by Ralph Harvey
“Far beyond dear Altus, far, far beyond, I give so much of myself to them,” Caesar preened, “but tell me your news.”
Altus unfolded the scroll, “It is bad news imperial one, our three greatest cities in Britannia have fallen.” He paused. “The capital, Camulodunum, Londinium the great commerce centre and our greatest garrison town, Verulamium. Only Lindum remains. And that too will shortly fall.”
Nero’s face was a mask. To Altus’ surprise he did not even blink an eyelid. Encouraged, Altus continued, “The ninth Legion has been massacred, the fourteenth and twentieth decimated and what remains are outnumbered by over twenty five or more to one.”
Caesar spoke softly. “And Poenius Postumus of the second Augusta? ”
Altus shook his head. “He has refused to march from Siluria. He sent word that if he abandoned the western front he would march with but four thousand men and let out some three hundred thousand barbarian Silures or more through the passes he and his men had vacated. He insists on holding the outlets.”
Nero was deep in thought, “And if he had marched? Would Suetonius have been able to salvage the situation?”
“I know not Caesar, I am a senator not a general. I only present you with what I know.”
Caesar signalled the girl close,“More wind girl. Fan harder, far harder. Poor Altus has the sun on him also, be kind girl.”
Obediently the slave girl started to fan more vigorously sending waves of cool air over them both.
“And where is Suetonius now Altus?” Caesar asked.
“He makes a last stand, on the plains of Mancetter. But that news was the situation some days ago, it has taken five days for the courier to make the coast, one for the crossing from Britannia to Gaul and four for him to reach Rome. The news is ten days old.”
“And Boudicca?” Nero insisted.
“She has the remnants of the legions boxed in a valley on the edge of the plain. Over two hundred thousand Celts are gathered for the final assault, and Suetonius had less than six thousand soldiers fit to fight and possibly two thousand injured, walking wounded, hardly capable of fighting. Nero, it appears that all is lost, and Britannia too.”
Caesar clasped his fists in anger, “And Poenius Postumus refused to march to his aid. Why Altus?”
Altus was taken aback by the sudden outburst, “Like I explained Caesar if he abandons the border, three hundred thousand Celts could flood through and then the Caledonians and Damnonii would undoubtedly push from the north. Only Poenius Postumus and his men can avert this by holding the passes in Siluria.”
“Nonsense!” Nero roared, “I sent orders for him to march.” He looked at Altus pathetically “The Gods guide me Altus, knowing my arts they send dreams to me, that is why Britannia is now lost. For now, when the Iceni Queen has slain Suetonius and slaughtered his legions, what will she do? Think Altus, think like me.”
“What great Caesar? Tell me what was revealed to you?”
Caesar adjusted his robes carefully, flicking at a small insect that had alighted on him.
“Yesterday Altus a butterfly came to me as I played, such beauty was sent to me by the Gods, as a sign of approval.”
Altus, having no sudden retort, remained silent.
“Poenius Postumus will find Boudicca on his back and the Silures to his front.”
Altus nodded his head affirmatively, “I fear so Caesar.”
“Why did they not listen to me?” Nero bemoaned. “Britannia is lost. Such humiliation: a barbarian Queen has crossed swords with the might of Rome, and won.”
Nero was thoughtful, “It is still my belief that Suetonius was an able general. But Poenius Postumus betrayed him.” He looked at Altus, his eyes once more assuming a far away look, then added, “But the fates were against him Altus. The hand of fate was against him. If only you mortals would learn, you cannot escape destiny.”
Altus was silent as Caesar continued, “Only a God like me can escape fate. We make our own.” He gave a great sigh, “Poor Suetonius.”
He rose and embraced Altus. “I shall compose a song for him tonight and you shall hear it first Altus. May the Old Gods grant him and his men a soldiers death for the heroes they are.” He looked heavenward, “And let them die as Romans.”
He turned to the girl gesturing with his hand, “Hurry back girl and have a seat sent for Altus, and another girl to fan him.” He smiled sweetly at Altus. “Be seated dear friend, I shall play for you, and you alone until the sun sets tonight.”
Altus’s face never moved a muscle.
Back in Boudicca’s camp row upon row of severed heads of the fallen Romans stood impaled upon stakes, Boudicca raced her chariot triumphantly along the two rows of their remains gesticulating wildly.
“Gather, gather,” she cried, “the last of the Romans retreat. This time tomorrow will see the end of this scourge on our land.”
Around her the crowds started to gather.
“The Romans have fled to the valley below the stone hill and are encamped at its base, they have set their own snare, and there is no way out, load the war wagons! Gather up the children, girls, boys, babies. Get all to attend and witness what I, Boudicca will deliver unto the Roman invaders. Let the scribes and priests record for all time, how this day, the Roman yoke was broken for ever.”
Boudicca
Noon on the final day, and slowly, with measured tread, the strung out lines of horses and chariots approached. Behind en masse were Trinovantes, Iceni, Coritani, Atrebates, Parisi and Catuvellauni and more. Scouts on swift Silurian ponies continuously observed the Romans’ positions ever alert for movement, but the Roman front line inscrutable and silent remained fast.
One soldier muttered in an aside to his companion nearby, “Three years ago twenty lashes for brawling and a clean record ever since, and what do I get? Bloody tribune comes up looks straight at me an reads me record sheet. ‘Right Marcus,’ he says, ‘now get you in the front line and make atonement to Rome for what you did.’ It makes you sick.”
His companion slyly looked up the line, assuring himself they were not observed talking, “Me too. I back answered a decurion, that’s all I did, a bloody decurion, a master of ten poor bastards, and only yesterday he was in the line like one of us, a common soldier and gets promoted. An ex-mate reports me, now I’m sentenced to certain bloody death in the field.”
A third soldier joined in, “Fat chance we’ve got. If we hold the first charge we can fall back, but them,” he gestured to the forlorn group of a mere fourteen souls 100 metres in front of them, “They’re goners for sure.”
The men instinctively looked at the group he referred to.
Catus Decianus and Silentarius of the 20th Legion stood there forlornly, their banner and divisional standard displayed on full view, openly challenging Boudicca. The whole unit was resolutely awaiting the certain tide of death that was coming to engulf them. Human bait, to ensure Boudicca’s lust for revenge would lure her into the trap being set for her.
Fourteen damned souls, the very same unit that had flogged her and raped her daughters and had thus started the revolt, had been placed to the fore openly challenging her. Grim faced and pale they were placed away from the front line and their comrades very, very alone and susceptible.
Taut as bowstrings the Roman front waited as Boudicca’s massive army inexorably narrowed the gap between them until they could clearly be recognised. With Boudicca’s chariot leading the field triumphantly, they watched while a horseman, his steed foam flecked, raced up to her.
“Mighty Queen. At the fore is the banner of the 20th legion and by it, shamelessly, stands the standards of the 11th division. While in front stand the brutes that flogged you. By the God Ba’al they mock us.”
Boudicca’s face exploded in fury, “Fetch Agrippa forward, command him to bring ropes and command him to ensnare Catus and any others at the fore are taken alive. A soldier’s death is not for them.”
He struck his chest in the ancient style, “So be it Queen
, it shall be done. This day we shall avenge you and your kin.”
Boudicca focused her eyes on the Roman front line where, as reported, was a small line of men, flagrantly displaying the banner of the twentieth legion, while the divisional standard of the 11th fluttered besides it. Fourteen figures could plainly be seen, and in the centre was the short thick-set figure of the bull necked tax enforcer Catus Decianus.
As the Iceni Queen recognised her hated opponents, her gall rose, and shaking with emotion she could hardly contain herself in her anxiety to close with them, vent her spleen upon them, and eradicate the memory of the fateful day she and her daughters had suffered at their hands.
Steeling herself she regained her composure. Boudicca the general took over from Boudicca the woman and as her temper subsided she called Agrippa and her war generals over, and gave her final instructions. Briefed, they returned to their divisions, regrouped, then mounted and rode out to meet the enemy.
Moments later the lines of the Boudiccan army started to move forward. Steadily they gathered speed, from a walk to a trot they came on, in perfect formation, from a trot to a canter. Their eagerness for battle showed in every movement of their bodies as hard grim faced men relished the coming conflict.
Standing aloft, her war bonnet polished and gleaming, was their leader Queen Boudicca. Her targ on the arm that was holding the reins and the other hand holding her throwing spear aloft.
Driving the chariot a half circle, she pointed the head of her throwing spear at the enemy lines, cracking the reins across her horses’ rumps she threw them into full gallop crying out just one word, “CHARGE!”
From the canter a line of unfettered fury now galloped pell-mell at Catus Decianus and the doomed thirteen men gathered behind him. With a resounding crash, the lines met in a clash of iron and wood. Agrippa and a companion chariot raced forward with a raised rope strung between the two at knee height, and brought Catus and his fellow conspirators crashing down. With a deft movement Catus Decianus was roped by one leg as the chariot turned in mid charge, then the charioteer galloped back with his victim to the wagons full of women and children who had gathered behind the pagan army to witness the destruction of the last of the legions.
Catus being dragged behind screamed out in both agony and fear, desperately trying to throw off the rope, but to no avail, then they reached the gathered old men and women. Loosing the ropes, the deeply grazed body of Catus Decianus was thrown clear, rolling over and over with its own momentum. Half conscious he laid there panting, while not a soul moved. Then with one accord the women raced forward and dragged the screaming Roman away.
Hundreds of hate filled eyes looked down on the prostrate figure of the man who had humbled their Queen, and whose innate brutality had brought so much misery upon the Celtic nation. Like a cornered animal he lay there panting, and waiting.
Rough hands stripped him, and then shorn like a lamb he was carried into the centre of the mass. Triumphantly they staked him out naked as the day he was born. He saw an old crone stumbling forward, a ghastly scar running across her face, which crossed where one eye and her nose had once been, grimly she produced an emasculating knife.
“Now rapist,” she snarled, “let death start where conception begins.”
An aged patriarch grinned malevolently, “By Hades itself that whelp will curse the very mother that gave birth to him now.”
Meanwhile, the battlefield at the front line had exploded into a frenzy of activity. The first melee was short, bloody and brutal, as men went down shouting under the barbarian tide. Spears and swords were stabbing at the legs and arms of the thirteen remaining front men.
Two blue daubed warriors who came streaking in on horseback made straight for the hated emblems, and snatched the 20th banner and the divisional standard of the 11th. Taking hold of his target, one of them raced away with it, but the Roman standard bearer clung fervently to it, refusing to release his grip on the most holy of holies to the legion. No banner had ever been taken from the twentieth since the legion had been formed, and its battle honours were many, and no one was going to take it now.
His hand still grasped it firm, in a vain and glorious attempt to save it. A Celt, seeing the soldier being dragged along, raced forward and raising his sword, brought it down on the man’s arm, severing it at the wrist with a single blow. The wounded man struggled to rise, the stump pumping blood, then his eyes glazed over and he collapsed back amongst the fallen, in the second line a centurion seeing what was happening alerted his men.
“By Jupiter they are taking them alive and they have the standards too!” Raising his gladius he launched the line forward “Save the standards, save those men! Do not let them fall into Boudicca’s hands. On, on, ON!”
The second line of defence needed no further bidding. Seeing their fallen comrades being dragged along, they followed their centurion into the fray.
Seutonius, who was observing every facet of the battle, waited on high ground with a group of runners and horsemen, ready to carry his orders to any section of the battleground, while the signallers stood alongside with their brightly burnished plates facing the sun ready to transmit his orders to the places the runners couldn’t get to.
“Pluto’s blood the front line are charging,” Suetonius exclaimed angrily, “why? I commanded them to stand fast. By the Gods I shall hang that centurion when this battle is over for disobeying orders.”
Marcus who stood by his side nodded his head grimly while he watched the carnage ensuing before him. “None will return to take your punishment Suetonius, that is for sure. I understand your reactions as supreme commander, but you should rejoice sir, for what you are seeing is the spirit of the legion. They go to protect their compatriots,” his eyes misted up as he added,“or die in the attempt.”
The two men gazed in horror as the Celts forced the spear-like shafts of the standards down the fallen men’s throats. While they were engaged in their grisly work, the second line fell upon them. Wave after wave of Roman soldiers hurled themselves into the thick of the fighting to prevent the standards being taken, only to be met by even greater numbers of Celts anxious to engage them. Only the screams of the dying and tortured could be heard. Not one Roman had made it through the Celtic front line.
Regrouping her forces Boudicca was satisfied with her progress. The first round was hers. She had outwitted Suetonius and captured the evil Catus Decianus with her cunning trap and the Roman commander had fallen for it. The torturing of the fallen had precipitated his second line of legionnaires to charge in a vainglorious attempt to save them, only to fall under the Iceni war clubs.
Racing her chariot up and down the lines she taunted Suetonius Paulinus to charge, but the Roman commander, stony faced and impassive refused to be tempted. Tiring of the game, she ceased her perambulations and returned to the line. Corrianus and four war chiefs attended her.
“They will not be drawn Queen, they know their only chance is to hold their ground, yet the valley they have chosen will be their grave, they are boxed in on all sides and dare not move.”
Boudicca studied the terrain carefully, “I estimate there are less than seven thousand left, take ten units of a thousand and order them to strike the left flank, while another ten strike on the right and try to turn the line. I will lead twenty sections of a thousand and hit them head on. They will be unable to guard all fronts.” She turned to Corrianus, “Take fifty units of a thousand and follow me in a second wave. I will break through to try and make an opening for you then let the rest follow; none shall miss seeing their destruction.”
Corrianus gazed at the hilltop where Marcus and Suetonius were staring ahead unmoving.
“By nightfall great Roman your head will be displayed outside my tent, for all to see the might of Boudicca! I vow it!” she shouted.
Suetonius meanwhile was watching her troop movements, “See Petronius?” He pointed, “She gathers to attack. Consolidate the forward post with spearmen and archers.” He paused, “It
is now I wish I had that second line to fragment her charges. But no matter, the terrain here has the value of a full legion to me, or more.” He looked out at them again, “She’s coming,” he uttered, “she’s going to go for it. Stand ready and move into position as soon as she starts.”
As he watched the men running to obey him, Suetonius sat down on his stool and waited.
At the valley mouth the tribes were now poised, each under their own war chiefs and leaders.
“Let them know we are coming,” Boudicca shouted, “sound your horns, and bring your drums and let them know the fear that precedes death.”
Instantly each unit sent a blast towards the Romans like rolling thunder through the hills, then like a mass of ants they moved. Once more, they gathered speed, Boudicca to the fore, until they were just within bow range, then levelling her spear she gave the order.
“NOW!”
Obeying her, each detachment raced forward, anxious to gain credit as the first to break through and receive the honour due.
Boudicca herself hurtled forward and closed on the forward units of auxiliary. Stabbing to left and right she cut a swathe through them and close behind her, the first wave of chariots came on as hell on wheels shattered the Roman line, sending the defenders racing to the safety of high ground. Swerving her chariot to left and right, the great blades wreaked havoc on the fleeing men as a reserve line of hardened veterans counter-attacked her.
Armour and chariot clashed as the massed vehicles swept through the ranks. From the sides the legionaries engaged the occupants as swords swung against flesh and bone. Brutal, bloody conflict had erupted along the whole line, yet still her army broke through and was bearing down hard on Suetonius.
Full tilt they raced forwards, their wheels grinding over the fallen, three lines of chariots. They seemed completely unstoppable; no human force, no matter how disciplined, could possibly withstand that great glorious charge, nor the thousands of cavalry thundering behind.