“Dumnor!” Cinnia shouted.
Her brother looked up and a smile rearranged the sharp planes of his face, softening it. He wove through the crowd to pull her into a bear hug. “I thought you dead on Mona.”
“For a while, I wanted to be. Father is gone. They all are—the young and the old, the hale and the halt. The Romans destroyed them all.” She shuddered and her face twisted to match the ache in her heart. Her eyes glistened with tears. “The bodies…the trees…” She looked up at her brother “They cut down the sacred grove and the gods did nothing.”
Her brother wiped tears from his own eyes and shook his head “It’s not for us to question the gods. You are alive and that’s all I care about…for now.” He put a protective arm around her shoulder. “Come. Food will make you feel better. I’m staying with our cousins. There should be room for you by the fire.” She nestled into his side. Food would be good, but his sheltering arms were better.
***
THE NEXT DAY, Cinnia and Dumnor joined their people in the king’s funeral cortege to the burial mound. A cart carried the king’s body, followed by their mourning queen and her daughters. Drums beat and pipers played a mournful dirge. The warriors clashed their swords on their shields as they walked. Cinnia let the tears flow, wailing with the other women for her father and her king. They arrived at a pit dug into the top of a low rise where the ancient druid waited for them. Beside him was a pile of carved and decorated wood, which, Cinnia realized, was the king’s dismantled chariot.
The old man seemed to have bathed before the ceremony. He wore a clean white robe, plain brown mantle and leather boots. His beard was free of twigs and his flowing white hair lifted in the cold winter wind. The land seemed to mourn with the people, looking brown and drab, the trees stripped of their finery, and the sky leaden with clouds. Cinnia smelled rain in the air and shivered.
The druid raised his arms and face to the sky and the crowd quieted. “Our king is gone!” The crowd moaned and swayed. Cinnia caught up in her grief, scratched her face and pulled her hair. She vaguely felt her brother’s restraining arms around her. “Cernunnos, the Horned One has claimed him to feast at his side, until such time as he is returned to us.”
Four warriors hefted the king’s body from the cart and lifted it on a wide wicker bier to their shoulders. Prasutagus’ body was dressed in his finest yellow wool tunic and trousers, worked with red and green embroidery. A gold pin in the form of a horse clasped his blue cloak. The druid gestured to the royal family. Boudica stepped forward with the king’s sword, shield, bow, and iron-tipped arrows which she laid on the body. Stooping, she kissed the dead man’s lips. Briana placed a silver platter holding a joint of mutton, a flagon of wine, and a jeweled cup on the bier.
Maeve stepped forward and broke into an ancient song. Her voice was high and pure, but thin. Her sister and mother joined her, then the rest of the people. The music soothed Cinnia’s nerves and calmed her heart. She joined the swelling chorus with a fluting descant. When the last notes echoed down the valley, Cinnia stood shuddering in her brother’s arms.
Good-bye Father.
The druid next ordered several of the king’s attendants to lower the body into the pit. They covered it with the wheels, chariot body, pole, and yoke; before shoveling in the fill dirt. As the last shovelful hit the mound, the clouds let loose with a thin sleety rain. The mourners trudged back to the hill fort. Cinnia, exhausted, skipped the feasting and went to bed by her cousin’s fire. She didn’t hear her brother stumble to the other side when he came in several hours later.
***
RAIN AND SORE HEADs kept most people inside the next day while the queen met with her advisors. Cinnia sat by the fire contemplating a disturbing dream when her brother entered.
“Cinnia,” Dumnor said, “the queen requires your presence. She wants to hear your tale and your thoughts on the mood of the western tribes.”
Cinnia pulled her wool cloak over her head, grateful for the natural sheep oil that kept her dry, and followed Dumnor to the royal house. As she entered her eyes widened and only a conscious effort kept her jaw from dropping. There were warm carpets on the floor and walls. A scribe sat at a richly carved table, making notes on parchment paper with a quill pen. The queen drank wine from a silver cup crusted with red and green gems. Oil lamps hung from the high ceiling, bronze braziers blazed to chase the chill away, and the queen’s sleeping area was curtained off with shiny brocade fabric. Cinnia had only seen such luxury in the Roman towns where they settled the retired soldiers; usually at rich merchants’ homes where her father occasionally sang or told tales.
The queen noticed her glance around the room and frowned.
Cinnia forced her attention back to where it belonged. The ancient druid sat on a stool at Boudica’s side and a few of her closest counselors crowded around. Cinnia made a small bow. “How may I be of service, my Queen?”
“Sit.” Boudica indicated a stool. “And tell me what you saw and heard.”
Cinnia repeated her tale automatically dropping into the rhythms of a bard. When she finished, a servant discreetly offered her a cup of wine in fine redware. She took a gulp and nearly spit it out. The wine was strong; sweetened with honey and herbs. Not nearly as good as the beer brewed in the villages.
The druid turned to Boudica, his eyes blazing with hatred. “See, my daughter. The Romans intend to bow us all to their will. We must fight. The Romans build a temple to their dead emperor Claudius and worship him as if he were a god. I met Claudius when he came to our land. He was flesh like you and me. The Romans insult our gods, murder our people, and take our lands!” Spittle flew from the druid’s mouth.
“And the rest of you?” Boudica turned to face her chosen counselors. “Do we fight?”
One of the younger men hissed, “Yes. We should push the Romans back into the sea. They take our land, goods, cattle; and treat us little better than slaves.”
A grayer head shook his disapproval. “The Romans are far better armed. Remember they defeated us a generation ago, though we had more men. In this time of peace, our cattle have grown fat and our few swords rusty.”
The discussion continued, growing more heated as they drank more wine. They seemed to have forgot Cinnia and she listened eagerly, but of two minds. She wanted the Romans punished for what they did to her father and the others on the Sacred Isle, but she knew war brought devastation to land and families. Dead warriors were honored, but dead men couldn’t provide food for families, make love to their wives or tell their children stories.
“Enough!” Boudica clapped her hands. “I have heard you all. It is not time—and might never be time—to fight. The Iceni have few allies but the Romans. We’ve been at peace with them since I was a babe in my mother’s arms. With his dying breath, my husband counseled peace. He left a will gifting half his lands to the emperor. I will honor his request.”
The ancient druid stood. “You will rue this day, Boudica. You can never be friends with the Romans. They ravage these lands like wolves. Like wolves they should be hunted and destroyed. Only by strength can we survive.” He limped to the door, opened it and left, letting in a gust of cold damp air that chilled all.
Cinnia sat in shock. She had never seen such a breach between druid and ruler.
Boudica’s face flooded with color and she clinched her hands. “Out! All of you!”
The advisors left, muttering under their breath. Cinnia caught up with her brother. “When do you go back to our village?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll leave in the morning after first light.” He rubbed his head and smiled. “That is, if I don’t drink too much tonight. Our cousin brews a good beer.”
“I’m not sure I should return with you.” Cinnia tugged unconsciously at her tunic. “I had a curious dream last night. Clouds of crows darkened the sky, looking for carrion. I stood over two wounded fawns and kept them safe, with spear and shield, from a pack of wolves.”
“You have more insight than I when
it comes to omens.” Dumnor scratched his chin under his bushy beard. “But, maybe you’re supposed to return home and help Oriana care for my son.”
“Dreams are tricky things and can have many meanings.” Cinnia smiled. “But I think I’m supposed to stay. At least for a while. It feels right.”
“We’ll talk again, later.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “The times are unsettled. I want you home, safe.”
***
A FEW DAYS AFTER DUMNOR left the oppidum for home, Cinnia sat on a bench outside her cousin’s hut, wondering why she still lingered. She felt restless and on edge, her dreams troubling, but something kept her here. She spotted an empty bucket and sighed. Her mother’s sister’s son and his wife were kind, but she felt the strain her continued presence brought. She helped out where she could, but spinning wool and telling stories to their children at night didn’t make up for the food she ate. Tomorrow I’ll leave, she decided. She grabbed the bucket Might as well make myself useful until then.
Cinnia crossed the muddy market square heading for a spring down the hill. The rain had stopped, and a thin watery sunshine pulsed through the scudding clouds. Women and children scurried on errands or chatted with neighbors. Everyone smelled of wet wool and wood smoke. Most of the merchants had left with the decamping mourners. Only one man, with a milky white eye, sold leather wares from his cart next to the shrine to the Triple Goddess. Most of the village men were hunting in the forest or tending the animals in the fields. They’d bring the herds in soon to butcher for the winter, then they’d have a great feast.
Cinnia lifted her head at the sound of tramping feet and shouts at the open gate leading to the Roman road. Heads poked out of huts. She ran for shelter between the temple and the granary, before she realized she was moving. Her heart beat with the uneven rhythm of fear and she didn’t know why. She crept along the wall to look into the plaza.
A contingent of forty Roman beneficiarii—retired legionaries tasked with collecting taxes, tolls, and local policing—marched through the gate. Graying, hard-faced men; most sported scars and one wore a patch over a blind eye. They wore a livery of thick blue wool mantels over matching tunics and brown trousers; their chests covered in boiled leather cuirasses, they carried leaf-bladed thrusting spears that the Roman’s called hastii. A couple also wore the short gladius sword favored by the Roman infantry. They flanked a litter carried by four slaves, marked, in the Roman way, with an iron ring around their necks. Three other men, with the pale faces of those who spent their lives inside, trailed after the litter, carrying official-looking leather pouches. Two large empty wagons stopped at the gate.
They marched into the center of the plaza where the slaves lowered their burden. An underdressed Roman stepped out of the litter and into a freezing puddle. He shivered in a white linen tunic and an elaborately embroidered, but inadequate, green cloak, clasped on the shoulder with a large gold fibula in the shape of a sacred Celtic spiral.
Cinnia snorted. Stupid Roman didn’t have the sense to wear trousers or socks with his sandals. At least his body guard dressed for the season with socks laced up their calves. But where did he get the gold clasp? It was obviously of native manufacture.
He glowered at the slaves. “Start there.” He pointed at the leather merchant. “Seize his goods and money.” The old man blocked his small cart with his body, but one of the armed men shoved him aside, punching him in the back with the butt of his spear for good measure. The old man screamed and fell to the ground writhing. The sparse crowd milled in uncertainty till the armed Romans started shoving them to the ground. The women screamed and the old men cursed, as the Romans beat them about the shoulders and took liberties pinching and patting the younger women. Cinnia edged deeper into the shadows.
Boudica came out of her home, dressed in mourning clothes, a long dark blue cloak thrown over her shoulders. Her daughters stood in the open door. “Who disturbs the peace of the Queen of the Iceni?”
One of the pale clerks announced in a voice too deep for his narrow chest, “Procurator of Rome for the Province of Britannia, Catus Decianus, has come to claim the lands and goods of King Prasutagus in the name of Imperator Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus.”
Catus Decianus waved his hand casually at the houses. “You know what to do.” Half of the body guard split off and started to ransack the huts, carrying off anything of value—coins, bronzeware, fabrics. “The young women and older children, too; for the slave market.”
A grinning guard snatched a young woman by her hair, dragging her screaming to the square. Cinnia huddled in the shadows, glad her cousin’s wife and children were in the forest herding the pigs.
“Stop this!” Boudica, face red with rage, shouted. The men hesitated and looked back at Decianus for instruction.
“What right do you have to come to my lands and take what isn’t yours? I am Queen of the Iceni.”
“Queen? Of what? This pig sty?” Decianus laughed and his guard joined in. “What right? By the right of Rome to collect what is owed to the Emperor.”
“The Iceni are free people. My husband has a treaty with the Emperor. We are a client and ally of Rome. I have pledged to continue that support.”
“Your support is no longer needed. When your husband died so did the treaty. Your husband left his lands and goods to the Emperor. The Emperor’s Divine Father Claudius loaned great sums of money to your nobles. We have come to collect on both counts.”
“The king left half his wealth to Emperor Nero and half to his daughters.” She put her arms around the two girls. “I will provide you with an accounting after the mourning period. And those loans from Claudius have already been collected by agents from Seneca on behalf of your Emperor, leaving my nobles considerably impoverished.”
“You’ll provide me with an accounting?” The procurator twisted his lips into a sneer. “My clerks will make a full accounting of all land, coin, plate,” he sniffed “people, animals, anything of value that belongs to the Emperor.”
“But…” Boudica began to protest again.
The Procurator flicked his hand. “Stop that woman’s mouth. She annoys me.”
When the men approached, Boudica pushed her daughters behind her, crouched in a fighting stance, and leaped at the nearest one, knocking him down and grabbing his spear. She turned to do battle, hamstringing one guard and cracking another’s head.
“Subdue her!” Decianus shouted. “Will you let a woman threaten Rome?”
The beneficiarii surrounded Boudica. A spear from behind, tangled her feet and sent her to her knees. She rolled, but her elaborate robes tangled her legs and two men grabbed her arms. She spit curses until one of the men stopped her mouth with a kerchief and leather belt.
“Show the Queen of the Iceni how Romans reward rebellion.” Decianus ordered the men. “Lash her.” The two men hauled Boudica to the temple, tied her arms and legs spread-eagled to the front columns, and ripped her clothes down to her waist. The beneficiarii kept the protesting crowd at bay.
Brianna and Maeve threw themselves at the Decianus, clawing and screaming, “Let our mother go!”
Two of the guard grabbed them before they could do any damage to the procurator’s fine cloak.
Cinnia broke out of her horror. While all eyes were on Boudica and her daughters, Cinnia ran down the wall of the granary toward the fence. She knew of a hole where the children wriggled through to the escape their parents.
She crawled through the hole and crept into the meadow. There, she grabbed the halter of a dappled mare, larger than the short chariot ponies, and led it over a rise. When she felt safe, Cinnia threw herself on the horse and kicked it into a gallop. The farmers and hunters couldn’t be too far away. She shouted her news to all she encountered. “Romans! At the oppidum!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Meroe, Kush
AFRA WOKE IN THE DARK, head throbbing from the blow, with no knowledge of how long she had been unconscious. The smell of smoke from her clothes
almost masked the reek of dirt and urine from the cell. At least the dankness soothed the burns on her arms and hands.
She rose to her knees and stretched out her arms. A rough wall on the left and another on the right. Mud brick? There wasn’t room to lie on the floor full length, even corner to corner. She stood and her head bumped the ceiling. Her hand followed the wall to a thick wooden door, barred on the outside. Afra pounded on it and shouted, but no one answered. She slumped, back to the wall, hoarse from the smoke and the shouting, dazed from the shock.
She sat there for what seemed a lifetime, till she dropped into real sleep, dreaming of Asata and flames.
The second time Afra awoke, the pallid light of an oil lamp crept beneath the door. She tried shouting again, but her throat was sore, mouth dry. The noises that came from her sounded more like squeals from iron on stone than speech.
The light strengthened and she heard stirrings beyond her prison—muffled voices, the wooden bar withdrawn. The door pulled open and blinding light streamed around a dark figure that poked her with a spear. “Back to the corner.”
Afra scuttled on hands and knees and croaked. “Where am I? What’s happening?”
“Here.” A second figure put a bowl inside the door and disappeared.
The door shut and she surged forward, to pound on the wood. “Wait! Tell the Kandake where I am. Let her know! I can pay!”
Muted laughter trailed away on the other side.
Afra patted her tunic and found the pouch gone. Of course. If Piye hadn’t taken her money, the guards had.
Her toe bumped the bowl and she reached down. She sniffed. Thin barley gruel. Her stomach clenched at the thought of food. How long since she had eaten? Afra gulped the slimy mixture and licked the bowl for the moisture as much as the nourishment. Thirst tortured her. She pissed in the bowl, but could not bring herself to drink it. Maybe later.
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