The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “Exactly why would she want my head?”

  Plautius halted and faced Porcius. “For opposing the succession of her son, Nero, when Claudius dies.”

  “But his son Britannicus is the true successor to the purple.” Porcius fiddled with the sleeve of his toga.

  “Agreed. He’s the far better choice for Rome.” The two resumed their stroll. “Britannicus, however, doesn’t have a vile and domineering mother to back him. He’s just a boy, not even ten. He’ll never live to see his first toga at fourteen. And there is one other reason Agrippina wants you dead.”

  Porcius shuddered. This isn’t the first time someone in the imperial household has been after my head. That monster, Caligula, wanted it, too. “What else?”

  The old general tightened his lips into a thin line and nodded. “Remember the great feast we attended last week in honor of the emperor’s favorite gladiator, Lucanus?”

  “Jupiter, yes. An insufferable lout.”

  “Do you recall what you said in confidence to Senator Maximinus?”

  Porcius stared at Plautius dumfounded. “How did you—”

  “The pillars have ears.” The general’s weathered face scanned the garden. “One of Agrippina’s slaves overheard you calling her an incestuous slut.”

  Plautius waved away the expected denial. “And the slut told Claudius and demanded your head. Fortunately, our mutual friend, the emperor’s freedman secretary, Narcissus, was present. He managed to convince the emperor that the slave was lying and had his tongue split like a serpent’s.”

  “Thank the Lucky Twins for Narcissus,” Porcius said. He wiped his sweating hands down the side of his toga.

  The general’s forehead creased into three crooked lines as he searched Porcius’s eyes. “Of course, he will demand a gift for his favor.”

  “Anything. I’ll even give him one of my prized boys.”

  Plautius snorted. “Fine for him. But that won’t deter Agrippina.”

  Porcius’s heart pounded, and his mouth went dry. How could anyone have heard my conversation with Maximinus? It was barely a whisper.

  “On second thought,” Porcius said, clearing his throat, “I’m sure that I can find business requiring my immediate attention in Rome’s newest province.”

  “I don’t envy your journey,” Plautius said. He looked away then back to Porcius. “At least you’ll be away from her prying eyes.”

  “Perhaps if I had been awarded a triumph like you and acclaimed a hero of the Roman people, Agrippina wouldn’t be so quick to move.”

  “As politicians, we both know better than that,” Plautius reminded Porcius. “It wouldn’t stop her.”

  Porcius tightened his lips and nodded. “Of course, you’re right, I’m deluding myself.”

  “My friend, I have never considered myself a hero,” the general said.

  Porcius stopped and faced the general. “But you are.” He met and held Plautius’s eyes. The man is genuinely modest.

  A caustic laugh escaped Plautius’s lips. “Am I? For three years Caratacus made an arse of me and my generals. He knew my troops were spread too thin. I needed Vespasian’s Second Legion to secure the northern channel to the west. So Caratacus took full advantage, breaching the holes in the frontier. Hero indeed!” His voice took on new strength reliving his recent command.

  “You secured the eastern flanks and the west. A splendid accomplishment,” Porcius said.

  Plautius’s eyes blankly stared beyond Porcius’s sagging shoulders. “Aye, but I failed to destroy that shit-eating savage. A full triumph would have been mine instead of a lowly honorium.”

  “There will be other campaigns and victories.” Porcius gestured widely. “You have many years of imperial service ahead of you.”

  The general snorted. “If it’s the emperor’s will and not Agrippina’s.”

  “It’s just as well I’m returning to Britannia,” Porcius said.

  “I’ve never understood what you see in that freezing wasteland.”

  “Sometimes I’ve wondered, too. But all I have to do is observe the changes here, and Britannia isn’t as unhealthy or barbaric as we might think.”

  “Now that Agrippina is Claudius’s wife, I fear the emperor will soon be among the gods,” Plautius added in a sad voice. They walked a few paces in silence until the old soldier stooped and picked up a discarded flower. He brushed away the trace of soil and placed the small violet in his toga’s inside pouch without comment. Porcius decided to believe his warnings because of the general’s compassion for a simple flower.

  “On occasion, I’ve hidden my fears well. I’ve never been a brave man,” Porcius reflected, “but I must be now. I’m in your debt.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Plautius answered as he clasped Porcius’s right hand and wrist. “Farewell, and may Fortuna smile upon you.”

  Chapter 14

  Porcius reached Camulodunum in late August. He wasn’t greeted at the docks, and that was fine with him. He had quietly left Rome, not sending word ahead of his arrival, knowing well that word would precede him.

  Finding his small villa outside of town in a state of neglect, Porcius spent the next month hiring a new overseer, buying slaves, and seeing his home restored to order. After settling in, he planned to see the new imperial governor, Publius Ostorius Scapula.

  The day before Porcius’s intended ride to Camulodunum, he paced about the grounds in front of his repainted villa, giving Cyrus, his Persian freedman and steward, orders on its maintenance. Hearing whinnies, jingling pendants, and rumbling hooves of what had to be many horses, he turned and squinted into the midmorning sunlight. A turma of at least thirty cavalrymen, drawn up in columns of two, churned up a cloud of chalky dust as they cantered along the elm-lined roadway.

  “Roman cavalry,” Cyrus said. “Why are they coming here?”

  A chill went up Porcius’s back, and his knees nearly buckled. “I don’t know.” Jupiter, are they here to arrest me? Agrippina must have persuaded the emperor to have my head after all. Porcius looked about. He could flee, but they would catch him soon enough. Even if he did manage to escape, where would he go? The army would hunt him down like a common slave or thief. Porcius stood as straight as his rotund body would allow and planted his sandaled feet squarely on the ground, mustering all his dignity. No, he had to stay where he was and try to meet his fate like a true Roman—he hoped!

  Porcius motioned to Cyrus. “Stay here, we’ll see what they want.”

  As the riders drew closer, he noticed they weren’t the usual chain-mailed, blue tunic, and breech-clothed auxiliaries like Gauls or Thracians. Instead, they wore segmented armor over burnt-red tunics and knee-length trousers. Legionaries! I’m going to be arrested for sure. Scapula wouldn’t send them if the matter wasn’t serious. At once he recognized the leader and confident demeanor. Bassus! Of all people, why did they send him? Was it because we worked together in dealing with the barbarians?

  Centurion Bassus barked a command, and the squadron slowed their foamed-mouth horses to a walk and then halted as the sounds of squeaking leather and jangling pendants faded away.

  “Greetings, Centurion Bassus,” Porcius said in a flat tone.

  “The same to you, Lord Porcius.” The centurion grinned, his lower teeth slightly crooked. He nodded to Cyrus.

  The Persian motioned to a groom, who raced forward and grabbed the reins from Bassus as he climbed out of the saddle.

  Bassus swatted the dust off his segmented armor and tunic before removing the transverse, crested helmet covering his head. He ran a calloused hand through his close-cropped hair before approaching Porcius.

  “What brings you to my home?” Porcius asked. As if I didn’t know.

  For a split second, Bassus halted and studied Porcius. He stepped closer, the smell of horse sweat on his armor and clothing. “I brought a detachment to escort you to Camulodunum to see General Scapula.”

  Cyrus raised a shaggy eyebrow.

  “Why the escort?�
� Porcius asked.

  Bassus gestured back toward his men. “As senator and legate, you are entitled to the army’s protection.”

  “I thought this area had pacified,” Porcius said.

  “The savages still raid us occasionally. General Scapula feels responsible for your safety. It’d be his head if anything happened to you.”

  It might still be my head if Agrippina has her way.

  The Roman scrutinized the centurion’s face. “Why does General Scapula want to see me?”

  “He has need of your knowledge on British matters.”

  “What sort of matters?”

  “To negotiate with Queen Cartimandua.”

  “Is that all?”

  Bassus regarded him with a puzzling look. “What else did you expect?”

  Relieved that he wasn’t going to be arrested, Porcius sighed, the tension throughout his body vanished in an instant. He cleared his throat. “Why, nothing. Before we leave, why don’t you stand down your men for a while? They must be hungry and thirsty. I will have my slaves bring them food and drink—that goes for their mounts.” He nodded to Cyrus who bowed and hurried toward the house. “In the meantime, Bassus, come along and join me in some refreshment.”

  The centurion turned and barked an order to his men to dismount and stand at ease.

  Porcius nodded to the groom, who led Bassus’s horse away. He motioned toward his house. “I just received a new stock of wine from Germania.”

  The centurion raised his eyebrows. “German wine?”

  “Made by Romans,” Porcius answered as they strolled along the graveled walkway, pebbles crunching under their sandals. “Our colonists planted the first grapes less than ten years ago in the Rhenus River Valley. It’s not bad, and it’s cheap.”

  Porcius led him through a shaded, ivy-draped archway to a marble bench near his newly planted roses, imported from Italy.

  After their drinks were poured and the slave departed, they sat quietly in the newly painted fresco atrium. “I realize this isn’t a social visit,” Porcius said a few minutes later, “but, nonetheless, I am pleased to see you.”

  Bassus nodded and touched the hilt of his sword. “The same here, sir. Too bad it had to be on official business. As I said earlier, General Scapula needs your talents.”

  Porcius jabbed a finger at the centurion. “He should include yours, too. You have a natural gift for diplomacy, my lad.”

  Bassus shrugged.

  “Come now, you were an enormous help in getting those eleven petty kings to surrender.”

  A wicked smile creased the centurion’s mouth. “I appealed to their greed. The bloody barbarians like Roman gold.”

  Porcius grinned. “They like any gold. Isn’t it wonderful what it does for a man?”

  Bassus had promised the kings they could rule their lands unmolested, providing they paid tribute. At first they had balked. But when informed that much of the gold would be returned to their private treasuries, they had a sudden change of heart. Each received the same bargain. Bassus knew the rulers would contact one another and compare. And yet, each was given a special gift to make them feel one-up on their rivals and seal the bargain.

  The centurion had taken each tribal monarch aside and told him the others would not back him in a fight against Rome. Had not Caratacus been defeated, and the Catuvellaunii and Dobunni changed sides? Porcius thought. They would discover later that it wasn’t true, but by then it would be too late. The doubts were sown and the gold paid. As a Briton and king, a man didn’t go back on his word. By the time the kings tested the agreement’s mettle, the Roman Army would be entrenched enough to crush any rebellion. Porcius placed a fore finger and thumb to his double-chin as he thought about the brilliance of the ploy.

  “The general didn’t say much about this Queen Cartimandua,” Bassus said, pulling Porcius from his thoughts. “Who is she?”

  “Besides being queen of the Brigantes,” Porcius said, “she is the younger sister of Caratacus’s wife, Dana. Unlike Dana, who is devoted to her husband, Cartimandua is a dangerous snake who will sleep with anyone she can use.” He didn’t add she would also castrate those who might cross her.

  *

  An hour later, Bassus and Porcius, who had changed into a plain, woolen, traveling tunic, made the short journey to Camulodunum. Porcius rode in an ornate wagon, covered by a scarlet canopy opened on the sides, and pulled by four matched, red ponies. A slave driver sat on the front bench. The Roman settled into a cushioned back seat while Bassus trotted alongside on his chestnut gelding. In front rode two squads of horse soldiers. The one farthest out scouted both flanks of the road while the closer unit trotted directly ahead of the wagon team. Five slave attendants and clerks on donkeys with Cyrus, in the lead on a mule, followed Porcius. The third squad brought up the back acting as a rear guard. The army had recently built a stone-based, hard-packed, gravel road, replacing the old, rutted trackway. It was harvest time, and farmers along the route were cutting ripening wheat and barley with their bone-handled sickles. The sweet smell of cuttings floated on the early, morning breeze. This was a part of Britannia Porcius truly loved.

  “Do you realize,” Porcius said to Bassus, as the wagon rattled along, “that Caratacus was a boy of only seven when I first built my villa in Britannia?”

  Bassus leaned from his saddle toward Porcius, his square jaw and firm mouth appeared as if carved from a Greek statue. His penetrating eyes studying the Roman. “It’s unusual for any Roman, let alone a senator, to live so far from Rome.”

  “True, but when I first traveled to Britannia I was only a rich merchant—later, I bought my way into the Senate. Now I realize Britannia has become more of a home to me than Rome.”

  “Doesn’t the law require senators to live in Rome unless they get permission from the emperor to leave, especially when traveling overseas?” Bassus asked.

  A silver fox darted out of the bushes at the side of the road, crossing in front of the entourage, momentarily spooking Bassus’s mount and the horses pulling the wagon. Once the driver and Bassus had calmed their horses, Porcius answered Bassus’s question.

  “You’re quite right, but because of my vast knowledge of Britannia, I had no problem in obtaining Emperor Claudius’s consent to return.”

  “The only reason I can see a man wanting to come to this sodding hole is because he had woman trouble,” the centurion blurted.

  “All too perceptive, my young centurion.” Porcius pulled a silk handkerchief from his tunic pocket and wiped the dust and sweat from his face and forehead.

  “In Rome they view Britannia as a place of exile.”

  A flock of ravens flew overhead squawking a raucous call.

  “I never have,” Porcius said as he tucked the cloth back into the pocket. “Perhaps that’s why my enemies let me be. So far, I’ve outlived them all. Despite being a Roman, the British people have treated me hospitably. I can always return to Britannia when the political climate in Rome grows too warm.”

  *

  As they journeyed to Camulodunum, Bassus filled him in on the local events that had taken place in Britannia during his absence. “King Verica died in a hunting accident of suspicious origin after Caratacus’s raid on Noviomagnus.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Porcius said. “Who replaced him?”

  Bassus drew his mount closer to the wagon and leaned over. “Togidubnus, another Atrebate and Roman lackey.”

  “Humph,” Porcius answered with a sniff. “Almost useless, but he’ll do Rome’s bidding.”

  Porcius fell silent. The entourage passed through a narrow, fertile valley with several small farmsteads lining the road. The golden wheat was high, ready to be harvested. He scanned the tree-lined hills. Low ridges covered with oaks bordered both sides of the vale. The autumn leaves fell in an amber-rust carpet below.

  Winter will come early this year. I wonder how much longer my enemies, especially Agrippina, will leave me alone? Porcius sadly concluded that if he ever retu
rned to Rome he would never see Britannia again. Agrippina would see to that.

  The wagon bounced over a small pile of rubble in the road, jolting Porcius as its wheels slammed down on the other side. Bassus’s horse veered away.

  “Watch where you are driving, slave, or I will send you to the mines,” Porcius said.

  The pock-faced driver turned his head toward Porcius, his eyes wide. “Yes, master.”

  “What other news can you tell me?” Porcius asked Bassus.

  “A few weeks later, the Second Augustan Legion, led by General Vespasian, launched a campaign in the southwest and easily destroyed thirty tribal hillforts. He encountered the greatest resistance at Maugh-Dun Castle, capital of the Durotrigian Tribe. He lost two to three hundred legionaries.”

  “Thank the gods the losses were so low.”

  Bassus snorted and a wry smile crossed his lips. “The Lucky Twins were with the legion. Had that fool, King Unig, united his forces into one army, we wouldn’t have defeated the Durotrigians so easily. He was killed, but remnants of his army escaped and made their way to the great forest north of the mouth of the River Sabrina, Caratacus’s new base of operations.”

  “The land is impenetrable.”

  Holding the reins of his mount in his left hand, Bassus threw up his right hand as if disgusted. “That’s why he chose it. Legions would be swallowed like fish in a shark’s belly.”

  Porcius pursed his mouth. “Go on.”

  “Vespasian was too busy securing the southwest coast,” Bassus continued as he lowered his hand to the hilt of his sword, “and the Sabrina River Valley channel to bother with Caratacus.”

  “What’s the status of the army now that Scapula is in charge?”

  “The army is spread too thin,” Bassus answered. “To keep the lands the army’s conquered, Plautius was forced to build wooden frontier fortresses every twenty miles along a northeast frontier axis, billeting each site with one hundred or more auxiliaries. The Ninth and Twentieth Legions are guarding the northeastern frontier to insure the Icenis and Brigantes remain loyal to Rome. That’s left Caratacus free to raid at will.”