Ravens of Avalon (45 page)

“It’s no matter—come into the Council Hall and I shall send for more.”

“Where are all your warriors?” he asked as he followed her into the central roundhouse.

“Riding the countryside, to gather evidence of Roman crimes …” She took her seat upon the great chair before the fire whose warm light cooled as it met the illumination coming in from openings in the upper tier. Pollio glanced about uneasily as he took the lower chair at her side. From firepit to the apex of the roof the interior was the height of four tall men. Here were no marble columns or statues of bronze, but the images embroidered on the hangings that covered the walls seemed to move in the shifting light of the fire. Roman buildings boasted their owners’ might; Prasutagos’s hall hid his in mystery.

“Call them back, Boudica,” he said in a low voice. “There is nothing you can do.”

“What do you mean?” she snapped. “It is my duty to protect my people. I am queen of the Iceni and a client of the emperor.”

“No. You are not. Rome makes no treaties with queens.”

For a long moment she simply stared at him. “But Cartimandua—”

“—is legitimized by her husband’s oath, even though he is in rebellion. Your husband is dead.”

The words were like a sword to her heart. Boudica had been learning to live again. For hours at a time, now, she might lose awareness of her grief in dealing with other things until some incautious word, like a dead branch thrust among the coals, would kindle the flame anew.

“Prasutagos was an ally of Rome,” she said finally. “Some of that property your men are seizing was left to his daughters by his will. It must be returned.”

“The will means nothing. Prasutagos was not a citizen.”

Boudica shook her head, unbelieving. “Has Governor Paulinus said this?”

“The procurator says it. Decianus Catus says it.” Pollio replied in the same flat voice. “The alliance, and the kingdom, died with Prasutagos. It’s over, Boudica.”

How odd,
she thought numbly.
He sounds as if he is pleading …

“This hall—everything—belongs to Rome …”

Without quite knowing how she got there, Boudica found herself on her feet. Pollio rose as well, reaching out to her.

“Boudica!” his voice shook. “I have loved you since I first saw you! Once I offered you my protection and you refused me. I make the same offer now. I know you are not indifferent, Boudica—”

He meant that aborted kiss in the snow, she thought, before she had known what a kiss could mean … To her that memory was dim with distance, but to him it was still real. How barren his life must be.

“No.” She pulled her arm away, tried to show some pity with a smile.

“You don’t understand! I will marry you!” he gripped her again, pulling her against him.

“It is
you
who do not understand—” Her voice was low and dangerous. “I was the wife of a king, a man like the Good God himself! I would not go into your bed, Roman pig, if the alternative were slavery!” She spat in his face.

“It may be!” he hissed, grabbing for her other arm. “You have no choice, bitch—you need a master, and Jupiter witness, if you will not lie in my bed, I will have you on this floor!” Pollio jerked her hard against him, his breath hot on her face.

For a moment shock warred with hysterical laughter. He fumbled for her breast and the pin from one shoulder of her tunica tore loose. Then volition returned, and Boudica wrenched free.
Does he think I am some soft Roman female who cannot piss without permission from a man?
she thought in outrage.
Cloto could tell him differently!

With an oath Pollio grabbed her again. They swayed dangerously close to the hearth and one of the chairs tipped over with a crash. The blood beat in Boudica’s ears; she grabbed his wrists, then brought her knee up with brutal force between his legs and as he screamed and spasmed, forced him into the fire.

The mingled stinks of burning wool and shit filled the air. Boudica laughed and let him go, recoiling as the space filled with men in armor.

“Take her!” Pollio rolled free of his smoldering cloak, still curled in agony. “Get me out of here!”

More men pushed through the door. These were soldiers, not tax collectors. The ones who dragged Boudica out into the yard had muscles like rope and hands of iron. Others followed, supporting Pollio. His face was the color of whey as he tried to stand.

“If you don’t like my cock I have other weapons,” he gasped. “Tie her to that—“He pointed to the fenced forecourt of the Men’s House. “Flog her until she bleeds!”

Still struggling, Boudica was forced to the gate, tied spread-eagled to the posts with ropes at wrists and ankles. Someone grabbed the back of her tunica and ripped the other side free, then used a piece of twine to tie up her hair. Bare to the waist, she twisted, watching in disbelief as the decanus who commanded the soldiers walked toward her, a whip with a knotted thong in his hand.

Slaves were flogged. Not free women … not queens.

People gathered, whispering with wide eyes. Boudica heard a rattle of hooves as a horse was urged into a gallop. One of the soldiers started toward his own mount but Pollio called him back again. She tugged at her bonds; the rope rasped her wrists but the knots held fast.

Then the first lash burned across her shoulders. Shock surprised her into crying out. She set her teeth against doing it again. The ropes creaked to the strain as the next blow drove her forward.

The decanus was counting slowly in Latin, “Unus, duo, tres …”

She tried to focus on the words.
I can bear this …
she thought,
and then I will have revenge …

From the corner of her eye she saw Rigana running from the Women’s House, brandishing a spear. “Let her go!” she screamed, settling into a crouch with the weapon held ready.

“Look, a gladiatrix!” laughed one of the men, pointing as Argantilla came after her, carrying a shield.

“Back!” Boudica could only grunt. “Get back inside!”

The soldiers were laughing too loudly. The girls could not hear.

“Quattuor, quinque …”

Rigana started toward the decanus, jabbing with the spear. Still grinning, one of the legionaries drew his sword and batted it aside. In the next moment another man grabbed her from behind while the first wrested the weapon from her grasp.

“Sir, what shall I do with this lion’s cub?” he called.

“Pull her claws—” raged Pollio, his avid gaze still on Boudica. “The lioness is chained! Do what you like with the cub—and with her sister—let all the bitches spread their legs for Rome!”

“No!” Boudica screamed as she had not for her own pain. Argantilla whimpered as a soldier gripped her arm and wrenched away the shield. “Not my daughters, not them, please …” The breath was driven out of her as the decanus, who had paused to watch, began his work again.

Prasutagos!
her spirit cried. But he had left them. He would not come to save her now.

“Octo … undecim … tredecim …”

Boudica’s back and shoulders were webbed with fire.

“Do it!” repeated, Pollio as the soldiers hesitated. “Take them now!”

They had torn Rigana’s tunica already; she struggled, her young breasts bobbing, and kicked wildly as a soldier pulled the garment the rest of the way off and reached up between her thighs.

Not my daughters not my babies not my little girls …

“Sedecim … viginti …”

Abused flesh recoiled in nauseating waves. Fire and shadow pulsed behind her eyes.

“Please, why are you doing this?” sobbed Argantilla. One of the servants ran forward to help her and was struck down. Now men had gotten both girls on the ground. Someone threw dice to see who should have the first turn.

“Vigintiquinque …”

Boudica thrashed, groaning, as her daughters began to scream. She could not protect them … she could not break free!

“Help them! Help me!”
Thwarted, her fury drove inward, shattering the boundaries of identity.

From depths beyond knowledge came a Voice that she had heard once long ago.
“Let Me …”

“Triginta …”

The lash came down, dividing self from Self. Boudica slumped in her bonds as ravaged flesh and spirit gave way.

And with a cry like a battlefield of ravens, the Morrigan came in.

She straightened. One by one, She snapped the bonds. Blood splattered from Boudica’s ruined back as She turned. Mouths working, men

cringed. The soldiers who were holding the girls backed away. The goddess picked up the man who was pumping atop Rigana and threw him aside, broke the one who had Argantilla as well. The others ran.

Pollio stumbled back as She turned, his face contorted in a rictus of fear. She reached out and drew him into her embrace.

“Mercy,” he croaked. “Let me go …”

“As you let them go?” The Morrigan indicated the weeping girls. “But I will be kinder than you were—I will not force you to live …”

Pollio struggled as she gripped his head and twisted. There was a sharp click. He went limp and she let him fall.

Hoofbeats thundered outside the dun. Bituitos and the warriors were returning. The terrified soldiers tried to outrun them.

They did not get far.

avens were calling, harsh voices echoing back and forth from somewhere very near …

Boudica realized that she was lying on something soft; she started to turn over, gasped and groaned as the general ache across her back burst abruptly into a cacophony of individual pains. And there was an odd pressure in her head, as if more than her own brain had been packed into her skull.

“My lady—how do you feel?”

The voice was resonant and calm. Why did she associate it with sorrow?

“As if I had been beaten with—” Her throat closed as memory returned—Latin numbers, and agony, and a mental torment that transcended anything her body might feel. “My girls!” She jerked upright, staring. The curtains of her bed-place contained the dim world around her. Brangenos was sitting beside the bed, his long face lit by the flicker of the little Roman lamp in his hand.

The Druid set the lamp on the table. She flinched as he reached out to take her hands.

“Don’t touch me,” she said hoarsely. The rope marks around her wrists were still raw. “No one will ever hold me again!” Her gaze sought his face. “Where are my daughters?”

“They are sleeping, lady,” he said softly. “Their hurts have been tended. Don’t try to go to them—” he halted her involuntary motion. “Sleep is the best medicine for them just now. They were not much damaged—there was not time for more than two or three,” his gaze darkened, “to have at them before you … rescued them.”

Boudica drew a quick breath at the sudden increase of pressure in her head. “She stopped them, then …”

His eyes met hers once more. “How much do you remember?”

“She
was there, inside my head, and then I … was not. I think it was Cathubodva. She spoke through me once before, long ago.”

The flicker of expression in the Druid’s face was swiftly calmed, but Boudica had recognized a mingling of curiosity, excitement, and fear.

“It would explain … much,” he said drily. Suddenly they were both very aware of the raven voices outside. He looked up at her, his face growing grim. “She killed Pollio and the rapists. Our warriors took care of the rest.”

Boudica stared at him in alarm. “The Romans will want revenge!”

“First they have to find the bodies.” He sighed. “We might even have been able to pretend they never reached here, but the Goddess wants vengeance, too.” He looked up at her once more. “She commanded your warriors to raise the countryside. Already men are beginning to come in.”

“I must speak to them—”

“Not yet, lady—please. You are healing well—much faster than one might expect,” he added as if to himself. “But you, too, need sleep, and there is no need to face the tribe until everyone has arrived. The ravens are arriving, too,” he said reflectively. “The first ones came as we buried the bodies—I was tempted to let them feast—and more keep flying in.”

“They are so loud … I will never be able to sleep.” Torment of mind and body buzzed in her brain.

From his pouch he took a little bottle of Roman glass and poured some of its contents into a spoon. “I will give you tincture of poppy. That will separate you from the pain.”

here shall we feed? Where shall we feed?” cried the raven.

With one part of her mind, Boudica knew its clamor had words because she wandered in poppy dreams. She did not care—she had always wanted to know what the birds were saying in their endless conversations among the trees.

“In the wood there’s a ripe badger, three days old,” cried another bird.

“In the midden there’s burned barley,” called a third.

“And what shall we eat tomorrow, tomorrow?” the first raven croaked.