The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “The king is expecting you at the Great Hall,” the tall captain said. Before Porcius could answer, the commander turned and said over his shoulder, “Follow me.”

  The group trudged through the narrow, dusty streets between the wattle and daub huts where the Britons lived. The aroma of baking bread and roasting meat drifted through open doors while smoke from cooking hearths curled upward through holes in the hovels’ conical roofs. The sound of a baby crying came from a hut, followed by comforting words from the mother. Porcius skirted a pile of fresh horse dung, the disgusting smell seeping into his nostrils. He coughed and spat.

  The party halted before the entrance of the Great Hall, a long building of logs, roofed with reeds.

  “Your people will stay out here,” the captain said. “You go in—alone.”

  Porcius shrugged—this was nothing new. He turned to Cyrus and told him to take charge of the retinue and then entered the building.

  Inside, the Roman stopped briefly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The hall reeked of sweating bodies mingled with the acrid smell of pitch and tar from the burning torch lights. Making matters worse, the king had ordered the chamber sealed. In the noisy, crowded hall, Porcius wiped his face and forehead several times with a silk handkerchief. By Jupiter’s balls, it’s times like this that I wish I was thin. But I love luxury, pretty boys, and rich food too much. He sighed and glanced about, sizing up prospective young warriors mixed in the assembly, but shook his head. Not one of the savages suited his taste. Bathless wretches!

  As often as Porcius had addressed the tribal kings and chieftains of Britannia, he still felt uneasy, not of the rulers themselves, but of the glaring hostile eyes of ever-present warriors. This audience was no exception. Scores of smelly, unwashed savages stood in the chamber near the Great Hearth. King Epaticcos was holding a council of war, and only warriors were admitted. Among them stood Caratacus, nearly a head taller than the younger fighters with whom he mingled. The prince folded his arms across his sun burnt chest and glared at the emissary.

  Porcius approached Epaticcos, who sat on a fur-covered chair, his chieftains and Druids standing together on both sides of his throne. The Roman stopped and bowed slightly. Silence rolled over the crowded hall like a heavy fog.

  Epaticcos narrowed his eyes. “I know why you are here, Roman. Speak.”

  “There are rumors that you and your cousin, Verica, are about to go to war with one another.” The Roman paused and cleared his throat. In the shadowy light Epaticcos’s face appeared as stone, the lines like cracks in granite. Porcius continued. “If you fight, this will be detrimental to yours and Verica’s tribe and to Rome. The losses incurred by both sides would be high in soldiers and revenue. Do you honestly believe you could pay your annual tribute to Rome if this happens?”

  Epaticcos’s warriors erupted with jeers and catcalls; the only losses would be heads of their enemies.

  The king, armed with a jeweled ceremonial sword and wearing chainmail armor over a red and gold tunic, motioned his scarred hand for silence. “Proceed.”

  “Wouldn’t payment in cattle and gold, rather than lives, be a more acceptable solution, Great King?” Porcius suggested.

  “Have you made that proposal to Verica?”

  “I have. He assures me that he will not wage war on you or your kingdom.”

  “Verica is a treacherous liar, Great King,” said Havgan, the chief Druid, who stood next to Epaticcos.

  Epaticcos chuckled. “Let him finish, Priest, though I find a grain of sand has greater value than the word of Verica.” As if on cue, the warriors roared in laughter.

  Porcius glanced about and spotted Caratacus. He glared at the Roman as if challenging him. Porcius turned back to the king and grinned weakly. “But he is your cousin. Can’t you trust a blood relative?” He already knew the answer.

  “I trust no one, especially Verica. However …,” Epaticcos paused a moment as if for emphasis, “if you provide me proof of his assurances that he will pay me in cattle and gold, then I may consider the matter settled.”

  “The only thing Verica will understand is losing his head!” shouted Donn, the king’s champion. He made a slicing motion across his throat.

  One of his chieftains said, “Don’t trust him, Great King! War is the only way to settle this.”

  Behind Porcius, the warriors shouted in unison, “Aye!”

  “Please, Great King,” Havgan pleaded, “don’t listen to this Roman lackey’s words, he’s Tiberius’s court-fool! My sources say Verica, even as we sit, is preparing for war.”

  Porcius drew a handkerchief from within the fold of his tunic and wiped his hands. “But your nephew, Prince Caratacus, killed Froech. Bandit though he was, his loss has hurt Verica badly. He was one of his best leaders. Verica will not risk war anytime soon.”

  “Bah!” Caratacus’s uncle snapped as he tugged on his long, drooping moustache. “That was a skirmish!”

  Porcius sensed Epaticcos was playing a game of words. Reports had indicated the so-called skirmish had been a pitched battle. Killing Froech was a serious matter in resolving the dispute.

  Epaticcos motioned with outstretched arms toward his warriors. “What’s life to a warrior? You’ve been among us long enough, Roman, to know that by our deaths we are glorified.” He placed the fingertips of both hands and thumbs together and rested his elbows on the arms of the throne. He looked over his hands to the gathered host. “A good warrior doesn’t die on his bed-pallet.” The high king pulled his fingers apart and raised his hands. “That’s for Romans. Death is to be met on the battlefield. It’s the only real glory and pride for any warrior, no matter what his tribe.”

  His warriors and chieftains interrupted with a series of “Ayes!” and other affirmations of loyalty.

  “If we be taking a few heads with us, all the better,” Donn interjected.

  A murmur interrupted the discussion. The same captain who had led Porcius into the Great Hall rushed into the chambers escorting a small, dusty man in wolves’ skins. Porcius recognized the unwashed man as one of the leaders of the forest people known as the Sidhe who were spread throughout southern Britannia.

  Porcius recalled that when Epaticcos became king of the Atrebates, he had found it to his advantage to treat those small, dark people well and made an alliance with their headmen to provide him with intelligence as to other enemy tribes. In return, they were not enslaved, and he conducted trade at fair prices. Epaticcos had kept his word. A wise move. After the suspicious Sidhe got over their initial mistrust, they provided the king with a wealth of information. They were rumored to perform feats of magic and cast spells on their enemies. Porcius neither had seen nor heard of anyone being the victim of their deeds.

  “Great King,” the captain said, “this friend of our people has a message of great urgency. Please, let him speak.”

  Epaticcos nodded to the shaggy-haired leader.

  “Great King of the Atrebates,” the Sidhe leader said, “the Regni king, Verica, and his thieves have invaded our lands, and be two days journey from here with a warrior horde.”

  Stunned, Porcius choked and attempted to catch his breath. For a moment he couldn’t move. Despite the possibility of Verica reneging on the new agreement made with Porcius, he had believed Verica would keep his word. Seldom fooled, he had completely misread Verica. His sixth sense had advised him against trusting the man, knowing the Regni king was treacherous. But he had judged his movements correctly in the past. Now, Verica was marching toward Caleva.

  Epaticcos gave Porcius a scathing look before turning back to the head man. “How many does he bring?”

  “At least two thousand on foot and another thousand by horseback and chariots.”

  “You have served us well. I’ll listen to the other details later.” The hairy, little man melted into the shadows.

  Epaticcos turned to Havgan. “Again your sources proved correct.” Havgan smugly nodded. The king glared at Porcius in the mesmerizing
torchlight. Silence enveloped the hall, and Porcius wiped his hands on the side of his tunic.

  “There is your answer, Roman, no war, eh!” the king snarled. “You’ve heard with your own ears. I have no choice but to defend my people. Tell your emperor it is so!”

  “I’ll return to Noviomagnus at once,” Porcius said quickly, desperately trying to regain lost face. “I’m sure I can persuade King Verica to go back to his lands.”

  “Your useless gestures are too late, Roman,” Epaticcos said. “You were foolish enough to believe his lies. I’m not!” He dismissed Porcius with a fly-chasing wave.

  “Councilors, gather round! I have no more time for fools.”

  The clan chieftains quickly surrounded the king. “Call out your warriors this night and bring them to Caleva. We march to battle with the rising of the sun. There’ll be plenty of heads and glory for all!” An enthusiastic cheer, led by Donn, rang through the Great Hall. Standing near the front, Caratacus grinned and slapped the shoulders of fellow warriors around him. A few boasted about how many they would kill in the forthcoming battle.

  Over the boisterous sounds of the chieftains, Porcius said forcefully to the king, “When your army goes to meet Verica, I too will be there!” The warriors quieted to hear their king’s reply.

  “Why?” Epaticcos inquired suspiciously, squinting his eyes.

  “Caesar will demand an accurate account of the battle. As you’ve pointed out, I have already witnessed your being invaded and forced to fight.”

  Havgan’s lean figure turned toward the Roman and jabbed a long, bony finger. “This man must be forbidden from following our army. He is a spy.”

  “Of what concern is it of ours if he’s mad enough to risk his life?” Epaticcos waved a hand.

  The Druid colored. “He … he has no right to interfere or report our affairs or those of any other Briton tribe to the Romans. Our wars are our concern.”

  Epaticcos nodded and leaned slowly forward, jutting his bearded chin at Porcius. “And why is it so important that you observe our campaign, Roman?”

  “As an impartial observer it is my duty to report to the emperor the facts as they really occur,” Porcius replied. “It’s obvious you have been provoked, and in this instance, it is time to jerk the dog to heel.”

  The king seemed to consider his remarks. “You came in peace, Roman,” he said, “so I give you permission to follow, but at your own risk. I’ll spare no warriors for your protection.”

  Havgan twisted his mouth as if in disgust. “Great King, if you allow him to follow, it could have devastating consequences. Should he be killed, by either side, Rome will surely invade our lands, and there would be war for a hundred years.”

  “I have no fear for my safety,” Porcius said. “I still wield a sword as well as I did when a tribune in the army chasing Judean zealots. And I have loyal freedmen as retainers, all trained for my defense.” This was a lie. Porcius unconsciously pulled on the left sleeve of his tunic. “I’m known throughout the island as Porcius, merchant and emissary, friend of the Britons,” he bragged. This was true. No one will harm me. “Furthermore, word that you sanctioned my presence is more protection than a legion of Roman soldiers.” The king sat taller at this remark. “And since I’ll be wearing a Roman garb,” Porcius added, “I hardly think I’ll be taken as an enemy by either side. And, if need be, I’ll act as emissary between your forces if there is any indication that a truce might be arranged.”

  “The gods damn yer truce!” Donn shouted. “This is the time fer heads!” A roar of approval erupted from the chieftains and warriors, including an enthusiastic Caratacus.

  Despite the shouts and exhortations by his champion and warriors, a wry smile crossed the king’s mouth. Porcius knew the wisdom of his council was not lost upon Epaticcos.

  But will both sides honor my neutrality? For all his bombastic rhetoric, by following the king’s army, he might not make it home alive.

  Chapter 10

  The following three days it poured. Steaming rains drenched Caratacus’s tunic and breeches. He rubbed dripping water, running down his face from the hood of his woolen cloak, as he and Tog pushed their chariots out of one mud hole after another. This was weather that demoralized the soul and hindered all movement, heavy and intense. Rolling thunder exploded and thumped without end, denying sleep to everyone. Blinding sheets of rain whipped over the countryside, filling the cracked, parched earth with much needed moisture. Summer had been unusually hot and dry in southern Britannia, which spelled drought in a land where it rained throughout the year. The peasants welcomed the life-giving waters for their thirsty crops. But rain was a warrior’s enemy, confounding troop movements of friend and enemy alike.

  Dozens of cursing riders dealt with the chalky ooze. Following behind the charioteers, thousands of warriors on foot slogged through the quagmire as they moved towards Bagshot Heath.

  “Gods, will the rain ever stop?” Tog complained.

  “I hope so, even the enemy can’t move,” Caratacus said.

  “But our warriors will die of sickness.”

  “Not if they keep moving. More get sick in camp than on the march. Let Verica and his warriors burn with fever.”

  They jumped aboard the chariot, and Tog grabbed the reins. With a cluck of his tongue and snap of the reins, the ponies lurched ahead on the muddy pathway.

  “All the same, why did they have to invade our lands?” Tog asked.

  “Don’t you remember what Uncle Epaticcos told us?” Caratacus said. “These were once part of Verica’s kingdom. He wants them back, that’s why our uncle is driving the army so hard. He’s looking for the most advantageous place to block Verica’s advance.”

  At the age of twenty-three, Verica had lost the Atrebatic throne while attempting consolidation of his power. Epaticcos, allied with Druids and chieftains favorable to him, took advantage of his vulnerability and easily overthrew the young king. Caratacus had heard stories that Verica swore undying revenge against Epaticcos. The time for that vengeance was at hand.

  Epaticcos drove his warriors mercilessly through the torrential downpour. Evening fell before he ordered his army to halt and pitch camp. The rain subsided to a light drizzle. The warriors prayed the weather would change by morning and watched the sky.

  In the king’s large, goatskin tent, lit by several smoky olive-oil lamps, Caratacus and Tog took a light meal of bread, cheese, and beer with their uncle and his champion, Donn. While they dined, a messenger arrived. His sodden clothing smelled of horse sweat and steamed in the tent’s warm confines. As the warrior approached in the shadowy light, Epaticcos raised his eyebrows. He turned to Donn, who shrugged.

  “What news do you bring us on this ungodly night?” the king asked. “It’s too wet even for old Taranis.”

  The young warrior rubbed droplets from his face. “Great King, the army of Verica has been sighted.”

  Epaticcos put down his cup of beer on the rough pallet table. “Where is he?”

  “Encamped on the edge of Bagshot Heath.”

  The king grinned. “I couldn’t have picked a better place for battle.”

  Caratacus understood. He had hunted deer and boar across the wide plain. Clusters of pine and fir trees dotted the landscape. Thorn-ridden gorse and heather quilted the open stretches.

  “Then Verica is ours, Uncle,” Caratacus remarked.

  “He is. But tonight our men must rest.”

  *

  By morning the skies cleared. The ground-fog burned away as billowing white clouds fled into the distance on a light wind. The muddy earth turned a dark gray, and trees sparkled in the early sun. Thousands of purple butterflies appeared on the landscape like flower petals buffeted by the winds. The bushy undergrowth dripped with mildew, and spiny shrubs of heather turned brilliant shades of pink and yellow.

  Caratacus was in the forefront of the army with the king’s entourage, which had taken up positions on the edge of the plain of Bagshot Heath at dawn. Leaning forwa
rd on the chariot’s front guard rail, Caratacus placed an open hand above his eyebrows to block the glare of the noonday sun. Squinting his eyes, he scanned the far edge of Bagshot Heath. He spied something in the distance. “Tog!” he said, “do you see them?”

  His brother scrutinized the area. “Aye, now I do. Their army is huge!” Crowded together to the plain’s south edge were Regni infantry companies totaling at least two thousand men. Spear blades and shield bosses glistened in brilliant sunlight, and colorful banners flapped confidently in a gentle breeze.

  “Over there, Uncle!” Caratacus called to Epaticcos.

  “Ah, now I see, exactly where I expected them.”

  Deployed on the Regni flanks were cavalry and charioteers bearing the nobility.

  “There’s Verica,” Caratacus pointed.

  Verica, powerfully built, stood tall, glaring at the Atrebatic army from his chariot. Even at five hundred feet distance, his long face and chin, appearing as if chiseled in granite, were unmistakable. He wore an iron helmet with a small bronze image of a wild boar welded to the top. Color-bearers trotted behind him.

  Donn rode his chariot forward to the center front of the Regni companies, where the chariots of King Verica and his champion were guarded by several dozen retainers on horseback.

  He halted and raised his sword in the direction of the ugly, scar-faced champion, who stood tall in his car. Caratacus recognized him as Gildas ap Caw

  Verica’s defender wore a patch over his right eye, kept in place by a leather thong. Two fingers were missing from his left hand. Like Donn, he wore chain mail over a tartan tunic and striped breeches. A fine bronze helmet with massive cheek guards topped by a horse-hair plume covered his head.

  “Come forward, Gildas ap Caw, you fucking coward,” Donn shouted at Verica’s champion, “and fight me like a real man!”

  “You’re no real man, you son of a slut!” Gildas ap Caw yelled in return. “Your mother fucked every man in the tribe including goat herders!”