The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Chapter 14

  January, AD 29

  Seven months later as a dreary, afternoon fog rolled in from the channel, Caratacus and Tog left the Great Hall where Cunobelinos and the High Council had held court. Caratacus smirked as he recalled Adminios demanding that the king give him a command in the next campaign. As the eldest, he had said it was his right. The king refused. “You are a good warrior,” Cunobelinos admitted, “but you are not a leader of men. You are too lazy and incompetent.”

  Adminios had stormed out of the council meeting.

  As they trudged along the muddy path, dressed in woolen tunics and trousers and wrapped in heavy cloaks against the chill, Caratacus and Tog discussed the high king’s decisions. Out of the mist, between wattle and daub houses, Adminios, along with a couple of his friends, crossed the trail a few paces away. A dog barked. Adminios and his companions stopped and glared at his two younger brothers as they halted.

  “Satisfied, Brother?” Adminios’s nostrils flared as he faced Caratacus. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

  “About what?” Caratacus said, returning Adminios’s foul stare.

  “Don’t play me for the fool, Caratacus,” Adminios answered in a snarling voice. “You know Da will give you a command in the army when the time comes.”

  You’re an arsehole, Caratacus wanted to say. Instead he answered, “You know damn well it’s his right as king, not mine. I haven’t asked him for anything.”

  “Liar!” Adminios lunged forward.

  Instantly, Caratacus’s muscles tightened. He planted his feet firmly, and his hand gripped the handle of his sword, waiting for Adminios to strike. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tog readying himself.

  Quickly, Adminios’s friends intervened and pulled him away, urging him to calm down.

  Tog squared his powerful shoulders and took one step forward. He gripped the hilt of his sword. “You’d better listen to your friends, big Brother,” Tog advised. “Don’t you ever learn? You’ve been warned by Da. If you injure Caratacus, let alone kill him, you’ll be banished for life.”

  “You don’t stand a chance against me,” Caratacus said, staring into his brother’s venomous, dark eyes.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Adminios growled as he struggled himself loose from his friends.

  “He’s right,” one of them said. “Harm your brother, and you’ll never command the army or become king.”

  “Listen to your friend, Adminios,” Caratacus urged.

  “One of these days,” Adminios said, “when Da is no longer with us, then I will take the kingdom for myself.”

  Caratacus balled his hand into a fist and raised it above his head. “That day will never happen, I’ll see to it.”

  “Oh, will you? If I have to, I will seek Rome’s help.” Adminios turned and hiked away, his companions following behind.

  Caratacus immediately thought of Porcius. Would the Roman aid Adminios? It would give Rome the excuse it needed to invade southern Britannia. They would exploit his brother’s ambition to their own ends. Should they invade Britannia, they would never leave. Adminios would be fortunate enough to survive as a puppet ruler. He would be at their beck and call like a pet dog.

  *

  Later, after supper, Caratacus and Rhian warmed themselves by the hearth against the cool autumn night air. Relaxing, he drank corma beer from a wooden bowl and contentedly glanced about their circular, thatch-roofed house. The aroma of venison stew and baked bread still lingered in the air. The empty, black cauldron, earlier filled with their dinner, casually swayed on an iron chain above the hearth. To its side sat the bee hived clay oven where Rhian baked loaves of flatbread. On the wood poles, framing the house’s wall and holding up the straw roof, his battle shield and spears hung, along with a half-dozen tartan blankets and tunics. Behind him, framed between two poles, stood Rhian’s upright loom with a bundle of raw wool piled nearby. Along the wall lay the bed-pallet where he and Rhian, now with child, spent many nights making love. Because she was seven months along in her pregnancy, lovemaking had become too uncomfortable for her. Reluctantly, Caratacus agreed they would stop until after the baby was born. He knew it was for the best.

  Rhian, dressed in a brown and white woolen shift, sat next to Caratacus quietly sewing a rip in a work tunic.

  “I heard Adminios nearly attacked you,” Rhian said. “Is that true?”

  Caratacus wiped the beer from his mouth on a tunic sleeve, wondering how women found out such news so fast. “Aye, but his friends stopped him.”

  She pricked herself with the metal sewing needle and instantly brought the forefinger to her mouth. After sucking for a few seconds, she pulled it from her lips and blew on the tip. “Why did he act so stupidly?”

  Caratacus explained about the king’s decision at the council meeting and the confrontation afterwards.

  Rhian dropped the tunic onto her lap and glared at her husband. “You know this will only get worse. Be careful, my love, Adminios will try to kill you.”

  Caratacus placed his hand to her warm cheek. “I’ll take care. I fear more that he will seek the aid of Rome.”

  “Could we defeat them?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. They have a reputation for defeating all who stand in their way. Look what happened to our Gallic cousins, and they numbered in the millions.”

  Rhian huffed. “Whatever comes our way, my warrior women and I will do our part. Gwyther and Modron have taught us well. After I have the baby, I will train again.”

  Caratacus squinted his eyes, studying Rhian. “What about the child?”

  “Don’t you worry, the baby will come first. Always.” She paused. “But I will still have time to drill with the others. Gwyther says I should take command of one of the companies when I return.”

  He nodded in approval. “Then she thinks very highly of you.”

  “I suppose. Gwyther isn’t one to give anyone leadership unless they have earned it.” She motioned with a hand as if it were obvious. “You know how harsh she is with us?”

  Caratacus chuckled. “She’s a hard one all right.”

  “She is, but she is also fair. But right now I don’t feel like a warrior.” She looked down at her stomach. “I feel so big with child.”

  Caratacus grinned as he remembered how pleased he had been when Rhian first gave him the good news. He prayed it would be a son. He reached over and gently stroked her swelling abdomen. “You’re not that big, and you’re more beautiful than before.”

  Gradually, a smile appeared on her rouged face. “You really think so?” She looked down at her dress and shook her head. “Sometimes I feel so ugly and fat.”

  He leaned toward Rhian and gently ran his hand through her hair. “Trust me, you’re not ugly and never will be in my eyes. I’m the luckiest man in the kingdom to have you as my wife.”

  Rhian hugged Caratacus. “Every day I thank Mother Goddess for making you my husband.”

  *

  Since their marriage, Caratacus and Rhian had lived in his father’s realm, the kingdom of the Catuvellauni and Trinovantes. He preferred to be with Uncle Epaticcos and the Atrebates, but custom must be honored. He wasn’t one to rebel, not without good cause. His father had given him several tenant farms from which he derived a steady income. Caratacus lived outside the fortress, his holdings on the plain near the edge of the forest. A small, circular, defensive bank and wooden palisade enclosed the home. The inner yard near the house contained several structures, including lean-to-sheds for stables and dens where his blacksmith and other craftsmen worked. When he required their services, three oval, thatch-roofed buildings for storage and quarters for servants and warriors, straddled the base of the fence. The prince’s retinue of warriors were in turn given smaller farms. And Clud the blacksmith had become his faithful friend and unofficial advisor.

  “Da is giving me the command of a small raiding party,” Caratacus said to Clud after a private meeting with Cunobelinos. It had been three days
since the confrontation with Adminios. They ambled along the rutted path between the cluster of huts leading from the Great Hall, the day cold and overcast. Both men held woolen cloaks tightly around their shoulders.

  “Who do we strike?” Clud asked. He scratched his shaggy face, killing a flea between two dirty fingernails.

  “Iceni outlaws.” He motioned with his head to the north, the direction to where the tribe shared the border with the Trinovantes, an area constantly in dispute. “They’re attacking our people’s lands along the border and stealing cattle. We will find and destroy them. If we don’t, it’ll mean war between the tribes. The king of the Iceni denies his people are involved. But he conceded it might be a couple of isolated clan chieftains raiding on their own.”

  Clud hawked and spat. “Your da’s right. A war would be too costly for either tribe, especially since it involves two Roman clients. Neither kingdom can afford a Roman invasion. We’d never get rid of those bastards.”

  “Da didn’t say anything, but Ibor told me later he felt the same fear. At least he’s giving me the chance to make my mark as a leader.”

  The two stepped around a pile of horse manure as they ambled between a couple of stock pens. “It’s about time,” Clud said. “You’ve proved your worth.”

  “Not yet,” Caratacus said, “but if we wipe them out, he promised to give me another command.”

  Since the battle at Bagshot Heath more than a year before, Caratacus had fought bravely in two other skirmishes against enemy raiders. In both instances, he received minor wounds to his arms and legs, badges of honor.

  Clud patted the large belly overhanging the leather belt of his gravy-stained, yellow and gray tunic. “A good start it is.”

  “I’ll need your advice if we’re to succeed, Clud.”

  “Ho, you have it, gladly, but it’s the same as the last time: kill the men and plow the women.” Clud laughed.

  “Then we’ll smash our enemies, sure,” he said, joining in the laughter.

  Clud stopped laughing and faced Caratacus. A dog barked nearby, and the sound of angry voices of a man and woman arguing came from a distant hut. “What about Adminios? In everything but name he’s threatened to kill you. What plans does your father have for him?’

  Caratacus scanned the shadows of the little homes within the fortress. No one lurked about, and the pathway was deserted. He continued to walk with Clud at his side. “Da will give him a command where he can do no harm.”

  “Aye, but the trouble is, he’s not clever and that shit-eating Porcius will use him for his own purposes. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t persuade him to seek Rome’s help.”

  “Da will see it doesn’t happen.”

  “Maybe, but your father grows old, and he won’t live forever.”

  Caratacus exhaled. “I know. I will deal with the problem when the time comes. Right now, I must succeed in this new command.”

  In less than two weeks Caratacus and his warriors discovered the outlaw’s encampment. Surprising them with an early dawn attack, they killed every man before they were fully awake. To Caratacus, cowardly bandits who slaughtered innocent peasants weren’t worthy opponents of a face-to-face battle with real warriors. Clud agreed.

  *

  One month later, Cunobelinos gave Caratacus a larger command. This time he was instructed to crush a rebellion among the Cantiaci, a tribal vassal of farmers and fisherman in the southeast part of Britannia. In one month he returned home in triumph to his father’s acknowledgement.

  “Your victory pleases us,” Cunobelinos said to Caratacus before a gathering of clan chieftains in the Great Hall. “You acted with bravery and ability as a leader in battle. Indeed, you are a warrior befitting our house.”

  A cheer echoed through the court. Caratacus barely contained the pride he felt in gaining his father’s recognition. All that remained to complete his jubilation was the birth of a son. And Rhian was expected to deliver their child within the week.

  He turned and saw Adminios among the front row of the court’s onlookers. Even in the shadowy torchlight, his brother’s eyes blazed with hatred.

  Is he foolish enough to try and kill me?

  Chapter 15

  Within days of the confrontation between Caratacus and Adminios, Porcius returned from a visit with one of the northern kings. He lived in a small villa outside of Camulodunum and was thankful that Cunobelinos had allowed him to build a Roman-style home in his lands—every brick and tile imported from Italy. In gratitude, Porcius made a substantial gift of gold and expensive Setinian wine to Caratacus’s father—a token of his gratitude.

  Porcius smiled when he recalled how his friends in Rome accused him of being mad to live in such a remote and gods-cursed land as Britannia. He had calmly informed them that although the Britons were savages, they were forthright, and you always knew where you stood with them—most of the time. Whereas, in Rome, you never knew from one day to the next if you would keep your head.

  Upon his arrival, the Roman had reported to Cunobelinos that he had been on a trading mission. A future alliance was more like it. However, if Caratacus did succeed the old king, Porcius wanted to make sure that the new ruler was surrounded by allies of Rome. That part he kept secret.

  On a cold rainy afternoon, three days after his return, a servant approached Porcius in the library, where he was dictating a letter to a slave secretary, and told him Adminios was at the door.

  “Escort him to the atrium, I will receive him there,” Porcius said. What does that lazy fool want from me? He dismissed the scribe.

  As Adminios entered the reception room, Porcius stood. “Welcome to my home, Prince Adminios, please be seated.”

  Adminios grunted his thanks and handed his cloak to the slave. Both sat in the small atrium on basket-weaved chairs, warming themselves by a smoky brazier. A light shower fell outside.

  For a split second, Porcius studied Adminios, whose long, black hair straggled down the side of his stubbled face, and his breath smelled strongly of wine. His mud-spattered tunic wreaked of a sour odor.

  Porcius wore a heavy, woolen cloak over his tunic and long, Celtic trousers. Woolen socks and leather boots covered his feet.

  A slave brought silver cups of calda, a warm spiced wine.

  “What brings you to my humble home?” Porcius asked after taking a sip.

  “It’s about my brother, Caratacus.”

  This might be interesting. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  Porcius quietly sipped the wine as he listened to Adminios complain about the confrontation with Caratacus.

  “I am rightful heir to my father’s throne, not Caratacus,” Adminios said in a mildly-slurred voice. He grabbed his cup and loudly gulped its contents.

  The Roman studied the younger man. The drunkard hasn’t shaved or washed in at least three days. “Remember, it is the Council and the chief druid, Ibor, who will make that decision.”

  Adminios’s full lips pursed into a thin frown. “The men of the Council are fools!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They do the bidding of the Druids. Pay them enough gold, and they will elect me as king. They’ll listen to you, especially Ibor.”

  Porcius raised his eyebrows. “You give me too much credit. The Druids hate the Romans. Why would they listen to me?”

  Adminios exhaled, his alcoholic breath nearly gagging Porcius, shook his head, and gestured toward Porcius. “Everyone knows you are friends with Ibor. He’s as corrupt as a week-old, dead eel.”

  “Whether he is or not makes no difference.” Porcius shook his head. “The truth is, your father is in excellent health. He may live for many years.”

  “Caratacus’s influence with Da will grow if nothing is done to stop him.” For a split second, the younger man balled his fists.

  Porcius, wine cup in hand, motioned to Adminios. “I heard you threatened to kill him, is that true?”

  “Aye, it is,” he answered in a defiant voice.

 
By Jove himself, this may work out better than I had expected. Rome needs Adminios on the throne where he can be easily led—a perfect lackey for the empire’s purposes. Porcius noticed that Adminios’s cup was empty and called for his servant, who scurried into his presence. After ordering him to bring more wine and dismissing the slave, Porcius turned back to Adminios. “I advise patience—your time will come.” Porcius took another sip of calda.

  “But I have already tried once and failed.”

  Porcius choked on the wine and sputtered. “You what?”

  “Aye. Remember the night before Caratacus and Rhian’s wedding when an assassin was killed by Clud the Iron Maker?”

  The Roman coughed, drew a deep breath, but coughed again before placing his cup on the small table next to him. “I remember,” he finally answered.

  Adminios scanned the atrium and viewed the entry and exit to the garden. “That was my idea.” His self-satisfied smirk irritated Porcius.

  Porcius gasped. “How?” What in Jupiter’s name was this fool thinking?

  “I went in secret to King Verica,” Adminios said in a voice above a whisper, “I told him my father was planning to make Caratacus king—” At that moment, the servant returned with two more cups of calda. When he departed, Adminios took another swill of wine and continued. “I convinced him I am the rightful heir. If he wanted revenge for his son, Gwynedd, I told him there was a way and where he could find Caratacus. But the fool assassin went to the wrong house, and Clud killed him.”

  Porcius inhaled deeply. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you know as well as I that Caratacus hates Rome and would expel all Roman traders, including you.” He paused. “I have heard you do not want to see him become king.”

  Porcius snorted. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Nevertheless, you are fortunate that your part in this attempt on his life wasn’t discovered.”

  “Who would tell?”