Excerpts: "A Song for Ceridwen"

Note: These are excerpts from a much longer work. I tried to pick out parts that would not need much explanation, but this is the basic situation: Roman invaded Britain in 43 AD, and by 60 AD the people were in revolt. The daughters of the queen of the Iceni were raped and the queen herself was flogged. This led to the great rebellion. The rebellion failed, Boudicca poisoned herself, and her two daughters fade into histroy. Their names aren't even known. I decided to write their story, specifically the story of the elder of the daughters, whom I have named Ceridwen. The other of these daughters is Delyth. Anynta is a priestess and their aunt, the Boudica's sister. Calvinus and Monat are Anynta's apprentices. Geryddyd is Calvinus's love interest, but he has made a vow of chastity. She is a princess of the Coritani tribe.


Thin pink fingers gripped the metal hard. It was frigid against Ceridwen’s skin, and when she removed her hand, her skin smelled acidic and metallic. As she readjusted her grip to make it firmer, her feet slipped in the layer of snow that lay over the thin grass and the hard, frozen earth. The leather of her boots was soft and damp. Her hair was pulled back into a knot, but wisps of red hair floated in a halo around her vision. Her cheeks were blazing red from the effort. Her soles ached from standing and slipping and falling and leaping and prancing since sunrise.

Ceridwen was ready when Delyth lunged forward, making a swift move. But Delyth was not much use with a sword, and her swing was weak. Ceridwen shoved it aside with an easy parry. Her arms tired, Delyth let the tip of her sword settle to the earth. The metal was as heavy in her hands as it was in Ceridwen’s. Delyth’s face was painted red across the cheeks with the efforts of the morning and she bled from a knick landed by one of Ceridwen’s quick jabs.
Ceridwen sheathed her sword at her side, held her sweating palms before her, and wiped them on her tunic, which was heavy with sweat already.

“Is this really necessary, Mother?” Delyth demanded. “I really don’t think I was meant to be a warrior.”

The red-haired wildcat threw back her head in derision and sniffed. It was enough of an answer for the two girls. Ceridwen knew her mother just well enough to understand that no amount of swordplay would ever suffice. Neither of the wildcat’s daughters would give up being a warrior unless death or maiming forced them to. From where she sat on the ground, she waved her arm for them to continue. Her blue tunic was covered, like the dirt, in a thin layer of snow.

“You are growing mold like a rock,” said Delyth. Her tone was not complimentary.

“As least I am not growing fat,” smiled the wildcat. Her mane of red hair was loose around her shoulders and buoyant in the damp air. The air was warm for snowfall. The snow was wet and it melted easily as it cascaded from the gray sky in a white mist onto the wildcat.

It was true; Delyth was growing rather fat. Ceridwen could not help a little smile from crossing her lips. Delyth caught sight of it and scowled.

“I am not fat,” she spat.

Ceridwen gripped her sword. Her fingers ached and cramped from holding it tight for so long, but she was beginning to enjoy the sensation of power in her arms as she swung the sword. It whistled as it soared through the air, catching Delyth somewhat by surprise. Delyth had enough time only to dip low and raise her sword up a few inches from the earth. She was low in a defensive crouch behind it as the swords met and the metal reverberated, filling the haunting winter silence with its echoes. Then Ceridwen jumped back a step, readjusted her grip, and waited for Delyth to make her move.

The crashes of sword upon sword continued with the wildcat’s eyes following the sudden flashes of dull light. The girls were not as polished as their brilliant blades. Ceridwen was quick and agile, smaller in height and weight than her twin sister, but she did not have the power to swing the heavy blade easily through the air. Delyth had that power in her heavy arms, but Ceridwen was forever darting around and making two strikes for every one of Delyth’s. The wildcat summed up her daughters’ weaknesses and strengths: Ceridwen had the heart that Delyth lacked, but Ceridwen lacked strength and skill.

Finally, she called a halt to the training. It was nearing time for their midday meal and the girls were exhausted and starved. They had eaten no breakfast, but had smelled porridge as they clambered out of bed in the abysmally cold, dark morning.

“Why do you insist upon us doing this, Mother?” Delyth asked again as they rode back towards the village which, in the snow, was a cloister of flour-covered bread loaves. “It seems pointless.”

“And illegal,” Ceridwen added.

“Must we continue?” Delyth pressed.

“If you know what is best for you, you will,” the wildcat snapped. It was the only thing she had said all day, except for sharp orders as she sat in the snow near their feet, watching their every move. “The Romans won’t be fat or powerless.”

She nodded from one daughter to the other haughtily.

“Mother, we were not raised as warriors,” said Ceridwen. “You know that.”

“No,” said the wildcat angrily. “You were raised to spin and weave and make a wife for some fine young Roman man who wishes to become credible with the local population.”

Ceridwen flinched. “I don’t want to marry a Roman.”

“No need to worry,” said Delyth mockingly, “most of their soldiers aren’t actually Roman at all. They are from other places that have been conquered. Thrace. Gaul. Germany. Now they are here to help the Romans conquer us, too. If you are handed off to a Roman soldier, chances are he will be from Spain. Besides which, you’re the elder of us. You have to marry. It’s inescapable.”

She grinned.

“You are a princess, too,” said Ceridwen sharply. “Don’t you think you would make a lovely prize, as well?”

Delyth shrugged. “Not if Mother does not quit putting ideas into our heads of swords and war mounts and independence. No Roman wants a woman who wants freedom.”

The wildcat snapped her reins and her horse cantered several lengths ahead of the two girls. Certainly, the wildcat had far grander ideas than swords and horses. There were whisperings that she was itching for war in the east, and both of her daughters knew it. If the wildcat had her way, there would be no Romans left alive to seek her daughters as trophies.
Ceridwen looked sternly at Delyth, who did not meet her eyes. The two girls rode in silence until they reached the edge of the village. A series of ditches was filled with a thin, perfect rivulet of white snow. Ceridwen’s cheeks were beginning to dim in redness as they crossed the board bridge that led over the streams of white into the village.

It was when her mare first stepped upon the boards of the bridge that Ceridwen felt something was wrong. The wood of the bridge echoed differently. The snow seemed to dim around her. From just behind her, she heard her sister’s horse neigh a million miles away. Before her, her mother’s pied mount was tossing its head.

Thunder rolled in a circle over their heads, making Ceridwen’s mare shy. Behind her, she heard Delyth draw her horse to a sudden stop. Ceridwen bit her lip, dismounted, and began to walk her horse forward. Her mother had turned out of sight around the edge of the hut of trader of Samian pottery. He had left the winter before and never come back; there were fewer and fewer people able to pay him for his wares.

Slowly, Ceridwen walked forward around the hut, uncertain of what awaited her. The voice of the goddess was hanging at the back of her mind; it sounded very much like the keening offered up by a dog to the moon. Ceridwen gulped, held the reins tight, and glanced at the saddle pads thrown over her horse’s back. Her sword was well hidden under the bulk of cloth. Biting her lip, she moved her hand to the hilt of the short blade at her side, a small flaying knife that was legal for her to possess.

When she came around the side of the hut, she saw her mother on the ground, standing with a stony face as a gray-haired man leaned close to her, his chin near her shoulder and his lips moving very quickly. The wildcat took a sudden step back, and her hand flew towards her mount’s back where her own blade was hidden. The gray-haired man’s eyes shot towards the horse then he thought better of whatever suspicion he had had. He drew her close again. In the drifting silence of the snow, Ceridwen could almost hear their whispers though they were twenty paces away. She could hear the urgency and she could feel his fear. The wildcat was not one who forgave messengers for the bad news they brought.

“When?”

The word was high and clear over the stillness of the falling snow. It was beginning to cover the grass now in a thin blanket. Before the day was over, several more inches would fall. It would be the first real snow of the winter. The creeks and sacred springs would be limned with ice and snow in the morning, and Ceridwen would be able to see her reflection in the still pools created by the ice. She would be able to sit and stare into the goddess’s sacred water and see her face. She would be able to crack the ice and crunch it between her teeth.

The thought nearly carried her away from her mother, who had to lean even closer the gray-haired man to hear what he said next. The wildcat’s frown deepened and a pall of shock fell over her features. She raised a hand to her mouth and gazed off into the near distance. She seemed to be counting the snowflakes.

Ceridwen’s mouth went dry. She could feel the feathery weight of every white crystal as it fell onto her. She could feel the ground through her toes. Danger. There were rumblings in her bones that brought the danger crashing around her mind.

“Mother?” she asked softly. Her voice was more plaintive than she had intended. Her mother’s eyes were stony, distant, wrapped up in other worlds.

The gray-haired man stepped towards Ceridwen and Delyth, pulling his cloak tighter and eyeing their thin tunics suspiciously. He cleared his throat, clearly ignoring the ominous clues as to what the two girls had been doing with their mother.

“Come with me, please,” said the man in Latin.

Delyth, who had dismounted and stood at Ceridwen’s side with her arms wrapped around her trunk, narrowed her eyes and spat.

“You don’t like Latin?” asked the man in the language of the Iceni. “Very well, then, maybe when they torture you for playing warrior, you can ask them to speak in your own tongue.”

Delyth lifted her chin. “I do not know who you are” she said in the tongue of the Iceni. “But you can’t intimidate me. Or my mother. She is queen here, and no one but my father has any power over her.”

“I didn’t come to bicker,” said the gray-haired man. “Follow me.”

Delyth hesitated for a moment. She looked towards their mother, but the wildcat had disappeared. Her horse was being led by a young servant boy. Delyth was quick to hand her reins to the boy and hurry after the gray-haired man who was shuffling through the snow that was piling up on the beaten dirt roads. He coughed and pulled tight his gray wool cloak.
Ceridwen handed the reins of her mount to the boy leading the horses and caught his arm.

“Do not take off their saddles,” she hissed.

He nodded, and Ceridwen continued on, jogging several steps to catch up with her sister and the gray-haired man. Her heart drummed louder than the drums played in the greathouse in the old days when the council still met there. She was amazed that people were not flocking from their roundhouses to stare at the girl whose heartbeat shook the earth. It filled her ears.

The gray man was leading them through the lanes of the village. His feet followed the light footprints of the wildcat, which were almost invisible. She had the skill of a warrioress who had spent many years in the west fighting under the rule of the war prince Caratacus. She was distant and silent and only every so often did they see the edge of her tunic or her cloak. Once, as Ceridwen hurried to keep pace with the long-legged man and her tall sister, she saw the glint of her mother’s brooch; it was a wildcat leaping lithely across the snowy field of her mother’s tunic. Then the faint glimmer was gone and the goddess’s voice was silent.

The way was familiar and as they came closer and closer to the end, the panic began to rise in Ceridwen like a tide. She could feel the hurt already beginning before anything had been seen. The gray haired man kept his eyes on the ground before him, refusing to look at the girls behind him; a bad sign, certainly. Delyth did not seem to notice. She was gazing ahead, trying to catch a glimpse of what was ahead. She must have expected some grand spectacle. Ceridwen already thought she knew what was wrong. To have that knowledge made her feel crooked and wrinkled and twisted inside.

They came to their own roundhouse. Delyth was looking around, clearly perturbed. Perhaps, Ceridwen thought, Delyth had been expecting a legion to be planted on a hill nearby, ripe for her to attack with her slow sword strokes. Luckily, there was no legion, or Delyth’s life would have been counted in hours. Only slowly did Delyth’s eyes shift towards her home, towards the roundhouse. Smoke was floating lazily from the top of the roof where the thatch left a little gap. The doorflap was still, with a little crust of snow that the wildcat had not disturbed as she slinked inside. Delyth saw the stillness, and seemed to finally feel the panic that was already within Ceridwen.

“When you go inside,” said the gray-haired man, apparently without noticing that he said it in Latin, “I do not want you to make a sound.”

Then he pulled aside the flap and motioned for them to hurry inside.

*****************************************


Relief washed over Geryddyd’s face when a neighbor trudged through the snow, came to the door, and poked her grizzled head in. Geryddyd rushed to the door, hardly daring to take a breath for the fear in her guts. It made her uneasy to have her back turned to the soldiers for fear that they would uncover the things that Calvinus had hidden. Now that he was gone, she regretted telling him to flee; she might never find the things he had hidden. He was terribly clever and would have found exceptional places to hide them.

The grizzled old lady at the door had a child against her hip. It was her grandchild. The wild bush of silver wire that was Myrta’s hair was enough to show her to be an elder of the tribe, but her wisdom was etched in the lines on her face. Some women did not age with lines set like knowledge; some women simply aged with lines of care scratched into their faces. Myrta scrunched her nose and the wisdom was even clearer in her sharp green eyes.

“Who are they?” she demanded, motioning towards the men.

“Romans,” Geryddyd said quietly. “Catus Decianus, the procurator.”

“Ah. The tax-collector who is widely regarded as a worm amongst men. Might I see him? I have never seen a worm the size of a man.”

Monat colored. “You will get me crucified if you say such things loudly enough to be heard.”

“They do not know our language.”

“One of them does,” Geryddyd hissed. “Please, join me, because I fear them, but do not say anything that might be seen as rude. Please, Myrta.. More than our lives are at stake here.”

“I have a better idea, child,” said Myrta to Geryddyd. ”I will leave the child with you. They will be far less likely to strike you with a child in your lap. And then I will go and fetch someone with stronger limbs than myself and with a side of mutton or boar meat to serve to these Romans. They look hungry, and a hungry man is a violent man.”

Geryddyd could have wept with the relief that this brought. She allowed herself to wrap her arms around the quiet, watchful little girl. She kissed the girl’s cheek and the little girl turned her cheek away. Geryddyd giggled nervously, thanked Myrta, and turned back towards the soldiers ranged around the hearth, all of them speaking amongst themselves in low Latin that she did not understand. She picked her way amongst the swords and belt buckles strewn along the floor and dodged the stares of the men that she wove through. She sat down and could feel the sticky sensation of their stares sliding down her skin. It made her uncomfortable, but at least the child on her knee gave her a distraction. She bounced the girl, who cracked a little smile.

“Is the child yours?” asked Catus Decianus from the other side of the fire. The translator roused himself and repeated the question to Geryddyd.

Geryddyd grinned. “No, it is not. It is the granddaughter of a friend. That grandmother has offered to search for some food for you and your men. I hope you will accept the food and the hospitality, sir.”

The translator seemed unable to remember everything that she had said, so he thought a moment before summarizing it for the procurator, who nodded his approval of the notion of food.

Decianus stood up to stretch his legs. He put out one chunky limb, then the other, making loud sounds of discomfort.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that we may be forced to impose ourselves for some time. The conditions of the road are absolutely abysmal.”

When it had been relayed to Geryddyd, she pressed her lips thin. She did not point out that they had found the roads passable enough to appear suddenly at her doorstep. It would have not been wise, and Geryddyd was not unwise.

“I am certain that accommodations can be found. My father ought to return sometime soon.” She gave Decianus a smooth smile. “I am sure he will be pleased to see you.”

“Ah, so he will return soon?” said Decianus after the message had been translated. “Good, good!”

His eyes were wicked. Geryddyd prayed to the gods that the wickedness was not meant for her.

After he settled back down, Geryddyd heard something in the distance. She stopped bouncing the girl in her lap to listen. The child tugged at Geryddyd’s sleeve, but Geryddyd smacked away the hand. She bit her lip. If she was not mistaken, she was hearing the hooves of many men riding close. Certainly it was the sound of her father’s hunting party, in full paint and glory as warriors and with their illegal weapons. Geryddyd’s stomach was suddenly tied very tight within her, and bound her into a knot so that she could not straighten herself. The child was tugging at her sleeve again.

“Geryddyd,” said the little girl, “there is someone outside.”

The procurator and his men had noticed, too. The procurator stood and so did his bodyguard. Their leader motioned for the men to be at the ready. Geryddyd scrambled to her feet, leaving the child at her knee.

“Surely that is my father,” she said. “There is no need for alarm. He is a friendly man, certain to welcome you warmly as I have done. I will go greet him, I am sure he is weary and wishes to wash off the dirt of the day’s hunt. Hopefully he has come with some good meat.”

She smiled. The men seemed to soften at the promise of food, as Geryddyd had hoped they would. She leaned down to the girl, and gripped her hand.

“You must follow me outside. Go home, go straight home to Myrta. She will take care of you.”

It was then that Myrta appeared at the door. She bowed to the procurator and motioned for Geryddyd to come quickly. The little girl followed Geryddyd out the door and was quickly lifted into Myrta’s arms.

“Danger,” Myrta hissed. “When I went looking for meat, I saw them coming. I tried to warn them away, but they did not see me. They were too much blinded by the euphoria and success of their hunt. They are very near, and they look dangerous. Hurry! Get them out of sight!”

Myrta hurried away. The streets of the village, which had seen some stragglers moving back and forth along the roads, was empty, for they all knew the signs of violence.

Geryddyd ran towards the sound of the horses, towards the paddock where the king and his men were dismounting. She found her father amongst the other men, stepping through mud and horse droppings and uncareful men with too many muscles. The horses swung their bulk around heedlessly, and one nearly threw Geryddyd to the ground. Her father gripped her by the shoulders and led her through the obstacles. He was glowing with pride and happiness.

“What is it, Daughter?” he asked.

“The procurator,” she hissed. “You must hide the swords and the axes and the spears. He will not be inclined to view them as innocuous, Father.”

The king turned white.

“How many does he have with him?’

“Two dozen men, I think. They are in the roundhouse and expect a meal. If you are quick, then disaster might be averted.”

The king nodded. The joy had gone, now, and he was troubled. He had been so troubled for so long; it had been so wonderful to see something like joy back in his eyes. There had been little of that since Geryddyd’s mother had died from an enemy spear years earlier. Geryddyd tried to smile, and gripped his sword, then turned to find a hiding place for it.

A Roman face greeted her, and she gasped. But before she could protest, the Roman mercenary in the procurator’s employ had slid his blade across her throat, and she collapsed in the dirt, dead.

The king howled with grief, reached for the sword in his dead daughter’s hands, and was kicked. But he was a big man and not easily deterred. He had his sword and he swung carelessly at the Roman, who was struck hard across the shin. Then there was another Roman, and the king was on his feet, fighting for his life, standing over his daughter’s body, protecting her from man and horse. That beautiful face would not be marred. He struck another Roman, and this one died quickly.

The melee was quick. The king was pressed against a tree by three Romans, each with a blade pointed at the king’s belly. In a flash, the king’s hunting party had been slain or surrounded just as their king was. The king watched his brother’s son grin and call on the gods. The boy raised his arm and his sword, and a bear’s cry filled the winter air. He died a clean, sudden death, just as he had hoped.

“You should know better than to attack Rome!” said the procurator, stepping over bodies. He knew that the king was well-versed in Latin. He paused when he saw Geryddyd’s body. He stooped down and lifted her head gently. Her hair was muddied and blood streaked her features. “It’s a pity. This did not have to be difficult. She was a pretty girl, and promising. I might have made her my mistress.”

The procurator’s eyes moved towards the golden bangles on the king’s body and to the fine metal adorning the horses. His eyes showed numbers as he made calculations. Finally, his eyes fell to the shoulders of the dead Geryddyd, where her tunic had fallen away enough to show a heavy golden necklace with a bronze pendant.

“I am sure that you are aware,” said the procurator, “that you owe me great sums of money.”

The king spat in the dirt. “I have years to pay the loans.”

“On the contrary,” said the procurator. ”No one ever said when the loans were to be paid. It so happens that I have decided that they are due now.”

He stooped down and pulled the necklace from Geryddyd’s neck, wrenching her body so that it made an arc in the mud. He smiled, reached into his tunic and retrieved a piece of papyrus and a pen, and scribbled down a number as he slipped the necklace into his pocket. The king struggled against his captors.

“Go on, then kill me!” screamed the king. “My daughter was innocent, and you killed her. I am guilty, kill me, too!”

The procurator shrugged. “It is unfortunate that she had to die. But we cannot allow the laws to be broken. The blade in her hands was clearly too large to be allowed. I see no blade in your hands, so therefore I can’t conscionably order your death. However, I do see quite a bit of gold on your person. Titus?”

One of the men with his sword at the king’s gut reached forward and pulled a gold brooch from the king’s cloak. The cloak fell to the ground. The king looked to his side. His remaining men glared as the gold was removed from their bodies, too.

“This certainly won’t be enough,” said the procurator. “But I think we’ve done well for one day’s work.”

He made a dismissive sign to his men, who lifted their blades and let the king and his remaining men breathe. The procurator found his horse, mounted clumsily, and guided his horse carefully over Geryddyd’s body as he and his men rode hard out of the village.