The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Caratacus chuckled. “Both of you will get what you want and more.”

  Caratacus looked forward to the warmth of the hearth in the Meeting Place and wasn’t disappointed. Once inside the Great Hall, the sight and smell of a large boar roasting on a spit made his mouth water. Indeed, eating a big slice of ham would be a savory consolation for not being allowed to clean up first. Nobles and warriors alike hailed the prince as he made his way through the throng of admirers. Many reached out and shook his hands or slapped his back.

  In the smoky torchlight, Caratacus saw Porcius standing along with minor chieftains before the king. The Roman’s return to Britannia caught him by surprise. For the space of a couple of heartbeats, he halted and stared at the Roman. Why had he returned to Britannia now?

  Now in his late forties, Porcius looked the part of a Roman emissary wearing a white, linen toga, his left arm bare. Tufts of gray hair surrounded Porcius’s nearly bald head, but his face remained almost free of wrinkles, his pig eyes still alert. Porcius had been in his father’s favor many years.

  As he approached his father, who sat on his Romanized throne, Caratacus sensed something amiss. Then he knew. Dressed in a long, bright, purple and gold tunic, his older brother, Adminios, sat beside King Cunobelinos. Warm furs draped him from the lap to his feet. Upon seeing his younger brother, Adminios’s hand twitched, but his cruel eyes stared defiantly. His mouth twisted into a sneering frown. The light from the hearth’s fire and pulsating torch lights lining the walls gave Adminios’s face a menacing appearance.

  When Caratacus halted before his father and saluted, he noticed the tightened skin around the king’s face, a deathly pallor. How he had aged in less than four months! Ibor, a spider of a man, stood slightly to the rear of the king.

  “Welcome home, Prince Caratacus,” Cunobelinos said. “The news of your great victory proceeds you. Through your bravery and leadership, your army destroyed the barbaric Caledonians.”

  Applause erupted from the guests in attendance.

  “It will be many years,” the king continued, “before they dare attack our cousin and ally, King Dumnoveros, again. You and your warriors are to be commended for a job well done. Songs of your victory will be sung for all time.”

  Another round of applause accompanied by cheers resounded through the meeting room.

  Caratacus’s chest swelled with pride. He glanced to Clud and Tog, who grinned and nodded.

  “Not only you, Prince Caratacus,” the king said, “but Prince Tog, your friend and advisor, Clud the iron maker, and your loyal clan chieftains will receive gifts for valor and leadership.”

  Cunobelinos nodded to three slaves hovering nearby. “Bring forward the gifts for the noble clan chieftains.” The servants stepped forward and presented each of the six men with golden armbands, a symbol of heroism. The chieftains accepted the tokens and saluted the king.

  Clud was presented with a solid, gold torc, a gift normally reserved for nobility. Clud saluted the king. “You do me great honor, High King.”

  Caratacus grinned and turned to Clud. He whispered, “You deserve it, friend.”

  Clud shrugged.

  Tog received a longsword made of the finest steel, with a handle carved from rare, imported ivory. He pulled it from a scabbard, quickly inspected, and shoved it back. For a few seconds, he remained speechless before he saluted and thanked his father.

  Clud gave a sly grin and winked at Caratacus.

  Tog apparently caught the look and whispered, “You knew? Did Da put you up to this?”

  “Well, ah, he did,” Clud replied. “He commissioned me to make it. Hard to keep the damn thing secret.”

  “You knew, too, didn’t you, Brother?”

  “I did,” Caratacus whispered.

  “And now for Prince Caratacus,” Cunobelinos said. “Bring it forward.”

  A husky slave stepped before Caratacus with a large, linen-covered packet, followed by another slave with a small bench. The package was placed on the table. The servants bowed and padded away.

  Caratacus bent and opened the bundle. Stunned, nearly losing his breath, he pulled out an expensive, highly polished, iron-ring mail shirt—fit for a king. He lifted up the heavy, protective armored shirt, turned, and showed it to the audience, who cheered again.

  Caratacus turned back and saluted his father. “I am honored that you have presented me with such a valuable gift, Great King. May I prove worthy of it.”

  Cunobelinos nodded and then looked toward Adminios. “Before the feasting begins,” he announced, “we will make one more proclamation of great importance to the entire kingdom.” He turned to his eldest son. “Adminios stand before us!”

  Adminios looked around and smirked. His head stopped as he viewed a heavily made-up woman, dressed in a scarlet and silver, tartan gown. Known to be a notorious prostitute, she brazenly smiled at Adminios. He slowly stood, but not before Caratacus caught the brief nod of approval from Ibor to Adminios. Not just something wrong here … danger. Caratacus’s older brother, shoulders back, stepped before his father.

  “Kneel!” Cunobelinos commanded. Two Druids stepped forward with a bronze ceremonial shield crisscrossed with oak leaves engraved in gold and a long, iron sword. The king presented them to Adminios and proclaimed, “I anoint thee king of our tribal brothers, the Cantiaci.”

  A stunned silence ringed the Great Hall. Then a polite applause rippled, led by Ibor and the Druids.

  Caratacus’s body tightened. Fucking betrayal! I’m the one who crushed the Cantiacians. I should be their king. He gnashed his teeth and clenched the hilt of his sword. His cold skin flushed in rage as his eyes seared those who dared meet them. Will Adminios’s sluggish mind understand the significance of this title?

  Caratacus understood. Becoming ruler of the Cantiaci, a small kingdom on the southeast coast of Britannia, was one step away from becoming king of all the Catuvellaunian and Trinovantian territories. Unfortunately, Ibor will make sure Adminios understands the meaning of his new title.

  Caratacus turned, glaring at Porcius, who lingered about five paces away. “This is your doing, Roman,” he snarled. “Only you could persuade my father to choose Adminios over me.” Low gasps rippled through the Great Hall.

  Adminios’s eyes flashed in defiance, thin lips twisting into a frown. “The noble Porcius is a friend of our father and our people. He knows who should be the rightful king.”

  Caratacus looked about and snorted. “Rightful king? What rightful king? I see only our father.”

  “You know what I mean, Brother,” Adminios answered.

  “Damn right I do. Porcius is a Roman lackey,” Caratacus said as he jabbed a finger in Adminios’s direction. “He works for Rome and his own interests, not ours.”

  Porcius shrugged and answered dryly, “I admit your father sought my advice, Prince Caratacus, but the decision was his alone.”

  “In a boar’s eye.” Caratacus raised a fist in the Roman’s direction. “You’re like an eagle circling over a victim, waiting from the right time to kill it. You preyed on his weakening mind, filling him with lies.” Murmurs rose from the court guests behind him.

  The Roman sighed. “My dear, young Prince,” he said in a voice full of sorrow, “were that the case, I would have persuaded him to invite the Roman Army to Britannia to protect his interests. But I didn’t, nor will I.”

  The prince tightened the grip on his sword hilt. “You won’t live another day if you do.”

  There came shouts of agreement.

  “Silence!” the king bellowed. He glared across the room before nodding to Porcius.

  “The king’s decision is his alone.” Porcius bowed his head.

  “What he says is true, Prince Caratacus … Son,” Cunobelinos said. “The noble Porcius had no part in our decision.” Caratacus caught Ibor’s slightly negative shake of the head. A warning unnoticed by Porcius.

  “But why, Noble King?” Caratacus asked in an incredulous voice. “Why?”

&nb
sp; “For the sake of the kingdom.”

  His eyes full of contempt and loathing, Caratacus stared at Porcius and then Adminios. “You mean for the sake of Rome!”

  “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss it,” his father said firmly.

  “There will never be a time so long as we lick the slimy paws of the Roman she-wolf.” Caratacus turned and stormed out of the hall.

  *

  Outside, the rain had stopped, and the wind scattered bruised clouds. A half-moon and countless stars lit up the crisp heavens. Caratacus left the Great Hall but wasn’t ready to go home. He walked aimlessly through the village. A short distance ahead, two dogs wrestled and snarled playfully in the muddy pathway. But their actions so irritated Caratacus that he picked up several stones and pelted the animals. “Get out of here you mangy curs!” he shouted as he found his mark. The startled dogs yelped, turned, and ran into the darkness.

  Caratacus peered down the blackened pathway. Why did I do that? Get a grip on yourself. After several deep breaths, he slogged through the muddy way between Camulodunum’s wretched wattle-and-daub huts, oblivious to the smells of barley soup, roast pork, and fish stew wafting from the cooking fires from within and the sounds of laughter of his warriors now home with their families. A horse whinnied from a nearby pen.

  He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and peered upward. A series of shooting stars streaked northward across the black, curving sky from the direction of Gaul. Omens? Ha! I don’t place value on streaks of light. The gods are just playing games.

  “You better take care, my friend.”

  Caratacus was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the intruder approaching from behind. Startled, he whirled and drew his dagger, relieved to see only Clud.

  “I could have stuck you quicker than a frog flicking a fly,” Clud said, grinning. He hurried to Caratacus’s side as he continued moving along the path.

  “Quieter, too. I wasn’t alert. I didn’t realize how angry I am.”

  Clud turned his head to Caratacus. “You should be. Adminios hasn’t the wits to be king of anything. Your father’s councilors got their brains in their arses to go along with his decision.”

  “I know, but I shouldn’t have left the Great Hall. It was an act of a witless youth.”

  “Yes … it was. But more important now, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I won’t do anything rash.”

  “That’s wise, but you must act before your shit-brained brother does.”

  “I will, but I have to make alliances first. I spoke to Tog about it yesterday. He feels the same way. There are others inside and outside the tribe who are willing to support me.” He further explained his plans to Clud.

  “You’re taking a great risk,” Clud said when Caratacus finished.

  Caratacus halted and faced Clud. “It’s either that or wilting in my scheming brother’s shadow while the Romans grab a foothold in our lands. I won’t tolerate it. But I’ll take my time and nurture my contacts.”

  Although Caratacus hated the Romans, he had more respect for their army than any other Britons. He knew the awesome powers they wielded through might of arms. If the mad Emperor Caligula committed his legions to invasion, it would be like trying to hold against the forces of a hurricane. He had to unify the south and form alliances with other anti-Roman tribes.

  An acolyte approached the two. “Arch-Druid Ibor requested your presence at his home at once.”

  Caratacus and Clud met with the old priest in a small, sparse room used for private meetings. Ibor approached as they stood near the smoldering, little hearth. He stopped and lifted his hand in peace and dropped it wearily to his side. For a few seconds his eyes studied the hard-packed floor in front of Caratacus’s riding shoes. Grimly, he brought his gaze back to the prince’s face.

  “I bring you sad news, Prince Caratacus. Your uncle, King Epaticcos, is dead.”

  Stunned, Caratacus’s heart jumped into his throat. His mouth went dry, and he licked his lips. He stood motionless for a moment. My uncle? How can that be? He glanced at Clud, seeing his look of disbelief and turned to Ibor. “When did he die?” he asked as calmly as his voice would allow.

  “Nearly a month ago.”

  Caratacus stiffened. “Why wasn’t I sent word?”

  “King Cunobelinos prohibited the sending of any messages. He wanted nothing to interfere with the war or the strengthening of the alliance with King Dumnoveros.”

  “Damn him! If the rumors I heard are true, he always wanted Uncle Epaticcos dead!”

  Ibor’s dark eyes narrowed. “Your father denies having any part of it. Epaticcos caused his own demise. But your father would have played a sinister role had not fate interfered. Your uncle’s womanizing in the Sacred Grove destroyed him before your father could.”

  “In the name of the holy gods, he had no business going into the Sacred Grove. Why?”

  Ibor explained that Epaticcos and his entourage had journeyed to the Holy Shrine by the River Itchen to negotiate a peace settlement with Verica.

  He continued, “Late on the second night, while everyone was sleeping, your uncle sneaked out of his quarters and found his way to the grove. He met with a young female novice. They were discovered in a compromising position by King Verica and his chief Druid. He was arrested, and the novice was executed on the spot.”

  “How did he die?” Caratacus asked, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

  “He was found dead the next morning in his quarters. He took his own life rather than face the Druid’s tribunal.”

  Caratacus turned his head, not wanting them to see tears. “My uncle was always more of a father to me than the king,” he said after regaining his composure. “Damn Verica to the underworld for this!” He added in a bitter tone, “He always hated my uncle.”

  “Don’t be too harsh with either one,” Ibor cautioned. “Your uncle committed a grave sacrilege and sealed his own fate.”

  The prince concluded the death of Epaticcos had been planned months ago. Yet, it seemed too coincidental that Verica would discover his uncle and the young woman so easily. No doubt Verica had planned to expose and bring Epaticcos’s downfall by exploiting his weakness for women.

  But without proof, Caratacus could not say a word. Ibor was right. In his heart, he knew Epaticcos acted incorrectly, and he himself was a coward for not admitting likewise. If he were to be king, he was determined never to allow outside influences to cloud his emotions or his judgment.

  He must form new alliances. Now!

  Chapter 27

  Five days later, Porcius and his retinue arrived late in the afternoon at the busy port of Noviomagnus, Verica’s capital, from where he ruled the Regni people. The half-day voyage down the southern coast from Camulodunum by a small merchant ship had been cold and wet but otherwise uneventful. For once I didn’t suffer from seasickness, Porcius thought when he stepped off the wooden gangplank onto the dock. His legs still swaying from the voyage, it took a few minutes to steady himself and adjust to being on land again.

  Porcius and his entourage journeyed by foot up the lowlying hill to the king’s fortress overlooking the harbor and protected by three defensive dikes of packed earth and rock. Once inside the stockade, the king’s steward welcomed Porcius’s group. He led them to their quarters, a small, circular, wicker-framed house covered by a thatched, domed roof. A small, smoky center hearth, its sunken basement made of clay, contained a fire that barely illuminated the home. Goatskin hides partitioned the place into several small rooms.

  Having time to refresh himself in the largest of the rooms, Porcius rinsed his face and hands in a bowl of tepid water and changed into a clean tunic and breeches, assisted by Cyrus. “Thank the gods for the change of clothes,” he said. “I can’t believe that only a half-day aboard ship would stink up my clothing so much.”

  “The same here, sir,” Cyrus said. “Mine smell of harbor sewage, dead fish, and bilge water.” In the flicke
ring light furnished by several tapers, the Persian’s gaunt face appeared like a mythical specter from the underworld.

  “See that you change, too.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “And when you are finished, I want you to do something for me.”

  Through his well-trimmed beard, a sly grin formed on the Persian’s hair-lipped mouth. “I think I have an idea of what you want.”

  “Indeed?” Porcius chuckled. “If you recall, the steward said I will be seeing King Verica alone, and he ordered you and the rest of the retinue to remain behind.”

  The Persian nodded.

  “However, he didn’t prohibit any of you from wandering about the compound.”

  “And I am to assume that’s what you want me to do?”

  “Exactly,” Porcius answered in a low voice. Ever cautious, the Roman looked towards the partitioned entry, cocked his head, and listened. Nothing. He turned to Cyrus. “Stroll about and stop and chat with the people, innocent like of course, especially with the guards. See if you can pick up any useful information.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Everything. However, keep an ear out for any rumors of war.”

  “Do you suspect King Verica will launch a war upon Caratacus or King Cunobelinos?”

  A good question. “Perhaps. I don’t want to be caught by surprise like I was before the battle at Bagshot Heath.”

  *

  Hiking across the small courtyard, Porcius took the wooden bridge over the shallow moat and arrived at the Great Hall. A heavily woven, thatched roof covered the elongated building constructed from waddle and daub.

  The Roman was greeted again by the king’s steward. He led Porcius toward the great hearth where Verica and his chief Druid were seated. As Porcius followed the servant, his eyes adjusted to the gloomy light. He noticed five retainers, discreetly out of hearing, standing in the shadows among the ornate pillars along the wall lined with battle shields. The Roman halted before the ruler and priest. At that point, the king’s servant disappeared beyond the light of the fireplace. The glowing flames from the fire pit radiated warmth and illuminated the faces of the king and priest. Pine scented smoke drifted lazily upward, percolating and then disappearing among the packed rushes in the ceiling. Next to the chairs of Verica and the Druid and an empty one, stood small tables containing silver bowls of corma beer, Verica’s favorite drink, along with large, earthen pitchers.