The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “I take it there isn’t any love lost between you two?”

  “None,” she sniffed. “By rights, I should be his wife. Together we would have ruled all Britannia.”

  “But you were already married to Venutios.”

  “He was little more than a cub. I would have dropped him at the snap of a whip if Caratacus had chosen me.”

  Porcius felt as if he were intruding on a family quarrel, and he didn’t like it.

  “Instead,” Cartimandua continued, “he picked my sister, the simpering bitch. Her only ambition is to suckle babies! The wolf is the only man who could have tamed me.”

  Porcius filed that remark of animosity for future consideration and observed Cartimandua’s latest lover, sitting to her left—a husky, scar-faced shield bearer. The whelp nods approvingly at her every remark.

  Taking another leg of chicken in his greasy hand, Porcius thought about what he knew of the Britons. He doubted she would keep her lover for any length of time before flinging him away for another. Venutios was no longer her husband but still a clan chieftain. The last word Porcius had received said he was in Caratacus’s camp. After the raid on Noviomagnus, Venutios returned to Brigantia and led the revolt in the west against the Romans. When it failed and Cartimandua refused to lend her support, he fled just ahead of the Romans, who captured and executed the other ringleaders.

  “Well, the emperor is grateful for your loyalty,” Porcius commented after a moment of thought.

  “And I shall remain loyal … for a price.” Her emerald eyes peered right through Porcius as if he didn’t exist. Then a wide smile crossed her ample mouth. “The emperor is most generous with his clients, isn’t he?”

  Porcius regarded her with cold speculation. “You are very presumptuous about his generosity.”

  “You haven’t come this far just to grace my presence with your company, Senator Porcius,” Cartimandua said icily. “The noble Claudius doesn’t send an emissary of your status without expecting something in return. Am I not correct?”

  “Quite perceptive indeed.”

  “After dinner we shall retire to my private chambers. My chief Druid shall be present as my advisor.” She glanced to the lower table, smiling at Bassus. “And bring your brave centurion.”

  *

  After dinner, Porcius and Bassus followed Cartimandua and her chief Druid to her private chambers. In the smoky light of eight Roman olive-oil lamps Porcius looked about Cartimandua’s bedchamber. He noted the ornately carved, full-length, polished, bronze mirror hinged to the stone wall. To its side stood a wide, mahogany-framed bed containing a gold and red striped mattress and pillows. Folded into neat squares, woolen blankets of purple and silver lay across its top. Two small, bronze tables with spiral bases were covered with ivory cosmetic jars, dragon-headed gold rings, broaches, and other jewelry. Three oaken cupboards containing latticed doors, unheard of luxuries among the Britons, sat side by side near the chamber entrance. The last item he observed was the green and gold, plaid, silk cloak about her shoulders, fastened at the right side of the neck with a gold, double-headed bird of prey broach. A slave had placed it about her after they had entered the icy room. Her taut nipples traced a sharp, teasing pattern beneath the silk.

  The senator and the queen sat in the cold bedchamber on cushioned chairs by the jewel-encrusted, wooden table next to her bed, with the Druid close by. Bassus stayed to the shadows of the room ignored by all of them while they negotiated.

  “I will be blunt, Senator Porcius,” Cartimandua said, “were it not for me, your army would have been destroyed.”

  “That’s absurd. We smashed the Iceni and western Brigantes.” He wouldn’t admit to her that the army did have its hands full.

  “Barely. Had I thrown my lot in with Caratacus, the Romans would have been slaughtered.”

  Porcius’s mouth hardened in annoyance. “But you didn’t, and Rome was victorious. What is your point?”

  “I demand the rebel lands as reward for my continued loyalty.” Her Druid, old but alert-eyed, concurred.

  “What you ask is impossible,” Porcius lied. “What guarantee do we have that you won’t betray us?”

  A wicked smile formed on her lips. “Grant me those lands. If for no other reason, bringing them firmly to heel would keep me occupied for a time. It will be years before the Iceni and the western Brigantes are strong again. They lost thousands.”

  “Nevertheless, what you ask is out of the question,” Porcius said. “Rome has chosen Prasutagus and his wife, Boudicea of the Iceni.”

  “And they are like all Iceni, horse-thieving slime.”

  “That may well be true, but on that issue neither the emperor nor General Scapula will budge.”

  “You have wasted a trip, Senator,” Cartimandua finally said.

  “I will make you an offer, my Queen. I’m certain I can persuade the emperor to give you the lands of the western Brigantes alone. That is my only offer. And you will be honored by your people.”

  Cartimandua’s Druid bent his head to her ear and whispered.

  She nodded and turned to Porcius. “I will accept, providing you add five hundred pounds of gold a year!”

  You contemptible bitch. Porcius had no patience for this woman. He decided to take a gamble and prayed to Minerva that Cartimandua wouldn’t call his bluff.

  He cleared his throat. “My Queen, I will not quibble, you are trying not only my patience, but the patience of Rome. There will be no gold.”

  “Then Rome shall not have my loyalty.”

  “No? Then Rome will have your head,” Porcius threatened dryly.

  She glared. “How dare you show contempt to my person.”

  “I don’t, but Rome does, and I speak in her behalf. It is not a threat, but a statement of fact.”

  “You know that it is in my power to see that you never leave this place alive?”

  Porcius sighed. “That would be a grave mistake. What would you accomplish except incurring the wrath of Caesar, and that would be a pity?” Porcius shook his head. “Rome offers you so much, and I come in peace. Rome would rather see you remain ruler of the Brigantes.”

  “And so I shall.”

  “Only if you comply with the emperor’s wishes,” Porcius said in a hardened voice. “If you don’t, the army will march on your capital, seize, and replace you with someone of Rome’s choosing. Someone we know who will be as loyal as Togidubnus of the Atrebates. I suggest you think on it, but only for a moment!”

  For the space of six heartbeats, Porcius studied her face. By the gods, she’s so incredibly beautiful, Porcius thought. I can’t understand why Caratacus chose Dana for his wife when he could have taken Cartimandua for his consort.

  “Togidubnus … that worthless lapdog! My army will meet yours in the field and slaughter it to a man.”

  “Your army will be crushed with or without the aid of Caratacus,” he replied evenly. The certainty of what he spoke was felt by all four.

  “If we are defeated, I will flee rather than become a Roman bitch.”

  Porcius scowled, the ends of his fleshy lips curving downward. “To flee admits loss of everything, including Rome’s generosity. I don’t envision you leaving the comforts of Eburacum, especially your palace. You don’t impress me as one who would live in a mud hut in the wilds of the black Silurian mountains,” he said. “No, my Queen, you won’t run. You were destined to rule. And rule you shall.” Porcius folded his hands across his paunch and waited for her to force the issue. If necessary, I will grant Cartimandua everything as Scapula suggests, and she won’t suspect how we will deal with her in the future.

  Cartimandua bit her lip as her face darkened. He had won. She looked to her Druid, who imperceptibly nodded capitulation. She took a deep breath and then, in an apparent effort to compose herself, flashed a big smile. “Very well, I accept the western lands.”

  “A wise decision,” Porcius said smoothly, although trying to mask his astonishment. “I must leave before dawn on
the next tide to notify General Scapula.” Porcius paused, glanced to the entrance, then to Cartimandua and the Druid. “Oh, one other matter, don’t get any ideas about planning my demise before I leave Eburacum. Any accidents I suffer will be interpreted by Rome as an act of war and be met with swift and cruel retaliation.”

  “You can assure the emperor I will remain loyal to Rome.”

  Porcius didn’t believe her for a moment. However, when the time is ripe, Rome will invade her kingdom. Then she will be no more than a puppet. If she wishes to survive!

  “You may go, Senator Porcius,” Cartimandua commanded soberly, apparently recovering her dignity. She turned and nodded to Bassus, who stepped away from the wall.

  “However, you are to stay, Centurion.” She smiled, stroking her lower lip with a long fingernail.

  *

  “What did the queen want?” Porcius inquired of Bassus early the following morning as if he didn’t already know. They breakfasted alone in a small, dimly lit dining area adjacent to the kitchen, sitting on wooden benches at a splintery table. Covered with straw, the floor reeked of rotten vegetables and rancid meat.

  “She wanted me to rut with her,” he reported directly, munching on a pear.

  “That’s wonderful.” He studied Bassus’s impassive face for a moment. “Well, did you?”

  “No. Though I was tempted. She’s a beautiful woman.”

  Porcius nearly choked on the cheap Gallic wine and slammed the bronze cup to the ash wood table. “But why not? It’s to our advantage for you to be her consort.”

  “I won’t be entangled in her claws,” Bassus said, his face flushed with indignation. “That wasn’t part of my orders.”

  “Orders can be overruled. By your union, she’d believe that she could use you to get what she wants.”

  “And when she tired of me, I’d be murdered by accident or poison.”

  Porcius shrugged. “She must have been furious. That explains why we’re eating in this abominable place!”

  “No sooner had you left when she grabbed my hand and led me to her bed,” Bassus said. “The slut ordered me to take off her clothes, but I refused. Instead, she ripped hers off as I stood there. Gods, she was as ripe as a pomegranate.”

  “And you did nothing?”

  Bassus smirked. “I was aroused, but no, I didn’t.”

  “Gods, are you alive?”

  Bassus chuckled. “I admit it took all the will power I could muster. I did want her despite it all.”

  “I can’t stand this, what happened next?”

  “She groped me and knew I was ready. But I gritted my teeth and turned away. That must have done it. She cursed and screamed and threw a shoe at me and questioned my manhood. Then she ordered me to get out, and I did.”

  Porcius stabbed a chubby finger in Bassus’s direction. “You must go to her again. Ask for her forgiveness. Anything. We need a Roman in her court!”

  “No, my lord.” The centurion tightened his jaw. “I won’t be used by her—or you.”

  Porcius felt the heat rush to his face. “You know that I can have you broken for refusing to obey the order of a Roman senator, a representative of the Roman people?”

  “My lord, with all due respect, you can do anything you want. I’m a soldier. I’ve never been and never will be a politician,” Bassus answered calmly.

  Embarrassed, Porcius had never spoken in such pompous tones to Bassus before and had no need of it now. That kind of rhetoric was appropriate for the Senate but had no place here. He felt an almost fatherly affection for the young centurion.

  “I know,” he said in a conciliatory tone of voice, “and a good one, too. Exceptional. You claim you’re not a politician, but remember, you negotiated the surrender of the eleven kings like a veteran of the Senate.”

  “I’m a Roman soldier first. Marching at the head of my cohort is where I belong.”

  “So you will when we return south. However, isn’t a woman of her beauty worth taking a risk?”

  “Why don’t you go to her?”

  “You know why.” Since his wife’s death, Porcius had a preference for young boys and men. Although this was tolerated in Roman society, he had always felt uneasy about it. And he was discreet. He respected women and appreciated their charms, but since his short-lived marriage at a young age, they had never been a temptation. “Why do you think I was sent to negotiate with that strumpet?”

  Bassus sipped his wine. “I must be mellowing, or maybe it’s love. There is a woman in Camulodunum I fancy.”

  Porcius raised a bushy eyebrow. “You’ve never mentioned her, and that shouldn’t stop you. These native women aren’t worth pining over.”

  He snorted. “She’s not a local woman, and I’m not pining.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s the daughter of Barates, a wealthy Palmyrene merchant.”

  “Indeed, he’s worth millions.” A wry smiled crossed Porcius’s lips. “Then she is a fine catch. What is her name?”

  “Regina.”

  “That’s Roman.”

  “They’re Roman citizens. He holds the franchise to supply weapons and armor to the army in Britannia.”

  “It will be a good alliance for you, marrying into money.”

  Bassus looked coldly at Porcius. “I don’t want to jeopardize it. She even seems favorably disposed toward me, and our forthcoming marriage is arranged. If word got back to her father that I consorted with this royal slut, the marriage agreement would be canceled.”

  Porcius squinted. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought. “Now I understand. If only I had known before, I could have seen that you weren’t placed in such a precarious position. Barates has made a good choice for his daughter.”

  Bassus grinned.

  “Well, perhaps there was unintended wisdom in your refusal of Cartimandua’s bed,” Porcius said. “She is used to having her way with all men. But in this case, she can’t have you. Perhaps it will cloud her thoughts for a day or two, and buy time for my plans to take root.”

  *

  A week later in early October, Caratacus received a verbal message from Cartimandua, given to him by a Druid acolyte. Months before, Caratacus had sent word to the queen in an effort to persuade her to join his forces. He wondered if she now had decided to come to his aid.

  “What is your message, acolyte?” Caratacus asked.

  “These are my queen’s words, High King. ‘Although I have given my oath to Rome, it is a sham. It is you whom I support, let there be no doubt. You must understand this to be kept a secret.’” The acolyte paused.

  “Don’t stop now,” Caratacus said. “Continue.”

  The acolyte briefly bowed his head. “‘Tell him the Romans are planning to cross the Sabrina River estuary soon. When the time is ripe, my forces shall join yours.’”

  “We will be ready,” Caratacus said. “The Silurians are loyal allies, and the mountainous country is well suited for my style of fighting. We will wear the Romans down.”

  “Yes, High King. The queen concluded her message with this: ‘But for now, the wolf must carry on the fight alone.’”

  Chapter 16

  July, AD 48

  The Romans waited until late the following April and landed where least expected. Instead of invading the Great Forest, the Twentieth Legion and its auxiliaries turned northwest and overran the small but strategically located Hillfort at Llanmelin. Its position on the gentle promontory, lying between the Rivers Usk and Wye, made for a clear view across the Sabrina River Valley to the northeast and the sea to the southwest. Now the Romans controlled access to both land and sea, and nothing moved in or out of the area without their knowledge. Another two weeks elapsed before Scapula’s forces invaded the Great Woods.

  Caratacus’s warriors resisted and inflicted heavy Roman losses. Repelling one sortie after another, his fighters bogged down their advance. Still, the muscles tightened in his powerful shoulders and neck when Caratacus mulled over his failure in driving t
he Romans back across the river. They had too many soldiers. An endless stream of supplies and reinforcements arrived daily by Roman naval barges at the busy camp established on the river’s sprawling bank.

  Caratacus’s rambling camp lay in a large clearing at the base of a hidden valley. A rushing stream tumbled white from gray sandstone rocks above and mellowed into a clear, tranquil pond stretching nearly three hundred paces downstream.

  It was late afternoon when Caratacus and his band of blood-spattered and dirty warriors, dozens of whom were wounded, approached the rocky creek on foot. Despite butchering an entire Roman century earlier that day, Caratacus’s forces had suffered their highest losses. Out of nearly two hundred, more than forty died. As they approached the settlement, messengers reported from six other raiding parties, including one led by Venutios, that the Romans had successfully counterattacked, inflicting heavy casualties. Another raiding group had been led by Fiona, who had developed into a hardened warrior since the death of Rhian and was now one of Caratacus’s trusted captains. Soon he would have to decide whether to stay in the secret vale, continue his raids, or withdraw.

  As Caratacus waded across the knee-deep stream followed by his men, he spotted four warriors dressed in bloodstained, wolfskin cloaks and ripped, tartan trousers, armed with longswords and battered, oval shields. Fergus ap Roycal, bigger than the other three, led the group. He wore a tarnished, bronze helmet with simulated, spiked horns.

  Fergus shouted a guttural victory cry as he pulled off his helmet and waved it over his bald head. “Good news, High King! We chased the Romans to the river.”

  “Excellent! That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” Caratacus reached the far bank, his legs numbed from the freezing waters, and approached the sun-darkened warrior.

  “We stopped the shit eaters when they sent a rescue column for the survivors—like you said they would,” Fergus gesticulated to the east. “They ran for their stinking camp.”