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Authors: Jacqueline T Lynch
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bad wolf destroyed. Around them, the contour of the land embroidered with tilled fields. The Celts supported themselves by agriculture, and the breeding of cattle and horses and sheep. They were a warrior society with one foot in this most peaceful other existence, but without the power to hold onto it. So they had to keep fighting. Their eyes followed us in silent, stony approbation as we walked before them.
We moved up a rising slope to an earthen fortress. We reached another labyrinth of wooden huts, and found the inner circle of Boudicca.
Cailte and I went to the long house, a rectangular wooden lodge used for gatherings by the tribe, and by their queen Boudicca for most public occasions. She held private audiences her own hut. Taliesin left us to report to his druid priest, who was called Nemain. The temple where Nemain performed his magic was close by, to the other side of the village.
Boudicca sat at the head of the lodge, on less a throne than a simple seat of honor befitting the number one Iceni. Boudicca was a tallish woman, for her era, with a wild mane of coarse, copper hair made artificially lighter by washing in lime water, a practice of vain aristocratic Celts. She listened to the counsel of a trusted captain, but all the while looked beyond him to me. Cailte requested permission to approach her, which she granted, looking over his shoulder, still at me. He explained my story, I think embellishing it even more than I originally did, but not for my sake; it was just something that bards do. Was he painting me out to be hero?
Or a Roman spy.
She reserved judgment in steely eyes, but nodded at something.
Her husband, King Prasutagus had died the year before. Knowing the Romans were at his doorstep, like the big bad wolf, he made a patchy agreement with the Roman governor of Britannia not to overrun his kingdom at his death, but to accept the peaceful terms of a legal will, an inheritance to both his people and to the Roman government. He made a proper will indeed, leaving half his kingdom to his two daughters and half to the Roman Emperor, thinking that at least his family and his people would have half the kingdom they knew and not lose all to rapacious conquerors.
He got that one wrong. The Romans still wanted it all. His death, and leaving no male heirs, seemed to them the perfect excuse and opportunity to just take it. The Romans did not understand that the Celtic society was not entirely male dominated. Women played an equal part in ruling, fighting, and dying, and inheriting.
It might not have been Nero back in Rome who gave the order, it could have been one of these transplanted legionnaires feathering his nest, but the order was to take it all.
They did not extend the courtesy of their alliance made with Prasutagas to his wife Boudicca, partly I think because they already had a similar alliance working for them with Cartimandua, queen of another Celtic tribe, the Brigantes to the northwest, and, undisciplined wench, she was already seen as a loose cannon. No, it was better to step in and take over these troublesome natives. Diplomacy was wasted on them anyway.
Unfortunately for the Romans, the only thing worse than a woman scorned was a Celtic woman scorned.
Bowls of bread and honey were brought in to the lodge. Chunks of pork and mutton. The long hall began to fill with Boudicca’s personal guard, her court, relatives, and servants. People were gathering outside the hut as well. Nemain entered, the head druid priest, with Taliesin following behind.
Boudicca nodded to them, and they bowed to her.
Torches were lifted from crude sconces on all sides of the lodge, and carried to a central dirt pit. They were extinguished, and the room grew dim save for the long twilight in view from the large open doorway at the far end of the lodge. The last hopeful source of light fled the room. Fresh air got a little scarce in here as well. Nemain raised his arms and spoke, more to himself than to his gods or
We moved up a rising slope to an earthen fortress. We reached another labyrinth of wooden huts, and found the inner circle of Boudicca.
Cailte and I went to the long house, a rectangular wooden lodge used for gatherings by the tribe, and by their queen Boudicca for most public occasions. She held private audiences her own hut. Taliesin left us to report to his druid priest, who was called Nemain. The temple where Nemain performed his magic was close by, to the other side of the village.
Boudicca sat at the head of the lodge, on less a throne than a simple seat of honor befitting the number one Iceni. Boudicca was a tallish woman, for her era, with a wild mane of coarse, copper hair made artificially lighter by washing in lime water, a practice of vain aristocratic Celts. She listened to the counsel of a trusted captain, but all the while looked beyond him to me. Cailte requested permission to approach her, which she granted, looking over his shoulder, still at me. He explained my story, I think embellishing it even more than I originally did, but not for my sake; it was just something that bards do. Was he painting me out to be hero?
Or a Roman spy.
She reserved judgment in steely eyes, but nodded at something.
Her husband, King Prasutagus had died the year before. Knowing the Romans were at his doorstep, like the big bad wolf, he made a patchy agreement with the Roman governor of Britannia not to overrun his kingdom at his death, but to accept the peaceful terms of a legal will, an inheritance to both his people and to the Roman government. He made a proper will indeed, leaving half his kingdom to his two daughters and half to the Roman Emperor, thinking that at least his family and his people would have half the kingdom they knew and not lose all to rapacious conquerors.
He got that one wrong. The Romans still wanted it all. His death, and leaving no male heirs, seemed to them the perfect excuse and opportunity to just take it. The Romans did not understand that the Celtic society was not entirely male dominated. Women played an equal part in ruling, fighting, and dying, and inheriting.
It might not have been Nero back in Rome who gave the order, it could have been one of these transplanted legionnaires feathering his nest, but the order was to take it all.
They did not extend the courtesy of their alliance made with Prasutagas to his wife Boudicca, partly I think because they already had a similar alliance working for them with Cartimandua, queen of another Celtic tribe, the Brigantes to the northwest, and, undisciplined wench, she was already seen as a loose cannon. No, it was better to step in and take over these troublesome natives. Diplomacy was wasted on them anyway.
Unfortunately for the Romans, the only thing worse than a woman scorned was a Celtic woman scorned.
Bowls of bread and honey were brought in to the lodge. Chunks of pork and mutton. The long hall began to fill with Boudicca’s personal guard, her court, relatives, and servants. People were gathering outside the hut as well. Nemain entered, the head druid priest, with Taliesin following behind.
Boudicca nodded to them, and they bowed to her.
Torches were lifted from crude sconces on all sides of the lodge, and carried to a central dirt pit. They were extinguished, and the room grew dim save for the long twilight in view from the large open doorway at the far end of the lodge. The last hopeful source of light fled the room. Fresh air got a little scarce in here as well. Nemain raised his arms and spoke, more to himself than to his gods or
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