Page 64 of Boudicca

Anger simmered within me as we entered the Sheepen District. The streets were crowded and we paid a stable boy to watch over our horses while we explored that area of Camulodunum.

Flanked by Roman buildings, the wide stone streets of the Sheepen District led past the temple and out of the colonia to a basilica and then farther on to a large theater. As we reached the basilica, the crowds thickened and merchants filled the courtyard in front of the round building, as well as inside its arched entryways. For reasons I could not understand, it seemed Romans had to create buildings within buildings, as if to find ways to take up as much space in our world as possible. The arches led to an internal area that was dotted with Roman statues, all grim men who didn’t appear nearly as fierce as I was sure the artists intended. How could they be? Romans are so diminutive in stature.

“They look like children playing dress-up.” Cadoc’s deep voice rumbled low beside me and I had to choke back laughter.

Past the internal courtyard of the basilica there was a square stone building with stairs leading up to a wide entrance. Waves of men came and went through the open front doors. I caught sight of rows of seats within and a tall speaker’s podium. It was a busy place, filled with men in uniform and also quite a few wearing white togas trimmed in colors from red and blue to rich royal purple. I saw not one Roman woman.

The crawling feeling that shivered across my skin told me we were running out of time and needed to leave Camulodunum. I motioned for Cadoc and Maldwyn to step with me into the shadows under a cluster of trees near the basilica. “Let us separate. Explore around this building and between here and the theater. See what we can each overhear and then meet back here.”

“We should leave the city soon,” said Cadoc.

“Agreed,” I said. “Explore briefly. We meet back here and then we leave.”

Maldwyn ran his fingers through his thick blond-white hair. “Good. This city repels me.”

“This city will not exist much longer,” I said quietly.

Before I moved off toward the south side of the basilica, I pulled my cloak closer around me and lifted its hood, even though I had been careful to tightly braid my mass of red hair and then drop the braid beneath my plain travel cloak. I made sure I walked close to the open archways of the basilica, listening carefully to the conversations within. The road was crowded with merchants and farmers. The thriving market held wonders—foreign spices that filled the air with scents that tickled my nose and made me sneeze. Tables and tented stalls sold hemp and wool, and many rolls of fabric were dyed colors so rich that even Wulffaed would have envied them. Roman glassware and lamps as well as urns of oil drew the attention of traders. The glassware was a marvel. Goblets and urns were carefully arranged so that they caught the sunlight and became jewels. I had never seen so many mirrors. Produce was stacked high in baskets beside crates and pens holding live chickens and geese, goats and pigs—and then there was the wine. Barrel after barrel of Roman wine was for sale.

I could acknowledge my curiosity about many of the items that surrounded me. I could appreciate their beauty and the craftsmanship it took to create them. But my curiosity and appreciation were tempered by the undeniable knowledge that the presence of these wares meant that my people were being erased.

I moved through the market with purposeful strides, careful not to meet the gazes of sellers, noting how few women were among the vendors and traders. It wasn’t until I followed the curve of the building around to its rear that I found the women. They lazed in front of a block of modest Roman buildings. They all sold the same product, though in many different sizes, shapes, and proclivities. Some exposed their breasts; some lifted their tunics to show their calves and thighs as men hesitated, attempting to choose between them. As I studied them I realized that not one of the women was Roman, though many of them were dressed in the draped Roman style of clothing that the men clearly preferred. Several of the women evenhad their hair braided and wound around their heads in elaborate Roman crowns, with rather ridiculous-looking ringlets framing their faces. Their Roman dress was in stark contrast to the fierce tribal tattoos that decorated their arms, thighs, necks, and faces. I wondered how many of these women had been taken captive and were forced to sell themselves to Romans. The thought made me sick.

One woman in particular caught my attention. She lounged on an upholstered bench in front of a building over which hung a large eagle painted gold. She was statuesque and wore an almost transparent sheet of fabric wrapped revealingly around her voluptuous body. Her dress did nothing to hide the circular Catuvellauni moons with hidden faces tattooed in black that stretched from one bare shoulder across her chest to the other. She reclined and sipped from a clear glass goblet filled with red wine as she surveyed the crowd, often calling out to a passing man by name and leaning forward so that her breasts threatened to spill from the sheer material. She was quite beautiful, though when she wasn’t smiling at a man her light hazel eyes looked hard and her expression flattened to boredom.

There was a break in the crowd in front of her building as a woman down the street had begun to dance in time to a drum. She whirled in a circle while she unwound pieces of an elaborately draped mantle from her body, revealing enough soft white skin that men clapped in time and encouraged her to continue.

“What are you looking at? Never seen a whore before?”

At first I glanced around me, thinking she was speaking to someone else. I hadn’t realized that I’d stopped walking as I studied her and the dancing woman, but she had noticed and turned her hard gaze on me.

I shrugged. “I have. I do not judge how any woman feeds herself.”

“Bah!” she snorted. “Your eyes say something else.”

I’d started to walk on but paused at her words and turned to face her. “Yes. They say that I know you have sold something more precious than your body.” My gaze lingered on her Roman hair and her Roman dress and the goblet of Roman wine she held. “Here in this Roman place you have sold your spirit.”

She narrowed her eyes and sat up so suddenly the wine spilled, spattering the cushions with blood-colored drops. “I know your kind.” She almost hissed the words. “You think your tribe is better than everyone else, but you have it wrong. We must join Rome or perish. I choose not to perish.”

I felt her hatred as a physical thing pushing against my skin, and the anger simmering within me bubbled up and overflowed into my words. I closed the space between us and glared down my nose at her.

“Then that is your choice. And for it you will live and die like a Roman; you have my oath on that.” While I spoke a gust of wind blew down the stone road, picking up dirt and brown, crumbled leaves and whirling them around me. The wind caught my travel cloak, pushing the hood back and lifting the fabric that hung from my shoulders so that it flapped like the wings of a raven, exposing the length of my fire-colored braid. I watched the woman’s hard eyes go wide with the beginnings of fear.

“Who are—”

Before she could finish I whirled around and walked away. I’d had enough of Camulodunum. Striding around the side of the basilica, I headed toward the little cluster of trees where I hoped Cadoc and Maldwyn would soon join me. I was almost glad the Romans had defiled the statue of Brigantia. She shouldn’t have to witness what her people were being forced to become within the too-tidy streets and square, anemic buildings of white stone.

I had just rounded the final curve of the building when a group of soldiers gathered before one of the wine vendors began cheering and hailing two men who were walking slowly with their heads together several paces in front of me. One was dressed in a draped white toga trimmed in red. The other wore the uniform of a Roman officer. In response to being hailed, the men stopped and turned. I felt as if a fist had struck me in my stomach. I could not breathe. I could only stand and stare.

“Toast with us, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus!” called one of the wine-swilling soldiers.

“And what of me? Do you not wish me to drink with you as well?” The high-pitched, nasal voice sliced down my spine as the skin of my back spasmed in remembrance of when last I’d heard it.

“Of course, good Procurator!” another soldier called jovially. “You are always welcome to share cups with us!”

Decianus turned his meaty face away from the group of soldiers to whisper something to Paulinus, but the governor frowned at him and shook his head. Then, without another look at the procurator, he strode with long steps, smiling warmly at the soldiers, who cheered again and handed him a mug of wine. Paulinus was tall for a Roman, though he would have been considered diminutive were he an Iceni warrior. I could not deny that he was fit and moved with athletic grace. Decianus hurried after him, his flesh wobbling with the effort. As he raised his arm to take the mug of wine another soldier offered to him, sunlight flashed off the golden torque that gripped his sagging bicep.My torque.

I thought I would be sick—right there in the middle of the wide Roman street surrounded by enemies and the soulless opulence of this city. That terrible day flooded back to me. I could feel the slice of the lashes on my back. I could hear my daughters’ screams. I could see the spear that ended my mother’s life skewer her again. I could smell the metallic scent of blood and the reek of bowls loosening in death. I swallowed bile as I realized I’d stopped and was staring at the group of soldiers, causing people to push past me with increasing irritation.