He moved closer, grabbed Rhian by the shoulder, and pulled her to his chest. He gave her a lingering hug. “No, you’re the one I love, you’re my joy.” He released her and moved slightly away.
“Truly?” Rhian asked. A grateful smile crossed her lips.
“Aye.” He hesitated. “But there’s more.”
Rhian shook her head, strands of tawny hair fell across her face. “I’ve heard enough.”
He raised his hand. “Patience. It’s important that you hear the rest.”
“If you must.” She crinkled her nose as she pulled the strands away from her cheeks.
“Cartimandua has heard rumors that I will inherit the throne.”
“Where did she hear that?”
Caratacus shrugged. “The gods only know. Even I haven’t heard that story.”
“Well, you should be the next king and not Adminios.”
“Be that as it may. Listen to this,” he said. “She married Venutios three years ago.”
“I remember you saying he is a good man, I pity him.”
“So do I.”
“Better him than you.”
“She has other ideas.”
Rhian gave him a questioning look. “Meaning?”
“If I gave the word to marry her …” He hesitated.
“Go on.”
“She would divorce Venutios.”
A long gasping sound escaped her mouth. “How dare she? If the stories are true, she is nothing but a slut. You once mentioned Aunt Gwynn said a woman should consort with only the best of men. Cartimandua consorts with all sorts, even the vilest. Well, she’s not going to have you. I’ll kill her first!”
Caratacus held up a hand. “Calm yourself, my love. I will never marry her.”
“Then tell her.”
“I will,” he said softly, “first thing in the morning when I send for Da’s scribe. In the letter I will say I have no interest in her generous offer and advise her to stay with Venutios.”
“I pray to Mother Goddess she will take your advice and keep her prying hooks off you.”
“She will,” he answered in a confident voice.
“The question is, for how long?” Rhian twisted her head, looking toward the entry to their home as if half expecting to see Cartimandua at any moment.
Had Cartimandua appeared, Caratacus wouldn’t have been surprised if Rhian took a dagger to Cartimandua’s throat.
Chapter 17
MAY, AD 39
Porcius leaned over the ship’s rough, wooden rail and vomited. He hated the sea and had dreaded the voyage from Gaul to Britannia, even though it took only five hours. He retched so hard he was certain he’d puked his guts inside out. His mouth flooded with the foul taste of bile as he slumped to the oaken deck, exhausted. Deathly pale and sweaty, Porcius wiped his puffy face with a silk handkerchief. “Bring me water,” he moaned.
A smiling slave brought him a pitcher.
The Roman turned and grabbed the jug from the slave, rinsed out his mouth, and spat. “That’s better. Now, if Neptune will quit kicking my guts, I can rest.” He grabbed the swaying ship’s oak railing. Cautiously, he stepped in the direction of the vessel’s protective canopy near the stern.
“Lord, please let me help you.” Cyrus placed a hand on Porcius’s shoulder.
“I can manage!” Porcius shoved his freedman’s long, muscular hand aside. “I’m not dead yet.” But after stumbling, he extended his hand for support. “If you really want to help me, beat that grinning, fool slave. No one smiles while I’m dying.”
After resting on a bench beneath the goat skin-covered deck, his cramping muscles relaxed, the aching pain within his stomach lessened. “Now you know why I hate voyages,” Porcius told Cyrus. The Persian turned away from the ship’s railing and stepped to the Roman’s side. “Even when the crossing is this close. I pray that one day another means of traveling will be found. Unfortunately, I’ll have crossed the River Styx, and old Charon, the boatman, will laugh at my suffering the entire way.”
Assisted by Cyrus, Porcius stood again and peered landward into the light breeze. A sluggish haze lay like a clump of gray ashes on the gentle, rolling swells of the channel. He squinted in vain, searching for the chalky outline of the British coast. The beamy merchantman slipped in and out of a drifting fog bank, midmorning, late in May. Finally, there was a break, and the ship sailed into warm sunlight. The ocean changed from a drab gray-green to a brilliant blue, and an earthy breeze encouraged him with the scent of land.
“Look, there is Mersea Island,” Porcius said. “I’d know those slimy mud flats anywhere.” Little skiffs dotted the shallow waters beyond as hardy fisherman slowly dredged the bottom for oysters. “Behind the island is the Promontory of Camulodunum. From there it’s five miles up the Colne River estuary to the great fort itself.”
Partially covered in fog, the fortress’s massive, stone dikes pierced the shrouding mist like a floating monolith: gray, grim, and foreboding, as if it were a prehistoric island adrift in a becalmed sea.
“I hadn’t realized until now how much I’d looked forward to returning to this bleak isle, even though I bribed my way into the Senate while in Rome.”
Cyrus cricked his mouth into a sneer. “It is a shame you had to cater to that group of insufferable, perfumed snobs.”
“The members of the Senate hate new money and self-made millionaires, especially those who are wealthier than they are.”
“No matter, you had far more than the one million sesterces needed to qualify for the office. That is a sum many of those buffoons no longer have.”
“True, a number of the senators are lingering on the edge of poverty, hanging onto the vestiges of ancestral glory.”
“It didn’t take long before they came crawling on their knees begging you for loans and your friendship.”
Porcius chuckled. “Indeed, Cyrus. If I recall correctly, at least ten of them came crawling, as you put it, before we left Rome. Strange how all of a sudden new friends appeared out of the brickwork like flies on dung.”
“Lord, it was more like vultures feasting on carrion.” Cyrus turned to the ship’s rail and spat overboard.
Porcius sighed. “There is more truth to that than you might believe, my friend. Indeed, I shared with a few of the most influential members and the emperor’s secretary. It’s a wonder I had anything left when I was finally appointed to that lofty position. That is why I have returned to Britannia—I need to make more money through my trading contacts.” Porcius looked seaward and studied the fishing boats. Sometimes he envied the Britons’ lives, even the dangers and hardships they suffered. At least they knew what faced them on a daily basis. He wished he could say the same.
“Eight years is a long time to wait,” Cyrus said.
“Quite so, but I’m happy to be back. The pain and retching have been worth it.”
“This land,” Cyrus said as his bulbous nose flared, “is so cold and remote. In all the years I have served you, I have never grown used to it.” Bigger than most of his countrymen, the Persian wrapped his woolen cloak tighter around his husky shoulders.
“For your Persian blood, perhaps,” Porcius said. “Then again, it should be for me, but it isn’t. You see those nightingales.” He motioned skyward. “We have something in common: Britannia is a second home for both of us. Since Caligula became Emperor of Rome, I am eager to be out of the man’s sight,” Porcius continued, “and, hopefully, out of his mad mind. That is why I’m all the more grateful in returning to Britannia. I would think you would feel the same way, too.” The thin and placid face of Caligula, Tiberius’s twenty-five-year-old nephew, reminded Porcius of a goat. His looks belied the fact he was a monster, who consumed friends and opponents alike at a whim, and for no reasons other than simple amusement.
Cyrus gave him a quizzical look.
“Don’t despair, Cyrus,” Porcius consoled. “You know I could not do without your services. You’ve flogged my unruly household into submission, an
d I’m pleased. We’re as remote as one can get from Rome, but we’ll still live in comfort.”
“The great Ahura Mazda must have smiled upon you to achieve such a miracle in this foggy land,” Cyrus answered. He absently stroked his black, curly beard.
Porcius had built the small villa before he left Britannia the last time he and Cyrus went to Rome, importing every brick and stone at great expense. Porcius added, his voice trailing away, “Whether it was your God or some other that helped, I managed. I was determined to have a little bit of Roman luxury in this barbaric land.”
Unexpectedly, a huge swell slammed across the bow of the ship lifting the vessel and flinging it down like a piece of wet laundry on the rocks. A drenched Porcius found himself sprawling on the deck, shivering from the wet and cold. He cautiously got to his knees, grabbed the railing, pulled himself to his feet, and looked about. Most of the passengers and crewmen had suffered the same fate.
“Are you all right, lord?” Cyrus asked, helping Porcius to stand.
“Just freezing wet. Get me a dry tunic and a blanket.”
A moment later, Cyrus returned. “I should have been more alert,” Porcius said as he changed his clothing. Only the ship’s crew and his entourage were on board. The Persian placed a woolen blanket over the senator’s dry, ankle-length traveling tunic and around his shoulders. “This swell was a warning from the gods to keep my wits about me. I’ll need them now that I’m back among these temperamental Britons.”
“Is Prince Caratacus as hotheaded as he was in the past?”
“He used to be, and the reports I’ve received say he still is to a certain extent. However, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. Maybe the whelp has mellowed.” Porcius paused for a moment and wondered if he really had. “He’s been married to that Amazon wench, Rhian, for eleven years, and marriage tends to settle a man, even Caratacus.”
Porcius leaned on the ship’s rail again and, for a moment, closed his eyes. As the overhead sun drenched his face in warmth, he snuggled further into the woolen blanket feeling like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
It may have been inevitable that Caratacus would take another woman, and it was his right if his wife didn’t bear children, but it hadn’t begun that way. Thankful for having an original copy of his report to Tiberius at the time, Porcius had refreshed his mind on all matters such as this during the channel crossing.
Recalled to Rome eight years earlier, the Senate had tried Porcius for embezzling tribute. His responsibilities had included collecting gold and other precious metals from the Britons and sending it to the imperial treasury in Rome. Although exonerated, Emperor Tiberius had decided to keep him close to home for further scrutiny.
Now, after a long absence, the emissary was returning to Britannia. Many of his compatriots accused him of madness, but he disregarded their pleas to stay in Rome. News reached Porcius that Cunobelinos’s rheumatism grew worse with each day, and he suffered from swollen, aching joints, but only recently had it impaired his movements. Nevertheless, he tenaciously clung to power. Porcius learned that during the last five years, three conspiracies against the old king’s life had been uncovered, the conspirators ruthlessly ferreted out and butchered. His son, Caratacus, had defeated the Dobunni in another round of skirmishes and fought brilliantly against the Iceni Tribe.
Remarkably enough, Adminios had refrained from any attempt to kill his father or Caratacus. Thank Jupiter he has heeded my advice. But how much longer will he wait?
But Cunobelinos’s archenemy, Verica, has increased power at an alarming rate, long since recovering from defeat by Epaticcos. Verica formed an alliance with the king of the Belgae, Epaticcos’s neighbor. Intrigue enough to merit Rome herself, Porcius surmised.
Indeed, southern Britannia was mired in turmoil, and Porcius and Rome liked it that way. He was determined to continue sowing the seeds of disenchantment. Constant political strife kept the Britons weak and vulnerable to outside intervention. In the past, he had used that as leverage for obtaining very favorable trading concessions for Rome and would do so again.
When he originally drafted the report, he’d dismissed Tiberius’s insatiable appetite for details of Britannia’s power as just another quirk or perversion. Nevertheless, when he went into self-imposed exile on the Isle of Capri, he lost interest in Britannia. That changed when Caligula came to power upon the old ruler’s death. The young emperor’s interest was nearly as intense as that of his old uncle, Tiberius. Now, such details of love and hate between various parties might prove invaluable, as old wounds could be reopened if necessary, and he had an ample supply of salt.
*
“We have arrived, lord,” Cyrus said.
Porcius snapped his head about and watched deck hands as they threw mooring lines to the dock workers below. “Something’s not right, Cyrus.”
“Lord?”
“King Cunobelinos hasn’t sent his usual contingent of counselors and Druids to greet me as is his custom.” Porcius scanned the bustling crowd of warehousemen, merchants, and sailors scattered along the stone quay. “He hasn’t sent anyone. I have been away for a long time, but I don’t think he would have changed that much, or would he? By now he should have received the message I was returning. There must be something wrong with the old king.”
Chapter 18
Three days before Porcius’s arrival, Caratacus, accompanied by Clud and Tog, had been summoned to the Great Hall for a council of war with his father. Outside, a freezing, afternoon rain fell, while inside, it was cold and dank. The smoky, center hearth, smelling of pine resin, emitted little warmth. The three made their way through a group of warriors and clan chieftains hovering about the fire pit. Bundled in furs, the haggard king sat on his Roman throne surrounded by clan chieftains, Ibor the Druid, and Caratacus’s older brother, Adminios. Dressed in a sour-smelling and mud-spattered, striped tunic and breeches, the older brother’s face reddened into a scorching look. He spotted Caratacus, and his dark eyes narrowed and full lips curled in disgust beneath his drooping moustache. Fists bunched at his side.
“Your father belongs in bed,” Clud whispered as they approached the dais.
Caratacus grimly nodded. “No doubt Adminios wants my father’s death.”
The nostrils of Tog’s long, pointed nose flared. “Not to mention yours,” Tog added.
After the usual salutations, Cunobelinos turned to Ibor. “Is everyone present?” he asked in a voice that sounded like a sword being sharpened on a grindstone.
“Yes, High King,” Ibor said.
“Come closer, Prince …” The king paused, and Ibor whispered something in his ear before stepping back a few paces. “Prince Caratacus … Son. My eyesight grows worse with each passing day.” He coughed hard several times and spat on the straw-covered floor. “We have decided that you are to lead our army north to Brigantia and aid our noble half brother, King Dumnoveros, against the Caledonians.”
“Is this in response to the message you received this morning?” Caratacus asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Aye, he urgently needs our help. His forces are not strong enough to repel the invading Caledonians and Picts, who are pillaging the kingdom’s northern lands.”
Caratacus stood silent, feeling nothing. Strange, I should be honored. For ten years I have waged war and led our tribal forces in many battles defeating our enemies, bringing honor to our tribe. But the enormous loss of life sickens me. My warriors have been slaughtered. Such waste. The supply of good men is not inexhaustible.
Then he realized the king and the rest were staring at him, awaiting a reply. “I am honored you have chosen me from so many worthy chieftains,” he responded formally.
“You were chosen because you have proven yourself a leader among leaders,” the king said. “You are also my son and will represent us in Brigantia.”
Adminios turned to his father, puffing out his chest. “But Da, Great King, what about me? I can lead.”
Before Cunobelinos could answer,
Caratacus said, “Does our father have to draw you a picture? You’re unfit to lead pigs.”
“You shit eater!” Adminios shouted. “I’ll show you who can lead!” He lunged toward Caratacus, only to be restrained by a couple of chieftains.
A loud murmur of disapproval erupted among the gathering in the court.
“I’ll gut you first,” Caratacus answered. His hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger, which he pulled instantly from the scabbard and pointed at Adminios.
“Enough!” Cunobelinos roared, his voice echoing throughout the hall. He coughed several times and spat on the floor before giving both his sons a withering look.
Caratacus shoved his knife back into its holder, while Adminios shook off the hands restraining him and stepped back.
The king gestured to Adminios. “You are only capable of hunting cattle thieves, nothing more.”
For a split second, Adminios’s mouth opened as if to speak before closing it again. He looked about; the eyes of the court seemed to be focused on him. “But … but, Da …“
“For years,” Cunobelinos continued, “I have given you minor commands, leading our warriors on raids against our enemies, in hopes you would prove yourself a worthy leader. Although you have shown bravery, you displayed no leadership. You chose to allow your captains to lead while you followed.”
“That’s not true, I swear it,” Adminios said.
Cunobelinos studied the older son. “The reports I have received said otherwise.” He jabbed a finger in Adminios’s direction. “Most of the time you were drunk. Only by the benevolent gods have you survived.”
Too bad you weren’t killed, it would have saved Da a lot of grief, Caratacus wanted to say but held his tongue.
“Isn’t it enough that my warriors won the battles?” Adminios asked.
“Chasing cattle thieves doesn’t count for much of a victory. You must lead from the front, not through your captains.”
The king’s eyes swept the battle-hardened men and then Adminios for signs of challenge. None was seen or voiced. “There is more. Instead of taking a proper wife, you still waste your time as a womanizer. You have no heirs.”
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 16
