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Rome's Revenge

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I'm sure no-one will laugh at your story Hondoboot,
like the many artists who contribute,
we storytellers all offer different ways of looking at,
thinking about and enjoying the things we find exciting.
Looking forward to reading it :)​
 
XIII​

At dawn, after another meal of stewed garbage, we set off again along the ridgeway. I – and no doubt all the other captives – wanted a wash, I was smelly with sweat and semen from last night's rape, dried blood and pus streaked my body, dust clung to my skin and my greasy, lank hair. No chance.


Marching became automatic, even responding to the sting of the whip or jab of the goad. In the fresh morning air I tried to lead my mind away to happier times, games in my childhood, stories grannie told, quiet, shy strolls with Cunben. But I knew very well where we were heading, it was a road I'd travelled before, to some exciting, joyful festivals, and – last time – to a dark and dreadful scene that kept intruding on my daydreams.


It was late in the afternoon that we first caught sight of Boudicca's dun, a huge fort, not on a hilltop, but dominating a wide river-valley, ringed with high embankments topped with fences, and surrounded – yes, I could see them from miles away – by a defensive forest of sharp-pointed stakes. A shudder gripped my innards as I glimpsed them and remembered ...


A shout from behind, we were quickly whipped off the path by our guards, a party of mounted officers and cavalrymen galloped past, hurrying down the hillside. No doubt the advance party, hastening to take command and order arrangements for our arrival.


We proceeded a few miles further, until we were on a ridge directly above the dun, then a mounted soldier rode up and signalled to our escorts to halt. We had to stand there waiting for quite a long time. I had quite a good view, behind me I could see at least some of the seemingly endless procession behind us, snaking back on the track we'd taken. Below, within the great fort, there were plenty of signs of destruction, grey patches of ash and heaps of charred wreckage, as well as an orderly grid of Roman-style huts and tents imposing their control of the former Iceni stronghold.


And away to the east, up the valley, I spied another huge column of humanity stopped on the road from the farther provinces of our people. A couple more parties of girls had been added to our number en route today, down there I guessed there'd be at least as many more.


At last there was a horn signal from below, we began to march again, down the fateful path towards our fate. Our guards seemed to see it as there ritual duty to whip us continuously as we proceeded, though we weren't dawdling on the downhill path, a chorus of squeals and sharp screams of pained girls accompanied us. My tunic was getting more torn with the whiplashes, my back was now bare pretty well down to my bum, and hurt all the more.


The road swung left at the bottom of the slope, and led round one side of the great defensive works. Those hideous spikes, each about as high as me or rather more, trunks of young oak-trees thick as my thighs, sharpened like spears, loomed over us, seeming to be alive, like claws of a huge, threatening monster.


Most weren't upright, but jutted from the ground at varied angles and directions, presenting an impenetrable maze for men or horses trying to fight their way through. But as we came around to the great open space before the high-towered timber gateway (its towers now decorated with long scarlet banners blazoned with the golden eagle of Rome), we saw that a large number had been raised to vertical. They were already like that last time I saw them, those ones were blackened – I knew – by human blood.


Officers on horseback were waiting, a decurion on foot held up his hand to halt us. The platoons of soldiers who had marched before and behind us moved to stand either side of us girls, then our guards, with their whips and goads, started moving us towards the stakes.


Panic was seizing me, I was shaking, my legs barely supporting me. I heard a scream, "NO!" It was Dovagna, the guard by her grabbed her and pushed her roughly forward. Trilluna seemed dazed, but obedient.



When we reached the ring of stakes, they made us three stop, indeed I was stopped by the very first stake of all. The tall dark guard turned me, made me stand with my back against the rough wood. Trilluna and Dovagna were positioned likewise, our two guards stood between us, we dared not move a muscle.


Other girls passed by, each group with a pair of guards, walked on to stakes further along, where they too were made to stand. There must have been thirty or forty, all young Icenae of around my age, ready for marriage but not yet wed, all bearing the marks of rough treatment and the wide eyes of fear. We'd all been here those few weeks ago, we all remembered.


Meanwhile, the rest of the host were moving into the fortress, detachments of men being ordered off to perform various duties. In a while, a familiar figure approached, the young Gaulish smith. I gave him a little smile, but he looked serious. His job was to disconnect the chain holding my wrists, while he did that the two guards untied the Trilluna's and Dovagna's ropes.


He muttered quietly to me while he worked, "You Iceni do bad thing to Roman ladies" "I know," I sighed, "it was very bad, I didn't want to see it. But the Romans did bad things to Boudicca and her daughters. And now they're going to do bad things to us."


He looked sadly into my eyes, just shrugged, then said, "Off clothes!" I knew there was no point in arguing, with my hands free, I pulled off my torn smock and what was left of my shift, and stood before him as he'd seen me before, naked.


Dovagna was putting up a bit of a struggle, her guard made short work of stripping her – do they get training in that? I wondered. They probably don't need it! Trilluna was more sensible, her bare whiteness striped with deep crimson weals looked terribly fragile.

Now we had to hold our arms behind the stakes, my wrists were locked together again, the other two girls bound tightly. So we stood, first in a long line of naked maidens in bondage to our stakes, some sobbing, some praying, most just gazing with an awful, fear-filled stillness, at the relentlessly well-organised busyness of the Roman Army taking up occupation.
 
Hondoboot2 said:
Eulalia,
What a great story. I have read several of your stories and you have inspired me to write one of my own. I am not an artist, so I cannot draw or make the great 3D art that is on this great site. After reading a few of your stories, I have decided to write one so I can contribute to this little community we have here.I know for a fact my story will pale next to yours,because I am no writer,I have never written a story before. I have also never started a thread before. I will post it on 10/5/13. I hope nobody laughs at my little story, I am a little nervous about posting it. The story is titled: Sofi & I , A Lovers Sacrifice. It is a crucifixion story.
Click to expand...
go on
 
XIV​

The operation went on well into the evening. After an hour or more, another batch of girls, the ones I'd seen in the distance coming along the road from the east, were driven into view, and arrayed at the stakes away to the right of me.


A great many more soldiers marched into the dun, then a huge crowd of women and children were herded into the space in front of us, and made to sit facing us, just as I'd sat watching Boudicca's dreadful sacrifice. My mother and sisters must have been among them, but I couldn't make out their faces in the twilight.


And then my heart sank as I saw a company of men, several dozen, naked but for loincloths and roped together, being whipped along by brutal guards, the last of the Iceni warriors. When they reached our ring of stakes, they were made to kneel, then forced to crawl along on the flinty track right at us girls' feet, still being whipped as they grovelled.


I peered down, dreading that I'd see my Cunben, but they were made to keep their heads down, most were young like him. One shuffled past that I instinctively felt must be him, but I kicked myself, why fear the worst when you can't be sure? I kept silent.


When the last of the chain of men was in front of me, they were halted, made to turn and kneel up facing away from us, towards the crowd of captive women, witnesses to their utter humiliation.


And so we had to stay, girls standing bound to the stakes, men kneeling in front of us. The one by me was a fine, broad-shouldered guy, his bare back skinned raw with whiplashes. Guards strode up and down, thrashing any of us who dared to move. We girls could have slid down in front of our stakes to sit or squat, but we dared not – as the night wore on, some youngsters did faint, and were savagely beaten, then dragged upright by their hair and bound to their stakes with twisted wire that cut into their breasts.


Boy soldiers came around with water-skins to keep us refreshed during the hours of darkness. There was no rape, no men's play with our bodies here, the atmosphere was different, serious, even solemn. The shouts and clatter of the army in the dun subsided, none of us captives dared make a sound, among the crowd of women an occasional crying baby was quickly hushed, owls hooted in the darkness.


Afraid of falling asleep, weary after the long day's march, I tried to keep myself alert with cautious little exercises, flexing one leg then the other against the stake, gently twisting my loins and shoulders – the friction of my bare, whip-wealed skin against the wood brought sore pains, but even those helped fight my drowsiness.

I tried not to think about what must be going to happen, about the horror that I'd witnessed here and was about to be repeated. I tried to recall stories, silly kids' rhymes and jokes, anything I could dredge from my memory to distract me, but the agonised white faces of those Roman women, their unearthly screams, their jerking, squirming bodies on these stakes, kept haunting me, howling at me from across the valley, sweeping down from the black sky, hurtling at me from right and left, vengeful, accusing spirits ....


The night I'd spent hanging stretched, scourged and tortured in the smiths' compound seemed a blissful memory compared to the horror of this one that never seemed to end. When at last my aching eyes glimpsed a hint of light away to the east, my heart pounded with relief. Soon the final struggle will begin!


It wasn't long before a horn-call woke the legion, men began coming and going, another drink of water was brought for us. I glanced at Trilluna to my left, her head was bowed, her long curls, though filthy, still looked lovely half-veiling her pale skin in the early light. Her slender legs shifted a little, I could tell she'd survived the night.


As the sky grew lighter, a detachment of soldiers marched out from the gateway and halted alongside where I was. Not in ordinary, workaday clothes, these men were in full dress. The ones in front carried Roman standards, golden eagles and suchlike symbols bedecked with bright silk ribbons on tall poles, those behind them had brass instruments and drums. They're going to make a great ceremony of it, I thought.


Then less grandly equipped men came out to prepare us victims, among them "my" blacksmith. He came up to me and started releasing my wrists without a word. "They're going to kill us today?" I whispered. He just shrugged, carried on, avoiding my eyes. I sighed, lowered mine instinctively, as if in submission. He drew my hands behind my bum and locked the wrist chains again, then left me standing before my stake, legs parted, gazing vacantly at the morning sky. Soon they'll begin!


It seemed a long wait though. All we girls were standing, naked, before our stakes, all the men still kneeling in front of us. The morning air was chilly, I was shivering – I told myself to stop, but I couldn't. I felt piss trickling down my thigh.


A party of officers at last appeared on horseback. The one who'd interrogated me was among them, but he was evidently relatively unimportant, others had much more gleaming ornaments and grand cloaks, the leader of them all on a beautifully harnessed grey horse.


He glanced aside at me, with a look of deep contempt, then turned to the ranks of standard-bearers and bandsmen in front of him and shouted "Porro!" At once the band struck up a loud marching tune, the standard-bearers strode ahead, the troop proceeded along the roadway cleared for them by guards through the mass of watching women.


Immediately, our guards started to herd us girls into threes behind them, and, with sharp jabs of the goad, set us off at a rapid pace to keep up with quick march of the band and the trotting horses.


I was bewildered, too baffled to think clearly until I'd settled into the rhythm of the march, then I just kept wondering, whatever cruel game are they playing with us now?
 
XV​


A cruel game of cat and mouse, that's clear. The wretched survivors of our Iceni manhood had been made to grovel, while we, the flowers of their womenfolk, were exposed naked in the very place where Boudicca's triumphant sacrifice was performed, certain we were going to be offered up in the same ghastly way as her victims had been. A ritual of humiliation, and subtle psychological torture far worse than any of the beatings and burnings I'd endured.

And now, we had no idea what was in store for us – slavery, maybe? That seems a likely fate for the great throng of women and children in the long parade behind us, but why have we girls been singled out, surely some more special fate is being planned by our conquerors.

We were heading more or less south now, on a road the Romans must have built, not curving along the hilltops like the old trackway we'd been on, but cutting dead straight through the countryside, up hills, down valleys. The brass horns in the band ceased playing after a while, but the drummers continued to pound out a relentless marching rhythm.

The road was surfaced, something I'd never seen before, with baked bricks, hundreds and thousands of identical, square-topped blocks, reflecting the rigid straightness of the road. They made a smooth surface for bare feet, though mine are so used to rough flinty tracks and thorny scrubland it felt quite strange, I feared I might slip.

Our guards continued to drive us like cattle with whips and goads, being naked the sting of the lash was all the sharper on my sore body, and the men took obvious pleasure in aiming their assaults at those parts which had been at least lightly protected by clothes on the first leg of the journey.

Soon Boudicca's dun was left behind and we were in country where I'd never been, green rolling hills where big herds of plump cattle grazed open grassland among patches of woodland, and in the valleys lush meadows and wide areas of ripening grain.

There were villages of round houses like ours, bigger and closer together than in our territory, and when the straight road passed close to them, crowds came out to see this memorable sight, the Roman Army on the move in all its splendour, and – especially – its miserable captives in chains or ropes of bondage.

The large company of us naked girls was naturally a cause of great excitement. Word must travel quickly, men came running, some even on horseback from the more distant villages, eager to enjoy the sight of us – we must have numbered several score, probably near a hundred, nubile nudes.

They cheered the fine Roman soldiers, and jeered at us. These must be Catuvellauni who'd sided with the Romans – or at least switched sides quick when they'd heard of Boudicca's defeat. Now they were demonstrating their loyalty to their masters, the Romans were displaying to them the price of disobedience.

So they jeered and spat and hurled dung and rotting meat from the middens, our guards stood aside to let them target us, then gave them demonstrations of their skill with the whip, on our already scarred, bruised and defenceless bodies, urged on by the crowed, earning whoops of glee and cheers of congratulation when they made some poor girl shriek or stumble in pain.

It was a humid morning, I was sweating, my hair felt lank and greasy, there were smears and chunks of the filth I'd had thrown at me clinging to my skin, and the horses trotting in front regularly deposited their droppings where our feet had to plod.

At one point, Dovagna slipped on a pile of steaming dung, fell forward on her face, unable with her hands bound to save herself. The guards immediately dragged her out of the line, the girls behind her had to march on without pausing, while they set about thrashing her viciously until she managed to stagger to her feet and run back to her place in the line. I could see her face was bleeding.

As on previous days, we paused at long intervals to lap up water at springs – after the horses had had their fill. In this part of the land, the Romans had installed impressive rectangular troughs where horses, and captives, could drink, with spouts from abundant springs where the soldiers could fill their water-skins.

As we proceeded, I saw one, and subsequently several more, buildings of a kind I'd never imagined, quite unlike our roundhouses, great rectangular boxes with gleaming walls and sloping red roofs. At their gates, families in fine Roman-style costume, attended by more scantily-attired slaves, glared with contempt at us filthy females.

Maybe these were homes of Roman families, or of people from elsewhere in the Empire, or perhaps just Britons who were prospering under the régime. Whoever they were, they obviously regarded us Iceni as verminous creatures of a wholly different species from themselves, fit only for the worst forms of slavery, or – preferably – extermination.

Towards evening, the road crossed a wide valley, where I saw a very different scene, large numbers of nearly-naked men, women and children digging clay, shaping it into blocks, carrying it on wooden pallets to structures that belched smoke. Here and there were carefully built piles of rectangular bricks. Tough-looking overseers were patrolling, armed with rods. This must be where the pieces that make the road, and probably those fine houses too, are produced by slaves, hopeless and wretched as us captives.

On the far side of this valley, we stopped for the night. After last nights sleepless ordeal, I and all the girls were completely exhausted, we'd been plodding on dazed, our minds hardly conscious. Troughs of food – stuff rejected from the legionary kitchen no doubt, but rather tastier than the bland mash we'd had in Iceni country – were gobbled up, then we fell asleep on the open ground.

Being naked, we were seen even more as a perk of the job by the guards on night watch. I must have been woken two or three times that night and summarily fucked, I was too weary to even think about what was happening, it was becoming just a routine part of my life as a captive woman.

The march continued two more days, through some hilly, well-wooded country, but increasingly prosperous and populous, the crowds turning out to mock us ever more numerous and more enthusiastic in their jeering and pelting.

The third day's march was relatively short, the sun was still quite high when the column halted, just over the crest of a ridge. We girls were commanded to leave the road and signalled to kneel in rows on grassland alongside it, our guards patrolling up and down between the rows making sure we stayed still, silent and alert. The standard-bearers, the band, and the mounted officers carried on down the road, followed by the seemingly endless stream of troops.

I took in the view before me, sensing that we had reached our destination, that the place I could see spread out in the wide valley below was to be the scene of whatever terrible spectacle these Romans were planning, in which I felt horribly sure I was destined to play a leading part.
 
thanks Kodos, that's nice to hear! :)

XVI​

A broad river meandered from the west through the valley below us, growing ever wide as it flowed east. A smaller river wandered through marshland like the Fens to join it. But it was no quiet rural scene I gazed at, a huge area alongside the river was enclosed by a massive embankment that must have extended nearly a mile from the river-bank and more than that from east to west. At the western corner of the area it surrounded, a great rectangle was further closed off with what looked like high palings on the two inner sides. In that precisely-defined space were long wooden buildings laid out with military precision, some bigger, grander ones in the centre.


The standard-bearers leading, the band blaring a loud march, the senior officers on their mounts, and the great parade of soldiers behind them, were heading down the road towards a gateway in the embankment that led into that well-ordered space, evidently their headquarters. Though they were a long way off, I could see guards lining up to greet them at the gate, others running about like ants within the compound and along the embankment, clearly the arrival of the Legion was a major event.


Outwith the military rectangle, there were other large buildings, not so geometrically arranged, the grandest occupied the highest ground and others were lined along streets that followed the contours, or on routes leading to gates in all three sides of the embankment, and to a long wooden bridge that crossed the river on the far side. And further from the Headquarters, there were lots of humbler buildings, from many of which smoke was rising, much movement of people among them.


It was a far, far bigger settlement than I'd ever seen, all the villages of the Iceni could easily have fitted into it! I remembered hearing about it, from Dad and the older villagers, I remembered when we learnt how Boudicca's army had wrecked and burnt it, I remembered – all too well – when the women were brought from here, along the road we'd just walked, and what had happened to them. Yes, this is Londinium!


The army took a good couple of hours marching past us and down into their home barracks. Only our guards were left to keep watch on us girls, while their comrades marched by they put up their tents. Another detachment controlled the women and children in an area the other side of the road, the men and boy prisoners must have been somewhere along the ridge too, I couldn't see where they were.


We were fed from troughs in the usual way and settled down for the night. The sun was only just setting, but we were very ready to sleep after days of forced marching, and dark clouds were hiding the setting sun over the valley to the west. As I dozed cuddled up next to Trilluna, I couldn't help thinking this may well be my last night on earth, again and again I woke from horrible dreams, mingling the horror of Boudicca's sacrifice, my night of scourging and torture, my even more dreadful night at the stake, and wild imaginings about what might be going to happen tomorrow.


Dovagna was restless too, though Trilluna was all in, even our sudden cries of terror didn't wake her. Our guards, still the two guys who'd flogged me, were enjoying something from skin-bags that a youngster from the fort had brought up for them along with their rations, it evidently wasn't water – their welcome home tipple! They chattered, played dice for a bit, then, when I thought they were turning in, they got up and came over to us.


"Illa!" said one, pointing to Trilluna. They bent down and dragged her, yelping in shock at being roughly woken, into their tent. I could tell from their grunting and her sharp squeals the value they were getting from the poor creature. But, just relieved it wasn't me, I rolled over and lay against Dovagna, she was still awake, her skin cold, clammy and trembling. Feeling each other's fear, we fell asleep.


A loud crash woke us, I don't know how many hours into the night, it was pitch dark, big drops of rain were falling on our bare skins. Suddenly the sky was alight with lightning, the rain became torrential. I felt Trilluna pressing her body against me in terror, the guards must have finished with her and let her crawl back to join us. I rolled on my back, whispered "Don't be frightened," and gazed up into the drenching rain, feeling pleasure in the cleansing of my filth-caked body and slimy hair, enjoying – as I always have done, even when I was little – the excitement of the storm, the rage of Taranis the thunder-god and the wild dancing of his spirits.


The storm passed pretty quickly, though the rain went on longer, we managed to get a bit more sleep on the soaking grass, but it didn't seem long before we were woken by the horn-reveille. I sat up, still wet, my hair dripping down my shoulders, and gazed blinking through the half-light. Thick mist was swirling above the marshes, the city itself was half-veiled, I could just see patches of brightness where fires were burning.


As we waited, the dawn grew brighter, the mists began to disperse. On the low ground between us and the nearest gate, men were already busy, teams of ox-wagons were lumbering out along the track below the embankment, carrying huge piles of timber, which were being unloaded piece by and carried by pairs of men along the paved road that led up towards us, laying some of the wooden poles down, setting others up in holes which a team was busily digging – a pattern soon emerged, one lying, one standing, alternately, and always a standing pole facing a lying one The orderly Roman mind!


Our food arrived, sloshed into the troughs, we crawled past, lapped up our share, crawled on to relieve ourselves in a muddy ditch that cut down the hillside, then we were signalled to take up position on the road.


Dovagna, Trilluna and I stood side by side as we'd done for the past five days of marching, but our guards gestured and pushed us to stand in single file, along the lest-hand side of the road. I waited, wondering why this was, gently exercising my legs and torso, then I heard sounds of guards shouting and whip-lashing, glanced back and saw a line of men, our Iceni men, being herded along the road beside us girls.


They were halted alongside us, one male beside each female. I looked at the man beside me, he looked at me, we both turned pale. It was Cunben.
 
Eulalia said:
They were halted alongside us, one male beside each female. I looked at the man beside me, he looked at me, we both turned pale. It was Cunben.
Click to expand...

Well that is quite the psychological blow, all that and nothing save the pride in fighting left her. You do not pull your punches but superb writing as always and a gripping tale, well done Eulalia.
 
Eul..ur the one of the best for me..a writer who captured my mind...:)
That's why sometimes i dont dare to read ur writing, if i dont hv much time or I'm not alone...:D
There will b coming my favourite excellent scenes of u, i hv no doubt abt it.:)
Love u..
 
XVII​

I lowered my eyes, ashamed that I'd betrayed the names of those islands. His legs and body bore the deep furrows of scourgings and burnings at least as savage as those they'd inflicted on me, a filthy rag of a loincloth was wrapped around his waist, more humiliating than total nakedness. His wrists and ankles were tied with ropes, not chained, like mine.


We dared not speak, and what was there to say? Guards lashed our backs, we turned to lead off down the road, the pair of us at the front of the parade of the doomed. The city below now seemed to me like a huge, crouching, predatory beast, a great spider's web where gigantic fangs were waiting to devour me.


As we descended from the ridge, increasing numbers of people paused to watch us, young herdboys, slaves on their errands, traders heading to the markets. Most seemed merely curious, mildly interested in this herd of livestock – probably not all that unusual an early-morning sight on the way to the gates of Londinium, these were not the kind who knew or cared that we were the loathed Iceni.


The floor of the valley was a grim area, marshy to the east, crows cawed and gulls screeched over stinking heaps where the city's filth, steaming in the dawn air, was being offloaded from carts dragged by miserable donkeys. The drier, scrubby ground to the west seemed to be one huge cemetery, some graves marked with wooden boards, a very few with grander monuments of stone.


The road forked, one branch led towards the military headquarters, that was the way the army had marched last night. But we were goaded along the other route, towards an imposing gateway into the city. We passed on this road between the rows of stakes that slaves or low-rank squaddies were still putting in place. I could see that the ones being laid on the ground were squared timber, a good two arm-spans long, heavy enough to need two muscular men to carry. The ends nearest the road were planed to taper, and they were positioned by prepared square holes evidently ready to be raised in due course.


The stakes already upright, alternating with the others, were a bit shorter, and round, they were young tree-trunks still wearing their bark. The tops were shaped with a diagonal cut, leaving a chisel-like point. Not the same as the cruel spikes outside Boudicca's dun, but my loins still shuddered at the sight.


As we approached the high timber gateway through the embankment, a very different audience greeted us, sour-faced women lining the road, who began to jeer and hiss even when we were far off, and had to be restrained by soldiers from attacking us as we were driven through a deluge of their spit and handfuls of filth.


The military band was stationed near the gate, the drums began to pound, then the brass instruments began a raucous fanfare. The standard-bearers and the senior officers on their horses were awaiting us. In a gallery over the gate, citizens in the grandest of clothing glared down at us, even they were ready with a greeting for us.


But before we reached the gate, we were halted, forced to kneel. Pairs of men came hurrying with planks, not quite as long or as heavy as the timber by the roadside, but still carried by two. Guards quickly untied Cunben's wrists and stretched his arms wide, one of the planks was laid across his shoulders and bound with tight leather straps. Each of the men was similarly burdened.


Now we stood up again, now we had to form a single file, I had to walk in front of Cunben, who staggered briefly under the load of the weighty plank, but was soon persuaded by goad-jabs to find his feet. The standard-bearers, band and mounted officers led off through the gap between the huge open gates, to howls of hatred, we followed them officers, I, the very first of the captives, felt the full fury of the grandees above, as they screamed, spat, and emptied their piss-pots and worse filth over me.


Inside the city, the crowds were even more dense and just as furious. We were paraded down paved streets lined with buildings that loomed over me, high blocks of baked bricks miraculously held together with some strange hardened mud, and, as we marched further in, even mightier structures of carved stone, huge rectangular blocks, circular columns, archways that seemed to stay up miraculously – I'd never seen such works, they only filled my heart with greater dread.


And behind the jeering crowds, many slaves were busy, not allowed to pause from their forced labour, clambering up ladders and about the tops of these buildings. A lot were being mended, or built anew, many of the walls were stained with soot, I recalled what we'd heard about Boudicca's burning of Londinium. I hung my head, ashamed to look, compelled now to endure the wrath of its citizens.


We crossed a wide street that was packed with busy market-stalls, where the supply of rotting food of all kinds was especially abundant, kids were even scampering through the crowd selling squashy fruit, maggoty offal and putrid fish for the onlookers to hurl at their chosen captives, I, being naked girl number one, was naturally a favoured target. Our road dropped downhill away from the grander buildings through a district where there were more selling-booths and workshops, some brick, some wooden, signs of fire damage were all the more apparent here, some were shored up with rickety supports, a few were still blackened ruins.


And the city smells grew stronger, meat, fish, some exotic scents, but pervading all the rich mixture of wood-smoke, human excrement, and urine. We were close to the river now, between tall wooden warehouses were open spaces through which I glimpsed great ships, far bigger than the boats we'd used on the Mere and the men punted out into the Fens. Slaves were unloading crates, barrels and bales, scribes were scratching at writing tablets, merchants were arguing or counting piles of coins, this was a district where even a hundred nude young women could scarcely distract their attention!


We were halted by a large open area surrounded by hurdle fencing, made to turn and face it. I glanced at Cunben, he was bowed under the weight of the planks, sweat dripping from his matted hair and downcast brow, he was panting, seemed oblivious to me.


The area in front of us was divided into pens, at first I thought it was a livestock market, much bigger, and much more regimented, then the fairs I'd been to with my brothers. But then I saw in some of the sections over towards the river there was human livestock – slaves!


My heart raced, I was thinking maybe this is to be our fate, have we, the nubile young women of the Iceni, been separated out to be sold as slaves, maybe shipped to Rome? I trembled at the possibilities this raised, it could be a life I'd cope with, serving a gentle master or mistress, or at least one who treated slaves no worse than animals – or it could be utter hell, being treated like I've been for the last six days and nights, week after week, month after month, year after year until my wretched life gave out.


But it soon became clear that the numerous vacant pens weren't for us girls. The great host of other women and children of the Iceni had now reached the gate into the compound, and it was they who were herded in. Dark-skinned, black-bearded men in exotic-looking robes were waiting to receive them, accompanied by clerks with wax tablets and thuggish slave-drivers with goads and long whips.


The women were sorted into groups as they entered the place, notes taken by the clerks, then they were marched off by the herders and thrust into various pens. Babies clung to their mothers, but any children who could walk were separated, wailing, and taken off to another part of the compound. Even siblings were being quite obviously and deliberately parted. Whip-cracks mingled with weeping as any who resisted were dragged off in opposite directions.


"Sula!" I heard as shrill cry, among the throng I saw my youngest sister, Coninia. At once she was struck by a lout with the handle of his goad. I didn't dare respond for fear of what they'd do to her. The look of utter terror in her eyes burnt on my memory as she was hauled off towards the river bank, where three huge black vessels were waiting.


The sorting of the slaves took a good hour, we young men and maidens stood watching in despair. At one point, skins of foul-tasting water were brought along, we drank thirstily, though the taste was vile.


At last our guards resumed action, the gate of the paddock was closed, we were made to turn and face the road ahead. The standard-bearers, officers and band had gone, I was no walking at the front, the triumphal procession consisted only of around a hundred men staggering under broad wooden planks, and about the same number of naked girls.


We walked through the eastern end of the city, much poorer buildings here, mostly wooden, much wreckage both from fire and general decay, the air was even more foul. But the people here were just as hostile, even more vicious in their jeering and hurling, more shameless in jumping into the road between the guards to grope at our breasts and pussies, and even the boy's genitals – the guards seemed disinclined to prevent them, so long as we kept moving no matter what was being done to us.


At last we returned to the gate by which we'd entered, and I was whip-directed and prodded with a goad to lead the file back out through the gates. The band was outside, drumming and playing a mocking melody. I felt yet another gush of dirty liquid rinse my hair as I emerged, the city fathers were evidently back on the gallery! And an even bigger crowd had gathered along the roadway, spreading well back into the cemetery, as well as on the embankment.


We were halted between the rows of threatening stakes, made to turn and face the gateway, the band stopped playing, the crowd ceased booing and hissing, a single horn sounded, and two men stood up in the centre of the banner-bedecked gallery, one a tall, distinguished-seeming figure in a plain white toga with a crimson cloak, the other a plump, smug-faced creature in absurdly over-ornamented attire – I knew him, of course, the Atrebate!
 
I realise this episode may be a bit controversial.
If it raises questions and makes people think,
that's fine, that's what literature should do.
But it's asking questions, not offering answers,
certainly not trying to make any political point.
And of course I hope it won't upset or offend anybody,
that's definitely not my intention.

XVIII​


The tall man began to speak, in solemn, sonorous Latin. The Atrebate translated, for the benefit of us barbarians, informing us that the speaker was Governor Suetonius Paulinus, Viceroy in Britannia of the Emperor Nero ("Vivat!" yelled the soldiers and citizens, hearing that sacred name).

We were told how, eighteen years ago (the year I was born), the Emperor Claudius had intervened to save the people of Britain from tyrannical warlords and civil war, how he had brought peace and prosperity to this land, swathes of countryside now yielding rich harvests of grain, fat cattle grazing the green hillsides, successful farmers and merchants building themselves fine new brick houses, happy families in the villages raising healthy youngsters (he didn't mention the armies of slaves, some of whom I could see toiling further along the embankment, hauling huge blocks of stone to replace the wooden fencing protecting the fort).

He related how my people, the Iceni, had enjoyed the benefits of peace and friendship with Rome under the 'small king', 'regulus' he contemptuously called him, Prasutagus, but how, when he died, his widow Boudicca – a fanatical 'Andrasteana' – had illegally seized power and, when the Roman authorities had tried to restore law and order, she had proclaimed holy war in the name of Andraste (he forgot to mention what the Romans had done to her and her daughters).

The orator was getting into his stride, swinging his robed arms in dramatic gestures, his long sentences rolling out like waves on a high sea, every mention of Boudicca, spoken with a contemptuous spit, drawing echoing 'boo, hiss' from the crowd. The interpreter delivered his translation in similar spirit.

"Her armies of drug-crazed warriors swept through the country terrorising the peaceful folk, destroying all that Rome had provided for them, all the symbols of peace and freedom that such terrorists loathe."

He paused, gazed at the appreciative audience, he had them in his hand. He turned and gestured behind to where the tallest buildings could be seen above the embankment, some being busily rebuilt.

"You do not need to be reminded, people of Londinium, of the shock of that afternoon when the fury of Boudicca's madmen was unleashed on your city, the horror as smoke rose, then flames, the screams of the dying, the heroism of those who rushed to save them."

The crowd was roaring now, shouts of "Vindicate! Vindicate!" echoed from the walls, angry faces turned and glared menacingly at us prisoners, lined up along the road. The Governor paused again, the shouts subsided, gave way to an ominous hush.

"And do I need to remind you, men of Londinium, what followed after that? As if the massacre, burning and pillage were not sufficient atrocities to satisfy their evil goddess and her demented devotee ... I can hardly bring myself to think, let alone speak of it ..."

He was holding his hand to his chest, bowing his head, using all the tricks of the Roman courtroom. No, he didn't need to tell them, he didn't need to tell me, the memory was all too vivid. My nakedness was trembling at visions of those writhing bodies, their faces were the faces of the people in the crowd, fiery with hatred, hungry for revenge.

"Fellow-citizens, your wives, your sisters, your lovely young daughters, you know how they were sacrificed, in the name of religion – no, anti-religion, the worship of evil – I need not dwell on how their bodies suffered, how those most tender parts, formed to bear and nourish your children, were so savagely ripped and penetrated, how their helpless screams and prayers for mercy were met only with mockery and redoubled cruelty, how slowly and in what dreadful agonies they died ...."

My stomach was tight with terror, I could physically feel the hatred radiating out to me from the mob, hatred this man was so skilfully stoking.

"But, friends, Rome would not stand idle in the face of such atrocities, oh no. As soon as the news reached us in the land of the Silures far to the west, our legions were on the march, determined to wage war on this terror. When they faced our phalanxes on the great highway – "(he gestured with his left hand to the north-west, where a straight streak of a Roman road left the city and climbed the low hills) "their woman-led rabble, for all their boasts and bloodlust, were no match for our brave fighting men."

He paused for cheers, they were long and loud.

"That woman died a coward's death." (When a Roman man dies on his own sword, it's a heroic act, when a barbarian woman does it, she's a coward) "And the few survivors of her mob turned and fled, scuttling like rats into the stinking marshland of the Fens. They ran, but they couldn't hide ...."

I felt his eyes were fixed on Cunben and me, piercing right into us, I fought back tears.

"And now, citizens of Londinium, in the name of the immortal Emperor Nero, the divine dispenser of justice, what I know to be your dearest wish I grant you – your women will be avenged!"



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