“Admiring yourself again, Brother?” Tog asked.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous? You’ll get your tattoos next month.”
Tog glanced at his long, sinewy arms and hairless chest. “Can’t be soon enough.”
“Easy, Brother. Tattooing is part of the road to manhood, but like Uncle Epaticcos says, so is patience.”
Tog huffed and nodded.
Caratacus slapped him on the back. He turned his eyes to the edge of the distant woods, alert for marauders. They were still deep in the territory of the Catuvellaunians. He must not let his guard down.
But in spite of the danger, he let his mind wander, dreaming of taking his first enemy’s head where a man’s soul resided. To possess another man’s head is to strengthen my own soul. Its powerful magic. He scanned the forest’s edge. It wouldn’t surprise me if Froech and his murdering bandits were hereabouts stealing cattle and killing peasants. He’s done it before. Soon he would prove himself a warrior.
Chapter 4
By late morning on the third day, the night’s fog melted with the sunrise and faded into a harsh glare, the weather hot and humid. They were riding through the upper Tamesis River Valley, which straddled an ancient forest of sprawling beech trees south of the Chiltern Hills. After crossing the river at a narrow ford, they headed west toward the lowlying Berkshire Hills.
Epaticcos’s retinue halted when one of his scouts raised his hand in warning. He rode back to the ruler, who stood in a chariot adorned with images of deer and bear fashioned out of circular copper plates. The king wore an embroidered tunic with rich bejeweled trappings and a polished, black-iron longsword hanging from his side.
“Great King, I’ve discovered a large number of tracks ahead,” the short-legged scout said.
Epaticcos motioned for his men to wait, but waved Caratacus to his side.
“Come with me,” he ordered. Their chariots rumbled up a clearing surrounded by clumps of ancient, overhanging elms.
About one hundred paces beyond, they found the prints of many hooves. “Halt!” Epaticcos ordered. He and Caratacus jumped to the ground, leaving Tog and the king’s driver to watch the mounts. Carefully, they tracked the chalky earth, occasionally glancing and stooping to examine imprints. Caratacus and his uncle studied one another for a moment. “Well … what do you think?” the king asked.
Caratacus quickly re-examined the tracks. Crouching, he touched one of them with a long index finger, as if measuring its depth. Then he stood.
“This wasn’t any ordinary cattle raid, Uncle.” He motioned with his hands at the hoof prints, evidence in support of his conclusion. “At least sixty head of cattle, no doubt taken from our people. They’re heading away from our lands.”
From behind deep-set eyes, beneath a ridge of heavy eyebrows, Epaticcos studied his nephew for the span of a few heartbeats. “Good, my lad. What else do you see?”
“The riders. There must have been nearly one hundred. And look here.” He pointed to a number of thin, parallel lines disappearing among the trees. Caratacus hesitated. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed quickly. “I’ve never seen Froech’s chariot tracks, but I’d wager these belong to him and his bandits.”
“Oh? How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“It’s harvest time. So he’s raiding again.” Caratacus focused on the churned-up soil beyond his uncle. “And those tracks,” he gestured with a hand, “some of the horses are wearing shoes.” Both knew only the wealthiest warriors could afford the expense of iron horseshoes. Tiny bumps formed on Caratacus’s arms and back. He grasped his arms as he began to tremble, experiencing the fear of facing an enemy. The sensation was new to him, and he didn’t like it. He forced himself to speak. “But why does he need so many warriors when half the number could’ve done the task?”
Epaticcos was about to answer when they heard a faint rumbling noise. At about a three-hundred-yard distance, a cloud of dust billowed from fast-approaching chariots. At least fifty raced toward them along with an equal number of horsemen. Caratacus exhaled as he attempted to control his fear and gazed in the king’s direction to see if he would call up their warriors in defense. Instead, the broadening smile of his foster father puzzled him.
The lead car carried a burly, long-haired warrior wearing chainmail over a striped tunic. His conical, iron helmet bore a bronze raven. Hinged wings flapped violently every time the chariot struck a bump in the rutted field. Dust flew. It was Donn, King Epaticcos’s champion, spurring chariots toward them. He was Rhian’s father, and like Caratacus, Rhian was staying with foster parents in Camulodunum.
Donn pulled violently to a halt before the king. The leathery-faced, slit-eyed fighter in his late thirties raised his hand. “Greetings, Great King!” he bellowed.
“And to you, my old friend,” the king barked.
Donn alighted from his rig, stooped, and examined the tracks. He stood, turned toward the king. “How long have ye been followin’ them?”
“Came across the trail only moments ago, Donn,” Epaticcos said. “Cattle taken in a raid, were they?”
Donn nodded, his narrow eyes fixed on Epaticcos. “Aye, right ye be, more than fifty or sixty.”
Epaticcos’s face tightened, giving the old battle-scar that sliced diagonally across his forehead and bridge of his nose a menacing look. “From whom?”
Donn turned and pointed his left hand that missed the small index finger in the direction of Caleva. “Five or six of your tenants.”
Epaticcos narrowed his yellowish-brown eyes. “When?”
“Last night during the full moon.”
“Then it has to be Froech,” Epaticcos said turning to Caratacus. A grin escaped from beneath his drooping, gray moustache. “A good guess, Nephew. He’s never been afraid of moon madness.”
“They’ll fear it soon enough when their heads be swinging from my chariot,” Donn snarled. He gave a quick shove on the handle of his longsword.
“There’ll be enough time for that, Donn,” Epaticcos said coolly, “whatever else, it’s started.”
“I don’t understand, Uncle,” Caratacus interjected. They had cattle raids every season. It was a test of manhood. “Froech always raids on his own.”
Epaticcos’s eyes measured Caratacus and apparently found him worthy of explanation. “Any other time you’d be right. Except for Froech, most raiders steal no more than ten or eleven to replace their own losses. Even Froech’s raids have taken no more than twenty or thirty. But this is different.”
Caratacus nodded. Stealing that many cattle constituted a declaration of war.
Epaticcos explained briefly to Donn about Porcius’s presence at the harvest festival.
“Does the message Porcius had from Rome for Da and you have something to do with this raid?” Caratacus asked.
“Aye, it does, but there are many details, and further explanation will wait until we are home.”
“In other words, Rome has its hands in the affairs of our people again,” Caratacus said with a smirk. “No doubt that pig Porcius is right in the middle of it.”
“Ain’t he always,” Donn said.
“Whatever else, we must overtake and destroy these cutthroats before they escape,” the king declared.
“We will,” Donn answered. “The cattle will slow them down, and when we do—,” he said with a sinister grin, “there’ll be plenty of heads for all.”
The king smiled in appreciation of his champion’s prowess.
“We don’t have enough men with us right now,” Epaticcos continued. “That will come later, and then we’ll fight him on my terms.” He turned away and then back to Donn. “By the way, how many of my people were lost in the raids?”
“One hundred, more or less, but it’s the cattle that be important,” Donn answered.
Don’t they realize the peasants are as valuable as the cattle? Caratacus thought. Then again, Uncle Epaticcos and Donn have always treated them as so much fodder. A grievous mistake.
Late that afternoon, along the forest-encrusted edge of the rolling Berkshires where pines choked with underbrush rose up the hillside, Epaticcos’s and Donn’s combined groups spotted mounted bandits on horseback and chariots and cattle churning up the countryside’s powdery soil. Clattering hooves, jingling pendants, squeaking of leather tack and reins, and whinnying horses echoed across the field. They stirred up clouds of dry, choking dust that mixed with the sweat of man and horse.
Instead of attempting to retreat, the outlaws boldly turned, confronting Epaticcos and his men. They grouped into a central mass of horses and chariots in front of the milling cattle. From above the tree line, flocks of white-billed rooks flew skyward squawking like crows as they fled from the massing warriors. A large roebuck bounded away toward the protective undergrowth.
Nearly one hundred marauders sporting long, shaggy hair and moustaches, dressed in an array of dirty tartans and plaid tunics and breeches, halted as the dust drifted away. They pounded their chests with their fists, hurled insults, and boasted of their fighting abilities by twirling swords above their heads. One ugly, scarred villain waved a decaying head by its filth-encrusted hair. The eye sockets loomed empty in the gray-black skin hung from the skull. “Recognize yer ol’ grandda, you shit eaters?” he shouted loud enough to be heard above the noise of the bawling cattle and whinnying horses. “I brought ’em along for a visit. I use his mouth when there’s no woman about!” His comrades laughed boisterously.
Epaticcos’s men retorted with their own insults.
Caratacus taunted as much as the next in an attempt to overcome his own fears about the impending battle. “The only woman who’d have you is your mother!” he shouted as he waved his sword.
“And your granny eats it, too!” Tog yelled in a deep voice from where he stood next to Caratacus, holding the reins of the chariot.
The outlaw turned his horse in Caratacus’s direction, but his comrades blocked his way.
Caratacus and Tog laughed.
Tog scanned the enemy horsemen. “Which one is Froech?”
“I don’t know,” Caratacus answered. “I’ve heard he dresses like one of his men.”
“No wonder he’s still alive,” Tog said. “Until it’s too late, his enemies think they’re fighting another warrior.”
Caratacus nodded.
“Uncle Epaticcos must know his face. Ask him.”
Just as Caratacus’s chariot approached his uncle, the raiders charged the king’s band. Epaticcos turned and quickly signaled his men forward at a run. The two sides, about one hundred each, rushed toward one another in a swarming mass. The bloody clash quickly turned into a furious, struggling mass of confusion. Metal upon metal clashed, mixed with screams of dying men, curses of the wounded, yelling warriors, clattering hooves, squeals of horses, rumbling chariots, and dust! The acrid-sweet smell of blood mixed with feces and urine from the bowels of the fallen added to the chaos.
From his chariot, with Tog guiding the ponies, Caratacus removed one of three casting spears from a socket in the car’s bulwark. He took aim at the first shield-carrying horseman who crossed his path. The rider, screaming a war cry, clutched a small, round shield close to his body as he hurled a javelin at Caratacus. It missed, flying between the legs of a passing horse and sending the horseman crashing to the ground with a broken leg as the horse tripped.
Caratacus leaned forward over the side of the car, thrusting his spear above the top of the bandit’s shield into his exposed throat. Blood gushed as the warrior fell to the ground. A horse crushed his skull.
“Good shot!” Tog yelled.
Tog kneeled along the front edge of the chariot and deftly guided the sweating ponies as the warriors surged back and forth in hand-to-hand fighting. He wheeled about as another chariot rider slammed into the clashing men and thundered down upon them.
“Look out!” Tog shouted as the warrior hurtled a dart-like spear, striking the top rim of Caratacus’s car and just missing Tog’s face.
“After him!” Caratacus ordered. The chariot lurched ahead as the ponies stretched out, straining to catch the fleeing enemy. The brothers pursued the bandit, momentum carrying them deeper into the fighting. Overtaking him, Caratacus unfurled a folded, leather sling from his waistband, seating a leaden stone from a pouch tied next to the dagger. He whirled it over his head, the weapon sounding like a “whip-whip,” and hurled the bullet at the rider. It penetrated the man’s skull and sent him crashing into his driver, who lost control of the team. The car crashed into a nearby yew tree, crushing the driver and rider against the huge ancient trunk.
Clouds of blinding dust blocked much of Caratacus’s view. Quickly looking about, he saw a battlefield of mass confusion. Epaticcos’s warriors clashed with Froech’s bandits in a bloody carnage of wounded and dying men and horses. Beyond the fracas, bellowing cattle scattered.
Caratacus rapped Tog on the shoulder and pointed to his left. A broad-shouldered, hairy warrior with a heavy, protruding lower lip galloped his Gallic roan towards the young riders. For the length of a heartbeat, Caratacus’s muscles tightened, and fear raced through his body. He shook it off. I’ve no time for this!
The brigand screeched as he drew next to their bouncing chariot. He slashed at Caratacus’s head with his longsword.
Shit!
He missed and, with a sharp thud, splintered great chunks from the car’s frame.
No you don’t! Caratacus met the next blow with a shield, which savagely pushed the warrior back. Quickly, he slammed the enemy’s weapon aside, jabbed another spear toward the stomach of the rider, but missed. Blocking several deadly slashes of the bandit’s blade with his shield, Caratacus’s arms and shoulders absorbed the shuddering impact. You’re not killing me! Caratacus maneuvered and thrust his last spear between the rogue’s shield and chest, plunging the javelin into the lower abdomen, spilling his guts, feeling the raider’s body shudder. The bandit uttered a final ghoulish scream as he dropped his longsword and toppled off his horse.
As suddenly as it began, the battle was over. Few raiders escaped. Survivors were put to the sword. Then the moment of realization came.
Caratacus pointed to the body-strewn field. “Our first battle. My first kills. Heads! I can claim them!” For a moment, he trembled, but the tremors disappeared as quickly as they began. “Tog, do you know what this means?”
“You’re a warrior! By the gods, that’s not all. You’ve even been wounded!”
Caratacus eyed the small trickle of blood oozing from his shoulder. “It’s a piece of splinter from the chariot.” He removed the dagger needle and flicked it away. He looked about seeing other warriors collecting their share of enemy weapons and heads.
For a moment he and Tog watched as the men went from body to body, decapitating the victims and tying them to the rims of chariots or the pommels on their horses’ saddles. Swords and spears were taken and piled in a location designated by Epaticcos. A number of fighters rounded up the scattered cattle.
“The murdering bastard tried to chop your guts out,” Tog finally said. “Da can’t deny you recognition any longer.”
“Aye, now he must, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”
Tog grinned. “Your friend Clud will be pleased.”
“The old blacksmith would be happy even if I’m not recognized.”
“He might even make you a new sword.”
“His friendship is more important than any weapon. Come on, let’s find my trophies.” Caratacus grabbed the chariot’s reins from Tog, wheeled about, and rode through the field, locating his victims. With vicious slashes, he decapitated each bloody body and tied the heads by their long hair to the double-curved rim of his chariot.
Now he was a man! A warrior. He possessed the heads of his enemies and their souls, and now, this very moment, their spirit-powers were transferring from torn heads to his. He felt it, the powers of their souls entering his body and giving him strength. The muscles in his body seem
ed to enlarge, and his mind became even brighter and more alert as if he had gained a new sense of learning and wisdom. Did he acquire the fighting skills and cunning of his enemies?
Epaticcos approached the two youths just as Caratacus tied the last bloody head to the chariot’s rim. A wide grin revealing yellowed teeth spread across his mouth. His big hand slapped Caratacus on the back so hard that it knocked him a couple of steps forward. “Well done, boy. You’re a true son of your father!”
Caratacus grinned as Epaticcos examined the blood-spattered heads more closely.
Epaticcos grabbed the long, greasy hair and lifted up the macabre head of the big, shaggy outlaw. “Do you know whose head this is?” the king turned wide-eyed to his nephew. “It’s Froech, the Bone Lip! What a trophy.” He pointed to the bloody head’s long, protruding lip and chin. “You’ve done what even the most hardened warrior has failed to do, kill Froech in battle!”
Caratacus stood taller, a tight smile crossing his lips. He shook his head. “Froech? I can’t believe it! Me, killing the worst bandit in southern Britannia?”
“It’s true, you have,” the king assured him.
Tog grabbed his brother’s hand and shook it. “Wait until the people hear about this. The women will throw themselves at you!”
“I’m glad I didn’t know who he was before the battle,” he shuddered. “I didn’t realize I’d be so scared.”
Epaticcos roared with laughter. “If you said anything different, I’d see your father put you to work in the stables shoveling shit for the rest of your life.” He slapped his nephew on the back. “It’s natural to be afraid. Gods, that’s half the fun.”
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 3