Ravens of Avalon (36 page)

“Thank you for telling me.” Boudica replied after a few moments had passed. She had scarcely seen her brother since they were both small; she supposed the pang of grief was more for the death of her childhood than for him. “But you are alive, and I can see that you need feeding … If you follow the path to the river you will come to the grove of Andraste. Wait for me there.”

And now, with a basket full of food and drink and bandages, she sat facing Caratac in the shadow of the circle of oak trees that surrounded the shrine.

“It has been a long time since I had such a vintage.” He took another swallow from the wineskin. “Of late it has been only water, and before that, heather ale. I have rejected all things Roman but this.” He sighed. “Our people might be free today if we could have forgone our taste for Roman wine.”

“My husband and I will not betray you, but neither can we help you,” Boudica said. “I have heard tales of the desert the Romans leave behind when they impose their ‘peace’ upon a conquered land. And really, I don’t think we would be much use to you even if we dared. The Iceni with the fire to fight the Romans did so at the dun in the fens four years ago, and died.”

“I wish you well of the peace that the Romans have left you,” Caratac said dryly. “I hope that it may last.” He nibbled on a piece of bread and set it down. “You have grown into a beautiful woman,” he said. “When you bore the mead-cup around the hall at Mona, you were like a young filly, all legs and nervous energy.” He took another drink of wine.

“And now I am the Red Mare of the Iceni—I am not supposed to know that the people call me that.” She smiled. “But it is the Black Mare of the Brigantes who should concern you.”

“I can at least hope that she will listen. Cartimandua had a kindness for me long ago.”

She
lusted
after you,
corrected Boudica with an inner sigh. These days Prasutagos had grown somewhat substantial around the middle, but she could warm herself at his steady flame. The man before her still had the hard body of a warrior, but the fire that had drawn men to him, and women as well, was burned to ash.

“I must do something,” he went on. “The Roman swine captured my brother Epilios, and my wife, and our daughter, my little Eigen, my only remaining child. You have children—surely you can understand how I feel!”

Boudica nodded. “Rigana is six now, and has her first pony. Argan-tilla is almost four.” If she and Prasutagos had no more offspring it was not for lack of trying, but she had not conceived again. Almost the only thing that had the power to wake her fury these days was the thought of danger to the bright, if sometimes exasperating, offspring who looked likely to be the only children she would have.

“If I give myself up now I can do no more than stand in chains beside them. But I may be able to negotiate for their release if the Romans see me as a threat once more,” Caratac went on.

Not long ago, thought Boudica, this man swore to defend all Britannia. Now his ambition was limited to the freedom of a man, a woman, and a child. But didn’t it always come down to that? No matter what words men used to cloak their ambitions, the abstraction they fought for bore a human face and name.

“All that I can offer you is supplies for the road and my blessing,” she began.

“No—there is one thing more you can do for me.” He lifted his hands to the torque, gripped the ornate ring-shaped terminals, and began to twist open the spiral rope of gold wires. “This much of your warning I will heed. This torque was made by an Iceni craftsman.” Wincing, he dragged it off, leaving a semicircle of white around the base of his neck where it had lain. “Keep it for me, Boudica. If things go well, I will reclaim it. If they go … badly, I will not shame the gold by wearing it with Roman chains.”

f Mona was called the golden island, wreathed in magic, the lump of rock separated from the rest of it by a tidal strait was said to be more holy still. From this height at the western tip of Mona, one gazed out upon a silver ocean half veiled by mists. Some said it was the last port from which one might set sail for the Isles of the Blessed. Lhiannon was only going to Eriu.

But it felt like death, to be sure, to leave Britannia. She clung to the rail of the tubby little craft as it eased out from the shelter of the harbor and began to roll and dip to the rhythms of the sea. She left behind the limited satisfaction of knowing that the Roman governor Ostorius had died, and sorrow at the news that Queen Cartimandua had sent Caratac to the Romans in chains. By now he, too, must be upon the sea, headed for Rome. To have his wife, daughter, and brother with him was surely no comfort, when all they could hope for was death or captivity.

With the death of the governor, the Silures had resumed a vicious guerrilla warfare. The tribes of the western mountains still stood between Mona and the Romans, but the southern lowlands lay in uneasy peace. There was nothing Lhiannon could do to help Britannia. She told herself she would be glad to be gone.

The uncertainty beneath her feet was all too reflective of her own inner turmoil. All that she had known was disappearing behind her, she had no firm foundation, and the future was shrouded in a mist as gray as the fog that lay upon the sea.

Back on the shore she could still see the blue figure that was Helve. Lhiannon had not expected the High Priestess to see her off. Only when they were on the road did she realize the other woman wanted a chance to talk to her away from the whole Druid community’s ears.

“The Romans will try to destroy us,” Helve said grimly. “I have seen it and Coventa has seen it as well. Despite our resistance, the new forts they are building are closer every year. They have learned of the gold in the heart of the mountains and the silver in the Deceangli lands. That will draw them, and then they will find the coastal road that leads here. Those mountains will not protect us anymore.”

“Then why are you sending me away?” Lhiannon had asked.

“You have proven yourself to be adaptable. I believe that you have the best chance of learning whatever skills the Druids of Eriu can teach. Mearan believed you were the most talented of the younger priestesses— it will be up to you to preserve our tradition if we fall.”

The shock of that statement had held Lhiannon speechless. “I thought you despised me,” she said at last.

And Helve had looked at her with an expression halfway between exasperation and anger. “You were my rival. But if these ornaments are ever yours—” she touched the gold at her neck, “—you will find that the work takes precedence over whatever you may feel. Love and hatred are luxuries I can no longer afford. And if you become High Priestess it will mean that I am dead and beyond all jealousy.” She gave a bitter laugh. “So take care of yourself and learn all you can …”

NINETEEN

want you to keep your eyes open.” Boudica addressed her daughters with a warning glare. “The Roman town will be very new and strange. You must always stay in sight of Temella or one of the house guard—do you understand?” The glare fixed on Rigana, who at seven had added to her independence of spirit an uncanny ability to elude her keepers. For a moment the queen wished they had brought Bogle, but the dog was growing old for such a journey, and she winced at the thought of how he might react to the new sounds and smells of the Roman town.

She wondered just how strange Camulodunum, or Colonia Victricensis—the City of Victory—as they were supposed to call it now, would be. She had seen the fort they had built on the hill above the old dun, but she had not been this far south for some years and knew the town only from what she had heard.

“They are confident,” observed Prasutagos as they started up the

hill.

A straggle of huts and gardens lined the road, and the ditch and bank that had supported the walls were no longer crowned by a palisade. Many of the old legionary buildings had been converted to homes and shops, but there was also a great deal of new construction going on. The retired soldiers had adapted well, but then a legion was like a mobile city, with men trained in every trade. Some had imported wives from their homelands, and others had married girls of the tribes. Boudica wondered how the Trinovantes felt about having so many strangers set down in the midst of their territory. But as a conquered tribe there was little they could do about it. All the more reason, she thought grimly, for the Iceni to maintain their protected status as an ally.

“They have reason to be,” she replied. The new governor, Aulus Didius Gallus, had forced the Silures to surrender. With Caratac a prisoner, no British leader with the stature to head a rebellion remained.

“Look, Mama—a big rock with doors!”

Argantilla could be forgiven for not recognizing the gate as a work of man. She had never seen a building made of stone, and this structure with its twin arches and carved pediment had no real purpose except as a statement of Roman pride. Sunlight gave way to shadow as they passed beneath the arch and into the town.

unlight sparkled on the fountain in the midst of Julia Postumia’s garden, its subtle tinkle and plash a background to the murmur of women’s voices. It reminded Boudica of the waters of the sacred spring. Though this might be more manicured and orderly than the kind of sanctuary her own gods loved, it was still a welcome change from the straight lines and sharp corners of the Roman town. This garden grew nothing so practical as cabbages or beans. It was a shrine to beauty, complete with a stone grotto where the image of a goddess smiled upon the flowers. The gods who had led the Romans to Britannia were Jupiter and Mars. This lovely lady semed a deity of a more gracious kind.

“Who is the goddess?” Boudica asked. Her Latin was still halting, and she spoke with the accent of the Gaulish slave whom they had bought as a teacher and freed, but it served. Postumia had been visibly relieved to find they could speak without needing a translator.

“That is Venus, the lady of love. Do you have such a goddess among the tribes?”

“A goddess for love alone?” Boudica shook her head. “But all of our goddesses are lusty.” She smiled a little, remembering some of the tales she had heard about the Morrigan, “even our goddess of war.”

Postumia laughed. “They say that Venus fought in the Trojan War, but not very well. Since then, the bedchamber has been her only battlefield.”

“No doubt your men prefer it that way,” Boudica replied. “They seem uncomfortable with women in power, even queens.” It still rankled that Prasutagos had been invited to the council of chieftains and she had not. Her only consolation was that the prohibition applied to

Cartimandua, who sat on the other side of the garden, as well.
At least I trust Prasutagos to tell me what goes on, and ask my counsel,
she thought then. From all accounts, since Cartimandua betrayed Caratac she and Venu-tios had scarcely exchanged a word.

“It was very kind of you to entertain us while our husbands are otherwise occupied,” she said politely.
While your husband is reminding ours who really rules Britannia,
her thought went on.

“Oh I think we have the best of it,” answered the governor’s wife. “We can sit comfortably in the fresh air while they must sweat in that stuffy hall. But if we follow the emperor’s example, that may change. I’m told that when Caratacus and his family were paraded through Rome, Agrippina sat beside her husband on her own throne.”

“Do you know more about what happened there?” Boudica asked in a neutral tone.

“He is a brave man, your Caratacus. The others, they say, hung down their heads in despair, but the king wore his chains like royal jewels. He asked why the Romans should want Britannia when they already possessed so magificent a city. Then he told Claudius that the difficulties he had caused us only magnified our glory in taking him captive, and pointed out that dead, he would be forgotten, while living, he would bear witness to the emperor’s magnanimity. Romans always appreciate a good speech, so Claudius let him live, and gave him a house in Rome.”

But Caratac will never again see Britannia …
thought Boudica.
I think that I would rather die than endure even so kind a captivity.

Postumia looked up as one of her slaves appeared at the gate with Temella close behind.

“Domina—” he began, but Temella pushed past him.

“My lady, the girls are gone!”

But Boudica was already on her feet, muttering an apology to her hostess before Postumia had had a chance to reply.
I should have brought Bogle,
she thought as she hurried away.

It was their Gaulish freedman, Crispus, whose knowledge of Roman towns proved most useful.

“I fear this may have been my fault, mistress,” he said as they hastened down the road. “I told the girls about the shops, and they couldn’t wait to go see.”

Boudica had wanted to visit the shops herself, and had promised to take them. Visions of her children frightened and bleeding alternated with scenarios of what she was going to do to them when she found them safe and sound.

From ahead she could hear shouting. That sounded promising. She exchanged a grimace with Temella and began to run, with Calgac, the warrior who had been assigned as her escort, pounding along behind.

The scene she found brought her up short, tears of relief vying with a strong urge to laugh. Rigana, wearing a ferocious scowl and gripping a pole that had apparently once held up the sunshade that drooped behind her, was standing off a crowd of arguing adults. Apparently the quality of the children’s clothing had made the townsfolk think twice about taking stronger action. Behind her sat Argantilla, her arms clasped protectively around a dark-haired boy little older than she who looked equally terrorized by the shouting grown-ups and his small protector. Baskets of beans lay overturned on the ground.