CHAPTER 5

Venta Icenorum - Fall 60 AD

Boudicca's frenzied howls of anguish echoed through the hall doubling and redoubling upon itself, again and again, until it seemed as if a pack of mad beasts rampaged through the shadows. In this cacophony of sound the sight of her daughters being ripped away from her, tears streaming down their faces arms straining toward her outstretched pleading for her to save them as they were dragged away, swept repeatedly through her mind. She had failed them, failed to protect them, failed to save them, failed her babies, failedfailedfailed… Failure. She saw nightmarish images of what was happening to them, feeling each blow and every violation as if by taking them into herself she might somehow spare them the pain. Clashing waves of horrified despair, helpless anger and screaming utter agony ripped through her, gnawing its way from the inside out, eating her, destroying her. Until the icy cold realization of her children's deaths penetrated her boiling torture.

The sure knowledge slowly filled her. They were dead. They were beyond her reach beyond her failure. They were dead, dead, death flooded through her covering and enveloping her. Wild eyed, sweat soaked, her heart shriveled inside her, becoming naught but a small stony frozen place within. Bereft of love, bereft of pride. It no longer had a purpose. It no longer mattered, nothing mattered. Her babies were gone. Her children were dead and, if Arawn was merciful, already beyond this world, reunited with their father in Annwn beyond the sea. Their bodies merely abandoned husks while their spirits were free and content in the land of peace, until they were once again ready to be born into this world of misery and sorrow.

Stillness entered Boudicca. The quiet resignation of her children's deaths. She felt it steal all the warmth from her soul, the life from her being, but she did not care. Ice from her now useless heart flowed out, numbing her with death's embrace. She willingly surrendered to the emptiness, as the last of her cries faded away. The echoing silence of the hall pressed down on her bent heaving shoulders as the silence of the grave. This hall, which had once been filled with such rich vivid memories was her grave, for here she had died leaving behind only an animated corpse. Slowly, painfully, she made her way to her once favorite seat next to the central hearth. She moved only because she knew she must, it was her final sacrifice for her people. She would die as a proper Iceni Queen.

Boudicca sat alone in the great hall awaiting her fate. Her poise bespoke of royal power, yet she was so still she might have been carved of marble. Not even her breathing was betrayed by a sound or movement. She withdrew into herself shutting away the small central fire that did little to dispel the chill and gloom of the cavernous hall. Boudicca allowed the graceful beauty of the carved pillars and appointments to fade from her sight until all she saw was the inside of her own mind. The painful thoughts of her children were carefully walled away, ever present yet untouchable until she deliberately went looking for them. She closed off her fear for her people, disarmed and enslaved, taken from their homes to become toys of the Romans until nothing was left in them that made them Iceni. She carefully cleared her mind of all hopes, all doubts, all fears, all thoughts, creating an empty swirling grey place where nothing could exist without her will.

Outward her spirit ran, gathering together memories of peace and beauty. The shaded sacred groves of her father. The bright lush green forested mountains of her childhood. The sparkling bubbling creeks of spring. She wove the memories together creating a Summerland within her mind; a safe and sacred place for her soul. A place where she could lay beyond emotion, beyond pain, beyond the petty power of the Romans, ruthlessly detached from her shell of a body.

Here in her empty cup of cold detachment, Boudicca's entire being was filled with the warm glowing golden energy of the Blessed Cuda. The land's heartbeat pounded against her feet, vibrating upward through her body until every inch of her throbbed in rhythmic time. She became the solidness of the bedrock, the clean purity of the sacred springs, the rampant vitality of the green growing things. An ancient and powerful strength embraced her, wrapping about her as a cloak, becoming her.

Faint surprise briefly flitted through Boudicca, as she realized that Cuda had truly entered her, before it was smoothed away by the Lady's gentle touch and whispered knowledge, "Together we will suffer, together we will survive, together we will insure our children live on."
Together Boudicca and Cuda gazed out at the world around them and were prepared to meet fate.

How long they waited, briefest moment longest eternity, it did not matter. They were one and the same. Boudicca looked out in wonder through Cuda's eyes, merely a rider within her own body. No longer was the hall shrouded in gloom but bright and teeming with life. Ornately carved knotwork shone golden, twining, twisting and spiraling up columns and across ceiling beams. Intricate designs flowing one into another in sensuous coils, joining and parting in an exquisite dance, delicately detailed and boldly done. The carvings were alive with the spirits they depicted, here otter and dragon, there cat and bird, all that walked and crawled, all that flew and swam. Boudicca knew, somehow, that they were protectors of the Iceni. She saw that they were the ones who had called Cuda. Boudicca was awed by the truth that was revealed to her, as she silently sent to them her thanks.

She could see tiny beings, mere motes of flashing multi-colored light, danced and darted about. More ancient than man yet filled with childlike wonder they explored and played in thick swirling eddies. Whispered strains of joyous music filled the air, memories of bardic songs from the peaceful days before Prasutages' death. White glowing shadows of the past, Iceni-Pict-Wee folk echoing back to the beginning, lay gently on this place waiting for those with otherworldly eyes to see and know them. In that moment Boudicca knew without doubt or hesitation that no matter what happened to the physical bodies of the Iceni they would always be here, welcomed and waiting within the earth's breast. A part of the land for all time.

A loud abrupt thud and strained creaking of the hall's great oaken doors pulled Boudicca from her awing revelation…Fate had arrived. A rushing wave of riotous sound raced ahead to beat the pale winter sunlight that stretched its fingers through the slowly widening doors. Noise crashed against her in storm tossed waves, tasting her, testing her, seeking weakness and fear but finding none. Cuda pushed Boudicca back, the painful ear- shattering din faded, becoming a quiet distant hum, allowing Boudicca to observe but not interfere.

Cuda rose with regal feline grace and strode forth to meet the Roman soldiers who had been sent to fetch her, unaware and unprepared for the being that approached them. Cuda seemed to grow in stature and power as she plunged into the streaming sunshine. The sight of her drew involuntary gasps from a couple of the guards. Those who had the wit to see. They took a respectful step back from her. Yet one of the head-blind animals, stinking of battle sweat and the blood of Boudicca's kin, that still smeared his armor and skin, reached out to grab her as she moved past.

Cuda turned her terrible gaze upon him, croaking in a voice harsh and rasping, now forever destroyed by Boudicca's screams, "Do not touch me."

The arrogant soldier jerked back horrified, overwhelmed by the Lady's power. He no longer saw the world around him. There was nothing now but his nightmare, a nightmare he himself had created. He was caught in screaming blood-soaked memories of all he had done, experiencing them through the eyes and senses of his victims. With no mercy and no reprieve. No longer in control of his body, or his mind, the soldier slumped back against the door.

Cuda turned away from his frozen macabre mask, untouched and undisturbed. She had given him the gift to see, and to know, and to change. What he did with it was upon him and no longer her concern.

She moved out of the building and into the open market square, cleared of its normal booths and stalls it felt unfinished, unnatural. No breeze stirred the air. The mingled aromas of horses, sweat, and perfumes lay heavy on the gathered assembly, healthy smells tainted with the miasma of fear and death. Boudicca's confident long-legged stride forced the guards to trot to keep up, creating a procession that made her seem more royal dignitary than prisoner.

She remotely noticed that the Iceni were corralled to one side under heavy Roman guard, tightly pressed together, unable to move in their trap least they be jostled against the bared swords and spears. A wild rampant garden of color circled two sides of the field. As the checkered plaids of the various clans who rode with the Romans vied with brightly dyed Roman style dress. They were all willing participants in this mockery. All brilliantly plumaged carrion birds who hoped for a share in the Iceni wealth. The roar of the crowd, though only a hum to her ears, intensified as it rang back from the thick wood and stone walls that surrounded the square.
Cuda dismissed all thoughts of the crowd and purposefully made her way, through the chill winter air, to the far side of the market area. Where, backed against the healer's house, stood a jarringly scarlet open pavilion. In the blood tinted shade of the tent sat the Imperial Procurator Decianus Catus, the thrice-cursed enemy. He perched stiffly atop a raised platform in a small wooden camp chair that he filled and overflowed, made soft and fat by his innate laziness and luxurious lifestyle. A dark man of short stature, his slack pudgy face lacked emotion but rather than looking stern and imposing he only managed to seem weak and dim witted. Only his eyes showed signs of his true nature, belying his overall appearance of ineffectual stupidity, they were as small and vicious as a cornered boar, glinting with avarice greed.

Cuda paused at the edge of the pavilion preferring to remain in the sunlight, rather than enter the crimson shadow of the tent, and silently gazed down on the little man, the true enemy. He was not of her land, and never would be, but while he was here he was in her purview. She tapped Boudicca's memory, her knowledge of this man and his actions, and the feelings that accompanied those thoughts. She saw his puffed up self-importance, his false reliance on far off gods that had no dominion here in her land.

Did these conquest-driven people truly not understand that gods were not of a place or a people, but a power that existed beyond human boundaries? Only the names and the concepts of what those names meant moved with the people, a way of communicating and way of understanding. But acceptance by the powers was not guaranteed. The right and ability to call on the gods belonged to those who were one with the land they stood on. Where the powers accepted and welcomed them, as a part of itself.

She felt the guards take position around and behind her in a rough circle, as if to protect her from the prying eyes of the crowd. Some inadvertently learned forward, like plants reaching for the sun, basking in the radiant nimbus that bathed her. As if sensing her power over his men Catus sprang to his feet, in a feeble attempt to loom over Boudicca. But he only managed to meet her eye to eye, despite the added height of his pedestal.

His mouth moved but it seemed to take a while for the words to reach her, as though they were echoing down a long passage.

"Strip the Iceni whore!" Catus demanded.

But none of his men stepped forward. The memory of what had happened to the last man who tried to touch her was still fresh in their minds. The guards did not know what had happened to their comrade, but they did know they did not want to suffer the same fate.

With calm disinterest Cuda allowed Boudicca's woolen cloak to fall to the ground, and loosed her gown so that it pooled in soft folds at her feet. What was nakedness to Cuda, she who was the bare ground and the verdant glade. What was nudity to Boudicca who had been trained by the fierce Galatians, the mercenaries who fought unarmored and unclothed so as to be one with all life. To Cuda-Boudicca the removal of her garments was a strength not a weakness, a preparedness for battle not a shameful disgrace. Had the Procurator not learned that when Boudicca had fought his champion? Well apparently not.

The only ones her nudity seemed to matter to were the Romans, and Catus in particular. Some of her guards decorously averted their eyes while others locked their gaze straight ahead, falling back on their military training in an uncomfortable situation. Catus, unconcerned, openly displayed his need to disgrace and degrade her, his lust for power over her, and the Iceni through her. He ran his crudely intrusive eyes over her body in a parody of lustful desire. It was plain to see that his hunger for her was driven by a need to possess her strength and power rather than her body.

"Move back," he ordered the guards, waving them aside. "Let the people see the Great Queen in her slavery."

The guards reluctantly stepped back, exposing her to the ravening crowd.

Catus, unsatisfied, ordered, "Turn for them Boudicca. Let them see to what depths the great Queen of the Iceni has fallen."

With a small secretive smile Cuda raised her arms out from her sides, taking the stance of the Lady during the Sacred Marriage rite. Arms outstretched she began a slow graceful turn, allowing all to see her. As the foreign clans truly saw her their voracious screams for her blood faded away, replaced by apprehensive murmurs. They finally saw her as she truly was. And they realized what sacrilege they were about to commit.

People glanced nervously around the crowd feeling a soft breeze pick up, carrying eerie half-heard whispers that urged the clans to flee this place while they still could. Before Cuda had even completed her circle there was a shifting in the mob as many of the clansmen began moving back from the center of the square.
By the time she had completely turned and once again faced Catus, he was already red faced with anger, clearly baffled and unsure of what had caused the change in the crowd. His eyes darted nervously around the crowd as he sought answers in a hurried whispered conference with one of his advisors.

Catus rounded vengefully on Boudicca, demanding, "What is that tattoo on your belly?"

She did not bother to reply.

"I am given to understand it is some kind of Druid mark. But only men are Druids. So how came you by it woman?"

"I am the Queen. I am the Land," she replied simply.

Her quiet words took on a life of their own and flowed across the crowd touching each ear, resonating in every heart of those who were Cuda's children. No longer did the foreign clans attempt to sneak away quietly. Now there was a mad dash amongst those Celtae, who had wit and the freedom to do so, as they fled the Lady's wrath.

Catus' screamed orders for his allies to stand firm, but his words were lost in the drumming footfalls of the escaping clans. The Romans, and their Romanized followers from both this land and across the sea, were tossed back and forth in the crush, mainly unharmed but confused by the stampeding barbarians. They looked wildly around to find what had caused such a frenzied panic. But they saw and heard nothing. They were left bewildered and frightened, unable to understand the mass exodus. They were excluded from the flight, and they knew that even if they joined the running clans they would have nowhere to go. This was not their land. They were simply part and parcel of the Procurator's train, and completely dependent on his good will.

Within moments the market square had been emptied of all native clansmen, except for the Iceni who were still being held prisoner by increasingly nervous guards.

"See what cowards these Keltoi are," Catus shouted to his remaining audience. "See how they flee from the superstitious twaddle of a woman's cosmetic vanity." He waved an impatient hand for his audience to draw nearer. "Come closer. We have entertainments planned and it would be a shame to miss them for lack of a good view."

Catus ponderously eased himself back into his improvised throne and waited for the crowd to reorganize itself. As he resettled himself Catus met Cuda-Boudicca's steely gaze for the first time. Her steady and unemotional stare quickly overwhelmed him, forcing him to look uncomfortably away. His pompous self-interest shaken to its very foundation and the knowledge of his own inner weakness stamped indelibly on his soul.

"The royal line of the Iceni has fallen. And it is time to prove that you are Queen no longer," Catus whispered to her.

"I will always be Queen…I will always be the Land. I was here before you and I will be here after you and all your kind are gone," a voice breathed in Catus' head. It was definitely Boudicca's harsh broken voice, but her mouth had not moved. What magic was this?

Unnerved, Catus struck out, announcing to his audience, "Let us begin by teaching this former queen who is master. Twenty lashes for this slave."

Men of Catus' personal guard stepped forward, grabbing Boudicca's wrists in rough calloused hands. They yanked her unceremoniously into position, between two of the pavilion's posts directly in front of Catus' throne. So that she was within reach of the Procurator but still easily viewed by the assembly. Cuda's wrists were slammed against the rough-hewn posts, slivers stabbing under her skin, before being mercilessly secured in place with thick leather straps. The wet leather bindings dug into her flesh as they were cinched down, cutting off the feeling to her hands, but it meant nothing to her.

Catus leaned forward to gently pull Cuda-Boudicca's thick disheveled braid over her shoulder. In a mockery of tenderness he draped it across her breast, murmuring, as if to reassure himself, "Soon you will learn to enjoy the pain my sweet. Even perhaps as much as I enjoy giving it to you. It will be you who breaks not I." Catus leaned back with a anticipatory leer and signaled the taskmaster to begin.

Boudicca registered the words but did not let them into her sacred place. She simply withdrew into her inner Summerland. Where protected by Cuda she observed the proceedings from a distance.

A sharp crack heralded the first blow. A kiss of fire that was defused into and across the land, echoed by the sound of distant thunder. The taskmaster paused and glanced around at the clear blue sky, listening to the rumbling fade away.

"What are you doing?" demanded Catus. "I said twenty lashes. Get on with it!"

The taskmaster once again struck out at the bound queen. He was shaken, but knew his duty. With each stroke he silently begged her forgiveness. But he did not, could not, relent. It would mean his own disgrace and probable death for him to stop.

Cuda felt each burning strike as a rending of the earth, taking it into herself, into the land, yet there no pain. The contrasting coolness of her air kissed skin and the warmth of the blood rolling down her back seemed more real than the lashes themselves. Yet the body Cuda wore was still susceptible to human weaknesses. The abuse it suffered expressed outward in the angry rumble of thunder that grew louder and closer with each stroke of the whip. No cry escaped her lips, even when uncontrollable shivers racked Boudicca's mortal form, turning her muscles to water. Not even the entity within her was able to stop her body from slumping helplessly between the posts. Her quivering overstressed muscle became quivering unstable ground, as the rumbling thunder became the rumbling earth. Small rolling quakes shook the crowd and buildings, but knocked nothing and no one down, as they rippled through the town.

It was too much for the taskmaster. He threw down his whip, repulsed by it. Nothing the Procurator could do to him would match the fate the Furies threatened to inflict upon him. Without thought he turned and fled, chased by the knowledge that he had angered the gods. It did not matter that he was throwing away his career, and probably his life. It only mattered that he make restitution to the gods before they came for him.

Catus watched the taskmaster flee, unable to stop him. All of Catus' energy was too taken up with maintaining his seat and his dignity, despite the rocking ground. Earthquakes were common in his homeland so this small shrug of the Titan's shoulders did not overly bother him. But their timing did much to unnerve him.

Cuda-Boudicca rose unsteadily to her feet as the quake ceased. Her mortal body weakened but free of the relentless onslaught of the lash. She was unbroken, though not unscathed. With a proud tilt to her head she gazed straight into Catus' white-rimmed eyes. "You fear the strength in others as you have none yourself," she whispered in challenge.

"See how even the Titan rouses himself to watch our triumph's entertainments!" Catus shouted leaping to his now steady feet, unwilling to admit even to himself the terror that fluttered wildly against his chest. "Next on the agenda are the Iceni princesses.

"Cut her down," he called over his shoulder at his guards. "Oh, and be sure the slave-queen gets a good view of our next sport."

"You may not cry out for yourself Boudicca. But you will not steal from us, and the gods, the spectacle we have promised," he growled without looking at her. Catus refused to meet her gaze, concentrating instead on the crowd. A crowd he controlled, they were his to do with as he pleased. As long as he had them he had power, and no backwater barbarian queen would steal it from him.

Boudicca, roused from her Summerland by Catus' words, reached out searching vainly with her mind, and her heart. Did he mean to do some kind of ritual desecration of their corpses or did his words mean her children were still alive? As her arms slumped leaden to her sides, freed of the leather bindings, Cuda breathed reassurance in Boudicca's mind. Cuda would shared the suffering of motherhood with Boudicca.

The guards grabbed Boudicca roughly from behind. She allowed them to drag her unresisting body backwards away from the Procurator's pavilion. Not even the guards' hard bruising grip bothered her, as hope kindled in her heart. Could her daughters be alive? Alive and as yet unharmed, so they could have their Roman spectacle. If so she would be ready. Now, when the enemy thought she was beaten, she would have the upper hand. She would save them, or she would die with them. This time she would not fail.

Boudicca's body slumped, shoulders bent, taking on the pose of one who has been beaten so far down that there is no coming back. Her guards obligingly loosened their hold once they had her in the desired position. They were sure that she was beaten into submission and no longer a threat, their grip loosened until it was no more than was necessary to keep her upright. Boudicca was hardly going to give them reason to think otherwise. It would work to her advantage.
Boudicca looked up through her curtain of disheveled hair, her eyes and their focus hidden from sight. Even as she maintained her submissive appearance she settled into a loose stance, sharply honed and untouched by the pain, ready to attack. She felt Cuda still within her but more withdrawn, as Boudicca was allowed to take the initiative. The golden solidness of the earth wrapped around her, bolstering her own strength. Boudicca welcomed the gift knowing that she would need it to succeed.

Catus turned to watch a squad of six Roman soldiers march out of the house behind his pavilion. They carried two small limp forms, dangling limbs swaying as the soldiers moved forward.

Catus sprang to his feet, face turning purple in fury. "Don't tell me their dead!" he screamed.

"No sir they are still breathing," a soldier reported. "But certainly drugged and the sorceress responsible dead by her own hand." With great caution the soldier swung a small pot out for Catus' inspection.

Even at her distance Boudicca caught the faint scent of Bragian's deep sleeping potion. What strength and love Bragian had to make this final act. Blessed daughter of Adsagsona, Boudicca prayed fervently, may this deed of unselfish honor bless you in all your future lives. Her children were safe for the moment from the pain of this world, for nothing could break through its happy dream filled magic. What sport could even this sadist find in harming unconscious children?

"No matter, no matter," Catus motioned the potion away. "We will still proceed as planned."

"Yes sir," the soldier leered. The need to ravish and destroy still surged through his veins. He had feared their reward would be taken from them by the girls' condition. First these little ones, then every woman in this village would fall beneath him. Ravaged, despoiled, broken. Any that managed to survive the ordeals he and his men had planned for them would become the lowliest of slaves, with swollen pregnant Roman bellies.

The soldiers stepped forward to carelessly drop their burdens on the blood-splattered ground, where Boudicca had so recently stood. The little girls bounced limply to land with their gangly limbs out-flung in a parody of death. Precious Andra with her father's eyes and stubborn chin. And daring outspoken Mara, her first born who promised to have the same inner strength and sight that her mother carried.

Without ceremony or dignity the soldiers bent and ripped at the girls thin shifts. The children's bodies were quickly bared to the crowd, stripped for the Romans' unnatural lusts. Without pause a pair of the soldiers lifted up their tunic skirts, revealing already engorged manhoods, and threw themselves down upon the girls. The girl's unresisting legs were flung wide as the soldiers slammed themselves into the children with cries of pleasure at the violation.
Cuda-Boudicca lunged forward outraged, driven beyond reason by the sight of her daughters' fragile little bodies jerked to and fro beneath the pumping Romans. She was caught short by the bone-bruising grip of her guards who laughed at her struggles, relishing her impotent thrashing. As she was jerked backwards she felt their stiffened manhoods, brushing against her arms, aroused by the sight of rape. The rape of her babies!

Noooo!

The power within Boudicca twisted, changing, no longer the golden detached peace of Cuda. Her lips curled back in a bestial growl as a red mist settled over her vision. No longer sane, no longer Boudicca, anger, aggression, fiercest berserker rage intensified, growing brighter, exploding white hot in her soul. She became rage and revenge. She became War. She became Andraste.

Boudicca's guards were flung aside to lay twitching on the frost-covered ground, dazed and burnt black, by the force of the entity's entrance. The jostling crowd was frozen, caught in the web of Andraste's power. They screamed and sobbed in terror at the destiny they had brought upon themselves. Lightening crackled across her skin arching out to burn the ground as she marched, unhampered, on the rapists. Monsters so lost in their perverse pursuit they did not even feel her coming or notice the screams of the crowd.

Andraste ruthlessly reached down and snapped the neck of one as easily as a twig, dragging his lifeless corpse off Andra's body. Andra's thin childish limbs lay askew, legs wretched so far apart they had popped out of their sockets. Bruises had already begun to rise over most of her torso and legs; areas over her ribs were swollen and blackening, broken by the weight of the Roman. Blood smeared her thighs and pooled beneath her still, broken body. The shallow rise and fall of her chest was the only indication that she yet lived. Alive only because she was too far-gone in the berry potion to surrender to shock and inner death.

The other rapist had turned to look at the sound of breaking bone, laughing, expecting it to be the little girl. A laugh that transformed into a mindless scream of horror. The terrifying visage before him offered no mercy, no forgiveness. She was no longer human but an angry goddess, Diana, Isis, Juno, which goddess did not matter. He knew he would not survive her righteous onslaught. He instinctively threw himself off his victim's body, in an attempt to separate himself from his crime. His scream continued, drawn out never ending, as he began scuttling backward, away from the child, away from the fearsome creature that confronted him.
Her body seemed to grow, filling up his vision, larger than life. A goddess in her full wrathful manifestation, she shone from within like an alabaster lamp. Her eyes were the glowing depths of a volcano, burning into his head, shriveling his black tainted soul with her fury. Thunderbolts danced around her striking out in every direction, filling the air with the crackling smell of ozone.

He watched her with wide rolling eyes and open drooling mouth. He saw nothing but her, he felt nothing but mindless terror, as he scrabbled backwards fleeing his fate. His back blindly collided with a fence of legs. He clawed franticly at the wall of frozen spectators unable to break through, unable to look away from the goddess. There would be no escape; there would be no justification for his deeds. He was doomed! The rapist collapsed in a pathetic sniveling heap and watched the goddess' approach, without hope.

Andraste saw the Roman attempt to flee his monstrous deed. She knew he would not escape, there was nowhere for him to run. She had the leisure to check on the condition of Mara. Though battered, bruised and bleeding from her encounter she was still alive and in better condition than her younger sister. Once assured of the children's survival Andraste turned on the celebrants of this atrocity.

All grew silent, not a murmur, not a rustle, not a birdcall. Even the breathing of the crowd seemed to cease. Into this void of sound Andraste's voice boomed as thunder, as she advanced on the rapist.

"You come here, TO MY LAND, and call my people uncivilized barbarians. Look to yourself and the deeds you reveled in here this day. Are Romans so weak and diseased that they must take by force from a child what no woman would give them by choice? Are Romans so poor that they do not even know the difference between sufferance and a woman's warm and willing embrace? This is what you call civilized? I see no honor, no strength. I see no truth, no power. I see no human souls among you. Perhaps Romans are not men, but the basest cruelest beasts. If so let them and all their kind be cursed by their own gods.

"May Venus strip from you her gifts of joy and pleasure. For you defile her with your delight in a child's screams. May Mars strip from you his strength of arm. For you defile him with your celebration of victory over unarmed and unconscious babes.

"I curse you in my own name, in my own land. Your warriors will run. The truth of their cowardice revealed to all. Those that do not run shall suffer at my hand before they die. All the land shall rise against you. Your cities will fall to fire and sword. Your women and children will suffer the same fate you have visited upon mine.

"Flee you over land. Flee you over sea. There will be no escape. The gods have marked your bodies and your souls. You shall each die a thousand times at the hands of each of your victims. Throughout eternity will your torment last."

An icy wind sprang up screaming with elemental fury. It whipped loose garments and hair into a frenzied lashing and cut with freezing knives to the bone. Clouds flew across the sky changing the light to the deep color of congealed blood. The Roman mob, both citizen and soldier, freed of their paralysis began a panicked stampede away from the scene of their crime.

The rapist, filled with blind fear, tried to shove his way through the crowd only to be beaten down by his own countrymen. Some paused long enough to kick or hit him in the misplaced anger that he and his cohort were the only ones responsible for the gods' fury. One woman even stopped to smash his head with a stone.

Whether in retribution for an abuse done to her or to appease the angry gods, none knew. None cared. She was quickly carried along in the tide of escapees, leaving behind the dazed but still breathing rapist. Bruised, bleeding, stunned and disoriented by the blow that cracked his skull, he lay on his back unable to flee the vengeful deity. It dimly occurred to him that even if he could run, he had no place to go. The wrath of the gods could not be evaded. Those who tried always suffered more for their folly than if they stayed and faced the Olympian's judgment.

As soon as the Romans began their mad dash to safety the Iceni were freed of their guards. The Iceni were unafraid of Andraste's wrath. She was their victory. She was in their queen. Heads bent against the storm the inhabitants of Venta Icenorum scattered to self-appointed tasks. They deftly avoided the lightening strikes and prudently stayed out of the goddess' path. Elders gathered the children to them, herding them into the safety of the great hall. Warriors ran for the storehouse where the Romans had secured the clan's weapons, ready to arm, ready to fight, ready to kill the invaders.

A group of women sprinted forward, tearing off their cloaks to wrap the poor little princesses in. The women instinctively knew that at this time the girls should bear no man's touch. Not even in rescue. The women murmured soft crooning words of comfort. Women's words, women's sounds, hoping to ease and reassure the sheltered minds of the unconscious girls, that it was over and they were safe. The girls were carefully swaddled in layers of cloaks before being gently carried into the healer's house. Where their physical injuries could be properly tended, safe from the storm of the goddess.

Andraste, flaring with righteous wrath, moved to stand over the trembling rapist. She callously stomped down on his out-flung arm, feeling the bones snap, break and shatter beneath her foot. She continued to press down until all that was left of the arm was a bloody pulp. Andraste ignored his screams of pain and pleas for mercy. His words meant nothing. He had never shown mercy so he deserved none in exchange. She continued to crush his limbs one by one into the cold hard ground. She used her power to keep him alive and conscious, wanting him to suffer every agonizing moment. The light in his eyes began to dim as the pain and blood loss became too much for his mortal body to survive. When she saw his soul begin to loosen Andraste stepped onto his chest. His rib cage collapsed beneath her foot, sending him from this world with the final stabbing agony as his ribs sliced and shredded his internal organs.

Her immediate purpose completed Andraste began to fade.

She whispered in Boudicca's mind, "I must go for now. But do not worry. I will always be here by your side. We have much to do together you and I."
Boudicca slumped weakly to the ground, released by the powers that had worked through her. Her hands sank into the slimy gore of the Roman's remains, and then her whole body, as she collapsed into the muck. Too drained to care about the offal that smeared her body, she began crawling weak, weary and blinded by pain to the house where her children had been carried. Skin, peeled back by the whip, bared red twisting torn muscles that still oozed blood. The raw vicious injuries quickly became caked with rough abrasive grit that was flung about in the tempestuous wind. Razor fine sand scrapped and ground its way deeper and deeper into the wounds with each torturous inch of her progress.

It seemed an eternity, each moment seared white hot on her memory, before she reached the healer's thick oak door. Too exhausted to pull herself up Boudicca scratched feebly at the door, hoping they would hear her. She hoped they would save her from the howling windstorm that pummeled her, leeching all the heat from her body. Hope was all she had left. Hope that her children would be well. Hope that she could see them before she died. Hopehopehoping.

In her delirious state Boudicca did not notice the door being pulled away from her numbed hand. She just continued to claw weakly into the air, hoping to be heard. She did not notice the heat that billowed out of the building to caress her freezing form. She did not even notice the hands that took hold of her, dragging her inside, until she was jostled against the narrow doorframe. Boudicca attempted to struggle free of the new tortures being heaped on her abused body. Her feeble struggles only served to bring her more pain. The pain, there was so much pain. She moaned in agony too weak to even scream.

Gentle hands took firm hold of Boudicca's thrashing head and Magda's blurry face came into focus, "Be easy Boudicca. We are here to help you. The Romans are gone, our people are safe. You have done you duty. Now it is time to rest."

"My children…" Boudicca's hoarse whisper was cut off by harsh racking coughs.

"They are well tended and will heal. Now let us take care of you."

Boudicca franticly shook her head against Magda's restrictive hands and renewed her struggles to break free.

"Easy, easy," Magda sighed understanding a mothers need to see for herself. "Take her over to the children. We will not be able to treat her until she has verified their safety with her own eyes."

Boudicca was half-dragged half-carried across the small room. The pain did not matter any more, she had to see her babies. Her children lay on small pallets in front of the cheerful crackling hearth fire, tucked snuggly beneath piles of warm sleeping furs. Their sweet cherub like faces smiled in untroubled sleep, framed by hair freshly washed and neatly braided out of the way. Neither girl showed any signs of the trauma they had undergone. They were safe, they would heal, and they would not remember the injuries done to them. Even if she died now, her children would survive.

They would survive!

"See they are alright," Magda said softly. "Now let us tend to you. They will need you fit and strong in the days to come."

Boudicca did not even have the strength to nod as relief and the knowledge of safety stole her borrowed energy. She slumped weakly between her helpers, unable to even keep her feet under her. She could only stare blankly into the warm homey fire over which two large pots boiled. She smelt the rich aroma of broth and doctored tea rising on the steam, melding with the scent of the herbs that hung from the rafters, recalling healthy times of peace and serenity.

Boudicca was lowered carefully on a pallet near her daughters. She lay rigidly on her belly unable to move. Tension still thrummed through her, despite her efforts to relax, sapping the last of her strength and narrowing the world to a few inches in front of her face. A warm herbal wash was poured over her back, thawing her skin and cleansing her wounds. The acrid fumes stung her eyes, causing them to tear up and further blind her.

"Drink this," an unidentifiable voice buzzed in her ear, as Boudicca's head was lifted and a cup put to her lips.

The cloying stench of the potion was almost too much for her to bear, but Boudicca obeyed. She mindlessly choked down as much of the warm liquid as her torn raw throat would allow. She tasted the rich loamy earth, she tasted the springtime shoots and the fall mulch of the medicine. It filled her senses and warmed her body from the inside out, numbing all in its path.

With the bitter taste of the healer's herbs coating her tongue, Boudicca fell through the abyss of red-misted pain until she finally reached the darkness of oblivion.

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