“Spies, of course. Who do you think?” Porcius answered with growing impatience. Doesn’t he realize the implications of his acts? “You are fortunate they didn’t tell your father. And since you visited Verica in secret, he could have gotten rid of you, and no one would have been the wiser.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
That’s because you never think. Porcius narrowed his eyes. “I strongly suggest you refrain from any further reckless attempts on Caratacus’s life.”
Adminios leaned closer. “Then I need your help, Rome’s help.”
“Not at this point.” Porcius waved his hand as though swatting flies.
Adminios raised his black eyebrows. “Why not? Rome has conquered our Gallic cousins. Why not invade our lands and place me on the throne when my father dies?”
One day you will be Rome’s puppet. “At this time, Emperor Tiberius has no interest in sending an army to Britannia. It seems, if the rumors and secret reports I have received are true, he lives in self-imposed isolation on the Isle of Capri. He has been indulging himself in lusting after little boys and girls—disgusting.”
The nostrils of the young man’s big nose flared. “The pig! We have laws protecting our children from monsters like him. Can’t the old bugger be replaced?”
Porcius glanced about the reception room and lowered his voice, “There is one who would like to do just that—Sejanus, his Praetorian Prefect. He is in everything but name the ruler of the Roman Empire. Tiberius believes his every word whenever Sejanus accuses anyone of treason, lies though they may be. Unfortunately, he too has no interest in invading Britannia.”
“Why not?”
“It’s called power. He’s waiting for Tiberius to die or the right opportunity to kill him so he can rule as Emperor—he has the backing of the Praetorian Guard.”
“But how long before he takes power?”
Porcius threw both hands upward. “Who knows? The true heir to Emperor Tiberius is young Gaius Caligula. Now, if he manages to survive any of Sejanus’s murderous attempts on his life and succeeds Tiberius, then possibly he would intercede on your behalf.” He paused and jabbed a finger toward Adminios. “However, under no circumstances are you to link my name with any hint of a Roman invasion—I will deny it to the world. Do you understand?”
Adminios nodded.
“Until then, you must wait.”
Adminios glared at Porcius. “I will, but not for long.”
*
Late afternoon, early in March, in the cold gloom of overhanging, slate-gray clouds, Caratacus, Tog, and Clud had left the king’s chambers, split up, and proceeded to their respective homes. As Caratacus neared his, a lone rider cantered his bay horse down the muddy path, the sounds of muffled hoof beats growing louder as the rider approached him. He reined up in front of Caratacus, the horse drenched in sweat, white foam dripping from its mouth. Caratacus immediately recognized the scar-faced warrior as Llew, one of Epaticcos’s younger retainers. He wore a cloak around broad shoulders. A longsword hung from a baldric running down the front of his tunic to his waistline on the left side. Why did he come to me and not Da? Is something wrong with Uncle Epaticcos or Aunt Gwynn?
“Llew, welcome,” Caratacus said. “Do you bring news from my uncle?”
He dismounted and stepped toward the prince while holding the horse’s reins in one hand. “I do, Prince, but it’s not good.”
“What? Speak, man.”
He gulped. “The king’s wife is gravely ill. He asks that you come at once. He is afraid she is dying.”
“Aunt Gwynn’s dying? No!” Caratacus’s muscles tightened. He took a deep breath and struggled to keep a sober face.
“That’s what he fears.”
“All right, Llew, I will make preparations to leave with you in the morning. I will tell my father and Tog—my brother will ride with us. In the meantime, I will see that you get something to eat and drink and a place for you and your horse to rest. You must be exhausted.” Why did this have to happen now? He and Rhian hadn’t seen Epaticcos or Gwynn since the wedding. They had planned to visit them next summer after the baby was born.
After seeing to Llew’s needs, Caratacus informed Cunobelinos, who said his pressing duties as king would not allow him to travel to Caleva. However, he prayed for Gwynn’s recovery, but if she went to the gods, he’d send his condolences. Caratacus then found Tog, explained the circumstances, and hurried to his home.
Caratacus returned home and spotted Rhian, her growing belly outlined by a flowing tunic, standing at the hearth. She watched as one of her young serving women stirred a pot of stew, the spicy aroma enveloping the room.
Rhian turned and smiled as he approached, but it disappeared, her eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong, Caratacus? You look as if an evil spirit has crossed your path.”
He huffed. “It’s Aunt Gwynn, she’s dying.”
She gasped. “What? How do you know?” She stepped a few paces in his direction.
“I just received a message from Llew, one of Epaticcos’s retainers.” He explained in greater detail.
“Then you must go, darling,” Rhian said when he finished. “She was like the mother you really never had.”
“My real mother died when I was four—I hardly remember her.”
“When will you leave?”
“At first light with Tog and Llew.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Will you be all right? You will deliver our baby soon, and I want to be here when you do.”
Rhian gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t fret, Fand is an excellent midwife. Besides, you’ll be back before the baby arrives.”
Caratacus hugged his beautiful wife. “I pray I will. I also pray I will arrive in time to see Aunt Gwynn before she leaves this world.”
“As do I,” Rhian said.
“She was Uncle Epaticcos’s favorite consort and wife.” Caratacus stared beyond his wife as though looking into empty space. “He’s bound to take her death very hard.”
*
For the next three days, Caratacus, Tog, and Llew rode hard, only stopping when it grew too dark to ride. They arrived in Caleva, capital of Epaticcos’s kingdom, on the evening of the third day.
Llew had been dismissed. Caratacus and Tog were greeted by the captain of Epaticcos’s retainers after the guards at the hill fortress gates had already passed on the word of Caratacus’s arrival.
“Where is my uncle, the king?” Caratacus asked. “How is my aunt, Gwynn?”
“The king is at his house,” the captain said. “He will answer your questions, Prince Caratacus. Follow me.”
Inside in the gloom of Epaticcos’s home, Caratacus and Tog found him wrapped in a heavy, woolen cloak, sitting on a high-backed, cushioned chair by the smoky, central hearth. The pulsating light of the central fire and four olive-oil lamps on a couple of small adjacent tables illuminated his ashen face. Deep lines crawled down the side of his leathery features and across his forehead. Sunken, black pouches shrouded the area beneath his lower eyelids. Caratacus’s heart leapt into his throat. He glanced to Tog, who nodded. Both knew.
“Uncle?” Caratacus asked.
Epaticcos slowly looked up at Caratacus and Tog, who stood before him. “Leave us,” he ordered the captain hovering behind the two young men. He gestured to the two stools opposite him. “Be seated.”
When the captain departed, Caratacus asked, “Is she,” he swallowed. “Is she gone?”
Epaticcos’s lips tightened, and he inhaled through his nose and exhaled. “Yes … I am afraid so.” He inhaled again and, for a second, turned his face away.
Tog paled and sniffed. He cleared his throat. “When did she die, Uncle?”
“About three hours after I dispatched Llew to fetch you two.”
Quickly, Caratacus calculated at least six days and more had passed. “I take it you have already buried her?”
Epaticcos nodded. “Aye, we couldn’t wait. I hate to say it, but much as I wanted to wait for your arrival,
her body quickly started to decay. I had no choice. We buried her two days after she died—with all the honors due to a queen.”
The muscles in Caratacus’s body tightened, his face grew hot. As much as he wanted to weep, he couldn’t. He bit his lip, swallowed, and asked Epaticcos for the details. “What did she die from?”
“A wasting disease.”
“So soon?” Tog asked. “She seemed healthy enough when we went to Camulodunum for Caratacus and Rhian’s marriage.”
Epaticcos looked into Tog’s and then Caratacus’s face. “Remember the night the assassin almost killed Rhian?”
“How could I forget,” Caratacus answered.
“If you recall, Gwynn and I weren’t there when you and your father and the others ran to her aid.”
For a second Caratacus and Tog turned to one another. “Now that you mention it,” Caratacus said, “that’s true. I thought you were visiting friends.”
“We weren’t. Gwynn began spitting blood that day and fainted.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Tog asked.
“She didn’t want anything to spoil the wedding,” Epaticcos answered.
“Still we should have been told,” Caratacus said.
Epaticcos raised a hand. “She wouldn’t hear of it. When we returned to Caleva, she grew worse, spitting more blood. Your aunt started losing weight and wasted away quickly. At the end, she was little more than a skeleton.”
“But so fast? She was a big-boned woman, who would have thought it could have happened so quickly,” Tog said.
Epaticcos nodded. “I know, she wanted to live long enough to see the both of you one more time—it wasn’t to be. Now,” he paused, “she is in the underworld and at peace.”
Caratacus’s body ached. He wanted to weep, but knew it would be considered unmanly. He had to wait until he was alone.
“Enough of my loss,” Epaticcos said, pulling Caratacus from his grief. “How are you two? More importantly, how is Rhian? I hear she is with child.”
“She is due in little more than a month,” Caratacus said.
Epaticcos managed a weak smile. “Then I won’t keep you long. Despite my loss and my sorrow, there is important news I must share with you now. In the morning we will visit your aunt’s tomb, and then you can return to your homes.”
“What is your news?” Caratacus asked. What is so important that it can’t wait until later?
“I have heard rumors that your traitorous brother, Adminios, has been in touch with Verica.”
Caratacus and Tog glanced to one another. “Dirty bastard,” Caratacus huffed. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” He stood and began pacing back and forth in front of the hearth.
“But why?” Tog asked. “As if I couldn’t guess.”
Epaticcos shook his head. “There is no firm evidence that it’s true.” He watched Caratacus. “A couple of passing traders, whom I’ve done business with on a regular basis, told me. They heard the story when they were in Noviomagnus. Have either of you noticed Adminios being away from Camulodunum for any length of time?”
“I haven’t paid any attention to his movements,” Caratacus said. He stopped and eyed his uncle. “I figured he was probably out hunting again.”
Tog pulled on his scraggly moustache. “He wouldn’t have used a messenger as a go between with Verica, would he?” Tog asked.
“I don’t know,” Epaticcos answered. He adjusted his cloak, wrapping it tighter about his shoulders. “Adminios could have used a merchant as a go-between, but that could prove risky as the person might think it more profitable to inform Cunobelinos.”
“Unless Adminios paid him a large fee,” Caratacus added, not liking the conclusion he reached. He paced again.
“Either way, it seems that he made contact with Verica,” Epaticcos continued. “He probably went to Verica in disguise, otherwise, he would have been recognized.”
“I didn’t think he was that clever—must have had help,” Tog said. He cracked his knuckles and sat straighter on his stool.
Caratacus halted and sat down. “Well, what did he and Verica discuss?”
“He asked his help in overthrowing your father.”
“Damn him!” Caratacus blurted. “He’s a fool if he believes Verica would aid him in overthrowing Da. Verica would murder Adminios in return.”
“I always knew Adminios was stupid, this proves it,” Tog said. He turned to his older brother.
“My thoughts, too,” Epaticcos said. “However, there is no proof. Both would deny the accusations.”
“Then I’ll confront Adminios as soon as we return to Camulodunum,” Caratacus said, his voice full of determination. “I’ll wring the truth out of him!”
Epaticcos narrowed his eyes and studied Caratacus. “You would do that based on what? Rumors? Your father would never tolerate it. All you would accomplish is to alert Adminios, and he would hide all further treasonous activities. He would plead innocence with Cunobelinos accusing you of being a liar, because you crave the kingdom for yourself.”
“Why couldn’t he be tortured?” Tog asked.
Epaticcos’s eyes met Tog’s. “Your father would never torture his sons, you know that. It’s not his way. His outside enemies—yes. Besides, your father was counting on Verica as an ally to war against me. Cunobelinos would probably kill Adminios outright if he believed he sought Verica’s help to overthrow him. Still, you need hard evidence before your father will move against Adminios.”
“Then what should I do?” Caratacus asked. He slapped a hand on his thigh.
Caratacus’s uncle surveyed him with is hawk-like, brown eyes. The old battle scar slicing diagonally across his face gave him a menacing look. He jabbed a finger toward Caratacus. “Wait, but keep a close eye on him. I will send spies, traders I know, to Noviomagnus to learn more—to see if the rumors are true.”
“All right, but it will be difficult to refrain myself from slicing off his stinking head.” Caratacus placed a hand tightly around the hilt of the dagger tied to his waist.
Epaticcos turned to Caratacus and then Tog. “Stay away from him—both of you. Keep level heads and your eyes wide open.”
“Both of us will keep a watch,” Tog said through clinched teeth.
“Then wait until you receive word from me before moving against your brother.”
Caratacus paused, frowning. “Where has Porcius been through all of this?” he asked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he were somehow involved.”
“He has been traveling throughout Britannia speaking with the tribal kings, looking for more favorable agreements for Rome.”
“Favorable not only for Rome but for Porcius,” Caratacus said. “I swear it’s only a matter of time before Rome invades our lands. Just like in Gaul, they’ll slaughter our people if we don’t stop them.”
“Calm yourself, Caratacus,” Epaticcos said. “If it comes to that, our armies will drive the Romans into the sea.”
Caratacus shot a fist into the air. “And I will lead the charge.”
“Do you think Porcius might have anything to do with Adminios and Verica’s plotting?” Tog asked.
Epaticcos shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so, considering Verica’s son attempted to murder the Roman and failed,” Epaticcos said.
“Aye, and Gwynedd paid with his life,” Caratacus added.
“If anything, he probably would counsel your brother to wait until Cunobelinos was dying,” Epaticcos added.
“May that not happen for many years,” Caratacus said. “But I doubt if Adminios will wait that long to make his move against Da.”
Chapter 16
MARCH, AD 37
As Caratacus waited with Tog outside his home most of the evening, he prayed that Rhian, in labor again, would finally give birth to a healthy child. The two brothers, both wrapped in heavy, woolen cloaks, huddled by the small bonfire waiting for word about her. Would the gods curse Rhian again? Tense muscles and tightness in his chest confirmed his fears. These were the
same feelings he’d experienced prior to the deaths of the other two children. Were the gods against him? Was Rhian under a curse? He prayed he was wrong. Exhaling, Caratacus breathed on his fingers, warming them against the frigid air.
Shaking Caratacus out of his thoughts, Tog said, “I still say you should come inside my house with me instead of freezing out here, Brother.” His teeth chattered. A couple of finger widths shorter and leaner than his older brother, Tog was now a grown man. A drooping moustache hung down the sides of his wide mouth.
“I’m not keeping you from your warm bed and wife, Tog,” Caratacus said. His younger brother had married a comely, raven-haired lass, Ygerna, about two years ago. Now, they had a six-month-old baby son. Caratacus regretted he hadn’t been as fortunate. He prayed that would change now that Rhian was about to give birth again.
Caratacus rubbed his hands together again. Despite the fire, a chill penetrated his body, and his hands and feet like icicles. “I’ve got to stay for Rhian’s sake.”
“I won’t desert you,” Tog answered as a wisp of warm air shot from his mouth, “even if they have to cut off my black, frost-bitten toes.” He glanced to his feet layered in thick, woolen socks, wrapped inside and outside, over the top of his leather boots. “Too bad every time Rhian gives birth it’s like going to battle. I’ve never known a woman who’s struggled so much.”
“Nor I. And thanks for the company.” Although grateful, he couldn’t hear Rhian’s birthing pains through the thick wattle and daub walls of their house, Caratacus was too embarrassed to confide his feelings to Tog. Only women shared their worries, not men.
“Prince Caratacus,” came a woman’s voice behind them.
They turned as Fand, the head midwife, approached. She wore an ankle-length, tartan tunic, covered by a light, woolen apron, splattered with blood. Furrows lined her sallow face, and the sour smell of birthing fluids oozed from her slimy hands. “I’m sorry, my Lord Caratacus … the child … he … was born dead.”
Caratacus clinched his fists and kicked one of the wooden braces of the thatch-roofed house, oblivious to the pain that shot through his foot in spite of the padded boots. “Damn! The third death in eight years! What went wrong, woman?”
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 14
