9 but his father told him about them. Conall no longer avoided his family’s gaze or sat before the fire with broad shoulders stooped and sagging. With a shining face and a booming voice, he praised the courage of their people and their queen. “Boudicca—I swear,” he said after one of their triumphs, “once she climbs into her war chariot, she grows six feet taller! It is hard for me to remember that she and I used to play together as children. She brandishes her spear and gives the charge with a cry that takes your breath away.” He compared the queen to a Fury: “I don’t believe in the Roman gods, but if there are Furies—those vengeful spirits—then she is one of them. And we gladly follow her.” Furies, Faelan thought. Whoever they are, if they are, they are leading the Iceni in justice and wrath. He felt pride well up in him, and he saw it reflected in his father’s eyes. Tribe after tribe joined the Iceni as they moved north from the smoking ruins of Londinium. How many were in their forces then? Eighty thousand? One hundred thousand? Some said there were twice that number. Faelan’s family joined their ranks, and the young boy rode along in a wagon with his mother and sisters. To pass the time, he imagined his future— one without Romans. He saw himself taking his place among the Iceni as a chieftain. Wearing the plaid tunic and the golden brooches of his people, he would lead them back to the prosperity that they had once enjoyed. They would never have a foreign master again. Then came the fateful day that ended Faelan’s daydreams. A report spread through the Iceni ranks that a contingent of Roman soliders was approaching, a tiny thing, only ten thousand men! The Iceni laughed and wondered at this. Had their victories scared away the rest of the mighty Romans? It seemed unlikely, but the report reassured the Britons, especially those
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