“My praise to you and your men’s bravery,” Caratacus said.
“Many thanks.” Fergus wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy hand and crammed the helmet back on his head.
“I want you and your men to return to camp, now,” Caratacus said.
“Aye, will do,” Fergus said. “The men deserve a rest and to take care of their wounds.
Caratacus nodded. “While the men recover, I will hold a meeting with all the chieftains.”
Fergus momentarily shaded his eyes, viewed the glaring afternoon sun, and turned to Caratacus. “Sounds urgent.”
“It is, but we’ll have time to drink our dead to the underworld and eat before the meeting begins,” Caratacus said.
Caratacus and Fergus ap Roycal, along with the remaining raiders, many of whom were foreign mercenaries and Roman deserters, entered the encampment. Dirty rags covered the injuries of the many wounded who hobbled along with the assistance of fellow warriors or were carried on makeshift, roped stretchers. The band trudged passed the longhouses scattered among the cedar and oak trees whose branches still dripped from summer rains. Carefully they navigated through the pathway’s treacherous, oozing, ankle-deep mud. Dirty-faced women and children, many dressed in mildewed clothing, ran to the sorry collection of rag-tag warriors. The forest resounded with their shrieking and wailing upon hearing of the deaths of their men. More took up the painful chorus after discovering other loved ones among the injured.
One woman ran up to Caratacus and waved a blackened stump of an arm in his face. “How much more do you expect us to endure?” she shouted. “For years my family and I have followed you. When do we stop running, lord? I’ve lost my husband and a hand fighting for you.”
“Get away from him, woman!” Fergus commanded.
Caratacus turned to his left side where Fergus walked. “Leave her be.” Caratacus stopped and met her piercing, blue eyes. She was no more than thirty, but wrinkles crawled down the side of her gaunt face and streaks of gray ran through her greasy, fading, red hair.
“We won’t run much longer,” Caratacus promised. “Soon, we’ll stop the Romans.”
“With what?” She pointed to Caratacus’s rust-covered sword. “These weapons aren’t fit to fight pigs.”
She was right. No matter how many times Caratacus’s warriors cleaned their weapons, within hours they were streaked with rust.
“I have a son who is nearly thirteen,” she continued to rant. “He’s afraid he won’t live to see his manhood.”
Caratacus briefly touched her shoulder. “I’m not that desperate, woman,” he said in a soothing voice. “He’ll live to see Britannia free of the Roman menace.”
“When? In a thousand summers?” She turned on her heels and stormed through the broken line of warriors.
“The woman is wiser than she knows,” Caratacus remarked to Fergus as they continued moving along the path. Gradually, the wounded fell out of the ragged formation to be cared for by loved ones and friends.
“We can’t stay here much longer,” Caratacus said. “The Romans’ pressure is reducing our people to squalor. Did you see their rags—they’re wearing animal skins.”
“What did you expect?” Fergus said. “They haven’t had decent clothes to wear since we left Caleva more than three summers ago.” He glanced about. “The camp is overcrowded—it’s become a den of disease and pestilence. Have you seen how many of those poor souls have eye inflammations? How many will go blind because of this damned rain!”
“Too many,” Caratacus said. He had seen people suffer from this disease in the marshlands along the coast. The Romans called it ophthalmia, and his people had suffered horribly from its effects.
As they neared the Great Longhouse, Caratacus spotted the medicine woman respectfully known as the Crone, a title given to any woman over fifty years of age and a healer. Following her were several female assistants, including Dana. They were removing two more covered stretchers from the house of healing. Dana, wearing a mud-spattered, long tunic turned and saw Caratacus. Smiling, she darted ahead of the Crone and approached Caratacus. He turned to Fergus and told him to move on with the men. Leaving his warriors behind, he walked toward Dana. They stopped and tightly embraced one another.
“Thanks to the gods you are safe,” Dana said as she pulled away a step. Loose strands of her sunrise-colored hair fell down across her forehead and side of her face. The beginnings of crow’s feet extended from the edge of her hazel eyes.
Caratacus exhaled. “Unfortunately, many of my men are now with Teutates beneath the earth.”
Dana looked past him to the wounded hobbling away with the help of their comrades and relatives.
“How many?” she asked, her eyes fixed on Caratacus.
“Too many.” He told her the number.
Dana looked back toward the Crone who had halted with her other women. “We can’t afford to lose so many—the losses grow worse every day.”
“That’s why we must move and soon,” Caratacus said. He shook his head and changed the subject. “How is our little girl feeling?”
Dana smiled as she brushed strands away from her face. “Macha is much better, thank Mother Goddess. It was a nasty cold and could have been worse. But she should be well by tomorrow. The Crone gave her a potion that helped her.”
“Good. Gods how I regret not being able to spend more time with the both of you. This damned war goes on and on.”
“We’ll talk more about it later. Here is the Crone.”
The older woman, taller than the others assisting her, raised a veiny arm in salutation as she approached Caratacus and Dana.
He gave her a slight nod out of deference to her high status. “What’s your news today?”
The woman’s tired, but intelligent, cobalt eyes focused upon Dana and then Caratacus from a weather-beaten face. “Six more deaths, lord,” the gaunt healer replied. “My best potions and herbs are worthless without cleaner conditions. The garbage pits overflow, and the latrines are near capacity. They breed only more pestilence. I took it upon myself to order new ones dug.”
“You made the right decision.”
The Crone ran her long fingers through the frizzled, gray hair tied into a single-roped tail running down her back, “Thank you, my lord, but they will fill up fast. Soon there won’t be any place left to dig new trenches.”
“I agree,” Dana said.
He glanced around the area once more, shaking his head. How do I resolve this dilemma for my people? He placed a hand on the woman’s narrow shoulder. “Put your mind at ease, Old Crone, we shall move before the week is out.”
“It is good that we will leave. With your permission, I must see to the other sick ones.”
“I will go with her, Husband,” Dana said. “Crone needs all the help she can get.”
“All right, but I want you at the council meeting tonight. It’s important that you know what I plan to tell the chieftains.”
“If it is the same one you told me about last night, I pray that your leaders will see the wisdom in it. I will see you later.” She kissed him on the cheek and followed after the old healer.
*
“We can no longer contain the Romans,” Caratacus announced to the gathering of clan chieftains, warriors, including Fiona, the arch-Druid, Owen, and lesser priests in the stifling, low-ceiling longhouse. Dana sat silently at the back with wives of the other counselors. All those present had parked themselves at small tables on the hard-packed, dirt floor, drinking beer and eating venison and fowl.
“I’ve received word the Twentieth Legion has launched a major offensive,” Caratacus continued after readjusting himself on the crude makeshift throne. “Roman troops and their thieving auxiliaries are spreading through the forest.”
Fergus ap Roycal, who sat up front along with Venutios and the other leaders, including Fiona, looked about the room. He turned and studied Caratacus’s face a moment with his charcoal eyes before speaking. “Are you saying that we
cannot halt them in the Great Forest?”
“The Romans aren’t after the whole forest—only us. Their plan is to isolate then destroy one band at a time. That’s why we must withdraw before we’re trapped.”
“The forest is too big! We are many and spread like wheat in the field,” Fergus said.
“This afternoon I was informed by my messengers that the Romans know our positions,” Caratacus said. “They have the resources to isolate our clans from one another and cut our escape routes and supply lines. The Romans need only to destroy major groups such as ours, and the rest they can butcher at their leisure. Let them have the forest. We will continue fighting.”
There was a murmur among the gathering.
“What about our friends, the Silurians, who live here?” Venutios asked.
Brath, a short, shaggy-haired warrior and leader of the Silurians who sat near the front, said, “This is our homeland, and we won’t leave. Stay we will to harass the Romans and protect our land.”
Caratacus nodded in approval. “It allows us time to withdraw our warriors and set up fortified positions elsewhere. We will move to the Black Mountains, the Brecon Beacons, and other forests and valleys in the east from which we can fight.”
“We won’t be alone long,” Fiona said. “What about the Ordovices?”
“My plan is to unite with the Ordovices,” Caratacus continued, “and persuade my cousin, Queen Cartimandua, and her Brigantes to join our cause. My spies say the Romans will strike Cartimandua when the time is right, but we don’t know when. That is why we must unite to defeat them.”
Caratacus locked his eyes on the chieftains, then on his advisors and Druids. They nodded. He glanced around the room and shrugged, knowing the chieftains would unite behind him.
“We are in agreement?” Caratacus said.
“Agreed,” they said unison.
“It will be a fighting withdrawal,” Caratacus said. “I will use our bravest warriors and harass the Romans. Whenever they enter the woods to shit, let their searching comrades find their heads on pikes. Allow them no rest. Deny them sleep. Teach them to fear every shadow of the forest. Exact revenge without pity. Make them pay for every step forward into your lands. Topple trees in their paths and boulders from the hillsides. But deny them your blood and add to their frustrations. By the time we next meet them in battle, they will believe us demons. The rest of us will take everything with us. What we can’t remove, we destroy. Leave nothing but bones to the Romans!”
*
Upon conclusion of the High Council’s meeting, Caratacus and Dana left the Great Hall. He glanced westward across the meandering creek to the jagged-toothed Black Mountains, now covered in purple shadows, as the last rays of sunlight faded in the western sky. The low murmurs of voices from nearby huts echoed off the surrounding pines and firs as people settled in for the night. The smell of smoke from cooking fires drifted on a breeze.
“At least the chieftains agreed to the plan to leave without too much of their usual bickering,” Dana said.
“I knew they would see the wisdom in the plan.” Caratacus grinned. “Now it’s time to see Macha.”
Entering their longhouse, they found their five-year-old daughter lying on a bed-pallet near the fire pit snuggled in a heavy fir, asleep. A female servant hovered nearby.
Caratacus motioned to the child. “How is she?”
“Better, lord,” the servant said. “The Crone says she be well by tomorrow, and I believe her.”
Macha stirred about, opened her aqua eyes, and yawned. She spotted her parents. “Mum, Da,” she mumbled.
“Hello, sleepy head,” Caratacus said. “We’re home.”
“How are you feeling, darling?” Dana asked.
“Hungry,” Macha answered in a scratchy voice.
Dana nodded to the servant. She stepped to the iron pot hanging by a tripod over the fire pit and ladled out a small bowl of broth, the smell of venison filled the home.
She moved toward the freckle-faced, little girl, whose hair was the color of a sunrise, and was about to stoop down when Caratacus stopped her.
“I’ll feed her.” The servant bowed as she handed him the wooden bowl and spoon.
Caratacus sat down next to Macha. “Can you sit up?”
“Yes.” Slowly, she pulled off the fur, placed her little hands along both sides of her body, pulled back her knees, and pushed herself up into a sitting position.
“Here, try some of this. Open wide.” Carefully, he placed the spoon to her lips.
Macha sipped a little, but choked and spat out the liquid. “It’s hot.”
Caratacus inhaled sharply. “Oh, I’m sorry sweetheart.” He scooped another spoonful and grinned. “Now, I want you to blow on it first, real easy, to cool it down. Then just try a little bit.”
She did, swallowing the broth.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“All right,” he said gently, “try some more.”
Macha ate about half a bowl and said, “I’m full.”
Dana stepped closer and smiled. “Good girl.”
Caratacus took the bowl from her and handed it to the servant. He turned back to Macha and gave her a hug. “That’s my girl.”
“I miss you, Da. You not here much.”
He nodded and quietly answered. “I know, but tonight I’m here.”
“Good. Don’t go away—don’t die.”
Caratacus and Dana looked at one another. “Where did you hear that, Macha?” Caratacus asked.
Macha’s face tightened, a thin line crossed her forehead. “My friends tell me.”
Dana kneeled, her eyes fixed on her daughter. “When?”
“When I play with them—when they don’t help their mums and das.”
“Don’t believe them,” Caratacus said. “They don’t know any better.”
“But some mums and das died.”
“That’s true,” Dana said, “but your da is alive. He is very careful.”
“Good.” Macha closed her eyes as she held onto Caratacus and fell asleep.
“For her sake, if for no one else, we must leave this wretched place,” Dana said.
“We will, Dana, and I will stop the Romans once and for all.”
But how much bloodshed will it cost?
Chapter 17
July, AD 50
Stripped to the waist, a sweating Caratacus hiked with Fergus ap Roycal and Venutios along the base of the newly reconstructed defensive wall while the sun beat on their backs. A cloth sweatband covered the king’s scarred forehead and was knotted at the back of his shoulder-length, tawny hair. Shieldbearers and grooms leading their snorting horses followed the ruler and two chieftains who stopped every few paces, checking for weaknesses in the roughcut, graystone facing.
A lower rampart crossed a gentle slope below the only access to the hillfort of Caersws. In between, Caratacus’s warriors had dug a defensive ditch the depth of three tall men and the width of eight. Dark, overhanging cliffs protected the three other sides of the citadel. Below the barrier, at the foot of the grade, a narrow ford crossed the swift, flowing River Sabrina, its rushing water echoing up toward the citadel. Washing clothes, slapping them on small boulders, a cluster of women stooped or kneeled along its edge downstream. Nearby, their children played games and ran about laughing and screaming. A tiny village of herdsmen and shepherds squatted among the worn-down hills beyond the watercourse.
Nearly one year before, after a two month trek northward from the Great Forest, Caratacus and his army had arrived within the protective range of the Berwyn Mountains.
Hidden within its deep recesses, an ancient hillfort loomed above the narrow valley. From Berwyn’s jagged heights the land of the Ordovices rolled southward in a succession of towering cliffs, forested uplands, and isolated vales.
Caratacus attempted to slide his dagger blade between two well-placed stones, but the stones didn’t budge. He grinned as he rubbed his forefinger along t
he gritty sides of the wall and shoved the weapon back into its scabbard. “That does it!” he said to Venutios and Fergus ap Roycal, who were also bare-chested like their king. “Teutates himself couldn’t have built a better wall.”
Thousands of warriors had labored eight months to complete the huge barrier. Almost twelve feet high and more than six feet across, it was reinforced by wooden crossbeams, as thick as temple pillars, laid out in regular intervals and filled with earth and gravel.
Fergus twisted his crooked mouth into a sneer. “Let the shit-eating Romans take us now. Only Teutates could destroy us.”
Venutios nodded. “When will the rest of the Ordovician levies arrive?”
“They’re still gathering, but they should be here within ten nights,” Caratacus replied. He motioned to his groom to bring a Roman-style, wooden canteen filled with water. Caratacus passed it to Venutios and Fergus. When they had taken their fill, he drank from it as well. Although tepid, it was wet and soothed his parched mouth. He returned the flask to the groom, who stepped away at his nod.
Caratacus gazed for a moment down the length of the wall, turned, and peered across the river to the village and the hills beyond. He took a deep breath. “If we don’t halt the Romans here, Britannia is lost. But that won’t happen. We hold the boar’s head. The location is ideal.”
Caratacus had selected the sight for a list of reasons. A sheer cliff protected the north side. A gentle gradient reinforced with a stone rampart formed the south end. A huge stone battlement blocked the only approach. At the fort’s rear lay the supply and escape route running through the forest and over a pass to the far side of the mountains.
“The Romans will never get over the wall,” Caratacus said.
Fergus guffawed. “Aye, if we don’t get them first, the floodwaters will.”
Caratacus surveyed the area beyond the settlement’s sparsely cultivated fields, searching for Roman scouts. None. At least his forces wouldn’t be taken by surprise. The natives had told Caratacus that over the years large tracts of hillside land had been cleared by grazing flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. They destroyed the protective ground covering of heather, bilberry, and wild grass, leaving the valley at the mercy of the fickle rains and repeated and disastrous floods. His eyes confirmed the truth. The marshy land about the Sabrina and its sandy banks were strewn with boulders the size of horses, gnarled uprooted trees, wild undergrowth, and other debris.
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 17
