The Wrath of Boudicca

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘He sounds too eager to die if you ask me,’ said Cullen.

  ‘Show me a young Khymric warrior who is not as headstrong,’ said Prydain. ‘The difference is his life is not his to give.’

  ‘So what do we do if we find him?’

  ‘Explain the situation and ask him to return with us,’ said Prydain.

  ‘As simple as that?’

  ‘I could knock him out and tie him to a mule,’ said Gildas.

  ‘An option I agree,’ said Prydain, ‘but not a favourable one I fear.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘This boy has to be nurtured into a man,’ said Prydain. ‘It will be hard enough to curb his bloodlust, especially when there is an offensive against the Romans underway. It is important he sees merit in our mission and travels back of his own free will. If we force him, he will lose honour amongst comrades and will never embrace the role laid before him.’

  ‘We must find him first,’ said Cullen, ‘and that will be a task in itself.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Prydain, ‘but I feel if we find this Warrior Queen, then Taliesin won’t be far away.’

  ‘Unless he has already been killed,’ said Taran.

  Everyone stayed quiet, realising that the possibility of the boy being already dead was very, very high.

  ‘Well, we will find out soon enough,’ said Prydain. ‘Anyway, let’s get back to the problem of getting supplies from the village. Who fancies going in?’

  ----

  A hundred miles away, smoke lay across the island of Mona, swirling between the trees of the oaken forests like a heavy morning mist. However, this was no refreshing cloud of dew droplets but the acrid evidence of the bloody events of the previous two days. Men walked slowly through the smoke in silence, tired and battle scarred silhouettes, leaning down to check fallen opponents for loot, the right of the victor in these hard times.

  Cassus looked on with cold disinterest. His days of looting the dead were long gone and he had enough saved with the Legion’s treasurer to ensure a comfortable retirement when the time came. His wages were substantial and he had been awarded significant monetary gifts by various commanders during his career, ensuring his days of looting were over.

  Suetonius appeared through the smoke.

  ‘Cassus, your victory is total,’ he said. ‘It seems the whole island is ablaze.’

  ‘Only their sacred groves, Sire,’ said Cassus. ‘I felt it was important to show them the contempt in which we hold their gods.’

  ‘And their priests?’

  ‘Fuel for the same fires,’ said Cassus. ‘Their threat was great in volume though insignificant in substance. Thousands have felt our wrath and it was wolves amongst sheep. Those who ran are being chased down as we speak but for sport more than anything. A good exercise for the young men I feel.’

  ‘Let them exercise their sword arms a while longer,’ said the Legate, ‘but rein them in before dark. Mona is a now no more than a graveyard and there are pressing needs elsewhere.’

  ‘A sentiment I share,’ said Cassus, ‘and I feel this task could have been done by auxiliaries rather than Rome’s finest.’

  ‘Your frustration is noted Cassus but it was a task that needed doing. I will be returning to the Cerrig shortly to make the arrangements for the march. Join me this evening to share a meal with my officers and together we will plan the next step in subduing this godforsaken country.’

  Before Cassus could answer, Suetonius walked way, flanked by his body guard. Cassus watched him go before summoning his second in command.

  ‘Optio,’ he said, ‘pass the word, every unit to be back at the camp by dark. I want to be across the strait at the next tide. Let the men celebrate tonight but limit the wine. I feel we will be on the march by noon and any unable to keep up will feel the bite of my Vitis.’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said the Optio and walked away to share the command. Cassus made his way to the shore to ensure there were enough boats to take the Legion back to the mainland. The campaign against Mona had been easier than he had hoped and had been a one sided slaughter. Ordinarily, the warrior in him would be rejoicing and he would revel in the bloodshed but deep inside, something ate at him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but his mind kept returning to the threat of this unknown woman in the east. Boudicca.

  ----

  Taliesin shook his fellow comrade awake. The sky had long turned from black to grey and the low hanging sun fought with the morning rain clouds for the right to dominate the sky. Both men had travelled north to find Boudicca, following the trail left by the marching Legion yet careful to stay just off the track in case any Romans had to return to the camp and found them gone. Now they had made their escape, there was no way they wanted to risk being caught again. Each night they laid low in amongst whatever undergrowth they could find, sharing an old horse blanket for warmth. Though they were used to hunger, the complete lack of food meant they were weak and both men knew they couldn’t go on much longer.

  ‘Finian, wake up,’ hissed Taliesin, shaking the man beneath the blanket.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ mumbled Finian. ‘Do you have food? For if not an empty stomach is easier to bear when sleeping.’

  ‘Finian, something’s happening,’ said Taliesin. ‘There are men in the woods, many men.’

  Finian sat up urgently, instantly awake.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Romans?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Taliesin. ‘If they are, they don’t march in formation. They seem to be all around us.’

  ‘I don’t hear them,’ said Finian.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Taliesin. ‘They try to keep quiet but since the sun rose I have heard many pass us by.’ As he spoke someone coughed in the distance and both fugitives ducked lower into the bramble thicket.

  ‘Do you think they are searching for us?’ asked Taliesin.

  ‘No,’ said the older man. ‘We are too far from the fort and there were only a few guards left. They wouldn’t waste resources on a couple of runaway slaves, at least not during a time of conflict.’

  ‘So what do you think is happening?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Finian, turning his head sharply to the right as a voice drifted to him through the woods. ‘But we daren’t move, we could be stepping straight back into the slave’s yolk.’

  ‘I will die first,’ snarled Taliesin.

  Suddenly Finian threw his arm around Taliesin’s head and clamped his hand over his comrade’s mouth.

  The boy’s first instinct was to struggle but when he followed Finian’s wide eyed stare, he instantly froze, afraid to move a muscle. Less than ten paces away, a Roman infantry man had emerged from the gloom and sat against a tree to rest. He drank deeply from his water bottle and carefully removed his helmet before placing it beside him on the forest floor. Finally he explored the side of his head with his hands before pouring some water on the mass of bloody hair, matted closely to his skull. He gasped in pain for a second before taking his knife and cutting a large square of cloth from the undershirt beneath his armour. Folding it in a pad he used some more water to dampen the cloth before dabbing it gingerly against the head wound.

  Finian eased his hand from Taliesin’s mouth and put his finger up to his own lips, indicating his friend to be quiet. Slowly he crawled back through the thicket closely followed by Taliesin until they were out of earshot of the wounded soldier.

  ‘What’s going on?’ hissed Taliesin. ‘That man looks exhausted and did you see the wound on his head?’

  ‘I did,’ said Finian, ‘and it’s obviously a battle wound. I reckon he has been hit by something, probably a mace and if it wasn’t for that helmet, his brains would now be spread across a field somewhere. As it is the wound looks serious enough to be fatal.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ asked Taliesin.

  ‘For him to receive a wound from a mace suggests he has been in very close quarter fighting,’ said Finian, ‘and that means a tightly fought battle. Romans do mos
t of their killing from afar if they can help it and usually finish off the remainder with their Gladii. This man has been face to face with an opponent and it looks like he came off second best.’

  ‘You think he has fought with Boudicca’s army?’ asked Taliesin with barely concealed excitement.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Finian, ‘but it is a possibility.’

  ‘Shhh, what’s that?’ hissed Taliesin and once again both men ducked as someone approached their position. This time it was a cavalryman riding an exhausted horse. The man’s head was hanging low on his chest and one arm, caked in blood, hung loosely at his side, the result of a blow from an axe.

  ‘Look there’s more,’ hissed Taliesin and as the gloom lightened they could see the remnants of the shattered Legion making their way through the forest away from Boudicca.

  ‘By the gods, Taliesin,’ said Finian, ‘they are a beaten army. It looks like they met their match with Boudicca.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Taliesin, ‘she is the one to drive this filth from our lands. Come on, she can’t be far.’

  Finian grabbed his arm.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’ he asked.

  ‘To find her of course,’ said Taliesin.

  ‘In broad daylight through a retreating army?’ asked Finian. ‘How far do you think you will get?’

  ‘Look at them,’ said Taliesin as another soldier limped past. ‘They are a threat no longer, Boudicca has stripped that title from them.’

  ‘Do not fool yourself, boy,’ said Finian, ‘even a wounded Roman is more than a match for us two. Look at us. We are weak from hunger and haven’t a weapon between us.’

  ‘If we stay here much longer we will be too weak to move anyway,’ said Taliesin. ‘Who knows how many follow these?’

  Finian thought furiously.

  ‘You are right,’ he said, ‘we have to do something.’ He looked around the ground and scrabbled through the detritus until he found what he was looking for, a broken branch the size of an arrow shaft. He snapped one end and picked at the fibres until it had a semblance of a point. He pressed it against his palm and grunted in satisfaction when it produced a spot of blood.

  ‘What do you want that for?’ asked Taliesin.

  ‘We may not be a match for most of them,’ said Finian, ‘but between us I think we can manage one who already has a smashed in skull.’

  Taliesin stared back the way they had come, realising what Finian intended.

  ‘To what purpose?’ he asked.

  ‘All Legionaries carry food,’ said Finian. ‘With a bit of luck he may have some left but even if he doesn’t, he will have weapons and with those, our task will become much easier.’

  Taliesin stared at his friend before nodding in agreement.

  ‘Then we had better strike quickly before he decides to leave,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Circle around the thicket back to his position but stay low and keep an eye out for any of his comrades. One will be hard enough, more than one and we are dead men. I will circle the opposite way. When you see me, step out into the open and attract his attention. Hopefully he will be distracted long enough for me to get across the clearing.’

  ‘What do you expect to do with that?’ asked Taliesin pointing at the makeshift weapon, ‘he still wears his armour.’

  ‘His throat is unprotected,’ said Finian. ‘We will have one opportunity but if the surprise is made, I can pierce his throat before he can cry out. After that it will be a matter of minutes before he dies. I just hope the gods keep his comrades away long enough.’

  Taliesin nodded slowly.

  ‘Then let’s get it done,’ he said and turned to follow the left edge of the thicket. Finian followed the right side back toward the resting Roman knowing that their chance of success was slim at best, but it was the only one they had.

  ----

  Gerrilius was a Decurion in the third century of the second Cohort and though he was an experienced Legionary, his heart raced from being so near death. Never had he been in such an unorganised battle and for the first time since he had joined the Legions he had thought his life was coming to an end. Where they had all come from, he still didn’t know. One minute his unit were pursuing retreating barbarians across the plain and the next they were fighting frantically for their lives against overwhelming enemy numbers. The disciplined ranks that were so familiar quickly disintegrated under the onslaught and within moments it had been every man for himself.

  He recalled how men he had known for years fell all around him and despite his manic defence, he knew it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed. He had heard the orders to retreat and had fought his way back toward the Aquila, but the odds were overwhelming and it soon became obvious he wouldn’t make it. Comrade after comrade fell to the barbarian hoard and though he lost count of how many men he killed, he soon came up against a giant of a man wielding a large, metal headed hammer. There was no stand off or calculated conflict and it was all over in a matter of seconds. The warrior came at him, screaming in his heathen language while swinging the giant mace and though Gerrilius managed to duck just in time, it still struck him a glancing blow on the side of his head, denting his helmet and cracking his skull.

  Though the blow wasn’t fatal, it had knocked him out cold though not before he had run his Gladius up through the man’s stomach and into his heart. Both men fell to the floor, one knocked unconscious and one dead as the battle raged around them. The giant warrior lay across the Roman’s seemingly lifeless body and their blood mingled as it ran over Gerrilius’ face and dripped to the battlefield floor. Though he didn’t know it at the time, it was this carnage that saved the Roman’s life as after the battle was over, he was overlooked by the warrior boys despatching the Roman wounded with their skinning knives. By the time he came around, night had fallen and he had managed to crawl away into the relative safety of the nearby woods and staggered back toward the Legionary fort many miles away.

  That had been the previous night and somehow he had managed to keep going throughout the hours of darkness, putting a lot of distance between him and the battlefield. Finally he could go no further and knew he had to rest. The pain in his head was overpowering and his fingers probed gingerly at the depression in the side of his skull. He winced as the shattered bone pushed easily inward but hoped the wound was not fatal. He had seen similar battle injuries in other men and some had experienced no after effects after the skull had healed. Others however, despite living had turned into gibbering idiots and had become objects of mirth back home in Rome. He believed he would be one of the lucky ones.

  Despite the pressing need to continue, Gerrilius knew he had to rest. Although he wasn’t out of danger, the effects of the battle, the injury and the travelling through the night meant his body was on the verge of shutting down. He needed sleep and though it wasn’t ideal, this thicker part of the forest was going to be as safe a place as he could hope for. His eyes closed of their own accord and he descended quickly into sleep as his body started the long process of healing not aware that less than fifty paces away, two starving barbarians were intent on killing him

  ----

  Back in the Cerrig, Governor Suetonius was delighted and knew he would have tribute paid to him upon his eventual return to Rome. He had lost less than a hundred men in the battle and the island of Mona, so long a thorn in the Rome’s side, had at last fallen to their might. Though the battle had been one sided the outcome was almost incalculable in its consequences. Almost every tribe in Britannia was influenced by the Druids and now their homelands had been laid waste, their power would be minimal. It had been a very successful campaign.

  Cassus strode along the ranks of the formed-up Legion, casting a critical eye over the presentation of his men. The previous night had been one of celebration and many of the soldiers looked worse for wear but though his tongue was sharp, he withheld the threat of his Vitis and the vine stick of his authority lay idle
in his hand. Despite his threat, he was fully aware that these men had just been through a battle and had lost comrades in the fight. They deserved the hangovers they now felt and he would not admonish them in their hour of victory. Besides, the march would soon blow away the cobwebs.

  The men mumbled amongst themselves in the early morning chill and spent the time adjusting their packs as they awaited the command to march out. Suetonius was talking amongst his officers awaiting confirmation from his scouts that the way was relatively clear. The few locals who had been allowed to stay in the Cerrig during the Romans’ brief occupation watched nervously from the doorways, eager to see the back of the arrogant soldiers. Their presence had been brutal albeit short and many of the locals bore the scars of the soldiers’ tempers.

  The low murmur of voices was suddenly interrupted by the shout of a lookout and the guards pulled open the gates to allow through a group of riders. Cassus looked over and recognised one of the scout patrols but amongst them was a rider obviously worse for wear from a hard ride.

  The cavalryman almost fell from his horse and was escorted through the massed ranks to stand before Suetonius. Although Cassus couldn’t hear the conversation, the look on Suetonius’ face told him the rider was the bearer of bad news. Within minutes the rider was dismissed and Suetonius engaged his officers in animated conversation. Finally they all dispersed each running to carry out whatever orders they had been issued by their General. Cassus took the opportunity to approach him.

  ‘Sire, I note the urgency of your manner. Is there a concern I should be aware of?’

  Suetonius stared at him for a moment before answering.

  ‘Yes there is,’ said Suetonius, ‘and on this occasion I am man enough to admit that you were right and I was wrong. Camulodunum has fallen, Cassus. That bitch Queen has flattened the city and killed everyone within its walls. It seems there are no survivors.’

  Cassus remained tight lipped. He felt no pleasure in being right, just frustration that they were so far away and couldn’t offer their countrymen their support.