Harry Turtledove - Alternate Generals

“Shall I add your head to my trophies, Marcus?”

Boudica asked, her voice grating, her scowl like a slap across my face.

I forced myself to stand tall, wearing my chains like a tore, and met her eyes.

“I am once again in your hands, Lady.”

“I knew that dog Catus would come for the gold. I planned that. I never in my worst nightmares thought he would come for me and mine. What did you tell him?”

“The truth.”

She stared at me. And then she laughed, humorlessly.

Her daughters looked up at her, more fearful than curious. Lovemios stared down at the blood pooled at his feet.

“Here’s another truth for you,” Boudica went on.

“We’ve just had word from the northwest, as Catus has no doubt had word in Londonium. Suetonius took the sacred island of Mona and destroyed the druid college there. My plan is twisted and bent back upon itself. But I shall go on to victory despite all, in Andrasta’s name.”

One of the warriors dragged Ebro’s head back and raised his sword.

“No!” I shouted.

“If you crave more blood, take mine.”

Boudica looked me up and down, as she had the first time we met. A ghost of her amusement moved deep in her eyes and vanished.

“Very well, then. I’ll show your man more mercy than you showed my daughters.” She jerked her head. The warrior released Ebro, but not without pushing him into the dirt.

“Thank you,” I said, and bent my head for the blow.

“Oh, don’t be so noble, Marcus. You know what your life is worth.” The horses stamped and neighed. Turning, Boudica flicked the reins. The chariot moved off across the battlefield that had this morning been a peaceful colonia. Her warriors saluted her and went back to plundering the town.

Yes, in that moment I knew what my life was worth.

Boudica had planned all along to revolt, perhaps even before her husband’s death. Lovernios and his druid colleagues had drawn Suetonius and his legions away to the northwest. And then Boudica had dangled the lure, gold and horses and power, before Catus and before me.

Of course Lovernios and most of the warriors hadn’t been in Venta Icenorum the day of Catus’s raid. Boudica had sacrificed her own town in order to enrage all the Britons and lead them into rebellion. That Suetonius had won his battle added fuel to the fire. That Boudica and her daughters suffered such dishonor fed the fire to a white heat.

And as for me? It was my honor that had been in peril that night in the dell, not hers. Oh I’d played the fool, all right. She’d knotted me into her plot like an iron thread drawn through the midst other gold embroidery.

“Marcus,” said Lovernios, drawing my eyes to him.

“Poenus Postumus in Glevum is occupied with our cousins the Silures, and won’t be able to reinforce Suetonius. But I’d like to know how many men are garrisoned at Lindum, and the disposition of Petillius Cerialis, their legate.”

Boudica had intended all along to capture me once the rebellion began. Because I knew the truth, and had to speak it. And so I did, halting and stammering as the blood drained from my face and sickened in my gut.

Ebro stared at me, his long face growing longer, but said nothing.

The old man bent over the scroll, not knowing whether it was the pain in his belly which drew a chill sweat to his forehead, or the memory. Even today he couldn’t smell damp straw burning without growing queasy.

“Master,” said Rufus’s voice.

“Your son is here. He sends his respects, and has gone to the bath house.”

Marcus glanced up.

“Thank you.”

The shaft of sunlight inched closer to his couch, dust motes spiraling in its golden glow. It was time to make an end. He picked up his pen, moistened it in the pot of ink, and continued to write.

The Britons left Camulodunum, its white temple blackened, the bodies of its citizens worried by wolves and crows. Their army spread far beyond the road, warriors, horses, wagons laden with plunder sauntering across the unfilled fields not just in poor order, but in no order at all.

Not that I offered any criticism. I trudged along behind Boudica’s chariot in a black melancholy which lay heavier on me than the chains they’d removed. Ebro, too, walked unencumbered, sometimes at my side, sometimes behind me, his eyes darting to and fro.

But if we’d tried to escape our captors would’ve made short work of us. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted—if I couldn’t throw myself on my own sword, then that of a British warrior would do. But a stubborn spark of life kept me on my feet. And the geas kept my tongue wagging.

Boudica glanced in my direction every so often, as did Maeve, but Brighid made a point of presenting me with her back. None of them spoke to me. It was Lovemios who told me that Petillius Cerialis had come south from Lindum with a detachment of the Ninth Legion and met with a larger detachment of the Iceni.

Petillius escaped the slaughter with only his cavalry, and was now walled up in Lindum licking his wounds.

I saw the conquest of Verulamium with my own eyes.

The Britons were drunk on blood and booty, and spared no one. The baggage train grew longer—longer by far than Catus’s. Boudica turned toward Londinium.

Lovemios came to me yet again. By this time I was as filthy outside as I felt inside. Even so, I rose to my feet and offered him a place by the tiny fire Ebro had kindled.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“I must ask your advice.”

I smiled thinly at our mock courtesies.

“Suetonius arrived in Londinium with his cavalry last night, far ahead of his legions. They’re making forced marches down Watling Street, and will arrive in good order, I daresay, but too late.”

I nodded.

“Londinium has no defenses. Suetonius knows he can’t hold it.”

“He’s already taken what battle-ready men he could find and headed back to the northwest. Londinium is ours for the taking.”

“For the destruction,” I said.

Lovemios didn’t contradict me. He waited.

If only, I thought, I could bite out my own tongue and lay it at Boudica’s feet. I spoke through my teeth.

“You have to strike Suetonius now, before he rejoins his legions. If you can wean your warriors from their plunder.”

“I can’t,” Lovemios replied, “But she can.” He turned away from the fire into the darkness, then looked back around.

“By the way, Catus Decianus has fled to the continent.”

I sat back down, indulging myself in a vision of Catus’s ship sinking, his British gold plunging into the watery grasp of the British gods. Ebro spat into the fire. Around us, beyond the trees, other campfires blazed, and the sounds of men singing filtered through the night.

The next night the army ranged itself from bank to bank of the Tamesis, trapping the city between fire and water. Boudica called me to her own bonfire, and gestured silently toward a gleaming pile of arms and armor. Roman arms, and finely-wrought armor. In the midst of the pile stood a javelin, and upon it was spiked Suetonius’s head.

I recognized him, if not his shocked expression—he’d dined with my family more than once, and he and my father had reminisced about old times….

For once my tongue was still. I said all I needed to say in a look at Boudica.

The bones other face had grown sharper, and her blue eyes were clouded by gray like a noon sky overcome by storm clouds. Her mouth was tight, as though it’d forgotten how to smile. She was beyond sated, I think, sick on her own vengeance. But to stop the war before total victory would mean retribution.

“I hold no grudge against you, Marcus,” she said.

“When this is over, you’ll be free.”

“I’ll never be free of you. Lady.” As I squared my shoulders and turned toward my own little fire I saw Maeve peeking from the flaps of Boudica’s tent. Somehow I managed to summon a wink for her. Her eyes widened and she disappeared inside.