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"Boadicea! Boadicea! Boadicea!” The chant of the crowd, my name thrown at me from the rows of filled seats of the arena, somehow could always inspire me to fight. But for what? I battled, not for the freedom of a clan I once led, not for peace, but for my life, and money that should have paid for my release from bondage, though I never saw a single coin of it. They loved me, those Romans, because I was strong. I can still hear the scream of the mob, as I walked away from my latest triumph, how they called for me, while the clink of money resounded in my last owner’s hand, as he collected wagers placed on my prowess with arms. The barely concealed contempt in the eyes of soldiers as they parted to let me pass on my way back to my cell still burns in my mind. I was a warrior, but I was beneath them. I was only a woman, after all.My birth name no longer matters to me. I have become quite accustomed to the name I bear now, Boudicca, which means 'Victory' in my tongue. It is the name I was given in the arena, at least the way the Romans pronounce it, for the image I conjured of the great queen that caused Rome so much grief in her day. It fits me. The gods smiled on me, when I was merely a slave, and far away from the place I used to worship them in. It was a lifetime lived long ago, the killing for sport and bloodlust, but sometimes in my dreams, I still smell the sand of the battleground and the lifeblood of my opponents, and I cry out in my sleep for release.
My first conquest was easy. They put a girl, nothing more than a child really, wild-eyed and frightened, through the heavy gates opposite where I made my stand. She was clad in a thin shift, a piece of cloth that barely covered her body, and she was weak from hunger. Sent in to face an already seasoned warrior, and judging from the clumsy way she picked up the trident thrown at her feet, had probably never held a weapon in her life. When she finally got the courage to look at me, I saw death already dulling the light in her eyes. She was a house girl, who no doubt had the misfortune of displeasing her mistress in some way; there were none of the calluses from hard physical labor to mark her hands or knees, and her skin had not seen the sun. I have always been willing to meet soldiers and warriors in battle, and take their lives without thought, but the defeat of that girl still saddens me. I made her passage into the Otherworld a swift one, sending a prayer to Bran to look after her there. The blood from the cut in her throat stained the colorless tunic she wore, and soaked the ground around her crumpled form. No one screamed for me that day.
The man who owned me gripped my arm and slapped my face hard, as I strode by him, to take my place among the other slaves. “You could have made a show of it,” he hissed in my ear. I stopped in mid-step, and gazed into his dark little eyes, that reminded me of the first boar I killed, pools of black emptiness, so small as to hardly be worth the look. He was fortunate to be surrounded by guards; I could have killed him easily. He made sure I was always bound inside the gates, when I left the crowd.
“She was no warrior. She was a child. Next time, give me an opponent worth playing with.” He took my advice. My next adversary was far more worthy of the games.
It was scarcely a week later when I fought again. In the time since the first match, I had watched my fellows win and lose, and several die. It is never easy, the anticipation of the next battle, the uncertainty of whether you will live or lose your life, and the hope you will meet your gods bravely. I whiled away the days, mocking fights with the other gladiators, and holding conversations with Epona, the goddess mother of horses. It had been two or three years since last I sat a horse, I was starting to lose count of the days, as they blended into one another. I knew she still remembered me, she whispered in the voices of her chosen creatures, when I passed them in their stalls. Andraste came to me in those first days of my life as a combatant, in dreams of war and weapons, promising to protect and guide me in the games.
My people are a superstitious lot, and I took the low-hanging, heavy gray clouds over Rome as an omen. For good or bad, I could not say, so I was very cautious when I entered the field. She came out, at the same moment I did, and for a split-second, I stared in awe of her. I had seen people from the land called Africa, very dark, almost indistinguishable from night, but one that tall, I would never have imagined, before I laid eyes on her. Many men I have known were head and shoulders above the average person, but this woman would have dwarfed them. I am not short, but I felt tiny, like the girl I had killed the week before. Except I was not afraid, and I made my way to the other fighter, and she came to me.
She wore nothing but a shield and helm, and carried a great sword, and I supposed from the length and breadth of it, it was made in the north, perhaps by the Germans, or the people even farther away, who have no name. My uncle had owned one like it, and was quite proud of it. I saw him cleave a man in half, from the top of his head, to the part of his legs with it, once. Silently reminding the war goddess of her troth to me, I prepared to meet the onslaught.
I barely had time to notice the crunch of sand under my shoes before she rushed at me, bringing the great weapon crashing down upon the shield of bronze that I raised in defense. The force of her blow sent me reeling backwards, and I almost tumbled into her next drive. She was very fast, and I skipped out of her reach, gathering my wits about me, searching for a weakness. She seemed to have none, save her nakedness. The shield she bore was kept tight to her body, and she had a long reach with her weapon. Fortunately, that did work to my advantage.
The swords my people made were long and broad, akin to the one my opponent held. Their main function was to slash and cut, in a sweeping arc. Weapons good for beheading, or separating limbs from the body, but not much else. The Romans, always borrowing the better ideas of their conquests and improving on them, shortened the blade, making a thrusting, stabbing instrument of it instead, perfect for close-quarters fighting. It gave them an edge over the Celts in battle, allowing a soldier to wedge his sword under the shield into the belly of the other person, or elsewhere.
Thus was I able to defeat the large woman. I rushed at her, ducking and barely escaping the slash aimed at my head, feeling it glance off my own helm, briefly stunning me, but I kept on. At short range, she was nearly useless. She did manage to shove me away with her shield, but I came on again, thrusting the short Roman blade into her ribcage. She stumbled, gawking at the blood I drew, then charged me again. I spun away, and the crowd cheered, as her weapon dragged across my back, opening a large red line of blood that streamed over my skin in thick rivulets, spattering the ground with the motion of my turn. Hers was streaming down her side and leg, and I wondered if perhaps I had struck her liver. I could not waste time guessing; I plowed into her again, this time truly aiming for her organs. I stabbed and cut open her belly, and the warmth of her life washed over my arm, completely covering my sword in crimson death. She dropped at my feet, and the spectators roared in appreciation. I felt nothing as I left, no sense of triumph, or relief that it was not my corpse out there, waiting to be thrown on the pile of the day’s kills, just emptiness. I had not been named yet, but they begged for more from me. I just wanted to have the long wound on my back sewn, fill my stomach, and find a quiet place to commune with my gods.
I wondered what her name was, how she came to be there. It was such a waste of a fine warrior. If I see her someday, when I make my way to the Otherworld, I will tell her I am sorry. I do not enjoy the taking of life. I am a giver of it.
