by Ralph Harvey
Boudicca
Queen of Death
By
Ralph Harvey
Cover by Trevor Scobie
™Utopia Emporium
2015
All Rights Reserved
Boudicca
Queen of Death
Copyright ©2016 Ralph Harvey. All rights reserved.
First Kindle edititon published 2017
First paperback edition printed 2016 in the United Kingdom
Cover art Copyright ©2015 Trevor Scobie
Any copyright or legal issues remain with the author.
No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval system without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lilith Mandrake Books (™Utopia Emporium)
www.LilithMandrakeBooks.com
Email [email protected]
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of the most wonderful woman, who was my wife for over 61 years, The Countess Audrey Harvey. Together we raised five lovely children, Martin, Wayne, Deirdre, Karen and Vanessa. Sadly Audrey passed away on December 2nd 2013 and I held her hand as she slipped into the Summerlands.
My Audrey always had the most wonderful smile on her face and she never let anything faze her. Together we traveled the world and have lived with and learned from many cultures, from the Navaho and Hopi Indians in America to the Maori, and learned much from their beliefs, religions and cultures.
Throughout our lives we have participated in re-enactment groups all over the globe, including the battle of Waterloo, fought on the original battleground, where we witnessed together, along with the 7th foot regiment, a spectral troupe of horsemen: an elite cavalry unit charging our position in a time slip that went back to the original battle, only to see them disappear before reaching us. This was the inspiration for part of this book.
Audrey was always by my side, attending, my lectures and ready to prompt me when necessary. Together we appeared in over 100 films and TV series, and we also made many documentaries on Wicca. With her help I also wrote numerous film and television scripts… some of which even sold!
To my Audrey, my muse.
Ralph Harvey 2016
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Hillside AD 61
Britannia AD 61
Chapter 2
Peaceful Village AD 60
The Arrival
Mordicas
Messenger from Rome
Maeve and Sequenna
Alban Eielir
Londinium Merchants
Chapter 3
The Feast of Alban Eilir
Maeve and Sequenna’s Betrothal
Mordicas and Suetonious
The Revolt Starts: Iceni Village, three weeks later
Rome
Iceni Village — Queen’s Dwelling
Roman Headquarters in Londinium
Chapter 4
Rape
Druids Augury
Valeria And The Beaten Boudicca
Mordicas and Lasca
Chapter5
Capture of Valeria
Report Of The Rape
Raiding Party Returns
Garrison Headquarters
Chapter 6
Marcus’ Tent
Copernicus and Mordicas
Catamandua
Chapter 7
Londinium Market
Suetonius’ Camp
Valeria Returns to the Camp
Chapter 8
Baggage Train
The Sighting
Ambush Of Peace Patrol
Chapter 9
Camulodunum — The Rite of Spring
Fealty
Patrol Found
Chapter 10
Chariots
Villa in the Cotswolds
Portents
Attack on the Villa
Chapter 11
Xavier in Rome
Return To Camp
Chapter 12
Marcus Pines
Iceni Camp
Chapter 13
The Deaf Girl
The Plain Of Calleva Atrebatum
Death of Quintus
Chapter 14
Camp Afternoon
Survivors from Calleva
Plans to Attack Camulodunum
Conflict
Chapter 15
Suetonius and Lavinia
Idris and Proctor
The Road To Camulodunum
Proctor Summons the Council
Siculus’ Camp
Ambush
Chapter 16
Hare
The Conflict Starts
Camulodunum
Maeve and Sequenna Reflect
Chapter 17
Camulodunum - The Final Day
Respite
Chapter 18
The Temple Cellars
Pillage
Londinium Panics
Atermath
Chapter 19
Londinium — Next Day
The Slave Market
The Legions Leave
Chapter 20
The Meeting: Conspiracy
Suetonius’ Plans
Hill above Londinium
The Road to Congotium
Chapter 21
Brigante camp
Rescue
The Die Is Cast
Chapter 22
Auctions
City Outskirts
Attack!
Chapter 23
Verulamium — Eve of Disaster
Chapter 24
Progress
Duel
News
Chapter 25
The Last Day
Escape
Verulamium: The Tension Rises
Verulamium, Noon — The City Falls
The Betrayal
Chapter 26
Despair
Eve of Battle
Boudicca
Chapter 27
The Fall Of Valeria
Thrace
Aftermath of Battle
Death of Corrianus
The Valley
The Fading of the Light
Caspa’s Tent
Boudicca Dies
Chapter 28
Preparations to Attack
Final Day — Village Burns
Recall
Survivors
Aftermath
Present Day
Author's Notes
Chapter 1
Hillside AD 61
The soldier shifted from foot to foot nervously as he peered into the mist. This damned British climate, always so wet and damp, chilled his bones to the marrow and did not suit him.
He longed for his own warm realms, and his mind flicked back to the sun-drenched land of Thrace where he had been born. He had been happy then, before the Romans came, working as a boy on the small olive farm his family had cultivated for decades.
His grandfather had told him tales passed down through the centuries, of that troubled and turbulent land, of how their groves had been destroyed in the ever active Punic wars and of how his ancestors had been a warrior people.
His great, great grandfather had purchased this land with the booty taken over many years of campaigning, only to see it in turn, become the victim of marauders.
Then came the Romans.
Arrian had been too young at the time to fight. His first awareness of his peoples defeat at the Roman armies’ hands had been when news reached him of his father’s death in the battle, and that now he was th
e breadwinner.
They had not been long in coming after their victory; a small cohort initially, together with a tax collector had arrived one afternoon as he was toiling in the fields. The centurion in charge had cast an appraising eye over him. By the Gods, how he remembered it.
Sixty sesterces was the tax assessed. His protestations that he could not pay were roughly brushed aside. He argued with them as only a youth could, but to no avail; the Romans were adamant. Pay the money or they would requisition his stock and land! Then the assessor stepped forward and haltered his milch cow, the same beast that he and his mother Olsa had scrimped and saved over two years for. Arrian stepped forward, barring his way — a short prodding stick his only weapon, but as he raised his hand they had seized him. The centurion gave a sign and a rough-looking brute ambled forth carrying a leather-bound flexible rod.
They had stripped and spread-eagled him on the baking ground as the centurion told him that he was to receive a ‘Roman lesson’ for his insubordination,
“In future you will call a Roman officer sir at all times. You tell him you will work all hours to pay Caesar's emissaries their dues — peasant — and you are always respectful — understood?” At that point the man had kicked him hard in the face — then added, “Don’t you ever dare raise your hand against a Roman officer again, but for your youth, I would have had you crucified!”
He nodded his head in respectful submission, anticipating the ordeal to come. Then the first blow landed. Arrian gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out in front of these Roman invaders. The second blow reached a new pain threshold as the cane struck already tortured flesh, and he tasted salt as his own blood flowed from his severed lip, bitten through in pain — resolutely he fought back his tears; surely nothing could hurt worse than this. The third blow was no longer bearable.
He heard the arrival of the horses above the jeering of the soldiery, and waited. His tear-filled eyes now focussed on the horse’s hoofs in front of him, its fetlocks a gleaming white above mud-encrusted hoofs. Arrian flexed once more awaiting the blow that never came, he heard the cries of the rabble suddenly die away and was aware of the jingles of the bridle as the rider dismounted, blurry eyes, wet with pain were aware of the highly polished sandals in front of him, and he strained his neck to see above, but his supine position allowed him only vision of the gleaming metal grieves.
“Did he cry out?” a voice enquired.
“No sir,” the lictor replied, “but he will.”
“Yes, I am sure he will,” the voice responded sarcastically. “How well you know your trade.” There was a pause then the voice spoke again “Come here Vespasian,” the same voice commanded. He heard the approaching footsteps. “What do you think of this one? He’s a fine lad, got spirit too, I gather. Surely you could use him?”
Horror of horrors, he felt rough hands fondle his buttocks. This was worse than any beating. “By Jupiter, Vespasian.” He heard a laugh. “I meant as a soldier, not as a sex slave — by the Gods, you Greeks are all the same.”
“A wife for duty, Juventus,” Vespasian answered, “a girl for pleasure, but a boy for sheer delight.”
The newcomer’s voice echoed again “If I live a thousand years Vespasian, I swear I will never understand you Greeks.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “But you are a good soldier — to the victor the spoils. Untie him.”
Rough hands that so shortly before had stripped and bound him, now severed his bonds and pulled him up. His hands dropped instinctively to his nether regions protectively as he faced the hostile crowd. There in front of him the rider was now visible, Juventus — the Roman tribune in all his splendid attire.
“I don’t think this one’s for you Vespasian; he’s a fine youth and with time will make a good soldier. How say you, boy?” he addressed Arrian. “Will you come as a cadet with the 17th cohort of the 10th Legion and be trained as a soldier, or do I sell you to Vespasian here for the sixty sesterces taxes you owe?” he gestured towards the Greek centurion.
“I’ll bid seventy for him.” A legionnaire called out, followed by a great wave of laugher among the ranks.
“Seventy-five!” shouted another.
“Silence, you dogs,” shouted the centurion. “I’ll flog the next man who calls out, how dare you speak with officers present.”
Their commander broke in, “Let it pass centurion, they’ve had a hard campaign fighting these blue warriors, I can forgive their boisterousness, as long as they obey me in battle.”
“Very good sir,” the centurion muttered, “you’re more lenient to them than I would be.”
“How your troops love you Juventus,” murmured Vespasian, “me they obey out of duty and fear, but you out of respect. I admire you.”
Juventus sat down on a footstool hurriedly brought up by a slave.
“True, my friend, but they fear me too. Despite their love they will never forget the time they broke rank on the field of battle and paid for it with every tenth man in the regiment executed for their cowardice. That is what an officer must achieve — for his men to both love and fear him. That is why I forgive their ribaldry, I can afford to be generous — they know how far they can go.”
He signalled to a soldier nearby,
“Give him his clothes back” he ordered, then looking at Arrian, spoke gently to him.
“Get dressed boy,” he commanded him, but Arrian had already started to pull his clothes onto his aching body. The man spoke to him once more.
“You have a choice lad, your lands and your stock are forfeit to Caesar, it’s sixty sesterces or you lose the farm. Or accept a hundred sesterces and join the legion. Your taxes paid and forty left over for your mother. Well?”
Arrian paused but momentarily, then glumly nodded his assent.
Not a word was spoken as the scribe produced the indenture and the deal was struck.
And it was thus that Arrian entered the 10th legion and after a gruelling three years, became an auxiliary in the 17th cohort now stationed in Britainnia, and stood this day with his compatriots in this wet and hostile land facing an unseen enemy, who had become a legend.
Britannia AD 61
Boudicca! The legionnaire shivered inwardly, be she phantom or reality? Whatever this demon was, she was out there somewhere in that grey wilderness, waiting, waiting.
He peered into the mist again; seeking an enemy he knew was there, but could not be seen. He tried hard not to display the ice-cold biting fear that he felt within his bowels. His companions to the left and right of him in the line stood there unmoved and unflinching, their faces set stony hard and cruel. Did their faces lie he wondered, or did they inwardly also fear the unknown?
A rolling cloud of mist enveloped them once more momentarily obscuring them, then slowly lifted. He was sure that the fog was playing tricks on him; as he watched the swirling shrouds of grey seemed to take on humanoid form. Humanoid? Yes, these were spirits sent to back the Iceni by that witch queen — Boudicca.
Men he could fight. Blood and steel and human flesh were now his calling, but phantoms! This was no trade for a soldier. These people could not die, it was said, and he knew it was true, he had seen them slaughtered in their hundreds, seen and walked amongst their shattered bodies after a battle and seen their life blood spill out of them into the earth as their spirit left their bodies.
Yet mysteriously, and it always happened, the corpses disappeared in the night. Spirited away by their comrades only to appear again in the next fight.
When their blood soaked into the earth, the camp followers whispered, a new warrior sprang up in the dead of night and joined their slaughtered comrades, who had been brought back to life by Boudicca’s magic. In the last attack he had seen a huge giant of a man wielding an enormous battleaxe, his wild red beard flecked with blood, and knew by the distinctive whorls and tattoos that this was the same warrior he had seen dead upon the battlefield days before, his skull rent to the teeth by a Roman gladius.
Nonsense, his commande
r had told him, they are the tribal marks of the Iceni and Belgae, and red beards were common to the Celts, but he knew his commander was lying, and that they could be brought back to life by Boudicca’s magic, he had seen him with his own eyes.
Even the environment and animals were against them in this cursed and hostile land; whenever they marched across the fens, the death crows followed them, marking their position for the arch-sorceresses troops to ambush them at will.
Why, the soldiers asked, did the birds not follow the Iceni or Belgae when they moved? The camp women knew the answer. The death crows they said were all old warriors of Queen Boudicca, spirits who still served her, and who had returned from the dead at her command.
These were evil days.
“Come on you devils,” muttered the soldier next to him nervously, “we know you’re out there. Show yourselves — fight.”
As if in answer a faint whistle sounded in the wind and a soldier by him fell dying with an arrow transfixed in his throat, his jugular vein severed, his hands seeking vainly at his neck to stem the flow of blood. With a cry he sank to his knees, his lifeblood ebbing away, his companions helpless and forbidden to move.
A capsarius ran up holding a rope and pad. “Where’s the injury?” he shouted, unable to see the entry amongst so much gore. A grizzled old soldier, scarred by countless old campaigns and battles laughed contemptuously.
“By the God Mars, and guardian of soldiers,” he exclaimed, “do you expect to tourniquet his throat, idiot?” The soldiers laughed nervously at his humour.
“May Asclepius guard us from our own physicians,” another muttered aloud, “when they strangle the fallen.”
Each soldier had raised his shield instinctively as the arrow struck home so that only the top of his coolus helmet showed.
“Order line,” shouted a centurion, and they dutifully dropped their shields in unison once more. “Don’t you ever raise your shields without an order, do you understand? You carrion — can you see through iron and leather to see them coming? They’d be upon you before you know what’s hit you.”
An officer rode up the line, “Take ten men and get a count of them, Cordus. If we are to investigate the attack we must know if they’re entrenched on the plateau or on high ground, see to it — and check the terrain. I’m not having my cavalry floundering into marsh or rock.”
A decurion was duly summoned. “Choose ten men and reconnoitre. Fast,” he ordered.
