The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  The Regni warriors burst into laughter, hooted, and shouted catcalls.

  Caratacus saw Donn stiffen but refused to take the bait. Instead, he grinned.

  Donn wheeled his chariot about and rode back and forth in front of the Regni formation calling them cowards and other obscenities. They jeered in return. Donn returned to where Verica and his champion waited and traded more insults with Gildas ap Caw.

  “Are you going to fight me or not, you bloody whoreson?” Donn barked again waving his sword above him.

  Gildas motioned to his driver to move forward.

  Verica, who wore a bright green and yellow cape over his armor, turned to his champion in the adjacent chariot and shook his head. “Wait,” he ordered.

  The champion frowned but nodded. He placed a hand on his driver’s arm.

  Verica pointed to Donn. “Your bloody king has much to answer for. This will be settled here on the battlefield. Then you’ll see what real men are made of.”

  “These are men?” Donn shouted and jabbed his weapon in the direction of Verica’s warriors. “I see nothing but the son’s of crotch-rotting whores. That includes Gildas’s slut of a mother!”

  After Donn’s parting remark, he turned about his chariot as the Regni jeered and hurled more insults at his back.

  He returned to Epaticcos. “Verica will settle for nothing less than full battle, Great King.”

  “Then he shall have it!”

  *

  Porcius and his retinue had followed Epaticcos’s army at a discreet distance until they arrived in the area of Bagshot Heath. It was imperative that Porcius maintain his neutrality. The Roman ordered his entourage to camp in a clearing on a pine-clustered knoll overlooking the belligerents on the plain below who were about three hundred paces away. Even at this distance, Porcius recognized the leaders of both sides. Verica stood in his chariot, scarlet banners fluttering nearby, and in the opposite direction Epaticcos stood, surrounded by his retinue, next to emerald flags bearing the images of wolves.

  Roman standards framed in colors of imperial purple and white and standards bearing the image of the Emperor Tiberius proclaimed his presence as a neutral. The emissary and his favorite freedmen and slaves sat at portable tables covered with dried meat, cheese, honey cakes, fruit, and wine in a picnic atmosphere.

  As Cyrus sat next to Porcius munching on an apple, he said, “If these barbarians are the fighters they claim to be, this battle may be as exciting as a gladiator event in the Great Circus of Rome.”

  “The difference here is that King Epaticcos’s lands are at stake.”

  Cyrus spat out a piece of wormy apple. “Indeed, far more important than the lives of a few worthless gladiators.”

  No one was happier than Porcius that the rain had passed. He hated traveling in such horrid weather, but was determined to report the battle to the emperor. Unfortunately, his best travel tunics were soiled by mud, because one of his slaves neglected to properly secure the trunk containing his clothing. The trunk had bumped out of a transport wagon, and the hapless slave received ten lashes for his carelessness. Porcius resorted to wearing a Briton tunic, hastily presented to him by Epaticcos. Barely fitting around his corpulent waist, it was a resplendent garb made of gold linen trimmed in stripes of scarlet and green. A golden pendant shaped like a spoke wheel, the protective symbol against evil, held the robe together at the right shoulder. Despite wearing British clothing, he had no fear he would be mistaken for a Briton. The banners planted by his attendants at their encampment told all the world he and his people were Roman.

  The Roman rose from the table and watched the two armies draw into battle formations, now less than two hundred paces away, slowly converging upon one another. He walked along the front of the stand where his clerk sat waiting for him to dictate an ongoing report of the battle. But Porcius became so fascinated by the events unfolding before him he ignored the scribe.

  He mulled on his failure to prevent the coming onslaught. The final opportunity to mediate a peace had been quashed when warriors on both sides hurled insults and abuse at one another and rhythmically banged longswords against oval shields. They waved standards to the brassy sound of upright, boar-headed trumpets. Both armies were divided into loosely knit companies. He spotted Caratacus and part of the band of eighty young warriors he was leading, riding chariots on the right flank with five hundred cavalry. The remaining cavalry rode on his left. Beyond, he saw the infantry center, containing the bulk of the fighters. As seasoned veterans, they smeared their hair with thick lime wash, pulled back and dried into hundreds of long, stiff spikes. Despite the slaying of Froech the bandit, Caratacus was still considered too young and inexperienced to be allowed the same privilege as the older men.

  The tattooed, bare-chested men wore bright tartan and plaid trousers, or beaver pelts covering leather kilts. They twirled long, pointed swords above their heads in hopes of terrifying the enemy. Neither side seemed to be impressed by this manly display.

  Porcius stopped beyond the edge of the tables and watched the infantry of the Atrebates rolling forward, like an incoming wave, screaming as they ran toward Verica’s lines. At thirty paces, both sides discharged their javelins, and many men of both armies fell. Within seconds, a bloody clash of powerful warriors began hacking and slashing one another with hatchets, swords, and spears. The sounds of metal on metal and screams and groans of wounded and dying echoed across the field. The putrid odor of urine and feces of the slain polluted the drifting breeze. Blood spattered in wide swatches on bodies, and weapons of the slayers and slain churned the chalky ground into a pinkish ooze.

  For the space of about ten heartbeats, Porcius stood rigid as if the air had been sucked out of him. He gasped, attempting to regain his breath. His stomach twisted into a knot, and bile rushed to his throat. He bent over but did not vomit. The noise of the battlefield roared in his ears like crashing ocean waves on the shoreline.

  Cyrus rushed to Porcius’s side and grabbed his arm. “Lord, please let me help you to a chair—you need to sit.”

  Porcius straightened and shoved Cyrus away. “I’m fine, you fool.” He took a deep breath and staggered to a chair at the table and sat. “Bring water.”

  Cyrus snapped his fingers, and a slave appeared at Porcius’s side with a cup of water and pitcher. Porcius grabbed the cup but cautiously sipped the water, afraid he would vomit. He rinsed his mouth and spat it out. He waved the slave away but held onto the cup. He listened again as the cries and smells of death drifted across the plain towards their camp. He looked at Cyrus, who stood before him. “This slaughter is worse than I had dared to imagine.”

  “No wonder you are sick,” Cyrus said.

  “I’m not sick!”

  He noticed that despite being partially covered by a beard, his freedman’s face had turned pale. “I had forgotten what the battlefield was like. Not since I was a young tribune with the Roman Army in Judea fighting the zealots have I seen killing like this.” Some man I am! I’m a Roman. I’m supposed to be immune to bloodshed! He looked across the field. Even at a distance, Porcius made out Caratacus and his brother, Tog, riding ahead of his followers. Each warrior gripped a shield and three spears in one hand and clenched the handle of a longsword with the other, strapped at their waists. “Look, there goes Caratacus and his young warriors heading for the enemy.”

  *

  Caratacus deftly kept his feet balanced in the car as Tog skillfully guided the chariot across the rutted field. Earlier he had given orders to his men to deploy as skirmishers and mount a striking probe along the enemy’s right flank. Epaticcos told him spies had learned these particular companies were Verica’s weakness. They were made up primarily of levies of farmers and fishermen with little combat training. Caratacus smiled to himself and looked about as the chariots turned and followed him. The enemy won’t be expecting us. We’ll hit and run. It’ll throw ’em into confusion. Although Caratacus’s detail wasn’t dealing with hardened veterans, his warriors were
still too few, less than eighty, to engage in full battle. Their best chance lay in distracting the enemy. It would give Epaticcos’s main forces a chance to smash Verica’s main force.

  Approaching the Regni forces, Caratacus felt his muscles tighten and his mouth go dry. He licked his lips, clenched and unclenched the handle of the sword at his waist. Teutates, give me strength. No time to be scared! He looked at Tog, who focused on handling the ponies and chariot. He turned and watched his followers hurtling after him in their cars. Are they as scared as I am? Uncle said it was natural. It made you more alert.

  Seconds later they were in front of the enemy flank, Caratacus’s fear evaporated. With him in the lead, he and his young warriors hurled spears and short, iron darts at the enemy, slaying many. The noise of combat, screaming warriors, and horses squealing and grinding chariot wheels was deafening. Caratacus could hardly hear himself. He noticed the assault by his men had terrorized a couple companies of Regni infantry. They backed away, broke ranks, threw down there shields, and fled in rout toward the woods. As Caratacus’s men were about to pursue them, the sharp tone of a carnyx, the upright, wolf’s-head trumpet, sounded the order to back off. This followed Briton custom forbidding unnecessary bloodshed, except cutting off heads of the slain. Caratacus didn’t like it, but waved his men back.

  Instead, Caratacus ordered his men to assist Epaticcos’s forces, who were fighting Verica’s charioteers. They turned and soon wheeled their way among the Atrebatic cavalry squadrons. At his signal, the warriors leapt from chariots and engaged in single combat.

  “This way!” Caratacus shouted. Leading his men across the dusty, torn-up ground, they slammed into a company of Regni soldiers still holding their ground. Caratacus thrust, hacked, and bashed into the Regni fighters, blood spattering his face, clothing, and weapons. Resistance by the Regni was heavy, neither side giving ground. When the trumpets of both camps sounded retreat, Caratacus had slain many enemy soldiers. The armies broke contact, withdrawing to rest, momentary reprieve to count their losses and regroup. At the moment, victory was still undecided.

  *

  Porcius took refreshment during the respite, still recovering from his shock, all but forgetting his intended report. As he sat at the table sipping a heady red wine from Rhaetia, he noticed one of his slaves had stepped beyond the table. The servant raised the front of his tunic, reached down with a hand, and urinated in the direction of Epaticcos’s headquarters tent. The king had just arrived from the battlefield and stepped off his chariot. He looked in Porcius’s direction. Although he was nearly two hundred paces away down the hill from them, Porcius was certain the king had frowned.

  “You ignorant lout, stop that at once!” Porcius shouted. “You insult the king!” Gods, I must own the empire’s stupidest slaves!

  The slave turned, still holding his member in his hand.

  “Now, you’re insulting your master!”

  The slave paled, quickly lowered his tunic and then his head.

  “Cyrus,” Porcius called to the Persian. He motioned to the slave. “Take this fool away and give him twenty lashes.”

  Cyrus grinned. “With pleasure, lord.” He grabbed the slave by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away. Another servant followed Cyrus with a whip.

  A few minutes later, from behind a bush erupted the whisking sounds of a whip and screams of mercy.

  Porcius turned to the rest of his retinue who had gathered in a few knots looking nervously in the same direction. “Listen to me fools,” he said to the group who turned his way, “let that be a lesson to all of you. No pissing in front of anybody!”

  Soon, both sides mounted another attack, and, again, neither side faltered. Sitting in his curule chair, Porcius, now fully recovered, observed the fighting, spat contemptuously, and commented to Cyrus, who hovered nearby, “Typical undisciplined barbarians, fighting as individuals and not as an army. The victor will be decided by who has the most stamina. Now, if the Britons had fought even one of our legions, they would have been swept from the field.”

  Cyrus nodded. “True enough.”

  “The Roman Army would have countered the Briton tactics with volleys of javelins,” Porcius said. “The heavy infantry would have moved forward, locked shield to shield, jabbing and thrusting short swords into the vulnerable open-stanced Britons. The legions would have been withdrawn one century at time to rest and not the entire army, as did the Britons, thereby continuing the fight.”

  Porcius gulped another cup of wine. The Roman turned when he heard a stirring from behind and then a scream. He saw one of his freedmen retainers, falling backwards clutching a spear sticking from his stomach.

  Before he could react, a troop of British horsemen were upon his people. Several of Porcius’s retainers drew swords and ran forward to defend their master.

  The riders hurled a volley of javelins and four more of Porcius’s men, smeared with blood, fell screaming to the ground—dead.

  Heat rushed through Porcius’s body as he flushed with anger. Who are these savages? How dare they kill my people?

  “That’s enough!” the young leader shouted to his men. They reined up to a halt. He turned to Porcius. “Tell your people to stay their weapons, or I’ll slaughter the lot of them!”

  Porcius quickly looked about and gratefully saw that the rest of his people, including Cyrus, had been spared.

  “Who are you? What is the meaning of this outrage?” Porcius bellowed.

  “Never mind,” the young leader sneered. “Do as I say, or you’re dead!” He raised an arm as if to give the order.

  “Stop! Stop! I’ll do it,” Porcius said. He turned to his defenders. “You heard him, drop your weapons!”

  They did.

  “Do you know who I am?” Porcius demanded, his voice firmer than his confidence.

  “I know who you are, Roman pig,” the leader replied. His accent wasn’t of the Atrebates.

  Although the riders were wearing the multi-checkered, short-sleeve tunics and homespun trousers of the Atrebates, they were of smaller stature than any Porcius had known and darker, except for their leader. Their mounts were gray ponies of Spanish breed, whereas the Atrebates rode bigger Cobbs and Gallic horses. These were Regni warriors.

  Porcius studied the young warrior’s features. There was something familiar about the sun burned, elongated face, beak nose, and pointed chin. “You’re Gwynedd, son of Verica,” Porcius challenged abruptly. “Your father will hear from me!”

  “You can tell him yourself,” Gwynedd sneered. “You’re coming with us for your own protection.”

  “From whom are you protecting me?”

  “From the enemy. We can’t risk your death.”

  “I had no enemies until you committed this unspeakable action. This is not like your father, I demand—”

  “Do as I say, or I’ll slice off your fat buttocks and use it for chariot grease! Climb aboard!” He pointed his sword to a spare horse led by one of his men.

  “Very well,” Porcius said, “but what of my people? They depend on me.”

  He ignored the question.

  With the assistance of three struggling slaves, Porcius climbed on the pony, and the riders set off. But several bandits dismounted.

  Headed for the gully at the edge of the knoll, Porcius heard screams and groans from his camp. He trembled, heat rushing to his face. He butchered my people! The dirty bastard! My prized slaves! I paid good money for them. Verica will pay dearly. I swear it!

  *

  Caratacus, taking a breather with the rest of his men, glanced in the direction of the knoll and saw the commotion within Porcius’s camp. “Look!” he motioned to Tog with his head. “Something’s wrong in the Roman camp.”

  Tog squinted in the bright sunlight. “Are you sure? Those look like our warriors.”

  “Uncle didn’t give any orders for our warriors to guard Porcius’s camp. Look closer, and you’ll see Roman standards are overturned.”

  “Our people woul
dn’t do that!”

  “To your chariots!” Caratacus shouted. “The Romans are in trouble!” He spotted Porcius, with what he was certain were enemy horsemen, riding down the hill. The enemy made a dash for the narrow, brush-covered gully lying along the hillock’s rim. The ridge flowed downward along a slope, disappearing into the thick, impassable forest at the edge of the plain. If he didn’t overtake the enemy before they reached the woods, it would be impossible to rescue Porcius. He had no love for the Roman, but he didn’t want him captured or murdered.

  With Tog at the reins of the chariot, Caratacus and his men raced ahead through the muck and mire of the plain. The pebble-strewn, muddy ravine, still streaming in places, was sure to slow Verica’s men. Caratacus’s warriors reached the edge of the sloping woods into which the chasm emptied. Its moist-earth embankment stood at shoulder height of a horseman. A large growth of bushes lined the top on both sides of the ravine as well as covering near the mouth. He ordered his band to ready their slings, and divided them on both sides of the gap.

  They heard the dull clatter of noise, hooves slopping mud and water, rumbling toward them. “Here they come,” Caratacus whispered to Tog as he spotted the enemy snaking down the narrow defile. “Pass it on to the men to wait for my signal.”

  “Right, Brother.”

  Caratacus raised his sword. “At my command … now!” He slashed his weapon downward.

  Fifty men slipped through the bushes, hurling lead stones from leather-thonged slings in a murderous crossfire. Rider after rider went flying from frantic mounts into the soggy mire. Shrieking warriors charged down the slopes, swords and spears in hand, furiously falling upon the enemy survivors. Several of Caratacus’s warriors lost their footing on the slippery banks and tumbled beneath the dancing horses. The unhorsed survivors had even greater difficulty getting to their feet. Many were trampled by their own animals or crushed against the embankments. Those not struck by the deadly stones were killed by spears after having their mounts hamstrung from beneath them.