suffice.’ He heard Maeve’s gasp and without turning said: ‘A man’s looks are but an outward decoration. It is what is inside that makes him who he is. Our first task is to fend off the spirits that would enter him and set the wound afire.’ He reached into one of the containers at his belt. ‘Boil water and place this in it, and when it has cooled sufficiently, make him drink it, every drop.’ He left the hut and returned an hour later with a cloth bag. ‘This is a poultice which you must place over the wound. The drink will ease his suffering, the poultice will begin the healing process. See, you place it like this.’ He manoeuvred the bag, which was damp and gave off an unusual earthy smell, directly over Cearan’s ravaged face, taking care to leave the mouth clear. When he was satisfied he lit a small fire in the centre of the floor. Then he unstoppered another of the horns at his belt, took out a handful of what appeared to be dust and scattered it in the flames, where it hissed, sparked and crackled. Instantly, the room filled with a suffocating, evil-smelling smoke that battered Maeve’s senses and left her head reeling. The thin man bowed his head over the fire and began to chant a rhythmic, sonorous incantation, and Maeve felt the hut spin around her. At one point she was certain she was taken by the hand and drawn into the sky, to look down upon the land of Britain and all who dwelt there. Strange that she thought not of her father or Cearan, but of the Roman, Valerius.
When she woke for a second time, she felt as refreshed as if she had spent a long night in her own soft bed, rather than a few minutes on a hard earth floor. The healer sat by Cearan, but, like her, he could not ignore the heated conversation between Volisios and Boudicca.
‘I have swords, shields and spears and the warriors to wield them,’ the nobleman insisted.
‘And I am Boudicca, queen of the Iceni.’ Self-will kept her voice controlled but Maeve could almost feel the physical force of Boudicca’s suppressed rage.
‘Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, was dispossessed by the Romans,’ Volisios persisted.
Boudicca laughed mirthlessly. ‘And you, Volisios, if you were brave enough to return to your estate, would no doubt find a Roman in your bed. I am Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, and if I were not you would not be here, with your talk of warriors and spears.’
‘I came here to assure myself of your safety.’
‘You came here to assume my authority. To raise yourself above the rest.’
Volisios flinched at the undeniable truth, but he held her gaze. ‘And do I have it?’
‘No!’
‘Then who does?’
‘I am Boudicca, queen of the Iceni,’ she repeated, and her words rang through the little hut like a voice from another world. ‘No man among the Iceni has suffered greater wrong than I. I will take the fight to the Romans with sword and spear. I will destroy them with fire and with iron. I will have my vengeance! Go now and call the war bands. Every man, be he warrior, youth or elder, must play his part. I will wipe the Romans and any who stand with them from this land or I will die in the attempt.’
Volisios stared at her, overwhelmed by her presence and her anger. He snatched a startled glance at Gwlym. Now he understood. The wrath of Andraste. The druid rose to his feet and Boudicca glared at him.
‘You are no longer Boudicca of the Iceni,’ the priest declared, ignoring the fierce eyes that hooked him like an eagle’s talons. ‘The spirit of Andraste lives within you. The spirit of the hare and the horse… and now of the wolf.’
‘And who is it who is so impudent as to gainsay a queen?’
The stoop vanished and the young man’s paleness took on an almost mystical light, so his skin shone in the gloom.
‘I am Gwlym, druid of Mona, and I am here to guide you.’
He was finely muscled, with long brown hair drawn together by a red ribbon at his neck.
Gwlym watched from his place beside the queen as the guardian of the sacred pool led the young man forward. He had been carefully chosen for his untarnished character; no stain sullied his past or his present. He was a prince of his tribe, and he had come willingly to this place and to his death. The druids of Britain knew they had one last opportunity to drive the Romans from their land and they had sacrificed themselves and their sanctuary on Mona to achieve it. But there had to be other sacrifices. Nothing could be left to chance. Gwlym had sent word by swift horsemen to north and west and south. Now. Now was the time. And from each place, as the forces of free Britain assembled, a messenger would be sent, a messenger of such status as to impress even the most blood- weary deities.
So they had gathered here beside the forest pool, in a place sacred to the Iceni and their forebears since antiquity.
Gwlym led the chants, his powerful voice ringing out through the glade, and they were taken up by each of the elders of the tribe in turn. Once, these men had been acolytes and the keepers of the groves, but they had lost their way when the druids were driven into the west. But they still remembered. A thin cord attached the victim to the guardian, a warrior dressed in a red tunic and plaid trews. The others formed a loose circle on the firm ground by the water’s edge.
As he sang, Gwlym watched the moon as it made its unflinching arc across the night sky. When the glowing orb reached the exact centre of the circle in the tree canopy he raised his arms high. At the signal, the sacrifice threw off his cloak to stand naked in the firelight, swaying in time to the rhythm of the chanting.
Gwlym hid his relief. The drug had been administered in the exact quantities. He slipped his hand into the folds of his robe. This was his time. This was what all the years of tests and trials on the sacred isle had been for. He allowed the others to continue the chant and walked forward, talking reassuringly to the young man, as he would to a nervous colt, and as he talked he circled round behind him.
When he was in position, Gwlym swung up the short-handled metal axe and brought it down on the boy’s head with such force that everyone round the pool clearly heard the sharp ‘thunk’ as the blade bit into the bone. The blow would have felled an ox, but, incredibly, the victim still stood, swaying wildly, until a second blow of the axe knocked him to his knees.
Now the young druid stood back to allow the warrior with the red tunic to take his place above the prince. With both hands the man took hold of the noose with which he had led his captive, twisted it round the helpless boy’s neck, and pulled it until it bit deep into the flesh of his throat. But still he would not die. Without relaxing his grip, the warrior dropped on one knee on to his victim’s back with such violence they clearly heard a rib break. Then he used the extra leverage to twist the ends of the noose until the boy’s head suddenly flopped forward as his neck snapped.
The warrior rose, his job done, but two deaths were not enough. Three gods needed to be appeased. Volisios, his face a mask of determination, lifted the dead prince’s lolling head by his gore-thick hair and in a final act of mutilation drew the edge of a dagger slowly across his throat.
While the guardian carefully weighted the body and placed it in the sacred pool, Gwlym, breathing heavily, strode to where Boudicca stood in a hooded cloak. The three deaths had been administered exactly as ordained by Aymer and in accordance with all the edicts of the sect. The gods would accept the sacrifice.
‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Unfurl the wolf banner. Unleash the wrath of Andraste.’
XXIX
Crespo rolled the dice. ‘Seven,’ he announced. ‘All right, Vettius, the one with the big tits is yours. But take her into the other room. I’m sick of seeing that great arse of yours bulling up and down.’
Vettius grinned and walked across to where a group of young Iceni women huddled fearfully against the back wall of the main hall of Prasutagus’s palace. A plump girl of about fourteen squealed as he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her roughly through a doorway. Her sobbing pleas not to be hurt could be heard clearly through the thin wall before a sharp slap silenced them, but such sounds had become so familiar that Crespo barely registered them.
They had been here for almost two weeks now, supervising the collection of Iceni wealth and cataloguing the extent of Iceni lands by day, and drinking and playing dice for the use of the captured women each night. He reflected on a job well done. The procurator, now back in Londinium, had promised to commend him in his report to the Emperor. Crespo prided himself on being a man who took each day as it presented itself, but such recognition opened doors. He certainly didn’t intend to return to the legion. No need to as long as the pretty-boy tribune kept
