by Ralph Harvey
He paused for effect.
“There were some that believed that this was a portent, that Caesar would fail and drown as he was seen surrounded by waves, yet others said his boat was on the crest of victory, and thus it was so proved.”
He stood there, arms akimbo, as the people stood arguing amongst themselves, for or against his words.
“But what of the blood-red seas?” cried one.
The Procurator raised his right hand in command to cease their muttering, “The Iceni work the iron mines they say, in the hills, and when the rains strike, do they not wash the ore and rust into the river and stain it red?” He paused again, “And does the river not run into the sea?” By now he had the people with him.
“You are wise, Procurator!” an old man exclaimed, “And is not driftwood just the flotsam of the sea?”
The Procurator smiled, “Aye, the forces of the sea makes it what shapes it will, so be not alarmed, that she-bitch Boudicca, who dared rattle her chariot reins towards us, and who strikes her sword belt, knows that she dare not draw it!” He laughed, “And when Suetonius catches her”, he paused again, “as he will, then Roman rods will strike even deeper into her flesh, and if the she-bitch does not bend the knee, she will find that a Roman sword will strike even deeper.”
Triumphant at this speech, he stood back as a great cheer went up from the assembled throng.
“Hail Caesar” they cried, “hail his Procurator, and long live Camulodunum.”
As the cheers reached a crescendo, an ominous crack was heard. Bewildered the people scattered in terror, the great statue of Victory that stood resplendent at the gates of the city, around which they had gathered, toppled forward as if fleeing from an enemy, then its momentum swung it around and turned its back on the assembled throng before crashing to the ground in a welter of stone and dust.
A great wail went up from the population at such an evil portent, then in the distance the first sounds of the Iceni war drums could be heard echoing over the ether. The tribes were gathering.
Attack on the Villa
In the villa a maidservant, her back smarting from the stripes she has received, was washing earthenware pots in a workroom at the back. Busily engrossed in her task, it was a long time before she was aware of the strung out line of Britons stealthily approaching.
A sudden movement eventually caught her attention; transfixed she stood there, her mind racing. Boudicca, she knew, regarded all Celts who served the Romans as traitors, but she was fully aware that those employed within the villa were split into two groups, those who toadied to the conquerors, and those who plotted against them, for indeed was not Brantt the bullish overseer a Celt, and a Brigante to boot.
His people under Queen Catamandua lived privileged lives beneath the Roman umbrella, and he had been rewarded for his pains with being made head of the household to serve his Roman masters.
As the maidservant stared, undecided, at the fast-approaching lines a ginger-headed Celt, his long hair reaching his shoulders, suddenly leaped up from beneath the open window where he had crept unseen. With a wild war cry he started to enter, thrusting his face into hers. Terrified, the girl fell back, and with an ear-piercing shriek she raced screaming to the poolside, dropping the earthenware gourd with a resounding crash as she did so.
“Devils, devils,” she cried, “the devils of the mist are upon us.”
As her cry resonated around the property, the few soldiers who had been left behind by Detronius raced towards the villa, their gladius at the ready.
“What are you babbling about woman?” one roughly shouted, “what devils and where?”
Even as he spoke the first of the avengers was scaling the perimeter fence, while crashing furniture and glass in the next room announced the forward unit was already ensconced in the villa itself.
Outmatched and outnumbered the soldiers did not know momentarily whether to attack or defend. Tramius, who was senior, looked vainly towards the plateau for Detronius’ unit and succour, but his eyes alighted on the line of Iceni chariots inbetween the villa and Detronius, now also racing for the villa well ahead of any rescue.
“Your priority is to guard Ophelia and Lacius,” he cried, “let the rest be, we cannot save them.”
In the pool Ophelia, bathing naked, took refuge in the centre at the sight of the barbarians surrounding her, together with her daughters and handservants. Cet and Brandt the overseers swiftly joined the legionaries, sword in hand, for they well knew what their fate would be should the villa fall, with sinking hearts they knew that retribution for their treachery was upon them.
Lacius, the retired senator, hearing the commotion quietly exited the villa, unaware of the severity of the danger, assuming it was no more than a skirmish from an intruder or two. He had glanced out of the window and seen but a pair of tethered and shaggy mounts in the grove and knew that the contingent of legionnaires left behind by his son Detronius was more than adequate to deal with a pair of passing Celtic thieves.
Nevertheless he hurried to the poolside, deeming the small ornamented sacrificial dagger in his hand an adequate means of defence should they try to rob him. Immediately the aged patriarch arrived the severity of the situation became clear, for the soldiers instantly closed in around him in a protective half circle. Lacius stood there, his long white toga and purple cloak depicting his rank blowing gently on the breeze. His personal servant, Dado, ran to him. The legionaries seeing the man, immediately opened their ranks to admit him, laughing derogatively at the small seaxe the man held in his hand, presumably to help defend his master. From within the villa terrified screams could be heard as the Celts rampaged. Lacius’ face paled as he glanced at Ophelia and the women huddled in the centre of the pool.
“Stay there,” he commanded.
By now all the Iceni were over the fence and had started a slow trot at the men, then with a wild warcry, charged. Fighting erupted immediately, as each soldier and Celt hacked at their assailants, while behind Lacius was on the point of swooning with fear. As he rocked backwards, his servant steadied him, and with a single movement, thrust his seaxe into Lacius’ side. The senator clutched his kidneys from which the haft of the knife still protruded with one hand, and held onto his attackers’ shoulder with the other. He turned towards his servant.
“Dado!” he exclaimed, “Oh no — not you!”
Dado tore the man’s hand from his shoulder.
“That, master, is for the stale bread you fed me, the rancid meat that I would not give to a dog and for the untold blows I have received over the years — die!” he shouted, then he placed his hands under the old mans chin and pushed upwards, sending the dying senator into the pool, where a mortally stricken legionary had already fallen, his heavy armour instantaneously dragging him to the bottom.
The senator struggled despairingly, the water turning crimson around him with the two men’s blood. Then, with a last despairing gesture he raised his hand in supplication and breathing his last sunk beneath the surface.
One by one the Romans fell and were dispatched, Brandt lay dying, a pila transfixing him through his abdomen, its bloodied point protruding from his spine. Only Cet remaining, Dado jubilantly had rejoined the Iceni warriors, Cet, one arm hanging uselessly stood despairingly, then gathering heart, charged headlong at the gathered men. Coldly, swords and axes rose and fell, as his body was ripped apart, then taking the head as a trophy they cast the remainder of the corpse into the pool followed by the dying Brandt.
In the centre, the women were now screaming hysterically, their eyes fear-filled, as Cet’s remains hit the water, the body of Lacius floated up, face down, his life blood flowing from him even in death, while grotesquely Brandt struggled in the water vainly attempting to pull the pila out.
Boudicca, who had pulled up her chariot, had overseen the whole operation. She pointed to the pool and the naked women clutching each other and shouted, “Do as you will — and remember me and my daughters.”
Needing no
further encouragement, the Iceni warriors stripped off their war belts and leathers and leaped into the now pink hued water. In seconds the barbarians were at the centre of the pool and had reached the mass of screaming humanity huddled in the middle.
Two menservants who had sought refuge with them were dragged to the side of the pool and butchered on the spot, and then returning to the centre they delved into the mass of writhing naked bodies and transported them forcibly to the sides of the pool where the heathen mass eagerly awaited them.
The crazed women were lifted bodily out of the water and carried physically into the villa and thrown unceremoniously onto the carpet and rush-lined floor in the large reception room of the dwelling. Here Lacius had lived in utter luxury, soft blankets and rugs, cushions from the east, and great tapestries adorned the room. This then was the chosen spot for the Iceni warriors’ intended orgy. As the wet slithering heap of femininity was deposited in the centre the warriors closed in and made their selection. Each female was held down and passed from man to man; the rape soon becoming a depraved orgy where every excess the human mind could conjure was indulged.
In the midst of all this, other barbarians were ransacking the villa in the search for loot, while panic-stricken servants ran hither and thither trying vainly to escape the carnage.
With a splintering of wood a door crashed open, exultantly followed by a whoop of joy that emanated from the finders, for there before them nestling ice cold in water-soaked earth was row upon row of wine-filled amphorae. Soon vessel after vessel was hauled to the orgiastic revelry and now drunkenness added to the sexual debauchery, reaching even greater decadence in their excesses.
An inebriated Celt rummaged through the washroom, examining silks to steal. As he pulled a greater pile of clothing from a corner, he discovered a cowering black woman. There had been gossip amongst the Celts that Detronius had taken a Nubian mistress, and so she was instantly recognized as being his beloved Fila. With a cry of delight the Celt announced his find.
“Come quick,” he called out to the revellers, “I have found the pampered whore of the Roman commander.”
As his voice was heard, many tribesmen came running to view the latest catch.
“Let’s sample the delights that so attract our Roman lords.”
He lifted a horn goblet brimming with cooled ale, spilling its contents onto all around him as he did so.
“Today we indulge in Roman fare, Roman wine, and,” he grabbed the cowering woman, “Roman women!”
Fila started to struggle but numerous hands held her down and her jewellery was ripped from her, robbery she could accept and she submitted to the indignities of the mob.
Then a Celt started to lower his plaid trews.
“Now let us try black gold and see what these Romans find so sweet.”
With eager cries, the men start to rip her clothes off. Now realising her fate, Fila leapt into life and put up a great struggle. Kicking hard upwards from the floor, she sent a drunken heathen flying, and then grabbing another by his hair, dashed his head against the wall violently. As the first man fell, he lay on the floor intoxicated and laughing as his comrades ribbed him.
“O Trogdumnas — felled by a woman and incapable of indulging her too! Worry not, I shall have her twice and thus draw your share too.”
Having thrown two of her assailants off Fila tried to rise but the incensed crowd was having none of it. Trogdumnas re-entered the fray as the stricken woman now squatted on the floor, her hands covering her breasts in a vain attempt to shield her nakedness from them. Then, with a single movement they leapt upon her and bore her to a ready couch where they each took turns with her, then finding Trogdumnas had passed out, they stripped Trogdumnas and laid him on top of the prone woman who by now had mercifully fainted.
Outside the villa a sudden commotion broke out as Ophelia’s servants dragged her, naked from the villa. As they exited, a heavily paunched and hirsute brute grabbed her by the hair and, turning to Cranlach, who had suffered a beating at her hands earlier that fateful day, growled “Leave her to me.”
Cranlach raised his hand, “No. Tie her hands behind her. I would sample this cow before you drown her. Time and oft she has bade me dress her and if I as much as glanced at her body as I did so she would strike me in the groin — then lasciviously display herself to me yet again.”
The brute grinned, then securing Ophelia, handed the broken woman over to Cranlach who dragged her into the villa by her hair and threw her on the bed.
“Cranlach,” she sobbed, “please spare me. I will make you head overseer if you help me.”
Cranlach did not answer but roughly parting her thighs. Time passed, then satisfied he exited the building, the built up frustration of years now purged.
“Drown her” were the only words he uttered.
The hairy one nodded then pulled her into the pool and drowned her in the bloodstained water with his bare hands.
Burning brands were thrown into every corner of the Villa and flames roared skyward completing the destruction. Boudicca watched dispassionately as another emblem of Roman occupation was destroyed. In the distance a slave girl was fleeing across a ploughed field pursued by a drunken band of Celts while equally inebriated comrades cheered them on.
A movement drew their attention as suddenly, a matron who had hidden in the building, was driven out by the flames and raced over to Boudicca.
“Spare me great Queen. I am a Roman but have never harmed your people, ask the servants. I never beat them or ill-treated them. Great Boudicca, have mercy. I am a woman like you.”
Boudicca stood in the chariot slapping the reins impatiently,
“No not like me,” she snarled, “you are a Roman woman, that is the difference! There will never be mercy for a Roman, young or old, man, woman, or child!” She spat the last words out vehemently, “Any Roman woman who lives can spawn a child to slay us in the future.”
“I am too old for childbearing Queen,” she implored.
Boudicca looked down “Then your crime is that you have spawned those who have oppressed us.”
Realising her fate the woman ran. Boudicca smiled grimly, waited a while, then at a given moment, cracked the leather across the beasts’ rear, making the horses leap forward, then bearing down on her, the great scythes caught the woman a glancing blow almost severing her right leg at the thigh. Clutching the hideous wound, she turned to face her tormentor, as Boudicca checked the stallions, and set aim for her once again.
As the thundering chariot bore down upon her, the stricken woman stood there, clutching her leg, then, seconds before the chariot struck and sent her into oblivion, she screamed,
“A curse be upon you, Queen of death. Woe and misery shall be upon you, and your kind. I curse you, curse you, and curse you …”
At that point she died in a welter of blood and bone. Boudicca pulled the beasts but was unable to avoid the spray of gore that spat at her. Deep in her heart at that moment, she knew she feared the curse that had been thrown at her.
Chapter 11
Xavier in Rome
The senators sat around the podium in a giant semicircle, growing increasingly anxious as they awaited the arrival of Nero.
Over an hour they had sat as with his usual aplomb he kept them waiting, then at last the entrance of the imperial guard heralded his coming. Behind them, Caesar walked, two servant boys fanning him with palm leaves in the oppressive heat. Then mounting the podium, he sat down. After what was considered a respectful silence a scribe stepped forward.
“Imperial Caesar may I present Xavier, a legate of the twentieth legion to you.” He paused, “Suetonius Paulinus, military governor of Britannia sends report and seeks your guidance.”
As he finished a voice called out jeeringly from the senator’s bench, “Why doesn’t a Governor General make his own decisions?” he called sarcastically.
His voice died away, but a second one now joined in, “Is that not why he was sent there great Caesar? To
rule and make decisions in your name as is to be expected of a Governor General?”
Nero sharply raised his hand. Instantly a centurion barked loudly, “Silence!”
Nero selected a peach from a basket on the dais and languidly bit into it. Then clearing his mouth he spoke.
“Let us hear what Xavier has to say.” He paused “The Senate can vote afterwards if necessary, and if I decree it may do so.”
The centurion gestured to Xavier who was waiting at the entrance, and who immediately marched forward and presented himself to Nero.
Nero looked around unutterably bored, then drawled, “Proceed then man.”
Xavier unfolded a goatskin cover then reading from a vellum parchment within he chronicled the events that had taken place in Britannia, laying particular emphasis on how it had been engineered initially by the moneylenders’ deceit.
He ended,“And so Caesar, Suetonius attempted reconciliation with the Iceni Queen, but his emissaries were ambushed and all were slain. Boudicca the ruler of the heathen Britons then fled to the hills and now calls for war. We know she has sent her standard throughout the country to incite the other tribes into rebellion.”
Nero clearly irritated interrupted, “What is all this coming to Xavier?”
Xavier held his ground and came straight to the point.
“Suetonius’ forces are too far stretched Caesar, he cannot call upon the twentieth legion, nor the Ninth Hispana for they are needed on the Silurian border. Plus the Caledonians continually harass our forces from the northern regions. In his own territory the Iceni are now rebelling, and there may well be others joining them as well. They say the Damnonii and Trinovantes as well as the Cantiaci and Catuvellauni are also arming in preparation for conflict.”
Nero was quick to react, “It’s simple — crush this viper and the rebellion is over.”
Xavier leapt to Suetonius’ defence, “The hills are dense and wooded, and the she-demon knows the land even as great Caesar knows Rome itself.”
