Charioteer of the Twilight - The Legend of Boadicea - By Greg Patrick

 

 

Charioteer of the Twilight 

The Legend of Boadicea

 

By Greg Patrick 

 
“Show respect to all people and grovel to none”-Tecumseh 
 

            In the living shrine of forest that had not suffered the axes of Rome, the canopies of oaks formed a sanctuary of dark pillars. The last of the Druids of Ynys Môn, a solitary forest guardian that had survived the massacre of the Druids of their sacred isle, blessed the team of magnificent dark horses that drew the chariot of the warrior queen Boadicea of the Iceni heralded it seemed by the apparitional song of forest spirits. 

The Roman centurion reigned in his horse, his breath steaming before muttering a prayer to Mars.. 

            "Orders Sir?" 

            "March on standard-bearer," was only said. 

Ravens rose like a dark fire from the oaks…Some great predator hunts these woods. 

The forest's dark rebel bastion, trees as eerily quiet in an expectant hush as blood-thirsty spectators of a gladiatorial coliseum awaiting the thumbs down from the lord of games for poised blade to fall. 

            The Druid traced red circles on their flanks and blue warpaint like waves of the Celtic sea and applied the soil of the land mingled with blood in dark streaks on her face like a tigress's stripes, the contrast like the silvery moonbeams through the dark colonnade of oaks in a spectral searchlight. He did not betray the rebel army's presence but readied his horse to bolt if the trees disgorged their vengeful army. 

            The Druid traced red circles on their flanks and blue warpaint like waves of the Celtic Sea and applied the soil of the land mingled with blood in dark streaks on her face like a tigress's stripes, the contrast like the silvery moonbeams through the dark colonnade of oaks in a spectral searchlight. 

            A conscripted Sarmatian knight observed the forest song had ceased and with an archer's keen eyes saw shapes of warriors and horses trailing them, but looked back contemptuously at the legions and remembered those clad in that same armour who ravaged his ancestral land and put his kin to sword and slavery. He did not betray the rebel army's presence but readied his horse to bolt if the trees disgorged their vengeful army. 

            Where once she stifled sobs under gloating eyes of the Roman thugs now their queen hushed her warhorses from betraying their presence, crooning to them in her native tongue as shadows massed like a tempest about to strike fire from the trees with lightning. 

            Motionless as dark chess-pieces awaiting the first move by a master's hand, Celtic horsemen positioned against the pawns of Rome their spears held in pale clenched hands, shivering with anticipation like hounds to be unleashed. A tethered white hart, it's pale lustrous pelt glorious in the moonlight, so exquisite as to seem an Elvish creature…haunting to behold. 

            The druid raised a sacrificial dagger to the stars in a ritual chanting the sacred words. He raised his cowl like a ghost knight doffing his held. His face, scarred with haunted eyes was lent an apparitional pallor by the moonlight. The warriors bowed their heads, averting their eyes in reverence. As if in benediction, he caressed the stag's flanks as the magnificent beast cowered and tensed.. He bypassed the stag's neck with the blade and severed the tether binding it to an ancient oak with blood-stained ribbons. Like a pale flame or last light of dawn it diminished into the array of trees, like glowering sentinels in ageless vigil, it passed a row of shields and hands were raised to touch it in passing for it was a sacred animal. It strayed then into the path of the Roman centurion who gasped at the spectre, as it paused before him tantalisingly. 

            He halted his horse, transfixed by the phantom stag. He eyed it covetously as it was illuminated in the moonbeams apparitional spotlight like a vision, a ghostly mirage…He imagined it's pelt and lordly crown of antlers adorning his villa in Rome like a phantom tapestry amid other trophies from war and hunt in exotic lands..after his triumphant return from defeating "the barbarian horde.” The stag's pelt would make a fine conversation piece he imagined as he entertained nobles no doubt eager to hear of his grand exploits and capture of the infamous warrior queen Boadicea. 

            "You can't kill the beast!" a native guide protested. 

            "Can't? All life in these lands are Rome's to rule over and kill as we wish.” 

            "I mean my lord that it is a ghost stag, one that haunts these woods and lead hunters astray." 

            "It will be a ghost stag and we'll run it down." 

He gestured for his officers to fan out in pursuit as it turned and loped away in fluid grace, in anticipation of the chase, into the depths of mist-enshrouded forest. The legionnaires halted dutifully awaiting marching orders as their senior commanders disappeared in the hunt as if consumed by the forest. 

            The novice officer left in command paced the lions astride his horse impatient for orders and their return. Then not wanting to appear awkward before his men, he paused. He grandly raised a toast to the Emperor and Rome in spirit but he almost dropped the cup as he saw his red reflection in the wine distorted by an impact ripple as the ground trembled under their sandaled feet and his horse began to shy from the dark trees. 

            The island rain loathed by the foreign soldiers fell as cold as a blade of sword, like a solitary lioness watching a herd with calculating eyes, appraising their numbers, strength…identifying stragglers and vulnerable points as they passed with maddening languidity in the gathering mist like a phantasmal procession, like a solitary lioness...except she was not alone. The forest with living shadows massing at it's dark threshold like unhallowed spirits unable to pass consecrated bounds of a gothic cathedral's dark pillars. 

            Like the shadows cast by the legions marching in synchrony the forest shadows walked in step. Then paused, tensely like a wolf about to spring. The centurion at last paused, the elusive prey seemed to have passed into the very mists of legend from whence it strayed. 

"Ghost stag…" He whispered in awe, his breath visible. 

Far from his legions now and in solitude in the dark primeval glade of ancient trees the idea of legendary beasts seemed all too possible. The forest seemed otherworldly to eyes accustomed to the cerulean blue of Mediterranean skies and vineyards and fields of Italy, gathering wisps of mist like vapours of an overturned cauldron seemed to whisper around the oaks like pillars of a sylvan temple. The gnarled time-misshapen trees seemed like figures posed in supplication, with twisted bough and skeletal branches raised like misshapen limbs making offerings to the gods. Conscious suddenly of his isolation and disoriented by the labyrinthine rows of trees, he halted at loss, then cut at an oak in impotent rage at the loss of the stag. He would have the officers for demoted for its loss, flogged even, where were they..?? 

            Then he looked curiously at his sword for it seemed to have drawn blood from the tree. Then drops of red stained his fine toga and marred his white lion skin mantle. 

As if the forest itself bled, falling as if hailing him a "lord of the flies.” 

Then he looked up, startled to behold Roman officers hanging upside down from the branches like stags hung by huntsmen to bleed onto the forest floor. 

            The trees were scrawled with symbols strange to his eyes and swords hanging upside down Damocles-like chimed together in the wind. It seemed he had strayed into a sylvan temple for rites of sacrifice or where some beast hung humans as hunting trophies. 

            "Quintus!" he cried aghast as he recognised a face amongst them dangling. 

            Perched ravens rose in a flurry of dark wings and falling feathers like tears of midnight. His shouts echoed and re-echoed amid the catacombal colonnade of trees like a gladiator's cry in the arena. His horse reared, startled at an eldrich figure approaching with a shuffling gait as if staggering awkwardly on unfamiliar newly reformed limbs. An antlered being walking satyr-like on two. A creature in a white robe and stag-antlered head. Its pale raiments fluttered ghost-like as it drew two druidic scythes as it approached. 

            The Roman brandished his sword to hold the creature at bay as he tried to regain control of his terrified horse. The beast then severed a rope and a hung body swung down and struck the centurion from the horse swaying before him as he lay groaning with ashen face, groping for his sword in the moss and sanguined leaves. 

He rolled free of the fleeing horses pounded hooves and as he pulled himself upright awkwardly encumbered by armour more ropes were cut and hung bodies struck him aside and down again and again. He heard then the distant throb of war drums in synchrony with the blood-chant of his heart like a primal drum in the ancient depths of the forest, maddening. The enemy was upon then… He must get back to his command.. He cut the ropes around him machete-like only to fall face-down as he rose slowly he looked up from a misshapen shadow to see the antlered man. 

            The sickles like metallic talons flashed in the moonlight as the ravens cried excitedly. While across the palatial expanse of forest and desolate moor the Queen of the Iceni raised the severed head of a Roman tribune aloft, her battlecry like the roar of a lioness over her kill. Her charioteer drove the team of dark horses between the battlelines of Celts and Romans to the explosive acclaim of her warriors. 

            Like a spell cast by a druidess her warriors like conjured spirits of slain braves clawed their war from the roots and ground with skeletal hands and materialised in the enveloping mist that obscured the forest battleground. A mounted officer opened his mouth to cry out an order but was struck down with a spear-cast. A collective cry from the legions for their impassive as if already immortalised in sculpture was the Queen of the Iceni. Boadicea. The cast spears of Celtic warriors shuddered with force of impact into the shields of Roman legionnaires as their lines reeled back from the onslaught...like the coils of a mortally wounded serpent that shuddered spasmodically in writhing death throes the legions wavered and fell-back to the shrill of their horns sounding retreat. Like the metallic fangs in closing jaws the Celtic swords closed in. 

            In the midst of the carnage, as if in the eye of the storm, Boadicea closed her eyes, envisioning herself in happier days presiding in her royal hall, the remembered bard's song lulling her ever restless heart into some measure of repose by its echoes in memory. Her king by her side and two fair daughters. Banners of her household stirred like dreams and memories laughing with her prince in the summer glades. 

            Crowned in a garland of white roses and led on a white horse to the wedding with a Celtic king, petals scattered in her path. Darker memories intruded haunting her unbidden and she remembered herself like a shadow enthroned, like a ghost of herself haunting a dark throne room. Combing her matted hair with clawed fingernails muttering…fighting back tears as she would soon fight back armies for the abuses committed against herself and her daughters. 

Some counsel to forget the anguish of the past…but she rallied on them. 

            "What of the Romans My Lady?" the court bard alone ventured to ask. 

            "We go to war," her voice like a tigress' purr in the primal dark of a temple's ruins. 

            If her red mane was pre-maturely greyed she would restore its crimson by the blood of slain Romans. Now bearing her teeth in a shrill battle cry like a banshee heralding their imminent doom...like the cry of the land itself bereaved of heirs. Through blinding ash and sparks cast by fire arrows streaking around her, "the charioteer of the dawn" urged on the black horses. Roman javelins struck the trees around her as some tried to bring her down. Her un-armoured charioteer was struck and fell aside from the chariot. Boadicea clenched the reigns in her teeth and drew into fighting stance. She was drawn back to her charioteer by a familiar cry. She ignited the tip of her spear in the burning wreckage of supply wagons then pivoted, a nightmare incarnate silhouetted against the flames, a force of nature like the land of storms itself. When she cast her spear at a Roman knight in her path staking life on promotion for slaying her, the burning spear unhorsed him, falling backwards he clutched the shaft, face ashen as he groped to extract the barbed sizzling tip from his torso. He looked up hearing chiming spangles of war stallions just as he was trod under-hoof by the Queen's black horses and eviscerated by the scythe-bladed wheels. The chariot passed over him leaving red hoofprints behind. 

            She urged on her frothing horses to a mass of Romans who thronged her mortally wounded charioteer, the burning spear-tip extracted from its first kill, flared like a lion's eyes in the firelight as scythed wheels of the chariot angling it so it severed their legs in a row like wheat harvested. She pulled the "charioteer of the dawn" up by a bloodied hand and pulled him back onto the chariot as the druid appeared at her side. His blade seemed to be forged of moonbeams to wield against legions of darkness. It seemed a brand of underworld fire as he protected her flank, parrying blades sparkingly. 

            In the red aftermath of battle beyond groaning wounded and bodies strewn. The bard cradled the head of the charioteer as the druid approached with a soundless step. He knelt and removed the helmet as if from a reopened wound red flowed like wine from a spilt chalice. One of Boadicea's daughters. She had been forbidden to ride with them but had donned armour anyway, masquerading as her charioteer. There were no shouts of triumph then, only a sickening silence. 

            Boadicea caught the last light in her daughter's eyes as it faded and only turned when Romans taken alive were pulled forward, their necks exposed for the sword by pulled hair.. 

She withdrew into the forest then and an animal cry of grief was heard from its depths, ravens rising like dark ghosts in its last echoes. 

            On a cloudless eve of the midnight sun the war chariot was decorated with flowers and white blossoms like ghostly moths swirled around a grim torch-bearing procession as if hailing the slain princess. She was brought to a shoreside and lifted onto a pall of shields was laid on a bed of roses on a floating bier. A torch lit the craft as it was cast off onto the moon-silvered lake. Boadicea lingered at the shore oblivious to any touch or word of consolation...then turned to her horses and buried her face into their dark manes. 

            That eve, the Druid's head was bowed in reflection at the shoreside of a lonely loch, in solitude in that natural hermitage. His will tried in vain to exorcise the memories of Ynys Môn, the sacred isle of the druids, massacred by Roman legions in a night attack. The murderers arrived under cover of darkness. 

            Just when the Druids were gathering for the evening's rites. The dusk through the oaken boughs seemed a wound cut in the horizon dulling like a dark bruise into night. Bonfires were lit and the eerie sounds of ritual chanting reached a flotilla of Roman ships rowing on their shores. They pulled up the oars as the current carried them ashore and drew swords and axes then, to cut the spiritual heart out of Celtic Britain. While ashore it seemed the mist that enshrouded the Celtic sea was granted form and face to haunt the ancient living shrine of sacred oaks. Swans that congregated on the surface of the moon-lit waves like an Elvish fleet, rose in alarm. their pale feathers falling like ghost tears. The arch-druid raised his eyes to their sudden apparitional flight as if a bird of prey pursued them. 

            Across the undulant swathe of Celtic sea the Roman standard of the eagle was raised and hands that were pale knuckled at the oars drew swords then as orders were shouted out. 

To the Romans in this cold and strange land so far from the vineyards and the saphiric Mediterranean skies and sea, the lone spectral figure of the archdruid, regal in his bearing against a background of dark oaks like glowering sentinels was Hades himself beckoning to their souls across the dark waters. 

"He means to conjure a maelstrom to wreck us. Javelins! Bring him down!" 

He raised his arms as if to embrace the eternal like an old friend. It was his beloved custom after evening rites to pace in solitude with the youngest druid and discuss great matters of thought and faith. Then he would pace in solitude on shores of the isle of the sacred oaks to be alone with his thoughts and the stars. When he fell to the spears he lay with a sigh like the waves on the shore as the first belated stars appeared to his eyes and dimming sight, appearing over the pillars of oaks like a sylvan observatory. To his young friend who knelt by his sword he urged with his last breath. 

“Run. Save the students and the others if you can…but run." 

One with the earth, unseen as the legionaries stormed past. 

The Roman account: AD 59 

            "On the opposite shore stood the Britons, close embodied and preparing for action. Women were seen rushing through the ranks in wild disorder. The Druids were ranged in order, with hands uplifted. The novelty of the sight struck the Romans with awe and terror. They stood in stupid amazement, as if their limbs were benumbed, riveted to one spot, a mark for the enemy. The exhortations of the general diffused new vigour through the ranks, and the men, by mutual reproaches, inflamed each other to deeds of valour. They felt the disgrace of yielding to a troop of women and a band of priests; they advanced their standards and rushed to the attack with impetuous fury. The Britons perished in the flames. The island fell, and a garrison was established to retain it in subjection. The religious groves dedicated to superstition were levelled to the ground'. -Tacitus 

            The placid moon-ensplendoured surface erupted from hair of a head thrown back in silent rapture. The queen emerged then from the lake like a spirit that dwelt beneath appearing to wizards and Druids to counsel them, the water like rivulets of molten silver coursed down and lingered glistening as if loath relinquish to the world of mortal man. The Druid averted his eyes and stammered apologies as their eyes met. 

            "It's alright. See you what the Romans did?" 

            Red streaks along the length of her back only beginning to heal from where a whip struck, throbbed in the cold. 

            "Healer?" 

            "Aye." 

            He applied balm and ointments as he spoke of Ynys Môn, the isle of the Druids… 

 ‘When the Romans came…” 

            “Tell me of it…” 

            "My Lady," he sighed deeply, his breath steaming in the chill air, his eyes looked to the stars, saw past them. 

            "I had heard it said to me by young initiates huddling in terror amid the ferns as the last cries of massacred elders reached them and I clutched my heart for I felt the axe blows on the oaks tangibly. They told me." his voice break…"that I had betrayed their faith…they had pleaded with me to conjure a storm to consume the Roman ships and rain fire upon them. I could not." 

            He averted his face to the shadows as tears welled in his eyes as if a reopened wound welled-up. 

            "But you have good sir. You have conjured a storm at last. You and I." 

            "Have faith Priest of the Oaks," she said gently. 

            As the dawn of final battle drew nigh it was said in hushed whispers around the Roman campfires that the Roman legions had suffered the wraith of the gods for the desecrating the druid's sacred island. 

            Stories usually told to bolster morale, recounting Roman triumph against "barbarian hordes" like Hannibal's and Vercengetorix's Gauls were replaced by retelling of myths of heroes fighting monsters like the gorgon and minotaur. In their minds they were no longer facing a mortal enemy...but a legend. 

            Roman scribe and historian Tacitus wrote: "While the Britons were preparing to throw off the yoke, the statue of victory, erected at Camulodunum, fell from its base, without any apparent cause, and lay extended on the ground with its face averted, as if the goddess yielded to the enemies of Rome. Women in restless ecstasy rushed among the people, and with frantic screams denounced impending ruin. In the council-chamber of the Romans hideous clamours were heard in a foreign accent; savage howlings filled the theatre, and near the mouth of the Thames the image of a colony in ruins was seen in the transparent water; the sea was purpled with blood, and, at the tide of ebb, the figures of human bodies were traced in the sand." 

            On eve of the final battle she remained aloof as bonfires blazed and the morale was high among the warriors who revelled and made merry with plundered stores of Roman wine. Captured Romans were ritualistically strangled with whips they had used on slaves…By her side, her honoured retainer, the aged bard of her royal hall played as if by a conjuring hand...as if  vexed by visions seared and seanced from the imprint of firelight into memory she closed her eyes to the bewitching chords. The windswept flames seemed to be granted form and face as if by the incantations of sacred bardic song. Scenes of memory seemed to rise like a red theatre as the music worked its magic, before dissolving into the embers and reforming anew and creating new scenes to haunt her. 

            Blossoms fell in the sighing wind of Midsummer’s like the burning debris of red dreams falling. She saw the ghost of herself rejuvenated to youth before her brow bore a crown...daydreaming of being a great warrior as she was hailed by falling petals. 

Like an oracle's vision it seemed. Gathered petals she threw playfully at a youth that would in time become a prince gathered to encircle her head in a floral enhaloment as a gold-braceleted arm was bound to his by a high-druid…I'll shall thee then soon my lord. Then an unexpected torrent of rain fell and while others scrambled for shelter, she laughed, inexplicable, a wild laughter. She spread her arms as if to embrace the night as the rain fell extinguishing the fires around her and the embers steamed darkly. She was eerie to behold then. She savoured the cold sensation, laughing at death itself. In the aftermath of the last battle Boadicea re-opened her eyes…the poisoned chalice that she had toasted the enemy soldiers who raced in to take her alive…Had the venom not done its work? 

            She somnambulantly passed through the Roman lines as if they were nightmares lingering shadows fading away with dawn and she almost expected to wake up beside her king again in their hall, awoken by their excited daughters running in to wake up them for a holiday's festivities. 

            The Romans seemed a dissolving vision of nightmares from a dreamer emerging to radiant sunrise. Beyond them all was the lone figure of a charioteer beckoning in the dusk next to silhouettes of dark horses awaiting in the twilight. 

            An Emperor amid the marble pillars and opulent palaces of Rome spoke the name. "Boadicea" broodingly eyes dark over the rim of his wine-filled goblet as he reclined with lost appetite. His lips sputtered red like a falling gladiator's last breath…The name echoed and re-echoed among the columns like hushed prayers in catacombs…in intrigue-like excitement. 

            Despite a sanguinary joy and familiarity in blood spectacles of the circus maximus he 

felt an inexplicable sense of unease…sleepless by a fiery ghost haunting a tyrant's dreams. 

            "Curse the scribes for being so lurid." 

            He arose with a flourish of Imperial purple robes. 

            "Praetorians! Summon my secretary." 

            "My Lord?" 

            "Quintus…Have Severus recalled as governor of Britannia…He's provoking our subjects by draconian measures. I have too many Damoclean swords poised over me at home to concern myself with unrest abroad." 

            He paused then as his emissary scrolled the order and bowed hastening away. He stood overlooking the skyline of Rome slumping Atlas-like away from the eyes of others. Not feeling himself a god. 

            He was silhouetted against the new dawn, red as the inferno of Rome in flames. He plucked his lyre for serenity as he reflected grimly that perhaps those insufferable philosophers were right on occasion and hated them even more. He lent the light of the dawn blaze on his closed his eyes as if trying to purge the nightmarish vision of a charioteer and dark horses riding on him. Vengeful fury that challenged an empire and arose a legend from fire. 

            "Die well Amazon.” 

            The Romans never found Boadicea. They never took her alive nor found her dead. They never paraded her in chains through their streets as they vowed or vanquished the cherished dream among her people that she was in hiding and would return once more to drive the Romans into the sea. The twilight in aftermath of the final battle found her looking out at the loch that her daughter had been consigned to the dusk fire was mirrored on the surface as brightly as the day her bier loaded with a princess's bed of flowers burned… Once more her eyes were blinded by light and tears. So motionless she seemed so as to be taken for a standing stone, so lost and oblivious to time..ageless as the hills. She whispered her daughter's name like the title of the song while the bard knelt by her feet strumming absent-mindedly at the strings as if he never knew music. He arose with dagger drawn ready to shield her with his last breath as a horseman appeared. It was no bounty-hunter or assassin but the last druid astride his pale warhorse. 

            "My Lady…" 

            "Take him" she said of the bard. 

            Her voice seemed of the wind as if uttered by a ghost, her eyes looking out across the lake at the distant shore, trees like green banners hailing her. 

            "I won't leave you." 

            "As your queen I comman…no…as your friend I ask it…tell them what happened here before the Roman scribes tell it their way. The Romans will not find me. Now leave me." 

            She cut her horses free of the chariot and bade them “go seek the fair lands”, releasing them like an offering into the horizon...lingering only to watch them till they seemed to dissolve into the sunset. The chariot was set afire then and resisting the impulse to cast herself into that pyre's immolation turned to the lake. 

            Head held high she strode unwaveringly into the lake…hair and garments rising as she waded into the depths, her armour bearing her down until she was immersed into the dark waters.  

Greg Patrick - A dual citizen of Ireland and the states, Greg Patrick is an Irish/Armenian traveller poet and the son of a Navy enlisted man. He is also a former Humanitarian aid worker who worked with great horses for years and loves the wilds of Connemara and Galway in the rain where he's written many stories. Greg spent his youth in the South Pacific and Europe and currently resides in Galway, Ireland and sometimes the states.