The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Truly, I can bed this woman, and she will stand beside me in battle.

  *

  Porcius stood near the front before the king among the most prominent guests, which included chieftains and Druids. Next to him stood Cyrus. He watched Caratacus approach his father. The Roman studied Cunobelinos as the king formally intoned, “Caratacus, our son, you have greatly pleased us. By your brave deeds, the slaying of the bandit, Froech, and saving the life of our distinguished friend, Porcius of Rome, you have earned yourself a place in the bardic tales.”

  He paused and gestured toward the Roman, who bowed slightly to the monarch and to Caratacus. I hate acknowledging I was saved by a barbarian. I know Caratacus despises me, but I am grateful and will remember his deed.

  “You have earned the right to be a warrior among warriors and leader of men,” Cunobelinos continued. “To show our gratitude, we give you a token of our thanks.” He clapped his hands, signaling drummers to pound out a deep cadence as two spearmen brought forth his present. A chorus of oohs and ahs from the people followed in their wake.

  Held forth in the torch light gleamed an oval ceremonial shield of hammered bronze nearly three feet high. It was overlaid with three large circular ridges, the center of each inlaid with small discs of sparkling red glass, surrounded by spiraling whorls. The design gave the shield the image of possessing three bull’s-eyes, mirroring oval rings of gold from many torches.

  “An impressive shield, even if it is only to show off the king’s wealth,” Cyrus said as he watched the proceedings.

  “Indeed,” Porcius answered. He scrutinized the gift’s opulence and realized it was greater than he or anyone obviously expected.

  “You realize this is more than just an expensive ceremonial shield,” Porcius whispered to Cyrus. The gift tacitly announced to all that one day Caratacus would be king. He believed his sharp eyes detected a shudder running through Caratacus’s body. No one else seemed to notice. “Prince Caratacus never expected to be so honored by his father.” Porcius touched the gold chain hanging around his fat neck, a gift for a favor he’d rendered Cunobelinos on an earlier occasion.

  “This is the first time I have seen the high king show the prince such kindness,” Cyrus said.

  “Exactly. At least the king now accepts him as a man,” Porcius said. That could be dangerous. He pondered Caratacus’s future. His becoming king was another matter. Adminios, Caratacus’s older, but lazy, brother, was the rightful heir to the throne. When it comes time for a vote, which prince would the tribal council actually elect? He is not nearly as clever or as ambitious as Caratacus, but the council has traditionally elected the eldest to the throne. He glanced to Adminios, who was in his early twenties, tall, and with a mat of jet hair down to his shoulders. The young man glared at Caratacus, his dark eyes full of hate. If Caratacus is elected over his brother, civil war might erupt, and Caratacus would have to slay him. I have to find a way and persuade the king to avoid what can only be a destructive outcome.

  “Rumors say that Rhian has loved Prince Caratacus since they were children,” Cyrus said.

  “Most likely—the wench has never made it a secret.”

  Porcius and Cyrus turned their attention to the dais when a clapping of hands brought two slaves forward with a long-stemmed amphora. For an occasion of this importance, the jug was filled with expensive, uncut, Roman Falernian wine that Porcius had supplied Cunobelinos at his own expense. They poured the amber nectar into two golden, ox-horned drinking cups for the king and Caratacus.

  Ibor, the Druid, turned to the young prince, raised his hands, and intoned, “May Camulos, God of War and patron of this great fortress, and Taranis protect and guide you always.”

  The king held up his horn and proclaimed, “I drink to your coming of age as a man and warrior.” He tossed the drink down his throat in one gulp. Caratacus followed suit to the cheers of the court.

  When the king finished, he announced, “Tomorrow we gather again to proclaim the betrothal and forthcoming marriage of Prince Caratacus to Rhian, daughter of Donn, champion of our loyal brother, Epaticcos, King of the Atrebates.” Another cheer erupted throughout the Great Hall.

  Epaticcos lifted both hands. “Come, drink heartily and celebrate with your king!” Slaves served drinking bowls and cups filled with beer, mead, and wine to the throng.

  “Let’s enjoy ourselves,” Porcius said to Cyrus, “but also listen to their loosened tongues so that I may report to the emperor their scheming plans.”

  Chapter 12

  As a bard strummed a tune on his harp, Caratacus looked about the Great Hall. His father had left his side to speak to a chieftain. Epaticcos and Gwynn congratulated him before turning away to speak to old friends. In the smoky torchlight his eyes found Rhian, who stood with her father and mother, Donn and Rosmerta, at one side of the dais, speaking to a chieftain and his wife. She was so beautiful dressed in the finest of clothing and jewelry. He prayed to the gods to give him strength as he felt himself becoming aroused. Not now! He paused and quietly took a couple of breaths. Caratacus moved in their direction, annoyed that he could only speak to her in the presence of other people. I have known her all my life, but now I can’t be alone with her until the wedding night. What rubbish! I might as well be seeing her for the first time. He had treated her so shabbily the last time they met during the harvest festival at the corral. Would she ever forgive him?

  Caratacus halted before her. She smiled as he cleared his throat. He said formally, “I am honored to be chosen as your future husband.” Why do the words came out so stiffly. I feel like an arse!

  Rhian seemed to sense his uneasiness and responded, “It is I who am honored, Caratacus. I promise to be a dutiful wife.” Her parents and the other couple nodded their approval.

  “And I will be your loyal husband,” he answered.

  “I know,” she said. “You will be the best of husbands.”

  Feeling a little more at ease, the young prince grinned. He hadn’t expected her to be so complimentary. “You won’t be disappointed, I promise.” He looked about. “Now, I must move on, I’m expected to mingle among our guests. Until tomorrow, when we are formally betrothed, I will see you then.” He slightly bowed to Rhian and her parents. They responded in kind as he stepped away. For a split second, he looked back in Rhian’s direction, finding it nearly impossible to keep his eyes off her. He turned away.

  By the gods, I hate this formality!

  As he stepped away, he overheard Donn say behind him, “He better be a good husband to ye, Rhian, if’n he knows what’s good fer him.”

  Caratacus stopped but didn’t turn his head. He listened.

  “Oh, Da, please,” Rhian said. “Caratacus will be—he’s a good man at heart.”

  “Yer me only daughter,” Donn said. “I’ll not see any harm come to ye.”

  “Tis true, Daughter, your father is right,” Rosmerta said.

  “Caratacus won’t beat me, he knows better. I would fight back like Gwyther and Modron have taught me.”

  Caratacus grinned. He knew she would.

  “Mayhap, but I want to know if’n he does, anyway,” Donn said.

  Caratacus turned and watched as Don, Rhian, and Rosmerta walked away. I will treat her like a queen.

  He wandered among the noisy but merry gathering receiving congratulations as guests shook his hand and slapped his back, along with a little humorous bantering. He accepted the guests’ best wishes on his betrothal to Rhian.

  Porcius stepped from a group of well wishers and offered his hand, which Caratacus did not take. “May I offer my congratulations, Caratacus,” the Roman said in a honeyed voice. “Rhian is a beautiful young woman—she will make a good wife.”

  Caratacus grunted a reply of thanks and moved on. I saved the Roman’s life, but I don’t have to be friends with him.

  He glanced back and saw Porcius smiling maliciously as if saying, You’ve made a big mistake.

  Caratacus turned his head and saw his
brothers Tog and Adminios together with a few other young warriors nearby. Tog grinned and motioned him over. Adminios narrowed his eyes as Caratacus approached.

  “Enjoying yourself, Tog?” Caratacus asked.

  “Aye, that I am.”

  Caratacus studied Adminios’s broad face. Full lips protruded over the slightly receding chin. A thin diagonal scar crossed his large forehead ending above the ridge of his left eye. His breath wreaked of strong wine. “What about you?”

  “Hardly,” Adminios answered. “You know I’m the one who should be the next king, not you!”

  Caratacus gritted his teeth, muscles tightened. “You know damned well this ceremony had nothing to do with that! Only the king’s council determines the next ruler.”

  “That’s not what I saw,” Adminios said in a voice closer to a growl.

  Caratacus eyed Tog, who shrugged. He turned back to the oldest brother. “Then you’re a blind arsehole. He recognized me for saving Porcius’s life and killing Froech. What does that have to do with becoming king?”

  Adminios’s face flushed. He shot a finger in Caratacus’s direction. “Everything. When I killed my first warrior in battle, he said little to me. I can fight just as good as you, better.”

  “Aye, that’s true,” several of Adminios’s friends said in unison.

  “Caratacus is just as good as you are, Brother,” Tog said to Adminios in a sharp voice.

  Porcius, who was conversing with Cyrus a few paces distant, stopped and looked their way.

  Tog continued. “Caratacus led a group of us in battle. He saved the Roman’s life!” He tossed a glance in Porcius’s direction and nodded. He in turn bowed slightly.

  “Let it go, Tog,” Caratacus said. He knew he was better than his older brother, but would not give him the pleasure of an argument.

  A sneer crossed Adminios’s mouth. “He knows I’m telling the truth.”

  “I won’t deny it, Big Brother,” Caratacus said. “You’ve proven yourself in battle.”

  “Then why all of this?” Adminios waved a hand in the direction of the crowd.

  “Ask Da yourself,” Tog interjected.

  “I will!” Adminios answered in a rasping voice.

  “You don’t have to,” Caratacus said. “I can guess.”

  “What do you mean?”Adminios questioned.

  “You spend all your time hunting, whoring, and getting drunk,” Caratacus said. “Personally, I could care less. The trouble is, you’ve never attended the meetings held by Da and the Council.”

  “So what?”

  “Unless you attend and learn from Da’s decisions, you’ll never be a good king. The cases and treaties brought to him and his councilors impact the kingdom. They also affect the common people. That’s important, too, we need their support.” Caratacus and Tog had always attended the court of Uncle Epaticcos, but he wasn’t about to tell his older brother.

  “It’s a waste of time,” Adminios said. “Who cares about who owns what cattle or how many fishing boats? The Druids and councilors can advise me.”

  “The final decision always rests with the king,” Caratacus said. “Need I say more?”

  “I have more to say!” Adminios lunged forward, but a couple of Adminios’s friends from behind grabbed his arms and pulled him back. People among the gathering turned and looked at the young men, puzzled expressions crossing their faces. Fortunately, their father and Uncle Epaticcos were too engaged in a discussion with the Druids on the far side of the great hearth to pay them any attention.

  “This is not the time or place, Adminios,” Caratacus said in a low voice. “If you attack me now, Da will banish you from the tribe. You know I speak the truth.”

  Frowning, Adminios glanced about before relaxing. His cronies released his arms. “There will be another time.” He turned and stormed through the crowd, his friends following him.

  Caratacus and Tog glanced toward each other, both shaking their heads.

  *

  The following night the Great Hall was packed for the betrothal of Prince Caratacus and Rhian. Caratacus looked about and saw Porcius standing next to Havgan at the front of the crowded meeting place. He glanced to Rhian walking by his side, escorted by her parents, while next to him were Epaticcos and Gwynn. Like a ship’s wake, they strolled through the opening made by the gathering of guests. It was all Caratacus could do to keep a sober face. His heart pounded, and he felt quill bumps raising on his arms and back as his eyes followed her graceful form. From the heat of the Great Hall, he sweltered in his woolen, long-sleeve tunic and trousers. Or was it his own heat at seeing Rhian? The gold torc chafed his neck, and the bracelets clamped around his wrist seemed more like hot prongs from a blacksmith’s forge. He clinched and unclinched his fingers and curled and uncurled the toes within his leather boots.

  In the torch-illuminated court, King Cunobelinos, wrapped in his purple, Roman cloak and matching green and gold, tartan tunic and breeches, stood before his curule chair. The Druid, Ibor, shrouded in a long, white tunic and holding the staff of his office, hovered by the ruler’s side. Shield bearers lined the wattle and daub wall behind the ruler. The group approached the stern-faced king.

  Rhian wore a long, emerald gown with short, white sleeves, perfumed by a light scent of rose petals. A broad, cloth belt embroidered in gold gathered Rhian’s dress at the waist. Slippers of supple, bleached-white calfskin enclosed her feet. Around her smooth neck hung a small, gold-torc collar and many necklaces of gold and silver. A half-dozen bracelets covered her arms, the usual dress of a wealthy Briton woman: formal in style, yet unable to conceal her allure.

  Caratacus presented Rhian with a golden, crescent brooch, exquisitely designed with concentric rings and fifteen triangle and chained pendants dangling from its base. The crowd burst into spontaneous applause.

  Rhian blushed as if she wasn’t worthy of such a precious gift. She turned the brooch over and over in her hands, stopped, smiled, and briefly touched Caratacus’s forearm, sending a tingling sensation through his body. He grinned.

  Rhian gave Caratacus a shiny, bronze belt clasp measuring half a foot long, shaped like a dagger, engraved with bulging-eyed dragons and other monsters. In the reflection of the Great Hall’s torchlight, the highly polished clasp glittered like a star on a clear summer night. He fingered the superbly crafted metal fastener and put it on immediately. The young prince turned and threw his old one to a grateful Tog, hovering with other warriors nearby, a gesture accompanied by cheers and laughter from the court.

  Epaticcos presented Rhian’s mother, Rosmerta, the customary bride’s fee, a hefty price indeed. A servant placed the small, leather bag of five hundred pieces of gold at her feet. At the king’s nod, another servant opened the main door of the Great Hall. In the flickering torchlight stood five pairs of perfectly matched, white Gallic horses.

  “Twenty heads of cattle will be added to Donn’s herd to seal the agreement!” King Epaticcos announced.

  Although Rhian was only the daughter of the king’s champion, a fee for a king’s daughter had been paid. In Caratacus’s mind, Rhian was worth a king’s measure! He knew once Rhian became his wife, his moral obligation was to her alone. Only if Rhian didn’t bear any sons would he sleep with another woman, his right as a prince. He realized too many children and mothers died in birth, and it could happen to Rhian. She deserved a chance. She would be a good wife. He had to take his duties seriously and act like a man, even though it wouldn’t be easy.

  Chapter 13

  The evening before the wedding Caratacus and Tog spent time drinking with their warrior companions at the home of one of Cunobelinos’s retainers, a young man only a few years older than themselves.

  The group sat on animal pelts circling the small, central hearth. In the glow of the firelight, they passed around a small, long-stemmed amphora full of cheap Gallic wine, splashing it into their wooden drinking bowls. Swilling loudly, they laughed and joked between gulps of the acidic vintage, complimenting
Caratacus on what a fine wife Rhian would make for him.

  “I heard a rumor you won’t like, Caratacus,” the retainer said, “but you should hear it.”

  “What about?” Caratacus asked. He placed his bowl down by his side and stared at the young warrior.

  “Rumor says your brother Adminios wanted Rhian for his woman.”

  Instantly, the muscles tightened in Caratacus’s back and arms, and he clinched his fists. “He what?”

  The broken-nosed retainer, who was missing a left ear, raised a hand. “Easy, he didn’t have his way,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “He better not!” Caratacus answered loudly.

  “Your father, King Cunobelinos, squashed your brother’s foul ambition like stepping on a bug. He heard about it and told Adminios he was too irresponsible and unworthy of a woman of Rhian’s quality. She was too fine for the likes of him.”

  Caratacus exhaled, picked up his bowl, and took a gulp of wine. “Da is right, thank the gods. What else did you hear?”

  The warrior was about to answer when a piercing scream came from outside.

  Caratacus knew immediately that the sound came from the direction of the home where Rhian was staying with her parents, and that her mother and father had gone to visit Cunobelinos at his home.

  “Rhian’s in danger!” Caratacus blurted. More screams erupted. In an instant he was on his feet, heading for the door. “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  Followed by Tog and several other young warriors, Caratacus crossed the compound beneath a moonlit evening sky. In the shadowy light, he saw his father approaching along with the Druids, Ibor and Havgan and others. He darted ahead of them. As he pounded along the dusty path, he prayed he would reach Rhian in time before she was injured or, gods forbid, killed. Why would anyone want to harm her?

  Caratacus arrived first and found Rhian and Clud, the blacksmith, standing near the entry. Although their clothing was covered by splotches of blood, he saw no signs that either had been injured. Thank the gods Rhian is not harmed. Clud, too. In an instant the tension drained away from Caratacus’s face and body. Then he spotted the gristly sight of a severed body lying on the reed-covered floor in a pool of blood by their feet.