Caratacus wiped his forehead and let out a heavy breath. A surge of pride swept through him. His hand rose to the newly claimed torc, the trophy taken from Froech’s throat before hacking off his head. No wonder the torc was so rich in heavy gold.
“Now I’m a man like you, Uncle. When we get home, I’ll have Froech’s head preserved in cedar oil as fitting the great fighter he was.”
“Well said,” a pleased Epaticcos answered. “Spoken like a true warrior, which from this day forward no man dare deny. This is only the beginning, Nephew. Not only will you take more heads, but you will become a great leader.” Balling up his right fist, he struck his open left palm. “One day Rome will fear you.”
“Rome will, Uncle. And if the Romans dare invade our lands, I will crush them on the beach!”
Chapter 5
Home at last! Caratacus viewed the Great Fortress of Caleva with pleasure as he and Tog, along with Epaticcos and his warriors, ascended the long ramp to the tall, sturdy, oak main gate.
The fortress was smaller and more compact than Camulodunum, but just as secure. The capital of the Atrebates towered above the surrounding plain on a gravel-laden hill. A high, double rampart and ditch, constructed of heavy cross-timbers and filled with rubble and encircled by a massive dike, commanded the approach to the hill’s promontory. Caratacus turned about in the chariot, scanning the surrounding countryside. In the distance were rolling hills and grazing areas for thousands of sheep. Beyond, to the north, a great forest spread at the plain’s edge. The woods were so deep, a week’s journey was needed to penetrate to the other side.
The heavy, iron-studded gates swung open at the approach of Epaticcos’s host, and a dozen sentries and more than three hundred civilians cheered wildly. Earlier, the king had sent a messenger ahead to let the fortress know he would soon arrive and to prepare the feast. His troops cantered past dozens of warrior huts, their walls lined with human skulls, thatched, low-roofed granaries, and the homes of artisans. Women and children stood before the dwellings, waving and calling to their husbands and fathers. Barking dogs darted about the horses, cautiously keeping out of hooves range, as they happily greeted their returning masters. The aromatic smell of baking bread wafted on the breeze from the clay ovens in many homes.
“See that building, Caratacus?” Epaticcos motioned to the high-walled building of wattle and daub guarded by six warriors. “That’s the new mint I told you about.”
Caratacus touched his tattooed chest. “Now you have your own gold staters like Da.”
“Is it wrong to take pride in my kingdom’s achievements?” Epaticcos asked. “We minted the first coins just before I journeyed to Camulodunum. They’re stamped with the image of a corn ear. Emperor Tiberius takes notice of anyone who mints their own coins, especially in Latin. It should help us obtain favorable trading agreements.”
“But you said you were against the Romans.”
Caratacus’s uncle exhaled and, for a split moment, gripped the hilt of his sword. “I am. But reality says I must trade with Rome to survive and compete with your father for Britannia’s trade. There’s no harm using your enemies’ methods to defeat them. Nothing makes friends faster than gold.”
A few minutes later the retinue approached the king’s home. The tall, elongated house was framed by a double-encircling wall of thick wooden posts inscribed with ornamental designs. The outer posts framed the skull-niched, whitewashed wall, and the inner wall supported the heavily woven roof of reeds.
Gwynn, Epaticcos’s matronly wife, greeted her husband and the two young princes at the entrance, along with three young female slaves. From inside, a light haze of smoke drifted through the entrance. Epaticcos winked at Gwynn, who still clearly sparked his interest. Caratacus suspected this signaled a good toss in the furs tonight. Epaticcos grinned broadly at her. Tall and in her fiftieth year, his wife was clad in a short-sleeved, orange, tartan gown trimmed in white and falling to the ankles. It was a dress he favored. Tied to the girdle of her thick waist was a small, bronze dagger. Her long, silver hair was divided into two braids falling down the middle of her back. Her bejowled cheeks were the color of sunset. Despite her age, there was a sparkle in her big, sea-blue eyes.
“Welcome home, my King,” she said formally in front of the warriors and glared at the shapely slaves to keep their distance.
“Enough of that nonsense, woman, I’m your husband, not your brother!” Epaticcos roared. “Give me a fat hug,” he bellowed, tossing his shield to his driver and leaping from his chariot.
Caratacus chuckled as his uncle eagerly approached Gwynn, a smile on his lips. Caratacus regarded his aunt with a deep affection. Because his mother had died when he was only four, his aunt raised him and Tog as if they were her real sons.
“Humph, you treat me as if I were one of those hussy consorts you used to have,” Gwynn said with a teasing smile.
“Hah! I had them all right. You were one of them.” He laughed. The couple went through this charade every time Epaticcos returned from a trip. Their love was obvious and pleasing to his people.
“But I only consorted with the best of men and that is why I married you,” she said, holding him at arm’s length for an instant before granting him an affectionate embrace.
“So you did!”
A cheer led by Caratacus went up from the warriors as Epaticcos responded.
The king turned to his men gesturing for silence. “Tonight we celebrate our victory with a feast in the Great Hall.” Another cheer erupted briefly before he waved his hand. “Now go to your homes and prepare yourselves. Show your families your new prizes!” He motioned for Caratacus and Tog to stay.
As they departed, Epaticcos turned to his wife and then to his nephew. “Caratacus has reached manhood before his seventeenth birthday. Look!” he pointed to the three bloodstained heads hanging from the side of the young warrior’s mud-spattered chariot.
A grin crossed her still sensual lips. “That’s wonderful.” Gwynn turned and tossed her nephew a kiss. “You must tell me all about it tonight, Caratacus.”
“I will, Aunt Gwynn.”
Caratacus noticed Epaticcos as his uncle’s eyes drifted to one of the young, ripe-breasted slaves.
Gwynn flashed a dark look in the woman’s direction and elbowed his ribs. “Must you spend time with them, too?”
“You know I spend time with all my women when I return from a journey. It’s my right,” he said, rubbing his side.
“I know, but I don’t have to like it.”
Epaticcos halted. He faced Gwynn and placed his hands on her big shoulders. “Understand this, dear Wife,” he said in a tender voice, “you are still my chief wife, and I shall always spend time with you first. No matter what, you are still my favorite.” He gently kissed her lips.
Her face slowly relaxed. “Oh, you. How can I resist such a proposal?” she said in a lighter tone. “So long as I’m head consort, I won’t interfere with your pleasures.” Reaching up, she returned his kiss. “I fear that one day it’s going to be your undoing.”
Epaticcos laughed and wrapped his arm around Gwynn’s waist. “Come on, let’s go in.”
Caratacus and Tog followed but stayed only as long as custom demanded. There was someone else, a good friend, whom Caratacus eagerly wanted to tell his tale of battle.
*
Later that afternoon, under the hot blaze of the sun, Caratacus and Tog drew up before the hut of Clud the blacksmith. His shop sat on the outskirts of the village of little thatched huts, huddled at the foot of the incline leading to the fort’s gateway. The smoky forge sat outside Clud’s place in the open beneath a tall, goatskin canopy.
As Clud turned from the sword he was repairing, he wiped away the beads of sweat running down from his thick eyebrows. “Ho, young Prince,” he said with a brief glance at Caratacus. “I need a little more time to get this done. Then I’ll join you.”
“Take your time, Clud, we’re in no hurry,” Caratacus answered.
Caratacus noticed Clud had just fused two red-hot parts of a broken blade and couldn’t pause once the iron cooled. It would no longer be malleable and would have to be re-fired in the forging pit.
Clud returned to the anvil seated on a thick, hardwood post implanted in the clay floor. With one of his calloused hands, he grabbed the iron pincers lying nearby and clamped them to the piece of searing metal. Using his other hand, he continued to hammer the weapon back into shape.
He stopped and placed the hammer on the earthen floor. Using the pincers, he dropped the iron into a tub of water. Clud motioned his Iceni slave, who swept away the cinders. “Heat up the charcoal,” he ordered. “I’ll finish this after I’ve seen my young friends here.”
The slave nodded as Clud placed the weapon on the triangular anvil and laid the tongs and hammer against the nearby clay bench. He scratched an armpit and wiped his calloused hands on the burnt and stained cowhide apron. He lumbered from beneath the canopy toward Caratacus and Tog after skirting the conical clay oven that encased the forge, nearly tripping over the goatskinned bellows. Clud brushed the sandy-braided hair from his wide forehead and shaded his eyes with a thick hand.
“Ho, young Prince Caratacus and Brother Tog!” Clud roared. “Welcome home.” He turned to Rhun, his slave, and motioned for the man to keep pumping the goatskin bellows at the edge of the charcoal pit holding a red-hot strip of iron. “Keep your head away from the smoke! The fumes will kill you!”
Caratacus shook his head and grinned. “Same old Clud, terrorizing Rhun as usual.” He and Tog alighted from the chariot.
“What do you expect? I’ve got to get my money’s worth out of his useless hide before he drops.”
“You’ve been saying that for years.” Caratacus nodded to the slave. “Don’t pay any attention, Rhun, he couldn’t get along without you.”
“You’re very kind, young lord,” Rhun, the thin, stooped-shouldered slave answered. He momentarily looked away from the bellows.
“Now you sound like a perfumed diplomat. Pay attention to your work!” Clud growled.
“It’s true. I’m glad to be back,” Caratacus said, changing the subject. “I need a favor.”
Clud ambled to the young men’s chariot. “For you, my young friend, anything.”
Caratacus ran a hand through his freshly washed hair. He knew everyone wanted favors from Clud, his generosity was legendary. “No need of staying around Uncle Epaticcos’s home after taking a bath. He’s spending time with Aunt Gwynn and three of his favorite concubines.”
The blacksmith grinned and brushed a fly from his drooping moustache. “By the gods, I don’t know how your uncle does it. He’s got a reputation for having more stamina than five men half his age. I’m lucky to satisfy one wench.”
“I guess the gods bless some more than others.” Caratacus shrugged. “Right now I need you to take a look at this.” He pointed to the cracked iron tire framing his chariot’s left wheel.
Caratacus’s friend walked to the car and stooped for a closer examination. He rubbed his fingers over the jagged edges. “This has been welded before, hasn’t it?”
“About two months ago.”
“Who was the smithy?” Clud asked, raising the corners of his upper lip in disdain.
“Cadwal ap Nes, my father’s iron maker.”
“Bah, he’s an iron breaker. I know him, and he’s as useless as a gelding’s balls.”
“But our father swears by him,” Tog said.
“He should swear at him and chop off his head. Take a closer look. See those edges?” he asked, pointing to the black specks around the break. “Those are traces of charcoal, impurities they are.”
“So?” Caratacus asked.
“He didn’t work them out like a good smith should. That’s why the metal weakened and cracked. You came just in time. Had you driven another mile, it would have snapped and ripped off your legs.”
Caratacus and Tog looked at one another. Tog’s face paled. Heat rushed across his face.
“Don’t you worry,” Clud assured the young men, “I’ll fix her good as new, and this time there’ll be no cracking. But before I get to work, you must tell me how you won your heads, Prince Caratacus.”
Caratacus related the story, only lying grandly where details were sketchy.
“If you could have only seen Tog wielding the chariot, he’s as good as any veteran driver twice his age,” Caratacus added as he finished his tale. Tog lightly jabbed his older brother in the arm with a fist.
Clud sighed and patted his hefty belly. “Aye, that I could have seen the both of you, but not now. I like food too much, and fat men are forbidden to be warriors.”
“Is it true,” Caratacus probed, “that twice you were fined the length of your girdle in gold for being too heavy?”
“True enough, but there’s more. The Druids never told me exactly what they considered the length of a girdle.”
“I don’t understand,” Tog said.
“After the first time I was fined, I lost weight and shortened my waist band, but they fined me again.”
“They only wanted your gold, Clud,” Caratacus said. “They knew you’re a master goldsmith and iron maker, besides being a warrior.”
“You’re right, but I couldn’t prove it. There are not many like me who can fight and still make jewelry so delicate that kings will pay a fortune for it.” Clud looked up and down the village’s dusty street. No one was around. “Although your uncle the king won’t publicly admit it, he does favor me for my weapons.”
Tog gestured with a hand palm outward. “It’s said you make the finest swords in the kingdom.”
Clud grinned, accepting the princely compliment without comment.
Caratacus had heard that Clud had an uncanny knack for finding special iron-ore bogs, from which top quality iron weapons were made. Even more unusual was his ability to make rare, steel swords, the weapons of kings. Over the years he had ingratiated himself with the warrior class and other artisans, by his craft and other favors, such as repairing weapons, free. Free always had its obligations though. Slovenly, he might be, but a fool he was not. If the bronze or silversmiths needed assistance in finishing an artifact in time for a wealthy patron, or the king, he was there to help. People soon forgot why he was removed from the warrior ranks. Now they conveniently overlooked his sloppy appearance and ways, knowing the superb quality brought forth by his gifted fingers.
“Anyway, I’d still take up my sword if the king called me,” Clud said, snapping Caratacus out of his pensive mood. “I may be thirty-three, but I’m as good a fighter as ever. Your uncle is a good man, Prince Caratacus.”
He raised his hands. “Quit calling me Prince, Clud. To you, I’m Caratacus.”
“Aye, that as it should be,” Tog said. He stepped closer to Clud. “The same goes for me.”
“I’m obliged to both of you. Is your uncle having a victory feast tonight?” Clud asked.
“Yes, I’m the guest of honor for killing Froech the Bandit,” Caratacus said.
Clud looked about and back to Caratacus. “I heard rumors he was in Verica’s pay.”
“That’s what my uncle said.”
“Then the war has begun.” Clud shook his head. “Verica will be out for revenge.”
“Aye, my uncle sacked Verica as ruler of the Atrebates nearly ten years ago. He fled to the land of the Regni on the south coast,” Caratacus said.
“Somehow he found a way of gaining their throne,” Tog said. “For farmers and fisherman, they’ve done real well for themselves, and Verica knows it. The people were fools to let him become their king.”
Clud snorted in disgust.
“My uncle said it wasn’t long before Verica organized a strong warrior class loyal to him and ingratiated himself with the Romans,” Caratacus said. “And to Uncle Epaticcos’s annoyance, he built up a flourishing trade.”
“Personally, I wonder how long our uncle will wait before he moves against him?” Tog said.
“Have you already forgotten the message that Uncle Epaticcos told us about, the one Porcius gave our father?” Caratacus asked Tog.
“No,” Tog answered.
“Then you remember that the Emperor Tiberius refused to aid Verica if he attempts to retake the Kingdom of the Atrebates, which are now these lands, Uncle Epaticcos’s lands.”
“So Verica has decided to retake our uncle’s home without help from Rome,” Tog said.
“That’s why Froech stole so many cattle; it’s considered an act of war,” Caratacus said.
“True,” Clud said. “Now you’ve forced Verica into the open. He’ll have to lead his army against the king if his plans are to succeed.”
“He won’t. We’ll see to that,” Caratacus said.
“Unless the Roman, Porcius, interferes.”
Caratacus’s muscles tightened. “Why would he?”
Clud spat. “He sticks his head into anything that’s in the interest of Rome.”
Caratacus grabbed the handle of the dagger tied to his waistband. “I’d like to see his head stuck on the end of a pike. And I’ll see it done.”
Chapter 6
Adjacent to the king’s home, the huge circular hall lit by torches was filled to capacity that night and rang with the sounds of laughter, music, feasting, and drinking. The great, vaulted interior was divided into ten wedge-shaped spaces by wooden partitions running from the outer wall to the huge, open center. The central area contained a circle of stones, forming the hearth and glowing fire pit. All parties could view and speak with one another with little effort. Nine of the ten spaces held a clan chieftain and his group of one hundred warriors and other guests. The tenth and largest wedge belonged to Epaticcos, whose walls were decorated with gold and silver plates, ornaments, hand woven tapestries, and shields of the clans.
Rulers and warriors alike sat on animal pelts upon a reed-covered, earthen floor beside ornately carved pallets heaped with steaming food. Along the high king’s partitions, and around the hall’s outer corridor, stood his biggest shield-bearing retainers. Behind the seated warriors sat their wives and consorts, other shield bearers, attendants, and slaves. The chieftains and warriors drank beer and uncut Roman wine, some straining the brews through grimy, long-handled moustaches. The women and others received only the wheaten beer, corma.
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 4
