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Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender

Chapter Eleven
Rebellion and Surrender

"I would sooner die fighting for our freedom from Roman oppression than see my people live as slaves," little Oidhaeche echoed her sister's sentiments from an earlier conversation as we walked in the garden.

"Do you even know what that means?" I shouted at her, incensed that this lovely child would so eagerly throw her life away on a lost cause.

Oidhaeche stopped and turned to face me, her great dark, eyes shining in her luminous, pale face.

"If we lose, then it will mean that I will be forever young," she said, and already she had broken my heart. If only she could know what that statement meant to our kind. "I will never know a man nor bear children nor tend a fire in my own hearth. I will never grow wrinkles nor go grey, and no one will remember my name." (1)

Then she straightened her backbone and tilted her chin defiantly. "But I would sooner be forgotten than be remembered as Oidhaeche, the Queen who abandoned her people to Nero."

It sickened me to think of what the Romans would do to this child if she were to oppose Nero, and in my desire to save her from herself, I grew mean and hurtful.

"There are worse fates than death, little girl," I hissed, "and many, truly terrible ways to die." Then I grabbed her and groped her in a most unseemly manner. When she stomped on my foot, kicked me in the knee, and drove her elbow into my gut, I let her go because I only wanted to scare her, not to harm her.

She wheeled on me and slapped my face hard. When she swung at me again, I grabbed her slender wrist and squeezed until I felt the bones grind together. It was destroying me to hurt her, but better a little pain from me now than what Decianus would have his men do to her if I could not convince her to yield to Rome.

"I have seen what the Roman soldiers do to our women for sport, Juventius," Oidhaeche said as she struggled to get away from me. "I had only hoped that you were not like them. I have no illusions that Roman retribution will be anything less than brutal and degrading."

I let her wrist go, and she fell hard in the muddy garden path. Laying there at my feet in her soiled dress, she glared up at me with eyes that glittered like glass, and said, "Do not think I do this out of some smothering sense of duty that prevents all rational thought. I am a queen, and as a queen, I am one of the few Iceni who has a choice. I choose freedom for all my people!"

With that, Oidhaeche scrambled to her feet and fled in tears. I stalked off into the woods to brood.

"She told me about that conversation," Boudicca said, interrupting Methos's story. "You broke her heart."

"I was trying to save her life!" Methos snapped, and winced as his pierced lung reminded him that it was not quite healed yet.

"You were trying to undermine us from the outset," Boudicca accused.

"Oh, yes, of course I was, which is why I warned no one when I knew you were marching on Camulodunam and let you systematically level the city before you moved on to crush the Ninth Legion," Methos agreed sarcastically. "It's why I ran my horse into the ground to tell you Decianus had fled to Gaul and that you could raze Londinium without opposition after Suetonius evacuated it because he had too few men and they were far too tired after marching from Mona to stand against you there. It's why I warned you to be quick about taking Verulamium before Suetonius could gather more reinforcements from the north.

"Yes, I wanted you to fail, Boudicca!" Methos ranted angrily. "So I watched your people sacrifice to their gods, debauch themselves in celebration of their victories, and looked the other way when they were impaling Roman women on spikes, hacking off their breasts, and sewing them to their mouths. What the hell was that, anyway? Some bloody pagan ritual?"

In his fury, Methos would have carried on, but the strain of his raging had further wounded his still-healing lung and suddenly he was coughing and wheezing painfully again.

Boudicca was very still and very quiet, and very, very angry. "Suitable punishment for invaders," she replied softly.

"They were settlers, merchants and tradesmen, come to make a living, not soldiers," Methos told her.

"They were Romans come to grow fat off our lands and our labor," Boudicca countered.

"They were defenseless women and children your people abused!" Methos shouted, blood spraying from his lips.

"And my daughters were just little girls, but you looked the other way when the Roman soldiers raped them!" Boudicca screamed back.

"You had them brainwashed into thinking that they were destined to be queens!" Methos sobbed. His words as fervent as ever, but barely more than a whisper and touched with a faint burbling sound. "What did you expect me to do in the face of such conviction? I warned you! I warned them! I tried to scare them off!"

"You could have protected them!"

"And then what?" Methos demanded. "Tell me, what then? Decianus would have jailed me at best, sent be back to Rome to be executed as a traitor at worst. How, then, would I have been any use to you?"

"Were you any use to us at all?" Boudicca asked quietly, and then she turned to Macleod.

After Decianus had me stripped and publicly flogged, he ordered my daughters raped, my household pillaged, my relatives stripped of their lands and titles and sold into slavery. It was an all-out act of war. We fled to the house of our ally, Catavignus, a nobleman of the Trinovantes, to lick our wounds and plot our revenge. It took some convincing, but Catavignus eventually agreed to grant our Roman 'ally', Lucius Juventius Quietus, safe passage, and we sent Haerviu to contact him.

Our plan was simple. Juventius was in a position to know the army's movements, I had a cadre of boys who were fleet of foot and could blend in at the market. They would make contact with him and carry his messages to me. We would attack where he sent us.

Camulodunum, our first battle, was ostensibly chosen by traditional divination. I rolled a hare up in my robe, shook it loose, and we marched in the direction it ran. Our first battle was such a rout that Decianus fled Brittania and Suetonius left Mona to try to put us down. Morale was high and other clans flocked to join us. The Ninth Legion crumbled to dust beneath our feet, and by the time we reached Londinium, our numbers had more than doubled and Suetonius was running like a hare from the wolf. Londinium fell like a child's play fort made of rocks and sticks.

"And that is where your people lived up to the name barbarians," Methos interjected tiredly. "Londinium fell because they could not fight."

"It was war," Boudicca said. "In an age and a land where there were no rules. Women and children died."

"They did not die," Methos contradicted her. "They were tortured to death."

"This from a man whose armies crucified opposing forces by the thousands," Boudicca said. Then she dropped her voice to a dangerous pitch. "I know what you are doing, Juventius." She used the Roman name by which she had known him to remind him of the times they were discussing. "Using modern sensibilities to shame me for my actions will not work. Mine is an ancient rage, and only ancient blood will slake my thirst for vengeance."

"Funny," Methos said, striving for a light, sardonic tone, "I thought this was supposed to be a court martial. Wouldn't that make it about justice rather than revenge?"

Boudicca's eyes flashed green fire, and before Methos even had the chance to realize how badly he had miscalculated her, she whipped out her dagger and threw it with such force that it buried itself to the hilt in his chest. So skilled was her aim that even from ten paces, her blade found its mark in one of the few tiny spots not occupied by heart, lung, or a major blood vessel. Methos opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so intense that he could only manage a tiny gasping breath . . . and then another . . . and another . . . and it was a good thing she walked away from him then, or he just might have begged her to let him die.

Macleod choked back bile as he watched his friend suffer in his bonds. He was convinced that Boudicca still held some shadow of affection for Methos, because no one could hate that much unless they also loved the object of their hatred at least a little bit. If Macleod wanted to save his friend's head, he would have to find a way to remind her of the love they had once shared. It wouldn't be easy because she was still so very angry that she might just take both their heads if he pushed the wrong buttons, but it appeared to be Methos's only hope.

As Boudicca stalked past him on her way out of the basement, Macleod said earnestly, "You can't leave him like that."

She turned to face him and it took a conscious effort on his part not to cringe from her glare. "Why not?"

"It would be torture," Macleod said.

"So what?" Boudicca replied. "You heard him. I've used torture before. Doesn't bother me."

"Aye," the Highlander agreed. "And I heard you, too. It was war, in a time and place when there were no rules. Here and now, there are rules, and torture breaks all of them."

"As far as I am concerned, that war isn't over until he loses his head or I do," Boudicca snarled. "Your modern rules do not apply."

"Then at least think about how you'll feel if you come to realize he really wasn't to blame for the Romans defeating your army," Macleod said. "You act like you want to be fair and just. You were revered by your people as a noble queen and valiant warrior. If, in the end, you find out he is innocent of your accusations, how will you face yourself?"

"You poor, benighted, Highland fool," Boudicca said pityingly. "Don't you realize that this show is all for your benefit? I know what happened. I only want him to tell you so that when I take his head, and I will take the craven bastard's head, you will know he is guilty and that he deserves to die."

Crouching to look Duncan in the eye, she said, "I know you by reputation, Macleod, and I don't want to have to fight you, not because I am afraid to face you, but because I don't want to have to be the one to take your head. I am of the opinion that we need more good men like you in the game to counterbalance the vermin like him."

As if there were any doubt about the identity of the vermin in question, Boudicca glared in Methos's direction and added, "It improves the odds of someone worthy winning the prize."

"And who are you to decide he's not worthy?" Macleod questioned.

"Who are you to decide he is?"

"I am his friend," Mac replied.

"Which creates a clear conflict of interest," Boudicca smirked.

"No more than your vendetta does for you," Macleod countered.

"And so we are at a stalemate that will only be resolved when he finishes his confession," Boudicca said on a sigh.

She rose and turned to leave once more, and Macleod blurted out the one word that came to mind. "Abomination!"

"What?" Boudicca turned back to him in confusion.

"If you won't recognize modern rules of warfare and if you're so convinced that he is guilty, then at least acknowledge your actions for what they are!" he demanded. "You didn't meet him in open warfare; you had your lackey poison him and bring him here as a captive while he was incapacitated. Now that he is restrained and defenseless, you hurt and abuse him under the pretense of extracting a confession. It's no different than a monstrous child pulling the wings off butterflies."

"It's his just punishment for all the lives that were lost on his account!" Boudicca defended herself.

"A life for a life, Boudicca!" Macleod shouted back, praying that his words wouldn't provoke her to make them fact. "If you have already decided he's guilty, then he's right and this has nothing to do with justice. You're torturing him just for spite, and that is an abomination that shames you now, the memory of the warrior queen you once were, and the legacy of the people you led."

Fast as lightning and flashing just as brightly, Boudicca's sword was again at the Highlander's throat, this time, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. "If you want to keep that silver tongue in your pretty head and that pretty head on your broad shoulders, you'll be more mindful of what you say to me, Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod," she said almost pleasantly.

"If you want to shut me up then prove me wrong," Macleod hissed through clenched teeth, careful not to move his jaw too much for fear of making the sharp blade cut deeper. "Pull out the dagger, cut him down, and let him rest. Then, the two of you can finish telling the story, and either you will believe him, or I will believe you."

For a long moment, Boudicca glared murderously into Macleod's eyes. He could see the war waging within her, if not between her love and hate of Methos, then at least between her long held anger and her sense of decency. For a moment, the blade pressed still harder into his skin and he was afraid even to swallow. Then, with an animal growl, she sheathed the sword, turned away and stalked back to where Methos hung from his wrists, panting and whimpering softly in pain.

Under other circumstances, Methos might have resented Macleod's interference on his behalf, but at the moment, he was in too much pain to feel anything but gratitude. He was able to breathe just enough to keep from passing out, but his lungs still burned for want of oxygen. With every tiny, gasping breaths, agony lanced through his chest from where Boudicca's blade ripped and tore at flesh that was continually trying to heal itself around it. Unconsciousness or even a mortal death would have brought welcome relief, but his survival instinct, honed over five millennia, would not allow him to simply stop breathing. One way or another, he needed help.

He missed most of Macleod's conversation with Boudicca but did hear him yell something about a life for a life. He wanted to warn the Highlander not to give her any ideas, but it was hopeless. He couldn't take in enough air to speak, let alone call across the room. Macleod said something else that touched a nerve, and Boudicca had her sword back to the Scotsman's throat. Again he wanted to call out, to tell Boudicca to settle her score with him and leave his friend out of it, but he was utterly helpless. After a little more conversation, the fiery redhead turned from Macleod with a growl and stalked back to Methos.

"Please," he begged, voice barely a whisper, when she stopped before him.

"What?" she demanded, roughly pulling his head up by his hair so she could see his face.

His reaction was to scream in pain as the action jostled his entire body, including the knife in his chest, but he had no air, so he only managed to produce an agonized grimace.

Shaking him slightly, Boudicca said, "I didn't hear you! Speak up triufaisagh chi." (2)

Methos took a moment to compose himself. He didn't want her to know how much power she had over him right now, how close he was to breaking, but he couldn't do anything about the tears of agony trailing down his cheeks.

The thought of power gave him an idea of how to take it from her, and somewhere inside of him, the master puppeteer was smirking arrogantly. Gathering himself to face the pain that would come with speaking more than a word or two, he forced his lungs to take a full breath and said plainly, "Please, I've had enough. Just finish it."

"Methos, no!" Macleod shouted from across the room.

"Are you actually begging me to take your head?" Boudicca asked in wonder.

Methos gave an ambiguous tilt of his head that might have been a nod. "I w-want this to end," he gasped pitifully.

"Why?"

Oh, bloody hell! Methos cursed. This was something he hadn't foreseen. She wants an explanation! Women! They always have to understand!

"Y-you're . . . right," he panted, all his fortitude spent on the few sentences he'd just uttered. "I . . . failed you. . . . Doesn't matter . . . how . . . or wh-why. . . . I deserve . . . to die."

Boudicca drew her sword, and Methos had no doubt it was sharp enough to cut through both his arms as well as his neck if she decided to give him what he had requested. Closing his eyes and trying quickly to make his peace, he heard Macleod shouting and struggling in his bonds. Then Boudicca growled low in her throat, the sword whistled through the air, Macleod roared with fury and . . . nothing happened.

Boudicca stopped the killing stroke without ever touching him. Methos could hear her breathing hard, and then she screamed like a mad banshee, a long ululating string of curses that was neither English nor Iceni nor any of the other half-dozen languages he knew she spoke. The sword was thrust back into its scabbard, and Methos heard her boots thumping against the concrete as she strode away from him, and then turned and came back, and then walked away again, and back, and he had to work hard to hide a grin. He had her pacing. That was good!

The amusement faded quickly as he felt her breath hot on his face. "You will not get the relief of the final Death so easily," she told him. "Not until you have told Macleod what you did to us. I want him to hear it from your own lips, not how you 'failed' us," she said the word with disdain, "but how you betrayed us," she finished with righteous indignation.

Then he felt her touch on the dagger in his chest and couldn't stifle the small whimper of pain. She twisted it, and he groaned in agony, tears forcing their way from his eyes once again. Finally, with a grunt of effort, she yanked it from his chest, and Methos fainted in relief.

TBC

Reviews feed the muse.

(1) The fact is, no one does remember the names of Boudicca's children. I made up Oidhaeche and Rheiba.

(2) Filthy dog in 'Iceni'.