Boadicea

One woman fights for freedom,
“Will you follow me men?”
“We will follow you.”
“Will you fight with me?”
“We will fight with you.”
“Even if you die?”
“We will die for our country.”1

The end is nigh,
The battle fought and lost,
Soles of shoes worn thin by rocks,
Faces blackened,
Muddied by blood,
Scarred by memories.
No rest,
No sleep,
No sweet relief,
Just the horror,
The nightmare even when waking.
Fire burning,
Not warm,
Not comforting,
Not loving,
But hot,
Harsh,
Dirty flames.2

Never destined to be a prisoner,
Filled with fury,
Wounded pride,
No longer to be ridiculed,
By Rome.
Londinium is gone,
As is Verulamium,
Destroyed .
But not She.3

“Drink, my children.”
One daughter drinks,
With pride and gladness.
The other hesitates.
“Must I mother?”
“Yes. I too shall drink.
We will meet again.”4

Inside the British camp,
All are dead.
Men,
Women,
Children.
The main tent,
Roman soldiers approach.
They enter unbidden.
There lies the Queen,
With her daughters.
She would choose poison
Rather than fall into the hands of Rome.
Proud and dignified.
Beautiful,
Even in death.
And years,
Decades,
Centuries,
Millennia later,
British poets tell of,
The great Warrior Queen,
Of the Iceni.
Of England.5

Boadicea.