“You realize something must be done about camp security,” Rhian said, pulling Caratacus from his thoughts. “With the exception of the fortifications facing the river, there is no order to this camp.”
“I am aware of that, and it will be addressed.”
“I hope so. Earlier today I rode through the camp—there must be sixty thousand in a haphazard sprawl along the north side of the Medway at the foot of Strood Hill.”
“You don’t need to describe it to me,” Caratacus said, his voice full of annoyance, “I’m well aware of our position.”
Nestled within the temporary base perimeter was hundreds of booths, thrown up along rough-hewn, dirt streets. Merchants sold food and drink at inflated prices and generally cheated and lied about the quality of their other wares. Bards, jugglers, prostitutes, and gamblers made the rounds, plying their trades, gathering many coins from the bored warriors. Every afternoon chariots raced on a small, dirt track at one end of the camp, the betting heavy. No doubt the Romans have spies among this lot, learning whatever they can about the deployment of my warriors.
“I am still concerned,” Rhian said. “Adjacent to the forest, the camp is vulnerable from the rear. This carnival atmosphere may be customary in any big warrior encampment, but shouldn’t you set out a picket of sentries to guard the area? The density of those woods won’t stop the Romans should they strike from that direction—they’ll find a way.”
“We burnt the only bridge across the Medway,” Caratacus said. “Besides the palisade and defensive ditch, I’ve set my warriors to planting the shallow river fords up and down the river from their camp with thousands of hardwood defensive stakes, visible only at low tide. They’ve scattered the muddy bottoms with three-pronged, iron caltrops to puncture the feet of enemy soldiers and cavalry horses alike should they cross. This will slow down if not halt the most determined Roman advance while our warriors hurl volleys of arrows and slingstones on the fording troops.” After Tog’s death, Caratacus had wisely withdrawn his quarters from the river’s edge to a rise with trenches and palisades thrown up around its mini-encampment.
“I pray the defensive measures will be enough,” Rhian said.
“They will,” Caratacus said. “I’ve posted warriors up and downstream to give advance warning.”
“Will that be enough? I have heard the Romans are adept at river crossings, no matter the obstacles.”
“They will need many hours to cross, allowing ample time for our warriors to counterattack.”
“May you be right, Husband, but I believe we are in for a long fight.”
Chapter 5
Porcius’s heart pounded. He gulped one lungful of air after another, attempting to ignore the aching muscles of his flabby legs. He, his small entourage of clerks, and his freedman, Cyrus, trekked up the lowlying hill to General Plautius’s headquarters tent. He wiped his sweaty, balding forehead with a silk handkerchief and then tucked it inside the bottom of his muscled cuirass. The summons by the general puzzled him. Had this anything to do with the slow progress made by the army against Caratacus? If so, what does it have to do with me?
Despite the destruction of several supply columns by Caratacus’s troops, Porcius reflected, the Roman Army had made steady progress. Legions Ninth Hispana and Fourteenth Gemina had advanced along the road to Durovernum, while Legion Second Augusta moved along the southern flank and Legion Twentieth Valeria brought up the rear.
He recalled General Plautius’s annoyance with his legion commanders, especially, Vespasian and Geta, who said the army’s progress was too slow. He had ordered them to hold their tongues unless they wanted to explain to the emperor, in person, why they had been relieved of their commands.
Porcius stopped to catch his breath half way up the slope. I’m getting too old and too fat to do this. A few minutes later, he continued his journey.
After the death of Caratacus’s brother, Tog, and the destruction of his forces, there had been no further opposition on the road to Durovernum. Porcius, who had accompanied the general, found the town deserted. However, the small hill fort was well suited as a staging point for future campaigning in the west and as a provincial capital. Plautius had brought along Caratacus’s older brother, Adminios, to use his knowledge of the area and people to his advantage. As provincial ruler, he will make an excellent lackey, Porcius thought, albeit a drunkard and dim-witted. Despite the tribal penalty of exile for treason, Adminios is still fortunate Caratacus hasn’t killed him.
The army’s halt provided the opportunity for General Plautius to consolidate the legions’ positions before moving on. He placed a reinforced cohort of one thousand legionaries on the high ground, beyond the River Stour, and established a fortified control point at Regulbium in the east and by occupation of Dubris in the west. The latter two posts would be the responsibility of the navy.
He had to give the general credit, Porcius thought, he knew how to lead an army.
Porcius waddled into the general’s tent, wearing the military garb of an officer entitled him by rank. A too-short, triple-layered, white corselet trimmed in gold fringe covered the ill-fitting, red tunic, and a short, muscled cuirass, encircled by a white and gold sash knotted in front. Sweat poured profusely from beneath the gilded, red-plumed helmet. Many years had passed since Porcius had worn a uniform, but General Plautius insisted that he do so now if he were to remain with his entourage. Had I more time, I would have had a new uniform made for myself. Curse the luck.
Upon Porcius’s entry, the general’s clerk stood. “I will inform General Plautius that you are here, sir.” He stepped to the commander’s office a few paces away. Moments later, he returned. “He will see you shortly, sir.”
“Indeed? He said he wanted me to report immediately.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, that is what he said.”
I’m sure he is going out of his way to annoy me. He took a seat on a three-legged stool.
Five minutes later, General Plautius’s personal slave stepped out of his office and motioned to Porcius. “The general will see you now, sir.”
Upon his entry, Porcius said, “I am not accustomed to being kept waiting.”
Plautius looked up from where he sat behind his portable desk where a series of scrolls lay in a neat stack next to his wax tablet, stylus, and inkwell. “You just arrived, Senator, I didn’t keep you waiting that long!” he snapped. “And even if you were, military affairs take priority over all matters, including political pomp. That is the way it’ll be while I’m imperial governor.”
Porcius scowled, his forehead creasing into three lines resembling tiny valleys. “You must realize I shall report such shabby treatment to the emperor when he arrives next month.”
With the wave of a hand, Plautius dismissed his slave. “Senator, I know you send regular dispatches to the emperor. No doubt you’ve already reported my treatment as you call it.”
Glancing about, Porcius searched the tent for anyone else’s presence. Outside the pavilion’s open sides lurked the general’s guards, posted at a discreet distance. The sounds of camp activity seeped into the room. Centurions barked orders at troops. Braying mules pulling wagons rolled by, the sounds of crushing gravel under their wheels. The bleating of sacrificial goats kept in a nearby pen carried on the mild breeze.
“And you’re not concerned?” Porcius asked.
“Why?” Plautius asked. “He knows how you’ve conducted yourself through my dispatches.”
The general stared long and hard at Porcius as if peering through him. Despite the noonday heat, a chill shot down Porcius’s back.
“Emperor Claudius has placed me in a position of grave responsibility,” Plautius continued, “which is to lead the army in the conquest of Britannia.”
Porcius pointed a finger toward the general. “The emperor will be displeased.” He dropped his hand to his side.
Plautius gestured as if obvious. “He would be more displeased if I wasted time sopping the puffed vanity of every hig
h-ranking courier.”
“Courier!” Porcius protested, bile rising in his throat.
The commander snorted. “If I offend, dear Senator, please forgive me. If our beloved emperor agrees with you, then he can replace me, and place you in charge when he arrives. Until then, I will continue to run this campaign as I see fit, and you will not interfere, is that clear?”
“I—”
He waived away Porcius’s protest. “Senator, or rather, Legate, by your military uniform, understand one thing clearly: if I fail, I forfeit my life. Even a legate can be sent home in disgrace.”
Porcius wasn’t in any position to argue. As military governor and general of the army, Plautius’s word was law during the campaign. No one would ride easily over him.
“Very well, General, we will discuss this further when the emperor arrives,” Porcius said, “But why did you summon me?”
“It’s about that young centurion, Bassus. He may be of some use after all.” The general motioned Porcius to a seat.
The senator sat across the desk from Plautius. “For once, we agree.”
Porcius had received copies of reports that scouts from Legion Fourteenth Gemina had come upon the putrefying bodies of their comrades that evening after the ambush described by Bassus. As the young centurion had related, the troops found a pile of rotting, bloated corpses, still lying where Bassus had stood his ground. Nearly five hundred dead Romans carpeted an area of less than one acre.
“Grill him on Britannia and see what he really knows,” General Plautius said, pulling Porcius from his thoughts.
“That’s been done, and he seems very knowledgeable,” Porcius answered. “He pointed out landmarks, which only one who had traveled the land, or a native would have known.”
The general leaned forward. “Good. Test him to see if he could negotiate with the barbarians. What he doesn’t know, teach him.”
“Now, that’s a challenge, given the fact he witnessed the slaughter of so many of his comrades.” A wry grin formed on Porcius’s bloated face. For a moment, he cupped his double-chin with a pudgy hand. “But I can overcome that. He’s a tough soldier.”
“Excellent. Meanwhile, he’s to be assigned as senior centurion, Fourth Cohort, in Legion Twentieth Valeria. He’s earned it.” Both knew the lower the cohort number the better the troops.
“Since you’re going to be his mentor, you can give him the good news,” Plautius said.
Porcius grinned. “Of course, and I’ll begin his education immediately.”
“That must wait a few more days, we march tonight.”
*
“King Caratacus, the revered Havgan is here,” the tall guard said. “He says he must see you[?]it’s “urgent.”
Caratacus awakened from a deep sleep, his swollen eyes attempting to adjust to the flickering light coming from the lamp carried by the warrior. It was at least two hours before dawn. “It must be urgent to wake me this damn early.” He motioned to the guard to place the lamp on the floor. “Tell him to wait in the headquarters area.”
Caratacus rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Quickly, he rose from his bed pallet, dressed, and trudged out front to the section partitioned from the tent’s sleeping cubicle. Havgan waited near the open front door flap that allowed in a feeble cool breeze, on what had been an otherwise muggy night. Purple-black circles surrounded his deep-set eyes, the thinning beard, covering the Druid’s gaunt face, failed to conceal pale, sickly skin. The king motioned to one of two stools by a couple smoky olive oil lamps set in metal tripods. “Sit down.” He took a seat across from the Druid.
“The guard said you needed to see me, Havgan.” Caratacus yawned.
The arch-Druid nodded and sat. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord Caratacus, I would not have awaken you if it were not so important.”
Caratacus rubbed his eyes again. “I’m awake now. What is this urgent news?”
Havgan tightened his reed-thin lips and breathed loudly through his nostrils. “I had a vision last evening and then a terrible premonition came to me early this morning. It startled me so much that it pulled me out of a deep sleep.”
Caratacus frowned and shook his head. “I, too, was in a deep sleep,” he growled. “This better be good. It is because you are my arch-Druid that I will listen.”
Havgan lifted both hands, palms outward, before he dropped them back into his lap. “Great King, if it had only been the vision, I would have waited until later this morning, but not the premonition that drove me out of my slumber. I promise you won’t regret this.”
“Get on with it,” Caratacus said.
“First, I must tell of the premonition. It was very powerful, and I beg you will act quickly.”
“As king, that is for me to decide.”
Havgan glanced to the headquarters entrance and back to Caratacus. “In military affairs this is your right, but hear me out. The Roman Army is on the march even as I speak. Please, send your scouts to confirm this.”
Caratacus snorted. “You want me to send out my men based on a feeling?”
“It is real, lord. Soon dawn will be upon us, we already know the Romans will move at anytime. It should not be much of an effort to send your men out now. Don’t you remember I told you about my dream, of the Romans crossing the channel, on the day we spotted their invasion fleet from the cliffs?”
You could have made that up when we first spotted them. Caratacus decided not to mention his doubts. “All right, I’ll send out the men.”
Caratacus summoned one of his retainers. He ordered him to arouse the captain of scouts. “Tell him to send out his warriors immediately. See if the Romans are on the march. If so, how many and in what direction. There is no time to waste!”
When the guard departed he turned to Havgan. “Now, tell me this vision of yours.”
For the length of half a dozen heart beats, Havgan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and peered into Caratacus’s as if he were not there. “If I have not been deceived by the gods … if I have not been deceived, we shall be victorious when we fight the Romans.”
“Is there any doubt?”
The Druid shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Life is full of doubts. Although I am confident we shall defeat the Romans, I needed a sign from the gods. Until yesterday, they had been silent, and so I decided to take a risk even at the cost of my life.”
Caratacus shivered, quill bumps raised on his arms and down his back. He crossed his arms, hands gripping opposite elbows, and then released them. “Are you mad, as my arch-Druid, I can’t afford to lose you.”
Havgan raised his thin eyebrows. “If we are to survive as a free people, I believed it was necessary.”
“What kind of madness did you commit?”
“I drank a potion containing mistletoe to help me commune with the gods.”
Caratacus stomped his foot on the hard-packed, earthen floor. “By everything sacred, you could have died.”
A smirk crossed his lips. “As you can see, I survived.”
Caratacus gestured with his hand, his impatience growing. “All right, enough, what did you see?”
Havgan nodded. “It was yesterday afternoon when I led my entourage of lesser Druids and acolytes to the grove of beech trees by the little spring near our encampment.” Havgan explained that he would have preferred the usual half circle of oaks, the sacred trees of the Druids, but the beeches served the purpose. “It was obvious that it had been used by the local peasants, and I noticed many little wooden statues of the harvest goddess and crude copper torcs dangling from branches that overlooked the spring,” he said. “Although close to the great marsh, the water was clean and running free of mosquitoes.
“We built a fire in a shallow pit and a broth of mistletoe and heated water in a small iron cauldron.”
Caratacus noticed that Havgan wore a pure-white, linen robe. Around his long, thin neck hung a heavy, gold chain, in the form of a triskele, symbol of his authority as arch-Druid. “The clothing you
are wearing, was it the same as you wore during the ceremony?”
“Yes, lord,” the Druid answered.
“Continue,” Caratacus said with a nod.
“Once the water was heated, I knelt by the scorched cauldron and raised my eyes to the late afternoon sky, an orange-red light filtered through the heavy branches. The hot sun and leaf shadows danced like a mystery of cold and fire across my face. I lowered my head and gazed down into the dark simmering liquid, savored its rising heat, and inhaled its bitter fragrance. Several smoky pitch torches burned around the altar to ward off the vermin. Clouds of gnats and pests swirled drunkenly, no doubt having gorged earlier upon the Romans.”
“No doubt,” Caratacus said. “Go on.”
“I dipped a forefinger into the cooking broth, and instantly withdrew it,” he said. “I turned to my followers of lesser Druids and acolytes and proclaimed, ‘The gods are pleased. Bring forth the cup.’ I beckoned to my assistant Druid, Owen, and he poured the dark contents into a small golden chalice. He placed it into my hands. I stood and carried the cup to a little wooden altar beneath the branches of a tall beech tree. In the table’s center rested a carved, wooden head of Andraste. On each side of the wooden idol sat a bleached human skull.
“As I knelt before the statue, my movements were followed by Owen, the junior Druids, and my solemn acolytes. I viewed the cup and felt the warmth emanating through its sides. Then I recited, ‘Great Goddess of Victory, whose name I dare not mention, is there anything I should fear in drinking this potion to your glory?’”
“‘There is nothing to fear so long as the sky never falls and the sea burst not its bounds,’ my followers answered in a ritual chant.
“I hesitated for another moment and prayed that I had mixed the right amount of mistletoe.”
“Apparently you did, thank the gods,” Caratacus said.
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 6
