by Ralph Harvey
“It’s a safe conduct Valeria, whereby you can pass through the Roman lines any time to see me and none will offer you hindrance, for it carries the imperial seal. Also tell Boudicca this, that Catus Decianus and the men who beat her and raped her daughters have been arrested. They are in detention and have been sent under armed escort to Londinium to await trial and sentence. In the meantime I have seized everything they took from both her and the villagers and these will all be returned.” He slapped the horse’s rear, “I have sent Platus who struck you to his death as you know.”
Valeria’s face was inscrutable but seizing her opportunity she half turned the horse and started a fast trot away from him.
“Return in three days Valeria with Boudicca’s answer, I will await you and we shall speak again,” he called after her, as the horse started to gallop into the distance.
At the sudden newfound freedom Valeria kicked the flanks of the horse, urging it forward. With a wild Celtic war cry she surged away, kicking off the golden Roman sandals as she did so. Furiously she galloped off into the distance, her departure watched by him. Then suddenly reining the beast, she turned and raced back full tilt towards him in a charge. Undaunted Marcus held his ground, arms folded.
She pulled the snorting animal up a few yards from him, her eyes blazing with fury. Throwing the reins across the horses down, she started to remove the pins from her hair and threw them at his feet. With a shake of her head she sent her long golden red hair cascading to her waist. Her hands clasped next at the toga, and then with a single deft movement she tore the entire garment from her body.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before Marcus, of the 14th Gemina,” she cried out, rising naked in the saddle. “Here, take it.”
The robes followed the trajectory of the pins landing in a crumpled heap at his feet, her hair falling before her, covering her nakedness, “I have no need for Roman raiment.”
Her voice rose again in anger, “I am Valeria, niece of Boudicca, warrior Queen of the Iceni. I go where I will in my own land, and take what I want. I am a free woman and ours are a free people.”
Her voice rose even higher in anger as she lost control. Her right hand raised up holding the parchment aloft, and then with uncontrollable rage, she hurled it at him, striking him in the chest, where it fell to the ground before him.
She spat towards the fallen document, “How dare you insult me, I have no need of safe conduct. I pass unhindered in the lands of the Silurian and Brigante, Catuvellauni, Trinovante, or Atrebates: none would dare molest me. Least of all would I fear Roman swine. When next I pass through your lines it will be with Boudicca and an army that will dwarf even the might of your Roman Empire.”
“How many men is one legion?” she cried, “five thousand, six thousand? If so she’ll wipe you out with ten thousand men or more. Ten legions? Then she will strike you with a hundred thousand, until the last Roman dog is driven back into the sea, from whence they came.”
Marcus lowered his arms and walked slowly towards her, his face set and grim, gone was the affability of moments ago, “Just deliver my message, niece of Boudicca, and let us hope your Queen has more foresight than you.”
For a second time their eyes met, as an inner emotion battled within her warrior’s temperament, for a moment she melted as the woman inside her took over, then slowly, as her wrath subsided, she extended her hand in the first affectionate gesture she had made.
Marcus, sensing the torment within her, relaxed his stance as a soldier, and softened once more, as their fingers met her scarlet hair parted revealing her in all her loveliness, and for a few rapturous moments they were one, with this surge of new found emotion Valeria hastily pulled back.
“No Marcus, no, it cannot be. We are enemies.” She bit her lower lip attempting once more to contain herself.
They remained there for a few fleeting seconds, which seemed to be an interminable lifetime, then slowly she reined the horse back and slowly rode away. After a few yards she stopped and looked back.
Marcus was still staring at her. This time there was no wild rush. As she disappeared over the brow, she started a slow canter, her long hair streaming behind her, her nakedness silhouetted by the sun.
As she rode she kept crying out, “No, no, no. It cannot be. He is my enemy; his soldiers beat my Queen … why do I feel like this?”
She choked back a sob then tears streaming down her face rode off into the dark brooding hills.
Hours later she reached the summit and was aware of crows and magpies circling an outcrop, approaching it cautiously she saw the mutilated body of Platus hanging upside down from a tree.
Copernicus and Mordicas
“You saw what I saw Copernicus, yet you spoke not. Why?”
Copernicus poured himself an over-generous portion of wine and lay back on the wool-padded couch.
“We seek the same ends Mordicas, life under Roman rule is tolerable — at least they are the devils we know, but the Iceni … they are at war with all around them, only the Romans can stand against Boudicca, and them she leaves well alone.”
Mordicas nodded
Copernicus continued, “It is written that she shall be victorious, and will ignite the spark that blazes across the land. She will welter knee deep in blood.”
“Why did you not tell all this, Copernicus?”
“Why? If we stay neutral, we cannot lose, we pay lip service to Boudicca, and encourage the revolt, and still pay our tribute to Rome. At the end both sides will be the weaker, and,” he leaned forward to his fellow conspirator, “we shall emerge the stronger. We shall not make the mistake our counterparts on Mona made — now they lay dead and all is in ashes — it shall not happen at the Henge, or here.” He continued, “With Boudicca and Suetonius decimated, there will be rich pickings for us. The Romans will pay well for information, and Boudicca will show her appreciation for note of our vigilance and reporting on the Romans, but she grows too big for her boots and respects us not.”
Mordicas nodded knowingly once more, “And at the end … what saw you?”
Copernicus came to life, “The legions decimated, but ultimately triumphant, and Boudicca dead, and all of the royal blood line with her. When that time comes to pass, then the tribes will look for guidance to us and we will reign supreme!”
“Aye,” said Mordicas, “I slew a pure white goat, before I came to you, and saw the very same, and the shooting star was as her chariot in the sky — it made a great light, but exploded in the end in a shower of sparks. Thus it is written in the stars.”
Catamandua
News of the thwarted raid on the Roman wood gathering party spread quickly among the tribes, who were now fearful that Roman retribution would be harsh and merciless, all feared it would embrace both the guilty and the innocent.
A Briton was a Briton to the Romans; a Celt was a Celt no matter what. They looked the same, dressed the same, and they were the same as far as Rome was concerned. It mattered not to the all-powerful conquerors that Britannia was fragmented into often warring tribes, that it was a country riddled with blood feuds and that men fought over tracts of land that bordered each other’s so-called territory.
No matter what, whether Iceni, Brigante, or Silurian transgressed Rome’s rule, then it could well be Coritani or Atrebates heads that fell from their shoulders in retribution, and would be placed on a stake along the straight Roman roads as a fearful reminder that opposition to them was futile.
Far to the southwest in Siluria, Queen Catamandua, paramount chieftain and ruler of the Brigante nation, lay on a bed of white furs. Around her raucous tribesmen cavorted and made merry by the light of a roaring camp fire, inebriated men lay upon the ground, awash with spilled mead and ale in drunken stupors, their women carving huge morsels of meat from a roasting deer to hand succulent portions of venison to their menfolk.
Catamandua herself was well into her cups, but despite her drunken haze the evil mind was observant of all that went on around her.
Lolling back she gestured to a serving girl nearby.
“Wine girl, wine — now!” she laughed, proffering her drinking horn to the wench, who, clearly intoxicated herself hastened to obey, carrying a giant gourd of red wine in wet and slippery hands. As she filled her mistress’ drinking utensil, the flagon slipped, saturating the Queen’s arm. Catamandua allowed the girl to continue to fill the horn, and then hurled its contents straight into her face.
“That will teach you bitch,” she screamed. “Now fetch more — spill it and I will have you flogged and given to my men.”
The girl rushed to obey and moments later, now instantly sober at the threat, she replenished the horn.
Catamandua half rose, her outstretched arm brandishing the over filled goblet aloft.
“Brigantes — I give you a toast — our Roman allies in one stroke have thwarted the marriages of the Iceni bitch’s daughters to the Trinovantes and Catuvellauni.”
She stood there swaying, still holding the horn spilling over before her.
“Warriors!” she cried, “the power of the Iceni is finished!”
As she spoke, a great roar of approval went up. “The she-bitch’s niece, the harlot Valeria, sought to avenge her dear Queen,” Catamandua gave a low, mocking bow, “and with typical Iceni aplomb, lost half her entire force and was taken, captured by unarmed men, surrendering weakly to her captor Marcus without even the semblance of a fight. Such is the stealth of the Iceni.”
Now Catamandua was in her glory as she went from lie to lie, “So what does the whore do? I’ll tell you,” she hesitated long enough to drain the cup, then throwing it to one side she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“She gave herself to each of the Roman garrison in turn to obtain mercy. They say Suetonius himself used her for sport then set her on her honour not to try and escape in return for her life — and do you know what” she looked to her audience for approval, “she stole from his coffers and his purse, and fled in terror on a stolen horse — naked as the day she was born, having just got out of a centurion’s bed.”
A red headed ruffian jumped up, “Damnation to the Iceni Queen! A pox on her and Valeria and all of their kin!”
Instantly a great clamour broke out, “Hail Catamandua, Hail unto you, imperial Queen, and damnation to your enemies.”
Catamandua was clearly pleased, then signalling to the mob to cease she lay down drunk on her couch once more.
Pegla, a warrior chieftain of the Brigante was one of her guards this night.
“Do you think Boudicca will go to war mighty one?” he enquired.
Catamandua leaned forward knowingly, “Indeed Pegla, I am sure she will, the Deva Druids plot her downfall, and after she has licked her wounds, she will be unable to live with the thought of that Roman dog Catus Decianus walking free. No Pegla she will attack — and lose, and the future will be ours, for I will not move against Rome, and Caesar will reward our loyalty.” She leaned back and smiled.
“Aye,” Pegla acquiesced, “as he did when we handed him the renegade Caratacus ten years ago.”
Catamandua nodded, it was a wise move. “We prosper under Roman rule; there are rich pickings to be had.” She delved her hand into an oak box at her feet and produced a handful of gold coins, “Roman gold has a delightful touch.”
Chapter 7
Londinium Market
Within Londinium rumours were rife. News of the raid had spread like wildfire, the uprising led by Caratacus some ten years beforehand was still firmly ingrained in many memories, and in an occupied land that was peaceful and settled, except for the constant tribal warfare of the indigenous Celts, the Roman populace wished to be able to sleep safe in their beds.
None sympathised with Boudicca, the Iceni had to know their place within the great Roman Empire. Roman soldiers had always raped, so as long as it was not their daughters why should they care? Many however, secretly worried at the excess committed by Catus knowing full well how swift the Iceni Queen was to anger, plus the duplicity of the merchants who had cheated the Celts was the talk in every quarter.
In a vintners to the side of the marketplace, a group of merchants plied a legionary with drink. Being one of the legionaries who had been in the raid on his unit by Valeria, the man was a fund of information and his spellbound audience awaited his every word. As the man continued with his narrative, even more people, curious at the swiftly gathering group, joined the throng.
“So, like I said,” he gulped a mouthful of liquid down, “after Catus Decianus gave this barbarian Queen a boot up the arse” he grinned, “they ’elped themselves to a bit of spare.” He smiled at his audience knowingly, “Couple of beauties they were by all accounts. A right lesson he gave her, an’ everybody starts stupidly talkin’ of an uprising afterwards.”
A merchant nearby affirmed the soldier’s statement.
“Such were our fears here also, we are an easy target, for we have no defences here and but a small garrison.”
A second merchant broke in, “Do you wonder that we feel susceptible. I saw what the Celts did when the heathen Caratacus started his rebellion ten years ago. Why Caesar spared him I’ll never know.”
“Nor me,” grunted the legionary, “I’d have nailed him up by his knackers if I’d had my way.” He looked into his goblet, and then significantly turned it upside down.
A merchant nearby, noticing the gesture, signalled to the serving boy, “Another flagon,” he snapped.
Moments later the lad laid the jug on the coarse wooden table, then the legionary refilled his goblet and continued, “Aye, like I said, well then, this Boudicca sends some high-up cow as soon as they arrived, so, of course, we were ready and waiting for her. Well,” he took another long swig straight from the jug, “Marcus our commander beats the hell out of ’er and she gets herself captured, and every man jack of the raiding party gets killed bar her!” He emptied the goblet once again.
“So this Boudicca’s ’ad two lessons now, and has slunk off like an ’eathen bitch with its tail between its legs.”
The merchants were clearly relieved that their fears were now allayed and stood muttering amongst them selves.
“But I take it that the legions are all on standby nevertheless?” one enquired cautiously.
“Yep!” the soldier responded, “Suetonius, our illustrious commander,s (and God almighty) has put the twentieth and twelth legion stationed on the Silurian border on alert, and also the, fourteenth and the ninth are on standby.”
The crowd started to disperse.
“Thank you soldier, it’s good to know we can sleep safe in our beds at night,” one man commented then turned and tossed the soldier a silver coin, and left with the rest.
The serving boy stepped in and refilled the legionnaire’s goblet yet again for now the clearly befuddled soldier had started to settle back in his seat. His eyes started to droop and his head slumped forward. The lad glanced at the vintner who had been watching and listening intently.
Standing in the doorway he looked both ways and nodded his assent. The boy opened his pouch and took out a small clay phial, then, uncorking it poured a minute measure into the flagon and shook it up. As he did so the soldier stirred, and held his goblet out once more to him. Dutifully, the youth filled it and went over to the vintner.
They stood together looking out of the window at the man. The vintner smiled a grim smile,
“I drained that liquid from a stinking corpse they found in the river — fly blown and putrid, it had lain on the mud flats a week or more before they brought it in.”
“What’ll it do?” asked the boy, “croak him?”
“Nay lad,” the vintner answered, “daren’t poison the bastard, they’d soon work that one out. But I tell you what, ’e won’t be on duty for a few days! He’ll be on the bog — and with luck, so will, the rest of his garrison. Them Romans always blame the local water — and blowflies.” He gathered up some empty pots. “Come on lad, leave him be, we’ve got work to do
.”
Suetonius’ Camp
Suetonius was pacing up and down like a caged lion, as Paulus, a senior Legate stood impassively.
“Five days have passed since she returned — but no answer from Boudicca.” He snapped his fingers in temper and anguish. “By almighty Mars, the Gods know I have tried to remedy the wrongs done. I have backed Marcus’ actions, released the prisoners, and offered amnesty — what more can I do?” He looked towards the hills before him. “Out there, there,” he shouted, “that heathen she-bitch waits.” He pointed agitatedly, “No movement, no sound, not even sight of a single human being! Where are they — where?”
Paulus was quiet. “The men are superstitious, Suetonius, they don’t like it, send them against a foe they can see and they’ll fight to the last man, but out here they jump at the sight of a magpie.”
Suetonius affirmed his statement grudgingly, “Even in Rome they are symbols of evil, here in this accursed country, they are more common than hut sparrows. Has Catus Decianus been recalled?”
Paulus nodded, “Aye, him and the whole of the 14th. We recovered almost everything including the oxen, mules, horses, sheep, and their goods. Of the silver and jewellery and wine they seized though— no trace.”
“Right,” said Suetonius, “load all that came from the village on mules. Place Boudicca’s throne in clear sight, and everything else that can be recognised. Send a pair of pure white stallions as a gift to placate Boudicca and Corrianus — the Iceni cannot resist horses — she will be tempted to accept.”
Paulus interjected, “And her daughters, what do we give them?”
“Let their mother smooth their feathers for them, send them a couple of pure-bred ponies as well, I doubt Boudicca’s going to proclaim the fact that their hymens are ruptured. I’ll go as far as I can, but no further, to prevent war.”
