The Eagle and the Raven (92 page)

“He wants interest, he says. What is this interest? I am not the least bit interested in him! He has taken all my cattle and half my flock, and he says the other half is interest. He cannot even speak properly!”

“Lady,” another voice interposed. “He has threatened to take my son if I do not give him the money. He stands there with strange soldiers, not men from the garrison, and he makes demands. What is happening?”

Brigid quietly came closer. Her mother sat in her chair, with her chin buried in one blunt hand and her red hair brushing her face. Her chiefs clustered around her, white and anxious.

“He brought slave chains to me,” a short, belligerent man shouted. “He took away my freemen! Now who will till my fields?”

“I offered to gamble with him, for my sheep,” Lovernius said. “But he did not even answer me.”

Boudicca rose wearily. “Very well,” she said harshly. “I will go to Favonius. Lovernius, take your harp and go to Prasutugas. Sing to him, see if you can cheer him. But don’t tell him where I’ve gone. Tell him I am hunting.” She strode away from the men and caught sight of her daughter, hovering in the shadows. “Brigid! Did you win today? Whatever have you been doing? Your hair is full of grass.”

“No, I didn’t win…. Mother, I want to talk to you.”

Boudicca looked more closely at Brigid’s flushed face and guilty eyes, and a hint of what was to come made her heart sink, but it was just one more trouble in an ocean of nightmares. “I can’t stop now, Brigid. I’m sorry, but this is very important. Come to me tonight.”

“What is happening? What’s wrong?”

Her mother smiled grimly. “Your father is failing.” She swept past Brigid, her tunic swirling about her ankles and her necklaces tinkling. Once outside she did not pause but went straight to the stable. “Bring my horse!” she shouted, and she fidgeted impatiently while the slave scurried to do her bidding.

A net was closing about the Iceni. She knew it. Slowly, invisibly, her tuath was falling apart. Yesterday and the day before she had gone to Favonius, begging to know why, but he had been embarrassed and evasive. I know why, she thought dully. Prasutugas. I told him again and again. I beat at him with my words but he would not listen, and now it is too late. The horse was led out, its harness glittering in the strong, raw sunlight, and she hitched up her tunic, tossed a leg over its back, and clattered to the open gate and the trees beyond.

For the last nine years she and the Roman surgeon had battled to prolong Prasutugas’s life, but his time was running out and with it the last vestiges of self-government, just as she had foreseen. The path swerved in under the almost leafless trees and she slowed her mount to a walk. Anger and grief filled her and she knew that this time it would not go away. This time Prasutugas would die, this time there would be no reprieve. Boudicca struggled to swallow the uncharacteristic panic that curdled in her throat, acrid and painful. I must not look forward, she told herself. I must face each day, each hour, as it comes. Today I must beg help from Favonius on behalf of the chiefs. Tomorrow… She broke through the trees but did not pick up speed, and the horse picked its way disconsolately down the even slope to where the garrison lay quiet in the sun.

Caradoc, your life was wasted. Perhaps if you still led the west I might even now be riding over clean earth, my sword bright once more on my belt. But your sacrifices were for nothing, and I too must say that my own life has been one senseless, useless battle of words. If I had capitulated this moment would still have come, but at least I would be able to look back to years of wholeness, of peace. I would have an inner strength to carry me through the dark days ahead, the terror of loneliness. She dismounted under the shadow of the palisade, threw the reins to the guard, and paced across the small parade ground. I remember you so well, Caius Suetonius Paulinus, she thought. I met you only once, sharing food with you in your beautiful house, and yet my thoughts have circled you continuously over the past year as though you were an absent lover. You are our nemesis. You will conquer. Venutius is not a worthy adversary for you. You have not left Colchester, and yet your garrisons have risen inside Siluria. No governor before you was able to accomplish that. Madoc may still be lord of the north of his country, but he will never again see his own village.

Shrugging off her doleful reverie, Boudicca marched briskly along under the wooden porch and thumped on the door. She could not worry about Paulinus, not now. She had her own troubles to fight. Favonius was busy at his desk, with papers piled around him. His secretary was standing beside him, reading over his shoulder. A soldier opened the door, nodded her in, and closed it quietly behind her when she had entered. She came to a halt in front of the untidy desk and Favonius glanced up in annoyance but then rose.

“Boudicca!”

Her face was parchment pale under the tan freckles, and her mouth was rammed tightly shut. She stared at him.

“Is it Prasutugas?” he asked her.

“You know what it is, Favonius. I came to you yesterday, but today there are fresh grievances. What are you going to do? Why do you allow these thieves to scurry here and there over my country, ripping homes apart like rats seeking offal? Whose order brought them here?”

He lowered himself slowly into the chair and waved his secretary away. “I told you yesterday,” he said wearily. “Some of them come from the procurator’s office, from Colchester. Some come from Rome. I have no authority over them. They are not my concern.”

“You have not answered me. You don’t dare. They come because Prasutugas is dying, don’t they? Don’t they?” she said, raising her voice as she placed her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned over him. “Poor impoverished Seneca is worried. He is afraid that when my lord dies his money will end up in other hands. Whose hands, Favonius?” She was shouting at him now. “Why is Seneca worried? Why are the procurator’s agents here?”

He was silent while she spoke, his arms resting loosely on the desk before him, his eyes calmly meeting hers. “Seneca must know the terms of Prasutugas’s will. When he dies his estates go to the emperor and to his daughters. But the debts will be honored. In all the years since Prasutugas borrowed from him, we have not missed one payment.

“No,” she murmured, standing straight. “No. Another fear eats away at that avaricious old heart of his, and in the whole of the empire there is only one man who could take Seneca’s money with impunity. And that explains Decianus’s men.” Her voice dropped a tone. “Tell me the truth, Favonius. What will happen to the Iceni when our lord dies?”

He raised one leather-clad shoulder. “I don’t know. The governor may allow your daughters to take over the chieftainship, as Prasutugas wishes.” His eyes slid away from hers and she jumped forward.

“Or the Iceni will be absorbed and a praetor will come! I am no fool, Favonius, and neither are you. Isn’t it a policy, when the ruler of a client kingdom dies, to govern directly from Rome? Ah gullible Prasutugas! All the lies you told him, you glib, familiar son of a dog! All the fine dinners and lovely presents, all the reassurances! The Iceni are different, you said. The Iceni are our friends, our allies. Absorption? Never!” Her coarse masculine tones grated him, peeling away at the tender flesh of his honesty. “You lied, Favonius. Oh, Andrasta most High, how you lied! Decianus’s men are here like wolves around a still-living carcass, and when my lord goes they will tear Icenia to pieces for Nero!”

“You exaggerate as always, Boudicca,” he objected quietly. “Of course the men from the procuratorial office are here. When Prasutugas dies you must pay death taxes, and your daughters must pay inheritance taxes. The officials gather to see that the emperor is not cheated. As for Seneca’s employees, you can understand their concern, can’t you? But don’t worry—it will all be sorted out.”

“By whom? Prasutugas has tied my hands by his will. By his command the girls have been brought up to be pretty, useless decorations, like Priscilla.” He did not flinch, but the almost bored, slightly amused light went out of his eyes and was replaced by a coldness. “Help us, Favonius. Seneca’s wild dogs are already looting the people of their cattle, and freemen are being taken for slaves. They come to me, but I can do nothing without your support.”

“It is not my job to interfere in dealings that were private agreements between the chiefs and Seneca,” he said briskly. “If the chiefs did not understand the terms of those agreements, that is no concern of mine. I administer a garrison. That is all.”

She drew back, astounded, marshaling all her forces of self-control, fighting to speak reasonably. “That is
not
all. You are our link with the governor. You can petition him on our behalf. Go to Paulinus for us, Favonius.”

“Impossible! You have not been listening to me, Boudicca. The procuratorial office is not responsible to the governor and never has been. Decianus is under the emperor only. And even if I did want to petition for you, I could-n’t. Paulinus has left Colchester. He marches on the Deceangli, and then to Mona. His final campaign in the west has begun.”

She gazed at him for a moment, dumbfounded, and then gave a little exclamation of pain and fell into the chair that faced him. “So soon,” she whispered, half to herself. “Ah, how troubles pile up, one on top of the other, and as always I am helpless.” She looked into the red, hard face. “I want a meeting with the procurator. Arrange for me to see him, Favonius. This lawless behavior must be stopped.”

He got up impatiently. “It is not lawless, Boudicca. Roman law is fair and just. If the money was not owed, the men would not be here in Icenia.”

She looked at him for a long time and her lips gradually settled into a thin, hard line. “Either honesty and goodness have blinded you, Favonius, which I most strongly doubt, or you have never been our friend, and over all the years of comradeship with Prasutugas you have been laughing at him behind his back. He is the one who has been blinded by honesty and goodness. He is worth a thousand of you! Will you do nothing?”

He spread out his hands. “I can do nothing. When and if Prasutugas dies, the situation will be put in hand and you will see that your fears are unjustified.” He came around the desk and she rose. “I would ask you to share a cup of wine with Priscilla and me, but she is resting and as you can see I am hard at work.” He made as if to touch her and she drew back. “I am sorry, Boudicca. I wish that Prasutugas could go on living, I wish that you and I could have been friends as he and I were.”

She stalked to the door and the soldier opened it. “I, too, am sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I wish that Caradoc were still arviragus in the west. I wish that Albion would strike down Paulinus. I wish I had never set eyes on you. I will not come to you again.”

Once outside she ran across the courtyard to her tethered horse, mounted quickly, and whipped the beast into a gallop, disappearing into the woods.

The legionary closed the door and Favonius and the secretary looked at each other.

“Decianus is pushing too hard,” the secretary said matter-of-factly. “When Prasutugas dies the estates will come under the imperial seal as a matter of course. Why is he in such a hurry?”

“He is making his own profit first, as usual,” Favonius replied heavily. “If I protest I will lose my post, but I may have to send some kind of objection if any chiefs are killed.” He shuffled through the papers before him. “I like both Prasutugas and Boudicca, you know, and it angers me when I see our relationship with the barbarians put in jeopardy by the greed of one man. If Decianus knew Boudicca as I know her, he would think twice about such high-handed dealings.” The secretary maintained a polite silence, and Favonius put away his uneasiness. “Well?” he grunted. “What’s next?”

Boudicca left her horse at the stable and strode to the hall. Lovernius stood waiting, his gambling dice clicking in his restless hands, his harp slung over one shoulder. As she came up to him he ran forward. “What did he say, Lady?”

“Nothing!” she snapped. “He said nothing, he will do nothing. And we are as defenceless before Decianus as pheasants in a tree. How is Prasutugas?”

“He is very weak. I sang for him, and Brigid came and told him stories, but he fell asleep.” The scored, homely face turned to her in worry. “What can we do?”

She was stiff with bitterness. “Nothing, nothing, nothing! It is too late. The chances have passed us by, Lovernius, and we must suffer the fate we chose all those years ago. Prasutugas spoke the words of welcome to Rome, and Rome said thank you, we will take it all, but do not worry, because for your generosity you may share our peace.”

Boudicca turned and walked to her little hut. Someone had to order the tuath, and while he lived it had to be her. Some months ago she had moved from the house, leaving it to her husband. She could no longer bear his agony, the odor of rotting flesh that surrounded him, and the broken nights and anxious days. Nor could she bear to see him hour after hour, lying tormented in the bed they had shared so joyfully together. Sometimes, when he felt a little stronger, his chiefs would carry him carefully outside to sit in the sun and she would come to him and sit at his feet, her head against his thin knees. But the burden of his dying and the increasingly agonizing problems of the tuath often drove her to her own hut where she paced in silence, struggling to keep one step ahead of death and chaos. She no longer berated him. No hint of the tuath’s distress was allowed to disturb him. Favonius visited him occasionally to talk of hunting. The girls told him jokes. Lovernius played and sang for him. But Boudicca herself came to him with silence, and he was not deceived. Words of apology struggled within him but were suffocated under the weight of his ever present pain, and he could do no more than speak with difficulty of the weather, the feasts, the state of his vast herds. Before the Romans came he would have been killed and a new lord elected, but the Icenian chiefs were no longer devotees of the old ways. They worshipped other gods, the gods of riches and peace, and only Boudicca and a few of her own train still stood regularly in the groves of Andrasta, holding out empty hands to the savage, war-hungry Queen of Victory.