Frightened by his outburst, the stout, middle-aged woman stepped back a couple paces and looked away, then back. “The same as the last. The babe strangled on its own cord. By the time his head came through the birthing canal it was too late.”
“The son I wanted.” He exhaled, “By Lugh, I know babies die at birth, but why ours? Are we cursed?”
Curse all the gods! Caratacus’s body shuddered. Tears rolled down his cheeks. I don’t care who sees them. But of course I do. He sighed. Before the woman saw his face, he wiped them away and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. Shame rolled through him for such an unmanly display. Yet, how else should I feel about losing my son and the other children? No answer.
“Easy, Brother,” Tog said, placing a hand on Caratacus’s shoulder, “the midwife did all she could.”
“I know that,” Caratacus said in a reassuring voice. He glanced at her wrinkled face, pale with fright. “How is the Princess Rhian?”
“She’s resting, my lord,” Fand answered. She pushed back the gray strands of hair from her wrinkled face. “The babe wore her out. It wouldn’t be wise to see her yet.”
“Why?”
Fand shook her head. “Just like after she lost the last two babes, she would weep and feel so ashamed that she didn’t give you a live son. Wait ’til tomorrow when she’s feeling a little better.”
He nodded and Fand returned to the house.
Somehow I’ve offended the gods. They’ve placed a curse on me, and it must have passed through my seed into Rhian. Gods forbid!
He shook his head. Three babies dead before he realized how much he loved her.
By custom, he could have taken a concubine or another wife to sire a child after Rhian lost her first child. Yet, he felt he would have betrayed her. He couldn’t do that, not yet.
He wondered if this is why Adminios had turned into a drunkard. His older brother had always been lazy, preferring hunting over learning the affairs of state. However, when he was younger, he had been married twice. Unfortunately, both women died with their babies in child birth. It was after his second wife died, a women whom he especially liked, that Adminios went on a drinking binge that never stopped. Caratacus remembered his brother saying, “The gods have cursed me, why should I marry again? I can have any woman I want—I don’t give a damn who rules after me.”
While Caratacus understood Adminios’s grief, he wouldn’t excuse his excesses and outrageous behavior.
Caratacus stooped and placed another pine log on the fire. He sat staring as the wood flamed and blazed skyward. The heat warmed his face, and the fresh smell of resin seeped into his nostrils. Gradually, the muscles of his body relaxed. “It’s as if Rhian had been cursed,” Caratacus said. “If true, it should have been me, not her. Gods, I wonder if we’ll ever have any children?”
*
Caratacus slept little that night. Early the next morning, a servant awakened and informed the prince that his father wanted to see him immediately. He wanted to see Rhian first and console her, but it would have to wait.
Inside the Great Hall, the shadows of smoky torchlight reflected eerily on the high king’s drawn face. Black circles that Caratacus hadn’t noticed before ringed his father’s eyes. The long moustache had turned into a clump of gray, his ruddy complexion fading like the last rays of the setting sun. Despite the glowing warmth from the nearby hearth, Cunobelinos slumped in his Roman curule chair, his purple cloak drawn around his shoulders. Except for the shield bearers standing at a discreet distance in the shadows, no one was present.
“I’m sorry to hear Rhian bore you another dead son,” Cunobelinos said.
“I’ve been up most of the night.” Caratacus yawned and rubbed his eyes.
The king leaned forward. “I see it in your face. It’s my desire to someday bless the son of my son. I pray the gods are kinder when she has another child.”
“So do I,” Caratacus said. His father had expressed his condolences in the past but never one bit of sympathy. Before, he had shrugged off the deaths as the way of the gods and a hazard all women endured.
Stifling another yawn, Caratacus asked, “What do you want, Da?” Normally, his father never summoned him at this early hour. “Has another conspiracy been uncovered?”
“Fortunately, not this time.”
“Aye, the discovery of two conspiracies on your life in as many years is enough.” Too bad neither involved Adminios. I know he is a traitor. Since the day he and Tog had been warned, nearly eight years ago by Epaticcos, Adminios had not made any move to overthrow their father. But Caratacus was always at the ready to stop Adminios should he make a move against their father.
“Don’t forget your friend Clud who learned from friends about the second one.”
“And you showed confidence by allowing Clud and me to arrest the traitors.” Caratacus recalled it had been four years since he led a contingent of hand-picked, loyal warriors that caught the rebels. Under torture administered by old Ibor and his Druids, they extracted confessions from the chieftains. It had served the traitors right when they were excommunicated and put to death for planning the overthrow of Cunobelinos and allying with Verica.
“I received a message,” Cunobelinos said, arousing Caratacus from his thoughts, “that Dobunni raiders are stealing cattle from the outlying settlements again and killing our people. You’re to take a company of riders and go after them.”
“Didn’t you warn their king that we’d retaliate if they didn’t stop raiding?”
His father snorted. “I did.”
“Why didn’t he stop them?”
“They’re his trouble-making clansmen,” Cunobelinos answered with a growl. “He wants us to get rid of them so he can keep his hands clean.”
Caratacus motioned as if that were obvious. “But then he’ll have an excuse to war against us.”
“He won’t.” A crafty grin crossed the old king’s wrinkled face. “Not only do I have his promise, but a hefty sum in gold for the favor.”
Caratacus wasn’t surprised. His father knew how to negotiate the best terms for himself when it involved gold. He had the riches to prove it. “Very clever, both sides profit. He’s rid of a nest of vipers, we save our peasants and cattle and get paid in the process.”
“Aye, we would’ve anyway, but the gold greased my axle.” Cunobelinos opened and closed his hand as if holding something of value. “He’s desperate. And we profit in another way.”
“How?” Caratacus asked.
“Our slave trading has declined in recent years.” He pointed to a row of skulls sitting in niches along the wall. “This time I want prisoners, not heads. They’ll be sold as slaves to the Romans.”
Caratacus shook his head. “My warriors aren’t going to like it, especially if they’re sold to Rome.”
The king narrowed his eyes and glared at his son. “I don’t care what they like, they’ll do as they’re told. You’ll see to that.”
“I will, but heads are important to them, for their souls. You can’t win a battle without deaths.”
“You’ll get your share of heads. But right now, the kingdom needs the money. I’m holding you responsible for the acts of your men. Kill no captives and behead only the dead.”
Caratacus recalled what Uncle Epaticcos had said years ago, and he was right. There is more to being a great leader and warrior than taking heads in battle. He no longer found decapitation a thrill as he once did. He took one occasionally, only to maintain his reputation as a fierce warrior. Because his own followers wouldn’t understand his changing outlook, Caratacus kept his thoughts to himself.
“The slave trade has dropped only because Porcius was recalled to Rome four summers ago,” Caratacus said. “It’s a shame you need a Roman to deal with slave traders to make our profits.”
Cunobelinos straightened his back and pulled the cloak tighter about his shoulders. He turned and spat onto the rushes placed around the foot of the throne. “I’m aware of your loathing for Porcius and Rome
, but they are a necessary evil. Porcius knows how to make money for us.”
“Not to mention for himself.”
The king snorted. “He’s a typical Roman merchant, and one day he’ll return. He’s too greedy to stay away forever.”
Caratacus nodded. He recalled that shortly after he and Rhian had been married and established a permanent home in Camulodunum, his father gave him a minor command in the army. He was dispatched to search for and attack the raiders from a neighboring tribe whose chieftains were stealing cattle from farmsteads near the other’s border. He successfully carried out the campaign, killing the raiders and recovering the livestock.
Cunobelinos had shown his pleasure by giving him greater responsibilities and placing him in charge of a warrior company in a couple of campaigns against the rebellious Cantiaci to the south. After the successful conclusion of the war, Caratacus was publically recognized as a warrior and a man, much to the consternation and animosity of Adminios.
Prior to this, Caratacus had brought to his father’s attention the rumors about Adminios’s conspiracy with Verica to overthrow him. His father had refused to believe him.
“The rumors are lies,” Cunobelinos had said. “No son of mine, not even Adminios, would betray me.”
“Da, this is too serious to disregard. You should at least send spies to verify. Epaticcos did.”
“Bah, do you expect me to believe him? He wants my kingdom as much as Verica.”
“All the more reason to send your own spies. To standby and do nothing is madness.”
“I’m doing no such thing.” Cunobelinos paused and, for the length of a few heartbeats, stared beyond Caratacus toward the entrance of the Great Hall. “Even as we speak, my spies are in the field. Should Adminios turn on me, I will know about it and deal with him.”
At least Da is taking some action.
*
Caratacus’s mind returned to the present when he saw his father giving him a puzzled look. “I’m flattered you’ve given me the responsibility of going after this Dobunni vermin, Da,” Caratacus said a moment later.
“It’s because you earned it,” the king said gruffly. He raised his arm and pointed a finger. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I won’t.” For Caratacus that was compliment enough.
“The time will come when I’m no longer here,” Cunobelinos continued as he lowered his arm, “there is no room in the kingdom for a ruler who has a big head, only one who rules wisely.”
“What about Tog and Adminios?”
“Your younger brother learns from you. As for Adminios, you know he can’t be trusted with this responsibility, that’s why I gave you the command.” The king shook his head as if disappointed with his oldest son.
Caratacus tightly gripped the hilt of his sword. “He’ll object.”
“Let him. He will abide by it if he knows what’s good for him.”
“Do you still believe he wouldn’t overthrow you?”
The king paused, his scarred ruddy face studying Caratacus. “You haven’t presented me with any substantial proof. Until then, I will not act. My spies watch him, and he has not shown any signs of betrayal. I’m no fool, which is why I only give him minor commands for token raids.”
“There are members of the council who would elect him as king so they could rule through him.”
“Not while I live,” Cunobelinos answered in a voice more like a growl. “I have the right to choose my successor.”
Caratacus released the grip on the hilt, raised his hand, and gestured in the king’s direction. “You have many summers left.”
Cunobelinos lowered his eyes, which were surrounded by black pouches the color of a burnt stick, and exhaled. “My aching bones tell me that they pass by faster each year.”
Suddenly, the king snapped his head back, his eyes alert, and straightened in his chair. He smiled at his son. “Enough of this nonsense. Have you seen your wife today?”
“No, I slept at Tog’s last night.”
“Then it’s time you see her. Go and be with her for now. Soon, you’ll be setting out against bandits.”
*
Arriving at his home, Caratacus headed for the goatskinned, partitioned area inside, situated at the far wall where Rhian was now bedded. He entered the enclosure, dimly lit by three candles. He quickly scanned the room and saw that it had been cleaned, the birthing stool used by Rhian was gone, along with bloodstained garments or any other evidence of her ordeal. The air smelled of vinegar, used for cleaning and the reduction of infection, one of the few Roman ideas that he approved of. Caratacus spotted Rhian sitting upright, propped up by pillows, but still covered in furs. A female slave, using a wooden spoon, was feeding Rhian from a bowl of porridge. She took small bites. Her face was drawn and pale, eyes reddened, lids swollen. Loose hair draped her shoulders.
Rhian turned, watched as he approached, only seemed to recognize him as he drew closer. A weak smile crossed her lips. Caratacus eyed the slave and nodded toward the entrance. She placed the bowl on a small table with stubby legs near Rhian and departed.
Caratacus knelt by Rhian’s side. He grinned as he reached over and lightly stroked her cheek.
She tightened her lips and looked away. Her body quivered before turning towards him again, tears running down her face. “I’m sorry, I’ve failed you again.”
He moved closer, taking Rhian into his arms, her body seemed lighter than before.
She buried her head into his chest and sobbed.
Caratacus stroked her freshly washed hair, the scent of chamomile filled his nostrils. He said in a soft, compassionate voice, “You didn’t fail me. Not this time, not ever.”
“I didn’t give you a son,” she said in a muffled voice. “I haven’t given a child, not even a daughter. You must hate me.”
Caratacus shook his head. “Hate you? Never. It isn’t your fault the gods have been against you, that’s how I see it.”
Rhian turned her head to one side of his chest. “The gods have nothing to do it—it’s me, only me—how can you love me?”
He remained silent for a short time before he answered, “I will always love you. No matter what the future brings, even if you don’t have another child, you will always be the number one woman in my life.”
“You mean that? Honestly?”
“I do.”
Rhian snuggled closer. “I pray to Mother Goddess that one day I will bear you a child, even if it is only a daughter.”
Caratacus pushed her slightly away from his chest so he could look into her tear-stained eyes. “I would be content with a daughter.”
*
On a chilly evening, a month after Rhian’s latest stillbirth, Caratacus returned from a patrol along the tribal border with the Dobunni. The previous week they had caught the raiders his father had told him about and managed to take most as prisoners to be sold as slaves, pleasing Cunobelinos to no end. This particular foray was to search for any who had escaped—there were none. After reporting to his father, he returned home. He entered and handed his cloak to a young, female servant. She nodded in Rhian’s direction, who stood in the dim candle light by the weaving loom a few paces from him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Rhian moved towards him, a frown on her bowed lips. “You tell me,” she answered and tossed him a small leather pouch, which he grabbed in midair by one hand, its weight heavier than he expected.
Caratacus moved to the hearth where the light was better, followed by Rhian. Both sat side by side on fur pelts spread beside the fire pit. “I don’t understand what this is all about,” he said while untying the cord around the pouch.
“It’s a message from Cartimandua,” she answered in a huff.
He turned to Rhian, studying her rouged face in the shimmering light as the fire crackled and popped. Smoke drifted upward to the small escape hole in the center of the straw-packed roof. “My cousin?”
She glared at him. “Is there another one? Are
you keeping something from me?”
Caratacus shook his head. “Don’t talk to me like that, woman. No, I have no idea what this is about. Who brought this?”
“A merchant friend of your father. He sailed down from Eburacum and was instructed to deliver you the message. Since you weren’t here, I received it. I would have read it if I knew how.”
“If you knew how to read, I would have forbidden you to read my dispatches without my permission,” he growled.
“Humph!”
Caratacus pulled out a packet containing several thin, curved sheets of birch bark tied together with a leather string. He said to himself while he untied the bundle, “Strange, the last time I saw her was eleven years ago when I was twelve—she was seven.”
“Oh, really?” Rhian surveyed him through squinting, emerald eyes.
Does she think I’m lying? “Yes, King Prasutagus brought her and the rest of his family for a visit while he negotiated an alliance with Da. The two of them are half brothers. Da seems closer to him than to Uncle Epaticcos. Still, that doesn’t explain why she would send me a message. “
“Read it and learn for yourself,” she said.
Pulling the sheets apart, one by one, he perused the lighter, smoother sides of the sheets, which were written in Latin.
“Well, what does she say?”
“Cartimandua sends her condolences on the loss of our child.”
Rhian sniffed. “She sent a letter all this way for that? The woman never sent one when I lost the first two.”
Caratacus held up a hand. “There’s more.” For a moment he silently read. He looked at Rhian. “This is interesting. She says that I have the right to take another wife, if the first one—obviously meaning you—cannot bear me an heir.”
Rhian jolted, her face flushed. “How dare she say that? It’s none of her business what goes on between us.”
He exhaled. “I agree, but she is right—it’s the custom.”
She slapped a hand against her thigh. “Custom be damned!” she blurted so loudly that it startled the nearby servant grinding flour in the stone quern. “You wouldn’t remarry, would you?”
The Wolf of Britannia Part I Page 15