by Ralph Harvey
“I am Caspa of the northern Ordovice, I have no love of Romans, but even less for the she-bitch Boudicca.”
Suetonius smiled at the man’s honesty. “Continue,” he commanded.
Caspa did not waver, “My people have been oppressed by the Iceni since the beginning of time. My father and two of my brothers perished at her hands, and my uncle was captured and flayed alive by her tribeswomen. So can we treat?”
Suetonius nodded, “And what do you wish of us, Caspa? And how do I know I can trust you? You wear the garb of the Ordovice, for I know you people well, yet you could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing; an Atrebate or perhaps an Iceni dressed as Ordovice, and the Gods know that they cannot be trusted.”
Caspa responded instantaneously, “That is for you to judge Roman — but first hear me out. I work for both revenge and for reward. Pay me, and I shall show you how to trap the she-wolf in her lair.”
Paulus glanced at Suetonius who affirmed, “Your price? And for what plan?”
“200 pieces of Roman gold and five female Iceni slaves, young, that you will save for me after the battle,” Caspa demanded arrogantly, “plus six of the finest horses you capture.”
“And in return?” demanded Paulus.
Caspa leant forwards, “I shall show you a valley where the neck narrows onto rock and swamp. In front you can dig your pits, and ambush from the sides, Boudicca will bottle herself within and be unable to manoeuvre, then the slaughter is yours, it is a killing ground.”
Paulus placed his hand upon Suetonius’ arm, “If he speaks the truth, we can be no worse off there than trying to face chariots on this desolate plain. As long as we reconnoitre it before we enter, what can we lose? Boudicca will attack within days, and if he lies, he dies!”
Suetonius gestured for the man to sit, “For such a high price your information must be good. Let us talk, and if this valley you know is what you say it is, then you shall be rewarded with all you ask.”
He signalled to his orderly, “Fetch a scribe, quill, ink, and parchment. I will sign this deal, and you,” he looked directly at Caspa, “will sketch this valley for me first, and describe its location.”
Chapter 26
Despair
Marcus, mauled and dispirited, was reviewing the remnants of the 9th Espana Legion. As he walked his horse up and down the ramrod straight lines of infantry, the full extent of his casualties became apparent. Standing to attention were men bearing terrible injuries, rigid and uncomplaining they knew they faced certain death. Arruntius their commander slowly walked beside him. Marcus checked the line and each man in succession, and then looked down at Arruntius.
“The finest army the world has ever seen almost destroyed by a undisciplined rabble!” Marcus dismounted and signalled a man to take his beast. He and Arruntis started walking towards a small table where wine was being poured for them.
“The terrain lent itself to charioteers. Men cannot stand against the sheer power of drunken barbarians hurling a contraption of solid wood and iron against them.”
Arruntius nodded in assent, “Yesterday I threw my archers to the fore and commanded them to take the horses out, I saw one animal struck fourteen times; the iron and wool breastplate they have placed upon them lately did not let the barbs through.”
Marcus thought awhile then remarked, “Their flanks are unguarded friend, why do our bowmen not strike from the side as they turn?”
“It’s the arch-fiend’s psychology comrade, the charioteers know that if they break their line they are dead. At full tilt they are protected and invincible, they cannot check the beasts at full gallop even if they wanted too, that is why they crash through and live or die in the attempt.”
Marcus nodded as Arruntius continued, “Remember how Caesar had the Praetorian guards dressed when they offended him by breaking their line on the field of battle. Their shame was great, by Mars, armoured at the front only, their backs and arses bare, I remember it well. ‘Retreat and you die, turn about and you are a dead man’, he said … they held well, and Boudicca employs the same tactics of fear.”
Marcus spoke more gravely, “To them death is glory, and an automatic pass to their Summerlands. How goes the search for horses?”
“There are none Marcus. Every tribesman for miles around has taken all they can carry as they flock to that evil witch, loading it on horses, cattle, and oxen. Everything they can carry they take and the rest they destroy, we have lived on salt beef and barley for weeks. Without horses we cannot counter chariot with chariot, these cursed plains are made for such battles; flat country is chariot country! This is Boudicca’s land and she is mistress of this terrain.”
Boudicca was lying propped up on silk cushions, with Corrianus laying at right angles, head to head, looking into each other’s eyes. He felt the quality of the cushions.
“More Roman spoils loved one?” he enquired.
Boudicca laughed and sensuously twisted a beautiful gold goblet encrusted with gems around in her fingers, admiring it.
“Finest Phoenician workmanship,” she murmured. Her fingers opened a casket by her side and let a ripple of jewellery, stones, and pearls slide through her fingers, then snapping it shut she hugged it to her bosom lovingly.
Corrianus was watching her intently, “Maybe we should ransom Suetonius to Rome, when we capture him, demand his weight in gold and gems in recompense for his treatment of our people.”
Boudicca shook her head, “No, Rome will not ransom a loser. Besides I want him dead, or captured to make sport with.”
As she spoke there was movement from Valeria, who had been lying there half asleep. Raising herself on one elbow she joined in the debate.
“Kill, him Boudicca! Death to your enemy in the height of battle is surely the supreme accolade to oneself!” Her hand reached out and held Boudicca’s, “If Marcus is captured however, can I have him, to do with as I wish?”
Boudicca responded tentatively to the girl, “How you hate him Valeria, even as I hate Catus Decianus, and for him I have my own plans. My greatest fear is that he and Silentarius will fall upon their swords and perish, rather than be taken alive,” she spat the following sentence out, “I suspect that is what that ‘noble’ commander will do. But if Marcus is taken alive then I promise you he is yours.” She gave a chuckle, “I did not know you were so bloodthirsty.”
Valeria, obviously relieved, relaxed back on her cushions, “Will you command it so and see that he is taken alive?”
Boudicca was curious, “I sense you do not want his death Valeria. I will issue the order, but you must understand that in the heat of battle he may well die. Now tell me why you wish him alive, I cannot contain my curiosity.”
Valeria paused, “I know not Boudicca, but I do not wish his death.”
Boudicca rose from her cushions, “So be it niece, it shall be as you ask, I will send word out to spare him.”
Boudicca’s great camp had been set in a complete circle, with the war wagons and chariots forming an outer edge. Within, at the centre a long house had been erected and outside a huge banquet was underway, celebrating Boudicca’s victory.
Two Celts entered the arena, tattooed and bearded they looked ferocious and before them on a low table a selection of weapons were laid out.
Another Celt was addressing the Queen, “For your sport Lady, Triovan, the Atrebas, will fight Gentian of the Trinovantes to a yield, first major injury gives victory to the inflictor.”
Boudicca spoke, “No — let it be first blood shed or a yield, I have need of every warrior in the final battle and do not wish a warrior to fight hindered by injury; first blood shed is a good result, for it shows the skill of the aggressor, and that he could have struck harder.” She looked up at them, “I am sure you would not wish to miss the final slaughter through being laid up, cursing that you have been rendered unable to participate in the final battle.”
The giant grinned, “No Queen, we will fight for sport only.” His grin broadened further, “Gentian wil
l soon yield to me.”
His opponent Gentian roared with laughter and just stood there, hands on hips, “Talking is easy Triovan, Come, let us have at you!”
With that he turned and selected a targ and axe, Triovan selected a targ and heavy sword. Facing each other, the two men circled, waiting for the right moment to strike. Then with a loud yell, Triovan leapt forward and struck.
Gentian took the blow on his targ, and cut a return strike, instantaneously the two exploded into a frenzy of blow and counter blow. Round and round the small arena they fought, neither yielding, accompanied by the shouts of their audience. Then Triovan ducked and threw a huge side blow at Gentian hooking the inside of his shield as he did so. Deftly turning the blade he struck his opponent a mighty blow with the flat of it on his helm, Gentian dropped to one knee, dazed and hurt, as Triovan pounded more blows upon him, still with the flat of his sword.
“Yield Gentian, he has the advantage” laughed Boudicca.
Triovan continuing his advantage landed a kick on Gentian striking him high in the midriff, Gentian doubled up against the onslaught as Triovan struck out again and again at the semi prone figure. Gentian deftly rolled with the kick, seizing Triovan’s foot in the process. Turning swiftly to one side he caught the giant off balance sending him crashing to the earth.
Quickly regaining his feet, Triovan struck the rising figure a mighty blow under the chin with his targ, Gentian gave a sharp cry and fell backwards, Triovan grasped his axe and stood with it raised above the prone figures head, then he glanced towards Boudicca.
“I think he concedes, Triovan. That is so, is it not?”
Gentian nodded anxiously, looking upwards at the raised blade, then at Boudicca, “I concede Queen just as I had thought I had won too.”
Triovan lowered the axe and proffered his hand to help Gentian to his feet, then together they presented themselves to their Queen.
“Well fought my heroes,” she waved her hand, “come join us and we’ll sup together. Come and watch what’s next.”
Tambourines were swung and drums reached a crescendo, something special was about to happen.
“Coventina will dance my lady.” Corrianus clapped his hands. “Bring her in.”
The small conclave of musicians stood up and tuned their strange lute-like instruments while a young girl started to dance. Boudicca childishly poked Corrianus in the ribs.
“So she attracts you does she Corrianus,” she laughed, “you show more enthusiasm for her than for the combat we have just witnessed.”
Corrianus gestured to her friends with a chuckle, “I can fight Boudicca, but I cannot dance.”
Boudicca pulled him back into his seat, “Come drink with me and enjoy the spectacle.”
The musicians broke into a melody and Coventina started dancing in a circle, moving sensually amongst the men seated around the fire. Lithe and athletic she performed numerous contortions in her dance to excite the onlookers. Gradually the drummers increased in volume and the lutes raised their notes higher and faster, while Coventina danced in time with them.
A movement to the centre drew the audiences attention as a giant drum, some three metres in radius was placed in the centre of the circle near the fire. The flames cast flickering shadows on the instrument, as the men who had carried it in regained their seats.
Coventina leapt onto the centre and squatting beat out a rhythm, her hands and feet in unison, gyrating her body the whole time and whirling her head to send her auburn tresses cascading around her head like a halo As the volume reached a peak she did a back leap and landed legs apart, in the centre, her hands upheld for applause.
The reaction was electric as everyone cheered the outstanding performance, men threw coins and small gifts onto the drum skin, then Coventina recovered them and exited.
“What next?” a woman shouted, “Let us see a man perform.”
A giant roar of approval went around the assembly in unison.
“Arm wrestling, a candle fight — who bets?”
Wagers were made and laid and a few moments later the two giants were locked in a tight embrace as each jostled the other to try and control the pressure, then the two tallow candles were lit and placed either side of the contestants’ arms, cords were then tied across the wrists and they were ready to go.
Bets were laid, favourites were chosen, then their arms tightened like oak cords and they both took the strain. Perspiration gleamed on their foreheads; rivulets ran down the men’s cheeks as they threw their weight into the contest.
Each man strained hard, giving it his all. Declan felt Corrianus’ arm going over and momentarily relaxed in order to strengthen his grip and make a slam down. As the onlookers cheered him on Corrianus struck. Putting his shoulder behind him he flexed, and inexorably forced Decian's arm down ’till the back of it touched the candle flame. With a sharp cry of pain Decian released his grip.
“No match Corrianus,” he roared, “you win! Thank the Old Ones that I did not back myself in this contest.”
At once the two men collapsed laughing into each other’s arms. Those around them collected their winnings, while the thongs were untied, and they massaged their wrists. One tribesman who had amassed a great pile called out to Corrianus, “I owe you one Corrianus — I wagered heavily upon you.”
Corrianus laughed, “Then you can buy me a flagon of fine wine from your ill-gotten gains so I may share it with Declan along with the one he now owes me.”
A girl was rubbing fat into the back of Decian's scorched hand as he said, “I would sooner drink with you than fight, collect the flagons and let us make merry.”
Eve of Battle
Suetonius was rudely aroused from his sleep.
“Movement commander, a horseman has arrived with a message, he says reinforcements are but a short distance from here and will arrive by midday. The unit is commanded by Cassius from the Twentieth legion and will join you with what is left of his men.”
Suetonius leaped from his couch, “Jupiter smiles upon us. Make haste and cover their entry, and hope that Mars will also smile on us tomorrow.”
Two hours later Cassius rode in. “Hail Suetonius, we have marched since nightfall to join you, I have a full cohort of 600 and some 140 auxiliaries.”
“You are doubly welcome Cassius, it could be enough to swing the tide of battle, but what of the rest?”
Cassius looked grave, “There are no more commander, they fell to the massed Celt army at Verulamium. Those I have with me were returning from patrol outside the city walls or you would not have this many. Tell me what do we face?”
Suetonius looked him in the face, “I’ll level with you Cassius, the situation is grim. I have less than 6,000 men after prior attacks, including your force, and Boudicca waits out there with 200,000 or more, with reinforcements arriving by the hour. I wish not for our men to know the facts. Furthermore victorious men are confident men, and these barbarians are flushed with victory.”
Cassius acknowledged him, “I thought this when we marched, there was adversity everywhere. I lost a third of my force fighting my way through to you. Fear not sir, my men will give them a run for their money on the day.” He sighed wearily, “Permission to retire, sir?”
Suetonius smiled, “Permission granted tribune, take leave and rest your men.”
Cassius was puzzled. “Tribune? Not so sir, I am first centurion.”
“No Cassius. Put your new status up. Henceforth you are tribune, may you survive to enjoy it. But do not be overconfident, Boudicca is certain of impending victory, so much so they even bring their old men, their women and babes to watch our destruction, such is the certainty of the outcome of this battle in their eyes.”
Caesar sat, playing his lute by the ornamental lake he had commissioned within the palace grounds. Dreamily, in love with himself and his playing, he strummed the strings of the instrument, his eyes closed in ecstasy as the hot Italian sun beat down, and a slave girl, scantily dressed, fanned him as he played.
>
On the steps at the palace rear, a Roman senator, Petronius, stood with Altus, one of the few who knew how to interrupt Nero without incurring his wrath. With a subtle mixture of flattery and warmth Altus could always get through to him.
“What is his mood today?” Altus enquired.
“Placid” the man replied. “He composed a poem last night and this morning he read it to the Senate,” he smiled sarcastically, “to tumultuous applause need I say. He is in a very good mood. Why do you, ask? Do you bring bad tidings?”
Altus nodded, “The very worst Petronius, Britannia is about to fall, and Suetonius makes his last stand. Even as I speak he may well lie in his own gore.”
Petronius sighed. “News travels slow Altus. I cannot predict Nero’s reaction to such.” He clasped Altus’ wrist, “Go now, he finishes playing. And,” he added ominously, “good luck.”
As Altus started his slow walk towards Caesar, the movement was immediately noticed. As he drew close, Nero called out to him, “Hail Altus, what news?”
Altus walked up to Caesar proffering the vellum scroll he clutched in his right hand. “My apologies Caesar — I should have delivered this to you ten minutes ago, but I was so entranced with your playing I could only stand and listen. I was in another world.”
“Read it to me dear Altus I am weary from playing and it is so demanding on one’s energies when you are as gifted as I. I rose early today to give the Senate a treat, a poem I composed last night for them, they were overjoyed Altus, and one called for a rendering of both my songs and music.” He looked up at Altus with unfocused eyes, “I gave them over two hours of my talent. Every genius has a duty to perform, and so I do.” He leaned back, “But it is so wearying, but then they are so appreciative I cannot refuse them. “
“So I have heard Caesar,” Altus replied, barely able to suppress a yawn, “they say the applause went on way beyond the time it took for the sand in the hourglass to run out.”
