London Folk Tales Read Online Free
Author: Helen East
marched his men 250 miles to reach the city well before she got there. Seutonius never wasted time. He needed to perform a risk assessment.
Londinium was in its infancy then; approximately thirty acres on the north side of the river, spread across rising ground above a white hillock. Although it had its fair share of solid traders of fresh produce, skins and ironware, most of its inhabitants were more like bankers, dealing in virtual exchanges and living in timber-framed houses with thatched roofs, wooden floors and fine furniture that sported Mediterranean coloured glass and Samian pottery. Their cellars were stocked with notable wines and when they were not passing gold from palm to palm, they spent their days talking, listening to music and discussing poetry and art.
Seutonius took in their pasty skins and trembling lips and couldn’t help making a comparison to his soldiers – the kind of men that back in Rome would have been blacksmiths or butchers; men made of muscle and sinew; builders of bridges and roads and houses; broad of chest from carrying heavy kit; strong in the arm from working out with swords and spears; and thick in the thigh from marching 25 miles a day. Their only music was marching songs, their only object of contemplation the golden eagle of their standard and the lightning flashes upon their shields.
A vertical line of concentration crossed the horizontal lines of General Seutonius’ craggy forehead as he retired to assemble the facts. He made quick diagrams of Boudicca’s attacks, only speaking to call for maps, and it wasn’t long before he narrowed his eyes, clicked his jaw, cracked his knuckles and came to the conclusion that Londinium must fend for itself – he simply didn’t have enough men to win against Boudicca.
As he rode out of Londinium with his troops, the old and young, women and children all clung to his legs but he shook them off with precise flicks, keeping his eyes on the distant horizon. ‘Those that can, must run,’ he repeated ‘those with means must use the river, and as for the rest of you – help is just not cost-effective, toughen up.’
As Boudicca’s ever-ecstatic host approached London, they strung more strings on the loom of war, gathering more warriors to the fight, Boudicca whipping them into frenzy as they went. ‘Iceni! Iceni! Trinovantes! Corvoni! Brigantes! I am a woman, a woman as you are women, as you are men. I am a woman whose daughters were violated, whose back was beaten, whose wealth was stolen. Fight! Don’t submit to the scythe of these Roman bandits!’
Her chariot was spattered with blood. Around the necks of her horses were garlanded the heads of Romans – dipped in cedar oil, until they glistened like uprooted bulbs looking for soil. A tsunami roared in her ears, a volcano erupted in her heart, while her will grew wings and danced on the tips of the spears of her people, like a crow with many beaks. In their excitement, warriors leaped on, and from, their speeding chariots, spinning their swords and performing feats for their families to applaud. Women whirled their arms like spinning wheels, their necks bulged, and their legs kicked as they slaughtered alongside their menfolk.
The day belonged to Boudicca, and her people torched the city. The Queen of the Iceni blazed like a full moon. Andraste had made her a goddess for a moment. But for the inhabitants of London, that goddess was a great black crow spreading the war cloth of her wings over the face of their moon. To this day, London remembers Boudicca in her entrails – London has a layer of red earth 4m below her surface, not from the bloodshed, but from the oxidised iron of the fire that blazed at 1,000 degrees.
And while London was blazing, General Seutonius pared his fingernails and considered the difference between the Romans and the Britons. His men were trained and properly armed. Every Roman soldier had a helmet, armour, a studded belt and studded sandals, whereas the
Londinium was in its infancy then; approximately thirty acres on the north side of the river, spread across rising ground above a white hillock. Although it had its fair share of solid traders of fresh produce, skins and ironware, most of its inhabitants were more like bankers, dealing in virtual exchanges and living in timber-framed houses with thatched roofs, wooden floors and fine furniture that sported Mediterranean coloured glass and Samian pottery. Their cellars were stocked with notable wines and when they were not passing gold from palm to palm, they spent their days talking, listening to music and discussing poetry and art.
Seutonius took in their pasty skins and trembling lips and couldn’t help making a comparison to his soldiers – the kind of men that back in Rome would have been blacksmiths or butchers; men made of muscle and sinew; builders of bridges and roads and houses; broad of chest from carrying heavy kit; strong in the arm from working out with swords and spears; and thick in the thigh from marching 25 miles a day. Their only music was marching songs, their only object of contemplation the golden eagle of their standard and the lightning flashes upon their shields.
A vertical line of concentration crossed the horizontal lines of General Seutonius’ craggy forehead as he retired to assemble the facts. He made quick diagrams of Boudicca’s attacks, only speaking to call for maps, and it wasn’t long before he narrowed his eyes, clicked his jaw, cracked his knuckles and came to the conclusion that Londinium must fend for itself – he simply didn’t have enough men to win against Boudicca.
As he rode out of Londinium with his troops, the old and young, women and children all clung to his legs but he shook them off with precise flicks, keeping his eyes on the distant horizon. ‘Those that can, must run,’ he repeated ‘those with means must use the river, and as for the rest of you – help is just not cost-effective, toughen up.’
As Boudicca’s ever-ecstatic host approached London, they strung more strings on the loom of war, gathering more warriors to the fight, Boudicca whipping them into frenzy as they went. ‘Iceni! Iceni! Trinovantes! Corvoni! Brigantes! I am a woman, a woman as you are women, as you are men. I am a woman whose daughters were violated, whose back was beaten, whose wealth was stolen. Fight! Don’t submit to the scythe of these Roman bandits!’
Her chariot was spattered with blood. Around the necks of her horses were garlanded the heads of Romans – dipped in cedar oil, until they glistened like uprooted bulbs looking for soil. A tsunami roared in her ears, a volcano erupted in her heart, while her will grew wings and danced on the tips of the spears of her people, like a crow with many beaks. In their excitement, warriors leaped on, and from, their speeding chariots, spinning their swords and performing feats for their families to applaud. Women whirled their arms like spinning wheels, their necks bulged, and their legs kicked as they slaughtered alongside their menfolk.
The day belonged to Boudicca, and her people torched the city. The Queen of the Iceni blazed like a full moon. Andraste had made her a goddess for a moment. But for the inhabitants of London, that goddess was a great black crow spreading the war cloth of her wings over the face of their moon. To this day, London remembers Boudicca in her entrails – London has a layer of red earth 4m below her surface, not from the bloodshed, but from the oxidised iron of the fire that blazed at 1,000 degrees.
And while London was blazing, General Seutonius pared his fingernails and considered the difference between the Romans and the Britons. His men were trained and properly armed. Every Roman soldier had a helmet, armour, a studded belt and studded sandals, whereas the
Readers choose
Lora Thomas
Rita Henuber
Jude Sierra
Jackie Lynn
D.K. Holmberg
Anne Bishop
Mari Carr
Paul Auster
Susan Wittig Albert
Ashlee Alexander