"Go, then, and God go with you," Burbage said.
Something like quiet fell in the Theatre as Shakespeare slowly strode out towards the center of the stage.
He had never felt so alone. He wished one of the trap doors through which ghosts appeared would open and swallow him up. But no. He was here. What could he do but go on?
He stood still for a moment, letting all eyes find him. Then, into that near-quiet, he said,
"His Most Catholic Majesty is dead;
Meet that we here gather to mark his end.
I come to praise Philip. His tomb's afar
But his strong hand lies on us even yet.
As I'm but a scribbler, this play's the thing
Wherewith to note the nature of the King.
Imagine this stage Britain, long ago;
Here comes Boudicca, to seek her vengeance
'Gainst the Romans, who harshly, cruelly whipp'd
The Queen of the Iceni and ravish'd
Both her young defenseless virgin daughters.
Beginning with this struggle, starting thence away
To what may be digested in a play.
Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are:
Now win or lose, 'tis but the chance of war."
Shakespeare withdrew to mostly puzzled silence punctuated by spatters of applause-no, his prologue didn't match what the signboards outside promised. As he withdrew, he saw three or four men, both from among the groundlings and in the galleries, rapidly starting thence away. No doubt they were off to Sir Edmund Tilney: of course the Master of the Revels had spies here to make sure the play presented matched the one advertised and approved.
But those spies wouldn't reach Sir Edmund, not this afternoon. Shakespeare devoutly hoped they wouldn't, anyhow. Jack Hungerford's helpers, the men who took the audience's money, and a double handful of ruffians hired for the day were charged with letting no one leave the Theatre till the play was done. By then, it would be too late.
For the dons, Shakespeare wondered, or for us? Before he could fret any more, out went a wordlessly chanting Druid, the boy actors playing Boudicca and her daughters, and Richard Burbage, sword on his hip, as Caratach. For better or worse, it was begun; no stopping now, not till the end.
"Ye mighty gods of Britain, hear our prayers;
Hear us, you great revengers; and this day
Take pity from our swords, doubt from our valours,"
said Joe Boardman, who played Boudicca. He wasn't quite so good as Tom would have been, but he wasn't a Catholic, either. Excitement added life to his voice as he went on,
"Double the sad remembrance of our wrongs
In every breast; the vengeance due to Rome
Make infinite and endless! On our pikes
This day pale Terror sits, horrors and ruins
On our executions; claps of thunder
Hang upon our arm'd carts; and 'fore our troops
Despair and Death; Shame past these attend 'em!
Rise from the earth, ye relics of the dead,
Whose noble deeds our holy Druids sing;
Oh, rise, ye valiant bones! let not base earth
Oppress your honours, whilst the pride of Rome
Treads on your stock, and wipes out all your stories!"
With a great waving of arms, the hired man playing the Druid responded,
"Thou great Taranis, whom we sacred priests,
Armed with dreadful thunder, place on high
Above the rest of the immortal gods,
Send thy consuming fire and deadly bolts,
And shoot 'em home; stick in each Roman heart
A fear fit for confusion; blast their spirits,
Dwell in 'em to destruction; through their phalanx
Strike, as thou strik'st a tree; shake their bodies,
Make their strengths totter, and topless fortunes
Unroot, and reel to ruin!"
Epona, Boudicca's elder daughter, took up the cry of condemnation against the Roman occupiers:
"O, thou god
Thou fear'd god, if ever to thy justice
Insulting wrongs and ravishments of women
(Women sprung from thee), their shame, the sufferings
Of those that daily fill'd thy sacrifice
With virgin incense, have access, hear me!
Now snatch thy thunder up, 'gainst these Romans,
Despisers of thy power, of us defacers,
Revenge thyself; take to thy killing anger,
To make thy great work full, thy justice done,
An utter rooting from this blessed isle
Of what Rome is or has been!"
The first murmurs rose from the crowd as people began to realize what sort of praise for King Philip this was likely to be. Boudicca's younger daughter, Bonvica, continued in the same vein, saying,
"See, Heaven,
O, see thy showers stol'n from thee; our dishonours-
O, sister, our dishonours! — can ye be gods,
And these sins smother'd?"
An attendant lit a fire on the altar before which the Druid stood. Boudicca said, "It takes: a good omen."
As Caratach, Richard Burbage took a step forward and drew his sword to pull everyone's eye to himself. His great voice would have done the same when he declared,
"Hear how I salute our dear British gods.
Divine Audate, thou who hold'st the reins
Of furious battle and disordered war,
And proudly roll'st thy swarty chariot wheels
Over the heaps of wounds and carcasses
Give us this day good hearts, good enemies,
Good blows o' both sides, wounds that fear or flight
Can claim no share in; steel us with angers
And warlike struggles fit for thy viewing.
A wound is nothing, be it ne'er so deep;
Blood is the god of war's rich livery.
So let Rome put on her best strength, and Britain,
Thy little Britain, but great in fortune,
Meet her as strong as she, as proud, as daring!
This day the Roman gains no more ground here,
But what his body lies in."
"Now I am confident," Boudicca said. They exited to the wailing of recorders.
But for that music, vast silence filled the Theatre as the players left the stage. Into that silence, someone from the upper gallery yelled, "Treason! Treason most foul! You-!" A scuffle broke out. With a wild cry, someone fell out of that gallery, to land with a thud amongst the groundlings. No one cried treason any more.
"Play on!" someone else shouted from that same gallery. "By God and St. George, play on!" A great burst of applause rang out. Awe prickled through Shakespeare. They do remember they are Englishmen, he thought.
On came the Romans for the second scene of the first act. When the audience took in their half Spanish helms and corselets, even the innocents and dullards who'd missed the point of the play up till then suddenly grasped it. And when one of those Romans said,
"And with our sun-bright armour, as we march,
We'll chase the stars from heaven, and dim their eyes
That stand and muse at our admired arms,"
the hisses and catcalls that rose from all sides told just how admired Spanish arms were.
Back in the tiring room, Burbage said, "It doth take hold."
"Ay, belike." Shakespeare dared a cautious nod.
"It doth take hold here," Burbage amended. "What of the city beyond the Theatre?" Shakespeare could only shrug, hoping Robert Cecil and his confederates had planned that as well as this. Burbage had no chance to stay and question him further; he was on again in the next scene.
As it had in real life more than fifteen hundred years before, the great rebellion of the Iceni against tyrannical Roman rule built on the stage. A legionary officer cried on in despair,