Reign of Iron: Iron Age Trilogy: Book Three

by Angus Watson

  He knew what would happen. Caesar would pull his legionaries away before they came in range of the fearsome firepower of the fort, the Britons would get back their redoubt and there would be a siege. That could last months. It might even force the Romans to return to Gaul. He could not have that.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Lowa shot legionary after legionary, spreading panic through the back rows of the two legions between her infantry and the fort. All their Roman training, and they hadn’t learnt how to put up an effective shield wall at the rear. The speed her men and women were pushing them, they’d be in range of the other archers and the scorpions soon. Many Britons were being taken out by the Romans’ scorpions and catapults to the north, but not too many. That’s what she had to tell herself. She could not think of the individual men and women dying. She was losing an acceptable proportion of her force to the Roman heavy weapons, and she was remedying the situation by bringing them back to the fort. Similarly, she told herself, she wasn’t shooting retreating men who might have lovers and children, she was reducing the strength of the enemy.

  “Lowa!” By the way the trumpeter shouted, she guessed he’d been trying to get her attention for a while, but she’d been fixed on plugging legionaries. She shook her head, feeling like she’d woken from a dream. The man was pointing. She looked, and did not like what she saw.

  To the west, the Roman ranks were parting at the command of a small, balding man. Hulking behind him were the Ironmen. Tripping along in their wake came the Leathermen. There were a good deal fewer than Mal had reported from the attack at Big Bugger Hill, so his raid had been some success, but there were still quite enough.

  They reached the front line and Felix held back while his troops passed. The Britons saw the Ironmen towering behind the legionaries and readied their shields. The Iron giants pushed the Roman soldiers aside and swung their swords.

  They waded through the Britons, chopping, kicking and smiting. Behind them the Leathermen finished off any that the Ironmen missed. Men and women wielding every manner of weapon hurled themselves at the giants but none had any effect. Arrows and slingstones pinged off them. As they killed more and more, rather than tiring, their sword strokes and blade-legged kicks came faster and harder. The Britons tried to get round behind them, but were thwarted by the Leathermen, who were now moving so fast that it was hard to keep track of any individual.

  Legionaries pressed behind the demons, exploiting the tear in the British ranks. The entire western flank of her army crumbled. She watched, praying to the gods to give her men and women strength, aching to see just one demon fall. None did. They pressed on, unstoppable.

  Far, far too many were dying, far too quickly. With the attack of the demons the rest were doomed, too. They’d be destroyed before they reached the safety of the fort and the covering fire of the scorpions.

  She was beaten. She briefly considered joining the defence against the demons, maybe she could take one down before she was killed. If she rode closer with her bow, then perhaps…

  But no. She might kill one or two with her bow, but hundreds would die while she was trying. She’d tried to be objective about people dying since the Romans had landed, persuade herself that some losses were acceptable. By that same standpoint, these losses were not. It this continued, she’d be beaten and her entire infantry would be slaughtered.

  She looked around. What else did she have? What else could she use?

  There was nothing. Nothing. All her preparation, all that planning, all the training, all those lives! Everyone who’d died to get to this point… It was all for nothing now. Fucked up the arse by Felix’s demons. She was beaten. Now it was time to save as many of her men and women as she could.

  She told her trumpeter what to signal and ran back to the body of the fort, shouting for her horse and for the gate to be opened. While a groom was fetching her mount, Lowa found Keelin. Little Dug was still asleep, but this time Lowa took him from the girl’s arms. He moaned and raised a fat little pink hand as Lowa squeezed him to her chest, but he didn’t wake up, even when a tear dripped from her cheek on to his golden hair.

  Queen Lowa Flynn gave her son back to Keelin and swung up onto her horse. The groom handed her bow to her and she galloped from the hillfort.

  Chapter 9

  Praetorians forced Chamanca and Atlas to kneel to Caesar. Bound tightly as they were, the Iberian could only comply. She couldn’t see past the people milling around, but very soon after they’d arrived she heard that Felix’s demons were attacking. She saw anger flash on Caesar’s face, saw him smother it, and then bark out orders for the legions as if Felix’s intervention had been part of his plans. From the reports, the demons had turned the tide of the battle wholly in the Romans’ favour. Chamanca regretted surrendering for the thousandth time. She’d have dealt with the demons. On the brighter side, Atlas seemed to be recovering. His skin was almost back to dark brown, and he was straining at his bonds. He was having no effect on them and it didn’t look like he was going to, but at least he was trying.

  “Lone horsewoman, sir,” said a praetorian, pointing down the rise. Chamanca guessed what was coming and sighed.

  Lowa rode into sight, slipped off her horse and strode up to Caesar. A couple of praetorians rushed to intercept her but Caesar called them back.

  She knelt and placed her longbow staff and quiver on the ground in front of him.

  “I surrender. Call off your monsters. My signaller is ready. My army will cease fighting the moment they step back.”

  Atlas translated, substituting the word “forces” for “monsters”.

  Caesar nodded and gave the orders. Trumpets sounded first from the Roman lines, then in reply from Saran Fort.

  Lowa, Atlas and Chamanca knelt at Caesar’s feet in silence as the noises of battle dwindled, to be replaced by the screams and cries of the wounded. Chamanca watched Caesar. He was looking over to the west, to where Felix’s monsters had attacked. A hint of worry creased his brow. He wasn’t sure if the magic-powered legion would obey his command, she guessed. After some tense heartbeats, half his mouth pulsed in a quick smile. It looked like Felix and his brood had complied.

  That was lucky, thought Chamanca; it would be annoying to surrender and have your army massacred anyway.

  The general looked down at his beaten opponent. “Queen Lowa Flynn of the British. Caesar accepts your surrender and salutes your bravery.”

  Atlas translated for her.

  “Thanks,” said Lowa. “Tell him that my army will return home. They will never be slaves.”

  “She salutes the skill of the Romans and requests the famous mercy of Julius Caesar. She would like her men and women to be allowed to return to their fields,” said Atlas.

  “Caesar will spare your army’s lives, taking only a small number as slaves. However, he has no alternative but to execute you and your two generals.”

  Fenn’s pissflaps, thought Chamanca.

  Atlas translated Caesar’s words.

  Lowa nodded. “I am the only leader.”

  Atlas translated.

  Caesar gestured at Chamanca and Atlas “These two are known. They have impeded the general’s laudable aims too many times. They will also die. Praetorians! Three crosses facing south, now.”

  “Thank you for trying, Lowa,” said Atlas, “but we too have fought our last battle.”

  “Tell him I have a son,” said Lowa, “eighteen moons old. He is in the fort with his nanny, Keelin Orton. I’d like Caesar to spare him and to allow Keelin to remain with him.”

  Atlas explained her wish to Caesar.

  “The leader of the Romans is not without mercy. So impressed has Caesar been with the British fighting and your command that I will raise your son as my own. He will want for nothing and he will be king of Britain when I deem him ready.”

  Atlas translated.

  Lowa nodded. She looked as strong and heroic as if her army had defeated Caesar’s. Chamanca expected nothing
less. Lowa had had to try, she’d tried her best, and now it was time to die. Chamanca was proud to die alongside her, although the Iberian knew that most normal people took a day and a night to die on a cross. How long was it going to take someone as tough as her?

  The praetorians returned and nailed crossbeams to uprights. Lowa had heard plenty of fearful descriptions of crucifixion. It was meant to be the worst possible death, but she’d always wondered how it could be worse than having your guts wound round a stick or any of Zadar’s other many execution favourites. And now she was going find out. Whoopee, she told herself, every situation has a bright side.

  Praetorians hauled Atlas and Chamanca to their feet. Lowa stood and walked over to the crosses. She didn’t want to be presumptuous, but she guessed that the central one was hers. She indicated it and lifted her upturned palms in a “This one?” gesture. The praetorians nodded and she lay down on it, spreading her arms along the beams.

  Strong men gripped her limbs and one pressed the tip of a large, square-cut iron nail into her palm, then whacked it with a mallet.

  A bolt of agony jerked up her arm and spasmed through her head, her whole body. She tried to channel the pain, to focus her mind on something else, but it was hard to deny the all-consuming torture of having a fat nail driven through her hand. She could feel small bones shifting aside and snapping.

  The second nail was worse, and the one through her ankles more painful still. She wasn’t going to let these cunts see her scream though. Instead, she bucked with pain until she passed out.

  She came to as the cross was being lifted.

  She’d heard a joke once:

  “What’s the best thing about crucifixion?”

  “The view.”

  It was a shit joke, but she saw that it contained some truth. Once she’d managed to supress the torment from her wrists and ankles at least enough to see, she saw for miles. Nearby the legions had surrounded her infantry, many of whom were already in irons. The rest were sitting on the battle-churned ground, looking dejected. Carts, full of slave irons Lowa guessed, were trundling towards them. So Caesar was going to enslave the lot of them. It wasn’t a surprise, but still it was better than being dead. As slaves they’d have the chance to rise up, to escape or simply to be happy in servitude.

  Behind them towered Saran Fort, defenders still peering from its walls. The Romans hadn’t got to them yet, they were still free, but at the rate the Romans were going it wouldn’t be long before they reached the fort.

  Backdropping it all, the sky was white at the horizon, morphing into the darkest blue as it arched overhead. What a lot that sky had seen, thought Lowa.

  Chapter 10

  By the time Ragnall had obtained permission from his cavalry commander to take Spring to Caesar, the battle was over.

  He rode along its eerily quiet flank. Eerily quiet, that was, apart from the skin-curdling screams of the wounded. After every other battle that Ragnall had seen, the chief sound from the Romans had been chattering, as they explained to each other just how awesome they’d been in the field. This one was different. Everything was subdued. Looking at the faces of the Romans and the Britons it was impossible to tell who’d won–it had been a tougher battle than the legionaries were used to. Other things marked the victors, though. Almost all of the Britons were already in chains and being led away. Already they were learning about Roman efficiency.

  In a battle as hard-fought as this one, are there really any winners? Ragnall thought. It was thinking like that, he told himself, that marked him out as a man who should be king.

  He arrived at the command hillock, dismounted, pulled Spring off the horse, slung her over his shoulder and headed for Caesar. He stopped to stare up at the three on the crosses. They all glanced at him, then looked away without a flicker of acknowledgement. It was worse than if they’d stared hatred at him. He felt heat spread up his neck and sweat trickle from his armpits.

  It didn’t matter, he told himself, they’d all be dead soon. He looked at Caesar, on the far side of the crosses, some fifty paces distant. The general nodded back. There you go, thought Ragnall. I have the respect of the greatest military leader in the world. Who cares if a dying queen and her freakish lackeys don’t like me?

  The girl was heavier than he’d expected, so it was something of a relief when she came round and said:

  “You can put me down now.”

  Her hands were still tied to the hammer at her back, so he thought it was safe to do as she’d asked. It looked for a moment like she was going to come out with some cocky comment, but, to Ragnall’s joy, her face crumbled in misery when she saw her heroes high on their crosses. He tried to stop himself gloating. Good kings didn’t gloat. But he couldn’t help it, and anyway he wasn’t king just yet.

  “Not so smart now, are you?” he said, poking her in the chest.

  Before he’d seen she was moving, she leapt and smashed her shoulder into his chin. He stumbled back, tasting blood in his mouth, blinking. He saw the girl jump and tried to duck away, but her iron-heeled boot caught him in the side of the head and sent him crashing to the ground. His urge was to stay down, or to run, but Caesar was watching. As were the praetorians, Lowa, Chamanca, Atlas, a good portion of both armies…

  He stood. The girl was bouncing from foot to foot, her hands still bound behind her. “Come on!” she shouted at him.

  Two praetorians approached her from behind but Caesar said: “Hold.”

  So he was their sport now. They were all watching. She was younger, a woman–little more than a girl–and her hands were tied behind her back. He could not afford to lose. He slipped his sword from his scabbard.

  “Boo!” shouted some legionaries, and Ragnall realised that winning with his sword would be almost as bad as losing, and losing with it would be much worse. There was no gain in using the sword. He tossed it away and held out his hands towards Spring, fingers splayed and palms down. He danced from foot to foot. He’d seen a brilliant bare-handed gladiator start like this once, and defeat a man armed with a trident and a net. Ragnall knew the girl was powerful, but he was heavier, so he if could use his weight… He lunged. Spring melted to the side, his hands grasped air and his balls exploded. He fell and lay, shaking and crying with pain. She had kneed him in the bollocks and he couldn’t move. The pain was astonishing and almost all-encompassing but, even over his sobs, but he could still hear the laughter ringing out all around him. He opened an eye and saw the toe of Spring’s boot speeding towards his face.

  “Bring the girl to Caesar!” called Caesar.

  A praetorian marched her at arm’s length across the hillock. Blood was dripping from Lowa’s hands and ankles, but she was smiling at Spring, not madly but warmly. When she winked, Spring had to blink back tears.

  The praetorian stopped her two paces from Caesar and kept his fingers gripped around her biceps. She struggled in his grip, but he was a strong man and she was held.

  “Undo her bonds,” said Caesar.

  Spring heard a snick then her arms were free and Dug’s hammer fell to the ground behind her. Meanwhile, Ragnall limped towards them, blood running from his broken nose, supported by two praetorians who were doing their best to remain grim-faced.

  “Spring, you are a remarkable young woman. Caesar has never seen anyone laugh on a cross before, yet you made all three forget their pain for a moment when you bested that boy. Even Caesar laughed at your antics. However, it is clear that you will never be tamed, so you can never be queen of Britain. Neither can you remain here because rebellion is in your blood. However, partly because you have amused and mostly because you charmed Caesar at your wedding in Rome, he will free you, both from your bonds and your marriage. You will leave Britain and never set foot here again, or in any other of Rome’s provinces, on pain of death.”

  Spring looked up at Chamanca, Atlas and Lowa. She could see the torment on their faces. Should she just accept Caesar’s words and leave? She could take little Dug and go to Eroo. Or should
she try to save her friends? If the latter, then how? It was impossible anyway, but standing here directly under Caesar’s gaze, it was doubly so.

  “And you.” Caesar’s gaze settled on Ragnall. “A king needs respect. You have lost the small amount that you had and you will not be king. However, you have worked hard for Caesar, so you will remain a Roman. You will stay in the cavalry, with the same prospect of advancement or failure that is every Roman citizen’s right. Translate all this for your wife.”

  Ragnall looked at Spring, his eyes narrow. “He says blah, blah, stuff about being noble, some things about me making a fine king and that he will free you. He’s asking you where you want to go.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” said Spring. “Tell him please to give me one of the horses and I’ll make my own way. If I could have four horses in case three of them tire, that would be great.”

  Ragnall looked at Caesar. “She curses you, spits on your generosity and demands to be crucified alongside her queen.”

  Caesar looked surprised, then serious: “Very well. Tell her to wait by the others. You, bring up a cross.” He nodded at two praetorians, who jogged away.

  Ragnall turned back to Spring: “He said all these nearby horses are taken. He’s sent them to get four of his best, and asks you to wait over there.” Ragnall pointed to the crosses.

  “Sure thing!” said Spring. She looked up at Atlas, Lowa and Chamanca as she walked towards them. They were trying to look heroic, but each was twisted by the pain of the metal spikes piercing their limbs. She had to do something, but what? If only Caesar really was sending four of his best horses. But even then…