The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Adminios glared at Caratacus. “What about him? He doesn’t have any.”

  “Not from lack of trying, and he has a worthy wife,” the king answered, his mouth set in a straight line.

  Caratacus grinned. Yes, Rhian is the most worthy of all women and has the makings of a great warrior.

  Adminios’s face flushed. “I have tried, but my wives died giving birth, and the babies were lost with them.”

  “You should try again instead of spending so much time in drink and whoring.” Cunobelinos glared at Adminios. “There is nothing wrong in getting drunk once in a while, even whoring, those are the rights of any man, but not all the time. Find a wife.”

  “You wrong me, Da,” Adminios said. He shook his head.

  “Do I?” He paused. “No, I haven’t. You will remain here in Camulodunum where I can keep an eye on you. I will not embarrass the kingdom by sending you as leader on such an important campaign.”

  “But Da—”

  “Silence!” the king ordered. “One more word out of you, and I will put you in chains.” The old king’s eyes surveyed the Great Hall, and then he raised his hand. “Except for Prince Caratacus, leave us, all of you!” he commanded as loudly as his raspy voice allowed.

  Ibor protested, “But Great King, your health.”

  He raised his hand, pointing to the Druid. “You may be the chief law giver, but I am still king. I’m not with the gods yet, though you crave it.”

  Ibor shrank back, casting a quick glance to his side.

  The king motioned to the rest of the court, including a sullen Adminios. “I talk to my son in private. Now, get out! All of you!”

  Once the hall was cleared, Cunobelinos waved Caratacus to a chair next to him. He noticed the deep fissures erupting on each side of his father’s nose. Crow’s feet spread from the eyes like a river delta. His once powerful shoulders appeared to have shrunk and now rounded, giving the king a stooped appearance. The breath escaping through his thin lips smelled of rancid meat.

  “My son,” the king whispered, “those vultures think I’m dying. I’m not, though my joints grow more inflamed.”

  “Except for Adminios, they feared saying anything in your presence.”

  A smirk crossed his father’s lips. “Adminios is a fool who cannot be trusted. He will stay here where my spies and I can keep a close watch on him. As far as the rest, it is well they should keep their mouths shut. But the truth is, I might as well be dying.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s time you knew. You’re the only one I can trust.” He coughed into a cupped palm then wheezed.

  After seeing the speckles of red in the phlegm upon the king’s hand from the retching cough, the prince wondered, Was he suffering from the same sickness that killed Aunt Gwynn? How long will he live?

  “I’m afraid,” he continued, “that I’m losing my memory.”

  Caratacus suspected his father’s health had been deteriorating, but his candid admission shocked him. His muscles tightened. “Impossible!”

  “But I am. I have difficulty remembering things, simple things. I forgot your name just as I was addressing you before the assembly.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “Ibor … but I don’t know if I can trust him to keep it secret, if he hasn’t already told others.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Cunobelinos shook his head. “No one can help me. Usually, I have full recollection of my thoughts, but there are times when I don’t. It happens more often. I’m afraid I’ll soon babble like an idiot,” he said softly. “And when my enemies—your enemies—find out, they’ll use me.” He stood, his mind seemed to drift, and Caratacus caught the name, “Ibor.”

  The king paused and stared blankly into the hearth’s fading coals and sat again. “That’s why I’m sending you north,” he continued. “I can’t go. I don’t trust myself, and I trust no one but you. You’ve served me well during the last eleven years. I have some unfinished matters I must attend to before I die.”

  “It isn’t that severe—it can’t be!” Caratacus protested.

  “It is. It is.” Cunobelinos slumped in his chair.

  If Caratacus forced the issue, he could stay, but he respected his father too much to disobey. There was the danger of Adminios taking advantage of the king’s failing health. Although by no means as clever as he or Tog, Adminios was bound to learn sooner or later. At the same time, if I remain, the people will whisper that the king has grown weak and is losing his authority. That must not happen. There must be a show of unity. “All right, I accept command of the army,” he said. “But Ibor must keep Adminios away from you—he’s grown too dangerous—you know I speak the truth.”

  The king nodded, obviously relieved of a heavy burden. “Ibor will keep him away, I promise.”

  Although he never felt close to his father, Caratacus hadn’t wished to see the old monarch degenerate into a mindless hulk. In the old days, the Druids condemned failing kings to death. They were brought before the people, stripped naked, and stabbed in the back. As they lay dying, naked priestesses, tattooed with purple woad, studied their death throes for omens to learn the future of the tribe.

  Caratacus realized it was his right, when his father reached that moment, to slay him quickly and cleanly. To live his remaining years like a helpless baby was not the way of a warrior or a king.

  He touched the hilt of his dagger. I can’t kill my father, but I’ll be damned if I allow anyone else either. When I take the throne, I’ll care for him.

  His father had proclaimed him ruler in everything but name, but he still must be elected by the council of clan chieftains. Some favored Adminios. Caratacus would have to overcome their opposition, their allegiance being essential. He had proven himself in battle, but to be king required more than being a good warrior. He knew that from the political squabbling, constant bickering, and testing of strong wills at the king’s councils. His people prospered, and he wanted to keep it that way. Somehow he must break the economic stranglehold of the Romans on the kingdom.

  The Romans considered his father a client-king.

  Caratacus resented the close relationship. To be client-king meant that Da would take up arms on behalf of Rome. Would Cunobelinos fight at Rome’s side if they invaded the lands of our neighbors? Was he fool enough to believe that the Romans would leave their people alone once they got a toehold in Britannia? His father must surely see the folly of being a Roman ally.

  *

  The rain stopped, and Caratacus gathered the chieftains outside the Great Hall in the cool evening light and issued orders for marching. He needed three days to gather warriors and supplies from around the tribal confederacy.

  Caratacus returned home at supper time. Helping a servant, Rhian removed freshly baked bread from the domed clay oven. The aroma permeated the room. He savored the tangy fish stew boiling with vegetables in the cauldron over the hearth, not realizing how hungry he had been until now. He kissed Rhian and asked her to cut a slice from one of the round, flatbread loaves for him.

  “How did the meeting go with your father and the council?” Rhian asked as they seated themselves on reed mats around a low table.

  Caratacus told her the news between mouthfuls of food.

  She gasped. “This is the opportunity my women and I have been waiting for. You must let us ride with you!”

  “I must?” Caratacus’s hands froze half way to his mouth, placing the bread chunk back down on the table. He turned and locked eyes with hers. “There is nothing I must do.”

  Rhian placed a hand on his bicep. “I know you don’t have to do anything, but for once, please don’t deny me this. We deserve the chance to prove ourselves.”

  Since they had married, Rhian had prodded him to let her go to war. Although she had proven herself on the training field, under the stern supervision of those masculine, female twins, Gwyther and Modron, Caratacus had refused her permission to go on campaign. H
e feared she would lose her life before bearing him a son. Now, Caratacus doubted she’d ever bear children again. It was time to let her prove herself, something he understood.

  “All right,” Caratacus answered after a moment.

  “There hasn’t been an attack on Camulodunum in years. We’re eager to use our skills before we lose them,” Rhian continued, her hand gestured broadly.

  “I said you may go, woman. What more do you want?”

  For the first time since she’d begun her campaign to go, she was speechless. Her sea-green eyes searched his for the span of a couple of heartbeats as if making sure she heard him correctly. Slowly, a smile, revealing her still-white teeth, evolved across her bowed lips. She threw her arms around him and kissed him.

  “I’m not going to repeat myself. Choose one hundred of your best women riders. I’ll find a use for them.”

  “As long as they have a chance to fight, they’ll do anything,” she cried.

  He struggled to loosen her arms from his neck and laughed, pleased that she seemed happy. “A chance to fight, huh? Before we return, there’ll be enough bloodshed to satisfy even your lust for combat. But as you’re willing to do anything.” He glanced toward the partitioned goatskins walling off their bed furs from the rest of the home.

  “Oh, you’re terrible. Don’t you think about anything else?” she said, slapping him playfully. “But what about dinner—aren’t you going to finish?”

  “That can wait, and so can the rest of the world.”

  *

  Later, as they lay side by side on their bed furs, Caratacus stifled a yawn. He turned and smiled at Rhian, whose brows were furrowed deeply, as if lost in thought. “Something bothering you?”

  She turned toward him, strands of hair partially covering the side of her face, which she brushed aside. “I was thinking …”

  “And?”

  “Most likely, Cartimandua will be in Eburacum when we arrive.”

  “So? Remember, she is King Dumnoveros’s daughter and Venutios, her husband, is one of the king’s chieftains.”

  “Don’t you understand?”

  “What?”

  “With her vile reputation, she may throw herself at you, tempting you to leave me for her.”

  Caratacus lifted himself up on one side, reached over, and touched her shoulder. “Woman, you’re mad. It’s been four years. Don’t you remember I sent a letter in reply to her message that I had no intention of leaving you for her or any other woman?”

  She pouted. “I remember, but she may well try anyway.”

  “She will fail miserably. I will refuse her advances.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” He kissed her, and they made love again.

  *

  Early the following morning, on the same day Porcius landed in Britannia, Caratacus departed from Camulodunum leading an army of four thousand, enroute to Eburacum, capital of the Brigantes. They rode northward on worn trackways through rolling, green hills and thick forests. He sent messengers to the wooded lands of the Coritani, vassals of the Catuvellaunians, to provide food at designated intervals.

  The army marched all morning. After passing through a heavily wooded area of birch and yew, they entered a wide meadow with a small stream snaking across its center. Caratacus ordered the army to halt for a short noon rest. During the stop, he decided to check on Rhian and her women. Being inexperienced as warriors, Caratacus assigned them to guard the supply wagons. Some grumbled, but Rhian quickly silenced their chatter. It was as if she realized they had to crawl before walking. Earlier, her unit struggled to keep a tight formation around the wagons. The men who guarded the flanks, the front and rear of the army, seemed uneasy with women among them. But the women steadily improved, and they needed praise.

  Shielding his forehead, Caratacus squinted into the noonday glare as he approached Rhian, who dismounted at the water’s edge and allowed her horse to take a long drink. She looked radiant in the bright afternoon sun, and he smiled at her beauty. Caked with dust and sweat, the other kilt-clad female riders, who wore ankle-length breeches, paid little attention to personal appearances as they watered and rested their animals. Not Rhian. Caratacus watched as she kneeled and dipped a piece of woolen cloth in the cool stream and then place it to her sunburned face, wiping away the grime. She reached for the berry juice, which she kept in a small vial in a pouch tied to her waist, to touch up her lips, but apparently resigned to the fact everyone was filthy and smelled of horse, she drew back her hand. Despite her appearance, she looked nearly as beautiful as the day they married; more so, in spite of being twenty-eight.

  He reined up next to the stream and dismounted. “The women have improved a great deal since this morning.”

  Rhian stood and a weary smile formed on her lips. “Do you really think so?”

  “If they hadn’t, I would’ve told you.” A nearby horse whinnied and Caratacus’s mount answered with a loud, grating sound.

  “Yes, you made that clear earlier.” Rhian now used the cloth to wipe her sweaty hands.

  “Have to whip the women into shape in a hurry if they’re to survive against the Caledonians.”

  Rhian’s eyes narrowed. She grasped the handle of the dagger tied at her waist. “They’ll fight as well as the men.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Caratacus answered with a grin. “Other than that, how are they faring?”

  “One of them, Mugain, is suffering from morning sickness.” She clapped her hand to her mouth.

  “Why did you allow her to come along?” Caratacus grasped the hilt of his sword.

  “I didn’t know.” Rhian hesitated. She stared at the dusty ground beyond her horse and back to Caratacus. “Mugain was afraid to tell me and thought it would pass. She’s one of my best riders and didn’t want to be left behind. What should I—”

  “You decide,” he snapped. “You’re a leader, make the tough decisions!” Then he said in a softer voice. “I’m sorry if I sound so harsh, but now that we’re in the field, where others can see us, I have to treat you in the same manner as I would other warriors. Otherwise, I would be accused of favoritism, not to mention being considered a weak leader. You must understand. When we are alone, it’s different.”

  Rhian pondered only for a moment. “I know. As commander of the army, you must be firm. Of course, Mugain must go back. We have no room for pregnant women. Did she really think I would allow her to fight in her condition?”

  Caratacus nodded approval, pleased by her decisiveness. She had passed her first test.

  “But Mugain will be all right. My women will see to it.”

  “Good, because I won’t allow anything to slow our march. She’ll return by your orders. I remember how you suffered from the sickness.”

  Rhian narrowed her eyes at her husband. “You think I’ve forgotten? I lost three babies.”

  “I know,” Caratacus answered gravely. “I’m sorry for you and the three little ones.”

  She leaned toward him and whispered, “But the memories … I can’t forget.”

  And neither can I.

  “You’re right, Caratacus,” Rhian said, pulling Caratacus out of his thoughts. “I never really thought some of these young women, most of them just girls, really, might be killed. There is no place in battle for a woman with child.”

  “None whatsoever. Have an escort of women take Mugain back to the last village we passed. When she’s well, the peasants can return her safely to Camulodunum. Here’s an incentive for them to help.” He handed her five newly minted gold coins. They contained the image of a half-naked, Druid priest holding the decapitated head of a sacrificial victim. Beneath, the Roman letters CVN, the Latin abbreviation for Cunobelinos, were inscribed.

  “For that fortune they would protect her from their own mothers,” Rhian answered.

  “I’ll see you later when we make camp.” Caratacus remounted and rode away. He looked back at Rhian one more time. She and her women still need to prove themselves as
warriors. When that day arrives, I pray Rhian and her women will be worthy of my confidence.

  Chapter 19

  After landing at the Port of Camulodunum, Porcius headed on foot for the house of Cunobelinos to request an immediate audience. Why wasn’t I met by the king’s representatives? Something smells rotten, and it isn’t dead fish!

  As Cyrus and his entourage followed, he trudged up the low hill to the stockade, huffing as he went.

  Despite the cool sea breeze, his face grew hot, and his mouth turned dry as a desert—not from any apparent thirst but from his growing concern about the king.

  Passing through the fortress gateway, Porcius approached the Great Hall. He told Cyrus and his party to wait outside. He entered the audience room, illuminated by smoky torchlight and the large, center hearth, and approached the ruler who sat on his throne upon the dais. Ibor stood by the king’s side and whispered into his ear. The king nodded. The once powerfully built ruler now sat stooped-shouldered, draped in his purple robe, as if the years of rule and responsibility weighed down like a heavy, oxen yoke.

  His face was now withered, skin sagged around his cheek bones and jaw like a plucked fowl. Porcius sucked in his breath, alarmed by the old king’s appearance. Watery eyes sank into deep hollows as if stagnant pools, and his once flaxen beard was now scraggly white. Cunobelinos shifted in his chair and Porcius heard the sound of passing wind. A fetid odor radiated from Cunobelinos and lingered, as if he had soiled himself. To Porcius’s disgust, the smell seeped into his nose.

  Great Jove, how much longer can the king rule? When Porcius had left Britannia, Cunobelinos had been a robust, middle-aged ruler. If this is a virtue of growing old as Cicero preached, then I would rather be dead. If I play my dice right and throw the cast of Venus, Rome will greatly benefit from this state of condition.

  Cunobelinos motioned the Roman closer. Porcius stepped to the foot of the dais about three arm lengths from the king and bowed slightly. He forced himself to keep his nose from twitching.