When the Eagle Hunts

'How dull.' Boudica grimaced. 'There must be some people who are trained to tell stories like our bards do. Surely?'

'Some,' admitted Cato. 'But they are not held in the same esteem as writers. They are mere performers.'

'Mere performers?' Boudica laughed. 'Truly, you are a strange people. What is it that a writer produces? Words, words, words. Mere marks on a scroll. A storyteller, a good one, mind you, produces a spell that binds his audience into sharing another world. Can written words ever do that?'

'Sometimes,' Cato said defensively.

'Only for those who can read. And how many in a thousand Romans can do that? Yet every person who hears can share a tale. So which is the better? The written or the spoken word? Well, Cato?'

Cato frowned. This conversation was becoming unsettling. Too many of the eternal verities of his world were in danger of being undermined if he should entertain the vision Boudica offered him. As far as he was concerned, the written word was the only reliable way a nation's heritage could be preserved. Such records could speak to the generations as freshly and accurately as at the time they were written. But what was the utility of such a marvellous device for the illiterate masses that teemed across the empire? For them only an oral tradition, with all its foibles, would suffice. That the two traditions might be complementary was anathema to his view of literature, and he would have none of it. Books were the ultimate means by which the mind could be improved. Folk tales and legends were mere palliatives to beguile and distract the ignorant from the true path of self-improvement.

Which thought led him to consider the nature of the woman before him. She was clearly proud of her race and its cultural heritage, and she was also educated. How else did she come to have so ready a grasp of Latin?

'Boudica, how did you learn to speak Latin?'

'The same way anyone learns a foreign language – hard practice.'

'But why Latin?'

'I speak some Greek as well.'

Cato's eyebrows rose appreciatively. This was no small achievement in so backward a culture, and he was curious. 'Whose idea was it that you should learn these languages?'

'My father's. He saw the way things were moving years ago. Even then our shores had been penetrated by traders from all over your world. For as long as I can remember, Greek and Latin have been part of my life. My father knew that one day Rome would no longer be able to resist the temptation of seizing this island. When that day came, those who were familiar with the tongue of the eagle soldiers would profit most from the new order. My father thought himself too old and too busy to learn a new language, so I was given that task and spoke for him in his dealings with traders.'

'Who taught you?'

'An old slave. My father had him imported from the continent. He'd been teaching the sons of a procurator in Narbonensis. When they had grown to manhood the procurator no longer had any use for the tutor and put him on the market.' Boudica smiled. 'I think it came as a bit of a shock when he came to our village, after his years in a Roman household. Anyway, my father was hard on him, and he in turn was hard on me. So I learned Latin and Greek, and by the time the tutor died, I was fluent enough for my father's purposes. And now yours.'

'My purposes?'

'Well, Rome's. It seems that older and wiser heads among the Iceni elders think we must tie our future to that of Rome. So we do our best to become loyal allies and serve Rome in her wars against those tribes foolish enough to resist the legions.'

Cato did not miss the resentful edge to her words. He reached out to the small pile of wood and placed another splintered length of roof beam on the small fire. The dry timber caught at once, cracking and hissing, and the flare lit up Boudica's features in a fiery red that made her look quite beautiful and terrifying at the same time, and Cato's heart quickened. He had not found her attractive before, as she had been Macro's woman, and he had been grieving for Lavinia. But now, as he gazed furtively at Boudica, he felt an unaccountable yearning for her. Almost at once he cautioned himself against such feelings. If Prasutagus suspected that he had taken a fancy to his future wife, who knew how he would react? If the unpleasant scene back in that inn at Camulodunum was anything to go by, Boudica was a woman best left alone.

'I take it you don't wholly approve of the policy of your tribal elders?'

'I've heard how Rome is inclined to treat its allies.' Boudica looked up from the fire with glinting eyes. 'I think the elders are out of their depth. It's one thing to make a treaty with a neighbouring tribe, or to grant trade rights to some Greek merchant. It's quite another to play politics with Rome.'

'Rome is usually grateful enough to its allies,' Cato protested. 'I think Claudius would like to see his empire as a family of nations.'

'Oh really?' Boudica smiled at his naivety. 'So your Emperor is a kind of father figure, and I suppose you strapping legionaries are his spoiled sons. The provinces are his daughters, fertile and productive, mothers to the empire's wealth.'

Cato blinked at the absurd metaphor, and nearly laughed.

'Don't you see what being an ally of Rome means?' Boudica continued. 'You unman us. How do you think that goes down with people like Prasutagus? Do you really think he'll meekly slip into whatever role your Emperor provides for him? He'd rather die than hand over his weapons and become a farmer.'

'Then he's a fool,' replied Cato. 'We offer order, and a better way of life.'

'On your terms.'

'They are the only terms we know.'

Boudica looked at him sharply, and then sighed. 'Cato, you have a good heart. I can see that. I'm not having a go at you. I merely question the motives of those who direct your energies. You're bright enough to do that for yourself, surely? You don't have to be like most of your countrymen, like your centurion there.'

'I thought you liked him.'

'I… I did. He's a good man. As fiercely honest as Prasutagus is proud. He's attractive too.'

'He is?' Now Cato was truly astonished. Never would he have described Macro as handsome. The weathered, scarred face had frightened him when he had first met the centurion as a new recruit. But there was an easy, honest charm about him that made the men of his century steadfastly loyal. But where was the attraction for women?

Boudica smiled at Cato's astonished and confused expression. 'I mean what I say, Cato. But that's not enough. He's Roman, I'm of the Iceni, the difference is too great. Anyway, Prasutagus is a prince of my people, and may one day be king. He has slightly more to offer than the billet of a centurion. So, I must do as my family wish and wed Prasutagus, and be true to my people. And I must hope that Rome is true to her word and lets the kings of the Iceni continue to rule their own people. We're a proud nation, and we can stomach the alliance our elders have negotiated with Rome only as long as we're treated like equals. If the day ever comes when we are dishonoured in any way, then you Romans will learn just how dreadful our wrath can be.'

Cato regarded her with open admiration. She would be wasted as an army wife; there was no doubt about that. If ever there was a woman born to be queen, it was Boudica, though her casual, even cynical, dismissal of Macro pained him greatly.

Boudica yawned and rubbed her eyes.

'Enough talk, Cato. We should get some rest.'

While he built up the fire, Boudica pulled her thick riding cloak about her and punched her haversack into a tight rest for her head. Satisfied that it would be comfortable enough, she winked at Cato and, turning her back to the fire, curled up and went to sleep.

The next morning they ate some biscuits and clambered stiffly onto the backs of their horses. The ponies were no longer required, and were set free to fend for themselves. To the south, several miles away, a thin haze of smoke lifted lazily into the clear sky, and below lay the dark shapes of huts in the bend of a stream. That was where the Druids had spent the night, Prasutagus told them. In the distance, a group of horsemen escorting a covered wagon was visible. It was still not clear to Cato how the four of them could take on a much larger party of Druids and still emerge from the fight victorious. Macro, for his part was frustrated by the way they could do no more than tail their enemy, passively hoping for a chance to attempt a rescue to present itself. And all the time the Druids drew closer to the impregnable earthworks of the Great Fortress.