The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “They got caught toying with these wenches, and—”

  “Not them, I mean the women, and you’d best watch your tongue!”

  “Raped and gutted by the Batavians,” he answered in a civil tone.

  “Why are they being brought here?”

  “General’s orders, sir.”

  Porcius halted the litter carriers and motioned to a passing torchbearer to bring the light over to the Britons. He bent for a closer examination and, to his consternation, recognized Rhian’s battered face.

  “I know this woman. I will see the general at once.” He turned to the medicus. “You are to take exceptional care of her. Is that clear? She is the wife of a king!”

  The Roman caught up to Plautius as he was entering his quarters accompanied by a young tribune and a couple of slaves. “General, a word with you. It’s most urgent.”

  “Senator, I have no time for imperial chitchat.”

  “General, do you realize who those women are?” Porcius motioned to the passing stretchers. “And one in particular? The tall blond is the warrior-wife of Caratacus.”

  Plautius handed his helmet to his servant and slowly turned to Porcius. “Are you certain?”

  Porcius narrowed his eyes. “I’ve known her since she was a child. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “Interesting.” Plautius sat on a small stool as a slave poured him a cup of vinegary wine. He took a long swill and continued, “That presents many possibilities if she lives. I admit when we caught the Batavians torturing those women, I was enraged. I immediately ordered the arrest of the Batavians. There was one woman I examined that was tall for a Briton. Despite her swollen face and bloody mouth, I found her striking, if not beautiful. She couldn’t have been much more than thirty. Is she the one you say is Caratacus’s wife?”

  “The same,” Porcius replied.

  Plautius pounded the desk with the palm of his hand. “Killing those Amazons in battle was one matter, but staking them out like animals and then gutting them like cattle is beyond human decency. Sell them into slavery, yes. But not this!” He lowered his hand to his thigh as he shook his head. “I saw many women lying dead or badly wounded. All had similar wounds.”

  “What are you going to do with the Batavians?” Porcius motioned in the direction of the chained prisoners who were being herded to a temporary detention area. “What they did was utterly barbaric.”

  The general glared right through him as if he weren’t there. “What I do with them is a military matter, not yours.”

  “The men deserve execution for their crimes,” Porcius said. “The knifing must be some sort of German blood ritual. It is the only logical explanation for their barbaric behavior.”

  “I know about many German rituals,” General Plautius said, “but this is the first time I had witnessed anything like this. Up to now, the Batavians have been good soldiers. On the other hand, why should I be concerned?”

  “Concerned?” Porcius said, aghast by the general’s answer. “This goes beyond anything I have seen or heard of. Are they not trained to obey orders? By disobeying your orders, they deserve death.”

  “That remains for me to decide,” General Plautius said in a wooden voice.

  “My dear General, the emperor shall read of this military matter within a few weeks of this night’s dispatch!”

  Plautius’s face flushed scarlet. He waved the small entourage, who had followed him into his tent, outside. “Senator, you and I must discuss this matter further. Alone!”

  *

  It was dawn, but Porcius had not slept upon returning to his quarters. For some time he pondered the information he received from Plautius during their private meeting. The general told him he had quietly given the order for the execution of the Batavians at first light. Porcius then rewrote a secret dispatch to Emperor Claudius including that information. Caratacus would soon know about his wife’s death. During the middle of the night, she had been stabbed to death by a scalpel through her chest. Only minutes earlier he had learned that Rhian had been killed by one of her own female riders. Porcius snorted. He didn’t expect Plautius’s men to catch the frightened, half-clothed girl who had escaped from the medicus tent. That would be too much to ask of the world’s finest troops!

  He feared a renewed savagery in Britannia’s will to resist. The end result would be the same. Defeat. Now, many more of his men would die.

  General Plautius had ordered the other captured Briton women to be freed. They would be told fully what had occurred and would witness the executions, then allowed to transport the queen’s body to their homeland.

  *

  The following day, Porcius, riding with the other troops in General Plautius’s entourage, halted on the general’s orders. They set up camp where they would wait until the arrival of Emperor Claudius. The general could have pursued and destroyed Caratacus after crossing the Tamesis, but he had been ordered to wait for the Emperor’s arrival before assaulting Camulodunum. Porcius saw the fury in his flushed face. The time lost would be immeasurable. Complete victory had been in Plautius’s grasp, and now it was gone. Caratacus had escaped. This gave him the opportunity to regroup his forces. He could counterattack while the Romans waited for the delayed arrival of the half-senile Emperor Claudius, whose arrival was a politically contrived move. The emperor needed a military victory and a triumph to strengthen his position with the Senate—at Plautius’s expense!

  Porcius had no doubt Caratacus was carefully planning the defense of Camulodunum. How many Romans would die in taking Caratacus’s seat of power?

  Chapter 10

  The Romans had crossed the River Medway and Caratacus’s army retreated to the small village, Chelmsford, eighteen miles north of the Tamesis on the edge of a great forest. He commandeered the fortified homestead of the village chieftain for his quarters. Two days had passed since his warriors fled across the River Tamesis. He’d not heard from Rhian, nor could his scouts locate her position. Surely, I would have heard something by now. I pray Teutates she is still alive.

  The following evening Caratacus met in the new headquarters, a large circular hut, with Fergus ap Roycal and his other chieftains. They stood beyond the pulsating light of the fire in front of a goat hide stretched between two poles, on which was drawn a map of southeastern Britannia. As the leaders discussed their next move against the Romans, they heard steps behind them and turned. A warrior emerged from the shadows and approached the gathering.

  “What is it?” Caratacus asked.

  The long-haired fighter gestured toward the open flap at the entryway. “High King, there is a small, dirty woman outside who claims to be a companion of Queen Rhian. She says she has news about your wife.”

  Caratacus jolted, his chest and arms tightened. By Teutates, I pray she is not injured. The chieftain’s eyes were upon him. He managed to regain control of himself. “My wife? Bring her in.” As the warrior turned, Caratacus said as an afterthought, “Who is this woman?”

  The man stopped. “Says her name is Fiona, sire.”

  “I know Fiona,” Caratacus said. “Well, don’t stand there, send her in.” He remembered that ever since Fiona had discovered and reported the treasonous sorcery performed by the Druid, Ibor, she had been one of Rhian’s cavalry companions. That was six years ago. She must be twenty or twenty-one by now.

  “I pray that your wife is alive and not in the hands of the Romans,” Fergus said, pulling Caratacus out of his thoughts. “We’ve had no news since before the battle.” He shook his balding head.

  Little Fiona, face drawn, clothed in a ragged, dirty tunic, staggered into the presence of the tribal leaders. Caratacus pressed his lips together. Her appearance bode ill for what might have happened to Rhian and the rest of her women cavalry.

  “Where is my wife? Where are the others, Fiona?” Caratacus asked.

  Fiona’s full mouth quivered, her eyes darted about like that of a hunted animal. She brushed back her matted, chestnut hair. “I am alone, High
King.”

  “I can see that,” Caratacus said, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice. “How did you find us?”

  The young woman’s close-set, dark eyes peered into his. “I followed the wide trail left by your retreating warriors, High King.”

  Caratacus kept a sober face, but inside, his mind reeled, knowing his army had been defeated. No matter, they would fight the Romans again. “I was told you had news of Queen Rhian and the others.”

  She lowered her head. “I … that is …”

  Seeing her distress, he gently said, “Go on Fiona, no one will hurt you. Tell me what happened—everything.”

  “Your … your wife is dead,” she answered in voice barely more than a whisper.

  Caratacus flinched. “Dead? How?” He inhaled deeply. No, not Rhian. He balled up a fist, finger nails digging into his palm.

  “Please forgive me, lord,” Fiona said, “but she … she begged me to kill her.”

  “You killed her?” A deafening roar filled his ears like huge waves from a storm crashing onto the beach.

  “Please, let me explain,” Fiona said. “So much happened to us, to your wife—my friend.”

  The sounds in his ears faded. He exhaled and nodded to Fiona. “Go on, I grieve for my wife, but I see this is just as painful for you. Tell me the details—leave nothing out.”

  She sighed. “Yes, lord. It happened two days ago. We were trapped, and dusk was falling.” Fiona reminded Caratacus that earlier that day he had ordered the cavalry, including Rhian’s women, to support the Trinovantian infantry heading for the Tamesis River. Their orders were to halt the German cavalry, who the Romans called Batavians, before they could cross a shallow ford and attack Caratacus’s army from the rear.

  “I knew the men wanted revenge for the deaths of our tribesmen,” Fiona said. “But the Batavians surprised us, and we were crushed. Not only did we fight the Germans, but part of a Roman legion. Only Rhian and fifteen women, including me, escaped. We were chased across the north side of the Tamesis Marshes.”

  “The marshes,” Caratacus said. “You know them better than the Romans. Why didn’t you escape?”

  Fiona shook her head. “We knew the marshes, but the swampland still bogged us down. It should have slowed the Batavians, but it didn’t.” Fiona said that the Germans overtook and surrounded the women. She and the others hurled their remaining javelins at them, and a couple of careless troopers paid with their lives, but they moved closer and fended off the women’s sword blows. It was as if they were playing with them. Rhian, Fiona, and the rest of the women were overwhelmed and dragged from their horses.

  “Even as I was grabbed by a filthy German,” Fiona said, “I saw Rhian pounding the face and chest of another brute.” Fiona hesitated.

  “Don’t stop now,” Caratacus said.

  “Yes, lord.” Fiona cleared her throat. “The animal held her in a bear grip and grinned through his broken teeth. Then he struck her face with a huge fist. He hit the queen so hard it knocked her unconscious.” Fiona glanced from side to side, to the chieftains and Caratacus.

  Although grim-faced, Fergus ap Roycal and the other chieftains held their silence.

  Caratacus bit his lip, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. For a split second, he turned away fighting back the tears. No, not now!

  The king gestured to Fiona. “Go on, I am listening.”

  “I tried to resist the one who grabbed me, but he beat me, too. He raped me.” Tears flooded her eyes, running down the sides of her mottled face, and she sniffled.

  Caratacus motioned to a servant nearby, who stepped forward and handed Fiona a cloth.

  She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. After the servant retrieved the rag, Fiona appeared calmer, brushing back strands of hair from her face.

  “Do you remember what happened later?” Caratacus asked.

  Fiona nodded. “When I regained consciousness. It was dark, the moon overhead. I was naked, my hands and feet tied, staked to the hard, rocky ground. I couldn’t move my body or legs. My arms were pulled above my head and legs drawn apart, my insides burned. Still, I managed to turn my head and saw Rhian, a little ways from me, tied the same way. Then I saw him.”

  “Who?” Caratacus asked, already suspecting the answer.

  “The one … the one who raped her. He was just getting off the top of her.”

  Caratacus shook his head. “Animal!” He vowed to butcher him, slice his manhood with a dull blade, and tear him into a thousand pieces.

  Fiona cringed. “I’m sorry, lord.”

  “Is this pig still alive?” he asked, barely containing the rage in his voice.

  She shook her head. “No, lord, he was executed after the Romans found us, but that was later.”

  “What else?”

  “Both of us were raped again, lord, by other Germans.” She choked on her words and wrung her soiled hands. “The other women suffered like us, I heard their screams. There was no escape. I thought we would die. As one German finished with me, I turned my head to the side and heard another scream near me. Then I saw a blade flashing from a dagger. Rhian was stabbed in the groin by a filthy German. She screamed again.”

  “No!” Caratacus cried out before he could control himself. His stomach contracted into a tight ball. He paused before motioning her to continue.

  Trembling, Fiona nodded. “I wish it were not so. The one who had been down on me was about to do the same thing when I heard the sounds of approaching horses, the ugly brute bolted and raced into the night. The laughter ceased, and someone shouted, ‘Seize them!’ It was in Latin, but I knew what it meant.”

  “The Romans came,” Caratacus said in flat tone, barely able to maintain control of himself. “What did they do?”

  “They surrounded us, but instead of abusing us like the Germans, they placed us on stretchers. That’s when I passed out.” Fiona explained that the next thing she remembered was waking up in a tent with the other survivors.

  One of the Roman healers examined their wounds. He even cleaned and sowed them up and said soothing words she could not understand. A soldier acting as an interpreter said Fiona would live with good care and would be sold as a slave when fully recovered. The medicine man made her drink a bad tasting liquid, and soon she fell asleep.

  “Before that happened,” Fiona said, “I twisted my head toward where Rhian lay and saw the healer examining her. He said something in Latin to the soldier who had talked to me. The healer shook his head. I’m certain he said she was dying.”

  “You said my wife ordered you to kill her. When did that happen?” Caratacus asked.

  “It was later, Lord Caratacus, sometime after midnight,” Fiona answered. She explained the dim light radiating from a miserable little oil lamp was the only illumination within the gloomy medical tent. “It was after the Romans had retreated to their drinking. One of the soldiers brought in a small jug and waved to the healer to join him outside. “My hands were bound in front of me,” she said. “Like me, Rhian was still in the tunic that had been ripped by the Batavians. Her face was swollen badly from her beatings.

  “When they left, I slipped my hands through the cowhide bonds that the Romans had tied me with and crept through the tent, keeping to the shadows.”

  Caratacus noticed the scrapes on Fiona’s narrow wrists and small hands.

  “In the twilight of the sputtering lamp,” Fiona continued, “I found pincers, strange looking knives, and clamps on a table by the goat-skinned wall. I grabbed a thin knife. I knew I had to escape and find you, Great King. Yet I couldn’t leave my queen to die a Roman captive. Her soul would wander forever.”

  “When did you take the queen’s life?”

  A visible lump rose in Fiona’s throat. “I returned to Rhian’s stretcher and quickly sliced away her bonds. I woke her up and told her I was taking her out of the camp.”

  “And she refused?” Caratacus asked.

  “Yes, lord,” she answered, her voice etched in sorrow. “She
told me in a slurred voice that she couldn’t escape, her arm was broken, smashed by one of the Germans. Then her body shook, and she moaned and complained about bleeding inside. Her nose was broken, too.”

  Caratacus’s body tightened as if a closed fist squeezed his heart. It was all he could do to contain his anger. “Go on.”

  “I told her that I couldn’t leave her, she had to escape.” Fiona wrung her hands again. “The queen refused, saying she wouldn’t survive. I was to go alone.” Fiona hesitated.

  Caratacus nodded.

  “My queen struggled to speak.” For a split second, Fiona turned away. Caratacus thought she was about to weep. She faced him again, only now did he notice the dark shadows around her eyes. “The queen said I was to tell you that all the women were courageous—they died a warrior’s death. Then with her good hand, she weakly grabbed my wrist and struggled to raise her head. She looked at me in the dim light. Her next words I remember clearly. ‘You must not let them have my soul—take my life. I will bless your name to Teutates and Andraste as I go beneath the earth.’ She released my arm and dropped her head back on the cot.”

  “Was it at that point you took her life?” Caratacus asked in a rasping voice.

  “No, lord, I told her I couldn’t kill her. That’s when the queen struggled to say these words, ‘Lord Caratacus would want it so. He will understand and bless you for it. Tell him to take care of Dana and the new baby when it is born. Now, help me die.’”

  “Did you?”

  Fiona nodded. “I tried holding back my tears. My body shook. What she commanded me to do was the truth and the only choice. I managed to pick up the strange tool I had stolen earlier and held it aloft. That’s when the queen said the gods would bless me. Her last command was that I was to tell you everything. The queen closed her eyes.” Fiona paused. “I carried out her command. Then I escaped from that place of death, slipped into the darkness, and vanished.”

  Caratacus turned away, the terrible news striking him like a hammer blow. Once again, his chest tightened, his heart seemed to shrivel. He inhaled several deep breaths. Soon his muscles had relaxed enough for him to get a grip on his feelings. He twisted his body back toward Fiona.