by Ralph Harvey
Racus, one of their number, sat on an upturned barrel, “Fry or die, Gwydion? We are trapped like rats in a trap.”
Gwydion responded, “Death is just a short distance away comrade, by burning or … at our own hand.”
Lacius, one of the group, intervened, “Time is against us Racus, we choke to death already, let it be by our own hand, and die as a Roman should.”
He picked at one of the straw bales by them, then, pulling forth his gladius, he cut four of the pieces of straw in half then discarded one half leaving seven, then carefully cut one in half again. The straws within his hand now carefully concealed said, “Short straw stays last, then falls upon his own sword.”
They embraced each other emotionally. Lacius held the seven pieces of straw, as each in turn drew. At the fourth draw, a short straw was shown. Lacius opened his palm to show the equal lengths of the remainder, then put his arm around the loser, Melson, and standing before him, placed his right arm on Melson’s left shoulder.
“I shall help you Melson, do me the last, now, each to the other.”
As he spoke, each man stood disciplined in line.
“From the left,” said Lacius.
Obediently, the first in the line turned, clasped his opponent’s hand in momentary friendship and camaraderie, and drove his short stabbing sword home, then he turned edgily. The performance was repeated, until five men lay dead.
Lacius embraced Melson, then they held their blades to each others chest. As they braced themselves for the final thrust, a pathetic whisper came from the dark and smoke filled corner, “Kill me, please, but I pray you, do not let me suffer.”
As Calcus spoke, Melson drove his blade home, into Lacius,
“Sorry friend I still have work to do,” he murmured, then, coughing as the smoke grew in intensity, lowered his gladius, and walked towards the furthermost recess, leaving his companions in their own blood.
Calcus, looked up at him with imploring eyes.
“Don’t let me burn, please, please, do it swiftly, quickly, painlessly, please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered pathetically, “I will have to close my eyes.”
Melson looked at him with cold unseeing eyes, coughing violently, as he did so, from the ever-increasing toxic smoke.
“Go to Hades, Calcus, burn there forever. All this is down to you. Three precious days were lost in our defence through you blocking the council. What strange twist of fate deems that you are destined to be the last to die? I ask, is it a queer twist of fate that you shall be the last to suffer? It is poetic justice!”
Calcus grasped Melson’s sword arm with both fists. Trembling, he closed his eyes, “For pity’s sake, strike Melson, I beg of you, strike.”
Melson carefully and deliberately broke the grip of Calcus’ hands upon his arm. As Calcus shrank back, his eyes still closed, Melson hesitated momentarily, then thrust the blade into Calcus’ lower abdomen, above the pelvis, and then down into his groin.
Calcus’ eyes opened as he screamed, and clutched his lower stomach, “No, no!” he screamed. As his life-blood poured out, as he sunk to his knees, he looked up imploringly, “Once more, once more, higher.”
As he spoke, Melson stood back and placed his gladius against his own chest, pushed hard, and fell forward, upon it, the weight of his own body driving the sword straight through him.
Calcus, crawled agonisingly towards the still quivering body, and attempted to draw the sword out, but racked with pain, failed. He crawled laboriously back as the flames now started to blaze above him, and edged towards Melson’s six dead companions until his fingers found a dagger, by which time the flames were licking around him. Placing the dagger to his throat, he made several ineffectual slashes at it, but each time, pulled back.
“I can’t, I can’t,” he sobbed.
Then, dropping the dagger, he clutched his stomach once more. A gust of flames roared in scorching him and setting his hair alight, then the straw bale by him ignited, sending a shower of sparks heavenward as its flames licked out about him setting his toga alight. Calcus rolled on the cellar floor, one hand clutching his stomach, the other desperately trying to tear his blazing clothes off, and alternatively extinguish his flaming hair. His efforts were fruitless, for by now the inferno was upon him. His screams reverberated beneath the cellars, echoing eerily along the now silent passages.
Calcus, the man whose usury had prevented and delayed the defence of the city had doomed it to its fate, and by the will of the Gods was now suffering the fate he had maliciously brought upon its inhabitants.
Pillage
Drunken Celts staggered throughout the remains of the town. In the background the ruins of the temple still smouldered, occasionally bursting into flame briefly, as the heat found another combustible. Interspersed with this, walls would splinter and fall as they cooled creating a hazard to all and sundry.
Before the temple itself the great statue of Victory, named by the Greek soldiers in the legions Nike, still lay where it had fallen two days before the Iceni attack, a grim reminder that the prophecy had chillingly come true. A cry rang out from a Celtic woman as she excitedly called out to her compatriots.
“A Roman bitch, here — look!”
Suddenly a woman she had discovered sprang up from the rubble where she had been hiding and ran. She was swiftly caught, and men carried her triumphantly, screaming, away.
Everywhere, cries for mercy could be heard as people continued to be found, in cellars, ruins. One was even found who had been hiding desperately in a cesspit of all places. Rather than haul him out they had forced his head under the sewage with long poles until he expired.
By the light of the burning town, gigantic bonfires flickered and continued throughout the night, every excess and horror the human mind could devise was enacted.
Tacitus, the great Roman historian was later to write “The cross, the gibbet and the pyre were the lot of the lucky ones. They cut off the breasts of Roman women and did sew them in their mouths, and did impale them. Such were their excesses.”
In the morning, the tribesmen and women stirred from their drunken slumber, and grim faced, slowly approached the heated ruins of the temple. There, amongst the smoking ruins, stood the gigantic statue of Claudius still intact. Now that the brick was cold, men seized their opportunity and clambered up it.
Within minutes ropes were produced and swiftly raised to the men who were already atop the statue. Brandishing the halters they made from them they displayed them to the triumphant exultations of the mob and placed them around the neck of the statue of Claudius. The statue secured, the tribesmen slid down and joined their comrades on the ground.
As all this was going on a sleepy Boudicca, aroused by the cries of the throng made her way to the temple ruins. Hands on hips she urged the men on.
“Fell that monstrosity,” she cried, “let the head of Claudius eat dust and join the great statue of so-called Victory we found here.”
Her men needed no urging and grabbing the ropes they started to pull. By now Corrianus had joined her, watching admiringly as the tribes went to work.
After a few pulls the first movement was seen as cracks started to appear in the ground at the base. Seeing this, even more men and women raced forward to add their own strength to the ever-tightening ropes.
Corrianus glanced over his shoulders to the shattered remains of the gigantic statue of Victory that had once dominated the city square outside the Temple of Claudius.
“Only the Gods themselves know how that fell, but ’tis clear it was a sign to all that Roman might is finished.”
A little smile flicked across Boudicca’s face.
“Aye lover, it certainly helped our victory. The people here were disheartened long before our onslaught, and I heard they had received many omens of doom long before we arrived here.”
A resounding crack diverted their attention, as the bronze statue of the Roman emperor started to sway back and forth.
“Pull, pull!” the crowd ro
ared.
Straining upon the ropes once more they increased their efforts, then the base gave way and the effigy tumbled forwards, striking the ground with a resounding crash in a welter of dust and ash.
The area had reverberated to the cheers of the massed crowds of exuberant Celts as it had started its descent, and seeing it topple people scattered in all directions; but for one Celt, still under the influence of drink from the night before. His reactions, in his befuddled state, were too slow. The demise of the statue was his own demise too, for unable to escape in time, it crashed upon him crushing him into a quagmire of bone, flesh, and blood beneath its mighty weight. For him it was the last thing he saw.
Shocked, the tribesmen stood, appalled at the death of their comrade, then realising there was nothing they could do, they rushed forward and started to hack at the bronze neck of the statue.
Man after man struck time and again, each in turn blunting their swords in their efforts to decapitate it, until eventually they succeeded and the headless torso, the living image of the great emperor, who years before had led the all-conquering Roman army across the channel to subjugate and enslave the Britons, lay forlornly at their feet, humiliated in a final act of desecration. With Corrianus to the fore, the mob jubilantly rolled the head down the hill until it came to a stop at the bank of the river beneath. Then, with a final shove, they pushed it in. As they watched, the head of the despised emperor disappeared from sight in the murky waters. At once a resounding cheer went up. Then still drinking and boasting, they returned triumphantly to the still burning city.
Boudicca awaited them, “Saddle up,” she commanded, “the Roman legions await three hours from here, and it is not my wish to engage them after a nights revelry. That fight is still to come when we are refreshed and ready.”
She looked around at the slaughtered and charred corpses gathered everywhere.
“We move out in twenty minutes. But first I will leave a spectacle for them that they will never forget. Sever the legs and arms of a few and place them around the square. Sew the kegs to the armpits and the arms to where the legs were. Cut off the men’s genitals and place them on the women’s mouths and cut off their heads and place them in their groins, let history remember the revenge of Boudicca and all tyrants tremble when they learn of my retribution.”
Later they gathered their ox carts and chariots, heavily laden with loot and moved out. The legions were now less then three hours away.
Londinium Panics
The news of the fall of Camulodunum had reached Londinium and the horrors that had been enacted there were on everybody’s tongue. Fear spread like an insidious disease as there were few who did not have a relative in the capital.
Bewildered, the city fathers raced around the great sprawling metropolis looking for points of defence, but there were none. Closely packed wooden buildings pervaded everywhere; great thatched barns and warehouses, stores and boats spread out like a gigantic spider’s web from the commercial centre. Londinium was a port and had evolved devoid of any planning, unlike Camulodunum, which had been planned as a new city.
Santrix, the mayor elect, himself a retired legate had set up a chain of outriders to keep him informed of what was happening, and it was with this in mind he now addressed the agitated crowd gathered below his balcony.
“What news Santrix?” a man called, “Be honest with us, we have a right to know.”
Santrix raised his hand in pacification.
“As you are all aware the council and I surveyed our boundaries in detail — my name is Santrix, not Calcus!” He made this barbed reference to the ill-fated merchant who had resisted any expenditure on defence in Camulodunum, with dire results and his own ignominious death. At the mention of his name,now cast in infamy, a ripple of discontent ran round the group. “Needless to say I am not very happy. We do not have a stone-built centre or walls to fortify, and the whole town is a tinderbox.” He glanced down at some parchments he was holding, “I do have a finger on the pulse however, and it is clear that Boudicca marches on us.”
As he spoke a wail of despair rang out.
Santrix raised his hand again, “She is however five days march from here, and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “the legions are but two days march away and will not fall into the same trap that the 14th Gemina and 9th did.”
The crowd called out agitatedly to him.
“How do we know Suetonius will come Santrix?”
“If he is as good as Siculus then we are all dead.”
“The legions failed at Camulodunum, they say they sat on their arses and watched the town burn.”
Santrix lifted his hand and called out, “Aristicus was outwitted. All the signs were that he was walking into the same trap as the ninth did. You cannot blame him.”
Vittellius replied, sarcastically, “And the 70,000 dead as a result are not able to.”
A senator, by Santrix’s side, snapped bad temperedly at the aspersion being cast on their military prowess.
“There is no opposition between Suetonius and Londinium, nothing can prevent his arrival other than a recall from the emperor himself, and that will not happen.”
Santrix spoke again, “I have received a message direct from Suetonius to the effect that he will cut in between Boudicca and her forces, and will here awaiting her in good time, nevertheless, let us not fail to be ready as Camulodunum was. So while we await Suetonius, we will dig defence ditches and make earth walls to aid him in the defence of our city.”
“That is the legions work not ours,” shouted a voice in the crowd, “they are trained to dig ditches and throw up earth walls, we are not.”
“Why can’t Suetonius intercept her beforehand and stop her outside the city, why here?” another questioned.
Santrix called to them angrily,“Fools! Was not the same argued at Camulodunum?”
The senator joined in again heatedly.
“I will brook no argument, it shall be done! And furthermore I shall see that the local garrison enforces it, and woe betide any that disobey, or fail to work as ordered to.”
His gaze riveted on the assembled throng.
“Everyone, and I mean everyone, will pull his or her weight, the lame, the blind, the sick and even the infirm can all contribute in some way.” He paused again, “There are no exceptions, only the dead are exempt.”
A ripple of laughter met his words but they knew he would enforce it, ruthlessly if the need should arise. Someone in the crowd began to shout once more.
“The town is too vast, we have no centre to defend.”
Santrix replied swiftly, “We will centre our defences on the river, then we will have the Thamesis as a barrier on two sides, and if we have to evacuate any part of the town, we will have three whole days to do it in.”
“What if we had to evacuate the whole town?” one called out angrily, “There are too few boats here, the great cargo ships from Rome and Gaul are not expected till eight days from now.”
Santrix turned to leave saying, “Then we must put our faith in the legions, 8,000 soldiers plus 2,000 cavalry march to our defence, the Camulodunum garrison was 600!”
Grumbling the crowd dispersed.
Atermath
As the first column of legionaries entered what had been the capital city of Britannia under their rule, the carnage repelled even the most hardened and battle scarred hearts. Butchered corpses lay everywhere, it was as if there was hardly a spare metre of the town that was not slippery with congealing blood.
It was with trepidation that they approached the temple, blackened and now demolished, the dead lay piled one on top of the other. Aristicus surveyed the scene, analysing the sequence of events that had taken place, prior to the razing of the town.
“They fought well here, Decian” he commented, “a Roman knows how to sell his life.”
Reaching the forecourt the shattered stone torso of the statue of Victory lay, pieces had been hacked off it, hands, ears the laurel wreath, taken away as t
rophies by the jubilant Celts. Passing it by they entered what was left of the temple itself.
Aristicus looked down upon the headless bronze statue of Claudius that lay in pieces, its remains scarred from a thousand sword blows. Dented it lay where it had had fallen, what metal fragments that could be taken, had been taken, later to be woven in necklaces or arrow tips. Only the giant torso remained and from beneath it a scarlet hand reached out, a grisly reminder of what had happened to the drunken Celt who had been too slow.
Lying across its nether regions was an emasculated headless corpse. Between its legs the head had been grotesquely planted, it had not been mutilated. Why it had been left so was plain to all, it was Proctor.
In silence they continued their excursion throughout the building. On the high altar lay a vestal virgin, her severed breasts sewn into her mouth. A Roman pila ran throughout her body, like a metal skewer. Laid upon the mutilated corpse, were the testes of innumerable men. As the legionaries halted, Domitian an under officer, turned to Julianos, one of the party.
“Is there no end to this horror?” he asked.
Everywhere, the bodies of hideously, tortured men, women, and children lay, arranged in obscene poses to strike terror and fear to those who found them later. Men lay with their severed genitals in their mouths. Elsewhere lay torsos, their legs and arms reversed, so that their chests now grew legs, and their waist sprouted arms, while between their legs lay the head of the victims, others impaled and crucified nearby had their eyes poked out, together with other extremities cut off and laid at their feet.
Impaled bodies of all sexes hung from trees and walls, columns and roofing. A charred corpse hung upside down over the dying embers of a fire while nearby a corpse was staked out on the earth, intact except for the small fire that had been built in its groin.