She was not a gentle goddess of sunlit meadows. Ataecina was the Diosa Madre , but a mother of a profound and terrifying kind. Her skin was the pale grey of river stones in shadow, and her hair fell like cascading black water, woven with bones of small animals and the first pale crocuses that bloom in late winter. Her eyes held the still, knowing darkness of a deep well. The Romans, when they came, would try to fuse her with their Proserpina, but they failed. Ataecina was no kidnapped bride; she was the sovereign of her own shadow.
Leaving his flock under a withered fig tree, Viriato climbed the Mons Sacer. The air grew cool, thick with the smell of damp earth and petrichor. The cave mouth yawned like a silent scream. Lighting a single wick of goat fat in a clay bowl, he descended. spanish diosa!