by Jan Surasky
Venutius paused. "I often wish that we could have stood against the Romans," he continued, "then have turned to do their bidding."
Cartimandua's sloe-green eyes began to narrow. "Venutius," she returned, "that is my decision to make. You are merely a consort to Brigantes royalty." Venutius answered. "I was trained under the roof of a chief whose heir has stood against the Romans with great courage. His name has brought fear to every Roman general."
Cartimandua smiled. "Rome has no fear from Caractacus now," she responded. "While you were gone, he sought refuge within our gates. I sent him upon the galleys of the Romans, to be brought before Claudius to decide his fate."
At that, Venutius jumped from the stool, meeting Cartimandua's gaze. "How could you deliver a childhood friend who showed only the courage of his ancestors to the Roman enemy?" he demanded.
"I am queen," she answered. "I have final command. And," she continued, "I am indebted to our Roman friends."
Cartimandua raised her hand to dismiss Venutius. "I must continue with the business of the day," she said.
"You are no longer my queen," he answered, "and you shall feel my wrath. For I will avenge Caractacus' fate."
Dismissing the quarrel as one of many the two had often had, Cartimandua turned to her closest advisors, launching into a discussion of the affairs of state.
Venutius turned to leave the great hall, treading the corridors toward a footed, cast iron tub to soak the dust of his journey off. As he ran the course soap, scented with mulberry, along his frame, turned lean and sinewy with his many jaunts about the countryside, he thought only of the swords he had laid aside since Roman rule.
Chapter Seventeen
Venutius stood on the plains of the southern Brigantes countryside, on lands he had helped to fairly dispense. Grain grew all around him, the lowing of milk cows a distant hum upon the wind.
He had gathered about him a ragtag band of warriors, its numbers swelling as it moved north to challenge the palace city. Lords and farmers, Silures warriors bent on avenging Caractacus' fate, and a healthy addition of warriors from along the Danube and the Rhine.
Epidorix stood nearby as well, anxious to put to the test his new-found skills of battle.
Venutius had fully split from Cartimandua, their joint politics a melding of the past. Those who had felt the fairness of his just decisions, meted out with the diligence of communal thought, those who had felt the force of an unruly Roman backlash, insistent on quarters and supplies, and those conscripted into a Roman army, forced to raise the swords of their Celtic ancestors in battle that never was theirs, felt compelled to join the warrior band. For Epidorix, a chance to demonstrate his manhood alongside an older brother he had long admired but rarely seen, and a chance to raise the sword of his Celtic Iberian ancestors, laid to rest for several generations, proved reason enough to enter the hasty fray.
Cartimandua, mindful of the rebellion, had organized her warriors with permission from Rome. Certain she could win, the strength of the Brigantes tribe and the fortress of the palace city behind her, she threw very few of her armaments into preparation for battle, despite the pleadings of her seasoned warriors and advisors, preferring to save them for the battles enlisted by Rome.
Cartimandua's warriors moved to the south, hoping to quell the rebellion before it reached the palace city, disrupting the wealth she had built on an acquiescence to Rome. Venutius, with an equal band of warriors, met them on the vast plains of the tribal countryside, his greatest defense the wrath of a righteous rabble.
Though it had been long since Venutius had engaged in battle of any kind, he was surrounded by seasoned warriors. Segovax, a noble who, though surrounded by tenant farmers willing to defend the land, had always led them in battle, driving off the raiders of the south. Carvilius, who had deserted Cartimandua's warriors to fight alongside the prince consort whose judicial skill and politics he admired. And Lugotorix, an ancient warrior and artisan whose side Venutius had once taken in a dispute in which Cartimandua had tried to cede the lands meted out to him as payment for years of devoted service.
Venutius called council as soon as news of the approaching forces reached them. Sending the messenger to refresh himself with the bread they had baked along the way from gifts of grain, and cheeses from farmers sympathetic to their cause, he gathered his advisors informally about him in a clearing now rife with the daisies of spring.
Segovax, used to meeting the enemy head on, favored that tactic in facing Cartimandua's warriors. Carvilius, a warrior in his prime, who had shown great bravery upon the battlefield, favored that tactic as well. Epidorix, brought into council by Venutius to learn the ways of the island Celts, anxious to learn the skills he had practiced so long in secret, agreed. It was only Lugotorix who saw difficulty with that plan.
"Cartimandua's warriors are skilled in battle and have more experience than our farmers and artisans," he said, as he squatted his solid frame among the grasses, carefully musing on the enemy's strengths. Segovax, seated next to him, cross-legged in the grasses just now turning green with the mists of spring, listened silently, nodding in deference to his superior knowledge.
"Though their numbers are not great, and their armaments few," Lugotorix continued, "our armaments are fewer." He paused, then continued. "We have few chariots to pull away our wounded or cause a stir among the enemy."
Carvilius spoke. "Cartimandua's warriors are not anxious to meet their tribal neighbors on the field of battle, especially in a cause brought on only by royal edict. They will not be in a hurry to bring full honor to the gods."
"Our warriors," said Venutius "await with the spirit of their ancestors. Many would have preferred to keep their lands and taxes from Rome. "
Lugotorix spoke once again. "We must keep our strengths hidden from our enemy until the time is ripe to send them at once upon the battlefield. We will lay in wait in the forests north. When the enemy approaches, we will keep our best warriors hidden, while our greatest numbers attack upon the plains."
In the end, the others agreed to Lugotorix's plan, adding expertise in areas in which they were familiar, and assigning tasks according to individual skills. Cavilius, familiar with the enemy's tactical thought, would lead the first attack. Segovax, a superb horseman, would lead their best warriors from the forest to the battle. Lugotorix, covered with scars of battle but more feeble than the rest, would remain in hiding to direct the cause of battle.
As they broke their council, Venutius directed Epidorix to alert their warriors to their plans of battle. The youth complied, anxious to take on new found responsibility, returning as the sun went down. Then, the brothers ate a simple meal beneath the stars. As they ate, Epidorix shared his news from home.
"Father grows weary collecting the heavy taxes the Romans levy upon his neighbors," he said, as he laid a slab of cheese upon some bread, drinking water dipped from a nearby stream from a skin held cool laid into a saddle bag. "Mother tries to keep his spirits up, sending him to the baths daily, devoting herself to keeping the Roman customs, and dedicated to the Roman dress. But, I know she secretly yearns for the costumes of the past." He paused to lift a morsel of fish they had roasted over the campfire, then continued. "Often, I see her lift her grandmother's tunics, gay with the embroidery of the woodland, from the plain oak chest she keeps in a corner of her bed chamber, when she thinks no one will spy her."
"We must lift the Roman oppression," he said.
"We must overturn Cartimandua's command," Venutius returned. "Only then will we be able to lead the Brigantes tribe to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. The right to lift the swords of their ancestors in their own defense, the right to plow their fields and harvest their grain to lay upon their own tables."
As they finished their meal, they pulled their blankets from their saddle bags, settling under the stars to slumber, each with his own thoughts of the conflict ahead.
On the morrow, Venutius arose with the first rays of the morning sun. Epidorix, already ba
thed in a nearby stream, was painting his body with the blue dye of the woad plant. The brothers greeted each other, holding a silent embrace, long denied them with seasons of separation. As they parted, a messenger arrived with word for Venutius of Cartimandua's warriors, expected to reach them as the sun shone directly over the plains where they were camped.
As they waited, Epidorix once again practiced his sword play, running through or putting to flight many an imagined warrior. As the enemy arrived, Cavilius led the greatest numbers of their band to meet them upon the plain. Venutius, without benefit of mount, entered the fray, downing quickly a number of palace warriors. As the strength of the enemy waned, Segovax led out the hidden warriors on mount, setting the remaining enemy to flee the plain for the safety of the palace gates.
As the cheer of victory rose from the lips of a battle-weary lot, Venutius looked round for Epidorix. But, the youth lay among the daisies of the field, his last breath drawn in combat with an enemy warrior more skilled than he, a smile upon his face. Venutius held him as he sobbed.
Then, leading his band north, Venutius cut down the enemy forces, his rebel band gaining the strength of victory. But, as they neared the walls of the palace city, the gates opened to pour forth a host of Roman troops, called for by Cartimandua to quell the rebellion her own warriors had been unable to subdue.
The strength of sheer numbers brought a quick defeat, forcing Venutius into the asylum of a neighboring tribe not yet bowed to the Roman enemy. As his mount made tracks for the west, he left behind forever a tribe in which he had spent his reign as prince consort keeping the mantle of peace.
Chapter Eighteen
Prasutagus lay amid the bedcovers of the softest skins that palace huntsmen were able to bring down upon Iceni lands. Alaina and Valeda stood beside him. Astrinellia, not far in a massive chair of oak, its back carved with the playful goddesses of the woodlands, worked her fingers over a pale, blue stretch of linen, dyed with the hyacinths of spring, turning the length of an embroidery stitch into the pale, pink of a wild rosebud.
Boudicca, weary from days of attending her very ill husband, sat nearby upon a wooden stool, her simple, deep green tunic, edged with squares of golden thread, barely brushing the hard, clay floor, her long, red tresses pulled back and held by a single strand of braided deep green linen.
Prasutagus, weak from the illness that had assailed him last Beltane, lay nearly prone upon the bed, his slender frame more slender, his long, white locks, now grown thin and wispy, his features sharp upon a wan and pale countenance.
Several times he had tried to draw Boudicca into talk of affairs of state, only to fall into a fitful slumber.
Mandarus, Prasutagus' long-time trusted aide, had been called into full-time service as temporary regent to the Iceni tribe, conferring as often as possible with its king, gravely ill, still insistent in his role as peacemaker and client-king of Rome.
Though Boudicca had long silently disagreed with Prasutagus' stand on the Roman government, she had never risen up against him, at his side as he asked his tribesmen to lay down their arms in their own defense, to lift them only as Rome's needs arose, conquering tribe after tribe on their tiny island.
Beltanes and Sanheims came and went, marked only in the minds of the Iceni Celts, no longer a ritual in the lush woodlands of Iceni forests, the Druids long driven out to seek refuge on the Isle of Mona.
Boudicca thought often of Diviticus and the lessons he had taught, the council he had given, and tales he had shared of tribal and inter-tribal mediations. She thought often, also, of the rites of Beltane, the garlands she had strung from the newly risen violets and anemones of the woodland floor, flung about a newly-carved image of Sequanna, a plea for a lush harvest that almost always came. She thought of the sacred white hare, once roaming free through the Iceni woodlands, now brought down to grace the Roman soldier's table. Of Sanheim, of tales told to Mandorix long after they both should have been aslumber, and their shutters flung open ready to greet the rays of dawn.
In turn, Prasutagus was allowed to reign unencumbered and the privilege of continuing to mint coins. His power and tribal respect remained intact, accompanied by a watchfulness from Rome. Despite increasingly heavy tax burdens, the Iceni tribe continued to prosper, its crops bounty for the Roman tables, its artisans, once crafting the helmets, chariots and swords of Celtic battle, the massive oak chairs of the royal palace, turned to crafting weapons for the Roman army, a temple to honor Claudius in the nearby city of Camulodunum built for the isle's battle-weary Roman soldiers, and tables and chairs for Roman villas.
As Prasutagus stirred, he called for water, bringing Boudicca to his side to pour the precious liquid from a golden urn, complete with woodland stag chasing a woodland boar about its middle, into a beautiful silver goblet, the Iceni crest emblazoned upon its side.
Boudicca had long stopped tempting him with his favorite meats, trying only bits of bread and cheese, which Prasutagus most often refused. As she held the goblet to his lips, lifting his head, now barely heavy to her grasp, to drink, she fixed his bedcovers as best she could about him, for despite that the warmth of summer was upon them, Prasutagus suffered from cold.
As she lifted him slightly and leaned him against the heavier skins, so that he could view the brilliant yellow of the Iris, the pale purple of the foxglove, and starkest white of the summer daisies of the courtyard, attended now by the thrush and the wren, whose songs flowed brightly through the open shutters, he spoke softly.
"Boudicca," he said, gasping for the breath now denied him, "we must talk of affairs of state." He lay back upon the softest doeskins behind him.
"Yes, Prasutagus," she answered, as she lay the goblet back upon its table. "You speak, and I shall listen." She pulled a stool close to sit, leaning her ear very near his withered lips.
"Boudicca," he said slowly, "Mandarus will guide you in state affairs. Our coffers are full and we still prosper, thanks to the beneficence of Rome." He paused, gathering his breath once again to continue. "To further our connection, and to press for further allowances from Rome, I have left half our riches to Alaina and Valeda, and half to the Emperor Claudius of Rome. Thus, Claudius should not resent you, allowing you to be queen of Iceni in peace as I have been king." As he finished, spent from his labors, he fell back once again upon the piled doeskins.
"No, my king," she answered, "we must get you well." She mopped his brow, heavy with beads of sweat, with a soft linen rinsed in a basin of cool water pulled from the stream along the courtyard garden.
"Boudicca," he said, "my time has come to pass over to the Other World. I am ready." He paused, gathering breath once again. "I shall see my father, his helmet atop his head, bearing the gods of Iceni battle, astride his favorite mount. My mother will be sitting, as always, perched upon a low oaken stool, waiting, gently pulling a needle of ram's horn through a piece of silk or linen."
He paused, then continued. "Boudicca, you have been to me a good wife and faithful queen. Our daughters grow into lovely maidens. Soon, without the help of the holy days, or the rites of spring or autumn, they will be ready for a match. Mandarus will help you make a good one, for the blood of the Iceni flow within them." Then, as the spirit ebbed within him, he lay back, falling into a gentle slumber.
As Boudicca turned, she spied Alaina and Valeda, huddled together upon an oaken bench, their tears of grief dropping gently upon their golden tresses flowing free about their shoulders, the hue of the locks of Prasutagus' youth. The rays of the noonday sun glistened in upon them.
"My daughters," she said, as she hurried to embrace them, "you must ride out upon the countryside. You have been by your father's side and a comfort to him, but now you must rest. He slumbers now in peace."
She lifted them from the bench as she continued. "Your favorite mounts await, for they too need to run free across the hillsides and the plains. I will see that the kitchen servants pack you a tidy noonday meal."
As they walked slowly toward the d
oorway, Astrinellia arose, striding toward them to put her arms about them as they headed for the pantry larder.
Boudicca, pulling her stool close to Prasutagus' bedside, sat, admiring the yellow of the daisies, the soft brown of a woodland fawn of Astrinellia's embroidery which lay nearby, patting Prasutagus' hand as he occasionally woke.
Grooms brushed and oiled the coats of mounts, laying oats and hay in stalls for feed, and leading the mares in foal, the stallions eager to run the plains, gently out among the grasses to exercise, as Alaina and Valeda entered the palace stables. Vibillius, Alaina's friend since childhood, brought the young princess to Nerthus' stall, a carrot in hand to feed the ailing pony. Alaina entered the stall, gently patting Nerthus' white coat, the pony laying upon his side.
As he recognized Alaina, raising a soft, low whinny of welcome, he licked slowly the carrot that she held. Nerthus had been a pet as well as mount, and he and Alaina had ridden the forests and plains together, watching carefully the path of the sacred white hare, Nerthus eating his oats, Alaina her noonday meal upon a linen cloth, as they rested in a shady woodland glade. Now, Nerthus was unable to leave his stall, the feebleness of old age upon him, but Vibillius gently helped him to eat, giving him sweet treats from the palace larder. Alaina visited him often.
Vibillius helped Alaina and Valeda choose a mount. Though the princesses preferred the bare back of the chestnut roans they had chosen, they gave in to Vibillius' plea for a proper saddle, refusing all help to mount.
As they went for a run across the plains, their pale, blond locks flying in the noonday breeze, the city gates farther and farther behind them, they slowed to a gallop, then a trot, the rays of the sun warming their backs through their lightweight tunics as they rode.
It had been seventeen summers since Alaina had entered the Iceni palace as a newborn, fifteen for Valeda. Now, slowed to a trot, Alaina sat erect upon her roan, her poise a likeness of a youthful Prasutagus riding into battle, her slender frame draped with an unadorned saffron tunic, her only jewelry a golden torque about her neck. Her delicate features belied her forthright nature, her bubbling laugh heard often about the palace hallways.