by Angus Watson
I really should have brought my army, she thought.
After what seemed like an age, a quiet voice made her jump.
“Stay here,” said Pomax. “Do not move and do not speak. I’ll know if you have and I’ll hurt you again. We’ve done shoulder, back and arm. What’s next? Something … private? Or something vital. Oh, I do hope you talk so we can find out.”
The queen of Maidun stayed quiet as the queen of the Murkans walked away.
Movement was returning to the fingers of Lowa’s left hand when Pomax returned carrying Grummog in a padded shoulder harness, followed by his retinue. Pomax took the king from her back and placed him carefully on the throne. None of them acknowledged Lowa or even looked at her. She stayed quiet. They sat and chatted as if Lowa wasn’t there until their first visitor arrived. She was a minor tribal chief whom Grummog had summoned. He demanded troops for his southward marching army.
“Have you not heard about Lowa’s Two Hundred?” said the chief. “And the rest of her army? Amazingly well trained, they say. Oh no, I don’t want to send my people to fight her, it would be sending them to their very deaths! She annihilated the poor Dumnonians less than half a moon after she killed Zadar. And Lowa’s got a magic bow! If she shoots it and says your name, that arrow will find your heart no matter where you hide. How can we fight that?”
Lowa was desperate to say something along the lines of “quite right, keep your people at home or they’ll all die”, but even though Pomax hadn’t so much as glanced at her, she could feel that she was coiled, ready to run over and inflict some new, appalling damage.
“Do you mean this Lowa?” asked Grummog, pointing at his captive.
“Is that her?” The chief was wide-eyed.
“It is.”
“How did you capture her?”
“My people will kill…” was as far as she got before Pomax was on her, all five of her claws through her shirt and into her left breast. Pomax was saying something but Lowa couldn’t hear it. She closed her eyes and screamed.
When she could see again, she looked up and saw Pomax back in her seat next to Grummog. Both were smiling happily at her. By the appalled look on everybody else’s faces, particularly the chief’s, her agony had not been a pretty thing. Waves of pain still throbbed through her. She was certain she was going to vomit for a long nauseous moment, but she managed to hold it.
“I’m sorry, Lowa,” asked Grummog, “did you have something to say?”
Lowa stayed quiet.
“You may answer,” said Pomax.
“You heard her,” said Grummog. “Can you give me any reason why this chief shouldn’t send her tribe south to take on your weakened little army?”
“No,” she said, “I have nothing to say.”
“Oh good,” said Grummog. “It’s nicer that way.”
More chiefs came throughout the day to hear Grummog’s demands for troops. All were reluctant until their attention was drawn to the captive Lowa, then each agreed to supply the number Grummog wanted. For the rest of the day, Lowa only spoke when Grummog asked her to and Pomax gave her permission, and every time she said what she knew they’d want to hear. Pomax didn’t hurt her again and Lowa found herself feeling gratitude towards the woman. That’s how madness begins, she thought.
Chapter 38
“All right, let’s go,” said Dug, swinging his hammer over his shoulder and heading for the paddock where his horse had lived a hitherto idle life. He had a horse because he could afford one and people who could afford a horse were meant to have a horse, but Spring had never seen him ride it.
She hadn’t expected it to be that easy. All she’d said was that Lowa was captured. She’d prepared a speech about why he should rescue her. She was even planning to tell him about their magic link to each other if she needed to. As it was, she hadn’t even got off her horse and he was already persuaded.
“Don’t you need to pack up anything? Or do you need to—” she leant down from her horse, looked about to check no bandits were eavesdropping and whispered “—hide your riches?”
“They’re already hidden, and I’ve got my hammer, so…”
“OK. Just try this, though. Take my hand.” Dug did so. She closed her eyes. Take us to Maidun Castle, she said in her mind. She opened her eyes. They were still by the paddock, the only difference was that Dug was looking at her as if he thought she was even odder than usual. She closed her eyes again. Come on, Danu, Bel, Branwin, Sobek or whoever it is, take us to Maidun. She tried picturing the exact spot on the Eyrie where she wanted them to be. Nothing happened. Bring Lowa to us here. Make her appear right here, in this paddock, oh wonderful and powerful gods, use the magic that lives in Dug and me to bring her here from Mallam.
She looked up, into the paddock. Dug’s horse looked back at her, with a similar expression to Dug’s.
“Oh well. Come on, let’s ride,” she said.
“What were you doing?” Dug asked.
“Praying,” she said. He looked surprised, but didn’t question her further. She was frustrated. She was convinced that her magic was linked to Dug. So she’d assumed that now she was with him and she knew about the link, she’d be able to draw on and control powerful magic. Apparently not. So perhaps it wasn’t linked to Dug? She felt silly for thinking it was, and decided not to tell him her theory until she was certain.
She did tell him as they rode about the death of Miller and the others, about Lowa’s captivity and how they were going to burn her in the wicker woman, and about the army invited from Eroo by the perfidious Dumnonians. She told him about her escape and how magic had transported her from the cliff, how she’d been able to live underwater without breathing, and about how she’d finally surfaced in a woodland pool.
To her surprise, Dug didn’t question her story, just insisted that they should get the entire army from Maidun and free Lowa from the Murkans by force. She told him that Lowa hadn’t taken the army north in the first place because it was needed in Maidun. Lowa didn’t trust the Dumnonians – and had been right not to, they’d found out – so the army had to stay in case the Dumnonians flooded into Maidun the moment they saw that its defences were down. If they took the army north now, they’d probably come back to find Bruxon laughing at them from the walls of a captured Maidun Castle. Besides, she said, they had a better chance of rescuing Lowa by stealth and, what’s more, Grummog would stick her in the wicker woman the moment he saw the Maidun army coming over the hill.
Finally he was convinced, but then he insisted that they go straight to the Murkan base at Mallam. So Spring had to persuade him, no, first they had to go to Maidun, to warn Mal and Nita, who’d been left holding the hillfort, about the army from Eroo and the Dumnonian treachery.
Eventually he saw sense. They trotted along in silence for a while. Spring would have liked to have gone faster, but Dug’s horse was neighing and bubbling and making all manner of bizarre sounds, complaining about this unwelcome, weighty call on its services. If they went any faster, Spring was sure the animal would either lie down or die.
Despite the circumstances, she was happy to be back with Dug. Although they hadn’t been on horseback at the time, Spring was reminded of that first day they’d met, and walked through the woods, holding hands. They’d spotted animal shapes in the clouds. She felt a surge of affection for the big man. The most important thing, she realised, more important than stopping the Romans, more important than protecting the land from the army of Eroo, was that Dug came through it all unscathed, because he was the best person who had ever lived and she loved him.
So why, she wondered, had she just persuaded him into the incredibly dangerous task of rescuing Lowa from Mallam? Because, she realised with a little jolt, Lowa was nearly as important to her as Dug. Besides, now she knew her magic was linked to him, surely she’d be able to protect him and surely, between them, they had a better chance of rescuing Lowa than anybody else?
“Will you tell me the story of the war against the halfme
n, please?” she asked as they crested a hill and a new view opened up, huge and green. They were still a good way from Maidun.
“You’re too old for stories now,” Dug said. “And, anyway, I’ve told you that one before.”
“How about the story of the flood then?” Spring smiled her most winning smile. “Please?”
“Well, it is a good one.”
“Especially your version.”
“My version is the true version.”
“That’s why it’s so good.”
“Hmm. All right then. Many years ago, when the last halfman was not long dead, the gods disagreed over some long-forgotten bollocks and went to war…”
Spring smiled and relaxed. Dug’s voice was like a warm blanket and a bowl of stew at the end of a cold day.
Chapter 39
Caesar sent his cavalry to harry the disorderly retreat of the Gauls, ordering its commanders to kill as many of the enemy as possible without putting themselves in any danger. If, for example, there was a group of Gaulish children and a group of warriors, they were to draw the warriors away, circle back and slaughter the children.
Ragnall watched the horses trot out of the camp. When he’d heard their orders, he’d been surprised and disappointed. Surely orders to kill children could not be honourable? But he thought it through and was consoled. Caesar’s goal to bring the enlightenment of Roman culture to the poor ignoramuses of the world was noble, and if more tribes were terrified of him and his army’s cruelties, more would capitulate without a fight, and in total, fewer people, including children, would die. So his apparently inhuman orders were actually saving Gaulish lives. Issuing commands that could be used against him by his enemies back home, and seen by historians as unnecessarily ruthless, showed a commitment to the cause that went way beyond personal glory. Ragnall’s disappointment morphed in to fierce pride.
He returned to the capacious leather headquarters tent and found Caesar dictating his diary. He was describing Galba as a proud warrior king, brave and intelligent, who had nevertheless been outmanoeuvred by his superior Roman mind.
Ragnall raised his eyebrows at the dissembling, but realised immediately there must be a good reason for it. However, Caesar had spotted his expression.
“What troubles you, brave new Roman?” said the general.
“Nothing,” said Ragnall.
“No, there is something, I can see. Tell Caesar what it is. Quickly now.”
Ragnall hesitated. What did Caesar want? The man was complicated. He could be inviting the challenge and keen to explain, or he could be in a bad mood and looking for someone to punish.
“Come on, come on.”
Ragnall took a breath. “You never met Galba,” he said. “And she’s a woman – a queen – not a king.”
Caesar smiled. Ragnall sighed in relief as the general lifted a hand in an oration pose and began to lecture: “There are two things that you must understand if you are to be a successful Roman, young Ragnall. The first is something that I have told you before. A general must have the constant, regularly refreshed support of the Senate, the Tribunate, and, most importantly, the citizens. Where are these people? In Rome. Where do I intend to spend the majority of the foreseeable future? Not in Rome. So what can I do? How might I achieve the always accreting admiration that I need for my goals in the field when I am not there myself to flatter and display? I will tell you. With mechanisms that operate in my absence. Some of these mechanisms are previous generosities and favours, some are people. Another is the steady flow of wealth back to the city. One, possibly the single greatest mechanism, is my campaign journal. This true account of our manoeuvres tells Rome’s citizens, and the citizens of her Empire, that each decision Caesar makes is justified, that his means never outweigh his ends, and that he treats the enemy, if we should call him that, with respect and honour. The savage demands our help, we show the savage the benefits of Roman life. At no point do we infringe the dignity of the savage.”
Ragnall thought of the order to kill children, the blinded Germans, the slaughtered Helvetians. He knew all these were done for good reason, but arguably it was somewhat dignity infringing to gouge someone’s eyes out or kill his kids.
“I can see your uncertainty and I understand it, but the first lesson of a successful military campaign is to protect one’s own civilians from knowing one’s methods. Rome is built on cruelty, treachery and slaughter, but these are not subjects you’ll find on the lips of its partygoers, unless they’re decrying the methods of our enemies, of course. My army’s end justifies its means, but it is better to keep the means hidden, like shit in a rose garden. Do you understand?”
“I do…” said Ragnall. It was reassuring to have Caesar explain his methods, even if Ragnall had worked them out for himself, however … “But why say that Galba is a man?”
“That you will come to understand. All that is important for now is that you accept that Caesar is always right. Do you?” Caesar’s eyes sparkled for an instant, like a flash of fire reflected on water.
“I do,” said Ragnall.
“So you will agree. We have seen no female soldiers or leaders among the Helvetian, German or Gaulish people. Women are not suited for fighting, let alone command. There are no female warriors or leaders in Britain, are there?”
Ragnall thought of Chamanca and Lowa. “No,” he said. “I don’t think there are.”
The next day, units of cavalry returned from their chase with competitively gruesome tales of massacre, and the Romans struck camp. They marched into Soyzonix territory, where Galba was queen. Actually king, Ragnall reminded himself.
The first stronghold they came to was an old walled town hunkered on the shallow banks of a narrow river. Caesar rode to the gates, demanded surrender and received a display of bare arses in return. He ordered his engineers and carpenters to construct siege engines.
The townspeople refused to yield until the heads of siege towers reared up in the Roman camp, at which point they capitulated immediately. Two of Galba’s sons, one of whom ruled the town, were marched out at spear point. The town’s elders threw themselves down at Caesar’s feet and begged his mercy. Caesar announced that the town would be spared and allowed to carry on as before, under the protection of Rome. However, to show the townspeople what would happen if they displeased Caesar again, Galba’s sons were to be crucified on the town’s wall, either side of the main gate.
Ragnall had heard of crucifixion but not yet seen one. People spoke about it in hushed, sometimes disgusted but generally reverent tones. He couldn’t see the big deal. How bad could it be, being nailed to a piece of wood? Ragnall had been buried alive, pushed off a cliff blindfolded, fired from a catapult and near drowned. Could crucifixion be as bad as any of those? He didn’t think so.
He found a spot to watch among legionaries and townspeople, who mingled happily. It was something that Ragnall had seen in Vesontio, and it had amazed him there, too. One word from Caesar, and the legionaries would have eviscerated every man, woman, child, dog and cat in the town. Everyone knew this, Romans and Gauls. Yet here they were chatting away, being introduced to children, buying each other drinks and being imposed upon to sample the local bread. People, thought Ragnall, were odd.
The first cross wouldn’t fit through the wall’s interior staircase because, as a few Romans around him told the Gauls and each other in knowing tones, some lackwit had nailed the crosspiece to the upright in advance, rather than waiting until it was in place. The cross had to be hauled up the wall on ropes. Badly made, hairy Gaulish ropes, Ragnall noticed, not the smooth, well-made Roman twine. Roman life was better, and these Gauls were lucky to see it.
The crowd was jostling but friendly, especially as Ragnall was now the heroic envoy who’d survived Ariovistus’ tortures, but he realised he wouldn’t see the nails go in from ground level, so he used his new status to gain access to the top of the wall.
Galba’s younger son, the first to be crucified, was perhaps half Ragnall’s ag
e. He had a chubby face, protruding jaw, folded eyelids, small nose, and a fat tongue clamped between thick lips. He was alternately giggling, blowing raspberries and gawping amazed at the crowd, all the while pawing at the back of his own head. Ragnall had seen people like him before. In Britain he would have been called a Danu’s Child. Ragnall hadn’t seen any Danu’s Children in Rome, but back home they were considered holy. They were more susceptible to disease than others, and, in their simplicity and trustfulness, more vulnerable to accident and attack, so it was a mark of success for a tribe to contain a happy, healthy Danu’s Child or two. There had been two his age on the Island of Angels where he’d been educated by the druids. Ragnall, his peers and the druids would all sooner have hurt themselves than harmed a Danu’s Child. It was the same all over Britain. Even the Murkans, famously mean and selfish, would share the last of their winter supplies with a Danu’s Child. Yet the Romans were about to crucify one of them.
The Gaulish Danu’s Child was smiling and playing with the legionaries as they walked him along the top of the wall to his cross. He poked at their thick leather armour with plump fingers and laughed throatily. One of them cuffed the back of his head and he looked shocked, then upset for heartbeat, then he started laughing again.
Ragnall considered leaving, but hadn’t Drustan always advocated seeing as much of the extraordinary as possible? Romans crucifying a Danu’s Child on the walls of a Gaulish town was not an everyday spectacle for a young man from a small tribe in central Britain.
Galba’s son blew bubbles of saliva and looked about with wide-eyed wonder as he was laid on the cross. Four legionaries took a limb each and another gripped his head. He was still giggling and chuckling. He’d clearly had the same indulgence as Danu’s Children in Britain, Ragnall realised, so couldn’t consider this attention from these strange men as anything other than a game. He looked down at the people in the town. Yes, now he looked for it, there was some resentment and fear in a few startled-horse eyes and too-loud laughs among the Gauls. The Romans were killing their cherished Danu’s Child. If they tried to rescue him, they’d be killed, and Galba’s son would be crucified anyway, so they could do nothing apart from hate themselves for their inaction.
