The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Through it all, Caratacus lived a quiet life. He had been careful not to stray from the limits set by Claudius and prayed he had not come to Nero’s attention. It went against his character, but if he were to survive, he had to live with it. One day he would escape.

  Caratacus’s once-long, tawny hair was rapidly being replaced by a legion of gray strands. His drooping mustache had faded years before, and hairline receded at the temples. When he read books or messages, he had difficulty focusing on the parchment unless held at arm’s length.

  A screeching sound pulled him from his reverie. Close by, he saw the shadow of an unknown seabird gliding over the water’s surface in the growing darkness. Another breaker, growing higher from trough to crest, toppled and broke, crashing on shore in a thundering mass of foam and spray. He sighed. Little more than a year had passed since Dana died. The wasting sickness struck her down, and within six months after becoming ill, she passed away. The grief he experienced plunged to the depths of his spirit. Had it not been for his daughter watching over him, he might have taken his own life.

  “Lord, your daughter and her husband are here,” his retainer, Alfyn, said, jolting Caratacus out of his daze.

  Caratacus shook his head, puzzled. According to an earlier message, he had not expected a visit from Macha and Titus for at least another two weeks. “How long have I been standing here?”

  “Not more than half an hour,” Alfyn answered. “Looks like the tide’s coming in.”

  Caratacus eyed his boots, covered to the ankles by the foamy surf. A chill raced through his soaked feet and up his legs. He shivered. “So it is. I was so deep in thought I hadn’t noticed. Gods, the salt will ruin the leather. When did they arrive?”

  “A few moments ago, sir. I didn’t think you’d minded me disturbing you.”

  “Under these circumstances, no. Macha’s the only one I’d see anytime. My one consolation since losing my wife.”

  Caratacus turned eastward studying the purple-black outline of the Alban Hills, rising gracefully in the distance. Hundreds of winking lights, emanated from the white-walled villages and towns nestled among the vineyards on its slope.

  He exhaled deeply. “Alfyn, tell them I’ll be along shortly.”

  After hugging Macha and greeting his son-in-law, Titus, with a hand shake, Caratacus called for wine, and they strolled to the atrium.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure,” Caratacus said heartily. “I hadn’t expected the two of you until the end of the month. What brings you to Antium so early?”

  Macha smiled. “Oh, you know how boring and hot Rome is in July.”

  Titus winced.

  Dressed in a green gown, covered by a yellow and blue stola, Caratacus’s long-legged and willowy daughter turned to her husband and then back to her father. “Seriously, Da, we have good news. Titus has received his appointment as tribune in the army.”

  “Congratulations,” Caratacus answered as a grin crossed his face. “You’ve waited some time for that, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the tall, smooth-faced, dark-haired, young man answered. Dressed in a white tunic, trimmed in red, with a small sheathed dagger strapped to his waist, Titus was no more than twenty. He hesitated for a moment. “But it means Macha and I are leaving Rome.”

  Caratacus studied Macha. With each passing day, she favored her mother more. “I thought as much. You can’t serve the army in Rome. Besides, she’ll be with you.”

  Titus straightened slightly at the indirect compliment.

  “Where are you going?” Caratacus inquired.

  “Germania. Moguntiacum, on the Upper Rhenus,” Macha replied.

  Caratacus frowned as he turned to Macha. “I’m going to miss you, both of you,” he added as an afterthought. “How long will you be gone?”

  “At least two years,” Titus said. “I’m being posted to Legion Fourth Macedonica. After that I’ll decide whether to make the army my career or return to Rome and follow my father into imperial service.”

  They walked in silence as Caratacus considered the posting. As son of a senator, Titus would eventually inherit his father’s position in the Senate. In Caratacus’s mind, being an army officer was safer than a politician. At least a soldier knew who his enemies were.

  “When do you leave?” Caratacus asked.

  “Next week.” Macha glanced at Titus and then her father. “We’ll miss you, too, Da. Are you going to be all right?”

  “Of course, I will.” He noticed that she seemed uneasy, as if there were something more she wanted to say.

  “Mum’s death was very hard on you, wasn’t it,” she said, slipping her arm about his gently.

  “It was painful for both of us, only you’ve recovered sooner,” Caratacus answered softly.

  Macha shook her head. “I still grieve for her, Da. I loved her so much.”

  “Both of us did,” Caratacus said.

  “Actually, I’m still recovering, but I guess I have faster than you.” She sniffled and cleared her throat. “I’ll never forget her, never!”

  “Nor will I. Now, I’ve grieved long enough, and it’s time to put my life back together. I may be fifty-one, but I’m not an old man yet.” For a moment he feared tears would flow if he met Macha’s eyes. Dana’s eyes.

  Two slaves approached, one carrying a small amphora of Albanian wine and, the other, three silver cups and a jug of water to dilute it. Caratacus motioned to the cushioned oak benches near the atrium’s gurgling fountain.

  The three sat around a small table. After pouring the dark, red nectar and leaving the jug and amphora on the stand, the servants departed. Caratacus raised his cup to the young couple. “Here’s to your appointment, Titus. May the gods keep you safe on your journey and may your career be rewarding.”

  Although Macha had adapted to Roman ways, it pleased Caratacus that she was still fiercely proud of her Celtic heritage. Unlike most Roman women, she had a passion for horses and rode on a frequent basis, wearing the tartan clothing of her people. She worshipped the British Mother Goddesses and practiced using knives in self-defense as taught by her father. Crimson as the setting sun, her long braided hair indicated to the people of Rome that she was a barbarian.

  It never stemmed the tide of suitors from coming to Caratacus’s home when Macha came of marriageable age at fourteen. As custom dictated, he refused entry to the young Romans who vied for her affections, unless accompanied by their families. Like any other self-respecting parents, he and Dana would decide who Macha married. Many of Rome’s most distinguished families visited him on a regular basis. Caratacus learned from these patricians that an alliance with the family of a former barbarian king, like his, was not to be disdained.

  At age seventeen, Macha had married Titus, shortly before Dana’s death. He was ambitious and a fine, young man of Gallic nobility. Because of his family’s tremendous wealth, his father was a member of the Senate, his people among the first of several Gallic families, to be admitted by Emperor Claudius to that illustrious body. If Caratacus had to marry off his daughter, better to a Gaul than a Roman. At least Gauls and Britons were of similar Celtic stock. Now, at eighteen, Macha’s life was set. She still spoke a little about her life in Britannia, but Rome had become her home.

  “I was just thinking,” Caratacus said, “as much as I’m going to miss you, it’s as well that you’re going to Germania. The current political climate in Rome is growing much too warm.”

  “I hesitated in saying anything with your slaves within hearing,” Titus said, “but Nero grows more tyrannical with each passing day. Now that his mother is dead and his old tutors, Seneca and Burrus Afranius, are out of favor, he does as he pleases. His excesses will bankrupt the empire.”

  “I understand the nobility fears he’ll turn on them,” Caratacus said.

  Titus looked about. Only the three of them present. “They’re certain it’s only a matter of time before he’ll issue a proscription list. He’s desperate for money. There is no doubt one day
he’ll arrest and execute members of the nobility, who are out of favor, on trumped up charges. Then he’ll confiscate and sell their properties at auction.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He isn’t too concerned. He’s very old, you know.” He sighed. “He’ll take his own life before submitting to arrest. Even the emperor won’t dare confiscate property of one committing an honorable suicide.”

  “I’ll pray your father isn’t forced into that situation.”

  Titus nodded. He tossed off the remaining wine in his cup. “Although he’s willed all his property to me, I’m in no hurry to receive it, at least not that way. Under the circumstances,” Titus commented ruefully, “I’m happy to be going to Germania. Nero never visits the frontier. Perhaps he’ll forget I exist.”

  “Not likely, but on the frontier, chances are you’ll be out of political harm’s way.”

  Aye, I’ll take my chances with the Germans,” Titus said.

  “Let’s drink to it, Da,” Macha said.

  Macha poured for the three of them, and they quietly toasted one another and drank.

  “Titus,” Caratacus said a few minutes later, preparing to voice what both men had hitherto left unspoken. “Suppose someday you are posted to Britannia. How would you feel about fighting my people, Macha’s people?”

  “Such an assignment is not completely unlikely, especially nowadays,” Titus answered at once as if having considered the question before.

  “What would you do then?” Caratacus pressed.

  Titus held eye contact with him and clenched his dagger. “Kill Britons.”

  The aging warrior measured the look in his eyes, recognizing that he was prepared for a fight and that Macha seemed alarmed. An icy silence descended upon the three. For the next few seconds only the distant sound of rolling surf, breaking on the shoreline, intruded on their thoughts.

  Then Caratacus roared in laughter, melting the tension. “I would expect no less from my son. With luck, you can bring me the head of Cartimandua, my bitch cousin-queen.”

  Chapter 25

  One morning, about a week after Macha and Titus departed for Germania, Caratacus sat on a wicker-backed chair in the garden under a vine-trestle canopy. Adjacent to the far end of the house and outside the area, the yard faced in the direction of the sea. He glanced to the tall, whitewashed, stone walls bordering the other three sides. Installed in the middle fence hung an iron gate that opened onto a path leading to the beach. Every night when he returned from his evening walk he locked the gate, not trusting the slaves. He and Alfyn possessed the only two keys. Caratacus inhaled the perfumed scents of well-tended anemones, poppies, lilies, and roses kept behind a dozen latticed fences along the walls. Down the middle ran a graveled path bordered on both sides by a well-trimmed, low hedge and several cypress and plane trees.

  The sun, a deep-orange-red disk, peeked over the Alban Hills. The racket of squawking gulls and the rumbling sounds of waves breaking on the beach beyond his home drifted on a light wind, the cool air stroking his face. He reflected on how much he already missed the young couple, especially his daughter.

  He pulled a light cloak about his tunic and tighter around his shoulders. Is this a sign of old age? This cold isn’t anything compared to what I experienced while living in Britannia, and that bothers me.

  Footfalls crunched on the graveled path. He turned as Alfyn approached with a slave he recognized as belonging to Porcius.

  “Sir, he brings a letter from Lord Porcius,” Alfyn said.

  Strange, I thought Porcius was still in Rome, not at his summer home north of Antium.

  After the messenger departed, Caratacus sat straighter, unrolled the parchment, and read the message. His hands trembled, and he took a couple of deep breaths. He grabbed the cup of heated wine on the table next to his chair, gulped its contents, and slammed the cup down.

  “Sir, is it bad news?” an alarmed Alfyn inquired.

  “That depends on whose side you’re on. Queen Boudicea of the Iceni is in revolt against Rome. She’s slaughtered at least forty thousand people.”

  Alfyn screwed up his scarred, narrow face. “I hope they be Romans.”

  “Many were. Ten thousand were soldiers of Legion Ninth Hispana and its auxiliaries. Thousands of Roman sympathizers were killed in Camulodunum.”

  Caratacus finished reading the dispatch and tossed it on the table. “Many innocent Britons also died.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do? If only you weren’t living in this foreign cage.”

  “There must be a way.” Caratacus sat quietly, thinking. “Alfyn, my people need me, and whatever the consequences, we must go. But if we’re to get out of here alive, we’ll need help from someone we can trust.”

  Alfyn scratched the ridge of his broken nose with the stub of a forefinger lost in battle. “Only you have the influence to unite the forces of Queen Boudicea with Lord Venutios. The people would rally around you.”

  Would they? It has been ten years since my capture. Boudicea might consider me a Roman spy. He shook his head. It makes no difference, I must leave. If we can defeat the Romans, the effort will be worth any future blood feuds.

  The question remains, who will aid in my escape from Italy and keep it a secret?

  A slave approached Caratacus and announced the arrival of Porcius.

  “What’s he doing here? His message arrived less than an hour ago,” Caratacus said.

  The slave and Alfyn shrugged.

  Dressed in a white toga and heavy mantle, but shivering, the seventy-two-year-old Porcius hobbled along the pathway until he reached and sat in the chair next to Caratacus. “I left Rome yesterday afternoon and have traveled all night so I could see you as quickly as possible,” he said. Squinting, the Roman observed the parchment laying on the citrus wood table beside Caratacus. Alfyn and the slave stood at a discreet distance. “I see you’ve received the message.”

  “You had no reason to travel to Antium so quickly unless it was about this.” He nodded to the scroll. “Am I right?”

  “You are,” Porcius answered softly.

  Caratacus wondered if Porcius’s presence was an omen. Over the years, Porcius and he had become friends. Porcius had given no indication of betrayal. Now is the time I must take a risk and trust Porcius.

  “Why did you send me the news about Boudicea?” Caratacus asked.

  Porcius glanced to Alfyn and the slave.

  Caratacus dismissed the slave. “Alfyn stays.”

  The old Roman cleared his throat. “Very well. I wanted you to hear the truth, not wild rumors. I know you still care for your people.”

  “Then it’s true?” Caratacus clenched his fist.

  “As far as I can learn, yes. There’s more, and that’s why I came.”

  Inhaling deeply a couple of times, Caratacus relaxed his hands and leaned closer. “I’m listening.”

  “I will help you to flee Italy,” Porcius said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Caratacus’s heart seemed to jump into his throat, his chest tightened. Am I dreaming?

  “But why would you help me escape?”

  “My time is running out. Forty thousand souls were slaughtered in Britannia. Sooner or later, Rome will remember who you are.”

  “Has Nero issued a proscription list?”

  Porcius’s sagging face tightened, and he nodded. “His extravagances have become enormous. He needs new revenues to pay for them. He’s marked at least one hundred senators for death, including me. I’m at the top of the list.” Porcius went on with a sigh. “He’s taking revenge on his mother’s account for my indiscreet remarks.”

  “That was years ago,” Caratacus said.

  The Roman sniffed. “Even though he murdered her last year, he hasn’t forgotten that I once called her an incestuous slut. It’s a convenient excuse to confiscate my lands and revenues.”

  Porcius had once told Caratacus that he regretted some of the things he had done in his life, but most he
didn’t. His health was failing, and he had suffered from arthritis since his early thirties, crippling him more with each passing day. He walked haltingly at times. Most of his teeth were now gone. He complained his eyesight grew cloudier by the day and believed he would soon be blind.

  I thought I would never see the day when I would have pity for the old man, but now I do. Pity, not contempt. “What does this have to do with me?” Caratacus prodded.

  “You’re a danger to Nero,” Porcius answered, “even though you’re not on his list yet.”

  Caratacus frowned and shook his head. “I’ve lived in obscurity since I’ve been in Italy.”

  “True, but because of the Boudicean rebellion, you’re a threat.” Porcius gestured with a trembling hand. “You could be a rallying point for the Britons. I don’t know when he plans to arrest you, but you can wager on it.”

  “And yet, you’ll help me flee?”

  “Why not? If I’m going to die, I will have the last joke on Nero.” Porcius steadied the reoccurring tremor of his left hand with his right. He paused for a moment. “Now, don’t look so gloomy, my friend,” he said, “it isn’t so tragic.”

  “I didn’t realize my face betrayed me,” Caratacus answered, surprised by his own sadness. He wiped a sweaty palm on the sides of his breeches.

  The corpulent Roman paused and, for a few seconds, closed his eyes and dipped his head before raising it again. “Regardless, I shall pray for your safe journey. Maybe the gods will speed you in time to help Boudicea. Suetonius Paulinus, the new imperial governor, is in the process of reorganizing the legions to counterattack, if he hasn’t already.

  “I regret to say,” Porcius continued, “Rome deserves to lose. Had the government handled the British people with greater dignity, the rebellion would never have happened.”

  Caratacus turned his head toward the gate and path leading to the beach. From the distance, muffled by pines that bordered the beach, the pounding surf sounded like a hissing whisper on the breeze. A flight of gulls drifted overhead.