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

by E. Knight

  Layers here, and more layers. Valeria poured Agricola more wine this time and did not water it, either. "Whatever his other failings, my husband is the last man in the empire to slay a woman for dishonor." That she knew in her bones. Decianus might not want her back; he might decide to divorce her. But that did not matter. "I go to him because I owe him. I owe him . . . so many words."

  That she was sorry she had ever urged death before dishonor. That she was sorry she had not fled with him from Londinium. That she was sorry she had ever turned up her nose at his dream of a quiet life in Gaul. That she was sorry she had not borne him a child . . . but that there was another for the taking, if he wanted.

  Then, it was up to him.

  She drank again. "We could be small and peaceful in our mutual disgrace, I think."

  "There will be no disgrace for you, Sulpicia Valeria," Agricola said. "Not in any public report or official word from me. You were a captive. The fate of captured women is well known. You carried yourself with all the honor a Roman woman could, and so I will inform your husband or anyone else who thinks otherwise."

  She looked up at him: the thoughtless young flirt turned kind and capable officer. "Thank you." How he had changed. Britannia seemingly had the power to change every Roman who came to its shores.

  He touched her shoulder. "This land has drunk a sea of guilt, shame, and blood, Lady. You owe it nothing more."

  "I will dream of it forever," Valeria heard herself say. The land it was, and the land it might have been had Boudica's army been the one to prevail. Her child would have been a warrior in that world; a lime-washed savage smelling of wood smoke and sheep fat and sword oil. Now if he was a boy, he would be a legionary commander. Probably a very good one.

  "It is a great deal to ask, Tribune." She pointed at Duro's sword. "But may I buy that blade from you?"

  Agricola met her eyes and she saw the question hovering. She raised her eyebrows, commanding silence, and evidently the gesture hadn't lost its imperiousness because he took the blade from his belt and offered it at once.

  "My gift to you." He surrendered the hilt to her hand. "I believe you have a warrior's soul, Lady."

  "Thank you, Tribune." She felt the cold, dead weight of the iron in her fist. "You are not the first man to tell me so."

  Valeria of the Sulpicii had survived the rebellion, and she might be Roman to the core, but she understood now why the Iceni took trophies. Reminders of those they had fought and those they had lost, those they had conquered and those who had conquered them. Duro's sword would hang in her villa in Gaul, that Valeria swore.

  Better than a line of skulls.

  PART SEVEN

  “All the ruin was brought upon the Romans by a woman, a fact which in itself caused them the greatest shame.”

  —Dio Cassius

  THE DAUGHTERS

  E. Knight

  KEENA

  M

  y name means brave.

  However, I was anything but, and I knew it.

  “You have everything to fear of this world, Daughters,” my mother said as we hunched by the river, miles from the battlefield, our lathered horses greedily drinking up the offered water. The waning light of the setting sun surrounded us, and the cold was bitter. Tall grasses stirred in the breeze, batting wearily at my shoulders while only the occasional glimmer of light broke the sullen darkness of the waters, rippling when Mother dipped her hands into the depths. She cupped her hands, pulling the icy liquid to wash the blood from her face.

  I never thought victory was possible. All through the thirteen years since my birth, our people had struggled against Roman edicts. No swords. No way to protect ourselves but to rely on the Romans. Thank the gods our hunters were good with arrows and slingshots. And thank the gods as well for mother’s insight, that she continued with our tribe’s secret training and hoarding of weapons—had she not, we might have perished a year ago. No, I never thought victory possible. But I know our defeat for a certainty now.

  Our people had been slaughtered. And Mother was injured, cut deep in a place I’d seen kill warriors slowly. A wound I’d tended on many in the last year, in the healing tents where I'd honed my skills.

  “What have I to fear?” My sister, Sorcha, said, her voice haughty as it often was when she was scared. She tugged her lean-muscled shoulders back, oblivious to the muck that still marred her skin from battle, now covered in a crust of dirt and sweat from our frenzied ride away from the field. Lost now. Everything and everyone lost. The Iceni, all shadows of the past . . . except for us. “We will hide in the mists. Raise a new army. We will come back at the Romans harder than before. We will make them live in fear.”

  Mother looked at Sorcha as if wanting to believe her, but when she turned to me, her expression was guarded. “Yes. Perhaps you’re right. We need to keep running.”

  We had been running since the battle's end yesterday, only stopping briefly to rest as night fell and continuing on as a blood-red dawn rose. Now another night was falling, and Sorcha had come up with a plan, a haphazard one. We would seek refuge and assistance in the north with Venutius, the estranged husband of Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes. Since he didn’t support the Romans, he was the most likely ally we’d be able to find at a safe distance from the battlefield. At the very least, he could keep us hidden from Rome until mother was healed.

  Mother attempted to mount her borrowed horse, refusing Sorcha’s help at first, though it was painfully obvious she needed the assistance.

  “Mother,” I said softly, touching her shoulder.

  A shuddering sigh of defeat escaped her. Not another word was exchanged, but she allowed both Sorcha and myself to lift her mighty body up onto the saddle. Sorcha mounted the prized mare of one of our warriors—that warrior was likely dead now. Andecarus was his name, and I heard Sorcha whisper it to the horse.

  With a deep sigh, I climbed onto the saddle behind my mother. We had but two horses, and with the both of us sharing this one while Sorcha rode the other, it made the journey slower.

  My muscles were sore. My head was heavy. My sister, strong and determined, sat tall before us. As the horse walked, every sway of my body jarred the aches in my bones. It was worse for my mother, who leaned over the withers of our mount. I gripped the reins around her middle when the leather slipped from her fingers. I had insisted on riding behind Mother; told her that as a brave fighter, I would take up the rear guard—but it wasn’t bravery. I was too afraid to be in the front with Sorcha. Too afraid that Sorcha would sense my fear that we had reached the end and call me a coward for thinking it.

  Sorcha . . . My older sister was the most capable girl I’d ever met. Even before we’d both grown breasts, she was always the leader. Like Mother.

  I'd hoped that I would become a warrior, too, since my father was one, and I looked like him. But I could barely cut a hunk of venison, let alone cut an enemy with a sword. My only skill seemed to be for the healing arts—at best, I'd make a budding priestess. Sorcha, now—she was a master with a blade.

  And I’d sometimes hated her for it.

  Hated Sorcha for being so bold in mind and spirit. Hated her because Father doted on her and Mother admired her. Hated her because our fiercest Iceni warrior, Duro, loved her and trained her. Hated her for being the shining beacon light of our tribe. Even before I was born, Sorcha was the favored child. The one who’d been saved by the goddess Andraste. Lifted up from the depths of death to bring good fortune to our tribe. What good fortune that was, I’d yet to find out. To me she was hotheaded, spoiled, self-centered . . .

  Well, I could go on forever about the various reasons I resented my sister, but the fact was, I resented her most for being what I wanted to be. And I admired and loved her for it, too.

  Sorcha . . . The strongest girl in all the tribes. When the bastard Roman soldiers tore through our bodies with their thrusting and their jeers, I had died inside. Had not wanted to move afterward. But Sorcha shove
d down her tunic, ignoring the mix of blood and seed dripping down her thighs, and walked away with renewed fury.

  Meanwhile, I had lain like one dead until Duro lifted me high in his strong arms—but even raised up high, my shame sank me low.

  “Faster, Keena,” Mother gasped, bringing me back to the present.

  Even from where I perched on the back of the horse, I could see blood seeped from the bandage wrapped around her waist, staining the dirty linen a dark maroon-brown. The warmth of it soaked into the sleeves of my gown.

  She was barking orders at me that I was fairly certain were meant for herself. Hurry . . . Do not fall . . . You’re making too much noise. The fast-fading sun gave the undulating hills an eerie gray glow. The forest, filled with the thick trunks of oaks and the wild needles of the pine trees, had given us coverage as we fled the battlefield, but forest had given way to farmlands, meandering rivers, and rising knolls. There was no cover but long grass, browned and trampled in some spots and wavering knee-length in others. We were exposed.

  Where we might find sanctuary, I did not know. Where we might find a place in the world to escape the Romans, I could not fathom.

  Still, Sorcha rode with her sword at the ready for any lurking enemy, sweat glistening on her exposed arms, ready to slice into anyone who leapt from the grass. Mother's sword drooped along the horse's side, but she stubbornly refused to tuck it back in the scabbard at her hip. I held tight to the reins, white-fisted, my dagger tucked into my belt, certain it would do no good.

  The Romans had beaten us. But they had already beaten me a year ago.

  I still felt the echoes of their assault on my body. I still dreamed of the vile liquid I helped concoct, the liquid that the birthing women slipped down my throat so that I would not bear a Roman child.

  The agony and despair of bleeding out a baby I did not want, nor wished to exterminate. Knowing all the while that it did not matter, for whether I bore the child or not, everyone knew what had been done to me. The Romans took away from me any value I might hold and instead filled me with shame.

  So why bother to keep running from them? I was not built for this. I rarely rode. I rarely fought. My lungs burned from the exertion. Perhaps if I stopped now, just fell off the horse and laid down on the ground here, I could convince my sister to leave me to the wolves—be they animal or human. I would gladly give up. Gladly surrender to darkness.

  Let the ravens pluck out my eyes so I no longer had to see the world for what it had become. The Romans had annihilated us. Our entire tribe . . . gone. We had nothing. No one. Why was I the only one who seemed to see that?

  Abruptly, our horse lurched, the sound of cracking bone mingled with the animal’s scream of agony. And then we were falling. I clutched my mother as we thudded to the ground hard, my entire body jarring, and a sharp sting throbbing from my toes all the way to the hair on my head. Mother’s cry of pain echoed in my ears. I scrambled up, lucky to not have been pinned by the horse’s weight.

  But Mother was not so fortunate.

  “What in the . . .” Sorcha wheeled her mount around and leapt to the ground. “Mother!”

  My mother lay in a heap, her leg trapped beneath the keening animal, its own leg at an odd angle in a deep rut in the ground. The great queen bent forward, gripping her leg, her long plaited hair falling over her shoulders and touching the ground. She pressed her hands to her knee and coughed, gagged, like she was going to retch.

  Sorcha approached the fallen animal, sword drawn, and quickly sliced its throat. “Help me, Keena.”

  I nodded. “How?”

  “I’ll push the dead horse,” Sorcha said. “You tug mother from beneath it.” Mother was more than a foot taller than me and twice my weight in muscle. But I had to try, even if I thought us all doomed.

  “Go on,” my mother said, panting in pain. “Go on without me. There is no time to waste. The Romans are hunting us. You must get away.”

  But Sorcha would not have it. “We . . . cannot . . . leave . . . you.” Sorcha spoke between grunts and bursts as she heaved at the horse’s body. I gaped at her strength even as I gripped Mother's elbows so tight my knuckles turned white. She gripped me back, both of us trying to match Sorcha's ferocious energy.

  Little by little, the horse’s body moved, and I tried to tug my mother free. She gritted her teeth with every heave. Sweat trickled over our brows, and the sun sank below the heath, but at last she slid free.

  I fell backward from the force of my last tug, landing hard on my rear, the impact reverberating up my spine.

  “Mother,” I whispered crawling on all fours toward her, heedless of the rocks and other things piercing my knees and palms.

  She glanced up at me, pain etched around her eyes, but a small smile of encouragement touched her lips. Even now, felled by a horse, she tried to give me some hope.

  Seeing that our mother had been freed, Sorcha wiped blood and sweat from her brow. “Let’s go. Mother, you ride the remaining horse; Keena and I will walk.”

  Walk? Dear Andraste, how? I’d not thought it possible for us to get far enough north on horseback, and now we would have to do so on foot?

  All I wanted to do was curl up in my mother’s embrace and wish away this moment and all the ones preceding it in the last year.

  “Make haste,” Sorcha said, still refusing to look at me. “We will be slow as it is, and the Romans are certain to chase after us the moment they are sure Mother is not amongst the dead or the captured. They’ll find this dead horse and have an even better idea we are close.” She searched the horse, tugging from it anything we might be able to use. The sacks tied to the saddle, the blanket, the saddle itself. “I said hurry! I told Duro we would meet him at Luguvalium. We cannot disappoint him.”

  “Duro is dead,” I snapped, though it hurt me to say his name. Mother’s right-hand man—he'd been a pillar throughout all my life. “We are all dead.”

  My sister did look at me then, her teeth bared. “Duro is a strong warrior. He could have made it.”

  I noticed her eyes darted to Mother when she said it. Did my sister aim to keep hope alive for Mother, that Duro might have lived? Because as we’d fled into the woods and away from the battlefield, I’d seen him going back to face the Romans all but alone, buying time for us with his sword. He could not have survived. He'd had no intention of surviving. And if our fiercest warrior had not survived, then none of the Iceni had survived. Surely Sorcha knew that.

  “We will not make it to Luguvalium or Venutius' lands. He’s too far,” I said, challenging my sister. I thought it a bad plan and now somehow had the courage to say so. “We have to pass through enemy lands to get there.” Where Roman forts stood tall along well-trodden Roman roads; if we were lucky to pass by unnoticed—a miracle—then we’d still have Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes to deal with. And she was a friend of the Romans. “The risk is too great.”

  Sorcha visibly gritted her teeth, and I half hoped she would use the shining sword at her hip to strike me down. “What other choice do we have?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest we give up, but I kept silent.

  With a shake of her head, Sorcha turned to my mother. “Mother, do you want to rest or keep going?”

  “We keep going.” Holding her wounded side with one hand, our mother half crawled, half heaved herself up to standing, her gaze warning us both to stand back. All of the blood drained from her face. Her teeth chattered in the cold. Ignoring all protests, Sorcha rushed forward, lifting Mother’s arm over her shoulder to hold her up.

  We all scanned the horizon then. I wasn’t sure what we could hope to spot. Duro riding a stolen, frothing horse? Father risen from the grave? The Roman Emperor Nero himself giving the Iceni a pardon? Or at least, what was left of the Iceni . . . just we three.

  “If we cannot go north, then go west. To the Cornovii, to my sister. They will help us—” Mother winced in pain as she straightened.

  M
y mouth fell open at the name. Sorcha had gone to visit the Cornovii, asking them to join in the rebellion, but a vote against rising up ended with their refusal. The saddest part was that my mother’s sister begged and pleaded with her people to say yes. She wanted to join her sister in the rebellion. “Mother, surely you remember . . . her people were against joining the rebellion, and their lands are occupied by Romans.”

  Mother shook her head, the effort of it making her waver on her feet. “I’ve had word from my scouts. The Romans left to join Governor Paulinus and his legions weeks ago.” Mother took the lead, hobbling toward the only horse we had left, Sorcha helping her.

  For a moment, I thought to remain rooted in place. Let them go without me. For they were courageous and strong, and I was cowardly and weak. Then fear of being alone overcame my fear of everything else, and I hurried to join them.

  We walked another hour or more before spotting smoke curling into the sky, perhaps a mile from where we stood. A village, maybe. “There,” Mother said. “It is not my sister’s home, but we’ll seek shelter there.”

  “They will know who we are,” I protested. How could they not? Mother was well known in all the land, even before the great uprising. There were not many who looked like her. A warrior queen with long, fiery-colored hair, standing a height that topped most men. Even if she tried to disguise herself, her eyes would give her away. Fierce, blue fire-filled eyes.

  Sorcha closed the distance between us, so close her breath fanned my face. “What other choice do we have? Stop nay-saying unless you have a better idea! Mother needs a healer better than you. Now.”

  I nodded, knowing she was right. “Let us seek the solace of their fire.”

  Even if it meant the embrace of the gods. The satiety of Andraste come to claim us at last.