within?
“I cleanse the clothing of the slain . . . Ravens gnaw the necks of
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men, blood spurts in the furious fray, flesh is hewn in battle fury, and
blades bite bodies in red war. Heroes in their battle-heat harry the foe
with hacking blows. War is waged, each trampling each . . .” On the
smooth cheeks gleamed the silver track of tears. “Do not fi ght tomor-
row. It will be your doom.”
“I have no choice but to pay that price,” Boudica replied. “To do
otherwise would be to betray my people—” She gestured toward the
scattered fires. “You wear my face, but I know You, Strife-Stirrer, Gore-
Crow, Raven of Battle. You delight in conflict. Why do You pretend to
weep? You led these people here.”
The woman shook her head. “They would say they followed
Boudica.”
“But You are the one with the power!”
“My heart is your heart. My rage is your rage. You are the goddess—”
Boudica realized that as the woman spoke she was saying the words
as well. She shook her head in desperation. Was this a delusion, or had
she been deluding herself all along?
“And are my hands Your hands?” she cried.
The woman got to her feet and Boudica saw herself reflected in the
Other’s eyes.
“Only when you allow Me to use them,” came the soft reply. “You
shape the gods as We shape you. But the forms in which you see Us have
been honed through many lives of men. Through Us you pass from mor-
tality to eternity. Through Us, the Divine becomes manifest in you.”
Boudica realized that she was trembling, and did not know whether
what she felt was terror or ecstasy.
“Then will You use my hands tomorrow?” Boudica retreated to a
fear she did understand. “Will You lead us to victory?”
“It will end as it must for the greater good,” came the reply. “To
give everything in the cause of life is one path to growth, but conflict is
another. In war, you are tested to destruction. Winners and losers alike
can fail, giving way to greed or fear. And winners and losers alike can
transcend mortality. But only those who fall fighting bravely tap the last
reserves of valor. Only those who give everything win the glory that
lives in song and feeds generations to come. That is a prize that the win-
ners cannot claim.”
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“And to gain that victory, will many die?” Boudica asked then.
“Death is only a doorway, but how you go through that door will
change what you see on the other side . . .”
L hiannon stopped, skin prickling at the presence of power, as she
saw the fi gure standing by the stream. The great dog sat at her side.
When Crispus asked her to look for the queen Lhiannon had won-
dered if power had made Boudica willful. But if so, she thought now,
the power, and the will, were not the queen’s. The figure before her
stood tall beyond the height of mortals, with a light around her that did
not come from the stars. Leached of color by the night, her hair fl owed
down in waves of shadow. From beneath the closed eyelids came a steady
stream of tears.
The priestess took a deep breath, forcing her voice to calm. “Great
Queen—the night is passing, and the body You wear must rest.“
The goddess turned, opening eyes that held a sorrow older than the
world.
“You have so little time, and so much to learn . . .”
Lhiannon fought the temptation to use this opportunity to ask a few
questions of her own.
“No time,” she agreed, “if the woman is to sleep at all. In the name
of Dagdevos, Lady, let her go.”
After a thoughtful moment, the still features were transformed by
a smile. “In the name of He who loves the one Boudica loved, I
will . . .”
Once more the eyes closed, but now the face was changing as the
energy ebbed away. Lhiannon reached as Boudica’s limbs gave way,
and staggering a little, for since she had seen her last the queen had
gained mass and muscle, lowered her to the grass.
“Lhiannon . . .” Boudica struggled to sit up. “I dreamed you had
come.” She looked around her in confusion as Bogle whined and nosed at
her hand. “Or is this the dream?”
“This,” said the priestess with a tartness born of relief, “is the eve of
battle, and we all belong in our beds.”
“There was a woman washing bloody clothes.”
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“I know Who you met here,” Lhiannon said grimly and sighed. “Do
you think you can walk now, or do I summon men to carry you?”
“In the morning we will fight,” Boudica continued as if she had not
heard. “Watch over my daughters, Lhiannon. Keep them safe for me!”
“Yes, Boudica—” If I can . . .
Boudica caught her breath and focused fully on the priestess for the
first time. “Oh Lhiannon, thank the gods you are here! I have needed
you so badly, for so long!” She turned, weeping, and Lhiannon gathered
her into her arms.
T W E N T Y- N I N E
The gods had given them a beautiful morning. The sun filled a trans-
parent sky with light, and the poppies glowed like spots of blood upon
the bright gold of the ripening fields. On the plain between the stream
and the slope the Britons were assembled by tribe and clan. In that clear
light, their striped and checkered garments and their painted shields
were a riot of fierce hues. Some had stripped to the waist, the swirls and
spirals of war paint showing bright against fair skin. Others wore mail
shirts whose links shimmered in the sun. Sunlight glanced from shield
boss and gleamed on bright blade. The same light glared from the armor
of the Romans who waited on the hill.
Holding the high ground gave the enemy an advantage, but they
were facing into the sun, thought Boudica as she jumped into the chariot
behind Tascio. She worked her shoulders back and forth to distribute the
weight of her mail. The shirt had been made for a large man and except
across the bosom hung loosely. The added weight seemed to give her
more stability in the chariot, though after the miles she had journeyed
standing in the thing, balance was no longer a problem. As Tascio reined
the ponies toward the line the ruddy plaid of her own cloak streamed out
behind her. She could feel the raven wings attached to her cone-shaped
helmet flutter in the wind. A second chariot, bearing Rigana and Argan-
tilla, followed. When the fighting began Calgac would drive them back
to the wagons drawn up in a semicircle at the other end of the fi eld. Ar-
gantilla, at least, could be trusted to stay there.
As the chariot bore her along the line the men began to cheer.
“Boud! Victory! Boud-ee-cah!” Ravens flew up from a cluster of trees,
cawing exultantly.
Lady, I hear You . . . Boudica’s heart answered. Do You hear me? You
brought us here— help
us now! Help me !
She flinched as the first wave of sound vibrated through fl esh and
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bone. She could see faces now. She lifted her sword in salute to Brocag-
nos and his boys. Segovax and his older son Beric and their men made a
group near the clan of Morigenos. Farther down the line Drostac of Ash
Hill and his household shook their spears.
“Boud-i-ca!” came the shout, and with it a surge of energy that was
like the power when Cathubodva came in. Other faces emerged from
the blur before her—Mandos, who had returned from his exile in the
Brigante lands when he heard about the rebellion, bearing the sword he
had refused to yield; Tabanus, who had been a slave in Colonia; Vordilic
and his grim band of Catuvellauni; Corio of the Dobunni with the men
of his tribe. She saw Iceni and Trinovantes, Durotriges and Dobunni,
and smaller groups from a dozen other tribes. There were even a few
Silures who had fought with Caratac, who saluted as they recognized
the torque she wore. At the far end of the line Tingetorix led a mixed
group of mounted warriors. They were all cheering, waves of sound
rolling through the bright air.
“Boud-i-ca! Victory!”
If this was not the whole might of Britannia, there were men from
more tribes than even Caratac had ever gathered assembled here. Last
night Boudica had wept because so many would be slain, but today,
with all the host before her, it seemed to her that they could lose half
their men and still have the numbers to crush the enemy who huddled
up there on the hill.
Tascio halted the chariot on a little rise.
As the multitude grew still, Boudica fought to contain the energy
that sparked through every vein. At her neck Caratac’s torque was warm
to the touch, as if it were absorbing power. She had wondered where she
would find the strength to reach these warriors, but the power was
theirs—their spirit, their fierce joy at finally coming to grips with their
foe—all she had to do was to find the words. She did not know if this
was the Morrigan’s answer, but it would serve.
“Men—no, warriors of Britannia!” she corrected, meeting Rigana’s
glare. “The Romans despise you because you follow a woman, but I am
not the first queen to have led Britons to victory. Ask the men of Colo-
nia and Londinium if a woman knows how to avenge her injuries!” She
paused to let the cries of invective rise and fall.
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“At long last, we face our foe with sword in hand. You whose sons
have been carried off to die in other lands, defend your own earth now.
You who have been driven from your homes, reclaim them! You whose
wives and daughters have been outraged, as I and mine were defi led—”
she pointed to the other chariot and a new roar shook the skies, “—restore
our honor!”
With each word, the power the warriors had given her fl owed back
to them, inchoate rage transmuted into purpose and focused on the enemy.
When she drew breath, she could hear a tinny gabble from the slope and
knew the Roman general must be addressing his troops as well.
“Look at them, cowering on their hill!” She swept her sword toward
the enemy. “We destroyed one legion with only a tithe of the force we
have now. Lift your voices and Taranis the thunderer will crush them
with sound!” A new cry shook the heavens as she stabbed at the air. “They
cannot even stand against our shouting, much less resist our swords and
spears!” As she drew breath the curses changed to grim laughter.
From the trees the ravens echoed them. Boudica felt the hairs lifting
along her arms and sensed that the Morrigan was near.
“See what a fair day the gods have given us!” she cried. She could
hear her own voice becoming more resonant and knew that the glam-
our of the goddess was being added to the power raised by men. “Ro-
man blood will be a worthy offering! See how the glory of the Otherworld
shines through the surface of things—I see that same glory blazing in
your eyes. Go forth to battle and may the gods go with you, as they are
within you.”
And in me . . . the silent thought came as her last fears faded away.
“Those who live will have honor unending; those who fall will feast
with the blessed gods. In this battle I will conquer or I will fall—that is
a woman’s resolve! And as for you—fi ght as men or live as slaves!”
Her arms rose as if to embrace them all. No longer patient oxen
beneath the yoke of Rome, they pawed the ground like stallions. In that
moment Boudica loved her people as she had never known how to love
them before.
“Be My sword, Boudica . . .” came the voice of the goddess within,
“and I will be your shield.”
“Boudica! Victory!” shouted the host. “Great Queen! Boudica!”
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The ground trembled as the warriors of Britannia stamped. Their
battle cry shook the air. At the other end of the field, Lhiannon could
feel the vibration in her bones. The fine hairs on her arms stiff ened with
energy. Even when Caratac addressed his troops she had never felt such
power, but Caratac had only had a White Lady to ward him. Today, the
Battle Raven Herself would lead Britannia. Lhiannon had watched her
people fi ght at Durovernon, on the banks of the Tamesa, in the Ordo-
vice hills. But for the first time since she had arrived at Manduessedum,
Lhiannon began to believe that this time they might win.
She stood up in the wagon, shading her eyes with her hand, as the
chariot bearing Argantilla and Rigana made its way through the gaps
between the groups of warriors, splashed across the stream, and rumbled
toward the semicircle of wagons. Caw, who had been expressly ordered
by the queen to stay and guard them, moved restlessly beside her and
Bogle tugged at his rope and whined. Lhiannon understood their frus-
tration. The power Boudica had invoked thrummed in her veins; she,
too, wanted a sword in her hand.
The rest of the host was beginning to move toward the foe. Now
and again an individual champion would dart forward, shaking his spear
and shouting invective. What must it be like for the Romans, forced to
stand sweating in their armor as they waited for this horde of humanity
to roll over them? It would be like trying to stand against the sea.
The chariot drew to a halt, and Argantilla jumped down and ran
into Caw’s arms. Rigana remained where she was, watching with a su-
perior smile. Then she picked up her helmet, unadorned and rising to
a rounded point, and settled it over her russet braids. She was already
wearing a sleeveless shirt of mail.
Well, that answered the question of whether Boudica’s older daugh-
ter was going to stay with the wagons. Lhiannon tried to summon the
resolve to plead with her, but it was taking all her self-discipline not to
join her. Instead, she lifted her ha
nds in blessing.
“May the strength of Sucellos shield you, may the skill of Lugos guide
your arm, and may the wrath of Cathubodva carry you to victory!”
Rigana answered with a flashing grin so like her mother’s that
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Lhiannon’s heart twisted. She and Boudica had parted with few words
that morning, the queen’s mind already focused on the demands of the
day, that of the priestess too full for words. And surely they had said
everything that was needful the night before. Only now, seeing the
child whom she had swaddled as a squalling infant armed and ready
to face the foe, did Lhiannon understand that even if she had stayed
with Boudica all those years, there would not have been time for all she
might wish to say.
Rigana grabbed one of the javelins from its slot on the rim of the
chariot and brandished it. Then Calgac shook the reins on the ponies’
necks and they sped away.
Boudica braced as the chariot rocked into motion, the other fi ve
war carts that the Britons had been able to repair rattling along behind
her. For this, she had no need to seek oblivion in the Morrigan’s em-
brace. Their lust for this battle was the same. A swift glance back showed
her Rigana’s helm at the end of the line. She had no time for regret, or
even surprise. As they neared, the blur of men in the Roman formation
was swiftly resolving into a series of matched shields and helmets, each
man with his pilum in his hand. But any hope she might have had that
the chariot charge would panic the enemy faded as the slope grew steeper
and the ponies began to slow.
The Roman general had disposed his men in three blocks. In the
center she could see the hated legionaries standing in cohorts eight
ranks deep, spaced a little over a man’s width apart with twice that much
room between the lines. More lightly armed auxiliary troops stood in
blocks to either side. The cavalry must be hidden in the woods behind.
“Turn,” she said to Tascio. “Bring us along the line—”
With an invocation to Cathubodva, she plucked a javelin free, drew
back her arm, and threw. Her first missile fell short, but the second arced
past the front line and pierced the neck of a man in the second row.
“First blood to me!” She gave them a snarling smile.
A quiver ran through the enemy ranks, but a clipped Latin order
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