Shadows of Flame

The hall was empty when they brought her back.

Boudica stood in the centre of the longhouse, her hands bound, her back raw, her daughters beside her with the marks of Roman hands still fresh on their faces. The torches had burnt out. The fires had been trampled. The place where her husband had ruled for thirty years, where she had borne his children, and where they had grown old together was ash.

The Romans had done this. They had come with their scrolls and their laws and their promises. *Make peace with Rome*, Prasutagus had said. *They will protect our people*. He had believed it. He had left his kingdom to the emperor, his daughters to the mercy of Rome.

There was no mercy.

She closed her eyes and saw their faces. The procurator, Catus Decianus, with his soft hands and colder eyes. The centurion who had held her down while his men laughed. The soldiers who had taken her daughters, one after another, while she screamed until her throat was raw.

They had flogged her afterward. As if the other had not been enough. As if they needed to remind her of what she was.

A slave. A woman. A thing that Rome had broken and thrown away.

She opened her eyes. The hall was still empty. The torches were still dark. But somewhere in the darkness, her people were waiting.