The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “Is this our old friend, Porcius?” Cunobelinos asked in a rasping voice.

  “Yes, High King,” he answered. “After many years, I have returned to the land I consider a second home.”

  “Indeed, you are welcome.” Cunobelinos turned to Ibor, who hovered at his side. “Why … why wasn’t I informed of our friend’s arrival?”

  “You were, Great King,” the Druid answered. “I advised you that a delegation should be sent to the port to greet him, but your permission was not forthcoming.”

  Cunobelinos seemed to hesitate. “Oh yes … I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?” He faced Porcius. “Forgive me, old friend, my memory is not what it used to be.”

  “No apology is required, Great King,” Porcius said. “I’m certain you had more important matters on your mind.” Quickly, he glanced to Ibor, raising an eyebrow. The Druid shrugged.

  Besides a deteriorating mind, what other weaknesses did Cunobelinos have? Ibor would know. His love for Roman gold and gossip always outweighed loyalty to his office and ridiculous tree gods. Too bad there weren’t more Druids like him.

  *

  Later, after the audience was concluded, Porcius approached the Druid and slipped him a leather pouch.

  A fine mist sprayed Camulodunum that evening, but Ibor’s warm hearth soothed Porcius’s chilling bones. The high king’s closest advisor could not leave the king until dusk. Now the two powerful men sat in fur-lined, oak chairs by the fire. The Roman sipped Gallic wine from a bronze cup embossed with red-and green-enameled spirals. He waited as Ibor greedily counted the gold Roman Aureii.

  Ibor finished and placed the last of the coins back into the bag and tied it to his sash. He turned to Porcius, his gaunt cobweb-lined face studying the Roman. “You saw and smelled the poor state of the king’s physical condition, did you not?”

  “Is he that ill?”

  The Druid nodded. “And he is slowly losing his wits. He grows more feeble minded with each passing day.”

  “Then something—”

  Ibor held up his hand. “Wait, there is more. The king knows he is failing and is determined to remove his brother, Epaticcos, as tribal leader of the Atrebates before his mind is gone. He has formed a secret alliance with Verica against his brother.”

  Porcius started, aghast by the revelation. “But why?” he stammered, his mind feverishly sorting the ramifications this could have for Rome.

  “Epaticcos is too anti-Roman, and the Atrebatic Kingdom rightfully belongs to Verica.” Ibor labored in his best but butchered Latin.

  “But that will shift the balance of power. Verica will challenge Cunobelinos for the dominion of southeastern Britannia.”

  “Perhaps,” Ibor said, “but the king has his reasons, and Epaticcos must … will … be destroyed.”

  For a moment Porcius pondered those words as he glared at the wrinkled, white-bearded face of the Druid. Porcius shook his head. “You know very well that although Verica and Cunobelinos are pro-Roman, neither will tolerate a Roman Army in their lands.”

  The Druid shook his head. “I know and have attempted to advise the king of that fact.”

  “Then try again.” Porcius narrowed his eyes. “There is no way Cunobelinos will allow the anti-Roman faction under Epaticcos to threaten his throne.”

  “I agree.”

  Although he and Ibor were alone, Porcius leaned close to Ibor and said in a lowered voice, “If Verica takes the Atrebatic throne, southeastern Britannia would be ringed by pro-Roman tribes.”

  “But Cunobelinos is still the dominant ruler and keeps the minor tribes in check,” Ibor said.

  “Yes, and Rome has benefited commercially from his rule, and I am determined to see this continues after his death.”

  “But there is something else, noble Porcius …” Ibor paused, as if dangling a juicy tidbit, until Porcius almost begged him to continue. “Verica has agreed to support Adminios’s accession to the throne.”

  The Roman sucked in his breath. A chill shot up his back and through his arms. “Surely you’re joking?”

  “On the contrary, Adminios is a fool and easily manipulated, and we need a pro-Roman ruler. That is why he must be placed on the throne. We will use Adminios as a puppet, and through him Verica will rule the Catuvellaunians and the Trinovantes.”

  “What about Caratacus?” Porcius asked. “He was promised the kingship.”

  “Only in so many words and never officially. The bronze shield, the rank of office he received when he was seventeen, means nothing until he is proclaimed by the Council.”

  “You mean—”

  “He hasn’t been informed. The king isn’t that foolish—yet. But he has decided Adminios should succeed him. Caratacus is too anti-Roman, like his uncle, Epaticcos. Who knows? Caratacus might be slain in battle.”

  “Caratacus will revolt if the Council follows through. When he learns of this, the next battle will be with an army of warriors who support him. They are many.”

  Ibor lifted the pouch of coins, then opened his palm as if to convey that its weight was becoming less than the value of the information.

  Porcius slipped him a small, gold-studded ring from his left index finger, while mumbling under his breath, “True friend of Rome.”

  Ibor continued, “We plan to appease Prince Caratacus by giving him lands in the southern part of the kingdom.”

  “The poorer part of the country,” Porcius said sarcastically. “That won’t be enough, it’s betrayal.” He jabbed a finger at Ibor. “I warn you, he will rebel and line the walls with our heads.”

  “Our heads, Roman, not yours. He’s not foolish enough to kill a Roman and force the emperor to send troops. But we’ll deal with the situation when the time comes.” Ibor studied the gold ring in the poor light then examined the one upon Porcius’s other hand, as if comparing the value of the two.

  Porcius narrowed his eyes. “The time is now.”

  “Leave it to the king,” Ibor said.

  “The king will be dead!”

  Ibor looked away slowly and nodded.

  The sincerity of Ibor’s concern surprised Porcius. He should have given him the other ring, he thought, fingering the orb. No, he decided to save it for a more propitious time. In the meantime, he would leave for Noviomagnus, King Verica’s capital. Porcius was determined to learn if he could use Verica’s ambition to Rome’s advantage. Ironically, it was Caratacus who saved Porcius’s life when Verica’s son tried to murder him at Bagshot Heath. He prayed he no longer has any plans to try again.

  Chapter 20

  Early one sweltering afternoon, as Caratacus, Rhian, Tog, and Clud rode together at the head of the army column, a scout on horseback galloped down the path, muffled hoof beats growing louder until the rider drew up his foaming mount before them. The earthy smell of horse filtered the air, drifting into the noses of Caratacus and his companions.

  The scout pointed to the north. “Prince Caratacus, Eburacum is just over the rise.”

  “Good man,” Caratacus said and dismissed the warrior.

  Sitting on his large bay gelding, Caratacus turned to his companions. “Not much longer now. We’ll see what kind of reception awaits us.” He motioned them forward.

  “It should be friendly,” Rhian said as she trotted on a piebald mare by his right side. Dirt smudged her sunburnt face, and a trickle of sweat ran down her neck. “Shouldn’t it?”

  “You never know with so-called allies,” Clud said as he and Tog rode their shaggy horses along Caratacus’s left. Clud hawked and spat, muttering something about dust in his mouth.

  “We’ll keep a sharp eye out just in case,” Caratacus said. He wiped a perspiring hand along the right leg of his breeches.

  “Our cousins have been friendly to Da, no reason they shouldn’t be with us,” Tog said. “Otherwise, why ask for our aid?”

  “King Dumnoveros requested our help, but I’m not taking any chances,” Caratacus said.

  “That can work both ways,” Rhian added.


  “Betrayal is a fact of life.” Caratacus’s eyes searched the tree-lined hill to their right. A flock of screeching jackdaws flew above the ridge heading west. “The king’s scouts have been shadowing us for days, so he knows we have a big army.”

  “Aye, that he has,” Clud added. He motioned toward the same area. “They’ve done a sorry job of hiding themselves, my old ma could’ve done better. Our men have spotted them a dozen times.”

  When Caratacus reached the crest of the hill overlooking Eburacum, the capital of the Brigantes, he spotted a group of horsemen racing toward them, hooves pounding the ground in a thundering drumbeat, a cloud of dust billowing behind. They were less than five hundred paces away and closing fast.

  “Looks like an escort from the king,” Caratacus said as he placed a hand on the hilt of his sword tied at the waist. “We take no risks.”

  “Aye, they be armed,” Clud growled.

  “They’re Dumnoveros’s retainers,” Caratacus said. “Their clothing and weapons are too well made to be ordinary clan warriors.”

  Every rider wore conical helmets and chain mail-covered tunics with long, embroidered sleeves. The warriors wore striped breeches, carried spears, oval shields, longswords, and daggers.

  Caratacus twisted around on his horse. He motioned to the detail of fifty escorting mounted warriors, who rode a short distance to the rear of his group, to move up just behind them. He waved the captain in charge forward to his side. “I don’t expect trouble from the king’s men, but be ready to fight.”

  “Yes, Prince,” the captain answered and returned to his men.

  “They wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack us,” Tog said. “We’re too many—there can’t be more than thirty of them.”

  “Stay alert,” Caratacus warned. “Stay by my side, Rhian.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she answered and gripped the handle of her sword. Clud and Tog followed suit.

  The clatter of hooves and snorting horses drifted away like the powdery earth behind them as the riders drew to a halt before Caratacus and his companions. Nonetheless, the churning dirt roiled into Caratacus’s eyes and nostrils causing him and everyone to choke and cough. Once Caratacus stopped his hacking and cleared his throat, he took a cloth from his waist band and uncorked the goat skin water bag tied to the same. He doused water onto the rag and wiped his eyes and face. He deliberately made the riders wait while he turned to Rhian, who was using a plain scarf to clean her face.

  “I will live,” she said. “I should be used to this after all my years working with horses.”

  “You’re a good woman,” he said quietly.

  She managed a smile.

  He turned about and saw that his cavalry escort were spread behind him, all with hands on their swords.

  “Welcome, Prince Caratacus,” said a large, pockmarked warrior covered in grime. He briefly raised a hand in salute and moved his sweating mount forward, a few steps ahead of his band of warriors. “I am Rhodri, captain of King Dumnoveros’s retainers. He sends his greetings.”

  Caratacus took a swig of water from the container, rinsed his mouth, and spat. Once he had recorked and retied the flask, he turned back to the rider and raised a hand in return. “And how is the king?” he asked formally.

  The captain looked beyond Caratacus and then back to his own men and answered, “Well, indeed. He has instructed me to say that you and twenty of your companions are to follow me to his fortress. He will greet you there, and you will dine with him as his guests. In the meantime,” Rodri motioned to the broad plain south of the settlement’s fortified walls, “the rest of your army will camp out here beyond the town.”

  “I’ll join you once I’ve picked my companions,” Caratacus said. He motioned to Rhian, Tog, and Clud to follow him back to the army’s advance column, which had halted a short distance behind. Summoning his couriers, Caratacus sent them to his clan chieftains, captains, and lieutenants with orders to report to him immediately.

  “What do they mean by allowing only twenty of us to escort you?” Rhian asked after the messengers had been dispatched.

  “Because they will outnumber us,” Caratacus answered.

  “Ha! A lot of good that will do them,” Clud said. “By the scrawny looks of ’em, the plague has had its way. We would slice through ’em with no problem.” He straightened on his mount and, in a mock gesture, swiped a finger across his throat.

  “You’re right,” Caratacus said. “Nonetheless, the clan chieftains and captains will stay with the army. If I brought them, King Dumnoveros may be treacherous enough to spring a trap and kill us along with our best leaders. Yet, I don’t believe that is his intention.”

  “May you be right, but I’ll be ready,” Clud said with a grin. He tapped the hilt of his sword hanging from his bulging waist.

  “Let me guess, you’re bringing the lieutenants with us,” Tog said.

  “Not so loud,” Caratacus warned. He twisted around on the back of his horse surveying the king’s retainers a short distance away before turning back to Tog. “You’re right. In case this turns out to be a trap, the clan chieftains and captains know what to do.”

  “Aye, wipe ’em out,” Clud said as he pointed to the town. “Then our army would sack the town and claim it for your father’s kingdom.”

  “That’s right,” Caratacus said. “But I doubt King Dumnoveros will kill us. He would gain nothing from it. He won’t risk losing Eburacum, it’s a major trading center. The kingdom has made a fortune in port fees and taxes.”

  Caratacus knew merchant ships from Gaul, Germania, and the Mediterranean brought goods up the meandering Ouse River in trade for wool, iron ingots, finely made jewelry, leather goods, and more. Trackways from Caledonia to the north, and from lands to the west and south, led to this bustling region.

  No wonder the Caledonians raided the area.

  A few minutes later, Caratacus was joined by all his subordinate officers. He explained the situation and picked the men.

  “All right, let’s join the king’s men and go to the feast.” Caratacus kicked the side of his mount, rode ahead, his party following.

  *

  The entourage, escorted by King Dumnoveros’s retainers, bypassed the main part of the town spread along the edge of the river, lined with a muddy beach, docks, and small warehouses framed in wood and stone.

  As the group trekked up the road leading to the fortress, Caratacus appreciated the commanding view of the town and river to the north and broad plains and farmlands to the south. Any army foolish enough to attack these heights would be doomed to failure, including ours.

  “Do you remember what Cartimandua and her sister Dana look like?” Rhian asked pulling Caratacus from his thoughts.

  He shook his head. “No, it has been several years since I last saw them. They were very young. Cartimandua was seven and Dana was six.”

  Despite the tramping hooves, jingling of metal pendants on the horses ridden by the king’s retainers, and the bantering among the men, Rhian leaned toward Caratacus. “We’ve both heard that Cartimandua is ambitious,” she said in a lowered voice. “If the rumors are true, Dana has no interest in being a ruler.”

  Caratacus kept his face forward, eyes fixed on the riders ahead of him. He didn’t believe they could overhear the conversation between him and Rhian but kept a cautious look out and his voice low.

  “She doesn’t,” he finally answered. “Dana is looking for a husband to replace her first one who died of the plague.”

  “Is that right?” Rhian asked in a voice full of interest.

  “It’s what I’ve heard, she wants children.”

  “Any woman would,” she murmured.

  Caratacus cupped a hand to the side of his mouth and leaned toward Rhian. “I pity Venutios. If the tales about Cartimandua bedding everyone are true, he should have never married her.”

  “Only a fool would stay with her,” Rhian said.

  “Although Venutios is consort to a king�
��s daughter, I hope he is smart enough to realize that he will never succeed Dumnoveros on the throne.”

  “That would be a grave mistake, wouldn’t it?” Rhian said.

  “When her father dies, no doubt Cartimandua will find a way to get the council to vote her queen,” Caratacus said. He dropped his hand to the side, straightened his body on the back of his mount, and watched the riders ahead of him.

  “Yes, and to get her own way, the bitch will sleep with all of them,” Rhian said. She readjusted herself on the hand-woven riding blanket of her mare.

  The king’s men and Caratacus’s retinue halted before the Great Hall, built of un-mortared, close-cut stone that stood in the fortress center.

  After dismounting, everyone dusted off their clothes before entering.

  “I look and feel so dirty, Caratacus,” Rhian said, wiping a smudge of dirt from her face. “I wish the king would have allowed us to wash ourselves and change into clean clothing before he received us.”

  “I agree,” Caratacus answered. “Apparently he won’t be bothered by our appearance. No doubt he’s seen his share of dusty riders. We’ll just have to do the best we can.”

  She sighed. “I suppose so.”

  Caratacus touched her forearm and grinned. “Even through the dust, you’re still beautiful.”

  Rhian smiled but lightly slapped his hand. “Liar.”

  The captain, Rodri, dismissed his warriors.

  A good sign, Caratacus thought.

  Rodri turned to Caratacus. “Follow me.”

  Tog, Clud, and his lieutenants followed Caratacus and Rhian, who entered the stifling court behind Rodri. Inside, they stopped to adjust their eyes in the dim light. Burning torches hung in wolf-headed iron casings along the wall, illuminating the interior. Focusing on the interior, Caratacus realized the Great Hall was large and cavernous, far greater than he had ever seen before. Compared to this building, the one at Camulodunum seemed no bigger than a mud hut. Tall and thick hardwood posts framed the thick walls of wattle and daub, while at least another dozen going down the center held up the vaulted, wood-framed roof tightly packed with straw. He noticed several side doors opened to allow in fresh air and light, but it wasn’t enough. The noisy crowd of lesser chieftains, captains, warriors, and wives dressed in their finest clothing grew quiet as Caratacus and his retinue slowly approached in the hazy light across the stone floor, covered with furs and rugs in a riot of colors and patterns. They walked past several rows of long, rough-cut, wooden tables set up for dining. A gathering of clan chieftains, Druids, and bards stood before the king at the far end of the court. The place was bigger than Caratacus had imagined.