Iceni

Chapter 8-1

Chapter 8

Legion NineThey heard them well before they saw them. A steady tramp-tramp, precise in its rhythm, echoing along the straight, exacting roads which had been one of the very first marks the Romani had etched upon the land. Britannia had been scarred ever since by the lines of cobbles appearing like swollen veins upon the skin of the earth.

The sound of marching got nearer. Boudicca felt certain that this legion nine was almost upon them, and she tensed, ready to bolt from the trees.

‘They’re still a long way off yet, madam. Relax, you’re affecting those around you.’

Boudicca tried to release some of the tension in her shoulders, but she was like a coiled spring and it was hard for her. Even as she slackened her hold upon her spears, she noticed those nearest her doing the same, filtering the slight lifting of tension through to all who were massed in waiting with her.

They had slept the night in the forests, watched over as ever by Artio, huddled in stolen blankets and cloths with dried leaves piled up for additional warmth. There were no fires to betray their presence and they’d slept a light, warrior’s sleep which woke them instantly to any unnatural sound. They’d left Camulodunum with no provisions, still gorged from the orgy of plenty, and had easily found fresh springs from which to drink and splash the travelling dust from their faces. Then they’d waited, as perfectly quiet as could be managed from such a huge force, until the Romani they expected passed the carefully laid trap.

The wait had passed agonisingly slowly for Boudicca, who seemed as anxious for blood and death as Grania. She tried to pass the moments by reliving the sacrifice Fand had brought her the morning before. It was only the memories of life-taking which seemed to slacken her thirst. Unknown to Boudicca, Trinovantes looters had discovered a bronze statue of the Romani Claudius god, he who had brought elephants to Britannia and he to whom the Temple at Camulodunum was dedicated. More familiar with the Colonia than any of the other tribes, the Trinovantes had known where to look for the best trophies, having grown in slow hatred of such symbols and having long earmarked them for future retribution.

The plunderers had been unable to move the whole life-sized figure, heavily cast as it was with precious metal and sunk with Romani cement into its plinth, and had instead hacked off the exquisite head with its bejewelled eyes which twinkled when it was moved. Then they set the hollow head over the next live Romani they found cowering in some dingy cellar: a pregnant woman terrified out of her wits, and brought the whole offering to Fand who escorted it ceremonially to Boudicca.

Boudicca had woken in Lovernios’ arms to the sight of a naked, obviously fertile, female figure with a golden head shining in the weak rays of the early morning sun. At first she thought it was a Visitation of the Goddess, or a vivid dream which still endured. Then she heard the fight for breath as the woman suffocated inside the improvised mask and saw the trembling limbs as the captive floundered blind before her.

A closer look and she saw the sight for what it was. A distraught mother-to-be with a grotesque crown, the edges of the Claudius head sharp where it had been cut from its torso and now digging into the very human neck which drizzled blood. Fand stood by, roughly holding up her captive who was so heavy with child as to be almost unable to stand. Fand’s expression said it all. Cruel and calculating, she was flushed with her assured success at bringing an especial token for Andraste’s pleasure. It was not quite a gold sacrifice, but the effect was magnificent, and, according to the almost purring within, extremely pleasing to Andraste as a blood offering.

The woman’s belly was round and taut and vibrated slightly with the new life it promised. New Romani life to trample the Celtoi as easily as it would suckle milk and fill a napkin. Normally, Boudicca would Bless such a sight, placing her hands upon the womb in veneration of the Goddess’ gift of life, but now she felt no such benediction. Now she felt pure rage and destruction and she let the powerful emotions erupt through her body and burst from her hands.

There was a cheer from the massed horde and a triumphant celebration of the destruction Boudicca had just wrought. She looked down at her handiwork. The woman had fainted, her life pumping away fast to puddle at Boudicca’s feet. The little golden sickle had self-assuredly worked its way into Boudicca’s hand and she’d split the woman’s stomach, pulling forth the grey not-quite-formed child pulsing within and now held it aloft, still attached by its cord, to more rapturous approval.

Then they cut off the woman’s head, still bearing the thick bronze statue head, and hoisted the whole trophy upon a long pole. They draped the umbilical cord around the pole too, letting it wrap itself around the shaft like a bizarre parody of the tree poles they’d erect to dance around, with streamers of cloth, to welcome in summer. Then they paraded the whole gruesome creation around the precinct. When the riotous noise finally subsided, a long while later, Boudicca heard retching from the Temple and she knew her actions had had many profound effects, not least upon the cosy contentedness she felt exuding from deep inside her own self.

Now they waited for more Romani to kill and Boudicca still wore the blood which had spattered from the Romani matron’s almost-babe as a battle-paint. The next Romani to die would give better sport, she hoped, before perishing in a complete Celtoi victory, ensured by the sacrifice.

Whilst she’d been thus absorbed in providing some diversion to distract her eager mind, the even tramp of Romani marching boots had increased in volume. The anticipated Romani were here at last, and the numerous Celtoi lurking within the shadows to either side of the road were clearly agitated to be at them and released from this somewhat ignoble camouflage. Most unsettled of all was Boudicca. Despite her contrived mental re-enactments, she fretted at her concealment like a wildcat trapped in a hunter’s cage as soon as she realised her prey had come into range. Even her customary pacing was denied her, lest she rustle undergrowth and expose the ambush.

‘Why are we still waiting? They’re here!’ She urged Lovernios to give the order she’d agreed to wait for.

‘No, madam. We can just see the first of them now, you see?’ He pointed to the lead horses of the column. ‘After the cavalry, or equites, the infantry marches in blocks of men.’ Lovernios was very calm, as if he was telling a story to a demanding child. ‘Each block they call a cohort. And if you watch, each block is led by a tribune. Then, every subdivision of each cohort is a century, led by a centurion.’ He indicated each rank with a sharp dart of his pointed finger as he spoke. ‘Those were the ones I told your people to slaughter first; without commanders these Romani are nothing. I have to count those blocks of men before we attack, then we’ll know our odds. Any calculation can only be approximate because at the very back of the column will come the auxiliaries, and their numbers could vary considerably. Most of those will be from Hispana, a hot, black land far to the south, from whence this legion takes its name. They’re neither as well trained nor as well armed as the legionaries, who are purer Romani.’

Boudicca tapped her foot restlessly. ‘We can’t wait much longer. They’ll be gone if we sit and count them.’

‘No they won’t. You know as well as I that your force is strung out along these forests for as easily as far as this strutting column stretches. I can deduce so much by the sound these men make as they march. No, madam, our success is imperative, as I’ve explained to you over and over. If they’ve brought all their legion our fight is hardened, but if they haven’t, then we have a certain victory before us and your peoples will fight all the better for such a boost to their confidence.’

‘My peoples don’t need their confidence to be boosted.’

‘Whatever, it would be best if the Romani were well and truly in our trap before we attack them, else they’ll simply retreat and reform in quite an orderly way, and then they’ll have regained some of their advantage and the outcome will be more in the balance.’

Lovernios was counting quietly. ‘Now, there’s at least three.’

Boudicca watched the bobbing plumed heads stride past her hiding place. They were like so many displaying birds, as if they sought to imitate the colourful courtship displays of nature whilst being its very antithesis. ‘What’s that one?’ She asked.

‘Which one?’

‘At the front. Those there. What are they?’

‘The one at the very front, madam, is the legatus, the chief of these men, Petilius Cerialis himself. With him is the praefectus castrorum who takes over command from the legatus if it’s ever necessary.’ Lovernios went back to his counting.

‘Four.’

Every soldier’s face was stony and emotionless, every legionary unnaturally similar, as if a mother had birthed each one, one after the other like identical, multiple births. Boudicca shivered at this sinister enemy, acting in unison, fighting as a whole.

‘What about them?’ She pointed.

‘That’s the aquila and the imago. I told you about them, remember?’

‘The soldiers will lose heart if those fall?’

‘That’s right. The eagle is the standard of the whole legion.’

‘Do they take heads then, like the Celtoi do? I didn’t know that.’

‘Why do you think...? Oh, the imago,’ Lovernios chuckled. ‘No, the imago is a portrait of the emperor. They carry a little statue of his head as a further standard. Five.’

‘Are they gold? Why are they dressed in wolf skins? There, and look, there!’

‘Yes and yes, I’m sure Andraste will think it a suitable sacrifice, and they are dressed in wolf skins because they are the signifers. Each century has its own standard too. Six. There are six cohorts, madam; if you’re taking heads today there should be enough for one between every three warriors. And that’s an omen in itself.’ He grinned widely before raising his trained voice. ‘Go!’

Boudicca took an instant to realise he’d given his order, then she screamed in battle rage, setting her fierce chant reverberating off the tree trunks and Iceni shields which surrounded her. Her cries were the signal to set the war trumpets blaring and the host clamoured out of the trees after her, releasing their war dogs ahead of the Celtoi charge.

It was the only warning the Romani got. The roads had been cleared either side for twenty paces. It took the horde moments to cover that distance, bursting out of foliage which was capable of hiding many more of their number. The advantage of surprise was with the Celtoi for meer moments. These legionaries were alert for all dangers although obviously not expecting such a well-planned attack. Shock registered on their faces before they were hastily ordered into battle formation, unable to react fast enough to throw their javelins, but still quickly enough to form a firm defence with their raised shields. The foremost warriors were already upon the outlying legionaries and casualties were falling equally on both sides.

Still the Celtoi tumbled out of the forests, champion after champion leaping into the fray to be dashed against an impenetrable shield wall or to hold back and assess the weakest spots before attacking with renewed vigour. The noise was ferocious. With their limed hair sticking up in abandon and their faces and bodies painted in woad whirls, the largely female force couldn’t be identified as such in this close hand-to-hand fighting. The warriors screamed at the Romani and slung spears and sling-shot at them. The Romani were taunted and yelled at; remarks were made about their sexuality which were reinforced with obscene gestures. The legionaries could have made no distinction between the behaviour they associated with Celtoi males and with the behaviour now being demonstrated by Celtoi women.