Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

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.r />
  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-