A Queen's Revenge

A QUEEN’S REVENGE

S.D. Livingston

Published by Livingston Proof at Smashwords

Copyright © 2016 by S.D. Livingston.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

First paperback edition published August 2016.

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at editor@livingstonproof.ca

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Imagining History

About the Author

Books by S.D. Livingston

To Hyacinthe and Jenn,

ladies of letters

"O, it is excellent

To have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous

To use it like a giant."

—William Shakespeare, MEASURE FOR MEASURE

1

LONDINIUM, 60 CE

A single fly buzzed around the procurator’s office as Catus Decianus stabbed at a piece of meat on the platter. He dropped it onto his plate and stared at it, his stomach growling.

It was a warm day and he was sweating heavily, even though the shutters were closed against the heat of the morning. The busy sounds of the forum filtered through the painted boards, a cacophony of clerks and tax collectors, slaves and censors.

He wiped the sweat from beneath his chin. A scowl crossed his fleshy face and he slammed his knife down with a clatter.

Where is Gavo? he shouted. Bring me Gavo!

A young slave darted from the room, his bare feet racing to the kitchen.

A moment later, a man wearing a dirty tunic appeared before Decianus. The procurator shoved his plate across the table.

What is this slop? he said. You call this meat? It looks as though it’s been lying in the kitchens for a week. It’s not even fit for pigs or Gauls. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?

The man kept his gaze on the floor. "My apologies, dominus. It was the best we could do. The shipments from Rome have been delayed and the—"

Decianus cursed. Damn the shipments. This is a market town, isn’t it?

Gavo nodded. It is.

Then surely there must be a barbarian tribesman somewhere willing to slaughter a steer and sell it.

Of course there is. Gavo wiped at a food stain on his tunic. I’m sure there is.

Then go find him, Decianus snapped, and bring me some food worth eating. He waved his hand. And take this out of my sight.

With a hurried swipe, Gavo scooped the plate off the table and disappeared. Decianus gave an impatient sigh and glanced at the water clock on his desk.

He turned to a figure that stood patiently near the window. The man was Roman, a messenger, and his sandals and tunic were still dusty from the road.

Well? Decianus said. What news have you brought me? I haven’t got all day.

The messenger held a small scroll out toward him. It’s a message from C. Blandius Plautus.

Decianus frowned and wiped his neck again.

As mayor of Camulodunum, the provincial capital to the north, Caius Blandius Plautus was little more than a shadow of a man. He obeyed Decianus’s orders willingly and rarely took action on his own. But it also meant that messages came from him with annoying regularity. Perhaps one of the numerarii had counted the taxes wrong. It would be enough to send Plautus into a fit of uncertainty.

Decianus broke the seal and opened the scroll. He scanned it carelessly, ready to toss it aside, but his expression changed as he read the familiar script more slowly. He sat up. This was unexpected news and a windfall into the bargain. The barbarian Prasutagus was dead.

Decianus leaned back in his chair with a faint smile. He had already forgotten the gristly beef and the heat of the day. He touched the beads on his abacus, his fingers absently sliding them across. As king of the Iceni, one of the more compliant tribes in the north, Prasutagus had amassed great wealth. There was gold, silver, and reasonably fertile land that had been off limits to Rome—until now.

Decianus nodded to himself, estimating the numbers in his head. It was a prize he’d been watching for some time.

Of course, as procurator of the province he could have gotten his hands on Prasutagus’s riches any time he had wanted. At least, Rome could have. But that would have meant sending troops in, and discontent already simmered in the north and west. No, he’d been far wiser to tax the client tribes just to their breaking point than waste time and energy taking what he wanted by force.

But now that the Iceni king was dead, those obstacles had vanished. The Iceni lands belonged to Rome, just as everything else belonged to Rome.

Decianus smiled. The gods had been good and his patience had been rewarded. The gold, the salt mines, the trading alliances—all of it had been laid at his feet thanks to the death of a barbarian king.

He read the scroll once more, rolled it up, then tapped it against his palm with satisfaction. He glanced up at the messenger, who stood waiting with his gaze on the floor. Did the man know what Caius Plautus had written? Of course he did. Not the words themselves—no messenger would dare break an official seal, not even if he were able to read.

But Camulodunum was only a two-day march south of Iceni lands. News of the king’s death would have traveled fast. No matter. As procurator, Decianus had charge of the province’s wealth. Taxes and tributes were under his control. He would make sure that enough Iceni wealth lined his own pockets before the official tallies were reported to Rome.

He pushed his bulk out of the chair and waved the messenger toward the door. You’ve done your duty well. I’ll make sure that Caius Plautus hears of it. You can go wait in the kitchen while I make my reply. Tell them to prepare anything you want.

Decianus began to search through his ledgers but the messenger didn’t move. Instead, he remained rooted to the spot, motionless in front of the desk.

Well? Decianus glanced up. He jerked his chin toward the door. I dismissed you. What are you waiting for?

The messenger reached inside his cloak and removed a second scroll. The parchment was older, the edges soiled. He held it out.

Catus Decianus narrowed his eyes.

What’s this?

The rest of the message, the man said. From C. Plautus.

Decianus set the ledger down slowly. Trust the weak-willed Plautus to send the good news first. He had never been one to confront a difficulty. Decianus grabbed the scroll and unfurled it. He scanned the page, wondering what details Plautus had neglected to tell him.

With a start, he recognized the standard format of a Roman will—and the name Prasutagus. The remains of his meal began to form a hard knot in his stomach. The barbarians never wrote anything down. And certainly not in Latin. The only thing they’d managed so far were some feeble markings on their coins. If a barbarian king had prepared a will, he could only have done so with the help of a Roman. Decianus began to read.

Fury began to color his face before he was halfway through. He forced himself to slow down, to focus on every insulting detail. A compromise. Prasutagus had attempted a compromise—an estate divided between his heirs and Rome. He had willed the majority of land to Emperor Nero, as was the emperor’s right. But the remainder of land and the portable wealth was to go to the king’s two daughters.

Decianus reached back for his chair and sank into it. His hands began to shake. It was an outrage. How dare a barbarian, little more than an animal, attempt to rob the emperor of his rightful due?

The Iceni were lucky that Rome had been generous for so long. The world’s greatest empire, the greatest soldiers, could have ground the Iceni and their filthy huts under its heel long ago. But Rome had chosen to be merciful, to impose only taxes on them rather than slavery. And this was their reward.

With a cry, Decianus hurled the scroll across the room. He looked around. The messenger was gone and the rest of the servants had suddenly found reason to disappear. His jaw worked in anger as he strode across the room. The door slammed back on its hinges and he stormed into the hallway.

A young slave, part of the Roman bounty from Hispania, was passing. Decianus grabbed the startled boy by the neck and pressed him against the wall. He lowered his face to within inches of the child’s frightened eyes.

What’s your name? Decianus demanded.

M-Marcus, he stammered.

Good. Now listen, because I’m going to give you an important errand. Get it wrong and I’ll know your name and will find you. Do you know where the taverns are? The ones near the river?

The boy nodded.

Go there, Decianus ordered. Ask for a man by this name—Decimus Tullius Varus. He’s a military tribune. Can you remember that?

The boy’s voice was a faint squeak.

Decimus Tullius Varus. Tribune.

Yes. The procurator relaxed his grip. Find him. I don’t care what he’s doing. Tell him Catus Decianus wants to see him. Immediately. Do you understand me?

The boy nodded again. He stared up the procurator, unable to move. At last Decianus realized he still held the slave in his grip. He let go and gave the boy a shove along the hallway.

Go, he said again. And hurry!

The child fled on his errand and Decianus stood staring after him. The angry scarlet had started to fade from his face but his blood still pounded in fury. A compromise. A barbarian king who thought he could cheat Rome of her right. Decianus would put an end to it, and claim his reward in the bargain.

2

The boy found Tullius Varus losing at dice in a tavern near the river. His wine cup was empty and the whore beside him was already scanning the room in search of a better prospect. Across the table, an enormous Gaul watched with anticipation as Varus threw again.

Six! the Gaul roared. I win again.

He pulled the pile of coins toward him then held his hand out. You’re a little short, my friend. You owe me a denarius.

Varus smiled. No trouble. He slid a small bone circle across the table.

The Gaul picked it up and squinted at it. He scowled.

"Remittam libenter? Not today. He pushed it back toward Varus. I take my winnings in coin, not promises. Now pay up."

Varus glanced around. The tavern was nearly empty. A small boy hovered nearby but there were no other soldiers in sight and the Gaul was built like an ox. Reluctantly, Varus pulled his coin pouch from inside his tunic. He tossed a denarius on the table.

When did you learn to read Latin? he said.

The last time a Roman tried to cheat me, the Gaul replied with a laugh.

Varus paused with his hand on the pouch. Are you accusing me of not paying my debts?

The Gaul’s smile faded. His eyes shifted to the gladius at Varus’s side. No.

Good. Varus stood up. Because I’m sure you wouldn’t want to die with piss stains on your tunic and an ugly whore at your side. He leaned over and slid the denarius toward the woman. No offense.

The small boy at his elbow hurried after him as he left the tavern.

With respect, are you T. Varus?

I am. Varus kept walking, dodging a cart loaded with fish. Who’s asking?

C. Decianus. Varus stopped and the boy nearly ran into him. He stumbled, righted himself, and took a deep breath. The procurator wants you to come to his office. In the forum.

Varus shot the boy an irritated look. I know where his office is, he said. His scowl deepened.

Six months posted to Londinium and his situation was more frustrating than ever. As broad-stripe tribune he’d been close to a coveted place in the senate. But one little dalliance with a senator’s niece had cost him the position, and his new rank had put him in charge of two equally pointless tasks—keeping Decianus happy, and finding new recruits in this market backwater.

For Varus, the only good view of Londinium would be the sight of it over his shoulder as he rode away.

He tossed the boy a coin and made his way toward the forum. It could be worse, he reflected. Decianus was a man that possessed the most pedestrian desires. He loved money, craved power, and the problems he needed Varus to fix for him usually involved both.

Whatever the procurator wanted today, it was bound to be more of the same. A petty problem with a merchant, or a father complaining that Catus had been too familiar with his daughter.

With a sigh, Tullius Varus knocked and waited for Decianus’s command to enter. Hopefully it wouldn’t take long to get him out of whatever entanglement he’d caused this time.

Inside the office, Decianus was pacing angrily. Varus noted the empty room—no slaves, no officials—and frowned. This might take longer than he’d expected.

He closed the door.

"Salve, C. Decianus." He nodded a formal greeting.

Decianus stopped pacing. Come in, come in. He waved a hand in agitation then crossed to his desk and dropped heavily into the chair. A scroll lay open in front of him and his jaw tensed as he glanced at it.

Varus felt a prick of interest. Perhaps this task would prove more interesting than the usual duties demanded of him. He approached the desk.

You called for me, he said.

He wouldn’t sit until the procurator told him to, but to his surprise Decianus pointed to a corner.

There, he said, go pick that up and bring it here.

His lip curled and Varus’s curiosity spiked again. Cautiously, he went to retrieve the object. Decianus must have thrown it—it had landed behind a small bench. Varus bent down and picked up the small scroll. He wanted to open it but restrained himself. He carried it back to the desk and looked at Deciaunus expectantly.

For a long moment the procurator was silent. At last he gestured at a chair.

Sit.

Varus obeyed, the scroll still in his hand.

This— Decianus began. He cleared his throat and began again. This, he said, pointing at the scroll on his desk, is news from Camulodonum. From Caius Blandius Plautus.

Varus nodded. He knew the mayor by name if not by deed. In fact, there seemed few deeds by which to know him.

And what news does Blandius Plautus send? he asked. He kept his voice neutral. It was best not to flatter or insult until he knew whether the mayor had offended Decianus.

Decianus looked across the desk, meeting Varus’s eyes for the first time.

The news, said Decianus, concerns the Iceni. The barbarians of the northwest coast. It seems their king died not long ago. Plautus sent word today.

Varus frowned, thinking hard. He searched his memory for details about the tribe. They were isolated, he knew that. They had battled with the Trinovantes, their neighbors to the south before Rome had turned those lands into the colony of Camulodunum.

And the Iceni hatred for the Brigantes and the Silures ran even deeper. Indeed, the fierce northern tribes had long ago come to a stalemate with their Iceni neighbors, unable to win more than a few small skirmishes.

Still, Decianus’s anger didn’t make sense. Besides being isolated, one of the most independent of the barbarian client kingdoms, the Iceni were also wealthy. Their lands sat along prime trading routes. In spite of the taxes and tributes they handed over to Rome, their nobles had amassed great fortunes themselves.

And now that their king was dead, the natural outcome was clear. Their client status expired with him and they would become full subjects of Rome—along with their lands and wealth. Decianus should have been celebrating.

Instead, he looked furious. Varus looked down at the slightly battered scroll in his own hand. He held it out.

And this? he said.

He noticed that Decianus wouldn’t look at it.

Read it, the procurator snapped.

Varus scanned the careful Latin script. It was clearly a will, but not for a Roman citizen. It was for Prasutagus, the dead king of the Iceni.

Varus sat up. When he had read the scroll twice he looked up in surprise.

A compromise? he said. He wants to divide his estate? That’s impossible.

I know it is, Decianus said.

He seemed calmer now that someone else was agreeing with the insulting idea of an Iceni will.

But no one seems to have explained that to those damn savages. Plautus certainly didn’t. It wouldn’t surprise me if that fool hadn’t written the will himself, though the gods know he can’t seem to do anything else without my help.

Varus remained silent. Decianus profited handsomely from the compliant nature of the colony’s mayor. But in this case appeasement was going to cost the procurator time and energy. An envoy would need to be sent to the Iceni, explaining that they were now completely under Rome’s control. And that, Varus suddenly knew, was where he came in.

I’m sending you to the north, Decianus was saying. I want you to make things plain to them. It shouldn’t take long but I want someone I can trust.

Varus nodded, trying to keep his face neutral. A journey to Camulodunum was more than welcome. Londinium was hardly more than a collection of administrative buildings surrounded by barbarian huts.

Unfortunately for Varus, he had made the mistake of being useful to the procurator once too often, and now Catus Decianus was loath to let him go. Camulodunum, a proper colony with good food and even better women, would be a welcome stopover on the way north to Iceni lands.

You’ll leave two days from now. That should give you more than enough time to get ready. Take a few of the auxiliaries from the garrison.

Varus stood up. He was already calculating supplies and numbers. I’ll select the men myself.

Good. Decianus leaned back. Safe journey. And report to me when you get back.

Varus turned back, his hand on the door.

What do they call her?

Who?

The Iceni woman.

Decianus glanced at the scroll on his desk. He ran his finger along the Latin script then gave a dismissive grunt.

Boudicca.

3

Lannosea shifted on her stool, gripping her hair with both hands.

Ow, that hurts.

Don’t be such a baby. Galena pushed her sister’s hands away and continued pulling the comb through her hair. The wide teeth tugged at a knot of auburn hair and Lannosea winced again.

Mother, make her stop it, she said.

Boudicca looked up from the coins she was counting.

Galena, be more careful. You’re hurting your sister.

No, I’m not, Galena protested. And besides, she’s old enough to do this for herself. I don’t know why I have to do it.

I can’t reach back there, that’s why, Lannosea said with a pout.

You could if you wanted to, Galena muttered. She gave the comb another tug.

Ow!

Boudicca pushed the coins aside with a frown. That was the third time she’d lost count.

That’s enough. Galena, go find something else to do. Lannosea, get one of the servants to finish your hair. I need to finish this and I can’t do it with the two of you in the room.

Lannosea sulked out the door, still rubbing her aching scalp. Galena dropped the comb with a look of triumph and started to hurry away.

She paused as Boudicca called out. Wait.

Galena turned, her dark braids as controlled as her expression. She faced her mother with solemn eyes.

Boudicca gazed back at the spirited face, the shades of defiance she knew so well. Silently, she crossed the room and straightened the girl’s