The Wolf of Britannia Part II
Page 27
“I’ll find Venutios, and we’ll join with Boudicea.”
Porcius jabbed a shaky finger toward Caratacus. “Be careful, my friend. The legions are well entrenched. They’ll bring in reinforcements from Gaul and the Rhenus.”
Caratacus slapped his thigh with the palm of his hand. “Regardless of what happens, I must go.”
“And I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”
“What do you suggest?”
The Roman told Caratacus that a ship, the Eyes of Kronos, would pick him and Alfyn up from the beach near his home the following evening, about an hour before midnight during high tide, and sail to Britannia. “Once you are reported missing,” Porcius said, “Rome will search for you by land and sea.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” Caratacus said.
“Then it shall be done,” Porcius said. He grimaced while twisting his bald, wrinkled head about. “I have it all worked out,” he whispered. “In a few minutes, I will leave for my summer home. Once I receive the news that you have disappeared, I will order my slaves to draw a hot bath. As I relax in the tub, one of my slaves will play the Hymn to Venus on the lyre while I open my veins and fade away.”
“I hate the thought of you taking your life and that monster Nero confiscating your property,” Caratacus said.
A wry grin flashed across Porcius’s fleshy lips. “Oh, did I not tell you, he won’t.”
Caratacus raised his eyebrows. “I don’t understand, unless I’m mistaken, you don’t have any heirs.”
“Ah, until a few days ago, you would have been correct.”
“And now?”
Porcius chuckled. “Our favorite centurion, Bassus.”
“Bassus! What about him?”
“He doesn’t know it yet, but I have secretly adopted him as my son and heir. I have dispatched a courier with the news to Judea where he is posted. He will automatically inherit my rank as senator.”
Caratacus shook his head. “Incredible, and it couldn’t have happened to a better man.”
“Indeed. He will serve in my place with honor.” Porcius winced as he got to his feet. “And now I must go. Farewell, my friend, may all the gods, yours and mine, be with you.”
Caratacus slapped his thigh and exhaled. “Damn! I never thought I would see the day when I would be sorry to see you leaving like this, but I am.”
“You know I must.”
Caratacus nodded.
He shook Caratacus’s hand and hobbled away, his sandals scraping along the graveled pathway, back to the house, leaving by way of the front door.
*
The following day, Caratacus made his rounds about the villa as he always did, maintaining the facade that all was normal in the household. As usual, Alfyn accompanied him. Casually, Caratacus spoke to a few of the slaves about their duties. He told the cook what he wanted for breakfast and dinner the next day even though he and Alfyn would be long gone.
He and Alfyn wouldn’t bring much with them: a change of clothing suitable for traveling and fighting, boots, and a leather pouch containing a small amount of gold. They also possessed weapons, including a cavalry longsword and dagger, which had been given to them secretly months before by sympathizers. The night before, after Porcius had departed, Caratacus and Alfyn had hidden their gear. They buried it in a shallow hole, within a heavy clump of shrubs by the pines, behind the long sand dune that paralleled and overlooked the beach.
Caratacus took his regular evening meal. Upon finishing it, he hiked to the garden and sat by the fountain. In the center of the basin a bronze dolphin stood on its tail and spilled water from its beak, the gurgling sounds pleasant to his ears. A light wind blew in from the sea, the smell of salt on the breeze. He heard the “pic-pic-pic” of sandpipers scurrying across the beach.
A few minutes later, Alfyn approached him.
“Sir,” Alfyn said, “there is a messenger from Lord Porcius, he is waiting in the atrium.” Tension crawled through Caratacus’s body. Another warning? “Bring him to the garden.”
Alfyn returned, followed by the slave, a young Gaul, whom Caratacus recognized as belonging to Porcius. Sweat rolled down the youth’s flushed face as he gasped for air. A light coat of dust covered his plain tunic. He must have run all the way from Porcius’s summer villa on the other side of town.
“What word do you bring from Lord Porcius?” Caratacus said.
The runner gulped a few more deep breaths. “Forgive me, Lord Caratacus.” He inhaled again. “My master says Praetorian cavalry have been dispatched from Rome to arrest you.”
“Arrest? This is sooner than I expected.”
“Yes, sir. They were last seen only a few miles north of Antium and will be here at any time.”
“How many troops?” Caratacus asked.
“A squadron of thirty. My master asks that you flee at once and hide until the ship can pick you up.”
“Do the Praetorians know of my escape plans?”
“No, sir, not that Lord Porcius is aware of. Except for me, he has forbidden all his people, free and slave, from leaving his villa until further notice.”
“Very well, give Lord Porcius my thanks.” He dismissed the messenger.
When Alfyn returned from seeing the slave out, Caratacus said, “Get ready to leave. Pray we won’t have to wait long for the ship. Our movements must be as casual as possible. Since I haven’t taken my walk yet, none of the slaves should notice—they’ll believe that is what I am doing.” I hope. “You will be with me, as usual.”
“Aye, we can’t leave anything to chance.”
“Do you have your gate key with you?”
“Yes, sir, always.”
“It’s late, and most of the slaves should be in bed, but check the house quickly and see if anyone is still awake.”
Alfyn nodded and headed for the house. A few minutes later he returned. “They’re all in their rooms, lord.”
“Let’s go!”
The two left by way of the garden through the gate, which Caratacus locked behind them, and headed for the pines at the edge of the beach. “Locking won’t do much good, but it will delay them, even for just a few precious seconds.”
“It’ll force them to go around the outside,” Alfyn said.
“Stay off the path, we can’t leave any tracks,” Caratacus said. “There’ll be a full moon tonight, the Romans could follow us easily.”
They fled to the bushes above the beach and grabbed two small, hidden shovels beneath a clump of pulled up weeds. Carefully, attempting to keep the scraping sounds of shovels to a minimum, and stopping every few seconds to listen, they dug up their goatskin-leather carrying bags and weapons. The two removed and placed oiled-cloth protective cloaks around their shoulders and strapped on their swords. Crouching in the thick brush on the lengthy sand bar, where the slope with high, overgrown sand-dune grass descended toward the pebbled beach, Caratacus and Alfyn waited for the arrival of the ship described by Porcius.
Caratacus’s eyes searched the shadowy darkness of the Tyrrhenian Sea, barely seeing the outline of white-capped, black swells. “Gods, I pray the ship arrives before the Praetorians do.”
The hissing surf receded back into the oncoming waves. White foam reflected in the light of the nearly full moon, as it rolled along the top of churning waves, curving along the edge, crashing onto the beach. Black clouds drifted across the moonlit sky. In the distance, a front of bruised thunderheads piled up to the stars, like an army preparing for battle. The smell of salt drifted on the night air as warm wind, a sirocco, rolled out of the south from North Africa. Caratacus’s shoulder-length hair whipped about in the breeze, gritty sand stung their eyes.
*
Hiding for what seemed to be ages, but probably was no more than three or four hours, Caratacus and Alfyn’s limbs and elbows ached from lying in the scratchy, weed-infested bushes. It was nearly midnight, and still no sign of the ship.
Did Porcius lie to me? Caratacus wondered.
T
hen sounds of screaming and shouting came from the direction of Caratacus’s villa.
“Praetorians, they’re at the house!” Caratacus blurted. “Don’t they realize the slaves are spies?”
“The slaves are nothing to those butchers,” Alfyn said. “They’ll torture them for the bloody fun of it! At least the poor devils don’t know our secret.”
“Not yet.”
More screaming.
“It’s only a matter of time before the Praetorians search along the beach, they’re not stupid.”
Once more, Caratacus scanned the shoreline and the sea. “Look, there it is—finally!” He pointed at a boat, heaving and diving, manned by six oarsmen coming in through the rumbling surf. Squinting his eyes, he searched the churning waters beyond the boat, barely making out the silhouette of a ship’s square mast in the center of a stubby merchant ship. Pray this is The Eyes of Kronos and not a trap.
The muffled sound of snorting horses and jingling pedants, hanging from their chests, resounded on the stony beach—the outline of at least a dozen helmeted riders on their mounts emerged out of the shadows from woods several hundred yards away. They spread out in a single line from surf to the tree’s edge, walking, as if sweeping the area.
So far they haven’t seen us! Caratacus thought.
He motioned to Alfyn. “Run for the boat!”
The two flung their bags over their shoulders and raced across the rocky beach.
Caratacus looked as the Roman troop reassembled into a double column, kicked their mounts forward, and headed at a canter in their direction. They angled toward surf where the sand was firmer and footing better.
The Briton’s feet sunk a few inches in the soft sand as if they were slogging through mud.
Caratacus’s leg muscles started to ache. My gods—not now! He doubled his efforts, lifting his legs high, pulling himself forward. I swear by the gods, I will not let them take me alive!
He turned toward Alfyn and saw him stumble and fall to the sand.
“Alfyn!” Caratacus stepped to his side, stooped, and pulled him up.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Alfyn said.
“Never mind, get moving!”
The riders looming ever larger, hooves pounding and horses snorting growing louder with each passing second.
The two Britons waded into the cold surf up to their knees. The shock ran through Caratacus’s body. Two seaman, manning the forward paddles, alighted from the boat and held it by its bow. The Britons tossed their clothing bags into the boat and pulled themselves aboard.
Pushing with all their strength, the sailors then shoved the little vessel into the breaking surf.
“Hurry, the riders are almost on us!” From behind Caratacus, an oarsman shouted to the sailors still in the water.
Just as the seamen rolled themselves over the sides, into the boat, the troopers rode their mounts chest high into the surf. In an instant four of them hurled their javelins at the boat. Two missed, but the other pair struck the sailors’ backs. The two screamed and fell into the surf, dead. The Praetorians threw more javelins. Three struck the boat’s hull with loud thuds, and bounced away. Another wisked past Caratacus’s ear by inches before it dropped into the swirling eddies at the tide line.
The other four oarsmen hesitated.
“Your friends are dead!” Caratacus shouted. He motioned to the forward paddler. “We’ll take their place. Now, get us out of here!” Caratacus and Alfyn sat on the wet, splintery, wooden cross seat. They grabbed the oar handles, lowered the paddles, put their backs and shoulders down to dig the oars deeply into the churning waters, and paddled through the surf, dodging more javelins. The boat crashed through another wave, drenching Caratacus and the rest in cold water as they moved out to sea. The cursing horsemen faded into the darkness, their deadly weapons no longer in range of the little vessel. Still heaving at their oars, Caratacus and Alfyn looked at one another in the moonlight, grinned and nodded.
*
Caratacus shivered while he leaned against The Eye of Kronos‘s wooden rail. A fine mist sprayed his leathery face with a lingering taste of salt. He was certain a storm would strike the coast before dawn. Regardless, the ship’s captain said he must sail to delay risked interception and capture. The Roman Fleet had weighed anchor that afternoon and sailed north. The old ship was too slow to outrun the navy’s swift triremes.
Caratacus shrugged, knowing even as the purple-black outline of the Italian coast disappeared from view. He neither knew what the future held, nor if he would succeed in getting to Britannia safely, but he must take the risk to reach his native land.
Once I return, can I help Boudicea rally the people to her cause? Will I be too late?
No matter. Better to die in Britannia than in a foreign land.
THE WOLF OF BRITANNIA
AUTHOR NOTES
Very little is known about Caratacus, especially his early life. What little evidence exists indicates Caratacus was raised from childhood by his uncle, Epaticcos, King of the Atrebates. What I have attempted to portray in the early chapters is the typical right-of-passage experienced by Celtic youth. Many of the feats accomplished by Caratacus were expected of a young man desiring to become a warrior.
It must be noted that Celtic women had nearly the same rights as men. Many trained to fight as warriors from the time they were young girls. Women of the nobility obtained important roles within the Druidic priesthood, including arch-Druid.
From an early age, it appears Caratacus was heavily influenced by the Druids. Unlike his father, Cunobelinos, who was pro-Roman, he grew into manhood despising everything Roman. When his father became enfeebled, he seized power and drove his older brother, Adminios, and his cousin, Verica, from Britain. In turn, they appealed to the Emperor Claudius for help in restoring them to their tribal thrones.
Unfortunately, Caratacus made the mistake of demanding his brother and cousin’s return as prisoners’. This sent Claudius into a rage and gave him the excuse he needed to invade the island and strengthen his position with the Senate. The devastating consequences can be seen in the story.
Caratacus was defeated at the River Medway and waged guerilla warfare for nearly eight years. He made his last stand at Caersws and fled into the traitorous arms of his cousin, Cartimandua, Queen of the Brigantes. History does not record whether it was days or weeks before she betrayed Caratacus to the Romans, but, eventually, she placed him under arrest and turned him over to their custody.
Along with his wife and daughter, whose names are not recorded for posterity, Caratacus was paraded before the people in Rome and brought before the Emperor Claudius. The historians, Tacitus, in his Annuls of Imperial Rome, and in Cassius Dio’s Roman History, record parts of his impassioned speech, which I use in the story. Claudius was impressed and pardoned the renegade king.
At this point, Caratacus fades from history. Most likely he lived the life of a royal Roman captive. However, that would not preclude him from escaping Italy if the opportunity presented itself, especially during the Boudicean revolt. We will never know with any certainty if he did. I leave that to the imagination and speculation of you, the reader.
Table of Contents
Dramatis Personae
Cities and Geographical Locations
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
AUTHOR NOTES
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Jess Steven Hughes, The Wolf of Britannia Part II