Continuing our historical fiction theme, in this week’s instalment, an ancient Briton fights the Roman invaders.
Die, Die, Die – Susie Helme
The length of Watling Street is rubble stained red with blood. My queen lies butchered, stabbed a hundred times by Roman javelins, her head ripped off at the neck, flies buzzing around the red-brown blood staining the blue stripes on her once-brave face, unwashed for so long that they are caked into hexagons like a tortoise’s back.
I am beside her, not a place on my body that is not bleeding.
I had heard the whispers among the Trinovantes. Though all the kings in Albion bow to the oppressors, though all the tribes in Britannia pay tribute, she would not. She would ride to avenge us. She would not submit.
I am not of the Iceni. A Brigante, I ran away after the treachery of the coward queen. The Catuvellauni king, he stood up to them. He fought back. He sought sanctuary. How could she give him up to the invaders? That queen no longer has my allegiance.
The Iceni queen, they brought me to her after her virgin daughters were raped. This we shared.
It was cold. Her warriors had wrapped her in a sheepskin. She looked almost small in it. She had put away her toga; no longer would she dress to fit their fashion. She wore a blue-green checkered tunic woven of wool. Blue stripes of woad down each side of her face.
Stranger that I am, accept me, my eyes said, accept me as your daughter.
They told her I would be her serving girl, but she did not ask of me food nor drink. She wanted to see my shooting arm.
I am a servant, not an archer. I shot badly, missing the inner circle by a palmswidth, but as I released the bowstring, I cried, ‘Die, die, die.’
She liked that. I wanted blood; she wanted blood. She knew it. She patted the furs upon which her eldest had lain.
Trinovantes, Cantiaci and Catuvellauni joined our enraged march. We have wiped Camulodunum from this earth, the Trinovantes’ revenge. Cerialis and the Legio IX Hispana extinct, the Temple of Claudius razed, the city torched, Catus Decianus fled to Gaul. Not a man, woman or child is left living, not a brick left upon its foundation. Only the Balkerne Gate stands. We saw the smoke still rising all the way from Londinium.
That city, too, felt our wrath. Londinium is ash. Verulamium, who had collaborated with the foes, is sacked, in ruins. We cut off the breasts of the noblewomen and sewed them to their mouths. The men, we impaled vertically upon spikes while still alive. The children, we cracked open their little skulls like gourds with our battle axes, our queen exhorting vengeance for her daughters’ outraged chastity.
Their celebrated discipline, their order, their ranks of men in neat formation. Did they think that would affright us? Our warriors did not stand in pretty rows. We were too furious. We were instead like an angry knot, the fiercest elements in the centre front, weaker ones on the flanks.
Out of the mist they emerged, first the shiny metal casques, then the 10,000 clanking armoured torsos. Two legions, fresh from devastating Mona—may holy Brigit burn their eyeballs until they pop. Last to enter our eyes were the feet, marching, marching, boots marching, drums beating the rhythm.
I have given my life for her, and I am willing. The seed of the vile legionary growing in my belly, too, will die.
The golden torc of her royalty lies dirtied and defeated upon the ground. They will melt it into aureus coins, and spend them on drinking our ale, debauching our women.
They created a desolation. But it is not over. It is not over until Britannia is free. Until Caesar is in chains and his vitals boil in our soup. Until their mercenaries desert to follow our banners, and barbarians like me and my queen sack their city. Until every marble statue is smashed into pieces, every temple ground to dust. Until every Roman dies screaming, every Roman head is on a spike, their intestines are spilt upon the grass and they lie bleeding.
Their glorious Rome will be a desolation. From the Otherworld in the west I will watch the smoke rising from the ruins, and I will curse the robbers of the world. I will turn back and watch them all die, die, die.
Bounds Green Book Writers 