sighed. “Our people might be free today if we could have forgone our
taste for Roman wine.”
“My husband and I will not betray you, but neither can we help
you,” Boudica said. “I have heard tales of the desert the Romans leave
behind when they impose their ‘peace’ upon a conquered land. And re-
ally, I don’t think we would be much use to you even if we dared. The
Iceni with the fire to fight the Romans did so at the dun in the fens four
years ago, and died.”
“I wish you well of the peace that the Romans have left you,” Caratac
said dryly. “I hope that it may last.” He nibbled on a piece of bread and set
it down. “You have grown into a beautiful woman,” he said. “When you
bore the mead-cup around the hall at Mona, you were like a young fi lly,
all legs and nervous energy.” He took another drink of wine.
“And now I am the Red Mare of the Iceni—I am not supposed to
know that the people call me that.” She smiled. “But it is the Black
Mare of the Brigantes who should concern you.”
“I can at least hope that she will listen. Cartimandua had a kindness
for me long ago.”
She lusted after you, corrected Boudica with an inner sigh. These
days Prasutagos had grown somewhat substantial around the middle,
but she could warm herself at his steady flame. The man before her still
had the hard body of a warrior, but the fire that had drawn men to him,
and women as well, was burned to ash.
“I must do something,” he went on. “The Roman swine captured
my brother Epilios, and my wife, and our daughter, my little Eigen, my
only remaining child. You have children—surely you can understand
how I feel!”
Boudica nodded. “Rigana is six now, and has her fi rst pony. Argan-
tilla is almost four.” If she and Prasutagos had no more offspring it was
not for lack of trying, but she had not conceived again. Almost the only
thing that had the power to wake her fury these days was the thought of
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danger to the bright, if sometimes exasperating, offspring who looked
likely to be the only children she would have.
“If I give myself up now I can do no more than stand in chains be-
side them. But I may be able to negotiate for their release if the Romans
see me as a threat once more,” Caratac went on.
Not long ago, thought Boudica, this man swore to defend all Britan-
nia. Now his ambition was limited to the freedom of a man, a woman,
and a child. But didn’t it always come down to that? No matter what
words men used to cloak their ambitions, the abstraction they fought for
bore a human face and name.
“All that I can offer you is supplies for the road and my blessing,” she
began.
“No—there is one thing more you can do for me.” He lifted his
hands to the torque, gripped the ornate ring-shaped terminals, and began
to twist open the spiral rope of gold wires. “This much of your warning I
will heed. This torque was made by an Iceni craftsman.” Wincing, he
dragged it off, leaving a semicircle of white around the base of his neck
where it had lain. “Keep it for me, Boudica. If things go well, I will re-
claim it. If they go . . . badly, I will not shame the gold by wearing it with
Roman chains.”
If Mona was called the golden island, wreathed in magic, the lump
of rock separated from the rest of it by a tidal strait was said to be more
holy still. From this height at the western tip of Mona, one gazed out
upon a silver ocean half veiled by mists. Some said it was the last port
from which one might set sail for the Isles of the Blessed. Lhiannon was
only going to Eriu.
But it felt like death, to be sure, to leave Britannia. She clung to the
rail of the tubby little craft as it eased out from the shelter of the harbor
and began to roll and dip to the rhythms of the sea. She left behind the
limited satisfaction of knowing that the Roman governor Ostorius had
died, and sorrow at the news that Queen Cartimandua had sent Caratac
to the Romans in chains. By now he, too, must be upon the sea, headed
for Rome. To have his wife, daughter, and brother with him was surely
no comfort, when all they could hope for was death or captivity.
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With the death of the governor, the Silures had resumed a vicious
guerrilla warfare. The tribes of the western mountains still stood be-
tween Mona and the Romans, but the southern lowlands lay in uneasy
peace. There was nothing Lhiannon could do to help Britannia. She
told herself she would be glad to be gone.
The uncertainty beneath her feet was all too reflective of her own
inner turmoil. All that she had known was disappearing behind her, she
had no firm foundation, and the future was shrouded in a mist as gray as
the fog that lay upon the sea.
Back on the shore she could still see the blue fi gure that was Helve.
Lhiannon had not expected the High Priestess to see her off. Only when
they were on the road did she realize the other woman wanted a chance
to talk to her away from the whole Druid community’s ears.
“The Romans will try to destroy us,” Helve said grimly. “I have
seen it and Coventa has seen it as well. Despite our resis tance, the new
forts they are building are closer every year. They have learned of the
gold in the heart of the mountains and the silver in the Deceangli lands.
That will draw them, and then they will find the coastal road that leads
here. Those mountains will not protect us anymore.”
“Then why are you sending me away?” Lhiannon had asked.
“You have proven yourself to be adaptable. I believe that you have
the best chance of learning whatever skills the Druids of Eriu can teach.
Mearan believed you were the most talented of the younger priestesses—
it will be up to you to preserve our tradition if we fall.”
The shock of that statement had held Lhiannon speechless. “I
thought you despised me,” she said at last.
And Helve had looked at her with an expression halfway between
exasperation and anger. “You were my rival. But if these ornaments are
ever yours—” she touched the gold at her neck, “—you will fi nd that
the work takes pre cedence over what ever you may feel. Love and hatred
are luxuries I can no longer aff ord. And if you become High Priestess it
will mean that I am dead and beyond all jealousy.” She gave a bitter
laugh. “So take care of yourself and learn all you can . . .”
N I N E T E E N
I want you to keep your eyes open.” Boudica addressed her daugh-
ters with a warning glare. “The Roman town will be very new and
strange. You must always stay in sight of Temella or one of the house
guard—do you understand?” The glare fixed on Rigana, who at seven
had added to her inde pendence of spirit an uncanny ability to elude her
keepers. For a moment the queen wished they had brought Bogle, but
the dog was growing old for such a journey, and she winced at the
; thought of how he might react to the new sounds and smells of the Ro-
man town.
She wondered just how strange Camulodunum, or Colonia
Victricensis—the City of Victory—as they were supposed to call it now,
would be. She had seen the fort they had built on the hill above the old
dun, but she had not been this far south for some years and knew the
town only from what she had heard.
“They are confident,” observed Prasutagos as they started up the
hill.
A straggle of huts and gardens lined the road, and the ditch and
bank that had supported the walls were no longer crowned by a pali-
sade. Many of the old legionary buildings had been converted to homes
and shops, but there was also a great deal of new construction going on.
The retired soldiers had adapted well, but then a legion was like a mo-
bile city, with men trained in every trade. Some had imported wives
from their homelands, and others had married girls of the tribes. Boudica
wondered how the Trinovantes felt about having so many strangers set
down in the midst of their territory. But as a conquered tribe there was
little they could do about it. All the more reason, she thought grimly,
for the Iceni to maintain their protected status as an ally.
“They have reason to be,” she replied. The new governor, Aulus
Didius Gallus, had forced the Silures to surrender. With Caratac a
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prisoner, no British leader with the stature to head a rebellion re-
mained.
“Look, Mama—a big rock with doors!”
Argantilla could be forgiven for not recognizing the gate as a work
of man. She had never seen a building made of stone, and this structure
with its twin arches and carved pediment had no real purpose except as
a statement of Roman pride. Sunlight gave way to shadow as they passed
beneath the arch and into the town.
Sunlight sparkled on the fountain in the midst of Julia Postumia’s
garden, its subtle tinkle and plash a background to the murmur of wom-
en’s voices. It reminded Boudica of the waters of the sacred spring.
Though this might be more manicured and orderly than the kind of
sanctuary her own gods loved, it was still a welcome change from the
straight lines and sharp corners of the Roman town. This garden grew
nothing so practical as cabbages or beans. It was a shrine to beauty, com-
plete with a stone grotto where the image of a goddess smiled upon the
flowers. The gods who had led the Romans to Britannia were Jupiter
and Mars. This lovely lady semed a deity of a more gracious kind.
“Who is the goddess?” Boudica asked. Her Latin was still halting,
and she spoke with the accent of the Gaulish slave whom they had
bought as a teacher and freed, but it served. Postumia had been visibly
relieved to find they could speak without needing a translator.
“That is Venus, the lady of love. Do you have such a goddess among
the tribes?”
“A goddess for love alone?” Boudica shook her head. “But all of our
goddesses are lusty.” She smiled a little, remembering some of the tales
she had heard about the Morrigan, “even our goddess of war.”
Postumia laughed. “They say that Venus fought in the Trojan War,
but not very well. Since then, the bedchamber has been her only battle-
fi eld.”
“No doubt your men prefer it that way,” Boudica replied. “They
seem uncomfortable with women in power, even queens.” It still ran-
kled that Prasutagos had been invited to the council of chieftains and
she had not. Her only consolation was that the prohibition applied to
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Cartimandua, who sat on the other side of the garden, as well. At least I
trust Prasutagos to tell me what goes on, and ask my counsel, she thought then.
From all accounts, since Cartimandua betrayed Caratac she and Venu-
tios had scarcely exchanged a word.
“It was very kind of you to entertain us while our husbands are oth-
erwise occupied,” she said politely. While your husband is reminding ours
who really rules Britannia, her thought went on.
“Oh I think we have the best of it,” answered the governor’s wife.
“We can sit comfortably in the fresh air while they must sweat in that
stuffy hall. But if we follow the emperor’s example, that may change.
I’m told that when Caratacus and his family were paraded through
Rome, Agrippina sat beside her husband on her own throne.”
“Do you know more about what happened there?” Boudica asked in
a neutral tone.
“He is a brave man, your Caratacus. The others, they say, hung
down their heads in despair, but the king wore his chains like royal jew-
els. He asked why the Romans should want Britannia when they already
possessed so magifi cent a city. Then he told Claudius that the diffi
culties
he had caused us only magnified our glory in taking him captive, and
pointed out that dead, he would be forgotten, while living, he would
bear witness to the emperor’s magnanimity. Romans always appreciate a
good speech, so Claudius let him live, and gave him a house in Rome.”
But Caratac will never again see Britannia . . . thought Boudica. I think
that I would rather die than endure even so kind a captivity.
Postumia looked up as one of her slaves appeared at the gate with
Temella close behind.
“Domina—” he began, but Temella pushed past him.
“My lady, the girls are gone!”
But Boudica was already on her feet, muttering an apology to her
hostess before Postumia had had a chance to reply. I should have brought
Bogle, she thought as she hurried away.
It was their Gaulish freedman, Crispus, whose knowledge of Ro-
man towns proved most useful.
“I fear this may have been my fault, mistress,” he said as they has-
tened down the road. “I told the girls about the shops, and they couldn’t
wait to go see.”
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Boudica had wanted to visit the shops herself, and had promised to
take them. Visions of her children frightened and bleeding alternated
with scenarios of what she was going to do to them when she found
them safe and sound.
From ahead she could hear shouting. That sounded promising. She
exchanged a grimace with Temella and began to run, with Calgac, the
warrior who had been assigned as her escort, pounding along behind.
The scene she found brought her up short, tears of relief vying with
a strong urge to laugh. Rigana, wearing a ferocious scowl and gripping
a pole that had apparently once held up the sunshade that drooped be-
hind her, was standing off a crowd of arguing adults. Apparently the
quality of the children’s clothing had made the townsfolk think twice
about taking stronger action. Behind her sat Argantilla, her arms clasped
protectively around a dark-haired boy little older than she who looked
equally terrorized by the shouting grown-ups and his small protector.
Baskets of beans lay overturned on the ground.
“She is surely your daughter, my lady,” murmured Calgac. “Good
form with that, um, spear.”
Boudica changed her smile for a regal frown, straightened her tunica,
and strode forward. Men parted to let her through, as impressed, she
hoped, by her air of authority as by the spear in the hand of the man
who followed her.
“Mama,” cried Rigana as she came into view. “They were going to
kill the boy!”
“Nay, Lady—noble queen!” said a round little man with a very red
face, simultaneously trying to bluster and bow. “I beat the boy because
he is stupid and lazy, and the little girls started to yell at me and the
red- haired one hit me, and look at the mess they have made of my
stall!”
Boudica looked more closely and saw the beginnings of a notable
bruise on his cheek. Good for you, Rigana! “I see . . .” she said aloud. Un-
fortunately, the man was within his rights, and she had no desire to fi ght
this out in a Roman court of law. “I suppose the boy is your slave?”
“He is, to my sorrow, and a more stupid, worthless—”
“Then his value is doubtless small,” she cut across his words. “Will
this compensate you for the insult to your honor, the damage to your
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shop, and this worthless boy?” She stripped off one of her golden arm
rings and held it out to him.
“Yes, but the boy cost . . .” His protest faded as he got a good look
at the gold. “Yes, great queen, you are most generous!”
“I am, for that arm ring is worth more than you and your shop and
everything in it.” Men straightened and bowed their heads as she swept
the crowd with a regal glare. “Before all the gods, I call you to witness
that compensation has been offered and accepted, and to attest to that
fact if required.”
“Yes, Lady,” came the murmurs, and from those who recognized
her, “yes, my queen!”
“Crispus, get a few names in case we need them, while Calgac and
I take these mighty warriors home to face their own justice,” murmured
Boudica, moving forward to collect her offspring and their prize.
“Which of you had this idea?” she asked as they entered the Roman-
style house that had been assigned to them during their stay.
Rigana eyed her dubiously, clearly trying to decide whether claim-
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