Sarah J over at Reading the Past has invited me to take part in this meme. Although it isn’t exactly convenient at the minute, what with me being somewhat in extremis, my faithful Druid scribe Dictafonix thinks I should let him take down my final words. So here goes…
I am: Boudica, widow of Prasutagus, chieftain of the Iceni tribe who left half his kingdom to the emperor Nero in his will. When Nero tried to steal the other half, and his procurator had my daughters raped and myself flogged, I became figurehead of the British resistance to the Roman occupation of my land.
I want: to be back home, spinning wool, riding horses, watching the turn of the seasons, seeing my daughters grow up and my people prosper.
I wish: We Britons had developed some better tactics to fight the Roman army, instead of depending on numbers, idealism, elegant weaponry, woad, Druids etc.
I hate: Romans, obviously. And turncoat Britons like the inhabitants of Verulamium. We taught them a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry (the few that survived, that is).
I miss: my husband, who was a sweetie really, but a wuss with fatally Romanophile tendencies.
I hear: that my nemesis, General Suetonius Paullinus, is coming to get me. I mustn’t be taken alive. I mustn’t.
I wonder: what he’ll do if he gets hold of me. Reports suggest that despite overwhelming victory, he’s personally furious with me (a woman!) that things ever got this far. What a prick.
I regret: my decision to meet the Roman army on an open battlefield. Just what they wanted. I should have taken my chieftains’ advice and stuck to guerrilla tactics, the one thing the Roman army isn’t designed to cope with.
I am not: a broad-shouldered, six-foot, short-fused, redheaded harpy with a loud voice and questionable taste in chariot accessories. Neither am I a warrior-priestess who can fight like a man yet remain ultra-feminine in a vague mother-earthy sort of way. I’m just a hurt, angry widow-woman whose daughters got raped.
I dance: not any more, I don’t.
I sing: my death song.
I cry: when I remember what that fat, ugly slob of a Roman procurator ordered to be done to my daughters.
I am not always: as fearless as I seem. Especially now that we’ve been comprehensively defeated by a Roman army that looked so weak: a few men in skirts brandishing little stubby swords. Hah!
I made: a vow that if were defeated, I’d die rather than let myself be captured. Would I have made such a vow if I’d really thought it might come to this?
I write: Actually, I don’t. We leave that sort of thing to the Druids. This probably means that our side of the story will never be told. Sad, isn’t it?
I confuse: the boundary between the dead and the living. It’s about to become clear, I feel.
I need: another cup of poison as I don’t appear to be quite dead yet.
I should: die soon, so that my enduring legend might be created, and future generations raise anachronistic statues in my honour and reimagine me as a romantic heroine/male fantasy figure or new age/feminist/spiritual icon. Whatever.
I finish: with a plea to the gods that they won’t let the Romans punish my people too harshly. However, knowing Romans, I’m not holding my breath, what’s left of it…
I tag: anybody who would like to play. If you’d like to read what other historical characters have written, Gabriele over at The Lost Fort is compiling a list.