steadied them. Again and again Boudica threw. Some of the javelins
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were caught on shields, but several more got through. Then she ran out
of missiles and Tascio reined the ponies back down the hill. The other
chariots followed her, but the Romans refused to advance after them.
As she approached her own lines she drew her sword, and at the
signal, Celtic arrows filled the sky in a whickering cloud. Perhaps that
would sting the Romans into action. The Britons’ numbers would be of
little use unless they could draw the enemy away from the wooded
slopes that protected their flanks.
The warriors drew aside to let the chariots back through. Near the
edge of the field men were waiting to hold the horses. As Boudica took
up her shield and started back toward the front, Bituitos and Eoc fell in
behind her in the traditional triad formation. To have these men who
had guarded her husband at her back was almost like having Prasutagos
himself there.
As she reached the end of the Britons’ line one of the carynx players
caught sight of her and let out a triumphant blare. In the next moment
they were all blowing, the wooden clappers in the mouths of the bronze
dragon heads buzzing like maddened bees. Tascio ran past her to join
his father and brother. She felt the battle rage of her warriors lift her as
the host of Britons surged forward, screaming.
W hen Lhiannon was in the mountains with Caratac she had once
heard the roar of a distant avalanche. The sound that rose from the bat-
tlefield now carried the same explosive sense of releasing tension. Light
shattered on the points of myriad spears.
Boudica’s wagon had been parked where the ground rose on the
northern side of the field so it could serve as a healer’s station for the
wounded. Beyond the bright surging mass of the Britons Lhiannon
could see the strongest warriors surging up the slope toward the silent
line of steel. Closer and closer—in another moment the enemy must be
swept away.
At forty yards movement shivered through the Roman ranks. As each
man cast his pilum, a glittering blur filled the air. Five thousand fl ung
spears scythed down the leading Britons; a moment later a second volley
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felled those behind. Suddenly the slope was a tangle of writhing bodies.
Above the battle cries she could hear a dreadful descant of screams.
Exultation changed to horror as the Celtic charge faltered. Lhian-
non forced herself to breathe. She had seen the chariots driven to the
sidelines. Had Boudica had time to get back to the center of the line?
Was hers one of the bodies lying there?
Roman trumpets blatted their own defiance. With a deep shout, the
center of the legionary line extended and the block of troops became a
wicked wedge that stabbed into the confused mass below. And yet the
Britons still outnumbered their enemies by the thousands. Now that the
Romans were moving, they could surround them.
Lhiannon realized she had dug her fingernails into her palm. She
forced her hands to open and check the ban dages she had laid ready.
Brangenos and Rianor would be bringing them wounded soon.
Lady of Ravens! her heart cried, watch over Boudica!
Boudica flinched as the Roman spears darkened the sky and a wave
of shadow rippled down the slope. Linked to her warriors, the shock as
the missiles struck rocked her back against Eoc’s shield.
“Lady, are you hit?”
Only in spirit, she thought, pulling herself upright. They had to
attack now, before the Romans could use their momentary advantage.
“Charge them!” she screamed. “Kill!” She drew her sword and ran
toward the heaving mass of men. As she neared, the Celts surged for-
ward, then recoiled. She saw men struggling to keep their feet or go
down as they were pushed aside. Where were the Romans? She wanted
blood on her blade.
A high keening shriek burst from her throat and men recoiled.
Through the momentary gap she glimpsed Roman helms above red
shields and the flicker of stabbing swords. She and her companions began
to work their way into the mass as the Roman line rolled forward. Longer
Celtic swords were flashing, but crammed together, the Britons had no
room to put power in their blows. She saw Morigenos’s face contort as a
Roman sword went into his chest.
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“Give way and surround them,” Boudica cried, but even the Morrig-
an’s shriek could not be heard above the din. More and more Britons fl ung
themselves forward, tripping on the bodies of their fallen companions,
and with an inevitable deliberation the Roman wedge pushed into them,
a thousand gladii stabbing into a thousand unarmored Celtic bodies with
each foot of gained ground.
Boudica saw an opening and stabbed, braced by Eoc and Bituitos,
their swords batting away the Roman blades. She struck again, aiming
below a shield; the Roman lurched and for a moment there was a gap in
the line. Moving as one, the three attacked, long blades whirling. More
Romans went down, then their companions moved to restore the line
and Boudica fell back again, her shield groaning beneath a fl urry of
blows.
Shield arm aching, she stood a moment to catch her breath and
glimpsed Rigana with Calgac behind her, near Drostac and Brocagnos
and their men. She started to edge toward them. More Britons were co-
alescing into groups, hurling themselves against the legionary line, but
still the Roman meat-grinder inched on.
Once more the Roman trumpets blared. A tumult behind her
brought her around. The auxiliaries were forming a wedge and begin-
ning their own advance. Good, thought Boudica, maybe these will come in
range of my sword!
Beyond them she glimpsed men on horseback. The Roman cavalry
had emerged from hiding and were skirmishing along the edges of the
mob, lances striking those who tried to flee. With a shrill cry, Tingeto-
rix led his riders up the hill to engage them.
“Lady,” shouted Bituitos, “they’ll catch us between them. We must
get back.”
She looked at him without understanding. The Romans were in
front of her. With an exchange of glances, the two big men moved closer,
easing her back down the hill.
Corio and his Dobunni were attacking the auxiliaries furiously, but
presently he, too, fell. Then Boudica was caught once more in the surge
of warriors throwing themselves against the Roman line.
It went on like that, in an endless struggle that moved as slowly as
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the sun crossed the sky. Boudica saw the ex-slave Tabanus go down, and
Carvilios, and others she knew, but there was no time for mourning.
Her focus had narrowed to the line of swords that were chewing their
way through her men as the battle flowed down the slope and onto the
plain.
>
The fi ght slowed when they reached the stream. As the fi eld broad-
ened, new trumpet calls formed the three wedges with which the Ro-
mans had started into a dozen, widening the battle line, savaging the
Celtic horde. Soon bodies choked the channel, and the Romans began
to advance once more.
The enemy still maintained his formations, but the smaller wedges
could sometimes be broken. With Eoc and Bituitos behind her, Boudica
had the weight to drive forward, and her thirsty blade drank deep as she
traded blows. She had received several slashes, but no serious wound.
She moved now in a state beyond exhaustion, in which all she knew was
the need to kill.
L ife ebbed from the wounded man’s face as his blood welled though
the bandages with which Lhiannon had tried to stanch the wound in his
side. She touched his neck, felt the pulse flutter and fade, and sat back
with a sigh. At her nod, Caw carried the body to lie with the others they
had not been able to save.
The only good thing about caring for the wounded was that it kept
her too busy to worry about what was happening on the battlefi eld. Lhi-
annon allowed herself to look up, and realized with a little shock that the
fighting was now mostly on this side of the stream. Bodies lay heaped
upon the slope beyond it like grain when the reapers have passed. Al-
ready the ravens were gleaning among them. It was a mighty harvest of
heroes, mostly Britons, though here and there Roman armor gleamed.
How many of those bodies still had life in them? Until the battle was
over, they could not search and see.
On the other side of the wagons those few who might recover lay in
the shade of the trees. Argantilla and some of the other young women
moved among them, offering water or a little of the precious syrup of
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poppy to those in the greatest pain. For some, the sight of a girl’s sweet
face was sufficient medicine. For so many, there was nothing to be done—
and the men they had tended were only the ones who had managed to
crawl to the edge of the battlefield, where Brangenos and Rianor and
some of the stronger women could reach them.
“The fighting is getting closer,” said Caw. His tunic was smeared
with other men’s blood. He was, at most, sixteen, but just now a much
older soul looked out of his dark eyes.
“Yes,” replied Lhiannon. The battle had already covered more
ground than she had expected, and had lasted longer. The fi ghting was
almost close enough to make out individuals. She scanned the strug-
gling mass, but could not find Boudica’s raven-winged helmet or bright
hair.
“We’re still retreating.”
“They’ve been pushing us back all day,” she answered tartly. “But
our men are still resisting.” Yet of the mass of men who had surged up
that hill scarcely half remained.
“The queen said that if it looked like we were losing we should get
Argantilla away . . .”
While the Britons who still faced the enemy refused to admit that
they were beaten, it was hard to abandon them, though the Goddess
knew she had seen enough lost battles to be able to recognize the signs by
now. Lhiannon had told herself that if the fighting crossed the water she
would start getting ready, or when it passed the end of the semicircle of
wagons. It was clear to her now that if the fight reached the wagons at
the end of the field anyone who remained on his feet would be trapped.
It would be a slaughter.
It was a slaughter now.
“Get your things together,” she said through stiff lips. Boudica had
insisted that they all make up packs with journey supplies. “Take Ar-
gantilla up into the undergrowth beyond the trees, and take the dog.”
“But that’s the direction of the fort,” he said.
Lhiannon nodded. “If there’s pursuit, they won’t expect anyone to
run that way.”
“And what about you?”
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She looked back at the battlefield. “I must wait a little longer. Until
the Druids come back—” Until I know what has happened to Boudica . . .
Boudica staggered as a legionary’s gladius struck her shield and
stuck fast. For a moment the man stared, eyes widening as he realized
who she must be. He was still holding on as she swung, her sword blur-
ring into the gap between helmet and the shoulder plate of his lorica.
The shock as it sliced muscle and shattered bone vibrated up her arm.
Blood sprayed as she wrenched the sword free.
As the slain man fell his weight dragged the split shield from her
arm. Eoc Mor stepped forward to cover her with his own. She heard a
grunt, turned, and saw him folding as another legionary jerked back his
blade. Her instinctive response took off the man’s hand.
“Pick up his shield!” came Bituitos’s voice at her ear. She looked
down and saw Eoc curled in agony as blood poured from a great wound
in his armpit. But he was still holding up the shield. As she took it, his
fingers released the grip and he fell back with a fi erce smile.
Boudica drew a shuddering breath, aware for the first time that she
was growing tired. The Roman line rippled as men at the front stepped
back to let others, less wearied, take their places there.
Across the nearest warriors she glimpsed Rigana at the end of the
wedge, near the angle where the next began. Helm and shield were
both gone, though Calgac was still by her side. But even as she recog-
nized them, she saw the tall warrior begin to fall. She started toward her
daughter, stumbled on a body, lurched over it, and trod on another.
Had Rigana even noticed that her protector was gone? Screeching,
she gripped her sword two-handed and brought it around in a whirling
stroke that took a legionary down. Boudica was an arm’s-length away
when a Roman from the edge of the next wedge thrust past the edge of
the girl’s mail from behind. Rigana continued to turn, her bloody sword
flying from nerveless fingers in a glittering arc into the mass of enemies
beyond.
“You cannot help her!” cried Bituitos as Rigana crumpled. “We’ll
be surrounded! Come away!”
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But he stayed with her as Boudica shoved past another Briton and
over a body to straddle the convulsing form of her child. Romans drew
in to either side of them as the two wedges ground forward. Black
wings thundered in Boudica’s ears, but her vision was all red, red as her
daughter’s blood soaking into the ground.
Her lips curled back and the Morrigan screamed.
The scream held all the world’s anguish, and fury, and loss. Men on
both sides dropped their weapons, hearing that cry. Lhiannon felt her
heart stop. For the space of a long breath nothing moved on the battle-
fi eld.
Then, slowly, the Roman wedges began to push forward once more.
Only at one point was there a knot o
f resis tance, where the flanks of two
wedges joined. The massed men swayed and swirled; even from here she
could hear their cries, but presently the struggle eased and she knew that
whatever valiant warriors were fighting there had been overcome.
And with that, the Celtic resis tance began to unravel like a knot of
yarn when one pulls the central strand. As the Roman advance resumed,
the remaining Britons scattered, throwing down their shields. And now
at last the Romans broke ranks to pursue.
“It’s over—” Brangenos took her arm. “We must go.”
“But the wounded,” she said distractedly. “We cannot leave—”
“They are safe,” his harsh response silenced her. “The Romans will
not touch them now.”
And looking beyond him she saw the blood where each man had
received the mercy stroke. She felt as if he had struck her to the heart as
well.
“May the Goddess in Her mercy receive them,” she murmured. “If
She has any mercy . . . If She cares . . .”
As Brangenos dragged her up the slope Lhiannon heard screaming.
Those Britons who had managed to get beyond the line of wagons were
streaming across the fields, pursued by Roman cavalry. But the great mass
of men were trapped, trampled by their fellows or falling to Roman
swords. And not content with killing warriors, the legionaries were pull-
ing women and children from the wagons and slaughtering them as well.
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Lhiannon was glad of Brangenos’s firm grasp, for by the time they
reached the trees she was weeping too fiercely to see anything at all.
As she sank down Argantilla came to her, and though Lhiannon knew
that she ought to find some words of comfort, it was the girl who
cradled the priestess in her arms. She could hear the Druids chanting
as they wove a spell of concealment. Was that why the wood was
growing so dark around them, or had the death of their hopes taken
all light from the world?
T H I RTY
The ravens had departed at sunset. As night fell over Manduesse-
dum it was the turn of the wolves. The four-legged kind skulked down
from the forest as a waning moon rose above the plain. The Roman
wolves prowled the battlefield with torches, dispatching any Britons
who still lived and stripping the bodies of gear and gold.
No one had yet searched the woods above the battlefield, but if the