The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  *

  The sun had dropped below the hills of Rome before Caratacus and Dana were led from their new quarters to the great dining hall by one of Claudius’s freedmen and two serving slaves. Their new residence, located in part of the empress’s quarters, was on Palatine Hill opposite the emperor’s palace, where Claudius and Agrippina could easily keep an eye on them. No matter, their apartments were clean, airy, and spacious beyond their wildest expectations. Ten slaves were attached to the new household—no doubt spies.

  Caratacus looked about the airy, open hall lined with high columns, still marveling that he and his family had gone from imprisonment and certain death that morning, to the emperor’s pardon, and now were noble guests for dinner. However, he noticed four toga-clad men wearing army sandals who walked a short distance ahead of them. Outlined under the clothing, swords hung below their left arms. Caratacus turned his head and spotted six more a little ways behind.

  As Caratacus’s family and escort continued down the corridor, he leaned toward Dana and lowered his voice. “We may be the emperor’s guests, but we are still prisoners.”

  “What do you mean?” Dana said.

  “Those tall men in togas in front and behind are Praetorian Guardsmen. They have the bearing of soldiers and carry hidden weapons.”

  Dana squinted in the direction of the guards walking to the front of them. “I shouldn’t be surprised. At least we are no longer in that horrible prison. Actually, my mind is still spinning. Everything is so different here. The tall buildings, I never dreamed anything could be so big. And the crowds—so many people—and what an awful smell.”

  “Are you sure that wasn’t us you smelled as they paraded us like animals on the street?” Caratacus said.

  “No! It was the mob—they stank!”

  Caratacus turned his head back and forth. “And here in the palace everything is clean, perfumed, and with much space.”

  “At least we were allowed to bathe and given decent food and allowed to live!”

  He clenched his hands and glanced about. Realizing that he might be watched, he opened his hands. “Considering how the Romans starved us, we deserve it.”

  “I hate leaving Macha behind while we dine with the emperor—it’s too soon after coming here to our new place. She’s afraid we won’t return.”

  “Do you think the young slave girl left with her will keep her occupied?”

  Dana tightened her lips for the space of a heartbeat, then clucked. “I hope so, she seems like a sweet, young woman—she’s barely more than a child herself. Maybe that will help having someone closer to her age.”

  “Well, she’s a Gaul, and her language is similar to ours, that should make it easier.” He leaned close to Dana again. “She’s probably a spy like the rest of the slaves serving us.”

  Dana sighed. “I suppose you’re right. So long as she treats Macha kindly, I will tolerate her presence. But I shall keep a close eye on the woman.”

  He surveyed the freedman in front of him, who at that moment glanced over his shoulder. The dark-haired Greek kept a blank face and turned his head to the front.

  “Caratacus, please,” Dana whispered as if guessing what he was thinking. “Don’t even think about escaping, they would kill you in an instant—they would kill all of us!”

  He nodded and whispered, “I know, but I still hate being here and will always hate Rome.”

  They passed beneath a lofty archway, framing the entry to the Grand Triclinium, over which was pedestaled a splendid quadriga bearing a godlike charioteer riding off to the underworld.

  Hundreds of people, bejeweled and dressed in costliest silk and linen clothing, reclined on as many couches. Thousands of oil lamps gleamed from colonnaded walls and on alabaster and bejeweled ebony tables, glittering, dazzling, and intoxicating the great room. Pots of roses perfumed the air.

  Caratacus viewed the countless number of statues among the columns, their limbs painted so pink they seemed to be alive, representing Rome’s multitude of gods and heroes. Among them stood a gigantic statue of a naked god looking down on the throng. It reminded him of the god Lugh, framed like gold in the sparkling lamplight. Yet, the images were foreign to him. The gods he knew were set among nature in the form of animals or other natural objects. Apart from Lugh, few were represented in human form.

  The couple reclined near the emperor’s couch, treated by attending slaves as his special guests. Claudius and the empress had yet to arrive. The other diners stared at them, none approaching. Perhaps protocol required the emperor to recognize Dana and me first. No doubt they will surge forward once the emperor arrives.

  Caratacus observed Porcius a short distance away, bedecked in a white, silk toga with a wide, scarlet border, conversing with a fellow senator. He overheard him commenting that the Senate had earlier convened, giving many long and tedious orations in honor of Claudius and compared him to heroes like Scipio Africanus, conqueror of Hannibal. General Scapula was also awarded an Honorium Triumph.

  “It’s without precedent,” Porcius continued in a loud voice, “an imperial consort sat in state today and received the homage of the Praetorian Standards. It shows the degree of power that Agrippina wields.”

  The senator cautioned Porcius to hold his tongue, saying the pillars contained unfriendly ears.

  Porcius shrugged. “I’m already in her disfavor.” He turned in Caratacus’s direction and waddled towards him.

  “Ah, good evening, Prince Caratacus and Lady Dana. Your new clothing becomes you both.”

  Caratacus wore a linen tunic, trimmed in gold and purple, and soft, leather boots dyed red and white, like a senator’s. The slaves had bathed and scoured him, washing and trimming his hair to the nape of the neck. They had shaved his face, except for the drooping mustache that contained flecks of gray.

  Dana, freshly scrubbed, wore a powder-blue, silk gown trimmed in gold. A small, pearl diadem framed her tightly woven hair. Her face was lightly rouged and lips reddened with the juice of pomegranates.

  Porcius cleared his throat. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Prince Caratacus, but I’ve never wanted your death. Truly, I was very relieved when the emperor granted your pardon.”

  “Is this another one of your lies?” Caratacus wanted to spit in Porcius’s face, but dared not.

  Dana crinkled her nose and frowned at the Roman.

  That’s quite all right,” Porcius said, “I’m not surprised you believe I’m lying. Perhaps in time you’ll realize that I’m sincere.”

  “I doubt it,” Caratacus said.

  “I know you’re bitter and have every right to be. But know this.” Porcius paused, stooped, and whispered, “Had it not been for me, you would have been tortured and left to languish in that filthy hole—among other things.”

  A chill ran down Caratacus’s back. Is this some sort of Roman trick? “Why did you help us?”

  “I believe in repaying old debts.”

  The prince narrowed his eyes. “What debt?”

  “Have you forgotten? You saved my life, for which I’m eternally grateful.”

  For the space of a couple heartbeats, Caratacus remained speechless. He slowly shook his head and exhaled, “Gods, that was an eternity ago, when my Uncle Epaticcos warred against Verica. I was so young.”

  “And courageous.” The voices of the listening diners fell, every ear straining to hear.

  “If it hadn’t been for you,” Porcius added, “Verica’s son would have killed me. But enough of that.”

  Caratacus decided to reward him publicly with a sop for helping him in prison. “What you said is true, but the honor you show me is all the more valued knowing that you, too, have claimed the head of a warrior in single combat.”

  An anticipated ripple of excitement swept the assembly.

  “So it was true,” one senator called to Porcius. “I remember you displaying that foul-smelling box containing a head prize at your villa when I visited your home some years ago. If I recall, it w
as just before you left for Britannia.”

  Porcius nodded to the senator, pleased. He turned back to Caratacus. “We shall talk again soon at greater length. My lady.” He nodded to Dana and shuffled away, head raised high.

  “Caratacus, you never told me you’d saved him,” Dana said in disbelief.

  He shook his head and snorted. “At the time, it meant nothing to me.”

  “Obviously it did to him.” Dana softly stroked his cheek with her almost child-like hand. “Thank the Three Mothers you saved him.”

  Caratacus nodded. Although he would never tell Porcius, he held a grudging respect for the old Roman. He appreciated what Porcius had done for him and his family, but he couldn’t allow the bloody Roman to know how much, at least not at this time. Caratacus hated being on display, like the emperor’s favorite pet. Humiliated before all the world or the part that counted—the nobility. He loathed the thought that he and his family were expected to live the rest of their lives in so-called honorable confinement with no escape except through death.

  “Caratacus, you’re shivering. What’s troubling you?” Dana asked.

  Caratacus leaned over and whispered, “I swear by holy Lugh that one day I will escape, no matter how well they treat us!”

  Dana looked about. “Don’t say that, not now,” she whispered. “Don’t even think it! Please, for Macha’s sake!”

  He looked away, putting forth his best smile for the nobility.

  A short time later, Centurion Bassus appeared, dressed in his finest white toga, but wearing the hob-nailed sandals of the army. Unlike the Praetorians, there was no bulge protruding from beneath his clothing under his right arm, which indicated a weapon. Like everyone else, the emperor’s guards checked him for arms before entering the dining area. He approached Caratacus’s couch.

  “Greetings, Prince Caratacus. I congratulate you on your release. As one warrior to another, I bear you no ill will.”

  “Nor I, you.” Then, as recognition presented itself, he added, “My fight was never with you, but with Rome. You fought against us bravely and fairly.”

  Dana nodded.

  “I’m in Rome for a short time.” Bassus glanced toward the main entrance of the dining hall and back to Caratacus. “Then I’ll be posted to the legions in Syria. Would you mind an old enemy dropping by for a visit?”

  “If that’s all, of course.”

  Bassus chuckled. “I’m no spy. I’ve gained too much respect over the years for you and your people.”

  Caratacus gestured with a hand toward Bassus. “You, I believe.”

  “Lady Dana,” Bassus nodded his respects and walked away, heading for a nearby group of Roman officers.

  Caratacus turned to her. “There goes an honorable soldier.”

  Minutes later, the court chamberlain pounded his hardwood staff on the marble floor, the sound echoing through the dining hall. He formally intoned, “All rise for your Lord Caesar, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Britannicus, Conqueror of the Britons, and his wife, Lady Agrippina.”

  Caratacus’s muscles stiffened. Conqueror of the Britons? The fight isn’t over yet!

  The guests noisily rose in unison and bowed as the imperial couple strode to the dining couches at one end of the room, draped in purple.

  He turned to Dana, his jaw tight.

  She shook her head and whispered, “I know what’s on your mind, don’t say it.”

  “I won’t,” Caratacus whispered in reply, “but I don’t have to like it.” He looked about. Fortunately, no one else seemed to have heard them.

  The emperor wore a white toga trimmed in gold and a purple cloak hooked above his right shoulder with a white enamel broach in the form of an eagle. An olive wreath crowned his white hair.

  Agrippina’s hair was built up into an elaborate semicircular mound in front with plaits and ringlets stringing behind. Long, ivory hairpins kept the tresses in place. A coral gown, trimmed in gold, covered the empress’s slender frame, while two strings of pearls circled her neck. She glanced about the dining hall, and a bored look crossed her powdered face.

  Emperor Claudius whispered to the chamberlain, who had earlier followed behind the imperial couple to their couch. The man nodded and turned in Caratacus and Dana’s direction. “Prince Caratacus and Lady Dana come forward.”

  A murmur erupted from the guests, and everyone turned heads in Caratacus and Dana’s direction.

  The two looked at one another. Caratacus shrugged, and, with a nod to Dana, walked the ten paces from their dining couch to that of the imperial couple, where the two halted and bowed.

  The emperor, reclining on his left side next to Agrippina, studied the couple through pale but alert brown eyes. “I bid you and your wife, welcome,” he said formally without a hint of stuttering.

  “Lord Caesar, it is an honor,” Caratacus said in a strong voice. He hated speaking the words, but had been instructed earlier by the chamberlain to say them. They were a sign of respect. Had he refused, he would have placed his and the lives of his family in jeopardy. Dana, Macha, and he had to survive.

  “Your new clothing becomes the both of you,” Claudius said. “You are worthy of nobility.”

  Agrippina raised an eyebrow, and a buzz arose from the diners.

  “Caesar is kind,” Caratacus said. Does he think I believe his rot?

  “Are your new quarters satisfactory?”

  “Yes, Caesar,” Caratacus and Dana answered in unison.

  “We are pleased,” the emperor said. “Since you will be our guests indefinitely.”

  Inwardly, Caratacus winced, but what the emperor said was true.

  “We will see that you and your wife are treated as the worthy couple that you are,” Claudius continued. He raised a hand and gestured toward them. “Now, turn and face the rest of our guests.”

  They did.

  “Noble guests,” Claudius said, “may I present to you our new friends, Prince Caratacus and his wife, Lady Dana. They are to be treated with the utmost courtesy and respect worthy of the friends of Caesar. You have our permission to come forward and introduce yourselves.”

  Being considered friends of Caesar was a high honor and meant being under his protection, but Caratacus knew that his and Dana’s status could change with a whim. They had to be careful.

  Now that the emperor had formally introduced Caratacus and Dana to the gathering, the diners eagerly approached them.

  One senator’s wife pulled Dana aside upon learning that she spoke Latin. During the ensuing conversation the wife disdainfully commented on the morals of British women.

  “But isn’t it true,” Dana inquired, “that some of the wives of your senators and knights ran away with actors, gladiators, and slaves?”

  “Of course, my dear,” the matron replied, gazing down her nose, “but only for a little diversion.”

  “Then what right do you have questioning our morals?” Dana retorted. “In Britannia, we consort openly with the best of men, while you Roman women allow yourselves to be debauched in secret by the vilest.”

  Caratacus grinned as the woman turned on her heel and stormed through the milling crowd of diners. “Well said, Dana, she got what she deserved.”

  “It’s true, you are the best,” she answered, giving him a light kiss on the cheek. “The nerve of that painted cow. I’d rather associate with slaves than the likes of her.”

  “Unfortunately, you’ll have ample opportunity. Our freedom is little more than comfort in the confines of Rome,” he said with a sigh. “For now, we must learn Roman ways if we are to survive. But we’ll keep to our own. We will make new friends, people who may be of help to us in the future. And most importantly, we must do nothing to offend the emperor.”

  But he swore one thing to himself. No matter how long it might take, one day they would see Brittania again.

  Chapter 24

  July, AD 60

  Caratacus stared blankly across the wine-dark waters of Mare Tyrrhenum to the edge of the horizon. Onl
y a tiny slice of the setting sun’s fiery orb remained and reflected like twinkling stars on the gentle swells. Minutes later, it slid beneath the sea’s murky depths. He loved the Italian coast and its mild sea breezes, especially Antium, where he lived thirty miles south of Rome. Nine years before, one year after coming to the imperial capitol, he had obtained a small villa, purchased for him by friends. Much to his relief, Emperor Claudius had loosened his reins, allowing him to settle south of the little fishing village. Thank the gods for that, I hated the city’s stench.

  It was an older home, plainly built, but ample for Caratacus’s family needs. Although the settlement was dotted with palatial summer homes of the rich, his house sat isolated along a dirt track beyond the end of the Severinian Way. Snuggled inland among the pinewoods, the home bordered a wide, sandy beach, and at night he could hear the waves gently lapping against the shore.

  During the evening, when he walked the pathways, he almost felt the freedom of his homeland.

  He stooped, picked up a stone, and hurled it into the foaming surf as it crashed onto the rocky beach. So much has happened since we were brought to Rome. Following his pardon by Emperor Claudius, Porcius had made at least three attempts to befriend him. Twice, Caratacus rebuffed him. The turning point with Porcius came during the third visit when he informed him that he had petitioned the emperor to transfer Caratacus’s former guide, Alfyn, to the ex-king’s new home. After the young Briton had been taken prisoner, he and many British warriors had been pressed into the Roman Army as auxiliary soldiers and sent to garrisons on the Danubus frontier.

  When Caratacus asked Porcius why he was doing him the favor, the Roman replied he did this as a show of friendship. Despite the invasion of Britannia, he still had a high regard for the British people. He wanted to be Caratacus’s friend as he had been to his father, Canubelinos.

  So far, Alfyn seemed happy to be serving Caratacus again.

  Caratacus continued his stroll along the shore, inhaling the salty air carried by the gentle, summer breeze swirling about his face. His musings continued. Claudius had died four years after their arrival. Caratacus had heard rumors the emperor was poisoned by mushrooms fed to him by his fourth wife, Agrippina, so her son, Nero, could ascend the throne.