Authors: Angus Watson
“All right, let’s hold for a moment,” said Atlas. The trumpets of the new force blared a rattling blast. All the hairs on Chamanca’s body stood on end. As one, the entire battlefield looked up and saw the newcomers from the east. There was a pause that felt like a stone thrown straight upwards reaching its zenith, then everything changed.
The Helvan retreat held, coalesced, reversed and became a new, huge attack on the Roman line. It was by accident rather than design, but for the first time the attack was unified. For the first time, the Romans took a few paces back. In places the Helvans breached the wall of Roman shields. Not for long: the Romans quickly hacked them down and closed the gaps, but it was a start, and more and more gaps were opening in the Roman shield wall. Legionaries were dying in significant numbers.
“Let’s join them,” said Carden, reaching for his sword.
“Yes. Come on!” Chamanca tightened the thong on her leather shorts.
“Wait,” said Atlas. “Hold a few heartbeats.”
“No!” Carden protested, “the time is now. If we can rally a couple of hundred, we can punch through—”
“I see your point, but humour me and wait and watch for twenty heartbeats. If you still think we should join the attack after that, I will be at your side.”
Carden looked like he was about to leap from the cart, then said, “All right then,” and relaxed. Chamanca tilted her head to each shoulder, loosening her neck, and lifted her arms above her head. It was always good to stretch before a fight and she had twenty heartbeats to fill.
Below them, the third line of Romans was swinging round from its position behind the second line. Smoothly as liquid metal poured into a mould, it reformed on a perpendicular front in faultless ranks, ready to face the threat from the east. In perfect synchronicity, a volley of pilums whooshed up from the new Roman line.
The vanguard of the new Helvan attack faltered under the hail of spears, but still came on in reasonable order. The Romans waited behind their shields. The Helvans hit them. The Roman line held firm, then advanced, swords stabbing and chopping. The majority of the foremost Helvans turned to run, but they were hampered by their advancing siblings in arms and all was confusion. The Roman war machine rolled over them, dying Helvans and blood-soaked soil in its wake.
The newly enlivened attack on the original front had also fragmented from a united, punching fist into disparate, fleeing fingers. By the end of Atlas’ twenty heartbeats both Helvan attacks had become retreats, perhaps a thousand Helvans had died, and the Romans were advancing again, now on two fronts.
“Fuck,” said Carden.
“Yes,” agreed Atlas, “let’s head north and see if we can find stiffer resistance. Now I’ve seen them fight, I’m more convinced than ever that we must stop this army from reaching Britain.”
“Britain is screwed,” said Carden.
Atlas shook his head. “No. It will need a lot of work, but Lowa can beat that army.”
“You really think so?” asked Chamanca.
Atlas looked less sure. “With a lot of work, and some luck. That is assuming that the Roman force doesn’t grow and doesn’t contain any powerful elements that we don’t know about.”
Chamanca took a last look at the rampaging but still ordered Romans. She could not imagine any scenario in which any British army would defeat them. Worse, though, she had a strange feeling that there was more to the Roman army than they’d seen so far.
“S
ell the attractive women, the strongest men and any appealing children to the slavers. Give the rest to Felix,” said Caesar.
“Julius, is that wise?” While others would prevaricate and mince words with Caesar, his right-hand man Labienus spoke his mind. “Even if I ask the men to be loose with their definitions of attractive, strong and appealing, I’ll still hand Felix more than ten thousand Helvetians. You gave him that many after Suconna River. None were left alive a week later.”
“What he does with them is his decision.”
“They may be barbarians, Julius, but so many—”
Labienus was halted by a look. “Felix is working for me,” said Caesar, “for the benefit of all Romans and the Empire. He is to be afforded a free hand.”
“Indeed, Julius, but the men are talking. There is much murmuring about Felix’s mysterious activities, and the strange legionaries who do his bidding. A good many are claiming that Felix is using dark magic to create monsters.”
“Oh, for the love of Jupiter, can’t the centurions drum their bucolic superstition out of them?”
It was Labienus’ turn to give Caesar a look. “Sir, we both know that their fears aren’t entirely superstition, bucolic or otherwise. I’m certain that you allow Felix’s activities because they benefit Rome, but perhaps we should keep his business and his people away from the men?”
“All right, all right,” Caesar shook his head. “Give the prisoners to Felix. I will tell him to keep his activities out of sight and out of mind. And you, Labienus, will find these agents who persuaded Publius Considius to lie to me.”
Labienus coloured. “Of course.”
“I cannot understand why you sent only one messenger from the hill. If it weren’t for yesterday’s victory I’d be taking a dimmer view of your failure. I might have become very
cross
, if you get my drift.”
“I followed standard procedure. Crucifixion would hardly be—”
“No, no, you’re right. But don’t let standard procedure get in the way of common sense again. You may go. Ragnall?”
Labienus left and Ragnall Sheeplord, sitting at the scribes’ bench where he’d been pretending not to listen to the conversation, looked up from his scroll. “Sir?”
“Follow me, with the usual.” Caesar swept from the large tent without a backward glance. Ragnall grabbed the bag containing the bedroll and standard legionary’s morning rations and ran outside after the general.
It was coming to the end of the fourth night watch, shortly before dawn. In the peaceful air he could hear the screams of Publius Considius from the far side of the camp. Ragnall had never seen Caesar more angry than when he’d found out that Titus Labienus had been in position above the Helvetians and that Considius had lied to him. They’d caught the hapless Considius trying to escape on a donkey, dressed as a woman. It wasn’t a clever disguise in an army entirely comprised of men. The dissembling messenger had been keeping Caesar’s torturers busy ever since.
Caesar paid the noise no heed, striding away so purposefully that Ragnall had to half run to keep up. Approaching his forty-second birthday, the general’s hairline was in full retreat, but his wiry, fat-free frame quivered with apparently limitless energy. Ragnall wasn’t sure whether the man’s vivacity was the cause of his desire to be the greatest general in history, or caused by it. Whatever it was, Caesar was obsessed with military achievement. He was incensed that Alexander the Great had conquered the world by the age of thirty, yet his own significant martial successes to date had only numbered a few minor battles in Spain. He had much catching up to do.
Much, perhaps even most, of Caesar’s energy was directed towards conquering Britain. The conquest of Gaul would be a stepping stone towards this. That was the initial reason he’d brought Ragnall on to his staff. Now, Ragnall liked to think that Caesar saw him as a son. That might have been pushing it a bit, but he was certainly one of the great man’s favourites and privy to a good deal that the rest of the staff were not. This did not include why Caesar was obsessed with Britain; Ragnall guessed it was simply because it hadn’t been conquered before, by Alexander, Darius or any of the greats. Then again, they hadn’t conquered Gaul either. But Gaul was well known to the Romans. Although many Roman merchants sailed there regularly, and Rome contained plenty of British slaves, many Romans still thought of Britain as a romantic, semi-mythical place. Perhaps that was why Caesar wanted it so badly? There were plenty of resources in Britain, to be sure, and sometimes Ragnall thought Caesar must have been after these, but there were plenty of resources on the more convenient side of the Channel as well.
Ragnall also had no idea what Felix was up to, but he trusted Caesar, and if he said it would help Rome, that was good enough for Ragnall. He had long ago given up any idea of revenge against Felix, and his initial horror about the idea of Romans conquering Britain had been entirely reversed. Roman ways would make Britain so much better. And if Lowa, the woman who’d killed his family and lied to him, was destroyed in the process of introducing those ways, then so be it.
They arrived in the clearing. Ragnall laid out the bedroll next to Caesar’s speaking platform and placed the rations next to it. The common factor in all successful Roman campaigns, Caesar had told Ragnall, was the support of Rome; not necessarily the consuls, Senate and Tribunate, but the people – the citizens at home and the legionaries in the field. Hence the charade that he slept outside like one of the soldiers and ate the same rations. While the Senate were raging that he’d hired new legions illegally, marched them from Transalpine Gaul in breach of rules that he himself had set down as consul the year before, then massacred an entire people, the Roman man on the street would be marvelling at the humble proconsul sleeping outside and eating like a pleb.
The citizen’s image of Caesar would partly come from tales told by legionaries returning home, and partly from Caesar’s diaries and letters, constantly written and copied by a team of scribes. Joining this writing team was Caesar’s latest idea for Ragnall’s development. “About time the barbarian learnt to write,” he’d said. Ragnall was glad. Writing and reading was perhaps the most impressive facet of the Roman way of life he’d seen so far, better even than underfloor heating in marble bathrooms. To Ragnall, the concept of recording thoughts and being able to send messages so easily was both an incredibly advanced and forehead-slappingly simple idea. He could not believe they hadn’t thought of it in Britain. Surely it was as obvious as the wheel? He was embarrassed to come from a place that couldn’t write, and all the keener to be part of the Roman invasion that would change his homeland’s benighted ways.
The moment the sun peeked over the horizon, the thirty top centurions, five from each of the six legions that comprised the invasion force, arrived in the clearing.
Caesar rose from his bedroll, nodded a greeting, bit into a hard bread roll and climbed on to the platform. He liked to address the centurions from an elevated position. If no natural lumps in the land were available, he’d have a platform built. Short of time, he’d sit on horseback.
They knew as well as Ragnall did that Caesar hadn’t spent the night there, but they understood what he was trying to achieve. The more land and people they conquered, the more riches for them, so they went along with his image-boosting fabrications. They all agreed, for example, that the Roman attack on the Helvetians at Suconna had been in retaliation for atrocities against captured Romans, rather than the straightforward criminal attack that it actually was. They all agreed, too, that the Gauls had pleaded with Caesar to prevent the Helvetian migration, while the truth was that the Gauls had agreed to it years before, and the last thing they wanted was a Roman army in their lands.
These lies were so persuasive and pervasive that they’d become the truth, even for people who’d been there and seen the reality. It was all a massive self-delusion. In reflective moments, usually after a few mugs of wine, Ragnall saw that the Romans, himself included, didn’t question their own despicable behaviour; they simply forgot about it. Their actions were horrific and the justifications for them the most appalling hypocrisy. But the next day Ragnall would forget that he’d thought like that and get on with the business of supporting Caesar in his amazing adventures.
Journeying along in Caesar’s charismatic wake, he was happier than he’d ever been. When, every now and then, Drustan’s or perhaps his mother’s voice whispered from the Otherworld to ask him what in Danu’s name he thought he was doing, then he invited them to kindly bugger off. His family and his tutor had done nothing more for him than die and leave him alone. Caesar had given him fineries, comfort and a fascinating life. Ragnall owed him everything.
General and proconsul Caius Julius Caesar began the meeting with a description of the previous day’s battle. He commended everyone’s skill and bravery, but said that the main cause of the victory was he himself riding to the front line, dismounting and sending his horse galloping away so that he couldn’t retreat, then fighting in the front line with the legionaries.
“Thus I proved,” said Caesar, “my unshakeable faith in the Roman soldier. I had no concern for my safety because, with a stout legionary at each shoulder, I did not consider myself to be in danger. The men saw my courage, drew from it, and won a famous victory.”
Like many of his lies, there was some truth in it. Caesar had in fact dismounted, sent his horse away and walked along the Roman front line, encouraging the legionaries and asking several of them about their families – he was preternaturally good at remembering his legionaries’ names and personal details – but he’d done it while the Helvetians were still a good mile away. As the enemy had advanced, Caesar had walked back to a position several hundred paces beyond the range of any Helvetian projectile. Before that, in case the Helvetians had launched a rush of cavalry while Caesar was bolstering the troops, Ragnall had been nearby with a spare horse.
The centurions nodded and commended Caesar on his bravery.
“But the mighty Romans cannot yet rest,” Caesar continued. “The Helvetian scourge is defeated, but our Gaulish allies have been plagued with yet another insidious invader, and have asked for our aid. So, my friends and countrymen, it is with sadness that I tell you that we must travel further from the bosom of our homeland to face a new threat! However, with ready joy I await to hear your resolve. We march immediately, to repulse an innumerable force of Germans under the tyrant king Ariovistus.”