Boudicca - Queen of Death

by Ralph Harvey

  Proctor lay beneath the wall with them following the hand signals and semaphore from their own look out on the temple roof.

  As the Iceni lookout shouted the warning a Roman archer’s arrow sent him screaming to the ground.

  “By the Old Ones,” cried Proctor, “if we did not have our informer the other side of these walls this would have brooked us no good.”

  Nextus by his side gestured affirmatively, “They could have summoned extra men up and distracted us.”

  Proctor looked towards the still slowly advancing machine as the tribesmen pushed it even harder against the barricades, unaware of the danger before them, their sentinel’s cries of alarm becoming lost in the sounds of battle. Proctor gave an order.

  “They will probably attempt a diversion about now to pretend the main assault is behind us, be vigilant!”

  Even as he spoke pandemonium broke out behind them, for at their rear, the attack they had anticipated was launched at that precise moment.

  Nextus flinched, “Where are they attempting the diversion, Proctor?”

  Proctor gestured behind him, “From the Via Grande, they’ll make a feint.”

  Nextus looked worried, “In such numbers? I hope we can trust Idris, he is a Brigante, and never forget that he is still a Celt.”

  Proctor’s eyes remained on the oncoming machine.

  “He hates Boudicca; I trust him.” His words were interrupted as the air was rent by ear-splitting screams at the far end of the city as the barricades on the Via Grande, as predicted, were assaulted, accompanied by a cacophony of drums and horns as the Celts mounted their attack.

  Desperately the Romans fought them off, and under the sustained onslaught the war machine was pulled back, as it did so a resounding cheer emanated from the gathered Romans exhilarated at their victory. Men lowered their bows and hugged each other in a spontaneous celebration, then placing their weapons down they engaged in a series of catcalls and jeers at the retreating enemy, when suddenly it gathered speed, and raced towards them on well greased wheels.

  “Another trick,” shouted Nextus, “it moves easier then they pretend. Stand by!”

  Archers, caught off guard were swift to respond, and as the cumbersome machine lumbered forward they restrung them and waited.

  “Now!” bellowed Proctor, “Loose!”

  Simultaneously on his command a full five score of archers, struck their flints against iron and ignited their missiles, then drawing their arms back they executed a carefully devised plan that had been devised by Proctor.

  Ominously the unwieldy contraption came to within a few yards then a hail of fiery fierce-burning fire arrows struck the platforms from base to top at carefully planned intervals, seconds later a second volley followed, then a third, and a fourth in quick succession. As the shield-bearing warriors above drew back from the uprising flames a fifth much larger cascade of arrows was launched, each carrying a heavier stringed bale of straw pitch and kindling at the arrow-head, each of these were aimed at the lower platform, nearly two hundred tinder dry missiles struck home against the fiercely blazing tower, then, as they all ignited, the wind took it and it went up in a giant sheet of flame.

  In seconds, screaming warriors were jumping panic-stricken from it, screaming, and tumbling, burning even as they fell. The archers, having reloaded, sent further volleys of straight arrows thudding onto them. As balls of burning material cascaded into the street, swiftly the wood, thatch and stone houses became an inferno where the attackers suffocated and fried in real and living hell.

  All the while the fierce overhead sun so rare in Britannia, added to their misery. Triumphant, Proctor watched them perish then turned and spoke, “How goes the assaults from the Rio Grande?”

  “Like you said, Proctor,” called Caister, a decurion, “it was a diversion. They have fallen back as planned, it wasn’t a major assault at all, hence why they made so much noise, they had intended to draw our main force to the south while their main attack struck from the north.”

  Proctor, begrimed and sweating, removed his helmet and mopped his brow. “Another day has been saved,” he exclaimed, “if we can hold out one more, the 14th Gemina will be here. Double the guard and try and get some sleep, for tomorrow will be yet another hard day.”

  Within minutes, Proctor entered an anteroom of the temple, and soon was in a deep and troubled sleep.

  Throughout the night, at each point of the defences, the Romans kept constant watch at each sector, as the barbarians once more kept up their noisy exchanges with trumpet and horn to wear them down, while the main body of the Boudiccan army slept far away and out of earshot.

  Above was a light crescent moon, hidden behind velvet clouds marking what had been a dark day for the Celts, and even darker night, then as suddenly as it had started the noise stopped? The war trumpets had fallen silent. Roman reinforcements rushed to the barricades, men who had been sleeping were awoken and summoned to man every quarter. Peering out into the inky darkness. Interminable minutes passed in complete and utter silence then the trundling of a machine could be heard.

  “Bowmen,” shouted the garrison commander, “on guard. I think it is another war machine.”

  Once more hundreds of men raced forwards, bows at the ready, their deadly fire arrows in place.

  Then they saw it trundling towards them, an ordinary catapulta, like those they had faced the previous day in great numbers, a single solitary catapulta. On greased wheels it came on, flanked by some fifty warriors, holding burning brands aloft.

  As the Roman archers tightened their bowstrings the enemy stopped just out of effective range.

  “Halt!” shouted the commander, “Do not loose until I give the order — let them draw nearer.”

  By now Proctor was at the scene, his eyes red from lack of sleep, he had rushed to the perimeter to view the latest danger, hastily attempting to scramble into his armour as he did so, his rest so rudely interrupted. He stared in amazement at the solitary war machine, and scarce a hundred warriors in all.

  “Check all points of the city!” he commanded, “this may be another diversion.”

  Moments later the Roman trumpets basted out the call to arms and already tired troops pulled on boots and ran nervously to the four quarters of the city in a state of high alert.

  The garrison commander walked to his side, “A night attack Proctor. There is no moon to speak of; the advantage is with them.”

  While they awaited the next move, another officer raced worriedly to Proctor, and blurted out, “A small catapulta is at the Via Mosello as well, it looks like a minor assault or diversion commander.”

  “Watch all points like I said, there is no sign of a major build up yet, though their activities are a puzzlement to me.”

  “Movement sir!” a voice shouted.

  As they watched, the armourers started to pull on the great ropes to lower the catapult’s main arm, while a well-muscled Celt spun the circular wheel cogs that secured the missiles launching pad. The two Romans stared in amazement.

  “What on Earth do they think they can do with a single missile?” Proctor exclaimed.

  His companion nodded, “That size will do us no appreciable damage, it must be a fire missile, possibly like our own Greek fire.”

  Proctor called out behind him once more, “Water — stand by for fire attack.”

  Now the machine was ready and a large bundle could be seen being placed in the hollow of the cup, then as they watched the Iceni sprang the cog, and the missile hurtled high in the air in a sweeping arc towards them.

  Instinctively, the men ducked, as flew over their heads seconds later it fell with a sickening thud just inside the city walls, then as suddenly as the attack had started it stopped.

  More Celts rushed out and in moments the machine was pulled back having discharged its one solitary missile. Then the rest of the attackers everywhere retreated as well, the activity of moments before once more followed by complete silence. Cautiously, the defenders wal
ked to see what the missile had been. Torches held aloft, there, by the flickering flames, was a large bundle of sacking, with a bloodstained legend scrawled across it, barely decipherable.

  “What does it say?” demanded Proctor.

  Everyone strained forward but to no avail.

  “Never mind, unwrap it and see what it is.”

  Carefully they removed layer upon layer, and as the last piece of sacking was removed a dismembered corpse was revealed. It was horribly mutilated; arms and legs severed and tied in a bundle, and was almost unrecognisable as the corpse of Idris the Iceni-speaking spy, his tongue and member sewn to his leather jerkin.

  Now the only link with the enemy camp had gone. They were alone.

  Maeve and Sequenna Reflect

  Back in the Iceni camp Maeve and Sequenna sat melancholy, throwing pebbles into a pond. As they watched, a large bullfrog clambered onto a lily leaf. Sequenna the youngest of the two sisters picked up a stone and threw it at the amphibian. As the missile struck the water close to the leaf the startled animal launched itself into the air in a gigantic leap and disappeared from sight in the murky depths.

  “Missed!” shouted Maeve triumphantly, “you missed little sister.”

  Sequenna puckered up her lips ruefully, “No I didn’t. I didn’t try to hit him, only make him jump.” She hesitated, “I love frogs and wanted to see him jump.”

  Maeve rose to her feet, “I believe you Sequenna. I’ve rarely seen you miss anything you aim at.”

  At the far end of the pond two eyes suddenly broke the surface as the frog reappeared.

  “Sorry froggie,” Sequenna laughed, “please forgive me.”

  The frog did not move for a while, then swam leisurely towards the bank.

  “Have you ever thought Maeve how lucky he is? He swims, lazes, and his food is everywhere. He makes love and lives an idyllic life in a beautiful green world.”

  Maeve laughed gaily, “If you consider making love only for ten to twelve days of the year appropriate — so be it! But it is a short breeding season, and would not suit me.” She hesitated, “Is there such a thing as an ideal world Sequenna? Does the frog not have to watch out for the heron and beware the serpent? No sister, there is no such thing as a perfect world … as we know.”

  Sequenna was silent.

  “No, we now live tents and dare not return to our village until the last Roman has been driven from our land, and we have fought the very last battle.”

  Sequenna looked at her sister, “I wanted to be with my mother. I wanted to see a battle,” She clenched her fists in anger, “and send my hunting arrows thudding into Roman flesh. Mother will not let us fight, but I do not need to be in the front line to kill, nor do you Maeve.”

  Maeve stood up. “I can bring a running deer down from a hundred paces, or a stationary one from two hundred, and every cony I hunt, I pierce through the throat to preserve the pelt. I too wished to join her, but in her wisdom she says we are too precious to risk.”

  The two girls started to walk back to their hilltop encampment, then Maeve spoke, “Mother is a great fighter, and our disgrace urges her on, but we must learn to experience real conflict if, in the future, one of us is to rule.”

  Sequenna stopped, “You art the eldest Maeve — it’s your right to rule.”

  Maeve took both of her sister’s hands in hers, “No Sequenna. We have experienced much together, we grew up together, hunted and fished together.”

  She looked intently into her younger sister’s eyes, “And we lost our youth and virginity together.” She tightened her grip on Sequenna’s hands and continued, “When Mother passes to the Summerlands, then we shall rule …” she gave a little tug, “… together, for we are now both wiser than our years.”

  The two girls lovingly embraced. Then holding hands they continued on their way back up the hill.

  Chapter 17

  Camulodunum - The Final Day

  At the barricades, the assault was gathering momentum. Inside the enclosure, the defenders were hard pressed, as they faced wave after wave of crazed men high on toxic fungi and mead, and oblivious to death and hurt in their hatred to get at their despised enemy.

  Time and again, the human avalanche struck, and almost made it, their assault troops continuously gaining the top of the barricades to either start to dismantle them or descend on ropes to the other side, but each times the frenzied Romans, so afraid to lose, made super human efforts to dislodge them and slaughter those who had made it behind their lines.

  The Iceni, Trinovantes and Parisi brought up fresh reinforcements, while Atrebates and Coritani warriors hit them time and again, each assault grew in ferocity and determination, for it was becoming clear that the Romans were tiring, and for every Celt who fell another took his place.

  But for the Romans there were no reinforcements, all were committed to their defences, where as in the ongoing attacks upon them, tribe vied with tribe at intervals, for the honour of being the first to break through. Yet even with the fury of the renewed onslaught, the Romans lines still desperately held, in the certain knowledge that to yield was death in the most unspeakable terms.

  As he observed the ever growing conflict Proctor now started to worry.

  “We are low on arrows and missiles, there is a limit now as to how long we can hold before they engage us hand to hand, what are our resources Rasca?”

  Rasca looked up wearily his eyes bloodshot and drooping with exhaustion.

  “Each man is down to one spear for close combat, which he must keep. We’re hurling their own spears back at them and even using their own blunted arrows as we retrieve them.”

  Suddenly they observed, that one of the barriers had ominously started to move. Waving his hands frantically to a group of defenders who were not so hard pressed, Proctor beckoned them to the sagging barrier.

  “Hold it as long as possible,” he shouted. “We must stop them there at all costs,” then turning to Rasca cried, “As a last resort, fire them, and feed the flames, the approaching legions will see the smoke and hasten to our rescue.”

  Rasca barked an order and his henchmen leapt to obey. Within minutes, women and children were piling up bunches of faggots, wood, and straw. Around them, beautiful furniture was being destroyed to make fuel, anything combustible was being gathered.

  Then, with a rending crash, the barricade gave. Behind it a hundred or more tribesman had struck it time and again with a gigantic tree trunk, hastily utilised into a battering ram.

  On the rooftops, Roman archers waved their bows helplessly as empty quivers told their own story. Men were desperately dismantling masonry and tiles from the roof, to use as missiles. Even the Iceni had now ceased firing at them, knowing that each volley of spears and arrows merely gave the defenders ammunition to just sharpen and return.

  A veteran of many wars was standing fast, then turning to men concealed behind the shattered masonry, he shouted, “Now!”

  Moments later, countless brands flaming and spluttering, were tossed onto the pile, within minutes the flames had spread, forming an impenetrable barrier which even if for only brief duration gave the Romans time to form an organised retreat. Soldiers made orderly lines, and escorted the women and children in a long crocodile away from the inferno; others gathered sheep and oxen as they herded the civilians away from the thick of the battle.

  “Evacuate them now to the temple — fast!” they shouted, “gather up the wounded. Do it quickly, and do it orderly — go!”

  Men raced to usher everyone into the great Temple of Claudius. Crowds of weeping women and children clustered together, waiting for the doors to open. Then with a great creaking of timbers they were unlocked.

  At once the fittest ferried the wounded in, then in the midst of what was now turmoil a decurion suddenly gave a shout, “Look!”

  Horror of horrors! Even as they watched, with a crash the great stone walls at the temple outskirts, between the Via Cappulla, and the Via Nostrum, collapsed, revealing a tightly
bunched group of Celts surging forward. Trapped under the fallen masonry a youth carrying a slingshot lay helpless, his eyes rolling with fear, and cried out in panic as the barbarians raced over him.

  “Save me, for mercies sake, save me!” he cried pathetically; then his voice became inaudible in the cacophony of warfare, and he was left to tender mercies of the invaders.

  Now the Iceni and their allies were pouring through the gap they had at last made, hurling themselves at the gathered populace, closing fast to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

  Seeing them, the remnants of the decimated soldiers, raced to form a protective cordon between the fleeing civilians and the oncoming barbarian hordes. On the temple steps crowds, screaming and crying, boxed each other in as they scrambled and fought for entry.

  In the midst of the chaos, the attacking tribesmen, now worked into a frenzy, were slashing and hacking everywhere at the fleeing defenders, babies were snatched from mothers and dashed to the ground or cast into the fires, a great wail rose from every quarter as the Roman soldiers were forced back, and now retreated in line to the temple as prearranged, desperately fighting a rearguard battle.

  Eventually the majority of civilians were now encamped within its walls, seizing their opportunity the last unit of troops remaining made a final dash up the steps, to the safety of the great stone building.

  Sweating men strained to get the massive doors slammed shut. As soldiers loosed the last of their arrows through the fast diminishing gap, their foes were already displaying the naked women they had captured, and started to dissect and mutilate, before the Roman’s eyes.

  The archers on the temple roof loosed the last remaining arrows they had with them as well, as laughing and jeering the rabble fell back to continue the torture at sufficient distance to be safe. Helpless the horrified Romans watched a hastily erected post being placed before the temple, displaying the fallen youth crucified upon it. Sickened, the Romans were powerless to do anything, and so it continued.