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

by E. Knight

  “Let her go.”

  “Fuck off, traitor.”

  Andecarus bristled. “I’ll say it only once more. Let her go, or you’ll swear the hand of Andraste herself squeezed the life from you.”

  “Ah, piss off.” Verico lashed out with his free hand and shoved Andecarus by the shoulder, pushing him away so that he spun and almost fell. Righting himself quickly, he lunged for his foster brother, but the bastard’s acolytes were there, blades out and poised, ready to cut him and kill him if necessary to save their master. Trembling with anger, Andecarus glared at them, wishing there was something he could do. But he was all too aware that he had suffered their beatings once before and had no particular desire to repeat the experience. Verico laughed harshly and retrieved the limp form of Ria before striding from the complex unconcerned. His cronies followed on behind, two of them playing rear guard with brandished weapons.

  “Don’t go getting clever and trying to follow us, Decurion,” he sneered.

  Blood surging through his veins in impotent fury, Andecarus watched their forms disappear through the doorway and out into the crowded forum. The sight of the raging mob of Iceni warriors there made Andecarus turn his face upward to the roiling sky.

  “Forgive us, Andraste. They think they avenge Mona—that they do your will—but how could this be your will? You would exhort them to kill Romans, I am sure, not to plow and kill our own people and the other tribes. Grant the queen your wisdom, Andraste. Don’t let it go on like this. This will end us.”

  His thoughts tripped once more to the tale of Arminius. The Iceni had done it now—defied Rome with not one, but two symbols of the invader destroyed in a sea of horror and blood-letting, and the retribution that had befallen Arminius' people would now come to Britannia.

  His raised gaze picked out the forms of the circling ravens—beloved symbols of his people and messengers of the gods’ intent. The birds were departing. It would be easy to say that the difficulty of flying in a sky so increasingly filled with boiling, sooty smoke was the reason for their departure.

  But Andecarus, watching the enigmatic birds deserting the Iceni in great flurries, knew otherwise.

  Nemeton

  The following days with the victorious army passed for Andecarus in strained seclusion. As Londinium lay smoldering, inhabited only by spirits and carrion eaters, the Iceni were again hungry for victory in blood. There had been arguments, he had heard, about where next to strike. Governor Paulinus had been sharp in his perception, apparently, for the two most readily spoken names were indeed Verulamium and Calleva. Many of the nobles had favored moving against the latter, for the Atrebates, to whom Calleva was a center of population and governance, were as close to Rome as any, and Calleva had the benefit of being farther away from any remaining Roman military threat. But the Trinovantes were a vocal group within the army, and the hatred that existed between their tribe and the Catuvellauni of Verulamium was the stuff of legend. The Catuvellauni, who were now citizens of Rome, sheltering under the eagle’s wing since the capture of Caratacus.

  And so it had been decided. Despite the fact that Verulamium was a twenty-mile step toward the legions of Governor Paulinus, the loudest, most insistent voices won the day. The army finished its looting and the grisly displaying of the corpses of Londinium on gibbets and spikes, and then slowly, inexorably, began to move northwest

  Though Andecarus had acquired clean clothes and a sword, returning to the fold of his people, he had lost much in Londinium: Selene. Luci. Ria. Hope.

  He’d had to fight down his own impetuousness again and again since then. To launch into something without adequate thought and consideration was unlike him, but the fact that Ria languished in Verico’s tent under guard, abused and helpless, drove him to distraction.

  That tent was too well guarded to consider either frontal assault or stealthy entrance by slitting the rear wall. And he could hardly appeal to the queen, all but unreachable behind her council of elders and absent much of the time anyway, scouting the territory around Londinium. After violence, theft, and royal pardon were all rejected, the worst option of all was the only one left: speaking with his father. The ageing warrior, still one of the most respected in the tribe, was in his tent with several of the other nobles, according to the warriors with whom he had spoken. Andecarus had pondered whether to leave it again until he might catch his father alone, but the chances of that were minute. Duro’s opinion and companionship were sought by young and old, warrior and maid, and he was rarely alone.

  One of the young warriors who owed fealty to Duro stood outside the old man’s tent like a Praetorian outside a Roman legionary commander’s headquarters, and Andecarus couldn't help likening his father to a legion’s commander. The faint similarity between Governor Paulinus and Duro was hard to escape. Shave and trim his father’s mane and put him in a bronze cuirass, and he might be the Roman’s brother—almost of an age and with the same iron-gray hair, the same insightful gaze, the same determined set of jaw, the same effortless capability of a veteran of many wars.

  Taking a deep breath, Andecarus strode straight through the tent’s door fast enough that the surprised guard only managed to bark out a challenge before he’d ducked past. Inside, Duro sat on a shaped log draped with a bear skin, his famous red-enameled sword between his knees, point to the floor, twirling it idly by the pommel as he talked. To the left sat an old man close enough to death to display a cadaverous appearance, parchment skin stretched over sharp bones. Look closer at that living corpse, though, and the marks of a hundred battles were etched into his flesh. Arm rings and a heavy torc weighed down upon him every bit as much as the years of his long life. The old man’s beard was straggly and pulled to a point with a heavy amber bead, and his hair was neatly braided back away from his face. Here was wisdom and experience, Andecarus realized. Beyond the ancient sat a warrior perhaps three or four years Andecarus’ senior, yet adorned with the arm rings and torc of a man of means and reputation—some noble warrior who had been too aloof and battle obsessed to show his face in council until war had risen its blood-soaked visage. Here was strength and fortitude. Then, to the other side, with their back to him, sat a man with the dream-caster’s feather-and-bone-tagged staff—a seer who Andecarus had seen in the royal enclosure more than once. Here then, was piety and direction, in the absence of the Druids who had since time immemorial guided the people.

  And beyond him, a young woman Andecarus recognized readily enough even from the rear. Sorcha, eldest daughter of the queen. Resolution and defiance. Only sixteen summers old and already blooded and poisoned with the hate and fiery need that are the children of vengeance and war. Her hair, red like her mother’s, gleamed in the firelight, and even in the warmth of the tent, her shoulders were covered with an expensive pelt. Sorcha. A girl he had once thought he perhaps loved—who might have made him consort when she became queen—but who had turned her back on him following her dreadful ordeal at Roman hands, as though he were no longer of interest to her now that she had her war. Sorcha did not turn at the new arrival. Nor did the old man. Only Duro looked up, waving dismissively at the warrior behind Andecarus.

  “I wish to speak with you, Father.”

  “This is not a good time.”

  “It never will be. I want to talk to you about Verico.”

  “I have no time to discuss your endless petty arguments with your brother.”

  The younger warrior on the floor turned, waving him away. “The weak, the cowardly, and the disinterested have no place in this tent.”

  Andecarus was about to launch into an angry tirade when his father unexpectedly raised a warning hand to the counselor. “Hold, man. The boy might not be to your liking, but he could have insight for our discussion. He has served with the enemy, after all.”

  “Some believe he serves them still,” hissed Sorcha without turning. Still that animosity burning deep inside, then. Romans had violated her; Andecarus had served with Romans . . .r />
  “What say you Andecarus, son of Duro?” the old advisor inquired. “What will the Romans do? Will Paulinus move directly against us? Will he take up a defensive position somewhere important? Will he push for our own heartland while we are far away?” The ancient warrior studied him with a disconcertingly penetrative gaze, and Andecarus cleared his throat, trying not to catch his father’s eye.

  “The queen is a new Arminius,” Andecarus began. “I think she knows this. I think you all do. What happened in Germania is common knowledge, but the tellers of tales and singers of songs only tell half the tale and sing half the song. They talk of the glorious defeat of three legions, the capture of eagles, the humiliation of Rome, and the death of a governor. They fail to speak of the retribution of Rome. The massacres of the tribes in those forests. The retrieving of the eagles and the destruction of the land. It is a poor strategist who looks at the glorious victory and forgets to think beyond it.”

  “We have an army sizeable enough to bury Paulinus’ legions,” spat the young warrior, his fingers drumming angrily on his knees.

  “Yes. It is a huge army,” Andecarus spat back with equal vehemence. “And Paulinus has just four depleted legions to call upon: the Ninth at Durobrivae, the Twentieth and Fourteenth in the northwest, and the Second in the southwest They are seriously undermanned, for your army slaughtered the Ninth, and the Twentieth will have lost men in Mona . . .”

  There was an ominous, tense silence at his mention of that name, and the dream-caster gripped his staff, twirling it as he warded them against ill luck. The loss of the shepherds of the people in that misty haven would have far-reaching effects on the world, even if Boudica reigned triumphant for a thousand years. Finally, Andecarus broke the silence again, his voice flat.

  “Do you have any idea what a beast Rome is? You can think in terms of Paulinus’ four legions, yet it is but a few hours’ sail across the water to Gaul and Germania, and have you any idea how many legions there are there? Many more is the answer. Enough to bury this island in steel. And Rome has an endless supply of men—more legions could be raised in just months. Do not think for one moment that you are fighting Paulinus and his four legions. You have chosen to fight Rome, which has countless of them. But I do not think they will be needed anyway.”

  “Oh?” Duro cocked a spiky gray eyebrow. “How so?”

  “Because Paulinus is not Cerialis. He is no impetuous glory-hunter willing to throw men at a perceived simple victory. He is clever. I have looked into his eyes and seen what lies there. I heard his plans when I was held captive in Londinium. He was calculating enough to abandon the place to us with his eye on final victory rather than defensive engagements. He will play the game of strategy until he gets us where he needs us, sacrificing whatever he has to, and then, when his time and the situation are just right, he will pounce, and that day we will all know true war. I have seen the legions ascendant.”

  Another heavy silence filled the tent, his ominous prediction sitting heavy for some time until the ancient warrior spoke again.

  “Then pretend you are in our circle, young Andecarus. What is your counsel?”

  “He’s more Roman now than Iceni,” spat Sorcha angrily, but Duro held up a hand that seemed to prevent her words emerging against her will. “Go on,” he said.

  Andecarus sighed. “We have forfeited our moral ground now. After Camulodunum and Londinium, we can no longer claim a righteous war—a bellum sacrum, as the Romans put it, for we have outdone Rome’s atrocities with our own. And the massacre of the Ninth Legion set us against their military irrevocably. We will be punished now whatever happens. But Paulinus is no fool. Perhaps he will be able to see the value of a peaceful solution over one that threatens the rest of his legions and the stability of his province. He has more authority independent of Rome than the procurator did, so his word alone might be enough.” With a bleak smile, he remembered Valeria’s words to her husband before Londinium burned. “And no Roman governor would want to be the man who lost the emperor a province. There might still be terms to be sought if we do so now, while we are not threatened.”

  “Terms?” snorted Sorcha. “With the men who . . . with those animals?”

  Duro cut in with a low, purposeful tone. “The price we would pay for peace would be impossible to meet, even if the queen was willing to consider it, which she will not.” He noted his son shaking his head and leaned back. “What, then, do you think Rome’s price for peace might be?”

  Andecarus took a preparatory breath. “The governor . . .” His words caught in his throat. What would Paulinus consider acceptable? At worst, the Iceni and their allies extinct, their lands farmed by his settled veterans, their children sold in the markets of Rome. At best, the queen surrendered to drag in chains around the great city’s streets. Andecarus might not agree with the elders, but this was the sine qua non—the minimal requirement of peace—his queen’s head bowed, stretched, severed, and that was unacceptable even to him. Try as he might, no further words would come, and Duro nodded.

  “You forget, boy, that we are unopposed at the moment, and our record of victory grows. The Roman capital, gone. Their new great port, gone. Soon, their staunchest allies will taste our iron. And the more we defeat Rome, the more we take back from them, the more peoples will join us. This is a sacred war, boy, and we are winning it.”

  Andecarus sighed again. “To you it might be sacred. To the queen, I’m sure. And while the vengeance of the Iceni might be a great and righteous cause, we have surpassed Roman barbarism to such an extent that the Romans will not see it that way. Even the more reasonable ones, let alone the legates and tribunes who lead the legions, which, have I mentioned, are almost endless?”

  “Rome may have a vast supply of men,” Duro countered, “but we potentially have every tribe on this island, if we can only draw them in. Rome must be desperate to risk what they have by reneging on their promises and calling in gifts as debts. And if they need money, they’re in trouble. You must have taken enough coin with their cavalry to know how much pay a legion needs. Rome cannot hold its province against the entire population without the money to pay its troops. Even if you’re right and we cannot win in the end, the more we make Rome hurt, the stronger we are by comparison. Terms are better sought from a strong position, boy.”

  Andecarus frowned. Had his father just cut through the tangled problem with a thread of true, decent sense? What if . . . what if it could be done?

  Perhaps more importantly, what else could be done? There was no going back: his father had made that clear. There was nothing now but either sit and wait for Rome to exact a terrible vengeance or do the unthinkable—to push and drive the rebellion and hope that it was possible to beat Rome once and for all.

  “When the wavering tribes see what we have done to Rome and what we are willing to do to their collaborators,” snapped Sorcha, “they will flock to our banners.”

  There was no point in continuing his line of argument. Andecarus straightened. “About Verico, Father . . .”

  “I have not the time!” bellowed the old man irritably. “Your rivalries and jealousies do neither of you any credit.”

  “This is not about him, Father. It is about Ria, who he keeps against her will.”

  At last, Sorcha turned, her permanently angry expression now tinged with curiosity at the mention of her former slave. “Ria was given to Verico after Verulamium, when his bravery earned him a reward and he requested her as a companion. I was riding to Mona, and Mother was occupied by other duties, so the council granted his request. He said he would consider marrying her if she ever gave him a son—it is a great honor for a former slave girl.”

  “She does not consider it an honor,” Andecarus bit out, and Sorcha's eyes flared. The tiniest tinge of . . . jealousy? Surely not. Regret, perhaps?

  Sorcha’s lip curled. “She is in the best place. Verico is a warrior valuable to our cause while Ria was a washer of clothes who will now be a mother
of more warriors. Leave her alone, son of Duro. There was a time when I thought better of you than this.”

  Again . . . was that jealousy or just a shifting of the princess’ spite from him to Ria? Responding angrily to the queen’s eldest daughter would hardly advance his case, so Andecarus gave her a simple nod before addressing his father again. “I could buy Ria from you, if you would only take her from Verico. As his foster father, you have that right.”

  Duro’s expression hardened as he leaned forward, his sword no longer spinning, knuckles white. “Forget the girl, boy. Verico stands in the forefront of our army when we face the enemy. None will argue with him while he defends the honor of the Iceni thus. Look instead to your own reputation. There are those who say you are the worst collaborator in this tribe. You conveniently managed to avoid fighting the Ninth, with whom you once served. Your injury kept you from the glorious sacking of Camulodunum and Londinium. Your knee is no longer fooling anyone, boy. Look how firmly you stand upon it now. You will be expected to fight with your tribe at Verulamium, to revel in our next victory. The eyes of the queen and all the elders will be upon you in the coming days, so see that you do not disappoint.”

  Andecarus felt a jolt of fear. Verico had the backing of the elders and of Sorcha—and therefore of the queen—and it seemed that Ria mattered little. Those with authority clearly would not be turned from their path, determined as they were to seek oblivion in the vengeful maw of Rome. And now the time was fast approaching when he would have to bite down on his resolve and either draw a blade against the Romans or flee the Iceni and know forever that he had failed his people. With a curt nod of farewell, he left the tent of his father, lost and bitter.

  The gods of two peoples were not being kind to the child of both of them. With another deep breath, he decided that if he could not influence his father and the others, and if he could not free Ria, then it was time to place his fate in the hands of dread Andraste.