by Beth Webb
Smoke filled Tegen’s mouth. She spat. ‘Take them to a sacred grove,’ she shouted back. ‘I’ll deal with them there.’
The chieftain put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. A man dressed in a plain grey robe came and stood by his side. His ashy hair was tightly bound in a single plait. ‘You know my brother, Aodh? He’ll see to everything.’
Then Addedomaros turned away to supervise the final destruction of the temple, which was already burning nicely.
A smile flickered across Aodh’s face. ‘My lady,’ he said. ‘I trust your new gifts serve you well? What is your will for the prisoners?’
Tegen beckoned him to move away from the noise, but just as they were about to speak, a boy came running up to her.
‘Are you the druid lady?’ he panted. ‘Boudica wants you. Now!’ He pointed to the front porch of a tavern where the queen sat drinking with Sabrina, watching the Trinovantes’ triumph.
‘Tell her I must finish one sacred duty, and then I will come.’ Tegen turned back to Aodh. ‘Take them to the grove of Andraste, feed them and give them water. Have them well guarded. Spill no blood. Their lives are sacred to the Goddess.’
‘Your will is my will.’ The spell-caster’s face was unreadable under his dense tattoos. He wove a blessing above Tegen’s head, then added, ‘As you must speak with Boudica, I will send a servant to show you the way to the grove later. Everything will be done.’
Tegen thought she saw a glint of pleasure in the man’s eyes but she had no time to wonder at it. Boudica would be angry if she delayed.
As she approached the tavern, the queen greeted Tegen with a kiss and a drinking horn. ‘Swallow it all,’ she laughed. ‘I like the Romans’ wine, but they drink like girls in their prissy little cups. Now, the temple’s destroyed and the looting’s almost finished …’ She smiled and waved a hand towards the heaps of furniture and straw. ‘The bonfires are ready to light. When will you perform the final ritual?’
Tegen pretended to drink the blood red liquor as she tried to concentrate. Images of the prisoners being led away crowded her head. She could think of nothing else. Something was wrong, but what?
‘I will destroy the town at sunset,’ she replied handing the horn to a servant. ‘Will that be enough time to clear the booty and make sure everyone has gone?’
Boudica nodded. ‘Do you need anything? Would you like some of the prisoners for sacrifices to seal your curses?’
Tegen shook her head. ‘I have all I need, thank you. There’ll be no moon until the middle of the night, so we’ll light the fires at moonrise when the magic is strongest. When I have finished, the Time of Stone will be proclaimed. Everything must be left empty until Imbolg, then the town will be cleansed and ready to belong to its own people once more. Meanwhile, I need to rest and prepare. Will you excuse me?’
Boudica gripped Tegen’s hand. ‘When I first met you … I misunderstood. I was terribly wrong and I’m sorry. Now I trust you above all my counsellors.’
‘Thank you,’ Tegen said. ‘I swear I will do my best for Britain.’
She walked back to the western gate through the streets, weaving her way through the stacks of thatching, beds and chairs. Now and then the sight of a doll or a toy horse bought tears to her eyes. But she had no time to be sentimental. These fires would destroy everything and wipe the slate clean, then everyone could begin again without the past dragging them into the mire of memories.
At moonrise, Camulodunum would burn.
The Burning
At sunset, Tegen woke and dressed in her white robe and Boudica’s bracelets. As the sky darkened and the stars came out, she made her way to the northern gate of Camulodunum.
In her mind’s eye saw the sun rising on a charcoal barren waste. She knew it would be so.
Once more she split a yew branch into two and laid it either side of the road. She wanted to ensure that whatever spirits were left would have a safe passage to Tir na nÓg. There must be no malicious ghosts around to pursue the warriors and their families, or to haunt the town’s remains, terrorising any Trinovantes who chose to rebuild. Picking her way across the dark, flint-strewn moorland, she walked widdershins to the western gate, then the south and finally the east. At each one she laid a spell that forbade any except the living to pass. No spirits could escape into the surrounding countryside.
Tegen raised her staff and entered the town, summoning any lost souls and showing them the way they must go. A cool breeze sighed through her short hair as the dead brushed past her, drifting away in the starlit darkness.
She stood, head bowed, unmoving. ‘May you be born again soon,’ she called after them. Then, weaving a spell of closure, she shut that way to Tir-na-nÓg.
The night was silent. Not even a birdcall to break the emptiness: only the shattered gates creaking uselessly in the wind.
Tegen took a deep breath. It was safe to burn the place now. Everyone had gone. ‘One day, you will be rebuilt,’ she promised. ‘Perhaps with another name, in another time, with green fields and no need for gates and walls?’ She couldn’t be sure, the image was misty, difficult to fix and far off.
Anyway, she had other matters to attend to.
Grasping her staff, Tegen walked carefully along Camulodunum’s cobbled streets, wary of debris and bodies in her path. The starlight only gave a very pale impression of where to put her feet. The pungent-sweet smell of smouldering wood drifted down from the temple.
At least I prevented that massacre. She smiled. I’ll just have to be careful what I imagine. I must rein in my anger and bitterness. No curses where they aren’t deserved.
The town square was lit by red and gold light from a bonfire where a few warriors were on guard. Deep shadows danced on their cloaks and the woad on their faces swirled. Those with limed hair looked like surprised skulls hovering in the dark.
Boudica was there as well, seated on a carved wooden throne. Imperious and drunk.
Tegen faced the queen across the fire. The gold on her wrist jingled and glowed as she raised her staff. ‘Hail Victory!’ she called loudly.
‘Hail Boudica!’ the warriors roared their reply.
‘Hail to the Goddess Andraste,’ Tegen continued. She was uneasy about Boudica’s bloodthirsty goddess, but now was not the time for discussion.
‘Hail Andraste!’ came the reply.
Tegen stared into the crackling flames, and watched. In their bright tongues she saw darkness and ashes where Camulodunum now stood. It’s probably for the best, Tegen thought. Now is the Time of Stone – a spiritual winter. Wipe the Land clean and start again in the spring.
She raised her head and her voice. ‘I see these streets as ashes, and the houses will blow as dust in the wind,’ she proclaimed.
Everyone cheered.
Using her staff, Tegen wove a spell in the air above the fire, and then calling for drum music, she danced widdershins against the sun’s path. Her movements were sharp and brittle as she span in an ever-widening spiral, unwinding magic behind her, undoing everything that the Romans had ever made in this place. At last, in her mind’s eye she could only see emptiness.
She stopped, stamped and held her pose.
That is sufficient for now, she thought. Spells for rebuilding will be the task of another druid. Not me.
She didn’t like leaving a sacred pathway open, but she knew a culvert had to be left in place to drain all hatred and bitterness from the town. Without it there would be a wound in the Land that would fester and rot, spreading a gangrene of hatred and revenge that would curse the living for generations.
‘I’ll come back and close the spiral when the fire’s cooled,’ she promised. Then with the heel of her shoe, she marked the ground with an entry-mark, ensuring that the door she had made to the spirit kingdom would only be an inward portal. Nothing could escape from Tir na nÓg into the human world.
Tegen turned to the assembled crowd. As she had hoped, the moon was just rising in the southeast. It was now time t
o begin the cleansing and healing. ‘The spell is complete,’ she announced. ‘Set fire to the town, but leave quickly.’
Horns winded and the assembled warriors lit torches from the bonfires. Brandishing their flames, they ran from street to street, whooping and shouting as the piled kindling caught. Red, gold and yellow leaped up into the night sky. Smoke rose to smother the stars and red cinders winked and span away.
As Tegen’s widdershins spiral uncoiled its sacred path, the gates of Tir na nÓg opened to admit the remaining spirits.
The demon heard the spells and followed the stench of mage-craft.
At the gateway, Tegen’s entry-mark blocked its escape.
The demon clawed and whimpered, but it could not pass the seal she had made in the dust of Camulodunum.
Tegen was alone in the square. She sighed and blessed the fire. ‘May you cleanse this Land,’ she said. ‘Make it new so we may live again.’ Ashes floated like crows’ feathers, black on white in the moonlight.
Trapped so close to its quarry, the demon’s fury exploded into flames and earthquake.
As Tegen turned to go, the walls of the nearest house burst into woven fire. With a crash, a roof beam fell into the street, smashing into a thousand flaming daggers.
Tegen staggered back, struggling to breathe. She sank to her knees, remembering the sacred fire spiral she had walked a year before. ‘The flames shouldn’t have caught this quickly,’ she gasped. ‘I must keep low and stay calm.’
Another beam crashed by her head. She rolled backwards, sparks in her hair and clothes. Hot and singeing. Soot caught in her eyes and throat. She was choking …
‘Tegen!’ a voice yelled. Strong hands caught her.
As she was dragged clear, her left foot unmade her spell.
In the sour, stifling smoke she did not notice.
And the demon danced free in the fires of the town.
The Grove of Andraste
Cool dawn air soothed Tegen’s exhausted lungs and the chilly damp of the ground seeped through her robe, cooling her skin. She opened her eyes. She was lying on the blackened heath. Above her flapped a cloak woven with dark and light green, crossed by blue, gold, yellow and black.
She knew those colours had meant something to her once …
‘Thanks,’ she said quietly. ‘I owe you my life.’
The cloaked figure turned, crouched down and smiled. ‘Once again – yes.’ It was Owein.
Her heart missed a beat.
‘I always seem to be pulling you out of fires,’ he said gently. ‘You should make your offerings to the spirits of the south more carefully.’ He plucked at her white robe. ‘Especially as you’re a full druid now.’
Tegen winced. He was a traitor and the last person she wanted to see, but she was too dazed to move. ‘Why are you dressed as a Briton?’ she seethed.
He handed her a leather water bottle. ‘Because I am British, as you well know!’ he retorted. ‘And if you’d listened last time we met, you’d know that I’ve been a double agent for the Trinovantes for many moons.’
Tegen sat up and drank. ‘What about your precious new Roman family?’
‘Some are dead and the rest are safe. There are none you need worry about.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘So why did you decide to join us all of a sudden? Scared?’
Owein raised his eyebrows. ‘Because I don’t want the Romans here any more than you do, but while they are here, I’ll use my Roman upbringing to help my people in any way I can. Any way, do you understand that? If sometimes I have to wear a toga and recline on a couch at dinner, I will. If I have to don my cloak and take up a long-sword I’ll do that as well. You’ll just have to trust me, Tegen.’
‘Why should I?’ she scowled.
‘Quite simply - if I wanted the Romans to win, I’d have let you die under that burning wall,’ Owein replied. ‘The death of the Star Dancer would have demoralised Boudica’s rabble and this rebellion would have fallen apart by dawn.’ Leaning on his crutch, Owein got to his feet and offered Tegen a hand up. His face was solemn and pale.
‘Why don’t you just thank the Goddess that Heather and I were there to save you?’
‘I don’t believe in the Goddess. Or if she’s real, she can’t be bothered to help.’
Tegen struggled to her feet and hobbled over to where Owein’s pony was cropping grass. She stroked her nose. ‘Thanks Heather,’ she said. ‘I owe you some crab apples.’ Then she bowed formally to Owein. ‘I offer you my thanks, Owein Sextus. Now I must get back.’
‘Wait, I’m coming with you,’ he said.
Ignoring him, Tegen strode away towards Boudica’s camp on top of the hill.
Owein called after her, ‘Before you go running back to that carrion crow, I need to show you something. It’s important.’
His voice was heavy with what sounded like grief.
She stopped and looked into Owein’s eyes. He was once her dearest friend, someone she had trusted – and loved too, in a way. Old emotions of warmth, stirred once more. He used to make sense – she owed him the courtesy of a hearing at least.
‘I’m sorry. I was rude. It was just a shock seeing you yesterday all draped up and with that other … Roman.’
‘His name was Claudius. He never hated our people. In fact, he encouraged me to stand between the British and Romans and broker some sort of understanding,’ Owein replied quietly. He swung himself into Heather’s saddle. ‘And … if he’d lived, he’d have been my father in law.’
Tegen stared at him open mouthed. I mustn’t jump to conclusions, she reminded herself.
After several heartbeats she took a deep breath. ‘I do trust you,’ she said. ‘You’ve saved my life twice, for which I give you every blessing and thanks. And I really am sorry for my rudeness. You’re right. It’s time we talked – properly.’
‘Apology accepted.’ He bowed formally.
‘I still think you’d have been a splendid king.’ Tegen smiled. ‘Now, what do you want to show me?’
Ignoring her comment about kingship, Owein kicked Heather’s flanks and they set off through the woods.
‘So, tell me about how you got engaged?’ Tegen asked.
Owein shook his head, and replied ‘Later,’ rather tersely. Then he rode on in silence.
Tegen walked a little behind him, confused and worried. Why did he want to talk to me, now he’s saying nothing? She wondered. Then she noticed how stooped his shoulders were. It’s as if he’s carrying a great weight, she thought. The grief of the battle? Is his fiancée really safe?
Soon they came to a small valley with a spring and a stream at the bottom. Here the scrub and undergrowth had been cleared, revealing a sheep-nibbled lawn edged by oak trees. A druid’s grove.
Owein dismounted and gestured Tegen forwards. ‘You need to see this, better than me telling you,’ he said quietly.
Gathered in small groups around the grove were about two hundred people. Some were elderly, the rest women and children: the temple prisoners. Their clothes and hair were sooty and unkempt, but just as Tegen had imagined, they were peacefully leaning against trees or lying on the grass. By each group was a water bucket and the remains of a meal.
‘Oh! My captives!’ Tegen gasped, delighted. ‘Thank you Owein, I’d wanted to find them this morning. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them, but I saved them by dedicating them to the Goddess. I didn’t want innocent people to die!’
Owein went very pale, then he sighed. ‘Stop talking Tegen – just look – and listen.’
No one was moving. All were silent and still.
‘Are they all asleep?’ Tegen asked.
‘What do you think?’ Owein raised an eyebrow.
A chill ran down Tegen’s spine. ‘What’s wrong with them?’
Owein pointed to the closest group. ‘Ask them.’
Tegen ran down the slope and put her hand on the shoulder of a woman to wake her, but she was cold and stiff. Tegen turned to a small boy curled up wit
h his brother. Their waxen faces had a bluish tinge around their lips. There was vomit on the grass.
With tears in her eyes, Tegen walked from group to group. Mostly it was the same story. They had been poisoned, although here and there a throat had been cruelly bruised. Probably those who hadn’t died quickly enough.
‘Who has done this?’ she demanded, clenching and unclenching her fists. ‘I’ll personally poison whoever’s responsible! My prisoners’ lives were sacred!’ She threw back her head and bellowed, ‘Come out you murderers … NOW!’
But there was only the rustle of frightened birds rising from the branches above.
Owein limped painfully to Tegen’s side. His eyes were red and wet.
She grabbed his tunic and shook him. ‘Tell me! What do you know about this? Who did this?’
He pointed to a baby lying in its mother’s arms, dried milk crusted on its lips. ‘In a way, this was your doing.’
Tegen stepped back, eyes wide in horror. ‘Me? What are you talking about?’
‘This is the Grove of Andraste: the Goddess in her guise of war. By dedicating the prisoners to the Lady, the guardian of the Grove would automatically have assumed you meant them to be sacrificed to her.’
‘But I gave clear instructions no blood was to be spilled.’ Tegen choked as bile rose in her throat.
Owein took her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘And no blood was spilt. That’s why they were poisoned. When I found this grove, I thought it was a sick joke of Boudica’s. I wanted to show you what she’s really like. You’ve got to believe me Tegen, the queen is not a good woman.’ He waved his hand across the scene. ‘I know you would have meant kindly bringing these people here. Whoever had charge of them knew exactly what you meant, but chose – or was told – to do this anyway.’
Tegen closed her eyes. Her voice was choking. ‘It was Aodh,’ she said. ‘He offered to look after them. I thought he had a funny smile when he took them away. I should have thought – he’s Trinovantes – and Addedomaros’s brother. He’d have been longing for vengeance. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean …’ And she began to cry.
