The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “But didn’t you say something earlier this morning about that young prince Caratacus upsetting things?” Cyrus reminded Porcius.

  The Roman wiped his sweating hands on the side of his tunic hanging partially over his linen breeches. “Caratacus may have unwittingly ignited the flames of war between King Epaticcos and his cousin Verica by killing Froech. What better excuse could Epaticcos want to launch a war?”

  “None, sir—clever indeed.”

  “Exactly, and that’s why it could upset, how shall I say … my business?” Porcius winked.

  At that moment High King Cunobelinos and his shield bearers approached the Great Hall through a whitish haze of chalky dust churned by chariots and cavalry escort. A pack of hunting hounds trailed in their wake, barking and yelping, barely staying out of reach of the horses’ trampling hooves.

  As he drew to a halt, Cunobelinos stepped from his chariot, scowling and slapping dust from his clothes.

  “Greetings, High King!” Porcius called in his usual honeyed voice. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you. Young Caratacus is truly a son worthy of his great father.”

  “Is he so courageous?” the big chieftain muttered. “The young idiot was a fool not to leave well enough alone. Instead, he had to challenge Donn, Epaticcos’s champion. He’s bloody fortunate he’s kept his head!”

  “A foolish oversight on his part, I’m sure,” Porcius agreed. “After all, he’s young and inexperienced.” More like stupid.

  The king glared at him. “Aye, he has much to learn. But that’s not why you are here. What do you want?”

  “Quite perceptive indeed,” Porcius answered, clearing his throat. “I have a message from Rome,” he said, unconsciously assuming an official’s voice while patting a fold-pouch in his tunic containing the water-tight tube and scroll.

  Cunobelinos slowly pulled off his iron conical helmet. “Another one so soon? It’s only been a few days since you gave me the last one at the festival.”

  “Yes, Great King, that’s true,” Porcius said.

  “Come with me, Porcius, alone,” the king commanded, motioning to the Great Hall. “We’ll discuss this inside.” He signaled to his entourage to wait. The group included his eldest son, Adminios, Oengus, the king’s champion and Rhian’s foster father, and several clan chieftains. The king nodded toward his arch-Druid, Ibor, to accompany them.

  Once within the cavernous building, the two sat upon ornately designed mats near the great hearth, Porcius facing Cunobelinos and Ibor. The interior felt surprisingly cool to Porcius after being out in the stifling heat, and he was only too happy to remove his hat. This intimacy was indeed a sign of friendship between him and the king. Otherwise, Porcius would have stood as Cunobelinos glared down at him from the dais. He scanned the hall, and his eyes found the new tapestry, depicting a scene of hunters attacking a wild boar, hanging from the shadowy wall. Earlier that week Porcius had given the woven cloth to the king as a gift from Emperor Tiberius.

  The king called for a slave, who brought silver goblets of Greek Samian wine. The slave placed a tall bronze flagon, decorated with long-tailed monsters and a beaker shaped like a squat-legged lizard with the head of a man, on a jewel-encased pallet next to Cunobelinos. “Now, what is your emperor’s message?”

  The flabby Roman paused as he glanced at the Druid standing in the pulsating light of the hearth’s fire. Cunobelinos seems to sense his hesitation. “Anything you say to me can be said in front of Ibor.”

  Porcius crinkled his nose. Hah! I might as well be talking to every blood-licking Druid in Britannia.

  The Roman removed the water-tight, bronze tube from his tunic pouch. He handed it to the king, who in turn gave it to Ibor. Cunobelinos couldn’t read Latin. “The emperor is concerned about the secret alliance you have made with King Verica,” Porcius began. “He says—”

  “I have made no alliance with Verica, and if I did, it’s none of Rome’s concern.”

  “Come now, Great King, do you take the emperor for a fool? He knows you have secretly allied with Verica against your brother, and such an alliance is not in the best interest of Rome. It was dangerous enough that Froech the bandit was in his pay.” Porcius surmised that the king must be wondering how Emperor Tiberius found out about it so soon, for Cunobelinos tightly gripped the hilt of his sword.

  “My people are my only interest,” the king responded. His eyes narrowed and Porcius could see his temple throbbing.

  “The stability of Britannia is Rome’s concern,” Porcius said. He gestured with a hand palm up. “Are they not one and the same, those of Rome and your people? Sources close to the emperor have informed him of your connection with Verica, the Regni King. To deny that is to deny the light of day.” He dropped his hand alongside his tunic.

  “And I know from whom he received such lies,” the king answered, maintaining an even voice while glaring at Porcius.

  “You were invited to Britannia as a guest of the High King,” interjected the arch-Druid, Ibor, who had opened the cylinder and removed the parchment scroll, “and you can be asked to leave … with your tail between your legs, if not missing altogether.” He smiled, contemptuously dropping the container to the reed-covered-floor.

  “True, I’m here by the invitation of your High King,” Porcius said, “and the will of Caesar, the Great Tiberius, who has more legions than a tree has leaves and more tails to wag than priests have tongues.”

  Cunobelinos roared at the Druid’s expense, then cleared his throat as if trying to restore the priest’s loss of face. “And leaves crumble when stepped upon and then burn easily,” he warned.

  “Smoke from such a fire can overwhelm the one who set the flame and scorch more than the fields and valleys and forests of your lands,” Porcius replied. He locked eyes with the king, who returned his cold stare. For a moment, neither spoke.

  “Your Caesar’s armies would pay dearly for invading my lands!” the king advised in a cool but menacing voice.

  “Invasion? Who said anything about invasion?” Porcius answered slowly, breaking his gaze and shaking his head. “Caesar has no intention of invading your lands, he simply doesn’t want war between his friends. He is concerned with regional stability.”

  “That is of no concern to your emperor, so long as it doesn’t interfere with trade with Rome,” Cunobelinos warned.

  “Then Caesar advises you to stay away from Verica,” the emissary sternly warned.

  “And I demand that Caesar stay out of my regional affairs!”

  Porcius shrugged. “Very well, I regret then to inform you that Caesar will cut all trade with Britannia.”

  “Your emperor dares to renounce our agreement?”

  The Roman answered in an even voice. “Not only does he, but your merchants will be forbidden to conduct business within the boundaries of the Roman Empire, and their goods will be confiscated. The Roman Navy will blockade your ports and commandeer all ships entering imperial waters.”

  A dark expression crossed Cunobelinos’s face, the veiny cords tightening in his neck, but he managed to control his anger. He sat for a few moments, not out of defeat as Porcius surmised, but as was his solemn manner prior to making a major decision. Porcius knew Cunobelinos’s moods well enough after spending the last five years at his court. No doubt he was raging within.

  “Your kingdom and people have prospered as a result of our trading agreements,” Porcius continued. “An embargo would hurt you and other Briton kingdoms far more than it would Rome.”

  “We would survive.”

  A sly grin fractured Porcius’s face. “Would you?”

  Cunobelinos grabbed a cup of wine from the pallet, downed its contents in one long gulp, and quietly returned it to the little table. He faced Porcius and stared through him as if he weren’t there. Since coming to Britannia, Porcius had encouraged the king’s love of Roman luxuries, such as wine, fine horses from Hispania and Mauretania, silk clothing from Cathay, and gold, plenty of gold. His kingdom could
n’t afford the loss in trade or cattle, jewelry, tin, wool, and wheat, which he exchanged for those comforts. The king had admitted, on one occasion when he had been drinking heavily, that most of his power was derived from his people’s prosperity.

  Porcius poured himself a cup of wine. “To be sure, some ships would sneak through the blockade, and of course you and your fellow rulers could resort to smuggling. But your people would still suffer, and wines such as this would soon dry up.”

  “He talks too much, sire,” Ibor quipped, though his voice lacked authority.

  “Let him be! Fools always ramble.” The king raised his hand as if in disgust and dropped it to his side.

  Porcius sipped his wine. “You know what I say is true. You have a large warrior class to support. They have many tenant farmers from whom they derive their wealth. If the farmers have no place to sell their wheat, your warrior’s wealth dries up, and you will be forced to support them from your own coffers.”

  Cunobelinos remained silent, glowering at Porcius. Ibor fidgeted as if wanting to say something. The king raised an eyebrow in warning.

  Porcius grew bolder. “As I have said, you could resort to smuggling, but inevitably that would lead to piracy.”

  “Are you calling us pirates?”

  “Never you, Great King, but there are others, like the Durotrigians and Verica’s Regni people, who wouldn’t hesitate, and Rome would lump all Britons into the same basket. A Roman blockade force could easily become an invasion fleet.”

  Porcius prayed that Cunobelinos wouldn’t call his bluff. An invasion at this time was out of the question. There were only twenty-eight legions and an equal number of provincial auxiliaries to guard the extensive boundaries of the Roman Empire. No more than three hundred thousand were guarding an empire of seventy-five million. News had recently arrived about a rebellion in Thrace, and there was unrest among the German tribes along the Rhenus frontier. Four legions were tied down keeping the savages in check. Two legions had recently transferred from Syria to aid Porcius’s long-time friend Pontius Pilatus, procurator of Judea, in keeping Jewish rebels under control.

  So long as the situation remained unstable in Thrace, it was imperative that three legions remained in that turbulent province. The garrisons of the Rhenus and Danubus would have to be stripped if there were to be an invasion of Britannia. The frontiers would be left wide open to invasion by the German tribes. No, Rome has no legions to spare.

  “Go on, I’m still listening, Roman.”

  The high king startled Porcius from his thoughts.

  “It is in your interest,” Porcius spoke again, “and that of Britannia’s, that you prevent the war that is about to occur between Verica and your brother. You have the power and influence to stop it.”

  Cunobelinos pondered the situation for a few moments, biting his lower lip. He turned to Ibor and again to Porcius. “Very well, Roman, I will intervene, but Caesar is to call off his dogs!” The high king leaned forward, his head almost touching Porcius’s face.

  “Consider it arranged,” Porcius replied. Cunobelinos had capitulated, a rare victory indeed. Unconsciously, the Roman wiped a sweaty hand on his linen tunic, the inside of his garment damp across his protruding stomach. Only now did he realize how draining the meeting with the king had been. He must be all the more cautious in the future. Cunobelinos will find a way to avenge himself for this day.

  *

  Porcius left the Great Hall, thin clouds drifted across the sweltering afternoon sun, shadowless upon the great, open field outside the king’s compound. While he and his retinue hiked along the dirt path skirting the chalky turf, the Roman spotted Rhian and other young men and women undergoing combat training. Nearly a head taller and wearing an ocean-blue tunic and matching breeches, Rhian stood out among her companions. She wore her sandy hair tied in a single braid that cascaded down to the middle of her back. The youths drilled under the critical eyes of the twin sisters, Gwyther and Modron.

  Sitting in his jouncing litter, Porcius motioned Cyrus, who walked alongside, to move closer. “Let’s watch these barbarians for a few minutes. I find the training of women for combat fascinating and yet appalling at the same time.”

  “No woman should be a warrior,” Cyrus said with a smirk.

  “I disagree with many of your Persian ways,” Porcius said, “but on this issue, I concur.”

  Porcius motioned his retinue to halt. They watched as one group of dirt-encrusted and sweaty trainees drilled with leather slingshots against wooden, human-shaped posts erected near the edge of the dry moat and palisade surrounding the Great Fort. A deafening staccato of thuds rolled in like hail stones whenever scar-faced Modron, dressed in a fading, red, plaid tunic and matching trousers, barked the order for slingers to fling the hard, black stones at the splintering targets.

  Meantime, Porcius spied another group, including Rhian and her friend, whom Porcius recognized as Morgana, hurling javelins at a set of taller, thinner posts. Rhian threw her last weapon, barely missing the post’s head.

  “Gods dammit, daughter of Donn!” Gwyther, the other twin, roared. “How many times have I told you to keep your aim low! At least you’ll hit his lovely crotch if you miss his heart.”

  Porcius raised an eyebrow while Cyrus grinned.

  “Sorry, Mistress Gwyther,” Rhian answered in a trembling voice, which carried on the hot breeze. She wiped the sweat from her face and brushed back loose strands of hair from her forehead.

  “Sorry will get your pretty head on an enemy’s pike, dearie,” Gwyther said in a snarling voice. “Now throw another one!”

  Rhian’s short, stocky friend, Morgana, handed her another weapon. She balanced it in her hand until it apparently felt right. The daughter of Donn brought the javelin back and above her head. Placing the weight on her right foot, she took three steps forward and flung the deadly missile. With a heavy thud, the javelin slammed into a post center, its mass quivering from side to side.

  Porcius turned to Cyrus. “Impressive—for a woman.”

  Cyrus curled his lips into a frown. “Undignified is more like it.”

  “That’s better!” Gwyther said in a loud but pleasing voice. The big woman, her spiked hair washed with lime, looked about, noticing the other girls and boys had stopped to watch Rhian. She also saw Porcius and his people. She spat in their direction and turned back to the trainees. “What are you slimy turds staring at? Get back to work or I’ll tie you to the backstop of this post while I throw at its front!” Gwyther stepped to her right, and taking long, lumbering strides, headed for a group of slingers.

  The two amazons kept up their string of curses.

  “My gods,” Porcius said, “they sound like Roman drill centurions.”

  “Probably worse,” Cyrus said.

  Rhian and the other youths continued their training.

  Cyrus crinkled his nose. “I wonder how long they have been training today. Even from where we are standing, they stink.”

  “They train at least three to four hours every afternoon during the summer, and Rhian is known to train harder than any of them. Despite that, she is also known for her weaving and horse riding skills.”

  Cyrus snorted. “She should stick to weaving.”

  “That won’t happen. Rhian is a member of the warrior class, and her father is Donn, King Epaticcos’s champion. She is expected to learn the art of war.”

  “I can’t imagine a Roman or Persian woman in combat.” Cyrus shook his head. “They belong at home, not on the battlefield.”

  “I agree, but I hear Celtic women fight like lions. It’s apparently true if those two scarred, demonic twins, Gwyther and Modron, are any indication.”

  Porcius was aware that the Catuvellauni and Trinovantes, tribes ruled by Cunobelinos, had been at peace with the surrounding tribes for five years, but summer was the season of war, and they had to be prepared. The role of women and young men not of warrior age was to defend the tribal capital of Camulodunum from surprise attack whe
n the men were off to war.

  “Is it not true most of the boys and girls seek out Rhian’s advice and leadership?” Cyrus asked.

  “What you say is true, Cyrus. She may prove to be a dangerous adversary if Rome goes to war with these people.”

  Porcius waved forward a young, Greek slave who wiped his face with a silk cloth.

  “Watch it, you lout,” Porcius said. “Are you trying to gouge my eyes out?” He shoved him away.

  Wide-eyed, the slave stood shaking in his sandals and stuttered, “N … no, Master, n … never.”

  “Next time it happens, I’ll sell you to the Britons,” Porcius said. “They are not as kind as I am. Get out of my sight!”

  The slave scurried away.

  Cyrus watched as the young man disappeared within Porcius’s entourage. He turned to Porcius. “If you like, I could sell the fool once we returned home.”

  For a split second, Porcius scowled at the Persian, then a knowing grin crossed his fleshy lips. “You are very presumptuous, Cyrus, but perceptive.”

  Porcius pulled off his hat and wiped his eyebrows and forehead before placing the cover back on his head. “It’s time to leave, I’ve seen enough. We shall pay a visit to King Verica. I must persuade him not to go to war against King Epaticcos. He must listen to reason. It’s in his interests and that of Rome, especially Rome, not to wage war.”

  Cyrus nodded. “May he be wise enough to listen to your advice, but I doubt it.”

  Chapter 8

  After a half-day voyage by a coastal merchant ship from Camulodunum down the southeastern coast to Noviomagnus, capital of the Regni, a seasick Porcius arrived at Verica’s kingdom early in the afternoon.

  In his misery, Porcius was oblivious to the numerous merchant ships tied up along the quay, the stacks and rows of goods spread along the dock, and noise from the dozens of slaves and free workers carrying and loading freight in awaiting carts and wagons. He stepped onto the dock, assisted by Cyrus and a slave, where they took off his protective linen cloak, soiled by the spray of his vomit. Thank Jove, his tunic and breeches had been spared of that indignity. His head spun and body swayed as if still aboard ship. He called for his litter, which had been unloaded, now sitting on the wooden dock. “Help me to it,” he ordered. The Persian and the servant held Porcius by both sides of his corpulent body by the arms and escorted him to the cushioned chair. He sat upon the sagging seat and leaned slightly backwards within the protective shade of the sedan’s canopy and caught his breath. His mouth was parched, engulfed by the sour taste of vomit. “Bring me water!” he commanded. Although a cool breeze drifted on the gray-green water of the harbor’s surface, Porcius perspired, and he wiped the sweat from his face and forehead with a perfumed cloth handed to him by a slave.