Reign of Iron (23 page)

“Don’t you mean a dog?”

“No.”

They walked through the back of the theatre, past a gaggle of rehearsing actors hammily shouting lines at each other, through more marble columns and out into large, rectangular, colonnaded gardens. Exotic birds flitted between evergreen shrubs, past dancing fountains which reflected the bright paint on dozens of lifelike statues of actors and heroes. Behind the colonnades, Ragnall knew, were stylish salons and art galleries tastefully adorned with curios, pottery and paintings from all over the world. Pompey was famous for being a tasteless vulgarian, so he’d hired Rome’s most fashionable decorators to fill his theatre with modish marvels and change his reputation. It didn’t work, of course; people were saying he was still a fat ignoramus even if he had paid for a nice building, but Ragnall nevertheless thought it was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. His yearning, burning desire to bring Roman ways to Britain blazed higher and stronger than ever before. They really could have wonders like this in Britain. Even more wondrous wonders! And he would be the man to bring them.
Ragnall’s Theatre.
He liked the sound of that. It would be a good start.

“It’s a funny sort of holiday,” said Spring, bringing him back to the real world, “when the only people who’ve stopped work are the ones who don’t do any work anyway. The people with the shit jobs are still beavering away.” She nodded at two skinny Africans who were holding a huge ostrich plume to shade a tubby senator from the weak winter sun, then at a gang of slaves scrubbing stones and polishing pillars.

“But you’ve got to admit this garden is just wonderful? You’ve never seen these water things before.” There was no word for “fountain” in British, because the British were too brutish to have thought of them.

“What are they for?” asked Spring.

“They’re not
for
anything. They’re just beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as the sea. Or trees or hills or cliffs or lakes or grassland or children or beaches or marshes or mountains or—”

Ragnall turned around, arms aloft. “Did you know this is the biggest building in the world?”

“It’s not as big as Maidun Castle.”

“Maidun Castle’s not a building.”

“But it’s bigger.”

“So are a lot of hills!”

“Exactly.”

“For Jupiter’s sake. How about this statue. It looks just like a real person. It’s a million times better than any carvings in Britain.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a demonstration of how amazing people can be! This statue is a culmination of what man can achieve, when he pools his strength and his learning, so that the greatest might be freed from the mundane tasks like growing food and gathering firewood, and they can use their gods-given skills to—”

“Look, fish! In that pond. Now they
are
amazing. Can the Romans make those?”

“Ponds? Who do you think—”

“No, fish.”

“Can we make fish?”

“Yup.”

“No. Nobody can
make
fish.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t make life.”

“No? Well, until the Romans can I think you should stop going on about how amazing they are. Life is the only thing that’s worth anything. Everything else – all your spurty water things and stupid statues – are tagnuts on a badger’s ball sack in comparison to life.”

“People here live much longer. Our druids can prolong—”

“Can your druids make life?”

“No.”

“No.”

They walked on through the gardens. People stared at them, but Spring didn’t seem to notice. She was looking at the fountains. Ragnall was pretty sure she did like them. As they neared the steps that led up to the Curia Pompeia, the grand hall at the end of the gardens, he thought, well, now’s as good a time as any.

“You know we’re going to get married?”

Spring stopped, turned and looked up at him. She still had a somewhat childish button-mushroom nose, but her overbite had retracted into full lips. The upper one was particularly lovely, and the shape of a recurve bow was such a mesmerising red that she’d never need the paints that the Roman women daubed on their faces.

“Why are you looking at my mouth?” she said.

“I’m waiting for you to say something about the fact we’re getting married.”

“If I’m entirely honest, I’d expected a proposal to be a little more romantic.”

“We’re in a romantic place?”

Spring looked around. “We’re not. A wood is a romantic place, a riverside in certain lights can be—”

“OK, sure, but what do you think about marrying me?”

“It’s a no. A very big one. Although you haven’t asked yet.”

“We don’t have a choice. I’m not asking you to marry me. Caesar is making us.”

“Making you.”

“If you don’t marry me he’ll kill you.”

“Then maybe I will marry you. But I won’t mean it and there is
no
way we’re shagging.”

“I won’t make you. I’m not mad about this either. The ceremony is in about a moon—” Ragnall paused as a small, dark-skinned female slave offered them wine which they both declined, “and it will be in public. Or at least there will be guests.”

“Good. That’ll be fun.”

“If you’re thinking of disrupting it—”

“Which I am.”

“I told Caesar you would. He said that if you do, he’ll have one of your toes chopped off every week, then your fingers, then your feet, then your hands, then he’ll release you in the forests of Germany.”

“Better behave myself then.”

“Indeed.”

“Right then. I suppose Caesar will – oh!” Spring staggered and Ragnall caught her arm. She was pale. They’d just reached the steps that led up to the Curia Pompeia.

“Here, sit down—”

“No. Sorry. Something just came over me. A nasty feeling,” Spring said, looking up the steps at the meeting hall. “Did something terrible happen here?”

Ragnall shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s going to … This is a bad place. Let’s go the other way.”

Ragnall led her back towards the theatre. Within seconds she was fine again, chatting about the fish as if she hadn’t just agreed to marry him then nearly fainted. Halfway back he spotted Clodia Metelli, walking with Pydna, the Macedonian girl who lived with her and with whom Ragnall had had a brief affair when he’d first moved in.

“Come and meet Clodia and Pydna,” he said. “Clodia speaks a few words of British.”

“Whup-dee-do,” said Spring.

T
he day was productive. Lowa never forgot that Atlas was dying in a hut nearby while a miserable Chamanca kept vigil, and she suspected the African was in everybody else’s thoughts, but, rather than distract, it seemed to focus them all in dogged preparation for the next Roman invasion.

Among other ideas, Elann Nancarrow described a tool that might wreck the tortoise shield formations and Maggot devised a scheme for keeping Felix’s legion contained. Adler reported that the cavalry were improving every day and Mal said he’d found an old hillfort in the south-east that would make a good base nearer Caesar’s likely landing spot, and he outlined a novel scheme for improving its defences. The one thing they didn’t resolve was a new commander for the infantry, because Lowa never brought it up. It seemed wrong while Atlas was still alive.

The one person who didn’t contribute was the Gaulish druid Walfdan. He was quiet until the very end, when Lowa left to see how Atlas was doing and he asked to accompany her. It was a little annoying – the decrepit man walked at a slug’s pace and Lowa wanted to get there before Atlas died – but she took his arm to speed him up and tried her best not to mind. She tried to talk to Walfdan on the way, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He was not well; not a surprise given his age. Lowa wondered if he’d make it through the winter.

Atlas was unconscious, his breathing irregular.

“He will die soon,” said Chamanca, “and I will return to training the chariots. I am sorry that I missed your meeting, but you will be pleased with the charioteers. They have worked hard and—”

“It’s all right, Chamanca, we can talk later.”

The Iberian nodded. Lowa stepped in and put a hand on Atlas’ chest. “Goodbye, old friend,” she said. She searched for other words, or anything useful to do, but came up blank. The only thought that came into her head was that death was a huge pisser.

The queen left Walfdan with Chamanca, glad that the Iberian wouldn’t be alone, and sent an onlooker off to find Keelin and her son.

She spent the rest of the day and the night with Dug, playing peekaboo, feeding him from the milk horn and stroking his breath-catchingly smooth skin. Now she was more used to it, she knew that if she hadn’t had to be a Warrior queen she would have enjoyed looking after the little boy more often. She didn’t even mind when she was woken by his screaming in the middle of the night. She rocked him and sang a song dredged from her childhood memories, again and again.

As she sat and sang, she considered something that she’d never thought of before. Her own mother must have done this for her, night after night. She had no memory of those times, of course she didn’t, but she knew her mother must have loved her and cared for her and put her needs before her own. She pictured her mother suckling her as a baby in the village in the German forest, listening out for her cries at night and spending every day making sure her child didn’t put her hand in the fire or cut herself on any of the number of sharp tools that were strewn about their hut. She remembered, so clearly, crouching with Aithne and watching the raiders kill her mother. Then she remembered Aithne’s death.

And here she was, preparing for war and, very probably, her own death. She couldn’t consider for a moment that the Romans might kill little Dug, it was too awful, but she wondered if her grown-up son would ever spare a thought for his long-dead mother. She’d just have to stay alive, wouldn’t she? Which meant beating the Romans. She sat and planned in the candlelight while little Dug, quiet for once, held her fingers in his tiny grip and looked at her calmly with large, shining eyes.

Dawn came, along with Keelin, and found Lowa still sitting on the chair, the baby wrapped in fur, asleep on her lap.

“I bet you’ve had enough of him by now?” whispered his nanny.

“I’ll keep him for a while. Come back around lunchtime.”

Keelin smiled and headed out.

“Come on, Dug,” she said when he woke. “Let’s go and see if Atlas lived through the night. Seeing a baby might cheer him a little.”

“It will cheer me a lot, I’ve always liked babies,” said a deep African voice. Lowa looked up, startled.

Standing in the doorway, beaming like a well-fed puppy, was Atlas.

“What, by Danu’s great big tits?”

“Can I come in and have a hold of the boy?”

Lowa nodded, he came into the hut and she handed Dug to him.

Atlas smiled and the child chortled, but then the African’s face was grave. “It’s not all good news, I’m afraid. Walfdan is dead.”

“Oh shit. He didn’t look well.”

“He wasn’t,” said Maggot, standing at the door. “Can I come in, too?”

“Of course. What was it?”

“He was old, there were a few evil things going on inside that wrinkly skin-bag, any one of which would have finished him by the time the flowers bloom on the hills, but the thing that did for him eventually was a dagger in the heart from me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I killed him!” grinned Maggot.

“What?” She looked at Atlas, but he was occupied playing with the boy.

“Now I know you take a dim view of murder, Lowa, a fatally dim one, so although I don’t like talking about this stuff, I’ll explain.”

“Go for it.”

“As you will have worked out, magic is connected to life. A person or an animal can be alive or dead and there’s a fucking massive difference between the two. That difference is magic.”

“So Walfdan was dying, you killed him and transferred his life-force to Atlas.”

“Nah. You can’t transfer a life-force, or at least I can’t, and I’ve never heard of anyone that can, and it would be a bit grim, wouldn’t it? Atlas walking around using up another man’s life? Yuck. And anyway, Walfdan was going to be dead within the moon so there wouldn’t have been much point.”

“So how did you—?”

“Death releases something which isn’t life itself, but a force which I choose to call magic. ’Cos that’s what it is. Some people can still use magic – it’s to do with the interconnectedness of everything, but I won’t go into that now. I’m one of these people, so I can do a few tricks. About the easiest of all the tricks, strangely enough you might think, is taking the magic released by death and using it to kill something else. The infection from the arrow that was killing Atlas was a living thing. I killed it. And so here’s Atlas. At least I think that’s what happened. This is all –” he jangled his arm jewellery dramatically “– theoretical.”

“I see. But you commanded the whales without anything dying?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to explain everything, am I? A man likes a secret or two. And, besides, haven’t you two got an army to train? I’ll take the baby for a bit.”

“I don’t think you will.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already sent one of your peasant idiots to find Keelin, and, besides, I’m good with babies. I’m good with everyone.”

He winked and smiled like a loon, which for some reason made Lowa trust him.

“Come on then, give him the boy,” she said to Atlas. “We’re missing mêlée practice.”

T
hat winter Ragnall and Spring lived in a house that belonged to Caesar in a terrace of similar houses near the forum, in the least smart part of the Palatine Hill, Rome’s richest neighbourhood. In many ways it was how Spring imagined most young wealthy couples lived in Rome – ten rooms, three slaves, all the wine they could drink and some very odd food – and in some ways it wasn’t. The differences, as she imagined, were that she and Ragnall slept in separate rooms, her room’s window had thick iron bars, there were always two great big men guarding her and she was often chained to something. It didn’t stop her doing Lowa’s fitness routine every day, though, and she whiled many hours away inventing new stretches and exercises. She didn’t want to escape yet, but when she did, she didn’t want to fail because she wasn’t fast or strong enough.