*
Overnight, the last snow of winter fell: clean, white, and powdery. A frozen noonday sun followed Caratacus, accompanied by Clud, Tog, Donn, Fergus ap Roycal, and nine other loyal chieftains and warriors as they rode toward his father’s home.
Not only had the fresh snow covered the roofs of Camulodunum’s hovels, shops, and muddy streets, but also its fetid stench, making it almost livable.
The entourage found the palisade wall surrounding Cunobelinos’s compound and house ringed by warriors clothed in heavy furs. Unsheathing their longswords, they silently challenged Caratacus’s approach.
“Stand aside for your new king,” Tog ordered as steaming breath huffed from his mouth. They crossed the short causeway and halted before the tall, bronze-plated gate. All eyes turned to Caratacus.
“Don’t waste your lives. My father is no longer ruler,” Caratacus said to Cunobelinos’s guards.
The grizzled officer in charge stepped forward through the entrance. “By whose authority have you been made king?” he challenged.
“By the High Council,” came the reply from the hawk-nosed, senior clan chieftain, Fergus ap Roycal, who sat high on his mount next to Caratacus. “He was lawfully voted and elected as custom dictates. Now step aside before I take your ugly, fucking head!”
The captain recognized the chieftains accompanying the new king. “We have no quarrel with the son of Cunobelinos,” he said gravely. He glanced to the troops on the timbered wall, motioned with his head, and raised his sword in allegiance.
“Hail, King Caratacus, Son of Cunobelinos!” he roared. The warriors echoed his words.
Caratacus entered his father’s home alone. In the dim light, he saw Cunobelinos huddled next to the big, open hearth, bundled in fetid-smelling wolf skins. His pallid face had assumed the texture of thin onionskin. Tiny blue and red capillaries fanned across his face like streams of a river delta, and his deep, sunken eyes seemed fixated on the glowing fire. Not long ago, he was still a wolf of a man. It’s as if Da had offended the gods, and now they are punishing him for his transgressions. He could think of no other reason for his father’s rapid aging.
The old king didn’t hear his son approaching. “Da, it’s me,” Caratacus called.
“Who?” The old king rolled slowly in his furs and stared at his son without recognition.
“Do you know me?” Caratacus asked.
Cunobelinos winced. His mouth moved silently. He brought a trembling hand to his mouth and looked about. “I … know you … young man. I’ve seen you before … haven’t I?” He drew his index finger from his mouth and pointed, spittle spider-webbing from it. He dropped his hand to the side and stared at the fire. Forgetting the question entirely, he reinserted his finger to massage his gums.
For the space of four heartbeats, Caratacus hesitated. “Da … it’s time you abdicated.”
“Abdicate what? Go away!”
“You’re no longer fit to be king.”
“King? Yes … that’s it … I’m going to be king now that Tasciovanos … you know him?”
Caratacus nodded. He was Cunobelinos’s father.
“He’s dead … my father’s dead,” the old king said as his voice quivered and trailed away.
Although hopeless, Caratacus continued. “I’m the new king, Da, the rightful heir to the throne. I have the backing of the Tribal Council, and Druids. Adminios is out!”
Cunobelinos stared blankly at Caratacus, spittle dribbled down the sides of his mouth. “You say you’re who?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re too old and feebleminded to rule.” Caratacus shook his head. I’d rather die in battle than to end my days like Da.
“Havgan, come here,” Caratacus barked in the direction of the entryway where the Druid hovered.
“Yes, Great King?”
Caratacus turned his head toward Cunobelinos. “See that arrangements are made for my father to live what remains of his life quietly. He is to be given the honor due a great king.”
Caratacus and his retinue returned to the Great Hall.
A short time later, Havgan, who had replaced Ibor as arch-Druid, appeared at the meeting place, followed by lesser Druids and acolytes.
“Is he settled?” Caratacus asked from the throne in which he now sat. The council members who stood below him turned their eyes on the priest.
The chieftains opened a passageway for Havgan, who came before Caratacus. “He is, High King. Your father is sleeping soundly in your old quarters.”
Caratacus scanned the chamber, his eyes momentarily focusing on each of the nine councilmen, who in turn nodded. Satisfied, he spoke. “Very well, there remains one more step to make it official. You know what that is.”
Havgan glided to the bejeweled, bronze, ceremonial shield hanging on the wall near the throne. He unhooked the leather holding straps and brought it to Caratacus. “As chief Druid and lawgiver,” he solemnly announced, “I now transfer this shield, lawful symbol of your authority, into your possession and proclaim you King of the Catuvellaunian, Trinovantes, and Cantiacian people. Rule well, my King, and may all the gods, whom I dare not mention, watch over you.”
Caratacus motioned for Tog, Clud, Donn, Fergus ap Roycal, and the rest of his chieftains to approach. “My father agrees that I am to be king,” he proclaimed loudly. “Now we must deploy the army. Soon the Romans will invade our lands.”
*
It was late afternoon, the sky a sunless gray, an icy breeze swept off the blue-black waters of the British Channel and stung Caratacus’s face like a whip. His eyes watered, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. From his mount, he peered down the enormous folds within the white cliffs of Dubris toward the stony beach nearly two hundred feet below. The sea raced landward and exploded against the shore in a cascade of towering foam, hissing so loud that it echoed in Caratacus’s ears. Squawking, squealing seagulls skimmed the surface while curlews scurried along the water’s edge dodging the incoming waves. Not far away, the tiny port of Dubris sat within an inlet.
Caratacus raised his head, eyes gliding across the rising swells toward the distant coast of Gaul shrouded in a foggy haze. He turned to his entourage, including Tog, Clud, Donn, and thirty escorting retainers, hovering behind him on their mounts. One of the warriors carried the king’s pennant, a scarlet flag with the image of a wolf embroidered in gold, snapping in the wind from the top of a hardwood pole. All his men had hunkered down in their saddles. They braced themselves against the blustery currents that roiled up the cliff’s edge to the chalky plateau where they gathered behind the king.
From the back of his gelding, Tog raised an eyebrow as if asking a question. Caratacus shook his head and faced the channel once more. I know you maggoty Romans are out there. When will you cross? I dare you to fight us!
After Caratacus had been proclaimed king, he set about planning and organizing defenses for the impending Roman invasion. He ordered the chieftains of the King’s Council to return to their holdings and raise levies for the army. Within ten days, he started deploying warriors along the coast, primarily along the Tamesis and the River Medway estuaries, near the ports of Rutupiae, and Dubris, which faced Gaul across the channel. Although not certain this was where the Romans intended on landing their forces, his spies had learned these were the most likely places.
Yet it puzzled Caratacus why the Romans would attempt an invasion in the early spring. The frequent storms that swept the channel this time of year were a recipe for disaster. He pictured hundreds of transport ships filled with hundreds of legionaries sinking or crashing on Britannia’s rocky shoreline. His warriors would slaughter any survivors who managed to come ashore. How he would enjoy that. Then again, why wouldn’t he expect Emperor Caligula to order his troops to cross in such rotten weather? Caratacus had received reports that Caligula had made his favorite horse, Incitatus, a consul of Rome, second only in power to himself. The emperor also lived in habitual incest with
his three sisters and prostituted them out to his closest friends. Disgusting. He also made a public spectacle of himself by dancing on stage with low-life entertainers. Caratacus shook his head and concluded that Caligula had truly lost his mind. However, Caratacus refused the risk of remaining unprepared.
Thirty thousand warriors had been gathered from the tribal lands. Another twenty-five thousand from the southern tribes, including the Durotrigians, were expected to arrive within a matter of another ten to twenty days. Would they be in time to fight the invaders? And how long would they stay? It was early spring, and food supplies stored for the winter ran low throughout the land. If the Romans did not come soon, so his forces could destroy them on the beaches, food stuffs would be exhausted. His allies would abandon him and return home to plant their crops.
The sounds of fast-approaching hoof beats pulled Caratacus out of his thoughts. He twisted about as a scar-faced rider halted before his brother. “I have news for the king,” the warrior said.
Caratacus motioned the rider to his side. “What is it?” Caratacus growled, annoyed at being disturbed.
Smelling of horse sweat, his face and clothing splattered in mud, the messenger hesitated for the space of a heartbeat.
“Report!” Caratacus ordered, “I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, Sire. Your wife, the Lady Dana, had a miscarriage, the baby died.”
Caratacus jolted. For a split second he closed his eyes. His breath whistled through his nostrils. He clenched his fists, the knuckles turned white. No, not Dana! This can’t be happening. Will I never have a child that lives? Gods! Calm yourself! You must not show weakness of any kind. Caratacus opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed the tension to drain from his body.
The warrior stared at him.
Caratacus motioned with his head. “Go on, man.”
He scratched his broken nose and continued, “The lady will recover, Sire. The midwife says she has a fever, but that’s to be expected.”
“How long ago did she lose the baby?” Dana had been with child for nearly five months.
The messenger glanced in the direction of the white ball of a sun that attempted to pierce the gray sky, and to Caratacus. “About three days ago. I’ve ridden all day and into the night for the last couple of days and stopped only when it got too dark. Nearly killed four horses to get here fast as I could.”
Caratacus huffed. “Do you know if the child was a boy or girl?”
“Don’t know, Sire, the midwife didn’t say. The Lady Rhian, who was with her, told me to ride to your camp immediately.”
“Very well.” Caratacus waved the rider away. He motioned for Tog, Clud, and Donn to join him.
He told them the news, and the three in turn gave him their condolences.
“Tomorrow morning,” Caratacus said, “I’m returning to Camulodunum too see my wife.”
His companions looked at one another, apparently startled and perhaps curious about his decision.
“There are those who would see my leaving now as a sign of weakness. It is the king’s duty to stay with his men in time of war.” He narrowed his eyes and stared first at Tog, then Clud and Donn. He grasped the handle of his dagger. “Any one of you feel that way?”
Tog shook his head. “No, Brother, we know you better than that.”
“Aye, if’n anybody says differently, I’ll slice off his bloody head,” Donn said. He grabbed the hilt of his sword.
Clud looked toward the channel. “Don’t think you’re going to be bothered with what anybody thinks, leastways not for awhile. Storm’s a brewin’ out there.”
Caratacus and the rest turned to the channel looking toward the southwest. A wall of ugly, black clouds were moving quickly their way. Swells, now rising to the height of a tall man topped by large, foaming whitecaps, rushed toward the beach.
“In this case, the weather has become our ally,” Caratacus said. He turned to Tog. “I’m placing you in command of the army while I am away.”
Tog grinned. “You can count on me, Brother, I’ll make damn sure things run smoothly while you’re gone.”
“I know you will,” Caratacus said. He raised a hand toward his father-in-law. “Donn, you will be Tog’s second-in-command.”
“I be honored. Ye couldn’t pick a better man fer the job than yer brother,” Donn said.
“We’re still expecting more warriors to arrive,” Clud said, “what about their deployment?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Tog said, “we’ve been over plans about it already.”
“That’s right,” Caratacus said, “but we’ll discuss it further tonight.”
Caratacus motioned to Clud with his head. “You’ll come with me along with an escort of my warriors.”
“Right,” Clud answered.
Caratacus waved to the detail of warriors behind them to move closer. He explained the situation to his retainers. “We set out tomorrow for Camulodunum at dawn, storm or not.”
*
The next day as Caratacus and his party journeyed home along the muddy trackway in misting rain, he wondered if Dana would bear another child. If she could not, should he dissolve their relationship, which was his right? He shook his head and futilely attempted to wipe the water that dropped from the edge of his hooded cloak down onto his face and neck. No, he realized he loved Dana too much to return her to her father in Eburacum. He had received word that he was dying and Cartimandua was expected to replace him as ruler of the Brigantes. Dana would be murdered by her sister. Even if she failed to have a child, he would never send her back to certain death.
Caratacus had sent a rider ahead to let Rhian and Dana know he would soon arrive home. When he had started raising an army to defend against a possible Roman invasion, Caratacus placed Rhian in charge of defending the fortress of Camulodunum in his absence.
He and his entourage arrived late on the second day. The rain had turned into a drenching downpour about an hour before they arrived at his home. Caratacus and the men were soaking wet, shivering, teeth chattering, and miserable in general. Strands of smoke seeped through the straw roof of Caratacus’s house, disappearing in the rain. As eager as he was to see Dana, he also looked forward to getting out of the deluge and into a warm, dry house.
Once his party arrived in front of the house, Caratacus turned to Clud and told him to dismiss the escorting warriors for the night and that he could leave as well. “I’ll see you in the morning, old friend,” Caratacus said.
“Aye, I’ll see you then, in drier condition, I hope. I pray the Lady Dana will recover.”
“As do I.”
Caratacus dismounted and handed the reins to an awaiting groom, who quickly led the horse to the nearby stable. He headed for the front porch of the house, the entrance protected by a series of sewn, goatskin hides. Entering the house, he felt the heat of the fire burning in the center hearth and found the interior illuminated by several smoky candles and olive-oil lamps. He spotted Rhian by the hearth, her flaxen hair knotted into a single braid that flowed down the center of her back. She wore the tartan tunic and breeches of a warrior and a dagger hung from a leather belt around her waist. He pulled off his cloak and tossed it to a slave, who quickly approached and took it from him.
At the same moment, Rhian got up from a stool by the hearth, grabbed a towel nearby, and ran up to him. “Good gods, you’re soaked, come to the fire and warm yourself before you get the lung sickness.”
“I want to see Dana,” he said.
Rhian violently shook her head. “Dana isn’t going anywhere, and she will be all right. Take off those clothes.” She handed him a linen towel. “Take this and dry yourself by the fire.”
For the space of a heartbeat, Caratacus glared at her, annoyed that she would order him about. But the more he thought about it, she made sense. “All right, the last thing I need is to get sick.”
Once he had dried himself and changed his clothes, the heat returned to his body, and he relaxed. He turned to where
Rhian stood, hugged and kissed her. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For using your common sense to see that I got out of my wet clothes.”
“I’m being selfish,” she said.
“Selfish?”
“I don’t want either you or Dana to die—it seems I have to take care of both of you.” She smirked. “I’m happy you arrived so soon, Dana will be pleased.”
He looked beyond Rhian’s shoulder at the enclosed goatskin cubicle where Dana was bedded down.
Rhian stepped back and, for a split second, peered in that direction and then at Caratacus.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Dana will recover, but still feels very low about losing the baby.”
Caratacus nodded toward the enclosure. “I will see her. Now.”
Rhian stepped ahead of him and led the way.
He entered the enclosure, which smelled mildly of vinegar. In the dim illumination provided by three candles, Dana rested on the bed-pallet, dressed in a plain bed tunic, bundled in several wolf-skin blankets, her face drawn and pale. She opened her eyes upon Caratacus’s approach.
“Caratacus,” Dana mumbled in a low, scratchy voice, “is that you?” She attempted to pull her blankets from her body and raise herself upon her elbows but fell back moaning.
He drew closer, going down on one knee next to her. Rhian knelt beside him.
“It’s me, Dana,” Caratacus said. “I came as soon as I could.”
“I’m so … happy you’re … here.” Dana twisted her head toward Rhian. “Thank you, Rhian.”
“For what?” Rhian asked.
“You … you sent for Caratacus.” Dana closed her eyes for the space of about five heartbeats before opening them again.
Caratacus turned to Rhian and touched her shoulder. “My thanks, too.”
Rhian nodded. “You had to be told about her. Neither of us expected you to return, but thank Mother Goddess you came.”
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 32
