by Manda Scott
For Debs, with love and thanks
ALSO BY MANDA SCOTT
HEN’S TEETH
NIGHT MARES
STRONGER THAN DEATH
NO GOOD DEED
BOUDICA: DREAMING THE EAGLE
BOUDICA: DREAMING THE BULL
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Maps
Prologue
I: Autumn AD 57
II: Spring AD 58
III: Mid-Winter AD 58–Autumn AD 59
IV: Winter AD 59–Early Spring AD 60
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Characters and Pronunciation of Names
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my editor Selina for her continued resilience, patience and acuity of thought—and for understanding the nature of dreaming. Continuing thanks also to Nancy and to Deborah for out-standing copy-editing throughout the series, to Kate Miciak for holding faith on the far side of the Atlantic, to my agent Jane Judd for rock-solid support, and to H. J. P. ‘Douglas’ Arnold for keeping my Roman thinking in line.
Particular thanks to Jonathan Horowitz and Chris Luttichau, both excellent and inspiring teachers, for sharing their understanding of the dream in its many forms, and to all those who attended the dreaming workshops of 2004 for their courage and willingness to trust the process.
Thanks to all of those who made horse-ownership a possibility, particularly Tessa, without whom it would never have happened at all, and certainly would have failed at the first hurdle.
Finally, heartfelt thanks to Gigha, mother to the kittens, who came home to die during the editing process and altered again my understanding of the boundaries, or lack of them, between life and death; you were a bright star in the days and I miss you.
LISTEN TO ME. I AM LUAIN MAC CALMA, HERON-dreamer, once of Hibernia, now Elder of Mona, adviser and friend of Breaca, who is the Boudica, Bringer of Victory. We are in a time of great peril; if you do not understand the past, you cannot come to understand the present, and without it, the tribes of Britannia have no future. Here, tonight, by the fire, you will learn what has come before. This is who we were; if we win now, this is who we could be again.
It is fourteen years since the Emperor Claudius sent his legions to invade our land. Then, we were a diverse people, of many tribes and many gods, united only in our care of our dreamers: the men and women who came here, to the gods’ island of Mona, to study for a dozen years in the great-house under the elders. Warriors, too, came to learn the arts of honour and courage that might lead later to acts of heroism in battle. We fought against each other for show and thought each skirmish a mighty battle.
Then Rome came, with its legions and cavalry. The men of Rome do not fight for honour or to hear their names sung in the hero-tales at winter. They fight for victory, and when they have made a land their own, they do not leave it.
The tales of how we fought have been told in other places; the battle of the invasion lasted two days and will be told for ever round the fires. A thousand heroes lost their lives and those few who emerged alive did so through the sacrifices of others. It was then that Breaca, once of the Eceni, then Warrior of Mona, led the charge to rescue Caradoc and earned the name by which we know her: Boudica, Bringer of Victory.
Breaca and Caradoc were amongst those who, on the orders of their elders, left the battlefield. They did so with reluctance, fleeing only to continue the war against Rome, and to protect the children, who are precious above all else. They brought them here, to the gods ’isle of Mona where warriors and water hold safe all that is most sacred; where dreamers, singers and warriors of many tribes come to know themselves in the full gaze of the gods, that they may take that knowledge, and the wisdom it brings, back to their people.
From here they fought for ten years, preventing the Roman legions from gaining any foothold in the west. Thus the Romans built their first fortress in the east at Camulodunum, which had been the stronghold of Caradoc’s people.
In the early years of the occupation, thousands of warriors and dreamers died in the east; whole villages were slaughtered in reprisals for rebellions, real or imagined, and it was declared illegal for any man, woman or child to bear a weapon.
The legionaries who broke the swords of our warriors were led by an officer, Julius Valerius, who rode a pied horse. More than anyone else he was hated, for he had been Eceni once, and had sold his soul to Rome and its gods. He fought for Mithras and for the emperor and both thrived on Eceni blood.
Breaca and Caradoc had a son, Cunomar, and then a daughter, Graine. Shortly after her birth, Caradoc was taken captive by treachery and made prisoner in Rome. Captured with him were his son Cunomar and his elder daughter, Cygfa, a warrior of high renown.
The family were taken to Rome, to die at the whim of the Emperor Claudius, only that Airmid, the dreamer who is the other half of Breaca’s soul, found a way to bargain with the oldest and most dangerous of the ancestors and was able to prevent their death and, much later, to bring about their freedom.
Caradoc was tortured and maimed beyond repair. He was well enough to bring his family to the coast of Gaul, but not to go beyond it. He could not have returned as a warrior to Mona—his injuries were too great for him to wield a weapon as he had done with such success before his capture and he would not inflict on his warriors the pain of seeing him brought low by Rome. Thus he stayed in Gaul and word was sent that he gave his life to save his children as they boarded the ship that would bring them back to Mona.
That was three years ago. Breaca mourns Caradoc, but inwardly. Outwardly, she has given herself heart and soul to the battle against Rome. In summer, she leads the warriors of Mona to keep the legions from reaching our island, and to push them back as far as she can from the mountains of the west. Through winter, she hunts alone, taking men singly or in pairs, and they have come to fear her, as if she were a spirit of the mountains who feeds on their souls.
One other returned on the ship from Gaul, who was not expected: Julius Valerius, the once-Eceni cavalry officer who had led the oppression of his people. By the will of the gods, he was called back to Rome by the ailing Claudius to undertake a final duty: to escort Caradoc’s family to the Gaulish coast and thence to a ship that might take them to freedom.
Claudius died before the family could reach freedom and Nero, his successor, required that they be returned. Valerius could not go against an oath sworn in the name of his god, and thus was named traitor, and forced to flee.
I would have brought him to Mona, for reasons that are not only my own, but Breaca forbade it and she is not only the Boudica, whose word holds sway with the warriors, she is also Breaca of the Eceni, sister to the man who was once Bán and became Valerius, an officer of the legions.
These, then, are the ones who have fashioned our pasts: Breaca, who hunts legionaries in the mountains of western Britannia, and her brother Valerius who is in exile in Hibernia, where he drags out a living as a smith. Neither can continue at this for ever. The world changes and they must change with it, or die.
Meanwhile, the children, and the dreamers, wait on Mona, watching a world that grows more brutal by the year. Rome seeks revenue from its provinces, and Britannia is not the rich vein of silver and gold that Claudius believed it to be. Nero was made emperor in his place and Nero is ruled in turn by his advisers. These are men without pity, for whom a land and its people mean nothing, unless they have gold or can be made to yield it.
This is the future we fear and against which we fight. Mona is safe now, under the care of the gods, but if it is the gods’ will that it be no longer safe, then all that is sacred will continue in the hearts and minds of those who hold the lineage of the ancestors. We are those people, you and I. Dre
am now, and know that in the dreaming is your future and all that we believe to be true.
PROLOGUE
MARCUS PUBLIUS VINDEX, STANDARD-BEARER OF THE second century, third cohort of the XXth legion, stationed on the far western frontier of Britannia, drank wine sparingly when on winter foraging duties and never took unnecessary risks. When the late-night need to urinate became overpowering, he stepped away from the watch fire only for a moment and told his armourer where he was going and why. Passing between the tents, he whistled the tune of the ninth invocation to Jupiter as evidence that he was still alive.
At the margins of the firelight, where the rain became silver and the sound of it hammering on the tent hides was too loud for his tune to be heard, Vindex called out to the armourer and was answered. The stream of his urine cascading on rocks made a good counterpoint to the rain. There was a cold satisfaction in pissing on the base of the mountain; for as long as the sound of it lasted, he was solid in his victory over the weather, the sucking mud, the lack of game and of corn and, best, over the native warriors who grew out of the dark and left the unwary dead to be found in daylight. He shouted as much to his armourer, slurring only slightly.
The last word had barely crossed to the fires when a hand caught his chin and dragged his head back and up. He did not feel the slice of the knife across his throat, the blade was too sharp to create pain, but it cut down to the bones of his spine, severing the soft tissues in its path. The tidal wave of his life surged out to earth.
The standard-bearer died surprised, and his ghost, surprised, did not know itself dead, only that the night grew suddenly bright, as if noon had come, and that, impossibly, where once had been fire-warped shadows, now one of the native warriors knelt in plain view by the fallen body of a man carving a curse mark on the forehead.
Vindex had lived through too many battles to waste time in questioning the impossible. His sword had already stabbed at the exposed neck of the enemy before he had thought to question the identity of the corpse lying so close to his feet. As his body lunged after, he gave all his breath to a shout that would rouse the entire camp.
His sword, his arm, and the full weight of his weightless body passed through the crouching warrior. His shout, which could cross a battlefield, raised no armoured men to his aid although a decurion of the cavalry, drinking wine by the fire, pulled his cloak tighter and stamped his feet, cursing the sudden cold.
Vindex opened his mouth to shout again and then stopped as the part of him that reasoned realized at last that the men of his watch had not noticed him at all.
“They can’t hear you. Your people choose not to hear the cries of the slain. It’s your strength and your greatest weakness. You’ll never live safely until you learn to listen to your ancestors and your newly dead.”
The voice that filled Vindex’ head had a different quality from those of the men he had left at the fire; it spoke to his soul, not his ears. The enemy warrior finished carving the curse mark and, rising, turned round.
Thus, for the first time, in the darkest part of the night, with no sun and rain clouds covering the moon, the standard-bearer of the XXth saw the face of his enemy. He saw rain-damp hair the colour of a fox in winter with the warrior’s braids left loose in mourning and the quill of the single crow’s pinion woven in at the left dyed entirely black, for one who has severed all connections to family and tribe to hunt alone; and thereby perhaps to die alone. He saw the blood-wet knife, recently used, saw the sling hanging at the belt beside the pouch of river pebbles and knew with a soul-knowing beyond vision that each stone was painted black, that it might more surely kill those against whom it was sent. He saw the sign of the serpent-spear carved on the brow of the body—his body—and, because he had seen the same mark on the brows of other men eight times in the last three days, its meaning was already carved on his liver.
By the cumulation of these, finally, Marcus Publius Vindex, son of Gaius Publius Vindex, knew the identity of the woman who had killed him and thus came to understand that he was dead.
Feeling foolish, he lowered his sword. From the fireside, the armourer shouted a new question with an edge of concern in his voice. The silence which, living, the standard-bearer should have filled stretched too long.
The Boudica rose slowly, sheathing her belt-knife. “Whom do you worship?” she asked. Her mouth did not move but the words became part of the night.
In the same way, Vindex answered, “Jupiter, god of the legions, and Mars Ultor, for victory.” Then, appraising, “You should leave. They’ll come soon to look for me. You cannot stand against so many and live.” The quality of his care surprised him. Dead, he discovered that he harboured neither the hatred nor the terror he had in life.
“Thank you. I’ll go when I have to. Your men have not yet lit a torch and I have never yet met a Roman who could see well in the rain.”
She grinned and Vindex read no fear in her eyes, only the exhilaration of battle, beginning to wane. He had known that feeling, and the boundless peace that followed it, and knew that it was for these he had fought, far more than the silver he had been paid, and that he was not alone.
Moved by his new compassion, he said, “You will never win, fighting as one against many.”
Amused, the Boudica raised a brow. “I have heard that before. Not everyone who says it is Roman, but most have been, and all of those were dead.”
“Then you should listen to us. We bear you no ill will, but can see some things more clearly.” It was true; the concerns of his life were melting away leaving behind a clarity Vindex had sought throughout his life and never found. “I offer you this as a gift, from death to life: if you do not rouse the east of the province to battle, the legions will win and Rome will bleed your people dry.”
The Boudica finished wiping her hands on the turf. She nodded, thoughtfully. “Thank you. I will consider your gift in the morning, if I am alive to do so.” She was no longer smiling, but she did not hate him, either. “You should go home,” she said. “Your gods will know you in Rome. They cannot reach you here.”
The armourer shouted a second time, and was not answered. A legionary emerged from the safety of the tent lines and his terror at the sight of the body was far greater than Vindex’ had been. His cry brought the armourer and he, finally, called for torches. Men ran as they had been trained and if the light behind the tents did not blaze for them as bright as noon, it was enough for the fox-haired warrior to be seen.
She did run then, fluidly and with no great urgency, like a deer that has not yet heard the hounds. The armourer of the second century was a clear-thinking man who abstained entirely from wine. He had also, for three years, been his cohort’s champion spear-thrower, honoured for the speed and accuracy of his casts. He called afresh and five men ran to bring him spears, passing each one new to his palm as the last took flight. Ten were thrown in the space of a dozen strides. The foremost of the torch-bearers saw the eighth one strike and shouted to the armourer and to Mars Ultor, claiming a kill. Vindex, seeing with different eyes, knew that the Boudica was wounded, but had not joined him in death.
From beyond the margins of the camp, her voice filled his head. She sounded breathless and disjointed and he was unable to tell if it was pain that afflicted her, or an overwhelming need to laugh.
“Go home,” she said again. “The journey to Rome is faster in death, I promise you, and the land is warmer. Why stay here in the rain where you’re not welcome? The legion no longer owns you when you’re dead. You can go where you want.”
The thought had occurred to Vindex more than once in life. In death, joyfully, he understood himself free. Passing through the walls of the officers’ tent and the insubstantial matter of his centurion, he began the not-so-long journey back to Rome.
At the place where he had been, three more men of his watch died in a hail of black-painted river pebbles. The armourer was the last of them.
I
AUTUMN AD 57
CHAPTER 1
> THE WATER WAS COLD, AND MADE BROWN BY PEAT AND recent rain.
Breaca of Mona, known to all but her family and closest friends as the Boudica, leader of armies and bringer of victory, knelt alone at the side of a mountain stream and washed her face, hands and the bleeding wound on her upper arm in the torrent. The water ran briefly pink where she had been. She cupped clean water in both palms, rinsed her mouth and spat out the iron after-taste of blood.
A blue roan mare dozed in the shelter of a nearby beech thicket, the end result of a lifetime’s breeding and better than anything Rome could offer. She was haltered but not tethered and came to call, her feet bound in soft leather to dampen the sound of her progress. Mounted, Breaca travelled north and a little east, moving up into the mountains, keeping to rocky trails where Coritani trackers, paid by Rome, would be least likely to find signs of her passing.
If she had scaled the peaks, she could have looked west past further mountains and across the straits to Mona, but she did not. The standard-bearer’s warning echoed, disturbingly, with the muted footfalls of her mare and would not be made silent. You will never win, fighting as one against many. Vindex was not the first to have warned her of the dangers and futility of fighting alone, or even the second, but he was the enemy and she did not have to trust his opinion.
It was harder to ignore the warnings of those who cared for her; the elders and dreamers of Mona, who watched over her children through her long winter absences, and could not tell them where their mother was or if she had died yet, at the hand of a standard-bearer who was not quite as drunk as he might have looked.
Luain mac Calma, the Elder of Mona, had been first, quietly, to say that the Boudica’s life was worth more, and vengeance for one man’s life worth less, and he had been followed by a succession of others who claimed to love her and hold her best interests at heart. Only Airmid, dreamer and soul-friend, had always understood why Breaca needed to hunt alone as she did and had never spoken out, openly or in private, against the black feather braided into the Boudica’s hair and the winter killings that it foreshadowed.