The Wrath of Boudicca Page 4

  ‘Such a shame,’ he sighed as he wiped away the spit. ‘You could have made such pretty slaves.’

  ‘I would rather die,’ she answered.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘So be it.’ He turned to the Batavian cavalryman. ‘Decurion, they are yours.’

  ‘What would you have me do with them?’ asked the soldier.

  ‘When was the last time your men enjoyed the company of women?’

  ‘Six weeks, Sire, in the whore houses of Londinium.’

  ‘Then this is your lucky day,’ said Virrius, ‘these will cost you nothing. Give them to your men.’

  For a second, nobody moved as the implications sunk in.

  ‘Well?’ said Virrius. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘No,’ moaned the woman on the horse, and both men turned to see her struggling to sit upright in her saddle. One arm was wrapped around her waist, clutching at her tunic to stem the blood from her wound, while the other gripped the saddle horn to stop herself from falling. Her long brown hair fell untidily around her shoulders and her face grimaced in pain.

  ‘No,’ she said again, ‘please not this. They are still children.’

  ‘Really?’ sneered Virrius. ‘Girls are married at such an age in Rome, but I suppose we are more civilised than you.’

  ‘Look at them,’ cried Rianna, ‘they are girls still in body and mind, the gods will curse you for your violation.’

  ‘Let me worry about the gods,’ snarled Virrius. ‘Decurion, take them away.’

  ‘Nooo,’ screamed Rianna, ‘take me instead, I beg you, let me take their place.’

  ‘You?’ shouted the Decurion, struggling to rein in his nervous horse, ‘I think not, Witch. I prefer my meat fresh.’ He spurred his horse forward and grabbed at the reins of the girls’ horse.

  ‘What’s happening? cried Lannosea, ‘Rianna, where is he taking us?’

  As they passed the wounded Rianna, she spurred her horse, ripping the reins out of the soldier’s hands. Before anyone could stop her she was alongside the children and leaned across to wrap them in her arms.

  ‘Rianna what’s happening?’ cried Lannosea, ‘what are they going to do to us?’

  ‘Listen,’ sobbed Rianna through her own tears. ‘You must be brave. What they are about to do, just submit. Do not fight them, do you hear me? No matter what fire you feel in your heart or pain in your body, do not fight them or you will be killed. Submit and survive, that is all that is important. You must survive.’

  Before they could answer, her head yanked backwards as one of the riders dragged her backward by her hair, throwing her to the floor. Both girls screamed in fright but within seconds, the Decurion was galloping away toward the gates of the fort, leading the girls’ horse behind him. Rianna struggled to get to her knees and looked toward the disappearing girls.

  ‘Be brave,’ she whispered but before she could say anything more, an armoured fist smashed into her face, sending her deep into unconsciousness. The last thing she heard was the sound of Lannosea screaming her name as they rode from the camp.

  ----

  Virrius and the remaining guards watched them go.

  ‘What do you want me to do with her?’ asked one of the guards, looking down at the woman’s body.

  ‘Use her as you will then throw her in the cess pit,’ said Virrius, ‘I am done here.’ Without another word he returned to his tent, leaving the lustful guards staring at the unconscious yet undeniable, attractive woman.

  ‘Like he said,’ said one. ‘Looks like this is our lucky day.’

  Both men laughed and dragged Rianna between them toward the lines of Legionary tents.

  ----

  Chapter Three

  The Lands of the Deceangli - 60 AD

  Suetonius walked around the battlements of the Deceangli fort high above the coastal village of Treforum. From his position he could see the island of Mona across the Menai straits and knew that he had to make a decision in the very near future. Over the last few months his Legion, The XIV Gemina Martia Victrix had campaigned amongst the Deceangli clans, putting down any resistance with ruthless efficiency. Finally they had reached the Cerrig overlooking the strait and laid siege to the stone fortress of Idwal, true blood King of the Deceangli. Initially the fort had seemed impregnable, based as it was on the top of a rocky escarpment and Suetonius had resigned himself to a long siege before carrying out a final assault but fate had stepped in and dealt him an unexpected result. Idwal had fallen ill and died, the victim of an ague that struck down half the defenders and when their King and his closest followers were dead, those who were left had no stomach for the fight. Within days they sent out messengers suing for peace and though Suetonius would normally have extracted a severe price from a defeated enemy, he immediately accepted their surrender and moved the Legion into the fort while he made his plans.

  Over the years the Deceangli had proved a thorn in his side and were amongst the most warlike of the Khymric tribes but the war had taken its toll and they had become tired of fighting. This was surely the intervention of the gods for though the subjugation of the Deceangli was a fantastic achievement, Suetonius had eyes on a greater prize, the conquest of the Druids.

  Across the Straits lay the island of Mona, a large island to the north of the Khymru and spiritual home of the mystical holy men who controlled almost all the tribes in Britannia. Ever since the first days of the invasion, successive Governors had vowed to subdue the influential and troublesome Druids, but the defending Deceangli had always proved a difficult hurdle to be overcome before any such assault could take place.

  With the defeat of Idwal’s people, the way now lay open to fulfil this important tactical mission but it had come quicker than expected and he had a decision to make. Should he send for support from the other Legions, or risk an immediate assault, building on the success and subsequent high morale of the recent victory?

  ‘She is finally within our grasp,’ said a voice and Suetonius turned to see Tribune Attellus standing beside him with two wooden tankards of warmed wine.

  ‘She is,’ said Suetonius taking the offered wine. ‘Yet strangely, despite its natural beauty I do not see the island as a female but a calculating male opponent needing to be destroyed.

  ‘Well, thanks to your continued inroads against the enemy, we are on the brink of taking the head from the snake,’ said Attellus.

  ‘Are we, Attellus?’ asked Suetonius. ‘We prepared for a siege, not a full on assault on a well-defended island. The task would be difficult for two Legions, let alone one. I find myself torn between two evils. Do I assault with the four thousand men we have, risking defeat against a stronger enemy or do I send a message to the Ninth Hispana and wait for their support, allowing the enemy to prepare their defences with the possible outcome of even more casualties? Either way, the responsibility lies heavy on my shoulders.’

  ‘Why not consolidate our position here and wait for the time to be right?’

  ‘It will never be right,’ said Suetonius. ‘The Druids are the beating heart of these people and the longer we wait the more warriors will flock to their cause. A perceived threat to them may be the catalyst for the unification of the tribes, and that is a situation we cannot allow to happen.’

  ‘So what avenue will you explore?’ asked Attellus.

  ‘I will allow myself this night for deliberation,’ said Suetonius, ‘and with the gods’ will, the answer will appear with the dawn.’

  The two men stared out across the hills toward Mona on the far side of the strait, both wondering what dangers the countless pinpricks of firelights held for them, knowing that whatever they were, sooner or later they would have to be met head on.

  ----

  A hundred and fifty miles away, Prydain sat alone at the table in the single men’s hut. He had been back with the clan for only a few days, yet already he felt the need to ride out. He took another drink of his ale and glanced down at the young woman in his bed space. She was nice enough but such
encounters always left him emotionally empty, a reminder that despite being back amongst his mother’s people, after seventeen years in Britannia he still didn’t feel at home. Perhaps Kegan had been right and it was time to settle down. The young woman was sleeping soundly and it seemed a shame to throw her out into the cold, she was just as much an outcast as he, for since she had been taken as a prisoner from the neighbouring Dobunii, she had no choice but to make her living as a whore.

  Prydain drained his mug and stood up. With a sigh he grabbed his cloak and walked out into the night. Within minutes he was in the stable, whispering quietly to his horse.

  ‘Hello, Blade,’ he said, rubbing the sturdy horse’s neck. ‘Do you have room for me here? I need the company of someone who understands me.’ The horse looked on with little interest as Prydain lay on a nearby pile of hay and pulled his cloak about him.

  ‘You’re a horse of few words, Blade,’ he said, ‘but that works fine for me.’

  Within moments the sound of gentle snoring filled the stable as Prydain spent another night in the lands of his mother.

  ----

  ‘Prydain, wake up,’ said a voice.

  For a few seconds Prydain struggled to wake.

  ‘Prydain, you must come to the home of Kegan immediately. There has been a development.’

  Prydain sat up and forced the sleep from his mind. He had slept surprisingly well and he could see daylight streaming through the stable door. Above him he could see Taran, one of the single warriors.

  ‘What developments?’ asked Prydain standing up. ‘Is the clan in danger?’

  ‘No nothing like that,’ said Taran, ‘but the patrols have brought in a prisoner who seeks you by name.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Prydain brushing hay from his body.

  ‘With Kegan,’ said Taran, ‘but it is not a he, it is a woman.’

  ‘Really? A woman riding alone in the forests does not make sense,’ said Prydain. ‘Is she Silures?’

  ‘No, all she will say is she is from the north. Other than that she refuses to speak.’

  ‘A strange situation indeed,’ said Prydain. ‘Let’s go and see what she wants.’

  Prydain walked across the bridge and into the village. All around the people were preparing for the day. Women were carrying the wooden buckets of waste to the cess pits outside of the village, while children ran amongst the huts playing with their siblings. Some of the older men were setting out to collect firewood, whilst others were taking the sheep out of the pens for the first time in days to find fresh grazing. Prydain looked at the children staring at him as he passed. Life was always hard in the villages but he could see their faces were drawn more than usual, a sign of the difficult winter that was thankfully falling away around him. Dogs sniffed at his feet, hopeful for a treat and older people stared at the two warriors striding purposely toward the chieftain’s hut.

  As he approached, Prydain could see four more warriors talking quietly amongst themselves, obviously still ride weary from their journey.

  ‘Owen, it has been a long time,’ he said.

  One of the riders looked up and walked forward to grasp Prydain’s arm.

  ‘Prydain, my friend. You are looking well.’

  ‘And you too, though the bags beneath your eyes are larger than those alongside your saddle. I thought you patrolled the northern borders?’

  ‘We did, but this woman approached and asked to be brought to you. We have ridden hard these past two days,’ said Owen, ‘with little rest and even less food.’

  ‘What task drives such urgency?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘A strange tale and a claim of common friendship,’ said Owen. ‘She says you know her and begged audience.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She has news of a potential tragedy and claimed you would want to hear it first-hand. At first we did not believe her but when she retold her tale, I recalled something you shared with us around a fire long ago and I realised there may be some truth to her story.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I think you should hear it from her own lips,’ said Owen. ‘It is either a farcical tale or a matter that affects Britannia itself. I will leave that decision to you.’

  ‘Owen, either way you have my gratitude for honouring my name,’ said Prydain. ‘Take your men to the hut alongside the stables and get them fed. There will also be beds there. Try to get some rest before you return.’

  ‘Thank you, Prydain,’ said Owen. ‘We could certainly do with some rest.’ He nodded toward Kegan’s hut. ‘Whether she tells the truth or has the tongue of a snake there is one thing that is certain.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘She has a beauty unrivalled,’ said Owen.

  ----

  Chapter Four

  The Lands of the Iceni

  Rianna wasn’t sure what dragged her from unconsciousness, the pain from the wound in her side or the overpowering smell of human filth that pooled around her. Whichever it was, she wished that she was dead for both were overwhelming. For several minutes she lay in the cess pit, motionless, tolerating the swarms of flies that crawled over her stinking face as her mind adjusted to her hellish predicament. Next to her lay another body, though this one long dead and eyeless from the attention of the crows, its grey flesh showing beneath torn skin where the rats had already fed. Realising she was not about to die, she lifted her hand from the filth and using the dead warrior as a platform, eased her body across the pit toward the sloping edges.

  The soldiers’ shit clung to her clothes, making her retch uncontrollably and though she would have welcomed death, she would rather die at a sword point or even as prey to wolves for nobody should die like this. Slowly but surely she dragged herself out of the pit, fully expecting to be discovered at any moment and thrown back to the sound of her tormentors’ laughter, but apart from the sounds of birds, the forest remained eerily silent.

  Finally she crawled clear and lay on the forest floor exhausted, wanting only to die but as the air in her lungs cleared and her memories started to return, her resolve hardened.

  Her body had been subjected to the worst sexual abuses the soldiers could devise but despite the pain and the blood, she knew instinctively that there was no life threatening damage. The sword wound had congealed and though one side of her face was grossly swollen, she knew she had to survive. Not for herself, but for the girls.

  Gradually she pushed herself up to a kneeling position and after catching her breath, forced herself to her feet. The breeze caressed her face and she realised it was heavy with the smell of smoke, the tell-tale sign that the Romans had left, burning the temporary camp behind them.

  Clutching at her side she started to limp toward the source of the smoke, hoping desperately that they had left the girls behind and not taken them into slavery, or worse. Within minutes she reached the burning remains of the marching camp, and staggered hopelessly between the fires, searching for the bodies of the children.

  ‘Heanua,’ she called as loud as her strength would allow, ‘Lannosea, where are you?’ Over and over she called out until finally she collapsed in the middle of the clearing, crying quietly at the futility of the task.

  ‘Rianna?’ said a quiet voice and the wounded woman looked up slowly to see Lannosea standing a few yards away.

  ‘Lannosea,’ she gasped but her forced smile soon dropped when she saw the remains of the girl’s woollen dress hanging from her shoulders, the lower half caked in blood from her own nightmarish experience.

  ‘We did it, Rianna,’ said the girl quietly. ‘We did what you said.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Rianna quietly, her voice close to breaking.

  ‘We submitted,’ said Lannosea, ‘we wanted to fight but remembered what you said and this is what they did to us.’ She indicated her torn dress and the bloody stains.

  ‘It’s alright, Lannosea,’ whispered Rianna, ‘I know you are hurt, but you are alive.’

  ‘Alive?’ said the girl, her voice ris
ing, ‘do you know what they did to us, Rianna? Do you know what those bastards did to me?’

  ‘I know, sweetheart, I know,’ said Rianna, reaching out her hand as her own tears starting to flow, ‘but the pain will pass. ‘You are alive, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘No you don’t know,’ shouted the girl, ‘those men hurt me, Rianna, those pigs were inside me.’

  ‘Oh Lannosea,’ cried Rianna walking toward her, ‘you must trust me, this will get better.’

  ‘Get away from me,’ screamed the girl and stepped backward.

  Rianna stopped in her tracks, shocked at the rejection from the girl she had treated as her own. Lannosea wiped the tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  ‘We trusted you, Rianna,’ she sobbed, ‘you said you would protect us and we went like lambs to the slaughter, not knowing what lay in store. There were six of them, Rianna and each one took their turn while we begged them to stop.’

  Rianna’s hand flew to her own mouth to stifle the sobs aching to break free.

  ‘Why, Rianna?’ asked Lannosea, ‘why did you tell us to submit? I would rather have fought.’

  ‘If you had fought, they would have killed you,’ said Rianna, ‘and I couldn’t allow that to happen.’

  ‘Why not?’ screamed Lannosea, ‘don’t you think I would rather be dead than feeling the way I do now? What could hell possibly hold that is worse than this?’

  ‘I thought it was the right thing to do?’ whispered Rianna.

  ‘Well you thought wrong,’ cried Lannosea, her voice weakening through emotion.

  Rianna took the opportunity to run forward the few paces and grab Lannosea in her arms, holding her tightly as the girl fought against her, her twelve year old fists venting her anger and shame against the woman who had helped bring her up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Rianna over and over again until finally Lannosea’s arms stopped hitting and reached around to cling on as if she would never let her go, her heart breaking as the floods of tears came.

  Eventually Rianna eased Lannosea’s arms loose and dropped to her knees to face the girl at her level. She pushed the girl’s hair back from her eyes and wiped away the tears as gently as she could.