Celtic Ceili: 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.