The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Caratacus glanced at his father. Cunobelinos’s heavy furs covered his drooping shoulders. The skin was drawn over his gaunt face. Intermittently, he spat splotches of blood onto the hard-packed floor. He stared blankly as if into a void. Spittle dripped from the side of his slightly opened mouth.

  Caratacus turned to Ibor, who slowly shook his head. His father’s condition was growing worse. The last time he had seen him was eleven days earlier, before he left on his journey to visit the clan chieftains. I must replace Da sooner than I planned.

  A servant girl brought the three cups of corma beer and handed one to Caratacus, Ibor, and the king.

  Once she withdrew, Caratacus, knowing he could not speak his mind in front of the Druid, decided to create a ruse to throw Ibor off guard. He wasn’t about to tell them it was Adminios who was in collusion with the Romans.

  “We have heard that you visited the king’s clan chieftains, Prince Caratacus,” Ibor said. “Is that true?”

  “Aye, to gather information.”

  Cunobelinos slowly lifted his head and seemed to focus on Caratacus. “Information? Journey?”

  “Yes, Da, both.”

  The king turned to Ibor and back to Caratacus, his eyes staring into space.

  “What information were you seeking?” Ibor asked.

  “Although you told me in an earlier meeting that Porcius had tried to discourage Verica from scheming with the Romans, rumors persisted that he hasn’t stopped.”

  “Why did you see the chieftains? Did you believe they might have received news that we had not?”

  “That’s what I needed to learn for myself. I spoke to them and they, too, had heard rumors.” He didn’t tell Ibor that he had sent spies to Verica’s fortress at Caleva to follow up.

  “Then you still don’t know for certain if the rumors are true.”

  “No, not yet,” Caratacus said. That part was true.

  As Caratacus spoke, he noticed Cunobelinos’s face brightened, more alert. The faraway look in his eyes seemed to be replaced by a knowing glow that he was aware of his surroundings. The king’s mouth closed tight. How long will he remain clear-minded this time?

  “Is that all?” Ibor asked.

  “No, I sent a message to Unig, king of the Durotriges proposing an alliance.”

  Ibor gave Caratacus a withering look. “What? You did this without first getting the permission of the Council?”

  “Unig you say?” Cunobelinos said.

  “Yes, Da,” Caratacus said.

  “Why did you do this? You realize this could be considered an act of treason,” Ibor said.

  “If Verica is planning to attack us, an alliance with King Unig would give us the winning edge in any fight with Verica’s army. In turn, we agree to help him defend his lands should the Romans invade.” He glanced to Ibor, who glared back, and then to Cunobelinos, now alert. He coughed more spots of blood.

  The prince twisted his fingers, realized what he was doing, and stopped. “The chieftains have agreed to ratify a proposal to be sent to Unig if approved by you, Da. This can be done at the same session when Adminios answers your summons.”

  Ibor gestured. “You still should have told the king beforehand. It is his decision to make such a proposal, not yours.”

  “You mean, your decision,” Caratacus snarled. “I did ask Da, but his mind was clouded—he did not understand what I told him,” Caratacus lied.

  “I don’t remember you telling me anything,” Cunobelinos said.

  “It was when I visited you the day before I left. I came to your home, don’t you remember?” Caratacus asked.

  “No.” The old king shook his head.

  Another lie. Caratacus depended on his father’s failing memory to help him here.

  Ibor’s cruel mouth formed into a sneer and his bony hand touched the crescent-moon amulet that hung on a gold chain upon his chest, the symbol of his authority. “You still should have made me aware.”

  Caratacus gripped the hilt of his dagger hooked to his waistband. “I don’t have to tell you everything, Druid.”

  Ibor jabbed a finger, resembling a claw, in his direction. “Be careful of what you say.”

  Caratacus sighed. For now I should play the fool. He released his grip, lowering his hand to his side as he viewed the priest. Then he studied his father.

  “As arch-Druid, Ibor commands respect,” Cunobelinos said in a strong voice.

  “I mean no disrespect, Ibor,” Caratacus finally answered turning his head toward the priest, “but I have the right to confide in my father and visit him when I want.”

  “You still should have consulted me,” Ibor said. “If you believed this was a matter of grave urgency.”

  Caratacus raised a hand in disgust. “There wasn’t time! Now, I suggest you send out messengers and tell them to be here in five days time. Adminios has already received the king’s command to appear.”

  “So far he has not,” the king said.

  “Then I suggest you send another messenger ordering him to appear, Da.”

  “Indeed,” the king said. “And I will include a warning. If he fails this time to answer our summon, I will send an army to bring him back in chains.”

  “Wisely said, Da. It’s his kingdom where the Romans are most likely to land.”

  Ibor shook his head. “I’m not fully convinced they will invade.”

  “Nevertheless,” Cunobelinos interjected, “we cannot take the risk.” He looked at Caratacus. “We will do as you advise, Son.”

  Tight lipped, Ibor stared at Cunobelinos and back to Caratacus. “I believe you are making a grave mistake.”

  It is you who has made the grave mistake, Druid. I will see that you pay for it.

  *

  On the sixth morning, the day of the special Council assembly, Clud, Donn, Havgan, and Tog arrived at Caratacus’s home for a meeting of their own. They journeyed separately to avoid suspicion. The prince 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. Three oval, thatch-roofed buildings for storage and quarters for servants and warriors, when he required their services, straddled the base of the fence.

  Most of the Council members had arrived earlier the same morning for the session, which was expected to start at noon in the Great Hall. Caratacus wondered if despite Fergus ap Roycal’s assurances to keep the members in line, word had leaked out?

  Ornately carved timber pillars held up the roof and circled the room. Several small torches, ensconced on the columns, radiated a guttering light, casting wavering shadows, leaving the outer margins of the room in darkness. The firelight from the enclosed hearth glowed red on a stream of smoke that coiled sinuously toward the ceiling hidden in the darkness above. The group huddled about the central hearth, warming themselves, drinking mead.

  Tog peeked through the door cover outside one more time before the meeting began. Caratacus couldn’t take a chance that Ibor had spies hidden in bushes at the forest’s edge, watching his place. Tog shook his head.

  Near one side of the entrance huddled three servant women by the domed oven, built into clay walls framing the lower part of the house. Jutting from the wall above the baking area hung a square, oak plank that deflected the heat and smoke toward the roof where it was absorbed in the thatch covering. To the other side of the opening stood a tall loom.

  Dana touched the side of her wiry auburn hair and pulled on the gold, strand earrings, each with which formed the gold images of arching dolphins. Her long, fingered hands dropped to her sides, and she smoothed her fringed, bright-blue, and silver-striped tunic. When she saw Caratacus staring at her, she stopped and gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  Rhian turned toward the entrance and back to the others. The twin gold necklaces around her neck and the two around her wrists tin
kled. Her flaxen hair, twisted into a long braid, dropped to the small of her back. A paste made from the herb ruan reddened her cheeks. She furrowed her eyebrows, darkened with berry juice, and scratched the tip of her nose. Rhian wore a long tunic covered by a red and gold, checkered cloak with little bells sowed into the fringe that draped her tall frame. The garb reminded Caratacus of one she wore years ago when she encountered him in the corral the morning after he won the race during the festival of Lughnasa.

  Donn huffed loudly while Clud and Tog rubbed their hands together in front of the fire. Havgan, clothed in the long, white, ceremonial tunic of his office, staff in hand, stood near Caratacus, sober faced.

  The prince nodded to everyone, and they all looked in his direction. He stood in front of a series of wooden chests, bound in leather, used for the storage of clothing and valuables. “Now that everyone is here,” Caratacus said, “it’s time to go over plans one last time.”

  Caratacus faced Havgan. “Is Owen ready to testify?”

  “He is,” Havgan answered.

  “What has Ibor been doing since he was told about a possible alliance with the Durotrigians?” Caratacus asked.

  Havgan pinched his eyebrows together and tightened his lips. “As we all know, he does not like it. He has not said a word, but I’m certain he has sent a messenger to the arch-Druid of the Durotrigians to verify the matter.”

  A mischievous grin formed on Caratacus’s lips. “He’ll be surprised to learn I sent word proposing an alliance before we left to see the chieftains.”

  “So you really want to ally with the Durotrigians?” Rhian asked.

  “Absolutely,” Caratacus replied. “If Adminios is in league with the Romans, we will need all the allies we can muster.”

  Tog grunted. “We should kill Adminios instead of exiling him.”

  “I agree,” Caratacus said. “But it isn’t our tribe’s way—exile is worse than death—a man without his tribe accounts for nothing. No other nation will accept him.”

  “Except as a mercenary,” Donn added.

  “The Romans will use him,” Rhian said.

  Caratacus wiped the palm of his hand along the right side of his breeches. “You’re right, but only for their own evil purposes. In any event, we have to raise an army and defend our lands against their invasion.”

  “Aye, it would be in the Durotrigian king’s interest, too,” Clud said.

  “What about yer father?” Donn asked. “Will he be having his wits about him when the council meets? If not, the session could be voided by the High Council. Ibor could declare it closed.”

  “When the session opens, Ibor will speak for Da,” Caratacus said. “Ibor is unaware of my plan to replace both him and Da.”

  Caratacus thought for a few moments and looked from person to person, all of them waiting for him to speak. “You remember Da’s condition when we saw him at dinner three nights ago?” Caratacus, along with Dana, Rhian, Tog, and his wife had dined with the king that evening in order to further ascertain his deteriorating condition.

  The three nodded.

  “He looked so poorly,” Dana said. “He was alert one moment and in a daze the next.”

  “Your father is hopeless, Caratacus,” Rhian said.

  “He’s like an empty eggshell,” Tog added.

  “I agree. The time has come for him to step down.” Caratacus motioned to the men. “When we are finished here, Tog, Clud, Donn, and I will ride to the fortress and meet privately with the chieftains who will support me. Once everyone is present in the Great Hall, we will open the meeting with a discussion of the proposed alliance. Knowing Adminios, he will be impatient to get on with the matter and will probably go along with it.”

  Clud snorted then frowned. “If he shows up.”

  “I think he will,” Caratacus said. “Once Adminios agrees, I will call upon Fergus ap Roycal to declare Da incompetent and ask the Council to vote him out as ruler.”

  Tog spat. “Knowing that Adminios and Ibor will object.”

  “Let them—the vote of the Council is final.” Caratacus turned toward Havgan. “Even the Druids can’t overturn their decision. Then Fergus will nominate me as king and the Council will declare me as such.”

  “Adminios will challenge ye—be ready fer a fight,” Donn said. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword.

  Caratacus waved his hand about the room. “Let him. I’m placing our warriors at strategic locations around the hall.”

  “But Adminios’s men will be there, too,” Tog said.

  “My warriors will be in position before he arrives,” Caratacus said. “And so will Da’s retainers—they have pledged their swords to me. Our men will far outnumber Adminios’s bodyguards.”

  Dana turned toward Caratacus. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until you have accused Adminios of conspiring with the Romans?” she asked. “Then it would make more sense when the Council declared your father incompetent and yourself king.”

  Caratacus remembered how politically astute Dana had been during the welcoming feast after he and his army had arrived in Eburacum to fight the Caledonians. Although she would deny it, Dana, like her sister, Cartimandua, has an eye for political intrigue.

  Finally, he answered. “As long as Ibor speaks for Da until we level charges of Adminios conspiring with the Romans, it might work. Once that is done, then we can charge Ibor of unlawful sacrifice and conspiring with Adminios and the Romans.”

  “Then will you make your move?” Clud asked.

  Caratacus nodded. “I will charge Adminios with treason.”

  “Which he will deny,” Dana said.

  Caratacus balled one hand into a fist and smacked the palm of his other hand. “Let him! He’ll choke on his own lies!”

  Chapter 33

  Caratacus and Tog stood about four paces ahead of Clud, Donn, the captain of Cunobelinos’s retainers, and six guards as they waited in front of the Great Hall.

  Adminios and his entourage rode across the muddy ground toward them, passing several storage buildings and cattle pens. Three days earlier, Caratacus had learned from Ibor that Cunobelinos received word from Adminios. He would arrive within four days in answer to the king’s summons. In turn, Ibor sent word to all the king’s councilors to be present when Adminios arrived.

  The noon sky was a cobalt blue, the freezing sun sitting as if in judgment of its subjects above Adminios’s retinue. Adminios and his men were bundled up in heavy, woolen cloaks that fell to the knees, similar to those worn by Caratacus and Tog. Patches of smoke from the village’s homes drifted in the air mixing with the pungent odor of dung from the livestock pens.

  Besides his fur coat, Adminios wore a vested tunic of costly silk and tartan, woolen trousers. Apart from his long mustache, which proclaimed nobility, he was clean shaven. As a further sign of status, a gold torc circled his neck. A bronze broach fastened a cloak of fine wool to his right shoulder. A golden, sun-wheel medallion hung down the front of his chest over a shirt of iron-ringed mail covering his tunic. Gold bracelets jangled around his wrist, and a bejeweled longsword hung from the right side at his waist.

  A protective formation of mounted warriors, similarly attired but plainer, now in muddy clothing, rode on both sides of him and at his back. His retainers wore bronze helmets and carried thrusting spears, symbolizing status as free men.

  Despite the cold, the shivering populace flocked to the area outside the moat that surrounded the king’s holdings to view the riders.

  Tog pulled on his drooping moustache and farted. “So our dear brother decided to bless us with his presence after all.”

  Caratacus smirked. “Obviously the threat of being brought to Camulodunum in chains didn’t set well with him.”

  “I’m surprised the fool didn’t put up a fight, he has an army behind him,” Tog said. He spat.

  “Fishermen and farmers are poor warriors. Only his retainers are real warriors.” Caratacus grimaced. “Most likely his advisors told him to come here peacefully
. They probably figure he’s going to become the next king of these lands anyway.”

  Tog’s mouth twisted into a crooked frown. He turned about, nodded to Clud and Donn, then back to Caratacus. He whispered, “The Council better back you on this one. I want to see the look on his ugly face when he’s charged with treason.”

  “So do I.” Despite assurances by the chieftains, Caratacus was still guarded about the chances of the Council expelling Adminios and Ibor from the kingdom.

  “That messenger of yours better be telling the truth,” Tog said, pulling Caratacus from his thoughts.

  “If you mean about the Romans gathering on the Gallic Coast, he is,” Caratacus said. A messenger arrived at his home earlier this morning warning him of the forces building up along the shoreline of Gaul for a possible invasion.

  “We’ll see if the mad Emperor Caligula will actually cross the channel,” Caratacus said.

  Tog scratched his stubbled chin and pulled on his drooping moustache again. “You’ll gather the army when this mess with Adminios is finished, won’t you?”

  “I will, but first, let’s get through today.”

  Adminios passed through the crowd and drew up before the Great Hall. He dismounted from a sweaty and mud-spattered horse, whose harness was richly decorated with small, bronze plaques representing human heads. His arch-Druid, who had ridden at the back of the column of warriors, pulled up beside Adminios, slipped off his horse, and walked at his side. They approached Caratacus and Tog.

  The lips of Adminios’s flushed face twisted in hate. Even from several feet away, his breath reeked of strong wine. Probably Roman, Caratacus thought.

  Adminios crossed his arms over his chest. His watery eyes scowled under black, beetle brows. He slurred, “Why are you here and not the king to greet me?”

  “You dare order our father, your king, to wait for you out in the cold when you are late?” Caratacus answered, his voice full of contempt.

  Adminios belched, dropped hands to his sides, and shook his head like a wet dog. “I am a king, too, he should greet me.”

  Tog gestured toward the hall. “Our father is the high king and grovels before no one! He has commanded you to appear before him at once so the Council session can get under way.”