Boudicca - Queen of Death

by Ralph Harvey

  Rolling in the dust the girl’s body spun away but the following horsemen each speared it in succession. Boudicca waved to them elatedly, brandishing the severed head of Sallust, the Roman Governor of Calleva, before her. At that moment her camp came into sight.

  A sentinel suddenly blew a blast upon a cow-horn and moments later Boudicca and her entourage came riding pell-mell into the camp, her horses lathered in perspiration, foam splaying from their nostrils and mouth, their manes flecked with white. Boudicca short reined them drawing the panting steeds to a halt as her outriders pulled up alongside her. Trekking out across the plateau behind, her army of foot soldiers was slowly making ground.

  Her face, brown with the dry dust thrown up by the chariot, was streaked with long white lines as rivulets of sweat cascaded down her face. The saltiness stung her eyes she wiped her brow with the back of a bloodied and grimed hand and then she threw the reins to a servant who had hurried out to assist her. Haughtily she dismounted and strode into her tent. At her approach, two sentries standing outside saluted her.

  “Hail, Boudicca, destroyer of Rome” they called.

  Outside the tent the chant was taken up by a thousand voices, “Hail Boudicca — mistress of death.”

  Two handmaidens drew a heavy curtain across the entrance drowning out the cheers, then as she stood there they started to disrobe her, bringing gourds and pitchers of water they sponged her down, removing the blood and dust of battle from her, finally dried she stepped into a gown cut across the breast in the Roman style.

  “Tell Corrianus he may enter now,” she commanded.

  The girl obediently hurried to do her bidding. With a sigh, Boudicca laid down upon her raised couch with a feline-like grace.

  Minutes later Corrianus entered and casually glanced around the sumptuously furnished tent.

  “It is a far cry, Boudicca, from the days we rode together and pitched a goat skin tent under the stars with only a flint and tinder and a cauldron for furniture,” he remarked. His foot nudged the couch, “Where did this come from?”

  Boudicca smiled coquettishly, “From a Roman villa at Calleva Atrebatum.”

  “And this?” he indicated the gown she was wearing.

  “Came from a Roman woman I strangled there” she replied.

  Corrianus laughed, “Strangled? That is not like you, Queen of blood and thunder — strangled indeed!”

  She smiled, “Why should I wish to stain it? The girl died just the same! Here come sit by me.”

  She tumbled out the contents of two earthenware jars, “Sweetmeats from Padua, Corrianus. Dormice in honey, sugared peaches and figs, nuts from the east, such as we have never seen, and fine Rhenish wine from Gaul — all taken from Roman villas we have sacked and burnt.”

  Corrianus’ hand stretched out and selected an assortment of nuts and dried fruits.

  “These Romans have lived well off those they have conquered and now it is our turn to live off them.”

  He laid back, legs apart, hands outstretched on a pile of skins. “The spoils of war, Boudicca are now yours, luxuries fit for a Queen; but for me retribution is the feel of a Roman woman beneath me, the salt taste of blood on my lips, and the taste of Roman wine. Revenge is a sweetmeat Queen, but like a good wine it should be savoured slowly.”

  She laughed, “Women and booty, for you Corrianus, but for me revenge is the sweetest wine, like the scream of an emasculated legionary.”

  She crawled onto his prone body, lying on top of him, unspeaking, her face lying alongside his. Boudicca lay quietly awhile then started to gently gyrate her hips against his pelvis, alternated with gentle thrusting movements. As she felt his manhood rise, her hands pulled her dress up.

  “Roman women Corrianus?” Boudicca whispered to him, “Pampered fops that smell like a dog rose, and bathe in sweet oils,” she pushed down upon him, “is not the wild blood of a Celt that smells of the earth better?”

  Corrianus raised his hands and sensuously peeled her robe from her, then arching his back slowly entered her.

  Survivors from Calleva

  Everywhere in Camulodunum rumours were rife, the Iceni revolt had sent shock waves throughout every Roman settlement in the country. Trade caravans had failed to arrive, merchants had disappeared, and no news from outlying and isolated villas and farms had been heard of for several days. Food supplies were running low and the populace had started to hoard. Bread was being sold on the street at six times its normal price as greedy and unscrupulous flour merchants and bakers jacked the prices up.

  Then they started to come in. First was a small caravanserai of some eight souls, bearing hideous wounds and near starvation.

  “What befell you?” a voice asked.

  “Where do you come from?” shouted another.

  A woman's voice rose above the clamour in the crowd, “Have you any news of Calleva, my husband is a tanner there. What news I beg you? What news?”

  An old man was gently lifted down from the wagon, the severed haft of an arrow shard still protruding from his back.

  “We need a capsarius fast, the arrow has pieced his lung,” a heavily bandaged man called.

  Willing hands assisted, and placed him on his side coughing blood. Then, as the next man was removed the crowd fell back in horror, his left arm was completely severed below the shoulder, a filthy blood stained cloth, tied in place with a rope had made a temporary tourniquet while beneath his torn and ripped tunic a ghastly deep gash could be plainly seen exposing the white bone of his ribs, where the blow that had removed his arm had travelled on to break its momentum on his flank.

  A woman sat in the back of the wagon was seen to be trembling uncontrollably, her fingers playing with her lips, her eyes staring unseeingly ahead, her mind completely gone. As they went to help her down she sprang back hysterically as the first hand touched her.

  “No more, no more, oh please no more.”

  A middle aged man, the left side of his face purple like a ripe plum lowered himself unaided from the wagon.

  “She was used by them for sport, they queued for her. She would have been impaled afterwards if the last one had not been drunk. We came across her like this with the brute still by her side, dispatched him and took her with us.”

  “What of the legions? Where are they?” asked one.

  “Gone” he replied. He spat contemptuously on the ground, “The 14th are now carrion, slaughtered like sheep by wolves, but did the remainder fall back to Camulodunum to assist us eh? Like Hades they do! No they scuttled back to Lindum leaving their wounded on the battle field for the Iceni women to vent their spite on.”

  Another man lying in the wagon, his hands folded across his stomach spoke, his voice hardly audible. When he moved it could be seen that he was holding his intestines in place.

  “They say the Iceni women wear the soldiers scrotums and penises around their necks as ornaments, and they taunt the fallen while our men beg for death. That is no fate for a soldier.”

  “Our men did the same when we defeated Caratacus, they traded Iceni girls breasts and vulvas and had the tanners make pouches from them. I fear we have sown the wind and are now reaping the whirlwind.”

  A miller remarked, “I have seen them return from slaughtering a whole village with necklaces of ears, many of them clearly children’s, that also is no trade for a soldier.”

  The assembled crowd chose to ignore him.

  “But what of Calleva?” the woman shouted again, “It has walls and over 6,000 dwelt there. Surely it is too strong to take.”

  “Fallen,” the dying man muttered, “I saw it burning, and the tribesmen and women loaded with the spoils they had stolen, leading the women away in chains. My heart reached out to them as they ill-treated them. Their women were the worst as they taunted them with the promise of the agonies to come, and how their men and boys would enjoy them first. I know, I lay hidden and saw it all.”

  “Where are they now?” a voice called out, “Have they made slaves of them?” />
  He shook his head, “All night I heard their screams as they tortured and raped them, even Hades itself could not contain such torments. In the morning all was still as the brutes slept — but of the women, no sign.”

  There was a horrified silence as the enormity of it all sank in — then a voice broke in.

  “Can Camulodunum hold?”

  The man shook his head; “No there were others there as well as Iceni. I saw the plaids of Trinovantes, Atrebates, and Coritani present in the attack, and that is not all; for on our way here to Camulodunum, I saw Deciangli warriors marching to join them.”

  He stopped and grimaced in pain, then continued, “They are at least a four-day march from their own land.” He paused yet again then added ominously, “It is clear that the tribes gather against us, we must flee.”

  An old man supporting himself on a stout stick looked at the man superciliously, “Indeed, And where to may I ask? You would have us leave the safety of the town and walk out into bandit-infested country where every hand is against us? It would be slaughter. Brave words fool!”

  By now the capsarius had arrived and was examining the old man impaled with the arrowhead, then he shook his head.

  “He is dead,” he remarked, “you should not have moved him.”

  An old veteran, his face scared from many battles, looked out from his one good eye, the other bearing a livid red and white scar on it running from brow to cheek, and spoke.

  “Calleva was 6,000 townsfolk strong, here we are 70,000. Also Calleva had but a handful of legionaries, some two score or so, while here we have 600 heavily armed men. Boudicca would not try and attack such numbers, besides the legions are surely moving to attack her from Siluria. She will be crushed within weeks, long before we are in danger.”

  “What use is even 70,000 civilians against an army of tens of thousands? Here we are all retired veterans, and women and children,” a retired soldier remarked, “it is nine years since I last fought.”

  An agitated voice echoed from the back of the crowd, “There are less than 600 serving soldiers in the whole of Camulodunum, the veterans must re-arm and stand ready.”

  The wet and inhospitable climate that was Britannia was the most hated posting a legionary could be sent to do his duty, and more than one unit had been sent to Britannia as punishment.

  An old warrior thrust his way to the front, “Aye what you call out is true, old men do not lose or forget their skills. Give me a gladius and shield and I’ll show you how we slew them years ago. Boudicca’s hordes would be no match for our expertise. If she does attack she will be stopped at the outskirts. We’ll dig ditches and throw up earth walls as of old, I’ve never seen a chariot yet that can fly over a ditch!”

  He turned to go, “Celts!” He spat on the ground, “Disorganised rabble, nothing more than naked barbarians; and you fear them — you make me sick!”

  A merchant joined in the debate, “Where will you find a gladius in Camulodunum old one, we have no armoury here, our weapons are few. Besides, remember that Calleva had high walls, but still that vixen came over them. Here we have none, and the town is far too scattered.”

  Yet another voice was raised, “Rely on the legions, she is miles from here. It will soon be over and Boudicca slain.”

  Now voices were raised everywhere as demands were made to arm and build barricades, others urged them to stand fast and send out riders to the legions requesting help, even appeasement was suggested. It was mooted that she could be bought off with Roman gold. Eventually it was decided amongst them that the town’s council would debate the crisis, and in the meantime horsemen would be placed in a wide cordon over twenty kilometres around the town to watch for any sign of the heathen army.

  Plans to Attack Camulodunum

  Speculation as to what Boudicca would do and where, was rife as reports trickled in. Everyone knew the Great War had started. When the first warriors who had been raiding and burning the Roman settlements started to arrive laden with spoils, they sparked envy amongst the young men ever eager to share the rich plunder, the booty from a hundred villas and numerous wagon trains, baggage trains and farms swelled the growing loot within the camps, inciting ever growing numbers of the tribesmen to join in the great revolt, and grow rich.

  Where would their warrior Queen go? Where was the soft underbelly of the Romans they mused? Clearly Camulodunum, the capital, was outwardly far too large to take. Although many felt that the layout of the great city of Londinium made it difficult to protect, it was a far more profitable target, as it was the Roman trading centre and was packed with goods of all kinds that were landed in its port. It was widely speculated that one day it would become the capital, outstripping Camulodunum. However many felt it was obvious, that the numbers of the Roman population, estimated at some 85,000 even greater than the capital, made it a highly improbable target.

  Verulamium was also an impossibility: deep ditches, high walls, and a strong garrison made it easy to defend, it was obvious that they could hold out forever, most certainly until Caesar sent more legions over the water. No, Verulamium was impregnable.

  Lindum — now that was a possibility. Many did not think Lindum, so far away from help, could hold if besieged, and it was widely felt that if Boudicca sought a propaganda victory then Lindum was the obvious target.

  It was obvious that if the Silures broke through on the border it would be a different story, then the country would be theirs for the taking, but the legions had them effectively bottled up in the passes.

  Many worried deep inside at the wisdom of this war to be. Rome was strong, and Rome was ruthless, they had all learned that many years before, when Caratacus had challenged the might of Rome and failed. The memory of how Catamandua had seized him and handed him over to the Romans still rankled with the entire Celtic nation, the Iceni in particular.

  Ten years had now passed, and the she-bitch Catamandua it was rumoured, had now thrown in her hand with Boudicca, at least outwardly so. So clearly if the Brigante Queen lent her support, then surely they would succeed, for Catamandua was a survivor. But so far the promises had been empty, for none had seen even a single mounted Brigante in the raids so far. Despite the obvious obstacles that faced them they knew Boudicca was planning something big, and soon.

  That evening, while the Queen slept, the great chieftains gathered and speculated, and made their alliances. It was the general consensus of opinion that the stories extolled around the campfires were completely true. This Iceni Queen, the fearless Boudicca, was a strategist. This was well known from the Iceni Queen’s successes in the past. No, Boudicca would strangle the ports and the great Roman highways until the garrisons vacated the entire country as untenable. Clearly the destruction of the Roman villas in the countryside had reversed in weeks the Romans’ building programme that years of colonisation had imposed upon them. Rome would never recover.

  Everywhere, Roman dwellings lay in ruins, sacked and burnt, the stench of death penetrating the smouldering remains. Roman pools stagnated and turned green as nature swiftly started to cover them in, and where Roman men and women once bathed, now the frog and dragonfly had colonised them.

  When dawn broke Boudicca washed and dressed, then sent for the great leaders to assemble in the round house. As the men arrived, Corrianus took his usual place by her side. The pair had grown close in the weeks the great warlord had nursed Boudicca back to health, and in the subsequent campaigns he had been constantly at her side. Now he shared the same hut with her, and it was well known that once this campaign was over there would be a hand fasting the likes of which had never been seen before.

  Boudicca slowly raised herself up from the great throne with measured drama, and as she stood there a silence fell upon the assembly.

  “There has been much talk I know,” she started, “as to where we should strike the Romans next. Well I will tell you now that I intend to make such a devastating strike against Suetonius that he will be forced to recall Poenius Postumus on th
e Silurian border to defend his towns.” She swung around to her captive audience, “And when that happens the Silures who have been bottled up in the passes for years will sweep through, like a beavers dam that breaks with the floodgates.”

  A murmur of approval went round the assembly.

  “Then with the Caledonians pushing from the north, the Silures from the west and we to the south and east, the Romans will fall like leaves in the autumn.”

  The warriors broke into a round of applause.

  “Hail Boudicca, hail unto you the avenger,” they called.

  “Don’t keep us waiting, Boudicca,” Ventrix, an Atrebates headman called, “where do we strike? The young men yearn for battle.”

  Boudicca looked around the gathering slowly.

  “That which is largest is also the softest. We will hit where the men have grown fat and old, where the indolent live in luxury, and where the great Suetonius,” she delivered the sentence with great deliberation, “has seen fit to garrison with six hundred men.”

  She picked up her great war-spear and sent it thundering into the ground.

  “I shall tear the very heart of the Romans out and destroy their capital,” she paused for the full impact of her words to sink in,“Camulodunum.” She spat the last word out.

  A voice broke out in shock.

  “Camulodunum Queen? It is seventy thousand strong.”

  “Yes Graccia, as you say,” she replied, “seventy thousand civilians, so not strong. Oh no. Seventy thousand who have grown indolent; old retired soldiers, their wives, children, servants, and a mighty garrison of six hundred trained men. Their prime city is like a plum for the picking.”

  She whirled round her eyes flaming with hate.

  “I shall strike them there unexpected, for secure within their enclaves they would not dream that we Celts would dare attack their capital. No, the Romans relax and laze, the local Celtic traders work for them and are forced to labour for a pittance, but I tell you this, none who have oppressed us shall live to reach old age.”