by E. Knight
Valeria stood for a moment, listening to her own harsh breaths rasping in and out. The tent was a pocket of stillness in all the commotion outside. Her hand wouldn't release the dagger. She stopped trying. She sat down on the ground all at once, looking at the blood splattered down her silks. Thrust, then twist. Never in her pampered, well-ordered life would Valeria of the Sulpicii have known how to tear a man's throat open. You told me that in another life I'd be wielding a blade, Duro . . .
She wondered if her captor was still alive at this moment. She wondered what her husband was doing at this moment, in his villa in Gaul with its rows of grapes and its tiny atrium, which wasn't so grand that a baby couldn't play naked in the center pool. That villa hovered in the air, the most beautiful place on earth to Valeria as she waited, bloody-handed and entirely ready to tear open another throat if necessary, to see if she would survive. Rome had won, and all she had to do now was survive the victory.
DURO
My queen lived. Her tribe was dead, her gods were dead, her dream was dead, but she was alive.
I found her near the valley's mouth, bare-armed and blood-streaked, a sword-slash down one arm and no trappings of a queen left. No chariot, no dream-caster, no bard. Only her daughters—Sorcha raging and shield-less, Keena with tear-tracks erasing her woad, and gods only knew how Boudica had managed to extricate her youngest daughter from the bloody chaos of the wagons. I could not find my son anywhere—I could only hope, agony splintering my soul, that he had died quickly. Around my queen and my princesses there was only a small band of surviving warriors, most of them wounded.
The slaughter had spread wide across the trampled field, the legendary discipline of the legions fading as the easy killing at the dam of wagons spread out. One or two of the wagons had overturned, and the Romans were rampaging past a hundred fortunes in spilled silver and gold toward the war band's temporary camp a mile or so distant, where the survivors of the battlefield were trying to flee. They were being cut down as they ran like sows in a butcher yard. That should have grieved me, but I had gone entirely numb with the death of my gods. What did these final, frantic death throes of mortal men matter? We were all dead and abandoned.
But when gods are dead, men still have oaths, and I had one oath left: the oath to my queen.
"The trees," I shouted, my voice hoarse with screaming. "Get the queen to safety!"
Our exhausted little band of survivors reversed from the fruitless fight at the valley's mouth, running in a crouch to escape scouting eyes. I could barely lift my sword; my bad leg dragged; my chest heaved like a river in spring floods. Spring—I would never see another spring. The year was ending, and so was I. I had no wound yet, unlike the whimpering young warrior whom I was hauling along by an arm missing its hand. I was not wounded at all, but then, Duro of the Iceni had always been lucky.
There were far fewer Romans at this end of the field, just scattered legionaries hurrying to join the slaughter at the wagons—but one unit spotted us, coming in red blurs. I limped forward tiredly, stabbing a Roman over the shield, thrust and twist. He gurgled and died as Boudica stepped in to my left and Sorcha to my right. Their blades flashed in terrible unison, and two Roman heads rolled, but three more of our few remaining warriors died before we could chop the remaining legionaries down. And my queen, I saw in a lurch of terror, was clutching her ribs.
"She's wounded," Sorcha shouted. "We need to get her off the field—"
"I will not flee," Boudica sawed out.
A muddy stumble of hooves sounded then. "Father!" My heart squeezed violently at the sight of my son on his mare; under the mask of gore and filth, he seemed unwounded. "To the rear of the battlefield, there's a way up the slope into the woods. Our best chance—" He led the way, slashing down another legionary, and we followed at a stumbling run, crouching low to avoid drawing Roman eyes. Keena fell with a cry; I slung her over one shoulder and kept running. I felt her weeping silently, her arms clinging to me as though she were still a child. "We're going to die," she hiccupped. "We're going to die—"
"You're going to live," I said, weeping myself. "I swear it."
Down to the tree line Andecarus led us, the rear of the field where Paulinus had first arrayed his battle lines. Not many Romans here now—a few were dispatching the wounded, but most had advanced to join in the slaughter of the fleeing war band. My son pointed straight up a rocky slope toward the wooded hills. "Through there and up into the woods. Legionaries will never be able to pursue in force; the trees are too thick—" He saw a riderless cavalry horse and veered his mare after it, leaning to snag the reins.
"I will not flee—" Boudica was shouting, but Sorcha shouted over her.
"They'll take you to Rome in chains like Caratacus, and as for us—" For her and Keena, it would be the centurions again, taking turns between their thighs. I could see the ghastly, shuddering horror of it in Sorcha's eyes, and her sister's as she slid down from my shoulder.
"Flee," I told my queen. "For them—flee. I'll buy you time." The slope into the woods was narrow, uneven, flanked by tumbles of rocks to each side. My eye had already assessed what could be done.
Boudica looked at me, at her daughters. She nodded.
It all took only seconds. At any moment, we might be spotted by scouts or scavenging legionaries. Andecarus swung off his mare, ordering the last of our wounded fighters back to head off any scavenging Romans who might draw near. Sorcha babbled at me: "Meet us in Luguvalium, we'll go to Venutius' lands. Or if we cannot get so far north, we'll go to the Cornovii, to my mother's sister—" I would not be meeting my queen or her daughters anywhere, not in this life, but I gave my lucky princess' bloodstained cheek a final rough caress and turned to Boudica. I met her eyes, and a heartbeat became a year. I saw the flame-haired bride in her wreath of ivy and lilies; I saw the woman sagging proud and unyielding against the whipping post as her back wept scarlet; I saw the goddess riding to war with a sword in her hand and a crown on her head. I saw them all in the woman before me, wounded and bloodied but still straight as a spear.
"We made Rome tremble," she said as I helped her lift Keena into the saddle of Andecarus' spare horse. "We shook an empire to its core, Duro."
"I would not trade this year of rebellion for all the peace in the world under Rome's boot," I said and took her in my arms. I felt the quick, fierce clasp of her embrace, and I whispered into her red hair. "Sing songs of our deaths, my queen."
"Songs to live a thousand years," she whispered back. And she swung into the saddle behind Keena and was gone.
I turned, dashing my tears away, and heard Roman voices. Our brief respite was done; I saw scouts shouting as the fleeing horse was spotted disappearing into the trees.
My son had already boosted Sorcha onto his big red mare. One fast squeeze of her bloodstained hand—those two who in another life might have married instead of losing their young dreams in this bitter, godless world—then Andecarus sent the mare cantering through the narrow defile after Boudica's. And I realized what he'd done.
"Go with them," I shouted, advancing on him as he turned back to me. "Damn you, go with them!"
"You have an oath to your lady, and I have an oath to mine." He nodded after Sorcha, his hazel eyes clear as a peat spring in his bloodstained face. "We need to buy them time." The narrow place between rockfalls, where pursuit into the woods led. Narrow enough for two swords to hold, at least for a while.
"The others will aid me—" But none of the other warriors had returned, either cut down fending off scouts or falling to their wounds or simply running to save themselves. There was no one left here but me and my son.
Rome was coming now, with terrible efficiency. I could see the shields approaching at a trot.
"Run," I begged Andecarus, and heard my voice break. "Run and live—"
"I'm already dead," my son said. "The dream is done, Father. Let's make an end to it."
Gods knew I wanted it to end! I was so tired. I w
as no longer afraid or raging or despairing. I was just tired. And the Romans were coming. They would always be coming. They are a breed that will cover the earth, civilizing as they go.
"Please," my son begged. "Let us end it."
I gripped Andecarus hard, cradling the back of his head as I'd done when he was a boy, and I kissed his hair. He hugged me back, and then we turned side by side in that narrow space and drew our swords.
"We will make an end to sing of," I said. "An end to make our names ring." For if the gods were dead and the world I loved gone forever, there was only one thing left—and that was to die well.
The Romans came for us. Let them come. They would not capture my queen to parade in chains through Rome—that I vowed, my last vow, and I felt a final pulse of that savage battle joy that made me feel young and invincible. A gift blown as a kiss from a dying god, perhaps, and I was grateful. I would not die a tired old man pissing my furs.
I would die a queen's champion.
Andecarus swept low and I swept high, and we killed the first two legionaries in two whistling strokes. We took an identical half step back from the thrashing bodies so the next Romans would have to advance over the corpses, caught each other's eye, and found ourselves smiling. How good it was, standing side by side with my son! Why had we let anything come between us? I could not remember.
The next legionaries came more cautiously, shields locked, but we sent their souls screaming. We were gods, the last warriors standing on this field, screaming for the Romans to come and die, and we piled them at our feet in that narrow path into the trees. Every corpse was another galloping stride as my queen and her daughters widened the gap toward safety. I took a sword slash to the shoulder and then the hip; Andecarus lost half the fingers of his left hand to a spear, but we felt no pain. We kept fighting. We piled dead Romans like cordwood, and still they kept coming.
My son died first. A gladius stroked into his neck and out again, taking his life in an eye-blink. He never even knew he was dead, his soul flying free before his graceful body could stiffen and then finally slump to the ground.
An eye-blink, and my son is gone.
I do not weep. I do not scream or cry out vengeance. I just cut down the Roman who slew him, and tread the man underfoot. Andecarus waits for me behind the curtain. I am only a few heartbeats from joining him.
I parry another gladius, and it deflects downward into my knee, slicing deep along the line of my old scar. I smile even as the agony lances in a white spear and the blood pours down. There will be no healing my knee this time—even Valeria's magic hands could not massage it well again. I wonder if she still lives. I hope she does.
More Romans come. A sword goes into my side, but I chop it out of the legionary's hands. I am still swinging, still on my feet, spitting blood. Boudica. I hope she and her daughters are far enough away. I have no more time to give them. Another blade bites at my shoulder, and this one I cannot strike away.
Dimly, I see a young tribune dismounting his horse, pushing through his men. Tall, sandy-haired. He looks grim-faced. He looks like my death.
I meet him grinning.
VALERIA
The ravens had come. Black swirls of them descending through the clouds, alighting for the feast.
The weasel-faced centurion at Valeria's side couldn't stop cursing, then blushing, then apologizing. From the moment he'd laid eyes on her in Duro's tent, he'd bawled to his men, "Stow your blades, you namby cunts, we've got a fucking lady present!" then looked abashed and begged her pardon.
"Quite all right." Valeria kept a careful eye on his men.
"No need to worry about them, Lady." The centurion saw her gaze. "Tribune Agricola may be a pretty boy, but he keeps his lads on a tight leash. They keep their fucking cocks to themselves or they know they'll lose 'em." Another blush. "Sorry, Lady—"
Agricola—Valeria knew that name, but couldn't remember where she’d heard it. She could hardly focus at all. The battle was done and the day dying; she was wilting from exhaustion and thirst, and blood had dried all down the front of her stola. She had killed a man—the weasel-faced centurion eyed the stiffening body rather uneasily, then looked at Valeria, who stretched her lips in a thin smile that he clearly found unsettling.
"He couldn't keep his fucking cock to himself," she explained, her voice coming out from very far away.
He blinked at her language several times, and his eyes flicked to her tattoo. Then back to the dead man. "Fuck him," the centurion said and led her to safety.
Governor Paulinus, it appeared, was already throwing up a camp to house his legions. Valeria could have wept at the sight of sturdy palisades going up with typical Roman efficiency, huts being erected and campfires lit . . . But ravens circled over everything, black wings against a bloody sunset, and she could neither laugh nor weep. She could not see the battlefield where so many Iceni had perished, either, but she could smell the corpses.
"Sulpicia Valeria." A tribune rose from his slates as she entered his tent, bowing as though they stood in a civilized atrium. "I could not believe Naso when he said he had found you—thank you, Centurion."
"She's a fuc—a lucky one," the centurion said, blushing as he exited. "Sorry, Lady."
Valeria could not stop looking around the tent. So orderly. That clean-burning lamp, so Roman. Wax tablets, because people here knew how to write. A row of small busts—the tribune's ancestors, not the skulls of his enemies. "Thank you, Tribune," she managed to say.
"You are welcome, Lady. Let me assure you that your husband's conduct in Britannia does not reflect ill upon you. Governor Paulinus will be glad to make you his guest and see you escorted back to civilization with all haste."
The tribune under his surface formality was grainy-eyed and wilting, his left arm bound in a sling—and Valeria realized with a start that she knew him. "Gnaeus Julius Agricola," she said slowly. The boy with the gleaming teeth and the gleaming muscles who had flirted with her almost a year ago before the funeral of Boudica's husband. Valeria could barely recognize that boy in this exhausted young officer.
He was looking at her, too, as though she had changed beyond all measure. She saw his eyes find the tattoo. Avoiding his gaze, her eyes fell on something that made her entire body go numb. A sword hanging from his belt, not a Roman spatha or gladius, but an Iceni long-sword decorated with fire-red enamel and bronze. A rare and famous blade in these parts. She had seen that blade every day when Duro ducked into the tent and unbuckled his sword belt.
She pointed at it, asking quietly, "Where did you get that, Tribune?"
"From a tribesman I killed. The man who broke my arm." Agricola touched the sword with his good hand. "It seemed too beautiful a piece to leave in the mud. Their art is striking, isn't it? All curves, like the Greeks . . . Not much like our square Roman corners."
"No." So her captor was dead, then. Valeria had expected no less. She touched her belly and did not know what she felt. Not sorry. Not glad, either. She simply did not know.
"Did you find the queen?" she asked, still numb. "Boudica?"
"She has fled with her daughters. Governor Paulinus is confident he will recover them."
Valeria was not sure how to feel about that, either.
Agricola was pouring wine, saying something about the battle. ". . . Casualty reports still being compiled, but early numbers estimate close to eighty thousand Iceni dead . . ."
Eighty thousand. Eighty. She took the wine gratefully. Watered, as it should be. She could cry for all the civilization lapping softly around her. Or just cry for crying's sake. "Roman casualties?"
"Perhaps half our force." Agricola sounded cynical. "Doubtless the number will be downplayed in the report to Rome."
Doubtless everything about this day would be downplayed in the report to Rome. Who wanted truth? Boudica was defeated; that was all anyone would want to know.
Agricola was saying something about the Second Augusta now, the legion that h
ad apparently failed to march and join them in the fight. Giving Valeria time, she understood, to collect her visibly shattered thoughts. "Paulinus is already demanding Prefect Postumus' head on a spike. He'll probably end up falling on his sword."
Valeria downed her wine in one swallow. "When did that ever solve anything?"
Agricola blinked. "Honor demands it."
"You don't look terribly convinced," Valeria said. "May I have some more wine, please? Don't bother watering it."
Agricola filled her cup again, sandy hair shining in the lamplight. He had greenish eyes, like Duro's son. Had Andecarus died too? The boy who had joined her household as hostage. Would her husband consent to raising another child of Duro's getting?
"Lady," the tribune said gently. "Where do you wish to go?"
Valeria drew a shuddering breath. To be offered a choice! To not be a slave anymore; to have a decision about anything at all . . . "Gaul," she said. "My husband has a villa north of Narbo."
Agricola looked surprised. "I heard you had requested divorce from Catus Decianus. At Londinium."
She sipped more wine. "We did not part well, but there was no official divorce." If only because there was no time.
"Still, Lady—do not feel you must return to him. His mishandling began the revolt, and then to leave his wife to the tender mercies of barbarians?" Agricola's face hardened. "Throughout the empire, he is in disgrace."
"So am I, Tribune. Or I will be. The woman who became a barbarian's whore rather than die like a Roman." Valeria's hand touched her waist again, unthinkingly, and Agricola's quick glance told her he had not misunderstood the gesture. She braced herself for disdain, but he just swirled his wine cup in his hand.
"Will your husband take you back? And your . . ." he tactfully trailed off. "I knew a man who killed his wife when her belly swelled with my—with another's get," he said quietly. "Prefect Postumus of the Second Augusta, actually. The man has been a wreck ever since; no wonder he could not stir himself to join the fight."