Page 23 of Boudicca

In the morning the Balkerne Gate was even more crowded than it had been the evening before. I was glad we were mounted and

not on foot or dragging a cart. Instead we were able to guide our horses around the slower-moving traffic. The soldiers stationed

at the two lookout towers were as apathetic as the day before. Cadoc’s lip curled in disdain when we passed unchecked and

unnoticed through the gates again.

We turned north at the first of the side streets and followed the large square that was Camulodunum, noting each of the other

gates and where the ditch was shallowest and would be easiest for our cavalry to navigate. By midday we’d made mental maps

of the circumference of the city and headed to the Gosbecks, where I meant to leave my mother’s pendant as an offering for

Brigantia. On the way we stopped at a public house to eat, making sure that we engaged the scullery maid in a lively conversation

about Victory falling and the dark omen that must be. I was gratified when several of the tables around us paused their conversations

to listen, nodding along with us.

Andraste, I know I cannot save them all, but let those who will take heed save themselves. I found myself praying quietly to my goddess all that day as it seemed she listened with the wind and watched through the

eyes of each raven perched on the foreign tiles that roofed the soulless stone buildings the Romans called home.

There were fewer Roman houses in the Gosbecks and instead many round huts with goat pens, chickens, and hutches filled with

fat hares. In this area of the city there were also decidedly fewer Romans walking the streets and haggling with merchants.

I was able to relax just a little and breathe deeply of the familiar scents. If I closed my eyes it almost seemed I was back

in Tasceni.

The land lifted gently to a green clearing, in the center of which large stones carved with Ogham symbols were interspersed with oaks. The focal point of the clearing was a circle of flat stones from which blazed an ever-burning flame, similar to the fire that was never allowed to extinguish before Brigantia’s shrine at Isurium, the seat of the Brigantes’ royal family, where I’d been born. There were a few people present, all women and all dressed in the style of the tribes. I smiled at the absence of Romans. Brigantia would approve.

Maldwyn waited with our horses outside the clearing, but Cadoc joined me as I walked between the standing stones, finding

comfort in the flame and its warmth. My attention was on the ever-burning fire, so I did not raise my gaze to the stone statue

of the goddess until I was very close to her. I’d dipped my hand into the satchel slung across my body and felt around the

torque that rested there to find the pendant I’d brought as an offering. As I lifted it out of the satchel, my eyes rose to

the goddess and the breath left my body. Beside me I heard Cadoc curse.

Brigantia was no more. The huge slab of upright stone from which the goddess had been carved generations before had been permanently

marred. No longer was she my mother’s goddess, keeper of the flame of Tribe Brigantes, patroness of stags, our bright shining

forest goddess. Where once her head had been haloed with rays of light, as if she stood untouched but surrounded by flames,

she now wore a Roman helmet. In one hand was a long Roman pilum. In the other she cradled the head of Medusa against her breasts.

Roman lettering was carved into the base of the statue.

I turned my face away and didn’t realize I wept until the tears dropped from my cheeks to my tunic.

“Makes ya ill, doesn’t it?”

I looked back at the statue to see an old woman with a mane of wild silver hair dressed in the deep-blue robes of a bardic

Druid. She was covered with tattooed Ogham and wore a belt of mistletoe.

She nodded as if I’d spoken. “Aye, makes me ill as well, though I still tend the goddess’s flame. She’s in there, Brigantia,

waiting... watching.”

“They’ve ruined her.” My voice was rough, as if I’d been screaming.

“No. They’ve tried to remake her in the image of their goddess Minerva, but our Brigantia, like this land and its people,

is not so easily overcome.” She tilted her head and studied me. “You are she.”

“We should go.” Cadoc pushed forward so that he stood between the Druid and me.

“Aye, go, but you will return,” said the Druid. “First, did you bring something for the goddess?”

“Yes, but I brought the gift for Brigantia, not Roman Minerva.” The name felt sour in my mouth.

“Brigantia knows when offerings are left for her. She knows we see her beneath what they did to her.” The old woman’s sharp

blue-gray gaze swept around the clearing and the other women who were leaving libations of beer and offerings of cakes at

the shrine. “What brings you to Brigantia?”

I lifted the chain that held the fiery symbol of my mother’s goddess. “I brought my mother’s pendant. She belonged to Brigantia

and is now with the goddess in Annwn.”

The Druid nodded and gestured at the defiled statue. “Place it there, around her neck. Whisper your prayer. Brigantia will

hear. Brigantia will answer.”

I met the old woman’s gaze. “Do you think Minerva also listens?”

“Perhaps. Not many Romans come here, though I have sometimes felt the presence of the foreign goddess.” Her gaze narrowed.

“Do you have a petition to bring to Minerva?”

“Perhaps,” I said, echoing the Druid.

At my side Cadoc moved restlessly. I could feel his tension, but I also felt something else—something radiating from the statue. I felt anger. Moving purposefully, I walked around the flame. The heat of it brushed my skin as I unhooked the necklace, placed it around the goddess’s neck, and then refastened it. The chain glinted and the sunlight reflected off the flame-stamped gold. I touched the goddess’s cheek. “I ask nothing of you, beloved Brigantia. Instead I give you my oath that I will return and I will free you.” Then I dropped my hand and took a step closer to the defiled statue. I lowered my voice so that it would not carry to any of the other supplicants or the watching Druid. “Minerva, it is to you I speak now. You do not belong here.” I flung out my arm toward the colonia in the city center and the temple of Claudius. “Send sign to your people. Tell them to leave this land and take you home to Rome where you belong. Where all of you belong.

“If you stay here, Andraste and Brigantia will rain arrows of fire down upon you and yours until nothing but ash and bone

remain. On that you have the oath of Boudicca, queen of the Iceni.” As I spoke I took out the short sword I wore in the sheath

strapped around my waist and made a shallow cut on the pad under my thumb. I reached out and wiped my blood across the cheeks

of the statue. “So I have spoken, so shall it be,” I whispered ferociously.

When I stepped back, the old woman was watching me closely.

“I will not see you again, Victory. I leave this place in six days and will be sure all who know Brigantia and will listen

to my words leave with me,” said the old Druid.

“You know me?”

“I do not, but Brigantia does, and I know her. You are Andraste’s daughter, are you not?”

“We should—” Cadoc began again, and moved to take my elbow.

I shook my head and his hand dropped to his side, though he glared at the old woman and his troubled gaze kept searching the

clearing as if he expected soldiers to leap out and attack us at any moment.

I knew they would not. I could feel a rightness to the Druid and understood that Brigantia had placed her here, at this moment.

And for that I was so very grateful.

“Yes,” I answered her. “I belong to Andraste and the Iceni.”

The Druid’s wide smile showed several missing teeth. “I knew you would come when the statue fell from the arch. May Andraste

and Brigantia bless you richly.” She nodded to me before she turned to the statue, raised her hands, and began reciting prayers

of thanksgiving.

“Now we go,” I said to Cadoc. Without another look at the sullied goddess, I strode away from the shrine.

***

Anger simmered within me as we entered the Sheepen District. The streets were crowded and we paid a stable boy to watch over

our horses while we explored that area of Camulodunum.

Flanked by Roman buildings, the wide stone streets of the Sheepen District led past the temple and out of the colonia to a

basilica and then farther on to a large theater. As we reached the basilica, the crowds thickened and merchants filled the

courtyard in front of the round building, as well as inside its arched entryways. For reasons I could not understand, it seemed

Romans had to create buildings within buildings, as if to find ways to take up as much space in our world as possible. The

arches led to an internal area that was dotted with Roman statues, all grim men who didn’t appear nearly as fierce as I was

sure the artists intended. How could they be? Romans are so diminutive in stature.

“They look like children playing dress-up.” Cadoc’s deep voice rumbled low beside me and I had to choke back laughter.

Past the internal courtyard of the basilica there was a square stone building with stairs leading up to a wide entrance. Waves

of men came and went through the open front doors. I caught sight of rows of seats within and a tall speaker’s podium. It

was a busy place, filled with men in uniform and also quite a few wearing white togas trimmed in colors from red and blue

to rich royal purple. I saw not one Roman woman.

The crawling feeling that shivered across my skin told me we were running out of time and needed to leave Camulodunum. I motioned

for Cadoc and Maldwyn to step with me into the shadows under a cluster of trees near the basilica. “Let us separate. Explore

around this building and between here and the theater. See what we can each overhear and then meet back here.”

“We should leave the city soon,” said Cadoc.

“Agreed,” I said. “Explore briefly. We meet back here and then we leave.”

Maldwyn ran his fingers through his thick blond-white hair. “Good. This city repels me.”

“This city will not exist much longer,” I said quietly.

Before I moved off toward the south side of the basilica, I pulled my cloak closer around me and lifted its hood, even though

I had been careful to tightly braid my mass of red hair and then drop the braid beneath my plain travel cloak. I made sure

I walked close to the open archways of the basilica, listening carefully to the conversations within. The road was crowded

with merchants and farmers. The thriving market held wonders—foreign spices that filled the air with scents that tickled my

nose and made me sneeze. Tables and tented stalls sold hemp and wool, and many rolls of fabric were dyed colors so rich that

even Wulffaed would have envied them. Roman glassware and lamps as well as urns of oil drew the attention of traders. The

glassware was a marvel. Goblets and urns were carefully arranged so that they caught the sunlight and became jewels. I had

never seen so many mirrors. Produce was stacked high in baskets beside crates and pens holding live chickens and geese, goats

and pigs—and then there was the wine. Barrel after barrel of Roman wine was for sale.

I could acknowledge my curiosity about many of the items that surrounded me. I could appreciate their beauty and the craftsmanship

it took to create them. But my curiosity and appreciation were tempered by the undeniable knowledge that the presence of these

wares meant that my people were being erased.

I moved through the market with purposeful strides, careful not to meet the gazes of sellers, noting how few women were among the vendors and traders. It wasn’t until I followed the curve of the building around to its rear that I found the women. They lazed in front of a block of modest Roman buildings. They all sold the same product, though in many different sizes, shapes, and proclivities. Some exposed their breasts; some lifted their tunics to show their calves and thighs as men hesitated, attempting to choose between them. As I studied them I realized that not one of the women was Roman, though many of them were dressed in the draped Roman style of clothing that the men clearly preferred. Several of the women even had their hair braided and wound around their heads in elaborate Roman crowns, with rather ridiculous-looking ringlets framing their faces. Their Roman dress was in stark contrast to the fierce tribal tattoos that decorated their arms, thighs, necks, and faces. I wondered how many of these women had been taken captive and were forced to sell themselves to Romans. The thought made me sick.

One woman in particular caught my attention. She lounged on an upholstered bench in front of a building over which hung a

large eagle painted gold. She was statuesque and wore an almost transparent sheet of fabric wrapped revealingly around her

voluptuous body. Her dress did nothing to hide the circular Catuvellauni moons with hidden faces tattooed in black that stretched

from one bare shoulder across her chest to the other. She reclined and sipped from a clear glass goblet filled with red wine

as she surveyed the crowd, often calling out to a passing man by name and leaning forward so that her breasts threatened to

spill from the sheer material. She was quite beautiful, though when she wasn’t smiling at a man her light hazel eyes looked

hard and her expression flattened to boredom.

There was a break in the crowd in front of her building as a woman down the street had begun to dance in time to a drum. She

whirled in a circle while she unwound pieces of an elaborately draped mantle from her body, revealing enough soft white skin

that men clapped in time and encouraged her to continue.

“What are you looking at? Never seen a whore before?”

At first I glanced around me, thinking she was speaking to someone else. I hadn’t realized that I’d stopped walking as I studied

her and the dancing woman, but she had noticed and turned her hard gaze on me.

I shrugged. “I have. I do not judge how any woman feeds herself.”

“Bah!” she snorted. “Your eyes say something else.”

I’d started to walk on but paused at her words and turned to face her. “Yes. They say that I know you have sold something

more precious than your body.” My gaze lingered on her Roman hair and her Roman dress and the goblet of Roman wine she held.

“Here in this Roman place you have sold your spirit.”

She narrowed her eyes and sat up so suddenly the wine spilled, spattering the cushions with blood-colored drops. “I know your kind.” She almost hissed the words. “You think your tribe is better than everyone else, but you have it wrong. We must join Rome or perish. I choose not to perish.”

I felt her hatred as a physical thing pushing against my skin, and the anger simmering within me bubbled up and overflowed

into my words. I closed the space between us and glared down my nose at her.

“Then that is your choice. And for it you will live and die like a Roman; you have my oath on that.” While I spoke a gust

of wind blew down the stone road, picking up dirt and brown, crumbled leaves and whirling them around me. The wind caught

my travel cloak, pushing the hood back and lifting the fabric that hung from my shoulders so that it flapped like the wings

of a raven, exposing the length of my fire-colored braid. I watched the woman’s hard eyes go wide with the beginnings of fear.

“Who are—”

Before she could finish I whirled around and walked away. I’d had enough of Camulodunum. Striding around the side of the basilica,

I headed toward the little cluster of trees where I hoped Cadoc and Maldwyn would soon join me. I was almost glad the Romans

had defiled the statue of Brigantia. She shouldn’t have to witness what her people were being forced to become within the

too-tidy streets and square, anemic buildings of white stone.

I had just rounded the final curve of the building when a group of soldiers gathered before one of the wine vendors began

cheering and hailing two men who were walking slowly with their heads together several paces in front of me. One was dressed

in a draped white toga trimmed in red. The other wore the uniform of a Roman officer. In response to being hailed, the men

stopped and turned. I felt as if a fist had struck me in my stomach. I could not breathe. I could only stand and stare.

“Toast with us, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus!” called one of the wine-swilling soldiers.

“And what of me? Do you not wish me to drink with you as well?” The high-pitched, nasal voice sliced down my spine as the skin of my back spasmed in remembrance of when last I’d heard it.

“Of course, good Procurator!” another soldier called jovially. “You are always welcome to share cups with us!”

Decianus turned his meaty face away from the group of soldiers to whisper something to Paulinus, but the governor frowned

at him and shook his head. Then, without another look at the procurator, he strode with long steps, smiling warmly at the

soldiers, who cheered again and handed him a mug of wine. Paulinus was tall for a Roman, though he would have been considered

diminutive were he an Iceni warrior. I could not deny that he was fit and moved with athletic grace. Decianus hurried after

him, his flesh wobbling with the effort. As he raised his arm to take the mug of wine another soldier offered to him, sunlight

flashed off the golden torque that gripped his sagging bicep. My torque.

I thought I would be sick—right there in the middle of the wide Roman street surrounded by enemies and the soulless opulence

of this city. That terrible day flooded back to me. I could feel the slice of the lashes on my back. I could hear my daughters’

screams. I could see the spear that ended my mother’s life skewer her again. I could smell the metallic scent of blood and

the reek of bowls loosening in death. I swallowed bile as I realized I’d stopped and was staring at the group of soldiers,

causing people to push past me with increasing irritation.

Move! I ordered my leaden feet. Get out of the way!

As if they belonged to someone else, someone watching outside my body, my feet led me to stagger forward to stand beside a

triple-tiered fountain directly across from the group of drinking soldiers. The crystal water gurgled into a large basin,

and I reached out and plunged my shaking fingers into the water as I tried to reconnect with my body.

“To the Fourteenth Legion and our general, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus!” shouted the soldier who had first called to Paulinus.

The other men echoed the toast, and the governor smiled and raised his mug with the men before drinking.

“To the Twentieth Legion and Gaius Suetonius Paulinus!” said the second soldier, raising his mug again.

They all drank. Then Paulinus lifted his mug and the men went quiet. “And we cannot forget our loyal procurator, Catus Decianus.”

The governor’s words were little different from the soldiers’, but the tone in which he said them was patronizing—as was the

unenthusiastic cheer that followed them.

Decianus did not seem to notice. His lips turned up in the priggish smile I remembered. He drank and then said, “Yes, who

would fund your little wars were it not for me and the taxes I collect? And I shall continue to collect them when you depart

for Ynys M?n in three days to rid that isle of the Druid filth.”

Paulinus frowned at the procurator. “Decianus, I’ve had reports that some of the native tribes have been gathering and even

perhaps arming themselves. While I deal with the Druids, you would do well to call for the Ninth to support you and remain

within the city until I return.”

Decianus scoffed. “The centuria I used this summer to teach the Iceni queen her lesson should return from escorting our fur

merchants west in a fortnight or so. But because you insist, I shall send a runner today to recall them earlier. They will

be more than enough protection from the barbarians while the Druids learn their own lesson.”

I heard Derwyn’s voice lifting from my memory. Ynys M?n calls to me. Last night in my dreams the oaks keened. And like a fire in my head, my anger ignited, burning through the last of my body’s numbness. I needed to act. I had to act.

My hand went to the hilt of my knife and I took two strides toward the soldiers. Later I wondered at my foolishness, but then

all I knew was rage.

Suddenly Cadoc was on one side of me and Maldwyn on the other. Like I was a sheep being herded by hounds, my two warriors

guided me away from the soldiers. Cadoc’s strong hand latched onto my elbow and he propelled me forward, but not before I

heard Paulinus ask the procurator, “Did you see her? A tall Brittani woman. Held herself like a man. She seemed almost familiar.”

“How can you tell one from the other?” Decianus’s nasal voice answered. “Unless they are naked and lie beneath me I cannot

abide...”

And then we were out of hearing range, though my warriors did not slow. They steered me hastily through the crowd. When I

stumbled, Maldwyn’s hand closed on my other arm and they almost carried me between them. We reached the corral that held our

horses and Maldwyn took me directly to Tan.

“Can you stand here while Cadoc and I gather the tack?”

I nodded and then rested my forehead against Tan’s warm neck. I forced myself to breathe deeply, slowly. Eventually the shock

began to dissipate. By the time Maldwyn cupped his hands to boost me astride my mare, I could reason again. I dug my heels

into Tan. People scattered as we clattered down the street to the Balkerne arches and sprinted through them, leaving the admonishing

shouts of the Roman lookouts and the tainted city behind us.