by Beth Webb
Recoiling at the smell of stale garlic on his breath, Tegen thanked him and went to sit on the steps, exhausted and angry.
‘Victory,’ she mused. ‘Boudica’ll like that – a statue to herself and she hasn’t even crossed the outer ditches!’
Victory Defeated
Tegen sat on the temple steps, staring dully at the passers by until late in the afternoon.
The sight of ordinary, frightened people milling around her, crumbled her resolution to steer both sides to their fates.
If Huval was right and Rome was not the enemy, was it right to kill any of them?
Should she fight for peace – or victory?
As she cradled Tonn’s egg, she wished that she too could become stone, then she wouldn’t have to care.
Just then, a deep, melancholy horn bellowed in the temple behind her. Within a few heartbeats a crowd was pushing and shoving up the steps.
Curious, Tegen roused herself and crept cautiously amongst them. Under the portico, she leaned against the plinth of a towering column and listened. From somewhere, a man’s rich voice led a solemn chant and the people sang responses while spicy incense filled the air. Everyone bowed and then the song began again.
Tegen couldn’t help but be fascinated. I wish I could understand their rituals, she thought to herself. I’d like discussions with their druids; if I could understand the way they thought, then we might be able to come to an agreement. That is the first duty of a battle druid after all.
But the little she knew of the Romans assured her they wouldn’t talk to a mere girl who didn’t even speak Latin!
Wriggling her way through the people, back to the steps, Tegen sat and stroked their pristine whiteness. Tears streamed down her face. In her mind’s eyes she could see the marble streaked with blood. ‘If I support Boudica, then Britain will win, but the cost will be awful. If I leave her to her own devices then there will still be slaughter.’
She pulled out Tonn’s stone egg and examined the glistening red streaks.
I was born to avert evil – not to cause it! she told herself. Now I’m forced to make war magic for a queen I neither like nor trust! Boudica cannot be the spirits’ tool to bring healing to our Land. And with all the anger and fear inside of me, I’m not much better. I must get a grip on myself. I shouldn’t have sworn to leave the two sides to their own devices. I shouldn’t have made those curses with the clay soldiers – but if I undo it, will I unleash mayhem on my people?
I wanted vengeance for Tonn. I was wrong. There has got to be a middle path. There has got to be hope somewhere in all this mess. If only I could be certain the Goddess was real and still cared …
In the temple behind her, the townspeople were probably praying for deliverance from the coming battle. Back in Boudica’s camp, her friends were doing the same.
Tegen closed her eyes. Are you real Lady? Are you listening? A lot of people believe in you – they need your help. Don’t you think it’s about time you answered some of these prayers? If you’re so powerful and great, can’t you deliver both our peoples and help us live in harmony?
Silence.
Tegen scowled at the overcast skies.
What if you’re there – but just one spirit amongst many? She wondered. You’re all scratching each other’s eyes out to get as many worshippers as possible? Is that it? You and Andraste and Taranis and whoever they’re worshipping in there – are you all sitting in Tir na nÓg tallying up headcounts?’
Then an even worse thought crawled into her aching head, Or are you playing a game with us? Are we just pieces you’re shoving across a board for your divine amusement?’
The desperate prayers behind her, swelled into a crescendo.
‘I’m listening!’ she called out.
Still nothing.
Then came the soft, persuasive voice inside her head once more – I will give you the power to contain the horrors that are rising like a great tide on all sides. You will be a saviour.
Tegen rolled her stone egg along the steps. White and red on red and white.
Blood on white marble. Two colours, one stone.
Did she have the power to contain these horrors? Was she the hope? Was this her destiny? ‘I do not trust you, Whisperer,’ she said aloud, ‘but I must find the magic that will contain what is to come.’
‘May I be of assistance, lady?’
Tegen jumped. She’d been so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed a thin, grey man standing by her side. Every part of his face was tattooed with mystic spirals and symbols with meanings that Tegen could only guess at. She blinked. She had seen him at Boudica’s secret camp in the marshes. ‘You’re Aodh, aren’t you? The brother of Addedomaros?’
The man bowed. ‘A simple spell-caster at your service my lady. And if I may mention,’ he coughed deferentially, ‘containment spells are my speciality.’
Tegen narrowed her eyes. ‘What kind of containment spells?’
Aodh put his head on one side and licked his pale lips. ‘I have a spirit that serves me. It does my bidding. It will do yours also.’
‘What spirit?’ she asked.
Aodh made her feel nervous. What’s he doing here? She wondered. Is he following me? Did Boudica send him or is he on his own creepy business?
As if he could hear her thoughts, Aodh flared his nostrils and straightened his back. ‘My spirit is one who wishes you well. It longs to work with you and to see you succeed.’
Tegen scratched the itchy scar on her finger. If only she hadn’t lost Goban’s ring … ‘What is the spirit’s price?’
Aodh shrugged. ‘Why should there be a price? Don’t we all want the same thing?’
‘I need to think.’
‘Of course, my lady.’ The spell-caster tucked his hands inside his sleeves. He bowed, and then turned to watching the steady stream of people still arriving at the temple.
Tegen walked down the steps and leaned against the statue. Think! She urged herself. All of my training has come to this moment. If the Romans aren’t the enemy – what is? My own indecision maybe? Someone has to do something …
Tegen held her breath as she remembered being too scared to dance in the funeral caves at home. Then she’d allowed herself to be delayed in Tara and arrived at Mona too late to save her fellow druids. ‘I mustn’t hesitate again,’ she muttered through gritted teeth. ‘If I don’t act, then more will die.’
‘Aodh,’ she called out.
He stood before her, as dull and featureless as a tree in winter. ‘My lady?’
‘How does this magic work?’ she asked.
‘Just imagine – and all will come true.’
‘How …?’
But Aodh just smiled, then he strode across the square and disappeared in the crowd.
Hot anger welled up inside Tegen. ‘Just imagine? What is that stupid man talking about?’
She kicked at the steps but the evening light on the white marble glinted back at her – unmoved, unscathed.
Then she stopped and thought. ‘Gronw would say I must stop and listen – but to what?’ Then she raised her chin and called out to the sky, ‘Lady Goddess, this is the last time I’m asking – are you there? Do you care?’
There were no comforting words in her mind. No miracle. No omen to read.
‘Pull yourself together,’ she told herself firmly. ‘I‘m the only one who can act. The web of magic is here and I must use it! It’s impossible to know and follow every thread.’
More and more frightened worshippers were gathering on the temple steps. The daylight was already fading. In a few hours the town would be rubble.
‘I just don’t have time.’
She looked at her hands and remembered throwing fire at Suetonius and his men. Her vow not to do that again had been weak. What if she threw flames now, at everyone? British and Roman alike! Would that make them stop and look at the stupidity of what was happening?
She was the Star Dancer, the wielder of the greatest magic Britain had ever
known. The demon that pursued her was hatred and vengeance. With or without divine help, she would stand against it, once and for all.
Very well, she decided, I will imagine, but I’ll use the power to contain the horror and prevent as much innocent death as I can. Firstly, I want these people out of here …
She closed her eyes and saw the streets of Camulodunum deserted.
And to make them run away, I’ll bring down their ‘Victory’.
Tegen climbed the temple steps and raised her hands.
Cracking stone rumbled like thunder. The ground shook and the winged statue rocked. Tegen’s palms itched as she sent power from her fingertips. ‘Damn you! Fall!’
With a deafening blast, the statue toppled. The wings smashed into clouds of dust. The head snapped, then rolled. Shards of stone flew like knives.
Screams. Silence.
As the air cleared, Tegen sprang forward and kicked the head until it stopped – facing Boudica’s army.
‘Victory’ had surrendered.
Tegen curled up small against the statue’s plinth as surging waves of people ran from the temple, weeping, pushing and howling.
‘Good!’ she whispered. ‘Victory is ours and it shall be so! Now get out of the town you stupid, stupid people!’
Then she closed her eyes and imagined ghouls and tormented spirits.
A strangled, terrified wailing sobbed through the streets.
‘Ghosts in the theatre!’ screamed a panicking woman, pushing her way through the melee.
‘It’s a warning!’ ‘An omen!’ yelled two men shoving in the opposite direction. ‘Flee!’
Arms waved, hands clutched, eyes stared in horror and dread. ‘It’s the British, they’re coming!’
People tripped, shoved, elbowed, trampled.
‘Attack! Attack!’
‘My babies!’
‘Save us!’ The turmoil grew worse by the heartbeat. No one knew where to run.
Trying not to be swept away, Tegen clung to the plinth and gritted her teeth. Part of her longed to flee like the rest, but deep down, she wanted to stay and relish the chaos.
She had done it! She had cast a great spell that would change the course of this stinking war. This was her first battle and it was a glorious triumph. Britain would be free because of her. The curse of the Romans would be broken.
Just then, a small child fell screaming at her feet.
Instinctively Tegen grabbed and enfolded him against the terror. His small fingers clutched hers and his sobs subsided.
‘But I will try to keep you safe,’ she murmured.
Collaborator
‘Sedate!’ a stern voice bellowed. ‘Calm down!’
The crowd froze.
The man roared again, his words echoing between the houses.
Still clutching the child, Tegen ran up the temple steps, slid behind one of the columns and watched.
In the gathering dark, flickering torches and stamping boots heralded a dozen legionaries marching into the square.
The terrified people drew back.
The men formed a circle around the smashed statue, facing outwards, shields raised and swords at the ready.
An eerie silence fell.
Then came the clatter of horse hooves and two men in togas rode into the square.
The circle opened, allowing the riders to enter. One dismounted by the decapitated Victory. Reverently, he picked up a carved finger and shook his head. He replaced the piece gently, as if it were alive. Then he spoke in clear, loud Latin. There were murmurings of assent and a few people slipped away.
The speaker nodded to his companion who turned his cream pony to face the remaining crowd.
From her hiding place, Tegen caught sight of the man’s face and gasped. ‘Owein? It can’t be! He wouldn’t …?’
Owein spread his hands to the people, then in British he proclaimed, ‘My friends, do not be alarmed. You have seen the tribes in the hills and believe the fall of Victory is an omen of war. This is not so. The statue fell because too many people pressed around it. There is no reason for fear or panic. We do not know why the tribes have gathered. They have luggage, women and children with them, so they may simply be looking for new homes. To reassure you, Claudius Metellus has requested reinforcements from Lindum. I give you my word; they will be with us by dawn. We are safe. What British warrior would raise his hand against his own people? Go home, be at peace.’
No one spoke or moved, so the young man went on: ‘There are as many people of the Trinovantes tribe as Romans here in our town, so have no fear!’
‘Yes, but we’re only here as slaves!’ a voice yelled from the back. ‘Given the choice we’d be up on the hills with the others!’
‘But you are still British, no one will hurt you. As many of you know, I am British myself …’
‘Collaborator!’ someone screeched, throwing a shattered fragment at Owein.
‘Traitor!’ Stones and horse dung flew in earnest.
The grey haired man remounted his horse and snapped an order. Three soldiers pushed through the crowd until the troublemakers were backed against a wall, sword tips pressed firmly against bellies and throats.
‘Go home!’ Owein shouted. ‘In the morning, we will be defended and all shall be well.’
Then the yelling began again. In the end, it was swords not words that emptied the square, leaving only the youth astride his mount amidst the ruins of the statue.
Tegen released her grip on the terrified child. ‘Find your Mam,’ she whispered, and he ran.
Anger welled up inside Tegen as she strode into full view on the Temple steps. Hands on hips she yelled, ‘Owein Sextus! You vowed to defend Britain with your last breath … You, the son of Caractacus, king of the Catuvellauni. You swore your Roman education meant nothing! Look at yourself: collaborating! Betraying!’
She began a spell to blast him from his saddle, but without flinching he urged his pony towards her. She lowered her hands and went towards him.
The thickening evening shadows hid his face, but torchlight glimmered on his auburn hair. ‘Hello Tegen,’ he said calmly. ‘I saw you earlier – talking to the guards. Will you meet me tonight? Please?’
Her eyes opened wide. She hadn’t expected him to say that.
Owein leaned forward and whispered, ‘There’s a deserted mill by the river, a short walk from the eastern gate. I need to talk to you urgently.’ Then turning the mare’s head, he trotted her out of the square.
Tegen was left alone in the semi-dark, with wisps of mist curling cool fingers around her face and arms. She looked down at her hands. She was holding horse droppings, ready to throw. She tossed the stinking, sticky mess away, took a torch from its socket, and picked her way gingerly across the square.
The streets were slowly filling with people pushing heavily laden handcarts towards the gates. For those who were able to leave, the exodus was almost complete.
Tegen had imagined an almost empty city so few would be killed when the attack came – and now it was coming to pass. She had scared them off with the falling statue and the ghostly wailings.
She allowed herself a glow of pleasure. ‘I can do this. I can save Britain! To keep the people together, I must still speak as if it’s the Goddess, but it’s me that has the power! … What shall I imagine next?’
Her foot kicked against something that rattled. It was a lost wooden doll. She set it upright on the ground. ‘Stand!’ she commanded. It stood. ‘Walk,’ it walked. ‘Fall on your face before me.’
And it did.
Tegen shuddered, suddenly afraid of what she could do. She closed her eyes. In her mind she saw the town with spitting fire blossoming up the walls and into the roofs. People were running and screaming in dreadful terror.
She remembered the river by Boudica’s longhouse. The water had sparkled in the sunlight, but the image shifted. Now it flowed red, the colour of blood. Just as she’d said it would.
But was all this her doing, or was she j
ust seeing the inevitable future? She didn’t hate the people of Camulodunum. She almost wished the Roman troops would come to their aid in the morning, then Boudica might be persuaded to think twice about attacking.
‘Where are they?’ she whispered, ‘the men of Lindum?’
Tegen crumpled as a ghastly image seared into her brain: a cohort of fully armed men lying hacked and stiff, while dogs, wolves and birds shared the spoils. They were in a wood, not far away. A couple of British warriors had fallen there too, but Tegen understood.
They had been ambushed, as Boudica had promised.
Tegen swung around on her heel and surveyed the town’s proud, straight streets and fine houses – now empty and silent. She had seen many people leaving, but her spirit could still hear terrified prayers whispered in dark corners.
‘Get out!’ she yelled, to the empty pavements and the loosely banging shutters. ‘Get out, tonight!’
She stamped her foot until the ground shook. A few buildings swayed, stones shifted and fell, then a scream echoed into the dark.
‘I don’t want anyone to die – not really. If anyone’s still here, you must leave! Now!’ Her voice echoed in the deserted streets.
Wiping her eyes on her shawl, Tegen pulled it tightly around her head and dodged between the half a dozen men and boys who guarded the western gate.
Once outside, she trudged up the hill towards Boudica’s camp, praying the people of Camulodunum would heed the earthquakes and ghostly wailings – and leave.
‘But Owein can stay!’ she growled as she kicked a stone, ‘he’s a traitor and deserves to die.’
With scarcely a nod, she marched past the guards at the camp entrance and followed her nose towards the smell of cooking. She was ravenous.
‘Tegen!’ Sabrina yelled. ‘Wait!’
Tegen stopped. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, even her best friend, but she was too tired to think how to avoid her.
Sabrina’s boots thudded through the mud. With a whoop of glee, the Dobunni queen flung her arms around Tegen’s neck. ‘We heard what you did, smashing the statue like that! You were magnificent!’ She laughed, slapping Tegen on the shoulder. ‘Boudica’s looking for you, come and eat!’ She steered her into the queen’s tent, where a trestle table was spread with a linen cloth and bowls of stew and bread.
