known what a kiss could mean . . . To her that memory was dim with
distance, but to him it was still real. How barren his life must be.
“No.” She pulled her arm away, tried to show some pity with a
smile.
“You don’t understand! I will marry you!” he gripped her again,
pulling her against him.
“It is you who do not understand—” Her voice was low and danger-
ous. “I was the wife of a king, a man like the Good God himself! I
would not go into your bed, Roman pig, if the alternative were slav-
ery!” She spat in his face.
“It may be!” he hissed, grabbing for her other arm. “You have no
choice, bitch—you need a master, and Jupiter witness, if you will not lie
in my bed, I will have you on this floor!” Pollio jerked her hard against
him, his breath hot on her face.
For a moment shock warred with hysterical laughter. He fumbled
for her breast and the pin from one shoulder of her tunica tore loose.
Then volition returned, and Boudica wrenched free. Does he think I am
some soft Roman female who cannot piss without permission from a man? she
thought in outrage. Cloto could tell him differently!
With an oath Pollio grabbed her again. They swayed dangerously
close to the hearth and one of the chairs tipped over with a crash. The
blood beat in Boudica’s ears; she grabbed his wrists, then brought her knee
up with brutal force between his legs and as he screamed and spasmed,
forced him into the fi re.
The mingled stinks of burning wool and shit filled the air. Boudica
laughed and let him go, recoiling as the space filled with men in armor.
“Take her!” Pollio rolled free of his smoldering cloak, still curled in
agony. “Get me out of here!”
More men pushed through the door. These were soldiers, not tax
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collectors. The ones who dragged Boudica out into the yard had muscles
like rope and hands of iron. Others followed, supporting Pollio. His face
was the color of whey as he tried to stand.
“If you don’t like my cock I have other weapons,” he gasped. “Tie
her to that—”He pointed to the fenced forecourt of the Men’s House.
“Flog her until she bleeds!”
Still struggling, Boudica was forced to the gate, tied spread-eagled
to the posts with ropes at wrists and ankles. Someone grabbed the back
of her tunica and ripped the other side free, then used a piece of twine
to tie up her hair. Bare to the waist, she twisted, watching in disbelief as
the decanus who commanded the soldiers walked toward her, a whip
with a knotted thong in his hand.
Slaves were fl ogged. Not free women . . . not queens.
People gathered, whispering with wide eyes. Boudica heard a rattle
of hooves as a horse was urged into a gallop. One of the soldiers started
toward his own mount but Pollio called him back again. She tugged at
her bonds; the rope rasped her wrists but the knots held fast.
Then the first lash burned across her shoulders. Shock surprised her
into crying out. She set her teeth against doing it again. The ropes
creaked to the strain as the next blow drove her forward.
The decanus was counting slowly in Latin, “Unus, duo, tres . . .”
She tried to focus on the words. I can bear this . . . she thought, and
then I will have revenge . . .
From the corner of her eye she saw Rigana running from the Wom-
en’s House, brandishing a spear. “Let her go!” she screamed, settling
into a crouch with the weapon held ready.
“Look, a gladiatrix!” laughed one of the men, pointing as Argantilla
came after her, carrying a shield.
“Back!” Boudica could only grunt. “Get back inside!”
The soldiers were laughing too loudly. The girls could not hear.
“Quattuor, quinque . . .”
Rigana started toward the decanus, jabbing with the spear. Still
grinning, one of the legionaries drew his sword and batted it aside. In
the next moment another man grabbed her from behind while the fi rst
wrested the weapon from her grasp.
“Sir, what shall I do with this lion’s cub?” he called.
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“Pull her claws—” raged Pollio, his avid gaze still on Boudica.
“The lioness is chained! Do what you like with the cub—and with her
sister—let all the bitches spread their legs for Rome!”
“No!” Boudica screamed as she had not for her own pain. Argantilla
whimpered as a soldier gripped her arm and wrenched away the shield.
“Not my daughters, not them, please . . .” The breath was driven out of
her as the decanus, who had paused to watch, began his work again.
Prasutagos! her spirit cried. But he had left them. He would not come
to save her now.
“Octo . . . undecim . . . tredecim . . .”
Boudica’s back and shoulders were webbed with fi re.
“Do it!” repeated, Pollio as the soldiers hesitated. “Take them now!”
They had torn Rigana’s tunica already; she struggled, her young
breasts bobbing, and kicked wildly as a soldier pulled the garment the rest
of the way off and reached up between her thighs.
Not my daughters not my babies not my little girls . . .
“Sedecim . . . viginti . . .”
Abused flesh recoiled in nauseating waves. Fire and shadow pulsed
behind her eyes.
“Please, why are you doing this?” sobbed Argantilla. One of the ser-
vants ran forward to help her and was struck down. Now men had gotten
both girls on the ground. Someone threw dice to see who should have
the fi rst turn.
“Vigintiquinque . . .”
Boudica thrashed, groaning, as her daughters began to scream. She
could not protect them . . . she could not break free!
“Help them! Help me! ” Thwarted, her fury drove inward, shattering
the boundaries of identity.
From depths beyond knowledge came a Voice that she had heard
once long ago. “Let Me . . .”
“Triginta . . .”
The lash came down, dividing self from Self. Boudica slumped in
her bonds as ravaged flesh and spirit gave way.
And with a cry like a battlefi eld of ravens, the Morrigan came in.
She straightened. One by one, She snapped the bonds. Blood splat-
tered from Boudica’s ruined back as She turned. Mouths working, men
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cringed. The soldiers who were holding the girls backed away. The god-
dess picked up the man who was pumping atop Rigana and threw him
aside, broke the one who had Argantilla as well. The others ran.
Pollio stumbled back as She turned, his face contorted in a rictus of
fear. She reached out and drew him into her embrace.
“Mercy,” he croaked. “Let me go . . .”
“As you let them go?” The Morrigan indicated the weeping girls.
“But I will be kinder than you were—I will not force you to live . . .”
Pollio struggled as she gripped his head and twisted. There was a
sharp click. He went limp and she let him fal
l.
Hoof beats thundered outside the dun. Bituitos and the warriors
were returning. The terrifi ed soldiers tried to outrun them.
They did not get far.
Ravens were calling, harsh voices echoing back and forth from
somewhere very near . . .
Boudica realized that she was lying on something soft; she started to
turn over, gasped and groaned as the general ache across her back burst
abruptly into a cacophony of individual pains. And there was an odd
pressure in her head, as if more than her own brain had been packed
into her skull.
“My lady—how do you feel?”
The voice was resonant and calm. Why did she associate it with
sorrow?
“As if I had been beaten with—” Her throat closed as memory
returned—Latin numbers, and agony, and a mental torment that tran-
scended anything her body might feel. “My girls!” She jerked upright,
staring. The curtains of her bed-place contained the dim world around
her. Brangenos was sitting beside the bed, his long face lit by the fl icker
of the little Roman lamp in his hand.
The Druid set the lamp on the table. She fl inched as he reached out
to take her hands.
“Don’t touch me,” she said hoarsely. The rope marks around her
wrists were still raw. “No one will ever hold me again!” Her gaze sought
his face. “Where are my daughters?”
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“They are sleeping, lady,” he said softly. “Their hurts have been
tended. Don’t try to go to them—” he halted her involuntary motion.
“Sleep is the best medicine for them just now. They were not much
damaged—there was not time for more than two or three,” his gaze
darkened, “to have at them before you . . . rescued them.”
Boudica drew a quick breath at the sudden increase of pressure in
her head. “She stopped them, then . . .”
His eyes met hers once more. “How much do you remember?”
“She was there, inside my head, and then I . . . was not. I think it
was Cathubodva. She spoke through me once before, long ago.”
The flicker of expression in the Druid’s face was swiftly calmed, but
Boudica had recognized a mingling of curiosity, excitement, and fear.
“It would explain . . . much,” he said drily. Suddenly they were
both very aware of the raven voices outside. He looked up at her, his
face growing grim. “She killed Pollio and the rapists. Our warriors took
care of the rest.”
Boudica stared at him in alarm. “The Romans will want revenge!”
“First they have to find the bodies.” He sighed. “We might even have
been able to pretend they never reached here, but the Goddess wants ven-
geance, too.” He looked up at her once more. “She commanded your war-
riors to raise the countryside. Already men are beginning to come in.”
“I must speak to them—”
“Not yet, lady—please. You are healing well—much faster than one
might expect,” he added as if to himself. “But you, too, need sleep, and
there is no need to face the tribe until everyone has arrived. The ravens
are arriving, too,” he said reflectively. “The first ones came as we buried
the bodies—I was tempted to let them feast—and more keep fl ying in.”
“They are so loud . . . I will never be able to sleep.” Torment of
mind and body buzzed in her brain.
From his pouch he took a little bottle of Roman glass and poured
some of its contents into a spoon. “I will give you tincture of poppy.
That will separate you from the pain.”
W here shall we feed? Where shall we feed?” cried the raven.
With one part of her mind, Boudica knew its clamor had words
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because she wandered in poppy dreams. She did not care—she had al-
ways wanted to know what the birds were saying in their endless con-
versations among the trees.
“In the wood there’s a ripe badger, three days old,” cried another
bird.
“In the midden there’s burned barley,” called a third.
“And what shall we eat tomorrow, tomorrow?” the fi rst raven
croaked.
Boudica knew that her body lay in the great bed, but her spirit was
awake, with senses it did not normally own.
“In the duns the smiths are forging swords and sharpening spears,”
answered another.
“Soon the Lady will give us man-meat to eat . . .” crowed the
third.
In her present state, it seemed to Boudica only right and proper that
the ravens should have their food.
“Do you think so, My child?” came another voice, honey sweet,
with an undertone of bitter laughter. “That is well, for we have work
to do.”
This was no raven. Boudica tried to open her eyes and found she
could not move. “Where are you?”
“I am as close to you as your own heartbeat,” the Other replied.
“Who are you?” Boudica whispered, though her lips were still.
“I am Rage,” the Voice resounded through her soul. “I am Destruc-
tion, I am the Raven of Battle—”
“You are the Morrigan,” Boudica replied. “You avenged my girls!”
“But who will take vengeance for your people?” the goddess asked,
and Boudica could find no answer.
Pollio had been right—the peace of Prasutagos was ended. Their
only choice now was between slavery and rebellion. The one would be
a living death. The other might lead to death—but there would be
glory.
“If you will give Me a form to wear,” the goddess said then, “I will
give you power . . .”
“Will You punish the Romans for all they have done to us?” she
asked. The men who had attacked her daughters might be dead, but
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those who had sent them still ruled. If they were not punished, how
many more mothers would weep for the lost innocence of their little
girls?
“They will wail in terror and call in vain upon their gods . . .”
“And we will have victory?”
“You are Victory, and your name will live!”
She had had to make this decision before, when she came to Pra-
sutagos as the White Mare. Then she had assented with joy. She surren-
dered now in grief, but from an equal need.
“Then I give myself to You as horse to rider,” said Boudica. “Use
me as You will!”
“A fractious, willful mare you are,” came the response, “but strong.
Sleep now, My child, and heal.” The laughter that Boudica heard was
gentle as she slid down into the dark.
Boudica sat in the darkened roundhouse with Argantilla in her
arms, watching Rigana pace. She would have held her as well, but the
girl was strung as tight as a war bow and flinched from any touch. Ar-
gantilla simply trembled, her eyes welling with soundless tears. Boudica
bit her lip and hugged the younger girl more tightly. The wounds on her
back did not hurt her half as much as her children’s pain.
Outside the Women’s House, the voice of the
crowd rose and fell
like the wind. “I will have to go out and speak to them soon,” she said
softly. “Will you come with me?”
Argantilla shuddered and buried her face against her mother’s shoul-
der. Rigana turned, breathing hard.
“How can you ask that of us? They are men! They will look at us
and they will know . . .”
“They will look at you and see their own daughters,” replied Boudica.
“They will look at me and see their wives. They will feel the shame I
felt when I could not protect you, that you felt when you could not help
me, and they will want revenge . . .”
“More than you have already taken?” Rigana’s gaze sharpened. “I
saw your face when you pulled that animal off me—but it wasn’t you,
was it, Mother?”
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“It was . . . the Morrigan.” Boudica’s breath caught. Even to speak
that name woke awareness of the Presence within.
“Will She come again? Will She lead us against Rome?” Rigana
stopped finally, gazing at her mother with avid eyes. Argantilla stiff ened
and ceased her weeping.
“She will come . . .” Boudica heard her own voice deepen. “She is
here . . .” The healing wounds on her back tingled with cool fi re as her
awareness was pushed gently aside. Soon, came the thought, they will turn
into wings . . .
She felt that prickle of Otherness flow across her skull and down
into her body, stretching and twisting as the goddess mastered it. Just so,
she thought with inner amusement, she herself would test a new mount
until she was certain it would obey. Bogle, who had been lying across
the door, stood suddenly, hackles lifting, dark eyes intent.
“Will you come with Me?” She stood up, lifting Argantilla easily,
and stretched out Her hand. As Rigana stepped into the shelter of Her
other arm, Boudica felt only gratitude that the goddess could give her
girls comfort where she had failed. “You shall be My attendants, and
you—” the goddess snapped Her fingers and Bogle fawned at her feet,
“—shall be My hound.”
Boudica’s awareness came and went as they left the Women’s House
and passed through the forecourt. Night had fallen, and torches flick-
ered around the enclosure. Beyond the bank the lines of tree trunks
brooded like a protecting forest, stark against the stars.
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