Boudicca - Queen of Death

by Ralph Harvey

  On the ridgeway the party stood out, starkly outlined upon the skyline. It was Guern who first became aware of the rider racing pell-mell behind them, as he and two others drew their bows. Rondus, a fellow rider raised himself in his stirrups and peered intently at the approaching man.

  “Stay your hand,” he shouted, “it is Salinas.”

  As the men lowered their weapons Salinas joined them joyously.

  “Boudicca has commanded me to guide you.”

  He looked directly at Cantis, brandishing the Queen’s ring triumphantly as proof of his words.

  “I know the country well, and can be of use, and,” he added, “I can still fight you know, and draw a bow.”

  Cantis grinned, “Welcome Salinas. We do have need of a guide as we know not the land of the Atrebates and I know you are Atrebate, although you have lived among us for many years.”

  He pointed to the side of the patrol, “Guard our flanks. When we reach open ground keep in formation, there are Roman patrols in the area that we must avoid. We should be in Cegontion in five days time on the first day of the new moon. We will have three days to reconnoitre and plan our attack.”

  Salinas bowed respectfully towards Cantis.

  “I am extremely grateful to you Cantis. May the Gods smile upon you in your efforts to find and preserve my daughter.”

  Cantis shortened his reins then somewhat sternly rebuked Salinas.

  “May the Gods smile upon all the prisoners, as well as your daughter Salinas.” He emphasised the ‘all.’

  Salinas accepted the rebuke, and in the camaraderie so typical of their race they rode on.

  The Legions Leave

  Suetonius and his advisors sat in council, poring over maps of Londinium they had hastily prepared. Ever since they had arrived the previous day, they had been busy scouting the town, examining weaknesses that could be exposed if Boudicca struck.

  His men’s eyes were riveted on his face as he stood there, staring at the plans in front of him impassively. Marcus, who was always close to him and understood his chief, spoke.

  “You are disturbed commander?”

  Suetonius looked up, “Yes Marcus, I am worried. Londinium is but a sprawl. Camulodunum was designed and laid out around the great temple to a specific plan. This cesspit is a hotchpotch of dwellings built over the years as they wanted them, there is no semblance of order, it is just a sprawl that has evolved completely devoid of any planning whatsoever.”

  Marcus hesitated, “Then what do we do?”

  Suetonius reacted sharply, “What can we do Marcus? The town is indefensible, wooden buildings, thatched roofs, warehouses stocked with spirits and oils, others packed with hides and planks, saw mills!”

  He angrily swept the parchments off the table with a sweep of his hand, “All packed together so tightly that in many areas you could not even get a hand cart down the street.”

  He looked around at the assembled officers.

  “Londinium is one gigantic firetrap; we would be consumed in the ensuing inferno following a fire attack without even loosing an arrow at the foe.”

  His voice now took on an agitated note, “Gentlemen: I cannot and will not even attempt to hold or defend this city.”

  Glaucus and another officer joined in the debate in support of Suetonius.

  “Suetonius is right Marcus, we would face certain defeat if she hit us. While we tried to defend one flank she would strike the other. There are a hundred points of entry, and a thousand weaknesses.”

  Marcus was disturbed.

  “There is no argument in this for you are right, I have seen these weaknesses with my own eyes, it is surprising that there has not been a major fire here already. So what do we do? Engage her in the open?”

  The Roman commander started to pick the parchments up off the floor, rolling them up and tying them together with a red leather strip.

  “In the open would be preferable to here, but if I were her I would not attack any defending army but bypass them, by which time she would already be in, and we all know the results that would ensue.”

  Suetonius looked stern, “I fear I have to make a grim decision. Think logically gentlemen on the problem. Londinium, whichever way we look at it, will fall; then the cow will strike Lindum, and if we speed to it, that can be saved.”

  Glaucus was puzzled, “But what of Verulamium commander, it is much closer. After here she could be outside the city within three days, four at the most, while Lindum is countless days from here for an army on the march.”

  Suetonius shook his head, “Verulamium can hold. She seeks war in open country, where she can deploy her cavalry and her chariot, or else seek deep forests where she can spring ambushes, and this we know to our cost. She cannot deploy chariots at Verulamium, only to the sides where the land has been cleared. But they cannot assault tall bush, breach high palisades and cross the deep ditches that surround the town. Verulamium is a stronghold and can hold out against any assault.” He laid the parchments down.

  “Also Verulamium has enough supplies and provender to hold out for months if need be, but that is not all. For not only is the city impervious to attack from chariots, the Catuvellauni nation are our strongest allies in the region and sworn enemies of the Iceni. Whatever we think of this woman, she is no fool, besides, Verulamium is a strong garrison and furthermore as I have said it lays deep within Catuvellauni territory, which is another reason she will not enter there. She fears them, and they are a traditional enemy who have been feuding and slaughtering each other non-stop for centuries.”

  Marcus was not happy, “But what of Londinium Suetonius, we cannot leave them.”

  Suetonius reacted abruptly, “We must!” he snapped, “I am sorry, and I can assure you the decision is not an easy one to make. But look at it,” he undid the parchments and threw them down on the table contemptuously, “I cannot win here. The secret of any battle, as any general worth his salt knows, is choose your own ground.” He paused and then spoke loudly and emphatically, “And I do not choose Londinium.”

  Glaucus broke in again, “Boudicca herself has chosen here for the next battle. Londinium is one of her choosing, not ours; it is her battleground.”

  Marcus and the rest were silent, deep in their hearts they knew their leader was right, but those same hearts were heavy.

  Suetonius spoke more gently, “Inform the privy council of my decision. Tell them though, that any who can keep up can come with us. The fit who can march, and those who have horses will be under our protection, for the remainder, I regret they must flee in our wake.”

  Marcus cried, “Commander! The surrounding country is crawling with Iceni. Half the Celtic nation is out there: Parisi, Trinovantes, Atrebate — just waiting for them.”

  His leader, embarrassed, turned away, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry Marcus, there is no alternative. Within minutes of an assault, Londinium would be an inferno. Anyone who does not follow in our wake must flee, the river is their exit. They have two days to commandeer boats, make rafts, or float anything that will not sink.”

  He turned and faced his war leaders, then added softly, “Do as I say gentlemen, and inform the council of my decision. And take note: I wish you to inform them in detail as to why. Understand? So move! We ride out in three hours.”

  He looked up at the sun starting to break through the cloud. “Set the hour glass — we leave at midday.”

  Meanwhile, back at Boudicca’s Camp, the entire talk was about the successful attacks on the Romans. The young men yearned to gain experience, while the old men longed for past glories. Sitting around the campfires there was a magical quietness about all of them. Many wives, sons and daughters around the fire were relatives of men who were part of that intrepid force. They all knew in their hearts there would always be some who would not return while others would live out their days with lost limbs and injuries that would never heal.

  At the edge of the circle around the fire, a young woman stac
ked stones in the northern point, forming them into a hastily improvised altar, where she reverently placed an effigy of Cernunnos, the horned God of power. As she blew out the little fire she had made she placed charred segments on the embers, then scattered petals and herbs on them until they gave off a sweet odour that swiftly permeated to all those who sat around the camp fire.

  “Ilsa is offering prayers to the Lord and Lady to bring Ragna, her man, back safe. She has not paid her tribute to the moon for four months now, so knows she is with child. See? Already how her belly grows.”

  Ansela, one of the older women grunted, “I lost my man twelve years ago, when we fought the Brigantes.”

  She thrust a stick angrily into the fire, which caused it to spark and splutter.

  “May their Queen Catamandua rot in Hades, for she was the cause of my hardship and widowhood.” She looked at the young mother-to-be, praying at her little altar, then added, “I was left to bring up three young ones, through that she-bitch.” She bit her lip as she recalled the memory, “I was no more than three winters older than Ilsa. If her man does not return she will have just the one to rear, whereas I had three.”

  Chapter 20

  The Meeting: Conspiracy

  A small party of horseman was approaching a nearby hill. The leader, clearly on edge, glanced around him nervously at the rest of his party, who were also nervous. Fador, an outrider with the group, trotted along side Cadwellan, their chieftain.

  “I swear we are being watched Cadwellan, we are well inside Boudicca’s territory and still there is no movement. If we make the rise ahead they could be waiting over the ridge to ambush us.”

  Cadwellan slowed his horse, “Let us walk the beasts then, perhaps now is as good a time as any to announce our presence.”

  Fador summoned a warrior to him. “Now Verindas.”

  Dutifully the man stopped and drew forth his horn, as the entire party stopped, and placing it to his lips he gave a long blast.

  Fador instructed him again, “We’ll walk slowly, then every fifty paces Verindas, stop and signal again.”

  At the third blast an echo answered back.

  Cadwellan looked around re-assuredly, “Keep a sharp look out and discard all your spears at the first sign of movement,” he commanded.

  Obeying him they progressed until they reached the base of the hill then hesitated momentarily once more, before continuing a little further, keeping a constant vigil. Holding aloft their spears they moved forward ever more cautiously.

  As they reached the centre point a horseman appeared at the ridge ahead. Starkly outlined on the horizon, he stood there grim and forbidding. Seeing him they halted once more and Cadwellan rode ahead, his arm and spear still upraised. Then in full view of those ahead, he drove it point first into the ground.

  Behind him Fador turned to the rest of the group, “Now,” he softly murmured, “field spears.”

  Hearing him, all the riders instantly drove their spears into the ground and walked their horses on. It was at that moment that riders approached on their flanks and minutes later the Iceni warriors were in full view, observing their every move, and waiting patiently in front of them.

  Seeing them Cadwellan spoke again, “Keep vigilant and wait here,” he commanded those behind Fador. “Verindas come with me.”

  The three of them now discarded their shields as well with one movement, approached a few more paces, and stopped again. Holding aloft their right hands, they slowly approached the gathered Iceni tribesmen once more, reining their horses with their left hands. While they did so a fully armed lone rider cantered down towards them.

  Arrogantly he confronted them, one hand resting on his bridle, the other hooked and akimbo resting on a sword pommel. Standing before them, his eyes flashed challengingly. This was an Iceni warrior, deeply tanned muscles rippling, his body smeared with goose fat which made it gleam. Blue whorls ornamented his face and arms while his tribal markings showed out starkly tattooed on his chest. Long golden hair swept down over his shoulders, complemented by long, heavy mustachios that reached to below his chin.

  He stood there, high in the saddle, appraising the three warriors before him. Then reining his horse, he slowly walked it up and down in front of them, back and forth three times, each time stooping to stare at a different individual. His display now complete, he regained his original position in front of Cadwellan who was centre in the group.

  “I am Vindex,” he announced, “mighty warrior, and taker of heads. Three score have I taken in battle, and have caused much lament from here to the lands of the Silures.” His eyes riveted on Cadwellan, “Women mourn those I have slain” he echoed in the boastful and traditional manner of the Celts.

  Cadwellan did not flinch, he knew that weakness in an enemy was suspect, and it was mandatory to expound one’s achievements.

  Returning the stare, he set his face grimly and replied, “I am Cadwellan the feared, who slew the four great chiefs of the north, who had each taken four score of heads apiece.” He waited for his words to sink in, “Loud was their boasting also, but bright was the flashing of my sword, and soon were their tongues stilled.”

  The preliminary and customary boasts over, the emissary grinned, “Oh, those four, they had already bent their knee in submission to me some years before, but then I do not slay old men, only warriors.”

  Cadwellan accepted the rebuke with grace, then smiling himself, now gave a rejoinder, “Indeed Vindex I do truly believe the Iceni to be a gentle people. The old ones of our tribe sing of your love of peace around their camp fires.”

  Now both men grinning relaxed.

  “Your purpose Cadwellan?”

  Cadwellan spoke up, “I seek an audience with Boudicca and an alliance.”

  Vindex shrugged, “I see that wisdom is also an attribute of the Catuvellauni, as well as deeds of daring.” He spoke softly and with emphasis, “What gifts do you bring my Queen?”

  Cadwellan looked him straight in the eye, “The whole Catuvellauni nation,” he said.

  Suetonius’ Plans

  Suetonius was in a bad mood. Despite his instructions he was unable to meet his schedule, and was now well over two hours late and still not ready to leave Londinium.

  Quaking inwardly with rage, he had been exposed to the worst five hours of his life. As soon as news that they were abandoning Londinium to its fate was known, every obstruction that could be devised to prevent them leaving took effect. Wagons full of women and children blocked the exit to the great Watling Road, crowds execrated them and blocked their progress in their thousands, cavalrymen found the leathers in their saddles cut, horses were spooked, rubble was heaped on every thoroughfare and paving stones and slabs lifted to further delay them, and also create pitfalls.

  In a final fit of desperation, Suetonius, once his men had eventually formed themselves into a unit, sent a detachment in front, formed into the notorious ‘tortoise’ barging their way through the crowds. As they followed, the populace continued to abuse them.

  A young woman hurled a clod of earth at Suetonius, “Cowards!” she screamed, “All of you — cowards!”

  Suetonius, stony-faced, ignored her.

  “Betrayer,” shouted another, “you are a disgrace to Rome. You should fall upon your swords in shame, you disgrace the banners you carry!”

  An old man with one leg, supporting himself on a crutch, spat at them, “I lost a leg serving in the legion, in my day we were men and never knew the meaning of the word retreat!”

  The Roman leader still remained impassive, not allowing himself to be goaded, while ahead the tortoise of shields battered their way through.

  His attention however, was drawn to a grey-bearded man who was now striding alongside him, his eyes full of contempt. This man did disturb Suetonius; something about his bearing and his face struck a chord, but he tried to ignore him.

  Then the man suddenly spoke, “That’s right Suetonius, look away, ignore me, and so you should. I am Ostula Copernicus, who
once commanded the Eleventh legion in Spain, and was once legate to the same banners you now carry. Believe me Suetonius, if we survive this, Caesar himself will hear of your foul and cowardly deed this day.”

  Then he stopped and watched the retinue pass him by.

  As the foot soldiers marched by a prostitute, her face still painted in the style of the harlot, ran alongside two men, striking them with her fists as she did so.

  “I gave myself free to you last night,” she railed, “liars, rapists! You owe me you bastards.”

  The two men accepted the blows and smirking, marched on to the ribaldry of their fellows. By now, the last of the procession was leaving the city entrance; a woman lying prostate in front of them was hysterical.

  “Woe! We are undone,” she moaned.

  “Remove her,” Suetonius barked.

  Two soldiers lifted her bodily and dumped her unceremoniously by the roadside. A group of youths pelted the last unit with excrement, rotten fruit and anything they could lay their hands on.

  Behind them a rag-tag procession of men, women and children followed as far as the eye could see, pushing pitiful hand carts and laden with goods of every description, but by evenfall many, unable to keep up with the fast step of the legion, were lagging and many were to be seen limping back to the doomed city.

  Hill above Londinium

  Boudicca and Corrianus were watching the city exits, safely entrenched on high ground overlooking the main roads out. Since the Romans came you could judge the entrances and exits they would take with ease, for the great new roads, at which they were so expert, evolved always from the centre.

  Laying low together with only a handful of Iceni scouts, they observed the orderly procession of the Roman legion leave with Suetonius the Governor General at the head. Even as they watched, the first stragglers fell out of line and started to filter back to the city, unable to keep up with the legions’ gruelling pace.

  Corrianus stood up as the tail of the column disappeared in the distance.