually that probably wasn’t true, but she had faced horrible odds and come through. Then again she’d been captured by the Romans before and come through. The thought of being captured again by the pervert centurion didn’t appeal, but it was better than seeing Atlas die.
“Oh, for Fenn’s sake,” she said, and tossed her mace and sword down next to Atlas’ axe.
“Keep those pilums on them!” the centurion cried excitedly. “Gather their weapons and tie them up.”
Felix climbed the tree with the help of two Celermen. He did not like what he saw. The aurochs were finished, but so were the elephants. The British infantry were surrounded, and Caesar’s newly arrived scorpions and catapults were ripping great holes into them, but the barbarians were fighting strongly, maintaining discipline, refreshing their front rank regularly and pushing back towards the fort. Soon the Romans to their south would be driven into range of the fort’s scorpion bows and archers. Already he could see Lowa and her cursed longbow potting legionaries as if she were a wanton boy swatting flies.
