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

by E. Knight

  His large sword, hampered a little by the press on the bridge, could not be used for wide swings, and so he thrust and chopped again and again, cleaving flesh and bone, heedless of whether it was warrior or fleeing civilian before him. The battle was too tight and fraught to distinguish. There was simply a sea of humans before him whose only hope was to get past, and his only path was to push on through them into the settlement.

  Something warm and slimy slapped against his face and fell away unseen, leaving a watery pink tinge to his left eye and a trickling on his cheek. A tooth struck him in the forehead, and he spat as a splash of blood washed across his face accompanied by an exultant roar from the Iceni with the oddly shaped head as the man kicked a dying warrior away. Andecarus’ own blade plunged into the neck of a gurgling warrior. He was a trained horseman, used to the spear and an edged, swiping blade, but he’d fought alongside the legions for seven years and seen them training with their short thrusting swords, had practiced the moves himself often enough.

  The groin, the armpit, the neck. Thrust directly for precision of entry. Twist with a dual purpose—to cause maximum damage in the wound and to prevent the blade catching when withdrawn. Arm drawn back far enough to free sword, hand raised, elbow bent sharp. Unus. Duo. Tres. Of course, the maneuvers were greatly different with a longer, heavier blade, but at least for a short time he could handle the weight. He twisted his wrist and tore the blade from the man’s neck, using the momentum of the withdrawal to bring it up in a tight swing—not tight enough since he almost lopped an arm from the squinty one—and then a chop down into the shoulder of an enemy warrior with an axe.

  As the press at the southern edge of the bridge melted away under the ferocity of their attack, Andecarus realized that he was oddly proud of the misfits with whom he had taken the bridge. Not hampered by the need to be seen as noble and brave like most of the Iceni warriors, they had fought more as a unit—more like the Romans, in point of fact. And their unified front and novel tactics had won them the bridgehead where most Iceni would still even now be facing off against a growing enemy press.

  Other enemy warriors were now running to face this threat from the north, but Andecarus and his companions had reached open ground. As they launched from the bridge into the settlement and made for the timber walls of the former fort, they spread out, taking advantage of the space to ease out their arms and swing their limb-breaking swords the way they were meant to be swung. Despite the growing number of opponents, the freedom to swing a blade unobstructed made the fighting a great deal easier.

  Still, only the hundred or so men he had prepared were involved in the push, the vast swath of the Trinovantes busying themselves with the destruction and desecration of their enemy’s houses on the northern bank, the rape and murder of the occupants. Finally, a proportion of the tribe seemed to pay attention to the bridge, sated by their activity and seeking new thrills. As the flood began to amass, crossing the bridge, Andecarus exulted in his success, leading his odd force toward that wooden tower. The Trinovantes might be coming in force now, but all among them would know and would remember that it was those Iceni among them who had taken the bridge and secured their route into the fight.

  Quickly, he and his companions fought their way past a half-built Roman structure, wooden scaffolding covering it to the partially formed upper floor. A desperate man atop the building was casting down roof tiles from a pile, trying to break the skulls of the invaders below. He fell back, an arrow in his throat, and disappeared—the Trinovante archers were making their presence felt now. Ignoring the terrified crying from within the building, they ran on, swords swiping and hacking each time an opponent emerged from a doorway or alley, the women, old folk, and children having now largely sought the illusory safety of the buildings. Theirs would, he predicted, be no happier an end than the red-haired roaring warrior who was even now staring at the stump of his right arm while Andecarus came around for a second swing. The blow dug so deep into his neck that Andecarus almost lost his grip on his sword when the man fell and pulled it out only with great difficulty.

  Behind them, the bulk of the Trinovantes were now crossing the river, having left nothing alive on the far side, fanning out into the Roman-style settlement. Andecarus turned a corner, and the wooden gate tower came into view, the leaves of the gate shut tight and barred from within. Over the general din, it was now possible to place the victorious war cries of the other Iceni forces, also closing on the center from the far side. It was a race to claim the glory of finishing Verulamium, and while Andecarus felt no real animosity for the hapless pro-Roman Catuvellauni, he knew Verico would be grunting and maiming his way toward him, desperate to claim that victory. He would fail, if Andecarus had to gut every living thing between them.

  A figure leapt at him from a doorway, and he instinctively swept out with his blade, catching the man a crippling blow to the neck. His gaze focused on the man, and he felt a mouthful of acrid bile burst up from his throat as he realized this was no warrior. He was a Roman workman—a mason or plasterer, probably, from the white dust that coated his tunic. The man had simply been unfortunate enough to flee a house directly into Andecarus’ path.

  He paused in his run, his companions sweeping past, intent on the fort, and gazed down at the Roman as the man shuddered and gasped, clutching at the wide rent in his neck and the spray that jetted between his desperate fingers. Andecarus stared. And stared. He watched the blood slow and the man’s shaking become more sporadic. Then he was simply dead. Unmoving. Lifeless.

  He, Andecarus of the house of Catus Decianus, former Eques Alaris in the First Gallorum attached to the Ninth Legion, had killed a Roman.

  He delved into the depths of his soul. What did he feel? Not horror, oddly, which was what he’d expected. Not even remorse. In fact, nothing at all. No joy or exultation, certainly, but neither was there guilt or regret. Was this what his father felt like when he killed Romans? Or the queen? Or Verico? No. He’d seen the joy in their eyes with every wash of blood and every pulse of pierced organs. They lived for such exhilaration.

  But still, he could kill Romans. The taboo was gone. Mars had not struck him down for such an act. Perhaps, on balance, the Roman gods were as deaf as the Iceni’s. Maybe no one cared for which side Andecarus fought but he himself . . . and the watchful elders.

  And then he was running again. Some invisible and unexpected barrier had been removed. A Catuvellauni warrior swung at him and caught him a glancing blow on his left arm, scoring a red line along it that burned like liquid fire. Two vicious blows put the man down. A Roman had found a hammer and ran at him with it raised above his head, invoking Minerva as he did so. Andecarus simply sidestepped and neatly sliced his sword across the man’s midriff mid-charge. The hammer fell from spasming fingers as the Roman jerked and swayed, then fell, his spine the only thing that had prevented him being cleaved neatly in two.

  The pause for contemplation had cost Andecarus his glorious lead, and as he arrived at the former fort, his misfit bunch were already scaling the old, barely defensible walls. Andecarus followed them, clambering to the top with no opposition, the defenders having been pushed back by Odd-head and Squinty, among others. The interior of the former fort was packed, and it now became apparent why such an old semi-derelict relic remained at the center of what was rapidly becoming an urbanized town. The small fort had been redesignated as a works compound, filled with stacks of tiles and timbers, unshaped stones and bags of tools, and the like. Now the desperate Catuvellauni who had thought to man it against the attackers were down among the piles of goods, fighting back in an ever-decreasing circle. A few other men were holding out in the timber tower against screaming Iceni, and Andecarus turned toward it.

  The blow took him completely by surprise as he’d seen no enemy close by.

  His wits swimming in a dark, roiling stream, someone grasped him by a shoulder and hauled him up, leaning him against the timber parapet until his spinning thoughts settled an
d his eyesight cleared. He reached up to the back of his head, and his hand came away sticky and red. Spinning as fast as he dared, he peered around the fort. There was no way the blow had come from the beleaguered locals down in the center. There were only a dozen or so left, and they had their own problems. The rest of Verulamium was in its death throes already. Every house seemed to be filled with screaming, and smoke was already rising from a number of the central buildings. Iceni warriors were emerging from doorways, dragging screaming girls by the hair, others were carrying so many severed heads that they were forced to juggle with their weapons. Verulamium was lost and far past fighting back. So who had struck him from behind with . . . what, a rock?

  His gaze caught Verico vaulting down from the wall, drenched in blood, with two heads tied by the hair to his belt, desperately trying to involve himself in the last true fight before the enemy was finally overcome. Though the man might have been there for just moments, had not once looked over at this wall and was clearly now focused on the last-ditch fight in the compound. There was no longer any doubt in Andecarus’ mind whence that painful rock had come.

  Bastard.

  Still, he felt some small satisfaction as he watched his foster brother rush to the fight to discover that he was too late and that the honor of ending Verulamium had fallen to better men. Verico raged and ranted, shoving men a decade older and more noble than he by far. He even threatened one of the older warriors until he was pulled back by two of his cronies and made to calm down. With a braying of horns, the gates of the fort were wrenched open, and the queen strode in with Sorcha, blood-spattered and filthy, at her shoulder. Andecarus had never seen the queen so proud and imperious, her daughter so . . . he wasn’t sure what, but his eyes were drawn to that crimson-soaked figure anyway. Silence fell . . . a respectful silence. Boudica’s army was undefeated, and many would now say undefeatable. Duro was close behind in the queen’s retinue, gore-streaked sword still in hand. The gathered warriors waited, pensive, for an announcement, but Andecarus’ attention had been grabbed by the sound of a kraa from above. His eyes quickly picked out the raven in the blue, the columns of smoke not yet having fully obscured the beautiful late-summer sky. The gleaming black bird circled the fort again and again, as though personally endorsing their victory on behalf of great Andraste.

  And suddenly the raven was gone.

  Black feathers whirled and tumbled, and his eyes were drawn by a screech to the eagle that even now swooped off to the north with the prize clamped in its beak. Andecarus felt an icy shiver run up and down his spine. His senses spun. No one else seemed to have noticed the aerial exchange. The queen was speaking to her tribe, her voice sonorous and proud, exultant and fierce, and all eyes were upon her even as the tattered feathers drifted down among them.

  “As the wheat falls to the farmer’s sickle, so does Roman power fall to our blades!”

  A cheer.

  As the feathers of the sacred ravens fall . . .

  “We have destroyed Rome’s very heart in our land. We have destroyed their vile port where all manner of evils arrive upon our shores, where Rome’s soft, squalid, cowardly procurator seethed in his snake’s nest. Now we have torn the deceitful and treacherous Catuvellauni from beneath the eagle’s wing—may they see the error of their judgment and henceforth take up arms against the oppressor.”

  Another cheer.

  We have destroyed our valor. Our right. Our own morals.

  “The name Verulamium will live only short, dark days in our enemy’s mind, for when they are driven from our shore, all things Roman shall be ripped out and made anew. The new masters of this land can raise a new town from these ashes, but it will be the Verulamion of old, and not some Roman corruption.”

  The cheer was more muted this time as the Trinovantes present contemplated the future rise of their age-old tribal enemy once more. Still, the mood had caught the hearts of all present. Of almost all present.

  Andraste, forgive us our hubris . . .

  Suddenly, the pain in his head seemed insurmountable, his strength all but sapped, and Andecarus slumped against the wall with heavy, shuddering breaths.

  Never had a victory felt more hollow.

  The queen and her entourage and council occupied a wealthy farmstead that had been left intact and unburned on the southern hill. Around the periphery, the chariots, carts, and goods had been drawn up, and the farm’s fenced-in pens and corrals had been made to serve the invaders’ horses. Victorious warriors stood or sat in small groups, laughing about their victories, boasting and exchanging anecdotes even as they exchanged appropriated flasks of ale or jars of Roman wine. The muffled sound of oratory suggested that an important meeting was going on inside the largest hall.

  Ignoring the warriors around the periphery, Andecarus strode purposefully toward the building. His head had stopped bleeding, his hair matted and sticky, though now a headache raged like a thunderstorm in his skull, doing little to improve his already black mood. The wound on his arm had been filled with honey and wrapped tight for now, though it had been little more than a deep scratch. His eyes were locked on the door to the building, for the time had come. Things had to stop. The gods had told them in the form of portents time and again what the future held, and the past had done much the same with the examples of Spartacus and Arminius.

  And Boudica and her advisors continually chose to ignore signs from the gods and lessons from history, and to march on into oblivion, perhaps guided by the queen’s own divined omens. Perhaps misguided. The queen had cast the die for the tribe, and Andecarus didn’t have to look at them to guess the score. As Andecarus closed on the door, the warriors beside it readying themselves to prevent intrusion, his gaze happened to catch movement in the yard beside the building, and he recognized his father’s iron-gray mane even from behind.

  The old man straightened, raised his sword, and swung down heavily, striking the head from a kneeling man. Andecarus could see five more lined up ready, their faces bleak and drawn. What they had done to incur such wrath, Andecarus could not imagine. Still, their fate, even at the edge of the blade, was comparatively merciful given some of the things he had seen.

  “Father?”

  Duro looked up and gave a strange half smile that took him quite by surprise.

  “I am told that you excelled yourself today, that you led the assault across the bridge and at the walls. After today, many voices that called for your exile will have been silenced.”

  If not praise, then at least acknowledgment. He’d not expected that. He cleared his throat.

  “I am barraged by portents.”

  The old man looked at him quizzically and swept out and down with his heavy sword, almost casually taking the head from the next victim even as the man had started to unfold in an attempt to flee. “You think yourself a Druid? You can interpret the whims of gods now?”

  “When they are clear, yes. And so could you. It would not take a Druid to interpret what I have seen. An eagle takes a raven from the clear sky? Never has there been a less ambiguous sign, even more so than the white squirrel I saw or the ravens that fled the fire-smoke above Londinium. This campaign is doomed.”

  “Campaign?” the old man spat on the floor. “You still talk like a Roman. Even now, the queen and her counselors determine our next move. I have put in my stance—that we should finish off Cerialis and his tattered legion—but the queen herself will decide in the end. Her will is strong.”

  “Father, we have to do something. The Romans are coming—you must know that by now. We have had scout reports that Governor Paulinus is gathering men in the northwest. You know they will not stop until the Iceni are but a distant memory, whispered bitterly on the wind by gods who have turned their backs on us.”

  “Such talk will poison our warriors' minds and weaken their knees. Keep your words behind the prison of your teeth, boy.”

  “Send away those who can be saved, Father. Only the warriors need die.”

>   Duro shook his head. “The queen wants the tribe with us. Where is safer for the womenfolk than with their men?”

  “Fucking anywhere!” snapped Andecarus. “In a ditch. In a tomb. In a Roman’s bed. Anywhere will be safer for them than with us in the coming days.”

  “Watch the sharpness of your tongue, boy, and remember to whom you talk. I was fighting battles before you were curled in your mother’s belly.”

  Andecarus bridled, stepping closer to his father. “Against the Trinovantes. Or the Catuvellauni. Or the Brigantes. That’s different.”

  “We fought the Romans when Scapula was governor.”

  Andecarus snorted derisively. “So you did. And what a rousing success that was. A thousand Iceni run through with Roman cavalry spears. Mountains of gold and food, horses and goods sent in reparations. Half a hundred hostages given over to Rome, including your son. Including your son! And you have the audacity to spit at me for my Roman ways? Whose fault is that, Father? Who put me in a Roman household and on a Roman horse for a decade by starting a fucking war there was no chance of winning? And you think that just because you’ve burned a few poorly defended towns this is so different? The legions are on their way. How many Iceni will die on the altar of your pride this time? How many children will grow up thinking they are Roman in the aftermath of this? That is, if the Romans are generous enough to let any Iceni live.”