Cartimandua, his cousin and sister-in-law, now reigned as queen of the Brigantes, ascending the throne upon the death of her father, King Dumnoveros. Dana, who was Cartimandua’s older sister and Caratacus’s second wife, along with Venutios, Cartimandua’s husband, and Caratacus’s friend, urged her to send troops to aid Caratacus. Much to Caratacus’s anger, the politically astute and self-centered queen, along with the king of the Iceni, had refused after being paid handsome sums of gold by the Romans to remain neutral.
Before the Romans landed in Britannia, Dana had warned Caratacus about Cartimandua. “My sister serves only herself. She’ll use any man to advance her interests. She has many lovers besides Venutios. He’s a fool for staying with her. Don’t trust her, my love, don’t trust her!”
Caratacus knew Durotrigians, a tribe to the southwest, would fight the Romans, but only if their lands were threatened. In the meantime, their king refused to send an army to the Medway. The three rulers are fools if they believe neutrality will stop the invading Romans. Exhausted, Caratacus sat upon a boulder protruding from the river’s bank and drew his knees up to his chest. He yawned so hard the muscles in his jaws ached and stared blankly toward distant black clouds.
*
“Caratacus … High King, wake up!” Clud shook him from his slumber on the rock. “Please get out of the rain before you catch the fever,” his friend pleaded. Spears of lightning flashed across the late-afternoon sky, followed seconds later by thunder and torrential summer rain, the first in more than a month. The chalky countryside had been reduced to a slimy quagmire within two hours of the first drops.
“Thanks be to Taranis for the rain.” Caratacus rubbed his eyes as he looked about. He had slept so soundly, he hadn’t felt the rain running down his body and soaking his clothing. “It’ll bog down the Romans for a while.”
Clud, also drenched, agreed. “Your brother should be returning soon,” he added, a slight hint of concern in his voice.
“Anytime.”
Caratacus stood, facing the twisting bank of the river, and glanced at the bonfire near the front of his headquarters tent. Several of his officers and shield bearers were gathered in a circle, warming themselves.
Clud motioned towards the men. “I ordered them to keep their distance while you sat here, my friend,” Clud said.
Caratacus yawned again. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A couple of hours.”
“You should have wakened me sooner.” Caratacus shook his head.
Clud huffed. “Sire, you have slept little these last few days.”
“I’ll decide when to rest. I’ll get little sleep so long as the Romans are here.”
Big, soothing raindrops ran down Caratacus’s tattooed, sunburnt back, and he was reluctant to cover himself lest the burning pain return. He risked catching pneumonia, but hated greasy ointments and stinging vinegar concoctions that Dana and the healing women had applied over the years. He considered water the best medicine. The slackening rain would soon end, as clouds broke apart in the distance. He refused to take any further rest until Tog’s force returned with news of victory.
*
Caratacus retreated to his quarters to escape Clud’s constant harping to guard his health. He sat in a high-backed chair near the center of the brightly lit, goat-skinned tent. The rain stopped and night fell, clear but moonless. A short time later, a messenger brought him news that survivors of Tog’s army were straggling into camp.
“Do you have any further details? Is King Tog still alive?” Caratacus asked the haggard courier, his clothing muddy, but sweat running down his narrow face.
“All I know, my lord, is that a captain is on the way to your quarters with more information. He should be here soon.”
Caratacus dismissed the warrior. Tog defeated? Impossible! But if true, the wild boars were feasting. He cursed to himself for not being with his brother and prayed he was still alive. Caratacus exhaled heavily, then admitted it was Tog’s battle.
He called for one of his servants to fetch Havgan to headquarters tent.
While he waited for the Druid to arrive, a surviving captain, broad faced, covered in purple tattoos, and smeared with blood, entered and stood before Caratacus.
“We were badly beaten, High King,” the captain said.
Caratacus’s muscles tightened. “My brother, King Tog, what news of him?”
The captain hung his head. “Your brother is … dead, High King.”
No, not Tog! His throat tightened and stomach churned, ears filled with a roar as if by an avalanche. He clamped his mouth shut, forming a straight line, face expressionless. As king I can’t weep, especially in front of my chieftains. He placed his elbows on his knees, hand clenched, the muscles on his forearms rippling like angry snakes.
“Did I hear right, King Tog is dead?” Havgan asked as he entered the room, staff in hand.
Caratacus gave him a terse nod and waved him to his side. “Just listen.”
“Explain from the beginning,” Caratacus ordered the captain.
The captain swallowed. “As planned, our warriors approached the Romans by way of the marshes and reached the forest ahead of the Second Legion. Lord Tog placed a line of archers to the front of the advanced troops and along the flanks. The archers fired volley after volley, totally surprising the Romans. At first, they scattered, but soon regrouped and formed battle lines. But they couldn’t advance in close order, because the trees and bushes were too thick.”
He explained how the Celtic infantry ran forward in open ranks and engaged the Romans. As they did, Tog’s cavalry struck the supply wagons in the center of the vanguard, butchering troops and pack animals, setting fire to the wagons.
“But then the situation changed,” the captain went on. “We heard trumpets, and quickly, another legion came running up the trackway, their cavalry in the lead. We were outnumbered two to one,” he said. “The Romans battled us like demons.”
“How many did we kill?” Caratacus asked.
The captain hesitated. “Maybe six to seven hundred at the most.”
“How many did we lose?” Caratacus asked.
The warrior bowed his head. “More than four thousand.”
Havgan gasped and clenched his yew wooden staff.
“Out of ten thousand. Gods,” Caratacus hissed and shook his head.
The captain scanned the room and continued, “But Lord Tog refused to disengage as you ordered. He was determined to fight them to the last man.”
The Druid frowned and shook his head.
“Fool!” Caratacus said.
“The Roman dogs formed a group of tight shields that looked like a tortoise shell. They circled shields around the side and top, bristling with spears and short swords.” He jutted his arms upwards for effect. “They pushed right through our men. We couldn’t penetrate them.”
Caratacus glanced to Havgan and the captain. “I know the tactic.” From his battle with the Tenth Cohort.
“Every time we’d try and prick the dogs, they’d gut our men. Mine got so angry, they threw themselves on the Roman swords and were slaughtered. I couldn’t stop them.”
“Then?” Caratacus sighed.
“Lord Tog rode right into their middle,” the captain continued, “wielding his great sword. He slew many, but then he was wounded and fell from his horse. I heard someone shout, Kill him! He’s one of their chiefs! And it was all over. One after another, the stinking Romans hurled javelins into his fallen body.” The warrior paused as though reluctant to continue.
“Go on, don’t stop,” Caratacus ordered.
“Yes, lord. If that wasn’t enough, they hacked his body to pieces with their swords. Even if we could have driven them away, there wasn’t enough of King Tog left to bring home for burial.”
Havgan banged his staff to the floor. “No!”
Caratacus sat straight, swallowed a scream, but caught himself digging his fingers into his palms.
“King Caratacus,” H
avgan said. “I must consult with King Tog’s arch-Druid, and together we will sacrifice and beseech Andraste and Teutates to take your brother beneath the ground. Otherwise, his soul will wander forever. With your permission, I will leave now.”
Caratacus barely nodded.
The king thanked the captain and dismissed everyone else.
Tog, his brother and friend, was gone. Caratacus wept. He damned Rome and swore he would avenge his brother and slaughter every legionarie that set foot upon his lands. You will pay dearly for the deaths of my brother and all of my people!
*
Later that evening when Rhian heard the news, she left her women riders and came to Caratacus’s quarters to console him.
“I never dreamed that I would lose my brother, even in battle,” Caratacus said.
Tears came to her eyes. “Nobody thinks they’ll die,” she said. “I never thought my father would die either.”
“Aye, Donn was a good man and great warrior.” Caratacus briefly recalled how Rhian’s father had died from a stroke just before the confrontation with cowardly King Verica, who, instead of fighting, fled to Rome.
Caratacus returned his attention to Rhian.
Despite her own sorrow, Rhian gently stroked Caratacus’s arm as they sat together on the bed-pallet in the corner of the tent. She rested her head against his muscular shoulder. “If we did believe we would die, than all of us would flee the battlefield before the fighting started.”
“Tog died a warrior’s death, but they didn’t have to hack him to pieces like a piece of meat,” Caratacus said.
“The Romans are barbarians, that’s all. And they claim we’re savages?”
“Where are the gods when you need them,” Caratacus said in an exasperated voice. “Are they in league with the Romans? Now that Tog is dead, I’m even more determined to stop the Romans and drive them back to Gaul!”
*
Despite his grief, Caratacus did not despair. The following morning, he received news that the rest of his chieftains were rallying to his cause, and thousands of warriors were making way to his camp. By the end of the week, his army would be nearly as large as it was before the invasion. He would crush the Romans. Avenge his brother’s death!
He carved the vow on his heart.
Chapter 4
Caratacus studied the goatskin map as Clud, Fergus ap Roycal, and four clan chieftains surrounded him. The flaps of the command tent were up on all sides but gave little respite from the stifling afternoon heat, which sucked Caratacus’s breath away. Sweat poured down his face and back. Hearing the sound of approaching horses, he looked beyond the tent opening and spotted Rhian a short distance away riding towards the command post with an escort of ten women riders. Dust kicked up by the horse caked Rhian’s skin and those of her companions, no doubt choking their parched throats.
She slid off the big Cobb gelding and tossed the reins to a groom, who came running from in front of Caratacus’s quarters. Rhian ordered Fiona, her second-in-command, and the rest of her women to dismount. She yelled at a servant to bring her riders water as she walked by the twelve warriors guarding the perimeter around the command. The women led their horses to the nearby shade trees.
“Gods curse this forsaken place!” Rhian swore while swatting another mosquito from her grimy face. She passed the two guards immediately outside the front entrance.
They eyed her, as did Caratacus and his commanders. Caratacus gestured to his leaders. “Leave me for now, my friends. I will speak to my wife alone.”
They departed and nodded to Rhian as they walked by her. From past experience, Caratacus found it was best to speak to Rhian privately when she appeared to be upset.
“Bring my wife water at once,” Caratacus ordered a servant.
The servant handed Rhian a full gourd. She gulped down the water. Handing the melon-shaped bowl back to the attendant, she stepped over to where Caratacus now sat and plopped down on a three-legged stool beside him. “I know you said this was the best place to fight the Romans, but the mosquitoes may eat us alive first.” She sighed and wiped the dust from her face with a sweaty hand and rubbed it along the side of her knee-length kilt.
Caratacus followed her eyes as they moved from the fortified embankment to the ramparts and wooden palisade on the River Medway’s north side. His warriors had built a defensive ditch halfway up the river’s slope, where they believed the Romans would cross, and far along each side to where the area turned into marshland.
“I know this is a miserable place,” he said, “but it is the best place to defend this ford.”
Rhian huffed and nodded. “I know, I just wished it wasn’t so hot.” She straightened her tunic-skirt.
“So do I, but we will adjust, mosquitoes and all.” His eyes twinkled and then turned serious. “Our discomforts are nothing if we don’t throw the Romans back into the sea.”
“Still, there is no guarantee the Romans will cross here,” Rhian said and sighed.
Caratacus gestured toward the defenses. “True, but it is here they are most likely to cross.”
“The Romans aren’t stupid.” Rhian shook her head. “Won’t they be searching for shallow crossings up and down the river to attack us from behind?”
“My scouts are patrolling both sides and will send news if they discover the Romans sneaking around our back.”
“Don’t forget what happened to Tog.” Her aqua eyes peered through his as if he wasn’t there.
Caratacus’s muscles tightened, his stomach knotted. He glared at Rhian. “How can I? The memory of his death haunts me in a way you can’t imagine. Tog was my best friend. I’ll never be free of the agony left in my heart, no matter how long I live.”
Rhian blushed and pressed her bowed lips together. She reached over and touched his forearm. “I know, and I’m so sorry, my heart aches, too. But he lost his life because his scouts missed the Romans of the Second Legion—killed by their soldiers.”
Rhian scanned the bivouac area next to the cattle pens and the main encampment then returned her gaze to Caratacus. “I understand why we must be here,” she continued, “but there are times when I wished we were home. Six months is a long time to be away.”
“How many times have I asked you to return home even if just for a little while? Dana would welcome your company. She’s due to deliver our child in only a few weeks.”
“I know, I should be with her. It’s my own fault.” Rhian’s expression returned to her usual determined look. “But I won’t leave the women or you.”
I could order her to leave, but that would only worsen matters. He jabbed a finger toward her. “That’s part of the problem, you need to return home. You are tired—no, exhausted. I can tell by just looking at your face—it’s so drawn.”
“Is it so obvious? I’ve seen the dark rings around my eyes. But the others mustn’t know about my fatigue. That is between the two of us.”
“How can you keep the truth from them? You’re pale and need rest.”
Rhian glared at him. “All right, I’m deceiving no one. And worse, I’ve treated everyone around me with a harshness they don’t deserve. Including you, my love.”
“Don’t be so rough on yourself,” he said, laying an arm across her shoulder, pulling her closer.
She gave him a halfhearted smile and fanned herself with her palm. “My gods, is that my stench?”
“Probably both of us.” He laughed and withdrew his arm.
She twisted her lips into a frown. “Our losses to the Romans still torment me,” Rhian confessed. “I know we’re supposed to be strong and believe they’re in paradise. Yet I feel numb, and I grieve. Maybe I shouldn’t be the leader of the women riders. Maybe I shouldn’t be a warrior.”
He put a dirty finger to his mouth. “Rubbish! All the women look up to you.”
“Still, we lost so many,” Rhian wiped away a tear.
“That’s not your fault, they fought like demons.” He was tempted to say the Romans were far superior bu
t didn’t.
Rhian exhaled and, for a second, looked away. “You’re right, I’ll have to make do with those I have left.”
A few weeks ago when the Romans first landed, they’d encountered the advanced cohort. Rhian’s women had been deployed as cavalry skirmishers against their flanks. Nearly half of her five hundred riders were slaughtered, no match for Romans.
Caratacus motioned for the servant, who had been hovering in the shadows at the back of the tent, to refill Rhian’s bowl.
After draining the cup, Rhian closed her eyes.
Opening her eyes, Rhian said, “I realize the battle coming with the Romans will be crucial—we must crush them! You lead the biggest army in the memory of Britannia. I know you will not be defeated.” She placed her fingers on his chapped lips. “Then we can go home once and for all, and the Roman survivors will make excellent slaves.” She pulled her hand away.
“Yes, they will.”
“And when we return to Caleva, Dana will be waiting.” Rhian paused and stared at Caratacus. “Sometimes, I wish I were as contented as she.”
The king shook his head. “But that is not your way—I love you for who you are.”
She smiled. “I could never be like my sister-wife. I love to weave, but the other household chores are so tedious. Leave them to Dana, I prefer being in the field with you even from the first sign of invasion.”
Caratacus wouldn’t deny that he missed Dana. He still remembered how beautiful she looked the morning the army left for the east coast. Although with child, she still wore the low cut, perhaps a little too low cut, earth-hued, silk dress he had given to her. Sometimes he wondered what Rhian thought of Dana. The battlefield was no place for a woman like Dana, who was better suited for domestic surroundings and the niceties of the court.
He thanked the gods that Rhian and she get along so well. If anything happened to Rhian, Dana would be with him. He believed Rhian liked Dana more than she was willing to admit. In any event, he needed Dana to stay in Caleva since she would soon deliver their baby. He prayed to the gods it would be born alive and healthy. When his armies defeated the Romans, he and Rhian would return home and finally bury their dead.
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 5