The tunnel sloped down, down into a silence that was not empty, but full of listening. Stalactites dripped water with a sound like slow, ancient heartbeats. Finally, he emerged into a vast, domed chamber. A black stone altar stood in the center, carved with spirals and crescent moons. And there, on a throne of polished jet, sat Ataecina.
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.
The story begins not in her cave, but in the world above, in a year of terrible drought. The sun, Helios (for the Romans had brought their names), beat down on the lands of the Vettones tribe. The river Tajo shrank to a muddy trickle. The acorns, the lifeblood of the people and their prized black Iberian pigs, shriveled on the branches. The cattle lowed in agony.