by Ralph Harvey
“No,” another joined in, “the fat hog crammed herself with every delicacy, but fed us with gruel for years. Drag her out!”
Tarsa and the two already wet tribesmen leapt into the water and dragged the quivering woman to the bank where her servants unceremoniously hauled her out. Boudicca summoned the lead servant over and whispered in his ear. He listened intently then laughing, called the others over to hear.
“Strip her,” he announced.
Desperately Ophelia tried to hold on to her robes, but the men tugged and pulled at her from every direction until she stood completely naked, one hand across her pendulous breasts the other over her groin.
“Fear not Ophelia,” one of them shouted, “we are not going to lay you,” he bowed and said mockingly, “we are your servants mistress, your slaves.” He turned to his friends and clapped his hands, “To your duties slaves — fetch our mistress’ palanquin. Clearly she is cold and hungry, so let us escort her to our feast.”
Two of them ran to the remains of the house and returned with a charred and blackened door.
“Apologies fair mistress,” one laughed, “I fear your palanquin has been destroyed, but I am sure you will find this one comfortable enough.”
Laying the make do ‘palanquin’ on the ground, the tribesmen bore her towards it, then having seated her aboard they hefted it aloft, while ahead of them her servants walked, telling all who would listen of how they were continuously beaten and starved by her.
The crowd pelted the woman with garbage as she was carried through the remains of the town naked and quivering, both her hands now cradled her breasts. She was a huge insipid creature, repulsive in her sheer grossness.
Gradually the procession made its way, Ophelia’s eyes darting to left and right in fear, not knowing either her destination or her fate. As they turned the corner of a ransacked stone building both were revealed as there, flanked by a group of tribesmen, was an enormous bonfire.
Chapter 24
Progress
Cantis’ plan worked. Concealing their weapons, they dressed as common traders having now acquired a herd of cows. Nonchalantly they drove them to the coast, passing numerous Roman patrols in the process. The Romans, as predicted, had no interest in southbound traffic.
Cantis and his band were questioned many times as to whether they had encountered or seen any sign of the raiders and on two occasions were able to give them false and detailed information on their own movements, delightedly sending the Romans on a wild goose chase north east.
The whole countryside was talking about the audacity of the raid and the Roman occupiers were determined to catch them and make an example that would strike fear for years to come.
Cantis’ story that they were taking horses, mules, and the newly purchased cattle to sell to the Roman garrison at Dovernum was logical, and they progressed onwards there unhindered.
Four days later having reached the coast, they traded the horses, pack animals, oxen, cattle and carts, purchased an assortment of goods and a boat and headed for the open sea.
It was just before they sailed, that they learned of the latest turn of events. Londinium had been destroyed and the populace massacred, and their Queen, ever victorious, was even now marching on Verulamium! News of their raid and the Iceni victories had dismayed the Romans, who no longer felt safe from attack anywhere, and new heart had been born into the locals who saw a new dawn approaching with the fast demise of the hated occupiers.
Duel
A group of Romans sat languidly on a grass embankment, bored with the world at large, greasing their armour with pig fat and tallow.
“Three days we’ve waited,” grumbled one. “Three bleeding days!”
“Dig the ditches deeper, heighten the walls, polish your armour, sharpen your weapons … it’s the same bleeding routine every bloody day.”
Dioceses, an officer who was nearby looked up and turned to a centurion overlooking them, “I’m happy with the defences and the fitness of the men, they’ve earned a reward,” then he turned towards them, “so each of you are to receive one litre of wine and three litres of ale.”
A great cheer went up from the soldiers as they hastily packed their cleaning equipment away and started to scour their hands with sand and water.
“What is happening to that barbarian chief we captured yesterday?” asked a soldier.
Dioceses drew his hand across his throat, “The legions are going to crucify him tomorrow at sunset, outside the city walls of Lindum where Boudicca can see him.”
A legionary guffawed coarsely, “Maybe she’ll shit herself when she sees him up there, might even make peace as well.”
A great roar of laughter went up.
“Yea!” shouted another, “She might even send us her daughters as a peace offering.”
“Why can’t we skewer the bastard here?” shouted another.
Dioceses placed his hand on his chin, musing, “They say the barbarian is pretty tasty with a sword he was eventually felled with a club, and that was from behind.” He was still, thinking, then added, “But I’d back a weeks pay that Phrygias would see him off.”
“I’ll bet ten sesterces on that!” shouted another.
“And me!” cried a voice from the rear.
“Depends if the poor bastard’s going in naked against armour, there’s no chance in betting on him if he is.”
Dioceses smiled, “I must confess I don’t see the point in crucifying him to frighten Boudicca, she’s not human and would just accept it, and as you say he could well provide sport for us.” He straightened himself up, “Let me approach Marcus, the decision lays with him.”
And with that he strode off.
Minutes later Dioceses returned and from the smile on his face they knew the verdict.
“One way to die is as good as another,” he said, “in fact he’s coming to watch the contest.”
A buzz of excitement spread amongst the assembled soldiers, “A fight! A fight!” they cried.
Moments later the great lumbering form of Phrygias appeared.
“How do you feel Phrygias?” they cried as Phrygias stepped down from the ramparts swinging his gladius in a series of acrobatic moves to show his skill.
“Bring the Celt on,” he growled ominously, “how are you betting? I want to back myself!”
A series of cries went up at once, offering various wagers on him.
Dioceses raised his hand, “The bets are null and void Phrygias, there are no bets on the Celt. Take a walk while we bet again, but this time we’ll bet on how long it takes you to slaughter him.”
Phrygias grinned and sheathed his gladius, then he walked back to the ramparts.
“Make a book,” Dioceses exclaimed to a scribe.
“I’ll bet twenty sesterces that the Celt will still be alive after three minutes!”
“I’ll bet he kills him within five!”
“Nonsense!” shouts another, then seeing Dioceses’ disapproving look said “sir.”
“No matter,” said Dioceses, “where do you put your money?”
“Me sir? I say he’s on the ground and dead within two minutes, you know Phrygias, there’s no messing there, he’s fast and deadly.”
A grizzled old veteran shook his head, “No way. I’ve fought sixteen campaigns against the various Celtic tribes, you name them, I’ve fought them, Huns, Gauls, Caledoni, Brits, all naked as the day they were born an’ devoid of armour with just blue paint on their bodies. They ain’t easy to skewer believe me.”
He spat on the ground, “Phrygias will win, there’s no doubt about that but the Celt will keep moving until he’s cornered and then go for him, that’s when Phrygias will strike, and that I’ll wager will be longer than five minutes believe me.” He spat again, “So I’ve got a weeks pay that says after five minutes the bastard’s still alive.”
In moments money was traded and odds given. The betting now completed, Dioceses called over a soldier.
“Send for Phrygias to
come back and tell him we’ve agreed odds, not on who wins but at what stage of the contest he kills the Celt,” and added, “tell Lacius to bring us the prisoner.”
Moments later the Celt, chained and sullen, was led before them. Phrygias walked back and forth before the Celt performing his acrobatics once more. Deftly swinging his sword from hand to hand. The Celt looked up clearly expecting execution.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news barbarian?”
He laughed; the Celt however remained silent.
Dioceses addressed him, “Well the good news is, you’re not going to be crucified; and the bad news is Phrygias here is going to skewer you. So give us a good fight and he will send you to your Gods with a quick thrust of his sword at the end. Give us a bad one and I’ll stake you out as crow bait with your manhood in your mouth for good measure.”
A soldier brought a targ, sword and helmet out and laid them on the ground. The Celt’s eyes furtively glanced down at them but did not speak. He simply tapped his wrists, still tightly bound.
Dioceses glanced at them then issued a curt order, “Free him.”
His bonds were severed, and the Celt spent several minutes massaging his bruised and swollen hands, and then gestured for wristlets.
Lacius looked inquisitively to Dioceses, “Allowable?” He asked.
Again Dioceses nodded his approval.
Wristlets were produced and bound on with leather thongs. The quiet acceptance by the Celt who had not uttered a single word so far excited the crowd. The man was unafraid and seemed to be relishing the thought of dying in the conflict. He was cautiously given a sword and helmet, then signalled to make ready.
Excitedly the crowd stepped back, for a new lease of life seemed to have entered the prisoner and the Celt smiled for the first time. Then, with mock severity he placed the sword against his chest and held it there.
A murmur of disappointment swept around the arena a raised voice shouted, “He’s committing suicide!”
The man held it there lingeringly, then laughed aloud and spoke for the first time, “Fear not Romans, we Britons are not milksops like you, we do not fall on our swords and die like cowards. Now I will show you how to die in battle, in the Celtic style, not fall upon my sword like a Roman,” He spat on the ground contemptuously, “but like a man, and as a warrior should.”
He spat again and a murmur of resentment passed around the onlookers now angered at the aspersion cast upon them. Dioceses signalled the Celt to one side, and Phrygias to the other. The Celt took up his position, then went down on one knee and raised his sword and targ aloft and looked heavenward.
“Great Bellanous, I give unto you my soul this day that soon I shall dwell in the Summerlands with my forebears, may you give me strength so that I shall enter there with a sword in my hand and a slain enemy’s head in the other!”
As he finished his invocation, a series of catcalls and boos sounded from the assembled Roman soldiers. The Celt ignoring the remarks remained silent in meditation for a short period, and then slowly he raised himself to his feet and took up his position.
Phrygias realising that this was no ordinary opponent started to circle him, looking for an opportunity to strike, but the Celt’s eyes followed his every move, like a cornered wolf.
The tribesman feinted a couple of times with his sword, shaking his targ at him ominously invoking the Roman to attack. Yet ever wary, the Roman was not lured, and instead tightened his defence. It was good judgment that he did so, as with the speed of a striking serpent the Celt struck, crashing his shield against the Roman’s, his sword slicing underneath his opponent’s shield and skilfully slicing the calf of his adversary’s leg.
The Roman crowd started to howl abuse at what they considered were unfair tactics but urged their man on to even greater effort.
Sidestepping, Phrygias, now bleeding heavily, swung a mighty overhead blow at the barbarian, who accepted it on the rim of his shield and swung his right arm in response in a sweep behind the Roman’s.
The dull clunk of metal showed that his strike had found its mark on the Roman’s armour. Then sweeping the blade upwards he caught the man's helmet on the edge, momentarily tipping it over the Roman’s eyes. Startled at his opponent’s skill Phrygias threw his head back and launched into a ferocious counter attack in return.
Now as the momentum increased they each rained a frenzied cascade of blows each upon the other. Utterly devoid of fear the Celt closed again but his time Phrygias was ready and shoulder charged him, throwing his full weight against his opponent’s shield, held for a moment, then shoulder charged heavily again against the Iceni warrior sending him sprawling.
Seizing his opportunity he followed up his advantage, Phrygias struck at the prone body, striking his fallen adversary on the right side of his chest. As the steel struck home, he knew the wound was mortal and it was now only a matter of time to finish his opponent off. He pulled the blade clear to deliver the final blow as the Celt twisted his legs around Phrygias and sent him flying.
Rapidly the Roman rose to a squat position, struggling to regain his shield, but the dying Celt with superhuman effort rushed forward and threw his full weight behind a last sword thrust while his strength was still with him, for every second counted as his lifeblood spurted out.
Catching Phrygias in the throat, the blade bit deep, protruding from behind his head. Reeling back the Roman’s body struck the ground heavily, then grimly the victor placed his foot upon the Roman’s gore splattered helmet and with an almighty tug retrieved steel from flesh and bone.
A great wail went up from the Romans, followed by an uncanny silence, not knowing what would happen next to their champion. Sullenly they stood there, dumbfounded, watching the Iceni tribesman untie the leather thong and remove the Romans helmet. Then with a huge chopping blow he severed the head from their comrade with one stroke.
Throwing aside his targ, he raised his sword in one hand and the head of Phrygias in the other. The blood from his trophy running down his arm as he held it aloft and his own blood pumping from the grievous wound in his right side, then he gave up a great cry of triumph to the Gods, mocking the assembled soldiers.
Dioceses, horrified, raised his hand and shouted, “Kill him! Cut him down!”
Instantaneously a hundred weapons were drawn as swords and spears were levelled at the taunting figure, then with one accord the soldiers charged.
A look of delight flickered across the warrior’s face, his sword prepared to strike and the head still held aloft in his hand. Triumphantly, he issued forth a great warcry then rushed at the oncoming soldiers. As they closed on him he gave a great leap, high into the air he sailed, crashing down in the middle of the tightly packed mass and sending legionaries sprawling in all directions. Whirling around, his arm rose and fell at both standing and prone bodies. Some of those whom he had landed amongst had had their backs to him and thrice in succession had their spinal cords severed as he struck at the napes of their necks. As a Roman closed in on his left he struck the man a resounding blow, using the head of Phrygias as a weapon, holding out the grisly trophy by its hair.
The mob closed in vehemently, swords were raised again and again until all was still, then their hatred vented, fell back. Dioceses leaned over the mutilated body and prised the fingers of the Celt apart that still held Phrygias’ head by the hair in its death grip.
Reverently he placed it by the torso of the fallen Roman, then walking over to the small table piled high with the money of the wagers laid, Dioceses kicked it into the crowd.
“Blood money!” he cried angrily then pointed to the Celt coldly, “Throw that foul carcass in the latrine trench and take your money back!” he snarled. By now he was beside himself with rage, “Your day of sport has cost a Roman champion his life. I should have crucified the Celt as I first intended.”
He looked at the fallen Romans sprawled grotesquely on the ground, “Five dead, and nine destined to go to the capsarius,” he shouted angrily, �
�not counting great Phrygias.”
He clenched his hands in agitation, then a moment later called out sharply, “Centurion! Assemble each unit, full armour and double pack and you’ll run them round this encampment till they drop!” Then turning on his heel he strode off.
Reaching his tent he poured himself a large measure of the spirit they had taken on a raid in Caledonia. As the fiery liquid traversed his throat he coughed, then looked out at the parade ground where the centurions were rushing the men into full pack and armour dealing heavy blows and constantly haranguing them.
He waited as a burial party placed Phrygias’ remains in a blanket to take to the morgue where the head would be sewed back on, then returning they unceremoniously dragged off the Celt’s corpse. He threw another measure of the raw spirit down his throat.
“Men will speak of that fight for years to come, for indeed that barbarian chieftain was a man amongst men. Why oh why did Caesar ever decide to make war here in this accursed land?”
He sat silently, his hands cradling his head, then pulling the tent flap closed he returned to the flagon intending to seek succour in oblivion for a while.
News
Within the city of Verulamium all was well. The gates had remained open to receive what few travellers were still out there heading for the safety of the city walls. Any villas and their contents had long since been either burned or abandoned and their inhabitants either slaughtered or fled. Still the trickle of merchants continued to arrive hourly, while everyone sought news from them about what had been happening elsewhere.
All the merchants were in a dilemma; some anxious to sell and transfer their assets into gold coin and let things go at a loss, while others, knowing trade had ceased nationwide, trebled their prices according to the commodity. Everywhere there was pandemonium. At a stall, a couple were looking to buy some bolts of cloth and the woman's husband sought out the stallholder.
“I hear you arrived by river with your goods, what is the latest news?”
