by K. M. Ashman
Roman III
The Wrath of Boudicca
by
K. M. Ashman
Published by
Silverback Books
More Books by K. M. Ashman
The India Sommers Mysteries
The Dead Virgins
The Treasures of Suleiman
The Mummies of the Reich
The Tomb Builders (Coming Soon)
The Roman Chronicles
Roman I – The Fall of Britannia
Roman II – The Rise of Caratacus
Roman III – The Wrath of Boudicca
Roman IV – Boudicca’s Daughters – (Coming Soon)
The Medieval Saga
Medieval I – Blood of the Cross
Medieval II – In Shadows of Kings
Medieval III – Sword of Liberty
Medieval IV – Ring of Steel (Coming Soon)
Novels
Savage Eden
The Last Citadel
Vampire
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Roman III
The Wrath of Boudicca
Copyright K M Ashman 2012
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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All characters depicted within this publication other than the obvious historical figures are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Foreword
Roman III - The Wrath of Boudicca is the third book in the Roman trilogy. Though it can be read as a stand-alone novel, it is recommended the first two novels in the Trilogy are read first to fully understand the main characters.
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Roman Britain
To better understand the landscape of the story, a basic map of Roman Britain including the relevant tribe names is available on K M Ashman’s blog site. Alternatively, for more detailed versions, search the internet for a map of Roman Britain including the Celtic tribes around 60AD.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Author’s notes
Prologue
The Lands of the Trinovantes
Britannia 40 AD
Boudicca was ten years old when she learned of her fate. A trading party from the Kingdom of the Iceni, a great tribe on the east coast of Britannia, had come to the lands of the Trinovantes and spent a week in the compound of her father, himself a King in his own right.
A great feasting took place on the last night. Gifts were exchanged and trading treaties agreed between the two peoples before the real business of the visit was discussed. Eventually agreement was made and the men of both tribes moved their attention to the flasks of wine and skins of ale that lay in abundance around the giant roundhouse which held the Trinovantian council. Soon, considered words of wisdom and guarded calculations of worth were replaced with tales of masculine debauchery and bravery in battle. A trait shared by all Britannic tribesmen.
Boudicca knew that something special was happening that night but had no idea what it could be. Such things were not for the ears of children, even daughters of Kings. The sounds of revelry lasted deep into the night and the racket of drinking men meant she lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness of the roundhouse she shared with her mother and two sisters. Finally she left the warmth of the reindeer furs and walked over to the dying fire in the centre of the hut, poking the embers to stir the lazy flames from their fiery slumber. A movement behind her made her jump but she smiled when her mother sat alongside her and wrapped her own blanket around them both.
‘Noisy lot aren’t they?’ said her mother quietly.
Boudicca nodded.
‘Are they going in the morning?’ asked Boudicca.
‘They are,’ said her mother.
‘What did they want?’ asked Boudicca.
Her mother hesitated and looked down before turning to look at her.
‘Boudicca,’ she said, ‘we live in hard times. Messengers ride between tribes telling of a threat from a faraway land.’
‘The Romans,’ said Boudicca.
‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘Even as we speak they gather their forces across the sea and it is said they will assault our shores before next the snow falls.’
‘But I have heard father say that Caratacus will lead an army against them and drive them into the sea.’
‘And he will I’m sure,’ said her mother, ‘but there is always the chance he will fail, so we have to make sure our own people’s interests are looked after.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Boudicca.
‘Your father is a great King, Boudicca but we are one tribe amongst many. It is his duty to forge alliances with other tribes.’
‘Like the Iceni?’ asked Boudicca.
‘Exactly,’ said her mother. ‘Have you seen the tall man who leads them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well he is called Prasatagus and he is their King. He has come here to seek our swords in an alliance against the Romans, should the need ever come.’
‘Then that is good,’ said Boudicca.
‘It is,’ agreed her mother, ‘but there is a price to be paid and it is only fair that you know the cost.’
Boudicca waited silently, dreading the words that she guessed would be coming.
‘Boudicca…’ started her mother
‘It’s me isn’t it?’ said Boudicca before her mother could continue.
Her mother looked down as if in shame.
‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ she said, ‘but we need a blood bond and he has asked that you become his bride.’
‘When?’ asked Boudicca.
‘Not yet,’ said her mother, tucking a lock of Boudicca’s long red hair back behind her daughter’s ear, ‘but there has been agreement you will not be promised to another. When you have fifteen years, you will be taken to the lands of the Iceni to become his Queen.’
Boudicca stared into the flames, absorbing the news. She did not know much about the ways of adults but knew it was an important path that lay before her.
‘Are you alright, Boudicca?’ asked her mother gently.
Boudicca nodded in silence.
‘There is no need to be frightened,’ said her mother.
‘I’m not afraid, mother,’ said Boudicca, ‘only worried that I make you and father proud.’
‘Oh, Boudicca,’ sighed her mother, pulling her closer into her embrace, ‘you already do, every minute of every day and who knows, one day the whole of Britannia will be proud of you too.’
Boudicca snuggled in closer and both mother and daughter stared into the comforting flames, not realising that within a generation, Boudicca’s name would unite a Kingdom and send fear into the very souls of an Empire half a world away
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Chapter One
The Lands of the Silures
60 AD
Prydain walked into the village, leading his horse by the reins. A group of ten men followed, each leading his own horse as well as a pack mule. Though his accompanying men wore warm animal furs against the last of the winter snows, Prydain insisted on wearing an oiled leather cape lined with sheepskin, a leftover habit from when he had served in the Legions seventeen years earlier. His long black hair was tied back, as was the way of the Silures and one side of his face was tattooed with Celtic imagery. A short sword hung from his belt and a broadsword was strapped across his back, a testament to the dangerous times they lived in.
The line of men walked through the village toward the stables and as the news of their arrival spread, people came out of their warm roundhouses in excitement. Children walked alongside the warriors, asking questions about the expedition, while women looked with interest at the packs carried by the mules. As they reached the stables an old man wrapped in a heavy horsehair blanket ducked out of a hut, helped by an elderly woman. Prydain allowed his horse to be led away and walked over to greet him.
‘Prydain, you have returned,’ said the old man.
‘We have, Kegan,’ said Prydain, ‘and are happy to be back.’
‘Did you have any trouble?’
‘If you mean with the Romans, then nothing worth worrying about. Their patrols stumble through the forests like wounded bears and we know of their presence long before they are near enough to cause us any problems.’
‘It has always been so,’ said Kegan, ‘and is a trait that aides us. However, my manners escape me, come into the warm and you can share the tale in comfort.’
‘I will check the horses are cared for,’ said Prydain, ‘and then the single men. After that, I would be honoured to share your hearth.’
‘As it should be,’ said Kegan with a nod. ‘I will see that the wine is warm.’
Kegan returned into the hut while Prydain followed his men to the stables. The village was situated on the banks of a small stream, deep in the southern mountains of the Khymru. It was protected on all sides by thick forests and could only be reached by those who knew their way through the tangled maze of forest trails. Many villages were hidden in a similar manner and though the Roman patrols were rare in the area, the Silures took no risks. The Romans had already subdued all the border tribes as well as the great Deceangli in the north of the Khymru.
However they had not had much success with the Silures mainly due to two things. One was the forbidding nature of the country with steep mountains and heavily wooded valleys, while the other was the evasive nature of the Silures tactics. Unlike the other Britannic tribes, the Silures refused to meet the invaders in face to face battle but instead relied on hit and run tactics, striking any unprotected patrols with devastating speed before melting back into the protective embrace of the country they knew so well.
Since the defeat of Caratacus at Caer Caradog five years earlier, the Romans had made many attempts at subduing the Silures but always came up short. Occasionally they would find a village but usually it would be empty and even though they burned those they found, the effect on the troublesome tribe was minimal.
At the stables, the slaves unloaded the pack mules overseen by some of Prydain’s warriors. Piles of furs lay along the walls as did sacks of grain and dried meat. Though many of the border tribes had bent their knee to the Romans, they still nurtured hatred and secretly supported those men who continued to be a thorn in the invaders’ side. Subsequently, these supply trains were common place throughout the south of the Khymru, especially in winter when hunting was poor and access to trade markets was denied by Roman patrols.
‘Get the fresh skins to the women for cleaning,’ said Prydain, ‘and take the food to the elder council. They will ensure it is distributed fairly.’
When he was sure the supplies had been sorted and the horses rubbed down and fed, his attention turned to the men.
‘Cullen,’ he said addressing a tall warrior. ‘There are bed spaces in the long house for you and your men. Take the deer you killed this morning and a skin of wine to celebrate our success, you have earned it.’
Cullen nodded in gratitude.
‘Thank you, Prydain. As usual it was an honour to ride with you. I am only sorry that our blades never tasted Roman flesh.’
‘I fear that day will come soon enough, Cullen. In the meantime enjoy the venison and the warmth of the fires. I will have some of the slave women sent over.’
Cullen hoisted the deer onto his back and led six of the patrol toward the single men’s longhouse on the other side of the stream.
‘What about us, Prydain,’ asked a giant of a man nearby, ‘do we not also deserve a deer to celebrate?’
‘I fear we would need a herd of deer to feed your appetite, Gildas,’ laughed Prydain, ‘but you are right. The married men should take something as well. Each of you take a wolf fur for your wives, perhaps it will make them more accommodating when you lay alongside them tonight.’
‘It will take more than a wolf skin to thaw his wife,’ laughed a voice, ‘she is colder than steel in winter.’
The rest of the men laughed while Gildas scowled. He was bigger than anyone in the tribe and had killed many men in battle but there was one person who could put him in his place, his woman.
‘She may be cold to you,’ said Gildas, ‘but when she thaws she is hotter than a blacksmith’s furnace. Besides, I did a little trading of my own back there and I have this little trinket. He reached into his tunic and withdrew a necklace of coloured river stones. ‘When she claps eyes on this she will rip my clothes off faster than you can drink a mug of ale.’
The men laughed as they finished their work and after selecting the wolf furs from the packs, made their way to their family’s huts. Prydain selected a particularly beautiful pelt, predominantly white with patches of grey, before making his own way over to the hut of Kegan.
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Kegan was the clan chieftain and after the battle of Caer Caradog five years earlier, it was Kegan who had given Prydain a place amongst his people. Since then Prydain had earned the respect and trust of the whole clan and had grown particularly close to the chieftain.
‘Prydain, come in,’ said Kegan, ‘be seated.’
Prydain sat on a pile of furs situated near the fire. He was often invited to the hut of the chieftain and felt comfortable in his presence. The old woman who had helped Kegan walk outside brought over a bowl of Cawl, the staple diet of their people during winter.
‘Thank you,’ said Prydain, taking the bowl gratefully. It had been days since his last hot meal.
Kegan didn’t eat, but watched the young man as he finished the broth. Finally Prydain sat back and smiled toward the woman.
‘Thank you, Cara,’ he said. ‘Excellent as usual.’
‘We had to kill a cow,’ said Kegan, ‘but our people were starving. These supplies have come just in time.’
‘They will last but a few weeks,’ said Prydain. ‘As soon as my men are rested we will set out again.’
‘Take a few days,’ said Kegan. ‘The snows are melting as is the ice. Soon we will be able to cast our nets and travel further afield for the hunt.’
‘Still, one more trip will ease the transition,’ said Prydain.
Kegan nodded.
‘It is a shame it has come to this,’ said Kegan. ‘I remember the time when our beams groaned from the weight of dried meat. Hunts were always fruitful, even in winter but the constant crashing of Roman boots frightens the deer deeper into the forest. Perhaps next winter we will stock up earlier.’
‘We cannot go through this again,’ said Prydain. ‘Our men get restless and demand blood. We hide in the forests like scared rabbits while the Romans torch our villages. This is not our way, Kegan. Since when have the Silures avoided our enemies?’
‘I feel your frustration, Prydain but you know we cannot
beat these people on a battlefield. Even you have said this around many council fires.’
‘I know,’ said Prydain, ‘and I stand by my words, but we cannot just stand by and let them absorb our lands.’
‘But they have no fortress in the Khymru,’ said Kegan. ‘Their patrols are a nuisance but when the snows melt we will be able to hunt and when we are strong again, we will take the fight back to them. That is our way, Prydain, to hit hard and disappear like the mist before they have time to draw their weapons.’
‘And it is a good tactic,’ said Prydain, ‘but only against small forces. The day they decide to set up a fortress in our lands, our attacks will be like flies to a bull and make no mistake, Kegan, that day will come.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said the old man, ‘but it is hard enough surviving today, the tomorrows will have to wait.’
The rest of the evening was taken up with drinking wine while Prydain told Kegan about his trip. They had laden the pack mules with iron ore from the local mines and sent the trading party north to the lands of the Ordovices. Their lands were more open and their harvests had been good, enabling them to be in a strong position for trading. In addition, as they had a direct trading route with the Deceangli further north, and access to Roman goods, it was a way for the Silures to access necessities during these hard times.
Cara retired to her bed space behind a wicker screen and Kegan produced some chewing root. Both he and Prydain chewed on the fibrous material before placing it between gum and lower lip to allow the mild narcotic to take effect.
‘These are hard times, Prydain,’ said Kegan.
‘They are,’ agreed Prydain, ‘but when the snows are gone, we will be able to assemble the tribe and agree a strategy to slow the Roman advance.’
‘You think this is possible?’
‘I think they can be slowed,’ said Prydain, ‘but I fear their patience. To them, time is an ally and they are in no rush. Whether it is in our lifetime or that of our children, unless the tribes unite then I fear their presence is inevitable.’
