By Rebecca Morgan
Joyful laughter fills the air as my men arrange carts filled with their wives, children, and the spoils of war at the edge of the battlefield. Their families need to be here to witness when Briton claws her way from the eagles’ talons.
I can almost taste victory on my tongue, sweet and savory as spiced honey, as I smear woad over my face. It buzzes through the air. Through the land under my feet.
“Heanua. Lannosea. My daughters.” I kiss their own woad-smeared foreheads. “Remember today as the day we shake off Roman rule.”
They nod, eyes proud and hard. True Celtic women.
My men stand side by side, packed together in the narrow field. Voices of danger whisper to me, but I push them out of my mind. Grasping my sword, I lift it above my head. The scars across my back pull taut, a reminder of why I am here.
“Camulodunum, Verulamium, Londinium. They’ve fallen beneath the Iceni’s hands. Barbarians they call us. Inferior. Non-Roman. Nothing is safe from their pride and arrogance. No more will they take our lands. Our island. We far outnumber the Roman dogs. Victory will be ours. May the gods remember us this day.”
Alpin, my Druid advisor, lifts a cup of sheep’s blood in the air. “May the gods remember us.” He pours it over himself. On the ground. Our land drinks the sacrifice.
He looks at me and smiles. “The gods have heard and seen. You are blessed, Boudicca.”
Lifting my sword higher, I let out a battle cry. My men join me one by one till the land shakes beneath our feet. I turn to face the Romans. To lead us to victory.
The Romans advance first with their neat rows, shields held high. I signal my archers to release their poisoned darts. The sky darkens as the arrows sail through the air, carried by the breath of the gods.
As one, the Romans raise their shields, covering their heads. As expected, many of the arrows bounce harmlessly to the side. Bloodcurdling screams tell me some have found their mark.
The red mass advances. No matter. Battles aren’t won in the beginning.
My own wave moves next. Chests painted. Hair braided in tight ropes. These are the ones most loyal to me. The strongest.
The front line of Romans kneels, protecting their comrades with shields as they let a storm of javelins loose.
“Cover!” I cry, the word passing from mouth to mouth as we kneel, shields above our heads. But an eye for an eye. My men die before me as the javelins find homes among them.
Death long ago stopped bothering me. We have won before. We shall win again.
The Romans advance, pushing us back farther. Bodies press in, squeezing together. Heat radiates off them.
The field is too narrow. There is nowhere to go.
Panic sinks her claws into my bones.
Arrows fly. Javelins fall.
My men cry out, their cries fracturing my heart.
Death surrounds me.
I can no longer see my daughters.
My ears roar as the world rushes by. Alpin deflects a deadly blow from skewering me.
Fight. For Pritani.
The gods have blessed me. They will not fail.
Hand wet with blood, my sword slips from my grasp. I lose it among the fray. A dagger it is.
My men struggle for room to wield their swords. They trip, fall, and are crushed beneath the masses. The bodies begin to pile.
This is a horrendous defeat.
Defeated. Run.
“Retreat!” I scream. But we cannot.
We can’t move. The mass of men pushes. Shoves. Scratches, bites, and claws. But there is no place to go. Our way is stopped by the carts filled with loot, women, and children.
We shall die by our own arrogance. The gods have abandoned us.
Screams rend the air with death. Screams of wives with no husband to protect them. Children calling for fathers.
Seventy-thousand and more have died by my hand. I spared none. And the Romans will repay. The feral instinct to live runs rampant. “Heanua! Lannosea!” My daughters hear my call and weave among the slain, straining to reach me. And I abandon my men who call for me. Whose dying hands reach out to grasp my clothes.
“My queen.” Alpin kneels before me. My daughters stand at my side, tears falling silently.
“Don’t,” I whisper. The Iceni have fallen. I know it in my bones. Because my heart and blood and sinew are tied to my island. A union of souls.
But I have failed her. Divorced her. Left her when she most needed me.
Abandoned my men. As I, their queen, ran and left them behind. I who took them there. The thought is more bitter than the hemlock that will soon coat my tongue.
Alpin smiles sadly, handing me a cup. “I regret nothing, Boudicca. I would have followed you to the end.”
“You already are.” I laugh bitterly.
He hands my daughters cups as well, taking the last for himself.
This is a noble way to die, truly. Saving myself and my daughters from whatever the Romans have in store. But it’s not how I would have chosen. Cowering from my enemies instead of gloriously in battle.
“The Romans are close.”
There is no hiding from the Empire. Their arm is long and fingers grasping.
The four of us raise our glasses in a toast of farewell.
This isn’t a defeat. This is victory. Dying how I choose.
Victory isn’t emerging with power and might. Victory is the small things. Speaking when fear wants you to be silent. Defending what or who you love. Rising from ashes. Making life anew.
May the world remember me as victorious over shame and humiliation.
May the Iceni and Pritani rise again from Rome’s oppression.
We drink.
They have found us, bursting through our shelter. Shouting. Cursing. Hands reaching.
But I’m beyond their reach. Now and forever.
Remember me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Not a great way to die, but better than crucifixion.
Fantastic! Well written — vivid and powerful :D
Vividly done.
Great description!
Powerful!