****
Caddaric had no such outlet. He sat beside his father in the great council chamber, listening to Boadicea outline her plans for the Iceni in a calm, strong voice, while a part of his mind conjured various means of exacting retribution from Artair. Such daydreams came to an end, however, when the Queen spoke of the upcoming march. That the Iceni must march and carry the revolt to the Roman legions was a strategy Caddaric supported, but a feeling of dread settled over him as he listened to Boadicea describe the composition of the Iceni column. Imagining the march, Caddaric’s blood turned colder by degrees. His distress must have shown on his face, for Boadicea’s eyes narrowed as she paced by him.
“This plan has been most carefully laid out by my advisors and myself,” the Queen stated when she resumed L her seat. “However, if any of you have concerns I will, of course, be willing to listen.” Her gaze swept the room twice before finally coming to rest upon a frowning Caddaric. Carefully, Boadicea settled herself against the back of the chair. “Caddaric, your father was most insistent that you be allowed to attend this council. Have you any comment upon our course of action?”
After a moment’s hesitation Caddaric nodded and rose gracefully to his feet. “The plan is sound, my Queen, but…” He glanced at the members of the council, then met Boadicea’s suddenly hard stare with a cool one of his own. ‘“Twould be wisest, I believe, to leave the women and children behind.” The protests Caddaric had anticipated erupted and he welcomed them. The delay gave him precious time in which to painstakingly choose his next words.
Two bright spots of color dotted Boadicea’s cheeks. Clywd was her most trusted advisor, the only Druid she allowed to give counsel; Caddaric had earned her trust as well, but Boadicea was queen enough not to take his disagreement lightly. She raised her hand in a royal command for silence, and when the chieftains obeyed, Boadicea favored Caddaric with a brittle smile. “I trust you will explain yourself, Caddaric.”
Caddaric nodded again, not missing the undercurrent of anger in Boadicea’s voice. Not for the first time, he wished he were a gifted orator instead of a staid, plodding soldier. Perhaps then the Queen would give his words the importance they deserved. “We must move swiftly to engage the Romans, before they have time to summon reinforcements from Gaul.”
“You state the obvious,” Boadicea interrupted impatiently. “But since the governor-general, Suetonius, is off Britannia’s western coast, raping Mona, I scarcely think he will have learned enough to send to Gaul.”
“But the legate of the Ninth Hispana may have learned of our revolt and taken it upon himself to send for reinforcements.” Caddaric shifted uneasily. “Because time is of the essence, it is vital that our march not be hampered in any way. To bring our women and children with us is folly. We must leave them behind. We must—”
“—fight like Romans?” A voice from behind Caddaric finished bitingly. Caddaric stiffened, but did not turn to face his accuser; instead he kept his eyes steadfastly upon his Queen. “We are Iceni; our women follow us into battle and some fight at our side and our children watch and learn what it means to be an Iceni warrior.”
“And because of them we will travel at a fraction of the speed of the Roman force,” Caddaric cut in. “This-time we cannot afford that particular luxury.”
“You were too long among the Romans,” another voice taunted. “Have you forgotten our ways? Or has your Roman slave softened your courage as well as your manhood?”
The reminder of Jilana tapped a primitive reservoir within Caddaric. This time he spun around, his hand ing to the hilt of his sword. His attacker, a tall, burly man, did likewise. Within seconds, space had been cleared between the two men and they circled each other warily, swords drawn and glinting wickedly. Caddaric moved first, his sword making a swift, downward arc to meet his opponent’s blade with a harsh, metallic clang. He fought disarm, not to kill, but the other man did not suffer from such motives. His sword flashed through the air with deadly intent and Caddaric was hard pressed to keep his defense harmless. Years of training as well as his own instinct threatened to take control and allow Caddaric to end what he knew to be an uneven contest, but he held doggedly to innocuous parries. Perspiration trickled down Caddaric’s chest and back as he warded off blow after blow. Insanity, Caddaric’s mind cried out when he glimpsed the battle lust in his opponent’s eyes. We fight each other instead of the Romans. If Iceni fight Iceni, how much hope is there for an alliance between the tribes? The momentary lapse in concentration was nearly Caddaric’s undoing. His guard wavered and even as he corrected his error, he felt a burning sensation along his right upper arm.
Caddaric fell back a step, feinted to his right and, when is opponent followed, concentrated all of his strength to a double-handed,reverse blow. His sword sang through the air in a wide, flat arc; blade clashed against blade with a numbing force that ripped the weapon from his opponent’s grasp. Instantly, Caddaric drew back and pressed the point of his sword against the other man’s heart.
“Thank your gods that I am not a Roman,” Caddaric harshly told his opponent, “for if I were, you would be dead.” The other man said nothing, merely glared and tried to rub some feeling back into his arm.
An ominous silence blanketed the council chamber as Caddaric grimly
lowered and sheathed his weapon. He turned back to face Boadicea, too aware of the burning ache of his wound and the blood running down his arm to worry about his lack of eloquence or to remember that he should couch his advice in tactful words. “When the legions come, my Queen, and they will, they will be unencumbered by children and baggage carts. Caius Suetonius Paulinus is a soldier first, a governor second. He may be occupied on Mona, but the moment he receives word of our rebellion, he will force-march his legions across the breadth of this island to crush us. To defeat him we must plan well and be quick enough to counter his every move. Otherwise we are doomed.”
“We are not doomed,” Boadicea replied in a voice so filled with royal hauteur that all eyes turned to her. “Already our number almost equals Suetonius’ legions and when word of our victories spreads, more tribes will join our war band. By the time we face Suetonius, the sheer weight of our force will crush him.” She fixed a blatantly skeptical Caddaric with a repressive stare. “Our final victory over the Romans will be remembered for generations, immortalized by our bards. Our dead and the dead of Mona scream for vengeance and we shall heed their cries. We have no need for doubters within our ranks, Caddaric.”
Her challenge scourged Caddaric’s pride. Stiffly, he moved toward Boadicea, his injured arm dragging his sword from its scabbard as he went. Caddaric heard the whisper of metal against metal and, without looking, knew that the Queen’s guards had drawn their weapons. Was he so different? Had the years spent away from his tribe changed him so much that his loyalty was in doubt? The thought brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He stopped in front of Boadicea and, ignoring the pain his action would cause, hurled his sword to her feet. The gesture was time-honored: that of a warrior promising loyalty to his overlord. “Our law says that all may speak freely in council. Aye, I harbor doubts, my Queen,but they are of strategy, not of where my loyalty lies. I pledged my sword to your house upon my return. I am yours unto death—unless you forswear me.”
Boadicea allowed her gaze to wander slowly over Caddaric. Blood dripped from his fingertips to spatter the floor at his feet. Camulos, Boadicea swore silently, how can we wage a war against Rome when we come to blows in council? Rising, she snatched up Caddaric’s sword and faced her chieftains with the weapon gripped in both hands. “This ends now,” she said angrily. “Enough Iceni blood will be shed by Romans in the months to come—we have none to spill over petty squabbles and old feuds.” Boadicea swept Caddaric’s sword about her in a flat arc that encompassed all her advisors. As chieftains, I will hold you responsible for the behavior of your people and for enforcing my will. The punishment for those who would indulge their tempers in spite my command is banishment!” The
heavy silence that followed her pronouncement told Boadicea that her command would be enforced, and she offered up a quick, lent prayer to the Earth Mother that she had not pushed her people too far. Banishment from one’s tribe was tantamount to a living death sentence: a warrior’s weapons were taken from him, his possessions confiscated, he was escorted to the tribe’s border and warned, on pain of death, never to return. He would wander for the rest of his life, never truly accepted by another tribe and eyed with
suspicion wherever he went. Word spread quickly among the Celtic tribes of Britannia. If only Prasutagus were still live, Boadicea thought wearily. He, with his flair for diplomacy, would have known how to weld the Iceni and the Trinovantes into a cohesive war band without resorting to such dire threats. Boadicea had never missed her beloved husband more than at this moment.
Enough! Prasutagus was dead and she held the fate of people in her hands. Boadicea carefully lowered the sword and offered it, hilt first, to Caddaric. “Take back your sword and keep your vow to my house. I have need a warrior such as you.”
Boadicea waited while Caddaric resumed his seat next to Clywd. As soon as his son was within reach, Clywd hurriedly examined the wound and dressed it with a wide strip of cloth taken from one of the pouches hanging from his belt.
Throughout the process—accomplished quickly and with a minimum of fuss by the Druid—Caddaric looked chagrined by the attention, and Boadicea hid a smile by settling carefully back onto her chair. Anger spent, she addressed the assemblage in a calm, sure tone. “Our women and children will come with us; in this we have no choice. The Ninth Legion lies to our north, at full strength. As Caddaric has stated, when the legate, Petilius Cerealis, learns of our revolt he will take action. Undoubtedly he will move against us, and we dare not leave the women and children behind to face his soldiers.”
“What of our crops?” one of the chieftains wanted to know. “The fire of Beltane has not yet been kindled.” Beltane, the “fire of god,” celebrated the return of spring and signified the beginning of a new growing season. The Roman interdict against the Druids may have forced the priesthood from the occupied territories, but the tribes had not forsaken their religion. Instead, the royal family had assumed the responsibility for the three major festivals: Beltane, in the spring; Lughnasadh, in honor of the sun god Lugh, held in the summer; and Samh’in, the festival of the dead, celebrated in autumn. The Roman conquerors, wisely, had not objected so long as the Druids were not present. And in private, the people had continued to worship the gods of their fathers rather than the new Roman gods, and awaited the return of the Druids.
“We will observe Beltane,” Boadicea assured the chieftains with a smile, “but not here, for we cannot spare the time. When Beltane arrives, we will be on the march; ‘twill please the gods to have the Druids light the fire amidst the ruin of a Roman fort. As for the crops,” she shrugged, as if the matter were of little concern, “again it is a matter of time. We cannot plant our fields, so we will empty our storehouses for the march and take what
we need from our enemy’s granaries as we conquer his cities. We will be well provisioned when we return, never fear.” Boadicea rose. “Tonight we will celebrate our alliance with the Trinovantes. There will be a great feast upon the plain and later, with the rise of the moon, the Druids who have so recently joined us will offer sacrifices to the Morrigan, goddess of battle, to Camulos, god of war, and to Andrasta, goddess of victory.”
It was the final break with Roman authority, this public worship of the old gods, and the chieftains and advisors were on their feet in an instant, shouting their approval. Boadicea left the council chamber on the buoyant tide of their voices. Caddaric bowed as she passed, then looked to his father. “You do not look pleased, Clywd. Surely you wish to see the people return to their own gods.”
Clywd smiled. “The people have never forsaken the gods, Caddaric; our Queen’s pronouncement changes only the manner in which they shall worship, not the substance.” He took Caddaric’s good arm and guided him from the chamber. “Boadicea is wise in using the presence of the Druids to her advantage.”
“Boadicea use the Druids?” Caddaric snorted. “‘Tis more likely the other way around.”
“Think you so?” Clywd’s face grew taut. “How long will it be before news of Mona spreads through the city and the allies’ camp?”
“Not long.” Caddaric winced as his arm was jostled by I the crowd. “By the midday meal, mayhap; certainly by nightfall.”
“And the reaction to it?”
“Outrage, anger.” Caddaric frowned. “Why do I answer questions for which you have answers?”
“So that you may learn there is more to making war than following orders and killing the enemy,” Clywd replied sharply. “Now then, our people are angered by the destruction of Mona, and with it the core of our priests, judges, bards, seers and teachers. Those lately arrived to the Iceni cause waver; they begin to wonder if mayhap they should not have stayed in their villages where the Romans might do no more than confiscate their food. Suddenly, Boadicea announces that there are, indeed, priests in our midst. These priests have dedicated themselves to her and will offer up sacrifices to her cause. What will happen to those who have doubts?”
Caddaric was silent for a moment and then replied thoughtfully, “They will see the war as twofold: to avenge Boadicea and the dead of Mona.” The Roman attack upon Mona struck at the very heart of Celtic beliefs. As long as Mona existed, the tribes could pretend that they were not totally dominated by Rome, that one day the Roman invaders would leave and all would be as it once had been. Mona’s fate had ended such pretense. The Romans had destroyed Mona to end the political unrest which sprang from the Druid priesthood. What Caius Suetonius Paulinus had failed to recognize, however, was the mystical reverence in which Mona was held by the Celtic populace. “There will be no doubters,” Caddaric concluded. “The people will put aside the quarrel of tribe against tribe in order to wreak vengeance upon the transgressors.”
Clywd nodded. “And when word spreads among the other tribes, Boadicea will have more allies flocking to her war band. Fate has given our Queen the only weapon which has a chance of uniting the tribes; let us pray she has the wisdom to use it properly.”
Caddaric lifted his face to the sunlight as they left the palace courtyard and stepped into the street. “It is possible,” he murmured.
“What is, my son?”
“That Boadicea may succeed after all.” Caddaric looked down at his father and gave him a wild, reckless grin.
****
Jilana sat on the edge of the bed, awaiting Caddaric’s return to the villa. In his absence she had tidied the room and carried the pieces of the ruined chair to the kitchen to be used as fuel for the ovens. The hostility of the other Romans she encountered had been expected, and Jilana had forced herself to ignore the lewd comments and openly resentful looks. ‘Twas bad enough to fear the Iceni, she would not hide out of fear of her own countrymen. She was as much a victim of the revolt as they, even if they did not believe it. Back in her chamber, Jilana had taken up her brush and begun the task of restoring order to her hair while her mind pondered the drastic changes in her life. The hate which had bolstered her resolve to be avenged upon the Iceni had slowly dissipated as she came know Clywd and Heall. They told her of their life before the Roman conquest, of their village, their ways. The invasion had taken much away from them, and not just in tangible things. Iceni pride had been dealt a hard blow when King Prasutagus had sued for peace with the Emperor Claudius rather than lift a sword against the invasion. But the Iceni would be free, the King had assured the Chieftains; allies of Rome instead of conquered territories. Still, as a safeguard, Boadicea had ordered her people to bury their weapons in case the Romans went back their word.
And, as the years had progressed and the Iceni saw what befell the Catuvellauni, the only tribe on Britannia truly resist the Roman legions, the people began to accept Prasutagus’ judgment. The people trad
ed with Rome; the chieftains brought Roman furnishings into their homes. Some of the young people even went so far as to adopt Roman dress, speech, and ways, to become what the remnants of the once great Catuvellauni tribe had been forced to become in order to survive, Romanophiles: part Roman, part Celt, belonging totally to neither world. At first the Iceni had been grateful to be spared the destruction visited upon the Catuvellauni, but gradually, as their taxes rose, as their young men were impressed for service into the auxiliary Roman legions, as Prasutagus’ wishes were more frequently overridden by those of the governor-general, as they endured the snickers and jibes of the tired Roman legionaries who settled on farms given to them as a reward for their twenty years of military service—farms whose land was rightfully Iceni property but whose true owners had no say in its confiscation—the Iceni people began to chafe beneath the Roman yoke. Their freedom was in name only; in truth they were little better than slaves. The first mutterings of revolt had begun more than a decade earlier, but while Prasutagus lived there was peace. When the King had died and Boadicea had subsequently been humiliated, the battered Iceni pride had risen to the fore and, as Heall had said, Jilana had lived through the aftermath.
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