Caratac in hiding, and the kings of the Durotriges and Belgae were wait-
ing to see where the Roman eagle would strike next. Of those whose
cups she would fi ll tonight, only Prasutagos, whose brother’s death had
made him king of the Northern Iceni, would remember.
“Well, you should be,” her mother said briskly. “Most of them have
queens already, of course, but they have sons and brothers. I have no
doubt we shall place you well.”
Boudica took a deep breath, grateful for Druid lessons in self-control.
“And what if I choose not to marry? When you packed me off to Mona,
wasn’t it the understanding that I might decide to stay?”
“But . . . you came back . . .”
Seeing her mother’s face crumple, Boudica put out a consoling hand.
Two of her brothers had followed Togodumnos to the Tamesa, and died,
leaving only Dubnocoveros, the brother next to her in age, and little Bra-
cios. Her mother was still mourning, and did not need more grief from
her daughter now.
“I promise you I will give it a chance. I will not disgrace you at the
feast this eve ning, and I will listen to whatever off ers may come.”
“We called you ‘filly’ when you were a little one, you were so wild.”
Her mother shook her head with a sigh. “I hoped you might have changed.
But at least you look as a royal woman should.”
With this qualified approval both of them must be content. In si-
lence, Boudica followed her mother toward the fire circle where stretched
cloths shaded an outdoor feasting hall.
Boudica was not the only royal woman to come late to the gather-
ing. That afternoon the Brigante delegation had arrived, and Lhiannon,
fi nding herself superfluous among the Iceni, made her way through the
welter of tents and wagons to the one where the black horse standard
flew. By rights, the banner ought to have shown a herd of horses, for the
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Brigantes were not so much a tribe as a federation of clans. The mar-
riage of Cartimandua and Venutios had more or less united them. But
Lhiannon had known the Brigante queen when they were both girls in
the House of Maidens on Mona. She wondered if Cartimandua had
changed.
Apparently not, for as she approached she could hear a crisp, rather
high voice giving a flurry of orders. A maidservant popped through the
door as if shot from a bow and dashed off, and in the moment of silence
that followed, Lhiannon ducked inside.
“Welcome to Camulodunon, my lady,” she said softly.
Cartimandua whirled, her shining black hair swinging like the tail
of the sleek pony that was the meaning of her name. Small and elegantly
curved, she owed her royal blood to the tribes that had ruled this land
when the Belgic princes first came over from Gallia.
“Lhiannon, by all that’s holy! You always did find out everything
the great ones were doing. I ought to have known you would be
here.”
Lhiannon found herself enveloped in a scented embrace, then held
away as the women conducted a mutual inspection.
“You’ve kept your figure, I see,” said the queen. “Is it any use to
you, or are you still fighting Helve for the right to sit in the Oracle’s
chair?”
Lhiannon felt herself blushing in spite of herself. Clearly Cartiman-
dua’s speech had grown no less frank since she had become a queen.
“Lady Mearan died earlier this summer. Helve is High Priestess now.”
“Oh ho—and I’ll wager she loves it! Do you remember the sum-
mer we plagued her with frogs? Frogs in her bed and frogs in her shoes
and everywhere. I don’t think she ever did fi gure out which of us holy
maidens was responsible. So she rules now, and you and Ardanos are in
exile, eh?”
“We were sent to assist Caratac,” Lhiannon said, a little stiffl
y.
“Ah, that was a bad business.” Cartimandua’s mood shifted and she
sighed. “So many beautiful men lost. But it does no good to fi ght the
tide. The Romans are too strong, and we must make the best peace we
can.”
“So you and Venutios mean to surrender?”
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“To become a client- kingdom, if we can,” the queen corrected.
“We’ll pay for it, but we will keep some freedom. And there will be fa-
vors from the Romans as well.” She laughed suddenly. “I can live with
such a bargain. It’s the same I made with Venutios, after all!”
Lhiannon blinked. “Does your husband love you?”
Cartimandua lifted a dark eyebrow. “Love is not a word often used
between princes. He is brisk in bed, when the situation requires. The
rest of the time . . . he respects me.”
She has lovers, thought Lhiannon. But surely that was no surprise. At
Lys Deru, Cartimandua had taken any lad who pleased her to her bed
even before she was officially of an age to go to the Beltane fires. It had
been something of a scandal at the time, but everyone knew that the
Brigantes had their own ways, and some of their clans still counted royal
descent through their queens. She suspected that Cartimandua would
have been a law unto herself in any land.
“And what are you doing here? Do you have Caratac tucked away
somewhere disguised as a groom? Not that I wouldn’t like to see him
again, but I don’t think the Romans would welcome him.”
A sudden caution stopped Lhiannon from telling Cartimandua
where the Cantiaci king was now. Instead she began to talk about
Boudica and their journey from Avalon.
“No doubt I will see her at the feasting,” said the queen. “Poor child.
With two sons killed, Dubrac will use her to buy an alliance somewhere.
Prasutagos’s wife died three years ago. My guess is that they will marry
him to Boudica to unite the northern and southern royal lines.”
I am seeing the last riding of free Britannia, thought Boudica as her fa-
ther led his little cavalcade out to join those of the other kings. Until
now the reality of their situation had not truly touched her. Fighting a
surge of panic, she gripped the side of the wagon as it jolted along the
road.
The Romans had built their camp between the old protecting dike
and a new triple ditch and bank extending straight as a spear to the river,
making no concession to the lay of the land. For the first time she began
to understand the sheer size of an empire that could permanently dedi-
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cate so many men to such a purpose. And this was only one of Rome’s
armies.
Only a few poles with standards could be seen above the dikes,
but she could hear the noise of the Roman camp, like the humming of
an enormous hive. And then they came to the gate in its center, lined
with legionaries whose armor blazed in the summer sun. They watched
the Britons with narrowed eyes. From the goat-fish painted on their
battered shields she knew them for the legion led by general Vesp
a-
sian, who at the battle on the Medu had been responsible for the
victory.
Be easy, she thought grimly. We have not come to fight you, but to pass
beneath the yoke of Rome.
Boudica turned away as her father and brother unbelted their swords
and gave them to a bemedaled centurion. Then, teeth drawn, each group
of native princes was escorted within. This camp held thirty thousand
men. Only now, seeing the precise ranks of leather tents stretching away
to either side, did she begin to comprehend what that number must mean.
If they could ever be gathered, the Britons would have more warriors, but
she could not imagine a Celtic army ever achieving such discipline. Her
own response to a challenge had always been to fight, but this enemy was
overwhelming. The Romans cannot be defeated, she thought with a sinking
heart. Each tribe must seek the best terms of surrender it can.
They were being marched straight down the main avenue toward a
pavilion as large as Cunobelin’s feasting hall, of sturdy fabric dyed a deep
purple and trimmed with glittering gold. The area before it was fenced
with tall soldiers whose armor was ornamented with gold, and whose
expressions showed less hatred but greater pride. These dark blue shields
had never seen battle. The gold thunderbolts extending from the silver
wings above and below the boss and the silver stars and moons in their
corners were unmarred.
“The Praetorian Guard . . .” murmured her brother Dubnocoveros.
“They murdered Claudius’s pre de cessor, Caligula. They are the only
ones allowed to kill an emperor, it would seem . . .”
A glare from one of the officers silenced him, whether because the
man spoke Celtic or because no speech was allowed. The former was
possible, she supposed—the man looked like a Gaul.
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One by one the little groups of royalty were led in to make their
submission to the emperor. Queen Cartimandua, resplendent in an em-
broidered green gown that made Boudica feel underdressed, marched in
with her husband, heavily jowled and dour, by her side. Did the Ro-
mans understand that the Brigante rulers could speak only for the clans
of that vast northern region that in the shifting web of Brigante alliances
were for the moment on their side? Or was Cartimandua depending on
Roman help to tip the balance of power and bring them all under her
rule?
Bodovoc of the Northern Dobunni stood apart from the others,
smugly aware of his advantage in having submitted to the Romans before
they conquered. He would have to keep peace with his southern cousin
Corio now. The other early collaborator, King Veric, had already been
presented. He and his toga-clad heir, Cogidubnos, had the privilege of
standing with the senators and watching the humiliation of their fellow
kings. No one waited here to make submission for the Cantiaci, the Tri-
novantes, or the Catuvellauni. They were conquered peoples, and their
lands would be administered directly by the Roman governor.
And then it was the turn of the Iceni. The high king Antedios, gray-
ing at the temples and gaunted by recent anxiety, stepped forward, fol-
lowed by Dubrac, who was now his closest male relation, and Prasutagos,
whose brother’s death had left him lord of the Northern Iceni clans.
My possible future husband . . . she thought, considering him with new
eyes. Although in theory she had the right to refuse, her father had made
his preference clear. At least she had met Prasutagos already, and sup-
posed him to be kind. She remembered him as a man of few words. Just
now he was so quiet he seemed hardly present at all. As they passed into
the Imperial tent their eyes met, and Boudica knew he must be remem-
bering all their proud boasts on Mona.
Yet here we both are, and you will not tell them I was trained by the Druids,
and I will not say that you were Caratac’s ally. Perhaps they ought to marry
to ensure each other’s silence. But first they had to survive the next
hour.
A dim illumination, purple as a winter dusk, filtered through the
heavy cloth. As her eyes adjusted, she began to pick out the grim,
weathered profi les of the guards, the clean-shaven faces of the senators,
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calculating or bored, and the emperor, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augus-
tus Germanicus himself, draped in an an embroidered silk garment the
same purple as the tent, so that his face seemed to float above it like the
apparition of a god.
He was a tense, tired, god, she thought, with a lined face and ears
that stood out from a head that seemed too big for its neck. The physical
infirmities of which she had heard were hidden by the fl owing robe.
But his eyes seemed unexpectedly kind. How comforting, she thought,
to know that what ever he ordered done to them would not be out of
spite, but from policy.
She knelt with the others, grateful for the rich carpet that covered
the floor. If they must abase themselves, at least it would be in luxury.
One of the emperor’s servants began to declaim something in which
she recognized the Iceni names, translated into Celtic phrase by phrase
by the interpreter.
“You are here to submit to the Senate and People of Rome, to off er
yourselves and your families, your tribesmen, and your servants as will-
ing and obedient subjects of the Empire. Do you agree to this bond?”
Antedios, Dubrac, and Prasutagos set the palms of their hands upon
the fl oor. “May the earth open to swallow us, may the sea wash over us,
may the sky fall upon us, if we fail to keep faith with the High King of
the Roman tribes.”
The translator spoke again. “This is Lucius Junius Pollio.” One of
the Romans, draped in a toga but without the purple stripe of a senator,
stepped forward. Lean and dark-featured, he looked military, despite his
flowing garb. “He will collect your taxes under the procurator, but you
will keep your own laws and govern your people as our clients, so long
as those laws and governance are not in violation of the laws of Rome.
Our allies will be your allies, and your enemies our enemies.”
The emperor bent to whisper something to one of his advisors, who
spoke to the translator in turn.
“The emperor asks whether you have heirs.”
“King Prasutagos is newly come to lordship and has neither wife nor
child,” came the answer. “King Antedios is his overking, and his next
heir is Dubrac, whose son Dubnocoveros kneels at his side.”
Boudica saw her brother stiff en as the emperor spoke again.
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“Your people cannot become good subjects of the Empire until they
understand Rome. It is therefore our policy to educate royal heirs in our
own court, as we did Prince Cogidubnos. Dubnocoverus fi lius Dubraci
will go with us along with the other young men of good family when
we return.”
Dubi’s convulsive twitch was st
illed by his father’s hand. This had
not been discussed, but taking hostages was Roman policy. She saw now
why the kings had been instructed to bring their families. The governor’s
man, Pollio, was staring at her as if he wished she had been the hostage.
She willed herself to invisibility, grateful the decision was not in his
hands.
“Rise, allies of Rome!”
First Antedios and then Prasutagos received a golden chain with a
medallion showing the face of the emperor. One by one they were al-
lowed to kiss the imperial hand. And then they were being ushered out
into a day that seemed robbed of warmth, as if the Romans had taken
the sunlight along with their freedom.
They have even stolen the stars,” said Boudica.
Lhiannon looked up, startled by the bitterness in the younger wom-
an’s tone. No need to ask who they might be. Above the Roman camp
the sky was red with the light of a thousand fires. She knew the clouds
were refl ecting the light, but there was something unnerving about that
bloody glow. They had walked out into the fields beyond the Iceni en-
campment to talk, but there was no peace here.
“Beyond the clouds the stars still shine,” she said bracingly. “And we
will see them again one day.”
“Is that some Druid prophecy? Your foretellings have proven true
enough—you should have listened to them.” Boudica’s voice shook with
pain.
“The situation looks grim, but the Romans only hold one corner of
Britannia. If Caratac can rally the other tribes—”
“He will fight with greater hope if you don’t let him hear the Oracle’s
predictions,” Boudica replied. “You haven’t seen the Roman camp, row
upon row of metal-clad men. How can anyone stand against them?”
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Lhiannon winced, remembering how beautiful the Trinovante war-
riors had looked as they ran forward to dash their naked bodies against
the Roman steel.
“Come back with me to Mona. You will be safe on the Druids’
Isle.” The path led them alongside a thorn hedge. As they passed, a hare
leaped out from its shadows and went bounding across the grass.
“Do you really believe that? We both heard Lady Mearan’s words.
The Romans know that until they eliminate the Druids, their hold on
Britannia will never be secure. They will find Mona. It is only a matter