The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

“Indeed. I gazed upon the statue and prayed out loud, ‘Oh Great Goddess of Victory, I drink this mistletoe in your honor … to your glory … to your truth. Through it may you show me this great battle to come, that I may know the victor and the vanquished. And may I use this given knowledge wisely, that others may know your might … and fear you.’”

  Havgan said he took a sip from the goblet, the bitter-tasting liquid burned its way down his throat. He waited another moment for the potion to cool and then forced a long drink. After a few moments, his stomach churned, and the image of Andraste twisted, its full mouth stretching four different ways, its slanted eyes whirling in opposite directions while the statue’s carved hair raised above its head. “I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach down and prayed. I am sorry to say my voice faltered.

  “‘Give … me … the vision … Great Goddess,’ I said. ‘Which skull shall I choose? The Skull of Victory or Defeat?”’

  The Druid explained the muscles in his shoulders and back knotted, his insides screamed of death. A sharp pain raked his stomach. Havgan dropped the goblet and collapsed. He thought he had made a fatal mistake and screamed within, in belief that he had mixed a lethal concoction. But the momentary panic passed as fast as it had appeared. His muscles loosened, and he controlled his nausea. He pulled himself up, waving off assistance and, turning slowly with shaking hands, grabbed the skull on the left.

  “I heard a murmur of, ‘victory!’ from the priests,” Havgan continued.

  “But I shivered and drew the word, ‘I seeee … I see thousands fighting … wolves and eagles of prey … many … many deaths. Standards and flags trampled. The wolves are in packs. They chase flying and swooping hunting eagles just out of grasp. But as the wolves attack, one flight of eagles and then another swoop in from the rear and slash heads and backs with talons sharp as swords. My eyes followed the turmoil of battle raging in the sky. My finger pointed upward, and I glared in stark marvel.

  “‘Look! Many eagles are caught and slain!’ I shouted. ‘Yet, ours is victory. For the Romans the bird is a noble symbol, but for us it is a killer from which we must defend ourselves with all our powers. We will crush the Romans!’”

  Caratacus grinned and nodded. “And we shall.”

  “I fell silent,” Havgan continued, “and saw wolves surrounding a giant fallen eagle, wearing golden armor. The wings were crushed, and it struggled to limp from the snarling jaws of the wolf pack.

  “‘A great Roman leader will be captured and sacrificed to the Great Goddess,’ I said.’”

  Caratacus raised his eyebrows. “Who, Plautius?”

  “I could not tell, except it was a Roman general—it had to be! Again, I grew dizzy, and the images faded. Just before I lost consciousness, I remember saying, ‘Praise to you, Great Andraste, Goddess of Victory.’ Darkness crossed her eyes, and I feinted.”

  “How long were you unconscious?” Caratacus asked.

  “I slept like a dead man until the premonition jolted me awake early this morning. I was blinded for the length of a few heartbeats as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of an oil lamp next to my bed-pallet. I was alone, my head throbbing as it always did after drinking mistletoe, and my tongue tasted like the plague. I called for a servant to bring water. A dark figure silently entered and knelt, reverently offering an earthen cup of water. Owen.

  “Greedily, I drained its contents. Owen asked me how I felt.”

  “When I finished drinking, I said, ‘I must tell the king of my vision last night and the premonition that awoke me. I will go alone. I have a terrible feeling the Romans were on the march.’”

  Clud stormed into the room. “King Caratacus. The Romans. They’re here!”

  “Impossible! They weren’t expected for at least another day.”

  “My scouts came flying across the river with the news,” Clud said. “No telling how many, but we knew yesterday that at least two, maybe three legions and the same number of auxiliaries were moving this way. No reason to believe any different now.”

  Caratacus turned to Havgan. “Your premonition was right.”

  “I regret that I wasn’t wrong. I will leave you now to attend matters of war.” He departed.

  “Have you heard from the other scouts searching up and down the river?” he asked Clud.

  “Not yet.”

  “Send out more,” Caratacus commanded.

  Clud glanced toward the entrance. “They’re already on their way.”

  “Good man. But if the Romans are advancing that quickly, they’ll be soon crossing the river in front of us. We’ll have a big surprise waiting for them.” He grinned, thinking about the defenses.

  “The Romans could cross somewhere else.”

  “We haven’t heard from the outlying scouts. That’s why you’re sending out more. When you’ve finished that, go roust the chieftains and captains, I want them here immediately!”

  Within fifteen minutes Caratacus’s leaders, including Fergus ap Roycal, had assembled outside headquarters by a large, flaming bonfire. He issued orders. “The main army stays in place until we have more information on the Roman movements. I’m certain they will cross here on the river plain.” He ordered one captain to take the chariots and half of the cavalry eastward and work their way to the river’s mouth. “They may cross there with the help of their navy. I want you,” he said, nodding to a Trinovantian chieftain, “to take half of the remaining cavalry upstream. In either situation, if you make contact, you are to halt the Romans at all costs and send for reinforcements.”

  He gave further instructions to the rest of his men. When finished, Fergus ap Roycal asked that since the defenses had been built along the river, why he was taking such precautions? Caratacus explained not all the legions had been accounted for. “They’re the ones I’m concerned about. If one legion breaks through, the rest will follow. That’s why I plan to keep part of our forces in reserve,” Caratacus said. “The Romans expect us to throw our entire army at them in one single thrust. They are in for a surprise.”

  Fergus and the rest of his men grinned and voiced agreement.

  Dawn crept upon the stirring camp as the leaders left Caratacus’s tent. He strode outside a short distance behind them. As he scanned the moonlit area, his eyes focused on the barren ridge of the hill to the west. He spotted the dark silhouette of a huge wolf howling and peering eastward across the river toward the invisible Roman camp.

  Where was its mate? Caratacus wondered. Judging by its size, it has to be the pack leader. “We’ve invaded your territory,” he said to himself. “We’ve displaced you as the Romans have displaced us, brave one. Is that why you look to the east? We have a common bond you and me, the return of what belongs to us.”

  A thought flashed through his mind. Of course, that’s it!

  Caratacus caught up to his chieftains. “There you have it, my lords!” Caratacus bellowed, pointing to the hill. “An omen! The lone wolf. Don’t you see? He’s pointing the way to the Romans, to destroy them.”

  A long, high-pitched howl echoed across the hill. Moments later, the animal was gone.

  Chapter 6

  Twilight chased the stars westward over the purple horizon as Caratacus boarded his chariot. The little horses nickered as the driver, a young warrior recommended by Havgan, tightened the reins before they could prematurely move away. The heavenly bodies were like the Romans, advancing as surely as the tide, a tide he must stop for his people, or die trying. He had worked too hard in uniting the southern tribes. Now he had a duty to unite all the peoples of Britannia and crush the invaders.

  Caratacus expected a sticky heat to rise soon from the marsh. He threw aside his mantle and nodded to the driver. With a flick of the guidelines, the ponies jolted forward. Accompanied by Clud and Fergus ap Roycal, he set out to inspect the tribal armies. A retinue of warriors and shield bearers flanked both sides of Caratacus in chariots that kicked up clouds of dust.

  Earlier that morning, the king’s combined tribal forces of
thousands of warriors had scrambled to take up defensive positions on top of the palisade wall built above and along the bank of the River Medway. A Roman attack is inevitable. Caratacus puzzled over whether this would be the place of the real assault or a feint? He gripped the hilt of his sword and spread his legs to keep his balance in the jolting car, wheels thudding over the rut-filled path. As his entourage approached the Medway, he shaded his eyes from the glaring sun and viewed the chalky, high ground across the river. The Romans would not throw pontoons across the river at this point, Caratacus thought, the tidal movements were too fast and extreme, going from a shallow ford to three times the height of a man in a couple hours. They might attempt to ford the river when it was low, but their timing had to be perfect and would be slowed by the deadly spikes embedded in the floor along with three-pronged caltrops. Being out in the open would leave the Romans vulnerable to a murderous assault by his warriors’ arrows and slingstones from the stockade.

  “Do you see them?” Clud asked, pulling Caratacus out of his thoughts as he rode alongside him.

  “It must be their whole army,” Caratacus answered.

  Caratacus exhaled and prayed it wasn’t so. He didn’t believe the entire invasion force of forty thousand Roman troops had mustered across the river opposite them. Despite the reports from dozens of scouts, his warriors had probably missed a number of vexillations deployed by the legions. They could be anyplace. Although impossible to cover the entire river length, he had deliberately left one shallow ford unguarded. No doubt the Romans will discover it and cross, believing they have out-maneuvered my forces.

  The king surveyed the teeming Roman camp. Even at two hundred yards, he heard the barking orders by Roman centurions.

  While the high king watched, his warriors left their posts, poured out of the garrison, and gathered along the river’s edge. Before long, thousands wearing an array of tartans, striped tunics, and breeches, or homespun clothing crowded the river bank, gaping at the size of the opposing army. Sunlight glinted from armor and shields. One vast, human quilt of scarlet, gold, blue, and green snaked along the shoreline for half a mile, scanning the enemy’s activities. They hooted and jeered at the Romans across the way.

  Caratacus could have easily ordered them back behind the barricades but decided to let the Romans believe all his warriors were here.

  “All we have to do is wait for them to cross,” Clud said.

  “If they cross,” Caratacus replied. He summoned and dispatched a messenger with an order to recall his chariot companies from upstream.

  Fergus ap Roycal stood in a chariot to the other side of Caratacus. “Is that wise? You’re not going to bring all your forces to this location?”

  Caratacus motioned towards the river. “Over there are at least twenty thousand Romans. They aren’t stupid. I’m certain they didn’t concentrate all their forces here.” He gestured towards the Romans. “This could be a diversion.” He turned about in the car, facing in the opposite direction. “I suspect they’ll attack us from behind. We’ll keep enough warriors here to draw the Romans’ attention. I will send the chariots and a force of infantry to counter any strike at our back.”

  Sweat poured from Fergus’s craggy face as he motioned wildly with his hand. “But we number over sixty thousand—no one can stop us. Your brother’s death has stiffened the resolve of our men to fight.”

  “They’ll keep enough troops here believing they can pin us down, while their main assault comes from our rear,” Caratacus said. “I’ve kept the reserves in the forest behind the fortress. They’re in position to reinforce the men here, or, if need be, I can send them to fight the Romans to our rear.”

  “Are you going to recall the other cavalry forces downstream?” Clud asked.

  “No, the Roman Navy could land troops there, probably the Ninth Legion. My spies have learned that General Plautius used them in several such landings on the Danubus River at the far end of their empire.”

  Clud nodded. “At least the cavalry left before dawn.”

  “Still, it will take hours to move several thousands of our men,” Fergus said.

  “The Romans have the same problem,” Caratacus said.

  Moments before leaving the river’s edge, a courier reined in his horse before Caratacus’s escorting shield bearers. The captain of the escort approached the king on foot with the bare-chested rider, his lathered pony in tow.

  “High King, this man has urgent news.”

  “Speak up,” Caratacus ordered. “What is it?”

  “The Romans have crossed the river in force downstream, High King,” the dusty messenger said.

  Clud and Fergus glanced toward one another but remained silent.

  “Where?” Caratacus demanded. “At the open ford?”

  The spiked-hair rider shook his head. “No, sire, by the great bend near the river mouth.”

  Caratacus’s lips tightened over clenched teeth. “Impossible! Too deep!”

  Fergus motioned toward the Medway. “Since when do Romans ride in rivers?”

  “Aye, never heard of such a thing,” Clud added.

  “They’re German cavalry, Batavian bastards,” the courier said. “They swam across in full gear, somewhere near three-four thousand of them.”

  “Why didn’t our men repel them? We sent cavalry and chariots to the north early this morning,” Caratacus demanded, his face flushed.

  The messenger gulped and bowed his head. “They tried, High King, but they … they were wiped out.”

  Rage stormed through Caratacus’s body, his every muscle tightened. He restrained himself from grabbing the rider by the throat. This isn’t the man’s fault. He hissed. “No one wipes out four thousand of my best horsemen!”

  “They slaughtered the horses first and then butchered our men escaping on foot. Then, for some reason, they turned inland,” the young warrior said.

  “Clud,” Caratacus said in a calmer tone, “send all our remaining cavalry, including Lady Rhian’s company, and ten thousand Catuvellaunian and Trinovantian infantry. Pursue those shit-eaters. No one slaughters our horses and lives!”

  The messenger pulled back as if afraid to speak. His mouth quivered. “High King, they’re not headed this way, they’re riding north towards the Tamesis bridge.”

  Clud looked northward. “They’ve reached the bridge by now. Should we send so many reinforcements?” For a split second he paused and huffed. “We’ve already burnt the bridge, it won’t matter. Even if the cavalry can probably be there in an hour or two, it will take at least twice as long to mobilize and march that many infantry to the location.”

  Caratacus shook his head. “I’m concerned about the mud flats. We must keep them open in case we have to retreat.” My warriors must have an escape route if, gods forbid, that came to pass.

  Caratacus was familiar with the area. Colonized by thick vegetation, the exposed flats created a natural bridge. Its floor was a silting valley laced with stream channels and rivulets flowing between densely thicketed river shrub, negotiable in summer only by those who knew the tides, shallow places, and pathways through the undergrowth. “We can cross only at low tide,” Caratacus continued, “that’s why we must keep the area clear of Romans.”

  He had just dismissed the first messenger when another arrived with news that General Vespasian and Legion Second Augusta were approaching from the west, marching at double-time.

  “So, that’s it, very clever indeed,” Caratacus said evenly.

  He turned to Clud and then to Fergus. “The Romans plan to hem us in. They already occupy the south side of the River Medway in order to hold down our troops. Their accursed Navy blockades the channel to the east. The Germans are cutting the northern route. Now Vespasian moves from the west. He must have found the shallow ford upstream and circled about.”

  “Just as you suspected they would,” Clud said.

  “How many troops?” Caratacus asked the new courier.

  “About ten-thousand, including their Ga
llic and Spanish auxiliaries,” the rider answered.

  “Which direction are they heading?”

  “Toward the North Downs, sire.”

  Caratacus dismissed the courier. He turned to Clud and Fergus as he shook his head. “I underestimated the Romans’ strength.”

  “We’ve killed thousands and destroyed a dozen supply trains,” Fergus said.

  “Not enough to halt their flow of reinforcements from Gaul. How else could they have deployed as they have? The blame is all mine.” Caratacus frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, High King,” Clud said.

  “I’m responsible.” Caratacus gripped the hilt of his sword. “Thank the gods the Romans crossed at the ford I deliberately left vulnerable.” As was customary before battle, he took a javelin out of a socket within the chariot and staked the weapon to the chalky ground. “We’ll crush them on the plains!”

  *

  West of the marshland, not more than two miles from Caratacus’s encampment, a stretch of flatland lay at the foot of the North Downs. He expected Vespasian’s attack to come from that direction and was in place, ready for the Romans. He left a contingent of over thirty thousand warriors along the Medway. With him were a like number, whom he rushed to the area, more than enough to overwhelm a legion of five thousand and its auxiliaries. Reaching it by early afternoon. The mobilizing of so many men took longer than he expected; even though they didn’t have supply wagons to slow them down, they still had to carry water and enough spare weapons to see the fight to the finish.

  As he stood in his chariot on a lowlying hill overlooking the plain, Caratacus received news from returning scouts that the Romans were marching up the trackway to the North Downs.

  “We attacked them from both sides of the road where the hills slope down. We struck hard and then fled back into the woods,” the scar-faced scout said, panting for breath.

  “How many did you kill?” Caratacus inquired. He glanced to Clud and Fergus.

  “At least a couple hundred.”