A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion

by E. Knight

  The queen looked up with wonder, blinking into the old man’s unseeing face. Her eyes filled with what seemed a strange mixture of relief, hope, and awe. She gave her warrior a smile of sudden radiance. He nodded in return.

  I hadn’t expected the queen’s sudden welling of emotion, and I sensed it was an uncommon thing for such a strong, firm spirit. My heart softened toward her.

  “When will that time arrive?” she asked, as I knew she must.

  The priest smiled enigmatically. “You will know when. Your children will tell you.” Then he stuck out his elbow, a signal that it was time to guide him back to the center of the compound. We set off as the elder muttered to me, “And you will bring your gift.” But I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to listen to what the Iceni pair whispered behind us.

  “‘My children will tell me,’” Boudica repeated to her ageing warrior. “Does he mean Sorcha and Keena? Or my people?”

  I didn’t hear his answer because the memory-vision abruptly vanished and my eyes snapped open.

  Dismay filled my chest as I looked around me. I was supposed to learn what the gods wanted me to do to make things right with them! But all that had emerged was a memory of a conversation between the high priest and the Iceni queen. Had he been warning me or the queen about something? What did it mean? Was my inability to understand the meaning more proof of my inadequacy to serve?

  Stiffly, I stood up and stretched. Perhaps the message was that I was I supposed to go to the Iceni queen and her army.

  What else could it be? The only clear instruction I’d received was to bring my “gift.” The only thing I had in my possession was the Roman. Was that what he’d meant? I could not know for sure, so to be safe, that’s what I would do. Together we would head south to the rebellion.

  FELIX

  They took all my clothing and burned it in front of me. But first, they ripped out the metal studs from my shoes and armor and then took all the leather from my bindings and cut them into pieces and shared the strips with anyone who wanted them.

  Fucking savages! It had taken every coin I had as a new recruit to outfit myself. As soon as I was back with the lads, I’d have to get another kit from the quartermaster. Yeah, they’d take it out of my pay, but at least I’d have the last laugh when I helped nail the stupid Druid boy to a cross and watched him beg for mercy. I'd seen troublemaking rebels crucified before, and I'd thought it a harsh punishment, but now I'd be happy to wield the mallet.

  Days passed with arse-aching slowness. They continued to bind my legs and my arms. Some of the people who visited the healer’s hut—for that’s what this smoky roundhouse was, a stupid fucking hut compared to proper quarters we Romans built out of wood and stone and marble—spit in my face whenever they came near. When I kicked out at one of them, the healer woman poured another foul-tasting concoction down my throat.

  I slept fitfully on and off for what seemed like days. I dreamed I was a boy again in the foothills of my father’s farm, running amidst the ripening vineyards while just barely managing not to trip over the dragging hems of the woolen pants I’d inherited from my older brother. He got the farm, so what was left for me?

  Adventure and heroism, that’s what. Not to mention the plunder I’d imagined taking as soon as I got out here. I’d mapped everything out—I’d serve my time in the legions and then get my own land, as promised to all veterans. Being captured by savages was never a part of the plan.

  The lads would never let me live it down. How did I manage to get captured in a battle we’d fucking won?

  I shifted on my left cheek when the ghostly images from that strange night of mourning flashed into memory. Sure, I hated that women and children and the weaponless died, but that was war, wasn’t it? Plus, these savages needed to think of all the people we saved for the future by cutting off the source of all their ridiculous rebellions! Why couldn’t they see that?

  Governor Paulinus had been right—we had to destroy Mona, the place where seeds of rebellion grew. The witches and priests on Mona had too much power. Without them, we could rule peacefully. Long-term, this was the best for everyone. They would realize this eventually. Sometimes, the bad needs to be cleared out to make room for the good.

  Still, the shame and frustration of being captured was a constant irritant. As was the embarrassing way I’d responded to the shades of the children and women who’d died on the isle. I blamed their potions. Governor Paulinus would’ve laughed in their faces! So would Tribune Agricola.

  To toughen up and ward against turning soft, I determined to replace any vision of shades that popped into my mind with the memory of the night of the raid when I saved Agricola. The flash of respect the tribune had given me—me—the only one quick enough to have saved his wealthy, shiny, patrician arse, was worth more than any one of their stupid little lives. How I wanted to see that spark of respect again! It wasn’t enough to escape. I needed to do something heroic on my return to regain my dignity, but what?

  Staring outside through the tacked-up door-skin, I saw the Druid boy reappear from wherever he’d disappeared to—probably looking for some fucking mistletoe or something. I didn’t even know what that was except that Caesar claimed it was their holiest of plants.

  The entire village surrounded him, touching him and murmuring in their strange barbarian language. In a flash, I saw how I could earn everyone’s respect back. Respect that I’d get not just from my optio or centurion—but from Agricola, too. Maybe even from Paulinus!

  Paulinus had wanted all the Druids dead. Yet one still lived. I would be the one to bring to the general and Agricola the head of the last Druid. I would be the one to impress them with my survival and escape and my gift of the head of the last remaining hope these stupid people had.

  Suddenly, it seemed so clear why I’d been taken. It was for this! So that I would be remembered and rise through the ranks faster than anyone else.

  Now it was a matter of waiting for the right moment, listening for clues as to my location. I was smarter than these stupid savages. I was a Roman citizen! I’d show them—personally—how wrong they were in even daring to think themselves better than us.

  I would cooperate and be passive until I could spring into action and take them all down.

  YORATH

  After deliberations led by the village elders, it was decided. The man who regularly brought dried fish to the markets of the interior would escort me south to join the Iceni queen. This was no easy task, of course.

  We’d have to travel parallel with the legions. And we’d have to avoid roving bands of Romans sent to slay any locals suspected of sneaking away to join the rebellion.

  But they didn’t know this land like we did.

  We left in the morning. I dressed like an apprentice and rode beside the trader on his cart. We put the Roman in the back of the cart with the fish.

  In farmer’s clothing, the prisoner looked more like one of us than any kind of Roman foot soldier. The short hair was potentially problematic, but the trader and I had come up with a story to account for it. He was a thief, and when he was caught, the elders cut his braids off to shame him. As for the hard callous under his chin from his helmet strap, you’d have to look pretty carefully to find it under the golden fuzz coming in. And in addition to binding his legs and arms, we gagged the soldier so that he could not call out for help in the Roman tongue.

  As we trundled away from the craggy coast on a creaky old cart pulled by a shaggy mare, I prayed for protection and guidance. We played it safe, avoiding Roman outposts and traveling on back roads near villages known for their hatred of the invaders.

  It was slow going. It didn’t take long before we were all sick to death of both the smell and taste of the “delivery” fish. It was a treat when we came near a village, for when the people heard about our journey, they came out weeping with joy that one Druid still lived, gladly sharing their meager meals in the big roundhouse of their elders.

&n
bsp; Spring was fast turning to summer, and the first of the season's storms came with it. Fast, furious showers sometimes forced us to wait for days in one village or another as mud made our paths impassable. Often, I had to place charms of protection on our prisoner for his own sake. At more than one stop, we had to physically restrain drunken villagers from lunging at my Roman with a knife or club, bent on avenging the personal losses at Mona. Every village in the region, it seemed, had sent one or more young people to either train or serve on the sacred isle.

  But until I knew what the gods wanted me to do with him beyond bringing him south, I would protect him.

  At night, I dreamed of Gara. Sometimes I dreamed that I’d found her in the chaos and that she was with me on the little boat and not the Roman. But then I’d wake up, weeping.

  Roman scouts were the biggest danger. They scoured the countryside making sure the marching legions were well protected from roaming bands of rebels. I was drowsing next to the trader one afternoon when he let out a string of oaths under his breath. He wheeled his horse and cart under a tree and jumped out.

  “What’s happening?” the prisoner asked in Gaulish. We’d forgotten to gag him after the morning meal. Before he had the chance to ask anything again, my escort shoved a piece of linen in his mouth and tied a woolen band over it. That’s when I saw them, helmets and mail glimmering in the light as they raced toward us, kicking giant clods of dirt and stones behind them.

  My heart pounded in my ears. The prisoner must have realized what was happening. He began to buck and scream, kicking hay up all around his legs. The cords in his neck jutted out, but the trader had tied the gag so tight his noises were unintelligible.

  The Romans were there in a blink, drawing up their horses on each side of us. The beasts shuddered and huffed from the sudden sprint.

  The biggest Roman began screaming at us in Latin.

  We stared blankly at him.

  The other one interrupted, speaking in an imperfect tongue of the tribes, but at least we could understand him. “Why did you pull off the road?” he repeated.

  “This thief tried to bite my friend, so I had to stop and gag him,” my companion said nonchalantly.

  That Roman dismounted and walked around the cart. My mouth grew so dry it felt as if I’d glued it to the roof of my mouth. I prayed to Briga to keep us safe from detection while making myself look as small and stupid as possible. Glancing up at the mounted soldier, I saw him staring at me, and my skin prickled. What would they do to us if they knew we carried one of their own?

  Our prisoner bucked and screamed, drawing the man’s attention back to himself. Our captive looked insane. Good. His light hair also worked in our favor. Although we were nearing the territory of the Silures, who were dark, there were still plenty of locals with the light hair and light eyes of this Romanized Gaul.

  “Why is he tied up?”

  “Because he is a thief!” the trader replied. “He was caught, so the elders chopped his braids, and now he will be punished by his own village.”

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “To the elder council of the Catuvellauni, as that’s where his people are from.”

  “Take the gag off of him,” the still-mounted Roman ordered.

  “He is mad I tell you,” the trader said calmly, going to the side of the cart as if he were going to obey.

  Felix, whose countenance was so red by now it looked as if the chords in his neck might rupture, drew their attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the trader slip something—a knife?—into the arm of his tunic as the Romans watched Felix.

  “Also,” he said. “We think he has the disease of the water-fear.”

  That stopped them both cold.

  “You stupid savages,” the Roman next to the cart cried, backing away with alacrity. “Don’t you know you must put him down? What if he bites you? You will go mad and die, too!”

  My guide took on a bewildered, foolish look—I’d learned that acting stupid around Romans was an important survival tool—and said, “But he already bit me!”

  The Roman on the ground spoke rapidly in Latin to his mounted companion, moving toward his horse. I knew somehow, even though I couldn’t understand their words, that they were discussing killing us right then and there. Native lives were of no consequence to them, especially if we posed a risk to their men.

  But before I could even call upon the gods for help, my driver had plunged a knife into the standing Roman’s neck. The man’s surprised bellow made the other Roman’s horse rear, and his effort to control the animal kept him from drawing his sword. Felix kicked at the cart’s sides crazily at the melee, disturbing the horse even more.

  It happened so fast it was hard to countenance. My companion grabbed the fallen soldier’s sword and slashed at the horse’s hamstrings. It fell screaming with a sickening crunch onto the mounted soldier’s leg. But before the Roman could even respond, my guide had slit his throat. Then he calmly dispatched the injured, still-screaming horse.

  Calmly, he walked back to the cart, dripping sword still in hand, climbed onto his seat, clucked at our horse, and resumed clattering away. Even Felix was silent by this point.

  The trader looked at my wide-eyed expression and just shrugged. “They would’ve killed us,” he said. “We’re vermin to them.”

  “But . . . but will this cause more of them to come after us?”

  Again, he shrugged. “When they finally find these two, they’ll think that a bunch of warriors heading to the rebellion took ’em down. Just to be safe, though, I’ll go the pathways the Romans don’t know about.”

  And we continued on our way.

  FELIX

  I’d kicked and banged my head on the wooden planks of the cart so strongly I almost cracked it by the time the barbarian driving the cart killed my rescuers. It happened so fast it was beyond understanding.

  I would not look at that trader quite so dismissively now, that was for fucking sure. These barbarians were insane!

  Getting away from them was going to be a bit more challenging than I’d thought. My almost-rescuers had underestimated these little barbarians. I would have to be careful not to make that same mistake when the time came.

  My rage and head-banging only made me feel ill as the hours wore on. They kept the gag on me, and despite my thirst and despair, I fell into a miserable, sweaty sleep after a while.

  I awoke to darkness in the woods near a small campfire. They finally—finally—removed the gag, and I worked my jaw in relief. I signaled for water, and the trader poured some into my mouth from his bladder. I would have to watch myself around this one.

  Staring miserably into a crackling, hissing fire, I asked the Druid boy again what he was going to do to me, where he was taking me.

  He didn’t answer. I still worried that he was planning to string me up in one of their spooky groves, but he would’ve done that by now if he’d intended to, right? And if they’d wanted me dead, they would’ve cut my throat just like they had the scouts. So what was he doing?

  We were moving south, that much I could figure out. What was in the south besides our forts and strongholds? My stomach contracted. “Wait,” I said. “Are you taking me to the slave markets?” I hadn’t meant my voice to crack, damn it.

  The Druid boy’s eyebrows met over his thin nose, and I could tell I’d guessed right. And it made sense. There could be no other explanation as to why they hadn’t killed me yet. The little greedy savages wanted to make coin off me!

  “I imagine I could make a pretty pot of gold off you,” the little priestling said, staring out over the land.

  Well, at least I knew. But their stupidity astounded me. They really couldn’t figure out that as soon as I spoke to a Roman trader, they’d both be arrested? The lads had always claimed the locals were dumber than dirt. Well, that just proved it.

  Good with knives, though. I’d have to keep that in mind.

  The stink o
f dried fish was a constant irritation. When the heat made it especially pungent, I killed time by imagining slathering myself with oil at the baths and scraping all the dirt and stink of old fish off me before plunging into the tepidarium. Never, never, would I complain again about the mildewy stink of any of the forts’ baths. No matter how rickety. It was heaven compared to how these animals lived.

  And I certainly didn’t allow myself to fantasize too much about the gleaming new marble baths Agricola had recently built in Isca Dumnoniorum. There was only so much torture I could take, wasn’t there?

  One night, as we camped in yet some other strange, gods-forsaken wood, I kept trying to guess the Druid boy’s age. I started at fifteen. I knew this was too young, but it was funny to see how this insulted him. Idiot. Trying to grow that stupid fuzz on his stupid face.

  “I am nineteen!” he finally barked at me.

  As someone who’d always looked younger than my age—it took my father swearing before a magistrate that I was old enough to join the legions before they would accept me—I felt a little bad for him. He was smaller and skinnier than most of the hardy barbarian specimens I’d seen.

  But whenever I caught myself starting to feel sympathy for him, or thought of any of the magic-induced shades of their dead from Mona, I reminded myself of the truth: I was a Roman soldier. A Roman soldier did his duty. There was no way I was going to go soft now. I thought about Agricola often—imagining all the ways I’d impress him in battle once I got back.

  Still, whenever I thought of how close I’d come to being rescued, a new anger uncoiled in my gut. A new hatred that drove me to find some way to torture my captor.

  “Who is Gara?” I asked, and the way he jumped, you would have thought I’d rammed a poker up his arse.

  “What?”

  “You call out her name in the night. She your little girlfriend, then?”