As Caratacus pulled a spear from one of his victims, he spotted mud-spattered Porcius on his knees, no more than five feet away. His torn garment revealed rolls of blubbery fat. Porcius attempted to stand from his knees when an enemy warrior raised a sword above his head. Caratacus shrieked, distracting the warrior momentarily, and slammed a lance into the fighter’s chest. The man dropped his weapon and instinctively grabbed the shaft as the impact of the weapon toppled him backward into shallow water.
The deflecting blow from the falling enemy’s sword struck blood-spattered Porcius on the shoulder, leaving a minor arm wound. Porcius grabbed the sword, sticking upright in the mud, and fell upon the victim slashing in a rage, churning the waters into a pinkish froth. Apparently, after regaining his wits, Porcius caught his breath. He turned his head, his eyes wide, and discovered his rescuer was the son of King Cunobelinos.
“I’ll not forget what you’ve done for me, young Caratacus. I’ll give thanks to all the gods, Roman and Briton alike, for your saving my life. You are indeed worthy of your father, and the emperor will hear—” Still enraged, he turned again and violently hacked the dead man’s body.
Caratacus nodded in new respect for the Roman and ordered a mount for Porcius along with an escort to the Atrebatic camp.
*
At dusk, Cyrus and one of Porcius’s scribes stumbled into camp, bearing grisly tales of death. The Persian and the clerk had managed to escape.
“I’m grateful you survived, my friend,” Porcius said. “We will discuss it in greater detail later, I’ve just received a summons to the king’s camp. Epaticcos won an overwhelming victory today, and Verica’s army has withdrawn in disarray.”
*
Porcius entered the king’s huge goatskin tent just as Epaticcos was about to address his men. He hurried to one side where he had a clear view of everyone. To the ruler’s left stood the cadaverous Druid, Havgan, like a ghoulish shadow in the pulsating light of several oil lamps. The Roman noticed Caratacus’s bare-chested, long hair streaked with dirt and breeches caked in mud, smelling of rank sweat and blood, as he appeared before his uncle. Around his upper bicep he wore a tightly knotted piece of brown cloth. A minor wound, Porcius thought. Behind his brother, Tog mingled with the lesser chieftains, priests, and Donn.
Epaticcos noticed Porcius out of the corner of one eye. “Come forward, Roman. Here.” He motioned to where Tog lingered.
Porcius gave the younger brother a terse nod.
“You showed great bravery and initiative in rescuing Porcius the Roman,” the king said to Caratacus. He handed the prince a wooden bowl of beer.
“I couldn’t allow Verica’s men to kidnap and slaughter him, even if he is a Roman,” Caratacus answered. He turned about, saluted Porcius with the bowl and drained the contents in one gulp.
“Your decision was wise, besides being humane,” Epaticcos said.
“Meaning?” Caratacus asked as he faced the king.
“While saving Porcius’s life, you killed Gwynedd, Verica’s favorite son.”
Caratacus dropped the bowl, a soft thud on the packed earth. “Are you positive?”
“I received news from one of my spies that he kidnapped Porcius by order of his father.”
“But why the Roman?” Caratacus asked, shaking his head.
“Verica planned to murder Porcius and blame it on me if he lost the battle,” the high king explained.
Porcius jolted. What! Why would Verica do that? He looked about checking to see if anyone had observed his reaction to this startling revelation.
“In revenge,” Epaticcos said, as if reading Porcius’s thoughts. “Rome would sever all financial support and trade. His prestige would rise in the eyes of the Emperor Tiberius, and he expected him to finance the building of another army, including mercenaries, to attack us again.”
“And he failed!” Donn spat.
I have been betrayed! The emperor shall hear of this!
Epaticcos snorted. “It’s not over yet.” He waived Porcius forward. “Roman, when you write your emperor, be sure you tell him what has been said here today and assure him of our loyalty.”
“It will be done, Great King.” Porcius bowed slightly. My report will include every detail of what took place, including Verica’s treachery! He stepped back alongside Tog.
“What else do you expect Verica to try?” Caratacus asked.
“I don’t know.” Epaticcos exhaled, grabbed a cup of beer handed to him by a slave, and swilled its contents in one heave. “But we must remain on guard. When you kill a man’s favorite son and vanquish his army, he won’t rest until he gets revenge. What he doesn’t obtain on the battlefield will be gained by other, more sinister means.”
*
When Porcius returned to his camp, he dictated his report, including his capture and rescue by Caratacus.
“In summary,” Porcius dictated thoughtfully, “I am convinced the king and prince were sincere in their words regarding my rescue and loyalty to you, Caesar. As for my brief capture, I suffered minor wounds and the loss of all save one loyal freedman and scribe. But I extracted blood upon one enemy of yours, Great Tiberius. Should these ferocious warriors ever wear the colors of your legions, the world will be forever Roman. Should they unite under a Briton banner, our road to final victory, if you decided to expand the empire to this land, will be long indeed.”
Chapter 11
MAY, AD 28
“I see the Dun,” Tog said to Caratacus. Holding the reins in one hand, controlling their chariot, he pointed with his other in the direction of the rise. Beyond it loomed the fortress of Camulodunum, shimmering in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. The two young men were part of Epaticcos’s retinue of two hundred warriors and courtiers, on foot, horseback, chariots, and wagons approaching the home their father, Canubelinos, and capital of the Catuvellauni and Trinovantes. This was also a wedding party, as Caratacus was to be betrothed and married to Rhian. Caratacus’s group brought with them the bride’s gifts for the wedding ceremony. Epaticcos, riding at the head of the retinue, carried the maiden’s fee, to be given to Rhian’s mother as custom demanded.
The size of the entourage, combined with the sounds of conversations, clattering hooves, and grinding wheels bumping along the wooden trackway, drew a scattering of curious onlookers from the nearby port and village at the bottom of the hill. Here, the shops huddled along the river docks where merchant vessels from many lands moored. Goods were being unloaded and transported by wagon or on the backs of slaves up the winding trackway to the hilltop.
Three fortified dikes guarded the western approach to the citadel. Another series of defensive dikes crisscrossed the chalky hills with farmsteads and marshes overlooking the brackish Colne River Estuary. A flight of long-billed curlews glided past the noisy band as they headed down to the adjacent mudflats—their shrieking, “pic! pic! pic!” swirled on the cool sea breeze.
High hills formed embankments to protect the north and south flanks of the stockade, and the twisting river and adjacent swampland made passage nearly impassible. Within its large confines were several mini-forts, surrounded with moats and smaller farmsteads built of timber and clay. The Great Dun, although sprawling, was impregnable and foreboding. Indeed the citadel seemed to prosper, and only a fool with men to squander would dare challenge her.
The salty smell of the British Ocean, carried on a gentle wind, drifted upward and seemed to engulf Caratacus. Although he was dressed in a woolen tunic and trousers and wearing a scarlet cloak about his shoulders, he shuddered. As they climbed the trackway to the hilly settlement where his father held court at the Great Hall, the young prince pondered the official message of betrothal he had received in Caleva …
Last month, nearly eight months after the Battle of Bagshot Heath, the courier had arrived at Epaticcos’s home during the evening meal. “A message from your brother, the high king,” the chief steward said to Epaticcos, who sat with the rest of his family on reed mats eating a meal of
mutton, bread, and ale.
Caratacus leaned in the direction of his uncle as the steward whispered in Epaticcos’s ear. Unable to hear anything, Caratacus turned to Aunt Gwynn, who put a finger to her lips. He huffed and glanced at Tog, who shrugged.
The king nodded, and the servant departed.
Caratacus’s aunt, Gwynn, wore her working dress, a full-length, russet, plaid tunic, cinched around her matronly waist by a plain leather belt. Pulled tightly behind her head, her silver hair was curled into a tight bun, held in place by pins made from rare whale bone purchased from Scandian traders. The forehead of Gwynn’s moon face pinched into deep lines, and her cobalt eyes squinted when she asked her husband, “What does your brother want?”
Epaticcos motioned to his wife and Caratacus. “Something we’ve all been waiting for, my dear. The arrangements have been finalized. Caratacus,” Epaticcos said gravely, “you are to be betrothed and married to Rhian on the sixth of next month, the Festival of Beltaine, during the blooming of the mistletoe.”
Caratacus bristled. “But why? I don’t want to be married. I’m not ready!”
“You have no say in the matter. The union is important to the family house.” Epaticcos finished a cup of ale and glared at Caratacus.
“But she’s too young, so am I.”
“She’s seventeen and a grown woman. She should have been married by now.” Gwynn pointed a finger at Caratacus and fixed her eyes as cold as a lioness on him. “You said you were a man. Part of being a man is taking on the responsibilities of marriage and being a good husband. Don’t you want to keep your house alive?”
Caratacus nodded. “Aye.”
“Then you will marry Rhian. She is strong and beautiful and will bear many healthy sons,” Epaticcos said. “If need be, she’ll fight in defense of your home or by your side on the battlefield.”
The young prince glanced at Tog, who shrugged his shoulders. They appeared to be growing more muscular with each passing day. The younger brother could not say anything in his defense without being punished.
Jumping up from his mat, Caratacus tossed away the mutton joint and wiped his greasy hands on his breeches. “I know I must obey you and Da,” he said to Epaticcos, “but nothing says I have to like being enslaved!” He stormed out of the house.
I’m not ready to be stuck in a hovel with a bunch of brats!
*
Now, a short distance behind Epaticcos’s entourage, Caratacus and Tog threaded their way by chariot through Camulodunum’s winding, muddy paths, a four-day journey from Caleva, capital of the Atrebates and ruled by Epaticcos. Caratacus was oblivious to the ever-present smoke permeating the walls and rooftops of the capital’s many conical huts and longhouses and dissipating in the crisp morning air. He mulled over the audience he was about to have with his father in the Great Hall. Caratacus had always looked forward to seeing his father, Cunobelinos, but this time was different.
“I don’t want any part of this betrothal, Tog,” Caratacus said.
Tog, whose youthful face had begun bearing the first scraggly signs of a copper beard, turned his head to one side. He spat beyond the chariot’s wicker rim. “The family demands it, Brother. It’s all politics.”
“I’m not ready for marriage, political or otherwise.” Caratacus hawked and spat over the side of the chariot.
“But you haven’t seen her since last summer. Girls grow a lot between fifteen and seventeen,” Tog said, holding his hands out like cups in front of his chest as he grinned.
“That doesn’t mean I have to marry her. Why couldn’t she move in and sleep with me like the northern tribes’ women? That’s what our cousin, Cartimandua of the Brigantes, did before she married Prince Venutios.”
Tog snorted. “Too bad customs get in the way. Then again, if the rumors are true, Cartimandua’s been plowed by every man she could get her hooks into.”
“Rumors are dangerous. But if that’s the case, she went too far. It’s one thing for a woman to consort with the best of men, like Aunt Gwynn did with Uncle Epaticcos, but not just anyone.” Caratacus shook his head. “Still, getting a divorce is a lot tougher when there’s a dowry involved and solemn invocations by Da and the Druids.”
“Look, Brother …” Tog hesitated. “You’re not going to like what I say, but my gut tells me Rhian will make you a good wife.” He glared at his older brother as if in challenge.
Jolted, Caratacus’s muscles tightened, his narrowing eyes met Tog’s stare. Is he mad? I swear he is! Silence. He closed his eyes and exhaled. Opening them, he wondered: if perhaps he was right, he should try to make the best of the situation. After all, she was pretty and that helped. Slowly, he relaxed, and a grin below his mustached lip revealed white teeth. He reached over and tousled his younger brother’s tawny hair with his right hand and then pulled it back. “If it had been anyone but you saying that, Little Brother, I’d have smacked him to the ground. You’d best be right.”
Tog smiled. “I am, Big Brother, you’ll see.”
“Your day will be next, Brother,” Caratacus said. “I know little Ygerna has her eyes fixed on you.
Tog jutted his round, firm chin forward. “That wench will have to wait, she’s a child.”
“Ha! She’s almost fifteen.”
Tog farted.
Caratacus looked about as his senses identified the odors drifting through the huge fortress. The foul stench of blood and entrails from the slaughtered cattle mingled with the gamy smell of fresh and rotting fish. But soon the appetizing aroma of rye-grain from the bulging grain houses filled the prince’s nose like a loaf of freshly baked bread.
The group forced a passage through the crowds between the maze of shops and trading stalls. There seemed to be as many foreigners as local people. Well-attired Romans and tartan-clad Gauls mingled with smelly Germans, Norsemen, and lean Spaniards. There were even Greeks and Syrians from the distant Mediterranean.
King Epaticcos’s band included Tog; Rhian’s parents, Donn and his wife, Rosmerta; Aunt Gwynn; Havgan, the Druid; Clud, the master iron maker and bronze-smith; numerous slaves; and two hundred escorting warriors.
As Epaticcos’s party halted in front of the Great Hall, the king turned to Caratacus. A stern look crossed his bearded face. “I know you’re not pleased about the betrothal; it doesn’t matter. But remember this, regardless of your sentiments, you will conduct yourself as a prince and son of the king.”
“I will, I promise.”
“Good.” The muscles in his uncle’s face relaxed. “You’ll see that matters here are better than you expect. After all, you are being recognized by your father for your valor against Froech and the rescue of Porcius.”
Caratacus nodded. He sometimes wondered if he should have rescued the fat Roman and if Porcius appreciated this fact or took it for granted.
“Why, he even admitted to me in a message I received before the journey,” Epaticcos said, “that his death would have resulted in far-reaching consequences for our lands.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Perhaps he was grateful after all.
“I had expected you would have seen the betrothal as a happy occasion. That should have been enough reason for the journey without further recognition. You’ve known each other since childhood,” he reminded his nephew. “Regardless, you will do your duty well.”
Inside the torchlighted Great Hall, Caratacus squinted until his eyes adjusted to the dim light of pulsating torches. Oblivious to the murmurs of the crowded gathering, the smells of body sweat mixed with a variety of reeking perfumes, and the spicy odor of a boar roasting on a spit in the great hearth, he noticed with renewed disgust the trappings of a Roman court. This included Roman tapestries depicting hunt scenes hanging along the wall. They were interspersed with marble statues on pedestals in the images of fauns, satyrs, and other demigods from mythology. However, he was grateful Uncle Epaticcos had insisted their party wash at the stream and dress fittingly before entering the holding. Then he spotted Porcius, dressed in a
flowing, white, purple-trimmed toga, along with his lackey freedman, Cyrus. He hadn’t expected the Roman to be present. Porcius nodded towards Caratacus, his face expressionless. They hovered among the chieftains and their consorts, Druids, bards, and other guests of the court. Draped in their best clothing, the group wore a riot of colorful plaid and tartan tunics and trousers, gowns, and dresses. An assortment of bejeweled armlets, bracelets, torcs, and earrings complimented the clothing.
Instead of his high-backed, oaken chair, King Cunobelinos sat upon a Roman curule chair lined with furs, a gift from Emperor Tiberius. A bright-purple cloak draped his powerful shoulders, hooked at the left side by a hound-shaped, ivory broach. Beneath he wore a flashy blue and gold tartan tunic and breeches. Standing beside him, Ibor gripped his silver-plated staff and studied the approaching king and prince. Shield bearers dressed in expensive, mailed armor and carrying ornate longswords and large, oval shields, stood behind the king in a half-circle and along the sides of the Great Hall.
At least his appearance hasn’t become Romanized—yet, Caratacus thought. He’d need to layer his hair in a short haircut, an olive wreath on his head, a white and purple trimmed toga, and a boy gnawing his groin. Then he’d be like old Tiberius. Fortunately, Cunobelinos still allowed their people to sit on the floor on cushions, as was customary, instead of requiring them to stand for hours. And yet … yet he controlled the clan chieftains and surrounding tribes with an iron fist. Caratacus shook his head in respect, admiring the fine, fur robes and honors paid his father.
As Caratacus and Epaticcos waded through the parting crowd, the prince glimpsed Rhian with her servants and kinswomen. Awed, his heart leapt into his throat. His mouth dried in an instant, and he barely caught his breath. His body became so hot that he wanted to remove his clothes but dared not. He wanted to stop and reach out and touch her but had to keep moving.
Gods, how she has blossomed. The fullness of her face and those breasts, by gods, she’s turned into a woman. He turned his head in wonderment for another glance. By the Three Mother Goddesses, Rhian is taller than Tog. Her emerald tunic failed to hide her curving hips. Her braided, pale-yellow hair sparkled with gold dust, a Roman extravagance.
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 10
