Boudicca - Queen of Death

by Ralph Harvey

  In the background Londinium blazed as the carnage and rape continued throughout the night.

  Chapter 23

  Verulamium — Eve of Disaster

  Patrius, Silernius and Marcellus were entering Verulamium at the head of a small detachment of the 9th Espana legion. When they drew level with the gate, the guards snapped to attention and saluted. They dismounted, walking to the colonnade, where the guards outside again saluted before running down the steps to take hold of the horses’ bridles.

  As they were making their way to the senate house, tired and saddle-sore, servants brought buckets of water for their thirsty mounts, as they waited for the ostlers to prepare clean stabling and hay. The horses drank deeply, watched by Silernius, who turned and dismissed the three guards with a flick of the wrist.

  He turned to Marcellus and Patrius, “Call Antonius and instruct him to dismiss the men, we are all exhausted,” he commanded. “Tell them they are all off duty until noon tomorrow and let them unwind in the meantime.”

  He hesitated then added, “But assemble in full marching order as instructed at midday sharp … tonight is theirs,” he said magnanimously, “they deserve it.”

  He glanced back at their mounts still guzzling, then added nodding towards them, “Don’t let them blow themselves out. Take the water away and give them oats, then tomorrow feed them hay. Have the city ostlers’ check the feet of all the cavalry horses at once, they will start a long march to Lindum tomorrow.”

  Antonius, the unit’s first centurion lined the men up and issued the order. The troop fell out, their joy obvious.

  “Wine, women, and song for them tonight, eh Antonius?”

  The centurion nodded, “Aye, the houses of pleasure will be as full as the ale huts tonight Silernius.”

  Now that they were off duty Antonius knew he could speak as a friend to his commander, the rigours of the march being over.

  Silernius removed his helmet, his forehead gleaming white against the caked dust on his face, down which rivulets of sweat had left clean lines, and the four of them walked a short distance together.

  “Where are you going commander?” asked Patrius.

  “The bath house,” Silernius answered, “to remove the sweat and grime of the journey. I stink Patrius! Then a meal and some good Rhenish wine to follow.”

  “I’ll drink to that and join you,” laughed Marcellus.

  “It sounds good to me, but I’ll take my wine at the cat house,” Patrius interjected.

  “Come with us Antonius. They say there are two new girls at the House of the Vixens, a beauty from Germania and a filly from Egypt. Both, they say well tutored in the arts of love.”

  Antonius turned towards him. “And the price is a month’s pay to boot, eh?”

  Silernius joined in, “No, Antonius on the contrary. There are so many slaves traded from the Regnenses and Cantiaci that for ten sesterces you can have the pick of the whores and all the Gallic wine you can drink, and you can sleep till morning with a girl to wash you before you return to duty.”

  “What’s the trading on a good slave newly bought?” asked Marcellus.

  “A large amphora of wine. Justinius took ten in battle last month and his cellars are now stocked with ten amphorae of the finest Rhenish vintage.”

  Patrius picked up his saddle blanket, “Well, Marcellus I need no further convincing, so lead us to this night of debauchery and drink.”

  Later that evening, as the sun started to disappear over the horizon, the three officers walked down the street of the Black Horse until they reached a stone-built dwelling that stood out from the other houses. As they drew near a drunken legionary, spilling a leather tankard of ale, lurched in front of them swearing.

  Silernius stepped forward and drawing his right arm back, struck the man a heavy blow on the side of his head, sending the miscreant sprawling into the muddy street. As he fell his helmet, which was loosely tied, rolled into a puddle of filthy water. Angrily the man sprang up, his hand making for his gladius, as he did so Patrius and Marcellus shouted simultaneously.

  “Stay!”

  Patrius, boiling with rage, shouted again, “Touch that hilt and the lictor will have the flesh of your back by morning — draw it and your hands will be on the crucifixion post by sundown.”

  The soldier stopped in his tracks, his eyes blearily trying to focus. Fortunately, long years of training had taught him to obey commands and the voices had been authoritative. Instinctively his hand dropped away as he recognised the three officers.

  “Sorry sir … sirs,” he mumbled, swaying from side to side, “I meant no offence, just a soldier’s night out sir.”

  Marcellus broke in angrily, “Your name and unit?”

  Instantly the man sobered, “Ostorias Scapula, decurion of the 9th Espana, sir.”

  “Very well, legionary, report back to your unit at once and tell centurion Diodorus Siculus, my section leader, that he has need of a decurion and has inherited a legionary into his ranks.”

  The decurion blanched visibly, by now stone cold sober.

  “Fourteen years it took me to make decurion commander, fourteen years of blood and sweat and only six to go before my settlement.”

  Marcellus did not bat an eyelid, “Report back at once with the message exactly as I gave it. In future you will learn to recognise an officer on sight.”

  The man saluted sullenly and left, Patrius calling after him sarcastically, “You could make decurion again in another fourteen years … if you live that long!”

  The three officers roared with laughter; the humbled legionary didn’t even glance back. Other soldiers who were standing outside the whorehouse had observed all this. Not one of them spoke, but one of the painted harlots who had come outside to witness the man’s discomfort now shouted out to them in a ribald voice, “Shame on you, Marcellus, robbing an honest girl of her living.” She turned to her companions, “He still had four sesterces left!”

  Marcellus laughed saying, “He could have had four of you for that!”

  She roared with laughter, “One sesterce, commander? You jest! He couldn’t have my cat’s arse for that.” The other whores broke out in a fit of giggles.

  “Blind Narcissus would take one denarius Patrius,” another shouted, “but then she looks like an old prune and not being able to see accepts anyone. Even the beggars can afford a screw.”

  The three officers moved on, followed by further jibes from the girls.

  “Where are you going, fine sirs?” one called, “Don't try the House of the She Wolves, you’ll get better value here than from those pampered milk sops on the Via Bella. Try real red-blooded women who will give you the lay of your lives!”

  Silernius called back, “We’re after clean, gentle ladies and good wine.”

  A beautiful black girl slowly unlaced her dress, revealing two firm ebony breasts, “How about two for the price of one, commander? Zara and me, one black, one white. Ten sesterces the pair of us special to you.”

  The men waved cheerfully and proceeded on their way. Moments later they were in the Via Bella, at a house whose sign depicted a large dog fox copulating with a vixen. The faces of the animals were cunningly contorted into expressions of sheer joy.

  A black slave prostrated herself as they entered, and an elegant woman in her early forties approached them, wearing a scarlet and gold robe, her eyes lighting up in recognition.

  “Greetings, Copelia,” said Silernius, “what delights do have you for us tonight?”

  “Does my lord refer to my wine or my women?” she asked coquettishly, “How about Rhenish wine and Gallic girls?”

  Marcellus put his arm around her, “No! Gallic wine and you, Copelia.”

  She half turned placing her hand over his mouth as she did so, “I am too expensive for you, Patrius,” she laughed, “anyway, the Madam does not sleep with the clients. But come, let me introduce you to …”

  Marcellus interrupted her, “Your Egyptian and your new Germanic girl. I kno
w.”

  She turned laughing, “So news spreads fast. Yes, the first is a jewel from the east and the other a gem from the west, which is just two women. Yet I observe that I have three lusty fellows to satisfy tonight.”

  Marcellus tried again, “I’ll take the two new girls for Patrius and Silernius, and I’ll still claim you, Copelia.”

  “Damn you,” she responded, “yet if you are so keen you shall have me, how can I deny you when you hast so much ardour.” She turned to a tall, svelte girl nearby. “Liguria, take noble Marcellus. Let me introduce you to the two new ones and see if we can satisfy your companions as easily as I have satisfied you.”

  They entered, through heavy beaded curtains, into a luxurious room where girls of every race and colour lounged on sofas and cushions. Some lay there naked and unashamed, others wore scanty beaded costumes or diaphanous silks from the orient, and many more wore togas and gowns of scintillating colours, their lips and cheeks rouged in the style of the painted harlot.

  Around the walls were painted frescoes of every known form of love, naked nymphs being ravished in woodlands by satyrs, voluptuous girls assuming every erotic pose that could be conceived, all illuminated by burning braziers and giant tallow candles set in recesses in the walls.

  A slave stood by a large brazier of glowing charcoal, sprinkling incense and perfumed oils upon it, which sent a heavy cloying perfume into the air, mixing with scent from the girls’ bodies. Music wafted, sweet and low from a woman harpist strumming her instrument in a corner, surrounded by dozens of oil lamps that threw a soft light onto her orange dress.

  At the far end was a mural depicting a gigantic phallus, from the tip of which coloured ribbons hung, like a maypole, held by naked nymphs who danced merrily in a circle. The graphic depictions of fellatio and cunnilingus on the walls were plentiful, and all the frescos were edged in beautiful scroll works of silver and gold, tastefully inlaid and coloured.

  Copelia walked around with her guests, describing in lurid detail the virtues and specialities of each of the girl in turn. She stopped by a strikingly beautiful Nubian, her jet-black skin oiled and perfumed.

  “This is Zangra, she is from the South Sudanis, a nation of proud men and gentle women. Here, feel her flesh.” She gently pinched the girl’s buttocks.

  Silernius obeyed willingly, pressing his hand against the black flesh of her supple breasts.

  “The black races are softer and more voluptuous than the white. They have an extra layer of fat that makes a delightful cushion for you when you love them.” She looked at Zangra, “Show them your charms girl.”

  The girl languidly stood up, letting her gossamer robe fall to the ground. Then she gently embraced Silernius, her body melting into his and as he felt his manhood stirring he reciprocated.

  “By the Gods Copelia, I swear I’ll take the first you show me. If your wine is as good, then I am a happy man this night.”

  Copelia snapped her fingers and a slave girl opened the heavy curtains. Within, seated on a couch, a beautiful Egyptian cradled an amphora of cool wine. Copelia gestured towards her.

  “This is the Egyptian girl I told you of and my special prize. Her name is Latif, that means ‘pretty’ in Arabic. You shall have her and Zangra, and all you can drink for fifteen sesterces.”

  Silernius pulled out the leather purse attached to his belt and counted fifteen coins. Then he pulled the curtain shut, touching his forehead in salutation as he did so.

  Happy at her client’s satisfaction, Copelia now led Patrius to a beauty sprawling at the end of a row of pastel cushions. As they approached the girl half raised herself from her prone position and glanced towards him. Patrius was clearly enchanted by her beauty; her long fair tresses plaited in the style of her people, her full ripe breasts pouting forth showing distinctly beneath the diaphanous robe she wore, her unblemished milk-white skin showing clearly through it.

  Patrius responded at once, “How much? Ten?”

  Copelia nodded, “Yes, ten, but wine is extra.”

  From Silernius’ cubicle sounds of laughter and love could be heard already. Patrius paid out his gold and took the girl into another cubicle. Chuckling, Copelia then looked towards Marcellus, “Now you have seen the young chicks I have to offer, do you still wish to roost with the hen?”

  Marcellus slipped his arm around her waist once more and led her to an empty space, “Aye, You have many years of experience, and I prefer that to a new and inexperienced chit of a girl … come.”

  As the three men satiated themselves behind the partitions, slave boys and girls ran about everywhere in the bordello, ready to indulge the men’s every wish, whether for wine, fruit, or honey to sustain their energies. The girls within the enclave gossiped and giggled as they waited for more clients. These were not long in coming. Soon an overweight, balding senator arrived with his son, a weedy, spotty youth. One or two of the girls hastily made excuses to absent themselves from the choosing.

  “My stomach, Liguria,” one called. “I’m about to pay my tribute to the moon, I fear. It has come upon me early.”

  Liguria frowned, “Copelia will fine you ten sesterces if you are lying. Be gone girl.”

  She then led the newcomers around the seated whores who gave false smiles, and offered platitudes until the selections were made and the price demanded paid.

  As a harlot led the youth away, the senator addressed Liguria, “Pity, I fancied that wench who was taken ill with her moon cycle, but no bother, I am happy with the one I have chosen.” He slipped two extra sesterces in Ligurias hand, “Tell her companion to be gentle with my son — it is his first time.”

  Hours had passed since the dawn attack; within the space of a morning Londinium had been razed to the ground and all slain. Throughout the city giant plumes of acrid black smoke still spiralled skywards.

  The last boats had long since fled down the river, but unbeknown to them the Celts had skilfully sealed all the escape routes off, even from the river. An advance party had felled an old oak tree, making passage impossible. When the boats rounded a bend in the river they struck the trunk and overturned; then volley after volley of arrows from both banks slew the occupants as they frantically made for the safety of land, and soon the water beyond the oak was stained scarlet with blood.

  By the waterside where the tannery warehouses had stood, the Celtic warriors relaxed amongst the still smouldering ashes. The river area was the only large space left that was comparatively cool, as the interior of the town was filled with the heat of the glowing embers of the razed buildings. Boudicca and Corrianus sat and refreshed themselves by the water.

  The Iceni Queen wrinkled her nose,“Are you sure this is the best place to stop and eat? There is the most awful stench. What is it?”

  Corrianus pointed to the blackened shell of a large building, “Hides. It was a tannery, it’s the stink of burnt leather.”

  Boudicca shrugged, “Pity, we could have used them, but fire has no boundaries.”

  A group of Celts had descended into the water, washing away the blood of battle and cleaning their soot encased faces. One had removed all his clothes and was examining a jagged wound spreading from his buttocks to his thigh, which was still bleeding profusely.

  “I see it missed your manhood Salla!” Boudicca laughed at him, “But you would be advised to have the hot irons seal it fast, you are losing much blood.”

  Salla cleaned the wound in the river water and grimaced, “The cure Boudicca, is worse than the injury, but I will see the wise woman and get it done.”

  He started to leave the river, when a movement by one of the posts, that were all that remained of the warf, attracted his attention. Reaching Boudicca he placed his kirtle around himself as one of the wise women who always followed in the wake the army started to pound leaves and honey to poultice the wound.

  “Queen,” he uttered, “I thought I saw a movement beneath the wharf and it was not a fish. I think we should investigate.”

  Boudicca strai
ned her eyes but saw nothing, “Tarsa, take two men and check, it is a good place for an assassin to hide.”

  The three Celts slipped into the murky water and made their way towards the oak supports, still standing, and Tarsa gave a jubilant shout.

  “What is it Tarsa?” Corrianus called.

  Tarsa was stood there laughing, up to his waist in water, “I have found a beached seal. Look!”

  Immediately tribesmen and women ran to the waters edge, where, clinging to a support and shivering with cold was Ophelia, one hand holding tight to an iron mooring-ring. It was immediately suspected she was the avaricious and cruel widow of Guntiarus, an evil tribune in his day who had amassed great wealth from plundering the tribes.

  “Where are those servants who took up arms with us in the attack, you know, the ones who sent us reports on the defences here?” said Corrianus.

  A boy ran forward, “I know them,” he called.

  “They were the ones from the great house we burned on the hill — the one with the patterned floor of marble. They are feasting over there.”

  Boudicca’s interest was aroused,“Find them lad, I smell sport here.”

  Minutes later the eight men appeared who had been the litter bearers for their gigantic mistresses palanquin. One of them had an eye half closed and swollen from where she had struck him with her heavily bejewelled hand at the water’s edge the day before. The men were nervous, wondering why they had been summoned.

  “Look under the remains of the pier,” said Tarsa, “and tell me what you see.”

  Even more curious now, the group approached and on seeing Ophelia a resounding cry went up.

  “It is our mistress Ophelia, the great sow herself, who left us to die, or so she thought, at your hands Boudicca.”

  One of the ex-servants stepped forward angrily, “That cow beat us for the slightest misdemeanour and often just for the sake of it, or for pleasure. She’s not human.”