“Welcome to Tullianum Prison,” said the lizard-faced turnkey in a snide voice.
A muffled scream shot from the darkness below, and Macha sobbed. “I’m afraid, Mama.”
Caratacus turned to his daughter, bent his knees, and looked into her hazel eyes. “I know, my brave, little one, so am I. One day we will go home.” Do I really believe that?
Dana hugged her. “It will be all right, sweet. Da and I won’t let anything happen to you, we promise.” Her reassurance soothed Macha.
“That’s right,” Caratacus said as he stood.
The basket, which took the captives to the lower level of the prison, was only big enough to hold five prisoners. Three trips were required to take Caratacus and the rest below. Caratacus, Dana, Macha, and the two remaining chieftains, Kyncar and Gadeon, were sent down on the final trip.
Two husky turnkeys winched the prisoners to the bottom in the rope-held basket on a series of squealing pulleys.
As Caratacus traveled downward past stone walls of rotting, blackish-green moss, an agonizing scream drifted upwards from the pit’s invisible floor. It must be coming from the infamous torture chamber he had heard so much about from the guards during the voyage. All confessed before its notorious rack masters, even if it meant fabricating stories to stop the bone-crushing, limb-stretching pain. He prayed that wouldn’t be their fate.
The basket reached the bottom of the torch-lit pit where they were met by the jailer and three guards. The prisoners were ordered out and Caratacus and the rest stepped to the dusty floor.
They were led along a bleak passageway barely high enough to stand. The deeper they went, the fouler the air grew. Water dripped from crevices in the ceiling onto their faces. A pained voice whimpered from an unseen cell. Muffled chains slithered across a reed-covered floor.
The detail halted before a single rusty, iron door containing a lone, tiny window. To the side a miserable little torch jutted from an iron stanchion in the wall. The jailer unlocked and opened the creaking door.
“In you go,” he ordered.
Caratacus, Dana, Macha, and the chieftains were shoved into the nearly black cell, stumbling and cursing. Immediately, they were hit by the foul stench of filth, urine, and feces. For a moment they choked and gagged as they groped about in the shadowy darkness that enshrouded every corner.
“There’s no room,” Kyncar said, “I can smell the sump hole, I must be right over it.”
“Where? Gadeon asked.
“In the corner,” Kyncar answered.
“Well, get away from it, or I’ll shit on you,” Gadeon said.
As his eyes adjusted, Caratacus held his hand before him to find the walls and to make sure Dana and Macha were close to him. He took a few steps when he touched the rough, slimy surface of the wall. Along one side, he felt Dana’s skeletal body through her ragged clothing.
“Caratacus, is that you?” Dana asked.
“Yes, it’s me, glad you stayed close. Is Macha with you?”
“Where are you, Mama? I can’t see,” Macha said.
“I’m right here, darling,” Dana said. “Here, take my hand, can you feel it?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Can you feel the wall?” Caratacus asked.
“I can,” Dana said.
“This is as good a place as any, let’s sit down,” he said.
“Bloody fucking Romans treating us like dogs,” Gadeon said. “If I could get my hands on a sword—”
“They’d slice you like a melon before you could blink an eye,” Kyncar said.
“Enough!” Caratacus said. “Everyone spread as best you can.”
The chieftains grumbled as they tried to find a spot to sit.
“We have to make the best of it,” Caratacus said.
“Best of what?” Kyncar asked. “While we wait for our deaths?”
Caratacus had no answer, he knew the man was right.
Despite the darkness and cold, sweat rolled down Caratacus’s body. His tattered clothing, like everyone elses, reeked of filth and crawled with lice. His body itched from flea bites, and his hair was a greasy matt.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the shadowy outline of rats boldly padding along the floor and leaping over the chieftains’ bodies to their curses.
Macha screamed. “Rats! I want to go home, Mama!”
Dana hugged Macha close. “It’s all right, I’ll make certain they don’t bite you. I’ll kill them first.”
*
More than a week passed before Caratacus and his people saw the light of day. The captives received news they were to be shackled and publicly paraded through the streets of Rome. Afterwards, they would proceed to the Praetorian Barracks, where Emperor Claudius waited to render judgment.
The morning, growing warmer with each passing minute, greeted the prisoners as they were lifted into the daylight and left Tullianum Prison surrounded by Praetorian Guardsmen.
Caratacus’s eyes needed a moment to adjust to the sunlight. The sky was as blue as lapis lazuli. The Roman gods must have decided the emperor should receive his prisoners only on the brightest of days. He gazed down upon the crowded Forum as he, Dana, Macha, and the chieftains trudged down the hill.
“What are they going to do to us, Caratacus?” Dana whispered. “Will the Romans kill us?”
“I won’t lie, if they don’t today, they may later on. Who knows what the Romans have waiting for us?”
Dana gasped. “Even Macha? Surely, they will spare her? She is only a child.”
Caratacus shook his head. “You would think the Romans would show her mercy, pray that they will.”
“Shut up, savages!” a guard snarled.
Gods, why must Dana and Macha suffer my fate? I would gladly give my life if the Romans would spare them.
Dana sighed, her shoulders slumped, and she lowered her head as if resigned to her situation.
All Rome, from the perfumed nobility in their finest togas and silk gowns to the penniless, smelly mob in ragged tunics, waited for the triumphal procession to begin. Cohorts of the Praetorian Guard assembled at the front of the parade awaiting orders to begin the march. Behind them followed wagons and pallets, filled with war booty, and then came the filth-encrusted prisoners in shackles. Caratacus was ordered to walk alone, behind his wife and daughter, who in turn followed the chieftains. The fine, sandy hair raised along the length of his purple-tattooed arms and chest. The chains chafed his wrists and ankles, and he had to slide his feet along as he walked. The heat from the cobblestone streets burnt through his worn leather shoes, his feet already sore.
At the sound of the trumpet fanfare, the parade wound its way through guard-lined streets and plazas to the cheers and jeers of the populace. A century of drummers beat a heart-thumping cadence that rivaled the cheering and vibrated deep into a man’s soul. Caratacus determined to maintain his dignity, if anything, showing his disdain for the mobs, being held back by spear-wielding city guards.
He locked eyes briefly with a jeering merchant, who froze his foreign curse in midsentence. Moments later, he stared at the monumental buildings with their great archways and pillars, porticoes and domes. Never had he seen so many buildings crammed together in one place—all built of burnt, red brick, marble, and stone. Nearly all were painted in an array of colors—many coated in gold and silver. Hundreds of buildings and thousands of toga and tunic-clad spectators lined the avenues. For a moment, he closed his eyes to clear the dizziness he felt at seeing so much in such a crowded area.
As they traipsed through the forum, Dana and Macha grew more frightened with every step. Macha started crying, followed by Dana’s weeping. She turned to Caratacus. “Caratacus, I don’t know how much longer I can endure this. The crowds are terrifying, and the city, it’s so big.”
“You must stay calm.”
“Calm? I was calm throughout our journey and endured that horrible prison,” she answered in exasperation. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”
<
br /> “We must not show fear—that’s what the Romans want to see—cowering barbarians!”
“I can’t. I just can’t.” Her face tightened and tears filled her eyes. She turned away, but even through the noisy crowd’s din, he heard her weeping.
Macha clutched her mother tightly. Dana turned to Caratacus and shouted to be heard above the mob. “We must do something! Nothing can happen to Macha!” Caratacus looked away.
“Have mercy on us!” Dana cried in Latin, appealing to the crowds. “Please save us! Ask the emperor to spare our lives!” She repeated the lament, and soon Kyncar, Gadeon, and the other captives picked up the cry and made similar appeals.
Caratacus tightened, his face growing hotter with every step. He glowered at Dana. I can’t believe my own wife would stoop to groveling. Not before the Romans!
“Hush, woman,” Caratacus growled. “We ask no mob for mercy. We’ve done nothing wrong, we’ve defended our lands!” Had he not been manacled, he would have slapped her, something he had never thought of doing before.
The crowd jeered and laughed at Dana’s pleas.
“If it is the will of the gods that we die,” Caratacus shouted above the noisy din, “so be it! We cower before no one!”
“Don’t let your foolish pride get in the way, Husband!” Dana snapped out the words. “You don’t want Macha to die anymore than I do. No daughter of mine should die like this!”
“Must you let the mob know that! We’re still Britons!”
Caratacus looked about in disdain, ignoring further appeals for mercy by his family and chieftains. If my courage as a warrior-king is known throughout the Roman Empire, I will do nothing to diminish my reputation here. Caratacus held his head high, pondering what he should say to the emperor to save his daughter’s life. I will never show any sign of fear to these filthy Roman dogs.
They left the forum and soon passed through the gate at the northwest corner of the city wall. Ahead stood the Praetorian camp. The great fortress dominated the low hillside, its huge walls constructed of brick and concrete, crowned with battlements. The central gateway, through which they entered, was covered with fine, marble sculptures worthy of a great king. No, an emperor.
Inside the fortress, across its gigantic field, five thousand six-foot-tall Praetorian Guardsmen stood on parade wearing scarlet and white tunics beneath segmented, armored cuirasses. Their crimson and gilded shields and iron javelins glistened in the midafternoon sun. Caratacus smiled to himself as he lumbered by their ranks. Am I so dangerous that Rome needs this army of troops to contain me?
The prisoners shuffled by the mass of buildings in the fortress center to the front of a small temple, where Emperor Claudius, the Empress Agrippina, and their retinues waited. Silken, purple flags and streamers fluttered faintly in the light breeze.
Caratacus prayed the emperor would show mercy, if not for himself, then for Dana and Macha. He steeled himself for whatever fate awaited him.
Chapter 23
After the tribute and plunder were paraded before the imperial couple and the assembled multitude, the prisoners followed. Caratacus and the other prisoners were commanded to halt.
Twelve guardsmen marched forward and escorted Caratacus, with Dana and Macha following, to the plum-carpeted stairs below the dais. The emperor raised his trembling right hand, and they stopped.
Claudius sat in state on the tribunal under a protective purple and white canopy. He wore the purple cloak of the Praetorian Guard over his white, linen toga. The emperor appeared older than Caratacus had imagined. Jaundiced skin, drawn tightly over his face, exposed blue veins in his fragile cheeks and jaw, his head crowned with short, scraggly, dead, white hair.
Agrippina, dressed in a chlamys of cloth covered with gold, sat conspicuously nearby on another dais. No more than thirty-five, her heavy rouge harshened otherwise soft features. A hard-fixed glare shot from dark eyes, and a sneer crawled across the curve of her full lips as she stared at the fallen prince.
Behind the imperial couple stood dozens of toga-clad senators, including Porcius, his face impassive.
No doubt he’s gloating, looking forward to my execution!
“We shall speak to the prince,” Claudius said in a clear but deep voice. “He is to come forward, alone.”
There was a stir amongst his entourage. Probably because the emperor was placing himself in jeopardy by allowing the barbarian to approach so closely without an escort. Claudius turned and glared them to silence.
Caratacus had heard that Roman emperors did not recognize Celtic or German leaders as kings. In their eyes, they were considered barbarians not worthy of a title higher than prince. As he mounted the top step, he looked about, puzzled. First to his wife and daughter, and then to the aging ruler. It seemed the whole parade had been carefully staged. He wondered the purpose. Months before he had learned that the emperor was attempting to strengthen his position with the Roman people. But he had been proclaimed Conqueror of Britannia years before, and was already the most powerful ruler in the world. By all rights, there wasn’t anything left he could desire.
Caratacus slowly passed his eyes over the opulence of the surrounding buildings and the city beyond. He paused as the old emperor studied him.
“You have been brought before us for judgment. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” Claudius inquired in an even tone.
For a few moments, a silence fell, broken only by the snapping of fluttering streamers. The purple canopy billowed gently, bathing the emperor in its filtered light, casting a dream-like effect about him.
Caratacus nodded.
“You are to address the emperor as Caesar, barbarian!” admonished some petty official standing nearby.
“L-l-let him b-be!” stuttered the emperor. “Is it t-true you speak Latin?” he asked with interest.
“Yes, Caesar,” Caratacus answered in a clear, firm voice. He had heard rumors that Claudius had stuttering fits when least expected.
“S-s-speak to us then,” Claudius commanded.
Caratacus waved his manacled hands in the direction of the city. “When you have all this, why do you envy us Britons, our poor lands, and homes?” His voice echoed across the parade field. “I come from a line of great kings and warriors. Had I not chosen to defend my people and our lands from Rome’s aggression, you would have invited me to this city as a friend rather than a prisoner. You would not have scorned a peaceful alliance with one so nobly born, the ruler of so many nations. As it is,” he paused, studying the emperor’s impassive face and those in attendance and continued in a lowered voice, “humiliation and defeat is my lot, glory yours. I had horses, men by the thousands, arms, and a sea of wealth. Are you surprised I am sorry to lose them?” His voice rose again. He drew a deep breath. “If you want to rule the world, does it follow that everyone else welcomes enslavement? If I had surrendered without a blow before being brought before you, neither my downfall nor your triumph would have become famous. If you execute me, they will be forgotten.”
He looked back towards Dana’s tearstained face, her chin uplifted in pride and Macha’s who clung to her waist.
Caratacus continued, “Had I but glimpsed the might and majesty of Rome, I would have never challenged you. But as a man, a mortal, I would have still defended my family.” He gestured towards them. “Spare me, and I shall be an everlasting token of your mercy.” He bowed his head in silence.
Claudius turned to Porcius, who stepped to the front of the emperor’s retinue, then to Agrippina, and back to Caratacus. Briefly, he sat in silence as if considering the prince’s words.
Exhausted, his mouth parched, and his tongue like sand, every muscle in Caratacus’s body ached. The speech had drained nearly every bit of energy. Now, it was up to the emperor to decide his fate and that of his people.
“Rome was founded,” Claudius spoke a minute later without further stuttering, “on the principles of fortitude, justice, temperance, and wisdom. But these ideals are not exclusively Roma
n. They are found in all peoples, be they Roman or Greek, civilized or barbarian.” Claudius paused and glanced to Agrippina and his retinue, including Porcius.
“Prince Caratacus, ruler of the British people, you have proven a worthy opponent of the Roman people, and we hold you no ill will. My triumph and your people are worthy of remembrance. Let the world know the power of Caesar and the justice of all that is Rome. Therefore, we hereby grant you pardon.”
A gasp shot through the retinue. Again, Claudius gave them a scathing look. “You will be honored,” he continued, “and granted the privileges of any visiting foreign prince. Our only condition is you shall remain in Rome for life.”
Caratacus stood motionless for a moment, stunned by the emperor’s words. No execution? He swallowed hard, went down on one knee, and bowed his head in supplication. No matter how much I hate Rome, I must think of my people and our lands. Nevertheless, I will do whatever necessary to return my family to Britannia.
“Strike their chains,” the emperor commanded, “bathe and clothe them befitting their station and rank.”
Dana and Macha ran to Caratacus’s side, weeping in gratitude and relief.
“Come to us,” the emperor said in a gentle voice.
The three approached Claudius and once more knelt at his purple and white, silk-covered sandals.
“May your gods and mine praise you for this day, Lord Caesar,” Caratacus said. “History will not forget your mercy.”
“Bravery such as yours is very rare in these turbulent times. It deserves mercy,” Claudius answered. He turned to Narcissus, his Greek freedman and secretary. “See that proper quarters are prepared for the prince and his family immediately.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
“In the meantime,” the emperor said, returning to Caratacus, “you and your wife shall join us for a feast tonight. Many of my guests are eager to meet the Wolf of Britannia.”
Claudius nodded to Agrippina, who frowned and looked away. Within the space of a few heartbeats, she turned back and gave a terse nod. “Now, pay your respects to the empress. She, too, deserves your homage.”
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 24
