by Ralph Harvey
Calcus shuddered.
“But what if they do break through,” he whined, “surely the temple is strong enough to withstand a siege. You did say it would.”
Proctor nodded, “The temple is our last defence. If we lose at the barricades then, and only then, will we fall back to the temple and seal the door. It is here at the barricades and the cardinal points of the town we have the greatest weakness!”
He continued, “I have stacked the temple with enough food and drink to withstand a long siege. If they try to batter the door down, and you may take it that they will, my archers and spearmen will repel them, my roof men will block the steps with masonry.” He looked up towards the temple roof, “I have enough rubble and timbers up there to build a small town, but, as I said, it is a last resort. Hurled upon the enemy it would create a great carnage among them and they would not get anywhere near the temple entrance.”
He walked across the square, Calcus following along.
“Why don’t they come? Why can’t they get it over with?” muttered Proctor agitatedly.
“Do you think they would accept our tribute to go away? I would willingly contribute,” cajoled Calcus.
Proctor turned angrily and shouted, “Walk away Calcus, get out of my sight you bladder of lard! But for you and your bunch of blue togaed cronies, this area would now be secure against everything, even the God of war and thunder himself could not have got through, now our lives are in the very lap of the Gods. Go away you parasite. Go!”
Calcus blanched at the sudden outburst and swiftly hurried away, hesitated, turned back then called to him, “Please proctor, you could talk to them, you represent Rome and could speak for us,” he whimpered imploringly, “send a flag of truce, play for time, offer them gold, slaves, women, anything!”
Proctor suddenly snapped and rushing forwards picked up a stone and hurled it at the now fleeing figure.
“Fool,” he shouted, “if they know there is gold here they will return for the rest and if we are beaten they will have all the women they want.”
He picked up another stone now, beside himself in anger.
“Roman women Calcus — Roman women.”
He threw the missile at him with even greater violence, shaking uncontrollably with anger now as his pent up feelings and emotions exploded in a white fury.
The stone caught the fleeing councillor a glancing blow on the side of his head. Screaming with rage and fear Calcus ran hysterically up the temple steps, Trembling he halted at the top his eyes wide with fear, for in he distance war horns were sounding a melancholy lament. Death was in the air.
“They’re here,” shouted a nearby lookout, “and travelling fast.” He clasped his hands against his eyes, “They’re coming in with the sun behind them!” then shouted again panic-stricken, “They will be upon us within minutes.”
Instantly men rushed to the barricades and took up their already predetermined positions. Their faces grimly set and determined, youths kept vigil on the roof tops, slings at the ready. Then everybody just waited. The seconds ticked by in complete silence. Then it came, first as a distant drumming of horses, hooves gathering speed and increasing in velocity, then as they closed in their feet beat out a violent rhythm of impending death. They came onto sight, the lead chariots streaming into the narrow streets, then abruptly halted as their riders pulled them up sharply at the sight of the obstructions ahead.
Boudicca, in her scythed chariot, raced forward and momentarily surveyed the barriers, turning the horses sharply around in one movement. She shouted an instant command “Hook irons” she ordered, “drag it down.”
Minutes later the chariots roared in again, within each now stood an erect man, swinging a three-pronged hook. As they drew level with the towering obstructions they checked their beasts and hurled the grappling irons into the base of the barricades, then racing away full tilt let the rope snap tight, abruptly pulling down large sections of the meticulously constructed barrier. Following in their wake the second wave struck in a welter of iron and wood.
The alarmed defenders haphazardly loosed volleys of spears and arrows at their assailants as sheer fear overtook them. In the fore a youth stood shaking as a puddle slowly formed around his legs.
Then the next wave closed in and a screaming barbarian threw his grappling iron at the top section, another leaped off and started to hack at the binding ropes serving the lower timbers with an axe. As the chariot turned to rip yet another part of the barrier down a Roman soldier, long practised in his art, coolly raised his pila and drawing it right back, threw it with unerring accuracy at the charioteer. True to its mark it sped striking him in the base of his spine.
Proctor, watching, gave a sigh, “Oh for a thousand more like him. The first volley from those amateurs brought down but two, and wasted countless numbers of arrows and spears.”
With a short cry the charioteer fell backwards, then as the rope tightened with a jerk, the horse strained forward, throwing his body violently to the foot of the timbers landing in a sprawled untidy heap, at the same moment the top tier of the barricade came crashing down crushing his companion who was swinging his axe below with an avalanche of debris, stones, and masonry.
Now the Celts were storming the blockades themselves, men were assailing them like an army of giant ants on the march, at the top of each, and on every rooftop a furious and deadly battle began to take place.
Ferocious hand-to-hand fighting commenced as desperate men fought the heathen hordes off with every weapon that could be improvised. Fear, sheer cold fear was now the spur, a gut-tearing fear of the consequences if they lost, and where no man any longer valued his life.
Each defender as he fought was oblivious to injury, for they all knew it was better by far to die in the heat of battle, than to ultimately fall to the tender mercies of the barbarian oppressors. Now in this moment, years of misrule and vile treatment of the indigenous population was coming home to roost with a vengeance. Blind cold fear this day met sheer hatred as the unstoppable clashed with the unmovable.
As the battle raged and reached a climax Boudicca was seen fighting her way forward on a nearby roof top, time and again she appeared like an incarnate fury fighting her way to the edge, a group of her famed inner guard battling alongside her.
More and more tribesmen had now fought their way onto the roof and joined her, relentlessly pushing forward. Against these masses the Roman defenders were slowly pushed back, their numbers fast dwindling with each fresh assault.
Bewilderingly the Celts seemed to have an inexhaustible reserve of manpower as re-enforcements unhesitatingly took the places of the fallen, it was every Celt’s dream to die in battle with a sword in one hand, an enemies head in the other. Death held no fear for them.
In the streets below, within the Roman lines, women and children threw down rugs and blankets, anything they could lay their hands on to cushion their men folks’ fall as the last desperate defenders, hopelessly outnumbered, jumped to the comparative safety of their own lines.
Desperate men leaped from roofs to escape inevitable death at the hands of the unrelenting invaders. One by one they landed, crying out as they suffered broken limbs as they fell onto each other in their frenzy to escape. Luckily, many made it to safety unscathed, and the injured were swiftly dragged away to the safety of the temple, which had now become a vast hospital as the maimed and injured were transported there.
The attackers now produced ropes and started to abseil down the sides of the buildings to break the defence from inside the Roman perimeters. The first ones reached the ground only to be confronted by a detachment of the sparse but regular troops stationed in the town, who were on standby nearby. Seeing the invaders descending into the town they immediately entered into the fray.
In a well-planned attack the phalanx of Roman defenders hit the invaders from below, while their archers cleared the rooftops simultaneously in a well-coordinated plan that Proctor had devised earlier. While the enemy was thus distra
cted by the unexpected assault, women and youths rushed piles of faggots and straw to the base of the building and fired them.
As the flames and smoke soared upwards the remaining tribesmen were driven back. Boudicca and her warriors, shields held aloft deflected the arrows and were forced to retreat.
Slowly the Celtic assault petered out everywhere as it lost momentum. The barbarians realising their initial attack had failed fell back to rethink their strategy and regroup. The temporary respite allowed those inside the barricades to repair defences and the women to tend to the wounded. The dead lay where they fell, none heeded them, all their energy was conserved for the living and nothing was to be done that would involve needless effort or waste energy, such as burial parties.
All that night an uneasy vigil was maintained as they observed the Iceni campfires burning everywhere, both sides rested knowing that hell would be unleashed again with the sun’s rays.
Throughout the night at each side there were altercations and cries as insults and challenges were traded. Taunts echoed from outside the barriers as brutalised voices cried out continuously.
“Save us your daughters Romans,” they jeered, “we’ll come for them tomorrow.”
Another voiced his sentiments, “Tell them to open their legs for real men, not the lily livered sops with their shiny armour that they’re used to. Tomorrow they’ll lay with real men, and we’ll find out what’s underneath those pretty robes your girls wear.”
“Do they wear anything underneath? If they do, tell them to take it off tomorrow. We’re in a hurry to sample the delights.”
Within the city the men blanched. Then one looked towards his companion. “If they do take the city I shall slay my wife.” His eyes moistened. Then he added, “And my daughters.”
A crash of pottery was heard within the enemy camp as a drunken Celt dropped a flagon as he staggered towards the barrier.
“We’ll unwrap ’em like an Egyptian mummy.” He called, then collapsed, paralytic.
“Ask the Greeks to drop their pants ready for us as well and stand ready.”
Another raucous peal of laughter rose.
“Cuall likes young Greeks — don’t you Cuall?” a great roar went up again at the obvious reference to one of their own. Cuall returned the challenge.
“Tell them to brace themselves as I ram my spear up their arses.”
“Has your wife got big tits Proctor,” called another, “I need a couple of good sized pouches for all the Roman gold to be carried away.”
“Hagan bites their cherries off first, Proctor, don’t you Hagan?” they roared.
Within the stockade Proctor gripped his hands and winced.
“I’ll kill her myself first,” he muttered walking over to the resting men and soldiers, “Do you hear them! Now you know why we must hold at all costs! The legions are on their way here even as we speak.” He held aloft an arrow, “This was fired into the camps by Idris at dark with the scroll you see attached. It bears the seal of Suetonius confirming that the Ninth Espana and the Fourteenth Gemina are on their way and will soon be here.”
He held the arrow and scroll up triumphantly, “He states that they marched to our relief four days ago, and that they were but a four day march away.” He waved the parchment aloft again “It is dated two days ago.”
He turned to the assembled crowd ecstatically, “It means they will be here sometime tomorrow!” “So hold at all costs they are but a few hours away.
As he spoke a resounding cheer went up. Flushed with their recent success at the barricades where they had succeeded in defeating a vastly superior enemy, a new flood of hope now surged in thousands of hearts.
Proctor was quick to exploit the situation.
“Now you know that you can hold them at bay, and must! Do not relent,” he emphasised, “no matter what the cost citizens, the barricades are the key to our survival; hold them there, they must not break through.”
Even as he spoke a voice raised doubts, “How did a Roman manage to get through to deliver the message commander?” In response Proctor held the scroll up again for all to see again.
“It was arranged that our spy would be disguised as an Iceni, he speaks their tongue, and even now he is out there spying for us. He was the one who warned us of their approach remember, and he is a Brigante not a Roman.”
A murmur of approval went around the crowd as they remembered the Celtic horseman who had swept through the barriers two days before. Proctor, still holding the arrow of parchment up high for all to see was still exultant.
“He will keep us informed of every move, every fear, every attack: that is how I knew they would concentrate their main assault there,” he pointed to the terrace wall where a great ungainly pile of dead and charred corpses lay sprawled at the base, “and that they would try to take that building first, and so I had a reception committee awaiting them,” he chuckled, now on a high, as he strode amongst them.
“Our defeat is unthinkable. Many of us will die over the next two days in order that our women and children may live.” His voice became sad and restrained, “This is the lot of men,” then rose again, “two days is a lifetime, but Romans have held out in time past until succour came, and we can do it also, the difference being, we must.”
He continued to walk amongst them as they stood silently, still talking, “Today we won! But it was a close-run thing. Despite all our planning we nearly lost the barricade. As you see, the perimeter buildings are also a potential danger if one of them should fall into that monstrous woman’s hands, as we saw.”
Proctor sought their attention by raising his voice, “I reiterate: if the barriers do go, and the barbarians break through, then everybody falls to the Temple of Claudius, it is solid stone and can hold out for weeks. It is well provisioned, we have enough food and water for all to last until the reinforcements get here.”
He continued, making a sarcastic reference to Trinias the high priest, “Even the rams that have been sacrificed have been butchered to provide meat and not been burnt as is customary.”
“Is that wise?” a voice queried.
“The Gods can give dispensation when it is necessary,” Proctor replied, “the high priest has consulted them by oracle and they confirm that it may be done, and afterwards when the invaders have been driven back and we celebrate victory, he has promised to sacrifice a white bull devoid of any blemish in celebration, and we will all give a tenth part of all we own to the temple in gratitude.”
“God almighty, the priests still make profit even in war,” a voice shouted contemptuously.
“Blasphemy!” A priest nearby shouted him down.
Immediately a fresh clamour broke out as the crowd debated the wisdom of the action.
“Silence!” shouted Proctor, “Save it! Soon you will need every single breath you can draw, so pray it’s not your last.” He walked away saying, “Keep watch. I shall catch up on a few hour’s sleep, I need to be fresh tomorrow when we defend the barrier once more.”
Dawn saw the encamped Iceni and their allies stirring. Smoke from hundreds of fires rose as the enemy brewed up berries and roots, and partook of a light breakfast. They made no effort to recommence the engagement, merely sending out small units to continually probe the defences for any weakness.
Vigilant eyes watched every move and swiftly repelled them. In the meantime the men sat silently and waited, apprehensive as to what their foes were planning
Noon approached and Proctor became extremely worried “They have kept us awake throughout the night whilst they have rested, now they still rest while a handful wears us out with their continuous skirmishes.”
The first centurion agreed, “We have to counter each thrust that they make, and keep on standby till they recommence their attack. We have no option. I know not their plan but it is obvious that they are probing, continuously seeking a weakness.”
Proctor was deep in thought, “Or they attempt to draw us to a particular section as a feint while the main
assault comes elsewhere.”
Above them the sun rose on high beating down mercilessly adding further discomfiture to both sides. Even the silence was oppressive. Then in the distance a war horn mournfully sounded its call of impending death!
Immediately the Boudiccan army rose as one and steadfastly, at a slow walk, approached the barricades and, just out of bowshot, stood still.
Ominously Proctor observed that the sun was now a flaming orb in the sky completely blinding them; Boudicca was cunning she was summoning the very elements to her aid.
Seconds ticked away as the foe flanked the side of the city, just standing there, unmoving and still silent.
“What goes, Proctor,” the tribune whispered fearfully, “I do not like this.”
Proctor raised his hand and placed it reassuringly on his friend’s shoulder, “It is a psychological ploy Castra, she seeks to unnerve us.”
Castra grimaced, and then added, “Well then she is succeeding.”
Still the silence endured, then an ominous clanking could be heard in the distance together with the sounds of men labouring. The words could be distinctly heard echoing over the ether,“Strain–pull–push–strain–pull–push–strain–pull–push,” accompanied to a steady drum beat.
Horrified they watched as a strange contraption of enormous proportions gradually came into sight, entering at the far end. To the fore, heavily armoured rows of warriors stood in three tiers, ready to assault the barricades. From the uppermost platform ropes were fixed onto a huge beam. Platforms stood at the ready on the second tiers while at the bottom men stood ready to scale the top of the barricades.
Grisly trophies of war hung from its sides; human and ox skulls. Horned deer antlers. And freshly severed human heads still bleeding, the whole scenario was a scene from Hades itself. Behind, dozens of tribesman pushed the contraption steadily forward to the drumbeat until the ponderous structure reached the top of the barricades.
A sentinel on the top platform suddenly saw the crowds beneath the walls. There awaiting them scores of bowmen lay prepared and ready, each holding quivers of arrows the ends of which were bound with straw and twigs liberally coated with pitch.