by Tony Roberts
“Any wounded?”
“Two. One a flesh wound – bullet creased his ass.” Carlos chuckled and Danny joined in. “The other has a bullet in his shoulder. It’ll have to be dug out on the way. Don’t want to do it here.”
“Right you are. Touch down will be sent to Hayley once you’re on the way – the paymasters are being coy about the drop-point until they know you’re on the way safely with the goods.”
“Don’t blame them. Okay. I’m sending a report downline, along with something I put together the last couple of nights. Some of the guys here thought I’d gone mad, talking to myself, but I was recording. One of my past adventures. I know you love hearing about them.”
Danny nodded. “What’s this one about?”
“A little side show after I got back from the Argentoratum mission rescuing that girl from the barbarian tribes. Remember that one?”
“Oh yeah, you killed that traitor Gerontius.”
“That’s the one. Anyway, gotta go before the jerks listen in and zero my co-ordinates. Later!”
Danny signed off, too, and sure enough in came the email. The wonders of modern technology, along with spam and pop-up advertizing. The report he would scan through and save. Certain agencies may wish to see it in due course, since their mission was being carried out with their permission. Going into a sovereign nation armed and with explicit orders to kill, and removing articles of historical value needed approval in high places. They may be a covert contracted force, but one could never operate these days unless some government or global organization gave tacit approval.
A set-up like UNESCO, for example, was a legit and peaceful one, but at times they needed to turn to people like Carlos to save antiques from destruction by people with no love for history or artefacts. Intermediaries would be used so that there was no known connection to the mission, but it was there all the same.
Sound files took time, even on the high-spec machines Danny used, so he waited for the download to be completed by reading the report. Eventually all was ready and Danny excitedly saved the file to his memory stick, then plugged it into his audio system, donned headphones, and sat back comfortably, listening to Carlos’ voice coming through the speakers.
Danny was transported away from the modern world to the ancient, to the beginning of the period now known as the Dark Ages, when Roman control of the Mediterranean world was crumbling away and so much knowledge was being lost. Although the name had changed to Milan and he had been there himself, he was now walking the streets of Mediolanum, seeing the place in a completely different way. He could see three figures coming along the paved street, two men and a woman, and they were grouped close together for protection.
CHAPTER TWO
Navina huddled close to the two men, not because she wanted to, but because they offered protection. There were groups of people hanging around in the deepening shadows of early evening, on street corners, or in alleyways, or under archways. They looked at the three with interest. They didn’t look at ease, therefore they must be newcomers. The woman was easy prey, but the two men with her looked tough and were armed. Perhaps not a good idea to try to steal from them, or take the woman off them.
Casca glanced their way as he passed. Jackals. Human scavengers. These types always congregated in times like this, when law and order began to break down, and the authorities no longer had the funds or will to patrol the streets effectively. Only those who could afford it could buy protection, and many out-of-work former soldiers found their way into employment as bodyguards or bouncers, paid by the rich.
Here, though, on the main street running through the city, there were no wealthy residencies. Shops, many of which were boarded up, or crumbling, dotted the way along, and houses crammed together, many showing signs of neglect or disrepair. Trash littered the sidewalks, another sign of little being done by the authorities.
“How far is it now?” Casca asked, turning to Navina.
“Just over there,” she said, shaking. Whether this was through cold or fear he wasn’t sure, but she was clearly unhappy being in the street. Opposite stood a tavern, and Casca reckoned he and Flavius could spend an evening there getting the lowdown on events in the empire. When they got to the rectangular doorway in the white and terracotta colored house, it appeared boarded up and abandoned. Navina looked lost and seemed to have no idea of what to do, so Casca took charge.
“Let’s get off the street and into a place of warmth. Over there, that tavern. Come on.” He more or less dragged a reluctant woman with him, Flavius bringing up the rear. Eyes watched as they reached the dirty brown curtain that acted as a door, and Casca pulled it aside. He stepped in first, noting the smoky atmosphere, chipped tables and chairs and slovenly unkempt manner of the clientele.
He gripped the hilt of his sword and smiled in an un-encouraging way at them, and pushed Navina ahead of him towards the fire which was responsible for most of the smoke in the room. A spit at the back of the tavern added to it, which was being turned rather reluctantly by a thin and wretched looking slave. What meat hung from the spit looked charred and inedible.
Two men looked at the approaching men and decided to abandon their post. Big men with swords and a mean look meant trouble, and they weren’t the type to take on that sort of person. At least not face to face anyway. The fire was blazing away quite fiercely, but the wood being used was green looking, if the stack to one side was anything to go by, which spoke of haste and desperation. Winter was coming to an end, as was all semblance of order in Casca’s known world. How long the regime here could keep going was open to conjecture. It was rapidly turning into an everyone-for-themselves culture.
Navina was seated between the two men and she looked from one to the other. “Now what do we do? My family has gone, and we don’t know where!”
“Someone may know,” Casca replied. “At least here we’re warm, and out of the night. I feel much more secure here, don’t know about you, Flavius?”
Flavius grunted and nodded. “Aye, sir, I agree. So what now, as the young lady here has asked?”
“A drink,” Casca said and held up an arm. A waitress came over, beer stains on her apron and a waft of stale alcohol preceding her. “What can I get you?” she asked, eyeing the three. She decided the scar-faced one was the one to address, and he was the most interesting one.
“A jug of beer and one of water, and three cups.”
“Two denarii.”
Casca snorted in disgust, but threw the coins at her anyway. “Prices are stupid.”
“The way it’s gone,” Flavius noted. “Nobody seems to stop it, either.”
Casca grunted and waited till the drinks were put on the table, poured himself a drink and lifted the cup to his lips, glancing round at the people there. Some were casting an occasional look in their direction. Trouble. A couple of others looked interesting, so he gave his excuses and wandered over to the two men sat with their heads close to one another. He dragged a spare chair over with a scrape on the bare and stained floorboards and sat down heavily, grinning at the two clearly unhappy men.
“What do you want?” one growled, his eyes narrowed.
“A bit of information on the situation here, that’s all.”
“Why? Don’t you know?”
Casca rolled his eyes. “If I did I wouldn’t be asking you, would I? I’ve been away in Gaul and have just got back. Is Mediolanum still under Honorius? Who rules Italia, and what’s the likelihood of someone else taking over?”
The two men glanced at one another, then back at Casca. The first, a man with white stubble and a lined, tired face, leaned back. “Would you mind if I asked why you want this information? And why ask us?”
Casca shrugged. “You look the intelligent types, and I’m looking for work. I’m a sword for hire, as is my friend over there.”
The two men nodded. “Serious stuff? I mean you want to work for the authorities? There’s plenty of work going round, but as to money, I doubt many will be able to p
ay you a decent wage. Taxation has all but collapsed and the municipalities here are struggling to pay and keep people to do the basics, let alone anything extra. No fire fighters, no vigiles, precious few guards.”
“You army?”
“Loosely,” the second man admitted. “Auxilia, Foederates, if you like.”
“You’ve not got Gothic accents,” Casca said, cocking his head. “But you’re not Latins, that’s for sure.”
“We’re from Pannonia. Got out before it collapsed. Employed by the emperor to defend the frontier, then found the Goths all over us like a rash. Tore away the defenses and now nobody’s there except the local limitanii to hold onto what once was a frontier. Pah.”
“So what are you two up to now?”
The first held out a hand and Casca grasped it. “Name’s Lacano. Centurion in the Cometanii. This is Fodegast, commander of our mighty force.”
“Germans. Allemanni?”
“Close,” Lacano grinned. “Tedesci, or that’s what you Latins call us. Tribe’s almost gone and absorbed into others, but we didn’t like the new regime so we stayed with the official army and retreated into Italia. What’s left of the unit is camped outside the walls, waiting for orders.”
“How many?”
“Why you want to know? You’re not a Goth spy, are you?”
Casca shook his head slowly. “Hardly. Slaughtered one of their warbands not to far from here, to the north. Ten of them. Killed the woman’s husband.”
“Bad business,” Fodegast said. “Damned renegades are everywhere, all splinters from old Alaric’s army. Most of ‘em are down south, but for how long we don’t know. Guess they’re working out what to do now Alaric is dead. New king’s called Ataulf but I bet he’s no Alaric.”
“Rarely are,” Casca agreed. “So where are you heading for?”
“Not sure; we’re hoping to gather more men to the eagle. You look like men who’ve done soldiering. Care to join up? We need good soldiers.”
Casca nodded. “Don’t care much for the local situation; being in an army seems safer, as long as the woman can come along too.”
“Not a problem; we have plenty there already. Come on; let’s finish our drinks and get back to camp. Nothing much else to see here,” Lacano said.
Casca and the other two left the tavern and accompanied the officers and their escort through the city and out through the south gate. “Locals won’t touch us,” Fodegast commented wryly, observing a group of thin, young men who watched them walk past. “The woman on her own, or maybe if one of us was alone, well we’d be fair game. Law and order has gone to the devil,” he said.
Casca grunted. “Strong leaders and a strong army would put that right.”
Fodegast nodded. “Trouble is, we start organizing things, and the Goths turn up and smash everything, or the emperor sends troops away to some trouble spot and leaves the rest to the wolves. What else can be done? The moment anyone looks like he’s getting things under control Honorius is told by one of his corrupt inner circle that this person is a threat and a possible rival, and the emperor isn’t the type to think for himself, so this organizer is arrested and disposed of. Bah!”
Casca wondered what the court was really up to. It had been a courtier by the name of Olympius who had intrigued to eliminate Stilicho, and once that warlord was gone, everything had fallen apart.
The camp was visible for miles. A sea of tents surrounded by earthworks met their eyes, even though most of it was hidden in the dark. There were enough camp fires to show that this was big. Patrolling guards maintained a decent enough perimeter that brought a swelling to Casca’s heart. At least here were two men trying to keep the old ways going.
He was shown a spare tent close to the center of camp. He was told he would be an optio, a non-commissioned officer in charge of discipline of a unit of men. As an optio he had a few small privileges, and Navina was told she could share the tent. She looked surprised – or confused – for a moment, then meekly accepted and bent her head, going in. She looked too tired and drained to argue. Flavius was shown a single tent next to them. His role was yet to be determined, but Casca wanted him as a squad leader or someone close as he knew the man and trusted him.
The tent had little in the way of décor or features. The eternal mercenary looked around with his hands on his hips. “Got to get some sleeping blankets and screens before anything else.”
Navina sat on the ground towards the rear of the tent. She appeared listless. Maybe the effect of all that had happened to her in the recent past was catching up with her now she had the luxury of being able to think. He looked at her thoughtfully. “Navina.”
She looked up sharply, a flicker of anxiety crossing her features.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said softly. “I was going to ask if you could organize the tent. No doubt my commander will be working my ass off in no time, so I won’t have much spare time to do it myself. I’ll leave it to you to get what’s needed.”
She sighed and nodded. Maybe doing something was better than sitting there feeling sorry for herself.
He turned away, satisfied he’d come up with some kind of solution, and ducked back out into the night. From what he’d seen the camp was just like the classic camp design of the Roman world he’d been part of many times before. Rectangular in shape, four walls and in the center of each a gate. The tents were arranged in neat rows, with the spaces in between used as walkways or ‘roads’. Soldiers marched down these routes. The never walked, for some officer or non-com would have their balls for breakfast if they saw them walk.
The center of camp would be where the administration and commanders could be found. Casca guessed that also this would be where the priests of the new state religion, Christianity, led the worship of the new god. Casca grimaced. Damned religion was haunting him, reminding him of his immortality. He decided he’d avoid any contact with the priests if at all possible, and stick to the proper heart of the camp, the commanders, stores and supply center, the smithy and weaponry. All very well having your god’s blessing, he mused, but that won’t feed you, clothe you or repair your broken equipment.
He decided to wait until morning to go visit his commander. For now he was too damned tired, and he guessed everyone else was. He returned to the tent and made as best a bed he could with his meager possessions, Navina finally consenting to curling up against his back for warmth.
The morning came soon enough and Casca made for the center of camp. Lacano came out of Fodegast’s quarters and waved him over. Casca saluted in the old Roman manner and the centurion grinned briefly. Good to have someone under the banners who knew how to show proper respect. From that came discipline, and from that, a better soldier.
Lacano spoke to Casca. “Optio Longinus, you are assigned to the Falcon Century. I am your centurion, so you report directly to me. I expect hard work, tight discipline and obedience. No slacking. I want you to train up a mixture of recruits, fugitives from other units now destroyed, and deserters we caught. They’ve either had no training at all, developed some bad habits or are just plain damned bad soldiers. Knock the shit out of them and make decent soldiers out of them. Got it?”
“Clear, sir. I’d like to appoint Flavius as my drill instructor. I know him and he knows his stuff. He’s a steady, reliable type.”
Lacano grunted with assent. “If it helps kicking these donkeys into shape, I don’t care if you use a pride of lions.”
“Thank you, Centurion. Oh, my woman, Navina, she’s to stock my tent – I hope that’s alright?”
“As long as it doesn’t resemble a tart’s salon, that’s fine by me. Quartermaster is over there,” he pointed over his left shoulder. “Get a requisition chit from him.”
Casca thanked him. He got the chit, albeit after a brief difference of opinion with a sour-faced man who clearly believed everything was coming out of his own personal stock. After giving Navina the chit, he took Flavius to the Falcon Century’s training area. Wooden posts stood in the g
round with gouges hacked out of them, and Casca knew instantly that these were where the legionaries practiced with their swords.
In a century there were nominally eighty men, but with recent defeats and problems in recruiting from an increasingly unwilling populace meant that now there were about fifty. Losses in battle were made up as soon as possible, and so the century had around twenty-five new members, all of whom needed basic training.
They were a slovenly lot. The impression of this wasn’t helped by the fact they didn’t have a standard uniform at the moment; that would have to be addressed once they got access to one of the imperial armories. They carried a motley collection of swords and spears, but most had the spatha-type sword, a longer bladed weapon than the gladius iberius of Casca’s early legion days. The quartermaster had a wide variety of weapons, scavenged from battlefields or obtained in other ways from private collections, looting or even stolen in some instances. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Casca faced the untidy group of men with both fists on hips, shaking his head sadly. How had the empire fallen thus? He turned to Flavius. “Chickens before the foxes?”
Flavius snorted. “They don’t look capable of handling their own penises, let alone a sword, sir.”
Casca almost laughed; he’d not heard that one before. “Very well, let’s show them the glorious life of a legionary. Come on.”
Flavius walked up to the group of men, watched with interest by the veterans of the century. Five of them were actually trying to use the practice post but clearly failing to do so with any effectiveness. One was showing off, loudly declaring he would cut a Goth’s head in two. The others said nothing back, as this one was the biggest and loudest of them all, and got his way through bullying or just wearing any counter argument down by talking over them and not listening to a different point of view.
Flavius drew his own sword and blocked the next down-sweep and pushed the man away from the post. “You’d be cut down by any Goth before you had time to speak the word, striking like that. Now, all of you, stand to attention. Optio on parade!”