within?

  “I cleanse the clothing of the slain . . . Ravens gnaw the necks of

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  men, blood spurts in the furious fray, flesh is hewn in battle fury, and

  blades bite bodies in red war. Heroes in their battle-heat harry the foe

  with hacking blows. War is waged, each trampling each . . .” On the

  smooth cheeks gleamed the silver track of tears. “Do not fi ght tomor-

  row. It will be your doom.”

  “I have no choice but to pay that price,” Boudica replied. “To do

  otherwise would be to betray my people—” She gestured toward the

  scattered fires. “You wear my face, but I know You, Strife-Stirrer, Gore-

  Crow, Raven of Battle. You delight in conflict. Why do You pretend to

  weep? You led these people here.”

  The woman shook her head. “They would say they followed

  Boudica.”

  “But You are the one with the power!”

  “My heart is your heart. My rage is your rage. You are the goddess—”

  Boudica realized that as the woman spoke she was saying the words

  as well. She shook her head in desperation. Was this a delusion, or had

  she been deluding herself all along?

  “And are my hands Your hands?” she cried.

  The woman got to her feet and Boudica saw herself reflected in the

  Other’s eyes.

  “Only when you allow Me to use them,” came the soft reply. “You

  shape the gods as We shape you. But the forms in which you see Us have

  been honed through many lives of men. Through Us you pass from mor-

  tality to eternity. Through Us, the Divine becomes manifest in you.”

  Boudica realized that she was trembling, and did not know whether

  what she felt was terror or ecstasy.

  “Then will You use my hands tomorrow?” Boudica retreated to a

  fear she did understand. “Will You lead us to victory?”

  “It will end as it must for the greater good,” came the reply. “To

  give everything in the cause of life is one path to growth, but conflict is

  another. In war, you are tested to destruction. Winners and losers alike

  can fail, giving way to greed or fear. And winners and losers alike can

  transcend mortality. But only those who fall fighting bravely tap the last

  reserves of valor. Only those who give everything win the glory that

  lives in song and feeds generations to come. That is a prize that the win-

  ners cannot claim.”

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  D i ana L . Pax s on

  “And to gain that victory, will many die?” Boudica asked then.

  “Death is only a doorway, but how you go through that door will

  change what you see on the other side . . .”

  L hiannon stopped, skin prickling at the presence of power, as she

  saw the fi gure standing by the stream. The great dog sat at her side.

  When Crispus asked her to look for the queen Lhiannon had won-

  dered if power had made Boudica willful. But if so, she thought now,

  the power, and the will, were not the queen’s. The figure before her

  stood tall beyond the height of mortals, with a light around her that did

  not come from the stars. Leached of color by the night, her hair fl owed

  down in waves of shadow. From beneath the closed eyelids came a steady

  stream of tears.

  The priestess took a deep breath, forcing her voice to calm. “Great

  Queen—the night is passing, and the body You wear must rest.“

  The goddess turned, opening eyes that held a sorrow older than the

  world.

  “You have so little time, and so much to learn . . .”

  Lhiannon fought the temptation to use this opportunity to ask a few

  questions of her own.

  “No time,” she agreed, “if the woman is to sleep at all. In the name

  of Dagdevos, Lady, let her go.”

  After a thoughtful moment, the still features were transformed by

  a smile. “In the name of He who loves the one Boudica loved, I

  will . . .”

  Once more the eyes closed, but now the face was changing as the

  energy ebbed away. Lhiannon reached as Boudica’s limbs gave way,

  and staggering a little, for since she had seen her last the queen had

  gained mass and muscle, lowered her to the grass.

  “Lhiannon . . .” Boudica struggled to sit up. “I dreamed you had

  come.” She looked around her in confusion as Bogle whined and nosed at

  her hand. “Or is this the dream?”

  “This,” said the priestess with a tartness born of relief, “is the eve of

  battle, and we all belong in our beds.”

  “There was a woman washing bloody clothes.”

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  “I know Who you met here,” Lhiannon said grimly and sighed. “Do

  you think you can walk now, or do I summon men to carry you?”

  “In the morning we will fight,” Boudica continued as if she had not

  heard. “Watch over my daughters, Lhiannon. Keep them safe for me!”

  “Yes, Boudica—” If I can . . .

  Boudica caught her breath and focused fully on the priestess for the

  first time. “Oh Lhiannon, thank the gods you are here! I have needed

  you so badly, for so long!” She turned, weeping, and Lhiannon gathered

  her into her arms.

  T W E N T Y- N I N E

  The gods had given them a beautiful morning. The sun filled a trans-

  parent sky with light, and the poppies glowed like spots of blood upon

  the bright gold of the ripening fields. On the plain between the stream

  and the slope the Britons were assembled by tribe and clan. In that clear

  light, their striped and checkered garments and their painted shields

  were a riot of fierce hues. Some had stripped to the waist, the swirls and

  spirals of war paint showing bright against fair skin. Others wore mail

  shirts whose links shimmered in the sun. Sunlight glanced from shield

  boss and gleamed on bright blade. The same light glared from the armor

  of the Romans who waited on the hill.

  Holding the high ground gave the enemy an advantage, but they

  were facing into the sun, thought Boudica as she jumped into the chariot

  behind Tascio. She worked her shoulders back and forth to distribute the

  weight of her mail. The shirt had been made for a large man and except

  across the bosom hung loosely. The added weight seemed to give her

  more stability in the chariot, though after the miles she had journeyed

  standing in the thing, balance was no longer a problem. As Tascio reined

  the ponies toward the line the ruddy plaid of her own cloak streamed out

  behind her. She could feel the raven wings attached to her cone-shaped

  helmet flutter in the wind. A second chariot, bearing Rigana and Argan-

  tilla, followed. When the fighting began Calgac would drive them back

  to the wagons drawn up in a semicircle at the other end of the fi eld. Ar-

  gantilla, at least, could be trusted to stay there.

  As the chariot bore her along the line the men began to cheer.

  “Boud! Victory! Boud-ee-cah!” Ravens flew up from a cluster of trees,

  cawing exultantly.

  Lady, I hear You . . . Boudica’s heart answered. Do You hear me? You

  brought us here— help
us now! Help me !

  She flinched as the first wave of sound vibrated through fl esh and

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  bone. She could see faces now. She lifted her sword in salute to Brocag-

  nos and his boys. Segovax and his older son Beric and their men made a

  group near the clan of Morigenos. Farther down the line Drostac of Ash

  Hill and his household shook their spears.

  “Boud-i-ca!” came the shout, and with it a surge of energy that was

  like the power when Cathubodva came in. Other faces emerged from

  the blur before her—Mandos, who had returned from his exile in the

  Brigante lands when he heard about the rebellion, bearing the sword he

  had refused to yield; Tabanus, who had been a slave in Colonia; Vordilic

  and his grim band of Catuvellauni; Corio of the Dobunni with the men

  of his tribe. She saw Iceni and Trinovantes, Durotriges and Dobunni,

  and smaller groups from a dozen other tribes. There were even a few

  Silures who had fought with Caratac, who saluted as they recognized

  the torque she wore. At the far end of the line Tingetorix led a mixed

  group of mounted warriors. They were all cheering, waves of sound

  rolling through the bright air.

  “Boud-i-ca! Victory!”

  If this was not the whole might of Britannia, there were men from

  more tribes than even Caratac had ever gathered assembled here. Last

  night Boudica had wept because so many would be slain, but today,

  with all the host before her, it seemed to her that they could lose half

  their men and still have the numbers to crush the enemy who huddled

  up there on the hill.

  Tascio halted the chariot on a little rise.

  As the multitude grew still, Boudica fought to contain the energy

  that sparked through every vein. At her neck Caratac’s torque was warm

  to the touch, as if it were absorbing power. She had wondered where she

  would find the strength to reach these warriors, but the power was

  theirs—their spirit, their fierce joy at finally coming to grips with their

  foe—all she had to do was to find the words. She did not know if this

  was the Morrigan’s answer, but it would serve.

  “Men—no, warriors of Britannia!” she corrected, meeting Rigana’s

  glare. “The Romans despise you because you follow a woman, but I am

  not the first queen to have led Britons to victory. Ask the men of Colo-

  nia and Londinium if a woman knows how to avenge her injuries!” She

  paused to let the cries of invective rise and fall.

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  “At long last, we face our foe with sword in hand. You whose sons

  have been carried off to die in other lands, defend your own earth now.

  You who have been driven from your homes, reclaim them! You whose

  wives and daughters have been outraged, as I and mine were defi led—”

  she pointed to the other chariot and a new roar shook the skies, “—restore

  our honor!”

  With each word, the power the warriors had given her fl owed back

  to them, inchoate rage transmuted into purpose and focused on the enemy.

  When she drew breath, she could hear a tinny gabble from the slope and

  knew the Roman general must be addressing his troops as well.

  “Look at them, cowering on their hill!” She swept her sword toward

  the enemy. “We destroyed one legion with only a tithe of the force we

  have now. Lift your voices and Taranis the thunderer will crush them

  with sound!” A new cry shook the heavens as she stabbed at the air. “They

  cannot even stand against our shouting, much less resist our swords and

  spears!” As she drew breath the curses changed to grim laughter.

  From the trees the ravens echoed them. Boudica felt the hairs lifting

  along her arms and sensed that the Morrigan was near.

  “See what a fair day the gods have given us!” she cried. She could

  hear her own voice becoming more resonant and knew that the glam-

  our of the goddess was being added to the power raised by men. “Ro-

  man blood will be a worthy offering! See how the glory of the Otherworld

  shines through the surface of things—I see that same glory blazing in

  your eyes. Go forth to battle and may the gods go with you, as they are

  within you.”

  And in me . . . the silent thought came as her last fears faded away.

  “Those who live will have honor unending; those who fall will feast

  with the blessed gods. In this battle I will conquer or I will fall—that is

  a woman’s resolve! And as for you—fi ght as men or live as slaves!”

  Her arms rose as if to embrace them all. No longer patient oxen

  beneath the yoke of Rome, they pawed the ground like stallions. In that

  moment Boudica loved her people as she had never known how to love

  them before.

  “Be My sword, Boudica . . .” came the voice of the goddess within,

  “and I will be your shield.”

  “Boudica! Victory!” shouted the host. “Great Queen! Boudica!”

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  The ground trembled as the warriors of Britannia stamped. Their

  battle cry shook the air. At the other end of the field, Lhiannon could

  feel the vibration in her bones. The fine hairs on her arms stiff ened with

  energy. Even when Caratac addressed his troops she had never felt such

  power, but Caratac had only had a White Lady to ward him. Today, the

  Battle Raven Herself would lead Britannia. Lhiannon had watched her

  people fi ght at Durovernon, on the banks of the Tamesa, in the Ordo-

  vice hills. But for the first time since she had arrived at Manduessedum,

  Lhiannon began to believe that this time they might win.

  She stood up in the wagon, shading her eyes with her hand, as the

  chariot bearing Argantilla and Rigana made its way through the gaps

  between the groups of warriors, splashed across the stream, and rumbled

  toward the semicircle of wagons. Caw, who had been expressly ordered

  by the queen to stay and guard them, moved restlessly beside her and

  Bogle tugged at his rope and whined. Lhiannon understood their frus-

  tration. The power Boudica had invoked thrummed in her veins; she,

  too, wanted a sword in her hand.

  The rest of the host was beginning to move toward the foe. Now

  and again an individual champion would dart forward, shaking his spear

  and shouting invective. What must it be like for the Romans, forced to

  stand sweating in their armor as they waited for this horde of humanity

  to roll over them? It would be like trying to stand against the sea.

  The chariot drew to a halt, and Argantilla jumped down and ran

  into Caw’s arms. Rigana remained where she was, watching with a su-

  perior smile. Then she picked up her helmet, unadorned and rising to

  a rounded point, and settled it over her russet braids. She was already

  wearing a sleeveless shirt of mail.

  Well, that answered the question of whether Boudica’s older daugh-

  ter was going to stay with the wagons. Lhiannon tried to summon the

  resolve to plead with her, but it was taking all her self-discipline not to

  join her. Instead, she lifted her ha
nds in blessing.

  “May the strength of Sucellos shield you, may the skill of Lugos guide

  your arm, and may the wrath of Cathubodva carry you to victory!”

  Rigana answered with a flashing grin so like her mother’s that

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  Lhiannon’s heart twisted. She and Boudica had parted with few words

  that morning, the queen’s mind already focused on the demands of the

  day, that of the priestess too full for words. And surely they had said

  everything that was needful the night before. Only now, seeing the

  child whom she had swaddled as a squalling infant armed and ready

  to face the foe, did Lhiannon understand that even if she had stayed

  with Boudica all those years, there would not have been time for all she

  might wish to say.

  Rigana grabbed one of the javelins from its slot on the rim of the

  chariot and brandished it. Then Calgac shook the reins on the ponies’

  necks and they sped away.

  Boudica braced as the chariot rocked into motion, the other fi ve

  war carts that the Britons had been able to repair rattling along behind

  her. For this, she had no need to seek oblivion in the Morrigan’s em-

  brace. Their lust for this battle was the same. A swift glance back showed

  her Rigana’s helm at the end of the line. She had no time for regret, or

  even surprise. As they neared, the blur of men in the Roman formation

  was swiftly resolving into a series of matched shields and helmets, each

  man with his pilum in his hand. But any hope she might have had that

  the chariot charge would panic the enemy faded as the slope grew steeper

  and the ponies began to slow.

  The Roman general had disposed his men in three blocks. In the

  center she could see the hated legionaries standing in cohorts eight

  ranks deep, spaced a little over a man’s width apart with twice that much

  room between the lines. More lightly armed auxiliary troops stood in

  blocks to either side. The cavalry must be hidden in the woods behind.

  “Turn,” she said to Tascio. “Bring us along the line—”

  With an invocation to Cathubodva, she plucked a javelin free, drew

  back her arm, and threw. Her first missile fell short, but the second arced

  past the front line and pierced the neck of a man in the second row.

  “First blood to me!” She gave them a snarling smile.

  A quiver ran through the enemy ranks, but a clipped Latin order