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them."

    We discussed tactics and the disposition of troops until he at last turned to go. "Thank you."

    "Lovernios," I called. "You tell me. How many other tribes have joined your war?"

    "The Atrebates have refused to rise," he answered, "as have the other tribes in the south. And Cartimandua, queen of the Brigantes in the north, is still your ally."

    I didn't need to drive home the point. I sat back down and prayed for an end, for any end.

    Boudica met the legions on Watling Street, between the Roman fort at Manduessum and the British temple at Vernemeton, at a place where the road ran into a narrow defile. Her warriors seethed over the field, beyond counting. They were so confident of victory they brought their families, in wagons at the rear of the field.

    The legions divided into three columns, flanked by cavalry and auxiliaries. From our perch on a rocky hillside Ebro spotted the cluster of standards. Beside them I recognized the compact body of Agricola, Suetonius's most able lieutenant, striding up and down delivering a speech. The legions were in good hands. They would die with honor, and with them the Roman rule of Britannia. How Boudica would then deal with her own cousins, I couldn't imagine.

    She harangued her warriors, her daughters displayed at her side, no doubt pouring scorn on Roma and its men and calling for even more blood. Her voice had become hoarse and shrill, like a crow's.

    At last she released a hare from her cloak, which scurried away toward the Roman line. The Britons clashed their weapons and shouted taunts. I turned away, remembering the night I'd been a hare to Boudica's hound. But that had been a long time ago, in my youth.

    All day the battle raged. The Britons broke like waves against the Roman shore. But at last the sheer weight of numbers began to bottle the legions in the defile.

    I was so enrapt I didn't notice Ebro slip away. We had no guards—no warrior would have missed the battle to watch two such impotent prisoners—so I hurried after him across the bloody ground, past the contorted bodies of Roman and Briton alike.

    Boudica leaned forward in her chariot, her hands upraised as though casting a spell. Her hair fell in red waves down her back. Her green cloak billowed behind her. Brighid's hands were raised in imitation, her own hair flowing free. Behind them slumped Maeve, like a tired schoolgirl wanting nothing more than for the lesson to end.

    Several warriors ran by, their long swords mottled with blood. And then I saw Ebro, with a long sword of his own—he'd found it on the field, no doubt. He ran at the chariot, brandishing his weapon, shouting in a deep voice I'd never before heard him use, "Death to the witch! Death to the enemy of Roma!"

    He struck at Boudica and her daughters, once, twice, three times, the sword flaring in the red light of the westering sun. Maeve screamed. Brighid gasped and fell against her mother. Clutching her breast, Boudica stared with cold, empty eyes at her attacker. Blood drowned her green cloak and its golden stitches. The startled horses jerked forward. I seized their bridles and stopped them.

    Five Iceni warriors fell upon Ebro, cut him down, and kept on hacking long after he was dead. Then they turned to me.

    "No," said Boudica. She sank to her knees, clasping Brighid to her side. Maeve sat down with a thump behind them. "Take me away, Marcus. Now."

    I led the horses and the chariot away, expecting a spear in my back at any moment. But as the rumor of Boudica's wound swept the field the Britons were maddened. Some threw themselves on the Roman swords. Some threw down their weapons and fled. As I gained the hillside and the dappled shadow of an oak tree Agricola began to drive forward, pinning the Britons between the defile and their own wagons.

    Boudica, Brighid, and Maeve huddled in the bottom of the chariot, the discolored cloak spread over them. Ebro hadn't seen the cloak become Britannia. He'd never tasted the liquid from