Stung, the nobles mumbled. The king growled, “Leave us, Boudica. We will consider your offer.”
Boudica stamped the butt of her spear on the floor and gave them a grim smile. “Camulodunum is a fat city. Join us there…” she looked around the assembled men and sniffed, “…or not.”
Cinnia grinned at a young warrior as the women left. He didn’t look happy.
***
“THE CITY IS DEFENSELESS, no walls or ditches; a handful of old soldiers with few arms.” Cinnia overheard a scout report to Boudica where they camped outside Camulodunum. “It will be an easy victory.”
“What of the neighboring garrisons?”
“Only two hundred soldiers in Londinium. The Ninth Legion will take three days march—once they hear—to reach us.
“Good.” Boudica grinned. “Their road runs through a forest a day from here. We will prepare a surprise for Cerealis. We will not need our full force to take the city. I’ll send the rest to stop the Ninth. With the gods’ help we will prevail.”
She turned to her women. “Tonight we go to the sacred spring. Bring your sacrifices.”
Cinnia spent an hour sharpening the knife her father had given her. She ran her thumb over the symbol carved in the bone hilt; a wheel for the protective sky god. It was her dearest possession; not dear in coin, but in sentiment. She had nothing else of her father’s but memories.
When dusk deepened the shadows under the trees where they sheltered, Cinnia picked up a torch and started her solitary journey to the sacred spring hidden in the deep forest. Although the tribe fought together, each warrior fought alone and must make the sacred journey on her own. She moved in silence, thoughts turned inward.
Andraste, Mother of War and Death grant me courage and strength!
At one point, Cinnia lost her bearings and stopped, panting, eyes wide. She caught sight of lights flickering among the trees. A bramble pulled at her trousers and scratched her hands. She fought her way through the thicket and came onto a path. She recognized a boulder that looked like a hunched dwarf and hurried past it, not wanting to miss the ceremony.
Cinnia came into the narrow clearing where a spring gushed from a broken rock face to fall into a deep pool. Boudica stood by the edge, red hair gleaming in the torchlight, face mottled by shadows. Several women had already made their sacrifices and stood at her side.
Cinnia approached the spring with her knife. Mist from the falls wet her face, masking her tears as she broke the knife with a stone and dropped it in the water. She watched the pieces fall into the dark, glittering with the light of the moon, as she muttered the ritual prayers. She had hoped to feel the goddess’ touch, be flooded with power and confidence; but she felt nothing except foreboding and sorrow. Did the goddess sense her reluctance to part with the knife?
When the last of them dropped their sacrifices into the spring, Boudica retrieved a gold wine cup from a sack at her feet. She filled it with water from the falls, pricked her finger, let her blood drip into the cup, intoning, “We call on Andraste, goddess of war, patroness and sacred to the Iceni. Give us courage and justice in our fight with the Romans. Give us strength of arms and heart. Protect our warriors and give them victory or an honorable death.”
Boudica drank from the cup and gave it to the next woman. When the cup reached Cinnia, she gulped the iron-tasting water. Although cold on her lips, it hit her stomach with fire. Warmth spread through her limbs and filled her with the certainty that her gift had pleased the goddess.
When the cup returned to Boudica, she held it high. “Accept our sacrifices, Andraste, Mother of War and Death. Strike terror in the hearts of our enemies.” She dropped the cup into the spring and shouted, “Give us victory!” Their shouts echoed off the rocks, sending a covey of birds screeching from the nearest trees.
***
BOUDICA BRANDISHED HER SPEAR, “Today we take Camulodunum! Tomorrow Londinium!”
The warriors cried out, “Boudica! Boudica!” and clashed their swords on their shields. The Iceni streamed down a hill in chariots and on foot toward the city. Boudica and her guard sliced through the meager resistance of retired legionnaires and fat merchants to spill along the broad Roman streets killing everyone they encountered.
Cinnia ran screaming with the rest. Overtaken with rage, vengeance, and the goddess’ fury; she fought as if in a shadow land. Cries of terror and triumph faded to a distant roar in her ears. The people she cut down, faceless and insubstantial flesh. She felt none of the cuts and blows that came her way. Her sword ran with blood slicking the hilt. Cinnia found herself in the center of the town, facing the cursed temple to the “god” Claudius. A small contingent of defenders had retreated to its stone walls and held the two heavy brass doors open for refugees.
She stood over a terrified boy, sword raised for the kill. Her senses returned. Every muscle in her body shook with fatigue. The back of her left calf throbbed. She grimaced to see blood seeping from a shallow wound. Smoke from burning buildings filled the air. She coughed; her eyes ran with tears. Cinnia stared at the boy just coming into his manhood, face spotted with pimples, tunic stained with urine, and the battle frenzy left her.
She kicked him and screamed, “Run!”
He scrambled to his feet and ran into the temple.
Boudica drove her chariot into the plaza.
Cinnia looked up and raised her sword in a tired salute.
“Leave the temple,” The queen cried to her forces. “We’ll deal with them later. Take what you want. The city is ours!” She descended from her chariot and prowled the open area, looking on the destruction and bodies with a grim smile.
Women from the baggage train joined the warriors combing through the wreckage of the city, plucking jewelry from bodies and pots from houses. Cinnia lifted a fat pouch of coins from the belt of one dead man, a broad brass buckle and a pair of stout boots from another. But her best find was a short Roman sword. She hefted the gladius, stabbing and slicing at an imaginary Roman. With this, she could fight with a shield or knife in her left hand. Its lighter weight was better suited to her strength than the longer Celtic sword, which required both hands.
As the sun started to set, Cinnia made her way back to the temple district, hungry and so tired she could barely heft her small bag of loot. She saw some warriors pushing two-wheeled carts piled high with silver plate, bolts of fabric, and armor. She hoped Dumnor and Oriana got a good share. Although she lodged with the queen’s household, she made a point of finding Dumnor and his family whenever possible.
The Iceni women set up cooking fires. Men carried amphorae of wine from looted cellars into the square. Boudica sat in a throne-like chair salvaged from one of the houses. She stared at the temple, stony-faced, from the top steps of the town basilica, sipping a goblet of wine. Cinnia approached and bowed.
“My Queen, can I be of service?”
Boudica’s gaze darted from the temple to Cinnia’s face. “No. Go enjoy the feast.”
The smell of roasted meat made Cinnia’s mouth water and stomach rumble. She bowed again and made her way to the growing crowd milling around roasting spits.
“Cinnia!”
She turned to see Dumnor, smudged with soot, but otherwise unharmed, plowing through the people.
She grinned and rushed into his arms for a hug. He smelled of smoke, sweat, and dried blood.
He held her at arm’s length, looked her over, frowning at the cut on her leg. “You need Oriana to see to that.”
“It’s just a cut.”
“Cuts can go bad if not tended.”
He hauled her into the basilica, where Oriana, and other village herb women, treated the wounded. Cinnia spied Melva, with the baby in a sling, tending a cauldron of boiling water and waved to her. She gave a weary smile and turned to push the bandages in the cauldron with a large wooden spoon. The inside of the huge brick building was whitewashed; ready for new frescos which would never be painted. Boudica would burn the building when they left. Remarkably
few wounded lay on pallets or sat on the floor. The worst was a young man with a terrible gash across his stomach. An older woman packed his intestines back into the cavity, bound the wound, and shook her head. Cinnia knew no one recovered from such a wound. He would be dead of fever in days, if not hours. If he were conscious, he would have asked for a mercy stroke.
Oriana looked up to see both of them and a huge smile lit her weary face. “Thank the gods you’re both all right.” She clucked over Cinnia’s wound, washed it with wine, spread honey on it, and bound it with a clean linen cloth. “That should do it. Keep it dry and stay away from ants.” She eyed Cinnia’s sack of loot. “That’s all you got? You can put it over there with Dumnor’s.” She inclined her head toward an impressive pile of armor and household goods.
Oriana stretched, hands on back, looking around. “I’m done here. Let’s eat.”
They gathered Melva and the baby and wended their way to the food, piled bloody meat onto stolen plates, and sat on the steps chewing. Cinnia had never tasted anything as good as that half-roasted calf. She washed it down with a goblet of harsh red wine. The heat of it went to her head, making her muzzy. She’d get water next time.
The strident call of a carnyx echoed through the plaza. Everyone turned to Boudica standing on the steps, waiting for the chatter to cease.
“The gods gave us victory today!”
The crowd surged to its feet roaring, “Boudica! Boudica!”
“But they wait for one last act!” She pointed at the temple. “We must destroy this temple to a false god.” She made a gesture. A group of warriors herded fifty or more wailing women and children into the square. They were covered in ashes, bruises, and blood. Many made no sounds, but stood dazed, blank-faced. Some begged for mercy for themselves or their children. A few spit curses at their conquerors.
Boudica strode to the temple steps, pointed her sword at the doors, and shouted in Roman, “We have your women and children. Do you want them? Open your doors.”
Silence from the temple, but the doors opened a crack. Cinnia could make out eyes peering from the dark; light glinting off a sword.
Boudica gave another signal. The warriors beat the women with the flats of their swords herding them toward the temple. When they saw the open doors, they ran for the shelter. Cinnia could see hands reaching for the refugees, pulling them inside. With the last in, the doors shut with a clang.
Boudica punched the air with her fist. “Now!”
Warriors, with oil-soaked rags on their spears, launched their missiles at the temple roof. These were followed by arrows blazing with fire. Others built bonfires at the doors of the temple. Soon the roof of the temple blazed from one end to the other, throwing flickering red light and eerie shadows across the square. Warriors danced, shouted, and shook their spears at the cries of terror coming from the temple. Soon smoke flowed from the doors, followed by silence. The roof fell in with a crash and flying sparks.
Cinnia winced. She should have killed the boy and spared him the pain of a fiery death.
***
“CAN’T YOU KEEP YOUR WARRIORS UNDER CONTROL?”
Cinnia watched as Boudica paced in front of the tribal nobles. The Trinovantes had joined the revolt. As word spread of Boudica’s success, more warriors from outlying tribes flocked to her standard. “For days, all they’ve done is eat, drink, and squabble over booty!”
One of the Trinovantes nobles spoke up. “They deserve to reap the rewards of our success! We destroyed the Ninth in the forests and sent Cerialis running for his life back to his base. Londinium and Verulamium are no more than a heap of ashes.”
“General Paulinus and his troops speed from the west and their conquest of the Sacred Isle. They move fast with no women, children or baggage.” Boudica clenched her fist under the man’s nose. “When we crush them and sweep our land free of the Romans, we can rest and revel. Now we need to move!”
The nobles grumbled, but when Boudica left the next day, they followed with their women, children, and wagons stuffed with loot.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alexandria, Egypt
AFRA SAW WONDROUS SIGHTS as they sailed down the Nile: massive statues of long-forgotten pharaohs, towering obelisks, and sprawling temples. Even Marcius said that Rome had nothing to compare with the Pyramid of Khufu shining white in the desert. It certainly outshone the pyramid tombs clustered outside Meroe. Her heart swelled with pride tinged with sadness. Her people had once ruled this mighty nation many generations ago. Now Kush cowered in the south, reduced to deceiving embassies of stronger nations.
During the weeks they traveled, they fell into an easy camaraderie. Marcius rarely reminded her of her slave status. He rented her out to help on the boats occasionally, but always paid her a share of what she earned. He gifted her with a leather pouch—her peculium he called it—to keep her earnings. Afra suspected his attitude and generosity were signs he knew he did wrong by keeping her in bondage—or he coddled a valuable asset, knowing she could escape into the desert or into death, any time she wished. Maybe it was a little of both. Whatever the reason, she welcomed the trust and chose to stay for her own reasons.
Alexandria rose white and beckoning from the flat plain of the delta. Perched on a ridge between a huge freshwater lake and the salt sea, it was visible for many miles before their party reached the limestone walls. Afra stared as they walked through massive bronze gates into a city clad in marble. White, green, rose; each building polished to a shine. Painted statues stood in niches; covered columns paraded down each side of the broad boulevard, providing shelter from sun or rain. People in clothes from all corners of the world swarmed in the street like termites on a mound. The city was a riot of color. Afra heard a dozen different languages spoken.
“Did your people build this city?” Afra craned her neck looking left and right.
“The Greeks built it.” Marcius smiled. “But Rome conquered it.” He waved his hand down the avenue. “This is Canopus, the main street. We’ll take this to the Rhakotis district. This is the Jewish quarter to the north, next comes the palace district…”
Marcius kept up a running commentary as they walked. Afra’s head began to spin with all the names: streets, districts, temples, theaters. And monuments! Every block seemed to house a marble pillar, painted statue, or carved stone fountain dedicated to a long-dead ruler or city benefactor. They entered the agora—the heart of the city—a large plaza where two main streets met. The plaza was faced with temples, government basilicas, and a covered market; all overflowing with people of all types. Richly dressed city councilors followed by clerks or slaves in livery strolled up the steps of the government buildings. Soldiers stood guard at the market where merchants haggled with their customers. Beggars and cutpurses waited in the shadows of the temples where people of all classes gathered for daily sacrifices and rituals.
Marcius frowned at the lines of people spilling out of the eastern gate in a wall enclosing several blocks of the city. “Damned tourists! Everyone wants to see the tomb of Alexander the Great. See that?” Marcius pointed at a golden colored sandstone pyramid rising above the marble-faced, brick walls of the enclosure. “The great conqueror’s tomb. Regular people can’t see the body of course, but Caesar and Augustus both visited the burial chamber when they were here. Most just come to gawk at the gardens and statues and to be able to say ‘I saw the tomb.’ ”
Afra’s face screwed up into a puzzled frown. It was hard keeping track of the famous men Marcius chattered about; their times, deeds, and names were a jumble. It seemed that every emperor in Rome was named Caesar Augustus for the past hundred years. Which one was he talking about? She shook her head and put those thoughts away. No need to worry about anyone but her master at this point. She would never meet an emperor.
Marcius pulled on her sleeve pointing to a modest building down a side street. “No lines there and just what I need.”
Afra sniffed as they approached. A public toilet. She had wondered how they k
ept the streets so clean. They entered the light stone building and Marcius paid the attendant two small bronze coins. The attendant handed him a sponge on a stick. From the smell the sponge was soaked in vinegar. Open windows high above their heads provided welcome ventilation. Stone benches, with oval holes cut out at regular intervals, lined the walls. A couple sat next to one another chatting. A woman with a child and three men occupied widely separate seats.
Marcius chose an open hole, hitched his tunic and dropped his breechclout before settling with a sigh. “You’re paid for, Afra. Better here than a pot at the inn where you have to dump it yourself.”
Afra chose a seat and relieved herself. She heard water rushing below the bench, flushing the waste away. Much better than a pot or the bushes, indeed.
After their brief stop, Marcius led them to a markedly poorer district. The multi-story buildings were made of mud brick and crowded around dusty squares. Dark-skinned women gossiped at the fountains, while children in meager ragged clothes squealed and chased one another.
“Rhakotis, the native Egyptian district.” Marcius explained. They approached a building, distinguished from the rest by the faded sign of Tyche, the Greek goddess of good fortune, painted over the door. An old woman with a bloody bandage over one eye sat outside, begging.
Sword of the Gladiatrix Page 6
