The Wolf of Britannia Part I Read online

  The Wolf

  of

  Britannia

  Volume I

  Jess Steven Hughes

  A Historical Novel

  Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA

  Published by Sunbury Press, Inc.

  50 West Main Street

  Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania 17055

  www.sunburypress.com

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015, by Jess Steven Hughes.

  Cover Copyright © 2015 by Sunbury Press, Inc.

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  ISBN: 978-1-62006-560-0 (Trade Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-62006-561-7 (Mobipocket)

  ISBN: 978-1-62006-562-4 (ePub)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015932529

  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION: February 2015

  Product of the United States of America

  0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55

  Set in Bookman Old Style

  Designed by Crystal Devine

  Cover by Lawrence von Knorr Painting by Tal Dibner (www.dibnergallery.com)

  Edited by Janice Rhayem

  Continue the Enlightenment!

  Volume I

  Britannia

  AD 27-40

  Dramatis Personae

  (In Order of Appearance)

  THE BRITONS

  * Caratacus – prince and warrior

  * Tog (Togodubnos) – brother of Caratacus

  Cunobelinos (Cymbeline) – king of the Catuvellauni and

  Trinovantes and father of Caratacus

  * Adminios – brother of Caratacus

  * Epaticcos – king of the Atrebates and uncle of Caratacus

  Rhian – young Catuvellaunian woman

  Donn – warrior and champion

  Gwynn – wife of Epaticcos

  Clud – ironmaker and master craftsman

  Rhun - Iceni slave

  Havgan – Druid priest

  Oengus – warrior and champion

  Ibor – Druid priest

  * Verica - king of the Regni tribe

  Gildas ap Caw - warrior and champion

  Gwynedd - son of Verica

  Rosmerta - Rhian's foster mother

  * Dumnoveros – Brigantian king

  * Cartimandua – young Brigantian woman

  Dana – young Brigantian woman

  * Venutios – Brigantian warrior

  Fergus ap Roycal – clan chieftain

  Fiona - young peasant girl

  Macha – Caratacus’s daughter

  THE ROMANS

  Gaius Flavius Porcius – emissary and senator

  Cyrus – Persian freedman

  * Aulus Plautius – general

  * Caligula (Gaius) – emperor of Rome (AD 37-41)

  * Claudius (Tiberius Claudius Germanicus Nero) – emperor of Rome

  (AD 41-54)

  * Marcus Ostorius Scapula – general

  Marcus Valerius Bassus – centurion

  * Tiberius (Tiberius Claudius Nero) – emperor of Rome (AD 14-37)

  * historical character

  Cities and Geographical Locations

  ANCIENT NAME MODERN NAME

  Bononia Gesoriacum, Gaul Boulogne, France

  Britannia Britain (England)

  British Ocean English Channel

  Caleva Silchester

  Camulodunum Colchester

  Dubris Dover

  Durobrivae Rochester

  Durovernum Canterbury

  Eburacum York

  German Ocean North Sea

  Maugh-Dun Castle (Maiden Castle) Dorchester

  Noviomagnus Chichester

  Portus Rutupis Wantsum Channel

  Regulbium Reculver

  River Colne Colne River

  River Danubus Danube River

  River Rhenus Rhine River

  River Tamesis Thames River

  Tanatus Isle of Thanet

  Rutupiae Richborough

  Verulamium St. Albans

  Chapter 1

  SOUTHERN BRITANNIA, AUGUST, AD 27

  Caratacus’s wicker chariot bucked and hurtled across every dip and rise in the track. Two lathering ponies strained at their harness as the young prince urged them ahead. Man-sized wooden targets sprinkled the course. Caratacus struck each through the heart with his casting spears. Now he raced for the finish line in a swirl of chalky dust, blue eyes ablaze with excitement.

  Tawny hair whipped about his sunburned face. He sweated profusely in a woolen, short-sleeved tunic and tartan breeches, dust muting their colors. A gold collar burned his neck, but to rip it off would bring bad luck. The earthy musk of horse sweat blotted out all other odors.

  Behind him, clattering wheels and thudding hooves roared in his ears. Four other chariots steadily gained on him. His horses responded to the stinging touch as he slapped the reins. Caratacus leaped from the flimsy cart onto the center drawbar between his team when another chariot nosed into the lead. He struggled for a foothold and looped the dragging reins about his wrists. Barefooted, he deftly edged his way forward on the jouncing bar and catapulted onto the back of his favorite beast. Kneeling on the bay pony, he bellowed encouragement, calling for even greater speed.

  Sucking dust and screaming, urging the racers to ever greater strides, throngs of men, women, and children circled the large, rutted oval, which served as a race track below the great hill fortress of Camulodunum.

  A small boy chasing a dog darted from the crowd and crossed in the front of Caratacus’s path. A woman screamed. He sucked in his breath—Damn! In a flash he kicked the pony’s side, sharply swerving the team, barely missing the child. The chariot bounced, arcing one wheel off the ground and back to the earth with a thud. Violently wrenched from the beast’s back, Caratacus grabbed its yoke collar and yanked himself up on the withers. A throbbing pain shot through his loins from where he caught the horse’s knotty backbone between his legs.

  For an instant, Caratacus glanced at the jostling throng. He caught sight of flaxen-haired Rhian, daughter of the king’s champion. The young woman screamed encouragement. His team leaped ahead and stampeded towards the finish.

  Caratacus heard a pop and then a rumbling noise. He turned and saw the left trace rein on his other pony had snapped loose from an iron holding lug. It whipped back and forth along the animal’s side. The mare squealed, terrified by the bridle’s lashing. She strained at leather bands around her girth and neck, trying to lurch free of the yoke collar.

  Upset by the squealing of the frightened, chestnut mare, the little bay bucked and kicked at the weaving crossbar. Holding all the reins in his right hand, Caratacus jumped to the mare and gripped the animal’s sides with powerful legs. Other riders ga
ined on him. He grabbed the trace rein and steadied his mounts.

  Hanging by his legs, Caratacus reached down his pony’s side and stabbed his free hand towards the flying bridle. It snapped across his face, sending a painful shot through his eyes. For the length of a heartbeat he recoiled, trying to shake off the blinding pain that blurred his vision. Again he attempted to retrieve the other rein. The chariots rounded the last turn of the wheel-plowed course. Fist-sized clods pelted the cheering crowd. Another rider was almost upon him. Caratacus held onto the primary reins as he lunged again and snagged the end of the strap between the fingers of his perspiring left hand. As his sight cleared, he reeled in the rest of the reins. He tightened them around his left hand and held the primary reins of both animals in his right.

  Caratacus guided the lathering mare back towards the center of the yoke pole and steadied her galloping to a smooth, flowing rhythm. As if on command, his bay settled down and matched the chestnut mare stride-for-stride. He kicked the side of the chestnut, exhorting the ponies to greater speed. They raced away from the other charioteers.

  He crossed the finish line between two hardwood poles topped by bleached human skulls, at least six lengths ahead of his closest competitor. Horns blew. His brother, Tog, led a tremendous cheer. The riotous crowd rushed toward his chariot. A dusty, sweating Caratacus leapt from the car and tossed the reins to an awaiting groom. Grinning at one another, he and Tog clasped each other’s wrists and vigorously shook them.

  “Well done, Brother, victory is yours!” Tog exclaimed, “Well done! Here, take a drink,” Tog urged. He thrust a large earthen bowl of corma beer into Caratacus’s hands. Gratefully, he gulped it down. Hundreds of tribesmen surrounded them. It was the Harvest of Lughnasa, the first week of August. The chariot races culminated five days of celebration for the Catuvellaunian and Trinovantian Celts at their capital on Britannia’s southeastern coast, Camulodunum.

  When King Cunobelinos appeared, a hush fell over the crowd, which immediately opened a pathway for Caratacus’s thick-chested father. Long, gray hair swept down the king’s powerful back over his purple linen cloak. Cunobelinos wore a scarlet-and gold-threaded tartan tunic with matching breeches and a gold torc around his vein-corded neck. Bracelets of copper and gold circled his biceps and wrists. Sunlight danced off his longsword, made of rare and costly Damascus steel and encased in a jeweled scabbard hanging from his waist.

  Caratacus’s uncle, King Epaticcos, tribal leaders, and members of the Druid priesthood followed. Behind them ambled Caratacus’s older brother, Adminios. Tall, ebony hair falling down to his shoulders, his pockmarked face was flushed, dark eyes watery. He had his arm around the waist of a well-known, round-face trollop, dressed in a bright-green, plaid, long tunic, girdled around the midriff with a gold-fringed sash. Adminios turned and pulled her close, and with his sensuous lips, gave her a moist kiss. A few seconds later, she pushed him away and giggled. He laughed. The two staggered to a halt by the edge of the throng, a mixture of nobility, warriors, craftsmen, and peasants, dressed in their best tartan clothing or threadbare homespun.

  All of them silently watched the king stop before Caratacus. Tog stepped behind his brother.

  “You do us great honor,” Cunobelinos said, addressing his son. “Your victory pleases us.”

  “Yes, it does,” Adminios said in a loud, slurring voice behind him. A vacuous grin widened on his thick lips. He stepped towards the king, leaving the woman’s side.

  Cunobelinos gave the eldest son a withering look. “It is not your place to speak for the king.”

  Adminios, his eyes going wide, looked about. His female companion shot a hand to her mouth. He bowed his large head and stepped back to the woman’s side. A low murmur spread through the crowd.

  Caratacus broke the tension. “The honor is mine, Great King.”

  The king nodded approval that his son had referred to him correctly.

  Behind a sober face and clenched teeth, Caratacus hid his hatred for their forced formality and the humiliating way his father treated Adminios. Then again, his older brother had been drinking and womanizing as usual. Adminios tossed his head, shrugged, and tossed a hand as if he thought the entire scene was trivial. You should have waited until later to celebrate, Brother.

  Cunobelinos motioned a servant forward to present Caratacus with a large, silver drinking cauldron. The cup was inlaid with intricate carvings of boar heads, wolves, and deer. The prominent relief depicted the braided head of the warrior-goddess Andraste.

  Caratacus refrained from smiling as he watched his father’s expressionless, ruddy face and searched the old, lined eyes for signs of approval. As expected, he found none. “This is much more than I expected, Great King.”

  A voice bellowed from the crowd, “Give him a drink! Let him drink from the cup!” The crowd joined the shouting, “Aye, let him!”

  The king nodded. A servant hustled forward holding high a silver cup filled with Samian wine from Greece. Caratacus grasped the two handles and held high the trophy with both hands. “Although I am son of the Great King, I am still his loyal subject,” he called out loudly. “I am victorious today only because he did not race against me. For surely he would be drinking from this cup of glory rather than I.”

  The crowd cheered wildly. The king nodded to his son, his mouth a thin line. Tog flashed a crooked grin and shook clasped hands above his head in approval. Holding the heavy cup, Caratacus tilted his head backwards and drained it, as custom demanded. Uncut by water, the wine dizzied him, but he finished without reeling or stumbling.

  Caratacus handed the cup to the servant and wiped his mouth on his forearm. He noticed his father glaring at him. I know that look. Da expects more out of me. I’m only seventeen summers, what else does he want?

  Chapter 2

  “Look, Tog, here comes fat Porcius,” Caratacus said in a voice full of contempt.

  The younger brother narrowed his dark, green eyes and spat.

  The small entourage of freedmen and slaves accompanying Gaius Flavius Porcius opened a pathway through the reveling throng. As he strolled among the mixture of well-dressed nobility and threadbare peasants, he gazed at trading booths and stalls set up near the race course for the festival. Sellers, wearing a variety of clothing ranging from rags to bright plaids, hawked their wares. They did a brisk business selling souvenirs, food, and drink such as pastries, meat pies, beer, and mead to local people and foreigners alike. Porcius grinned but shook his head as the vendor reached out with hot pastries to sell.

  “Damn pastry seller is sucking up to Porcius like a fool,” Tog said.

  “Aye, but Porcius is smart,” Caratacus answered. “In the long run, it might benefit him and Rome.”

  “More him than Rome, I’d wager.” Tog spat again. He swept back the chestnut hair that had fallen down the front of his shoulders.

  Caratacus watched Porcius walk among the stands where Chaldean fortune tellers and shady purveyors of games of chance flourished. At the far end of the fair stood temporary livestock pens where cattle, goats, and sheep were bought and sold amongst clouds of buzzing flies. Two men in ragged tunics and trousers gesticulated wildly over the price of a mottled ram. In closed cubicles across the dusty pathway from the animals, prostitutes plied their trade. A gap-toothed, middle-aged woman wearing a faded but clean, tartan skirt and short-sleeve top sat outside on a stool taking money from a line of eager customers. Mixed with the sickening, sweet stench of animal dung and urine from the corrals, the smells of roasted meat and baked bread drifted on the warm, afternoon breeze.

  Moving in the direction of King Cunobelinos, Caratacus, and Tog, who stood a short distance from the race track, Porcius stopped to shake hands and joke with several well-known Briton merchants and craftsmen.

  “I hate giving Porcius credit for anything,” Caratacus said, “but the pig knows people and what they want.”

  “He’s a trader himself, but I can see why Rome uses him as a diplomat,” Tog said. “It’s a da
ngerous combination.”

  Caratacus studied the balding Roman in his midthirties. He was taller and paler than the Italian traders that Caratacus knew. Porcius’s stomach bulged through the white tunic trimmed with purple, cinched at the waist with a bejeweled leather belt, and draped over shiny, blue and yellow, plaid, Celtic breeches. Yet, for all his weight, he had a quickness of foot that put many half his size to shame. However, it was Porcius’s sunken, brown eyes, staring like demons carved on pillars of Druid temples, that were so unnerving. Those eyes took in everything, missed nothing, and penetrated to the deepest reaches of one’s soul. He had lived in Britannia for five years, and his mastery of the lilting languages of their people was exceptional.

  Porcius waddled forward and extended his meaty hand to Caratacus. “Congratulations on your narrow victory,” he said in a false, honeyed voice. “Yours was as fine as any that I’ve seen in the Great Circus of Rome, indeed finer. I’ve never seen our drivers fly onto the drawbar. For a moment, I thought you might jump forward and drag your ponies to victory.”

  Caratacus gave Porcius a contemptuous nod, noted by the bejowled emissary.

  The Roman grinned and turned to Cunobelinos. He gestured upward with a hand and returned it to his side. “You have a son worthy of your esteemed house, Great King.”

  “Aye, perhaps he is,” Cunobelinos grunted.

  Caratacus knew that he would have to take his first head in battle before his father praised him. Great Teutates, give me patience. My time will come.

  Porcius looked about and then to Cunobelinos. “When you have a moment to spare, Great King, I would like to speak with you—in private.”

  The king stiffened, his cold, slate eyes glared at Porcius. “About what?”

  The Roman returned his glowering look then cleared his throat. “I have received a message from the Emperor Tiberius.” Porcius hesitated and glanced as the crowd drew closer, including King Epaticcos, Caratacus’s uncle. “Please, Great King, this is not the place to discuss it.”