Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

  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.
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  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