by Ralph Harvey
The man walked purposefully up the lines, staring intently first into one face and then the other. “Him, and him,” he barked. And so he progressed, until ten men stood assembled. Then he turned towards the officer, “Ready sir.” They raised their arms in salute, striking the flats of their hands on their chests, and then silently walked through the lines.
As the patrol moved out the centurion handed the master of the ten a leather container within which, protected by the straps, was an hourglass. Deftly he turned it upside down. “Reverse it once,” he commanded, “a report after one hour, return after two.”
Silently the patrol reached the front phalanx, the line parting to let them through, then immediately closed behind them. Swords and spears at the ready the eleven marched slowly into the fog.
“Better them than me,” said a short, thick-set Armenian, “when he stared at my face I thought for a moment it was going to be me that went out there to face those devils, praise Athena he passed me by.”
The legionnaires grew ever restless and apprehensive as the minutes passed, but as time progressed they identified more and more with their colleagues out there in the gloom. They were all experienced men he had chosen, legionnaires well able to look after themselves, and trackers all. They had scouted for the legion for many months now and were able to hold their own, but still the men felt uneasy, soldiers cannot fight wraiths and ghosts and only the Gods knew what demons lay out there awaiting them.
As the morning dragged on the line remained still as a growing unease swept the ranks.
“How long have they been gone now?” asked a captain of auxiliaries.
“Too long Cassius, too long. A full hour glass has now run out and there is but a trickle of sand in the other, without even a sound of them, it’s the silence I don’t like, always the silence.”
“They should have made contact by now, that arrow came from close by, they must be laying up — observing our movements. Obviously something is going on out there.”
The captain was getting more and more angry.
“Curse them, they know the rules, a runner with a report after the half hour glass runs out, another on the hour, I’ll have that decurion’s hide when he returns, how dare he keep me waiting! Now I’m overdue to report to Silentarius, so now I get a roasting. May the Gods help him when he reports in, for I shan’t.”
“If he reports in,” a soldier whispered to a soldier beside him, “I wouldn’t gamble a single sesterce on his chances.”
“Nah! If there’d been trouble we’d have heard it,” said another. “Out here you could hear the clash of steel on a Roman shield from a league away, plenty of time for us to launch a rescue if they’d hit trouble. Besides,” he added, “their orders were to reconnoitre not engage — they’re out there watching ’em.”
“True, like you said, if there’d been trouble we’d have heard it. No news is good news, but they are well overdue.”
The sudden sound of marching feet instantly brought the soldiers back to full alert.
“Hold hard, there’s movement out there, they’re back, they’re back,” a voice cried. A ripple of excitement swept through the ranks unrestrained by their officers. A rousing cheer went up as the first one emerged like a wraith through the fog, followed by all ten, shields erect marching in military formation.
As they reached the brow of the hill they stood there like sentinels, the mist swirling around them, their arms raised, holding their pilas aloft, then the fog closed in on them again and they were lost to view.
“Report in, at once,” shouted out the centurion. “You’re in enough trouble already, it’s over two hours now since you left, and no report as ordered.”
The mist parted again revealing them once more, but still they just stood there making neither sound nor movement. Their silence was uncanny and disturbing, and slowly the excitement that had earlier swept the ranks subsided, as a disquietness suddenly set in. “Something’s wrong, Juventus, I don’t like it, why in Jove’s name, don’t they come in.”
“Sir, sir,” a soldier raised his arm pointing to the still figures on the hilltops. “Look! They’re wearing tartan plaids on their legs, sir, and no sandals. What in the name of Jupiter is … ” His exclamation was cut short as the line slowly lowered their shields revealing behind a line of blue daubed naked savages each wearing a Roman coolus helmet.
As they sinisterly laid the shields down, each was seen to be holding a small sack concealed behind each one. Then with a single movement every warrior there unleashed an object from within it that rolled like a small boulder down the hillside, bumping and jumping from rock to rock, eventually coming to rest in front of the Roman lines.
As the last one settled in front of them a cry of sheer horror went up from the assembled unit like a huge wail of despair. Even the hardened and battle-scarred hoary old veterans who had lived a decade in a swelter of blood and gore found their stomachs retching at the mutilated, sightless heads of the missing patrol before them. The empty sockets where the eyes had once been stared sightlessly before them, the jaws flapping open grotesquely, where the mouths had been severed through to the cheeks, so that each one had been extended into a banal and perpetual grin like a macabre mask.
Juventus’ face was white with anger and fear as he beheld the gruesome relics, his eyes scanning the all-enveloping cloud above, but the skyline was now empty again. The Celtic enemy had disappeared as silently as they had come.
Clenching his teeth in anger, he gave a command. “Order arms. Close order. Advance.” As one, the lines marched forward with a slow measured step, hell-bent on revenge, a quiet coldness having come over them. Each legionnaire strangely and sinisterly silent, their shields before them, their right hands holding the short stabbing gladius, they advanced — on into the unknown before them.
For interminable minutes the lines continued forward making no contact with the unseen foe, Juventus rode up the line on his charger, then turning the horse he scathingly execrated the void before him.
“Show yourself you heathens, by Mars, why don’t you come out and fight?” he called.
“You can’t fight demons,” a soldier called from the ranks, “it is sorcery we’re up against.” Juventus ignored him; there was no answer to it.
Suddenly the forward triarius halted, raising up his pila to signal a halt to the advance. “Hastatii” he called out, “Send me the hastatii! Polybius here — fast!”
Hearing him, Polybius raced forward from the ranks, followed by the ever-eager hastatii troops sweeping forward to obey his command. He pointed to a rocky outlay ahead of them where a flock of crows were circling. An older man by Polybius’s side looked towards him enquiringly. He pointed to the outcrop, “You, you’re a princip, go and look, but take care.”
The princip obeyed, running at a crouch — he approached the ridge cautiously, then disappeared into the undergrowth, re-appearing almost instantaneously. “What’s he seen?” asked one of the hastatii. “I see no enemy.” “You never do,” said another. Moments later the princip reported in, halted, turned round and struck his chest in salute. Coldly and emotionally he spoke, his voice trembling, “They’re out there sir, all of them, eleven bodies.”
At a signal the hastatii advanced in formation, there in the centre of the outcrop were the naked and decapitated bodies of their former comrades, disembowelled and dismembered, already the sweet stench of death permeating the area, attracting a myriad of insects.
Juventus advanced to the edge, then swiftly turned away in order than his repugnance of the scene did not show in front of his troops, and beckoned a centurion unto him, trying hard not to throw up. Calmly he addressed him.
“Burial party. Put them together as best you can.” Suddenly, a white-faced young auxiliary approached the centurion. His hands pointing to a small spur of rock protruding like a shelf.
“What is it?” shouted the centurion.
The youngster nodded dumbly, “There’s a niche sir, it’s got som
e kind of idol in it.”
“So?” barked the centurion.
“It’s… it’s got parts of them in front of it sir.” The centurion pushed him roughly aside, “What are you gabbling about boy? Show me.” He strode purposely before the rock face, reached it and looked down at the cause of the young auxiliary’s concern. His spontaneous cry was audible to all the assembled Romans.
“Almighty Mars,” he cried sinking to one knee, “guard their spirits well this day.”
“What is it?” cried Cassius. The man gulped, then spoke in a low voice.
“It looks like a votive offering sir, a nasty little habit of Boudicca’s — they’ve been emasculated sir.”
Cassius approached his side; there on the outer rocky outcrop in front of a hideous idol set in the fissure were the testes of the slaughtered patrol.
“They are always a target for her Juventus. By the Old Gods, if only we Romans could turn the clock back, the day that Corrianus and Boudicca were beaten and whipped and Queen Boudicca's daughters raped was an evil day for Rome, more Roman blood and more Roman manhood has been lost through one act of brutality against the Iceni, than in a hundred past battles, their genitals are a reminder to us from her as to how this uprising started.”
The man nodded.
“Roman soldiers have always raped, sir, it’s the spoils of war, and it’s helped subjugate the populace wherever we’ve conquered. A humiliated people are a beaten people.”
Juventus was quiet. “They were a queen’s daughters Cassius, the royal blood of the Iceni flowed in their veins, and remember this, the hastatii stripped and held them down before her eyes, while their maidenhood was taken from them. Boudicca will never forgive, nor ever forget.” He walked away. “And more Roman testicles will be laid on heathen altars than one foolish and avaricious tax collector could ever have foreseen on that fateful day — may the Gods curse Catus Decianus for this is all down to his actions. Strike camp at once, we’ll take the high ground and fortify the hill that oversees the valley, then even Boudicca’s phantoms won’t be able to approach unseen — give the order to move out.”
Chapter 2
Peaceful Village AD 60
A year before, on a beautiful summers day in Britannia AD 60 how little could the Iceni ever have foreseen or dreamed of the holocaust that would shortly be unfolded upon them. Within the Iceni encampment all was peace and tranquillity as the denizens went about their everyday chores, men hunted wild boar and deer in the forest, made pots and farmed, and in their leisure time formed beads of amber and cast silver ornaments to enhance their womenfolk.
The women spun cloth, helped on the land, tended the sheep and the cows and ground corn to make the unleavened bread so popular with all, yet also trained with the bow and spear alongside their men folk, for they were a warrior people. Albeit the spears were wooden, the heavy metal beaten bronze and iron spears beloved of them now forbidden under Roman rule, although the old men of the valley knew exactly where, under which thatch, their clubs and swords rested, and where the other paraphernalia of war was buried.
This was Boudicca’s capital the year before the great revolt, stone buildings had started to rise amongst the long huts and dwellings of the villagers, for what had started as a large fortified camp was evolving into a permanent dwelling place, as Roman influence infiltrated into Celtic ways.
It was amongst such a setting that Boudicca walked as she traversed the sloping sides of the hill fort to descend to the stream that meandered at its base, then arriving she slipped into the cool water to begin her ablutions.
As the Iceni Queen bathed, a sentinel of her royal guard watched vigilantly on each side of the bank ever watchful for an assassin for although many of the tribal wars had been suppressed, skirmishes were still rife as tribesmen raided for women or cattle, and many a neighbouring tribe had a score to settle, ever envious of the prosperity of the Iceni or seeking to reclaim a lost cow or daughter.
As Boudicca stood naked and unashamed in the small bay where the stream had eroded the sides away, she ladled scoops of water over herself. A deer suddenly raced for cover as children playing further upstream disturbed it, the beast sending cascades of water over one of the guards as it veered away from the Iceni Queen in panic.
“The horned one thinks you need a bath Altus” Boudicca called to the dripping figure humorously. Altus smiled then took a cloth to his face from his pouch.
“It was but a shade away from being my dinner this night, O Queen. But it was too swift even for me.”
Boudicca laughed, throwing her head back merrily.
“You are getting old Altus, that is why they let you watch me bathe.”
Altus grinned.
“I have been your guard since you were knee high to a grasshopper Boudicca. I bathed myself when the water came but to your thighs, and I saw your maidenhood bloom Queen as the apples on your chest became ripe.”
“Lecherous old man” Boudicca called, and then bending low she scooped up great handfuls of water and showered him again. Within minutes he had entered the water and soon they were splashing each other happily as the sun caught the droplets in its rays, throwing an iridescent rainbow pattern against the sky.
“Don’t you ever grow up?” a voice boomed from the hillside. “You art a mother and a Queen yet play like a virgin.”
“Corrianus,” Boudicca called to the tall masculine figure that had appeared, “I was expecting you.”
Corrianus came and sat at the waters edge.
“Loyal Altus — how Boudicca loves you — if only she loved me half as much.”
Boudicca started to walk towards him, her eyes appraising the form of Corrianus who now sat on the hillside sucking on a grass stalk.
“Hail unto you Corrianus” she called. “Let me feel the strength of your arms around me.”
As she exited the water, Corrianus picked up a length of towelling from the bank then with mock solemnity exclaimed,
“Let me dry you, your Majesty.”
She took the cloth and started to dry herself as Corrianus now placed her robe around her.
“So I love Altus more than you, do I Corrianus. I see,” she taunted. “Then who will you accompany to the feast of Alban Eilir tonight — lover.”
Corrianus drew on the grass stalk once more and pondered.
“Hmm,” he murmured, “There is a girl of the Parisi tribe I have seen bathing in the river,” he paused; “full breasts, showing her ripe maidenhood. She is fair and slim of waist.” He smiled slyly at Boudicca, “I must find her name.”
Boudicca raised her hand and slapped him lightly.
“Fie on you Corrianus, do not tease me — even in jest you know for well that I cannot contain either my anger nor my jealousy.”
Corrianus slipped his arms under her robe, holding her still damp body to him then gently raising her chin up kissed her.
Boudicca responded, clasping her hands behind his back.
“You knowest Corrianus that you are the only man in my life.”
They kissed again, and then she looked up at him silently. In the background, Altus waved to the other guard.
“Come Rishla, there is no further need for our vigil, she has Corrianus to guard her now — and I must dry myself.”
Boudicca turned to him while still in Corrianus’ arms.
“Faithful Altus, I have no further need of you — so return and get your wet clothes off. I do not wish to bring about your death old one.”
The two guards started up the hill together leaving the lovers alone.
“She’s your charge now Corrianus,” Rishla called back.
Together they watched the two men disappear from sight. Then Boudicca looked back at Corrianus again.
“Even a Queen needs a man to lean on Corrianus, I am a Queen first but I am a woman also.”
Corrianus hugged her even closer to him. Responding, Boudicca looked up adoringly.
“I love you Corrianus. Always have done and I always will.�
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“I too,” he replied, “we have waited many moons.”
He picked her up ecstatically and swung her round in arms fashioned like oak logs.
“Will you marry me loved one? You have been a widow too long.”
She threw her long red hair back, looking at him defiantly.
“Why have you not asked me before then?” she demanded.
He lowered her to the ground very slowly.
“’Tis true I have waited too long dear one, I am but a chieftain but you art a Queen — am I really worthy of you?”
Boudicca melted.
“You fool. Could you not see that I have been waiting for you to ask me?” She clasped him tighter; Corrianus’ face was a picture to behold. “O Corrianus had I but known.”
“You accept then Boudicca?”
She beckoned for him to sit.
“Of course I do. There has been peace throughout the land for over ten years now. My late husband Prasutagus made peace with Rome after Caratacus was taken in chains to that city after being betrayed by that treacherous she-wolf Catamandua.” Clearly she was wistful now, then she went on, “One half of his kingdom he ceded to Caesar, half his livestock, his cattle, his horses, his sheep — even our land.” She clenched her fists at the memory. “The elders urged him nay, but on his death bed he had willed it so.”
Corrianus was in thought.
“That is well known beloved. Yet what did Caesar give in return?” They started to rise now, walking hand in hand up the hillside.
“Peace Corrianus. He gave us peace to live our lives undisturbed, plus exemption from taxes for my lifetime, and that of my daughters. Many years have passed since Britannia was conquered and I have learned to live under Roman rule, albeit reluctantly. It was a high price to pay to great Caesar, but it was my husbands decision as chief to become a client kingdom of Rome, and although we are the poorer for it we are left alone.”
By now they were reaching the summit.
“And you Corrianus?”
He shook his head.