by E. Knight
"You sound like a Roman," Valeria cut him off.
Duro blinked, still half enthralled by his past paradise. "What?"
"A Roman," Valeria repeated, and there was a wild urge inside her to laugh. "You know how many old men in Rome I've had to listen to go on and on about the goodness and purity of the Way Things Were? How life was simple and beautiful when they had a Republic, and apparently everyone lived together in peace, and there was no murder or disease or flies in the summertime? Rome wasn't a paradise under the Republic, and I'm fairly certain Britannia wasn't either before the Romans."
Anger was falling over her captor's face like stone. "I lived it. I was here, I remember it, and I remember how you bastards ruined it."
"Yes, you Iceni were such paragons." Valeria heard her own voice rising, but she couldn't stop the words from flowing. How good it felt to stop biting her tongue. Hot rage boiled up her throat and into words, and she let it all out at her captor, even as she knew how unwise that was. Unlike Decianus, at least Duro would dish it back. What a pleasure there was in that. What sweet release. "How are the Romans worse than the Iceni, barbarian? We brought you buildings that didn't need to be patched with rotting straw, and you're burning them down. Brought you roads that didn't wash away with every spring storm, and you're tearing them up. Brought you gods who didn't demand the throttling of grown men for sacrifices—"
"We asked for none of that."
"You're still using it! Our tools and our wells and our wine, you're certainly not throwing them out the window as you're telling us to be gone—"
"Keep your tools and your wine." Duro vaulted up in one swift motion, advancing on her. "All we ever wished was to be left alone."
"No, you didn't!" Valeria retreated out of reach of his fists but jutted her chin to let him know she wasn't backing down. "Your pure, good world, what did you tribesmen do with it? Go to war every year over the same nine cattle and the same grazing lands, and you couldn't even do that right! Because you called in Rome to help you slaughter your own fellow tribesmen more efficiently!"
"Yes, and you're all about efficiency, aren't you? All efficiency and no soul. I'm sure your Governor Paulinus was very efficient when he murdered our Druids. Cutting down our holy men and their sacred trees, razing them to the last child—"
"Oh, you want to count dead children? Let's start in Londinium! Verulamium! Camulodunum! How many dead children there?" Valeria saw Duro's arm rising and ducked backward, around the bed of furs. "How many people burning inside their houses? How many women raped?"
"Like your Roman soldiers raped my queen's daughters?" Duro snarled. "Taking Sorcha on a storehouse floor because she tried to stop her mother's flogging. Three of them mounting Keena like a bitch-hound, her no more than a child—don't you dare close your eyes and shudder, Roman," he shouted, seeing Valeria's recoil as the terrible image rose stark in her mind. "It was on your husband's orders, so don't pretend—"
"It was not!" Catus Decianus, who had always longed for children of his own, would never have ordered Queen Boudica's daughters harmed. Never. "He didn't order that. If he'd been there, he would have stopped it! Which is more than I can say for you—your precious foster son raped anything that moved, girl or boy or goat, and you never—"
Duro swung at her with a closed fist, but Valeria saw it coming and shielded her head with her arm. The blow still stung fiercely. She lowered her arm and spat between his feet.
"Savages," she said, voice shaking with fury, and swore for the first time in her life. "You, your people, your precious queen. You are all. Fucking. Savages."
Duro caught her by the throat, wrapping his huge hand about her neck and yanking her up against him. Valeria was still too angry for fear, every pulse another beat of pure hatred. She stared into his eyes, unblinking. She'd be damned if she showed even a twitch of fright.
"You're all fucking savages, too." His voice sank to a whisper. "You dress it up in marble and parchment and law, but you're as much barbarians as we are. You set your slaves to die in arenas for amusement, and you haul our people away in chains to mine your silver. You take what we have if you decide you want it, and then you're surprised when we object. You're no more civilized than I am, you Roman cow. You just have more marble and parchment and law."
"At least we leave something behind us," Valeria hissed around the iron grip of his fingers. "We leave the world laws and running water and order. What does your savagery give the world except burning cities and dead children?"
Duro flung her away from him. Valeria staggered and managed not to fall. They were both breathing hard, as though they'd sprinted a mile. Valeria still felt no fear, only rage.
"I could kill you and mount your head on a spike," Duro said. "You soft-handed, poison-tongued, yellow-spined bitch. But I want you alive to see my queen kill every legionary in these lands. I want you to look at the field of the dead, knowing that you're going to live the rest of your life a slave in my hut."
"And how will you live in that perfect new world you think you can create out of an ocean of blood?" Valeria spat back. "You'd still end your life dribbling and pissing in your furs, alone in your mud hovel, because your son hates you and you'll have outlived every other purpose you ever had."
That hit him hard—she could see it. She pressed forward with soft venom, going for the kill. "But that won't happen, Duro of the Iceni. I'm going to see your body on the battlefield when the Romans win—and the sight will give me nothing but pleasure."
He reached out and took her face between his huge hands, and Valeria wondered if he was going to twist her head clean off. Die brave, she thought with the first shiver of terror spiking her fury. Die brave. But he leaned down, putting his eyes level with hers, and he smiled. "What happens to you, if Rome wins?" he whispered. "Your people will despise you as a leg-spreading cunt. For the rest of your life, you'll be known as the woman who flopped on her back and played whore for a barbarian rather than fall on a blade."
That stabbed Valeria in her gut, but she didn't let him see it. She just stared into his eyes, so close to hers.
His smile deepened. "Played the whore with great enthusiasm, I might add."
She tore free from his hands. Duro picked up his sword and stormed out of the tent.
DURO
It was another turn of the moon before we drew close to Governor Paulinus and his legions—the war band moved slowly, and the Roman advance down the stone road was not quick, either. I was reining my chariot behind my queen's, watching the flutter of her red hair on the wind that had turned cold with the coming of winter, when the scouts came racing up. "Legions," the man said, his grin wolfish. "Just two days ahead—" and the cheers went up.
My son, riding out on a borrowed pony, made the best analysis of the ground when the queen ordered more scouts to report on the field where Paulinus had dug in. "A valley," he said. "A broad plain on approach, slanting to a narrower defile into the gorge."
I grinned. Nothing better than a wide plain for a charge, and gods, I loved a good charge! The howl of the carnyx blast, the surge of the chariot below, the pump of blood through the veins—there was nothing like it in this world or the next. I glanced at Boudica—her face wore the shield-like impassivity she donned when surrounded by chiefs. "The flanking ground?" she asked.
"Thick woods to the rear," Andecarus said. "We can't flank the Romans—the legions are already dug in, facing the defile. The ground isn't to our advantage."
My son looked exhausted, dark circles under his hazel eyes. I wanted to scold him to find a girl, take a drink, get some sleep, but you can't be soft with sons. My father beat that into me early, so I growled, "Don't be such a damned doom-crier. We've got ten times the men; that makes up for a narrow defile."
"Not if we can't spread out," Andecarus flared back, but the queen's dream-caster spoke, waving his feather-and-bone staff, and then the rest of the chiefs weighed in. Boudica listened, her lean, callused fingers drummin
g on the arm of her chair, then silenced us all. She had to glare at the old bag of bones with the amber bead in his beard who tried to keep droning from his place beside the dream-caster.
"We've no time to wait Paulinus out if he's dug in," she said, and I knew she was thinking of our narrowing stores. We had taken much plunder, but a vast war band took a huge amount of food—and the Iceni had planted few crops this year, so we would need most of that plundered food to get us through winter. "We march on the Romans in two days."
Two days. In two sunsets, the last Roman army of worthy size on this island would all be dead or fleeing. I felt the wings of hope brush the inside of my throat at the thought. A quick, brutal slaughter; back to our own lands to fortify for the winter and plan our spring defenses; reinforcements called to defend the shores if the faraway emperor decided to send more legions . . .
The next day was a storm of preparation—I walked through the war band, pulling quarreling warriors apart and giving orders. Getting back to my own tent, I was surprised to see a fight had broken out, with Valeria's neat black head in the middle of it. She had my war spear in her hands, jabbing alternately between the two men circling her.
"Put the Roman bitch on her knees," a warrior with a blond plait was calling out to his stocky friend in the red cloak. "I've got something she can suck on—"
"Anything you put between my teeth is something you're going to lose." She fetched Red Cloak a thwack with the butt of my spear, her hair coming down and her cheeks scarlet with rage.
I was half tempted to stand back and see just how much damage she could inflict on those two numbskulls, but I didn't take kindly when young puppies infringed on what was mine. I grabbed the first warrior by his blond plait and slung him to the ground. "Why don't you and your friend scamper home to your mothers?"
"You should share her out," Red Cloak muttered with another look at the spear in Valeria's hands. "Let us all have a poke—"
I put a boot to his hip and sent him stumbling after Blond Plait, who had staggered up from the ground with mud on his fine tunic. "Go poke a sow, pup. Maybe she'll be impressed enough to give you a squeal."
The two fled, Valeria helping Blond Plait along with one last spear jab to his calf. "Bastards," she spat, and I couldn't help a sour grin. That night she'd called me a fucking savage had apparently opened her gates as far as swearing was concerned. The procurator's prim wife now cursed like Princess Sorcha.
"If they come around again, use this." I offered a bone-handled dagger from my belt. "Easier than a spear. Just put it straight through a man's throat."
"I will do no such thing," she sniffed.
"Yes, you will. You're a savage bitch, no matter how much you pluck your brows and turn your nose up at the smell of mead." I slapped the carved hilt into her hand. "Thrust hard into the throat, then twist to free the blade against the suction of the wound."
"You're giving me a weapon?" She eyed me coolly. "Aren't you afraid I'll use it on you?"
"Not really." A resourceful slave could always find a blade in a camp this big—if she'd wanted to stab me, she'd have found a weapon before now. No, she was still laying her bets on the Romans winning and coming to her rescue; much less dangerous than trying to kill the queen's right-hand man. I nodded at the dagger, demonstrating the move again. "So—thrust, then twist."
Valeria handled the dagger as though it were a dead rat, but she still tucked it into her belt.
"Good," I approved. "Walk with me." My knee was paining me, and I felt too restless to settle for the night—a woman was better than a crutch. A crutch said weakness, and I wasn't having anyone whispering that the queen's champion was weak, not two days before battle.
Valeria's nostrils flared, but she came to my side and let me lay an arm about her small shoulders. "Where are we going?"
"Looking for a horse."
She was silent as we moved through the throng of tents and dogs, slaves and warriors. We'd maintained a fierce, hostile silence since the quarrel a month ago when she called my queen a savage. She couldn't maintain her silence now for more than a moment, though. "So you took my advice."
"About finding my son's mare for him? Yes." Didn't think I'd find the beast, though. Looking for one mare in a camp of well over a hundred thousand people was like searching for a drop of conscience in a Roman soul.
"Don't you have weapons to sharpen?" Valeria steadied my gait, her arm firm at my waist. "You'll be fighting in two days, I heard."
"We'll be winning in two days, you mean."
"Well, one of us will be winning."
I smiled down at her in the twilight, and I showed every tooth in my head. "Don't."
She arched those eyebrows but let it lie as we walked on through the tents. It was cold now—autumn in our lands was short, sometimes just a matter of weeks before fading into winter. Soon there would be snow. "Why bother teaching me how to stab a man?" she asked at last.
"It's a skill every woman should know," I grunted. My knee hurt, and I still hadn't caught sight of that damned red mare.
"I can make conversation with anyone from a potter to an emperor and run a house full of slaves as smoothly as any legate runs a legion. Those are skills worth knowing, not knife skills. Thank you," she added, as though the words had been wrenched out between her teeth, "for running off those two bastards."
"Are you getting soft, Roman?"
"Oh, get back to your tent, you thick-headed barbarian, and let me at that knee before you walk it to pieces."
I grinned. She had the old hostile glint in her eye, the glint that said she still might decide to stab me with the dagger I'd given her, and I liked it better than stony silence. I still didn't like her, and she didn't like me, but we had prickly peace again. And I still didn't know why I put up with this from a gods-damned slave.
One day. One more day, and the world would be new.
I always hated the night before battle. A hundred things to do, yet there is never enough to fill the night. The sword has been sharpened; the shield's hides have been oiled; the chariot's wheels have been checked and checked again; the harness is ready and the ponies are fed—when all that is done, what do you do?
Many of the chiefs tonight would drink. I did when I was young, but I'd lost my taste for launching a screaming charge with a skull-pounding hangover. Many chiefs would lose themselves in women, and I tried that, tumbling Valeria between the furs until we were both exhausted and sweat-drenched. As she drifted into sleep afterward, I stared up into the darkness of my tent. Tomorrow we would put an end to the Roman scourge—there would be no sleep with such thoughts churning through my head. I rose, pulling a tunic over my head, and padded into the darkness to find my queen.
"I knew you wouldn't be sleeping, old man." Boudica smiled as the guards let me into her tent. She sat in the glow of the lamps, alone for once, sharpening her sword. She was already dressed for the next day's battle in a green tunic that left her back bare, showing her whip scars. A reminder to her warriors tomorrow of what she had borne for our sake.
"Who are you calling old?" I sat beside her, reaching for a whetstone. My sword's edge needed no attention, but every warrior sharpens compulsively the night before battle. "You're no fresh-eyed maiden yourself, my queen."
"Thank Andraste for that! My poor Sorcha has been stalking back and forth all evening like a twitchy cat, driving me mad. I finally told her to busy herself somewhere else if she couldn't sleep."
"She should find a boy to kiss for a few hours." I hoped she found my son, who was as gentle with girls as with horses. Sorcha deserved to learn that not all men were leg-spreading brutes.
"I doubt she'll spend the night kissing. Brooding on vengeance, more likely." Boudica looked at me, somber. "Is this war worth it, Duro—what was done to my daughters?"
I paused, looking at her. Since we were alone, I nudged the mass of red hair off her back and traced her scars with a fingertip. I felt the knotted edges made by t
he lash, and rage curdled my stomach as I heard the whip crack again in my mind. "Is it worth the wounds done to you?" I'd known she meant to bait the procurator into some show of disrespect that day—she had prepared me, telling me I must stand by and let the insults to her pass without drawing my sword. Neither of us had dreamed insults would mount to flogging, not when the procurator was known as such a mild man, but Boudica's eyes had found me as they stripped her for the lash and told me silently to continue standing down. That had not made it any less hard, standing by as the centurions striped her white back scarlet. I'd wept like a child, watching my queen sag against the whipping post.
Boudica shrugged brusquely. "Of course it was worth the wounds done to me. I am queen—Cartimandua once told me that she was the bride of the Brigantes, and she was right in that, even if she does suck the Roman teat for peace. I am the bride of the Iceni, and this body belongs to my tribe. I'd take every lash twice over, and every Roman who thrust himself into Sorcha and Keena. But that was my bargain, Duro—not theirs. And I never thought . . ." She shook her head, unable to say the rest.
“Done is done.” I let my hand fall away from her scarred back. "We can only go forward."
Boudica resumed her stroke with the whetstone. "Let's marry Sorcha to your son once the war is over. She loved him once; she can again. I want grandchildren. Can you see me bouncing babies on my knee?"
"Like I bounced Sorcha and Keena on mine?" I smiled a little. "I used to pretend they were my daughters."
A little silence at that. Boudica gave me a slanted smile.
I tilted a shoulder. "I always wanted girls."
That was only part of it, and my queen knew it. Since I saw her in her bridal wreath marrying my king, I'd loved her—how could I not? The red-haired girl with the flower wreath crammed over her springing hair, and this steady-eyed woman with her proud whip-marks—I loved them both, over all other women. I always would. It did not trouble me or her.