Roman road. Boudica watched them lift and dive, rolling over and under
in an ecstasy of flight, her own body flexing easily as the war cart swayed.
From somewhere down the line she heard singing—
“The Great Queen sows the land with flame
The black smoke rises high
Where dying warriors call her name
And ravens soar the sky.”
“And is it a celebration or a war dance they are performing up
there?” she wondered aloud.
“A dance of anticipation, perhaps. We fed the ravens well at Londin-
ium,” said Tascio, following her gaze. “They will be hoping for another
battle soon.”
Londinium was not a battle, it was a massacre, thought Boudica, but she
doubted Tascio would understand her lack of enthusiasm for slaughter.
Yet even the Morrigan did not love blood for its own sake, only for what
it could buy.
“Perhaps they are entertaining themselves while they wait for us to
catch up with them,” she said aloud.
“They would have to wait longer if we were traveling over hill and
dale,” said Tascio. “The Romans build good roads . . .”
Boudica nodded. The Great Road cut straight as a sword slash through
the country north of Londinium, where a Celtic trail would have fol-
lowed the contours of the land.
“The Great Queen tramples down the grain,
She treads upon the vine,
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Her meal is ground with heroes’ pain,
their blood she turns to wine.”
Behind her they were still singing. In two days the horde had come
farther than she would have believed possible. But a Roman legion
could march more swiftly still. As the riders and chariots moved north
with the vast, untidy mob of men and wagons streaming out behind
them, Boudica seemed to hear like an echo the steady tramp of hob-
nailed sandals on stone.
The Romans were coming. The last scout to arrive said that Pauli-
nus had rejoined his army. Would he keep them at the fort at Letocetum
or would they continue southward? The Roman road was a channel
through which Britons and Romans were being forced toward an un-
avoidable confrontation. Boudica thought of the turbulence at the sea-
shore when the waters rushing down from a mountain stream collided
with the incoming tide—two unquenchable currents, each obeying the
law of its own nature. Where they met they created a chaos in which
neither could win.
The road is a trap . . . she thought, eyeing the ribbon of stone that
drew her toward the horizon. Before we meet the Romans we will have to get
off it into country where we have some cover. But in the meantime, horses and
wagons were rolling forward at a steady walking pace.
Already the sun was dipping toward the western hills. In the dis-
tance she glimpsed the gleam of water through a line of trees. That
might make a good place to camp. Tonight she would gather the chief-
tains and make them agree on a route that would take them around
Verulamium.
The ponies tossed their heads, snorting, and Tascio reined in as they
heard a clatter of hoof beats from the other side of those trees. In another
moment a horseman clattered into view, coming fast.
“Verulamium!” he cried. “It’s just beyond the river, and undefended!”
Men cheered as the news was passed down the line. In moments,
horsemen were galloping forward. Boudica glimpsed Tingetorix, but
the tumult was already too loud for her to make out his words. She
closed her lips on the order she had been about to give. The old warrior
had told her himself that a command that could not, or would not, be
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obeyed was worse than useless. The road had already trapped her. Men
and horses were following the ravens toward the town, eyes alight at the
prospect of more slaughter. Whether she wished it or not, they were go-
ing to attack Verulamium.
Sunset light slanted through the trees, intensifying the ruddy color
that stained the stones around the pool. The day had been a warm one,
but there was always a cool breath of air beside the Blood Spring. Lhian-
non dipped up another mouthful of the iron-rich water and sat back
with a sigh.
“I feel stronger already,” said Coventa, gazing into the pool as the
dark waters stilled.
Iron to nourish a Roman child . . . thought Lhiannon, the liquid turn-
ing bitter on her tongue, and tried to will the thought away. She would
not allow the Romans to steal the Tor from her as well. To show Cov-
enta her favorite places on the isle had given her joy. As the younger
woman pointed out, when you traveled with Helve you did not have
much time to listen to the land.
This afternoon they had bathed in the Blood Spring, and Lhiannon
observed with mingled pain and wonder the new glow that pregnancy
imparted to her friend. Since she had learned she was with child Cov-
enta had not wept in the night. Was it possible that such a horror could
leave a blessing behind it? Lhiannon did not want to believe it, but she
was not so cruel as to question any happiness Coventa might fi nd.
She shut her eyes, striving to lose herself in the musical murmur the
water made as it passed through the channel from the spring and trick-
led into the pool.
“Blood . . .” whispered Coventa.
For a moment, Lhiannon thought she was commenting on the spring.
She opened her eyes, alarm bringing her upright as she saw the other
woman crouched and rigid, staring into the water. Mearan had told them
that the waters of the Blood Spring could be used for
scrying—she
should have warned Coventa not to look into the pool.
“Coventa,” She steadied her own voice to a soothing murmur. “What
do you see?”
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“A river in a valley . . . blood in the water . . . red sunset, red fl ames,
red everywhere . . .” Coventa’s tone was detached, and Lhiannon thanked
the Goddess for giving her this knowledge as an oracle’s vision instead of
a dream.
“Where is it?” Lhiannon asked. Clearly virginity was not required
for vision, although there might be side effects she could not foresee.
But the damage was done now, and they might as well take advantage
of it.
“The land is gentle. I see scattered roundhouses and others that are
straight-sided with strange red roofs like scales. There are buildings be-
side a road. As the men attack, one collapses and scatters pieces of ice
across the road—no they are pieces of glass.”
Roman buildings, thought Lhiannon, beginning to suspect what, if
not exactly where, this must be.
“There is a strange square enclosure with some long houses in it.
They are built of wood and they burn well.”
“Who is doing the burning?” asked Lhiannon.
“Our people . . .” came the answer. “They drag men out of the build-
ings and strike them down.”
/> Lhiannon had been taught that a Druid should respond to both joy
and sorrow with equal detachment, but she could not repress a spurt of
vicious satisfaction.
“Men . . . and women, too . . .” Coventa faltered. “Women with fair
hair. They are our people, too—” She shook her head. “I don’t want to
see this anymore . . .”
“It’s all right, Coventa—let it go, let it fade away,” Lhiannon said
quickly. She recalled now that the people of Verlamion had adopted Ro-
man ways, and understood only too clearly what must be happening
there. “Do you see the road that goes through the town? Follow it, my
dear. Leave the fi ghting behind.”
“The road is before me . . .” Coventa gave a grateful sigh. “Night is
falling and the land is at peace. What would you have me see?”
“Follow the road northward and tell me if anyone else is on it. Fare
northward, seeress, and look for Roman soldiers,” Lhiannon said grimly.
For several moments Coventa said nothing, her fair hair falling for-
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ward as she bent over the pool. Lhiannon watched her closely, waiting
for the moment when she stiff ened and began to tremble.
“They can’t see you, they can’t touch you,” she murmured. “Rise
into the heavens and look down and tell me what you see—”
“The road runs across a plain. To the west the ground rises. There is
a small fort, but the Romans are not in it. I see many campfi res and
those leather tents they use. They are camped on a rise at the entrance to
a fold in the hills, with woods behind them. Between them and the road
there is a river, edged with reeds.”
“Go higher, Coventa,” murmured Lhiannon, but she was thinking
hard. If the Romans were not marching, Paulinus must have chosen a
battlefield. “You’ve seen enough, my dear—speed back to us now, east-
ward across the land until you come to the Tor. All that you’ve seen you
leave behind you . . . you will not remember, you will not care . . . come
back now, your body is waiting—” She reached out as Coventa col-
lapsed into her arms.
“Will she be all right?” asked Nan, her wrinkled brow furrowed, as
Lhiannon laid the younger priestess down.
“In a little while she will wake, and very likely remember nothing
at all.” With a gentle hand Lhiannon smoothed back the curling hair.
“Do you think that what she saw was true?” the other priestess asked.
“I am afraid so,” answered Lhiannon. “I think that Queen Boudica
is attacking Verlamion now.”
“But the Romans are waiting for her,” said Nessa.
Lhiannon sighed. “Yes,” she said grimly. “And she does not know.”
“But there is no way we can tell her . . .” Nan looked at her in sud-
den alarm. “Is there?”
“I must try to warn her,” said Lhiannon, decision crystallizing as she
spoke. “They will give me a horse and food in Camadunon, and I can
ride quickly at need.”
“But it will be dangerous!”
“No Briton would harm me, and all the Romans are hiding in their
forts or waiting for Boudica. You and Coventa will be safe here on Ava-
lon. Hush now, she is waking,” she said as the other woman began to
stir. “Boudica needs me, but I promise I will come back to you!”
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Boudica rode into Verulamium in her chariot like a Roman gen-
eral at his Triumph, but her heart held no joy. These had been Britons,
however traitorous, and they were not the only ones who had suc-
cumbed to the temptation to ape the conqueror’s ways. How would she
win back her people if all she could offer was revenge? She had at least
been able to stop her warriors from attacking the nearby farmsteads, but
the palisade that surrounded the civic buildings was burning merrily.
Vordilic stood before its gate, to which a man had been bound in
mockery of a Roman crucifixion. A pile of white cloth that might have
been a toga lay on the ground. His well-fed flesh was bruised and scored,
but he was still alive. Blood matted his gray hair and ran from his mouth
where they had severed his tongue.
Vordilic looked around as Boudica neared. It was not only the
hatred in their eyes that stamped the crucified man and his tormentor
as kin.
“Behold Claudius Nectovelius filius Bracius—” There was venom
in each syllable. “Magistrate of Verulamium. I have taken the tongue
with which he denied his people and his gods. Next, perhaps, it will be
his eyes—his testicles have been no use to him for many a day.”
“Was he of your family?” she asked softly. A sob came from the gate-
post where a woman and two children had been tied.
“My ancestors deny him!” spat Vordilic. “Let him go to Hades with
his Roman friends!”
“Then it shall be so!” The words vibrated without and within. Vordilic
blanched as the goddess seized Boudica’s body. In a single sure move She
grasped a javelin and thrust it through flesh, heart, and the wood on
which they had crucifi ed the man.
The gathering crowd hooted and cheered as the pudgy body jerked
and twitched and then with a last convulsion went still, but that part of
Boudica that watched from within understood that this had been mercy.
“Give the carrion to the birds and purify this place by fi re,” the
voice, at once more harsh and more resonant than her own, penetrated
the babble of the crowd.
“Have we done well, Lady?” a dozen voices asked.
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“You have done what you must,” came the reply. “You are My fi re,
you are My sword, you are My fury . . . But understand this,” She said,
Her gaze sweeping the upturned faces that then grew still. “The fi re
that burns your enemy burns you as well, and the blood and fire will not
cease until they have run their course throughout Britannia.”
The Morrigan gestured toward the slack body on the gate. From the
gash in Nectovelius’s chest a trail of red blood twined across the pale
flesh to drip to the dirt below. “Your blood or theirs—it all feeds the
ground.”
“Then let all of it flow!” snarled Vordilic, frustrated bloodlust hurl-
ing him toward the woman by the gate. A shout rose from a hundred
throats and clubs and swords blurred through the air. In moments Nec-
tovelius’s family had gone to join him.
Is this, too, Your mercy? gibbered Boudica within.
“Would you not have welcomed it, after you lost your king?” came the
reply. The resulting surge of anguish plunged Boudica back into her
body with a shaken sob.
She took a deep breath, staring around her. A fi re- haired goddess
red with blood was turning away from the battered bodies at the gate. A
jolt of recognition sent fire through Boudica’s veins. This is how they see
Me, before they die . . . said the goddess within. Boudica closed her eyes,
dizzied at the doubling of vision.
>
When she opened them she was fully herself once more. With a moth-
er’s appalled certainty she recognized the figure before her as Rigana.
“What are you doing? Get away—” She bit back the words, observ-
ing the lingering battle fury in her daughter’s eyes, and knew herself for
a hypocrite for wishing to deny her daughter the same release she
craved. “Rigana . . .” her voice sounded strange in her own ears. “Rig-
ana, it’s over . . . come back to me, my child . . .”
The thought was her own, but it was the goddess who put power in
the words. She continued to murmur as the fire died in Rigana’s eyes,
until she was only a girl again, her eyes widening in disquiet as she re-
alized who and where she was. But this fi nal sacrifice seemed to have
satiated the bloodlust of the mob as well, which was now focusing more
on loot than on vengeance.
That night the Ver ran red below the town.
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Rigana, I must talk to you.” Boudica took her daughter by the arm
and made her sit down with Argantilla beside their fire. The Britons had
settled in a loose cluster of tents and wagons just beyond the embers of
Verulamium. Now they were gorging themselves on the looted food
and getting drunk on captured wine. “We will be fighting the Romans
soon.”
“And what have we been doing for the past moon?” Rigana jerked
free and looked around her with a laugh.
“Slaughter,” Boudica said grimly. “We have destroyed three towns,
none of which were defended by soldiers. The legions will be another
matter. When we fight them, I don’t want you in the battle. You and
Argantilla will stay with the wagons.”
“You want?” Rigana’s eyes flashed. “And what gives you the right to
deny us the choice that’s free to everyone else here?”
“You are children—” Boudica began.
“The Romans didn’t think so . . .” muttered Argantilla.
“We are women! Remember, the umbilical cord was cut at the sacred
spring!” Rigana exclaimed. “If we are old enough to risk death in child-
bed, we are old enough to risk it in battle!”
“What do you mean?” Boudica scanned them in alarm. “Did those
vermin leave you with child?”
Rigana fixed her mother with a bright, bitter gaze. “No, Mother.
Our moon blood still flows, and mine will continue to do so, for I see