Romans were done.
And astonishingly, some were still alive.
Lhiannon was binding up a long gash in the leg of one of the
younger Druids when a new sound brought her around. The blood left
her head as she looked up and saw Ardanos, leaning on Bendeigid’s arm.
Or perhaps it was his spirit, for she had never seen such grief in the eyes
of a living man.
He had bruises and scrapes, but otherwise seemed unharmed. His
lips opened, but no words came.
“Sit down, my lord,” said Bendeigid gently, leading him to a bench
that had somehow escaped destruction. “You see, you are not the only
one to survive . . .” His bleak gaze met the women’s stares. “And it is a
wonder he did,” he said. “He would have thrown himself on the Ro-
man swords. I hauled him away from the fighting—we spent most of
last night in the water. He was cursing me, but I made him live. We will
need him to lead us when we fight again . . .”
“No . . .” Ardanos whispered. “Never again. We cannot fi ght Rome.”
“When you are recovered, sir, you’ll feel diff erently,” Bendeigid
replied, but Ardanos continued to shake his head.
“The soldiers are all gone?” asked Lhiannon. “I saw them forming
up and marching away—”
Bendeigid nodded. “Just past dawn another boat crossed the strait
with a courier clinging to the rail. He went haring up the road as soon
as it touched sand, and soon after we heard the trumpets. They are gone,
though the Goddess knows why.”
“Something has happened . . .” said Belina in a still voice. “Our
magic worked. Only not . . . in time . . .”
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“In time for us to save something!” said Lhiannon as briskly as she
could. “They would have found the rest of us by the end of the day.”
“Where are the others?” Bendeigid’s face grew grim as he saw the
row of bodies. “Where is the High Priestess? The Roman scum took no
prisoners with them—they cannot all have died . . .”
They found Coventa behind a screen of willow branches at a bend
in the stream where the girls had made a shrine to Brigantia. She was
naked, curled against the altar, shivering. At the sight of the blood on
those white limbs Lhiannon put out a hand to stop Bendeigid.
“Go back and find something to cover her—”
Softly she knelt at Coventa’s side.
“It is all right, my dear one, you are safe—we are here . . .”
Coventa’s eyes opened, and somehow she managed a smile. Belina
held the water flask to her lips. She drank eagerly, then lay back with a
sigh.
“Why did they do it?” she whispered. “I never wanted a lover, but
I saw how eagerly women went to the Beltane fires . . . I thought that
when men and women came together there was joy. This was like being
attacked by animals!”
“Coventa, that’s what they were—”
“When they hurt my body, I willed myself not to feel—but I couldn’t
close my mind to their rage and their fear. And all the time they were
shouting—animals don’t curse, Lhiannon!” she exclaimed. “It is not
true, what they say about the ability to see visions depending on virgin-
ity . . .” she went on. “Since then I cannot stop seeing images, but they
are all evil—blood and a burning city, bodies everywhere . . .”
Lhiannon winced. Was this why they said the Oracle must be vir-
gin, not because of the intimacy of the body, but because for an adept,
intercourse must also bring intimacy of the mind?
“Those images were in the minds of the men who raped you,” said
Belina. “Let them go.”
“They couldn’t be—” Coventa shook her head. “The men I saw
were of our people, and Boudica was with them, waving a bloody
sword.”
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“Desire shapes her dreams,” murmured Belina. “Boudica protected
her when they were young, so she summons her image again.”
Lhiannon was not so sure, but she could do nothing for Boudica,
“It was Boudica, but it was not—” Coventa babbled on. “I saw the
shape of a great raven rising up behind her, with blood on its beak and
claws . . .”
The Lady of Ravens stalked through the ruins of Colonia, directing
the storage of looted supplies, the distribution of captured arms, the
assignment of camping space to the men who continued to arrive.
Queen, icon, no one questioned Her right to lead them, though Boudica’s
household had begun suggesting She take time to eat and sleep as the
night passed and the next day drew on.
It was nearly sunset when Brangenos came to Her, Rianor at his
side. Behind them, Rigana and Argantilla watched warily.
“My Lady, how is it with You?” the elder Druid said carefully.
It was clear that he knew Whom he was speaking to. Why did he
not say what he meant?
“I am very well—how could I be otherwise, after such a feast?” She
laughed. “Or did you mean to ask after My horse?”
Some of the others looked at them in confusion, as the queen had
been on foot all day, but Brangenos answered.
“Yes, my Lady, as You know full well, and You are too good a
horsewoman to ride a willing mount to exhaustion.”
“I suppose that is true.” She sent awareness inward, noting sore feet
and an aching back. They had kept Her supplied with beer, but what the
ravens ate put nothing in Boudica’s belly. A glance around the camp
showed things in as good an order as it was possible for these people to
achieve. She could see that in another moment he was going to pass
from request to command, and with the body so tired, She might not be
able to retain control.
“Would you like Me to leave her now?” She grinned.
“Please, Lady, come back to your tent—” Brangenos cast a wary
glance at the interested faces around him.
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Perhaps he had a point. Amusing as it might be to drop Her mount
right here, it was probably best to let the Britons believe that it was
Boudica who was leading them.
“Mother—we need you, too,” Argantilla said then, and at the sound
of that voice, Boudica began to wake within.
“Yes . . . it is time . . .” The goddess leaned on the older Druid and
allowed the younger to take her other arm, withdrawing a little more
with each step, so that by the time they reached Boudica’s camp, the
Druids were supporting her.
“Is this what you desired?” She laughed softly. Then Her eyes closed
and She was gone.
W hen they had gotten Coventa back to the shelter of the Council
Hall and she was sleeping peacefully, they left Belina to watch her and
went out again to look for Helve. They found the High Priestess at the
Sacred Grove.
The outer ring of trees had burned, but in the center the trunks of
&
nbsp; the great oaks were only scorched and their leaves baked brown. Helve
sat with her back against the altar stone, a Roman javelin lodged in her
side. She still wore the torque and armrings of her offi
ce. Dark blood
soaked the blue robes.
“They were afraid to touch her,” Bendeigid said softly. “She made
her stand here, and I’ll warrant she cursed them. That’s why her body
was not defi led.”
He stepped back, fingers flickering in a sign of warding as the dark
draperies stirred. But Lhiannon stiff ened, pointing—
“Look—that blood is still red—she is alive!”
Bendeigid went to her side, calling her name, but there was no
response.
Ardanos straightened, with an eff ort putting on the authority of the
Arch-Druid once more. He knelt at Helve’s side.
“Helve—I call you. From the place where your spirit wanders I call
you back. Open your eyes, my lady, and answer me . . .”
A quiver ran through the still form as the priestess opened her eyes.
New blood welled from the wound. Slowly her gaze fixed on Ardanos.
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“My lord . . .” It was only a breath of sound, but she winced as if
even that much movement caused her pain. “Knew you . . . would
come.”
Even now, thought Lhiannon, Helve’s voice held not gratitude but
pride.
“Helve, you are wounded. We must remove this blade.”
The priestess raised one eyebrow. “Dying,” she corrected. “Let me . . .
speak, then . . . pull the spear.” She fell silent, breathing carefully. “I gave
Nodona the kiss of blessing . . . she shall be High Priestess . . .” she
plucked at the torque, “until Lhiannon comes back . . . from Eriu.” She
drew a shuddering breath and her eyes closed.
“Helve, I am here!” Lhiannon took the woman’s cold hand.
“She thinks I hate . . . her,” the pale lips twisted. “She was too . . .
good. I was afraid.”
“No—I understood,” Lhiannon said, trying to stop herself from bab-
bling. “You did well.”
This was wrong. A high priestess should pass with all her women
around her. Save for Belina, not one of them was in any condition to
come to the Sacred Grove, even Nodona, who was still hysterical, though
aside from rape her body seemed to have taken little harm.
“I saved . . . the sacred stone . . .”
Did Helve even realize that Lhiannon was there? Behind them Ben-
deigid had begun to murmur the chant that eased the passage of an ad-
ept to the Otherworld.
Helve’s eyes opened, and with an effort she focused on Ardanos.
“My lord . . . I am ready. Pull . . . out the damned . . . spear!”
Ardanos was shivering, but when he sang his voice was fi rm. “You
are not this pain . . . you are not this body . . . From all oaths that bound
you, be free. You are Light, you are Joy that cannot die. Rise, holy one,
on the wings of the morning. Speed westward until you come to the
Isles of the Blessed. There you shall rest until it is time to take a body
once more. It is the Arch-Druid of Britannia who releases you. Be at
peace, Helve. You have leave to go . . .”
Helve’s eyes were closed. Ardanos’s face had gone white, but his hand
was steady as he grasped the shaft of the javelin just behind the head and
slowly eased it from the wound. A gush of bright blood followed. Helve’s
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body jerked, struggling, then went slack. For a moment Lhiannon seemed
to see a mist of brightness above the still form, but perhaps it was a haze
of sunlight passing through the trees. Then it was gone.
“I should be lying beside her,” Ardanos breathed. “What use was all
our wisdom and our magic? Lys Deru is gone. We failed.” And then, at
last, he began to weep.
Of Colonia, only rubble and a few wisps of smoke remained where
some stubborn flame still burned. Most of the inhabitants were ashes,
but a few had been nailed to the charred beams of their houses as a warn-
ing, and at the little fort, heads now adorned the gateposts. For four days
the Britons had been celebrating their victory, as drunk on the Roman
blood they had spilled as they were on Roman wine.
Boudica sat before her tent in a Roman curule chair set with ivory
and gold, listening to the chieftains who lounged on a variety of seats
around her fire. It was a surprisingly comfortable chair—a good thing,
considering how many of her muscles were still sore.
“The City of Victory, they called it!” exclaimed Segovax. “It’s the
City of Victims now!”
“This is the oldest Roman settlement in Britannia,” said King Co-
rio. “Well, it was . . .” he said, grinning. The Dobunni lord had arrived
while she was sleeping, along with several chieftains from the Catuvel-
launi lands. “The others won’t stand a chance!”
“If all the people rise in rebellion,” said Boudica, “no conqueror can
hold a land. But all of us must attack the Romans—and we must take
the forts as well as the towns.”
When Boudica had awakened after a night and part of the following
day, she had found half a dozen chieftains from the Cantiaci and Catu-
vellauni waiting. They listened with a respect that surprised her. What-
ever the goddess had been doing during the day after the Temple of
Claudius had burned had apparently done her reputation no harm.
She signaled to Rigana to carry the wine pitcher around, suppress-
ing an impulse to ask for beer instead. Her head still had that feeling of
having been swept clean, like the shore after high tide—the pressure she
had felt from the goddess was almost gone, but Boudica had the feeling
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that certain things, like beer, or blood, would bring Her back again.
That day of absence had frightened her daughters. She must not give in
to the temptation to lose herself in the goddess without need. At least
Cathubodva seemed to have left some of Her wisdom behind.
“We have enough war arrows to send to all the tribes, and these
have been reddened in Roman blood. We need four more hosts the size
of this one to pin down the legions, to convince the Romans that Bri-
tannia is a pit into which they may cast their gold and their men for a
century and still it will not be fi lled.”
“An off ering pit,” murmured Brangenos, “a gift for the gods . . .”
At the words, Boudica felt a flutter of raven wings within. She is still
hungry . . . At the thought, the scent of carrion grew stronger, carried
on the wind.
W hen the wind blew through the Sacred Grove one could smell
the burning, though four days had now passed, but the scent of burned
wood was clean compared to the reek that still hung over what had been
Lys Deru. Of the Druids who had remained at the sanctuary, barely half
had suvived to chant the funeral hymn while the others burned. Of
those, some might recover in body, thought Lhiannon as she watched
Cove
nta gaze vaguely at the play of the light in the leaves; she was less
sure about their minds.
“Lys Deru is no more,” said Ardanos. “The magic is departed.” He
had made sure of it, ordering them to pull down the remains of the
buildings to fuel the funeral pyre. “We will leave nothing for the Ro-
mans to triumph over when they return, as they surely will . . .”
He blinked twice, a facial twitch that had appeared the day after the
attack. Despite the energy with which Ardanos had supervised the de-
mo lition and funeral, Lhiannon wondered if he ought to be counted
among the wounded as well.
“And where do you wish us to go?” she asked gently. She looked
around the circle. The day after the Romans departed, some of their
neighbors had appeared bringing supplies, so at least they were clothed
and fed, though it was strange to see Druids in the natural colors of
wool and flax instead of white and dark blue.
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“For a time we must disperse. We come from many tribes—we
must seek those of our Order who remain in the clanholds to arrange
for shelter in remote farmsteads where those who are injured can heal.”
And our priestesses can wait to learn if the seed the Romans planted will take
root in their wombs, Lhiannon thought grimly. Belina was already talking
of raising any sons to take vengeance, and of all the raped women she
was the closest to sane. We are all broken in one way or another . . . it re-
mains to be seen if we will be able to mend.
One by one the survivors began to speak of places they might fi nd
refuge.
“I have no family left in the Cornovii lands,” said Lhiannon when it
came to her turn, “but there are those in the Summer Country who
will shelter me. I will take Coventa and go to Avalon.”
“And we may be able to return here one day,” said Belina. “One of
the fisherfolk heard talk among the soldiers as they moved out. There is
a rebellion in the east—in the Iceni and Trinovante lands. That is why
the legion left so suddenly. Maybe this is the revolt for which we have
waited, when all the tribes of Britannia will rise as one.”
Lhiannon stiffened, understanding flooding her. Boudica was caught
up in this somehow. She twitched with sudden exasperation at all these
wounded people. Ardanos was right—Lys Deru was gone, and with it