Myths of the Modern Man (13 page)

The Celts had myths, too. They believed in gods of war and gods of love like Aonghus, whose mother was the water goddess Boann and whose father was Dagda, the father of the gods and protector of the druids. Mac Cecht was the god of eloquence; only the Celts would have such a god. Lugh was the sun god, and Epona the horse goddess who was later adopted by Roman cavalry in Britannia because they thought the idea was pretty neat. They believed in Cernunnos, the messenger god, like Mercury, who guided the dead to the underworld, and Brigantia, who took care of healing and prosperity. They believed in these gods. They also believed fervently, and even more fantastically, in themselves.

Rebellion would be their most potent, and most repeated, act of identity, now and in centuries to come. Rebellion remained the most romantic notion to singers of maudlin songs like Billy O’Malley, more romantic, oddly, even than the concept of love. But how does rebellion start, and how is it planned and carried out? There are technicalities even to the most romantic of affairs.

Today the rebellion would start at Camulodunum. The Celts would sweep down upon the town of Camulodunum and force it to submit to their passion. Something faintly Freudian about this, Billy? I wish you and Eleanor could meet.

One day this city would be called Colchester. Roman walls, more completely preserved here than in other parts of England, would one day interest historians and become photo-ops for imaginative tourists. One day a Norman castle would replace the old Roman village, and much later, the castle would become a museum for Roman artifacts. One day, in the century before mine, a military base would be located here.

But this was for the future.

Today it was not Colchester. It was Camulodunum. Today it would be laid waste by Boudicca.

It had been an important city even before the Romans came, sitting between the kingdoms of the Iceni, the Trinovantes, and the Catuvellauni. Almost twenty years ago it was the site of the royal house of the Catuvellauni under their king Cunobelinus, who William Shakespeare wrote about as Cymbelline. His sons Togodumnus and Caratacus took up the sword in their turns to resist the Roman invaders under the Emperor Claudius, and Togodumnus was killed. Caratacus’ wife and daughter were captured, but he himself escaped and fled northwestward to the kingdom of the Brigantes and the protection of King Venutius and the treacherous, self-preserving Queen Cartimandua.

That’s when things got interesting, and Cartimandua proved herself to be one of the most interesting persons of the period. Venutius, like King Prasutagas of the Iceni, had become a client of the Romans in an uneasy arrangement not to kill each other. However, he did not count on the independence, not to say greed, of his wife, who milked the protection of the Romans for all it was worth. Evidently, it was worth a lot.

A revolt stirred in her people in AD 48. Not all were as pro-Roman as she was. Venutius, estranged from Cartimandua, switched sides again and decided to join his people in revolt, but the Romans put down the rebellion and kept Cartimandua alone in power, for lack of any other puppet regime. When Caratacus came to her for sanctuary in AD 51, she was mindful of how the Romans kept her in power, and like a good pawn, handed him over to them. She sold him out.

Caratacus was brought to Rome and displayed with other Celtic captives in front of the barracks of the Praetorian guard. Unlike the unlucky Vercingertorix, Emperor Claudius himself pardoned him because of his eloquence and bravado. But then, Claudius was no Julius Caesar, nor a Nero.

By some ten years later the Romans had completely taken over the city of Camulodunum, in the total absence of its prior royal family, and turned it into a city in their own style. There were not many fortifications here, so sure were they of their victory over this conquered land, but the public works projects showcased a magnificent theatre instead, quite close to the old compound of the old royal family, and a Senate house, and of course, the new Temple of Claudius which was so resented by the Celts. Strange that despite the Celt’s hatred of it, the temple was one of the few things relatively unharmed in the attack. Human flesh was a more seductive target than marble and stone. It yielded in supplication. It was an irresistible target for the destructive mind.

A new Roman fort stood near the old earthen works previously constructed by the Celts, but there were few regular troops stationed here.

Boudicca’s guerrilla warriors ran from the woods at her shrieking command, like a stream of pestilence personified. The Celts, both men and women warriors, ran from the woods with shouting into the wind and tattoos upon their bodies, towards the unfortunate city. They attacked the pensioned legionnaires, who had served their twenty-five year hitch in the army and who were the only administrators of this place. Then the Celts retreated back, but only momentarily as a ruse, to bait the soldiers. They attacked again, those men and women warriors, some of them naked with blue dyed designs on their tall, white bodies to make them appear more frightening. They ignored the symmetrical pillars of Roman majesty. They went straight for the citizens.

The Romans’ IX Legion was posted in a fort many miles to the northwest, the closest legion to the trouble. Those young, professional soldiers marched down to rescue the city, and the Temple where a few soldiers had barricaded themselves for two days, but they arrived too late to save the citizens, or even as it turned out, themselves. Boudicca’s army decimated the IX Legion, an almost unheard of accomplishment for the many millions of occupied people the Romans collectively called “the barbarians.” It wasn’t supposed to happen. It almost never did.

Boudicca herself ran with the first assault to the walls of the city, and after the first pull-back, she mounted her chariot, drove her horses onward, and directed the fighting like a lunatic stage director, cutting here, there, shouting, pleading, cheering. I rode with her, in deference to my injured leg, and to help her pull the wounded into the chariot, race to safety, and go back for more.

It took two days of these continuous guerrilla attacks. At last, Camulodunum was ours. The captives, including scant remaining soldiers of the IX Legion, pled for mercy.

There was no mercy. They were butchered.

Some were used for the druids’ ritual sacrifice. The gods needed to be thanked. The robed ones dragged the strong young soldiers to the oak groves where mystic mistletoe hung from the trees, and the priests drove their daggers into their victims’ chests on makeshift altars.

I watched Taliesin string up a soldier like a side of beef, and with the help of another druid, carry him off, disappearing into the grove. I wondered if he killed him with the same dagger he used against me when we met. How many weeks ago?

I lost track of time. I had no desk calendar. I had no watch. I had no almanac. I just kept telling myself this was a long, long time ago. Long over. No need to feel sickened. No need to feel guilt. Just steady yourself, John. The psych ward awaited in peace and sedation.

Cailte outdid himself for victims. He hacked and slashed with that long sword of his until I thought his arm would fall off. I wished it would. He made heads roll. Literally. I would have thought him driven mad.

When the last resistance fell, when the dying screams from the groves of mistletoe broke the night stillness, Cailte came before Boudicca’s fire, his long sword held aloft in his hand, the blood of many men coloring its blade, which he held for her notice. He threw back his long, sweat-dampened hair from his shoulders with a flick of his head, and asked her if she desired a song. He did not sound sincere to me. It was sarcasm, a boast.

She regarded him a moment, her face glowing with perspiration and the thrill that revenge gave her, and waved him away as if he were only interrupting her thoughts.

His expression grew cold. Rebuffed, he walked away.

Fast on his heels was Dubh, who bounded before us like a man who had no right to have such energy. He was like a kid at Disney World. He, too, held his long sword in his hand, but only because I think he didn’t want to let it go, that he didn’t want to let the thrill of the victory of this night drift away in sleep. He wanted to hold onto it forever, forever victorious, young, and strong.

“
Well then?” He smiled heartily, bellowing in his big voice. She looked on him with amused affection, a sister’s warm feeling for a clownish, boisterous brother.

“
I need you, Dubh,” she said in her low, guttural voice. “Send a messenger now to the Trinovantes to tell them what we have done this night, and to tell them to expect you. Tomorrow you will take two others to their settlement. Tell them our next victory over the Romans we will share with them. If they do not join us, we will know what is in their hearts.”

At first I thought he might balk at being sent on a diplomatic mission, but he was quiet, thoughtful, perhaps he was impressed by his sister. Perhaps he was used to being impressed by her.

He smiled again, and nodded, and bounded away.

Her servants served Boudicca bowls of pork, barley and beer, which she offered to me.

“
Small help I was.” I said, lifting the water skin she had just pulled from her lips and handed to me. I touched it to my lips and drank.

“
You saved many. They value this if you do not,” she said, watching me drink.

“
Cailte fights like a legion himself.”

“
He is a good warrior,” she agreed, concentrating again on her food, “I should say he fought like our people, not a legion. Romans are pigs.”

“
They have skills.”

“
They are pigs. Have you lived so long among them you appreciate them?”

“
I appreciate success.”

“
But we won.”

“
Fortuna vestra est bona.”

“
What is that?”

“
Milites Romani virtutem magnum habent.”

“
Do you dare taunt me with their vile speech?”

“
Your victory will be long remembered,” I bowed, relenting. I was so charming as a bootlicker. Why couldn’t I do this with Eleanor? She’d be putty in my hands. I guess we just rubbed each other the wrong way. Funny, she represented no threat to me; she did not hold power of life or death in her hands like these Celts, with whom I was so admittedly charming. No, come to think of it, she had ultimate power of my life and death. The only thing controlling her hand on the button was God, and the Time Dimension Study Manual of Protocol.

“
It is not done, yet.” Boudicca continued, “The Trinovantes will join us soon. They will want their share of the fight. Then if Cartimandua remembers herself and her true loyalties, then the three tribes will cleanse the land of the Romans soon.” She drew a deep breath and chewed harder. She looked exhilarated, but tired. There was no flowing tunic the color of corn silk for her tonight, only a plain linen tunic, with trousers underneath to make it easier for her to ride and fight, gathered at her slim waist with a gold chord. A dark cloak, draped like a cape down her back, fastened by a plain silver broach at her collar bone. She assumed no pretense of an aristocratic Celtic queen tonight, only a warrior, unadorned. Her long, wild hair lifted by errant strands into the night breeze.

“
And the Romans will never return?” I said absently, drinking in the sight of the fire reflected in her face and her red hair.

“
They would not dare. Nemain sees our bravery rewarded.” She turned her glance to the last dim light of day over the oak grove, where the sounds of the tortured continued, moaning and screaming their agony. I was glad I did not have to watch this, as I was made to watch the ritual sacrifice of the sheep in Nemain’s temple. It was enough to stand at this distance and be ill with horror.

She stuffed a hunk of bread into her mouth. It filled her cheek.

She was a most remarkable woman for her time, for any time I should say. I tried again the game of comparing her to Dr. Roberts. I seemed to do that with all the women I met. Odd. What a waste of time.

There was no real comparison. Eleanor did not have Boudicca’s bloodthirsty vindictiveness, or her passion for life, an odd contradiction for one person to possess. Besides, Eleanor could not have lasted a day in this society. She liked too well the comforts of the modern world, especially the regimentation of meetings, and deadlines. She demanded proof of daily accomplishment as a validation to her own existence. She colored her hair because those first strands of gray she discovered in her early thirties meant she was slipping as a human being and would never reach her full potential unless she disguised them.

She loved schedule. She did not love me.

Boudicca drew another deep, restless breath and looked up at the night sky. She noticed only that the stars were still there, and went back to her food. She did not look for constellations or signs, nor did she marvel at her own insignificance among them. She did not know how awesomely bright they were to me, because she had never seen them pale and dim as I had, faint and weak above a city skyline. They hung always here, huge, magnificent, and only just beyond her arm’s reach.

She just pulled another piece of pork from the bowl with thumb and two fingers, and brought it to her mouth.

Her maidservant noted the stains on the back of her tunic where her wounds from her whipping had reopened. She entreated her mistress to allow her to dress them again. Boudicca nodded, and pulled herself up, letting herself be led into her tent to be cleaned up and treated.