A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion

by E. Knight

  “There you are, sir!” Naso, coated in blood, pounded up to him with what was left of the Tenth in tow. “We thought we lost you!” He grinned, his teeth a white slash in the bloody filth of his visage. The centurion looked around, stood on a dead soldier’s arm, and tore the gladius from his fingers. “Here,” he said, thrusting the weapon into Agricola’s hand.

  Agricola blinked in shock.

  “Look at ’em run!” Naso laughed, gesturing at the fleeing Cambrians.

  There was no mercy in the pursuit, no quarter given. The men of the Twentieth did as they were ordered and cut down their foes with something more than efficiency; it looked to Agricola a lot like glee. He felt it, too, though it shamed him—somewhere close by, Roscius had died at the hands of these people. They deserved it, and he wanted to kill them all, cut them down . . . Agricola breathed out sharply, air hissing through his teeth as he quelled the black rage that welled up inside him. Roscius was dead. Rome had had her vengeance on these people. And orders had to be carried out. “We should go,” Agricola heard himself say. Steeling himself, he led the men of the Tenth into the wake of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix, and the slaughter continued.

  The Cambrians were fleeing to the woods that hedged beyond the beach, and Agricola led his men into the cool darkness of their canopy. The sounds of butchery and death were at odds with this place, and somewhere, he wondered if Jupiter and his kin were laughing at these barbarian gods that had dared to challenge his scions.

  Gods that could no longer protect their people. Druids and their kin ran for succor to their sacred trees, as though these gnarled and ancient things could protect them. They could not, and Druid along with warrior and woman alike were put to the sword without compunction. Someone started a fire, and soon the trees were ablaze, the soldiers forcing their victims into the flames, laughing at them as they blazed.

  Those were the screams that would haunt Agricola till his dying day. They were worse—far worse—than anything that had assailed him on the beach: piteous, agonized wailing that had no end.

  He could stand it no more. He ordered Naso to continue, citing a pulled hamstring, and turned away from the butchery, the death, and the horror.

  And Agricola wept. Wept for what he had seen, wept that he was still alive, wept that his friend was dead because of what he had done. He walked aimlessly in the scarred woods, trying and failing to blot out the sounds of the battle, wishing that he could be anyplace but here.

  There was movement at his side, and he turned fast, his sword raised. Something tried to rush past him in a flurry of black wool, and Agricola kicked out.

  He sent a man—no, a boy—sprawling to the ground and rushed him, placing the tip of his gladius to his throat. He looked no more than sixteen or seventeen—around the same age as Felix, his dark hair matted with gore, his green eyes wide and afraid. His robes were black, and Agricola realized that this was a Druid—one of their young ones, thin and sickly looking, but a Druid nevertheless. Agricola looked away from the boy’s frightened eyes. Not a boy—a Druid. The enemy. The enemy they were ordered to destroy. Agricola’s fingers tightened on the unyielding wood of the sword’s handle, and he steeled his nerves, willing himself to push the iron home and carry out Paulinus’ command.

  The boy pleaded for his life in his strange guttural language—Agricola couldn't understand a word, but it was clear he was begging to live. Agricola looked at him again and saw tears streaming down his cheeks, his eyes bloodshot and wide with panic.

  Beyond, Agricola could hear the screams of the burning, the cries of the women being taken, the shrieks of children begging for succor as they were cast into the unmerciful flames, the cries interspersed with the harsh laughter and cursing of the soldiers.

  He stepped away, holding up his left hand and letting his right fall to his side. “Go,” he said.

  The boy looked left and right, wondering if this were some trick or if his gods had actually delivered him. The irony of it was that though Rome had come to destroy this holy place, its dying gods had still reached out and stayed Agricola's hand from killing one of its priests. Or maybe the old gods were dead, and he simply lacked the stomach for any more killing. “Go,” Agricola said again.

  The boy fled into the dark green of the foliage, and Agricola sat on a dead tree stump, praying to his ancestors. For what, he did not know. But if even the gods could not change the past, at least he could change one boy’s future.

  Paulinus had ordered wine boated across from the main encampment.

  After the slaughter was done with, the men descended into drunkenness save those unlucky enough to draw the duty lots on both sides of the strait. Agricola found Naso, but the man was almost insensible, able only to hand him a list of the roll. The Tenth had lost forty men in the battle—the honor won by being first on the beach. Felix’s name was scored out on the roll call. Agricola stared at the tablet for a long time, unwilling to accept that the boy had not survived. He spent long hours walking the beach, a jug of wine in his hand, looking for the bodies of Roscius and Felix so that he might save them from the carrion birds. He found a corpse that he knew had once been Roscius, but he couldn’t find his head. He had dragged what was left of his friend to a funeral detail tasked with disposing of the Roman bodies. Of Felix, there was no sign: he’d probably already been put on a fire. A part of him hoped that because he had spared the Druid boy, the gods would see fit to save Felix. But it was clear that the gods had abandoned this place to the savagery of men.

  Magnusanus found him drunk and melancholy with the corpses. “You perhaps are lost?” he said. The man’s voice was slurred—he, too, had been drinking heavily.

  “I was looking for Felix,” Agricola said

  “The boy will have been put on a pyre, Tribune.” Magnusanus glanced around at what corpses still remained. “Come. You are the hero of the day—next to me, of course, as I led the charge that saved you all. But you did well enough. Let us leave this place.”

  He led him through the bodies to where Paulinus was leading a grand celebration. The governor rose as they approached, embracing Agricola as though he were his own son, kissing his bloody cheeks. “I will see you honored for this,” he said. “Your bravery does you, your family, and your ancestors credit. Your blood may not be Roman, but by the gods, you showed Roman courage today, boy! And you,” he hugged Magnusanus, “history will remember your charge, Batavian.”

  “It’s just the duty, sir, our honor.” Magnusanus was clearly embarrassed by the praise.

  “Join us!” Paulinus gestured expansively. He grabbed the wine jug from Agricola’s hand and sniffed it; he wrinkled his nose and tipped the contents into the sand as though it were an offering. “And get this man something decent to drink!” The officers laughed, and Paulinus made off, basking in the glory of victory. He sat in his chair, master of all he surveyed.

  Agricola wanted no part of it. He just wanted to drink until he passed out so the memories of what he had seen and done would leave him be for a while. He went to go, but Magnusanus held his wrist and made him sit.

  They did not speak, but drank in silence, tipping back expensive wine as though it were Subura shop piss. Soon, the world became dim and distant as Agricola continued to throw it back, his eyes on the governor. He should, but could not, hate the man. Paulinus was a Roman to the core. He had done his duty and had done it well. That was Rome—and the Peace of Rome had to be maintained. To countenance otherwise was to invite the end of the empire, and with that would come darkness that would last a thousand years. Rome was the light of the world, even if its fire was sometimes fueled by blood. History would not recall the blood, he knew. It would mention it in passing and laud the deeds of men like Paulinus and Caesar before him. Perhaps, he thought, he himself would be recalled as the hero who led the assault on Mona.

  The hero who caused his friend to die. The hero who caused an innocent woman and her . . . no . . . his unborn child to die. Agricola looked t
o the men, laughing, celebrating, and back-slapping. Victory was theirs—they had done their duty and done it well. It was a victory that tasted like ashes in his mouth.

  He tried to wash it away with the last of the wine and felt himself falling. Lying in the sand, he felt like being sick, and then darkness took him.

  “Sir!”

  Slowly, painfully, Agricola opened his eyes. His head pounded, his guts churned, and for a moment he thought he would vomit. Naso’s face loomed over him: the man looked as fresh as a daisy, reeking of stale booze, but otherwise seemingly untouched by his extended bout with the wine jug. “What is it?” Agricola croaked.

  “We have to move.”

  There was an urgency in the centurion’s tone that forced Agricola into full wakefulness. “What? Why?” he asked, struggling to a sitting position.

  “It’s Camulodunum, sir.”

  “Camulodunum?” Agricola tried to shake the fog from his brain. “In the southeast?”

  “Aye, sir.” Naso nodded, his face grim. “It’s been destroyed. The people there massacred. A messenger came in the night. While we’ve been up here, the Britons have risen in full revolt. They say they have a queen. A warrior queen, and the woad-skins are flocking to her sword. The Ninth Hispana has been wiped out.”

  Agricola’s mind whirled, unable to countenance the enormity of what he was hearing. In a few short months, the province had gone from peace to full-scale rebellion. It made no sense. He heard Flacca's voice: Everybody knows the south is quieter than a houseful of Vestal Virgins.

  “A queen?” Agricola said. “Who is she—what tribe?”

  “Boudica, sir,” Naso replied. “Boudica of the Iceni.”

  “The one with the voice.” Agricola remembered her from the funeral. “And the hair. Shit. Where’s Paulinus?”

  “Already gone, sir.” Naso offered him his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Left as soon as he heard the news.”

  Agricola took a deep breath. “I’d better report to the senior tribune,” he said.

  “You’re senior tribune, sir,” Naso told him. “Two of the Twentieth's tribunes fell in yesterday’s assault, and the governor took the others with him. Here.” He passed Agricola a wax tablet.

  Agricola read it, recognizing the hurried hand of Paulinus. He gaped first at the orders, then at Naso. “I’m in command?”

  Naso nodded. “For now, anyway. We’re to double-time it back southeast, I’m guessing.”

  Agricola nodded and looked around, something inside him falling over. He wasn’t prepared for this, wasn’t ready for this, and realized in that moment that he didn’t want this. But what could he do? Responsibility was now his—he felt the full weight of it at once, bearing down on him as though he were Atlas and the Twentieth Legion the stone of the world. He could not let them down.

  “Round up the centurions,” he told Naso. “Bring them here. To me. At once.” As he spoke, a raven alighted on a nearby rock, its black eyes staring, unperturbed by their close proximity; Agricola guessed it was probably replete with the flesh of Romans and tribesmen both.

  Naso seemed to measure him for a moment, then snapped to attention and saluted. “As you say, sir.”

  He turned and hurried off as Agricola surveyed the mass of hungover soldiery that had suddenly become his charges. He thought of Lavinia Postumia and Roscius. He thought of Felix and Calvus and all the men that had died in his charge. And knew that there was nothing he could do to change it. “Even a god cannot change the past,” he murmured, glancing at the wax tablet.

  This was the future—his future. Paulinus had ordered it, so it must be done.

  PART FOUR

  “The gods favor a righteous vengeance.”

  —Tacitus

  THE DRUID

  Vicky Alvear Shecter

  YORATH OF MONA

  I

  prayed to awaken from what could only be a nightmare. My home, our priests and priestesses, everyone I knew and loved, gone. Killed. Set aflame.

  Impossible. Yet it was no dream. All through the night, I watched across the lapping water as crackling fires tore through our sacred groves, as the cries of the dying faded to whimpers and then disappeared into terrible silence—only to be replaced by the evil, unholy laughter of drunk Romans celebrating their slaughter.

  Dawn rose, and still I sat, hunched in my stolen boat pulled up on the mainland's rocky shore, weeping. The isle of Mona was a smoking ruin in the beautiful spring dawn—the sacred isle where Druids trained and prophecies came from the realm of the gods, where the people came from every tribe in this land for divine aid. Where all the Druids had joyfully gathered for spiritual replenishment after the celebrations of Beltane.

  The isle of Mona, my refuge, home to everyone I loved. Destroyed.

  And as I watched and wept over its ruin, three questions stabbed at my heart:

  Why was I spared?

  Why had the gods abandoned us?

  And most important: What do I do now?

  The elders of Mona had known the Romans were coming, of course. We all did. But it hadn’t been clear that they were coming for us. They’d been chasing small war bands of rebels—many of them from local Deceangli villages—and had trapped them against the coastline. And even though some of the exhausted, starved rebels had crossed the strait to take shelter with us, no one imagined that the legions would actually attack. Their presence was a show of intimidation, we thought. After all, we were defenseless, an isle filled with priests, priestesses, women, children, and anyone seeking sanctuary.

  When I first caught sight of the vast army, the enormity of it had taken my breath away. I had not known that many people existed in the world. When their general did not seek counsel with our high priest, we grew concerned. It began to dawn on us then—they’d come for us. So our elder priests and priestesses had begun chanting spells of protection to keep them from crossing the strait.

  “They pause!” one of the elders had cried. “Our magic is working!”

  We had chanted with even greater ferocity then. A strange exultation filled me, and I remembered thinking, I’ll chant so loudly my lovely Gara will hear me all the way back in the compound. She’ll be so proud of the strength of our combined magic. I imagined describing every detail to her.

  But suddenly the Romans roared in outrage. The entire army seemed to swell with a black hatred, like a giant bird of prey ruffling its feathers and spreading its wings wide enough to blot the sun.

  I hadn’t understood what had happened, what had changed. Then I saw bodies falling: some of the warriors who had sought sanctuary with us, men we’d protected, had dragged their prisoners—Roman soldiers they’d taken in a recent night attack—to the edge of the shore and had begun taking their heads.

  The elder priests cried out in alarm. The warriors’ impulsive actions had disrupted the magic. When the warrior closest to us drew back his sword to behead the last Roman, my elder had roared at him to stop. “You have angered the gods,” he cried out as Roman horns commanded attack. “We must get the magic back! We must earn the gods’ favor again!”

  To my shock, he dragged me up to the last Roman prisoner, a bulky, red-haired man. “Boy, you must sacrifice this Roman in the Old Ways. Quickly, the gods will not help us otherwise! Recite the sacred prayers and cut his throat!”

  I was sure I had not heard right. My elder must have gone mad! For a Druid to sacrifice a man was old and terrible magic. It was never to be called forth on a whim. To ignore the ancient rituals and prayers was nothing less than murder. And for me, it was forbidden. I was a Vates priest in training, prohibited from killing any living creature unless in the service of a council-sanctioned sacrifice to the gods. And this was no such thing! The priest had grabbed my sacrificial dagger from my belt and thrust it into my hands. I wouldn’t take it.

  “Do it!” he’d raged, his eyes wild. “Say the prayer and then slash his throat. It’s the only way to revive the magic that
will stop them crossing the strait!”

  I’d refused. He himself had made me take a vow upon my life to make sure I never performed such a sacrifice!

  Was that the moment the gods abandoned us? Was it all my fault?

  “You idiot coward!” my elder had bellowed. I had never seen my always-calm elder so hysterical. I’d backed away, tripping and falling on my backside. The red-haired Roman must have known what was about to happen to him, for he yelled insults at us, ending with what sounded like his name. Roscius.

  Then my elder had done the unspeakable. He grabbed a warrior’s long-sword, roared the forbidden secret words, and beheaded the Roman against all the rules of our sacred training.

  The man’s head had rolled to a stop at my feet, eyes and mouth still working. Everything afterward came in fractured images:

  The enemy’s boats surging up onto our beach. The screams. A helmeted Roman slitting the throat of our High Priest of All the Tribes, the holy one’s long white beard soaking up blood like a threadbare rag. Another cut down three barefoot children as easily as if flicking away flies.

  In the chaos, I’d run toward the compound, praying I could make it to Gara and keep her safe from the monsters.

  But Roman boots followed. They were everywhere. I hid in the shrubs. Screaming, screaming echoed everywhere. The air filled with the metallic tang of blood, the revolting stench of emptied bowels.

  I was running again. Something moved, kicked out, and I went flying. One of the invaders had come out of nowhere, gleaming like a demon of death, and stood over me, his gore-covered sword at my neck.