The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  A few minutes passed before she regained control, and after wiping her tears she said, “Rhian and I became very close in the last few months before you and she went off to war.”

  “So I noticed,” Caratacus said. “You two always seemed to be working together on one task or another.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Rhian had undertaken to teach Dana to be a better horse rider. The thought brought a smile to Caratacus’s face. In turn, Dana taught her how and where to look for plants and herbs used for medicinal purposes. This had been something Dana had been learning from the aging woman known as Crone, the tribal healer. As a result, Dana’s riding improved, and Rhian learned the rudiments of healing.

  But now his beloved Rhian was under the ground with the gods.

  “Tell me, how did she die?” Dana asked, which pulled Caratacus out of his thoughts.

  “Let’s sit down first.”

  “No. I want to know now.” In a softer voice she said, “Please hold me, don’t let me go.”

  Caratacus explained at length the circumstances of Rhian’s death.

  “I didn’t realize how much I had grown to love her,” Dana said when Caratacus had finished. “Those men deserved to die.”

  “They deserved worse, but at least the Roman general, Plautius, was decent enough to execute them.”

  Dana sniffled. “She was like the good sister I never had.”

  Caratacus frowned. “I know. Cartimandua wasn’t a sister to anyone.”

  “Cartimandua is evil. She only looks out for herself. Now I have no sister with Rhian gone.”

  “Considering the fact she had threatened to murder you before I took you as my consort, that’s not surprising.” He gripped tightly the hilt of his sword. “You may not have heard, but she refused to send warriors to fight the Romans. Perhaps if she had, Rhian would be alive today. Damn the traitorous bitch!”

  *

  “Wake up, Caratacus! Wake up!” Dana shook the thick ball of furs where they slept.

  “What …,” he answered groggily.

  “You were groaning. Another nightmare?”

  Caratacus pushed away the wolf skins, dropping them off the clay-built sleeping ledge onto the hard-packed dirt floor. Thick tanned cowhides walled the area from the rest of the home. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and chest and sat upright, drawing his knees to his chin. He exhaled deeply, frustrated by the grotesque images. “It was the same dream,” he mumbled, rubbing his face with both hands.

  Outside, a steady drizzle had been falling all night. The faint smell of smoke drifting from the low-burning embers in the great hearth seeped through the cracks beneath the leather walls. Caratacus looked about the dark room, fearful that he might see evidence that his dream was real. It was February, and for the last six months the same dream had tormented him every night. The nightmares first began when he’d returned to Caleva after the fall of Camulodunum. The image of a bloody corpse with three heads: Clud, Tog, and Rhian. But tonight he had hoped the soothing sounds of rain would lull him into a dreamless sleep.

  “I know. I prayed the gods would take it away. It’s a curse,” Dana replied after a moment of silence. She slipped an arm protectively about his shoulders, soft and warm to the touch.

  He nodded and leaned his head upon her breast. “I wish to the gods I knew what it meant. Not even the priests can give me a logical explanation.”

  “They’re afraid of telling you the real answer,” Dana replied.

  “And what is the real answer?”

  “Owen and the other priests are afraid to say the gods blame you for the death of Rhian, of all three of them. That’s why they think you’re haunted with the dream.”

  Caratacus stared into the chamber’s darkness, searching for her invisible eyes. For a moment he silently listened to the muffled tapping of the rain. “Do you believe that’s true?”

  “No … no, I don’t. They knew the risks of battle. That’s not the answer at all,” Dana answered. “The priests are like old women blaming everything bad on the gods. If they were truly wise, they should have seen the omens the gods provided.”

  “But they didn’t,” he growled.

  For several moments they snuggled together, listening to the patter of rain playing upon the thatched roof. He thought she had dozed off again when he softly asked, “What do you think it means?”

  “It means,” she answered with a sigh, “… that you blame yourself for their deaths. As leader, that seems the natural thing to feel.”

  He pulled away from her arm. “Woman, you’re mad!”

  “Am I? The great wolf within you is howling its sorrow, and you won’t let it out, except through your awful dreams.”

  Caratacus turned back toward Dana even though he could barely see her. “Speak plainly, Dana. You sound like a crone soothsayer from the Isle of Mona.”

  “You dearly loved all three of them, Caratacus, and now you’re hurting. But you won’t allow anyone to help. You won’t even allow me to share in your sorrow.”

  He wiped his clammy hands on the bedding and closed his eyes, struggling to understand the feelings that fought to overwhelm him. His moods and depressions, tears always threatening. And the way he’d treated Dana, rebuffing her offers of love and comfort, such he had for three weeks after he had returned to Caleva.

  It was late October, the weather growing cold. Once again, rain and fog had become the norm, and soon winter would be at hand. The wheat fields had been harvested.

  During the evening meal, Caratacus barely touched his food. Now he sat in front of the hearth staring into the glowing embers, oblivious to the heat on his face. Still depressed about losing Rhian, Tog, and Clud, he couldn’t get their deaths out of his mind. He had grown listless and irritable. Dana, who sat nearby, moved towards him, but he waved her away. It seemed only in the presence of baby Macha did he find consolation. He turned to Dana, seeing the downcast look on her pale face.

  “Bring me little Macha,” he said.

  Dana smiled, stood, went to Macha’s crib, lifted and brought her over, and handed her, bundled in furs, to Caratacus. A dimpled smile appeared on Macha’s little face. He touched her tiny hand with a finger. She grabbed and had a surprisingly strong hold, which pleased him. Caratacus turned away from Dana, keeping his eyes fixed on Macha so she couldn’t see tears welling in his eyes.

  Later, on that cold night, Caratacus lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. He sighed loudly, waking Dana.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You should know by now.” He turned away from her.

  “Isn’t there anything I can do, my love? I want to help.”

  “No one can help me.”

  Dana snuggled next to him and kissed his shoulder. “Maybe I can take your mind away from your troubles, even if for a little while.” She reached down and with her hand grabbed his flaccid member and stroked it.

  Instead of arousing him, he became annoyed and pushed her hand from him. “Leave me alone!”

  “Oh, Caratacus, how can you be so cruel,” she said in a soft voice and slid away from him.

  *

  Only now did Caratacus realize, as he lay next to Dana, that she, too, had struggled with his dream and knew she was interpreting his negative acts as rejection.

  “Dana …,” he whispered her name, “you have helped by being here. You understand my feelings better than I do,” he said softly.

  “Do I? You’ve kept your grief within, my Husband.” Her hand reached over and gently stroked the side of his stubbled face.

  “But I’m …”

  “Let me finish,” she whispered, pulling her hand away. “I love you, you are my dear one. I willingly shared you with Rhian. And now she’s gone.” She motioned with her head toward the small bundle of furs near their bed-pallet. “But you still have Macha and me. You can share your grief with me as you can with no other.”

  “I’m not a weakling, Dana.”

  “Of course you
’re not, the gods know and so do I. You’re a great leader, but you’re a man, and not a beast.”

  “I know I’m a man,” he answered in a sardonic voice.

  “What I’m trying to say is, you can weep. No one will know except me. Women cry and afterward feel better. It’s how we release the hurt and the pain. You hurt very much, I know it. It’s in your face and in your voice. At night, before the dream wakes you, tears fall from your eyes.”

  “Rubbish!”

  “Is it? It’s obvious to many, and behind your back the chieftains are beginning to question your abilities as king. I’ve heard the whispers of the servants and wives of the other chieftains. I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t think it was serious.”

  For the span of a dozen heartbeats, Caratacus lay motionless struggling to comprehend the impact of Dana’s words. What she says is true.

  Dana’s hand lightly brushed the hair on his arm against the grain then smoothed them gently.

  “Caratacus, release that great wolf inside you. Release him before he destroys you! And us!” In a softer tone she added, “For their sake: Tog, Clud, and … Rhian’s.”

  “I can’t …,” he answered quietly, “I must control it!”

  “I know the reason you’ve refused to love me since … it’s because you’re afraid to show me your true emotions, your sadness. Let go my love, please, for me, for them … for our people.” She embraced him, drawing the furs over them as they lay together. “My love, if there was a poison inside you, the healers would bleed away the sick blood with a knife, and you would submit to it. Tears are the knives to bleed away a wound to the heart. I can’t cry for you, and you must, for the good of our people. Until you vent your grief, you will never master yourself.”

  He bent toward her breast as he tried desperately to divert his emotions to lovemaking. But it was no use. He couldn’t, not yet. He turned away, and the muscles in his face, the back of his shoulders, and arms tightened. Caratacus took a few deep breaths hoping that would relax them, but they didn’t. He shook. Something was happening inside him, something that he couldn’t describe except that he felt pain, terrible pain, pain in every muscle and crevice of his body. A soft, low howl erupted from his mouth, and tears poured forth in a torrent. He did not care if the servants outside of their room heard him.

  Through the tears that followed, anger, guilt, hate, and pain tumbled out like a rampaging flood breaking the wall of a dam. He had been foolish to have waited so long. He blamed himself for their deaths and the deaths of all his warriors; a terrible burden. But it was his alone. No one could share this with him. They had achieved what all warriors pursued, the glorious death of battle. What absurdity! It was waste. All waste.

  He felt dishonored. A weakling. It was a miracle that anyone followed him. Yet, thousands did. They couldn’t all be fools. Did they really believe he was their only hope? He thanked the gods they couldn’t see him now. He felt ashamed that he couldn’t contain himself like a man.

  And yet, it was true; he felt a sense of relief. As the weeping subsided, so did the pain and anger. Perhaps there was something to what Dana said.

  Her hand stroked his wet face once again, snuggling next to his side.

  “The wolf is at peace,” Dana said. “He no longer cries. Sleep well, my husband.”

  The rains continued heavily through the night and indeed lulled him into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, while Dana lay awake, holding him close.

  The rain stopped, and the first rays of dawn entered their skin-covered door. Caratacus’s thoughts returned to Dana as they lay in quiet embrace. She slept serenely as he quietly stared at the reed-matted ceiling. He breathed in a voice just above a whisper, “Dana, there won’t be any more nightmares.”

  Chapter 12

  In the Great Hall, Caratacus’s chieftains and Owen took their seats at long tables and haggled over the next step to take against the Romans and their Briton lackeys. The Cantiaci and the northern Dobunni, who had once been Caratacus’s allies, had turned against him when the Romans promised their lands would be left alone.

  Caratacus had wisely moved to Caleva. The Great Fortress at Camulodunum was too vulnerable to Roman attack and had been overrun two weeks after the Battle of the River Medway. Yet, if need be, he could move swiftly from his new capital to meet any enemy attack. His realm still encompassed the old territories of the Dobunni and Atrebates, reaching to the lands of the Catuvellaunii in the east and north, and southward to the borders of the Regni, now in the hands of his old enemy, Verica.

  For a few seconds, Caratacus studied each man, including Fergus ap Roycal, Venutios, Owen, and the rest in an effort to gauge their responses to what he was about to say. “The time has come to strike a major blow at the Romans before they launch their next offensive.”

  “We’ve harassed them all winter, Great King,” Fergus said. He gestured toward the other leaders. “They’ll be expecting us.”

  “That’s true, but we have the advantage,” Caratacus said. “They’ll never know when or where the wolf pack will pounce.”

  Fergus shook his head. “If we move too many warriors, blood-sucking spies will report it to the Romans.”

  “That’s right,” Caratacus said. “But consider this, our raids have confined themselves to the southeastern coast.”

  Venutios raised a hand as if it were obvious. “They’ve built auxiliary forts every twenty miles to protect their arses. It’s tied down their army.”

  “Not for long. They’ll be on the move soon enough,” Caratacus said. “In the meantime, we gather strength and allies in the west and north.”

  The king paused and looked about. The hall was quiet, all eyes were on him.

  “We’ll stir up rebellion,” Caratacus said, “among their allies, the Iceni and Coritani. The Durotrigians are now with us, so we can still drive the Romans from our lands.”

  Caratacus had heard from his spies that the Romans halted their advance on the borders of the Trinovantes, Catuvellaunii, Cantiaci to the west, and the Regni to the south. They’d established a series of small, wooden fortresses along the frontier, positioned at strategic locations, such as fords and trackways. They were manned by the Romans’ mercenary auxiliaries while the legions were being billeted in Camulodunum and Durovernum for the winter.

  “What means will you use?” Venutios asked.

  “Frontal attack is out of the question,” Caratacus answered, “but there are other ways. In any event, we’ll strike at the heart of their allies. We will strike where the Romans least expect.”

  “Which fucking traitor will we hit first?” Fergus ap Roycal asked.

  “None other than my old enemy, Verica,” Caratacus replied. “I’ll never forget that it was he who invited the Romans to invade our lands. May the gods forever curse his seed!”

  “The Romans allowed that cursed piece of shit to raise a small army,” Venutios said. “The traitor has trained his warriors like Romans to use against his own people.”

  “If the gods truly have a victory in store for us, then we’ll see how well his Romanized warriors fight,” Caratacus said.

  He turned to Owen. “Arch-Druid Owen, take your followers to the Sacred Grove and sacrifice for our success.

  Owen nodded and left.

  Caratacus faced his chieftains. “Now, here is my plan.”

  *

  Five days later Caratacus and a band of one hundred hand-picked warriors were on the move. They kept to the impenetrable forests of firs and pines, avoiding spies and Roman sympathizers. Not only had Caratacus chosen his fighters for their loyalty and bravery, but for common sense and specialized fighting skills. He dared not use more than that number lest they be detected before reaching their destination.

  Although all were noted for their stealth, thirty were chosen for their unique fighting abilities. Ten were particularly adept at creeping up on an unsuspecting enemy, slitting throats and just as quickly disappearing without leaving a trace. An equal number were skilled in
close-in fighting with daggers alone, and the last group excelled in burning buildings and ships. Yet, the entire group would act as one when Caratacus gave the command.

  Using Sidhe, the dark, little people of the woods, as guides, Caratacus’s raiding party traversed many isolated valleys, impassable forests, and icy-clear streams. The twisting network of trails stretched to Noviomagnus and the sea. The band skirted the ancient Great Stone Circle on Salisbury Plain, reaching the chalky, bow-headed South Downs. They followed its whale-bone spine southeastward, dropping to the rich farmland north of the Regni capital. The Downs was crisscrossed by time-worn trackways reaching to the remotest parts of Britannia. The thick forest grew within a mile of Verica’s re-occupied stronghold, the scent of pine heavy and foreboding.

  The seaport of Noviomagnus sat aloof at the end of the easternmost of four channels that comprised the great harbor. The narrow inlet to Noviomagnus harbor curved like a cricked skeletal finger, its tip extending to the foot of the hillfort.

  *

  “Your warriors wait here ‘til dark,” jabbered the head Sidhe guide to Caratacus. The dark figure squatted barefoot and peered through the heavy underbrush located at the forest’s edge. He stabbed a finger towards the valley. “Cannot cross the plain in daylight, it be too dangerous.”

  The little scavenger patiently repeated his words until they were understood. Caratacus knew that the man considered them giant dullards and slow of wit.

  “Yes, I know,” Caratacus answered, as he viewed the newly-planted wheat fields. Tiny green shoots timidly pushed through the cold, chalky ground. He squinted in the cool afternoon light, seeing the twelve-foot-high stone walls of Noviomagnus, less than a mile away.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, turning to the little man, “we would have waited until nightfall anyway.”

  “Aye, be end of celebrations this night,” the guide said. “Everybody be drunk.”

  It was late April, and the Spring Festival of Beltaine was nearly over. Many peasants, wearing their best rags, had journeyed to the flourishing seaport for the celebration before dawn. For whatever reason, the Romans have not bothered to enslave them, Caratacus thought, apparently, Verica persuaded his new masters they were needed to till and harvest the land.