Boudicca's Britain: The History

This is the story of an alternate Britain in which the rebellion by Celtic tribes was successful in expelling the Romans from the island.

"For the last two thousand years, the sorcerers of the Dark Isle have offered praise to only one mortal. Boudicca, Mother of the Britons, is a name holy to all inhabiting this particular wind-battered island off Valhe. From their celebrations of the Roman expulsion to the granting of religious sovereignty over the Dark Isle by the Red King, to today where they continue to attract international curiosity in their little corner of Europe, these deeply traditional and often secretive men and women see Boudicca as the one who gave them all they have, making her worthy of the title God on Earth. “Without her, we would all have surely perished beneath the foot of Christ,” said the monk Shannen Árán before the University of Bringwilith. Certainly all Britannia owes its history to her.

When the banner of Rome was torn from the towers of Londinnium, it would be the last time that a foreign flag flew over the island, and it was she who led the armies which did it. From there would sprout everything else; the murder of Boudicca, the thousand year struggle to unite the isle, the gradual birth of the Nine Nations and the naming of the first Crown’s Hand, the magnificence unlocked by the Flowering, the struggle against the spread of Rome’s authority, the Empire and its altruistic end, the shame of White Britannia and the Storm War, and the vibrant, sometimes chaotic democracy of today. It all began on that day in 61AD, amid the ruins of Londinnium, with the proclamation of the First Realm and crowning of Boudicca to craft a lineage which continues to our time. If, by the magic the sorcerers insist remains obedient to them, the First Queen could visit today, what would she make of it? The mighty port at Doska, the mosques marking every town and village, the great towers in the heart of vast Londinnium where she only knew a village, the airports and ancient railways, the sprawling war cemetery at Bàsachadh, or the gargantuan Palace of Angels, which she could have lived to see in her own time. Would she be overjoyed, upset, frightened? Either way, why should we care? The answer is simple; because we are her. We are what she chose to become."

- B. Bmeadhran, Britannia and Boudicca (MacMahon Publishing, Londinnium, 2011), pp.1.
 
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Awesome start, gave a lot to look forward to. I love the incorporation of the Queen into a hero-god-cult. Subscribed.
 
I see you seem to already have a basic outline of the history to come. I must say, you have me intrigued.

I wonder what this 'empire' is. It seems from the wording that Britain is more secluded than its OTL self. This doesn't seem like the country that would've had a vast worldwide empire to stamp its cultural heritage on. Perhaps it was a European empire, short-lived but large and astounding, like Napoleon's France?
 
I see you seem to already have a basic outline of the history to come. I must say, you have me intrigued.

I wonder what this 'empire' is. It seems from the wording that Britain is more secluded than its OTL self. This doesn't seem like the country that would've had a vast worldwide empire to stamp its cultural heritage on. Perhaps it was a European empire, short-lived but large and astounding, like Napoleon's France?

Or just the British islands is the empire itself, they declared empire as a way to 'fuck you rome, we're as good as you' maybe iceland and other islands too? Plus Empire is just a world for power, as a powerful nation.
 
3rd of May, 61

What the Romans wouldn’t have given for an opportunity like this.

The most powerful people in all Britannia were in one place together; a nondescript green field, abandoned months ago by the legions of Rome, along with nearby Londinnium. Arlen had stood watching the old Roman capital with fascination for a while now. For all intents and purposes, it was gone. Sitting on the north bank of the silver river which wound into the distance in both directions, the town was now a mishmash of charred wreckage, torched to the ground amid the Iceni triumph. When Arlen had been there in the autumn, he’d joined his friends in lighting every structure they could lay their hands on. The river had filled with debris, much of it still burning. Now all that had washed away and the river was a pure, shimmering blue under the summer sun once more. Arlen glanced toward the direction of a nearby neighing, as a black horse reared against the commands of its master. The field was crawling with soldiers, some Iceni, some Trinovantes, some Dumnonii. Their presence together was unprecedented, but so too was the occasion. In the heart of this great garrison stood a lone Roman box tent, and within the people who would decide the fate of those like Arlen.

In that tent, there were only five people worth mentioning. The most striking of them all was of course the woman herself, Boudicca, with her long, fiery red curly hair and orange tartan robe. Still designed for combat, it only reached above her knees, a fact which many of the Romans had found shocking for a Queen. It had bemused her that the sight of topless women shrieking at them as they charged down hills with lances and daggers had shaken the centurions so. Upon entering the tent she had hoped to take the seat the front of the table, but was dismayed to find there was one. Instead she sat as close as she could, next to Seneptalus, chieftain of the Catuvellauni. The man had been leading resistance against Rome’s authority for the better part of a decade since his brother’s death passed the crown of his tribe to him, and thus there was no man she admired more. She saved her best praise for him, with one eye on the potential of future marriage to unite their tribes. He was really a rather ugly, rugged fellow, with a big hooked nose, non-existent chin, deeply sunken eyes, and thick, unkempt brown beard which went down to his chest. Yet he had a charm to him, and in their first encounter had even made her laugh as he recounted the story of a young Roman in Camulodunum who, having lost his sword, swung the chieftain by his beard several times over before his head was mashed like an egg.

For his part, Seneptalus had been surprised when he met this mysterious Queen for the first time. Any woman warrior would surely have been cold, icy, stern, unreceptive to any kind of trouble. Yet he found less a woman and more a girl, laughing often, eating heartily, engaging in language and action even some of the hardier men would avoid. His manhood had felt smaller when she showed him the toes missing from her left foot, cut off by a short-lived Roman captor. Seneptalus had no such wounds of his own.
Elsewhere on the table was Cassivellaunus, of the Trinovantes. He was perhaps the most powerful one in this tent, yet Boudicca could tell little of him for the vast orange beard obscuring much of his face. His beady eyes darted to every movement, and his great bear-like body seemed unsuitable for such a renowned warrior. Boudicca had learned enough about tribal politics to know not to say so, especially with so much at stake today. Next to Cassivellaunus sat Adminius, named for one of his ancestors who too ruled the Cantiaci in the far southeast. He was but a boy, barely fifteen, yet had a poison to his speech to make up for it while his black hair flowed longer than even Boudicca’s. In a sense he had reminded her of some of the soldiers she had met, whom she took great pains to talk to and learn about, yet he had responded with hostility to her attempts at conversation before they all sat. Next to him, the final one, was the most hostile person in this tent. It was an open secret that Caradon, King of Dumnonii, had deep suspicions about everything which was transpiring here today. Boudicca knew that if she could get him on board, she could get anyone on board. There was a sudden silence as Cassivellaunus coughed gruffly.

“Well, let’s get this started,” he muttered as he produced a single sheet of torn, discoloured paper. “Friends, I hold here a proposal for the unity of our kingdoms. We are all agreed on the principle, or we would not be here.” He laughed. No-one else did. “Should we agree, there shall no longer be separate laws or separate coinage. We shall have one kingdom, which will last all eternity.” So far so good.
“As will the rule of whoever leads it,” muttered Caradon. “How do we choose to select the ruler of this new kingdom? I had the proposal read to me a thousand times over and became no wiser.”
“That we must decide here,” said Boudicca softly, trying to strike a conciliatory tone. It was difficult, she was far better at fighting than talking. “No-one will lose their current positions; our kingdoms will continue to exist, and so too will their thrones. They will simply be one of two layers of government.”
“The lower layer,” interrupted Caradon.
“Will you be so hostile if you were made King of it all?” asked Cassivellaunus sharply. Caradon glared at him.
“I’ve no shame in admitting self-interest here,” he shot back, snorting. “We banished the legions of Rome back across the sea, but I do not see why this necessitates a collective surrender of our people.”
“It’s no surrender,” said Boudicca. “But we must admit the reality. Rome has great power. They could return at any moment, with many more legions. Their revenge will be unimaginable when they return. Only with a greater kingdom, with greater strength, can-”
“Nonsense!” snorted Caradon. “Nero has learned his lesson. He has enough to worry about on his side of the sea, I imagine he’s happy to be rid of us!”

Boudicca glanced to her side at Seneptalus. Their eyes met, and hers begged for help. Reluctantly, he heaved to speak up.

“Even if you were right, what reason is there not to unite our kingdoms beyond selfishness? We have the opportunity to become a power of the same strength as Rome were we to bring all Britannia under one banner.”
“Under one king,” interrupted Caradon.
“Or queen,” muttered Boudicca. All the men laughed, except Caradon. Boudicca couldn’t feel sarcasm in the laughter. Even Adminius, silent so far, chuckled quietly, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Seneptalus is right, the chance for enormous power is ours. And with power comes wealth. As for the fear you rightly have of being removed from your throne, do not fear it,” she added. “You will keep your crown come what may, and with unification will come reward in title, in position, in wealth.”
“Build a statue of yourself in gold,” muttered Cassivellaunus. Another laugh. This time Caradon looked livid.
“I will not be mocked!” he shouted suddenly. The chatter of the soldiers just outside the tent went noticeable quiet. “You think you can bribe me into slicing away my bloodline? All for gold? I would take nothing to do that!”
“We are not asking that of you!” shouted back Boudicca, her own temper flaring at the man’s arrogance. Caradon stood, pushing the whole table away from him.
“I will sooner be castrated and quartered by Nero himself than spit on the ashes of my fathers in this way!” he bellowed. “Do as you please, but I will take my leave and I ask not to be approached with such wild schemes again!” Caradon began to march from the tent.
“Wait!” shouted Boudicca. Caradon swung more than he turned and glared at her, his eyes bloodshot and hand resting on the handle of his sword. Boudicca had done all she could. Now she could only resort to what she knew best. “Do not make an enemy of us,” she warned. “One kingdom cannot match five.” Caradon snorted.
“Burn me alive,” he spat, a classic insult of his people, and with that he marched out.

Thoughts?
 
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Or just the British islands is the empire itself, they declared empire as a way to 'fuck you rome, we're as good as you' maybe iceland and other islands too? Plus Empire is just a world for power, as a powerful nation.

Would the cultural differences across the British Isles be great enough to constitute an 'empire'? If this is a Britain that never saw the invasion of the Angles, Saxons and Jutes, but kept homogenously Britonnic/Celtic, what would the differences be between, say, Britain and Ireland? (Not rhetorical, this does genuinely interest me). I guess it could be a thassalocratic empire, talking over bits of Europe with the Channel and their navy as their main defence (so, close to what you were probably imagining).
 
4th of July, 2010

“The United Kingdom is today holding its one thousandth anniversary. A thousand is a big number so the government’s been showing off everything it can. Fifty thousand men and women in uniform marched through Londinnium while street parties are going on from the Faroes to Fire Island. The Crown’s Hand, Saemus Ervyll, gave a speech before a million people who packed the Boudicca Park and surrounding areas before the White Palace. The King is also expected to make a rare speech before a packed session of the People’s Hall; this is indeed a special occasion, as the last time such a thing happened was 1967. This will certainly be the biggest event so far in the King’s young reign”

Arthur V’s attention began to drift away from the sightscreen in the corner of the room. Wandering back and forth before the window, he went over his crumpled notes yet again. For the last three centuries, successive monarchs had added their own passages and annotations to the planned Thousand Year Speech. Only royal eyes had seen these papers, and Adia had chosen him to deliver them to the people, just two months following his coronation.

“A lifetime of waiting – all will be disappointed,” he thought to himself quietly. He was still getting used to the Palace of Angels, with its gigantic rooms and ridiculous golden walls and painted ceilings. He much preferred the windows, with the forest of skyscrapers on the horizon or the far nearer People’s Hall with its many monstrous citadels including the Imperial Tower. His mind drifted back to the news anchor’s voice long enough to note fresh speculation about his relationship with that Erikian princess. He sighed audibly, feeling a jealousy for his ancestors who could fuck whomever they pleased, though he didn’t feel much longing for the return of incest. He’d had to scribble out a joke written in the speech drafts back in 1798 about screwing your daughter to stay in power. He felt hurt that he was the first one to do it.

Thoughts?
 
Now are they really ancient, I'm wondering, or does that mean they're just a bit tatty?

Definitely the latter

Ehh, it would be pretty cool to have. Assuming this Britain has a self-enforced isolation period, then whatever advances it makes would have almost no effect on world history. A 'railroad' could start off much like the earlier forms of it IOTL, made of wood and pulled by horse. More advanced metal ones could be landmarks on the scale of the Roman aqueducts.
 

Tovarich

Banned
He’d had to scribble out a joke written in the speech drafts back in 1798 about screwing your daughter to stay in power. He felt hurt that he was the first one to do it.

To be fair to most of his predecessors, they'd have left it unedited in the secure knowledge that they'll never have to deliver the line.
 
I love how you have snippets set in the 20th century with a POD set in the 1st! Talk about scale.

Subbed.
 
I have a feeling about this

That Caradon will live to regret his parting insult.

Yes, yes, make the railways ancient... wooden tracks and horse drawn carts (of course, that presumes long periods of peace, at least of stability.

(I wonder what Dylan Thomas's Under Milkwood would be in this TL? Because I associate that with an old cartoon of the Divine Ms B riding a Yank submarine into Holy Loch screaming, "Buggerall!" -- it's convoluted, don't ask.)
 
What history now remembers as the Proclamation of the Realm took place on the twenty fifth of May in 61AD, in a field just outside the smouldering ruins of Londinnium.

The fact that any such proclamation took place was itself a small miracle; on the first day, the delegates from Dumnonii in the southwest stormed out, their king, Caradon, suspicious of what was planned. Over the course of the next two gruelling weeks, for ten hours a day, the Founders haggled over every detail of the agreement they were stitching together. Everything from the faces which would appear on coins to tax levels for fishermen was the subject of intense debate, all of it recorded in remarkable detail by the overworked Riok, the minute keeper. The biggest sticking point was who would ascend to the throne of this new kingdom. All knew it would be one of the four in the room, but none seemed particularly comfortable with recommending themselves, most likely out of fear of demonstrating self-interest. It was Boudicca who meekly suggested the gods be consulted. The five tribes represented did not share a uniform religion, but all had a particular respect for the sorcerers of the Dark Isle.

So it was that they chose to travel to the island to consult the religious authorities. All treated this with utmost gravity. None doubted the gods were ultimately responsible for the expulsion of the Romans, and all wished to have their intentions for this providence realised. At a long-vanished monastery near Penllech an audience of monks was convened, and a unanimous test of the gods’ will was agreed upon. The five claimants to the throne would return to the field outside Londinnium, where they would spend a day of hearty eating. The next day, upon the sun’s rise, they would sit silent and still in said field until only one remained conscious. No sustenance of any kind would be taken. Those who failed would starve to death, thus removing any threat to the throne.

With that decided, on the sixteenth of May the group returned to the field outside Londinnium and there they ate. There are unverified claims that a great orgy involving more than three hundred took place, including all the royals and their soldiers, though many in Britannia avoid teaching to their children that the First Realm was perhaps born in such a way. Regardless, the following day the five claimants gathered in the field and sat, waiting. Days passed before Adminius, teenage ruler of the Cantiaci, collapsed, exhausted. He was immediately tied up, to ensure his eventual demise. Within the next hour came Cassivellaunus, chieftain of the Trinovantes and a true bear of a man. It was written that he collapsed of his own will, shouting “I fall of my own hand!” Regarded as his having given up, which was forbidden by the rules of the competition, he too was tied up to starve. After days more, the close friend of Boudicca, Seneptalus, also fell. Like Cassivellaunus, he too fell of his own decision, but it was with one immortal sentence that he did so. Turning towards Boudicca he croaked, “you are worthier,” before falling.

With that, so it was assumed, the god’s had smiled upon Boudicca. She who had led armies and proved herself tougher than the most revered men in the land would be Queen. After a well-deserved rest she rose before a great army in that field, which today stands preserved in the middle of Londinnium’s vast sprawl, and the Proclamation of the First Realm was made. In a ceremony barebones and austere by contemporary standards, a crown fashioned personally by the sorcerers of the Dark Isle was placed upon her head and Londinnium declared capital of her realm, which now occupied the entirety of Britannia’s southeast. The name of this realm was interesting. It had been agreed beforehand that whoever won the crown would decide upon the Proclamation what its name would be. Boudicca thought back to her old friend, Seneptalus. He had spoke often of his father, Caratacus, who had once been chieftain of the Catuvellauni too, leading its resistance to the Romans for a decade, until his death at the hands of the men of Rome brought the crown to Seneptalus. In a gesture of unity with the other tribes, but more a final gesture to her friend, she named the kingdom Caratacusia. The name caught on, and remains to this day.
 
I should note that the Dark Isle is TTL's name for Anglesey; no-one lives there besides the sorcerors, whom we would today call druids.
 
March 10, 64

The Queen was in her element. Over the last three years she’d quickly grown weary of countless meetings to discuss taxes and harvests. The attitude of the men she surrounded herself with was tiresome, especially the Crown’s Hand. He’d undermined her in one too many meetings, and that was when he wasn’t agreeing with every bit of dissent from the regional monarchs. Reflecting on her frustrations, Boudicca had quickly concluded that she’d cut him down to size when she returned to Londinnium.

There was little need to worry about that now, however. Greater issues were in play. The Regini were being troublesome once more, raiding border villages, and it was high time they were taught a lesson in fair play. The sky was grey and the cold wind bit at the Queen’s exposed skin, but she enjoyed it. It felt toughening, and was far preferable to roasting inside the palace her Crown’s Hand had insisted on commissioning. The rolling hills were pleasant even in the dull weather, but far more pleasant was the sight of a thousand of her men, dressed in furs and iron helmets, slowly making their way towards the stone city walls of Regnentium, the tribe’s capital. The walls were three men high, but she had confidence in the ability of her soldiers to get around them. There had to be an entrance somewhere. She wasn’t overeager however. Experience had taught her never to assume the battle was won until it really was.

She was quickly reminded of this as her eyes were caught by a lone black arrow planting itself in the grass a few metres to her side. Boudicca shivered. It felt like a warning. But her strategy was at stake nonetheless and she’d little intention of abandoning it. It was obvious that the city walls couldn’t be scaled, and an assault from this direction was meaningless. That was the point; it was a distraction. The city’s archers would fire at the helpless army from the north while her quieter, more ruthless men would sneak in some other way. The strategy wouldn’t have worked at all were Boudicca not with the sacrificial lambs; the moment the Regini had seen her, they’d panicked and assumed the assault was all coming from there. They must have been confused to see her with such a seemingly helpless army. Several more arrows. One struck the stomach of a soldier ahead of Boudicca, and he staggered painfully to the ground. They were close enough now. Boudicca drew her sword, gently, still anxious after all these years that it might easily snap after so many swings against flesh and bone. She aimed the gleaming sword towards the city wall.

“Run!” she bellowed, and like the tide all her men began rushing forward at once with a great roar. She joined them, her mop of red hair regularly spilling in front of her eyes. There was no hail of arrows; the Regini had far too few men well trained enough to use a bow. That would be their downfall. Once Boudicca’s force reached the walls they could maneuverer along its sides, beyond the range of swords from above but too numerous and too fast for arrows to make a difference. Then they’d find an entrance and meet the rest of the army who would, hopefully, have already gained access.

Boudicca was fitter than any other woman in the First Realm, and she found herself sprinting ahead of many of her own men. An arrow whistled just over her shoulder. Her hair was surely an easy target, but she didn’t let up. A few men had been stuck in a marsh between the fields, and two were dying with arrows poking from their bodies. Boudicca leapt and with one quick motion jumped right over the body of water, still running as she landed. The wall was seconds away. By the time she reached it, she was going too fast to stop in time. She did herself more damage by crashing into it side-on than any enemy fighter could have done. One by one, soldiers began to join her and quickly starting going in either direction looking for an opening. From above, archers would fire arrows. Their rate of fire was far too slow to have any effect, just as the Queen had predicted. When they did hit, they went through the top of the head or the shoulders and certainly killed or maimed, but not enough. Boudicca held a leather shield over her head, and every now and again would feel the impact of an arrow hitting it. She stepped over a couple of corpses, as well as the rocks that were also being thrown at her army. Finally turning a corner she saw the entrance to the city, with men already streaming inside. She heard screams from within the city walls. The entrance was little more than a large gap in the wall and she entered to find a collection of wood and straw huts. Scattered groups of men engaged in swordplay, some clearly more trained than others. Boudicca’s piercing green eyes instantly spotted a pair of Regini running at her with swords drawn. Bringing down her shield, she glanced at it to realise perhaps fifteen arrows were embedded in it, before preparing to block the first enemy blow.

The younger looking man reached her first, naked except for furry bottoms and green paint across his face. Seemingly already panicking as the identity of his quarry sun in, he swung clumsily only to hit shield. Boudicca was buffeted back but was quick. With her sword hand, she reached round and with one quick motion slashed downwards in front of her shield before the man could rescind his sword arm. Her sword met his arm just below the elbow and sliced it off with hardly a sound. Shock replaced colour on the man’s face, he too not making a sound, and Boudicca shoved him backwards with her shield to let him fall onto his back while she dealt with the other man. This one seemed more competent. He threw several angry blows one after the other, each hitting her shield. For the briefest moment, Boudicca allowed herself to be distracted by the sight of a Regini archer taking aim at her. She half-circled the man attacking her, putting him between her and the archer, but he fired anyway. The arrow hit the man right between the shoulder blades and he cried out, but refused to allow himself to show weakness, knowing to do so meant death. Boudicca lashed out at the moment of distraction, her sword cutting into his ribs and letting blood seep out onto the pale grass. One of her men was setting fire to a nearby hut, and the grey smoke was drifting right amongst the duelling pair. She held her breath, her shield absorbing two more, much weaker, blows before she lashed out again. This time she missed, and very nearly lost her arm at the enemy’s returning strike. She took a few steps backwards and glanced at the first boy, sitting upright and staring at the bloody stump where his upper arm had been. With one quick motion she slashed through the left side of his neck, leaving him to tumble onto the floor, choking and spasming before going still with blood pouring from his mouth and nose.

The boy’s compatriot didn’t fall to the bait of taking any steps towards Boudicca, instead waiting for her to do so. She happily obliged, moving quickly but refusing to make the first blow. He did instead, narrowly missing her as she dodged before she jumped forward with sword outstretched, stabbing him in the breast. He took a few steps backwards, shocked, before his hand went limp and his sword fell to the grass. Clutching at his chest wound, he outstretched an arm towards Boudicca in a show of mercy. Impatiently, she lopped off the outstretched arm with one swing before her backstroke elegantly removed his head right below the jaw.

Feeling a tightness amid the excitement of killing the pair, Boudicca still felt frustrated that she hadn’t been able to spill more blood. She was good at it, after all, yet much of the city had already been taken. Several huts were already on fire while prisoners were being rounded up. If they were willing to pledge allegiance to her, and were uninjured and healthy, then they would be the equals of the men who defeated them. The Queen, much of her face and chest splattered with blood, marched towards an approaching commander, identifiable by his red face paint as opposed to the regular green.
“What news of the king?” she asked.
“My Queen, our men are within sight of the palace. The enemy line won’t hold very long.”
“Wonderful,” replied Boudicca, grinning to reveal her teeth were covered in blood too. “Spread the word that the king must not be harmed, I’d like a conversation with him.” The commander bowed and rushed off without another word.

Boudicca strode down the streets in the direction of the palace, a Roman structure surrounded by columns. All around her were screams as the citizens were rounded up. The men had been told, on the personal orders of the Queen no less, not to harm the women on pain of death and she expected them to follow the order to the letter. Surely the orders would change once she was but ash.

By the time she had reached the palace, the battle seemed largely over already. Caratacusia had a reputation for providing far better living standards than any other southern kingdom, and many local soldiers had dropped their weapons the moment it became hopeless, on the promise of being spared. They’d learn. Boudicca arrived at the palace to see the king, Tiberius Cogidubnus, standing before it waiting for her. He must have immediately noticed the crowds of citizens being herded before the palace to watch the scene which awaited them. A group of the First Realm’s soldiers emerged from within the palace, heavy-handedly pulling his shrieking wife and three children onto the grounds to join the king. The king stood rooted to the spot, watching the approaching Queen. She stopped just a few feet away from him, as the whole city seemed to fall silent besides the distant crackle of flames.

“I, Boudicca, Queen of the First Realm, request the surrender of your kingdom,” she said politely. Formalities always got in the way, even in the midst of battle. King Tiberius looked at his feet, saying nothing. Boudicca could wait. She was happy to let him wallow, be humiliated a little longer before his watching people. Her hand already gribbed the handle of her sword, ready to end his bloodline once and for all. Finally he looked up.
“You have it.” And with that, the Regini ceased to exist. The First Realm had grown.


But then Boudicca was distracted. From within the palace was the sound of crying, and then one of her soldiers emerged carrying a bundle of blankets in his arms. King Tiberius span around and stared.
“No…” he said quietly. He turned back towards Boudicca. “Please,” he begged. Boudicca walked silently towards the soldier holding the bundle and looked down to see the soft, pink face of a frightened, confused looking baby. So helpless. So… innocent. She turned back towards King Tiberius.
“I pardon you,” she said quietly. Everyone – the King, his family, the soldiers – all stared at her. This was unprecedented. Unthinkable. “Your family will live as commoners. But you shall live.” And with that, she walked away, sighing to herself.
 
Even with my knowledge of celtic Britannia I can't imagine that a Queen being merciful will go down well with her soldiers, might see it as a sign of weakness rather than intellect
 
Even with my knowledge of celtic Britannia I can't imagine that a Queen being merciful will go down well with her soldiers, might see it as a sign of weakness rather than intellect

It's sort of an issue I have with this tl in general.

Before I begin, I would like to say I am enjoying this and it seems well written, just not very celtic.

For context, celtic life even outside the context of biased roman historians was hyper violent and glorified violence. Even in the stories of Cu', we find comedy from sources like punching someone so hard that they excrete their entrails.

I would have expected more violent competition for the throne, sacrifices and likely a celebratory cattle raid. Of course as well, letting the child survive and the mans family seems far more modern in sensibilities.
 
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