The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Within a few heartbeats, a slave brought a goatskinned bag of water, uncorked, and handed it to his master.

  Grabbing it with both hands, he gulped its contents, choking and sputtering as he did, before passing it back to the servant.

  “I hate the sea!” Porcius rasped. “I hate ships!”

  “I know, sir,” Cyrus said in a soothing voice as he hovered by his patron’s side. “I’m sorry there is so little we can do for you.”

  “How many times did I vomit on this wretched voyage?”

  Cyrus crinkled his nose. “I lost count.”

  “If this journey were not so damn important, I would have traveled the long way around by land.”

  Cyrus fixed his dark eyes seaward. “You had no choice. Sailing down the coast was the most direct way.”

  “In any event, we did this on short notice. Now, I have to send a messenger ahead to let King Verica know we are here.”

  “You realize he will be surprised by your visit—it has been awhile.” Cyrus scratched his long nose. “I hope he will be pleased to see you.”

  Porcius shrugged. “We get along well enough, I’m sure he will be. For him, it will be an excuse to throw a feast and more drinking on his part.”

  “Something for which that pig is notorious.” He spat out the words.

  “Agreed, but it’s called prosperity. He is a Roman lackey at heart. It should work to our advantage—I must persuade him not to invade King Epaticcos’s lands.”

  “May your gods be with you.”

  Porcius called for and then sent the slave ahead to notify King Verica of their arrival.

  Feeling better, Porcius gave the order to move out as six Libyan slaves lifted and carried his litter, with Cyrus walking at his side, followed by the rest of his retinue of twenty freedmen and slaves. Leaving the sprawling port, which consisted of three adjoining inlets that served as Noviomagnus’s flourishing seaport, they proceeded uphill toward the king’s fortress. The stronghold was built in a similar manner to those of Camulodunum and Caleva, constructed with three protective dikes surrounding the fort’s high walls containing the king’s great hall, homes, and a supporting village of merchants and artisans.

  *

  That evening, Porcius dined with the king in the Great Hall. Built of wattle and daub, the inside was framed by ornately carved pillars, the walls lined with battle shields, animal pelts, and elaborate Roman tapestries. Two ancient ceremonial drums, no longer used, lay on their sides, one along each side of the wall. Covered with taut skins encircling their round frames, they stood half the length of a tall man. Bleached human skulls tightly ringed the top side of each drum, secured by long dried cords.

  In the middle of the room a female slave turned an immense boar on a spit over the great hearth. Another young slave woman basted the meat with a rag dipped from a jar of juices, which dripped down the side of pork and sizzled in the hot coals.

  On both sides of the fire ring, facing the king’s table, Verica’s warriors and minor chieftains sat in pairs upon wolf skins on the straw-covered, dirt floor at short-legged tables. Dressed in their best tartan tunics and breeches, they wore gold torcs about their necks and bejeweled armlets and rings. Porcius watched in disgust as the barbarians ate steaming platters of food and drank beer from cups on their tables with gusto, ripping meat from joints with bare hands or daggers, slurping their drinks, belching and farting loudly. Porcius’s entourage dined among them, while Cyrus and his scribe sat together near the front.

  After Verica formally welcomed Porcius, they dined together at the heavy oak table raised on a platform above the floor. Verica, tall and oxen-chested with a long face and a chin chiseled in granite, had a thick drooping moustache that covered his slit mouth. Five vicious wolfhounds lay about his feet. On the king’s right sat Porcius, to his left Verica’s arch-Druid. On their table sat dishes of mutton, venison, steaming vegetables, imported olives, beer, and wine. Porcius and Verica quietly conversed between bites of food and drinking of beer and wine. Porcius explained Rome’s concern about maintaining stability among the British tribes if they expected Rome to continue trading with their people.

  “Rome needs me more than I need Rome,” Verica snapped. His baritone voice swept the hall’s length, and his cruel gray eyes glared at Porcius from a face scarred by dozens of battles. At the sound of his voice, the giant hall went silent. Only the sizzling of the roasting boar echoed through the place.

  A lifetime seemed to pass as Porcius considered his next words. I don’t give a damn if the king is offended, I must be honest with him. “You are mistaken in your belief, Great King,” Porcius said. “Rome doesn’t need anyone.” He wanted to add, You ignorant barbarian! Compared with the rest of the empire, your trade with Rome is but a pittance. But he kept his tongue.

  “Then why do you trade with us?”

  Porcius gestured toward the guests in the hall with a fleshy hand and back to the king before lowering it to his side. “Because you and your people crave Roman luxuries. Our wine, pottery, iron and copper wares, weapons, jewelry, not to mention silk from the East. Rome gives you an outlet for your wool, tin, slaves, and other goods.”

  The nostrils of Verica’s flat, broken nose flared. “There are other ways.”

  “Oh, I suppose so.” Porcius sighed. “It’s called piracy and smuggling.”

  Verica swilled another bowl of corma beer and belched. “The Greeks and others have traded with us long before you Romans came.”

  “True, but,” Porcius hesitated and glared at Verica, “now Rome controls who enters and leaves these ports. The Roman navy can blockade at will, you know that to be true. Consider this: because of us, the peoples of this land have more trade and access to goods than ever before—from all over the world. As I explained to you earlier, Emperor Tiberius will not hesitate to cut off all aid to all British tribes if you invade the lands now ruled by your cousin, King Epaticcos. Do you really want that to happen?” Porcius’s spies had informed him that Verica profited from the kingdom’s flourishing maritime trade with Gaul and the rest of Britannia. The king’s main seaport at the base of his capital, Noviomagnus, was one of the busiest on the southern coast. Regni seamen were among the best in all the land, but many were known to be notorious pirates and smugglers.

  Tossing back his head, covered by a thick crop of greasy hair, the king slurred, “I have no quarrel with Epaticcos.”

  “That’s not what I have heard,” Porcius replied.

  “Eh, what do you mean?” He wiped the gray moustache with a greasy palm, then dried it on his purple and white, striped tunic.

  “You say you are a friend of Rome. Are you?”

  “More than you think. Why should I make her my enemy?” Verica patted the ample buttocks of the female slave refilling his bowl.

  “In other words, despite the fact that Epaticcos expelled you from the lands of the Atrebates, you have no ambitions to retake your lost kingdom?”

  “Why should I when I rule this land and its people?” He gestured to the chieftains and warriors present. “They are far better than the Atrebates.” A loud murmur in agreement rose from the group. Verica’s eyes measured Porcius’s cold, steely stare, then returned to the serving woman’s plump arse. He patted her again and waved her away.

  “Wise, indeed,” Porcius said.

  “I said I’m not interested, but if I were, I would do it on my own,” Verica reaffirmed, his face close to Porcius.

  The Roman balled a fist beneath the table, the nails digging into his palm, to keep from grimacing at Verica’s foul breath.

  The king sat back in his chair and broke into a hearty laugh. He glanced along the table and to his minor chieftains and warriors sitting below him who laughed agreeably. One wolfhound howled, followed by the other four sitting by the king’s chair, in an off-key, canine chorus. Verica kicked one closest to him, forcing a yelp. The others stopped and fought over the bone he threw them.

  When the laughing subsided, Porcius turned
his face toward the king. “It may be well and good that you are not seeking Rome’s aid, but have you considered another fact?” He held a hand, palm upward.

  “Eh, what’s that?”

  “Cunobelinos personally gave me his word that he refuses to ally with you should you move against his noble brother, Epaticcos.”

  Verica remained expressionless as he studied the Roman, but he had to be swelling with rage. No doubt he wonders where I obtained my information. Even now as he scans his warriors for the informer, he won’t find one.

  “Watch your tongue, Roman,” Verica growled. “Cunobelinos is not my ally.”

  Porcius had deliberately baited him, a dangerous move. Although he was a Roman and neutral, acting as a diplomat, his head still might land on the end of a bloody pike. From this point on, he decided to choose his words carefully. Dozens of hostile faces, including Gwynedd, Verica’s beak-nosed son, glared at him with hands on sword hilts.

  “Perhaps I spoke too hastily,” Porcius said in a milder tone. He unconsciously scratched the edge of his flabby jaw. “I have a plan that would be beneficial to you and Rome. However, I suggest we discuss it in private.”

  Verica turned to his chief Druid who had remained silent during the conversation. The priest nodded.

  “Agreed,” the king said.

  Porcius had allowed the king to save face. He had been informed by his spies that Verica hated anything that interfered with his eating and drinking.

  “Tomorrow is soon enough,” the king continued. “Tonight, you are my guest. Drink, eat, and get drunk.” He clapped his hands, and slaves appeared with jugs of corma and two huge golden drinking bowls. “To friends and Rome,” Verica toasted, and both men swilled the entire contents in one gulp.

  *

  The next morning Porcius and Cyrus met with Verica and his advisors in the Great Hall where they sat at the long table. Servants served each man a cup of beer and then departed. Porcius knew Verica to be a crafty, cruel, opportunist who would pounce upon any weakness like a hawk on a rodent. Every word must be measured.

  As he sat across the bench from Verica, Porcius outlined his scheme. “If you promise to leave Epaticcos and the Atrebatic territories alone, I will amend your current trade agreements with Rome to increase your profit margin.”

  Verica took a swig of beer from a silver goblet. He belched and, for split second, studied Porcius with a grin, a gap appearing through his black teeth. “You still believe I will invade his lands?”

  “Your word is good enough for me, Great King, but it is Rome who wants assurances, that’s why I am offering you an incentive in case you have second thoughts.”

  “What is your offer?”

  “A ten percent increase in your profits.”

  Verica slammed his cup on the table, beer splashing on its smooth surface. “You think I’m a beggar? Your offer is fit for dogs!”

  Porcius suspected it was more than Verica had hoped for.

  Verica swilled his beer and shouted for a servant to refill his cup and wipe the table dry. After the servant obliged him and left, the haggling continued for another hour.

  By the time Porcius had increased the offer to twenty-five percent, he thought they might have reached an impasse. The king sat silently for the last few minutes as if pondering what to say next. Porcius speculated on the crafty Verica’s thoughts. A half smile formed beneath Verica’s thin moustache.

  “We have decided,” Verica gestured to Porcius magnanimously, “that your offer is acceptable. Come, let’s seal the agreement as a friend of Rome.”

  Relieved, but hiding his disbelief, Porcius wasn’t finished. “Before we do, I ask for a token gesture to show your sincerity.”

  “Such as?” He lifted a mug and gulped loudly.

  “Send word to Epaticcos that you pledge not to invade his kingdom.”

  “What!” Verica roared, spewing a blizzard of beer. “Do you take me for a liar? You dare doubt the king’s promise?”

  Porcius raised a hand in deference. “Not for a moment, Great King.” I know he lies!

  “We’ll not send any message, unless it is through you. He can take my word as king and warrior, or there isn’t any agreement with Rome.”

  “By your word, it shall be as you say, Great King.” Porcius knew he had trapped Verica into making a public pledge. The king had to keep his vow for the sake of his people. Outwardly, Verica hid his true sentiments, but inside, there was no doubt in Porcius’s mind the king fumed.

  “Now we’ll drink a toast,” the king commanded.

  As Porcius drank the warm corma, he planned his journey to Epaticcos’s kingdom and prayed Verica would keep his promise.

  Chapter 9

  LATE AUGUST, AD 27

  Porcius arrived in Caleva on a humid evening two weeks later. No sooner had he arrived when he and his entourage of freedmen, including Cyrus the Persian, and slaves trudged up the trackway to the fortress leading to the king’s Great Hall. Halfway up the hill, Porcius stopped to catch his breath. As he shook the dust from his tunic and attempted to cool himself, he glanced back down the grade, peering beyond the squalid village to the surrounding plains and the impassible forests at its edge. An enemy can be seen coming for miles. The stronghold was ideally located on high cliffs with the only approach by narrow road. Unlike Verica’s stronghold, were the Romans to invade, taking this hill would prove costly.

  Although evening was upon them and dark shadows covered the promontory, the day’s heat lingered like a hot towel from the sweat room in a Roman bath. Porcius perspired profusely in a long, white tunic and his plaid trousers. He detested this putrid weather and the foul mood it placed him in. Earlier, as the group was about to start the hike up to the king’s citadel, the Roman complained out loud how much he hated climbing hills and steep roads. When a slave suggested he would be more comfortable if he weren’t so fat, Porcius lost his temper, slapped, and kicked the poor wretch. Porcius realized the slave deserved punishment for being disrespectful, but he shouldn’t have beaten him since he had a point. Now Porcius loathed himself even more than the heat. I must get into a cheerful mood, otherwise, my mission may fail. I can’t afford Emperor Tiberius’s displeasure.

  Porcius and his escort resumed their trek up the steep road. As his party neared the hilltop and approached the stockade’s main gate, Porcius reminded himself that the journey from Camulodunum to the Atrebatic capital was essential to persuade Epaticcos against waging war with King Verica. The man was a fool to plan a campaign without the support of his brother, Cunobelinos. Although Verica had denied any intention of attacking Epaticcos, Porcius knew Verica was a liar. That was why it had been essential for the Roman to renegotiate a more favorable trade agreement on Verica’s behalf in hopes of stemming any future attack on Epaticcos. Porcius was confident that his plan would satiate the king’s greed.

  Unfortunately, persuading Epaticcos was a different matter. The king was planning a counter strike of his own against his hated cousin.

  Porcius knew he must stop the senseless slaughter before it began. Otherwise, despite the fact the army and its resources were stretched nearly to the breaking point, he feared Rome would launch an invasion against the southern kingdoms to restore order. The money paid to him by the tribal kings to buy influence would dry up. That he couldn’t afford.

  Porcius confided to Cyrus, who walked by his side. “I’ve been in Britannia for more than five years, and I still can’t get over how volatile these people are. It doesn’t seem to matter to what tribe they belong.”

  Cyrus scratched his beard, nodded, and answered in almost flawless Latin, “Lord, they resort to violence at the slightest provocation. In all Persia, only the Afghans are like these Britons—barbarians.”

  “Confidentially, I admire the Britons’ simplistic approach,” Porcius said. “Kill your enemies and conquer their lands.”

  A crooked smile crossed the Persian’s lips. “Indeed, a policy swift and uncomplicated … if successful.”


  “Of course,” Porcius sniffed, “it’s totally uncivilized as it would put all politicians like myself quickly out of business should all countries adopt such policies.”

  Cyrus looked around. “You will not have to trouble yourself about that I am sure, my lord.”

  “Quite true. Actually, these Atrebates have a reputation for being an easygoing people, but as far as I’m concerned, they are still Britons and thus unpredictable.”

  Whenever Porcius dealt with any British tribe, he forced himself to portray an illusion of confidence and ease, but he kept a watchful look out of the corner of his eye, and an ear cocked for the slightest suspicious sound. For many years, Porcius had survived the intrigues of court, barbarian and Roman alike, with a glib tongue and quick wits.

  To Porcius’s relief, he and his entourage finally arrived at the top of the hill. They were met at the main gate of Caleva by an armed detail of twenty of Epaticcos’s warriors. The Roman was used to being greeted by soldiers, so the sight of their swords and spears did not bother him. He and his people had wisely left their weapons in the supply wagons with their retinue at an inn outside of the village at the foot of the hill.