“Do you want to fight, Marcus? Are you afraid?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never even seen a man killed. Father says that in battle you don’t have time to be afraid. He says that all you do is follow orders and that a battle is no different from an exercise, but I doubt it. There’s no blood spilled in exercises.”
“Mother says that she was always afraid, but that one just learns to ignore the fear. Once I took down one of the ceremonial swords that used to hang in the hall when I was little. I took it out of its scabbard, but it was so heavy I could barely lift it. It’s hard to believe that girls really used to fight each other with those things.”
“A formidable woman, your mother.” He sat up and reached onto her lap, lifting a tiny, fragile bloom. “Look at this one, Brigid. It matches your eyes. Purple, like old blood!” Her eyes, like wet violets, sparkled at him.
“Marcus, how could you say such a thing! I’m glad that you’re going away. Then I shall find a suitor who will tell me my eyes are like stars and my hair like the sun, without you smirking at him behind his back and making fun of him! Do you remember Connor?”
He grinned happily, his fingers moving busily in the grass, tearing up daisies. “Of course. I pushed him into the river. He was too full of himself, Brigid. He needed a wetting.” Marcus began to weave the sturdy stems in and out, then he knelt before her. “A crown, for a birthday princess.”
“That’s pretty. Put it on my head.”
He set it on her brow then sat back on his heels, frowning. “It doesn’t look right. A princess shouldn’t wear a crown unless her hair is free. Undo your braids, Brigid.”
“No. It takes too long to plait them again.”
“I’ll do them for you. Please.”
“Mother wouldn’t like it.”
“She isn’t here.”
Reluctantly, she pulled her braids forward and began to unwind them. He watched, his heart suddenly in his mouth as the freed hair cascaded over her scarlet shoulders and arms, and brushed the ground behind her. She tossed her head. “There. Now do I look more like a princess? I really am one, you know.”
Spun glass, he thought. Gossamer in sunlight, hot golden thread in which to dress a goddess. “That’s much better,” he said huskily. “Now all you need is a throne.”
She smiled and began to bind her hair up again, but he caught her hand. “Let me do it for you,” he said, coming closer. Now he could smell it, a warm, sun-drenched, living smell. He closed his eyes and plunged his hands into the golden tangle, while she sat, rigid. He brought his face down and rubbed his cheeks with it, pulling it over his mouth. She turned her head to look at him and his lips brushed hers. She drew back.
“Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because…because it felt nice.” Color began to stain her neck, and her mouth trembled. “Because Mother would not approve. Because you are going away. Oh Marcus, don’t go away!”
They knelt looking at each other, his fingers still locked in her hair. She swayed and fell back into the grass, Marcus with her. “Brigid,” he whispered with a new wonder, “Brigid.” He kissed her again, and this time her mouth opened under his and a stab of pleasure ran through him. Dazed, he lifted his head. Her violet eyes met his own in bewilderment. “How beautiful you are!” he began, “I think…” But she rolled from under him and sat up.
“No, Marcus, don’t say it! Not now, not today on my birthday, not when you are going to leave me.”
He shook his head from side to side and his arms went around her again. “I think I love you. Amazing! Marvelous! I love you.”
“Oh, why did you have to say it today?” she cried out miserably. “Why didn’t you say it yesterday when Pompey trod on my foot, or last week when I lost my best gold bracelet in the woods?” The color flamed in her cheeks. She was embarrassed, and she tried to smooth back her hair with flustered hands. “You are only saying it because you’re going safely away and it won’t matter.”
“Don’t be foolish!” he said quickly. “You know me better than that! I mean it, Brigid, I love you. Will you let me speak to my father, and your father? Will you consent to be betrothed to me?”
“But it’s so sudden!” she protested shyly.
“Is it?” he snorted. Their eyes held for a moment. “No, it isn’t,” she said, dropping her gaze.
“Do you consent?”
She did not look up, and her fingers went on twisting about each other. “Yes, Marcus,” she said in a low voice.
“Good! Now I can kiss you again to seal the bargain!” She smiled faintly and closed her eyes and, gently, he drew her to him, but a gust of wind whipped a tress of her hair between their mouths and then somehow his nose got in the way, and they fell back onto the grass, laughing breathlessly.
“Shall it be a Roman wedding?” she asked.
“But of course! Your father will want a tribal one first, but there will have to be proper nuptials as well.”
“What is a Roman wedding like?”
He frowned, stroking her hair. “I’m not exactly sure. But I do know that you will be dressed in a long white robe, like a vestal virgin, and on your head will be a saffron veil.
You and your family will walk to my house in the evening, carrying torches. Oh Brigid, I can see you now, the light dancing on your snowy robe! And everyone will shout, ‘Talassio!’ as I carry you over the threshold!”
She sighed. “It sounds so lovely.” They sat with their arms about each other in a deep, new contentment for a while, but suddenly she tore away from him and wagged an accusing finger under his astonished nose. “Marcus Favonius, now I know why you want to marry me! Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before! You’re just another penniless hopeful who wants a big, fat dowry!”
His jaw dropped and she sprang up. “I’m going to ride my birthday present. You’ll never catch me now, you shameless adventurer!” All at once she was off, streaking across the meadow and shrieking with laughter, her pale, wild hair flowing behind her like a bolt of flung silk.
Brigid stabled Pompey and gave minute instructions on his grooming to the stable slave. She walked slowly through the circles of the chieftains’ neat houses, braiding her hair as she went and humming under her breath. She wanted to skip over the gravel and dance in and out of the throng of busy freemen who passed up and down the path. He loved her. He had said so. He wanted to marry her. Oh birthday of my life! she sang to herself. Oh Andrasta, Queen of Victory, a white bull for you, and a wedding for me!
She entered the Council hall and stood for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The great, airy room was cold. She glanced about but there was no sign of Ethelind, and except for a knot of chiefs in the far corner, the hall was nearly empty. The hides and skins covering the floor were scrupulously clean and the shields on the walls glowed even in the gloom. Pale patches still showed where ten years ago the weapons had hung, before Scapula had ordered the disarming of the Iceni. The fire was out and the grate had been scrubbed. Brigid began to cross the floor, and as she drew nearer to the little group she heard an angry voice raised above the others. It was Lovernius, standing with his cloak flung over one arm, his other fist clenched.
“He wants interest, he says. What is this interest? I am not the least bit interested in him! He has taken all my cattle and half my flock, and he says the other half is interest. He cannot even speak properly!”
“Lady,” another voice interposed. “He has threatened to take my son if I do not give him the money. He stands there with strange soldiers, not men from the garrison, and he makes demands. What is happening?”
Brigid quietly came closer. Her mother sat in her chair, with her chin buried in one blunt hand and her red hair brushing her face. Her chiefs clustered around her, white and anxious.
“He brought slave chains to me,” a short, belligerent man shouted. “He took away my freemen! Now who will till my fields?”
“I offered to gamble with him, for my s
heep,” Lovernius said. “But he did not even answer me.”
Boudicca rose wearily. “Very well,” she said harshly. “I will go to Favonius. Lovernius, take your harp and go to Prasutugas. Sing to him, see if you can cheer him. But don’t tell him where I’ve gone. Tell him I am hunting.” She strode away from the men and caught sight of her daughter, hovering in the shadows. “Brigid! Did you win today? Whatever have you been doing? Your hair is full of grass.”
“No, I didn’t win…. Mother, I want to talk to you.”
Boudicca looked more closely at Brigid’s flushed face and guilty eyes, and a hint of what was to come made her heart sink, but it was just one more trouble in an ocean of nightmares. “I can’t stop now, Brigid. I’m sorry, but this is very important. Come to me tonight.”
“What is happening? What’s wrong?”
Her mother smiled grimly. “Your father is failing.” She swept past Brigid, her tunic swirling about her ankles and her necklaces tinkling. Once outside she did not pause but went straight to the stable. “Bring my horse!” she shouted, and she fidgeted impatiently while the slave scurried to do her bidding.
A net was closing about the Iceni. She knew it. Slowly, invisibly, her tuath was falling apart. Yesterday and the day before she had gone to Favonius, begging to know why, but he had been embarrassed and evasive. I know why, she thought dully. Prasutugas. I told him again and again. I beat at him with my words but he would not listen, and now it is too late. The horse was led out, its harness glittering in the strong, raw sunlight, and she hitched up her tunic, tossed a leg over its back, and clattered to the open gate and the trees beyond.
For the last nine years she and the Roman surgeon had battled to prolong Prasutugas’s life, but his time was running out and with it the last vestiges of self-government, just as she had foreseen. The path swerved in under the almost leafless trees and she slowed her mount to a walk. Anger and grief filled her and she knew that this time it would not go away. This time Prasutugas would die, this time there would be no reprieve. Boudicca struggled to swallow the uncharacteristic panic that curdled in her throat, acrid and painful. I must not look forward, she told herself. I must face each day, each hour, as it comes. Today I must beg help from Favonius on behalf of the chiefs. Tomorrow… She broke through the trees but did not pick up speed, and the horse picked its way disconsolately down the even slope to where the garrison lay quiet in the sun.
Caradoc, your life was wasted. Perhaps if you still led the west I might even now be riding over clean earth, my sword bright once more on my belt. But your sacrifices were for nothing, and I too must say that my own life has been one senseless, useless battle of words. If I had capitulated this moment would still have come, but at least I would be able to look back to years of wholeness, of peace. I would have an inner strength to carry me through the dark days ahead, the terror of loneliness. She dismounted under the shadow of the palisade, threw the reins to the guard, and paced across the small parade ground. I remember you so well, Caius Suetonius Paulinus, she thought. I met you only once, sharing food with you in your beautiful house, and yet my thoughts have circled you continuously over the past year as though you were an absent lover. You are our nemesis. You will conquer. Venutius is not a worthy adversary for you. You have not left Colchester, and yet your garrisons have risen inside Siluria. No governor before you was able to accomplish that. Madoc may still be lord of the north of his country, but he will never again see his own village.
Shrugging off her doleful reverie, Boudicca marched briskly along under the wooden porch and thumped on the door. She could not worry about Paulinus, not now. She had her own troubles to fight. Favonius was busy at his desk, with papers piled around him. His secretary was standing beside him, reading over his shoulder. A soldier opened the door, nodded her in, and closed it quietly behind her when she had entered. She came to a halt in front of the untidy desk and Favonius glanced up in annoyance but then rose.
“Boudicca!”
Her face was parchment pale under the tan freckles, and her mouth was rammed tightly shut. She stared at him.
“Is it Prasutugas?” he asked her.
“You know what it is, Favonius. I came to you yesterday, but today there are fresh grievances. What are you going to do? Why do you allow these thieves to scurry here and there over my country, ripping homes apart like rats seeking offal? Whose order brought them here?”
He lowered himself slowly into the chair and waved his secretary away. “I told you yesterday,” he said wearily. “Some of them come from the procurator’s office, from Colchester. Some come from Rome. I have no authority over them. They are not my concern.”
“You have not answered me. You don’t dare. They come because Prasutugas is dying, don’t they? Don’t they?” she said, raising her voice as she placed her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned over him. “Poor impoverished Seneca is worried. He is afraid that when my lord dies his money will end up in other hands. Whose hands, Favonius?” She was shouting at him now. “Why is Seneca worried? Why are the procurator’s agents here?”
He was silent while she spoke, his arms resting loosely on the desk before him, his eyes calmly meeting hers. “Seneca must know the terms of Prasutugas’s will. When he dies his estates go to the emperor and to his daughters. But the debts will be honored. In all the years since Prasutugas borrowed from him, we have not missed one payment.
“No,” she murmured, standing straight. “No. Another fear eats away at that avaricious old heart of his, and in the whole of the empire there is only one man who could take Seneca’s money with impunity. And that explains Decianus’s men.” Her voice dropped a tone. “Tell me the truth, Favonius. What will happen to the Iceni when our lord dies?”
He raised one leather-clad shoulder. “I don’t know. The governor may allow your daughters to take over the chieftainship, as Prasutugas wishes.” His eyes slid away from hers and she jumped forward.
“Or the Iceni will be absorbed and a praetor will come! I am no fool, Favonius, and neither are you. Isn’t it a policy, when the ruler of a client kingdom dies, to govern directly from Rome? Ah gullible Prasutugas! All the lies you told him, you glib, familiar son of a dog! All the fine dinners and lovely presents, all the reassurances! The Iceni are different, you said. The Iceni are our friends, our allies. Absorption? Never!” Her coarse masculine tones grated him, peeling away at the tender flesh of his honesty. “You lied, Favonius. Oh, Andrasta most High, how you lied! Decianus’s men are here like wolves around a still-living carcass, and when my lord goes they will tear Icenia to pieces for Nero!”
“You exaggerate as always, Boudicca,” he objected quietly. “Of course the men from the procuratorial office are here. When Prasutugas dies you must pay death taxes, and your daughters must pay inheritance taxes. The officials gather to see that the emperor is not cheated. As for Seneca’s employees, you can understand their concern, can’t you? But don’t worry—it will all be sorted out.”
“By whom? Prasutugas has tied my hands by his will. By his command the girls have been brought up to be pretty, useless decorations, like Priscilla.” He did not flinch, but the almost bored, slightly amused light went out of his eyes and was replaced by a coldness. “Help us, Favonius. Seneca’s wild dogs are already looting the people of their cattle, and freemen are being taken for slaves. They come to me, but I can do nothing without your support.”
“It is not my job to interfere in dealings that were private agreements between the chiefs and Seneca,” he said briskly. “If the chiefs did not understand the terms of those agreements, that is no concern of mine. I administer a garrison. That is all.”
She drew back, astounded, marshaling all her forces of self-control, fighting to speak reasonably. “That is not all. You are our link with the governor. You can petition him on our behalf. Go to Paulinus for us, Favonius.”
“Impossible! You have not been listening to me, Boudicca. The procuratorial office is not responsible to the governor and ne
ver has been. Decianus is under the emperor only. And even if I did want to petition for you, I could-n’t. Paulinus has left Colchester. He marches on the Deceangli, and then to Mona. His final campaign in the west has begun.”
She gazed at him for a moment, dumbfounded, and then gave a little exclamation of pain and fell into the chair that faced him. “So soon,” she whispered, half to herself. “Ah, how troubles pile up, one on top of the other, and as always I am helpless.” She looked into the red, hard face. “I want a meeting with the procurator. Arrange for me to see him, Favonius. This lawless behavior must be stopped.”
He got up impatiently. “It is not lawless, Boudicca. Roman law is fair and just. If the money was not owed, the men would not be here in Icenia.”
She looked at him for a long time and her lips gradually settled into a thin, hard line. “Either honesty and goodness have blinded you, Favonius, which I most strongly doubt, or you have never been our friend, and over all the years of comradeship with Prasutugas you have been laughing at him behind his back. He is the one who has been blinded by honesty and goodness. He is worth a thousand of you! Will you do nothing?”
He spread out his hands. “I can do nothing. When and if Prasutugas dies, the situation will be put in hand and you will see that your fears are unjustified.” He came around the desk and she rose. “I would ask you to share a cup of wine with Priscilla and me, but she is resting and as you can see I am hard at work.” He made as if to touch her and she drew back. “I am sorry, Boudicca. I wish that Prasutugas could go on living, I wish that you and I could have been friends as he and I were.”
She stalked to the door and the soldier opened it. “I, too, am sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I wish that Caradoc were still arviragus in the west. I wish that Albion would strike down Paulinus. I wish I had never set eyes on you. I will not come to you again.”
The Eagle and the Raven Page 84
