by Ralph Harvey
Close on their heels, the masses of Celtic foot warriors came on, slaying any fallen survivors as they too entered the neck of the valley. Suetonius calmly held his ground as he saw the chariots converging. From six feet apart, they were four, then two, then they came on side by side, where barely a sword blade could penetrate between them. As the valley narrowed sharply the wheels started to grind against each other and wood started to disintegrate with the friction.
Frantically the charioteers tried to check their horses but the resounding noise of splintering wood, interlaced with the odd sound of stanchions breaking away only served to stampede the beasts further.
In the midst of the maelstrom they struck marsh and rock, and instantly, in a welter of iron and wood, the chariots disintegrated. Wheels were smashed by rocks and fossae and severed from axles, Hafts snapped, as horses, riders and war wagons went down. The marsh left the remaining horses floundering, only to break their legs as each chariot crashed onto the next. Within minutes scarce a stones throw from the line of legionaries a mass of wreckage, dying horses, and men with broken limbs lay scattered like a giant charnel house.
The entire time, Suetonius’ eyes were fixed on one chariot, and one only — Boudicca’s. As he watched a scythe on one of her wheels struck the wreckage of an overturned chariot and snapped, fracturing the wheel haft in the process and sending it on a crazy careering course completely out of control. Boudicca’s horses now meeting a further pile of wreckage in their flight attempted to jump it together. The Celtic Queen’s eyes flashed in horror as her vehicle rose in the air in a great arc, then as the horses landed their legs buckled and the hafts snapped in the process, sending Boudicca flying forward.
With a resounding thump she struck the ground heavily, then the remains of her chariot crashed on top of her. Battered and bleeding she crawled out and staggered around, completely dazed, then fell again. Her indomitable spirit however never left her as once more she attempted to regain her feet, struggling to draw her sword in the process.
The Roman leader, watching all the while smiled gently, “Now we have her. Take her alive! She is helpless now. Hurry to the left and right of her and bring her in.”
His words had hardly echoed when to his horror he saw a legionary in the front rushing at the fallen Queen. Rising his pila on high the legionary struck home with all his force. Even in her semi-conscious state Boudicca’s instincts were still with her, as the man lunged forward she deflected the spike with her arms, sending it away from her heart, but from her prone position she was unable to prevent the impact.
Passing through her forearm it penetrated just above her right breast, biting deep into her lungs. Placing his foot on her chest the soldier heaved and retrieved the blade, then prepared to give the death thrust.
The carnage around them increased as the Celtic foot army was desperately trying to clamber over the debris to engage the Romans.
Corrianus, to the fore, saw the Roman raise his arms once more and hurled his great war spear with unerring accuracy at him. True to its mark it struck the man in the chest with such force that the metal plates on his armour buckled as the warhead went through. With a gasp the man dropped his pila and fell across his victim, dead.
Corrianus now was winging his way through to his fallen lover, cutting down all in his way. Seeing the two Roman units leave Suetonius’ side, he foresaw their intent.
“Declan!” he roared, “Concentrate your bowmen on them!” Declan, seeing the danger signalled his men and soon a cascade of arrows were striking home preventing any further advance.
By now Corrianus was at Boudicca’s side, and with one hand he hauled the cadaver off her, sending the body hurtling in the direction of Suetonius. Even the great Roman commander was amazed at the brute strength of Corrianus, and his hardened heart reacted when he saw how gently he picked up his fallen lover. A great silence ensued amongst the Roman officers as Boudicca’s eyes flickered open and she lovingly embraced the giant.
Then, Suetonius pulled himself together as the soldier in him came to the fore. “Take those two — hurry.” He looked at the Roman dead who had fallen under Declan's arrows, “Don’t let them get away! Advance under a shield wall.”
Swiftly the men mustered but now Declan was sending fire arrows to the front, each covered in fir, pine and gorse bracken that had been soaked in pitch. As the arrows embedded themselves in the ground an acrid pall of black smoke arose obscuring everything.
Lacillus meanwhile had fought his way through with a horse and chariot that had survived the charge.
“Corrianus,” he called, “over here.” Corrianus, recognising him, staggered towards him and moments later Boudicca’s heavily bleeding body was laid inside. Lacillus jumped off.
“Go without me Corrianus, less weight will give you more speed.” Then he was gone.
Corrianus turned the chariot and with a great roar whipped the horses forward. A light breeze had sprung up and his escape was clearly visible to Suetonius.
“Dead or alive take them. Don’t let them escape; stop that sorceress!”
Corrianus was sending the horses crashing over a field of dead bodies in his anxiety to save his Queen. Paulus, who had been studying the battle’s progress, decided that this was the moment to counter-attack. Launching his forces forward they closed with the tightly packed mass of warriors, launching pila after pila into their midst.
Seeing the action the Roman bowmen on the hillsides contributed to the carnage, sending volley after volley of arrows home, then as the Celts fell the Romans charged from the valley’s sides.
Meanwhile the Romans by Suetonius were firing arrows at the fleeing chieftain unsuccessfully, as the experienced Corrianus swerved and dived as he fled. Then Cassius drew a long arrow, pulled it to full fletch and watched as Corrianus started a half turn; he was forced to check the horses because of wreckage. It was the moment Cassius had been waiting for. As Corrianus’ back was exposed he let go, sending the deadly missile towards him.
The haft struck Corrianus squarely between the shoulder blades, and with a gasp he sank to his knees, then cracked the horses across their rears.
Suetonius could only stop and fume, in a strange mixture of chagrin and euphoria, on the one hand he had achieved the mortal wounding of both Boudicca and Corrianus, only to see them both escape.
“Good shot Cassius! The beast is done for, he is a dead man, but where does the vehicle go?”
As he watched, the chariot sped away into the distance and he saw it climbing up a steep section of the hill away from the main battle. To his amazement, Corrianus was standing up and urging the horses on, blood surging from the wound made by the arrow that protruded from his back. Within minutes the chariot had disappeared from sight.
“Why did he take that route Suetonius?” Paulus asked, “Why did he not head back to his army?”
Suetonius’ eyes swept the valley, “By the Old Gods, look!” he exclaimed, “They are like ants on the ground. The whole Celtic nation must be here. But see, the valley mouth is blocked by their own people who have come to watch.”
On the battleground the Celts were falling in their thousands, hemmed in by the sides of the valley and the front of rock and marsh that was unassailable, they were so tightly packed they could not manoeuvre an inch. It was a killing ground.
Turning, they tried to retreat but what Suetonius had just seen was to seal their fate. Pouring into the valley in the wake of the chariots, cavalry and footmen, hundreds upon hundreds of ox carts, horse-drawn carts and handcarts had appeared — each piled high with old men, women and children who had come to see the destruction of the Romans, and later to glean the battlefield for spoils. Now there was no escape for the Celts.
Paulus turned to Suetonius, “What do we do commander? There are tens of thousands of women and children flooding in behind them.”. Suetonius held his breath as all the officers stood in silence awaiting his command, then after what seemed an age, he spoke coldly.
“
Remember Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium.” He let his words sink in. “Remember the fate of the civilian population when the Celtic horde moved in. Harden your hearts and slay all. The child that dies today will not grow up to be your enemy tomorrow. Do your duty, and think only of what you found in those towns after they had fallen. There can be no mercy for man, woman, or child, young or old.”
Stone faced the next line of legionnaires marched out to do battle and to avenge the slaughter of the people who had perished when the three major towns had succumbed to the Celtic hordes.
Chapter 27
The Fall Of Valeria
As the reserve line of Romans swept forward, the Celts launched one last vainglorious counter attack, but by now the writing was already on the wall. With Boudicca fallen, the Romans now concentrated their attack upon the Celtic leaders still remaining. As volley after volley of pilas were hurled, one by one the flower of the Celtic nation fell. Leaderless, the Boudiccan army, hemmed in on all sides, fell into disarray. Valeria, her face set grimly, hurled herself forward, striking in all directions with unerring accuracy.
Settan, one of the last major chieftains still surviving attempted to reach her but now he too fell alongside his friend, transfixed by an arrow that had come from nowhere and struck him full in the face. Valeria leapt to the fore, swinging her war sword in a scythe of death, cutting an avenue of blood and flesh deep into the Roman hordes, while her companions were systematically decimated around her.
Marcus, who was leading the Roman attack on the Celtic front line, was suddenly confronted by a heavily tattooed warrior swinging a double-headed axe on high. Throwing up his shield in defence he prepared to accept the blow, but such was the giant’s power that the axe split his shield right down to the ornate boss, striking Marcus’ shoulder and left arm in the process. As the warrior attempted to retrieve the jammed blade now firmly embedded in leather and wood, Marcus struck an upward blow at the man’s midriff.
With a scream of agony, the Celt jumped back, letting go of the axe in the process, his hands falling instinctively to his stomach from which his intestines now started to protrude, his bloodied hands seeking to contain them.
The job done, Marcus now freed himself from the weight of the axe, still embedded in the shield, allowing it to drop, his left arm lifeless at his side. Dropping to one knee he tried to stay conscious, as wave after wave of agony overcame him, for the axe had bitten deep and the wound was life threatening.
Blackness started to come upon him, slowly he felt his senses start to leave him as he began to slip into unconsciousness. He was abruptly brought back to reality, as a woman’s scream spun him sharply out of his trauma. Even in his agony he knew who had uttered the cry; it was Valeria.
“Help me,” Marcus cried to one of his soldiers, “support me. Support me.”
Obediently one of the Romans raced forward and placed his arm around his stricken commander, raising him to his feet once more. There, only feet away from him, was Valeria, hacking her way towards the Roman standard. But having penetrated the Roman line so deeply, she was swiftly becoming encompassed by enemy troops.
As they closed in upon her, Marcus screamed an order incoherently, “Stay! Fall back — fall back. Stop fighting.”
At the sound of his voice, Valeria, now cornered by a group of Romans, dropped her guard, “Marcus!” she cried, as recognition dawned on her, “oh, Marcus.”
But Marcus’ words fell on deaf ears, for the Romans, whose backs were turned towards him, could not hear above the din and screams of the battle.
As Valeria dropped her sword arm at seeing him a burly Roman, seizing his opportunity, drew his gladius back and with one thrust struck deep into her left breast whilst simultaneously his companion hurled a pila, striking her low in the abdomen.
Sinking to her knees, she looked at him, one hand reaching out to Marcus who now started to stumble towards her, his arms likewise outstretched. Here on the bloodiest battlefield in history a strange love was cemented. Her eyes glazed, she slumped forward as the Roman soldiers, their jobs done, moved on to further conquests and the slaughter of the wounded.
Marcus was swaying, transfixed with horror. In the haze of blood and agony that enveloped him, he did not see the great swinging blow of the war club from a mortally injured Celt nearby, which sent him into oblivion. To his side a riderless chariot thundered past, one wheel going over his leg, but Marcus felt nothing.
Thrace
Back in Thrace Olsa wandered the farm in a fit of melancholy, her mind constantly flickering back to her soldier son who was now but a distant memory. How fondly she thought of her boy and the happy times they had spent together. Before he had been conscripted.
She was sad as she mused how he was destined to be a farmer and one day manage their smallholding. Soldiering was not for him, yet now he was destined to serve for twenty-five years in a profession he despised.
Her mind went back to those first faltering steps he had taken as he learned to walk, stumbling into his mother’s arms, then on to his youth and the days he would scale trees to bring back fruit and nuts; the times they had wandered the downs picking the great ripe blackberries to brew, then as a young man who repaired the roof and furrowed the earth as they sowed and ultimately reaped the harvest.
Sorrowfully she walked back, a milking bucket in each hand, towards the two milch cows she had purchased, followed by her flock of geese honking as they pestered her for food. Eventually responding to them she sunk her hand into a brimming corn vat and cast them their evening meal. Then sealing them in the outhouse to guard them from foxes and wolves she entered her dwelling.
There before her lay a small altar, a long tallow candle flickering upon it. Olsa noticing the candle was on its last legs, unfolded a section of cloth and removed another, lighting it from the near finished candle, then placing it before her personal deity she held her hands together in prayer.
“O Arrian,” she cried, “if only you could see the farm now. Every day since you left I’ve kept a flame burning which I will never let go out till you return.” She choked back a sob as the tears ran down her cheeks. “Great Jupiter I implore you please bring my boy home safe to me, I am so alone.” As she stood up a tear dropped silently to the floor.
She wandered over to a small recess in the hut and in the half-light her hands sought out a small bundle of material. Sobbing gently she cradled it to her face; it was the swaddling clothes she had first wrapped her beloved Arrian in on the day he was born. Unbeknown to her it was at this moment he was dying on a battlefield in the far-away, cold and dismal country they called Britannia.
Aftermath of Battle
As far as the eye could see, the valley floor was strewn with dead and dying men and horses, wrecked chariots, carts, Roman standards and splintered shields, the total carnage of war, in all its awfulness.
At the valley entrance, an even greater maelstrom of humanity and debris lay. Slaughtered oxen lay alongside butchered women and children; the grim reality of what had happened, was rapidly becoming even more evident.
Chariots and horses lay piled against the Celtic wagons, where whole families had gathered to witness the anticipated slaughter of the Romans, and the rich pickings to come, in the pillage that invariably followed. By this very action, they had condemned themselves to their horrendous fate, Boudicca’s chariots having been unable to retreat or regroup had been trapped against their own wall of wagons, and perished.
The victorious Romans in a frenzy of revenge and blood lust put the old and the young to the sword, alongside the sick, the lame, and the injured. None were spared. Even the young Celtic maidens were not captured for sport later, but had their throats cut on the spot.
At the rear, Marcus started to stir, as consciousness returned to him. He gave a gasp of pain, trying vainly to raise himself up, the riven shoulder now stiff and swollen, his right eye closed from the blow that had struck him unconscious.
Painfully he tried to rise, raisin
g himself on his one good arm when a sudden stabbing from his right leg signalled him that it had been broken in the melee. Glancing behind him he realised he was in the rear of any activity, only the grim stillness of death prevailed.
Ahead, halfway down the valley, a line of auxiliaries walked in single file dispatching any Celts they found while behind them the capsarius followed listening for the wounded crying for aid.
When they found one of their own injured there was a complete contrast in their demeanour, one moment there would be the utmost savagery as they found a stricken Celt and horrifically dispatched them, then a moment of compassion when they found a fallen Roman, brutal hands suddenly becoming soft.
Lying there he watched as the avenging line receded in the distance. Knowing it had passed over where he had last seen Valeria he feared the worst. Straining his eyes, he scanned the field of the dead looking in the direction he had last seen Valeria. As a light wind sprang up and he spotted a flutter of golden hair, ominously flecked with scarlet.
Laboriously he started to crawl towards her, pulling himself forward with his one good arm, propelling himself onward with his one good leg, then he was almost upon her. She was within his grasp, her mouth open, and her face pale and white. Reaching her he cradled her in his arms, looking down upon the still beautiful features.
“O Valeria, how I could have loved you, if only the fates had not decreed us to be enemies.”
He sat there stroking her hair. “If only things could have been different. Speak my love speak. Almighty Aphrodite, Goddess of love, I pray do not let her go.”
Almost miraculously Valeria’s eyes opened, and lovingly she raised her hands clasping them behind his neck, then pulling his head down she kissed him on the lips; and just as suddenly, the arms relaxed, her eyes closing for the last time. Valeria was at peace, the silence of the dead around them marred only by a human sobbing, as he cradled his lost love.