Titus Vassio: Brittania A.D. 61 Part 2: Boudicca.

Titus Vassio

Britannia AD 61.

Boudicca

Londinium AD. 61

Boudicca looked down on Londinium from a distant hill top. The Roman city burned. Flames leapt hundreds of feet into the midnight sky, lighting it up, as if dawn was breaking across the horizon.

She could smell the smoke on the breeze. She could imagine the screams and cries of the Romans and their Celtic sympathizers caught in that roaring inferno. She felt nothing for them. Let them burn!

Her emerald eyes shone in their coal black, smeared, hollow sockets .  Emotionless to the thought of those burning bodies. They were the invaders of her Isle. Of her country. They were the paingivers. The Tyrants and rapists of her land. Of her people, and of herself and her daughters.

They were the parasites that fed on the misery they inflicted on the innocent. They were Rome in all of its bloody glory.

Now they were ash and cinder. As was Camulodunum and Verulamium. Now they felt just an inkling of the pain they had inflicted on her people.

She brushed a strand of her wild tawny hair from her long, blue painted face. Behind her. Her army was growing. Everyday that passed. More tribes shook off the manacles of Roman rule and joined her rebellion. The Iceni, The Trinovantes, The Catuvellauni. She had sent out runners the length and breadth of the Isle. A cry to arms! Brigantes from the North. Silures from the West and Dumnoni from the south, answered her call. 

There was only one thing now that stood in her way of pushing the Roman invaders from her shores and returning Britannia to its rightful people and its ancient gods.

Suetonius Paulinus! The Roman governor of Britannia. Cut the head off the snake, and the body would slither away and die.

Boudicca turned away from the burning city. Her eyes fell on her banner, A black crow with spread wings and extended talons, with screeching open beak and a spear shaped tongue, on a field of crimson. The Battle Crow, The Morrigan. The goddess of war and warriors and victory. 

The fate of Britannia lay in her hands.  Boudicca closed her eyes and gathered her thoughts. She absently stroked the thick twisted gold rope torc ring around her neck. She could not fail her people! She could not bow to defeat! She would free her people and her land, or she would die in the attempt.

The survival of her people, her culture and her world lay in her hands. She had to be victorious. She had to drive these Roman dogs from Britannia’s fair shores, once and for all. 

She opened her eyes and nudged her mount in the ribs and headed down the hill into the fold of hundreds of campfires and her proud army of welcoming men, women and children. A tear of pride spilled down her cheek as they welcomed her, their queen, with smiles and cheers, chanting her name.

‘Boudicca!… Boudicca!…. Boudicca!’

Somewhere in the Midlands by Watling Street road.

Gaius Suetonius Paulinus sat astride his snow white stallion. It was adorned in leather and gold trappings. It was only upstaged by Paulinus himself. He wore his grandest Lorica Musculata armour; Every muscle had been accentuated and embossed into the leather. His helmet gleamed silver with a scarlet comb running across it from ear to ear.

His breast swelled with pride as he cast his eyes along the length of his eleven thousand men: The Legio XIIII Gemina and Vexillatio XX.

Paulinus never felt the need to address his men before any battle. They were veterans. They had victory upon victory heaped upon their eagle banners. Yet something this time irked him. It niggled at his resolve.

This Boudicca and her ragtag horde of followers had raised three cities to the ground and defeated the Legio IX, some two thousand men.

He was not a stupid man! He had heard the whispers and rumours coming from his own men. They were afraid of this wild, tawny haired woman, and her horde of barbarians, baying for their blood. Even though they had never seen her. Her reputation as a ruthless leader and possibly a druid; She had the ear of this Isle’s wildling gods. Could she call upon them for help? Could she conjure up ghosts and spirits of the dead to fight alongside her?

Paulinus was in no doubt these rumours were nothing more than superstitious ramblings, deliberately spread by these damned Celts who lived on this Isle. Who would not bow down to the might of Rome! Well, this day, Paulinus had no doubt in his mind was the day, These savages would be brought to heel.

Titus Vassio stood in formation with his cohort of men. He looked around him at the terrain. They held the high ground; Always a vantage point in any battle. Behind them was a thick forested area. Below them was a valley with a small incline. And inside of that natural grassy funnel, were The Britons. In their thousands. Paulinus and his Army were vastly outnumbered. Titus spat on the ground and looked at Seutonius as he passed him by on his white steed, addressing his men.

‘Look at them down there! Look at all of those savages!’ His voice was loud and crisp. It cut into his men's ears like a well honed blade.

‘Yes, those savages outnumber us! Yes they are loud and brash and full of bravado.’ He stopped and wafted a hand under his nose. ‘And yes, they stink like a wild hog that has wallowed in its own shit!’ He smirked.

His men laughed.

‘Yes they outnumber us three to one! But I stand here before you and I say with absolute gravitas, that I would bet my life on any of you Brave, disciplined, Roman Legionaries, that each and everyone of you, could dispatch three or more of those brutes with impunity.’

His men cheered again.

Paulinus nodded with a smile. ‘ Look at them! They are nothing more than animals. They have no discipline. They are nothing more than a crying mob. Even a pack of wolves can fight with more discipline than those savages down there! They are nothing more than a herd of bleating sheep waiting to be slaughtered!’

‘Do not fear their numbers. Do not fear them howling. DO not fear them at all! We are Rome! If you feel your resolve waning. Look to your eagle standards. Let them invigorate you. Let them fill your hearts with pride and strength. For we are not fighting on some windswept Isle. We are fighting on Roman soil. For wherever our standards fly, then we are fighting on Roman ground. We are fighting for Rome. Ave Roma…. Ave Roma….’

Titus felt his temples pounding. His heart thumped. He felt as though every muscle in his body were swelling up with godly strength. 

Then the Britons blew their carnyx horns and charged up the hill toward them, as their women and children sat in their wagons, banging drums and wailing like banshees, spurring their men on.

‘Arma portate!’ Titus shouted. His men tightened their formation linking their shields tightly together. The lines behind them all to a step back, giving the front liners space for when they were hit.

‘Pila tollite!’ Titus ordered. His men gripped their pilum spears taking up throwing stance.

They waited. Watching the horde of painted warriors as they screamed and shouted. Running up that hill! Small round shields in hand, brandishing their own spears, axes and swords.

‘Pila jactate!’ Titus roared.

Roman spears flew into the air, over his head. They fell down on the heads of the charging Britons. There was an audible thunk followed by cries and groans as hundreds of men fell. A red mist filled the air.

Yet they still came charging onward. Jumping over their fallen comrades like deer. 

‘Pila jactate!’ Titus shouted again.

For the second time the air was filled with spears, and again the air turned red, and men fell and stumbled and died. Only to be trodden on by the horde pushing and surging ever forward. Stepping on their fellow Britons. Trampling them to death, if they were not already dead.

And then they hit the Roman shieldwall. It was like thunder rolling down the hill. Romans braced themselves, digging in their heels as they were pushed back. Then taking a deep breath they moved like one beast. They pushed back. Their shields rang out as axes, hammers and swords chopped and hacked into them.

The Britons found themselves crushed against an immovable wall of shields. With their own vast numbers at their backs. They had little to no room to wield their weapons. They could not even step backward.

And then the Roman Gladius’ stabbed out from in between those damned long, square scarlet lightning shields.

Screams filled the air. Men were cut down mercilessly. Stabbed in their throats and guts. 

Titus thrust his sword down over his own shield. Its point sank into an eye socket. The Briton collapsed, his face awash with blue paint smeared with scarlet.

‘Ad cuneum!’ Titus roared above the din.

The shield wall seemed to undulate like a slithering serpent, then its formation quickly changed into a jagged line like the teeth of a saw. The Britons were pushed into the V shaped gaps breaking them up from the swirling mass of bodies into smaller, more manageable groups.

From behind the Dragon’s teeth formation. Spears stabbed and swords thrust. The Britons were fair game to this deadly tactic. They bled and cried and died. Limbs were hacked off. Bellies speared. Throats slashed. The ground was awash with blood and guts. 

The Britons' numbers worked against them. They could not retreat. For the masses of warriors behind them. They could not advance, for they were crushed against the Roman shields. All they could do was be crushed and die.

‘Septem,’ Titus counted as he stabbed another savage in the guts. 

‘Octo!’ He grunted, smashing his shield into the face of another snarling Briton. Breaking his nose before his sword blade opened his throat, releasing a torrent of red, like a leaking wineskin.

‘Novem!’ he growled as he thrust upward, driving his sword up to the hilt into a man’s guts. He felt the warm spill of blood on his hands. He grinned to himself. He had killed more than his own fair share of Britons, this day. Paulinus had said each man needed to kill only three men. Well, Titus was more than pleased with his own death count.

‘Decem!’ He laughed as he smashed his shield down, breaking the toes of a painted savage. The poor wretch had no time to yell. Titus turned his throat into a gaping red smile just above his bronze torc neck ring.

In the midst of this hell. Titus caught sight of an eagle standard to his right. His heart filled with pride. His jaw tightened. As the sun gleamed on its golden wings. It looked as if it were on fire.

‘Ave Roma…. Ave Roma!’ He shouted, throwing himself into the slaughter.

The sun had passed mid day. Titus’ arms were aching from the slaughter. Killing men was an exhausting business. Sweat mingled with mud and blood stained his armour and body. He had lost his shield at some point. It grew too heavy for him. Slowly as the day had progressed. The Romans had advanced down the hill. Pushing the Britons into each other, squashing them together. 

Those Britons near the back, had watched in horror at the slaughter and defeat of their tribesmen. For those that could turn and run, they did as the Roman war machine advanced toward them! 

Boudicca leaned on the rail of her chariot, her knuckles turning white. Tears poured from her coal painted eyes. Her people were defeated. They ran from the advancing Roman army. The field before her was littered with the dead. The grass was stained forever with the spilled blood of Britons. 

Her druid jumped onto her chariot. His face was ghastly. It was old and tired and wrinkled and tattooed with a green serpent writhing down his left cheek and neck.

‘We must go, my queen!’ he croaked like a frog.

Boudicca shook her head. ‘I cannot abandon my people!’ she wailed.

‘You cannot allow yourself to be captured!’ The druid shook his head.

‘I cannot…. I will not run away like some cowardly rat! I will not!’ She drew her sword from its leather sheath and jumped from her chariot.

Titus Vasssio was fighting for his life! He parried one savage’s lunge. Spun around its body and drew his sword across the back of its neck. A second savage charged at him, raising its axe. Titus ducked around it. The axe hit him in the shoulder, but his Lorica segmentata armour saved him from what would have been a deadly wound. He smashed his sword pommel into the savage’s face, crushing its cheek. With a flick of his wrist, he hamstrung the brute and thrust down into its thoat.

'Ave Roma!’ He snarled.

As he looked up, he saw a woman, sword in hand. Her face was painted blue. Her eyes were black. Her flowing mantle was a checked brown and red colour. She wore a war girdle of bronze. Her hair was a tawny russet colour, unkempt, it hung down past her shoulders. She jumped down from a chariot pulled by two ponies. With a bearded, old man holding onto the reins.

Titus raised an eyebrow, that gold torc would make him rich! He picked up a spear and threw it with all of his strength.

It flew fast and true, hitting her in her side. She screamed and fell to her knees. Impaled on the spear.

Titus grinned and strode forward. Then out of nowhere a Briton shoulder charged him. They both went down, rolling in the bloody mud. The Briton tried to stab him with a knife. Titus grabbed his wrist, fighting frantically and rolling around in the mud. Titus came out of the roll on top of the savage. He headbutted him with all of his might.

The Briton was stunned dropping its knife. Titus wasted no time in scooping it up and thrusting it under the Briton’s ribs.

The Briton coughed. Its mouth was stained with blood. it gasped and died.

Titus looked up. The tawny haired woman was slumped in her chariot. The old bearded man held on to her with one hand and slapped the reins with the other. The ponies sped off pulling the chariot away from the battlefield.

Titus pulled himself up and looked around him. The battle was over. His fellow Romans were going about their business, finishing off the wounded, with swords and spears.

A mass of dark clouds had blown in above them. The air had a chill in the breeze. The stench of death lay heavy all around.

Titus felt the first spattering of rainfall on his face. He looked up into the darkening sky. Thunder rumbled overhead. Was it the old Celtic gods voicing their lament at their defeat? Or was it Mars showing his delight at Rome’s victory?

Titus did not care either way. He still lived and breathed! and then the rain came down.

‘Deus!’ Titus moaned. ‘I hate Brittania.’