The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Ensconced in the surrounding walls, the quivering light of dozens of torches smelling of pitch illuminated the hall. Mixed with the smoky light’s oily smell, drifted the aroma of mutton and venison roasting in two fire pits and the central hearth.

  Caratacus and Cartimandua had been making small talk when the queen’s steward approached. He bowed and informed her dinner was ready.

  Cartimandua took a sip of wine and set her cup down. “Dinner will wait—I will tell you when to serve.”

  The steward bowed again and backed away.

  The queen raised a hand, and a hush fell over the hall. All eyes turned to her. “As I told Lord Caratacus earlier today, the time has come for us to support him. We must drive the Romans from our lands, from Britannia.”

  Caratacus looked out of the corner of his eye towards Cartimandua. Does she mean it?

  A murmur erupted among the diners. The clan chieftains looked at one another.

  “It’s about time,” one noble on the main floor said.

  Cartimandua raised an eyebrow so slightly that it seemed to Caratacus that no one but he had noticed.

  “Why now?” another said. “The Romans will kill us!”

  Arguments sprang up throughout the hall, the noise rising to a deafening level.

  Cartimandua’s nose flared. She raised a hand. “Silence!”

  Within the length of half a dozen heartbeats, silence enshrouded the room. A few people coughed and cleared their throats.

  “It’s time for Lord Caratacus to speak.” The queen lowered her hand.

  Caratacus nodded to her and stood. “I thank the queen for her generosity. However,” he paused and motioned with his head towards the chieftains and back towards the diners, “I came here not only to ask her support, but yours as well. As sure as I’m standing here, the Romans will invade your lands, if not now, certainly later. Is that what you want?”

  “No!” several chieftains and diners, including Alfyn and Caratacus’s men, shouted.

  “That’s a lie,” one noble on the floor roared. “No Romans will invade our lands, we have their promise.”

  “You’re a damn fool if you believe that,” barked another.

  Other men shouted in agreement.

  Caratacus nodded to the audience and chieftains. “We can stop them with the aid of your warriors.” He sat.

  Cartimandua glared at the men who had objected to supporting Caratacus. She shook her head. “Lord Caratacus is right. By combining our forces with his and the Ordovices, we shall defeat the Romans and drive them from Britannia.”

  “My loyalty has always been to my queen,” Kyncar, a chieftain in his midforties said. Dark, owlish eyes stared in Cartimandua’s direction from a face covered by a blotchy, wine-colored birthmark. A gray, drooping moustache covered his thin upper lip. “I agree and praise her wisdom in this matter.” He jabbed his right hand, which was missing a little finger, toward a couple of chieftains to his left, Donaut and Uric. “Unlike some present, I will never swear allegiance to the Romans.”

  The chieftains’ eyes flashed in anger, frowns crossing their weathered faces.

  “You dare call us traitors?” Uric growled. His scarred hand grabbed the hilt of his dagger.

  “Enough, Lord Uric!” Cartimandua ordered.

  Uric lowered his hand.

  Kyncar nodded to the queen. “So long as the Romans stay out of our lands, I will obey my queen’s commands.” He paused. “Should they step one foot across our border, then, with all due respect, Great Queen, I will have to disobey you. If need be, I will fight to the death.”

  For a split second, Cartimandua stiffened, her eyes darkened.

  The chieftain faced Caratacus. “But since the queen has agreed to an alliance with Lord Caratacus, that won’t be necessary. It will be my honor to fight along your side.”

  “So will I,” said Gadeon the pig-eyed leader sitting next to him. He scratched his flat, broken nose.

  “He places us in great danger,” Donaut the pock-face chieftain said. His fierce, brown eyes spotted with yellow flecks peered from beneath protruding brow ridges like a hawk. His dark beard failed to conceal blackened teeth that showed through the overbite of his upper lip. “He cannot be allowed to stay. When the Romans learn that Lord Caratacus is here, they will order you to arrest him, Great Queen.”

  Again a loud murmur raced among the chieftains and diners.

  “No Roman orders me to do anything,” Cartimandua said in a voice full of venom. “It is I who decides if he stays or departs, and I say he stays.”

  “Rome would accuse you of harboring an enemy,” Donaut said.

  Cartimandua jabbed a finger in Donaut’s direction. “You leave the Romans to me. Caratacus is our guest, my cousin, and friend.” She sighed and touched the gold bracelet on her wrist. “His wife Dana is my beloved sister. She and her daughter, Macha, my niece, are Roman captives. I will not allow them to languish in captivity. We shall find a way to set them free.”

  Inwardly, Caratacus shuddered. This reeks of a trap. How would she free Dana and Macha? Her spies will inform the Romans.

  Three other chieftains besides Kyncar and Gadeon, who up to this point had kept sober expressions, spoke up in support of Caratacus. Uric, who sat beside Donaut, had remained silent after Cartimandua had rebuked him.

  Donaut and he are probably in the money bags of the Romans. Is Cartimandua testing her chieftains’ loyalty?

  *

  Late that night, Caratacus sprang awake, his body shuddering. He pulled away the heavy, wolfskin blanket and sat upright on his pallet, trying to recall the dream that had startled him from sleep. A warning. A faceless woman with golden hair blowing in the wind stood on a barnacled rock in a raging sea. The surf pounded around her, but she remained untouched. She beckoned him to flee! He shuddered.

  The warning was obvious. He must leave Eburacum. But he never placed any credence in dreams. They had many interpretations. Charlatans abounded the land making a living foretelling what their customers wanted to hear.

  Caratacus knew that Cartimandua was probably lying, but he was willing to take the risk. Perhaps she no longer receives her annual payments from Rome.

  He had to learn what she really wanted, promise her that and more. Concede something to her she would never have dreamed possible. And then turn her murky promise into one of granite.

  *

  At dawn the next day, a groggy Caratacus was summoned to the Great Hall. Upon getting dressed and strapping his sword to his waist, he was escorted by Cartimandua’s shield bearers. He was hungry but was given no time for breakfast. The giant captain of Cartimandua’s shield bearers said it was urgent that the queen see him immediately. And no sooner did he realize something was amiss when he entered the torch-lit room. Porcius, stone faced, but fatter than ever, stood near the queen’s throne.

  Caratacus bolted for the hallway passage to the outside.

  “Seize him!” Cartimandua commanded. “I want him alive!”

  Three guards confronted him at the hall entrance. In an instant, he sliced up two with his longsword, spattering blood and limbs against the stone walls and mosaic floor. The third used his shield skillfully, fending off Caratacus’s blows.

  As soon as Caratacus saw the entrance was clear, he raced for the doorway. He faced the third guardsman for a split second. He didn’t see it coming from a fourth. A searing pain shot through the back of his head as he slumped to his knees. Standing above him was the captain of the queen’s shield bearers, gripping with both hands a long, black hardstick horizontally across his thighs. Caratacus slowly toppled to the cold floor, unconscious.

  *

  After a bucket of icy water splashed his face, Caratacus regained consciousness. His head burned like a hot iron. The right side of his face throbbed, and he barely opened his eyes. His teeth felt as if they had been smashed with a sledge hammer. He rolled his tongue around the inside of his burning mouth, touching the jagged edges of broken teeth. He swallowed warm, sa
lty blood while more flowed from his mouth, dripping on his tunic and the glossy, mosaic floor. He realized his hands were tied behind his back as he staggered to his feet. Twice he stumbled, nearly falling to the floor. Water dripping down the side of his face did nothing to ease the pain.

  He turned and spotted Cartimandua standing five steps away guarded by one of her retainers. Next to her was Porcius, grim-faced, peering at him.

  “Is this how you treat your people, you traitorous bitch!” he rasped.

  A guard slammed him to the floor.

  “Leave him be!” Cartimandua commanded, rising to her feet. She glared at Porcius. “His words are nothing.”

  After Caratacus was yanked to his feet, she continued, “You’re a bigger fool than I first believed. Did you really think I would support your fight against Rome?”

  “I was warned to stay away,” Caratacus gasped through broken teeth. How could I have believed her lies last night!

  “Fortunately for us you didn’t,” Porcius interjected.

  “I knew you had a part in this, Roman pig!”

  “Aren’t we touchy?” Porcius said in a mocking voice. “You’ve been a menace to Rome for more than seven years. We knew one day you would seek the queen’s help. We prepared for this moment.”

  Caratacus turned to Cartimandua. “Why did you conspire with this dog?”

  “You are a defeated man, dearest Brother-in-Law,” she said in a silken voice. “Rome is too strong for both of us.”

  “With your warriors we could have won.”

  “You mean we could have been crushed,” she answered sharply. “Siding with you would have meant disaster. Count the thousands who followed you to their meaningless deaths.”

  Porcius nodded to Cartimandua. “Wisely spoken.” He turned and for a split second studied Caratacus’s face. “She knows we would replace her with someone else.”

  “Another Roman puppet!” Caratacus spat.

  “Call me what you like, Cousin,” Cartimandua answered. “What matters is that I survive and so do my people. And now I know who the traitors are among my chieftains. I arrested all who expressed their desire to fight with you.”

  “Kyncar and Gadeon and the others are patriots. It is you and your lackeys, Donaut and Uric, who are the traitors. The people have never mattered to you,” Caratacus retorted. “You have thought of no one but yourself and your Roman luxuries.” He spat a bloodied, broken tooth at the queen, which fell inches from her feet.

  “What she gains from us, Caratacus, is security,” Porcius counseled. “We promise not to enter her realm, so long as she recognizes our supremacy over Britannia and pays us an annual tribute.”

  “Tribute from the blood of her people,” Caratacus growled as the pain in his head subsided to a pounding ache.

  Cartimandua quickly raised her hand to stay the guard’s blow. “As soon as your military escort arrives, Senator Porcius,” the queen said, “we will release him to your custody. Your arrival last night was timely. Otherwise, I would have had to find some other way of detaining him.”

  “I appreciate your keeping it a secret from Caratacus. After his defeat at Caersws, I was certain he would flee to your kingdom—that’s why I came here as quickly as I could.”

  “You realize there was a chance that Caratacus might not flee to my capitol?”

  “Yes, but the risk had to be taken. Thank Castor and Pollux, gods of good fortune, that he did.”

  Damn your good fortune, Roman pig! Caratacus thought.

  Cartimandua turned to her shield bearers. “In the meantime, take him away.”

  “Before he goes, I would like another moment with him,” Porcius said.

  Cartimandua nodded to the guards to wait.

  “I have something else to say, Caratacus,” he said in a quiet, private tone.

  “You have said enough,” Caratacus spat.

  “Nevertheless, I must say it.” Porcius shook his head and sighed. “Why did it have to come to this, Caratacus? Perhaps I’m growing sentimental in my old age. It never had to be this way, all this bloodletting. We could have been friends. You and I, Rome and Britannia.”

  “Friends? Not as long as the Romans remain in our lands!”

  *

  As the guards escorted Caratacus from the Great Hall, Porcius watched silently until they disappeared, relieved this Briton was a Roman prisoner. He turned to Cartimandua and caught her staring at him.

  “He has royal blood,” the queen said. “The consequences of an untimely death or public humiliation could undo all the good of his capture and drive my people into rebellion.”

  “Come now, my Queen. Do you really believe that I have waited so long just to see him executed like a dog—the man who saved my life?”

  “Nevertheless, I warn you, Senator Porcius. You alone are responsible for his safety.”

  “You have nothing to fear. He is worth far more alive than dead.”

  She locked eyes with Porcius for a moment. He noticed something he wouldn’t have believed possible with this woman. Tears were welling up at the corner of her dark, green eyes. She quickly turned away. He remembered once she said Caratacus should have been her rightful husband. “Rest assured,” Porcius said, “I will see that no harm comes to Caratacus or his family.”

  I wonder if the treacherous bitch believes me.

  Chapter 22

  November, AD 50

  The wagon halted at the edge of the Forum where the prisoners were rousted by the guard. The crisp night air sent a shiver through Caratacus’s chilled body as he dropped to the cobblestone pavement. He stretched his stiff, sore limbs. There had been no room to lie down or spread their legs, and sleeping nearly impossible.

  Dana pulled the cowl of her cloak over her greasy, tightly curled hair and retied the garment in front. Soggy clothing clung to her slender body like a wet rag. She huddled close to Caratacus, clutching a sleepy Macha dressed in a filthy tunic.

  “Where are we?” Dana whispered, her breath rising as a cloud of steam in the freezing air.

  “We’re in Rome,” Caratacus whispered in reply.

  Caratacus looked at his wife and daughter. His face tightened at the sight of their miserable appearances, which grew with each passing day.

  After Caratacus had been captured, he was returned to Caersws and reunited with his family. The three were confined in an iron cage, outside, exposed to scorching heat and freezing rains for a week before they left for Rome.

  The journey from Britannia to Rome had taken nearly six miserable weeks. The bloody Romans had shackled him, Dana, Macha, and five captured chieftains and as many noblemen, including Kyncar and Gadeon, for the entire duration. Bathing was limited to buckets of water thrown over their heads, and dirty clothing. They were fed only enough rations to survive. Caratacus’s shoulders tightened at the memory of Dana pleading with their captors for something additional for little Macha. Fortunately, one of the guards took pity, and when he was on night duty would sneak Macha extra bread every evening after taps. Caratacus had nodded his thanks. Under heavy guard, they traveled in a cramped and creaky wagon down the middle of Gaul to the Port of Messalia, where they sailed for Italy in a leaky, rat-infested merchantman.

  They arrived at the Port of Ostia in a pouring mid-November rain. Even then, the guards refused to unchain the drenched, freezing prisoners, who had been quartered topside under a flimsy canopy. It hadn’t mattered that Dana, Macha, Caratacus, and the chieftains were shivering so hard their teeth chattered. After disembarking on the slippery quay, the trembling and sneezing detainees were stuffed into another cramped, covered wagon for the twenty-three mile journey to Rome. Clothed in drenched, burnt-red cloaks that protected the troopers’ mail shirts, tunics, and breeches, two squadrons of Praetorian cavalryman provided escort. A flag bearer, carrying a scarlet banner emblazoned with the image of a gold scorpion, led the way. One turma of thirty horsemen, each carrying longswords hooked to their sides and hexagonal shields and covered by protective oil c
loths strapped to their backs, rode ahead of the prisoners wagon. The other turma acted as a rear guard.

  Caratacus spat in their direction. Fortunately, the troopers were too wrapped up in their own misery to notice.

  It was the first hour after midnight before the captives passed through the Ostian Gate and entered the Capitol of the World. The drenching rain had relented only to be replaced by a numbing wind that careened off the city’s ancient walls and whistled through the deserted entryway.

  “Your new home is over there,” the duty centurion said, jolting Caratacus from his thoughts. “Get moving!”

  In the bouncing torchlight, Caratacus spied the black silhouettes of hundreds of statues on pedestals dotting the Great Plaza. Tall colonnaded buildings stood in the gloomy shadows bordering the square’s four sides. Although Caratacus caught only a few torch-lit glimpses as they trudged up the hillside, he immediately recognized the Rostra. Porcius had described it years ago, but he had not believed his bragging. The elaborate platform, framed by a magnificent, marble balustrade, adorned with exquisite, bronze statues of Roman heroes, and iron beaks from captured warships, could not be mistaken for anything else. Yet he was too weary to be impressed. The craftsmanship of Britannia’s silversmiths and bronze workers was as good, if not better, than any Roman’s.

  Beyond the Rostra, halfway up Capitoline Hill, they stopped alongside a small, brick building with a vaulted roof. Caratacus, his family, and the others were herded into a musty-smelling, torch-lit chamber. Not ten feet away in the tufa stone floor was a wide, black pit. A large, wicker basket big enough to hold five people sat near the ledge.