Boudicca - Queen of Death Page 3

  “I long for the old times, when we were really free. But I too have found it easier to pay lip service to Rome.” He paused. “The lot of the Iceni is light compared to that of the other tribes — except the Brigantes, they and Catamandua enjoy Caesar’s gold still and are highly favoured by him.”

  By now they had entered the village and were approaching the royal residence. Boudicca’s guards acknowledged them as they entered, and relaxed. It was clear, in the affability of their looks as she and Corrianus passed them that they loved their Queen. Then, as they walked inside the dwelling, Boudicca suddenly turned and spoke.

  “Help me rule, Corrianus,” her eyes flashed. “Be my right arm beloved.” She looked straight at him, “Daily the chiefs come to me with their grievances,” she punched the palm of her hand angrily.

  “I am their Queen yet I am powerless against Rome. The followers of great Caesar heed not a woman, but keep them as playthings and slaves. But the Iceni women have equality in our tribal system, we train and fight as warriors alongside our men — regardless of sex.” She bristled at the indignity of the imperious attitude of Nero.

  “We can hunt with the best, we own property, and we have always been as one with our men. Yet they call us barbarians.” Her voice calmed now and took on an imploring tone. “Yet it’s they who subjugate their own women and make vassals of them.”

  Suddenly she stopped as Corrianus reacted. Seizing her arm he spun her round.

  “We have peace Boudicca. Let us live with it,” he spoke curtly. “I’m here by your side if you need me — I am ever ready to obey you, but learn to live with our lot, you have only to see the fate of those tribes that resisted to realise that despite all Prasutagus made a wise decision in buying Rome off.”

  She frowned “I know but I cannot help but feel an apprehension within me, for I trust not Rome.”

  The frown suddenly turned to a smile.

  “I accept your proposal lover — let us be hand fasted at once and I will declare you as my consort. We shall rule together.” Corrianus took her in his arms and kissed her lingeringly.

  “So be it sweetness, so be it.”

  As he laid her gently on the couch he showed his love for her. Corrianus, the giant Iceni chieftain who could crack men’s skulls between his hands and hurl a fully-grown man from above his head with ease, now showed himself as a careful lover as he undressed the woman he adored.

  Neither of them could see the storm clouds that were gathering as they consummated their forthcoming marriage — in their moment of joy and love how little they realised that their union would soon be the last thing on their minds as Britannia was about to be plunged into bloody civil war, by events conspiring in Rome.

  Boudicca with a lightness of foot was walking through the encampment her hand clasped in that of Corrianus; her newfound joy apparent, everywhere there were greetings and congratulations as the news of their forthcoming betrothal spread.

  She turned to her companion Corrianus,

  “So we shall attend the priests at noon, and receive their oracle once more.” She kicked a stone before her away. “Oh how my heart aches for freedom — but the priests see no end to the Roman yoke upon our necks.”

  Hand in hand Corrianus and Boudicca walked together like a pair of young lovers.

  “Perhaps my Queen, and beloved, the augury may bode well today.”

  Boudicca gestured.

  “I hear that Mordicas, the high priest has seen tumultuous events in the night stars, the heavens they say are full of portents.”

  Corrianus interjected

  “Aye it is true Boudicca, but I am fearful. All the signs are seen at night, in the blackness of the stars — why are there not signs in the light of day?”

  Boudicca hesitated.

  “But there was, three moons ago the sun and the moon crossed each other, and a great darkness came upon us, it was a time of sadness for daytime turned to night for a while.”

  Corrianus stopped in mid-stride his muscular arms grasping her waist, facing her towards him, he shook her gently.

  “Boudicca, Queen of all, did not the darkness fade away and the sun return? Surely it must mean that all is well eventually.”

  She stood silent.

  “But there is a time of sorrow to come — that is before it. What news is there from the Henge, they say an emissary is coming to consult with Mordicas — possibly even Copernicus himself.”

  They had reached her tent.

  “I trust not the Druids. Since the Roman slaughter of them at Mona they run with the hare and hunt with the hounds — they will do anything to survive.”

  She turned to Corrianus,

  “I promise you Corrianus, I will make no move to upset Copernicus, I shall listen to the priests as custom demands, but they will not influence me.” She paused. “I swear that they see only what they want to see — and tell only what they wish us to hear. Come — let us eat.”

  The Arrival

  Maeve and Sequenna were clambering rapidly up the hilltop; bows in one hand, ready strung, racing forward as the stag they were pursuing steadily outpaced them, eventually disappearing into a thicket.

  Panting, the two girls threw themselves down laughing.

  “We must be getting old little sister to lose such a fine quarry, he was by far the swifter than you or I.”

  Maeve laughed. “He is better suited to this terrain than you or I Sequenna, and besides he has four legs to our two.”

  Sequenna twanged her bowstring. “One cannot loose an arrow while running and guarantee a kill, and I fain would not injure such a magnificent beast and leave it to die.”

  She glanced towards Maeve “A Roman would be different though.”

  Maeve humorously wagged a finger at her sister. “Do not let mother hear such sentiments little one, you know how sensitive she is to such issues and is anxious to keep the peace with Rome regardless.”

  The two girls sat there awhile then Sequenna started to unwind a package she produced from a leather satchel on her waist, while Maeve unslung a goatskin water container she was carrying over her shoulder.

  “Is it wine or water?” Sequenna asked mischievously.

  She took the water carrier and took a long draught from it. “Hah, water! Boudicca would have been less than happy if you had filled it from her precious wine gourds, I remember when you were a little girl and stole from the Roman amphorae she had buried in the ground — and filled it with water — do you remember?”

  Maeve nodded “I remember the imprint of the Queen’s hand upon my bottom better,” she remarked.

  The two daughters of the Queen sat and ate, gazing the whole while at the valley and pass, when suddenly Maeve grasped her sister’s arm and pointed to the brow of a nearby hill where two riders had started their descent into the valley below.

  “Who are they?” the two girls echoed in unison, and immediately reached for their bows. Flattening themselves to the ground they watched them both intently, keeping a constant vigil on the strangers’ movements.

  Unafraid the two riders made their way brazenly towards the Iceni village.

  “Are our horses well hidden?” Sequenna asked. Maeve gestured towards a thicket nestling in a hollow below. “They are well concealed and cannot be seen.”

  “Cover me,” Sequenna commanded, “I will make a run for it and try to cut them off before they reach our people — I must warn the village.”

  Maeve placed a restraining arm upon her older sister “There is no need to — our people are always observant — look — they have been seen.”

  As they watched they saw a small group of Celts casually approach them, then stop and hold their hands up in salute.

  Fascinated the two girls watched the performance below. Maeve could hardly restrain herself in her curiosity.

  “Who are they Sequenna? Their garb is not of our people.”

  Sequenna strained her eyes and concentrated on them intently.

  “The large pattern on the c
loak of the one who rides the grey is that of a Trinovantes — I think,” she observed, “while the other who rides the bay stallion wears the dark red or brown cloak of a Catuvellauni tribesman.”

  Maeve was querulous. “Two alien tribes — together! What would they want with our people?”

  She chuckled out loud, then exclaimed.

  “Except a truce.”

  The girls relaxed and lay out on the grass together enjoying the soft warm sunshine and dozed pondering the mission of the two mysterious visitors.

  Time passed as they relaxed, then a clarion call echoed over the ether awakening them. They listened intently, sitting bolt upright as the call echoed out again, two long blasts followed by a short — then a long silence, followed by another short.

  “They signal us to return — why?”

  Sequenna shrugged her shoulders and gathered up some game birds and a rabbit she had killed earlier.

  “Let’s saddle up Maeve, we will know soon enough.”

  Together they made their way to the clearing below where their horses grazed, then mounted and in silence wended their way to Boudicca’s encampment.

  Mordicas

  Mordicas the high priest was studying a vellum parchment before him; his face fixed in a frown, clearly concerned he meticulously read the contents. Whilst he did so, an aged patriarch hobbled in supported with the aid of a highly carved staff. The great stang was a work of art, engraved with Theban and Runic symbols, entwined around planetary signs, a symbol of his power within the Druidic hierarchy.

  As the ancient one approached, Mordicas looked up, then bade to him affably.

  “Be seated Sandros, what brings you here?” Sandros laboriously lowered himself into the proffered chair, wheezing from his exertions, then regaining his breath spoke.

  “Copernicus himself approaches wise one, he is half an hour glass from here.”

  Mordicas rose instantly.

  “Copernicus? Prepare for his coming, bring out the wine that has been cooled in the river, he will be hot and tired — I will await him outside.” Instantly the temple hummed with activity as men ran around to prepare for the arrival of Copernicus, Arch Druid of Mona and overall high druidic priest of Britannia.

  At the camp edge the Druids eagerly awaited the arrival of their grand master. Then as they watched, the procession slowly came into sight. At the head, mounted upon a pure white horse, was an imposing figure, grey headed and distinguished, clothed in robes of pure white complementing his steed. Flanking him were six Druids carrying crooks and stangs, while before him a solitary figure walked carrying the great staff of power. Minutes later, they entered the village silently. Mordicas rose to his feet to greet them,

  “Greetings Copernicus, welcome to Vistran — how goes it at the Henge?” The procession halted, willing hands helped the ancient rider down, and brushed the dust from his clothing, and a throne of willow, padded in fur and wool was brought forward and the sage enthroned upon it. With a sigh of relief at the end of his gruelling journey he relaxed. Novice Druids ran around waiting on his every need, and then suitably refreshed at last, he spoke.

  “As well as can be expected Mordicas in these troubled times, we pay our taxes and send our tributes to Rome.” He continued, “As long as we bend the knee before them, they leave us alone, it is hard, but we have learned to live within it.”

  “What news of Mona?” asked Mordicas “You are better informed than we?” Copernicus gave a deep sigh.

  “Bad, Andronius drove the Roman guards from the great temple, no one knows what happened, but there was a great conflict that raged for days, now the temple lays low in ruins, and our all our kinsman lay dead. None survived. They say more legions arrived than were thought to exist in the whole of Britannia — Caesar had clearly planned this slaughter.”

  Mordicas was thoughtful.

  “Our Silurian kinsman on Mona never learned to submit, they were asking for trouble — it was but a matter of time, may they rest in peace.”

  “And the Androvantes?” Copernicus waved his hand, “Rebellion is in their blood, they are a warrior cast like the Iceni, therefore Caesar attempts to break their will — they are subjected to much excess harshness. The Romans force the fit to labour for them, they take their women at will, and flog the men folk on the least excuse — there is much murmuring in the wind — it needs but a spark, and Britannia would flare from coast to coast.”

  He toyed with his goblet.

  “Like I said,” Mordicas stated slyly “it needs but a spark.”

  Messenger from Rome

  Within Camulodunum, the British capital, there was a great stirring. Everywhere there was a hustle and bustle of activity as people entered and exited the giant senate house. Resplendent and glistening white, it had taken four years to construct and now within its towering walls the destiny of the Roman province of Britannia was decided daily. Alongside the great dwelling stood the awe-inspiring Temple of Claudius, within which the golden statue of Claudius stood resplendent, the highly polished bronze surface nurtured daily by Iceni craftsmen, while outside in the courtyard stood the great statue of Victory, towering over all and dominating the square — a further symbol of Roman power, built with the sweat of the Celts and with their taxes, both buildings stood, a bastion to Roman might.

  At the end of a glazed tile corridor within, two guards stood ever vigilant, their pilas, the favourite weapon of the legion clasped in their right hands, their left resting gently on top of the great curved shields that had stood them in such good stead on so many previous occasions and battles, and yet always close to their beloved gladius’ that fearsome short stabbing sword with which they had conquered the known world.

  Within the doorway, Proctor, leader of the council of Camulodunum, sat at his table, scrolls, inks, and wax seals displayed before him as he signed and sealed each document in turn. Instantly a slave dutifully stepped forward and poured fine silver sand on the still wet ink, then Proctor placed a wax seal upon it, handing it back to the slave who now rolled and bound it before sealing it again with hot wax.

  The sounds of the imperial guards outside saluting, warned him that someone of importance had arrived.

  As he looked up from his labours, Selius, a member of the council, entered.

  “Proctor, there is a messenger from imperial Caesar without. He seeks immediate audience with you.”

  Proctor smiled. “Then admit him, Selius, I do not sit in awe of Rome — or its emissaries.”

  Selius gave a small bow of acknowledgement and left, to reappear a few moments later with the messenger in tow.

  Something about him caused Proctor’s hackles to rise, even as the man entered, haughty, arrogant and stiff legged he stalked into the office, clearly full of his own self-importance. Proctor was clearly not impressed, but ever the diplomat he waved his hand towards a nearby seat,

  “Pray be seated.” He indicated amphorae nearby set in a stand. “Wine, refreshment?” he enquired of the man,

  The messenger did not move, ramrod straight he maintained his stance.

  “No thank you, I prefer to stand, I desire nothing except answers and a swift return to Rome with them.”

  Proctor bristled, his knuckles showing white as he gripped the quill in his hand. He hesitated momentarily then spoke. “So be it, but is it not customary to give questions first? Then sir, perhaps I can provide you with the answers you seek.”

  Rome’s emissary threw himself upon his dignity, striking a pose, “I will come straight to the point Governor — my mission is urgent, the usurers in Rome need paying.”

  Proctor laid the quill down, a puzzled look on his face, as the messenger continued, “Little or no dividends have been paid for years — do you know how much the Britannic debt is?”

  Proctor regained his composure, then coldly, and with great deliberation, declared, “No, I do not, but I feel certain you are about to inform me.”

  The emissary rose to the occasion, “Forty million sesterces Gover
nor — forty million sesterces.”

  Proctor looked the man directly in the eye.“Really? Then clearly this is a matter for my council, not just I.” He turned to Selius who stood expectantly by his side still. “Summon Aurrelius, Calcus, Nextus and Julius here.”

  “At once sir,” the slave murmured and left.

  Proctor spoke once more. “These men are my trusted advisors and represent the assembly. I shall consult with them as is my normal practice.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued as they waited for the arrival of the four. Then, after an interminable wait they entered.

  Proctor looked up at the messenger. “Before I present my council I feel you should identify yourself — a name would help. And I think this should be the correct moment to examine your own credentials — so far messenger I have accepted you at face value.”

  The emissary was thrown off guard, but swiftly recovering returned to the fray. “I am Pyrrhus, scribe to Nero, and holder of the imperial dictum.” He reached into a pouch. “Here, if you insist is my authority.” He produced a bundle of documents heavy with seals.

  Proctor glanced only cursorily at them, as he did so, Pyrrhus delved once more into the bag producing further parchments, then imperiously stood back, gesturing with his hands to the pile before him.

  “This, Proctor, is what the Senate has invested in land, in wheat, in timber” he pointed further down a parchment, “and here, 1,500 fat cattle for breeding, 1,700 calves to be raised for slaughter, 3,000 horses for the legions” he threw the paper before Proctor, “and so it goes on — pigs, oats, barley, flax.” He paused. “What happened?”

  Proctor turned to a heavily overweight senator nearby,

  “Calcus here is head of commerce, usury is his speciality.” He spoke the last words stingingly. “He will answer to you Pyrrhus, not I.”

  Calcus shifted uneasily from foot to foot,

  “The crops have failed year after year,” his voice rose up to a pitiful whine.

  “It never stops raining in this accursed land — storms flatten the wheat, the fruit rots on the trees.” He wrung his hands plaintively then continued, “And blight and fungus kills the flax and oats, and what we do glean is riddled with weevils by the year’s end.”