Whips his fiery horse, and round about him
His many thousand ways to let out souls.
Huge claps of thunder plow the ground before 'em;
Till the end, I'll dream what mighty Rome was.'
Still more combat crowded the stage. Now, instead of Iceni routing Romans, the Romans, reviving, routed in their turn the Britons. The groundlings-yes, and the galleries, too-wailed in dismay as Boudicca and her daughters and Caratach mured themselves up in a last fortress to stand remorseless, relentless Roman siege. Poenius fell on his sword for shame.
In the fort, Boudicca raged against the soldiers who had failed her, shrieking,
'Shame! Wherefore flew ye, unlucky Britons?
Will ye creep into your mothers' wombs again?
Hares, fearful doves in your angers! Fail me?
Leave your Queen desolate? Her hopeless girls
To Roman rape and rage once more? Cowards!
Shame treads upon your heels! All is lost! Hark,
Hark how the cursed Romans ring our knells!'
From the balcony above the tiring room, which did duty for the battlements of the fort, Epona spoke to the Roman general, Suetonius:
'Hear me, mark me well, and look upon me
Directly in my face, my woman's face,
Whose sole beauty is the hate it bears you;
See if one fear, one shadow of terror,
One paleness dare appear apart from rage,
To lay hold on your mercy. No, you fool,
Damned fool, we were not born for your triumph,
To follow your gay sports, and fill your slaves
With hoots and acclamations. You shall see-
In spite of all your eagles' wings, we'll work
A pitch above you; and from our height we'll stoop,
Fearless of your bloody talons.'
She cast herself down to death. When Shakespeare heard groans, when he heard women weep-yes, and some men, too-he knew that, regardless of what happened outside the Theatre, he'd done all he could in here.
Meanwhile, among the Romans who besieged the Britons' stronghold, Will Kemp's Marcus declared,
'Love no more great ladies, is what I say;
No going wrong then, for they hold no sport.
All's in the rustling of their snatch'd-up silks;
They're made but for handsome view, not handling,
Their bodies of so weak and soft a temper
A rough-pac'd bed'll shake 'em all to pieces;
No, give me a thing I may crush.'
He illustrated, with great lascivious gestures. The crowd, which had mourned the death of poor ravished Epona, now laughed lewdly at a soldier relishing more rape.
But, a moment later, the groundlings cheered when Caratach and a last host of Iceni sallied. Caratach cut down Marcus-and Richard Burbage likely enjoyed killing Kemp, if only in the play. After that victory, Caratach said,
'My hope got through fire, through stubborn breaches,
Through battles that were hard to win as heaven,
Through Death himself in all his horrid trims,
Is gone forever, ever, now, my friends.
I'll not be left to scornful tales and laughter.'
He threw himself at the Romans surrounding Suetonius and died fighting.
Inside the fortress of the Iceni, hope died, too. As the Romans below besieged them, Boudicca and Bonvica stood on the battlement where Epona had killed herself. Bonvica asked, 'Where must we go when we are dead?'
'Strange question!' Boudicca told her younger daughter.
'Why, to the blessed place, dear! Eversweetness
And happiness dwells there.'
'Will you come to me?'
'Yes, my sweet girl,' Boudicca answered.
'No Romans? I should be loath to meet them there.'
'No ill men,' Boudicca promised,
'That live by violence and strong oppression,
Are there; 'tis for those the gods love, good men.'
'Dearest mother, then let us make an end,' Bonvica said. 'Have you that dram from the kindly Druid?'
They drank poison together. Bonvica died at once. Boudicca, who'd let her daughter have the greater share to be sure of death, lasted till the Romans, led by Suetonius, burst into the fortress and up onto the battlement. 'You fool,' she told the general.
'You should have tied up death when you conquer'd;
You sweat for me in vain else: see him here!
He's mine, and my friend; laughs at your pities.
And I will be a prophet ere I die.
Look forward now, a thousand years and more.
A royal infant, — heaven shall move about her!-
Though in her cradle, yet doth promise
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be-
Though none now living will behold that goodness-
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed: Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces
With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her; truth shall nurse her.
She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her;
