The following is a translation of a group of papyri recently excavated near Selçuk, not so far from the residence of the historian Tacitus when he was governor of the Roman province of Asia. The story is set around 61 AD.

Lucius Claudianus Faber to Publius Cornelius Tacitus, greetings.

The request you conveyed to me—though not by your hand but through a mutual acquaintance—I  considered with respect due to your name and the weight of your undertaking. It honours my family and my late grandfather, Gaius Claudianus Faber, that you should deem his recollections worthy of inclusion in your magnum opus.

The passages you desire, concerning his captivity among the Iceni and Queen Boudicca, have survived, though not without the wear of time and moth. I have commanded a literate slave whose hand is more elegant than most senators’ style to transcribe the relevant sections for your use. This copy accompanies this letter, sealed with my ring.

Yet I must speak openly, as befits the gravity of the matter. The memoirs contain private and delicate revelations, penned by my grandfather more as a catharsis than for public consumption. Some details may touch upon the dignity of our house in a manner that invites misunderstanding rather than glory. I trust in your prudence as a historian, but —before Jupiter and in the spirit of our ancestors— I beseech you to handle these writings with discretion. Should you find some passages better left to silence than to posterity, I leave their omission to your judgment.

A final word, not without a sigh: slaves who write a fair script now fetch higher prices than vineyards on Mount Falernum. It seems the gods reward penmanship more than virtue these days.

To ensure that he would never betray what he had read, I was compelled to sell this precious slave well below his worth. I arranged a discreet transaction with an Ethiopian merchant who as I observed, eyed the young man with unmistakable hunger. “You should see the rest,” I said, and with that, I stripped the tunic from my slave's body. The sale was concluded swiftly—albeit at a grievously low price. Still, I was assured that the merchant would carry him off for his pleasures, far beyond the bounds of the Empire, to his native land. I did not get the impression that my slave regretted this transfer very much. I do not think that his services as a scribe would be in great demand in Ethiopia but that he would serve his new master in a more intimate way. It was evident that he looked forward to this with longing.

Still it was a loss and a regrettable one. A waste of coin, yes—but a necessary one. Some truths are too dangerous to be left in reach of those who might speak them.

Farewell, and may your stylus never tyre.

Lucius Claudianus Faber

Written at my estate near Tibur, under the Ides of May

True account by Gaius Claudianus Faber of his role in Boudicca's revolt

I, Gaius Claudianus Faber, once primus pilus of the sixth cohort of the Ninth Legion Hispana, write these words with a hand still steady. My heart falters when memory returns to that cursed field outside Camulodunum. The gods turned their faces from us and cast us into the jaws of the earth.

At first, we thought it was a raid—a barbarian skirmish, the sort we had crushed a dozen times before. But what came over the ridge was not a raiding party. It was a storm. A horde. Thousands of them, all of them, all painted blue, their naked bodies gleaming with grease and woad, screaming like beasts torn from Hades. They bore great, heavy swords—clefyddyds, the Britons call them—and crescent-shaped shields painted with swirls and curses.

The earth shook beneath them, and I admit this now, I trembled too—not with fear, not yet, but with the strange thrill that only battle brings. We raised our shields. We formed a line, and we shouted the names of the emperor and the gods, but it was like shouting into the wind.

And then—I still see it in my sleep—at their centre was their queen, charging with them, not behind, not guarded, but leading the storm,

Boudicca.

She was as naked as her warriors, but her nakedness was not like theirs. It was not savage but sovereign. Her long hair flew behind her like the standard of Mars himself, tangled with beads and bones. Her tall body, marked in swirling blue lines that danced over her breasts, her arms, her belly and thighs, seemed forged by the same wild gods her people worshipped. Her face—by the gods, her face!—fierce as Juno’s wrath, and yet beautiful as a mountain can be before it buries you in snow.

She howled—not words, but something older—and the men around her roared back. I saw our lines buckle. I saw men I had drilled for years soil themselves before the first blow fell. I fought like a lion, I did. I cut two, three of them down, my gladius slick with their blood, but the tide could not be stemmed.

Then, in the distance, I saw the white plume of our legate, Cerialis, disappearing over the hill. Fleeing. He left us to die.

I turned back—and she stood before me.

Boudicca.

There was a stillness then, as though all sound had fled. She did not speak. She did not need to. Her eyes were cold and calm, I could not move, as if her gaze held me in place, as if her magic had entered through my eyes and turned my limbs to stone.

I saw every inch of her in that moment. The blue spiral across her chest that ended just above her navel. The necklace of wolf teeth. The long scar down her left thigh. The black streaks under her eyes.

Then, slowly, she raised her sword—not to strike, but to offer me its point. I stared at it, confused.

And then—CRACK.

She seized the blade in both hands and brought the hilt down upon my helm with such force that I heard the world split open. The light turned to stars. Stars to darkness.

And I fell, not as a soldier, but as a man who had met his goddess, and been unmade by her.

When I awoke, I was in pain.

A pounding in my skull, slow and deliberate, like a hammer striking bronze. I could not open my eyes at first; the lids felt sealed with dust and dried blood. My mouth was filled with the taste of metal and ash. I tried to move and found I could not.

My weapons and my uniform were gone. I was naked and lying on my stomach. My arms had been pulled back and bound at the wrists. My ankles, too, were tied, and a thick rope ran between the two, drawing limbs toward each other in a cruel arc. Every muscle ached. My ribs throbbed. My left thigh screamed with each breath. I must have lain there for hours, for the earth beneath me was warm where my cheek touched it.

My face was inches from a small clay bowl. It held water. I twisted, groaned and strained until I could stretch my tongue just enough to lap at it. The water tasted of moss and wood smoke, but I drank it as a dog would, letting it run into my cracked lips. Every quarter or so, someone would push open the animal hide flap serving as a door to the hut. A warrior. Usually alone, sometimes two. Their faces were painted with streaks of woad. One had a boar tattooed on his chest. Another had no eyebrows. None of them spoke to me. None struck me. They only glanced in, grunted, and left me.

At last, one of them stepped in and shouted something in their British tongue. Harsh, clipped syllables, more like barking than speech. He grabbed me and dragged me like a sack of barley out into the light. The sudden sun stabbed into my skull, and I cried out—not in defiance, but in pain. I was hoisted—badly, roughly—onto an ox cart, where I lay on my side, bound and barely conscious, as the wagon began to move.

We travelled slowly. The road was uneven, and each jolt sent waves of pain through my spine. Around me, the world stank of fire and blood. We passed blackened farmsteads, their beams still smoking. Fields that once held grain now held only ash. A dog limped through the ruins of one villa, sniffing for food or bones. It didn’t even glance at me.

But then, after some hours we came to a place untouched.

A Roman villa, and an opulent one at that. Its walls were still white with limewash. The roof of red tile gleamed in the sunlight. No scorch marks, no corpses. The grounds were quiet, but guarded. Dozens of warriors surrounded the entrance. Some held spears, others great war clubs, but all were alert.

Here, the cart stopped. A command was barked. I was pulled from the wagon and dumped like a sack of meat on the stone path.

This, I understood, was not any villa.

This was not burnt down but spared for Boudicca.

And she was not finished with me.

Here, I must pause. It is easy to call her a barbarian.

But Boudicca was no savage. Or rather—she was not only a savage.

Yes, she fought like one possessed. Yes, she roared and struck like a fury of the old tales. She was tall—taller than most men I’ve known. Her eyes were wild, sharp like glass in the sunlight, and she burned with something greater than hatred. She burned with purpose.

And though she was led by rage, she was not without reason. We Romans tell stories—convenient stories—about such women. We call them monstrous, unnatural, driven by bloodlust and superstition. But Boudicca’s rage was not born in chaos. It was born in humiliation.

She had been the wife of Prasutagus, king of the Iceni. A harmless old goat, loyal to Rome as a dog to its master, wagging his tail for the smallest coin. He was the kind of provincial we liked—obedient, grateful, deluded. Boudicca was given to him as a wife when she was a young woman. She bore him two daughters, twin flames, I am told.

Prasutagus clung to life longer than anyone expected. He died only when the girls were grown and married off. And what did we Romans do to honour his loyalty?

We claimed his kingdom as our own As if his daughters had no blood right, and his wife had no voice. We sent men—our men—to strip his house of wealth. When Boudicca protested, they flogged her in public, and—yes, it’s true, though no one in the Senate will speak it aloud—we let soldiers do unspeakable things to her recently married daughters.

That is the seed of her wrath.

That was when she changed—from widow to warrior.

And she came for us. For all of us. With fire. With iron. With a vengeance that the gods themselves must have envied.

As a Roman and a soldier, I cannot excuse what she did. We are the bringers of law, of roads, of order. Her rebellion had to be crushed.

But as a man—as Gaius, not as primus pilus—I can say this:

Her fury was not madness.

It was justice, sharpened like a blade.

Rough hands yanked me from the cart like a carcass. I grunted as I hit the ground, gravel biting into my side. Before I could draw breath, I was dragged again—through a colonnade, into shadow, and then flung hard onto the floor of a side room.

I lay there, bound and half-mad with thirst, filth, and pain. My hair hung in my face, crusted with sweat and blood. My limbs throbbed from strain. My mouth tasted of bile and iron.

Then the door opened.

Two women entered—young, barefoot, and nearly naked, clothed in nothing more than narrow linen loincloths. Their skin was olive-toned, not like the pale Britons. Eastern, perhaps. Greek, or maybe Syrian. Slaves. Their movements were quick. Each carried two buckets.

I tried to speak, but the first one silenced me with a look. And then, without warning, they doused me.

The water was ice cold—a shock like a sword point between the ribs. It struck my back and rolled in rivulets over my sides, soaking the torn wool of my tunic, stinging where the skin had split and bruised. I gasped and tried to twist away, but the ropes held firm. The pain of movement only made it worse. The second bucket followed—the same freezing cascade, seizing my breath in my throat.

The one with lighter eyes knelt beside me and whispered, her lips nearly brushing my ear.

“We are not allowed to speak,” she said quickly. “This is our former master's house. He disappeared. They made us into their slaves. You must do everything they say.”

I turned my face to her. “Then unbind me,” I said through gritted teeth. “I can’t fight like this.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice heavy with a kind of hopelessness I hadn’t heard even in battle. “Escape is impossible.”

The other one looked at me, wide-eyed. Then she began to whisper. "We don't know what's happening to us. These are real masters. They take possession of your soul too. They let us wallow in our powerlessness. I don't know how they do it, but we embrace our powerlessness. They can do that, Boudicca and her soldiers. Only by looking. They call it themselves: the British gaze.¨

At that moment I could not understand her. That would change soon enough, though.

They rolled me over—slowly, carefully, though every joint screamed. The rope pulled tight across my back and thighs. I stared up at the painted beams of the ceiling. And then—again—splash. A deluge down my chest, my neck, my face. The cold flooded into my lungs like smoke. I shuddered, gasping, blinking the water from my eyes.

“You must be clean,” the first girl said softly. “The queen will not decide your fate until you are clean.”

The slave girls vanished without a word, the soft patter of their feet swallowed by the thick silence of the villa.

Then he entered. A warrior, naked from crown to heel, save for the swirling blue patterns that covered his skin—woad, drawn in thick, curling designs over his chest, arms, legs, even across his brow. His hair stood up in matted spikes, clotted with grease and ash. He said nothing. Just knelt beside me and, with a jagged flint knife, sawed through the ropes at my wrists.

The blade bit more than once into my skin, but I didn’t flinch. The moment my arms were free, he grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me roughly across the floor, my heels and spine bumping over the uneven stone.

Through a doorway. Down a corridor bright with sunlight.

Into the atrium.

There she was.

Boudica no longer wore the wild nakedness of the battlefield. She sat tall and composed in a high-backed wooden chair carved with wolf heads, clothed now as a noblewoman of her people.

She wore a long woollen gown dyed deep crimson, clasped at the shoulders with heavy bronze brooches. A thick plaid cloak—green and black—was draped across her shoulders and fastened with a pin in the shape of a raven. Her red hair was braided and wrapped like a crown. She looked less like a warrior and more like a priestess-queen.

In one hand, she held a cup of wine, dark and red as blood.

The warrior who brought me in knelt briefly then stood at a gesture and awaited her word. She gave a sharp command in her harsh tongue—just a single word. He bowed his head and left us alone.

Her eyes turned on me.

“So there you lie, worm,” she said.

In perfect Latin.

I blinked, too stunned to respond at first. The words had struck harder than her sword had. But training won out.

“Gaius Claudianus Faber,” I said hoarsely, rising onto one elbow. “Primus pilus of the sixth cohort, Ninth Legion Hispana.”

She sipped from her cup, watching me over its rim.

“You… speak Latin?” I managed to ask, still dazed.

She smirked, but there was no warmth in it.

“Did you think we in Britannia were mad? That we’ve never heard the tale of Rome’s glory? That I—queen, wife, mother—received no proper education from my late husband? We did our best, Gaius, to learn your so-called civilization. We listened to your law, we copied your customs. We spoke your tongue.”

She leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

“But now,” she said, her voice low and bitter, “we’ve come to know your true nature.”

Boudicca’s voice turned silken, almost amused, as she let her eyes roam over me—not with lust, but with a calculating interest, as one might inspect a captured beast.

“That body of yours pleases me,” she said, lifting the cup of wine again and letting it touch her lips, though she did not drink. “I should have had you finished off like the rest of those dogs from your legion. But something in me hesitated. Something thinks you might be of use.”

She let the pause linger like a blade hovering just above the skin.

“Can you be of use to me, worm?”

I had no answer. The air in the room seemed to tighten around my throat. My head pounded. My muscles trembled with cold, exhaustion, and humiliation. My thoughts flickered—not to escape but to the old stories they beat into us as boys.

Mucius Scaevola, I thought. The man who thrust his right hand into the fire to show that torture was useless. Rome’s strength lies not in the flesh, but in the will.

“My mistress… is Rome,” I managed to say.

She laughed—short, sharp, and joyless.

“Do you know what it is about you, Gaius?” she said, setting the cup down gently beside her. “That thing. That appendage. That… instrument. That little bit of dangling pride you carry between your legs.”

Her voice dropped into a whisper, cruel and intimate.

“I should cut it off.”

She leaned forward again, her eyes boring into mine, not with rage now, but with a slow-burning contempt.

“I should smoke it like a sausage. Then I’d give it to my daughters—for their collection. They’d tie it with a ribbon and show it to their husbands one day. ‘This,’ they’d say, ‘was once part of a Roman.’ A Roman who didn’t need it anymore. At least, not as far as we’re concerned.”

She stood now, towering over me, a statue wrapped in crimson and bronze.

“So tell me, Gaius Claudianus Faber—shall I do that? Shall I turn you into a token of defeat?”

Her eyes searched mine, looking for any sign of deceit or defiance.

A tingle went through me. It was a threat and I didn’t know if it was serious. But a tingle went through me. I was enjoying her, I realized, shocked at myself. What was happening to me in this crazy country?

Boudicca began to undress, her movements slow and deliberate. I couldn't help but be drawn to the sight of her, even through the haze of fear that clouded my thoughts. Her body was a testament to the strength and endurance required of a warrior queen. Her breasts were firm and proud, standing tall to declare her power. Her figure was lithe and muscular, clearly indicating the battles she had endured and the victories she had won. Her beauty was not that of a delicate flower but rather of a mighty oak that had weathered countless storms.

Her gaze never left me as she stripped away the last of her clothing, and I felt a mix of fear and fascination. Her eyes, a deep, stormy blue, seemed to pierce through to my very soul. I knew that she could see my thoughts, my fears, my very essence laid bare before her.

And then she spoke again, her voice a low, seductive purr that seemed to resonate within me. "Crawl to me," she said, "and let us see what your tongue is worth. Otherwise, we will also smoke that."

I felt a jolt of terror run through me at the thought of what she could do, and yet there was something in her words that stirred a primal need within me. With trembling limbs, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees and began the slow, agonizing journey towards her. The floor was cold beneath my palms, but I focused on the warmth of her body, the promise of her touch that grew closer with every inch I covered.

So I found myself lying on the floor, my head nestled between Queen Boudicca's powerful legs. The scent of her lustful garden filled the air, a heady mix of desire and power that both intimidated and intoxicated me. Her eyes, fierce and demanding, bore into me as she took my tongue between her delicate, yet firm, fingers.

"Make your tongue muscles tense," she instructed her voice a sultry purr that sent shivers down my spine.

I obeyed without question, focusing on the sensation of her touch as she began to manipulate my tongue. She moved it from left to right, her nails lightly scraping the sensitive skin. Her grip tightened, and she pushed it up towards my palate before pulling it down to the floor of my mouth. The sensation was unlike anything I had ever felt before, a strange blend of dominance and care that made me acutely aware of her control over me.

"Now, let us see what you can do with it," she murmured.

With a gentle yet commanding touch, she guided my head to the warm, wet petals of her garden. The anticipation was almost unbearable as I awaited her next move.

Her hand cupped the back of my neck, pressing my face closer to the apex of her thighs. The heat was intense, and the scent grew stronger. She parted her folds with the precision of a warrior opening a battlefield map, revealing the pearl of her womanhood.

"Do your best," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear.

I stuck out my tongue tentatively, feeling the slickness of her arousal against the muscle. I traced her outer lips with the tip, savouring the taste of her desire, before delving deeper into her warmth.

Her hips bucked slightly, a silent plea for more, and I took that as an invitation to explore further. With newfound confidence, I lapped at her tender flesh, tracing the curves and valleys with an eagerness that surprised even myself. The noises she made, low growls of pleasure, urged me onward. I felt the power of her arousal, and it fueled my own.

I focused on her clitoris, now swollen and begging for attention. With the same intensity that she had instructed me to use, I flicked and circled the sensitive bud, feeling it pulse beneath my touch. Her legs tightened around my head, trapping me in her embrace, but I did not resist. Instead, I revelled in the feeling of being consumed by her passion.

As I worked her clit, I slid two fingers inside her, feeling the velvety softness and the warmth of her core. She was wet, so wet, and I could feel her muscles contract around my digits as she grew more aroused.

The Queen's breath grew ragged, and her body began to tremble. Her nails dug into the flesh of my shoulders as she held on, her movements becoming more erratic. I knew she was close to the precipice, and I was determined to push her over.

Her hips began to rock against my mouth, setting a rhythm that I eagerly followed. Her moans grew louder, echoing through the chamber like a battle cry. I could feel the tension building within her, the coil of desire tightening with every stroke of my tongue.

And then, with a final, guttural shout, she shattered. Her body convulsed, and her legs clamped around my head as she reached her peak. The sensation of her climax was overwhelming, the power of it resonating through every inch of my being.

As she slowly descended from her orgasm, her grip on my neck relaxed, and her legs fell away. I looked up at her, my cheeks flushed and my mouth glistening with her nectar. Her eyes, still hazy with lust, searched mine for any sign of hesitation or fear. But all I felt was a profound sense of awe at the trust and power she had placed in my hands—or rather, my tongue.

After a long silence, Boudicca stood over me, arms folded, her expression unreadable.

"After this trial," she said coldly, "I know now that you may be useful to my warriors. They need relief before going into battle. And you, Roman, may serve.”

Her words struck me harder than a mace to the skull. I flinched. A chill moved down my spine like icy fingers. I couldn’t help it—my body reacted before my mind caught up.

I knew what she meant.

The Gauls and the Britons—they were loose with such things. They had none of our Roman shame. I had heard the stories since my first day in the ranks. Whole units marched with lovers beside them. Shield-bearers doubling as bed-fellows. Brothers in arms turning their backs on modesty as easily as they turned their backs on home.

Among us, it was different. Very different.

In the Roman army, a soldier who touched another man—not as master to slave, but as comrade to comrade—was no longer a soldier. You never crossed that line.

No, that was what slaves were for.

They could be used for pleasure. They were movable property.

And I had taken that pleasure. With no guilt. With no hesitation.

Because that was how it worked. That was Rome.

But warriors?

Warriors were brothers. Equals. That line you did not cross. That line was sacred.

And now… now I lay here, stripped of armour, bruised, naked, in the power of a queen who saw no lines at all.

Here the sacred principles of the legions did not apply. For me it was henceforth the British way. I should have been disgusted but I was not disgusted. I was curious, so to speak. It was unimaginable. But it happened. I swear by all the gods that this is the truth, a truth that must never be known but therefore more so the truth.

“Head to the ground,” Boudicca commanded.

I obeyed without thinking. My forehead touched the cold stone of the villa’s floor.

Then she clapped her hands—twice, sharp as a whip.

From the shadows, the two slave women returned.

Their bare feet made no sound on the floor. The one who had spoken before knelt beside me. The other hovered behind her, eyes flickering between the queen and me like a cornered animal.

"Fetch a large crate with a hole in the lid," Boudicca commanded, "a bucket of water, and a chamber pot. Now. Run." The slave women scrambled to obey. I stood frozen, my stomach twisting as Boudicca turned to me with a smile. "Well then," she said, "let’s prepare you for your new life."

The slaves returned quickly, their eyes downcast. Boudicca pointed to the floor. "Set the chamber pot down." Then, to me: "Go on. Do what you must. You won’t get another chance for a while."

For a moment, I was too stunned to move. My mind raced—this couldn’t be happening. But the pressure in my bladder and bowels was undeniable.

In Rome, I had been used to the public latrines, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with comrades, chatting about politics or the games, the act of relieving myself as casual as sharing a meal. There had been camaraderie, even laughter. But here? Under the gaze of a warrior queen and her slaves? My face burned. My hands shook.  

I crouched over the pot, my body betraying me. The stench rose immediately, and I wanted to vanish. Worse than the physical discomfort was the crushing humiliation—this wasn’t just necessity; it was degradation. Boudicca watched, unimpressed. The slaves averted their eyes, but their presence was suffocating.  

When I finished, Boudicca’s voice cut through the silence: "Clean that filthy backside of yours." A slave whisked the pot away. My throat tightened. This was worse than any battlefield defeat.  

"Now, get in the crate," she ordered. I hesitated, but defiance was futile. My legs folded awkwardly as I crammed myself inside. The crate had two handles—for carrying, I realized with dread. Then came the lid. It was split, clamping around my neck like a yoke. The remaining slave bound it shut with thick rope under Boudicca’s cold supervision. I was trapped.  

"There," Boudicca said. "You’ll only come out to piss and shit. At dawn, midday, and dusk. Learn discipline. We won’t tolerate a stinking crate."  

"But my queen—" I tried to protest, my voice hoarse.  

Boudicca cast a slow, appraising glance at the wooden crate where I sat imprisoned, my head protruding through the hole in the lid like some grotesque trophy. The rough edges of the opening chafed against my neck, already raw from hours of confinement. Her lips curved into a smirk.  

"You are quite ready," she said, her voice dripping with mocking satisfaction.  

Then something very strange happened. It was as if I were touched with a magic wand, as if the gods entered my body. A kind of blissful feeling came over me. It did not suit the state I was in. I did not understand it. It was against everything a Roman in my condition should have felt. But it happened and it did not go away.

Without another word to me, she snapped her fingers at a nearby slave woman. "Fetch me, warriors. Two of them. Now." The woman bowed and scurried off, returning moments later with two towering Britons.  

They were naked save for the swirling blue woad that coated their bodies like a second skin, their muscles taut beneath the dye. Their faces were stern, but their eyes glinted with something darkly amused as they looked down at me.  

Boudicca turned her back to me, addressing them in her tongue. Then, as if remembering my presence, she glanced over her shoulder, her voice icy.  

She gestured to the warriors. "Take him. Place him in the camp. He is for... quick relief."  

Then she turned to me again, her expression hard and pitiless. "The partners of my warriors," she said coldly, "their shield-bearers, their fellow fighters—they are far too precious for such base indulgence. When they come together, it is a celebration of love and loyalty, a sacred rite you Romans cannot begin to comprehend. To ask them to provide quick relief on the eve of battle would be an insult to their worth and dignity. That task, from now on, falls to you."

The warriors grinned, bowing their heads in obedience. Without ceremony, they seized the crate’s handles and lifted, jolting me violently as they carried me out of the tent.  It was as if I felt Boudicca's gaze on my back.

It was as if I was in a trance. I was locked in a crate but my soul was floating in the universe. Libertas, freedom. I fought these feelings but it was useless.

The moment we we entered the British camp, the stench of sweat, smoke, and fermented grain assaulted my senses. This was not Roman at all—no orderly rows of tents, no disciplined silence. Instead, chaos reigned.  

Tents were scattered haphazardly, some little more than animal hides draped over sticks. Warriors lounged about, some clad in Gallic trousers and tunics, others stripped bare, their bodies painted the same fierce blue as my escorts. A few sharpened blades; others drank deeply from horns, their laughter rough and guttural.  

I was dumped unceremoniously in the centre of the clearing, the crate thudding against the hard earth. A murmur rippled through the nearby men, their eyes locking onto me with predatory interest.  

Then, from one of the larger tents, a broad-shouldered warrior emerged. His beard was braided with iron rings and his chest adorned with old scars. Unlike the others, he wore a torque of twisted gold—a leader.  

He stopped before me, his shadow looming over the crate. His Latin was heavily accented, each word a growl.  

"You please warriors when they wish. They go into battle relaxed. Use lips. Use tongue. Swallow everything."  

His hand clamped onto my jaw. He forced my mouth open as if inspecting livestock. A few of the nearby men laughed, one mocking a crude thrust of his hips.  

The leader leaned down, his breath reeking of mead and meat.  

"Understand, Roman?"  I nodded. I wanted to obey, even though I didn't understand why. What he commanded me was welcome. This was against everything that is sacred to us Romans. But I wanted it and I couldn't resist.

The leader motioned to one of the naked warriors. He was a younger man with his blue-stained muscles still glistening from recent exertion.

"Come. Let him learn his new purpose," the leader grunted, stepping aside.

The warrior approached. Without hesitation, he straddled the crate, his thighs pressing against the wooden sides as he loomed over me. His rough hands gripped my hair, tilting my head back.

Open, Roman," he snarled, his free hand already stroking himself to full hardness.

I parted my lips. The moment I did, he shoved himself inside, the sudden intrusion making me gag. His grip tightened, keeping me in place.

"Good. Now work," the leader ordered, arms crossed.

I relaxed my throat, letting him slide deeper, then flicked my tongue along the underside of his shaft. A low growl escaped him.

"Faster," the leader barked. "We don’t have all day. He needs release before battle."

I obeyed, quickening the pace—sucking, stroking with my tongue, teasing the tip with the barest scrape of teeth. The warrior’s breath grew ragged.

"Yes—like that," he grunted, hips jerking forward.

His fingers twisted in my hair, forcing me to take him deeper. The taste of salt and bitter woad coated my tongue. I focused on the rhythm—suck, stroke, swallow—until his thighs tensed.

"Gonna—" he snarled, and then a hot pulse flooded my mouth.

I swallowed reflexively, the bitterness making my empty stomach churn. I hadn’t eaten in nearly a day—this was my only sustenance now, I feared.

The warrior pulled away with a satisfied groan, slapping the side of the crate.

"Not bad for a Roman dog," he mocked, wiping himself on my hair before stepping back.

The leader nodded, grinning. "See? Even a Roman can learn obedience."

He leaned down, his breath hot against my ear.

"Remember—you please every warrior who demands it.

A shiver ran down my spine as another painted warrior stepped forward, already unlacing his trousers. But it wasn’t a shiver of fear or loathing but of anticipation. By Jove, I thought, no one must ever know this. At home. In Rome. No one will understand there.

"My turn," he grinned.

My new existence as a crate-bound oral servant was one of stark contrasts. The once-familiar comforts of my life had been replaced by the pungent scents of male arousal and the salty taste of their warrior seed. The crate, my new confinement, had been hastily constructed from rough-hewn oak, leaving splinters that bit into my skin with every movement.

The British warriors of the camp were a diverse lot, each a testament to the primal beauty of the human form. Their dicks, a veritable cornucopia of shapes and sizes, were as varied as the battle cries that echoed across the rolling hills. The second to present himself was a burly man. His member, a mighty shaft of carved oak, was as thick as my wrist and unyielding as the sword he wielded. The blue war paint that adorned him had a faint minty scent, which mingled with the musk of his arousal. The taste of his cum was like that of a strong, heady mead, a blend of sweetness and potency that coated my throat and filled me with a strange sense of warmth.

Next in line was a quieter, more contemplative soul. His dick, a gently curving arc, was adorned with intricate knot-work tattoos that danced along the veins that crisscrossed the surface. The blue paint on him had a faint earthy scent, redolent of the fertile loam of the forest from which he drew his power. His semen was the essence of the forest floor, rich and loamy.

The fourth to visit me was a fiery warrior with eyes that burned like embers. His dick was a work of art, a sculpted spear with a flared head that spoke of his prowess in both battle and bed. The paint on him was spicy, hinting at the fiery spirit that dwelled within. His climax brought forth a tang that reminded me of the coppery tang of freshly drawn blood, a reminder of the carnage that awaited them on the battlefield.

The days passed in a blur of blue and flesh. Each warrior had his own distinctive flavour profile, a signature I grew to recognize and anticipate. One had a sweetness that brought to mind the honeyed mead that flowed freely in their feasts. His dick was long and slender, a testament to his grace and agility in combat. His seed was like a warm summer day, sweet and comforting.

Others had a dick that was thick and powerful, much like the forge from which they crafted their weapons. Their smell was of hot metal and the acrid scent of sweat, yet her taste was surprisingly complex, a blend of iron and the faintest hint of peat smoke from the fires that never ceased to burn in the workshops of their blacksmiths.

There was a young and eager man, whose dick was as fresh and vibrant as the spring growth of the greenery he was named for. His cum was faintly minty, like the dew that clung to the leaves in the mornings, invigorating and refreshing. His visits were often hasty, his excitement palpable, and his release explosive.

Then there was a stoic fighter, whose manhood was as unyielding as the cliffs that ringed their lands. His blue paint had a salty tang, like the sea he had crossed to fight in new lands. His semen was briny and intense, leaving a trail of salt down my throat that made me thirst for more.

One warrior poet - at least I believed him to be - had a dick that was long and slender, with a gentle curve that squirted sweet nothings into my mouth. His blue was the colour of the summer sky, and his taste was that of the freshest berries picked at dawn.

Each day brought new challenges as the number of warriors seeking relief grew. Some had dicks as smooth as river stones, others as textured as the ancient standing stones that dotted the landscape. Some were girthy and thick, others long and lean. There were those who spurted their seed with the force of a warrior’s battle cry, and those that released it in gentle, pulsing waves.

The smells of the camp wafted in with each visitor, a tapestry of sweat, leather, and cooking fires. The scent of roasting meats mingled with the musk of arousal, creating an intoxicating bouquet that filled my nose as surely as their cocks filled my mouth.

As time went by, I grew accustomed to the rhythm of their needs. I knew which warriors to expect in the mornings, when the tension of impending battles made their seed thick and bitter, and which would come to me in the afternoons, seeking comfort and release from the horrors they had seen that day.

I learned to appreciate the subtleties of their flavours, the way the taste of their cum changed with their moods and the seasons. The harsh winter months brought forth a rich, dark flavour. In the spring, it was lighter, infused with the promise of new beginnings and the sweetness of the thawing earth.

In the crate, I witnessed their fears and triumphs. Each drop of cum was a story, a tale of battles won and lost, of friendships forged and hearts broken.

My role in the camp evolved from a mere object of their carnality to a trusted confidante. As far as they had a bit of Latin, they would whisper their secrets to me as they filled my mouth, seeking solace and understanding in the warm embrace of my throat. I grew to cherish the moments when they allowed me to listen, to absorb their tales of valour and pain. Their trust was my nourishment, their pleasure my sustenance.

I took pride in my ability to discern the subtle nuances in their flavours, each one as unique as the warrior from whom it flowed.

One balmy summer evening, after a particularly fierce battle, a young warrior approached me, his body bruised and his spirit weary. His eyes searched mine for comfort, and in that moment, I knew my purpose went beyond mere physical release. I swallowed his cum, thick and salty with the taste of victory and the bitter tang of loss. It was a poignant reminder of the burdens they bore, and I felt a profound connection to him and his plight.

The crate, had transformed into a sanctuary of shared experiences and silent bonds. I awaited the warmth of their cocks, eager to provide them with the solace they sought. Through the act of receiving their cum, I had found a strange and profound kinship with these men of valour.

Their cum was the very essence of their souls, a gift they entrusted to me. As I sat in my crate, my mouth filled with the nectar of their passion and pain, I felt a sense of belonging I had never known.

In the throes of their release, they offered me the greatest gift of all: the truth of who they were and the knowledge that, for them, I was enough.

Of course, my fear that I would be forced to live solely on their cum did not come true. Whenever I was allowed out of the crate for a short while, they would treat me to their vile gruels—thick, lumpy mixtures that turned my stomach at first, sometimes with a chunk of pork tossed in for good measure. Yet, over time, I came to appreciate even this barbaric fare. Hunger is a persuasive tutor, and gradually, I found myself awaiting those dreadful meals with something akin to eagerness.

They gave me beer as well, a cloudy, bitter brew they called zythos. That foul concoction I never learned to stomach. Honestly, who in his right mind makes a drink out of barley? Still, it did quench my thirst, and for that alone I tolerated it. On the other hand, it had the unfortunate effect of filling my bladder with alarming speed, and I quickly learned the importance of relieving myself thoroughly before returning to the crate. The last thing I wanted was to be trapped for hours with a bursting need and no hope of release.

As the tide of war turned and the Roman legions began to press closer to the heart of the British lands, the warriors’ visits grew more frantic. The blue paint on their bodies grew duller, the smells of fear and desperation mingling with the usual scents of sweat and arousal. I felt a twinge of something akin to pity as I serviced them, knowing that their world was crumbling around them.

Their passion for their queen, their land, and their freedom fueled their lust, and in that lust, they found a spark of hope. For as long as there was desire, there was life, and as long as there was life, there was a chance for victory.

A once proud and boisterous one now came to me with a tremble in his hand, his mighty member a testament to his fear. His cum was thick and bitter, the taste of defeat.

Another one's earthy flavour grew more pungent, his seed a reminder of the soil they would soon return to. His visits were shorter, his breaths ragged, as he sought solace in the one thing that had not changed in the face of the Roman onslaught.

Now and then a female fighter presented herself to me. Her fiery spirit burned brightly, her clit demanding and insistent. She tasted like liquid fire, a harbinger of the wrath she would soon unleash upon the invaders. Yet, even she could not hide the underlying taste of dread that now coloured her essence.

The poet warrior grew more solemn, his sweetness tinged with sadness. His seed was a poignant reminder of the joy slipping away from all of them.

And through it all, I remained the observer, the unchanging constant in their lives. I felt a kinship with these men and women, bound as we were by the brutal rhythms of war and desire.

On the eve of their final stand, the warriors came to me in a steady stream, their bodies painted in the stark blue of the twilight sky. Their dicks were a testament to their endurance, their semen a tribute to the lives they had lived and the battles they had fought.

And after the last warrior withdrew from me, his eyes filled with quiet resignation, I understood that my role in this saga was complete. I had been their release and their silent witness. As the camp fell silent, I awaited my fate.

Suddenly, I saw her again—Boudicca. It was the second time, and it would also be the last. She emerged like an apparition from the smoke and chaos, blood streaking down her arms and legs, matting her wild red hair against her bare skin. Her face was grim and pale beneath the smears of blue war paint, dirt and blood, her eyes wide—not with triumph, but with something else entirely: panic, exhaustion, the realization that her rebellion was crumbling.

She clutched her sword as if it were an extension of her arm, the knuckles of her bloodied hand white with tension. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her chest rising and falling as if every breath was dragged up from the pit of her soul. She was naked, as were the handful of loyal warriors around her—stripped either ritually or by necessity, their bodies bearing fresh wounds, dark bruises, and the smear of old battles.

Boudicca looked around, searching for something—a path, an escape. Her gaze swept over me, and something flickered in it. Recognition? Contempt? Pity?

“What shall we do with him?” one of her followers said, his voice hoarse with fatigue, jerking his chin toward me. His body swayed slightly as he stood, a limp in his stance, blood crusted on his brow. He looked as though he might collapse before he could swing a blade.

Boudicca hesitated. Her eyes locked with mine again. For a moment, time stretched. Then, her cracked lips twisted into a smile.

“Do not touch him,” she said, her voice rasping but clear. “ Let the legions find him—let his proud comrades see what we did to him. After that, he’ll have no choice but to take his own life. Isn’t that right, little worm?”

She laughed and I saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

Then she turned and ran, barefoot, her warriors limping and stumbling after her, disappearing into the smoke-filled fields in search of horses, shelter, something—anything—to keep going a little longer.

That was the last time I saw her. None of us— from Rome at least —ever laid our eyes on Boudicca again. She vanished like mist under the sun, as if the earth itself swallowed her whole. She was gone, her rebellion burned out, while we, the empire, continued our march, bringing roads, rules, and order—what we called civilization—to the shattered remains of her people.

An hour later, the disciplined thunder of boots announced their arrival—our legionaries, the proud steel spine of Rome, marching in tight formation through the smouldering remnants of the rebel encampment. Their armour gleamed despite the ash in the air. The centurion at the head barked orders with curt authority, and within moments, I was found, pried from the crate in which I had been confined.

“By the gods—man, what have they done to you?” one of my comrades asked, his face contorting in disbelief and something like pity.

But I said nothing.

Not then.

Not ever.

Their voices blurred as they tried to coax something out of me, but I could not speak. My throat was parched and raw. They freed me, gave me water, wrapped me in a cloak, and steadied me as we marched back toward the safety of our fortified camp. But I didn’t feel safe. Not yet. Not truly. Not ever again, perhaps.

What I do remember clearly is how our wrath ignited. As Roman soldiers, we had always believed ourselves to be superior, instruments of order and justice. But something had shifted. We had become just as furious as Boudicca, just as merciless.

Generally, I am no lover of slaughter. I have seen enough blood in my years to know that it solves less than it promises. I have always preferred that rebels, once subdued, be marched naked through the markets. That their shame should profit us, that they should learn what it means to be truly conquered—not by death, but by chains and gazes. I have watched tribal leaders stand on the auction block beside their women, stripped of every illusion of power, their bodies appraised like livestock. And if they were not too old, they often fetched a good price. Sometimes even a gasp of admiration.

There is, in truth, no clearer symbol of Roman civilization than the slave market. It is the mirror of our order and our power: clean, structured, transactional. Here, under the colonnades, the chaos of conquest is converted into the language of ownership and value. One may walk among the platforms and view the bodies of the world—Syrians and Scythians, Gauls and Numidians, pale Britons and sun-blackened Ethiopians—each a testament to Rome's reach. You may study them as you would art or sculpture: not only for utility, but for beauty, novelty, or even the grotesque. In their silence and exposure, they speak of our dominance. What greater confirmation of our superiority than to turn those who once roared in battle into possessions that await our pleasure?

I told no one about Boudicca. Not even my closest friend in the cohort, not even the medicus who cleaned the bruises from my neck.

Not one soul.

This is the story of my mind. But my heart gives rise to fantasies I cannot dispel. That I personally stand upon such a slave market. That I am bought by some barbarian chieftain who, that very evening, displays his manhood without shame. And that he takes me to his distant village in Hibernia, or the land of the Picts, or some other island lost in the ocean.

And how, upon his return, he is welcomed by his wife—Boudicca. And how both of them take pleasure in the strength of my tongue.

I dream this, and something deep within me says: this is my true destiny. That this is right. But with these thoughts I could at most bring back a fraction of what I felt in the crate, when it was all real, in the short-lived realm of Boudicca.

But I can tell no one. No one would understand, here in the civilized world of Rome and its empire.

Even now, decades later, in the quiet of my villa , I write this only for myself. Not for history, not for my heirs, not for Rome.

For me alone.

Something in this story claws at my insides, even after all these years. Something unresolved, something I do not understand. I write it here, not to confess, not to accuse—but to remember. If I do not set it down, it might slip away, like so many other memories.

And yet, the truth of it—the full, shameful, trembling truth—is that if this scroll were ever to be read, if anyone were to learn what was done to me and what I allowed to happen, the mos maiorum would demand my death. The honour of my familia would leave me no choice. Despite the truth that is in my soul.

So I write this only for my own eyes.

And when I am finished, I will burn the scroll.

And scatter the ash to the sea.

But I can never quite bring myself to do it.

I’ve placed the papyri in the hearth more than once. I laid it on dry wood beside the sulfur sticks. One movement would be enough. One spark and it would all disappear—just as she disappeared, just as everything disappeared. And yet, when my hand moves toward the fire, it freezes halfway. As if some invisible force seizes my wrist and pulls me back into the shadow of her final gaze—Boudicca, naked, bleeding, defeated but unbroken, her eyes burning with rage and triumph all at once.

I think some part of me wants it to be preserved. Because somewhere deep inside, I fear that if I destroy it, I will lose myself completely. Then there will be no proof that I endured this. Sometimes I think: maybe I want it to be found one day. Centuries from now. By someone who knows nothing of me but understands everything. Someone who sees that honour and shame, glory and humiliation, are closer to each other than we ever allow ourselves to admit.

Until then, it stays tucked away in a small leather tube, beneath my bed among the sandals I no longer wear. And every night, before I sleep, I know it’s there. And every morning, I think for a moment: today, I will burn it.

But that day never comes.

And perhaps that’s just as well.

Final remarks by the translator

Nothing else is known about the familia Claudianus. Yet from the elegant Latin of the Silver Age in which Gaius writes, we may safely conclude that he received an excellent education, typical of a well-born Roman. His reflections on the Roman way of life are consistent with what we find in other sources, and in all things, he appears to take the mos maiorum—the revered customs and moral code of the Roman Republic and early Empire—as his compass.

One cultural point is especially significant: no self-respecting Roman man or woman of status would ever perform oral sex—neither fellatio nor cunnilingus—without sacrificing their honour. Such acts were considered utterly degrading and were delegated to slaves, who, as property without social standing, were seen as incapable of gaining or losing honour. For them, such duties simply did not count in the moral calculus of Roman society.

Perhaps this is the most difficult thing to understand for people who play the game of dominance and submission. In antiquity, slaves were considered a kind of living tool that was at your service. There could be an erotic aspect to that, but then you should think more of a living dildo, for example. Although of course it did happen that there were infatuations. For example, Nero was given the slave Acte as a gift to keep him in check, and that worked well for a long time. This is for the sake of a good understanding of what Gaius writes about real slaves. Also note that he never calls himself a slave in the entire text or describes his duties in the chest as slavery. That makes sense. In our game, we use metaphors derived from slavery in classical antiquity. A real Roman would never have understood that. Erotic poetry has been handed down from antiquity in which lovers of our kind of stories will recognize quite a bit. For example, in the domineering and fickle Cynthia, the strict muse of the poet Sextus Propertius.

It is almost certain that Tacitus drew upon Gaius’s account when composing his famous character sketch of Boudicca. However, in doing so, he was careful not to include any detail that might bring shame upon the gens Claudianus. His use of the material shows both discernment and respect for the surviving members of a once-proud Roman household.