by Jan Surasky
"Cunobelinus grows old, and Caractacus will inherit the reign of the Silures tribe. He must sit in council and listen to the talk of affairs of state. He must listen to the nobles and the generals. One day he will be asked to make decisions weighty to the Silures, and perhaps to the destiny of other tribes as well.
"Venutius must also sit in council. As foster son to a royal household, he must abide by the same duties as the king's son. Cunobelinus, in Iberia to seal a trade treaty, saved from the attack of Roman brigands by Venutius' father King Erithrominus, in gratitude promised to educate the young prince as his own first-born son. Blood member of a royal household on soil where Celtic monarchy has been diminished by the Romans, Venutius is trained to one day be prince consort to a Celtic tribe on our own isle. He, too, must grow wise in tribal ways."
Boudicca smiled at Diviticus' gentle reminder of royal duties. "I will amuse myself while the Silures meet in council around the long tables of the great hall," she promised. "But," she added, a smile playfully racing across her face, "When the nobles and generals are easy with ale and the music of the minstrels and bards, I will draw Caractacus and Venutius to our sacred grove. In a fortnight it will be Beltane, and they must help me choose a crown of mistletoe from the sacred oak for my first bonfire dance of maidens to honor the goddess Sequanna."
Diviticus chuckled. "I will save the glossiest and choicest vines for your choosing," he promised. "It is a great honor to enter the rank of the Celtic maiden."
"Diviticus," she asked, "will you sit in council with the Silures?"
"No," he answered, as his brow creased slightly in thought, "I will not be asked to sit in council to seal a treaty between tribes. But, I will be consulted if the Silures and Coritani do not reach agreement. I must be prepared to appease the desires of both sides, to bring a settlement between tribes unequal in numbers but willing to stand together against the attack of a warring tribe."
Boudicca smiled as she rose to leave and threw her arms about Diviticus once again. "I shall treasure always my likeness of Sequanna," she said, as she lifted the carefully carved wooden idol into her hands and passed through the doorway of the modest hut and out into the thickly wooded grove. As she reached the edge, she turned to wave to Diviticus, but he had already passed into the mist of the rays of the afternoon sun.
Out onto the meadow and into the full rays of the sun, Boudicca headed toward the banks of the Devon River. Perhaps she would find Linnea, daughter of the tenant farmer Corianthus, in an idle moment from her chores as the eldest in a large, farmer's family. Linnea had been her friend since they had discovered each other on the banks of the nearby river in search of the first cowslips and baby blackbirds of spring. Since that time they had spent many seasons wandering the plains and meadows together, in search of each season's bounty, the first daisies of spring, the hollow behind a rock of a winter hare. Used to the long hours of labor of the Celtic farmer's family, Linnea bore long, blond tresses crowning a hearty build. But, her tinkling laughter was as delicate as the strains of a minstrel's lyre.
Linnea was her birth twin, born as many seasons ago, and in the same phase of the moon. Together they would join the maiden's dance of Beltane. They had been preparing for many years, in girlish whispers and giggles among the gold of the daffodils along the banks of the Devon River and under the mistletoe that hung heavy with plump, white berries on the oaks of the sacred grove in the chill of winter winds.
Boudicca's eyes sparkled as visions of the spring rites dance crowded her thoughts. Maidens bedecked with flowers and crowned in mistletoe dancing about a bonfire to the strains of the minstrels' lyres, tossing freshly gathered woodland violets and daisies of the first spring rain at the feet of the life-sized likeness of the Celtic fertility goddess, carefully sculpted from the oak of the sacred grove. Tunics the hues of spring blossoms, the bright gold of the marsh daffodils, the pale pink of the wild anemone, and the deep purple of the woodland violet.
Boudicca lifted her tunic to run down the grassy slope of the River Devon's banks. She searched for Linnea as she ran, spotting her sprawled among the bright yellow of the gorse, her simple, homespun linen tunic casually about her, as she watched a frog sunning itself on one of the rocks which lined the edge of the river, home to the salmon, the bass, and the brown, speckled trout. She ran to the spot where her friend lay and dropped down beside her, puffing from the long, downhill run.
"Linnea, Linnea," she gasped, "Caractacus and Venutius arrive before sundown."
Linnea lifted herself to sit cross-legged, giggling at her friend's joy. "What will you wear?" she asked.
"Oh, Linnea," she answered, "I have hardly given a moment's thought to a costume for tonight's banquet. I must hurry back to choose a proper tunic. Mama will expect me to appear fittingly dressed for tonight's festivities," she added, pouting only slightly at the decided inconvenience of more formal attire.
"But, first," laughed Linnea, "I must see who I shall marry." She pulled a yellow daisy firmly from its place along the grassy bank. "Will it be Anthropus or Granorix?" she asked, tossing a daisy petal over her left shoulder and naming two sons to tenant farmers. "Anthropus is strong and a hard worker. And, he is so handsome. But, he is shy. Granorix is not as hard a worker, but he is bolder." She paused. "Oh, I hope it's Anthropus," she giggled, adding wistfully, "I hope his dowry is big enough when Papa chooses. Papa says we need a big dowry with nine mouths to feed."
Linnea finished pulling the daisy petals one by one, tossing them over her left shoulder as she and Boudicca giggled at the suspense of the simple, girlish exercise. "Oh, look," shouted Linnea, as she pulled off the daisy's last petal, "It's Anthropus." She sighed. "Sequanna has favored us with a good omen. I shall carry daisies to the dance of Beltane."
"And I shall carry the woodland violets," said Boudicca. "And what hues will our tunics be?" she asked.
"Mine shall be the bright yellow of the heather and the gorse," said Linnea.
"And mine," said Boudicca, "shall be the soft purple of the wild hyacinth, the green of the woodland ivy, and the gold of the meadow buttercup. I must ask Mattilia to begin weaving today," she sighed. "And, we must prepare our offerings to secure the blessings of Sequanna. Richly scented petals from the woodland rose, wheat cakes to appease her great hunger, and animals carved from the sycamore which surrounds us in abundance to symbolize the blessing of bounty."
Boudicca peered at the sun lowering in the sky. "I must hurry to return before sundown," she said, throwing her arms about her friend as she rose to leave.
Linnea returned the embrace, looking wistfully at Boudicca, and looked out over the flocks of cowslips, daffodils and heather. Her idle time at an end, she must return to the chores of the farmer's daughter. Plowing the field, rocking the cradle, baking the bread, and spinning the flax. She rose to leave as well, startling the sunning frog into the waters below. Her burst of tinkling laughter echoed off the river's grassy banks.
As Boudicca made her way up the steep hillside below the gates of the city, she was thrown suddenly off balance by the rumbling of horses' hooves. There, on the road above her, the iron gates of the city flung back, was the Silures retinue, headed through the entrance of the stone and timber wall. And at the head of the procession, along with Cunobelinus, were the two young princes. Caractacus had added a full-blown mustache to his noble demeanor. But, it was Venutius who drew her attention. Tall astride his horse, his once slender body now bore the build of a Celtic warrior and his face, also mustachioed and once reflective only of the cares of youth, more somber.
Chapter Two
Boudicca scoured the handsome chest which took up the better part of a wall in her private chambers for a suitable tunic. Carved from the rich, red wood of the wild cherry tree, and covered with the carefully chiseled, elegant scrolls of a dedicated artisan, maidens with amber eyes dancing amidst them, and delicately-placed polished coral dredged up from the sea, it held tunics of every hue and texture known to the Celtic world. Heavy wo
olens woven from the shards of wool surrendered from the backs of sheep once a year to ward off the chill of the British winter. Linens the hue of the meadow buttercup and the riverbank hyacinth, carefully woven to offset the strength of the flax from whence it came, so carefully tended in the fields of the Celtic farmer. And even silk, dyed in the bright hues of the Far East and exchanged long ago on the Continent for the unpolished coral of the sea.
Boudicca chose a deep, green linen, bordered with the golden thread of a skilled, Coritani seamstress. To fasten the tunic at her left shoulder, a bronze fibula sculpted with the head of a dog, sporting a tiny coral eye. She chose as well a thick, golden torque, fashioned with the head of the sacred goose, and armlet to match. And, to keep her feet from the hard clay floors of the palace's great hall, her softest pair of sandals, made from the hides of the game animals brought down by the palace's huntsmen.
As the chatter of the guests and servants rose in the hallway at the anticipation of so grand a feast, Mattilia arrived to dress Boudicca's long, red tresses to match the significance of the evening's event. Winding the strands of her thick, long locks into the shape of a rope worthy of a Celtic seaman, she piled and wound the length atop her head, securing the creation with amber-studded combs, and leaving the remainder to dangle in curls beyond her shoulders.
"Oh, Mattilia, it's beautiful," she said, as she studied her image in the scrolled, bronze looking glass the servant held before her face. "I must hurry to arrive before our guests," she said, as she threw her arms about Mattilia and scampered off in the direction of the great hall. As she rounded the corner that led away from the maze of corridors to the main hall, she slowed her pace to a dignified stroll. Mama would expect her to set an example of royal decorum.
Boudicca had just slipped through the entrance of the great hall when Catrinellia approached her. Dressed in a long, red tunic, with a torque depicting the hunt of the goddess Danu, her blond locks mingling with grey secured atop her head with two golden amber-studded combs, she presented the picture of royal presence she had long ago trained for. She put her hands on Boudicca's shoulders, and stood back to survey her.
Beaming, she announced, "Mattilia has outdone herself."
Reluctant to lose her edge, she continued. "Boudicca," she announced, "you must sit next to your father at the long, main banquet table. I shall be at his right hand and you must place yourself at his left. And, at your other side," she added, "must sit Mandorix and the two young sons of your father's brother Andromus. We must present our guests with a picture of tribal strength."
As princess to an ancient tribe losing numbers from the attacks of warring bands and tribal disputes, Boudicca would be wed to a wealthier and more powerful chieftain than Votorix if a suitable alliance could be found to strengthen the Coritani. But, it was to Mandorix that the weight of the Coritani throne would fall. Under Catrinellia's direction, Mandorix received training befitting a royal heir. He joined Votorix often in the hunt and accompanied him to affairs of state.
But, to Boudicca, Mandorix was a presence to be reckoned with. Though he often showed the stateliness of a youth beyond his years, he just as often chased her about the palace halls, begging her for a game of hide the boar's tooth or tag and run. Though she sometimes tried to interest him in more serious pursuits, his tumbling about brought giggles to her otherwise sober countenance.
As Boudicca made ready to answer Catrinellia, the high-pitched sounds of the horns that heralded the guests' arrival threw a hush over the chatter of the already assembled crowd, stopping gossip in mid-sentence of nobles and ladies-in-waiting alike. Heads turned to the entrance, where stood Cunobelinus, in a tunic of many colors and trousers dark in hue, a golden, coral-studded scabbard which depicted the feats of warriors from centuries past hitched to his waist. Flanking him stood Caractacus and Venutius, their own enameled scabbards and sword hilts depicting the valor of the Celtic battle.
As the guests were ushered to the table set aside for the Silures retinue, Votorix took his seat at the long table set aside for the Coritani royalty and nobility, and his top, military advisors. "Cunobelinus and his Silures retinue are welcome," he announced. "It is an honor to share our bounty with so valiant and noble a tribe." At his signal, servants brought platters heaped with roasted game to the tables, and flagons of wine, brought back from the Continent, and ale, fermented by palace hands, began to make their rounds.
Game birds abounded. The wild pigeon, the tiny sparrow, the meadow pheasant. The aroma of wild boar roasting on the spits over an open fire filled the air. The course flesh of the woodland stag, felled by the palace huntsmen. Fresh fish from the sea and the River Devon took their places on large, silver platters gleaming from the light of torches surrounding the great hall. Joints of mutton and beef from the carefully tended flocks of the Coritani farmer. Course, thick, bread turned out from the rye of the fields which stretched below the city's gates. And, of course, the delicate honey cakes turned out by the palace bakers and the soft, white cheese fermented in the crude creameries of the goatherd.
As subjects of a tribe which by necessity measured its stores, the Coritani nobles were determined to enjoy the rare dip into the palace larder to its fullest. To this end, they piled their plates with gusto, drank deep from the flagons of wine and ale which made their rounds, and caught up on the gossip left unattended by the labor of daily affairs. To Mandorix and the two young sons of Andromus, the event was a chance to play tag and run beneath the tables and around the hassocks, amidst a sea of noble legs, coaxed out only with the promise of tales to come. And, minstrels dressed in muted hues made their way among the tables, tantalizing the ear with the strains of the harp and lyre.
"Mama," asked Boudicca, as she left the succulence of the wild, roast boar upon her plate and turned to Catrinellia, "when will we hear the stories of long ago?"
"When your father summons the bards and vates to appear before us," answered Catrinellia, licking her fingers sticky from the leg of a honey-glazed game bird.
Boudicca turned to Votorix who was lost in conversation with one of his top advisors. "Papa," she said, gently tugging on the sleeve of his tunic.
Votorix finished his sentence and turned toward her. "Boudicca," he said, as he lifted a large joint of meat from his plate, "what is so important to interrupt such a fine feast?"
"Papa, when will you summon the bards and vates to sing us the stories of the feats of our ancestors?" she asked.
"Boudicca," he answered, "it is proper to wait until our guests are served and acquainted with our great hall and the nobles of our tribe. But, the Silures look easy with ale and talk. I will summon Aladon to begin." Votorix gave the signal, causing nerves to give way in the vestibule where the bards and vates awaited their summons patiently to appear before him.
"Sire," spoke Aladon, who led the delegation as the chieftain's favorite, bowing deeply, "I beg leave to sing the stories of our ancestors."
"I give you permission to unfold your tale," answered Votorix. "But, you must please us with their deeds of valor."
Aladon bowed again, motioning the minstrels to come forth to support his tales with the soft strains of their harps and lyres.
I sing of Tuisto the earth-born god
Whose seed brought Mannus and his seed brought three
sons who gave their names to three tribes
entrenched along the Danube and the Rhine and along the
swamps and hills of the Hercynian forest onto the
plains and out into the sea.
The Chatti dwell in the Hycernian forest,
Which like a nursemaid guides them through its hills to
set them down on the edge of plains,
They rely not on fortune but on valor.
Pledging to the gods to stay unshorn their long, red
locks
Until a stand of courage release them from their
pledge.
Hardy in body, well-knit of limb, and fleet of mind,
The
ir battle plan as skillful as their Roman foes.
Their fiercest warriors stand first, marked by an iron
ring and gaze as fierce in peace as battle,
Their steady advance a terror to their foes.
Their women in battle to nurse and count their wounds,
To prod them with visions of the slavery of daughters,
wives, and sisters,
Their fiercest warriors' keep a burden to the choicest
tribal hosts.
The Chauci dwell along the bank of the Rhine,
Excelling in horsemanship where the Chatti excel on
foot,
The noblest of the land,
They dwell in peace and quiet, untouched by greed,
Yet, every man with arms ready at hand to raise in time
of need.
The Suebi live out at sea,
And in their sacred groves they worship mother earth,
the goddess Nerthus,
Who drives among them in her chariot drawn by cows,
bringing peace only with her presence,
and, when she withdraws, a return to battle.
Their battle dress a topknot erect upon their heads,
Their bodies dyed, their battles fought in the pitch of
the darkest night.
These be our ancestors,
Raised with free will and harmony of rank,
Unwashed, unclothed and nursed only by their mother,
Until the spirit of valor claims them as its own.
Driven to battle with neighbors, lured by booty, or by
envy of special favors of the gods, or by domineering
pride.
But, for two centuries plus ten,
They stood against the Roman foe
to lay claim to their freedom
with strength greater than all Gaul,
With energy greater than the peoples of the east
held in chains by despots.