Act Two: The Dance of the Roses
Dance One: Celtic Ceili
Detour
Rhosyn Tyler had been having a perfectly ordinary morning – right up till the moment the bulky stranger in the odd suit had grabbed her arm on Frenhines Buddug Stryd, jabbering at her in some outlandish tongue. She reacted automatically, tossing him to the side of the walkway with a practiced hip throw and then dropping into a ready stance. When he simply raised his eyebrows at her with a sour look, it took a moment, then her peripheral vision began to sink in, as well as the memory of that wild flash of light during the throw. Somehow they'd been transported from the busy, noisy, exhaust-fume-filled Stryd to a large open hayfield, the midday sun blazing stereotypically overhead.
She gaped about wordlessly as the stranger picked himself out of the newly mown hay (the scent of which, assaulting her nostrils, was providing the proof her eyes were trying to deny) and pulled out a mobile phone, jabbering into it with more of his incomprehensible gibberish. Then he grabbed her arm again – she was too shocked to protest this time – and the flash came again, this time accompanied by an intense squeezing-stretching feeling, as if she were being pushed and pulled through an invisible keyhole in an invisible door.
The hayfield disappeared again, replaced this time with the interior of a mad techno warehouse, complete with the clangs and beeps and oily metallic odor of Uncle Garvain's cargo ship. Yet another stranger was there, this time an intimidating character with vivid green eyes. He jabbered at her briefly with an air of quiet, menacing command while she stared silently back, then she was pulled roughly away and taken down a short flight of metal stairs to an obvious cell, for yet another mind-shattering shock.
For inside the cell were two other women, both of whom looked and sounded exactly like Rhosyn herself. Well, "sounded" if you only listened to the timbre of the voices – their words were as mystifying as all the others she'd heard in the last few head-whirling minutes.
"What in the name of all the Gods and Goddesses is going ON here?" Rhosyn demanded sharply when she finally found her voice, but of course, the other women just shook their heads, their lack of comprehension of her words in return obvious.
Behind her, the door opened again, and yet another lookalike was shoved in, as well. She seemed to speak the same tongue as the others did, though. And again, and again, until there were six of them there.
Suddenly one of the others (she didn't know which one – how do you tell your own mirror images apart?) swore in response to something another had said – in Germanic! "Scheisse!"
Rhosyn whirled on the woman and nearly pounced. "You speak Germanic?" she asked in that tongue. Please, please, let someone here be able to tell me what's going on! When the other woman replied with an astonished "Ja!" Rhosyn nearly cried from relief. Thank the Goddess I chose Germanic in school instead of Frankish for my foreign tongue requirement. She squashed the thought and concentrated on what was being said – something about different planets, alongside each other, each with a copy of herself? This didn't make any sense. There was only one Terra!
They didn't get any further, though, before the door opened yet again, and yet another woman shoved in. The Germanic-speaking duplicate seemed to recognize this one, somehow, and then she was turning back to Rhosyn to ask, haltingly, how many what? Oh, flashes of light and instantaneous movements they had taken to get here. She gave the answer, two, and the nonsense chatter continued.
Then the green-eyed man was there at the little window in the door, then another man, then the door was thrown open and yet a third man rushed in to scoop the last entry into his arms. Well, at least somebody had been rescued.
After they'd all filed back up to the outer room, the last double turned to her rescuer, motioning towards Rhosyn herself. Then he, a tall, skinny stick with shaggy hair and large, expressive brown eyes, turned to her and asked in that same odd Germanic the other had used, "What have you say?" When she began to reply in the same tongue, he waved her off. "No, talk in your tongue to please."
"In my tongue? I speak the Queen's Gaelic - " That was as far as she got.
"Brilliant!" he replied in her own tongue at last, grinning like a maniac. "Now we can talk!"
His Gaelic was odd, but at last he was able to explain that she'd been brought to a parallel world, and forward in time some fifty years, to boot, by the green-eyed man, along with all these other versions of herself from yet other parallels. It was like something out of a bad science fiction movie, but she couldn't argue with the fact that she sure as uffern wasn't on Frenhines Buddug Stryd on her way to work any more. She'd just wait to see if his explanation held any wine.
A very confusing half hour later, after much jabbering and fiddling with the various consoles and wristwatches, he turned to her again at last. "Hello. My name's Jared, by the way."
"Rhosyn. Rhosyn Tyler."
"A Rhosyn by any other name..." was his nonsense reply. She looked at him sharply, and he shrugged. "Never mind."
While everyone else moved off to one side to continue their chatter, Jared led her to the console and sat her in one of the chairs, straddling the other, and began explaining what they'd discovered, and what they – and she – were going to have to do in order for each to return to her own life in her own world.
"I have to go back in time and change history? To my history?" Her head was whirling. She kept waiting for some hidden director to yell "Cut!", or everyone to begin breaking up and telling her she'd been Punked.
Jared was running a buzzing flashlight's beam across her hand, the across the wristwatches he'd laid out in a row, finally picking one of them up. Consulting again with her doubles, he at last turned again to her with a smile. "Ah. Now I know which parallel you're from. As I suspected, yours was split off first, the farthest back in history – that explains why your language is so different – English never really developed. So your job..." Reaching a long arm across the console, he fished a single paperback out of the bundle he'd been given earlier and handed it to her. "...is to keep her from falling into the trap that killed her in our world. You must keep her from going into the last battle outlined in that book."
Rhosyn stared back and forth from his face to the book for several long moments, eyes wide. Finally, she whispered, "You're not joking, are you? This isn't a prank?"
"No," came the solemn reply. "It's absolutely real."
She gulped. Little Rhosyn Tyler, nobody, shop girl and Akido black belt (her one real accomplishment) had to go try to save the life of her personal heroine. She stared again at the famous statue on the cover of the book, the one she passed every day on her way to work, depicting her world's greatest warrior queen, standing tall beside her warriors.
Queen Boudicca of the Iceni.
Strange Homecoming
Rhosyn stumbled out of the lightning, staggering several steps before she found her feet again. The first thing that struck her was the near-absolute silence. After living all her life in noisy London, her ears almost rang with it. The next thing she noticed was the clean, fresh wind; not a hint of pollution or even smoke. All about her was a deep, green primeval forest, ancient and proud, its oaks and poplars reaching for the sky high above. She could almost sense their roots digging down towards the center of the Earth far below her feet.
No, Dilwen, I don't think we're in Llundain any more, she thought ruefully, remembering the famous line from the old movie.
She still wasn't at all sure she really believed this entire nonsense about going back in time and "fixing" history, but she didn't seem to have any choice but to go along with it for now. She'd just reserve judgment until something proved out.
Back in that mysterious techno-lair, she'd rifled through the book Jared had handed her, then tossed it back to him with a snort. "I can't read that!" Apparently it had been written in his language, whatever that was, not hers. So, he'd walked her through the startlingly different path and outcome of Boudicca's Revolt in "his" history.
"We don't know exactly when these events happened, so we're going to have to send you back a few months early. At least that will give you time to learn the language, and get close to the people in the center of things."
She was abruptly shaken out of her reverie by a shout directly behind and above her. Whirling around, she threw herself sideways into the bank of ferns beside the pathway that materialized under her feet, out of the way of the troop of horses thundering down upon her. The leader furiously lashed his horse out of its attempted rearing check and it plunged on past, carrying his angry shout along. Rhosyn's jaw dropped in astonishment, partly at his incredible rudeness, but then, mostly at his attire.
The leader, and the other half-dozen riders behind him, were Roman soldiers, complete with armor, swords, and spears.
The next rider pulled up beside her and sat, grinning down at her as he tossed some remark off to his fellows. Rhosyn didn't understand what he was saying any more than she had anyone else save Jared all day. His meaning became all too clear a moment later, though, as he roughly motioned her up off the ground and onto his horse behind him!
She wouldn't have thought herself capable of further astonishment, but there it was. "Are you insane?" she spat out.
One of the other soldiers spurred past her would-be captor, shouting at him and motioning to their leader, now far down the path. The first soldier's face, flat-nosed and dark-skinned like a North African, twisted in fury at her intransigence, and his motions turned demanding. Another of his companions laughed, and maneuvered his horse around behind her, where he prodded her backside with his spear, and she sprang to her feet and whirled to growl at him. Unfortunately, doing so prevented her from seeing the third soldier slip off his own horse, and he grabbed her and tossed her up behind Flatface before she could turn to throw him. She wasn't even properly ON the beast, but he spurred it abruptly ahead, whipping it into a gallop before she could even scream, and she grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling off and being trampled by the horses behind.
Somehow she managed to hold on, and shifted her seat slightly to something a bit more secure, cursing the centurion all the while. His Roman saddle, a tiny wood-and-leather affair, didn't take up much of the horse's long back, so she was at least able to perch on the front side of the horse's croup. Unfortunately, that put her nearly directly atop his hipbones. Before they'd gone a mile, she was sure she'd be permanently crippled.
They caught up to the leader quickly, who didn't even glance around. Flatface hissed at her, apparently telling her to be quiet, then backed it up with a slice at her leg with the long ends of his reins. She got the message, and concentrated on hanging on.
The troop cantered out of the forest shortly thereafter, down a ridge and onto flatland. All around them were low, rolling hills, many of them with fields of grain growing in the sun. They dashed through several tiny settlements, bare handfuls of rude huts that looked to Rhosyn's eyes more like haphazard piles of straw. Finally, almost an hour later, with salt sea air tickling her nose, they pulled up in yet another settlement, this one rather larger. Twenty or thirty of the huts lay scattered about a hollow between three low hills, while on the fourth side, a long reach of water stretched out towards a distant bay.
The Roman leader barked out a shouted command, evidently calling for someone, ignoring the pigs grunting in the pen to their right as well as the handful of people staring sullenly at them. Rhosyn had time to catch the rude stares of a couple of them, wondering (well, not really; it was obvious) what they thought of her, there behind the flat-nosed soldier.
A commotion to her left brought her head around, then, as a tall man with greying hair strode forward towards the troop from between two of the huts. All Rhosyn's attention, however, was immediately captured by the woman striding behind him. As tall as her companion, her tawny-red hair tumbled roughly to her waist, while a golden torc glinting around her neck vied with her flashing eyes. Those eyes picked out Rhosyn at once, and she paused, startled, before saying something in a low voice to the grey-haired man. He, in turn, put an evident query to the troop leader, gesturing towards Rhosyn. That leader, turning in his saddle, spied her for the first time (he'd completely ignored the men riding behind him this whole time), and scowled. He barked a short command to Flatface, who drew a quick breath as if to argue, evidently thought better of it, and shrugged, then simply swept one muscled arm sharply back, knocking Rhosyn off the horse to land on her butt in the dirt, while he and the other soldiers snickered loudly.
The woman strode quickly to her side, reached down for her arm and helped Rhosyn to her feet. Her eyes swept down and up, taking in the blonde's very odd clothing with a bewildered expression, then she shook her head, gave her visitor a quick smile, and drew her back behind the grey-haired man. He had been engaged in a rapid conversation with the Roman leader, ignoring the women – a conversation that was turning a bit sour, to judge from his expression. He paused, took a deep breath, and visibly changed tactics, inviting the Roman down off his horse and into their hut with a gracious sweep of one hand.
The Roman refused, sneering haughtily, and gave a final short speech before dragging his horse around and plunging through the middle of his soldiers without a glance at them. The troop hurriedly pulled their own mounts aside, then whirled them in unison and thundered down the track behind their leader, back the way they'd come. Flatface shot Rhosyn a final piercing look and a malicious grin, his meaning clear: I'll be back.
The tawny-haired woman began quarreling with the man, Rhosyn still unable to understand a word of their speech. It sounded familiar, as if it were close to her own Gaelic, but still... "Bah!" the woman finally cried, dismissing the subject, and turned to her sudden guest with a smile and an obviously welcoming speech, ending with a question?
Rhosyn shook her head, miserable. But one thing was clear. "Boudicca?"
Boudicca nodded, surprised that her name was known by this stranger.
Rhosyn laid a hand on her chest. "I'm Rhosyn. Rhosyn," she repeated, then snorted softly as spots of red against the nearest hut caught her eye. She walked over and captured one of the bush roses in her hand, then turned back to her hostess, gesturing between the flower and herself.
"Rhosyn. Like the flower."
Boudicca finally caught on and smiled, introducing her husband, Prasutagus, and the two young teenage girls who'd been hiding inside the hut during the soldier's visit, Fedelmid and Genofeva. Those two clustered about Rhosyn, reaching tentative hands towards her Tshirt and blue jeans and making wondering comments.
Suddenly it was all too much for Rhosyn. In the space of a few hours, she'd been snatched away from the only life she'd ever known, flung into the future, and now far into the remote, primitive past, face to face with people of legend; kidnapped twice over, pummeled emotionally and physically – and all without even a bite of breakfast. She clapped her hands to her mouth, mortified at the tears escaping her eyes, but unable to hold back the sobs.
Boudicca didn't know the source, but she knew someone stretched beyond the limits of endurance when she saw them. She shooed everyone else away, took her guest by the shoulders, gently drew her into her hut and stretched her out on the girls' bed. Rhosyn was barely aware of a fur coverlet being drawn up over her before consciousness fled, and she sank gratefully into the blessed darkness.
First Lessons
Rhosyn woke up abruptly a few hours later, driven out of a deep sleep by twin needs of hunger and... let's just say a few inches further south. Disoriented, she peered around, finding herself inside a dim, shadowy hut made of reeds and stout sticks – and memory came flooding back.
So. I guess this is real, after all. She took a deep breath, testing her reactions, and thought she might be steadier now. A glance down at her wrist showed the time jumper still there. She pushed the button Jared had shown her to activate it, and saw the backlight was still white; she was in the original universe (Alpha, she corrected herself absently).
An even more urgent signal from her nether regions made itself known, and she threw the animal skin to one side, climbed to her feet, and cautiously made her way to the door, pushing aside the wolfskin curtain and peeking out. One of the girls she'd been introduced to earlier was sitting nearby weaving a reed basket, apparently stationed there to await Rhosyn's rising. She smiled up at her strange guest, an open, friendly expression, and a bit more of Rhosyn's apprehension melted away. The universal gesture of crossed legs accompanied by a panicked look got the message instantly across, and the girl pointed around to one side of the hut, laughing. A quick visit to the tiny lean-to with its seat, bucket, and pile of mosses, and Rhosyn felt much better prepared to face the adventure that awaited.
On her return trip, she detoured down a few feet to the nearby stream to wash her hands. The girl stood, smiling another greeting, and waved Rhosyn down to a seat on a pile of turf beside her, then presented her with a trencher of food: flat bread baked from rough-ground grain, a hunk of smoked cheese, and two deep purple plums. A skin flask on the ground between them proved to hold sweet, fresh water. As she began to satisfy her famished tummy, Rhosyn and her hostess, who turned out to be Genofeva, the younger of the two girls, began those first, halting, laughing attempts to communicate. With time to ask and listen closely, Rhosyn found many words were somewhat familiar, related to the words of her own language. She could hear how closely the two languages were related: distantly – two thousand years distant, after all! – but still related.
When she'd finished eating, and thanked Genofeva, the latter cheerfully brushed it off, then stood, carefully stowed the trencher and her half-finished basket in the hut, and led Rhosyn off across the village and out towards the inlet. The sun had slanted while she slept, and now, midafternoon, Rhosyn used it to get a sense of direction: the inlet was north of the village. She knew she was in what would become Norfolk, so, judging from the temperature, it seemed to be late spring-early summer.
As they walked, odd sounds came to her ears from ahead: unworried wordless shouts, grunts, and the arrhythmic clang of metal on metal. When they topped a small bank, she realized her guess had been right: ahead was a relatively flat space of hard-trampled ground, being used as a practice arena. A burly man, obviously an expert warrior, was even now crossing swords with Genofeva's older sister, Fedelmid, while Prasutagus, Boudicca and a half-dozen other villagers watched and cheered or jeered from the low banks surrounding the arena. The two girls, fast becoming friends, sat down next to Genofeva's parents, and Genofeva gave them a rapid run-down, apparently stressing Rhosyn's lack of familiarity of their own language, so when they included her in the conversation, they made evident pains to speak plainly with much gesturing – and laughter. The courtesy and abundant friendliness warmed her to the core, melting away more of her anxiety.
A few minutes later, Fedelmid came over and flopped down, panting; apparently her "lesson" was over. Her teacher followed and was introduced to Rhosyn: Caradoc. He grinned broadly at her, and invited her to take a turn on the sparring ground. Rhosyn's jaw dropped, and she tried to demur, but everyone encouraged her to stand, Fedelmid offering up her own battered training sword. She could read both friendliness and a bit of challenge in their eyes, and knew it was something of a test, as well. One she couldn't afford to fail. She swallowed hard, picked up the sword, and tried to look confident – a heavy task, since she'd never held such a weapon before in her life.
("Let's see how much of a wolf she really is," Prasutagus challenged his wife, referring to the clan's totem and self-identity. Boudicca simply smiled. This little she-cub was strange, to be sure, but there was something about her... She had insisted on the girl being given honored guest status, at least until they found out more about her, sensing that she had a place in the clan's future.)
Rhosyn stood awkwardly, holding the sword before her in both hands. She managed to parry two or three slow and well-telegraphed swings by Caradoc, but knew she wouldn't last long. Sure enough, it took less than a minute before he beat down one of her own wild return swings, spun quickly around, and swatted her behind as she stumbled past. And again, and again – within a few minutes, she'd been thoroughly bested, and everyone knew it.
("If she's a wolf, she's a bad one," was Prasutagus' comment. "Give her time," replied Boudicca.)
Enough, thought Rhosyn after getting swatted the fifth or sixth time. She was suddenly, thoroughly ticked off, but she felt herself slip into the icy concentration so familiar from her Akido competitions. She turned to face Caradoc squarely, flung the sword so it planted itself point down into the turf a few feet away, and dropped into daiichi stance, one foot before the other, a quarter turn to the side, hands raised before her – and waggled her fingers in invitation.
Of course, he pointed to her sword in astonishment, but she merely arched her eyebrows and wiggled her fingers again. The onlookers were silent, as perplexed as he at her actions. So, shrugging, he lifted his sword overhead and came at her at half speed, expecting her to lunge for the weapon...
...and a second later, found himself flat on his back on the turf, gaping in surprise. Stunned silence from the crowd was broken a second later with jeers at Caradoc for napping in the middle of the lesson. He sprang to his feet and charged Rhosyn again, faster – and again found himself thrown to the ground. And again, and again – he couldn't touch her.
Now, THIS is more like it! Rhosyn thought with a grin. Caradoc slowly climbed to his feet once more, but didn't charge, instead simply stared at her, the meaning of his bewildered question obvious.
Suddenly, Boudicca was there, too, with an intense, respectful request. "Show me how you did that." As the rest of the onlookers gathered around, Rhosyn smiled and turned back to Caradoc, asking him to attack – slowly! And what is that word in your tongue? And how do I count to four? Combined language and martial arts lessons continued the rest of the afternoon – by the time the sun touched the western hills, everyone had learned a basic hip throw, and how to land without getting hurt, as well as dozens of new words crammed into Rhosyn's head.
"Still think she's a bad wolf?" Boudicca asked her husband on the way back to the village, and this time Rhosyn both overheard and understood the words. "We are all wolves in this clan," Boudicca explained at her quizzical look, then turned back to Prasutagus.
He was giving Rhosyn a sharp, measuring look, and she held her breath unconsciously, waiting for his verdict. "No," he finally admitted. "Not bad at all." And he himself held back the wolfskin curtain, ushering his guest inside with a ceremonious wave of his hand.
Turning Points
The next few weeks passed in the proverbial whirlwind, as Rhosyn settled into life in the Iceni clan as if she'd been born to it. They all worked the various tasks of farm, field, bay, and hearth in the morning, then each afternoon gathered at the practice arena for mutual lessons in sword, spear, and basic Akido. None of them became an expert in the others' martial art by any stretch of the imagination, but Rhosyn did progress in their language, until she could chatter away with Boudicca's two daughters almost as fast as they did, and with just as much laughter. The life may have been hard and primitive, but it was also full of song, beauty, friendship, and joy. She refused to tell them about her past, however – not that they would have believed a bit of it – saying only (once she learned the words) that she was on a quest, led here by her goddess from a distant tribe. This, the Iceni understood, and let her be. All would be revealed in the fullness of time.
She did learn the identity of the Roman whose escort had brought her here: the Procurator, Catus Decianus. Apparently (as Fedelmid whispered to her late one night), a few years earlier Prasutagus had borrowed money from several Roman sources, when he'd seen the way the wind blew and became a client king of the Roman Emperor. Now the money was all spent, having imported better farming tools, good breeding stocks of pigs, cattle, and horses, even timber for piers and houses from the Catuvellauni lands to the west (the Iceni having no good forests of their own). His people's lives were undoubtedly better, and many had begun acquiring jewelry and other items of more intrinsic value, but there was no cash money to begin repaying the loans. Catus Decianus kept assuring him that it was no problem, but something in the man's manner left everyone uneasy about the prospect – especially Boudicca, who had never trusted him from the start, and had argued against the loans.
The joyous time came to a crashing halt, however, the morning Boudicca woke the entire village with a piercing, keening wail: Prasutagus had died without warning in his sleep.
Over the course of the following week, Rhosyn met many of the Iceni, as the entire countryside seemed to converge on their village for the funeral rites for their dead king. Boudicca stepped into the role of leader, in accordance with Prasutagus' will, which left his kingdom jointly to her and the Roman Emperor in hopes of securing the tribe's future. Rhosyn was not the only one with a twinge of fear for that future, even if she was the only one with sure foreknowledge of the looming disaster; she kept that to herself, making her own plans in secret.
Four days after his death, Prasutagus' body was given to the flames on a massive pyre out in the delta. Thousands of his people witnessed and mourned, standing silently in small boats and on every dry hillock within a half-mile, while Boudicca and her daughters sang the farewell songs. Rhosyn, standing still and silent behind them, let her tears flow freely for the man she'd come to respect for his wise leadership and genuine warmth and curiosity about the world.
The next morning, heads still pounding after the huge funerary feast the night before, the converged tribe began dispersing back to their homes, and life tried to return to normal. Rhosyn spent the next few days as close as she could to Boudicca and the girls – not difficult, as she had been accepted into their family, and that family naturally stayed together while processing their grief and trying to return to a normal life. So the four of them were a fair distance from the village, gathering crabs and eels from their traps in the marshy delta into their little punt, when Keridwen frantically hailed them from a distance. She turned and ran back towards the village before they could reach her on the shore, so the four women simply followed as fast as they could, mystified.
As soon as they topped the slight hill between and the village came into view, Rhosyn's heart filled with dread. The tiny hamlet was crawling with Roman soldiers, slashing into each reed house and tossing everything of value into a pair of large wagons, herding the animals into a single pen – and all the villagers into another, at swordpoint. A few of the men – Rhosyn's pupils – showed signs of having attempted to fight the soldiers off: some bloody shirts, a couple of arms hanging uselessly, and one stretched out in the mud, arms and legs akimbo, unmoving. And sitting idly on his horse, watching over all, was Catus Decianus.
Boudicca drew a deep breath and started towards the Procurator, but Rhosyn sprang forward and grabbed the Queen's arm, dragging her around. "Boudicca, no! NO! I beg you, don't go down there! Don't confront him!"
Boudicca's eyes bugged in outrage. "You expect me to stand by while my people are robbed of all their belongings?" she hissed at this heretofore beloved young stranger – suddenly she was reminded just how much of a stranger she was. She jerked her arm out of Rhosyn's grip, restraining herself from adding a slap.
"Please, my Queen!" Rhosyn dropped into formal language. "Please listen to me. If you go there, something terrible will happen! You'll be..." She stopped abruptly, searching her memory for the words, cursing herself mentally for not making the point of learning them. But how do you bring up the concept of such horrible crimes, how do you explain why you're asking?
Boudicca didn't give her the chance. She snorted, disgusted, and turned regally back towards the village, her long legs covering the short distance in long, measured strides – a Queen does not run. Rhosyn had no choice but to follow miserably, trailing resolutely behind Fedelmid and Genofeva, determined to do what she could to protect them, at least.
"Procurator!" Boudicca's voice rang out when she was close enough. "What is the meaning of this?"
Decianus' head turned lazily, eyeing the redhead with contempt. "I do not explain myself to women," he sneered, centuries of Roman misogyny dripping from the word.
Boudicca stopped with a jerk, offended to her core. "Then perhaps you might have the courtesy of speaking to a Queen about the condition of her people," she hissed icily back.
"Rome does not recognize that status," came the shocking reply. "These people are now the subjects of the Roman Emperor, in accordance with your late husband's will."
"That will left these lands to ME, along with the Emperor!"
"As I said. Rome does not recognize the status of mere women. Women are not fit to rule."
Reeling from that shock, Boudicca grabbed at another straw. "Then why does the Emperor seek to strip his subjects of all their worldly goods and throw them into abject poverty?"
"This is not for the Emperor. This is to repay the loans given to Prasutagus by good, upstanding Roman citizens. Those loans have been called in, and must be repayed in full, immediately."
"You said..."
"I said nothing to you, woman! Enough of this!" Now that his decrees had been given, Decianus had no more use for the conversation. "Time to teach you your place!" He gave a signal, which in retrospect must have been prearranged, and several of the Roman soldiers who had been slowly maneuvering around her sprang forward and grabbed Boudicca before she could react. They dragged the shocked, struggling woman to a nearby post and bound her hands above her head, then one used a knife to cut the back of her tunic to her waist.
Coming out of a seeming trance, Rhosyn jerked forward, ready to go to the rescue, but found her way blocked by a line of soldiers. She'd been concentrating so hard on Boudicca that she hadn't seen the remainder of the company form a circle around the action, facing outwards, swords drawn. Yes, this had been planned in advance. Another ring still surrounded the villagers, watching aghast from their paddock, muttering and yelling but helpless to resist.
The Centurion's whip sang through the air and landed on Boudicca's bare back with a resounding crack, but she refused to scream aloud, swallowing the sounds as best she could. Again and again, until her back was crisscrossed with bloody stripes from the dozen lashes. When they finally stopped, all that could be heard were muffled sobs from the watching Iceni.
Rhosyn was transfixed, horrified, unable to think. It's one thing to read about someone being whipped to a bloody pulp. It's quite another to actually see it happen, a dozen yards in front of you, to someone you loved and admired. And so, her planning came to naught, for she hadn't seen the three soldiers sneak around behind her and the girls. Another signal from the Procurator, and a rock descended on her head, and the world went black.
^..^
Genofeva's scream from somewhere nearby brought her groggily out of one kind of darkness and into another. She turned her head towards the sound, but it was stopped by the leg of an overturned stool. She was lying on her back on the rough straw-strewn floor of one of the houses. More screams, from two throats – Fedelmid? – and she tried to get up to go to them – just as she realized her clothing was being cut away. Then her old would-be captor Flatface was on top of her, and her screams joined the others.
First Battle
At last the nightmare was over. Rhosyn stirred weakly, rolled painfully to her side, and slowly gathered herself into a crouch so she could creep to Fedelmid's side. She tried to pull the weeping girl into her arms and reach beyond to Genofeva at the same time, but couldn't reach her. Suddenly Boudicca was there, ignoring the blood still sluggishly oozing down her naked, lacerated back, her shattered expression matching those of the three girls. She pulled her younger daughter to the tiny group, and they huddled together, weeping in each others' arms.
When all their tears were spent, Boudicca raised her head and stared into each of their eyes in turn. They could see the wolf returning, wounded but undefeated. "I promise you," she told them, low and fierce and deadly. "I promise you. This will not stand. This will NOT stand."
^..^
The next few weeks passed in a blur for Rhosyn, as dark and determined as the previous stretch had been joyous. She threw herself into weapons training, forsaking Akido, spear, and even learning to handle the small war chariots she'd enjoyed before, to concentrate on her wooden sword which stood in during practice for the new iron one glinting balefully beside her cot, a dreadful gift from her hostess. She sparred daily with anyone who would face her, one after another, until she was exhausted, then she grabbed a bite to eat, unheeding of what she crammed into her mouth, laid down for a few fitful hours, then was up at dawn to pace the yard again. She ignored the war councils and all the messengers and chiefs coming and going, just as she ignored the bruises and other wounds that slowly, painfully healed, while Boudicca gathered her people and joined with her neighbors to create a massive army.
Whenever she stopped moving for a few moments, the memory of the horrific violation and injustice done to her – so rare in the egalitarian world she'd come from – went screaming down her senses again. She couldn't process it. She wavered constantly between disbelief that it had happened at all and rage at the brutal, misogynist Roman Empire that had so casually taken its pleasure and then discarded her like a used rag. And she vowed, again and again, that this rag would bite back. The bitter irony of her becoming a victim of the very violence she'd come back to try to stave off vied with the madness of her joining the retribution – and whenever her thoughts came to that, she fled them, seeking refuge once again in the mindnumbing, repetitive, exhausting exercise of training muscles, nerves, and tendons in their new tasks.
The others in the camp springing up around the village gave her respectful room, this strange young she-wolf who prowled unseeing through their midst. A palpable cloud of Otherness hung around her, made menacing by the single-minded devotion towards gaining her revenge on those who had wronged her. They whispered, wondering, about her past: none could place her accent nor her strange ways. And slowly a new belief arose among the Iceni and the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni, that this flaxen-haired visitor would led them to victory, as much as their fierce warrior queen. Had she not already begun to teach them a new way of fighting? The few Akido maneuvers she'd taught the villagers were taught in turn to others, who taught others, until most of the three tribes knew at least some, and some of them in turn began incorporating them into their own dances with sword and spear, creating a new style of fighting.
At last, all was in readiness, from top to bottom, and the word went out. In the morning, the massive army began its march south to the Roman garrison town of Camulodunum.
^..^
A scant half-mile north of the town, they halted briefly, and the leaders heard their spies' last reports: Suetonius, the Roman governor, had indeed taken most of the Legions across Britain a few weeks before, and was reportedly laying waste to the sacred druid's isle on the western shore. Boudicca allowed that bit of inflammatory news to spread, and spread it did, ripping through her army and inciting them to even greater heights of rage against their oppressors. As the council ended, Boudicca nodded at Rhosyn to come with her on her chariot.
Just before she stepped up, a stray memory struck Rhosyn, and she looked up at the Queen. "Before we attack, send a small group of riders down to the seaport below Londinium. Tell them to simply wait there, and see what fish they can catch."
Boudicca was mystified, but there was no time to discuss this strange whim, so she turned to one of her lieutenants and told him to see to it, and he hurried off. Then they climbed aboard the chariots, and formed up into a broad column for the final advance. The brief pause had refreshed the attackers, but it had also given warning to the remnants of the Legion left behind to supplement the town's guard of retired soldiers. A hundred or so Roman soldiers were formed up before the gates, a pitiful showing with no hope of stopping the tide. The chariots simply rolled right through them, leaving the pickings for the foot soldiers behind.
There wasn't room for two fighters to swing their swords on the small chariot as well as the driver, so before they reached the action, Rhosyn lightly jumped off, and found herself overtaken quickly by the first ranks of the mob. By the time she reached the gates, the action, such as it was, was mostly over, and she barely registered the bodies she leaped over. Then, suddenly, a figure from her nightmares loomed before her: metal armor, a small shield, and the gladius, the short sword that had conquered the world, clenched in one hand. One Roman soldier was still among the living, and his snarling gaze had just picked out a short, blonde figure among his enemies as his target.
For all she'd been working to learn swordfighting so relentlessly these last few weeks, here in the moment of truth, it was her former training that took over her muscles and reflexes. She dropped her sword in the dust without thinking, stepped in past the descending overhand slice, grabbed the soldier's wrist and elbow, turned and threw him to the ground. Taken utterly by surprise, the wind completely knocked out of him by the fall onto his own armored back, he fought for both wits and air, unable to move for a moment.
It was his last. Rhosyn's sword lay beside him. She scooped it back up without thinking, reversed it, and stabbed it down with all her fury through his neck and into the ground beneath, before she could blink.
Time stopped completely still, shuddered, then dragged itself limping on. Rhosyn stared down at the spurting red, transfixed, horrified. She had taken a life. The rage she'd been living on since the assault drained out through her hands and feet, puddling with the soldier's blood in the brown dust of the road, while all around them, the Briton warriors streamed past and into the town.
"I didn't even know his name," she whispered. His sightless eyes stared into hers, accusing. He was human now, a man from far away, with hopes and dreams which had just died with him, two thousand years before she was born.
His blood had finally stopped before she gathered her wits enough to let go of the sword and step back. She stared around in renewed horror, feeling as though she were awake for the first time in weeks – and finding herself in greater, waking nightmare. Boudicca's army had all passed through the gates and were ransacking the city, leaving her alone with the dead.
Only half aware of what she was doing, Rhosyn drifted through the gates and down the street, staring at the carnage. Bodies were everywhere, left where they had fallen: men, women, children. The stench of blood – and other, even less attractive odors – permeated the dusty afternoon. From all sides now came screams, and crashes, and shouts. Smoke was already rising from dozens of spots – the sack of Camulodunum would end with it burned to the ground.
She came to an open square and halted, unable to continue. Not a living soul was in sight. Her eyes came to rest on the small figure of a child near her feet – a boy, not more than eight years old, his throat slit, while nearby his mother's corpse reached out towards him, even in death.
"You do not fight, Rhosyn?"
It took a few extra seconds for the words to penetrate her fogged mind, then she whirled about to stare at Boudicca standing a few feet away, her long red hair wild around her shoulders, her sword dripping blood into the street.
"Fight?" She was incredulous. "This isn't a battle, Boudicca. This is a massacre. These people aren't my enemy. The Romans are the enemy – the soldiers, the commanders, the bureaucrats. Not these people. Boudicca, these are Britons, not Romans. They're just ordinary people, just trying to live their lives as best they can. They're..."
Boudicca had been growing angrier by the word, and now she cut Rhosyn off. "They lived the Roman way, in Roman towns, towns build on our land, stolen from our people. They were Romans, and all Romans are the enemy," she hissed.
Rhosyn stepped to one side and pointed at the pitiful corpse of the child. "This boy was not a Roman, Boudicca. Neither was his mother. They were Britons. And I will not take part in their slaughter."
With that, she whirled back around and marched swiftly away, leaving Boudicca gaping at her back, then down at the boy sprawled in the dirt at her feet. Rhosyn didn't stop, but half-ran out through the gates and across the fields to the far edge, disappearing into the forest beyond. She didn't return for two days, after the fighting was over, after the siege of the remaining few soldiers inside the temple ended in conflagration, after the fires that leveled the town and served as the citizen's giant mass funeral pyre had gone out, smoldering in the ashes of the once-thriving town.
Advance
Rhosyn drifted silently through the massive Briton encampment north of Camulodunum's smoking ruins, searching for Boudicca's tent. The army was obviously breaking camp, packing up their booty and sharpening swords, shouting and laughing, their high spirits in stark contrast to her own dark, solemn demeanor. They parted and let her pass with bewildered, skittish glances – a few carefully hiding hand signs that warded off evil spirits and bad fortune.
Boudicca paused in the act of throwing her small bundle onto her chariot, catching her breath and then letting it out in a huge sigh of relief. "Rhosyn! There you are!" she cried, then beckoned the solemn blonde to follow. She led her a short distance to a makeshift picket line of rope strung between two trees, untied the lead of a beautiful snow-white compact mare, and presented her to Rhosyn with the air of a general making an offering to the gods.
"No more massacres," she said quietly, her throaty voice making it a promise, then added "... of Britons. We make war on Romans, and Romans alone."
Rhosyn drew a long, careful breath, gazing into the Queen's eyes as if measuring her sincerity, then nodded, a tiny grateful smile teasing the corners of her mouth. She accepted the lead and began stroking the pony's neck, eyes flaring in appreciation: the mare was magnificent. Turning back, she let her brilliant smile loose, and the sun rose again over the gloomy British landscape. "Thank you."
Boudicca returned the smile, but hers was tinged with perplexity. "Some day, little she-wolf, I hope to find out who you really are and where you came from – and how you managed to become my conscience."
Her "conscience" merely laughed, and they both turned back towards the chariot, Rhosyn leading her pony. "Does she have a name?" she asked.
"None that I know of," was the chuckling reply. "You should name her yourself."
Rhosyn thought about it, dreamily, while she quickly brushed the pony and then strapped on the small riding saddle offered by Fedelmid. "I don't know how to say it in your tongue," she confessed at last. "When there is no war, no struggle, and everyone lives in friendship..."
"Heddwch," came the reply. And so Rhosyn's pony got her name: Peace.
^..^
It turned out that the army was indeed on the move, riding and jogging swiftly up the road towards Durovigtum to meet the Ninth Legion marching south to Camulodunum's relief, not yet knowing of its destruction. Boudicca had sent out riders to scout the road, and catch anyone hurrying the news of that destruction to the troops. They met those riders again a few hours out, and received the recon reports with glee: a few miles ahead the road ran through a dense forest, narrowing to a track only two soldiers could march down abreast. Quintus Cerialis, Commander of the Ninth, still ignorant of what lay ahead, was leading his men into the perfect ambush.
Leaving the bulk of the army in a valley to the south, out of sight and hearing, Boudicca hid her two thousand most experienced warriors deep in the underbrush on either side of the track, stretched out along an entire mile, making sure they all knew their orders. They were to keep absolutely silent until the last Roman soldier had entered the northern end of the trap, which was set just below the crest of a small hill, where the road turned sharply and dove into the deep green shadows.
It worked perfectly. Two of Boudicca's men, stationed high in a pair of old oaks atop the hill as lookouts, blew their horns when the road behind the Romans was empty, and the forest came alive with shouting warriors and flashing steel and whistling arrows. The Legion never stood a chance. It was over in minutes. Not a single Briton was lost; not a single Roman survived.
^..^
From there they turned south, headed for the Roman capital, Londinium. Over the three days required for the march, Boudicca made certain that everyone knew of the change in the battle orders: no Britons were to be killed unless they offered armed resistance. Instead, they would be allowed to flee the town before it was burned to the ground like Camulodunum. Boudicca was more concerned about the Legions stationed there; had Paulinus had time to return with them from Mona?
Then, just before the battle, they got the word: Paulinus himself had come – and gone again, taking the few troops which had been guarding the city with him, back towards the west. It seems the Legions were still a few days away. He'd abandoned the city to its fate, and the citizens were streaming out of it in panic. Boudicca let them go, sending her army through the city to loot it to their heart's content, chasing the rest of the residents out before it was put to the torch. A few hundred Roman bureaucrats and "nobility" were rounded up, however, and swiftly executed, their bodies piled in the large wooden temple of Apollo – in his "incarnation" as Caesar – on the east side of the central square.
Boudicca, supervising the operation from horseback, accompanied by her daughters and Rhosyn, was disappointed that her former nemesis, Catus Decianus, was not among them. But then, in a moment of pure, sweet timing, the group of "fishermen" she'd sent to the seaport on Rhosyn's behest came through. Riding their horses into the main square from the south, they came dragging a bound – and furious – prisoner on foot: Decianus.
"He was trying to escape to Gaul, Queen Boudicca, on one of their ships," the captain reported with a grin. "With his treasure, too." A small cart, loaded down with an obviously heavy chest, was well guarded by his men.
Drawing herself regally erect, Boudicca paced her horse forward to gaze disdainfully down upon her prisoner, sweet reversal of their positions the last time they were face-to-face – in more ways than one.
"So..." she said at last. "Rome does not recognize the rights of mere women, does it? Well, this woman... does not recognize Rome." She paused a moment to let that sink in. "For my back, and for my daughters' honor, you owe me a blood price, Roman. I shall have it from your box of treasure. But I shall also have it... from your blood."
Glancing at the captain, she jerked her head towards the temple, already stinking with blood. "Put him on the altar."
He didn't go to his sacrifice willingly or quietly, but screamed and struggled. They tied him down securely upon the wooden altar to his god, leaving him ungagged.
Then, while Rhosyn watched impassively from her pony, neither approving nor objecting, the Queen and her daughters took up torches and set the temple – and the town – ablaze.
Reflections
Verulamium, Venonae, Letocetum. The Romanized towns were strung out, beadlike, along the Roman road stretching northwest from Londinium that would one day be called Watling Street. One by one they were abandoned, the inhabitants fleeing for their lives with whatever they could carry, then picked over and burned to the ground by Boudicca's army as they chased Paulinus and the two legions he commanded. Some of those now homeless flocked to her banner: slaves, servants, Britons whose lives had not been "improved" under their Roman masters. Most scattered into the countryside, scrabbling for refuge among the farms and villages that had been supporting the towns. Some – Roman citizens and tradesmen who had been transplanted into Britain from elsewhere in the vast Roman Empire – lay low until the army had passed, then began trudging back towards the Channel and the continent, ready to return from whence they'd come. The Auxiliaries and small troops of soldiers which had been detached to guard and police those towns had been swept up by Paulinus on his way through scant days before, leaving them defenseless.
Thus, the two growing armies marched across the island of Britain towards Viroconium. Rhosyn, of course, did not take part in the sackings or the minor skirmishes engendered when they came across small reconnaissance parties or supply wagons bound for the Legions; she hadn't even bothered to replace the sword she'd left in the neck of the single man she'd killed. Instead, she sat on her pony, Peace, and watched from a distance, lost in contemplation of the strange fate that found a shop girl from the twenty-first century attempting to make history two thousand years before she was born.
She knew from her own reading, long before her adventure began (half of her pitiful single-short-shelf "library" comprised biographies of Boudicca; the other half other warrior queens in history) that even now Emperor Nero was sitting in Rome, beset and besieged on all sides, and seriously considering writing his conquest of Britain off as a lost cause and pulling his legions out in order to send them to other fronts closer to home. All the Britons had to do was simply hang on long enough, and cause enough debilitating damage and harassment, and they would win out by default. (Why, she suddenly wondered, wasn't she herself mentioned in those books on her shelf? She made a mental note to read them again when she returned – if she returned – to see if there were any coded hints to her presence.)
Her mind often wandered on those long marches to the other six copies of herself, wondering about the worlds they had come from. What were those worlds like? How were their lives different from her own? The fact that her own timeline had been split off earliest meant it had followed a completely different path for two long millennia. All of the others even spoke the same language, so remote from her own that she hadn't understood a word. What, she wondered, had happened in those other timelines? Had this Roman invasion, apparently successful in the alternate timeline, the root of all those others, really made that much of a difference?
Apparently so, she decided. The Britons in her world had learned the lessons of this one attempted invasion very well, and put them to good use again and again. Never again would an invader gain even this much of a toehold: building roads, cities, and installing governments. Angles, Saxons, Danes, Normans – all of them would find slim pickings and a coastline bristling with defenders, and give up the idea in short order. Britain had never become a world power, but neither had she been left behind, isolated and insular, in the modern world. Boudicca and every ruler thereafter had sent countless wise and learned men and women abroad to learn everything they could about the world and the people in it, bringing back philosophies, inventions, knowledge, science, animals, food, goods of every kind – and especially methods of government and warfare, particularly defensive warfare. No one would ever colonize the British Isles – in fact, the Basque kingdom of Euskadi in northern Spain was the only other country in Europe to equal their long, unconquered history. The Britons had been dubbed a "nation of copycats" again and again, which bothered them not one bit; they were free, and from their island picked and chose the best of everything the world had to offer. But only the best; they also resisted the invasion of desert gods whose misogynist prophets stained their followers with iron patriarchy. In Rhosyn's time, Britain was the most peaceful and egalitarian society on Earth, having grafted choice bits of Eastern philosophies onto their native druidism.
History... she wondered again at the two men who had claimed to be time travelers from the future, Jack and Jared, and the version of herself who had evidently traveled with them. Had she faced situations like this before? What had she done? Probably something spectacular... The ease with which that other Rhosyn (Rose, she corrected herself, remembering the translation of her name that all the others bore) had taken command of the situation had sent streaks of envy down Rhosyn's back. More than anything else, she wanted to live up to that (guessed-at) example. She wanted to do something spectacular, something world changing. She wanted to make a difference.
And just as much, she wanted to go home. Her thighs and butt were saddle sore, she missed the warm, bright, comfy flat she shared with her Mum, she wondered what was going on in her favorite TV shows, she would kill for a pizza, let alone a hot cuppa, and her narrow twin bed piled high with bright comforters and pillows seemed more and more like her idea of heaven with each passing night spent miserably shifting around on the hard, cold ground. The only thing she didn't particularly miss, oddly, was her boyfriend, Ciaran, the good-for-nothing mechanic. (The mental image of Jared and her mirror image, so obviously half of each other's whole, paraded again before her eyes, making new streaks of envy. Will I ever find someone to love me like that?) And her job. Going to have to make some changes in that department when I get back. Back to school for one thing. I'm ready for it now.
And often, too, her thoughts turned to the mysterious stranger who had started it all, and who apparently she was supposed to affect in her future: Paul Corvantes. What could she, lowly shop girl, do to change the future path of such a strong, compelling character? Each time she reached the question, though, she shrugged. Time would tell. She wouldn't have believed (still didn't, really) she could change the past, either.
A sudden commotion from ahead in the long line of marchers – she'd drifted quite a ways back in the crowd without noticing – brought her out of her reverie, and she strained to hear what was being shouted back down the line. What she heard sent waves of warring excitement and terror racing through her system, and she kicked Peace into a gallop past the shouting warriors. She had to find Boudicca NOW, and try to do that something spectacular.
The Legions they were chasing had stopped to make their stand at last.
The Wolf's Trap
The Briton army, strung out in a long, thick column to navigate the broad road running through the westlands, had begun cresting a thinly-wooded hill, from whose top the length of the next valley could be seen. At the far end of that valley, on bare ground before the road again dove through the densely forested slopes of a narrowing ravine, Paulinus had set his two legions out in their standard battle formation, spears and swords bristling from several iron-shielded, close-ranked turtles of a thousand or more soldiers each.
Boudicca and her commanders stood together on the hillock at one side of the road, staring down at the Legions and discussing tactics, as their army continued streaming past. Just as Rhosyn pulled her pony to a halt and jumped off, the little group began breaking up, moving to rejoin their various peoples. Desperate, Rhosyn pelted after the Iceni Queen, calling sharply.
"Boudicca, no! Don't send our army – our people into the Roman trap!"
The Queen looked askance at the blonde, the question of her sanity written on her face, while the other commanders of the combined Briton army scoffed openly. "This is the perfect opportunity to grind the Romans into the dust!" said Caradoc, the grizzled old weapons master from Boudicca's own village, now serving as her second-in-command. "Don't listen to this foolish girl, my Queen – she knows nothing of tactics and battle, we have seen that!"
Another sharp glance, and Boudicca turned away from Rhosyn, regretfully dismissive.
Rhosyn took a desperate step after them, and said in a low, intense voice. "I told you 'no' once before, Boudicca, and you didn't listen – and your back bears the scars, and your daughters their disgrace. Will you listen to me now?" The question burned the air between them.
Boudicca had stopped cold, that scarred back stiffened in shock. Slowly she turned her head, her wide eyes finding Rhosyn's almost in fear. Rhosyn saw her make the decision. She turned fully back towards her 'conscience', and said one word: "Speak."
Rhosyn took a deep breath and began the speech she'd been mentally rehearsing, speaking as carefully, and hopefully as persuasively, as she ever had in her life. "The Roman Legions have swept across the known world, and conquered all of it. Those Legions, right there, fighting in that formation," she stressed, stabbing a finger towards the valley below. "They know tactics, and methods, that we cannot begin to imagine, let alone counter. Every single one of those soldiers has trained, and trained, and trained, for years. Every single one has weapons that outmatch ours, and armor that our swords and spears cannot hope to penetrate – the few we have! Even the ground itself will fight for them – why do you think Paulinus chose that spot to stand and face us, bypassing all others these past days, unless the lay of the land favors their strengths and not ours?"
Caradoc had been working up a head of outrage, and now broke in. "None of that matters, foolish girl! We have three times their numbers!"
Rhosyn shook her head, staring back at the old warrior in disbelief. "Do you think you're the first to try throwing sheer numbers at them? They have defeated armies five times their size!" She turned back to Boudicca and took another step forward, imbuing her next words with all the sincerity she could muster, hoping desperately to persuade the warrior queen. "We cannot win against them if we fight their way, Boudicca. But we can win if we continue to fight our way – our war. We are so close to winning. If we can just keep holding on for just a little while longer, keep harrying them, cutting off their supplies, leveling their settlements, and whittling away at their numbers, we will see the end of these invaders, these Romans."She paused for emphasis, taking a deep, final breath. "But not if you march us into the trap they've laid for us – for you – down there in that valley."
Boudicca was staring, weighing Rhosyn's words against everything she knew. "You know this? You swear to me that you know this?"
Rhosyn nodded. "Yes. The same way I knew what would happen that day in the village, the same way I knew you would catch Decianus at the port. I know this battle is a trap we cannot win, but that we can win – we will win, if we stay out of it."
It seemed to Rhosyn that the entire world held its breath a moment, waiting for Boudicca's decision. Then, suddenly, "Caradoc! Call them back! No, wait!" Boudicca whirled, staring down towards the Roman formation in the distance for a moment, weighing and discarding alternatives. "Let them continue – but slow them down, and only the first fifth of our number. They must cover for the rest of us. Manduvarius!" She turned towards the Trinovantian king who had joined them before Camulodunum. "Take your people out of the line, turn back to Lutocetum and take the road south towards Isca Dumnoniorum. Burn whatever Roman towns you find, but do not kill Britons. You must deal with the Second Legion there when it marches – the same way we are dealing with these here. You understand? Do NOT face them in a pitched battle."
Manduvarius nodded, and she turned to the Catuvellauni king next. "Take your people back, as well, old friend, and then melt through these woods to the north, and find a way around those iron-skinned fools. Get to Viroconium behind them and deal with them as we have those other Roman towns. Then head back this direction – but carefully! We may crush these Legions between us." He nodded, grinning wolfishly, and Boudicca turned back to Caradoc.
"Take half of our own people, Caradoc, and put them into the woods behind this hill, as we waited for the Ninth Legion after Camulodunum. I will go down below, make a show as if gathering to attack them, and then suddenly retreat. Perhaps we can draw them after us – if so, you will spring the trap. If not, we will melt into the trees like our own marsh mists, and pick them off when they tire of standing there like statues."
She looked again at the assembled commanders. "We must keep in touch with each other through these coming weeks. We may need to join forces again to convince our unwanted guests to go home. But remember this, my friends. Rhosyn is right. Do not try to fight the Roman's war, the Roman's way. Stick with what we do know. Fight them our way. Are we agreed?"
Rhosyn held her breath, waiting, Fate's cold, fickle breeze tickling her nerve endings. The men were all three staring at her out of the corners of their eyes, wary, wondering, and accusing. "Why should we believe her, Boudicca?" one of them finally asked.
"Because I do," she calmly replied. "No portent foretold the events that day when I was scourged, my daughters – and she herself – ravaged. But she did. She tried to warn me. Nor could anyone have known Decianus would attempt to flee our shores – but she did. Because of this she-wolf, we regained our treasure and had our revenge upon that one fox. I believe her now. She has proven herself to me, and I stand by her."
Rhosyn's eyes were blinking against prickling tears. Never had she expected to hear such praise from her heroine. Nevertheless, she stood tall and still, and finally, one by one, the three men nodded their assent.
As they each turned to collect their people and march to their separate paths, Boudicca turned once more toward Rhosyn and stretched out a welcoming hand, her smile fierce and feral. "Come, little she-wolf," she laughed. "Let's go be bait."
Triumph
Three months later, Rhosyn and Boudicca stood surrounded by their tired, grimy army on the cliffs overlooking the Channel, watching the last of the Roman Legions sail back to Gaul. It hadn't been an easy war, and several times they had nearly been snared into a pitched battle, but each time Boudicca had slipped away from the temptation, leading her people into the forest to continue their own battle, their way.
Paulinus had lost no troops that day on Watling Street, his own trap snapping shut on empty air as Boudicca, having shouted and exhorted her pitiful, ragged "army" – surely she had more soldiers than this scant number? – suddenly wheeled her chariot about and led them at a run back up the road, accompanied all the while by a woman with long, startling blonde hair (highly unusual for this part of the world) mounted on a white horse. His own Legions had wanted to chase after them, but he'd held them back, seeing right through his enemy's laughable attempt to lure him out of his preferred battlefield.
What followed had been an infuriating exercise in marching back and forth, trying to bring the Britons to battle, watching his own numbers slowly dwindle in nightly raids, hearing the rest grumble more and more vociferously as their supplies were cut off with the burning of Roman settlements throughout the bloody, mist-shrouded island. When he'd finally managed to order Postumus and the Second Legion up from the south, even their combined army hadn't managed to catch a single Briton in their gigantic pincer movement. Instead, not two days after the commanders met face-to-face at last, a messenger arrived from Rome with orders from Nero himself: withdraw. Britain was to be left to its own devices, too far away from the heart of the empire, and at much too high a price in men and money, to be deemed worth the effort. Paulinus had fallen into such a fury at this unspoken rebuke that he'd nearly had a stroke, his men fearing for his life – and their own. The normally even-tempered, fair-minded commander had ordered several men lashed severely for minor infractions, adding even more resentment to the pile, then at last had given the orders to turn back southeast. The Britons had continued harrying them until they were almost within sight of the headland, then drew back to let them board their ships in good order under their watchful gaze. Paulinus stood on the deck of the last ship, the last Roman to step off the beach, and watched the white cliffs fall behind until they vanished in the storm, the hated British weather gods sending them off with a final, fitting squall. He made no vows to return.
That night the entire coastline was lit up with a series of tremendous bonfires, the whole of southeast Britain rising up to celebrate the Romans' departure along with Boudicca's army. They brought out hidden stores of meat and mead, and toasted, sang, and danced far into the night. As word was sent out along the roads spiderwebbing the island, each man and woman reacted according to their lights, some in tears – some few lives had been improved – but most in celebration. Then they looked around, took stock, and began rebuilding. Some of the ideas the Romans had brought weren't bad, after all – warm stone floors heated by hypocausts, for one thing. Luxurious hot baths, for another.
^..^
Shortly after her arrival several months before, Rhosyn had removed the time jumper from her wrist and secured it in a small deerskin bag hanging around her neck. She hadn't taken it out once in all the time since. Now, screened from the celebrations going on all around her by some bushes, she carefully undid the knot and slipped the futuristic gizmo out.
Just as Jared had promised, the backlight had slipped from white to red. The timelines had split. She could go home.
"Order me up a pizza, Mum, I'm on my way!" she whispered, grinning through her tears. Then she slipped the Jumper back onto her arm, hiding it under her sleeve just below her elbow. She carefully pressed the button combination Jared had said was Recall, and stared at the date that came onto the display. The very day she'd been snatched on her way to work. Oh, Gaia, how long ago was that? It seemed like half a lifetime. (She only glanced at the other part of the display, presuming it was the location of her kidnapping in London, as he'd also promised.)
Then, carefully stepping out of the bushes as though she'd only been making a pit stop, Rhosyn began wandering from fire to fire, greeting the friends she had made, stopping to drink a toast, saying goodbye – though she didn't say it aloud. Finally, she came to the biggest fire of them all, where Boudicca, Fedelmid and Genofeva were singing and laughing. The girls had recovered their spirits over the summer, exorcising the demons of their nightmares with their swords, becoming warrior women in the image of their famous mother.
"Come, Rhosyn," Boudicca cried in her rough, gravelly voice when she spied her young friend. "Come drink a toast with me!" Standing, she reached into the small chest beside her and pulled out a magnificent, jeweled goblet, twin to the ones she and the girls were holding, the fourth of an obvious set. She filled it with mead from the skin nearby and handed it to Rhosyn. "To your health, little she-wolf. To all our health!"
"To Britain," Rhosyn replied, "and to you, my Queen." Lifting her goblet in tribute, she then drank deeply. I could really get to like this mead stuff. Smiling, she drank again, draining the cup, and then looked closely at it, admiring the filigreed etchings on the side. Suddenly her grin stretched, as she realized the design: roses. With tiny rubies in the center of each one.
"What is so funny, little she-wolf?" Boudicca asked, her words slightly slurred; she'd had more than a few cups of mead, herself.
"I'm stealing this cup, Boudicca. And there's nothing you can do about it."
The Queen laughed. "As you're part of my household, Rhosyn, it's not exactly stealing – " suddenly she stopped, instantly sober, as the words and the meaning behind them penetrated. "You're leaving?"
"Yes." Rhosyn nodded, regret making a halo of the firelight in her hair. "I've done what I came to do. And now it's time to go home." She turned to Genofeva, who had greeted her and made her feel at home the very first day. "I'm giving my pony to you. Take good care of her?"
Full of mead-fueled protest, both girls jumped up to hug Rhosyn, but she waved their pleas to stay to silence before turning back to their mother.
Boudicca's eyes were wide with wonder. "You never told me where you came from. The things you knew... and now you say you came here with a purpose. Did the gods truly send you to save us from the Romans?"
Caught flat-footed, Rhosyn spluttered softly, then shrugged, smiling. What could she say? How could she explain that she was from the far distant future, correcting timelines? Who was to say that didn't make her – and those who sent her – gods?
Boudicca shook her head, putting aside the question. Suddenly impulsive, she flung her arms around Rhosyn and pulled her in for a backbreaking hug. "I shall miss you terribly," she whispered.
Rhosyn hugged her back, hard, unable to reply for fear of breaking down completely. Then she dropped her arms and forced herself to step back. "Goodbye," she whispered.
"But how will you go without a horse?" Fedelmid wanted to know.
Rhosyn just laughed. Then she lifted her arm, shifted the jeweled cup to that hand, pushed up her sleeve, and punched the button, leaving the Iceni women staring openmouthed at the sudden hole in the air.
^..^
The cacophony of tooting horns and gunning engines hit Rhosyn's ears, almost deafening her after the incredible silence of the forest she'd gotten used to. Her eyes stung, and a single gasp started her coughing from the exhaust. Yup. She was back in London. How could she ever have thought this was clean air?
Looking wildly around, she realized with a start that she was back on Queen Boudicca Street, just a block away from where she'd been snatched. She took off at a run, ignoring the puzzled looks of passersby at her outlandish, primitive attire. Reaching the corner, she screeched to a halt, gaping ahead – there she was, her own self, blue jeans and hoodie, walking nonchalantly away. And there was the goon who had grabbed her – was grabbing her now, and punching the button on his time jumper even as her former self threw him to the sidewalk – and they both flashed out of existence.
Rhosyn gulped. It was real. She was back. The entire thing had really happened. She looked down at her hands, realizing that she still held the jeweled goblet. Yes, it had happened.
Suddenly she took off again, her feet moving before the thought that impelled them had really sunk into her consciousness. Three blocks ahead, two, one... there it was. She screeched to another halt, gaping up a the statue she'd passed every day for three years, glancing fondly up at her heroine. But it had changed from the last time she'd seen it.
Passersby swerved around the strangely dressed young woman, staring at her in consternation as she doubled up in slightly hysterical laughter, grinning like a maniac at the statue of the Warrior Queen Boudicca of the Iceni.
Standing proudly alone, one bronze hand holding aloft a sword, the other resting on the head of a she-wolf.
