A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion Read online

  A YEAR OF RAVENS

  A Novel of Boudica's Rebellion

  by

  Ruth Downie

  Stephanie Dray

  E. Knight

  Kate Quinn

  Vicky Alvear Shecter

  S.J.A. Turney

  Russell Whitfield

  With an introduction by

  Ben Kane

  COPYRIGHT

  A Year of Ravens

  “Introduction” copyright © 2015 by Ben Kane

  “The Queen” copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Dray

  “The Slave” copyright © 2015 by Ruth Downie

  “The Tribune” copyright © 2015 by Russell Whitfield

  “The Druid” copyright © 2015 by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  “The Son” copyright © 2015 by S.J.A. Turney

  “The Warrior” copyright © 2015 by Kate Quinn

  “The Daughters” copyright © 2015 by E. Knight

  “Epilogue” copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Dray

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof—including the introduction or back-matter—in any form. The digital version is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the authors’ work and copyrights.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by The Killion Group. Raven Logo by Simon Walpole. Epigraph quotes taken from the public domain or translated by the authors from the Latin to English.

  ISBN-13: 978-0990324591

  ISBN-10: 0-990324591

  INTRODUCTION

  Ben Kane

  T

  he warrior queen Boudica is, for many, one of the standout characters from the ancient world. A woman violated, the leader of a people wronged by Rome—their erstwhile ally—she ignited a rebellion in first century AD Britain that saw panic sown the length and breadth of the land, London burned and tens of thousands of citizens killed. The uprising failed, but its effects reverberated through the empire. Ancient sources tell us that the cataclysmic events almost persuaded the emperor Nero to abandon Britain, and that punitive operations conducted in the months afterwards were stopped, for fear of causing another tribal backlash.

  After the fall of the Roman Empire, Boudica’s name was lost to history until the late fifteenth century. Since that time, she has been romanticized somewhat, and identified as a symbol of the small who take on the large, of the wronged who fight evildoers, and as a doomed hero who did what she thought was right, regardless of the consequences. As with the gladiator Spartacus, another historical character who almost brought Rome to its knees, it’s likely that Boudica herself had no great guiding ideals, no sense of the divine guiding her actions. She may have been, plain and simple, a strong, charismatic character who wanted revenge for the violent and unjust wrongs done not just to her and her family, but to her people as well.

  In the past, historians have been known to describe Boudica’s rebellion as a war for national independence, with the ‘good’ British tribes lined up against the ‘bad’ imperialist Romans. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Like their fellow peoples throughout Europe and beyond, the ancient tribes did not think of themselves as a nation; in fact, we don’t even know what word they would have used to describe themselves or the island of Britain. Boudica brought together an alliance of peoples who disliked their new masters, the Romans, and together they did their utmost to defeat them.

  As with all conflicts, past and present, the war between Boudica and the Romans was marked by savagery on both sides. It’s impossible for a responsible historical author to write about these events without showing the brutal atrocities committed by the Romans, and also by Boudica’s army. Inter-tribal warfare—a common feature of life in ancient Britain—also had to be mentioned.

  In A Year of Ravens, seven talented authors have conjured up a powerful and vibrant representation of Boudica. She is seen through the eyes of a fascinating cast of characters, a number of whom are historical, and some who are fictional. Each of the novel’s seven parts has been written by a different author and comprises a complete tale. This makes it possible for the reader to move on within the book should one story not take their fancy. Note that the plot spans from the novel’s beginning to its end, weaving together each story, so there’s far more enjoyment to be had by reading the entire book!

  Writers of historical fiction always have to make decisions that will impact on the reader’s experience. These decisions bear explanation, and follow hereafter. For the sake of accessibility, and where practical, English words and conventions have been adopted over the Latin. While the Romans did not use weeks to measure time, the authors did so. The rebellion’s timeline is not recorded; ancient sources tell us that it lasted about a year, and so its battles and annexations were fitted into the warmer times of year, when armies were more likely to march. Timelines for the rebellion vary between experts; the authors have made some educated guesses based on the weather. The timeline for Cartimandua’s story mirrors that set out in Nicki Howarth’s biography of the queen.

  Given the previously mentioned lack of historical clarity on the cultural identity of the people of ancient Britain, the authors opted to call them Britons, Celts and Cambrians. They also used Romanized place names such as Mona for the island known today as Anglesey or Ynys Môn. The names might be modern, but the legends are eternal. Any errors contained within these pages are the authors’, for which they apologize in advance.

  A Year of Ravens is the compelling story of one of history’s bravest women, and of her fight against injustice. Visceral, tragic, gripping, it propels the reader straight into the harsh and unforgiving world of first century AD Britain, and holds them there until the final, emotional page. I was lucky enough to work with four of the authors on a previous collaboration, A Day of Fire, so I knew this novel would be a great read. I wasn’t mistaken, and the addition of three new fabulous writers has merely added fuel to the fire, making A Year of Ravens a true ‘must read’.

  I hope you enjoy it!

  CHARACTER LIST

  Iceni Tribe

  Boudica, Queen of the Iceni

  Prasutagus, her husband, King of the Iceni, Friend and Ally of Rome

  Sorcha, their eldest daughter

  Keena, their youngest daughter

  Duro, her champion and right-hand man

  Andecarus, Duro’s son, fostered with the Romans

  Verico, Duro’s foster-son

  Ria, her slave girl, illegitimate daughter of Prasutagus

  Luci, Ria’s friend, a slave boy

  Eisu, an Iceni horse trader

  Vanus, an Iceni warrior

  Other tribes

  Cartimandua, Queen of the Brigantes, Friend and Ally of Rome

  Venutius, her consort

  Caratacus, leader of the Catuvellauni, legendary rebel against Rome

  Yorath, young Druid in training on sacred island of Mona

  Romans

  Claudius, Emperor of Rome

  Nero, Claudius’s stepson and successor

  Seneca, a powerful senator in Rome

  Paulinus, Governor of Britannia,
commander over its legions

  Decianus, Procurator, the emperor’s personal agent in Britannia

  Valeria, his wife

  Helva, a centurion under his command

  Agricola, Tribune of the Second Augusta

  Roscius, Agricola’s boyhood friend, Senior Tribune

  Felix, a legionary who Agricola takes under his wing

  Postumus, Agricola’s superior, Camp Prefect of the Second Augusta

  Lavinia, Postumus’ wife, Agricola’s lover

  Calvus, Centurion of the Second Augusta, Tenth century of the Tenth Cohort

  Naso, Optio of the Second Augusta, Tenth century of the Tenth Cohort

  Magnusanus, Batavian cavalry Decurion of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix

  Flacca, Centurion of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix

  Stator, garrison commander at Londinium

  PART ONE

  “A miserable peace is better than war.”

  — Tacitus

  THE QUEEN

  Stephanie Dray

  PROLOGUE

  W

  e were both queens. We both wore crowns of fiery red hair. We both stood so tall that we towered over the Romans who came to subdue our lands. We both tried to protect our people, but she is a hero to the Britons while I am despised.

  Boudica.

  You’ve heard her name. Of course you have. Everyone has. And when you’ve heard it spoken, you’ve heard the hushed awe of her admirers or the grudging respect of her enemies. You’ve heard her legend. And you may think you know the story of the proud rebel queen who humbled the Romans, burning and slashing her way to eternal glory. But you cannot know her story without knowing mine.

  And mine begins as it will likely end, with ravens.

  For ravens made me a queen.

  Or so it seemed to me during my twentieth winter, when they circled the air over a dozen fresh graves, their harsh avian cries an eerie echo of those who had died of fever, including my royal family. In my grief, I felt the ravens’ dark eyes upon me like the expectant gaze of the gods. Felt it again during the festival of Imbolc, celebrated in honor of our high goddess, for ravens are the first birds to nest when the lambing season has begun.

  They flapped above us from their perches on the rocky outcroppings—the bridestones—while we brandished torches to banish the dread crone of winter and summon forth the maiden of springtime. Then we flung garlands into the river, where a woven boat filled with winter flowers awaited me. And I prepared to take the oath that would bind me to my people.

  Descended of great kings, I was young and radiant and beloved by everyone—a thing I took much for granted. But then it is easy to be loved when you’re a young and beautiful queen, for the people make you a vessel into which they pour all their hopes . . . and you have not yet had the chance to bitterly disappoint them.

  So while I swore my oath, I did not worry about keeping the love of my people, for I had never been without it. What I worried about was whether I would be a good queen. I was no warrior, even if I was long and lean of limb, and the mystery of how to become the earthly incarnation of our high goddess still eluded me. Brigantia. She was the maiden, the mother, and the crone. She was the patroness of poetry, craft, and healing. In kinship with her, I would take a white snake as my companion animal.

  But her omens that year I did not understand.

  It had been a strange and devastating winter that made me fear for the survival of my people; now the thaw had come, and the river ran swiftly, more treacherous in its depths than we could have anticipated when I stepped into that woven boat.

  To this day, I cannot say how it overturned. I only remember plunging into the frigid depths, grasping wildly to pull myself out. One of my servants slipped under the water and disappeared. The others I could not see as I was swept away. It was far down the river, as I gasped for air and my limbs grew heavy with fatigue, that I felt the seductive pull of death.

  There would be pain as the water filled my lungs, but it would not last long. Then it would be done and my sorrow at an end, reunited with my family. But what of my people? Without a Druid to make of me a sacrifice, my death would not bring them prosperity. What they needed was the embodiment of their high goddess. What they needed was their living queen. I could not leave them. So I flailed desperately against the implacable force of the river until at last my fingers caught hold of a thick branch of a tree. I grasped tight. Though the bark cut my palms, I held that branch with all my strength, knowing that if I let go, I would drown. But if I held fast, my people would rescue me. They would be searching, even now. I was sure of it.

  I found strength in their love for me and mine for them. But how long until the branch began to crack under my weight? I didn’t know. While I struggled in the churning water, half-in and half-out of the river and unable to pull myself farther, I thought only to stay alive for them. I endured the torment of the cold. I endured the agony in my hands as they melded with that branch. I endured the ever-present temptation to heave one last ragged breath and give myself to the rush and the ravens.

  But I held fast even when I could feel nothing but the cold—the cold and the challenge in the eyes of the ravens who watched me from the trees above the river. Did I have the will to survive, no matter the forces conspiring to pull me under?

  I did.

  My tribesmen found me before darkness fell, so rigid that they thought they might have to cut the branch from my grasp. “The queen lives!” they called to one another in celebration. And as I was warmed with blankets and love and gratitude, I knew that, though I might never heft a warrior’s sword, there was a strength in me that would serve.

  For my people, I could endure. I could withstand the very forces of nature.

  I was no longer afraid that I would not be a good ruler. And so, on that day, I, Cartimandua, became Queen of the Brigantes.

  But not as the Romans count it, of course. They mark my reign from the year they invaded. That is how the Romans measure things. It all starts and ends with them. Yet there was, for me, a life and a kingdom before the Romans. Without the Romans. Julius Caesar had already come and gone by the time I was born, driven from our shores with the fig leaf of a promised tribute that we never paid. So as a princess coming of age so far north amongst the craggy bridestones of the high moors, I had never laid eyes upon a Roman. Oh, I’d heard tales of their soldiers, wearing brush-topped helmets and skirts of decorative leather strips. About how they swarmed like mindless ants, advancing behind shield walls, without even paint upon their face to distinguish them.

  And yet never did I suspect that they would stomp their tiny booted feet in unison to shake the very earth beneath me. That they would come to our shores, wave upon wave, forcing upon tribal queens like me—and like Boudica—only two choices.

  Either seize hold of any branch of peace, or surrender to the relentless rush of war.

  DECIANUS

  On the Road to Durobrivae

  Winter, 60 AD

  “Are you sure it’s quite proper that you should personally ride out to meet a barbarian woman?” sniffed the wife of Catus Decianus with an impressively imperial arch of her brow. “You’re the procurator, after all. You report directly to the emperor. Surely an underling would be better suited to the task.”

  “The task of telling a queen to return to her kingdom?” Decianus asked as their carpentum jostled its way up the road to the Roman fortress near Durobrivae.

  “A barbarian queen,” his wife muttered.

  Barbarian, yes. But Cartimandua of the Brigantes was also a Friend and Ally of Rome. Decianus would prefer to keep it that way. As he understood it, the barbarian queen had been wintering in the Roman fort by the bridge, buying up pottery and recruiting extra protection for her stronghold in Brigantia. But now it was time for her to go home, and Decianus intended to tell her so.

  Meanwhile, his wife was plainly irritated by their uncomfortable winter journey, but she was
too stiff-necked—too Roman—to whine. Instead, as was her habit, she confined her remarks to pointing out the irregularity of her husband’s mission. So Decianus confined himself to counting the days until he might visit his little villa in Gaul, where juicy blue-black grapes grew in fat clusters over the tranquil pool into which he dipped his feet while studying the geometry of Euclid and the paradox of infinity.

  The thought of his villa soothed him. And he needed a great deal of soothing whenever his wife decided to be displeased. She was right to say that as the chief financial officer in Britannia, he did indeed report directly to Emperor Nero. But as procurator, he felt like little more than a glorified tax collector in this gods-forsaken western outpost—from which he hoped soon to retire.

  Which he should have done before the governor marched off west, leaving Decianus to deal with the brewing mess of tribal unrest.

  “I am attempting to be politic, my dear,” Decianus said, straightening his toga over one arm and sucking in a gut that had become a bit soft with middle age. “That is what you’re always advising, is it not?”

  “I’m sure you know best,” she said.

  You’re a moronic milksop, she meant.

  Given her noble pedigree, she wouldn’t stoop to speaking undignified insults aloud. No. Valeria simply let him know with a variety of sighs and side-glances that after fifteen years of marriage, he had proved to be a colossal disappointment.

  “What sort of woman is she?” his wife asked.

  Decianus’ attention snapped back with an accompanying pang of confusion. “Who?”

  “This Cartimandua woman, of course,” she said, with the unspoken question: Or is there some other barbarian you’ve dragged me out into the cold to see?