Ravens of Avalon (53 page)

Boudica traded glances with Tingetorix. He was the best commander they had, and he had done his best to make her understand how men made war.

“Numbers are not enough. We defeated the foot soldiers of the Ninth Legion because we made the land fight for us,” the old warrior said reprovingly. “If we can catch Governor Paulinus on the march, we have a good chance of whittling away his strength. But we dare not let him force us into a pitched battle.”

“And that means we must march northward, and quickly,” said Boudica, “even if some of the wagons, especially the ones with the women and children, are left behind.” Perhaps she could persuade her daughters, as representatives of the royal house, to stay with them.

“We’ll move out in the morning,” she continued. “Tingetorix, I want you to take your best horsemen and scout ahead. Morigenos, will you work with the men who have just joined us? Show them where they should march, make sure they have weapons. Drostac, you are in charge of the supply wagons. We must take some care with the food—we do not know how long it will have to last.”

Cities had warehouses. Gathering supplies for the horde had been another reason to attack Londinium.

“There is food in Verlamion,” muttered Vordilic.

“And it will still be there when we have the time to deal with the town as it deserves.” Boudica frowned, and the Catuvellaunian looked away.

In the golden days of the heroes it had all been much simpler, she reflected as the chieftains finished their wine and made ready to go. When they celebrated ancient battles, did the bards simply skip over the challenges of strategy and supply? Her young men had grown up denied the experience that would have taught them the realities of war, and the old men seemed to have selective memories. The responsibilities she shouldered now had little to do with the glory of which the poets sang, but though they might be far greater in scale, they were not so different from the planning any woman who ran a large household must do every day.

But fighting Romans was not like killing rats in a store shed. These were wolves. As if he had sensed her thought, Bogle lifted his great head with a soft growl.

TWENTY
-
SEVEN

he ravens were dancing, black wings scattering shadows across the Roman road. Boudica watched them lift and dive, rolling over and under in an ecstasy of flight, her own body flexing easily as the war cart swayed.

From somewhere down the line she heard singing—

“The Great Queen sows the land with flame The black smoke rises high Where dying warriors call her name And ravens soar the sky.”

“And is it a celebration or a war dance they are performing up there?” she wondered aloud.

“A dance of anticipation, perhaps. We fed the ravens well at Londinium,” said Tascio, following her gaze. “They will be hoping for another battle soon.”

Londinium was not a battle, it was a massacre,
thought Boudica, but she doubted Tascio would understand her lack of enthusiasm for slaughter. Yet even the Morrigan did not love blood for its own sake, only for what it could buy.

“Perhaps they are entertaining themselves while they wait for us to catch up with them,” she said aloud.

“They would have to wait longer if we were traveling over hill and dale,” said Tascio. “The Romans build good roads …”

Boudica nodded. The Great Road cut straight as a sword slash through the country north of Londinium, where a Celtic trail would have followed the contours of the land.

“The Great Queen tramples down the grain, She treads upon the vine,

Her meal is ground with heroes’ pain, their blood she turns to wine.”

Behind her they were still singing. In two days the horde had come farther than she would have believed possible. But a Roman legion could march more swiftly still. As the riders and chariots moved north with the vast, untidy mob of men and wagons streaming out behind them, Boudica seemed to hear like an echo the steady tramp of hobnailed sandals on stone.

The Romans were coming. The last scout to arrive said that Pauli-nus had rejoined his army. Would he keep them at the fort at Letocetum or would they continue southward? The Roman road was a channel through which Britons and Romans were being forced toward an unavoidable confrontation. Boudica thought of the turbulence at the seashore when the waters rushing down from a mountain stream collided with the incoming tide—two unquenchable currents, each obeying the law of its own nature. Where they met they created a chaos in which neither could win.

The road is a trap …
she thought, eyeing the ribbon of stone that drew her toward the horizon.
Before we meet the Romans we will have to get off it into country where we have some cover.
But in the meantime, horses and wagons were rolling forward at a steady walking pace.

Already the sun was dipping toward the western hills. In the distance she glimpsed the gleam of water through a line of trees. That might make a good place to camp. Tonight she would gather the chieftains and make them agree on a route that would take them around Verulamium.

The ponies tossed their heads, snorting, and Tascio reined in as they heard a clatter of hoofbeats from the other side of those trees. In another moment a horseman clattered into view, coming fast.

“Verulamium!” he cried. “It’s just beyond the river, and undefended!”

Men cheered as the news was passed down the line. In moments, horsemen were galloping forward. Boudica glimpsed Tingetorix, but the tumult was already too loud for her to make out his words. She closed her lips on the order she had been about to give. The old warrior had told her himself that a command that could not, or would not, be obeyed was worse than useless. The road had already trapped her. Men and horses were following the ravens toward the town, eyes alight at the prospect of more slaughter. Whether she wished it or not, they were going to attack Verulamium.

unset light slanted through the trees, intensifying the ruddy color that stained the stones around the pool. The day had been a warm one, but there was always a cool breath of air beside the Blood Spring. Lhian-non dipped up another mouthful of the i ron-rich water and sat back with a sigh.

“I feel stronger already,” said Coventa, gazing into the pool as the dark waters stilled.

Iron to nourish a Roman child …
thought Lhiannon, the liquid turning bitter on her tongue, and tried to will the thought away. She would not allow the Romans to steal the Tor from her as well. To show Cov-enta her favorite places on the isle had given her joy. As the younger woman pointed out, when you traveled with Helve you did not have much time to listen to the land.

This afternoon they had bathed in the Blood Spring, and Lhiannon observed with mingled pain and wonder the new glow that pregnancy imparted to her friend. Since she had learned she was with child Cov-enta had not wept in the night. Was it possible that such a horror could leave a blessing behind it? Lhiannon did not want to believe it, but she was not so cruel as to question any happiness Coventa might find.

She shut her eyes, striving to lose herself in the musical murmur the water made as it passed through the channel from the spring and trickled into the pool.

“Blood …” whispered Coventa.

For a moment, Lhiannon thought she was commenting on the spring. She opened her eyes, alarm bringing her upright as she saw the other woman crouched and rigid, staring into the water. Mearan had told them that the waters of the Blood Spring could be used for s crying—she should have warned Coventa not to look into the pool.

“Coventa,” She steadied her own voice to a soothing murmur. “What do you see?”

“A river in a valley … blood in the water … red sunset, red flames, red everywhere …” Coventa’s tone was detached, and Lhiannon thanked the Goddess for giving her this knowledge as an oracle’s vision instead of a dream.

“Where is it?” Lhiannon asked. Clearly virginity was not required for vision, although there might be side effects she could not foresee. But the damage was done now, and they might as well take advantage of it.

“The land is gentle. I see scattered roundhouses and others that are straight-sided with strange red roofs like scales. There are buildings beside a road. As the men attack, one collapses and scatters pieces of ice across the road—no they are pieces of glass.”

Roman buildings,
thought Lhiannon, beginning to suspect what, if not exactly where, this must be.

“There is a strange square enclosure with some long houses in it. They are built of wood and they burn well.”

“Who is doing the burning?” asked Lhiannon.

“Our people …” came the answer. “They drag men out of the buildings and strike them down.”

Lhiannon had been taught that a Druid should respond to both joy and sorrow with equal detachment, but she could not repress a spurt of vicious satisfaction.

“Men … and women, too …” Coventa faltered. “Women with fair hair. They are our people, too—” She shook her head. “I don’t want to see this anymore …”

“It’s all right, Coventa—let it go, let it fade away,” Lhiannon said quickly. She recalled now that the people of Verlamion had adopted Roman ways, and understood only too clearly what must be happening there. “Do you see the road that goes through the town? Follow it, my dear. Leave the fighting behind.”

“The road is before me …” Coventa gave a grateful sigh. “Night is falling and the land is at peace. What would you have me see?”

“Follow the road northward and tell me if anyone else is on it. Fare northward, seeress, and look for Roman soldiers,” Lhiannon said grimly.

For several moments Coventa said nothing, her fair hair falling forward as she bent over the pool. Lhiannon watched her closely, waiting for the moment when she stiffened and began to tremble.

“They can’t see you, they can’t touch you,” she murmured. “Rise into the heavens and look down and tell me what you see—”

“The road runs across a plain. To the west the ground rises. There is a small fort, but the Romans are not in it. I see many campfires and those leather tents they use. They are camped on a rise at the entrance to a fold in the hills, with woods behind them. Between them and the road there is a river, edged with reeds.”

“Go higher, Coventa,” murmured Lhiannon, but she was thinking hard. If the Romans were not marching, Paulinus must have chosen a battlefield. “You’ve seen enough, my dear—speed back to us now, eastward across the land until you come to the Tor. All that you’ve seen you leave behind you … you will not remember, you will not care … come back now, your body is waiting—” She reached out as Coventa collapsed into her arms.

“Will she be all right?” asked Nan, her wrinkled brow furrowed, as Lhiannon laid the younger priestess down.

“In a little while she will wake, and very likely remember nothing at all.” With a gentle hand Lhiannon smoothed back the curling hair.

“Do you think that what she saw was true?” the other priestess asked.

“I am afraid so,” answered Lhiannon. “I think that Queen Boudica is attacking Verlamion now.”

“But the Romans are waiting for her,” said Nessa.

Lhiannon sighed. “Yes,” she said grimly. “And she does not know.”

“But there is no way we can tell her …” Nan looked at her in sudden alarm. “Is there?”

“I must try to warn her,” said Lhiannon, decision crystallizing as she spoke. “They will give me a horse and food in Camadunon, and I can ride quickly at need.”

“But it will be dangerous!”

“No Briton would harm me, and all the Romans are hiding in their forts or waiting for Boudica. You and Coventa will be safe here on Ava-lon. Hush now, she is waking,” she said as the other woman began to stir. “Boudica needs me, but I promise I will come back to you!”

oudica rode into Verulamium in her chariot like a Roman general at his Triumph, but her heart held no joy. These had been Britons, however traitorous, and they were not the only ones who had succumbed to the temptation to ape the conqueror’s ways. How would she win back her people if all she could offer was revenge? She had at least been able to stop her warriors from attacking the nearby farmsteads, but the palisade that surrounded the civic buildings was burning merrily.

Vordilic stood before its gate, to which a man had been bound in mockery of a Roman crucifixion. A pile of white cloth that might have been a toga lay on the ground. His well-fed flesh was bruised and scored, but he was still alive. Blood matted his gray hair and ran from his mouth where they had severed his tongue.

Vordilic looked around as Boudica neared. It was not only the hatred in their eyes that stamped the crucified man and his tormentor as kin.

“Behold Claudius Nectovelius filius Bracius—” There was venom in each syllable. “Magistrate of Verulamium. I have taken the tongue with which he denied his people and his gods. Next, perhaps, it will be his eyes—his testicles have been no use to him for many a day.”

“Was he of your family?” she asked softly. A sob came from the gatepost where a woman and two children had been tied.

“My ancestors deny him!” spat Vordilic. “Let him go to Hades with his Roman friends!”

“Then it shall be so!”
The words vibrated without and within. Vordilic blanched as the goddess seized Boudica’s body. In a single sure move She grasped a javelin and thrust it through flesh, heart, and the wood on which they had crucified the man.