The Wrath of Boudicca

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘No,’ snapped Petillius, ‘it is too late. The witch has drawn us in like a lamb to the slaughter. If we commit what men are left, it will just feed their swords with more Roman blood. My honour demands I die amongst my men but comes second to a greater need, the retention of the Aquila.’ He looked up at the golden Eagle standard high on its pole. The Eagle had been cast in bronze and coated with gold but the value was not in the precious metal but the iconography it represented. The Legions of Rome.

  ‘Fetch the horses,’ commanded Petillius, ‘and order those in reserve to retreat with all haste. Gather back at the fort and prepare the defences. It is too late to help those below but at least we can secure the Aquila.’ As the young officer ran to relay the Legate’s orders Petillius looked once more down into the valley. Most of the Legion had been slaughtered and those few that remained, had formed a square in the centre of the battlefield, outnumbered a hundred to one by enemy attacking from all sides. In amongst them Petillius could make out the figure of Virrius fighting manically amongst his men. As he watched, the last surviving group of Legionaries were overrun and Petillius turned away with a heavy heart. The Ninth Hispana had been wiped out.

  ----

  An hour later Boudicca walked amongst the carnage. Dead and dying men lay in their thousands all around her, each a contributor to the sea of blood so eagerly absorbed by the thirsty soil beneath. Some cried out in pain but most just lay quietly waiting for death to arrive. The families of the Britons who had fought searched amongst them, looking for kin who had fallen, to take them away for the death ceremonies.

  Young boys from the tribes walked amongst the Roman wounded with their skinning knives, taking great delight in despatching any they found to the afterlife with while the women searched their bodies for jewellery or coins.

  Boudicca was quiet. She thought she would have been ecstatic after the battle but she felt only anger. Anger that it had to be like this in her own country. Anger, that though they had defeated a Legion, many of their own people had to fall to achieve the victory.

  ‘Boudicca,’ said a voice.

  The Queen turned to see Rianna walking up behind her.

  ‘Rianna,’ she said quietly. ‘We did it! We killed the bear.’

  ‘You did it, Boudicca. You were the one with the vision and the audacity to take on the best of the Romans.’

  The Warrior Queen looked slowly around the valley. Everywhere she looked and as far as the eye could see, the ground was covered with bodies.

  ‘But at what price?’ she asked.

  ‘A worthwhile price,’ said Rianna. ‘Yes many have died but their sacrifice has shown the way. The Romans are beatable, Boudicca. With courage and leadership, we can now stare them in the eye as equals. No more will we lay awake at night and fear the sound of horses’ hooves.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Boudicca. ‘Do you think this is all it takes to send them scurrying back to their boats, because I don’t? I think it will just awaken them to our strength and next time they will be better prepared. This isn’t the end, Rianna but the beginning. There will be other Legions that will follow in their footprints. More battles, more pain and more death. Many more will die before we can call ourselves victors.’

  ‘So we will fight,’ said Rianna, ‘and many may die but in the end we will prevail. Today you have shown us the way.’

  Boudicca looked up once more.

  ‘Tell me Rianna,’ she said, ‘what do you see before you?’

  ‘I see a glorious battlefield that will send shockwaves unto Rome itself,’ said Rianna. ‘Why, what do you see?’

  ‘Me? I see a fork in the path,’ said Boudicca. ‘A choice to be made though both involving a life of conflict. We can either choose the path of resistance, fighting from the trees and picking our battles or we grasp this gift with both hands.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Total war,’ said Boudicca. ‘Ride this wave of victory right into the heart of them, pulling the people with us. We will never again have an opportunity like this, Rianna and as painful as it is to see our men bleed, is not eternal servitude no less painful? If it were just our lives I would plunge headlong down the path to war but what of them?’ She swept her arm in an arc, pointing at the ten thousand or so Britons now celebrating wildly. ‘In their moment of ecstasy most will not contemplate the consequences. What right do I have to ask them to die?’

  ‘The right of a Queen,’ snapped Rianna. ‘You have led us here and you will lead us onward. One word from you and they will follow you to the gates of Rome itself. I understand the burden of Queenship is heavy, but that is the price to be paid. You have often proclaimed your hatred of the Roman occupation, yet now you have the chance to end it, you falter. Do not succumb to these demons, Boudicca, stand tall and lead us onward.’

  Boudicca stared at her friend for an age before smiling.

  ‘You are right,’ she said, ‘summon my chariot for if I am to fight this war I will do so as a warrior of our people.’

  Rianna smiled and signalled to a group of horse riders a few hundred paces away. Within moments Boudicca was once more aboard her chariot.

  ‘Join me,’ she said and Rianna climbed up beside her. ‘If we ride out now, Rianna, there is no turning back.’

  ‘Nor should there be, Boudicca. Ride out, for your people await.’

  Boudicca urged her horses slowly forward and as the people saw her, they ran to line her route into the heart of the battlefield, dragging the bodies out of her path as she passed. Within minutes they were surrounded by cheering warriors, both men and women, every one exulting her triumph. Finally she reached the centre where a large body of men stood in a circle, led by Maccus, the clan leader who had breached the temple at Camulodunum. Boudicca dismounted and walked through the throng to see what was happening. Before her a group of Legionary prisoners knelt in the dust, their hands tied behind their backs.

  ‘Maccus,’ said Boudicca. ‘You have been busy, I see.’

  ‘My blade has absorbed so much Roman blood, I swear it is twice as heavy,’ said Maccus.

  ‘And what of these?’

  ‘I ordered them spared in case you want to question them,’ said Maccus.

  ‘We will carry no prisoners,’ said Boudicca.

  ‘Then question them first and kill them later,’ said Maccus.

  ‘They have nothing I want to hear,’ said Boudicca. ‘Cut off their sword hands and send them back to their countrymen. Let them see that though our strength is mighty, we are a just people.’ As she turned to walk away a voice rang out from the prisoners and Boudicca stopped dead in her tracks, her heart racing in her chest.

  ‘Boudicca,’ shouted the voice. ‘Enjoy your petty victory while it lasts, for as we speak your demise has already been agreed amongst the Roman gods.’

  Boudicca turned slowly and stared at the man who was responsible for all this carnage.

  ‘Virrius,’ she snarled under her breath.

  ‘Oh you remember me?’ said the Tribune.

  ‘Oh I remember you, Virrius,’ she answered walking slowly toward him. ‘I remember you, and the way you abused our hospitality. I remember the way you raped our women and killed our unarmed men. I remember how you watched as our children’s heads were smashed against each other and how you laughed as I begged for your mercy.’

  ‘How about the whip’s lash, Boudicca,’ he taunted, ‘do you remember how it cut deep into your naked flesh?’

  ‘Every last strike,’ whispered Boudicca and started to draw her sword.

  ‘So this is it, Boudicca,’ said Virrius with venom in his voice. ‘When it comes down to it, the great Warrior Queen of the Iceni resorts to killing a tethered captive. How typical of a barbarian.’

  ‘You call us Barbarians,’ snarled Boudicca. ‘If defending your home against murderers of the old and rapists of children make me a barbarian then I am proud to bear that name. This is not your home, Roman, it is the land of our fathers and we are entitled to def
end it with every beat of our hearts. You have come here, killed our men and raped our women. You have taxed us more than we can sustain and as we watched our old die of hunger, you have taken our young to be slaves, leaving us a bleak future. We fight for freedom yet you fight for the greed of one man. Which is the more barbaric, Roman? Ask your false gods that question when you stand in judgement before them.’

  Boudicca altered her grip on her sword but before she could move, a commotion to one side made her stop and she watched in confusion as her oldest daughter walked slowly across the clearing, toward the restrained Tribune.

  ‘Heanua,’ said Boudicca but as she stepped forward, she felt a restraining hand on her arm.

  ‘Boudicca, wait,’ said Rianna’s voice. ‘Let it unfold.’

  The noise of the crowd dropped to silence as the girl approached the Roman. Virrius’ brow lowered, not understanding what was happening but within seconds he spotted the knife the young girl held at her side.

  ‘Oh this gets better,’ said Virrius, ‘you now send a child to do a man’s work. Do your worst, Barbarian spawn, I die knowing that you and your kind will soon be stamped into the mud by the Legions of Rome.’ Despite his bravado, a bead of sweat ran down his face and the tone of his voice changed as death approached.

  As the girl drew near, Virrius struggled against his captors but they forced his arms out wide and pulled his head back to expose his throat.

  His eyes were wide like a scared dog and he stared at the girl with hatred as she stopped before him.

  ‘Do it,’ he snarled through gritted teeth. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  For a few seconds nobody moved but finally Heanua placed the point of her blade against the Roman’s chest, carefully avoiding the area where she knew his heart to be.

  ‘You are wrong, Roman,’ she said quietly. ‘Your Legions may kill us today but there is always a tomorrow. Children not yet born will spill Roman blood as I now spill yours.’ As she spoke she eased the blade slowly between his ribcage and into one of his lungs. Virrius gasped in pain but Heanua just kept talking as easily as if she was skinning a rabbit.

  ‘You see, Virrius,’ she said, ‘you represent Rome and I represent Britannia. You are bigger and stronger than I by far, yet it is I who will live the longer. I may not have pierced your beating heart but these smaller wounds will ensure you die slowly and in great pain as you gasp for breath, choking on your own blood.’ She withdrew the blade and placed it over the other lung. Again she pushed the sharp knife slowly through the cartilage, unflinching as the mortally wounded man coughed frothy blood over her face.

  ‘Be proud, Roman,’ she said, ‘for as you die, you are a prophesy of the future that lies before Rome.’

  She stepped back and the captors released Virrius to fall in the mud, coughing and thrashing around as he tried desperately to find breath. Heanua threw the knife to one aside and turned to walk away, passing her mother without even a glance of recognition.

  ‘Let her go,’ said another female warrior, ‘she needs some time alone.’

  ‘No,’ said Boudicca, ‘she doesn’t. She needs her mother,’ and turned to follow Heanua across the battlefield.

  ‘What about the prisoners?’ shouted Rianna. ‘What fate awaits them?’

  Boudicca paused but did not turn around.

  ‘Burn them,’ she said, ‘every last one of them.’

  Without another word she followed her daughter back to their camp, picking her way between the thousands of corpses littering the valley.

  ----

  Back in the hills, Petillius rode frantically through the forest, galloping as hard as he could away from the battle. All around mayhem reigned, as the warriors of Boudicca swarmed like bees amongst the trees, slashing wildly at the passing horses. The reserve Cohorts were fragmented as each man fought for his life against overwhelming odds, until finally it was a headlong retreat with everyman fighting for survival. Those on foot stood no chance, while those on horseback fared much better as they put distance between themselves and the manic enemy.

  ‘Keep going,’ screamed Petillius as one of his men swerved to help a comrade. ‘We have to get the Aquila to safety. This is not Teutoberg and I will not lose an Eagle.’

  Those few who were left forged on and gradually left the battlefield behind them as they sought familiar territory. Finally, after several hours they came across a river and a cavalryman reigned an exhausted horse alongside the Legate.

  ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I know this river. If we follow it downstream it will take us toward our last encampment.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Petillius.

  ‘Yes, Sire. I have ridden this way before.’

  ‘Then lead us back to safety,’ said Petillius, ‘or I fear this day will never end.’

  Once more they forged ahead until, many hours later, the weary horses walked slowly through the gate of the sparsely guarded camp, they had left a few days earlier.

  A guard ran forward and helped Petillius from his horse.

  ‘Sire, what’s happened?’ asked the Decurion in charge.

  ‘I will brief you later,’ said the Legate. ‘In the meantime stand to the guard, everyman to the palisades, including the wounded. Break out every weapon we have in the wagons and stockpile them around the perimeter. Each man will eat and sleep at his post, until I personally give the order to stand down. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said the Decurion.

  ‘Good. Tell your men to keep an eye out for any stragglers that may find their way back. You can send a patrol out to aid any they find but you are not to engage the enemy. We need every man capable of wielding a sword behind this barrier. Now, arrange food and water to be brought to the palisades for my men. We don’t know how much time we have.’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said the Decurion and saluted before turning away to pass on the orders. Petillius turned to the Tribunus Laticlavius, the young officer learning his trade besides the Legate.

  ‘Dellus,’ see to the horses,’ he said. ‘Ensure they are fed, watered and rubbed down. What strength they have left may still be required before this day is done.’

  ‘Sire,’ said the young officer, ‘there are no grooms available and only a few slaves within the camp. The rest of the men are heading to the stockade as you ordered.’

  ‘Then do it yourself, man,’ shouted Petillius. ‘Are you yet so soft that you shy from hard work. Thank the gods that the only blood you shed this day will be from blistered hands and not opened chest.’

  Only when the men were busy redeploying did Petillius turn to the standard bearer at his side.

  ‘Aquilifer,’ he said using the Eagle bearer’s formal title. ‘You have ridden hard and carried our standard well. You above all deserve rest but there is a task I would have you attend. I would entrust it to no other.’

  ‘Whatever you command, Sire,’ said the Aquilifer.

  ‘Go to one of the empty officer’s tents,’ said Petillius, ‘and seal yourself inside. While there, scrape away the soil and bury the Eagle as deep as your forearm. Once done, arrange the contents as if there was no disturbance.’

  ‘Bury the Eagle, Sire?’ asked the officer incredulously.

  ‘You heard me,’ said the Legate. ‘I hope it is temporary but I fear we may not survive this day and I will not see her glory in the hands of the Barbarians. Now go, and inform me when the task is done.’

  The officer saluted and turned away to his task. Petillius took a moment to adjust his armour and take a drink before heading over to join his men at the palisades. It was not a task normally required of a Legate but these were desperate times and after all, he was a Legionary.

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  Chapter Thirteen

  The Lands of the Trinovantes

  Prydain and his comrades had ridden for several days through the midlands of Britannia, heading toward the lands of the Iceni. The spring rains made the going tough for though there were well trodden paths along the route, those they could ris
k were boggy with mud and the going was slow. Along the way they encountered many local tribesmen but kept themselves to themselves to avoid rousing suspicion and every night they camped deep within the woods in order to light a fire without fear of being seen. One such night, the men were seated around the meagre flames while Heulwen was already wrapped in her cape beneath the cover of the tent.

  ‘May as well use it up,’ said Gildas leaning forward and retrieving the remains of a boar’s leg from the fire.

  ‘You’ll not find much meat on there,’ replied Cullen.

  ‘It’s not the flesh I seek but a treat much greater.’ Gildas cracked the leg bone with his knife. Carefully he levered away the bone fragments until he reach the end of the marrow with his teeth and pulled out a length of the delicacy, making a great show of how delicious he found the taste.

  ‘What food do we have left?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘Some dried mutton,’ replied Taran, ‘and some grain. We will have to hunt tomorrow or we will go hungry in the coming days.’

  ‘I fear these lands are sparse of deer,’ said Prydain.’ The villages are many in these parts and we may have to wander a great distance to find spoor.’

  ‘Then we will have to risk a village,’ said Taran. ‘We still have coin and without supplies we will fall short of our goal before getting anywhere near.’

  ‘The coin will arouse suspicion,’ said Prydain.

  ‘There is no alternative,’ answered Taran. ‘We have to take that risk.’

  ‘I never thought I would see the day when I regretted having gold coins,’ said Cullen.

  Prydain laughed.

  ‘I sympathise,’ he said. ‘We have enough coin to spend a lifetime getting fat yet they may be the death of us.’ Silence fell for a few moments as all four men stared into the dancing flames.

  ‘So what do you know of this Taliesin,’ asked Cullen eventually.

  ‘Not much if truth be told,’ said Prydain. ‘I was once captured by his father and offered into slavery but fate intervened and we became the closest of friends. He died in my arms at Caer Caradog and I swore to protect his son. It turns out he is the last true blood prince of the Deceangli and his bloodline is needed to protect the north of the Khymru.’