Ravens of Avalon (56 page)

“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 Colonia and Londinium if a woman knows how to avenge her injuries!” She paused to let the cries of invective rise and fall.

“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 defiled—” 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 flowed 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 glamour of the goddess was being added to the power raised by men. “Roman blood will be a worthy offering! See how the glory of the Otherworld shines through the surface of t hings—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—fight 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!”

he 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 stiffened 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 fight 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 frustration. 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 superior 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 daughter 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 hands 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

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.

oudica braced as the chariot rocked into motion, the other five 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 embrace. 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 steadied them. Again and again Boudica threw. Some of the javelins 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.

hen Lhiannon was in the mountains with Caratac she had once heard the roar of a distant avalanche. The sound that rose from the battlefield 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 r ose 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 flung spears scythed down the leading Britons; a moment later a second volley 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 bandages she had laid ready. Brangenos and Rianor would be bringing them wounded soon.

Lady of Ravens!
her heart cried,
watch over Boudica!

oudica 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 forward, 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.

“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 flung 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 flurry 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 coalescing 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 beginning 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.