The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “Yes,” Dana said. Once more she attempted to raise herself but failed.

  Caratacus and Rhian, who went to the other side of the pallet, simultaneously leaned over, placed several furs behind her back, and raised her to a sitting position.

  Caratacus nodded his thanks to Rhian and turned to Dana.

  “I’m so sorry, Caratacus,” Dana murmured.

  “About what?” He knew what she meant.

  “I lost … lost your child.”

  He shook his head. “No, don’t. It couldn’t be helped. Right now it is more important you get well. We can think about having another one later.”

  Dana’s body shook, her face twisted in a grimace. Tears welled within her eyes, and quietly, she wept.

  Caratacus looked across Dana to Rhian, who motioned with her head toward Dana’s hand. He took it into his and found it warm, free of fever. He gently stroked it.

  About five minutes later, Dana’s sobbing tapered off. Rhian gave her a linen cloth to wipe her face.

  “Thank you … for staying with … me, both of you,” Dana said. “I acted like … a silly fool.”

  “You’re not a fool,” Caratacus said in a gentle voice.

  “Dana, it’s only natural,” Rhian said. “I know how you feel.”

  “You’re so … kind, Rhian, you’ve been … through this, too.”

  Dana turned to Caratacus. “What if I … I can’t have … another baby? You … you wouldn’t send … me back to Eburacum, would you?”

  Caratacus narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Never, Dana, never. Under no circumstances will I ever send you back there. This is your home, forever.”

  To return you would mean certain death at the hands of your scheming bitch of a sister.

  Slowly, a smile crossed Dana’s pale face. “Honestly?”

  “I wouldn’t say it otherwise, you are part of my family,” Caratacus said.

  “It’s true, Dana, you are,” Rhian said, looking at Caratacus.

  “I’m so happy,” Dana said in a fading voice. “I’m so tired.” She closed her eyes.

  Caratacus and Rhian nodded to one another. Together they removed the blankets holding Dana up and allowed her to lie back on the bed-pallet. The two stood and went outside. They sat by the hearth on stools with a small table between them. A female slave was banking wood in the fire pit. Rhian ordered her to bring them mead and dismissed her once she and Caratacus had been served. For a moment, they quietly sipped their drinks.

  Rhian placed her cup on the table. “As you can see, dear Husband, Dana will need time to recover—not only her body but her mind.”

  “That’s why I didn’t ask her about the miscarriage. Tell me what happened.”

  She pinched her light eyebrows together as if pondering what to say. “I was riding home after inspecting the defenses of the fortress when one our slaves approached me outside of the compound. He said Dana was sick and needed my help. Quickly, I made my way to the house, and when I entered, I found her sitting by the hearth doubled over in pain. I asked what was wrong, and she said she was bleeding between the legs.”

  Caratacus cocked his head to the side. “Between the legs?”

  “Yes. I knew what that meant—a miscarriage. I helped her to bed, ordered a servant to bring towels to lay beneath her. I ordered another one to fetch the midwife. She arrived and gave Dana an awful tasting potion to stop the miscarriage, but it didn’t work.” Rhian paused, shaking her head.

  “Go on, Rhian,” Caratacus said.

  She touched her face and continued, “We placed her on the birthing stool. There wasn’t anything more we could do to stop the unborn child from coming out of Dana’s womb.” Rhian stopped again, her lips tightened into a thin line. She shook her head.

  This must be very painful for her. “Please, go on.”

  Rhian nodded. “The pain was so terrible, Dana screamed and passed out.”

  “You don’t have to go into all the details,” Caratacus said. “I presume it came out in a bloody mess.” He remembered this same thing happening to Rhian in the past.

  “Yes,” Rhian said in a wooden voice.

  “Could you tell if it was a boy or girl?”

  “I’m afraid not, Caratacus,” Rhian answered in little more than a whisper, “it was too small. I’m sorry.”

  “But it was five months along, couldn’t you determine what it was?”

  Rhian shook her head and sighed. “The child was underdeveloped. Perhaps it had already been dead in Dana’s womb, but she never complained.”

  Caratacus exhaled. For the length of about eight heartbeats, he turned his head away to hold back tears. There is nothing I can do about it now. He tried to put on a sober face and turned back to Rhian.

  “What happened to Dana?”

  “Even though she was unconscious, thank the Mother Goddess she was breathing. The midwife said she would recover. We cleaned her, placed towels between her legs to stop the bleeding, and put her in bed. She had a fever. When she woke up, the midwife gave her another potion to bring it down.” Slowly a smile appeared across Rhian’s bowed lips. “Don’t worry, Caratacus, Dana will recover, I’m sure. I know what she is going through.”

  “Aye, I remember the pain and sadness you experienced, Rhian, I’m sorry for both of you.”

  “Don’t, Caratacus, it is long over for me. Now I pray that Dana will one day bear you a child.”

  He peered into Rhian’s apple-green eyes. “Even if it is a daughter, not only will I love and accept her, I will see that one day she succeeds me as queen and ruler of our people.”

  Chapter 35

  Four weeks had elapsed since word of Adminios’s banishment had reached Porcius and Verica. Now the Roman found himself hiking along the muddy pathway to the home of King Verica for the meeting that Porcius had requested, no, begged the ruler for. The Roman invasion appeared imminent—was Verica planning to defend his realm or ally with them?

  The rain had stopped about a half hour before, but slate-gray clouds had not diminished, and the Roman feared more were on the way. The chill from the icy wind stabbed his pudgy face like dozens of tiny daggers. He pulled the woolen scarf across his bejowled face and his oil-skinned cloak tighter against his shoulders.

  As he waddled his heavy bulk between the standing puddles of water, he reflected on the month’s past events. Porcius had been staying at Verica’s capital, Caleva, when news came that Adminios had been expelled. Both he and Verica received reports that Caratacus was preparing defenses against a Roman landing. Word had reached them that Caratacus had deposed Cunobelinos and was now king. He was planning to overrun Verica’s kingdom. Although Porcius feared that Caratacus might attack Verica’s lands, he wasn’t too concerned. He had known Caratacus since he was a youth and figured the new ruler would consider the danger from the Romans his first priority. Besides, Porcius wasn’t ready to rejoin the Romans yet. Caligula might still murder him. Porcius was aware Emperor Caligula had journeyed with the Roman Army from the Lower Rhenus to Gaul in preparation for the invasion of Britannia. He had received word that the real reason Caligula had traveled to Legionary Headquarters at Moguntiacum, Germania, was to execute Lentulus Gaetulicus, commander of the Upper Rhenus garrisons. He had been planning to assassinate the emperor and replace him with Marcus Lepidus, widower of Caligula’s dead sister, Drusilla. Both men died by the sword.

  Months before, Porcius had discovered that Adminios had sent a secret message to the mad emperor pleading with him to launch an invasion against Britannia. In turn, Caratacus’s brother had supplied Caligula with vast amounts of economic and military information on the British tribes. Porcius had known Caligula was already secretly planning an assault across the channel long before Caratacus’s older brother made his request. However, unforeseen problems had been posed by logistical difficulties. The switching from an essentially land campaign across the Rhine, to a major seaborne operation across the British Channel had delayed the planned invasion. But for how much long
er?

  Porcius arrived at Verica’s private chambers off the Great Hall. After salutations, they sat across from one another next to a smoky, open hearth. Despite the cold breeze, the door flap was left open for extra lighting. Porcius’s pudgy hands gripped tightly around the bronze cup of warm calda wine offered to him by a servant. He took a grateful sip of the wine, feeling its warmth as it traveled down his throat. Beneath his oil-skin cloak and scarf, Porcius wore a heavy, woolen tunic and breeches with a fur cloak covering him from shoulder to his arthritic knees. He leaned slightly forward as he studied the scar-faced, slit-mouthed king, who looked fiercely at him.

  Dressed similarly, except for the outer coat, Verica was clothed in a tunic of silk, trimmed in gold, with a fur robe hooked at the shoulder by a sapphire encased gold pendant.

  “What brings you here?” the king asked Porcius in a gruff voice. He waved away strands of smoke from the hearth’s fire.

  “Now that Caratacus is king, you realize that our positions here in Britannia are untenable,” Porcius said.

  Verica gulped his calda from a gold cup and belched, his breath reeking of decay and rot. For the space of a heartbeat, Porcius crinkled his nose and held his breath.

  “You don’t need to remind me, Roman,” Verica said. “I know your Emperor Caligula has granted Adminios asylum, the traitorous dog.”

  “Caligula may be emperor, but he is not mine,” Porcius said.

  “What do you mean?” Verica growled.

  Porcius took the cup in his hand and examined it for the space of three heartbeats before answering. “He’ll kill me if I return to Rome. And do you know how? I’ll be forced to run alongside his carriage, while he gleefully watches, until I drop dead. He’s done the same to other senators. Why do you think I came here?”

  “Because you are here, my people think I am in the moneybags of the Romans.”

  Then why haven’t you expelled me? He sipped his drink. “Aren’t you? If Caratacus invades your lands, you will have no choice but to fight or flee to Rome.”

  A black-toothed grin appeared through the king’s bushy, graying mustache. “Caratacus has no time for me. He is preparing for the invasion. When that time comes, I will ally myself with Rome.”

  “You will have no choice.” The dark eyes in Porcius’s fleshy face squinted. The smoke from the hearth changed direction on the breeze filtering through the entry, drifting his way. He rubbed his watery eyes. “If you don’t join Rome as a client king, your people will be enslaved, and Rome will kill you.”

  “I know.” Frowning lines etched Verica’s scarred forehead. “Being a client king is like a whore getting in bed with a high-paying customer.”

  Porcius held out a hand as if it were obvious. “At least the customer pays for her services, and Rome is generous.”

  Verica snorted. He took another swill of calda and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “Still, I must think of my people first.”

  You mean yourself first. Porcius’s face remained sober. “Indeed, we still don’t know if Rome will invade.” He leaned closer. “By now you should realize Caligula is unpredictable. He has been known to start many projects but fails to finish them. He may change his mind at any moment. If that happens,” Porcius paused, “Caratacus and his brother will come after your lands. They haven’t forgotten how you retook the Atrebatic lands from their uncle, your old enemy, Epaticcos.”

  The king jabbed a hand with a finger pointing in Porcius’s direction. “The lands rightfully belonged to me. They were mine to reclaim.” He dropped his hand to his side.

  “True, but Caratacus is ambitious,” Porcius answered in a resolute voice. “He is determined to expand his territories and plans to one day rule all southern Britannia.”

  Verica shook his head and slammed a hand against his huge thigh. “Not while I live! I haven’t forgotten he killed my son in battle.” His mouth twisted into a crooked frown.

  Neither have I, nor that your son kidnapped me at Bagshot Heath! If it hadn’t been for Caratacus, I probably would have been murdered by that young madman. Porcius decided to let it pass. He and Verica had too much at stake to open old wounds.

  A warrior entered the room and informed the king that a messenger had arrived with important news.

  “Bring him in,” Verica ordered. The warrior departed.

  The charcoal-haired, young courier, clothed in a green and yellow, tartan tunic and beige and white, striped breeches with a longsword at his side, entered and stood stiffly before the king, looking straight ahead.

  For a few seconds the king studied him. “You are Bran, son of Madog, are you not?”

  “Yes, Great King.”

  He nodded in approval. “A great warrior. All right, what do you have for me?” Verica demanded.

  Appearing a little more at ease, the young man spoke. “Great King, the Emperor Caligula and the Roman Army have withdrawn from the coast of Gaul.”

  Porcius sighed in relief as his body relaxed. Thank Jupiter. This is not the time for another Roman conquest. His muscles tightened again. Now Caratacus will turn his forces against Verica.

  A smile crossed Verica’s face. He gestured to the young messenger. “Don’t stand there like a fool, man, give me the details.”

  “The Roman Army mutinied,” Bran said. He described how the soldiers refused to board the transport ships for the invasion. Enraged by their actions, Caligula made the troops collect seashells along the Gallic shoreline in parade dress. “Then the emperor did something strange.” Bran paused and shook his head as if in disbelief.

  “Go on, don’t stop now,” Verica said, impatience creeping into his voice.

  Bran nodded and shrugged. “He waded out into the surf with a sword in one hand. Then he slashed at the waves with it a dozen times. He yelled that he was victorious over Neptune and Britannia.”

  Porcius gasped. “Truly, he has gone mad.”

  “If he wasn’t already,” Verica added. He turned to Bran. “Continue.”

  The runner explained that Caligula ordered the legions to withdraw from Gaul and return to their camps on the River Rhenus, and the emperor returned to Rome.

  “What about Adminios, brother of Caratacus?” Verica asked the man. “Was he with Caligula?”

  “He followed the emperor to Rome,” Bran answered.

  After Verica dismissed the messenger he scratched his scarred nose and turned to Porcius. “Thank the gods, whose names I dare not say, Rome is no longer a threat.”

  “Perhaps not,” Porcius said. “But now, Caratacus is sure to set his eyes on your holdings. What are you going to do?”

  Verica’s calloused hand, the size of a ham, grabbed the hilt of the bejeweled dagger tied to his waist. “I will stand and fight.”

  “Is that wise?” Porcius questioned. Sweat poured down his back and heat rushed to his face. “Think about it. Through his alliance with the other southern tribes, his warriors outnumber yours nearly three to one. Those are forces he was going to use against the Romans. Now he will bring them to bear against you. Surely, you cannot win.”

  Verica raised his left-hand palm up and slapped a curled right fist upon it. “I’m twice the man Caratacus is, and my warriors have no equal in all of Britannia. I dare him to invade my kingdom. We will destroy his army, and he will die by my hands!”

  *

  By the ninth day after receiving the news of the Roman withdrawal from the Gallic coast, Caratacus had formed plans for the invasion of Verica’s lands. He discussed them with Clud, Tog, Donn, and the clan chieftains, including Fergus ap Roycal in the Great Hall back in Camulodunum. It was early April, and now that the threat from invasion was over, he had withdrawn his warriors inland, most being sent home. His planned attack on Verica would have to wait until early summer when food supplies were more readily available. They had been exhausted while waiting for the expected Roman landing. His only consolation was that he knew Verica’s stores were in no better shape than that of his forces.

 
Upon returning home from the meeting and during the evening meal, Dana, who had fully recovered from losing their baby, advised Caratacus to beware of the ambitions of Cartimandua. “You know Cartimandua is father’s favorite. He is old and not well. Soon, he will be with the gods.”

  Caratacus sat on the wolf-skin rugs near the hearth with Rhian on his right and Dana to the left. He took the time to finish chewing a piece of bread and think about his reply. After taking a swig of mead to wash down the food, he finally answered, “I am aware of the situation.”

  “I’m afraid my sister will succeed him on the throne,” Dana said. She straightened out her rust-colored work tunic and wiped bread crumbs from her sleeve. “She is very evil and a manipulator.”

  “You’re right,” Caratacus answered, “but what about her husband, Venutios, he’s with Cartimandua. It’s up to him to control her.”

  Dana sighed, glanced to Rhian, who frowned, and back to Caratacus. “He does not have rights to the succession, only Cartimandua can succeed her father.”

  Rhian nodded in support of Dana and took a bite of goat stew, the tangy scent filling the room.

  “The Council can vote for anybody they want to replace her father when he dies,” Caratacus said. He sipped from his cup.

  “I know, Husband, but I doubt they will,” Dana said. “She wields great influence over them.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Caratacus asked, gesturing with his goblet, sloshing mead.

  Dana shook her head as if growing impatient. “Is it true she wants to ally with the Romans?”

  “It is,” Caratacus said. He had received information from spies that Rome had offered her gold, land, and other luxuries if she would agree to an alliance.

  “She craves power beyond anything else,” Dana said.

  “I know, but the Romans have withdrawn,” Caratacus said. “When and if they actually decide to invade, I will deal with Cartimandua at that time.”

  “Isn’t it best you do so now rather than wait before she forms an alliance with Rome?” Rhian asked. “My heart tells me this is something she will do.”

  Dana nodded. “I agree with Rhian.”