Caratacus sat cross-legged with the other victors, showing off their new, prized heads placed in oak boxes and preserved in cedar oil. Epaticcos’s lesser bards and minstrels strolled among the guests recounting their victory in newly composed ballads. They played on small, delicately painted harps. Caratacus watched the chief bard, clutching a small harp, approach King Epaticcos.
“Great King,” the pinched-face bard said, “the songs we play tonight are about your victory over the brigand, Froech. They will last for all time.”
“You said that about my last victory,” growled the king. He glared at the musician from beneath the bridge of his heavy eyebrows. “It wasn’t much of a song.”
Caratacus smiled, holding back his laughter.
The bard’s face paled, and he held his harp before him. “But Great King, each of your victories is greater than the last. Unfortunately, in the enthusiasm of the greater victory, one sometimes forgets the words of an earlier battle.”
Epaticcos snorted and frowned. “In other words, although it has been only four years, you don’t think it was much of a victory.”
The bard’s hands trembled, barely holding onto his instrument. “But, Great Lord, I would never think such a thing. All your victories are great.”
“For the sake of your head, you better pray that my next triumph will be the greatest yet.” Epaticcos waved him away with a flick of the hand.
The bard bowed and proceeded to sing at the adjoining chieftain’s partition.
Caratacus choked in a futile attempt to stifle his laughing. It serves him right.
During the feasting, all eyes were drawn time and again to the ghoulish head of Froech. Its matted, blood-spattered hair, gray-pallored skin, and slack jaw were made all the more macabre by the hall’s flickering light. The preserved head sat displayed atop an oak box in front of Caratacus’s dinner pallet. The king’s nephew, dressed in a clean tunic and pair of trousers, sat to his left, the place of honor, with Tog and the other victors nearby, while Havgan, Epaticcos’s arch-Druid, sat on his right. Next to the priest was Donn, the king’s champion. Behind them sat the women, including Gwynn. Each time Caratacus was complimented, or someone examined his great prize, his pride puffed all the more with bragging and wine.
Caratacus heard his uncle chuckle. He turned and saw Epaticcos lean in the direction of Havgan. “Caratacus must think his prize is the greatest ever taken in battle.”
Caratacus was about to protest, but Havgan said quickly, “Even greater than the two paltry heads that your champion took yesterday.” The Druid’s thin, ascetic face, covered by a black beard falling to his chest, studied the king with dark, piercing eyes.
“Be careful, Priest, that it wasn’t yours,” the king said with menace as he gulped down a cup of wine. “Caratacus probably believes he can feel the power from Froech’s head,” he continued, seemingly disregarding any further thoughts about the insult to his champion’s prowess.
But I do feel Froech’s power running through me. Caratacus couldn’t understand why his uncle was mocking him.
The priest persisted. “Isn’t that what you believed when you were young, Great King?”
“Of course, but no more. Power comes from within one’s self and through experience.”
Caratacus held his tongue. This isn’t the place to argue with uncle about it. This is a time to be merry. He fingered the exquisite golden torc he had taken from the dead bandit. Despite the heat within the hall, he found it cool to his touch. The collar consisted of eight spiraled, gold wires, each formed of eight golden strands, the ends being soldered into sockets of hollowed ring terminals. Each end was decorated with cast reliefs of a dour-faced man wearing the antlers of a stag─Cernunnos─God of deer and other animals.
“You like it, don’t you?” Epaticcos asked, interrupting Caratacus’s thoughts.
“It’s a beautiful torc,” the young prince answered. “I’d wager that Froech sliced someone’s throat for it.”
“I expect you to wear it with the dignity and honor that Froech never possessed,” Epaticcos advised.
“I will, Uncle, I will.”
Caratacus watched Tog who sat next to him. He had given him his old torc in gratitude for his skillful driving during the battle. He was pleased that Tog wore it with pride. Caratacus’s gut instinct told him it wouldn’t be long before his younger brother claimed his first head in battle.
*
As the night wore on, Caratacus consumed several cups of beer and mead and found himself growing more boisterous and obnoxious about his feats. He staggered as he got up from the furs on which he sat. He reeled as he turned in the direction of Epaticcos’s senior warriors who sat near the front. He looked at them through bleary eyes.
“If you warriors are so good,” Caratacus said, “why didn’t you kill Froech?”
The king’s men jeered Caratacus, but none challenged him.
Caratacus grinned. They’re cowards. “I know why you didn’t kill him, ’cause I’m better than the whole lot of you!” He hiccupped.
One pock-faced warrior with a missing left ear stood and shouted, “I’ll take you right now, we’ll see who’s best!”
“Enough!”
Silence engulfed the room as everyone’s eyes turned to Epaticcos.
“Sit down, Ermid.” The king motioned with his head toward the warrior. He turned to Caratacus. “You, too, Nephew.”
Both sat glaring at one another before Caratacus turned his head away.
The chatting among the guests resumed, but Caratacus fumed, humiliated by his uncle. He clenched and unclenched a fist. He had promised Epaticcos he wouldn’t consume too much beer or Roman wine, remembering his drunken ride in the chariot the day they left Camulodunum. But the mugs were always refilled, and the serving wenches were friendly.
A young wench carrying a small pitcher stepped between the guests and stopped at the small table before Caratacus and Tog. She stooped and refilled his cup with beer and gave him a wink and smile before moving away. He knew he would have a tumble in the hay with her after the feasting was over.
“Caratacus, you’re drunk,” Tog muttered. “You’re damn lucky Uncle Epaticcos stopped Ermid from challenging you. He’d have killed you.”
“He wouldn’t have stood a chance,” Caratacus muttered. He spotted his uncle watching them. “I’ll fight him or anybody.”
He looked about and saw Donn, the king’s champion, sitting near Epaticcos. Earlier Caratacus had watched him boasting as he seemed to take measure of the other warriors for a possible challenge to a fight. Now he sat drinking beer and chatting with other warriors. I’ll even fight Donn!
“Might happen yet,” Tog said. What are you planning?” Tog asked in a lowered voice, once more flashing a glance in Epaticcos’s direction, catching the older man’s scowl.
“Nothing, Tog.”
Tog crinkled his long forehead and snorted. “I know that look in your eyes, you’re scheming something. Every time you’re drunk, trouble follows.”
Caratacus attempted to focus on his brother’s face in the flickering torchlight─now fuzzy─now clear. I’m not drunk. “Nothing’s going to happen. Now, shut up, and leave me alone!”
“All right, Brother, it’s your head!” Tog got up, farted in Caratacus’s direction, and joined some companions nearby.
Ignoring the smell, Caratacus turned and saw Epaticcos leaning toward Havgan again. “Do you see what Caratacus is doing?” he heard him saying.
“Yes, Great King, and it doesn’t bode well,” Havgan said. “He’s measuring the other warriors.”
They don’t realize I can hear them, Caratacus thought.
“He’s doing what so many warriors have done before him,” Epaticcos said.
Caratacus was puzzled by what his uncle meant.
“Shouldn’t you stop him?” Havgan questioned, his voice filled with alarm.
“Why?” the king said. “Let him challenge Donn for the right to the roasted boar’s hind quar
ter, the champion’s portion. It’s time we tested his metal.”
“It may cost him his life,” the Druid said.
Epaticcos grinned, exposing his yellowed teeth. “We shall see.”
Why shouldn’t I? I killed the worst bandit this land has seen in more than one hundred years. I deserve the champion’s portion! Caratacus had heard from Epaticcos that when the king’s portion was served, each warrior quickly measured his prospective opponent. If he believed that he could not defeat him with a dagger, he went on drinking and boasting and issued no challenge. If he believed he could beat him, he drew more courage from drink and boast and then lived or died.
Earlier, Donn, the king’s champion, had been boasting and measuring other warriors. He stopped and sat down and looked in the king’s direction. Caratacus noticed Donn had stopped drinking entirely.
Caratacus heard Havgan reminding the king, “You know that you have to honor your champion with the hind quarter?”
“I don’t relish the thought of my nephew challenging Donn. He is much stronger and has far greater experience as champion, taking countless heads in battle.”
I killed Froech, doesn’t that count for something? Caratacus balled his fists before he relaxed seconds later. Not yet, not yet.
Two slaves carried a roast boar upon a large, silver platter to the king. As it was placed on the short bejeweled table before him, the king inhaled the aroma of the boar, simmering in its juices. He turned to Donn, his champion, and motioned him over to carve the prized hind leg.
The Great Hall grew quiet. All eyes were upon Epaticcos.
Caratacus worked himself into a rage. The king pulled a knife from a scabbard in his waistband and raised it about his head, the signal that would lead to a challenge. Donn stood, swaggered forward, pulled his dagger, kneeled, and began carving the roast. Caratacus glared at Donn. By the gods, there isn’t any reason I can’t do it. Why shouldn’t I challenge Don for the champion’s portion?
He sprang to his feet, unsheathed his dagger, which gleamed in the torch light, and pointed it at Donn. “That portion belongs to me! I earned it!”
“By what right have ye earned it, puppy?” Donn laughed as he sliced the boar’s hindquarter, and several warriors roared with approval.
“By taking Froech’s head in battle!” Caratacus shouted. He reached down, picked up his mug, threw it at the group of laughing men, which immediately silenced them into scowls.
Donn pulled his dagger slowly from the meat and wiped it on his trousers. He calmly raised his head to glare at Caratacus. “Powerful magic as Froech’s head may be, he was a villain not worthy of your wine-soaked challenge to me. Now sit down, lad, before I’m forced to take yours.”
“In a dog’s eye, you fat, old son of a sow!”
With the speed of a sling stone, a gasp shot through the hall. Being called a son of a sow was the vilest insult one man could hurl at another. Caratacus looked about and realized that his remarks had been a grave mistake, but he stood taller. “If you’re the king’s champion, waddle over here and prove it.”
Donn got to his feet and wiped the boar’s grease from his hands onto his breeches.
“Very well, son of Cunobelinos, I had hopes that ye would become my daughter’s husband, but now I’ll have to find her another mate.”
By the gods he is serious. How could I be so stupid! I’m in for the fight of my life! He and Donn squared off and slowly circled one another in the empty space between Epaticcos and the fire pit, knives outstretched, vying for a position of attack. Both glared at one another, sizing up the other’s weaknesses. Caratacus made a feint, but Donn danced out of his way and jabbed his right arm, drawing a trickle of blood. Caratacus came around and attempted to get inside of Donn’s long, outstretched arm. This time the old veteran’s dagger flashed past and nicked his ear.
Donn grinned. “Give it up, laddie, yer no match for me. Otherwise, I’ll have to get mean.” With that, the subdued diners broke into laughter and jeered Caratacus.
Caratacus’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. “You’ll soon find out what mean is, Lord Champion.”
Again, the crowd roared in laughter and hurled more taunts his way.
Soon Caratacus realized Donn could have killed him twice over with little effort. He could not out maneuver, let alone outfight, this grizzled warrior.
Twice more Donn darted in and out of Caratacus’s reach, inflicting minor wounds that stung his right and left arm.
Then a growing number of warriors cheered for the king’s foster son as Donn continued toying with him.
Caratacus received another slash to his knife arm, although the bleeding was worse than the wound itself. I’ve got to do something before he kills me!
With a lightning lunge, Caratacus slashed Donn along the ridge of his jaw and jumped away from his counter-lunge. The laughter quickly stopped. Donn’s blood dripped onto his best tunic. His weathered face darkened as if to say. This young whelp means to kill me.
Donn quickly maneuvered to Caratacus’s right side, kicked his right foot from under him, and sent him sprawling to the floor on his stomach, the wind knocked out him.
Caratacus gasped and attempted to regain his breath.
Donn was on him in a flash, placed a powerful knee in his back, and disarmed Caratacus before he could recover his stance.
Gods, is this the end?
As the champion raised his dagger, the king sprang to his feet. “Enough!” he shouted. There was a pregnant pause and again a hush fell over the hall. Epaticcos waited another moment, to make Caratacus feel the humiliation. “Donn, I declare you the victor. And an easy victory at that.”
A sigh of relief erupted from the warriors.
“No one wants to see you slain so soon after taking yer first head, lad,” Donn said. “However, had it not been fer the king, I’d have taken yer head off faster than a lightning bolt.”
Caratacus slowly rose to his knees, shook his head, and turned towards Donn. But he kept his eyes downcast. I’m the laughingstock of the kingdom. What a damn fool I am. I’m lucky to be alive!
“Besides,” the king said with a chuckle, “we need hotheads such as this young wolf. He has shown his bravery by taking his first heads in battle yesterday and thinks he is worthy of taking the champion’s portion tonight. Such audacity is to be admired.” This brought cheers and laughter from the drunken crowd.
Caratacus raised his head and locked eyes with Donn. The champion’s were icy, although a tight grin crossed his face. He outstretched his hand to Caratacus.
The room grew silent. Humiliated, Caratacus wondered if he should give his to the king’s champion. He paused. If I refuse, everyone in the hall will heap scorn on me for not being man enough to admit defeat. Caratacus reached up for Donn’s hand, and the man yanked him from the ground to his full height. Donn embraced Caratacus with a bear hug, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Cheering and pandemonium broke loose. Caratacus exhaled in relief, realizing he had deserved to lose and was fortunate to be alive. Didn’t Uncle Epaticcos once say when a real man admits defeat, people will respect him all the more?
As both Caratacus and Donn sat by Epaticcos, the ruler clasped their shoulders with spread hands and said in a voice only Caratacus and Donn could hear, “You have nothing of which to be ashamed, Nephew. Donn has lifted more heads on a ceremonial pike than the Romans have coins. And remember this: you’re the only one who had the courage to challenge him, but don’t make a habit of it.”
The king’s champion nodded and took a towel from a slave to wipe the blood from his face. Then he gorged himself with the now cold hindquarter.
Caratacus knew his uncle was right, but he swore to become a better warrior, as great as Donn. If they went to war against Verica, he must improve his fighting skills if he were to survive.
Chapter 7
After being assisted from the litter by two huge Libyan slaves, Porcius’s body servant came forward and wiped the perspiration from his master’s
corpulent face with a silk handkerchief. His entourage of slaves and freedmen, including Cyrus the Persian, had halted before Cunobelinos’s Great Hall. At any moment, Porcius expected the king’s arrival from an inspection of his farmsteads.
“By Apollo himself, this scorching heat reminds me of Rome,” Porcius said as he swatted the horse flies buzzing around his head. He waved the servant away. “Don’t you think so, Cyrus?”
“Yes, sir,” answered his Persian freedman in nearly flawless Latin.
“And to think I came to Britannia to get away from the heat.” Porcius removed his wide-brimmed, straw hat, fanned himself, and replaced it upon his balding head.
“Although I have been in your service for five years, I still find these barbaric Britons as insufferable as the weather,” Cyrus said.
Porcius raised his head skyward. “By the thundering Jupiter, they’re impossible! However,” he paused and motioned Cyrus closer, “once you gain their confidence they’re your friends for life. You have to know how to deal with their peculiarities, something my fellow countrymen have failed to learn. Of course,” he added with a sly grin, “that means more gold for me.”
Cyrus scratched his trimmed, black beard, which covered a hair lip, with well-manicured fingers and searched the compound area with his piercing, dark eyes. “I still don’t see why you treat these uncouth louts with such respect,” he said with a click of the tongue.
“I show them respect, you fool,” Porcius admonished, “because they give me trading agreements favorable to Rome. You should know that by now.”
Cyrus touched a hand to his chest, covered by a tunic decorated with signs of the zodiac. “Pardon my ignorance, sir.”
“Very well. Just keep in mind I receive a share of the revenue, the treasury is filled, and the emperor is happy. I intend to keep it that way.” Porcius scanned the chalky path leading to the Great Hall, straining to see any signs of the king’s band, hating to be kept waiting. An ox cart filled with dung creaked slowly along the way to the tanner’s shop outside the fortress’s outer dike, its stink drifting on the hot breeze.
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 5
