by Barry Sadler
The five barbarians backed off. The crowd began cheering, making wagers on how many the two against the wall would kill before they fell.
Casca spoke through clenched teeth to Vergix: "Now is the time to put the pressure on. They should be getting tired. From the look of them, they have been on short rations for some time. Keep moving and stay close to me."
Casca held his round shield low to the front. He lunged forward, striking first with the shield then with the sword. Vergix by his side, the two beat the barbarians back, cutting down one who had been slowed up by earlier wounds.
The two remaining tribesmen rallied enough to create a breathing space. The crowd fell silent again.
The surviving Germanics were hard looking men who had reconciled themselves to their fates. One of them, a. Vandal, came forward, a curve bladed sica and round buckler held before him. He had a heavily muscled chest and arms. A single long braid of blondish gray hair hung from under his iron helmet to reach to his shoulders. The other, a red haired warrior from the tribe of the Marcomanni, came with him carrying an axe the same as Vergix's.
There was a feeling of expectancy in the stands as the men on the sands sized each other up, waiting... The Vandal threw back his head and screamed "Wotan!" then hurled himself at Casca. The Marcomanni followed. It was sword against sword, axe against axe, as the four closed together in a struggle that could have only one ending. They fought without anger, just cold determination to kill before they died.
The Vandal drove Casca back, hacking a gouge out of his shield. His strength was great but it was the last of his reserves and he knew it. He rushed again, forcing Casca to his knees by nearly slicing off his face.
But a man who is not afraid to die, or who already considers himself dead, is doubly dangerous, especially when he knows his craft.
The Vandal lunged in with a straight thrust that Casca barely managed to block with his shield. The Vandal's sword stuck in it point first. Casca unexpectedly let loose of his shield. The weight of it forced the Vandal's blade down before he could free it. That was all the time he needed. One straight lunge and his sword entered half its length into the hard striated muscles of the Vandal's stomach. As he fell to his knees, his weight pulled the blade out.
Holding his gut closed with his hands, he looked to Casca. "Well fought and well met, Roman." The mob was silent, in suspense, as if it were a thousand headed creature.
The Vandal choked on a bloody bubble and smiled. "Give me peace, Roman." He leaned his head forward, exposing his neck. Casca understood. He would stop the pain for him. He struck with great force, hitting accurately at the junction of the vertebrae. The Vandal's head rolled free.
The last of the barbarians fought well, too, until a blow from Vergix's axe sunk into his chest to stop the beating of the warrior's wild heart. The stands went mad, silver coins rained down, women wept in passion, barely able to control themselves. Behind the mask of pious Christianity, the old Roman love of blood was still there.
The crowd began to chant in unison for the Rudis to be given.
Honorius raised himself from his royal seat and stood at the edge of his box under the Imperial Eagles. He elevated his bejeweled hand, signaling for silence, and the crowd obeyed instantly.
Honorius was remarkable for nothing other than being extremely ordinary in appearance and manner. But, he was the Emperor. Lowering his hand, he pointed his finger at the warriors on the sands below him.
"It is the wish of the people that you be shown mercy. I am not adverse to granting you mercy, but there are two conditions. First, you must renounce all your pagan gods, and second, you must prove your valor against better fighters than those ill trained savages there. Defeat two of my praetorians and you shall take their places."
The Emperor turned to the two nearest guards, massively built men, resplendent in the gilded armor of the Imperial Guard; both were extremely proud men from the same tribe of the Quadii. He pointed at Casca and his swordmate, softly ordering the guards, "Kill me those two men!"
The guards saluted and headed for the entrance to the arena. This was not the first time they'd been ordered to their for emperor. Honorius felt that it was good for his men to do a little bloodletting of their own now and then; it also served as a warning to his enemies.
As the two entered the arena, Casca noted that they were not armed with the gladius iberius, the regulation blade of the Empire, but instead they both carried the long swords of their homelands.
Casca wiped his sword hand across his loincloth to dry some of the sweat and blood which was making his grip slip a bit. He nudged Vergix, whispering, "This could be our chance. You take the big one and keep close to me, but watch out where you swing that damned meat cleaver you nearly knocked my brains out twice."
Instead of waiting for the two praetorians to come to them, Casca and Vergix moved out across the sands, Vergix swinging his axe slowly back and forth. He stooped and picked up a shield made of ox hide, grinning at Casca.
The attendants, who had been waiting to draw away the last of the bodies, stayed in place. The crowd tensed, anticipating the action. It was well known by all that when the Emperor sent in his personal guards, it was to be a good show.
The praetorians moved confidently, almost with disdain, toward their adversaries. They were men used to being the victors. They'd killed many times; this would be nothing new to them. But this time, they were unaware that they were facing a man who'd trained at the school of Corvu the Lanista. The men they'd killed before were warriors from savage tribes, or legionnaires who'd been convicted of a capital offense.. They'd never fought a professional who had won the wooden sword from the hands of Imperial Nero.
The fact that their two opponents had just killed several barbarians did not impress them much. They'd done the same thing themselves more than once. Besides, they were fresh now, and these two criminals should be about worn out.
Casca concentrated on his breathing, sucking air in through his nose, keeping his mouth closed. He tried to muster enough saliva to spit, but failed. The heat was building under his helmet, sweat ran freely down his face. If not for the strip of cloth tied around his forehead, he would have been blinded by his own salty fluids. As it was, enough of his body's moisture still collected in his eyebrows and sent intermittent beads of sweat down to sting his eyes.
The praetorians stopped their advance at the approach of Casca and Vergix. They looked questioningly at each other. They were used to inspiring fear, not having their victims come to them. Ignorant savages, they evidently did not know whom they were facing.
The guards both carried round shields with lightning bolts radiating from the center boss. Casca went into a crouch, still using two blades. Vergix moved around to the side of his man, drawing him away from his comrade.
Casca moved, the two swords weaving and striking, trying to search out an opening in the other's guard. It didn't take him long to realize that he had an easy kill on his hands with this one, if he wanted it. The Quadii was big and strong but not very talented.
Casca toyed with him, waiting until Vergix finished his man, or was killed. Vergix was about evenly matched to his foe, and they beat at each other like two great bulls, head on with no finesse. Vergix put an end to it by gathering all of his strength and smashing down with his axe, straight into the practorian’s shield. The blade of his axe sank into the shield almost half of its depth, nearly severing the man's left wrist where he was holding onto the inner shield straps. At the same time, Vergix pulled forward. There was nothing the praetorian could do. He had been taken unaware and was now off balance, being jerked forward. As he moved, Vergix moved quickly to the guard's rear and jerked off the helmet. Forming a fist, he struck the praetorian violently at the base of the neck. The sound of the man's neck breaking was clearly heard and the crowd loved it. He started then to go to the aid of Casca, but was waved back by the Roman's hand. He wanted no help. They were here to put on a show. Vergix had done his part, now stage cen
ter belonged to Casca.
The surviving guard began now to know fear. Casca parried and lunged, the tips of his swords reaching in and nicking the other in a dozen places until his entire face was covered in a mask of free flowing blood.
Casca could sense that the crowd was getting impatient for the kill now. He drove in, forcing the other back, and locked his sword against the hilt of the praetorian's. Dropping the blade in his left hand, he grasped the man's shield. Angling his body around, he twisted the praetorian to his knees, released the shield and wrenched the sword from the man's hand. Casca grabbed him by the armor, where it joined at the neck, and jerked the guard to his feet. He dropped quickly to his knee and pulled the man over his shoulders, bearing the entire weight of the other. Grunting with the strain of the lift, he rose to his full height, standing erect, the big man helpless now on his shoulders. He started moving, swinging from side to side, picking up speed with each half turn. When he'd reached sufficient momentum, he released his hand at the man's thigh, retaining the grip at the neck with the other, allowing the man's own weight, combined with the motion, to force him down headfirst directly to the ground. The impact crushed the other's skull in its own helmet.
There was pandemonium in the stands and it took several minutes before even the Emperor could quiet them enough for him to be heard.
Honorius was well pleased; his face flushed, he rose amid the excitement. His voice reached out over the arena: "You have been victorious and now there are vacancies that must be filled in the ranks of my personal guards. If you will now renounce all heathen gods and practices from this day forth, and allow yourselves to be baptized in the name of the living Christ, I will accept you into my guards. If you refuse, then the fate you receive will be of your own making. How say you?"
Casca spoke for both himself and Vergix. "We thank the people and you, Caesar. From this day we renounce the ways of the old gods and accept the Christus."
The audience went into a fervor of joy mixed with blood lust and religious zeal. Two lambs had been brought into the fold of Jesus.
They left the arena under a rain of flowers and the pleased eye of Honorius. Casca felt a mixture of contempt and pity for the Romans and their pathetic Caesar. But the important thing was that they were free again.
Two guards from the praetorians came for them, taking them first to the baths to cleanse them from the day's butchery. Vergix had bathed under protest, but Casca had noticed that the hot steam of the baths had brought an involuntary sigh of pleasure from the barbarian, even though he'd claimed that bathing was unhealthy.
After the bath, they were escorted to the commander of the guards, a tribune, for orientation. Before he would issue them their uniforms and equipment, a priest would see to their baptism. The priest took them to the river close by and they were forced to suffer the indignity, as far as Vergix was concerned, of being submerged three times to wash away all their earthly sins, to be born again as Christians. The only effect Casca felt from the second bath of the day, other than a slight chill, was bitterness at being forced into accepting the religion and worship of the man he'd slain.
After the dunking, they were taken to the armory and issued the gilded armor of the praetorian guards, including the red plumed helmet, and their weapon, a fancy sword with silver pommels. Vergix admired himself in a polished copper mirror, thumping Casca on the back and bellowing, "By one eyed Loki, this is certainly a fine set of goods we've been given."
Casca warned him to watch his tongue in referring to his old gods. It was well known and demonstrated that these Christians had damned little tolerance, as he should well know by now.
The association with Vergix was good for him, though he never felt as close to him as he had to the giant Glam Tyrsbjorn of Helsfjord. Vergix still helped to ease a lot of Casca's troubles with his basic philosophy: It-don't-make-no-difference-what-happens-the-world's-still-full-of-bullshit was too logical to be argued with.
The cavalry contingent they were assigned to was sent more frequently on reconnaissance patrols. Each time they went out they returned with the message that the Goths were nearer and closing on Rome. Casca knew that in his heart Vergix was hoping for the success of Alaric. He didn't blame his hoarse friend; if their places had been reversed he would have felt the same. Vergix, for his part, would probably have deserted the first day he was set free if it hadn't been that Casca would have been held responsible for him and punished.
In spite of the racial differences, he liked the smaller, scarfaced Roman even if he was a bit weird. He took it upon himself to try and bring the Roman back into the real world or at least to his thinking the only one that mattered which was the world of plenty of soft women, good beer and an occasional fight to keep your spark up.
Over half the praetorians were from tribes outside the borders of Rome. Vergix fit right in with them but had a little trouble adapting to the discipline of taking orders from anyone that outranked him. He obeyed commands only reluctantly and was frequently reminded that if he became too big a pain in the ass there could be arranged a return trip to the arena or perhaps to the headsman's axe. However ten days of having to guard the imperial persons of Honorius and his sister Placidia brought him into line.
Casca told him to keep his mouth shut and just play the game. After all it could be a lot worse and the duty shifts they pulled were not very demanding. There was plenty of free time for them since the guard mounts rotated so that they were on duty only four days in six. Vergix appreciated this, for it gave him time to investigate the better whorehouses that Ravenna had to offer. Vergix cared for nothing; as long as his belly was full and there were coins to tinkle in his purse, he was content enough.
When they were on guard in the palace, Casca saw that messengers came and went with increasing frequency and each time they left, Honorius looked more worried. His soft cheeks would pale at each new piece of information about the movements of Alaric. At night he had a full squad of armed praetorians stand guard at his chamber doors, always within earshot, with orders to kill anyone that approached without proper orders.
Vergix had a knack for gathering gossip and soon knew more about what was transpiring behind the closed doors of the Emperor's councils than most of Honorius's ministers did. The hoarse Nordic had taken up with a Bithynian slave girl with big ears and even larger tits. From her he found out most of what was said in the inner chambers and relayed it to Casca.
When he asked Vergix how she knew so much, he was reminded that slaves are rarely considered people with any intelligence and their masters tend to talk too freely around them. To them they are no more than another piece of furniture that can move and do their bidding.
Honorius adamantly refused to return to Rome even when he received word that the city was certain to come under attack. He would not leave the safety of the mountains and the walls that surrounded Ravenna. Rome would have to take care of itself. He was not about to expose himself to the embarrassment of being captured by savages or even to suffer personal pain. It was much better, he thought, to save the empire the indignity of having the imperial person placed in jeopardy by remaining where he could give hope to all of his desperate people. As the father of his country he was not expendable.
The commander of the praetorions did try to make something of a showing, and reluctantly Honorius gave permission for patrols to be sent out to the countryside to reassure the masses that he was still in control of the situation and promise them that the savages would soon be driven out and back across the Danube.
Vergix snorted through his sweeping mustache. He was too wily not to see how deep the rot had set in among the Roman forces and their commanders. It was with regret that he reconciled himself to serving on the side he was least disposed toward. But the Norns will have their way as they weave the threads of man's existence until the time when they take their shears and snip his life. He would just have to go along with whatever it was that they had planned for him.
CHAPTER TWO
When he had asked them for lands to settle his people on, the Senate had granted him territory in Moesia between the Danube and the Balkans. He knew the reason he was given permission was for his Visigoths to provide a buffer zone between the Empire and the expansions of the tribes of savage Scythia.
It was because of these tribes that he wanted to move his people out of their homelands. For three seasons there had been bad weather with small harvests. This, combined with the constant pressure of the Huns and others, led Alaric to decide that, rather than go to war when his tribes were just barely above starvation level, he would appeal to Rome.
There had been one treachery after the other. The food his people were to receive was stolen by the Roman administrators. The gold to be paid him for guarding their borders was withheld. He had needed this to pay his warriors who, while they were away from their homes guarding the frontiers, could raise no crops or cattle. The gold was necessary for them to feed their families.
Then the final stroke. During a meeting to discuss his problems, the Romans had struck without warning, killing thousands of his people including women and children. That was too much. In a rage, he had struck blindly out with his warriors, not seeking conquest, only to avenge the slaughter of his innocents.
It was to his surprise that the Roman forces opposing him fell apart under his attack. The foul deed of the Romans brought to him others who had suffered under the imperial yoke, swelling his forces with those who wanted revenge or the chance to plunder.
Alaric was no ignorant savage; he was descended from the noble house of the Balti and was an Arian Christian, as were most of his tribe. Perhaps it was the Church of Rome that caused them all this trouble. He knew the Roman church considered them heretics.