Brothers

Boudica, with her two daughters in their chariots, watched from a small hillock, their eyes fixed on the narrow opening of the gorge. Suddenly, a sickening feeling struck her gut as a column of men appeared, walking into the plain, brandishing swords and spears over their heads, and shouting a Roman war cry. Hundreds of men followed—there seemed no end. She waved her sword above her head. “Every man to the death,” she shouted, and raced toward the attackers. With her hair billowing behind her, she looked the leader she was—a knife clenched between her teeth, and her sword waving above her head. Heads rolled, and men fell lifeless, as she clashed with the Roman front line, but the scythes and ploughshares were no match for the long knives and swords of the Roman army. Arrows darkened the sky as they rained on the unprotected heads of the Iceni, and men fell like trees struck by lightning. As their numbers decreased, the tribesmen turned and ran back toward the forest, but the heavily laden carts blocked their way. General Paulinas ordered his men to follow them, and kill as many as possible. The soldiers spared no one—man, woman or child. The ground was saturated with Iceni blood until it could absorb no more. The tracks, left by heavy carts, looked like rivulets of crimson liquid. Thousands of corpses, many more British than Roman, covered the plain so a blade of grass could barely be seen.