the Druid power. Perhaps she belonged now with those who had not yet
given up the fight . . .
“Is it possible that our sacrifice bought time for a rebellion to be-
gin?” asked old Brigomaglos. “To believe that it achieved something
would ease my soul.”
“I will not deny the possibility of a miracle,” Ardanos said in a dry
voice. “But we dare not assume that this will be the time our people
achieve a unity they were never able to manage before.” He shook his
head. “No—we will go into hiding, and we will do whatever we must
to survive. Let the Romans think us broken until we can fi nd a way to
live with them in safety.”
“Will we cease to be Druids?” asked Belina. “Our High Priestess is
dead.” Her gaze moved to the bloodstain that still marked the sacred
stone.
“She said that Nodona should succeed her,” said Brigomaglos.
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“But will she be able to serve?” Belina asked.
Lhiannon kept silent. Too many here knew of the tension between
her and Helve. Anything she said would be suspect now. And she could
not forget how like manacles the golden rings had seemed as they weighted
Helve’s arms. She had dreamed of being High Priestess for so many years,
and never realized how much she liked being free.
“Until we have a place in which to perform the ceremonies once
more, does it matter?” Brigomaglos asked. “By the time we do, the girl
will have recovered. If she survives the ordeal and is able to bear the
power of the Goddess, then Helve’s will may be done. If not—we shall
choose again.”
Some of the other men were agreeing. Ardanos looked at Lhiannon
as if about to speak, but she shook her head. In time she might regret al-
lowing the priests to claim so much power, but just now she found it hard
to care. Could they not see that everything depended on the Iceni rebel-
lion? She understood Coventa’s vision now. Boudica bore the power of
the Morrigan. If she succeeded, no one would question the power of the
priestesses. And there might be no hope for any of them if she failed.
T W E N T Y- S I X
Boudica laughed and grabbed for the rail as the chariot bounced
beneath her, the javelin swinging wildly in her other hand. It was an-
cient, one of several that had been brought in after the attack on Colo-
nia. Its leather fi ttings were much in need of repair, but an inspiring
reminder of the glories of the past.
Tascio, her driver, ducked with an oath, wrenching the ponies’
heads around to avoid Rigana’s chariot and throwing Boudica to the
other side. Footing was tricky—with Tascio seated on the platform be-
fore her and her shield and spears attached to the wicker sides, there was
scarcely room left to stand.
As they cantered around again the people cheered. The sight of a
war cart evoked ancient glories—reason enough to shrink new iron
rims to wooden wheels and replace the leather fittings. For Boudica to
appear in a chariot confirmed her role as leader. She had given one of
the restored vehicles to her older daughter on the understanding that
Calgac, who was driving it, would get her away at the first sign of real
danger. But unless they could learn to use them properly, no one was
going to take the chariots into battle at all.
Boudica had a moment to envy Rigana’s resilience as they sped by.
Constant walking and riding had kept her fit, but she could not match a
fi fteen-year-old’s fl exibility.
“Balance! Don’t hold on!” called Tingetorix. His bad leg kept him
on horseback, but if he could not set an example, he could certainly tell
the rest of them what they were doing wrong.
The leather straps that suspended the bouncing wooden platform
creaked as the wheels skittered over the rough ground. Boudica had
thought the heaving deck of a ship unsteady; this was like trying to
stand on a quaking bog. As another turn flung her against the rail she
could feel Cathubodva laughing. The goddess danced on chaos as Her
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ravens danced on the wind. For humans, the stability of the ground was
the only certainty. But tempting as it was to let the goddess take over,
Boudica had schooled enough horses to know that the more refl exes she
trained into her muscles, the less her rider would have to do.
As a tiny girl she had loved watching her older brothers practicing
with the chariots. Dubi had been able to run out along the shaft to the
yoke that linked the two ponies, fling a javelin, and get back again. He
usually hit the target as well. That would not be a problem in battle—as
long as you launched a projectile in the right direction it was bound to
hit somebody.
Tascio brought the chariot around and for a moment she had it, bal-
ancing on the balls of her feet to keep the same relationship to the earth
no matter which way the platform was jumping. Then the ache in her
leg became a sudden cramp.
“Whoa . . .” she gasped as she slid the javelin into its rest and bent to
massage the limb.
When she could stand again, she saw Rigana’s chariot thundering
toward her. As they passed the girl let out a skull-splitting screech and
flourished her javelin with a grin that had been absent for far too long.
Boudica waved back, then turned as someone called.
“That will be enough for now, Tascio—bring us in.” She straight-
ened as he turned the ponies toward the knot of people who had gath-
ered at the edge of the crowd, doing her best to support the image of a
bold warrior queen without revealing how grateful she was for an ex-
cuse to stand still.
From the chariot Boudica could see much of the camp, which since
the fall of Colonia had come to resemble a gathering of clans for the
Lughnasa fair. Warriors were still arriving, but now they were bringing
their families, and bards and merchants were arriving as well. Anywhere
you walked you might hear singing, or find some impromptu contest of
strength or skill. A giddy, holiday atmosphere filled the air.
But the men who awaited her were not in a festive mood.
“Have the scouts returned?” she asked, looking down at them. After
the defeat of the Ninth Legion she had sent men to watch all the Roman
forts, especially in the east, where the governor had posted the Twentieth
and Fourth, and the southeast, where he’d placed the Second Legion. A
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host the size of her impromptu army could not move unnoticed—she
was surprised that there had been no other response from the Romans
by now.
The group parted to let a weary man step forward. “I rode east, my
lady, as you ordered. Didn’t have to go farther than that new fort they
call Letocetum, on the Great Road. There was plenty of news in the
wineshop there.”
“Is the Twentieth coming?”
“Aye, with the Fourth right behind them, but they’ll be on the roa
d
awhile. They were on Mona, my lady! They burned the sanctuary to
the ground and killed every Druid they could fi nd!”
“Sacrilege!” came the cry. “The gods will strike them—”
Boudica closed her eyes, clutching at the rail of the chariot as a mur-
mur of horror spread through the crowd. She had just seen the devastation
fire could wreak on a city. Her imagination pictured only too vividly
flames rising from the house circle at Lys Deru and the Sacred Grove.
What had happened to Belina and Coventa, and the others whom she had
loved? She prayed to the gods that Lhiannon was still safe in Eriu.
“The gods will strike them indeed,” she echoed, dashing tears from
her eyes. She jerked her javelin from its rest and held it high. “My arm is
their weapon! And yours—” She swung the spear above the crowd.
“Every fist that can hold a blade is the hand of the gods. And we will
avenge!” She felt her face flush at the roar of fury that answered her.
“The Twentieth will be some weeks on the road,” the messenger
went on. “My news is from the cavalry troop that rode in with Gover-
nor Paulinus three days ago. They barely took time to eat and sleep be-
fore they were on fresh horses heading south to Londinium.”
“Will he try to hold the city? What will he do for men?” came the
questions.
Boudica had been undecided which way to lead her forces. This was
the news she had needed.
“I don’t know what he’ll do,” she said viciously, “but what we must
do is clear! Cry the word through the camp, all of you! Give your beasts
a good feed and pack up your wagons. Tomorrow we march on Lon-
dinium, and if we are very lucky, we’ll catch the butcher of Mona
there!”
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The ship rolled and lifted and dipped once more as a fair wind drove
her toward the Summer Country. Since the funerals, three days had
passed, and it was not until they got out into the strait that the brisk sea
wind drove the last taint of burning from the air. Only then did Lhian-
non realize how accustomed to that reek she had become. Even Cov-
enta, though she had been sick that morning, seemed to be reviving.
But was she herself any better off ? The piled purple mountains be-
yond the shoreline slid by like a dream. The sea glittered in the bright
air, and the sky was a beneficent blue. In the old days, Lhiannon would
have said that the sea gods had blessed their journey, but just now she
found it hard to believe that they cared.
“I wish that we could stay forever on the sea,” murmured Coventa,
“between the worlds.” She was still quiet and pale, but the visions only
came at night now, as dreams. “No one knows where we are . . . no one
can tell us what to do. I thought you were an exile, and was sorry that
you could not stay safe with us. But I begin to see why you spent so
much time away.”
“It was not all a holiday,” Lhiannon observed reminiscently. “When
I was with Caratac I was often hungry or cold or in danger, but it is true
that I did not have the Druids telling me what to do every time I turned
around.”
“I have been very naive,” Coventa said quietly. “I am like some wild
bird that has been bred up captive in a cage, and when the door to free-
dom is opened I do not know how to fly. I am not fit for this new world
we have been forced into. But you are, Lhiannon. I hope you will not let
Ardanos put you into a cage. He is so afraid—and perhaps he is right—
the world is more terrible than I could have imagined. If there is ever a
place where our priestesses can live all together again, I think he will try
to make it a fortress.”
Ardanos would never . . . the thought faltered. The Ardanos she had
loved would not have tried to rule with so heavy a hand, but the Ro-
mans had done something to his soul.
“The world goes as it will, not as we would have it,” Coventa con-
tinued, “and all we can do is to try to serve the gods.”
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“The gods! If I believed that all this was their will I would curse
them—” Lhiannon stopped short, realizing only now how long she had
been refusing to face her despair. “As it is, either they hate us, or they
have no power. Everything we have done to propitiate them has only
made things worse, so far as I can see . . .”
She had spoken softly, but Coventa was looking at her in shocked
surprise. I am a priestess, she told herself. For her sake I should pretend to
believe . . . That was what she had done ever since the crescent of the
Goddess was placed between her brows.
“What do you want me to say?” she burst out suddenly. “Do you
want me to tell you that everything will be all right? It won’t! It’s
not . . .”
Her throat ached too fiercely to say more. Through war and disas-
ter she had been kept too busy dealing with crises to consider their
implications . . . but on this sunlit, smiling sea she had let down her
defenses and now she was lost. She held her hands over her face, shak-
ing with sobs.
After what seemed a long time she felt soft arms around her. Cov-
enta was holding her, rocking her as the ship was rocked by the sea. And
presently she came to the end of her tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ve stopped now.” She hugged Cov-
enta back and saw the younger woman relax, but for her the brightness
had gone out of the day.
Lhiannon understood now why some Druids retreated to the wil-
derness to live out their days in a cave by a sacred spring. Though the
changing seasons held their own disasters, in nature there was an under-
lying order in which one might find some certainty. But she could see
no such hope in the world of humankind.
F rom the next street over Boudica could hear a howling that
sounded more like beasts than men. The white mare danced beneath
her, ears flicking nervously, and Bogle growled a warning as another
band trotted by. Two men were carrying Roman heads on their spears.
The others bore bags of loot and supplies. The tangle of homes and
shops and ware houses that had sprung up on the north bank of the
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Tamesa seemed to huddle beneath a lowering sky. One could trace the
progress of the attacking Britons by the ravens that followed them through
the town.
Londinium, like Colonia, was undefended. Decianus Catus had fl ed
to Gallia when Colonia fell, and his staff, including Cloto, had gone
with him. They had missed the governor by two days. Paulinus had at
least made an attempt to evacuate the city, but those inhabitants who
were stubbornly determined to protect their property or too old or in-
firm to flee remained, and were dying in the place of those more de-
serving of killing as the Britons swept from one street to the next.
Boudica had given orders that the city not be burned until they had
stripped it of
everything of value. Most of those who had joined her had
brought food, but they could not risk running short before they caught
up with the governor. And much of what these ware houses held had
been taken as Roman taxes. She found a grim satisfaction in the sym-
metry of taking it back again.
As they turned a corner the shouting grew louder. Boudica’s escort
drew in protectively as they sighted a knot of struggling men. A wom-
an’s scream pierced the babble like a blade to the heart. Unthinking,
Boudica urged the mare forward. She saw blades flash as the attackers
scrambled out of the way. Their features were those of men she knew,
but in this moment their faces were stamped with a single identity.
A Roman stood behind the splintered door of his house, holding up
a table as a shield. A Briton with an ax hewed at it, making chunks fl y
like kindling, while others jabbed with spears. Boudica recognized the
ax man. He had been a small farmer who got into debt and fought back
when the Romans came to seize his land. In the struggle he had es-
caped, but his wife had been captured and sold into slavery.
The man lurched as one of the spears pierced his leg; the next blow
of the ax sent the battered table spinning. Many hands pulled him out
into the street and the red blades rose and fell. With a rending of wood
others knocked the remains of the door away and pushed inside. The
woman began to scream once more.
A little boy burst through the doorway, his thin wail abruptly si-
lenced as someone clubbed him and tossed the body aside. Then men
were dragging his mother into the street, tearing at her tunica and forcing
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her down. Boudica saw her desperate eyes white-rimmed above a muf-
fl ing hand.
“If you try to stop them they will turn on you, ” came the voice of the god-
dess within as she opened her lips to protest. The white limbs thrashing
before her merged with the image of Argantilla’s body as the Roman had
dragged her down.
Are we no better than they? her spirit cried.
“This is not about lust, but about power— ”
Help her! Vision blurred as the conflict drove awareness inward.
Boudica felt the horse move beneath her as she grabbed a spear from one
of her men, but the unerring aim was Cathubodva’s, like the power that