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My third match brought me the honor of being named. As a child, I grew up learning the tale of Queen Boudicca of the Iceni, and her valiant effort to rid our land of the Roman army. I know that so-called historians (the conqueror gets to write the story from its point of view) call her butcher and scourge, my people call her hero. I remember wanting to be like her, as I grew to warrior status. When I played with my childhood friends, I would take the part of her, and we reconstructed the battle between Boudicca and the Roman general Seutonius Paulinus, over and over.There was a garrison of Roman soldiers stationed close by that watched our play with some interest; I always assumed they were bored, as my father never put up much resistance to their presence, and they would make wagers on who would win. If the ‘Romans’ won, that side made up largely of my uncle’s ever-growing tribe of offspring, they would make presents of the money they bet, and give little parades for them. If the Celts won, my troops consisting of my younger sister, several friends and myself, the soldiers pretended to be our slaves, and would do such things as groom our ponies, and care for our toy weapons. It was great fun, and I harbored no resentment then. I knew a sense of pride, simply because of who I was.
My father was the chief of our small tuath, though it was common knowledge that my mother often had a hand in his decisions. He was a kind, generous man, and much liked, but abhorred war. He was not afraid to fight; he just sought more peaceful means to a solution, when trouble arose. He was happier hunting, or soaking up the sun’s rays, while entertaining guests. I would not say he was simple, but he certainly lacked ambition. I did love my father, even when he made bad errors in judgment. He was easy to forgive. From him, I inherited my height, my hair and eye color, and my claim to chief of the clan.
My mother was truly most influential in my young life. She was a Druid, of the professional class, and when I was not running wild with my friends, I was with her, deep in the forests behind the village, learning the names and properties of plants and flowers that would heal, and those that kill. I learned how to properly turn an unborn babe, so that its head came out first, and how to judge omens in the patterns of the flight of birds. From as far back as I can remember, I could relate word for hard-memorized word the legends that had passed from the earliest of our ancestors, as they made their way from the frozen tundra of a land far east, to the distant shores of Eire. It was my mother who taught me to fight, as well, spending almost as many hours instructing me in the use of weapons, the training of war horses, and ways to outwit my enemies, as she did preparing me to sustain life. The irony of that is never lost on me.
I thought of her often, as I prepared for battle. The last image I have of her is that she stood tall and proud against two soldiers, making short work of one, slicing him open, backhanded, as the other removed her head from her body. I can still see her blink in surprise, when she realized that she was no longer whole. From my hiding place in the undergrowth beyond, I watched her killer heft her head, blood draining from it and matting her hair, then slam it on to a pike. I stuffed my cloak into my mouth to keep from screaming. It was that day I began to hate Rome.
Strange, how my life has been a product of a land foreign to me. As a child, it seemed natural that it should be in my world, as we were allowed to go on about our lives, unmolested by the garrison that occupied space with us. As I grew, however, and began to understand the shift of leaders, and how government changes, thus fostering uncertainty, I learned that peace and contentment are only as true as the one who grants them. My twelfth winter saw that change for a very long time. That year, Ulpius Marcellus came to govern Britannia, and put down the trouble with the northern tribes.
All these things, a jumbled mass of memory and inspiration to fight, flooded my brain as I waited once again for another enemy to charge at me from the opposite end of the amphitheater. It was Romans I was entertaining, a Roman owned me, and here there were Romans to fight, on occasion.
The squat little man at the other side, in the box where the senators sat, began to announce the game, his voice booming over the crowd, and could probably be heard far below. He announced the two men that faced me, then pausing for dramatic effect, he called for me. "From the school of Aelius Pontius, I give you Boadicea!" The mob erupted in screams of approval, when I entered the field, the sun glinting off the bronze horned helm given me that morning by the Master of Arms. The only other thing I wore was a tunic of chain mail that was already absorbing the heat of the afternoon sun. I carried a long sword and shield, and I thought momentarily of the woman I had defeated the week before. The wound across my back was still stitched, and ached.
It was obvious neither of these men thought much of my skills, if they were even aware I had any. From the look in the eyes of the larger of the two, I understood I must kill them both quickly, or I would be a spectacle of another sort, if they bested me. A public rape was not how I wanted to finish my day. It was degrading enough, done in the privacy of a dark dungeon, but in broad afternoon light, and with thousands of spectators looking on, I would not allow it. It is not that I thought I could not live through the shame, but I had pride, and feeding the lust of the crowd with death was more than I cared to give them, as it was.
Remembering a trick I learned as a child, in the games I had played then, I waited for them to approach, mock fear in my eyes. Licking his lips, and eyeing my barely covered state, the big man was first to me. The other was more than willing to wait as a vulture for his companion to overpower me, and get his share of the spoils.
From all appearances, I was outnumbered, and therefore at a disadvantage. But I was smarter and faster. This man was overly confident and not paying attention to what I was about. At the moment he was upon me, I dodged the blow from the heavy-headed iron club he swung in my direction. As I turned out of the way, I swung my sword in a backhanded arc, and grazed his arm. He yelled savagely, drowning out the cheering crowd, and blundered after me. He was not very graceful, either. I attributed that to his brute size and the cumbersome helmet and bits of armor he wore, and the unwieldy club that was his weapon of choice. I was at his back very quickly, the blade of my sword slashing through folds of muscle and fat at his midsection, into his spinal cord and kidneys. I stepped over his carcass, and toward the smaller man that stared at his now-lifeless companion. He did not even try to get away from me, and I dispatched his head from his shoulders, never knowing what he looked like, as his face was shielded from view by the heavy visor he wore. So much for that.
How the crowd called for me that day. I acknowledged their flowers and shouts, thrown to me from the stands, with a raising of my sword and shield, then ducked into the cool darkness of the runway. I could rest and eat. My owner did not bother me, as I was chained and led away, he was far too busy collecting wagers to notice. I walked proudly to my cell, and others who shared my way of life praised me as I passed. It had been a quick, pointless fight, but it was better than other fates, I supposed.
My cellmate, a Greek woman named Cynthe roused me from slumber. I was in the habit of sleeping soon after a match, or when I was very nervous. The problem developed after the death of my mother, and the healers had never discovered the cause or a treatment of it. One Druid teased that the Egyptian cat gods watch over me, as I slept so often, like the animals the people of the Nile revere. Groggily, I looked where she pointed, at the barred wall that formed the front of room we shared. A man, taller than most Romans, dressed in a general’s armor, the silver wolf of Rome emblazoned on the cuirass, spoke quietly with one of the guards. He looked in my direction from time to time, and I became apprehensive.
It was not unusual for soldiers and wealthy men to pay for the services of some of the female gladiators. I knew that rich women too enjoyed the carnal pleasure of the males. It was another sport; a way to demean what was already a bleak existence for other human beings. The man glanced at me one more time, and nodded at the sentry. I could not make out their conversation, but I understood he was asking questions about me. I forced myself to become alert, and stood, staring him down, in a dare.
His answer was an unwavering gaze that sought out my soul, and assessed me in a way that no one had. Blue-green eyes, like the sea I had glimpsed from my first master's home in Corinth, did not judge or discriminate, but beheld me kindly and knowingly. He turned away, footsteps crunching down the long hall toward the exit of the prison. I motioned the watchman over, and he obliged me, leaning conspiratorially against the iron bars.
"Yes, my lady?" He called me that, in kinship. He might be in the service of a man we both despised, but cultural ties are strong among the Gauls and Celts. He was aware of my rank as a Druid and a chief, and treated me with respect and kindness. He would often sneak food to me in my cell, especially when I was being punished with hunger.
"Who was that man?"
"He left me no name."
"He is a general of the Roman army."
"Yes. Some say he used to be a gladiator, himself."
"Do you believe that?" I found it difficult to imagine. It was a disgrace for individuals serving in the army or members of aristocracy to take part in the games. This man, from what little I had seen of him, was proud and certainly a soldier. If indeed he had been a fighter in the ring, he must have done something very special and honorable to attain the place he was in now.
My friend the guard broke into my thoughts, "I never know what to believe, here. Perhaps, maybe not. Who can say? In a few years, even I might have been a gladiator." We both grinned over that. He guarded the women's quarters because he preferred the relative quiet and less threatening nature of our gender.
I gave the inquisitive general no more thought, as the days came and went, and my battles became ever harder and more bizarre.
