Clash of Iron (23 page)

She was a flurry of limbs and iron, stabbing her blade into an eye, driving a knee into a groin, mace-smashing an elbow, crushing a Bel’s apple with the sword hilt. The last guard she simply pushed off the wall.

After one, maybe two heartbeats, only her, Felix, Caesar and Kapiana remained. She leapt at Felix. He squeaked and fell. She was on him, teeth in his neck.

Then came the blow.

She managed to turn. Caesar was there, holding a sword with blood on it. Her blood? Time returned to its normal pace, perhaps slower. She felt weak and beaten. Consciousness was flowing away fast.

“Assassins always forget the general’s sword,” said Caesar, raising his weapon again.

“F
uck off, you Roman twat! Fuck off, you Roman twat!” the German children chanted, tripping along merrily next to Ragnall’s horse. They were healthy looking mites, aged between five and ten, he reckoned. Some of them had circles of flowers in their hair. “Fuck off, you Roman twat! Fuck off, you Roman twat!” they sang as they skipped.

It wasn’t the most sophisticated of insults, but after a while the young Briton could stand it no longer.

“Fuck off yourselves!” he shouted.

“Oi! You watch it! Don’t you dare talk to our kids like that!” said a thick-armed, lank-haired man, waggling a meaty finger at him. The man was wearing nothing but sandals and a scrap of black, furry leather pouched around a weighty-looking cock-and-balls bundle. Dark pubic hair sprouted from the garment’s hems. Ragnall couldn’t tell which fur belonged to the man and which to the luckless animal that had lost its skin so that a German might have warmer bollocks.

“Sorry,” said Ragnall. By Jupiter, he was unhappy.

“Fuck off, you Roman twat! Fuck off, you Roman twat! Fuck off, you Roman twat!” the children continued.

“I’m not Roman!” he shouted.

The children paused for a heartbeat, then resumed in joyous unison with: “Fuck off, you twat! Fuck off, you twat! Fuck off, you twat!”

Ragnall had met someone once at an orgy in Rome who followed a monotheistic eastern religion. She’d told him about one of their great druids, a fellow named Ezekiel, who’d been teased by a gang of children about his baldness. He’d complained about this to his solo god and the deity had sent a she-bear to slaughter forty-two of the children. Ragnall had drunkenly suggested, and by doing so massively offended the woman, that a more intelligent, less reactionary god might have sent Ezekiel a hat. Now, for the first time, he sympathised with Ezekiel and his brutish god. He called on Camulos, British god of animals, to send a bear to kill them, or at least a frightening dog to scare them, but no animals came and Ragnall rode on through the children’s rude chorus until, mercifully, the path narrowed and rose into the trees, away from the tent town. The children ran off, presumably to find someone else to torment.

Away from the settlement, the path rose up the valley side, dipping and climbing sharply as it traversed tributary streams etched into the main valley’s flank. Worn by heavy use and light maintenance, the track was a mess of ruts, holes, loose scree from landslips, fallen away sections and teetering overhangs that might collapse at any moment. This nigh impassable trail was the only route to the summer seat of Ariovistus – or Harry the Fister as the locals seemed to call him – king of the agglomeration of German tribes that was occupying half of Gaulish Skawney territory. Below the rough track, winding up the valley floor next to a frolicsome stream, were the traces of a decent road, smashed and blocked by boulders, tree trunks, mud and other debris from floods, rock falls and avalanches. When this became Roman land, thought Ragnall, roads like that would be cleared regularly, especially if they led to the seat of a leader. And the children wouldn’t be quite so cheeky either. Even more, now that he was away from the distractions of Rome, Ragnall saw that things would be so much better under the Romans for Gauls, Britons and probably the rest of the world.

Unfortunately, his chances of seeing the day when a resplendent Roman army marched on to a conquered Maidun Castle were slim. Caesar had believed him when he’d said that he had done nothing to help Chamanca or anyone else against the Roman cause. The rest of the army hadn’t. She’d shouted out her thanks to him after killing several praetorians, then killed a few more and tried to kill Caesar, so every Roman soldier was certain that Ragnall was in league with the enemy. She knew his name, so they must both be conspirators. They had no other argument or evidence than that, but it was enough for them. He’d tried to shake several people’s convictions – Caesar and Cato knew each other’s names, didn’t they, but the two were hardly friends – but his logic had fallen on dumb ears. The Roman soldiers weren’t ones to let sense get in the way of an interesting story. A furious Iberian woman had shouted out his name, so he was in league with the enemy. That was that.

Caesar had said that he was sorry, but Ragnall was irreversibly sullied in the six legions’ eyes. Thousands had called for him to be beaten to death and hundreds had offered to do it. If Ragnall were ever to be accepted again, he needed to do something incredibly brave and indubitably beneficial to Rome.

Luckily, Caesar had said, he had just the mission. Ragnall was to report to Labienus, who would explain the terms he was to deliver as Rome’s envoy to Ariovistus. Labienus had told him the message for Ariovistus, with seemingly genuine regret (Labienus really was, Ragnall thought, a decent fellow). The message was: “If you do not cross the Renus river back into Germany before the next full moon and stay away from Gaul for ever, Caesar will slaughter you and all your people.”

Ragnall knew that the demand was a long way from realistic, especially when you remembered that the Roman army had no more right to that part of Gaul than Ariovistus did, arguably less, since they’d arrived more recently, and that the German army was more than twice the size of the Roman one. It was like a small man walking into a much larger man’s house and telling the larger man to leave, it was his house now, because he said so. Oh, and he should leave his wife behind too.

So, if Ariovistus was anything like kings and queens that Ragnall had learnt about on the Island of Angels, he’d reply to Caesar’s ridiculous demands by sending back a vital part of the messenger who’d brought them – invariably the messenger’s head, usually with his private parts stuffed into his mouth. Ragnall gulped and almost pulled his horse to a halt.

He really could run away. He could ride north then west and back to Britain. It would be a dangerous journey to make alone, but a lot less dangerous than riding into the German headquarters and delivering terms which pretty much demanded that they made him chew on his own balls.

But he didn’t want to go home. He’d found a new home with the Romans. The idea of returning to Britain, or at least British ways and people, made him shudder. And you never knew. Perhaps Ariovistus would turn out to be a marvellously compassionate man who’d send him back to Caesar with another suggestion? Ragnall’s father, king of Boddingham, would never have harmed, let alone killed, a messenger. Perhaps Ariovistus would be like him? Perhaps he’d even agree to Caesar’s terms?

A gap opened in the trees to the left. In the meadow across the valley a troop of marmots stood on their hind legs, front paws lolling on their chests, heads swivelling to watch him pass. He liked the fat, furry animals, but was surprised to see so many thriving near a gigantic German camp full of people who favoured furry groin warmers. Perhaps it was a good omen?

An hour later, he came to a gateway in a spiked barricade that stretched across the valley, guarded by men and women. They were all dressed like the man who’d shouted at him, in nothing but thongs about their waists attached to furry pouches and sandals. One of the women reminded him of Lowa. He tried not to look at her tits as he told them who he was. They told him to dismount and let him through. The Lowa-alike took his horse, and a gruff man told him to wait at the edge of a large, newly built but already stinking German village.

He stood there, feeling awkward while people walked from the village to stare at him silently, then walked away, seemingly underwhelmed. Eventually the gruff man returned, showed him to one of several paths that led up the valley and told him to follow it until he found the king.

It was a pleasant walk, away from the pungent ming of the Germans’ settlement, along the grassy, wooded edge of a steep valley. The gradient stretched his legs satisfyingly after the long ride. At one point a fat black squirrel with a tail like the most flamboyant centurion’s plume sat on the path watching him and scampered off only when he was almost on it. He took this to be another good omen.

Presently the path opened out, and Ragnall found himself at the top of a sort-of cliff perhaps two hundred paces high. He couldn’t have called it a proper cliff, but it was definitely more than a steep slope. It had plenty of sheer faces, but there was the odd big bush, and several grassy ledges of varying sizes grazed by small, scraggy-coated and apparently sure-footed sheep. A haphazard array of sharpened stakes had been hammered into the slope’s face, their ends pointing diagonally upwards. Ragnall couldn’t see what they might be for. Possibly, he thought, they were for hanging sheep’s feed bags in winter, but that seemed unlikely, since they probably took the sheep down the mountain when the snows came.

He stopped wondering about the stakes when he spotted, spaced along the edge of the cliff for two hundred paces, a line of naked people, a group of nearly naked people and a couple in clothes. The naked people were bound, blindfolded and tethered to metal pegs. The first fully clothed person was surely King Ariovistus, or “Hari the Fister”, surrounded by a dozen large German men and women. The second was a tall, one-armed woman at the far end of the line of naked prisoners, standing alone on a rocky outcrop, blonde hair blowing in the wind.

Ariovistus was maybe sixty years old. He was the fattest person Ragnall had seen outside Rome, but he looked strong and solid, not flabby and easily exhausted like the wobble-breasted overeaters who lowered the aesthetic tone at Roman orgies. All his bodyguards, advisors, friends or whatever they were, were clad in the same thongs and fur triangles as the villagers. The women had bare breasts, some flat and floppy, some pert and interesting. Ragnall had heard that all Germans wore this skimpy garb year round and didn’t feel the cold. Ariovistus clearly hadn’t heard that rule, since he wore leather trousers and a red tartan wool cape, nor had the distant woman on the rock, who was wearing a long blue dress.

Ragnall was about to holler a greeting, when Ariovistus took three big bounding strides towards a prisoner. He was surprisingly nimble for such a large man. He sliced through tethering twine with his sword and pushed the blindfolded captive off the cliff. The man roared in horror and fell. Ariovistus, his entourage and Ragnall rushed to the cliff edge to watch.

The bound prisoner landed on his feet on a grassy shelf, missing a grazing sheep by a foot. The sheep carried on munching, apparently unaware. It looked for a moment as if the man’s fall might end there. Perhaps, had his hands not been bound, he might have grabbed hold of grass or sheep, but slowly, slowly, he toppled forwards. He fell another twenty paces and was impaled through the lower torso on one of the stakes. He screamed, convulsed like a dying fish and was still. Ah-ha, thought Ragnall. That’s what the stakes are for.

Ariovistus and his people looked to the woman in the blue dress on the outcrop.

“Dead!” she shouted.

The Germans whooped and shouted. Backs were slapped. Ariovistus turned his attention to Ragnall.

“Ah! Good! The Roman envoy! Welcome! I’m Arrivervister. But everyone calls me King Hari the Fister – or just plain King Hari.” The king had a richly mellifluous voice, cherry-red cheeks and watery blue eyes. The grey curly hair on his head showed traces of the ginger it had once been, but his shrub of a beard was bright white. He smiled broadly and his eyes creased into twinkling slits as he strode forward, took Ragnall’s hand and gave it an energetic pumping.

“Hello. I’m Ragnall,” Ragnall managed, wondering if he’d imagined this avuncular fellow pushing a man to his death.

“Ragnall! Ragnall. Not a Roman name.”

“No, British.”

“Ha! But you are now with the Romans?”

“Yes.”

“How wonderful! You must tell me all about how that came to be. But not right now! You find us right at of the beginning of a game of Trial By Falling. The rules of the game are simple: they’re all in the name! Ha! These good fellows and lovely ladies,” he put one hand on Ragnall’s shoulder and used the other to indicate the line of nude captives, “have been accused of a variety of crimes. Other tribes and other kings might go into that bothersome business of witnesses, arguments, evidence and all that guff. We prefer to speed things along and make it enjoyable for everyone. So today the mountain is deciding who’s innocent and who’s guilty. It’s not always the mountain – we don’t always have a mountain – but today it is. You saw the fellow fall just now?”

“I did…”

“We all wondered if he’d killed and eaten someone else’s duck, as someone or other had told us. Now we know he did! The gods decided that he was guilty of whatever it was he was accused of. I’m pretty sure it was duck theft, duck cooking and duck eating. And now we know he did it! Ha! And at exactly the same time we discover his guilt, he’s punished! You see? It’s clever, uncomplicated, quick and everyone’s happy!”

Almost everyone, thought Ragnall, but he nodded.

“Now, I’d be – we’d all be – deeply honoured if you tried the next one?”

Ragnall thought he must have misheard.

“Here,” King Hari handed him his sword, hilt first. “You saw me, it’s easy! Cut the cord and push! Opposite to giving birth. Ha ha!”

Ragnall took the sword. The thought that he might attack King Hari and the Germans poked its nose out from one of the braver recesses of his mind, but the much larger self-preservation section shooed it back in. He walked towards the nearest captive; a hairy, thickset man.