The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “Thank you, sir.”

  A medal is worthless to a dead man, and almost useless if you live, Porcius thought.

  “Your idea to mine the wall was exceptional. Many lives were saved. The emperor shall hear about it in my next dispatch.”

  And no doubt you’ll take all the credit as generals do, Porcius wanted to say. I’d wager this is what Bassus is thinking.

  Bassus grinned.

  At that moment a rider from one of the patrols returned.

  “Yes, courier, what news do you bring?” Scapula inquired.

  “We’ve captured the barbarian supply train and their families, sir. Among them is the wife and daughter of the bandit Caratacus!”

  Chapter 21

  “I hear horses, Lord Caratacus,” barked Alfyn, their Brigantian guide.

  “They’re Roman,” Caratacus answered. “No Briton is that noisy.”

  The guide nodded.

  Alfyn furrowed his bristly, red eyebrows as he turned from side to side on his shaggy pony. “Can’t tell the direction they’re coming from.”

  The hilly forest hemmed in Caratacus’s band of ten warriors on all sides, causing sounds to bounce like a skipping rock on a pond’s surface. They had followed narrow, twisting animal trails in a northeasterly direction from Caersws for the last five days. Before leaving the fortress, Venutios chose Alfyn, a pock-faced veteran of twenty-five, to be Caratacus’s guide to Eburacum. He was from a western Brigantian village and knew the area well. Another week’s journey lay ahead of them before reaching the Brigantian capital.

  “We’ve got to shake them off our trail,” Alfyn warned. “Look! Over there!”

  Caratacus strained his eyes. “Where? I don’t see—”

  Alfyn pointed. “Up there, the side of the hill.”

  Caratacus spotted a jumble of big, interlaced spider webs, partially covered by a huge bush. The great orb spread like spokes of a hundred wheels, across the tall underbrush and hillside of huge cedars and oaks.

  “There’s a cave there,” Alfyn said. “We can hide there until the Romans pass.”

  “Where is it? I don’t see anything.”

  Alfyn nodded toward a rocky path around the far end of the bushes. “This way. I know these woods. Did a lot of hunting here when I was a lad. Follow me.”

  The group rode about two hundred paces up the hillside, when the guide raised a hand signaling a halt. He turned his mount back toward the group. “Dismount here. We’ll lead the horses the rest of the way. Cover the trail behind us. Hurry!”

  Quietly, they led their mounts around the side of the hill. Upon approaching the web, Caratacus saw hundreds of black spiders crawling across its sticky surface.

  “Careful,” Alfyn warned. “Hug the bank as much as you can, and don’t touch the web. Otherwise, the Romans might investigate.”

  The spiders weren’t poisonous, but Caratacus figured as superstitious as the Romans were about these woods, they wouldn’t know that.

  Alfyn stopped and took an oiled rag from his saddlebag. He picked up a broken oak branch laying nearby and wrapped the rag around the top. Taking a piece of flint and steel from a pouch tied to his waist, he struck them together. This caused a spark to ignite and create a burning torch.

  Alfyn motioned to the band to gently pull back the branches holding the web. As if knowing they were being disturbed by intruders, hundreds of spiders, one from each web, skittered to the tiny, funnel-tube nests along the edge of the web and disappeared. Cautiously, the group edged its way into the huge cavern. When everyone was through, the branches were eased into their original positions without damage to the web.

  A gust of chilly air from within the cave slammed Caratacus’s face as they entered, followed by the foul smell of bat droppings. The guide lit a torch. Caratacus had never seen anything like the huge cavern. In the shadows, hundreds of grayish icicles of stone cascaded from the invisible ceiling. More reached for the ceiling from the cave’s damp, rocky floor. Caratacus touched one with his hand. It wasn’t as icy as he first believed, but damp and coarse, like gravel. Beads of water ran down one side, across his palm, and inside his wrist.

  Alfyn pointed his torch in another direction, the light swallowed by the vastness of a corridor. “This way. About thirty paces on there’s another cavern. It’s drier, and there’s enough room for all of us, including the horses.”

  Approaching voices came from outside the cave. Alfyn extinguished the torch against the cavern wall. “No time to move.”

  “Quiet!” Caratacus ordered in a loud whisper. “Muzzle the horses!”

  “By Jupiter himself,” thundered the foreign voice. “Look at the size of them.”

  From the cave’s dark recesses, Caratacus watched a lanky cavalry trooper approaching the big webs.

  “Never knew they grew so big or so close together,” the soldier continued.

  “You city lads wouldn’t know a spider web from a mattress,” taunted an unseen voice.

  “Kiss my arse,” the first trooper snarled.

  For a moment he studied the radiating nets. “Look!” He pointed to the biggest orb. “There’s a live bee caught in the strands. I won’t let them blood suckers get this one.” He stepped closer and reached for the bee.

  “I’ll see if I can pluck it out before that pissing vermin gets it.” A lone spider below bravely left its protective cone and scurried towards the trapped insect.

  “Get away from there, shit brain!” roared a husky voice. “Don’t you know those demons are poisonous? You’ll die in seconds.”

  A big spider dangling from its invisible drag line dropped onto the soldier’s face. He recoiled as his hand shot up and swatted it away, knocked off his helmet, and sent it careening down the path. He reeled about and entangled himself in the patchwork of sticky webs engulfing his face and mailed armor. He broke loose and stumbled down the hillside cursing and swatting away other spiders that had jumped onto his clothing.

  No sooner had the soldier fled when dozens of the black creatures converged on the damaged portions and began respinning the family of webs. The Roman voices and the sounds of their horses faded as they widened their search.

  *

  The band of warriors spent the night in the cave. Caratacus sat brooding in the blackness long after everyone fell asleep. He’d sought solitude deeper within the cavern. Death must be like this. Perhaps it might have been better if he, too, had died at Caersws, like Fergus ap Roycal. No, never! He had to think about Dana and Macha. For what seemed to be the hundredth time, he wondered if they, along with the other women and children, were still safe. Had Venutios and his men escaped from Caersws? Did he gather up the refugees from the hidden valley and flee with them to the land of the Ordovices? Its king had pledged to resist the Roman onslaught. Caratacus prayed that all of them had escaped the Romans.

  Then it occurred to him, a thought that was almost horrifying: did he actually fear dying? After all his battles and raids, why should he now fear death? He lived with death all his life. Why did it suddenly bother him?

  He was forty-one summers old and had lived longer than most men. He didn’t fear dying in battle. He feared old age. The fear that he would lose his memory as did his father. Caratacus vowed never to allow that to happen to him. He would take his own life rather than become a helpless invalid.

  The small fire had long since flickered out, yet the faint warmth of charred coals touched his nakedness as total darkness chilled his backside. The only sounds were his own breathing and slow heartbeat. A beat he imagined he could slow to match the unseen drops of water plopping within the dark bowels of the cave. He knew there must be a pond like the cave he used to play in as a boy. Yet, he felt the touch of a draft from the darkness above. From the invisible ceiling drops of water fell from a place too high to be seen by torchlight.

  Although there were ten others sleeping within shouting distance, Caratacus felt alone in the cavern’s abyss. Again, he thought of death and knew when he held his breat
h, the sound of his heart was, to his mind, the only presence of life. If his heart stopped, there would be no difference between total darkness and total death. He no longer feared death.

  *

  Caratacus and ten followers had traveled twisting mountain trails, ridden across open plains, and dodged Roman patrols for ten days after fleeing Caersws. He prayed he would succeed in persuading Cartimandua to ally her warriors with his. Cold winds swept across the barren moors, driving before them the fleeting warmth of the morning sun. Caratacus gripped the woolen cowl closer to his body, attempting to keep out the biting chill. His guide, Alfyn, reminded him that the Brigantian Plain was the Land of Two Winters, white and green.

  The group halted upon a ridge of a grassy limestone hill. They smelled of pungent horse sweat and leather, their mounts foaming at the mouth after a hard ride. In the distance, down the slope, stood Eburacum, crossroads of northern Britannia, on the bank of the placid River Ouse. Nearly twenty river barges and coastal merchant ships were beached along muddy banks or docked at its overcrowded wharf. A small flock of curlews flew across the plain toward the river for another day of feeding, while others skimmed its murky surface. Their loud, dual-pitched calls drifted on the breeze.

  “Alfyn, before we enter,” Caratacus said, “ride on ahead and see what you can learn about Cartimandua’s activities.”

  The pock-faced warrior rubbed his hands together and blew on bluish fingers. “Aye, easy enough, especially after I warm meself by a cooking fire,” he said. “Today’s market day, and everybody from the countryside will be trading the latest gossip from the outside world.”

  “As a precaution, take this.” Caratacus handed him a leather pouch. “This will loosen a few tongues.”

  Alfyn opened it and pulled a silver coin from the bag. He furrowed his bristly, red eyebrows. “This is Iceni.”

  “Tell them you were a mercenary for the Iceni. For all they know, you could have been on any one of the ships on the river. That will explain the questions and money.”

  *

  In the late afternoon that same day, Alfyn returned to Caratacus’s camp in a grove of sycamores on the opposite side of the hill from Eburacum.

  “What news do you bring?” Caratacus inquired as they huddled around the small campfire.

  “Unless you be counting the merchants, it’s been nearly a year since they’ve seen a Roman. But everywhere I turned, the people spoke your name. You’re their hero.”

  Caratacus frowned. I’m not a hero to anyone. “What do they say about the queen?”

  “No one speaks openly against her. But people whisper she’s a Roman puppet. She’s a cruel woman who deals harshly with traitors and has executed many rebels from the western tribe.”

  “Anything else?”

  “They know about the defeat at Caersws. But they aren’t sure what to believe. Rumors say you’re dead, have escaped, or been captured. But …,” for a moment Alfyn hesitated averting Caratacus’s eyes, and scanned the slate-gray sky, “there’s another rumor you must know.”

  “Go on.”

  “They say …,” Alfyn bit his lower lip and swallowed, “they say your wife and daughter and all the women and children have been captured.”

  Caratacus flinched. His stomach tightened. He waved his men into silence. Heat rushed to his face. “Do you place any truth in the rumors?”

  “Who can say?” Alfyn shrugged. “No one knows what to believe. The news came from passing merchants. What will you do, sire?”

  For a moment Caratacus remained silent, pondering his next move. He glanced around seeing nine pairs of tormented eyes on him.

  “We go to Eburacum,” he said after a moment. “I’ll learn from the queen the truth about our families.”

  “But won’t she arrest you?”

  “I won’t slink away like a cur. We’ll see what the people really think about me.”

  *

  An hour later Caratacus’s retinue, riding horseback, reached the city gates, and four sentries attempted to block their way with crossed spears.

  Caratacus, his face set, waved his hand in a wide swath before him. “Clear the way! I am Caratacus, King of the Trinovantes and cousin of Queen Cartimandua!”

  The guards glanced to one another and back to the scarred and weather-beaten figure, wearing chain mail and a scarlet and gold, tartan cloak.

  The king’s calloused hand gripped the hilt of his sword. “I’ve killed fifty Romans with my bare hands. They were ten times the men you are. Clear the way, or I’ll personally cut down the lot of you, too!”

  The sentries moved aside, and the entourage proceeded. As Caratacus rode through the gates, the word passed among the market crowd, “It’s Caratacus!”

  Soon people chanted his name: “Caratacus! Caratacus!” Dressed in cloaks and furs to ward off the cold, they crowded and jostled for a place close to the band of horsemen riding down the dusty street between the trading stalls. People reached out to touch him. Women held up their babies for him to see, asking for his blessing. The mob kept thronging about until his party reached the Great Hall.

  Sentries, posted outside the hall, attempted to block his passage.

  “Tell the queen,” Caratacus commanded, “that her cousin, King Caratacus, Scourge of the Romans, requires an audience immediately! I will count to ten, ten times. If I don’t hear any word by the time I finish, I will storm the hall! She will see me!”

  *

  Caratacus’s eyes adjusted to the dimly lit meeting room. Smoky torches in sconces lined the walls. Passing the central hearth, he approached Cartimandua, who sat in a purple-cushioned, high-backed chair on the dais, a foot above the mosaic floor. Two husky shield bearers stood behind her along the back wall. Despite the dim light, the queen’s gown was ablaze with spirals of blue and green, twisting lines of red and silver, and circular strands of orange hemmed by gold thread; truly befitting the Queen of Brigantia and her reputation for extravagance. She is deep in the money pouches of the Romans.

  As he stood before her, he looked about the chamber. No Romans.

  Neither Cartimandua’s rouged face nor the feint scent of lilac hid the cruelty within her. Her aqua eyes focused on him like two daggers. “Welcome, noble Cousin and warrior,” the queen intoned formally. “Were you someone else, your impertinence would warrant death. But since you are our cousin and true king of the southern tribes, we grant your audience.”

  “Forgive my boldness, but the times we live in call for boldness.” Perhaps it was a fool’s errand coming here.

  “Indeed. We know of your exploits against the Romans,” Cartimandua answered, her voice softening.

  “The question is, are you impressed enough to join us, Cousin-Queen?”

  “I, too, am concerned with what the Romans have done to our tribes.” She motioned to Caratacus to take the low-backed chair to her right. “I was alarmed when I heard you, the Scourge of the Romans, had been defeated,” she continued after he was seated. “We received word that you were dead. Thank the gods you survived.”

  He ignored her mocking tone. “Tell me, is it true? Are Dana and Macha Roman prisoners?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Cartimandua sighed. “I wish it weren’t. I truly loved my sister.” She pressed her full lips together and shook her head.

  You despised her. “Where have they taken them?”

  “I don’t know. But I only know they’re safe. My information came from reliable merchants.”

  “They’ll be used as hostages to lure me into a trap.” Caratacus bunched his fists, attempting to suppress his growing anger.

  Cartimandua looked down at the two gold bracelets on her left wrist. She pushed them farther up her arm with her other hand. Then she tugged at the necklace around her neck before she returned her gaze to Caratacus. “Be careful. Don’t allow yourself to be drawn into such a situation.”

  The veins throbbed in Caratacus’s temple. He loosened his fists and took a deep breath. “I won’t. But I need your help.”


  A spasm of irritation crossed her face. “I will, if I can.”

  “Most of my army escaped and is in the northern lands of the Ordovices. If your forces joined mine, we could push back the Romans.”

  Cartimandua nodded, her eyes focused on her cousin. “No doubt we could. You must have heard the rumors that I am sympathetic to the Roman cause?”

  “Aye, so I’ve heard.”

  She leaned closer. Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “It’s an act,” she whispered. “I had to keep the Roman dogs from overrunning my lands.”

  “And the money and your expensive clothing?”

  “It’s true, I took their gold and the western lands, they’re rightfully mine.” The queen paused and touched her cheek. She turned and glanced to her bored shield bearers, standing at a discreet distance and back to Caratacus. “But I’ve protected my people. And, I say this in all sincerity, I have been with you since the day the Romans stepped upon the shores of Britannia.”

  Caratacus eyed her skeptically. Cartimandua doesn’t care for her people. Surely she is lying. I must be wary. “Then are you ready to join us?”

  “I believe the time is right.” She smiled broadly.

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “Your arrival could not have been more timely. I have called for a war council with my chieftains for tomorrow morning. All of them are present for the feast I am giving this evening. You shall address them this evening. I know deep in their hearts they have supported you all along.” She grazed his forearm with her hand. “They will listen to you.”

  “You flatter me, Cousin. It has been many years since I addressed your council, I’m looking forward to having them as allies once again.”

  “Well, it’s growing late, time for the evening meal.” Her face brightened. “You shall join us as an honored guest.”

  *

  Caratacus sat to Cartimandua’s right on the ornately carved wooden dais. Her arch-Druid, Erfig, was on the left. Seven chieftains of the queen’s council were divided, with four seated along the dining table on Caratacus’s side and three with the Druid. Prior to dinner, the queen had introduced Caratacus to them. Sitting along rows of dozens of tables below them were members of the nobility and their wives, dressed in their finest clothing. Wealthy merchants, lesser Druids, and Caratacus’s followers, including Alfyn, sat behind them with captains from Cartimandua’s army. As the queen and her guests waited for dinner to be served, they conversed among themselves while drinking cups of corma or Roman wine. A strolling bard played a lively tune on a small Celtic harp, blending with the voices of talking and laughing diners.