The Wolf of Britannia Part II
Page 1
The Wolf
of
Britannia
Volume II
Jess Steven Hughes
A Historical Novel
Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA
Published by Sunbury Press, Inc.
50 West Main Street
Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania 17055
www.sunburypress.com
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2015, by Jess Steven Hughes.
Cover Copyright (c) 2015 by Sunbury Press, Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-62006-563-1 (Trade Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-62006-564-8 (Mobipocket)
ISBN: 978-1-62006-565-5 (ePub)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015932529
FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION: February 2015
Product of the United States of America
0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55
Set in Bookman Old Style
Designed by Crystal Devine
Cover by Lawrence von Knorr, painting by Tal Dibner (www.dibnergallery.com)
Edited by Janice Rhayem
Continue the Enlightenment!
Volume II
Britannia
AD 43-60
Dramatis Personae
(In Order of Appearance)
THE BRITONS
* Caratacus - king of the Catuvellaunii and Trinovantes
Rhian - Caratacus’s wife
Clud - iron maker and master craftsman
Havgan - arch-Druid priest
Fergus ap Roycal - clan chieftain
* Tog (Togodubnos) - king and brother of Caratacus
Dana - young Brigantian woman
Adminios - brother of Caratacus
* Verica - deposed king of the Atrebates
Fiona - young female warrior captain
* Venutios - Brigantian prince and warrior
Owen - Druid priest
* Cartimandua - queen of the Brigantes
Crone - medicine woman
Brath - king of the Silurians
Macha - Caratacus’s daughter
Alfyn - young warrior
Kyncar - clan chieftain
Uric - clan chieftain
Gadeon - clan chieftain
Donaut - clan chieftain
THE ROMANS
Marcus Valerius Bassus - centurion
Gaius Flavius Porcius - emissary and senator
Cyrus - Persian freedman and Porcius’s steward
* Aulus Plautius - general
* Titus Flavius Vespasianus (Vespasian) - general
Marcus Severus - military tribune
* Hosidius Geta - general
* Marcus Ostorius Scapula - general
Figulus - Roman tribune
* Claudius (Tiberius Drusus Claudius Germanicus Nero) - emperor
(AD 41-54)
* Caligula (Gaius) - emperor (AD 37-41)
* Tiberius (Tiberius Claudius Nero) - emperor (AD 14-37)
* historical character
Cities and Geographical Locations
ANCIENT NAME = MODERN NAME
Bononia Gesoriacum = Gaul Boulogne, France
Britannia = Britain (England)
British Ocean = English Channel
Caleva = Silchester
Camulodunum = Colchester
Dubris = Dover
Durobrivae = Rochester
Durovernum = Canterbury
Eburacum = York
German Ocean = North Sea
Maugh-Dun Castle = (Maiden Castle) Dorchester
Noviomagnus = Chichester
Portus Rutupis = Wantsum Channel
Regulbium = Reculver
River Colne = Colne River
River Danubus = Danube River
River Rhenus = Rhine River
River Tamesis = Thames River
Rutupiae = Richborough
Tanatus = Isle of Thanet
Verulamium = St. Albans
Chapter 1
AUGUST, AD 43
The Southern Coast of Britannia
In the glare of midmorning sunlight, Caratacus spotted the approaching rider. He galloped from the direction of the observation post on the bracken-covered ridge rising behind the camp. The rhythmic thumping of hooves kicking up chalky dust grew louder as the horse approached Caratacus’s headquarters tent from where he had just stepped outside.
Wearing a tartan tunic and homespun breeches, longsword at his side, the warrior drew up in front of the tall, broad-shouldered, thirty-four-year-old Celtic ruler of the Catuvellaunii and jumped from the foaming mount. The pungent odor of horse sweat reeked from man and beast.
Gasping, the dusty rider stepped before the king and took a deep breath. “The Romans are crossing the channel, Sire—hundreds of ships.”
Muscles tightened in Caratacus’s back and arms. So, it’s finally happened. Damn! He kept his scarred, weather-beaten face impassive, but pulled on his long, drooping moustache. “How far from shore?”
The horseman glanced in the direction of the coast. “About fifteen miles. Right now, they look like water bugs skimming a pond, but they’re coming sure enough.”
“That’s a long ways to see so well.”
The warrior nodded. “The channel is so clear, you can see the ships crossing from the Gallic coast—it ain’t the usual haze.”
“Where are they heading?”
“It looks to be Rutupiae,” the warrior said.
Caratacus nodded. The fishing village with its small harbor was north of the white cliffs less than twelve miles away. Its wide beach an ideal place to land with a trackway leading to the interior. “They can only sail as fast as their slowest ship. We still have four to six hours before they reach us.”
As he thought about how he would defend his people, Caratacus focused on the encampment surrounded by the woodland of ash, pine, and hazel scrub that dotted the surrounding hillside. His army was bivouac on the expansive grasslands, a hodgepodge of tents and lean-tos, plus the larger tents of clan chieftains and captains. The camp sat at the base of foothills east of Dubris to the south and Rutupiae to the north. The ridge jutted more than five hundred feet from the plain below. From the observation post on the summit, his men had an unimpeded view of the British Channel to the southeast and the farmlands in the Great Stour Valley to the west.
The king’s headquarters tent was the largest multi-room, goat-skinned tent, situated in the center of the temporary base. Posted before the front entrance stood a dozen streamers, representing tribal clans, and as many guards surrounding the shelter.
Arms were stacked before the warriors’ tents. The smell of baked bread, porridge, and roasted meat drifted from
cooking fires. Hundreds of warriors milled about, talking, cursing, and coughing, which mixed with the bellowing of cattle, whinnying horses, and bleating goats from surrounding pens. The laughing calls of green woodpeckers and chirping of warblers drifted from the nearby trees.
Dozens of wagons carrying grain, water, and weapons had been gathered in a protective circle near the headquarters tent with a posted guard.
Through this wide expanse of meadow ran a series of streams and a small river used to supply the camp’s water.
The king turned when he heard the whisking sound of the tent flap opening. Rhian, Caratacus’s flaxen-haired wife, clothed in a bright-blue and yellow, tartan tunic and blue, striped breeches, joined him. Three fingers shorter than her husband, she raised her head slightly and peered into his midnight-blue eyes. Her bowed lips curled into a frown as she touched his muscular upper arm. “Did I hear right, Caratacus, the Romans are crossing the channel?”
“You did.”
She pulled her hand away. “Mother Goddess, I must prepare my warriors at once.”
Caratacus stayed her with a detaining hand, palm outward. “We have plenty of time to prepare your cavalry and my infantry and chariots.” He turned to the nearest of twelve guards posted about the tent. “Find Clud. Tell him to bring twenty of my retainers and meet my wife and me at the observation post on the ridge. See that arch-Druid Havgan meets us there as well.”
The guard saluted and left.
Caratacus shook his head. Earlier that morning he had conducted a staff meeting with his friend and advisor, Clud, his senior clan chieftain, Fergus ap Roycal, lesser chieftains, and captains. He had dismissed them about a half hour before the messenger arrived. Too bad he hadn’t arrived while we were still gathered. They could have heard the news firsthand. Still, I need to see for myself what the invasion force looks like before making further plans.
Caratacus turned to another sentry. “Tell the groom to saddle our horses at once.”
*
An hour later from the summit of the ridge, Caratacus sat on his Gallic mount looking toward the British Channel, bordering the coast about ten miles away. It was midmorning, a clear sunny day. As he inhaled the salty, sea air, a light breeze caressed his face. Thin wisps of clouds drifted overhead. The messenger was right. The usual gunmetal glint of the ocean caused by overcast and fog had given way to a peerless blue. Appearing in the distance, as dark specks dominated by square sails, hundreds of Roman ships, rolling on gentle swells, slowly sailed toward the British Coast. The invasion Caratacus had long feared was upon them.
Although grinding his teeth, the king forced himself to keep a placid face. But his hand slowly reached down, fingers tightening around one of the leather pommels of his saddle. He fixed his blue eyes on the invading fleet. Damn! Why didn’t you come a moon ago when I had one hundred thousand warriors in place? We would have slaughtered you!
Caratacus had placed the army in position along the southeastern coast where it had remained from the middle of May until the beginning of August. Then his spies had informed him that Roman troops had mutinied and refused to board ships for the crossing. At that point, he had sent most of his warriors home to harvest the summer crops. Caratacus figured if they had not invaded by August, they wouldn’t until the following year.
Unfortunately, he had learned from spies that Emperor Claudius’s secretary, a Greek named Narcissus, had disguised himself as an officer of the Praetorian Guard and persuaded the legionaries to come to their senses. After that, the ringleaders were rounded up and executed. The message was clear—board the ships or else.
Caratacus heard the pounding of dozens of hooves on the chalky trail. He turned to see his balding friend and close advisor, Clud, approaching on his gelding, followed by twenty of Caratacus’s retainers. Right behind him, Havgan followed on his mount. A long, white robe, girdled by a copper belt, draped his short stature. A dark thin beard covered his gaunt face, and a silver triskele, symbol of his authority, hung from a chain down the front of his scrawny chest.
The bodyguards fanned out behind Caratacus as Clud pulled up to his left side with Havgan next to him. Clud raised a hand in greeting to the king and Rhian while the Druid bowed.
“Sire, why didn’t you wait for me and your retainers?” Clud asked.
Havgan sniffed. “And why am I here?”
Caratacus nodded toward the channel. “I needed to see this for myself and quickly. It was important you two saw it, too. Take a look.”
Havgan stared out to sea, his face expressionless.
Clud slightly bent forward squinting his gray eyes, deeply set beneath bushy eyebrows in a wide face. He grabbed the hilt of his longsword. “So the messenger was right. Shit! We don’t have enough men to stop them—you sent them home.”
Havgan tugged his thin beard. “By the gods who I dare not name, the dream I had last night has come true.”
Caratacus and Fergus ap Roycal turned toward the Druid.
“Yes, I was planning to inform you this morning, Great King,” Havgan said, “but your retainer found me, as I was about to break my morning fast, and gave me your message.”
“Tell me about the dream,” Caratacus said.
“It was short, but in my vision I saw thousands of eagles flying in a shimmering light across a great sea. I did not know where they came from or where they were going before I suddenly awoke. It’s obvious what the eagles meant.”
“Aye, the eagle is the symbol of Rome and its army,” Fergus said. “Thousands of birds mean invasion.”
Caratacus arched his eyebrows sharply, and a frown crossed his lips. “It doesn’t make any difference, they’re coming now, but we know the terrain, they don’t—we’ll ambush them.”
Rhian lightly touched the gold torc circling her neck. A mischievous smile brightened her rosy face. “I like that. We shall fight them on our terms.”
Havgan shook his head. “The Roman menace must be stopped, or our people will be slaughtered as were our cousins in Gaul.”
“And they will slaughter the Druids,” Caratacus said.
Havgan exhaled. “Yes.”
“We’ll stop them, I promise,” Caratacus said. “But if the Romans are wise, they will establish a beachhead and dispatch a probing force inland before sending their legions.”
“It would be the smart thing to do,” Rhian said. “Only a fool wouldn’t send cavalry ahead to scout the countryside.”
“When Julius Caesar invaded our lands ninety years ago,” Caratacus said, “my great-grandfather, Cassivellaunus, knew he couldn’t defeat his forces, they were too many.”
Clud scratched an armpit and gestured with a thick, calloused hand toward the sea. “How did he fight ‘em?”
Caratacus touched his chest with a fist. “Like us, he knew the land and sent four thousand chariots to attack the Romans where they least expected. We will do the same.”
Rhian turned and focused her apple-green eyes on her husband. “We have no more than five hundred chariots.”
“I know. That’s why you will supplement what chariots we have with your cavalry detachment.”
Rhian tossed her head, golden hair flying about her shoulders. “I only have four hundred.”
“We have no choice,” Caratacus said gruffly. Then, in a more conciliatory tone, he added, “Besides, you have trained your women well. I have no doubt they will prove their worth in battle.”
“Have faith in yourself and your riders, Lady Rhian, you shall do well,” Havgan said. “I will conduct a sacrifice in the Sacred Grove.”
Slowly, Rhian inclined her head to Caratacus and Havgan. “They will, wait and see.”
Havgan nodded and touched the triskele medallion.
Caratacus grinned. Since she was a child, Rhian had trained to fight as a warrior. However, she was only allowed to prove herself as a fighter after she had become his wife.
Then there was Dana, his younger, second wife. She was staying safely inland at Caleva, his secondary capita
l and home of the Atrebates. She had moved there from Camulodunum back in May when the Roman invasion seemed imminent. She was due to deliver in two months. Would he be home for the child’s birth? He couldn’t think about it now.
He nodded to Rhian and then in the direction of the women’s bivouac. “In the meantime, you will send scouts ahead to reconnoiter Roman troop movements.”
She smirked. “With pleasure. I will send my best scouts, led by Fiona.”
“Good. Once we know where they’re going, we’ll strike them hard. Then we’ll withdraw, taking the livestock and burning all crops in the Romans’ path.”
“I will place a curse upon them. They will sicken and die from the pox,” Havgan said.
A black-toothed grin erupted beneath Clud’s drooping, brown-and-white-speckled moustache. “Aye, we’ll pollute the well water with dead animals and shit. That’s bound to make ‘em sick. The Romans will have to bring in all their supplies.”
Caratacus didn’t believe in curses but prayed in this instance he was wrong.
“Shouldn’t it drain their manpower?” Rhian asked. “They will have no choice but to escort their supply columns.”
“They won’t,” Clud said. “That’s when we’ll surround and crush ‘em.”
“If my spies are correct, it will confirm what the messenger told me,” Caratacus said. “The Romans will go ashore near Rutupiae and probably the Isle of Tanatus.”
Clud spat. “That’s a mighty small area, sire—seems to me they’d be landing at other spots, too, if the reports are right about them bringing four legions.”
“They will,” Caratacus said. He scratched the scar running across the right side of his face, an old wound received in an earlier battle. “The spies said there are about forty thousand troops, split about half between Roman legionaries and the rest auxiliaries.”
“Piss on the numbers,” Clud growled. “The Romans will learn to fear us.”