The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “I decide where to discuss matters, not your emperor,” Cunobelinos said. “Is that clear?”

  “Of course,” Porcius answered. A slight twitch began in his left hand. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” the king snapped. “Your emperor does not rule my people. I do.” He turned and gestured to the gathering surrounding him and his entourage.

  The crowd murmured in agreement.

  “We have honored all trading arrangements with Rome,” the king said, “and we will continue to do so. But he will not dictate the ways of my people or how we conduct affairs with other tribes in this land.” Cunobelinos’s ruddy complexion darkened with each word.

  Porcius looked about and seemed to consider an escape. He took a deep breath and continued. “I only meant we should discuss the emperor’s personal message alone as a matter of your privileged right as king. It’s not as if it were an order from the emperor. Never that!”

  “Very well,” the king conceded. “We will go to the Great Hall.”

  “Brother-King,” Cunobelinos said to Epaticcos, who stood a few steps away accompanied by a couple of personal guards, “join me later, and we’ll discuss the message from the emperor. I’m sure it will have as much impact on your kingdom as mine.”

  “As ruler of the Atrebates, that’s for me to decide,” Epaticcos said in voice closer to a growl, glancing at Caratacus. Tall as his older brother, he stared at Cunobelinos through fierce, blue eyes. An old battle scar sliced diagonally across the forehead of his leathery face and the bridge of his crooked nose above the drooping moustache, giving the fifty-two-year-old warrior-king a menacing appearance. He dressed in an embroidered, blue plaid tunic and striped trousers and wore a short hunting dagger enclosed in a leather sheath on a bejeweled belt surrounding his waist.

  Cunobelinos scowled at Epaticcos. He turned to the throng. “My people,” he said in a loud voice, “important business forces me to leave you.”

  Cries of disappointment erupted from the crowd.

  “Do not let that stop you from celebrating the God Lugh’s Festival and my son’s victory,” Cunobelinos continued. “The day is still young and plenty of time left for feasting and drinking. Enjoy yourselves, and be merry!”

  The people cheered and slowly departed, heading for the vendors’ booths and tables filled with free food and drink nearby.

  The king left with his retainers and Druids. Porcius followed close behind. Adminios had hovered off to the side with his woman, across the trodden pathway from Caratacus and Tog.

  Caratacus shook his head and sighed at the sight of his older brother. He was about to wave Adminios to where he and Tog stood when a group of Adminios’s warrior friends hurried by and surrounded him and the pasty-faced trollop. They laughed and joked, bringing a smile to Adminios’s face. And with that, the eldest son of the king turned, and the group followed him through the crowded fair.

  *

  Now that Adminios was gone, Caratacus turned to Tog. Epaticcos was a few paces away speaking to his retainers who hovered about him in a half-circle. “Da insulted Uncle Epaticcos by forbidding him from seeing the emperor’s letter.” Caratacus said.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Tog answered.

  “Da has lied about details found in other imperial messages. Why this time? I wonder what this one was about?”

  The sounds of laughing, distant baying of cattle, and the playing of flutes and drums carried on the gentle sea breeze drifting in from the harbor outside of Camulodunum. A small group, mostly young people, continued to mill close by, waiting for Epaticcos to depart before approaching Caratacus and Tog. He knew they wanted to personally congratulate him on his victory.

  Epaticcos rubbed his nose and closed his eyes for a second. With a hand, he waved Caratacus and Tog to his side. He nodded to his bodyguards who motioned for the crowd to back several feet away. Epaticcos said in a voice little more than a whisper, “Were my kingdom not so important in protecting his southwestern flank, your father would have gone to war with me long before now. And he still might have, except the Druids advise him against it.”

  “That shouldn’t have stopped Da,” Caratacus said.

  “No,” Epaticcos answered, “but your father would have risked excommunication, an unthinkable fate. No one wants their soul to wander forever in the underworld after death.”

  Caratacus spat in the whitish footprints left by Porcius in the chalky earth.

  “Easy, Brother,” Tog advised. “I know you hate the Roman and the way he influences Da, but no one can change Da’s mind. Here, take a drink.” He proudly retrieved a large bowl from a servant hovering nearby and gave it to his older brother. “There’s nothing soothing like a little beer.”

  Tall and sinewy at six feet, fifteen-year-old Tog was still four-fingers width shorter than Caratacus. Beneath his long, straight nose and bright, holly-green eyes, a big, crooked-toothed grin crossed his lean, freckled face.

  Caratacus grabbed the bowl and took a long swig, the sweet-sour liquid burning down his throat. He handed the big cup back to his brother. Closing his eyes, he shut out the noise swirling about him as memories flashed through his mind about his childhood. They lasted only a few seconds but seemed far longer …

  *

  At age seven Caratacus, and later Tog, had gone to Caleva, capital of the Atrebates, in southwestern Britannia to live with their Uncle Epaticcos where he ruled as king. It was a four-day journey from Camulodunum where Caratacus had been born. Caratacus did not like this custom of parents sending their youngsters to friends or relatives to be raised as foster children, a custom practiced by most Celtic peoples. At first, Caratacus hated being away from his father. Being only four years old when his mother died giving birth to Tog, Caratacus had almost no memory of her. But Uncle Epaticcos had welcomed the boys. His wife, their Aunt Gwynn, acted as the wonderful mother they had never known. The lads followed Epaticcos everywhere and played in the Great Hall when he held court.

  One afternoon, after a session with his council and after everyone had departed, Epaticcos motioned them forward from where they had been sitting in the back of the Great Hall. They stood before him, hands behind their backs, as he sat on his high-back throne. “You listened to the discussions and rulings issued today by the council, did you not?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” the boys answered in unison.

  Epaticcos narrowed his eyes. “Good. Remember this, one day both of you will be kings. The only way you’ll learn to rule well is by example, be it from wise decisions or from mistakes. Blend it with the teachings of the Druids and bards.” He paused. “Always know who your enemies are. If you do, you’ll survive to be great leaders and to protect our people from Rome.”

  *

  Caratacus opened his eyes. Epaticcos and Tog were staring at him with puzzled expressions.

  “What were you thinking, Caratacus?” Epaticcos asked.

  “I was remembering how you taught me and Tog as we grew up,” Caratacus answered.

  His uncle grinned. “Both of you are fast learners.”

  “It was what you and Arch-Druid Havgan said about the Romans that I recalled mostly,” Caratacus said through tightened lips. “Late at night around the hearth fire, you told those horrible tales of how the Romans defeated all the armies sent by the Gauls when Caesar overran their country. How they enslaved the people.”

  “It’s all true,” Epaticcos answered with a nod of his head.

  “For a long time I had nightmares about those murdering bastards killing hundreds of thousands of people.” Caratacus exhaled. “And if the Druids are right, even a million.”

  “Unfortunately, Druid Havgan’s sources are reliable,” Epaticcos said.

  Caratacus replied in a growling voice, “Those blood-thirsty butchers will never take Britannia while I am king!”

  Epaticcos glanced at the nearby crowd being held back by his guards. “This is not the place to discuss it,” he
said quietly. “We’ll talk more about it when we return home. This is a time for celebration.” He beckoned the crowd to join them.

  “Uncle is right, enjoy yourself,” Tog said in a robust voice. “Join the fun.”

  “Aye, your brother’s right,” Uncle Epaticcos said. “Be merry. Tomorrow we go home. The three months you spent with your father was a long time. Too long.” He grinned. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Epaticcos turned and, escorted by his bodyguards, walked away.

  “You’re the best.” Tog smiled and patted Caratacus’s shoulder. “Everyone knows it, and you did well in praising Da. Look around you.”

  Caratacus studied the multitude of smiling faces, including that of Rhian, who huddled near the rear of the group. His heart skipped a beat when he spotted her. Rhian’s sandy hair, tied into a single braid, flowed down the middle of her back. He did care for her, much as he attempted to ignore her. Although only sixteen, like him, she was nearly a head taller than most in the crowd, including Tog.

  As the mob grew noisier and closed in upon him, Rhian disappeared from his vision. Next thing Caratacus knew, young warriors had grabbed him by the arms and legs, hoisting him upon their shoulders. The wine Caratacus had consumed from the great cup affected him more than he realized, and his head swirled in a daze.

  The band of young men jostled him proudly on their shoulders and carried him away chanting, “Drunk as a bull! Get him drunk as a bull!” He twisted his head and saw Rhian’s apple-green eyes fix upon him with a level stare as he was being carried away. What must she be thinking about him now? Was she proud of his winning the race, or angry that he had ignored her afterward? Perhaps he would see her in the morning, but now was the time to celebrate with Tog and their friends.

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, while Caratacus harnessed two ponies to his chariot in the big, dusty pen for the journey home, the endless pounding within his head felt like a hammer striking an anvil. Gods, when would it stop? The sickening stench of horse manure scattered about the corral nearly gagged him. The buzzing of flies swarming around the filth roared in his ears like screaming banshees fleeing the underworld. The night before, after drinking what seemed like an endless amount of beer and wine, he had managed to crawl to a pile of blankets in an empty corner of the hut before passing out. Now a young groom offered to help with the mounts, but Caratacus refused and sent him away. He wished to be alone.

  Caratacus heard the sound of tinkling necklaces and bracelets. He turned about as Rhian approached with a smile on her bowed lips. Her face, dominated by high cheekbones, was rouged with elderberry juice, her hair twisted into long, thick braids that fell over the back of a blue and yellow checkered tunic with little bells sewn into the fringe. A long dagger, the type carried by most warriors in training, hung from the plain, leather belt circling the waist of her azure trousers. Thrown over her shoulder was a gaudy scarlet mantle with bright, golden stripes. Beyond hearing, her two young attendants, armed with similar weapons, waited outside the staked pen.

  Attempting to ignore her, Caratacus focused on the design of his chariot. She stood close and seemed to patiently wait for his notice. He glanced quickly at her then concentrated on the car’s floorboard and its double-semicircular, wicker board side-panels. Despite his pounding head, it was impossible to push her from his mind. Gods, she is beautiful. But still, he attempted to turn his mind to the chariot, knowing that at any second she would say something.

  “Caratacus, why are you ignoring me?”

  Her boldness startled him, and his head throbbed all the worse. He was at a sudden loss for words. He knew what she wanted, but he wasn’t about to fall into her trap.

  “I’m not ignoring you.” He wondered why this girl could stir his loins with no more than a purr of her soft, musical voice.

  “Caratacus, I’m sixteen and ready for marriage.”

  “So what?” He looked past Rhian to her attendants. By the expression on their faces, they didn’t appear to have heard anything.

  “Next year you’ll be eighteen and will need a mate,” Rhian said.

  He grew tenser by the moment. One of the ponies whinnied; the sound pierced his head like a screaming demon.

  “You’re talking to the wrong man.” Marriage. That’s the last thing I need!

  Rhian shook her head. “No, I’m not. They won’t marry me to someone outside our class. After all, isn’t my father of the warrior class and King Epaticcos’s champion?”

  “He may be the king’s man, but I’m in no mood to talk about marriage. My head hurts. Too much Roman wine.”

  She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a calloused finger in Caratacus’s direction. “Ha! Drinking, fighting, and whoring. That’s all you men think about!”

  “It is none of your concern what a man does.” He took a moment to calm his pony, which had startled at his bark. He brushed its mane with his hand. “Besides, I wasn’t with any woman last night. At least as far as I know.”

  Rhian’s face flushed, apparently embarrassed that she had lost her temper. She stepped closer and stroked the same pony, allowing her own composure to return. She took a deep breath and quietly placed a long, rough hand on his. Her nimble fingers were warm to the touch.

  Caratacus jerked his hand away from hers and rubbed it along the side of his breeches.

  A wounded look crept into Rhian’s eyes, the sides of her lips curled downward. For a moment she left her hand hanging in midair, staring at it as though it were diseased. Then she brought it to her side and wiped it on her skirt.

  “Don’t you care about anything?” she asked in little more than a whisper. “I care about you, and I know you like me, but your pride won’t allow you to admit it.”

  “I like horses, and drinking, and taking my pleasure when I want it,” he snapped. He silently admonished himself for yelling at her, but it was too late to smooth his remark. Caratacus looked away, his muscles tight as if bunched into knots. He took several breaths attempting to relax. His pony whinnied again, and he glanced about the pen. A slave entered at the far gate with a shovel and dragged a wooden circular tub. Quietly, he started to clean up the manure.

  Caratacus turned back to Rhian. “Why do you care anyway? I thought you wanted to be a warrior? You’re always training with those giant twin sisters, Gwyther and Modron.”

  Rhian motioned in the direction of Camulodunum’s defensive wall. “I want to be a warrior and wife. There are many women who are both, and they defend the fortress in time of danger.”

  Caratacus put both hands to his head. I don’t need to hear this, not now. He dropped his hands to his side and looked into her pale, green eyes. “Look, I just don’t want you turning into a scar-faced beast like those two.”

  She gasped. “How can you say such an awful thing about me?”

  He knew he had gone too far. “I didn’t … I didn’t mean it that way. You … you are so … so pretty, it’s just that … I wouldn’t want to see you wounded in battle, your face sliced up like theirs. Maybe that’s why your training bothers me.”

  Rhian smiled, showing her perfect white teeth. “I won’t let it happen,” she said in a soft voice.

  “You may not have a choice.”

  She raised a hand to touch his shoulder, but he turned away. “I’d rather you chose household duties like spinning wool and baking over being a warrior. Even taking care of ponies would be more agreeable.”

  Rhian opened her mouth as if to respond, but closed it with a huff.

  I have the right to take any woman I want or for that matter any man. I’m not ready for betrothal. He turned his back, hiding his desire.

  “What’s the use!” she cried. “I don’t know why I waste my time.” She turned on her heel and stormed through the pen’s gate, brushing aside Tog, who had just entered the corral, as her two attendants followed in her wake.

  *

  Later that morning the entourage of Caratacus’s uncle rode westward by horseback and chariot, leaving behin
d the last of the three fortified dikes of Camulodunum. They headed westward to Caleva, capital of the Atrebates and home, a four-day journey. The group traveled along the ancient, wooden trackway of the Colne River Valley, past lush wheat fields and vast herds of sheep. The party included Caratacus, Tog, Havgan the Druid, King Epaticcos, and his sixty armed retainers.

  Caratacus’s head throbbed with every jarring rut his chariot hit. “Damn all the gods, Tog, can’t you drive this chariot any better?” He cursed for the dozenth time.

  “Shut up, Brother. It’s not my driving. You can’t hold your wine. It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

  “Gods, I wish I wasn’t.” Caratacus closed his eyes and muttered another curse to himself. He grasped the wicker chariot rim and attempted to stand into the fresh wind, pretending to be stone sober.

  He ignored the laughs of his comrades, who had dragged his headache-splitting body from his makeshift bed on the reed-covered floor, to his cursing displeasure. They had joked with each other, at Caratacus’s expense. Still, they laughed with him, sharing the knowledge that the king’s son was human. Despite the bumpy ride, he sat down and prayed before he dozed off that he would wake with a clear head. Soon his uncle’s party would enter an area frequented by bandits, and Caratacus needed to be alert and ready in case of a fight.

  *

  “Ah, the gods have returned you from the Land Beneath the Earth,” Tog said as they drove along the trackway.

  “Watch out, or that’s where I’ll send you,” Caratacus warned as he opened and rubbed his eyes. He yawned and stood, attempting to steady himself, and again, he placed his hand to his forehead.

  “Seriously,” Tog added, “are you feeling any better?”

  “Much better,” he lied.

  “Want to take the reins for awhile?”

  “Not yet.” Caratacus took a gulp of water from the goatskin bag hanging from the chariot rim. It quenched his growing thirst and soothed his queasy stomach. A refreshing zephyr swirled around his face, easing his pain. The late morning sky was a deep blue, and a cool breeze wafted in from the sea. Because of fair skin, Caratacus rarely removed his warm, sleeveless tunic. Yet the weather felt too pleasant to wear it. He pulled it off, exposing his hardened torso, and enjoyed the warmth of the sun’s first rays and the crisp air. He studied the blue and red spiraled tattoos on his chest and the newly drawn circling snakes on his forearms.