by Ralph Harvey
An old man hobbled by as fast as his supporting stick allowed, “I heard that a vestal virgin was raped by a hundred Celts until she died, and that another was found impaled in the temple.”
A sudden commotion drew the mobs attention, at the end of the street a young girl was half carrying, half dragging a millstone towards the river a rope through the centre tied around her neck.
Petrified the crowd watched as she reached the waters edge, and then with a supreme effort she lifted it and jumped into the water with it, disappearing instantly beneath the surface, the only semblance of her being a small stream of bubbles slowly rising to the surface.
Then another cry was heard, “Look!”
With a trembling hand a man pointed upwards to a flat topped building. There on the roof a woman stood, trance like, holding a baby in her arms. Then as they watched, completely devoid of emotion she jumped, cradling the infant in her arms and they fell together to their deaths.
Screams of horror emanated everywhere. In a doorway a man was sitting, slumped at the top of the steps. Pale and lifeless, his lifeblood methodically pumping out in small spurts from his slashed wrists, running down the steps in a trickle. By his side an amphora of wine lay horizontal, its contents exuding from the neck, the red wine cascading downwards to mix with the scarlet of his blood, while one hand still loosely held a goblet.
At the waters edge a vast number of people were being pushed into the river in a great crush, as the crowds built up steadily behind them, constantly pushing forward to reach the river, while a small and mostly inadequate flotilla of boats loaded people steadily aboard.
A boatman, one eye obscured with a cloth patch, was selling space, “Three places to fill!” he shouted, “What am I bid? Six hundred sesterces?”
A voice cried out, “Seven hundred!”
And was echoed from behind as a second man entered the bidding.
“Seven hundred and fifty!”
The first voice rebid, then “One thousand!” the second shouted.
The boatman looked hard at the first bidder querulously, but the man shook his head.
“Seven hundred and fifty is my limit — I have no more.”
The winner of the higher bid stepped forward to take the coveted place aboard. “You could have bought it for eight hundred, idiots!”
The loser sneered.
“Never mind that, pay up!” the boatman retorted.
He continued to cry his wares, “Two places left. Escape the slaughter while you have a chance.”
Two traders stepped forward,“Two thousand for two places,” they bid.
The boatman was delighted. “Deal — sold!” he exclaimed.
At a nearby boat a gross sallow man with an enormous paunch was plying his wares also. Flavius was well known in Londinium as a man who ran with the hare, and hunted with the hounds. Conceived from a brute of a Roman lictor and a Silurian woman, he had been raised in the Roman province of Gaul, seeking his fortune in Britannia once it had been conquered. Despised by all he was an unscrupulous trader who had amassed a fortune under Roman rule from slaves he purchased from the army and sold across the channel.
His boat was the finest in Londinium, a large barge with accommodation for thirty persons lay behind him, packed with so many people that its bowsprits lay perilously close to the water line, yet still the avaricious Flavius was cramming every last soul aboard.
He looked over the already dangerously overloaded boat and mentally decided he could accommodate yet another.
“One place left!” he cried. “What am I bid?”
A young mother came forward with two children, a girl, blue eyed and fair of skin, of some eight summers, and a boy of six.
“Flavius, be merciful,” she begged, “I have only three hundred sesterces, but I have jewellery — see,” she opened a bag, “These were given to me by my mother,” she produced a large emerald ring, then continued, “And these are of the purest Silurian gold.” She produced a string of bangles, bracelets and necklaces.
Flavius examined them closely, and exclaimed, “Done, get on board.”
He crossed the gangplank and pushed hard with his bulk against the heaving mass of humanity already aboard, then having created a space the woman and children clambered aboard. Flavius picked up the punting pole to propel the boat away when a palanquin held aloft by eight slaves arrived.
Aboard it, a grossly overweight woman could be seen, her fat podgy fingers festooned with rings, her arms adorned with heavy gold bangles, while a necklace of onyx and pearl interspersed with emeralds adorned her throat. Jewels were even sewn into her dress, giving her an aura of both opulence and decadence. The woman who had just arrived in the palanquin, had been watching the performance and choosing her moment she intervened.
“Hold it Flavius” she commanded “What has this woman bid that I cannot better?”
Flavius held the ring and the bangles up for her to see, “These and three hundred sesterces, Ophelia” he replied, clearly recognising her.
“Hah!” she snapped, “Remove her brats and I’ll give you a thousand sesterces and these …” She started to remove a magnificent collection of rings from her swollen fingers.
Flavius drooled at the sight of so much wealth, “I’ll make room,” he turned to the woman, “Get off — now!”
The young woman burst uncontrollably into tears and pushed her tokens back at him, “Pray keep them Flavius, I will go, just take my children I beg of you. I will stay and take my chance.”
He reacted violently, “When I say off I mean off! ALL of you!” He picked up the young girl and hauled her violently onto the bank, then pushed the mother and the boy off. Looking back at the space created he realised that even this was not enough for Ophelia’s huge bulk, and selecting a spindly youth by the hair, he dragged him protesting off the barge as well.
“I am Nexus, son of Senator Galen, my father paid you well to take me.”
Flavius smiled, “Then if you and your father survive the heathens, come to me and I’ll repay you.” With that he booted the boy hard, sending him sprawling into the crowd who by now had started to execrate him.
Ignoring them, he thrust his hand into a pouch on his waist and producing a small handful of coins, threw them into the crowd as a diversion. Instantly the mob started to squabble for them, while Ophelia sat atop her palanquin smirking.
“She is of no importance Flavius, the Celts will have sport with her, but my father controls estates and farms from here to Lindum. Ignore him,” Ophelia snapped, then she clapped her fat and now bare hands. “Down,” she commanded them. “There is not much time.”
Dutifully the bearers lowered the contraption to the ground then assisted her as she tried to rise. Twice they pulled hard on her, and twice she wobbled backwards to fall into the cushioned seat behind her, then with a mighty effort they raised her. She stood there unsteadily, panting with her exertions, then savagely stuck one of the servants sharply across the face.
“Weaklings — dolts!” she screamed, “May Boudicca skin you alive. Now help me get aboard.”
Slowly they escorted her pedantically step by step into the boat, their progress impeded by her enormous weight. She could hardly stand let alone walk. Eventually she made it and the servants started stacking the cushions from the palanquin on the deck for her comfort, then bowing, left.
By now the crowd had grown silent and an air of gloom settled over them. Flavius untied the vessel and pushed it way from the bank with a long pole. As the current caught it he steered the vessel into midstream to commence their voyage into safety and the boat gradually started to drift downstream, the long mooring rope sprawling behind it across the mudflats. Seeing an opportunity to escape a number of the crowd rushed forwards and seized it, but in seconds were floundering in the deep slime, none making it.
By the water’s edge a well-built man watched their efforts; no longer young his hair was greying and a deep tanned mahogany face shone beneath. With interest he obser
ved the boat in midstream, the towrope now trailing in its wake. Hesitating but a moment, he dived in and struck out strongly for it before the boat was fully underway. Moments later he was alongside it, and then called up to Flavius, who has observed the intrusion with a masked degree of hostility.
“What do you want wretch?” he queried angrily.
The man in the water paced alongside the slowly moving vessel, dog paddling as he spoke. “Pray help me Flavius I am Justinian Decian, ex-commander of the Imperial First Legion, known as Caesar’s Own. I also commanded the Twentieth who were instrumental in the capture of Caratacus, the great warchief of the Celts years ago. It was I who smashed the revolt.”
He continued to tread-water, “If Boudicca captures me she will flay me alive with red hot knives. All I ask is to hold your trail rope and be pulled until we are some two miles away, then I will take my chance.”
Flavius leaned over the side of the boat, while behind him, those he had taken aboard grew agitated in their anxiety to depart.
“Can you pay?” he demanded.
Justinian grew agitated, “I have nothing with me, but I have power and great influence in Rome. Save me and Caesar himself will hear of it, for I have the ear of Nero himself.”
The fat one snarled, “What need have I of Caesar’s ear? I work for gold, not glory. You’ve had your day Justinian, what happens to you is of no consequence to me.”
He called out to the steersman at the back. “Go fast — now!”
The steersman adjusted the rudder, which glanced off Justinian’s head. Though he was still strong for his years and, his head began to spin, and he sank back and started to inhale water.
“Tell Boudicca you'll put in a good word for her with Caesar,” Flavius called out derisively. “Then perhaps she’ll only hang you.”
Justinian’s head bobbed up in the water as his senses started to return, an open wound clearly visible as blood flowed down his face. On the boat even the avaricious passengers were appalled at their host’s callousness.
“He was a great man Flavius,” one of them called.
“Was,” scowled Flavius, “and has been. He is yesterday’s memory and I live for the present.”
Turning his back on the drowning man he took up a punt pole to push the boat further out to catch the main flow of the river, but in a spurt of energy Justinian struck out of the water to the now unsuspecting figure of Flavius, and with a superhuman effort he launched himself out of the water to grab the boatman by the ankles.
“Fat bastard,” he called, “let’s see if you can swim.”
Flavius dropped the pole, desperately looking for a more mobile weapon he could use, trying desperately to keep his balance. Feverishly he attempted to retrieve the oar he had laid to the side, but Justinian, seeing the movement raised himself further out of the water, his arms clasped around Flavius’ legs. With a cry of alarm Flavius stumbled forward, tipping the boat low in the water. The sudden angle now sent Ophelia sliding forward on a sea of silk cushions, people lost their footing and slid towards the side, the tilt increasing every moment, then with a final flourish everyone started to slide at once.
Within seconds a great mass of people struck the edge and with a giant lurch the vessel turned turtle, jettisoning its entire cargo of humanity into the fast flowing waters.
Everywhere cries for help emanated, then with a roaring sound the boat disappeared beneath the waves sucking everyone in the vicinity down with it. On the shore the horrified onlookers could only stand and watch the entire tragedy being enacted as the occupants sank into the gloomy waters. The last to go were Flavius and Justinian, locked tightly in each other’s arms they lay in a death embrace as they went down, only a trace of bubbles floating upwards to show where they had died.
On the riverbank a man comforted the woman and her children who had been so crudely evicted from the boat, but as the war horns started to howl their melancholy dirge in the distance, a trader looked towards a bystander and remarked, “It would have been the greater mercy had she drowned.”
Attack!
The thunder of hooves was the first indication to the inhabitants of Londinium that the attack had started. Long before they came into sight, the awesome sound could be heard, long before the war horns, their lament of coming death. Everywhere, people attempted to hide.
Then they came roaring in. First came the horses and chariots, splitting into two formations as they drew near, then in a prearranged movement they flanked the town. Following in their wake, the mass of tribesmen came, running at a fast trot.
As an icy fear gripped the residents of Londinium, the panic grew. Row upon row of blue-daubed warriors swept forward in an unstoppable stream. Panic-stricken the inhabitants were paralysed as the sheer numbers of the attackers were realised.
All those manning the forward defence position with one accord, immediately abandoned their post and fled as they could see that neither palisade, ditch, earth-bank or pitfall would hold these furies. Within minutes there were no defences left, the last pitiful vestiges of the so-called defenders now streaking for the only thing that could save a few lucky ones: the river. They raced for its banks happy to swim away but little did they realise that beyond Londinium, further downstream, the Iceni bowmen awaited to ambush any stragglers on either bank.
Now from the east and west the Celts’ cavalry raced through the streets, their long spears striking anything that moved. To the north, their foot soldiers heroically hurled themselves into the breach, war clubs, axes, and swords raised on high. Fighting furiously the first wave felled all in their way and minutes later the human tide swept over the defenders, while behind came the women with their long knives to finish the job and collect their grisly trophies.
Clubs rose and fell as people were found hiding in recesses, then were dragged from the holes they had dug, and covered in an attempt to survive, the carnage was like a scene from hell.
Boudicca raced around ensuring that none would escape her wrath. The vitriolic hatred engendered in her had turned her mind. She was no longer a human being, the blows of the lictor and the brutal rape of her daughters was the only picture in her mind once the blood lust was raised in her.
All Romans were evil. The suffering they had brought to her country was uppermost in her mind, and neither woman nor child could expect lesser treatment than she and her people had suffered.
“Fire the town,” she cried, “burn those who we cannot find. Let none escape and let only ash and dust remain.”
A stripling youth, seeing the Iceni Queen close by loaded his slingshot, and hurled a pebble at her, seeing the movement Boudicca spun her shield and caught it square on, but the stone glanced off, striking her above the left eye. With a cry she staggered back. Instantly a bowman, seeing the movement, loosed at the youth, impaling him with deadly accuracy through the back.
Boudicca staunched the bleeding from the purple lump on her head and picked up her shield.
“Take his head,” she commanded, “I want it displayed in my camp tonight.”
In an alley a man had been cornered in his race for freedom. His back to the wall, there was no succour his only weapon a hayfork. He parried and thrust at his tormentors as a spearman played with him to the merriment of his companions. Outmatched, he knew the Celt could finish him off at any time. But still he held his ground unyielding.
“Finish it,” a Celt shouted, “there are women and spoils to be had.”
With that he hurled a spear at the Roman. Old muscles became young, and old reflexes returned, sidestepping he manipulated the hayfork to send the missile sideways.
“Come on you heathens,” he barracked them, “this is one Roman who you will not find so easy to kill.”
The Iceni spearman ceased his parrying, and at a signal, his colleagues drew their bows. Seeing this, the Roman threw down the fork, and then tearing his shirt open, bared his heart.
“Strike then and hasten to your wine Celts. Let’s get it done with.”
“Lower them,” he commanded. “Go free Roman, I’ll see you are spared. I recognise a true warrior — no Celt could do better.”
He picked up the hayfork and tied a talismanic bag, from his belt, at the top, “Keep this on high, and none shall harm you, but go north, and tell any that challenge you that you are under the protection of Corrianus.”
The Roman’s eyes grew wide, “The Corrianus? Consort of Boudicca?” he exclaimed.
“The same, Roman” Corrianus replied. “Tell your grandchildren when you are an old man, that you were the only man known who has faced Corrianus and lived.” He turned and signalled to the Celts now piling up behind him, “Make a passageway for him — he lives.”
Astonished the man lifted the talisman high for all to see, and then slowly made his journey out of the town stepping over the mutilated bodies of those he once knew as he did. With faltering steps he made his way through the bloodied remains, his feet and legs splattered with the congealing gore.
In the market square the Celtic army were engaged in an orgy of rape and pillage, a group of young girls were caught and stripped, then placed in the town centre where they could be taken at will by any who wanted them, one by one to be dragged to any corner where a warrior might satiate themselves, their pathetic cries echoing to the heavens at their fate.
One woman had been recognised as the wife of a high-ranking Roman who was universally hated, notorious for her own cruelty she had suffered the misfortune to fall into her enemies hands.
She was strung up naked, by her wrists, in a doorway for the sport of the warriors. As she hung there sobbing, two Atrebate girls whetted their skinning knives and unsmiling, closed in, moving round the Celt who had just raped her, who sat and drunkenly raising a great amphora to his lips. It held gallons of red wine, which was splashing over his head. Choking and spluttering he fell back dropping the vessel in the process. The amphora shattered into a thousand pieces, then oblivious to everything he slumped forward unconscious.