Boudicca - Queen of Death

by Ralph Harvey

  Helicon, another prefect present, interjected, “Why avoid conflict Suetonius? The legions long for a good scrap, it’s the ideal opportunity for them to settle old scores.”

  “Not so,” interrupted Suetonius, “Caesar’s orders are to domesticate and settle this land, wars cost money, over a million sesterces were expended before Caratacus was taken and exhibited in Rome — and the Senate is still paying pensions to the widows and maimed of the legionnaires we lost in the conflict — we can always fight later if we have to. Besides, I want this little incident played down. There are too many knives out already in the Senate and Glaucus already strains at the leash to become Governor of Britannia.”

  Valeria Returns to the Camp

  Valeria raced towards the Iceni encampment, naked, her long hair streaming out in a golden red cascade behind her. Unashamedly she rode full tilt into the encampment, creating great commotion, hens ran squawking in all directions seeking refuge from the thundering hooves while the camp dogs barked at the sudden intrusion. A tribesman ran rapidly to inform Boudicca of Valeria’s arrival.

  “Boudicca, Boudicca,” he cried excitedly, “Valeria lives!”

  Another took up the cry, “Praise the Old Gods — Valeria is alive!”

  Valeria pulled the snorting beast up outside her tent; she was streaked with dust and sweat., As a warrior held her horse, she dismounted naked and proud, threw her shoulders back, and as the gathered villagers made passage for her, she strode in. As she reached the centre of the hut she collapsed onto one knee in sheer exhaustion, half crouching, like an animal she stayed there, panting.

  Hearing the news Boudicca hastened to her and entered the hut, her delight plain to see, “Valeria my, dear faithful Valeria, you are alive! What has befallen you? Here.”

  With one movement Boudicca released her own cloak and with a sweep of her hands placed it round the still panting girl. Then tenderly, she took a goblet of wine from a servant nearby who had anticipated her wishes, and knelt before Valeria, proffering it to her.

  Valeria took the cup feverishly and gulped it down then looked Boudicca straight in the eye.

  “I was knocked unconscious Boudicca, and thus taken prisoner, I was stripped and imprisoned, O Queen, where they threw dice for me,” she lied maliciously. “Eventually I was delivered to a brute to do what he willed.”

  “By the Gods! The Romans will pay for this,” Boudicca exploded, “then what happened?”

  “He got drunk and sold me to his friends for ten sesterces a time that they may make sport with me as they wished when he had finished with me, then collecting the money he brought more drink, and while in his cups, I stole a horse and escaped.”

  Boudicca turned to a servant, “Give her food, rest and raiment. In the morning summon the war chieftains, I will hold a council of war.”

  “Put your men on standby Boudicca,” urged Valeria, “I heard the Roman raiding party may return here. Even as we speak they have set out to take their spoils to Londinium, and they intend to attack this camp on their return.”

  Boudicca reacted instantly, turning to the warriors nearby and saying, “Send a patrol at once to the ridge-way that overlooks the road to Londinium. Also place watchers on each hill and road — I shall intercept them there.” She placed her arm around Valeria’s shoulders. “Stay here Valeria, my own servants will attend you.” She paused, then continued, “Did this brute violate you?”

  Valeria shook her head.

  “No, as I said he was in drink, and he saw that I was paying my tribute to the moon — so I bided my time and escaped from the camp.”

  Boudicca kissed her on both cheeks, “Sleep well Valeria,” she said and left.

  As she exited the room, Valeria sat on the edge of the bed, the goblet between her hands. She was in deep thought — her conscience clearly troubled at her duplicity, she sat there muttering to herself aloud and in torment, clenching and unclenching her hands.

  “Let death be the lot of all Romans; drive the swine from our land.”

  She stood up and paced the room, beside herself with anger.

  “Rapists, murderers, thieves, slaughterers of our people — I hate you — I hate you — I hate you all!”

  She collapsed on the bed again, still talking, “Why, why, why,” she exploded, “did I have to find one who was different? All Romans must perish — we must make war — there is no other way.”

  Her mind flicked back to the imposing figure of Marcus, “Marcus,” she sobbed, “if only you had been a Celt, I could have loved you, but you are Roman and I will not.” She stopped. “I cannot relent.”

  Then draining the cup she lay down and slept — her dreams punctuated by fantasies of her captor and premonitions of a great horror.

  Chapter 8

  Baggage Train

  A centurion was overseeing the baggage train as it wended its way out of the city. Fully laden with the Iceni plunder, it nevertheless had only a lightly armed escort. The soldiers once out of the centurion’s sight started to grumble amongst themselves.

  “Bleedin’ ’eathens!” one said, “and we have to return it to them! ’Eathens that’s what they are, and all through that bleeding Catus,”

  His companion joined in laughing, “Well they hardly dare to send him to return it do they — or any of the men that were with him; that hell-bitch would wear their knackers for a necklace.”

  “Right,” the first one exclaimed. “And I tell you what, I ain’t so bleedin’ happy to go meself.”

  “No worry,” the second man replied. “Boudicca is probably licking her wounds and smarting like Hades, but after that little episode she’ll not risk upsetting Caesar,” he paused, “or Suetonius for that matter. She’ll accept the commander’s gifts and the return of her goods — what with Marcus sparing that Valeria woman an’ all.”

  A third soldier broke in, “Aye a pure white horse he’s sending her, no less, and another for that bloody heathen chief of hers — why?”

  “Because,” said his companion, “our big chief Suetonius says white is symbolic of peace, so that’s why she gets a white horse. Me, I’d give the cow six inches of steel me self.”

  “Yeah — or six inches of something else.” His companion laughed coarsely, then gestured towards the heavily laden horses and mules, “’Ere is there a needle and thread in that lot to sew her daughters’ maidenheads back?” The whole troop roared with laughter. The officer at the head of the column, hearing them, turned his horse and rode back down the line.

  “No laughing you lot. We are on our way back to Boudicca’s camp to make amends not to take the piss — right? So shift faces when we get there — no flirting and best behaviour, we’re all good Romans remember?”

  A soldier looked towards him, “Are you sure it’s all right commander? I’m fucking nervous myself, walking straight into the mouth of ’ades we are.”

  The officer trotted his horse alongside them and turned reassuringly in the saddle, “Marcus has released her niece Valeria who was taken in battle as you all know. She’s been sent on ahead to placate the whore, and he sent her back on a white horse as well, as a token of our good will.”

  He spoke the last sentence sarcastically.

  “She’s his ambassador to the Celtic whore. I gather he treated her good too, fancied her something rotten he did, they say. Gave her jewels and clothes and all, so don’t you worry your heads. She knows we’re coming and is expecting us.”

  With that he gave spur to his horse and rode on back up the line, the soldier watched him go then muttered ominously under his breath prophetically.

  “That’s what I’m bleedin’ afraid of.”

  The Sighting

  A Celt, out of breath from his exertions, raced towards the Iceni encampment, eyes both eager and apprehensive watched him as he stopped at the Queen’s dwelling. The man’s presence was announced at once. Boudicca’s attendants ushered him in.

  “Your majesty,” the man blurted out, “I have just come from the patrol
on the ridgeway. Esca and his lookouts have seen a Roman patrol a half days march from here, they are heading east clearly towards Londinium.”

  Boudicca listened intently “Go on Eilan,” she urged.

  He continued, “Well Queen, we lay concealed to take count of their strength lest it was a raiding party — but no, it is a lightly armed escort taking the taxed goods and chattels they have seized to be sold at Londinium,”

  Boudicca’s face lit up.

  “and confidently they traverse Iceni territory.”

  She picked up her war spear and hurled it furiously into the wooden palisade, where it hung quivering, then turned, her eyes spitting fire.

  “By the old powers they shall pay for their audacity.”

  Eilan broke in, “But Queen, that is not all, Esca has seen his own horse, the brood mare with the white blaze on the forehead, the one that is in foal, plus all the horses taken, and both sheep and oxen trailing behind. There is no doubt Queen.” He continued, “Also your throne of cedar wood and silver is strapped on the back of a mule, and alongside it is the great throwing spear of Prasutagus that was taken from you.”

  Boudicca raged,“And returning to Londinium with their spoils are they in defiance of me, and they dare to enter my territory with impunity?” She whirled around, “Come Eilan,” she commanded, “we have work to do.”

  Outside the Queen’s long hut the villagers gathered fast, as news of the sighting of their goods and chattels spread like wildfire. Boudicca was herself pacing up and down like a wild cat.

  “Fetch my horse,” she shouted, then turning to the villagers addressed them vehemently. “Hear me my people, six hours from here are your cattle, your sheep and your horses, all your possessions wrenched from you by the dog, Catus, lays bound and wrapped to swell the coffers of Caesar.”

  Her voice rose even higher, “If you have red blood in your veins, then follow me.”

  As she spoke her horse with its great saddle was brought before her, with one bound she leaped onto it, “Fetch your weapons from the thatch of your cottages, dig up the knives that are buried in fat and leather, put hafts onto the hidden spear-heads — arm — arm — arm! This is now open war!”

  Corrianus was now by her side. “Follow who will,” he cried, “but I for one would sooner die a free man, than live like a slave under the Roman shadow.”

  With one bound he mounted his own horse, “So farewell, I bid you goodbye, and may we all meet one day in the Summerlands.”

  Suddenly a great wail went up, “Let us all strike, Queen of destiny, let us take back that which was stolen from us, let us abandon the village afterwards and take to the hills as of old,” they shouted in unison.

  “Re-arm and strike the Romans. Hold the passes and the valleys as we did under Prasutagus and Caratacus. Defy the Roman curs to enter the woods, and let death wait at every corner for them,” shouted Corrianus.

  Many in the crowd were ecstatic, “Hail Boudicca, we long for the old days!” Like a ripple, the fever appeared “Vengeance, vengeance!” they cried. “Avenge the wrongs — revenge!”

  “To horse!” shouted Boudicca. “Ahead,” she pointed to the distant hills, “Is the Roman baggage train, waiting like a ripe plum for the picking. Pack everything you can carry and prepare to leave.”

  Instantly, everywhere, in each hut, all that could be carried was loaded and one hour later a long column was exiting the village and was heading towards the luckless and unsuspecting Roman emissaries.

  As they marched, Valeria, riding her horse of pure white, smiled a grim smile — the conflagration had started. Marcus at that moment was far from her mind as her blood flowed hot, besides she knew fair well that this man who troubled her mind would not be with the patrol.

  Ambush Of Peace Patrol

  The Roman patrol was progressing along a rough path through dense woodland. When they found their way blocked by thorn bushes they stopped and the outrider cantered up through the strung out and sprawling column.

  “We’re lost!” He cried out to their leader, Crassius, “There’s been no sign of life or habitation for days, not a single man, woman, or child has been seen for us to enquire where Boudicca’s camp is.”

  “Do you think they would tell us if they knew, fool,” a soldier cried. “They’re probably all fleeing ahead of us.” He struck his chest in mock anger, then mimicked, “Hide your daughters, here come the brave Romans, they eat children too.” Then roared.

  Another legionary cried out, “Don’t forget we have Pravius with us, he’s a Greek, so hide your sons as well.”

  “Quiet,” roared the officer, “we’ll proceed another mile. Cut your way through and then seek high ground, and watch for smoke from any fires in the area, they don’t know we mean no harm. Just because Boudicca’s camp knows we’re on a bleedin’ peace mission don’t mean the other villagers do — that’s why I weren’t too happy to be so lightly armoured and with bloody auxiliaries to command to boot — bloody amateurs. Forward.” The column obediently moved on again.

  Laboriously the Romans progressed, while just ahead of them on either side of the overgrown passage, the Iceni warriors awaited them. Eventually the lead rider came into sight, spurring the first observer to emit a caw like a crow, three times he called, then silence.

  As the column drew level, Boudicca sprang to her feet waving a giant sword.

  “Attack!” she cried, “Remember my daughters, avenge my guards — kill!” With a great war-cry, the barbarians struck on all sides of the strung out column.

  At the sudden onslaught, the Romans fell back in confusion, highly outnumbered. Crassius, their leader, ran forward.

  “Boudicca, stop!” he cried. “I bring …”

  He was cut short in mid sentence as a warrior levelled a weapon at his throat, and struck him with all his force. Crassius entered into his death rattle and died before he could announce his mission.

  Desperately the ill-armed auxiliaries tried to group and form a shield wall but the ambush had been set perfectly. The Celts knew that the dense bracken would hamper their opponents every move. Everywhere the Iceni were all around them, striking at them from all angles, hurling spears, plus the deadly sling shot; furthermore volleys of arrows thudded into the Roman defenders from every quarter annihilating them one by one.

  Panic-stricken, individuals fought back to back; only to find themselves assaulted on each side. If a man stepped out of line, three or more Iceni would overwhelm him instantly.

  One group managed to fight their way up the column and form a circle, but as they did so a heavily tattooed warrior produced a firebrand and raced at the baggage train, sending the animals into a panic. The animals bolted, crashing straight through the Roman defenders who were in the middle of the path, scattering them in all directions. The panniers on the sides of the horses struck home, and sent the Romans sprawling into the bushes. They never regained their feet, as the blood crazed Iceni went on a giant orgy of bloodletting.

  By now the last remnants had broken and were fleeing anywhere that offered succour, but the Celts relentlessly raced after them and soon each was hunted down and butchered. At last they were all accounted for, and the bodies, both dead and dying were dragged back to the path. Now the real carnage began as hatreds were enacted upon.

  The dying and wounded were stripped and tied to trees, then the Iceni and their women warriors who had accompanied them went to work. When the tribesmen and women moved out, the now horribly mutilated corpses were hanging on branches like grotesque gibbets.

  As they rode out Boudicca looked back on the carnage she had created.

  “They will never forgive us now Corrianus,” she said. “Tomorrow we will send the call out, let each smith make more weapons, summon the carpenters, we will make chariots again as of old, and then when they come for us as they surely will, we will be ready for them. The days of subservience and obedience to Rome are over, now let the war trumpets sound from coast to coast.”

  Chapter 9
r />   Camulodunum — The Rite of Spring

  Camulodunum was celebrating the feast of Bacchus. Everywhere there was merry-making, as pretty girls flirted, soldiers relaxed and drank the local wine. The populace paraded the streets wearing animal heads and simulating characters from history, Gods and Goddesses, animals of the hunt and creatures from mythology. Against this background the sweet music of lyre, harp and flute could be heard.

  On the steps of the great temple of Claudius, two vestal virgins performed the dance of the rites of spring, while musicians beat out a rhythm. While all this was going on, vendors sold sweetmeats and honey cakes and local delicacies, including dormice in honey, while vintners sold fine wines to all and sundry, fruit sellers suplied their wares, as soothsayers and seers offered oracle and augury together with a tantalising display of aphrodisiacs.

  In the middle of the celebrations and general hilarity a countryman was seen approaching Aurelius, a member of the council, who looked up angrily.

  “What do you want, Gripina?” he demanded. “Can you not see I am busy?” The Celt hesitated, wringing his hands in subservience, “It is Celstus, master, your overseer, he has taken the pasture where I keep my lone cow, and upon which my family rely for milk and cheese, and has put his new horse upon it. Now my cow has nowhere to graze, so Celstus has seized it for slaughter.”

  Aurrelius looked at the man, “So? We are Roman and you are Celt. We take what we want, and when.” He lounged back in his chair arrogantly, “You are a defeated people, Gripina, woe to the vanquished, to the victor the spoils.”

  Gripina dropped to his knee imploringly.

  “Before the coming of your people Aurelius, I and my people farmed the lands from here to the south valley and riverbank, but Nero has decreed that each retired legionary can seize eight hectares and so settle. But Aurelius,” he implored, “Each man that leaves the legion, is taking in excess of twenty hectares, and now what little we have left is being taken as well. Also, they seize our cattle and even our dwellings so now neither a Celt nor his family have anywhere to lay their heads.”