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

  At least he would not go unmourned. He’d been washed with sacred waters, his mustache combed neatly, and his body wrapped in a death shirt. Now he was upon a bier in the Great Hall, surrounded by as many torches as notable people—Britons and Romans—come to bid farewell to the dead.

  Perhaps it was in this spirit of respect that I was welcomed as a guest of the Iceni, greeted properly—but briefly—by Prasutagus’ grieving queen, Boudica. The girl with the red hair like mine was now a dignified mother of two. “He’s to be cremated,” a child said from the shadows of the fire, and I looked down to see a girl not quite flowered into a woman. The king’s daughter, she was—the younger of the two. The elder princess took after her mother in red hair and height, but I saw Prasutagus in the features of the younger princess. To know that he was still alive—in her—made me smile in spite of my grief.

  “Surely not cremated,” I told her, for that was more the Roman way than ours. It was bad enough with the Roman persecution of the Druids that there would be no one to pass the dread fey rod over the king’s body and whisper instructions to the spirit on how to navigate the next life.

  “Yes. Cremated,” repeated the young princess. “Like the old Romans. That was the king’s last wish.”

  I sighed. With this final wish, Prasutagus would remind the Romans that he was a loyal client king, steeped in their traditions, and whose family—and people—must be honored for his sake. The last of his stratagems. Yet I worried that this gesture on behalf of the people he ruled would risk his place in the next world.

  That is what rulers do, of course. Risk ourselves for our people.

  The good rulers, anyway. And Prasutagus was good.

  The world would be colder now without Prasutagus in it. He was my lover, my advisor, my friend, my comrade and—I was quite sure—the only person in the world who ever understood me or the things that I have done. And while I hoped he came to accept the resentment of the people for our submission to Rome, I was still struggling.

  CARTIMANDUA

  Seventeen Years Earlier

  “You shouldn’t have allied us to Rome,” my husband said. We were standing atop the round tower being built in my stronghold—a feat of engineering that would now be made much easier with Roman gold. A fact that seemed quite lost upon my Brigantes.

  Prasutagus had warned that we would be hated for surrendering to the invaders, but I had not believed him. I had been truly shocked at their dismay, grieved by the cold, resentful looks where I had only ever seen love before. I could not bear to have Venutius turn upon me, too.

  “It’s done,” I said, tucking tendrils of red hair behind my ears to keep them—and my temper—from flying away in the fierce wind. If I was grieving, I was also frustrated.

  “It can be undone,” Venutius said, reaching for my hand.

  I took it and held tight.

  It’s important to understand that I loved my husband. People assume that when something breaks, the crack—the flaw in it—was always visible. But there was a time my marriage was as strong and solid as a stone tower.

  “I gave my oath,” I whispered. “With ten other kings, I stood before the Emperor of Rome and swore. To turn and make war upon the Romans now would not only be foolhardy but unworthy. Dishonorable. We must make our peace with it.”

  And so we tried.

  But my onetime suitor, Caratacus of the Catuvellauni, did not make it easy. He was out there, always, in the mists, in the hills, raising the tribes of the west not far from my kingdom. Year after year, he would emerge from the shadows to attack the Romans.

  And his legend grew.

  So, too, did the frustration of the Romans. They had humiliated the Catuvellauni, confiscating their weapons so that they could be of no help to their rebel king. But the Romans came to believe that he had sympathizers in every tribe. And perhaps he did.

  Even the Iceni were forced to prove their loyalty by surrendering their weapons. Weapons that had been passed down in their warrior class from generation to generation: swords, shields, and spears. All the tokens of strength and manhood, gone. The Iceni were left degraded, with little more than farming implements and hunting weapons.

  But no such demands were made of my Brigantes. Perhaps because we were so much larger a federation. Perhaps because we were far north of the skirmishes and minor rebellions. Or perhaps because I administered my kingdom with the good order of which the Romans so approved. Whatever the reason, my kingdom grew in wealth and prospered. My fortress was made stronger, stone by stone. My court grew in prominence and prestige, such that even Roman nobles fostered their sons with me to help learn our ways.

  But the love of my people I felt slipping away. And oh, how it pained me.

  I had once been their maiden of spring, loved by all, but as time marched on, I had become the harsh mother of glaring summer who was not appreciated for making the difficult decisions that ensured her children survived and thrived . . . my people being the only children I seemed capable of having—and I wondered if that was the cause of losing my husband’s love, too.

  Seven childless years of marriage passed before he finally announced to me in our bedchamber, “We have been living together in dishonor.”

  Thinking that he knew—that he had somehow divined that I once gave myself to another man—I rose up from the bed to stare. But my husband’s thoughts were not of Prasutagus or our marriage bed. Venutius was thinking of Caratacus, whose name was increasingly spoken only in hushed whispers amongst my tribesmen.

  Caratacus, the man who would unite us against the Romans.

  Caratacus, the savior from the mists.

  Caratacus, the Hero of the Britons.

  “You made the wrong choice all those years ago,” my husband said. “It is a stain on our honor to prosper in servility to Rome while other tribes are crushed beneath Roman boots. Cartimandua, if we’d raised an army instead of surrendering—”

  “We’d all be dead or in chains,” I snapped. But my husband had opened up inside me a near-fatal doubt. What if I had supported the fugitive Caratacus when he began his rebellion? Would it have made a difference?

  “You are so stubborn,” Venutius said with unnecessary hostility. He had never before challenged me this way. “When you latch on to a thing, you never let go of it. The strongest metal bends. I learned that at the forge. But maybe it isn’t stubbornness in you. Maybe it is fear that has carved you out so hollow that you cannot give birth to a child, much less an act of courage.”

  It was as if he had struck me. I wanted to lash out at him, too, but I did not wish to hurt him, even as he was hurting me. “I want to survive, Venutius. I want our people to survive. Our traditions. Our gods. I want all of it, everything, to survive. If that is fear—”

  “Yes, it is fear!” he shouted, launching himself up from the bed. And I realized it was the first time he had ever shouted at me. “Better that we take our traditions and our gods and our ways into the next life with glory than to live at the mercy of Rome. We should be helping Caratacus fight the invaders. Instead, your fear has unmanned the Brigantes. You are not their darling anymore, Cartimandua. You are losing the respect of your own people.”

  Having this thrown in my face like cold water made me furious, but still I clung to hope. “Perhaps in a few more years, they will come to understand—”

  “No, they will not! And neither will I. We look to Caratacus and—”

  “Caratacus!” At long last, my temper burst free. “You think Caratacus the very epitome of a man, do you? It is a wonder you did not offer to become his husband instead of mine.”

  With a sweep of his huge arm, Venutius overturned a small table, sending my fine Roman glassware crashing to the ground, where it shattered. “At least as the husband of Caratacus, I wouldn’t have to live in shame and servitude to the Romans. Better to be buggered in the cause of a hero who fights for our people.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is that what he f
ights for? How many tribesmen have died fighting Rome? Caratacus is engaging in a pointless exercise that inflames the populace, undermines our rule, and lures young tribesmen to a lost cause.”

  “We would win this cause if you would command our warriors to his side!”

  I gave a frustrated shake of my head. “He will not have our warriors at his side. Caratacus will only have them bent at the knee.”

  “As you bent for the Romans?” my husband asked with a sneer, implying with his tone that I had done less bending than bending over. “They look all the same, stinking of olive oil and fish sauce. Wanting to make us just like them. And you’ll let them do it because they own you.”

  A surge of outrage made my eyes spring wide. “You would merely have me trade one master for another. And if I must have a master, I prefer one who will not bring war to my doorstep.”

  “Of course. Easier to cower behind your stone walls like a nursemaid instead of a queen.” He knew full well that I’d heard whispers that Brigantia would be better off with a warlord king. For the first time, I began to wonder if he was stoking those whispers.

  We slept that night in separate beds.

  The next morning, a group of young legionaries led by one Numerius Gratius Helva arrived at our stronghold. I took an instant dislike to Helva when he insisted on speaking to my husband instead of me. The Romans did not like to acknowledge the authority of women, even women given authority by their own emperor. The irony being, of course, that the power and authority I held as queen was the only thing keeping my husband from slitting Helva’s throat.

  The soldiers had come to exact tribute for the Roman emperor. Taxes. Donations for the temples being built in his honor. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  But Helva also had bad news. “There has been a rebellion of the Iceni. We have rounded up the troublemakers and sought reprisals. The governor believes it’s important for the Brigantes to know that it will be considered a breach of our treaty should you offer shelter to any of them.”

  “What of Prasutagus?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

  Helva unstrapped his helmet to stare at me, dumbfounded, as if he found it quite impossible that a woman should demand answers of him. But one of the other soldiers whispered into Helva’s ear, and then Helva directed his answer to my husband—as if I had not been the one to ask it. “That Iceni chieftain remains loyal to Rome. The others were killed in the fighting.”

  My legs nearly swept out from beneath me in simultaneous horror and relief. So it had not been a rebellion of all the Iceni. It had perhaps been a rebellion amongst the Iceni. Something I could never allow to happen in my own kingdom. But if Prasutagus was the only chieftain left, and the only one loyal to Rome, he was likely now the high king, facing the same opposition I was facing within my own kingdom . . . and within my marriage bed.

  DECIANUS

  Venta Icenorum, Kingdom of the Iceni

  Winter, 60 AD

  One thousand denarii, Decianus thought. That’s how much value he put on the dead king’s well-bred and very rare royal steed.

  Though, with inflation what it was . . .

  Drinking deeply where he sat in the dark and rounded Iceni Great Hall, he searched fruitlessly for the Iceni boy he’d once fostered. But as much as he would have liked to see a friendly face in the crowd, given the recent tensions between the Romans and the Iceni, Decianus supposed the young man would not like to remind his kinsmen of their once-fond connection.

  Meanwhile, Decianus observed that Celtic funerals were quite a bit more raucous than their counterparts in Rome. No death masks or hired mourners to stand about the impressive bier atop the rushes. There was quite a bit of keening over the body of the dead king, though. And many of the mourners stood in praise of Prasutagus, drinking wine and telling very loud stories of their happiest remembrances.

  To die in battle would have been more honorable than to die of old age; in that, both the Britons and the Romans agreed. But King Prasutagus had lived a long and full life, with many battles in his youth and vast wealth in his old age. Unfortunately, he had no sons, leaving behind only two daughters and an impressive widow with flowing red hair. Though her eyes were swollen with grief, Boudica had a proud bearing and made plain that she would preside over the games and feast held in the king’s honor.

  Six hundred denarii, Decianus thought. That’s the value he put on the queen’s slave girl who filled his cup with more wine. Though perhaps she was worth much more—after all, she bore a resemblance to the dead king. Drinking deep and nearly knocking his cup over when he set it back down, Decianus consoled himself that even though he had no children at all, it seemed as if the virile King of the Iceni had only spawned daughters, in and out of his marriage bed.

  Not that Decianus would have minded a daughter or two. A gaggle of girls to make Valeria laugh . . .

  Prasutagus' daughters looked as though they'd never laugh again. Come morning, they faced a burial and more games and feasting and more visits to the grave. Decianus supposed that only twenty years before, the savages would have been hunting heads and dropping them into sacred springs to propitiate the gods in the dead king’s favor. Thankfully, the Iceni had been at least somewhat civilized and were content to celebrate mostly with a few fistfights and an abundance of wine. An abundance in which Decianus was happy to share.

  Two denarii per sextarius, he thought, eyeing the king’s extraordinarily fine wine in its decanter. And he would have to drink more of it—much more of it—to find his courage. For the emperor’s order had come to him as soon as he arrived with the Queen of the Brigantes in his entourage.

  The Iceni kingdom was to be annexed immediately, all debts collected and scores settled. Decianus could not wait for the governor. But he feared that the moment the ruling was announced, violence would erupt. These hulking tribesmen, their gullets filled with wine and their hearts filled with grief for their dead king, would surely mount a resistance even if only with their bare fists.

  So how could he meet it? He must be very covert about taking his inventory. He would pretend that the emperor meant to honor the wishes of King Prasutagus, and that in accordance with the will, he was only making a valuation of everything so that he could take the emperor’s half-share.

  That would delay the confrontation as long as possible. That seemed like a clever idea. At least in his inebriated state.

  Two copper pieces, Decianus thought hazily, staring at the very shiny young tribune sitting near his wife. Agricola was the name of the handsome tribune whose rippling muscles could only have taken on such sheen after being bathed and carefully scraped by a bath attendant who would charge two copper.

  A bit much, really, but so far from the civilized world . . .

  His wife’s laugh cut through the dingy interior of the feasting hall. Decianus had so seldom heard his wife laugh that it startled him. And when he looked up, he saw she was laughing for that smarmy tribune. Valeria was laughing while Tribune Agricola nattered on about Greek philosophy and flexed those strong soldier’s biceps for her.

  What nerve! To openly make a play for another man’s wife . . .

  Decianus snatched the platter of roasted goat from the tribune when he reached for it. Which made the handsome tribune grin. “There’s plenty to go around, Procurator,” Agricola said with a glance at Decianus’ wife. “No need to be greedy.”

  Greedy, was he? Decianus would see to it that this no-account tribune's career suffered! He would ruin him. Ruin him utterly. Yes. If he remembered any of this by morning.

  Or if he could get past the anguish of knowing that here was a man—young and virile and battle-ready—that his wife might prefer. Tribune Agricola would not be sitting with his stomach in knots at the thought of dispossessing some barbarian tribe. Tribune Agricola would have no fear of these savages. Any man bold enough to flirt with Valeria—why, that man would show no hesitation at doing his duty.

  Later, stumbling away from the Ic
eni Great Hall into the inhospitable little hut that had been given over to him for the night, Decianus thrust a cup of unwatered wine at his wife. “Drink.”

  “Pardon me?” Valeria asked, and not just because she considered strong wine to be inappropriate for a respectable matron of Rome. She was already on edge, seemingly afraid to touch the wolf pelts on the bed that had been made ready for them lest she rise with mites.

  He pushed the goblet into her hand with a force that made her eyes widen. Her shock deepened when a note of true command crept into his voice. “Drink, I said.”

  Valeria stared into the depths of the cup, then back up at him, her bemused expression giving way to a frown. But she drank because he commanded it. There might have been poison in it, and yet still she drank. Because she was an honorable Roman wife, or so she wanted him to believe. “May I ask the purpose of this, husband?”

  “Because I am drunk,” Decianus announced. “And so should you be, for any conversation about the state of our union.”

  Valeria arched that infernal brow.

  Decianus cleared his throat. “It is a conversation long in coming, and you won't open yourself in free words unless Bacchus pries your tongue loose. Yes, only a god can do it. Certainly, I've never been able to break through your walls with mere mortal powers.”

  His wife’s lips thinned. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”

  “You laugh at me, don’t you?” Decianus poured more wine for her into the empty cup. It was the only way he could think of to reach her. “From behind that mask of cool reserve, you’re laughing at me. Not with me. Not for me. Not as you did with Agricola, that pretty tribune.”

  “Oh, Decianus,” she said without raising her voice, but he still heard her disdain.

  “Did you let him touch you?”

  Decianus hadn’t known he was going to ask that question, but when he did, Valeria’s ears went from pink to red, and she clenched her teeth so tightly that her beauty turned grim. At last—at long last—Bacchus did his work, and the mask fell away. She flew at him in fury, jabbing his chest with a finger. “You dare to accuse me of infidelity! After all these years of lying under you whenever you wish it, managing your household exactly as you like it, and picking up after you when your mind gets lost in numbers, this is my repayment?”