Danu

by T L Harty

  “Like Boudica?” I asked.

  Tracy was surprised by my question, and asked, “What do you know of Boudica?”

  “She was kind of a bad ass,” I smiled. “I know that her family was disgraced, which made her rise up in rebellion. She crushed a couple of Roman-occupied towns with her forces, and then fell to the Romans trying to return home.”

  “Ah yes,” Tracy exclaimed, “history according to Dio. He must have been such a joy with his delusions of reality. He once said that Boudica ‘possessed greater intelligence than often belongs to women.’ Can you believe that!? They don’t know what happened to Boudica,” Tracy said, defiantly. “One historian claims she killed herself…another that she was killed on the battle field. And there is no record of the daughters’ fate at all. Women were rarely mentioned in the annals of Roman history- especially women of the enemy.”

  Ever since Grammy and I had visited Boudica’s statue in London, I always hoped there was more to the story. “Do you know what happened to her?” I wondered, sitting up at full attention.

  “When Romans were invited to inhabit an area, like that of the Iceni,” Tracy spoke, “the Celt men there were forbidden to join the ranks of the Roman soldiers. And because of this, the men in the lowlands no longer had a reason to train or learn combat. They lost their skill, becoming weak as they filled positions in society that did not require strength- bakers, cobblers, craftsman, merchants, entertainers, etc.” Tracy was angered, but continued, “This is where our culture was impacted the most. Women were not needed for much of anything in Rome’s eyes.”

  “The year of Boudica’s rebellion isn’t known by historians. They believe it was 60 or 61 AD,” Tracy remarked. “And it is thought that the uprising occurred right after her husband’s death and subsequent mistreatment. It didn’t. As a matter of fact, the exact date of her husband’s death is unknown and was never recorded. Let me tell you what happened.”

  “Boudica’s husband, the king, died in 58 AD,” Tracy informed. “The Romans were prepared and sent a legion of men to Iceni before the king’s death. They were worried how the Iceni people would react to suddenly being under Roman rule. They knew exactly when the king would die because the Roman’s had planned to kill him. Rome grew tired of waiting and wanted all the money generated by the area- not just the taxes. They needed to pay their soldiers and further the boundary lines of their empire.”

  Tracy paused for a second, making sure I had absorbed all of this information. “Please,” I said, “don’t stop. Go on.”

  “Boudica did not rise up for almost two years,” Tracy shared. “She knew the Iceni territory had too many Centurions roaming around and that many citizens had pledged their allegiance to Rome out of fear. Boudica and her daughters started to impose their sweat spells on important men from Rome, but the most important Romans that they got their hands on were the messengers. They would share all communications with Boudica and her daughters. It was discovered that just before the spring of 60 AD, there would be an attack on the Island of Mona, which is modern day Anglesey in Wales. This island was a refuge for Roman opposition. However, the island of Mona held something vastly more important- the druid order. The Druids had the power to unite the people against Rome. Rome had to do away with this religious power that strengthened their enemy’s resolve.”

  Tracy continued, “Boudica sent a warning to the island well before the attack. Half the inhabitants were chosen to evacuate because it was vital their line be continued. I’m sure you and I were related to some of those people who left the island…and some who did not.”

  “Back in Iceni, Boudica worked to gather all the forces she had roused in the highlands and surrounding areas over the last year. She sent word for lookouts to watch for the Romans marching toward Mona. The next day, at sunrise, the rebel forces were to meet outside Camulodunum. The town was Roman, which meant it would burn to the ground. Suetonius Paulinus, the Roman general fighting in Mona, received word of the revolt. He figured all Roman-occupied towns were at risk, so he hurried back to attempt a foothold in Londinium, modern day London. When he arrived, there were not enough troops to hold the town. Boudica’s numbers were too large. So, he evacuated Londinium of any able-bodied Romans that could leave before Boudica’s attack.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I observed. “What happened to all the soldiers that Rome had sent?”

  “Quite a few of them were still at or near Mona,” Tracy explained. “I think the general believed as you do. Suetonius thought when he arrived in London; there would have been more support. He assumed centurions would have come from Iceni and other surrounding areas to defend their territories.”

  Tracy laughed, “Boudica had used the messengers to send false instructions. She commanded the Roman legion in Iceni to stay put as the campaign in Mona raged, in fear of revolt. She and her daughters had also been plucking Roman soldiers with their sweat spell. When her daughters were being raped, Boudica stared at the faces of the men so she would remember. Those are the men that drank of her sweat. Those soldiers did not deserve to be saved by Conchobar. Over time, she would approach these men with a small flagon of spirits laced with sweat. She acted as though she was inebriated. Inevitably, they would snatch it from her and drink the remaining liquid in one gulp. They were now under Boudica’s control and fought within her forces.”

  Tracy added. “As she continued her conquests, she would put more men under her spell. After Londinium was burned, she attacked Verulanium. Boudica knew that Suetonius was gathering forces to meet her. There was no more time to go after Roman cities. The general assumed she would be headed north, back home to Iceni after Verulanium’s destruction. But, only bad memories remained there. She traveled with her troops west through the Cotswolds, avoiding Bath, as the Romans built a new town there. Her forces entered modern-day Wales, and headed west to the tip of Demetae, where Celts in the Volc tribe reunited them with any refugees that had fled from Mona.”

  “And from there,” Tracy sighed, “Boudica and all who wanted to go, sailed to the misty shores of the Irish coast. The Romans called it ‘Hibernia,’ which meant land of winter. Our Celtic people called it Iweriu. The Celtic people used to say that Iweriu absorbed all the people the waves brought ashore.”

  “When my Grammy and I were visiting England, they said that Boudica and her rebels had fallen to Suetonius,” I mentioned. “They didn’t know the exact location, but how could the records of history be so different from your account?”

  “Oh, I know what they said,” Tracy echoed. “There were only two written accounts of the history we speak about. One was written by Tacitus who was four years old when the events took place. The other was written by Dio who was born in 155 AD- almost one hundred years after Boudica’s uprising. Even the two of them didn’t agree on many so-called facts. Dio did not mention anything about Boudica or her daughter’s mistreatment at the hands of the Romans after her husband’s death. Rather, Dio claimed their family owed so much tax to Rome that their homes and belongings had to be taken.”

  “In Dio’s version of the fictional battle against Suetonius and Boudica, Dio’s account says that Boudica’s forces numbered 230,000 rebels.” Tracy questioned, “If Boudica’s forces numbered that high, how much more powerful must the Roman centurions be to overcome them? That kind of twist to history worked in Rome’s favor. Dio wrote that 80,000 Britons fell and only 400 Romans. His account also said that they met on a narrow strip of field.”

  Tracy shook her head in disbelief, and asked, “Do you mean to tell me that over 80,000 dead soldiers were on a narrow strip of field and the exact location could never be identified? And if I were to do the math that would leave 150,000 of Boudica’s people. Did they just decide to pack it in and go home? That notion is ridiculous. If Dio and Tacitus lied about some of the facts, we can be sure they didn’t stop there.”

  Tracy added, “Their version of history brought assurance and peace to the Roman people that remained in Britannia. T
he empire did not want Roman towns to worry about being attacked, nor did they want to appear weak or defeated in any way. Suetonius and his troops were hailed as heroes.”

  “As they celebrated the victory, Suetonius received a note from a messenger that used to be under his own employ,” Tracy shared. “The note said: Winter can kill. Inside the note was a garment pin called a fibula, covered with blood. It belonged to a general that Boudica’s forces had routed in Camulodunum. Suetonius knew the note meant that Boudica had traveled to Ireland. The threat of being outed as a liar was a dangerous one. Suetonius consistently convinced Rome that nothing of worth resided in the land of winter.”

  “Wow,” I remarked, groggily. “You have just made me doubt all history that I have ever learned or thought to be true.” My head was getting foggy, as Tracy was coming in and out of focus.

  “I’m sorry, Muriel,” Tracy said. “I had my instructions and you will be fine when you wake up. There was a little something in your tea to put you to sleep.” She sounded remorseful.

  My feelings of outrage were short lived. Tracy was briefly cussed out in my mind, but no words reached my lips before passing out.

  Visions of Boudica visited me as she stood on the shores of Wales, getting ready to journey across the sea. Facing toward her new home, she asked for any of the men among them who had raped her daughters to come forward. There were twenty to thirty men who joined her. She walked down the beach, as the men followed behind.

  I knew this was a vision, but I still strained to hear her words, to no avail. After a few minutes, almost half of the men began walking into the sea, while Boudica walked back with the rest. The men in the water never flinched, as their armor weighed them down. None gasped for air or flailed their arms. Some could swim, so when the water proved deeper- they swam further from the shore. The death was silent.

  The Volc tribe had five sea-faring boats that would travel to Ireland, and then return to pick up more passengers. About a thousand people were making the trip to Ireland. Others had decided to stay in Wales or wanted to return to their homes. Some were simply petrified of how they would be received in a new land or wary of the sea-crossing itself.

  Boudica was fearless. She got on the first boat with her daughters. Once the boat was full, they were on their way. The convoy was leaving at first light. They had all been on the beaches just before the sun came up. If the weather and wind was just right, they would make it to Ireland right before the sun set…about a fourteen hour trip.

  The breeze was cold off shore, so Boudica huddled for warmth with her daughters during the crossing. The eldest daughter asked Boudica why some men walked into the sea and some returned to the ships with her. If they were all guilty of the same offense, why did her mother let some go free?

  “We need some of them for protection in Ireland,” Boudica explained. “We really don’t know what challenges we will face there. My hope is that we have some peace in our exhausted state. These men will be loyal to us. They are bound by our sweat.”

  “How did you decide which men would die?” the youngest daughter asked.

  “I asked which of them had remorse for what they had done to my daughters and which did not,” Boudica said, tears welling in her eyes.

  The eldest daughter wondered, “So, the men that are traveling with us regret what they did?”

  “No, my dear,” Boudica said, as she kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “The men that knew their actions were wrong but did them anyway are the true cowards. We cannot surround ourselves with that kind of weakness.”

  Chapter 6- The Land of Eire

  Grammy and I were ready to go well before we needed to board the ferry to Ireland. It must have docked sometime during the night because we could see it from our hotel window.

  “I hired a car to take us somewhere,” Grammy announced. “Follow me.”

  We walked just up the street to a waiting car. It concerned me that we needed to board the ferry in a couple of hours, but knowing Grammy, we wouldn’t miss it. The car only drove ten minutes before we stopped on a road adjacent to a field.

  “Please wait for us here,” Grammy instructed the driver. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so.”

  Grammy got out of the car and followed a couple of signs to a mound. It had a stone opening in the front. I followed her as she walked around it. There were no other tourists or visitors to the sight yet, only the two of us. A sign described the hump as a burial mound, and asked that visitors be careful to leave everything as they found it.

  “This island used to be called the island of Mona,” Grammy said. “Some of our people lived here in peace for quite a while before the Romans came. Rome called it the campaign at Mona.” Grammy shook her head and huffed, “Historians would later call it the Menai Massacre- a term more appropriate of the event.”

  “When you say our people, what do you mean?” I asked.

  “Some of our ancestors lived here,” Grammy answered. “They looked over these fields just as we are doing now.”

  The tall grasses danced around us, as the earth whispered her secrets. I saw children running in these fields, lovers meeting, and a man crying outside this very tomb. Love lived here. The crisp, cool breezes off the sea washed over me just as they had my ancestors, bringing me back to the present.

  “Did you bring me here in hopes that I would embrace my history with open arms?” I asked, slightly angry. “That I would fall down on my knees, in thanksgiving, for being a freak?”

  That last comment hurt Grammy. And in my short life of poor decisions, I knew there was no way to take the words back once they escaped my lips. Whether out of frustration for reality or because Grammy was upset, tears fell on my cheeks. Until I felt their warmth, I didn’t realize the emotional toll of keeping the truth at arm’s length.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Grammy chuckled, “Oh child, there is more passion in you than is required for four lives.” She shook her head, and said, “It will first make you wild, then make you wise. The trick will be making it to the wisdom portion of the journey.” We both smiled, and hugged one another.

  “We better hurry back to the ferry,” I announced. “If we don’t get there soon, we can’t make sure we’re an hour early.” Grammy knew that the comment was made to tease her.

  We walked back to the car, and headed toward the docks. On the short drive, flashes of druid life invaded my mind. They were judges in their society for crimes, as they were considered fair and knowledgeable. Before facing an enemy, women were rushing around before an attack. The men asked how long it would take for them to be sweating enough. What a strange question to ask. There were others setting up sacrificial altars with animal innards to frighten their enemies. In quiet times, they communed with nature. They practiced oratory skills with each other, as poetry was how one gained notoriety and respect in their day. Their community was peaceful.

  “Grammy,” I blurted, “druids didn’t believe in human sacrifice.”

  The driver looked back in his rear-view mirror. “Shh,” Grammy smiled, tapping my arm, “we can talk about this on the ferry.”

  I retrieved the bags out of the trunk while Grammy paid the driver for his time. Originally, the bags seemed too small for a weekend trip, let alone ten days. But, having to carry them everywhere, I came to appreciate Grammy’s stand on sparse packing.

  The lines to board were short. Grammy grabbed both her and my identification papers. The ferry company needed to make sure their passengers had the proper paperwork to be accepted into Ireland. Otherwise, they’d have to bring us back. The guard looked us over to make sure the pictures and descriptions matched.

  He handed them back to Grammy, and informed her, “Everything looks to be in order.”

  “We can put our baggage in a locker while we travel across the sea,” Grammy suggested. “It would be tedious to haul them around for the next three hours.” After renting a locker, Grammy purchased some coffee for herself and a hot cide
r for me at a kiosk.

  “Let’s take our warm drinks up top while we are still close to the shore,” Grammy said. “We can talk up there for a bit until it gets too cold.” We found a nice spot on the side of the boat.

  Grammy didn’t waste any time and began her interrogation, “Muriel, why do you think that the druids on Mona were not performing human sacrifices? History tells us that different Pagan cultures in this area performed those kinds of rituals.”

  “From what I saw, the Celts only made it appear they were sacrificing people because they knew it would freak the Romans out. The Celts were aware of Roman superstitions and hang-ups,” I explained. “The druids were too civilized to do such a thing. The Romans were the true barbarians.”

  “But there were preserved bodies found in the bogs that had the sign of the three-fold ritual killing,” Grammy interjected.

  I shook my head no. “The druids did kill people, but not as a sacrifice,” I corrected. “From what I saw, the Celts had an interesting little justice program in place. When someone was accused of a crime in their tribe, at least three members of the tribe had to vouch for that person to remain. Those three people became responsible for that person, and if he or she committed another crime, they would all be considered guilty. On the flip side, if three people would not support a person, the accused was sentenced to die.” My tone while relaying this information was unsettling. The information was true, and I shared it as though reading out of a textbook.

  “But, how do you know this?” Grammy wondered, bewildered. “And what of the documented three-fold killing with a noose, knife and drowning?”