Dreaming the Bullby Manda Scott
"Boudica" means "Bringer of Victory" (from the early Celtic word "boudeg"). She was the last defender of the Celtic
The second part of the stunning fictionalization of the life of Britain's warrior queen, Boudica, immerses us in a world of druids and dreamers, warriors and lovers, passion and courage. Originally a trilogy, this is now a four-part series.
"Boudica" means "Bringer of Victory" (from the early Celtic word "boudeg"). She was the last defender of the Celtic culture; the only woman openly to lead her warriors into battle and to stand successfully against the might of Imperial Rome -- and triumph.
Book one, Dreaming the Eagle, took readers from Boudica's girlhood with the Eceni tribe to the climax of the two-day battle when she and her lover, Caradoc, faced the invading Romans. Believing her dead, Breaca's beloved brother, Bán, joined the Roman cause.
Dreaming the Bull, the second book in this compelling series, continues the intertwined stories of Boudica, and Bán, now an officer in the Roman cavalry. They stand on opposite sides in a brutal war of attrition between the occupying army and the defeated tribes, each determined to see the other dead. In a country under occupation, Caradoc, lover to Breaca, is caught and faces the ultimate penalty. Only Bán has the power to save him, and Bán has spent the past ten years denying his past. Treachery divides these two; heroism brings them together again, changed out of all recognition -- but it may not be enough to heal the wounds.
Dreaming the Bull is a heart-stopping story of war and of peace; of love, passion and betrayal; of druids and warring gods, where each life is sacred and each death even more so; and where Breaca and Bán learn the terrible distances they musttravel to fulfill their own destinies.
Through the summer, Cunomar came to recognize two different kinds of warriors. The smaller group consisted of those few men and women still alive who had known his mother before the two-day battle against the invading legions. These were her friends and they called her Breaca in the way Cunomar's father and the innermost circle of the honour guard still did. The rest, who had met her only in battle or, worse, knew her only by reputation, gave the warrior's salute in a way that was subtly different and hailed her as the Boudica, bringer of victory. She didn't enjoy that, but in the short span of his life, Cunomar had watched his mother become more comfortable with name, so that it settled on her like a worn cloak and she did not stiffen at the sound of it.
He had heard her use the word herself for the first time that morning as a cold dawn sharpened the air and Nemain, the moon, lowered into her bed in the mountains. Breaca had stood on the back of her mare and addressed the massed ranks of warriors and dreamers, naming them all Boudegae, bringers of victory, and swearing before them that she would fight for as long as it took to rid the land of the invader. -- from Dreaming the Bull
“[Scott’s] characters are so true to life that they all but jump off the page, and the story is alive with the love, deceit, wisdom and heroics of humanity. Read it and enjoy!”
—Jean M. Auel, bestselling author of The Shelters of Stone
“Manda Scott has created a fictional universe all of her own, but close enough to our reality for it both to warm and break our hearts. Breathtakingly good, it reveals the best and worst in all of us.”
“A stunning feat of the imagination and an absolute must-read for lovers of historical fiction.”
—Steven Pressfield, author of Tides of War and Gates of Fire
“Definitely not a tired old retelling of a legend, this novel is beautifully written and lovingly told, filled with drama and passion. . . . Highly recommended.”
- Random House Publishing Group
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- 4.20(w) x 6.80(h) x 1.20(d)
Read an Excerpt
He had been branded once before, long ago, when his name was not Julius Valerius. Then Ben had fought the men who held him down, and it had been done badly so that the wound had festered and he had nearly died. Now, kneeling tied and blindfolded in the claustrophobic dark of a wine cellar, beneath a house that was less than three years old and with the snuffed wicks of the candles sending rank smoke into the dark, he yearned for the touch of the iron. When the masked centurion wiped the wine down the line of his breastbone and pressed his thumb in the centre to mark the spot, he leaned forward to meet the pain.
He had forgotten how bad it would be. The shock was blinding. Fire, and something worse than fire, wrapped his heart, closing tight, like a fist. It wrenched at his breath in a way that wounds taken in battle had never done. He forced himself to silence but need not have done; the noise of one man was lost in the echoing chant of forty male voices. The stench of burned flesh drowned in a flood of sweet smoke as someone threw a fistful of incense onto the brazier.
Later he wondered at the expense of that: frankincense cost more than its own weight in gold. At the time, he only knew that, however briefly, the pain of the fire consumed the other, greater pain of his soul, and it was for this that he had come to the god. As to a lake on a hot day, he threw himself into it, riding the heat that spread from his chest until it drew him out of himself and he watched his body from a place apart, one with the fire and yet separate. At its height, when the bearable became unbearable, someone standing behind stripped the blindfold from his eyes and cut the cords at his wrists, and someone else lit the seven lamps before the sun-disc so that, in deepest darkness and blinding pain, the god's light offered solace.
He would have liked to accept the offer, to fall into the waiting, welcoming arms of the deity, to know peace and certain salvation. The men branded on either side of him did exactly that. From his left, he felt the shudder of flesh that matched exactly the moment of surrender when a horse first accepts the bridle. From his right, he heard a whimpered exhalation, as of a man at the climax of love. For these and the others beyond them, divine joy engulfed all pain, erasing its threat for ever.
It was what he had been promised and what he had craved. In an agony that was more of the heart than the body, he cried aloud in the void of his soul for the voice of the god: he was not answered. Too soon the iron was gone, leaving only the ache of scorched flesh and a curl of smoke that rose to join the taint of those who had been branded with him.
The centurion stepped back, swinging the reddening iron. The double curve of the raven blurred and steadied and lit the space between them. Hidden eyes regarded Valerius from behind the god's mask.
"Know now that you are my sons under the Sun, the last for whom I will be Father and special for ever because of it. I will leave this province soon, with the governor, traveling with him to Rome to accept such postings as the emperor chooses to bestow. I will be a centurion of the second cohort of the Praetorian Guard. Should you come to Rome, make yourselves known to me. The new governor will arrive with next month's first auspicious tide. With him will come new officers to replace those who are leaving and new recruits to replace those we have lost. Meantime the welfare of this province, the honour of our emperor and of the legions, is in your hands and those of your brothers under the god.
"You are his now, first and foremost. Before the legions, before all other gods, you belong to Mithras to death and beyond. He is a just god; ask and he will give you strength; weaken and he will destroy you. By the brand will you know and care for one another, and if the god grant that we meet again, I will know you by it also."
They were seven in the row, naked as infants, newly marked and newly named. Not one spoke. On the far side of the room, a man's voice set up the chant of the newborn. It was joined by others and others and, last, by the new initiates until the full weight of forty-nine voices surged onto the walls and fell inwards, deafeningly. As the sound faded, a single lamp was lit beneath the image of the god. The centurion turned and saluted. Behind him the others did likewise. From his place above the candle on the northern wall, smiling Mithras, capped and caped, caught his bull and drew his blade along its throat.
Autumn—Winter A.D. 47
Only the children sleep on the night before battle and sometimes not even them. On the night before the Roman governor of Britannia took ship and left for ever the land he had conquered, two thousand warriors and half as many dreamers gathered awake on a hillside, less than a morning's ride from the most westerly of the frontier forts. Singly and in groups, as their gods and their courage dictated, they prepared themselves for war on a scale not seen since the legions' invasion four years before.
Breaca nic Graine, once of the Eceni and now of Mona, sat alone at the edge of a mountain pool. She breathed on a pebble cupped in the palm of her hand and sent it skipping over the water.
The stone bounced five times, shattering the moon's reflection. Shards of broken light scattered into darkness and were lost. The river ran on unheard, the music of its passing drowned beneath the stutter of bear claws played on hollow skulls nearby. The light of a thousand restless campfires gilded the water's edge, and smoke hazed the air above it. Only by the river was there solitude and darkness and the peace to ask favours of the gods.
The second pebble clipped the edge of the moon and was lost. On the unseen slopes behind, the skull drums reached a crescendo. A woman's voice called to the gods in the language of the northern ancestors. Other voices answered, grunting, and the un-rhythm of the drums changed. It was not good to listen too closely to that; over the years, more than one soul had been lost in the mesh of woven bone-sounds and had never found its way home.
"For Briga's care in battle."
The third stone, more accurate than those before it, bounced nine times and sank into the moon's heart, carrying the prayer directly to the gods without the intermediary of the river. If a warrior wanted to believe in omens, it was a good one. Breaca, known as the Boudica, sat as the moon settled again and was whole, a crisp half-circle of silver lying still on a bed of moving black.
Stooping, she picked up a fourth stone. It was wider and flatter than the others and bounced smoothly on her palm. She breathed a different prayer into it, one for which tradition did not supply the words.
"For Caradoc and for Cunomar, for their joy and their peace if I am taken in battle. Briga, mother of war, of childbirth, and of dying, take care of them for me."
It was not a new prayer; in the three and a half years since her son was born, she had spoken it countless times in the silence of her mind in those moments before the first clash of combat when everything and everyone she loved must be put aside and forgotten. Breaca had learned early that a warrior who wished to live rode into battle with an empty mind lest the distraction of a rising memory should slow her sword arm or the lift of her shield. The difference now, in the rushing dark by the river, with the chaos of preparation held temporarily at bay, was that she had spoken for the first time aloud and had felt the prayer clearly heard. She was beside water, which was Nemain's, and on the eve of battle, which was Briga's, and the gods were alive and walking on the mountainside, called in by the scores of dreamers whose ceremonies lit the night sky.
After nearly four years of despair, she could feel the promise of freedom just within reach if only bone and blood and sinew could be pushed hard enough and far enough to make it happen. With the gods' help, she believed it could.
Knowing a hope greater than any she had felt since the invasion, the Boudica drew back her arm to throw her stone.
"Cunomar!" She turned too fast. The pebble skittered over the water and was lost. A child stood on the river bank above her, tousled from sleep and stumbling uncertainly in the dark.
She reached up and lifted her son by the waist, bringing him down to the water's edge where he could stand safely. He was the living scion of her heart, her beacon in the dark, the one source of life that had pushed her to fight at the times when all hope seemed pointless. It hurt even to have him this close to battle. Holding him tight, she could feel the trip of his pulse. She kissed the top of his head and said, "My warrior, you should be sleeping, why are you not?"
Blearily, he rubbed a small fist in his eye. "The drums woke me. Ardacos is calling the she-bears to help him. He's going to fight the Romans. Can I watch the ceremony?"
Cunomar was not quite four years old and had only recently begun to grasp the enormity of war. Ardacos was his latest hero, second only to his father and mother in the pantheon of his gods. The small, savage Caledonian was the stuff of childhood idolatry. Ardacos led the band of warriors dedicated to the she-bear; they fought always on foot and largely naked and surpassed all others in the stalking and hunting of the enemy by night. The skull-drums were his, and the chanting that accompanied them.
Breaca smoothed a hand through the silk of her son's hair. She said, "We're all going to fight the Romans, but no, I think the ceremony is sacred and not for our eyes unless they call us in. When you are older, if the she-bear so grants, you can join with Ardacos in his ceremonies."
The boy's face flushed in the fire-glow, suddenly awake. "The she-bear will grant it," he said. "She must. I'll join Ardacos, and together we will drive the legions into the outer ocean."
He spoke with the conviction of one who has not yet known defeat, nor even considered it possible. Breaca had not the heart to disappoint him. She lifted him back up onto the bank again, smiling. "Then your father and I will be glad to save you some Romans to fight. But in the morning we must kill the ones in the fort beyond the next mountain, and before that, Ardacos and two of his warriors must make the land safe for us. It may be he has need of me in a part of his ceremony. If I go to him, you must go to bed first. Will you do that?"
"Can I sit on the grey battle-mare before you go to kill the legions?"
"Yes, if you're good. See, your father's here. He'll hold you while I go to Ardacos."
"How did you know--?" The child's face was awash with awe. Already he believed his mother partway to divinity; for her to predict the appearance of his father out of the maelstrom of the night was only another step to godhood.
Breaca smiled. "I heard his footsteps," she said. "There's nothing magical in that." It was true; more than Cunomar, more than any other living being, she knew the tread of this one step. In the chaos of battle, in the silence of a winter night, she could hear Caradoc walk and know where he was.
Now he waited at the top of the bank. With the firelight behind, his face was invisible and only his hair was lit. Spun gold flickered around his head so that he looked as might Camul, the war god, on the eve of battle, or Belin, who daily rode the mounts of the sun. It was a night to sustain such fancies, and the gods would not be offended.
In the voice of men, Caradoc said, "Breaca? The she-bears have called your name. Are you ready?"
"I think so. If you will take care of your son, we can find out." She passed Cunomar up to the waiting arms and hoisted herself up by the hazel roots. "Briga gives me luck and her care should the luck fail. It appears I may have to find my own courage."
The fourth stone was forgotten, deliberately so. There was no way to predict what the gods might make of it. Breaca could not imagine them exacting retribution from a child for his mother's failure to cast a stone truly. Her own fate was unknowable, but then it was always so; any warrior who had lived through more than one battle knew that life was a gift of the gods and could be withdrawn at any moment. Caradoc's life was too precious to contemplate. If she allowed herself to imagine him dead, or even sorely injured, she would never be able to ride into battle at all.
Caradoc grasped her forearm and pulled her the last half-length up the bank. Close, he was a man again, his face lined by lack of sleep and the weight of leadership. He hugged her lightly. "The she-bears believe you have courage to spare. Tonight would not be a good time to disillusion them."
Breaca grimaced. "I know. To them I am god-filled and can never die. You and I know the truth, that I am as human and fearful as any other on the field. Courage is too fickle to be held fast from one day to the next. Like sweeping the moon in a fishing net, the water sifts through and the light stays as it was. Each time I ride into battle I believe it will be the last."
She should not have said that. Caradoc looked at her closely; the fourth stone was not fully forgotten, and he could read her as well as she could him. He asked, "Does the coming battle feel bad to you?"
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Meet the Author
Manda Scott is a veterinary surgeon, writer and climber, not necessarily in that order. Born and educated in Scotland, she now lives in Suffolk with two lurchers and too many cats. Hailed by Fay Weldon as “a new voice for a new world,” she is also known as a crime writer. Her first novel, Hen’s Teeth, was shortlisted for the Orange Prize and her most recent, No Good Deed, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. The Boudica books are her first historical novels. They are, she says, the books she was born to write.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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If you love the old Celts of Britannia, if you've ever wondered who Boudica was you will love Dreaming the Eagle and this book, it's sequel. I have read and seen everything I could find on this woman. There's not much history in existence about her but this is the best interpretation and creative story with loads of historical facts about Rome, the Gauls and the Celtic tribes of Britain that you're going to find. These books are hard to put down. Enjoy!
Manda Scott's follow-up to Dreaming the Eagle is even more intense than the first in the series. The descriptions of the near-eradication of Britannia's tribes by the legions of Rome are harrowing, and teach us that genocide is nothing new. The cruelty and savagery of both the 'civilized' Roman Empire and the tribes fighting for their homeland are vividly depicted. The author based much of the novel on the writings of Tacitus, a near-contemporary of the events, but it is her rendering of the characters (some fictional, some real) that is powerful and moving. Ms. Scott writes with passion and intensity. I look forward to the next in the series.
I thought this was an amazing story that also gave fascinating insights about what life was like at this time. JUST PLEASE TELL ME WHERE THE THIRD ONE IS! I couldn't put these down.