Boudicca - Queen of Death

by Ralph Harvey

  Injured men, women and children who had fallen in the last mad rush to safety, were dragged forward, fingers and toes were amputated as they watched, then breasts and genitals and arms and leg were severed, and men were disembowelling before them to the taunts of the barbarian mob.

  Proctor, white faced and sick, urged all within the temple to continue to fight, to the last man if need to be, and if all eventually were lost; then to kill the women and children rather than let them fall alive into their adversary’s hands.

  From the temple rooftop, Proctor’s eyes scanned the horizon, vainly seeking sight of the legions he knew were approaching. His worry was that Camulodunum could well fall, before the first cohorts were even in sight.

  Eventually the slaughter was over, and the attackers suddenly and unexpectedly fell back. Within the temple quarters the Romans, completely confused, argued as to why the Celts had not pushed home the attack while they had the advantage.

  Inside the temple complex, the doors now secured and shut, they waited, sweating and on edge. The reason for the abandoned attack was soon made clear. Now that sport and been made of the last victims, their enemy had all the time in the world to plan the next stage of their attack, and the Celts would not risk heavy losses trying to storm a virtually impregnable building.

  The lookouts watching in trepidation spied movement. Horrified, they saw a procession of carts being slowly wheeled towards them. Leading the procession were two ox wagons yoked together full of hay, straw, faggots and pitch, whilst behind them three empty carts in line, propelled by sheer manpower, pushed the two in front forward, forming a ‘T’ shape.

  Proctor and his council gasped as they watched the incendiary device coming towards them. Dozens of tribesmen, unhindered, were propelling the contraption forwards, safe and unscathed from the roof missiles, they knew would descend on them, but they were out of reach and the Romans had virtually no arrows left to thwart them. Proctor watched the strange entourage’s wheels touch the base steps of the temple, as a Celtic chieftain shouted out to the men pushing it to halt.

  Safeguarded by two Roman soldiers with shields, Proctor peered through a gap in the defences to appraise the situation. On each of the two front ox carts, the outline of two people could be seen, roped on the top naked and spread-eagled. As Proctor peered once more from the ramparts, he recoiled at the face of Rasca staring up at him, loyal, brave Rasca, who had held the last line. The brave warrior who had been to the fore throughout while the women and children made their way to safety in the retreat to the temple. Rasca who had survived a hundred campaigns now lay naked and quivering before him on top of a potential bonfire.

  On the other cart was Seretena, a centurion’s wife, who had stayed behind to help the wounded. Now she lay there crying softly to herself, awaiting the fate, she knew would follow. Ashen faced, Proctor stood back, for at a signal, the Celts put their backs to the near cart and inch-by-inch the unwieldy ox-wagons, with their human victims, slowly rose up the temple steps.

  Tier by tier it advanced, painstakingly and laboured, then a massive push on command from behind and it had finally reached the top step. Another command, another stop, and so the procession continued until they had reached the flat level before the great oak and ironbound temple doors.

  “Now Romans,” a voice screamed, “Your Temple of Claudius is about to fall. For years we have broken our backs to pay for a temple to your Gods. Its foundations have been built on the blood of dead Celts. Frequently we have suffered the lash and beatings as we raised it stone by stone.” The orator turned to the masses behind him, as he continued, “Starvation and kicks were the rewards for our efforts. Now we shall raze it to the ground with joy in our hearts. Stone by stone we raised it, and stone by stone we shall level it, until it is no more, and all within shall die.”

  “Blood for blood,” a young warrior cried, “an eye for an eye.”

  Suddenly consternation broke out in the crowd as a woman in a ragged plaid dress ran forward hysterically, execrating the Romans, rending her dress and pulling her hair she lamented loudly for all to hear.

  “My son was crucified, my father slain in battle, and my brother sent to Rome to die in the Circus.”

  Then with her voice trembling with emotion she sank to her knees, her tears flowing copiously, she sobbed her heart out, then continued.

  “My daughters and I were used for sport and abused.”

  She threw her head back defiantly sending her tangled mat of hair cascading over her shoulders, then regaining her composure, she now walked sedate and unafraid to the bottom of the temple steps, continuously lambasting the defenders within.

  “Now tremble!” she screamed again, “At the coming of Boudicca! Roman blood will now flow where we sweated. Look to the skies for the last time you scum, for you will never see another sun rise.”

  While she was speaking, an archer picked up one of their last remaining arrows, and drawing it back to its full extent took careful aim at her. She glanced up and saw him aiming at her but fearlessly continued mocking them where she stood. Challengingly, she stared upwards for interminable seconds, their eyes meeting as she defied him to kill her.

  Then Proctor placed his hand on the bowman’s arm and slowly pushed the bow downwards shaking his head, “Do you ever wonder why we are so hated?” he murmured aloud.

  He turned to a tribune nearby who was hopelessly trying to stem the flow of blood from a gaping wound in his side.

  “Our legions have slaughtered, maimed and raped in the name of Rome, and the final indignity to these people was the scourging of their Queen and the rape of her daughters.” He looked down at the forlorn creature who still stood motionless before them, “O tribune,” he muttered, “we have sown the wind and are now reaping the whirlwind are we not?”

  He looked back at the tribune for a response, but none was forthcoming, the man had not heard him — he was dead.

  The woman turned her back contemptuously on them, and slowly walked back to the Iceni lines, to the acclaim of her cheering countrymen, once there she took up her position once more.

  A resounding cheer broke forth as Boudicca triumphant, spectacularly raced through the Iceni lines whipping her steeds before her pulling up now before the great Temple of Claudius.

  Arrogantly she raised her great war-spear aloft, and dropping the reins, shook her great shield before her. Then, in steady and resonant tones, she addressed the gathered Romans, who were grouped at windows, and on the roof. Her eyes blazing, she glared upwards to them.

  “I am Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni,” she glanced up, “look upon me Romans, and know that death is your companion this day. Hear now, this is the coming of our liberation. I, Boudicca, Queen of death and misery to you, will strike a spark here this day, that will create an inferno that will spread throughout this land, until every last Roman lays dead at my feet.”

  She spoke vehemently and a great cheer rose from all the tribesmen and women, exalting her now. Gathering up her reins again, she rode her mount back and forth in front of the great temple. Taunting the besieged occupants as she did so.

  “I am Boudicca!” she shouted again, “Queen of the netherworld, Queen of revenge and Queen of suffering.” Pulling up her horses once more, she now dropped the reins once again, peeling back her top, she let her garments slip to the waist, then turning her back toward them in defiance displayed the welter of criss-crossed scars on it, she shouted “Queen of a hundred lashes.”

  Proctor and the assembly looked down, the mass of scarred tissue still showed clearly even at that distance. Now a wave of fervour and hysteria swept the ranks as Iceni, Coritani, Trinovantes, Parisi, Cantiaci, Regnenses, Atrebates, and Durotriges in unison, all joined in the fervour and took up the challenge. Then, as the tumult died down, she replaced her robe, and quivering with anger, slowly walked her horse silently back to her men, then turning, she pointed towards the Temple of Claudius with her finger.

  “There, O men of the Celtic nation, lay
s your enemy. Those, at whose hands I Boudicca was flogged. The daughters of the imperial dynasty raped, and degraded by the likes of those within.”

  The crowds were completely silent as they listened.

  “I am a woman I know,” she cried, “I do not have the build or attributes of a man but this is my manhood,” she waved her great spear aloft, “this is my phallus, and with this will I penetrate Roman women today, I will avenge my ruined daughters.”

  Now shaking it at the besieged Romans she screamed at them hysterically, “I will impale your daughters, with my penis of iron and wood. I will bugger a thousand Roman arses this day with it until the point comes out of your mouths, and you will swallow the insults you poured upon them.”

  Her fury grew even greater as the memories of the ordeal she and her daughters had suffered at the hands of Catus Decianus returned.

  “Now is the reckoning Proctor,” she shouted, “Camulodunum is ours this day, tomorrow Londinium. Verulamium and Lindum, will all fall within the month, and even as we speak Calleva burns. Before this war is over, I shall wear the balls of Catus Decianus and Silentarius as ornaments round my neck.”

  A great cry of laughter rose up.

  “Now, faithful warriors,” she cried, “fire the wagons.”

  As she spoke, a volley of fire arrows struck the handcarts and instantly a great wall of flames burst forth spreading rapidly to the wagons squeezed tight against the temple doors. Swiftly the flames reached the last two wagons, which exploded in a sea of flame and sparks, the agonised screams of Rasca, and Seretena could be heard above the cacophony of shouts that emanated from Boudicca and her hordes.

  To the sides of the temple, warriors rushed forward bearing great tree trunks and commenced to batter the walls from all angles. Above, a cascade of missiles rained down, killing and maiming the attackers by the score, but as each man fell, another rushed forward to take his place in the fervour to gain access to their hated adversaries within. Under the fusillade the walls started to crack and splinter in a combination of heat and blows.

  At the front of the temple the inferno blazed as the tinder-dry carts, slowly ate their way through the great doors. Such was the heat that the defenders above were forced to pull back as the flames soared skywards towards them. Eventually the flames died down and gaps in the charred woodwork started to appear, then with a resounding crash, the ironbound remains fell off their hinges. Ahead of them now, clearly visible, row upon row of Romans awaited them, spears raised, gladius’ drawn and honed. Resolutely the last of the Roman defenders prepared to repel the invaders.

  Standing there, grim faced, each man knew in his heart it was the end. After what seemed an interminable period, they waited. Soon the embers became bearable and the lead Celts threw a carpet of sodden rushes onto the smouldering pile, and now, having made a platform as a barrier against the heat, their archers poured volley after volley of arrows through the entrance.

  Before the massed onslaught the Romans fell like ninepins. Any part of their body exposed, became a target; as they raised their shields to protect their bodies, arrows thudded into sandals and shins, bringing the defenders down. Finally the last of the Roman force fell back, and seizing their opportunity, the Celtic berserkers charged. Forwards they came, brandishing great war-clubs and axes, followed by wave after wave of Celts armed with swords, flails and spears. Screaming obscene war cries, they took flying leaps one after the other, over the glowing and now smouldering embers.

  One giant was struck by a spear through his stomach in mid flight as he hurled himself at the enemy, Fearfully pulling at the shaft as he landed, he staggered backwards to land amongst the steaming embers, writhing in his death throes.

  Now the Celtic line pushed forward relentlessly, but the Romans reacting fast, launched a counter attack, with a ferocity born out of sheer desperation. The lead Celts were decimated, as fear crazed men stuck at them, blindly, regardless of their own safety, and immune to pain and injury.

  Celt after Celt fell, as rival tribes were now further united in death. Trinovantes lay beside Belgae, Atrebates with Iceni, Parisi with Coritani, but still they came on. Then a resounding crash at the side of the temple, followed by the roar of falling masonry announced the entry of further warriors anxious to be in at the kill.

  Others, en masse entered the temple through the shattered wall, everywhere hundreds of tribesmen swarmed through the gaping holes to engage those Romans fighting desperately at the doors from behind. Assailed on two fronts now, the rot had set in. Speared and struck from the rear the Romans fell one after the other, and within minutes the entire ground floor of the building was in Boudicca’s and her allies’ hands. Boudicca herself had been one of the first up the temple steps, urging her warriors on, and together with Corrianus they were already engaging the defenders from the back.

  Ensnared and assaulted in all directions, the Roman line finally broke, and the last survivors raced to the cellars and sought out every nook and cranny that could afford them shelter. Cowering in the corners, the very element that had been used so successfully in the defence of the town, was now used against them — fire!

  Rush after rush of incensed tribesmen hurled flaming brands into every corner of the temple where anything combustible could be seen. Curtains, drapes, and clothing ignited, as flame and smoke erupted, utter chaos ensued, both sides realising that fire was neutral. Victor and vanquished choked and then, as the fire gained force the Celts pulled back.

  Outside the temple, armed warriors waited expectantly for the exodus. They knew the Romans would flee, for now death awaited them both within and without. Their exit from this earth was now a choice between sword, fire or worse.

  Within the temple itself on the upper floors, Romans slew their women and children, and in suicide pacts killed each other. Then the last remnants, to whom suicide was anathema, gathered. Suddenly with a roar, an explosion of gas and flame ignited the roof. Ferociously the inferno was sucked upwards as it created its own vacuum, and an impenetrable wall of heat cut the last survivors off.

  A forlorn group was gathered together in a back room where the inferno had not yet spread, mainly old warriors and a handful of soldiers, they had decided to fight their way out, and break through the Boudiccan forces, taking their women and children with them. Seeing the gap in the wall where the battering rams of Boudicca’s men had struck they raced for it.

  They came roaring out, women and children in the middle, armoured men on the outside. As they did so, the incensed mob surged forward, axes split skulls and swords severed limbs. All sexes and ages staggered around, clutching hideous wounds. Then the last of the Romans started to fall, the mob grabbed the women and children and horrific scenes were enacted as they were stripped, soon to be joined by the few Roman men who had had the misfortune to be wounded and captured, then, naked as the day they were born, they were hauled away.

  Respite

  From a nearby hill, Aristicus saw the black plume of smoke, rising above the red glow of what had been Camulodunum. As they watched, Decian, his second in command, turned to the legionaries behind.

  “Sit and relax,” he commanded, “remove boots, and refresh your feet, there is no hurry now.”

  The men in shocked silence, exhausted, sank to the ground, a deathly stillness pervading their ranks. Decian walked amongst them sombrely, as the pall of smoke in the distance, rose even higher.

  “Say a prayer for Camulodunum, and our old comrades of yesteryear and the 200 men of the 9th Espana who have fallen to the barbarians.”

  In silence the men prayed, ate, and made their ablutions. Decian walked towards Aristicus, who was still gazing, silently, at the scene ahead. He placed his hard upon his arm gently.

  “It is over, Aristicus, I have made camp and put the men at rest. They are far too ill equipped and exhausted at present to pursue.”

  Aristicus moved his head slightly, towards Decian, “I had many friends there. Demitrius, my first centurion, who served me for four
teen years, retired there; Longinus, whose position I took, was my commander for nine years, he was also there, and Sallust, the bravest soldier I ever knew, cruel and ruthless as he was, had only retired less than three moons ago.” He looked to Decian, “Plus the 200 of the advance guard, that raced to save them, Salla, Sextus, Valentian, Justinius — all dead.”

  Decian led Aristicus towards a small tent that was being hastily erected for him. An auxiliary placed his stool inside, then stood respectfully aside as the two men entered.

  “We were within eight hours of relieving them, Decian,” Aristicus said, “it was that attack upon us in the hills.” He paused, his eyes moist, “The attack that never was, that kept me bottled up for only the Gods know how many hours.”

  Decian looked at him, “There is no way you could have foretold the strength of their force commander. It was their cunning, not lack of judgment on our part.” He drew a second stool up to himself and sat down, “Yours was a military decision, and a correct one at the time, you could not have sent a cavalry detachment floundering into forest and marsh at night — or men for that matter. The forests belong to the enemy.”

  Outside the tents, a light drizzle had started to fall. Within them the travel-weary legionaries sat quietly, an aura of despair invading the surroundings. Then, in the silence, a young veteran suddenly broke out into uncontrollable sobs, his head cupped between his hands, and there was not a man who despised him.

  Chapter 18

  The Temple Cellars

  Within the temple cellars Calcus shivered, despite the overwhelming heat above him, his back pressed against the wall, his eyes wide with fear. To the far end of the cellars, distancing themselves from him stood seven men. As the smoke billowed towards them, perspiration from the ever-increasing heat ran down their faces. Then slowly they approached the doorway but on reaching it they staggered back as a flaming beam fell across the entrance, the tumbling masonry following it sealing both the doorway and their doom. They looked at each other with resignation in their faces.