Iceni

Chapter 8-2

The Romani were frightened. That much was obvious. It showed in their nervousness which was smoothed by their professionalism and training. They hadn’t been quick enough to throw their javelins — the deadly weapons which usually caused such chaos amongst the primary Celtoi ranks, decimating the most prestigious champions in any charge. For once, though, these pila hampered the Romani rather than their foe. The long spears were discarded, kicked out between hobnailed boots, so their shields might be drawn up into the formidable turtle formation from which only vicious swords would extend. Surprise, however, had meant the legionaries were more scattered than they would perhaps have chosen for their optimum defence. Each century was divided, each defensive unit was small. At first, individual legionaries who had been just too slow to jump into order were picked off one by one by the attacking Celtoi, perhaps still with the distracting pictures of their sweethearts in their dying minds. Then a sort of stalemate was established for a short while, during which the classical Romani manoeuvre was adopted and the Celtoi milled around, unsure of where or how to attack first.

Then the cavalry rallied and started to harry the outlying Celtoi troops, galloping in close and dispatching Celtoi warrior after warrior before darting off to turn and attack once more in a fresh place. Vastly outnumbering the Romani, the Celtoi charged as one, oblivious to the massive losses they bore. Equites were unhorsed as they drove in for the kill, only for fleet footed champions to leap from their path and onto their saddles. The horsemen were dead before they hit the cool of the road. Celtoi horses had been left at Camulodunum for fear that an inopportune whinny might disclose their hidden location, but now the warriors had horses again with which to meet the Romani cavalry in more equal combat.

Boudicca led the assault upon the grouped Romani as turtle unit after turtle unit fell, inefficient against the sheer weight of the Celtoi charge. The tide of battle turned, leaving those Romani who still stood in the minority against those who’d fallen. Only isolated squares of men remained, waiting stoically for the last charge they could withstand. The cavalry, Petilius amongst them, had assessed the situation as useless and turned their horses to flee as fast and as far as they could. Back to Suetonius and Insula Mona, Boudicca guessed. She let them go, they could warn any Romani still to come of the true terror being unleashed in the east of Britannia.

‘Andraste, Andraste!’ Her warriors yelled as they challenged and destroyed the last bunches of Romani. The legionaries died together — even Boudicca had to give them credit for their bravery on this point — their firm discipline not even wavering at the very end, despite their desperate, doomed situation. She’d caught a Romani horse, which pranced very prettily between her thighs until she accustomed it to her will. She used her new height advantage to salute those who were the last to die and her vantage point to assess the deaths which had occurred.

There were very, very many Celtoi numbered amongst the dead. Those who’d survived were gathering heads as trophies of war: there were enough now for maybe two heads each, probably more. She watched a moment longer, calculating quickly. At least two heads each. She must have lost over half the force she’d taken to fight this legion nine, and this hadn’t even been a full legion they had attacked. Boudicca realised the truth in Lovernios’ words, when he’d warned them before they left Camulodunum how this battle would be. How they’d laughed that they wished for better sport from those they challenged! Would they laugh when they returned? Perhaps. They’d exalt in their victory, certainly, but they wouldn’t be able to laugh so loudly as before. There wouldn’t be enough of them to match the volume for one thing.

Then there were the babes waiting behind at Camulodunum. Weeping would be heard from other places than just the Temple of Claudius and the barracks at Durobrivae tonight — the nearest fort for the Romani cavalry to retreat to and the halfway point between Camulodunum and the legion nine’s headquarters at Lindum. Ultimately, Boudicca was responsible for Celtoi as well as Romani grief, but she tried to push any thoughts of that nature from her mind. The battle was won but their work was by no means finished. There were still more sacrifices to be made before the end.

‘All those of you with horses, listen to me!’ she called. ‘Take your horses, leave your glories of war — there’ll be plenty more to be won — and chase the Romani home to their pathetic defences like whipped puppies. Take the war trumpets and make plenty of noise so they fear our whole host still harries them all the way north, stay well behind so they’re not able to count your scant numbers. Then return to Camulodunum and share in our victory — we’ll save you Romani heads from those we take from the Temple.’

Lovernios joined her and she jumped from the fine horse she’d procured, giving the harness to Grania who plainly itched to be up and after the retreating cavalry. ‘Remember my words, Grania mine; you’re not to catch up with them and challenge them. I want you to return to me. Do you understand?’

‘Certainly, mama,’ Grania licked her lips in anticipation. ‘But some might fall if they ride too recklessly or if their horses are driven too hard.’

‘Yes, you may consider them yours in such circumstances,’ Boudicca chuckled. ‘But no outright attacks and no heroism. We’ve lost too many warriors today to risk losing more.’

Grania was off, as fleet as the wind, riding to catch up with the mounted Celtoi. ‘Some might indeed fall if they ride too recklessly or if their horses are driven too hard,’ Lovernios observed with a slight scowl.

‘Not that one. She’s my daughter, after all. She rides extremely well and will consider the horse hers now and will treat it kindly. She knows horses and she knows her own limits. She also knows my rulings. She’ll be back.’

‘After us, though, madam. She’ll be back after us because we should be returning right now without any further delay. Those upon horseback can return as soon as they’re free to do so. There’s no point in us waiting for them, they’ll probably be at least another lunar quarter.’

‘Not yet. I want some heads to take back myself.’ She withdrew her golden sickle from the belt where she’d tucked it for safekeeping and picked her way through the bodies showering the road. There were a lot of Celtoi dead. She was surprised herself at the number. Only a comparatively small number of warriors were left to mull over the spoils which were theirs for the taking. The battle had been close. Closer than she really chose to contemplate. And over so very quickly too. She desperately hoped Lovernios was right and more Celtoi would rush to join them and rejuvenate the horde just as soon as news of this double victory reached them.

There were too many familiar faces for her not to be personally moved by this visitation of death. Individuals she’d known and loved were too readily found amongst those bodies she limply flopped over to gaze at. It seemed to her she’d seen plenty of corpses now and that she should by rights be growing immune to the horror of staring eyes and stiffening bodies. But still she couldn’t accustom herself to the rising nausea at the sight of fresh wounds and missing limbs.

Then she came upon the first of the Romani dead, clustered together, some still in their last wrestle with their slayer or those they had slain, locked in some final embrace like eternal lovers. Further on were heaps of dead legionaries, piled upon each other where they’d fallen. Boudicca stealthily approached them. She knew what she was looking for. She’d listened attentively to Lovernios’ lessons.

She peered down at the bodies and through the spaces their tumbled corpses had made. Eerily, these men had been alive such a short while ago. She glanced back to Lovernios. He hadn’t partaken in the combat; he wasn’t trained, she knew, but she still felt he was less of her partner, not quite an equal, for it. During the whole episode, he’d held back, like a particularly craggy tree, robes folded in over himself like a bat’s wings, motionless at the very edge of the forest. Ready, she secretly suspected, to vanish back into the foliage the instant he came under any personal threat. His distinctive non-involvement gave her further insight into just why his body had managed to remain so unusually free of scars and blemishes.

Now she saw him survey the dead and feel for any life pulses he might register in the bodies strewn before him. Any Romani he found still struggling for life he knifed, cleanly, in the throat. An expert butcher’s cut to extinguish life immediately. With the Celtoi he examined them more carefully for their potential in responding to healing, but still the majority he finished in the same merciful way. Those Celtoi he did decide were likely to recover, he made comfortable as best he could with a sip from some flask he carried and arranged for them to be separated from the dead, ready to be brought back to Camulodunum to start their convalescence.

Boudicca left him to it. He had enough authority of his own to pull warriors from their messy trophy gathering in order to help him if need be. Most of those whom he selected for the return journey were suffering from concussion or broken arms, they should be capable of walking with some support from their comrades just as soon as Boudicca was ready to leave, although she doubted whether they’d be fighting again for a while.

She’d been tugging at Romani bodies in order to free the specific thing she was after whilst keeping one eye on Lovernios and, more awkwardly, one hand upon her sickle. Suddenly a bent piece of armour gave way to her relentless pulling and the treasure was within reach. Stuffing her arm into the midst of the bodies of legionaries, she felt around blind for the gold she wanted until her fingers closed upon the precious object. She could feel its sacredness even as she released it from its last guardian. The eagle. Exquisitely cast in cunning detail and painstakingly polished, the bird sat in her hands, wings open as if it sought to envelop all the world within the fold of its feathers. It looked so insubstantial now that she actually had a hold of it, but still she could feel its power, imbued as it was with the hopes and aspirations of so many men.

This object was a stunning replica of the real birds she’d only ever seen in the mountains on her journey to Insula Mona, soaring through the crisp air, oblivious to the people far beneath that must have appeared like mere specks upon the ground. She’d recognised the intrinsic aloofness of the eagle even then, had been dwarfed by its majesty even when she was younger and had less understanding of the concept of rank. The beautiful regality could make even a princess feel insignificant; was this why the Romani had chosen it for their totem?

Boudicca didn’t care. It was hers now and soon she hoped there’d be another three for her to display with it, once she’d destroyed each of the other legions in Britannia. She tucked it securely into the folds of her clothing. There was something else she wanted before she left, the sickle wouldn’t let her forget to take that.

She cast a cursory look over the bodies. The imago, she’d seen, had been taken by the equites. It didn’t bother her. She found the Nero god to be similar in appearance to the Claudius god in the way the Romani depicted him: rather an ugly man with a balding head and a huge hooked nose. Not a pleasant image to want to keep as a trinket, and if she didn’t find it attractive then it wouldn’t make a suitable sacrifice for Andraste either, no matter how much gold it was made of. No, Andraste would be pleased with the eagle, what she wanted now was something for herself, and Lovernios had given her just the education she required to find the most prestigious trophy.