“He will know that already. Shall I allow Favonius to come?”
“If you come with him. And tell Aillil that he is now my shield-bearer.”
He went out, with a spring in his step, and she dozed, exhausted, falling at last into another drugged, sick sleep in which her father sat in the corner of her room, his sword still shining on his knees, a look of patient exasperation on his face. When she awoke, giddy and with another raging thirst, he was still sitting there in the shadows until she blinked, and he went away. Favonius stood beside the bed, muffled in a long cloak that reeked of old, wet wool. Lovernius was behind him, the water running from his shoulders and dripping from his loose braids. Boudicca gave Favonius no time to speak.
“Show him, Lovernius,” she croaked, and Lovernius came to her and hesitated.
“Lady, the sheet is stuck to the wounds.”
“Rip it off.”
He reached down and reluctantly did as he was bid, and she cried out as fresh blood sprang to trickle along her spine. “Look well, Favonius,” she gasped. “Do you like what you see?” His red-rimmed eyes moved from her face to her back and he did not flinch though it was a pulped mess of gored flesh, and in one spot where the lips of a raised welt clove deeply, he fancied that he could glimpse bone. Blood from the new-opened furrows slid lazily toward the mattress, and suddenly she dropped her head. “Cover me, Lovernius.”
“You must believe me,” Favonius said flatly. “I did not think that he would go this far.”
“Didn’t you?” she snarled, her voice muffled in the pillow. “Isn’t that why you treated me with such embarrassed circumvention, like a newborn liar clumsily practicing his art? You suspected this, Favonius, and now it has rebounded on your own head.” He winced, then all at once he sank into the chair by the bed and leaned back with unutterable weariness and misery. His whole face sagged as though ten years had passed for him in one night, and his eyes were cloudy. “I have sent a protest to the governor,” he said, the strong, virile voice now no more than a thin whisper, and she managed to laugh.
“As I implored you to do weeks ago! Did you know that the soldiers raped the soul from my Brigid? Took Ethelind’s voice from her? What can the governor do about that?”
He put up a hand as if to ward her away. “I don’t know.”
“Can yet another imperial edict bring back your son?”
Now he stiffened and leaned forward. ‘’I will find his murderer Boudicca, if I have to tear down the rest of the town to do it. Some chief saw his chance and took it, and a young boy lies dead.”
“Why do you so hurriedly accuse the chiefs? Marcus often wore tribal dress—breeches and a chieftain’s long cloak. Far more likely that some drunken soldier took him for an Icenian and struck him down in the darkness.”
“No. The knife was no gladius. It was a knife for slicing meat, taken from the Council hall.”
“And not even half the soldiers were serving legionaries, Favonius. Many were veterans without regulation weapons. I think you must ask the procurator who killed Marcus. Oh most impartial Roman justice! A fair hearing for all!”
He got up as though his body were a thick stone weight encasing him. “Truly the sword of justice has two edges,” he said. “I will enquire of Decianus, but I will go on questioning the chiefs.”
“You waste your time.” Her lips were quivering and her white nostrils were distended. “You might as well admit your failure to family and duty, Favonius, and fall on your sword like a good Roman.”
He went to the door. “Not yet, Boudicca,” he said as he went out. “Not yet.”
For a month the procurator and his assistants ravaged the countryside, and when there was nothing left worth taking they went back to Colchester. Then the people began to pour into the town, wending their way to her hut, and she lay hour upon hour with her eyes closed, her body flayed by the agony of her flogging and her soul shredded by the tales of murder, rapine, and loss. The people were like helpless lambs, softened by years of easy living and a growing wealth, now shorn of all they possessed, riches and kin, and left to shiver and bleat in the cold wind of Rome’s treachery. She could give them no comfort. Sow again, breed what stock you have left again, get sons and daughters again she could have said, but it would not have been enough. Grain and meat would not satisfy souls that were crying out for redress. New babies suckling from old breasts would not warm hearts full of the ice of revenge. She sent them away, longing to promise them blood but knowing with some sixth sense that the time had not yet come to full ripeness. They must regain some strength. Shock must give way to implacability, and a blow struck prematurely would mean a final, stunning reprisal from which none of them would rise again. By day her chiefs ringed her bed. By night Subidasto came to her, shouting, threatening, cajoling, shaking his big fists at her as she had shaken hers at Prasutugas, but she waited.
The Druid came. One warm sleeting morning he pushed past her doorskins, took off the long brown cloak that had disguised him and tossed it in a shower of water to Lovernius, lifting the sheet without a word. He poked at her gently, grunted, then sent Lovernius away to find a bowl. Astonished, she tried to speak, but he held up a warning finger. “Shh!” he ordered. “The body’s hurts first. The soul’s later.” He reached into his tunic and withdrew four small leather pouches which he opened, pausing to sniff each one, and a large pot of yellow grease. Lovernius returned with the bowl and the Druid emptied the contents of the pouches into it and scraped out the pot. He began to pound his mixture with a wooden pestle, singing some high spell of healing over it, and a cool, fresh odor filled the room like the wind that mingles with the clean snows of the mountains. Boudicca inhaled it, feeling a peace and sanity steal over her, then he squatted beside her and began to spread it over her back. Coldness and balm slowly pooled out, burying the heat and pain, and she sighed and relaxed. “You are most fortunate,” he remarked, wiping his hands on his tunic and rising to sit in the chair. “It is a nasty suppurating mess with a good deal of purple flesh there, beginning to die. Now I would like wine.” She felt like laughing. The pain was ebbing away, and as it receded she wanted to sing.
“Bring wine for our guest,” she grated at Lovernius. “And bread for us both.” He nodded and went out, and she turned to the Druid. “Welcome to the tuath,” she said.
“Food, wine, and peace to you.”
He inclined his head gravely, the firelight glinting on the bronze rings in his blond hair. “The three necessities for the body’s health. But what of the soul, eh?” He folded his short legs and the twinkle in his eyes suddenly gave way to a somber, piercing stare. “So you have come to your senses at last, Boudicca. I am only sorry that it had to happen in this terrible fashion. What do you want of me?”
She lay with her head turned sideways on the pillow, looking up into the genial, intelligent face. “I want you to go into the west and beg arms and men for myself from Venutius and the others. I want messages sent to every tribe in the lowlands. I want your advice.”
He cocked an eye at her. “Such small things you want! I have come out of the west, Boudicca, where Paulinus is nearing holy Mona. My brethren are preparing for their last great battle, knowing that they are forbidden to raise swords themselves, and Venutius, Emrys, and Madoc have sent many of their chiefs there. They cannot come to you.”
She went white. “Andrasta! Must the Iceni fight alone, then? What hope have we?”
“More hope than there has ever been since the Catuvellauni met Plautius at the Medway,” he said. “Listen well. Over half the troops in Albion are with Paulinus, two hundred and seventy miles from Colchester, and the lowland is virtually undefended. The Ninth is intact but it lies to the north of you, not to the south. The Second is at full strength also, but divided. Oh, there are posting stations, detachments, the odd garrison here and there, but other than that, the towns of the south lie open. Do you hear me?”
Lovernius returned with a jug of wine, cups, and a platter of mutton and fl
at bread. He served them silently, then went to the fire and sat cross-legged, and soon the clicking of his dice punctuated their conversation.
“The Iceni can do nothing alone,” she went on. “If the men of the west cannot aid us, who can?”
He swallowed his wine and broke off a piece of the black bread. “Once,” he said, “the western tribes fought alone, and even they might have succumbed to Rome if Caradoc had not risen as arviragus. The lowland people became like shadows beside their fiery reality, and like shadows they have been forgotten. But Boudicca, the Iceni are a lowland tribe, and will you say that your people still walk in shadows? I tell you that in this month, this long, pain-wracked month, the tribes of the south have been waking. The news of your dishonoring has gone among them like the cold wind that heralds the dawn. They are shocked for you, they are enraged at their own trials. They have borne their slavery for many long years, but your betrayal has caused their uneasy grumbling to have purpose once more. If you call them, they will come.”
“Why are you so sure? Caradoc called them, he called us, but we refused to listen.”
“In those days, Rome’s domination was new, gloved in soft words of prosperity, oiled in money and promises. They have slowly learned what domination really means, and now they see its claws, the claws you have felt on your own body. Trust me, Boudicca. I know. Begin a march south, and they will run to join you as you go.”
She lay for a while with eyes closed, then she reached for her cup and drank slowly. “I wish I could believe you, but I know how deep the thrall of Rome can go. It has more spells and faces than Andrasta herself.”
He tutted impatiently. “Do not say that. Rome is only a city. Romans are only men. Andrasta is the Queen of Victory. Believe me, Boudicca. Do the Druithin lie?”
“No, but neither have they yet discovered a truth that is the same tomorrow as it was yesterday. Do you surmise from intuition only?”
“No. Rumors and tales filter into the west, and this last month has seen an added fire blown from mouth to mouth. You can ignite a great conflagration.”
“If you are wrong then the Iceni must march and perish alone, for march we will. Dishonor demands judgment.”
“I see that you remember the teachings.” He wiped his mouth, rose, and yawned widely. “First, a healing for you, Boudicca. Sleep. I will stay in the town until you can walk, but then I must return to the west and to Mona. Your fate is in your own hands. Instruct your freemen to carry messages to the tribes when you have made your plans, and do not fear. This is the time of reckoning.”
Then, with a curiously humble gesture, she put out a hand and pulled at his tunic. “Do me a service, if you will. My daughter…”
He sighed gently and sat again. “I know, I know. I cannot return her soul to her, but perhaps I can relieve her of some of her torment. Have her brought to me.”
She nodded at Lovernius. “Bring Brigid,” she said, and he went away. They waited in a cup of quiet, while outside the sleet hissed monotonously. Then he said, “I knew your father once, long ago.”
Her head turned to him. “Subidasto? So many changes since then, my friend!”
“Yes,” he answered simply. “I myself was an Icenian. Once.”
Surprise and shame flooded her. “I am sorry,” she said, and he raised one eloquent shoulder and laughed.
“The time for regret is over, Boudicca, and I think I shall soon be an Icenian Druid again.”
Lovernius returned, holding back the doorskins, and Brigid entered. She was dressed in a warm red tunic that Boudicca remembered from days of horse racing and fishing in the snow, but now it seemed to hang on her slim frame like a graceless sack, and her hair fell unbound in a pale river over her thin neck and shoulders. One hand rested in Hulda’s, the other patted and pulled at her mouth as though she was constantly trying to set it in place. Her eyes, like drowned flowers, wandered the room and came to rest on her mother, but no flicker of recognition lit them.
“She sits on the roof of my hut,” she said. “The rain gleams on her feathers and she croaks blood, blood, all night long. Where is Pompey? I am so cold. Pompey will warm me with his soft breath, and tell me where to go.” The hand left her swollen lips and fluttered to her throat with an artless loveliness. “Blood is black under the moon, and eyes are white. My mother should remember, but she has gone to be the Queen of Victory, and I must go to Rome.” At the mention of the city her hand left Hulda’s and began to trace a pattern of distress in the dimness. “All men are filled with blood, black blood under the moon!”
The Druid rose and went to her, taking the aimless fingers of both hands and imprisoning them in his own firm grip. “Brigid,” he said kindly. “Blood is warm and sweet. Blood makes music, blood makes laughter. Trees have golden blood and rivers have silver blood, and the sun is full of hot, life-giving, glittering blood. Look at me.” The drenched eyes slowly found his, and he smiled. “Tell her about the rivers as she perches above you and calls you in the darkness. Tell her about the sun, and the trees.” The working mouth became still, then Brigid swallowed twice. She frowned, tried to speak, but her hands remained limp in his and her eyes were enmeshed with him.
“Trees,” she whispered. Then suddenly she began to laugh, a shrill peal of coarse mirth, and her hands wrenched free. “I killed him, poor Marcus,” she snickered. “Oh Marcus, my dear, my love. I stabbed him, pretty Marcus, and the trees clapped their black hands, black, like his blood under the moon.”
Boudicca stared aghast at her daughter. Her own blood seemed to rush back into her heart, leaving her head, her arms and feet, lying iced and dead while in her breast a monstrous hot ball throbbed unevenly. “Why are you shocked?” Subidasto whispered in her ear. “She is naked too.” Lovernius cried out. Hulda swayed. Only the Druid was unmoved, his sad, level gaze fixed on Brigid. Then all at once he stepped forward and enfolded her in his wide embrace. “Child,” he murmured. She stopped giggling and began to sob, moving from his arms to the comfort of Hulda’s hand, and Boudicca said wearily, “Take her away, Hulda. And braid her hair. She looks so disheveled that way.”
“She will not let me,” Hulda answered. “I thought it best not to trouble her with it.”
They left, Lovernius with them, and the Druid raised his eyebrows at Boudicca, and his face was grim. “Heal quickly, Lady,” he said.
She felt an enormous fatigue leaden her body and she sank her head into the pillow. “Ah desolation,” she murmured, a catch in her deep voice. “Even though I should slay every Roman in Albion, the times have changed and nothing will ever be the same again.”
“The times are always changing,” he replied, swinging his cloak around him and going to the door. “It is the changes within ourselves which bring despair or contentment, Boudicca. I will come in the evening and anoint your back again.” He pushed past the doorskins, and in a while Lovernius returned.
“She is settling for sleep,” he said. “I think she is calmer.”
“What of Ethelind?”
“Ethelind walks the town, and eats and rests, but she will still speak to no one.”
“I want to sit up, Lovernius. Help me.” He went to her, lifting her carefully and turning her around, and though her head suddenly swam and her back screamed a protest, it was good to view the room from a sane angle. “Bring me my comb.”
He handed her the carved, delicate comb and she began to draw it through the dark, red-lighted tangle. Not until her hair lay submissive and shining around her did she give it back to him.
“Now. Take Aillil and go into the forest. Find a nice, private clearing and build huts, and a forge. Dig up all the weapons and have them cleaned and sharpened. Make swords and spears and knives. Make torcs. Ask Aillil himself to check all the chariots and take any that need repairs into the woods. Make slings and axes for the peasants. I want every Icenian—man, woman, and youth—re-armed within two months.”
“The young girls also?”
“Yes. Their mothers were swor
d-women and it is time they learned what that means.” She folded her arms, gripping herself fiercely. “Ah Lovernius, is it too late? Can the people remember old skills after all these years? Will a thirst for vengeance be enough to rekindle their spirit?”
“If they remember nothing else they will remember that an honorable death is better than the life of a slave. We have nothing else, Lady.”
“I know.” They smiled ruefully at each other before she went on. “Take my own chiefs. Send them out to all the tuath. Tell them to give the people sword practice in whatever secret places they can find. Use poles, kitchen knives, anything, until the swords are ready. But make sure that no man from the garrison is killed, Lovernius. If Favonius hears even the faintest rumor of what we plan, then all is lost. We must have spies out in the forests and on the farmsteads to warn of any straying soldier.”
He nodded brusquely and went to the door. “And no gambling!” she called after him. “Tune up your harp instead!”
“A man must have some peace!” he shouted back, annoyed, and she answered sharply, her voice like whetstone on rusty iron. “When you are in your grave!”
So, like a wondrous, invisible metamorphosis within the cocoon of winter, the Iceni began to change. Outwardly the tuath settled to a sullen peace once more. The people struggled to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives, rebuild gutted homes, collect whatever flocks and herds had scattered into the forests, but under the slow reordering a new and terrible embryo of militancy moved toward birth. The tuath lived two lives. By day the towns and villages went about their business, but by night the surrounding forests hid the low cries of warring men and women, the white fire of the perspiring metalworkers, the murmurings and whisperings of a thousand dark transformations. Favonius sensed it. In his grief and loneliness he walked the garrison late at night, feeling the minute stirrings of something alien and new on the chill winds. Beyond the soft, white wall of the Icenian cocoon he saw the shadows shape themselves, turning from nothing into something so faint that he could not discern what it was. In the end he attributed his anxiety to the turmoil within his own mind. He had not found his son’s murderer. There had been rumors aplenty. He had even heard it whispered that poor, witless Brigid herself had struck him down on that mercilessly cold, catastrophic night, but he had not believed it, nor could he prove such a thing, and now it seemed that Marcus must lie unavenged.
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