by Tony Roberts
“Nor I, sir. Very good, I’ll make sure he’s onto it before long.”
Casca left them to it. He threw his armor to the ground inside the tent and made his way to the centurion’s. When he got there he was told to go to Fodegast’s. Intrigued, he reported, and was shown in. Both Fodegast and Lacano were there, along with a few other officers.
“Ah, Optio Longinus,” Fodegast looked up from examining the table in front of him. “I was just saying we’ve had orders to move out. Get the men ready to march. We’re off to Ravenna.”
Casca thumped his chest. There wasn’t much to say in return. The emperor, Fodegast informed them all, was gathering an army under the new Magister Militum, Constantius, but their ultimate destination and purpose was not yet known. They were to join the army gathering outside the capital and await further orders.
As Casca and Lacano returned to the centurion’s tent, the Optio broached the subject of Marcus’ desertion. The centurion shrugged it off. “You decide the punishment; we’re too busy to worry about all that now, Optio Longinus. Get your men ready to march as soon as possible. We’re not going to hang about here a moment longer than necessary.”
Casca returned to the unit and got Flavius to commandeer a few wagons to carry the tents and heavier equipment. Everything was collapsed and packed in no time, and all the while the rain kept on falling relentlessly. Navina hitched a ride on one of the wagons, and then Casca inspected the sodden lines of men critically. They were a shambles. Grumbling under his breath, he waved them out of the south gate and on the road towards the town of Placentia. From there he knew they’d step onto the via Aemilia that ran to the Adriatic port of Ariminum, and Ravenna was just off that to the east. His blood began to race through his veins. He could sense they were going to go to war no matter where they went after Ravenna.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ravenna stood behind a series of high walls rising out of the surrounding swamp. The camp, placed on firmer ground to the west of the walls, was an impressively-sized one, teeming with soldiers, artisans, men, women, horses and dogs. The camp had clearly been up for some time for there were some semi-permanent structures – huts, sheds, guard houses and gateways, and all round the perimeter there was a chest-high earthworks topped with wooden stakes.
As he led his men through one of the gates, Casca heard a mixture of tongues. Amongst the Latin he caught an old familiar language of his youth, Occan. This was still spoken in southern Gaul and north-western Italia. There was also Germanic, Celtic and even a smattering of Coptic. He turned his head in the direction of the latter and saw a dark-skinned soldier speaking to a colleague, both of whom were clearly from Egypt.
The smell of latrines was strong and he saw an open sewer. Inevitable, given the nature of the camp. Horse dung, leather, cooking meat and the salty tang of the nearby sea competed with the harsher odor of the latrines. Men shouted, orders punctuated the air. Lacano turned and gestured to Casca and the other optios. “Put your men over there,” he pointed to an open area of wasteland, close to the swamp. “It’s a bit smelly and damp, but as we’re latecomers we haven’t got much of a choice. Get them quartered and start cooking. The sooner the men have food in their bellies the better.” He loped off towards Fodegast who was busy directing the wagons into a circle – a laager – so they could unload and set up as fast as possible without getting in one another’s way.
“Alright, you heard him,” Casca said to Flavius, “let’s set up here. Get the tents staked out first, then get a couple of pots on the boil.” He saw the camp bully, a man called Samnius, looking at the ground with distaste. “And that includes you, Samnius, I want to see you working your ass off like everyone else.” Everyone knew the man was in the habit of getting others to do his work for him unless Flavius or Casca were looking his way. “Otherwise I can see there’s a beautiful latrine begging for your sweet attention.”
The others grinned. Samnius snapped smartly to attention. “Yes sir, Optio, sir!”
“Sarcastic bastard,” Casca muttered and looked away. Marcus was standing close by. The young man sported a few facial bruises and a split lip, a legacy of being picked on by the others. They saw the rich boy as easy pickings and he’d been the target of some vicious attention. Not having learned self-defense, Marcus had not been able to put up any kind of effective resistance. Casca had put a stop to that by taking him as a personal valet, and now the recruit rarely strayed too far from Casca’s side, and slept in a small tent alongside the optio’s.
Casca was also giving him extra drill in combat and marching. He was determined to toughen him up. Flavius thought it all a waste of time as he believed Marcus would desert at the earliest opportunity.
The eternal mercenary went to the driest looking spot available and stood there, eyeing the efforts of the others. A drover came up and informed him the tents were ready, so Casca indicated to Flavius to organize the fetching detail. Navina turned up, clutching a bag of small items. “I’m so glad we’ve arrived,” she said in relief, “that awful man I was sat next to had such bad breath! I think I preferred the smell of the donkey.”
Casca smiled briefly. “You’ll have to endure the swamp for the next few days.”
She pulled a face. “Is the army always a case of enduring bad smells?”
“Yup, and bad food or bad officers. Biting insects, hostile natives, rain, cold, snow, hail, wind. It’s a great life.”
“You’re mad.”
“Quite probably,” Casca conceded. He turned to Marcus. “How’s the stomach?”
“Fine, sir, why?”
Casca sent his fist into it without further warning. Marcus groaned, doubled up, and sucked in a lungful of air. He remained in that pose for a few moments, then straightened, holding his guts.
Navina tutted. “Why do you treat this poor lad like that?”
Casca looked at her. “A week ago he would have been rolling on the floor throwing his guts up. Look at him now. He’s toughened up. Needed to.” He addressed Marcus. “Better, soldier. Keep working on those exercises. When camp is set up, I want you moving those rocks there, see them in that loose pile? I want them over here arranged in a circle about so big,” he spread his arms.
“Sir,” Marcus gasped, rubbing his stomach.”
“Good. I’ll make a man of you yet.”
Navina clucked her tongue. She looked away, unable to stand the sight of the distressed man any longer.
The tents arrived, Casca’s being the first, naturally, and he, Navina and Marcus set it up. A groundsheet had been added, much to Casca’s liking. The interior he left to the woman. Throwing his kit inside, he stood just outside the flap, directing his men, getting them to arrange their tents in as neat a set of rows as possible. Meanwhile, Marcus staggered up to the open space in between the tents and threw the first of the rocks down, panting heavily. Casca nodded with approval and the young man went back for the next one.
Navina stuck her head out of the tent. “Why are you making him do that?”
“Building him up. He’s hardly able to swing a sword as it is, or move well with a full set of armor on, so he’ll have to be built up. Since we need a cooking pit, I’m killing two birds with one stone. Rather him doing that than mixing with the others and getting beaten up. Now be silent; I know what I’m doing!”
She pulled a face and vanished.
The tents went up. Marcus got five rocks, arranged them in a rough circle and then sat down, exhausted. Casca rested him and got Samnius and a few others to fetch some more, and before long a neat circle of stones and rocks marked the spot where the fire was to be built. Wood was found and in no time a fire was merrily crackling away. Meat was put on hastily improvised spits and the century sat round either heating their ration or waiting their turn.
Marcus was, inevitably, at the back of the group. Casca sauntered over and looked down at the dejected looking man. “If you let people push you around, they will. You’ve got to earn their respect by standing up for yoursel
f.”
Marcus looked up. “But they will beat me up.”
“Yes they will. So you have two choices in the case; you can either let them walk over you or you can fight back. This is why I’m toughening you up, Marcus. Sooner or later you’ll have to make a stand, and when you do you’ve got to be strong enough and know enough about fighting to have an even chance. I think you’ve got potential to be something with us, which is better than the life you would have had as a wastrel and rich drunkard like before. So its up to you as to which course your life takes.”
Marcus remained staring at the ground as Casca left him, returning back to the fire.
___
Two days later Lacano finally sent for Casca and Flavius. He eyed both for a moment, then pointed at the pair. “I recall you saying you had been in Massilia and Arelate last year, and you’d been working for the traitor Constantine. Is that right?”
Casca and Flavius shifted uncomfortably. “Sir. One mission, hired in Massilia through an agent, and once we found he’d double-crossed us we ended it right there and then.”
Lacano looked thoughtfully at them. “Hmm. Well, something’s come up. We’ve all been asked to find anyone who has been in either city and maybe worked for the traitor, and the boss immediately thought of you two. He wants a word. Go present yourselves.”
Outside, Casca spoke to Flavius. “I wonder what this is all about?”
“Dunno, sir. Perhaps Constantine, or the man who hired us on his behalf has sent people after us?”
Casca shook his head. “No, I don’t think it’s that – Lacano was saying someone wanted anyone with knowledge of either city, and maybe working for the false emperor. Seems we may be getting ready to move back over the Alps. Looks like we may be asked to give some advance intelligence on those places. My guess is Constantius, the new Magister, has been ordered to knock over Constantine and retake southern Gaul.”
“Is that wise, with the Goths to the south?”
Casca shrugged. “Come on, we won’t find out by standing here, talking.”
They reported to Fodegast. The cohort commander waved in the direction of a richly attired individual seated next to him. “This is Garus, one of the emperor’s inner courtiers. He wants details of what exactly you got up to last year. Go ahead, it’s fine to tell him everything; he’s not interested in arresting either of you.”
Garus smiled thinly. He had the classic shifty look of someone completely untrustworthy, duplicitous and without the slightest burden of morals that courts the world over attracted and encouraged. Casca hated him on sight. Maybe it was the supercilious look, the false smile, or maybe just the way he looked at both he and Flavius, putting them somewhere below the level of cockroaches. He was thin, grey-haired and possessed a prominent Adam’s apple. “As your commanding officer has rightly said, I do not wish to punish you for consorting with the traitor Constantine. Please tell me what happened when you were hired by his agent, Scarnio.”
Casca eyed the silent guards behind the courtier and to either side. Germanic mercenaries, by the looks of them. They looked as if they wanted some excuse to relieve their boredom, and a bit of prisoner-bashing might well be the perfect way to spend an afternoon.
He told Garus of how Scarnio had hired him in Massilia, and then how Casca in turn had hired Flavius, Matthias and the others, and how Scarnio had introduced Gerontius to the group as a late addition. They had been given their mission and sent on their way. Casca omitted unnecessary details but spoke of their journey to Arelate, up the Rhone to Vienne and then overland to Argentoratum. He retold how Gunthar had been murdered, and then how they had escaped with the girl and been pursued south to the Alps, the crossing and the final fight where the pursuing Burgundians had been sent into the icy depths of a river to their doom.
Then had come the revelation of Gerontius’ duplicity, and through him Scarnio’s and Constantine’s. He ended with the breaking up of the survivors with Matthias and the girl going off to live together and Casca and Flavius travelling onwards to Italia.
Garus listened intently, fascinated. Finally he leaned back, with that exaggerated expression designed to ingratiate, that courtiers always seemed to possess. It didn’t fool Casca. “Incredible. Amazing. So you have no love for the usurper?”
“No. I dislike people who cross me. They usually end up dead.”
Garus’ smile became fixed for a moment, then he relaxed once more. After all, he had six heavily-armed men at his beck and call here. “I see. Very well, you two might just be what the emperor is looking for. You will be summoned this evening to attend him at the palace. Best dress, best behavior. That is all for now.”
Outside Flavius puffed out his cheeks and turned to Casca. “Good God in heaven, sir. Do I understand we are to go see Honorius himself?”
“Too right!” Casca slapped his clothing. “Best dress? Shit, this is my only dress!”
___
Night had fallen and the two were escorted into Ravenna by a squad of guards led by a pompous officer. They were still wearing the same clothing, since as Casca had pointed out, it was their only set.
The streets were emptying as people hurried home, eager to settle down to an evening meal, safe behind their walls away from the nasty Goths and other rampaging barbarians. The streets were made of hard cobblestones, but some were loose and the recent rain had washed some out of them and these stood proud on the surface of the roads or sidewalks. Their holes were full of water and grass was seen growing in between a few of them. Casca also glanced at the houses as they passed. They were typical of the Roman world, with no garden so that they opened straight onto the streets, being entered via double doors. Many were in poor condition and a few were boarded up. Quite a few were rotting. It only served to depress the scarred mercenary further.
Tavernas stood on corners, now shutting with the onset of night. Proprietors were putting down tattered awnings and shutting doors and closing shutters. With fewer people on the street, sounds travelled further, such as barking dogs, crying children, shouting men, the crunch of military boots on the stonework.
The palace loomed ahead and they marched through the first gate they came to, waved on their way by guards, and they made their way into the complex accompanied by the scent of charcoaled fish.
They were turned over to a palace flunky who looked at the duo with distaste. “His imperial majesty will not greet you while you are attired in such a disreputable manner. This is not a barracks. You will be cleansed and dressed in accordance with palace protocol.”
Without further ado the two men were escorted to a bathroom, ordered to strip then invited to walk into an immense sunken bath. A group of female slaves came in, carrying jars of oils and perfumes, and the two were delighted to receive a very thorough rub down once they had climbed out of the bath and laid face-down on parallel stone benches.
“Worse things in life, don’t you think, sir?” Flavius grinned.
“Mmm. Enjoy it while it lasts, Flavius, as I doubt we’ll have too many of these opportunities in the next few months.”
“Who cares, sir? Shame we’re not staying the night.” Flavius regarded one particular woman, a Syrian by her looks, who was rubbing his shoulders, her barely concealed chest threatening to jump out of her dress, swaying dangerously close to his eyes.
Casca grunted and closed his eyes. Emperors had their own agendas, and allowing two lowly soldiers to plunder his slaves wasn’t something they’d probably approve of. Best their physical charms were ignored. He relaxed into the massage and tried not to think of what was waiting for them in the throne room.
A clean set of smart tunics, skirts and sandals awaited them on benches stood by the door. Once dressed they were led by the flunky through corridors, past guards looking at them sternly, and up a short flight of stone steps to an open arched doorway. “Now, you are to kneel, place your heads on the floor and rise only on command. He is to be addressed as your Majesty. Show deference.”
What, t
o a dull-witted boy? Casca thought acidly. He knew Honorius was not fit to sit on the throne but the court allowed him to as he would hardly challenge them. They had more power with a feckless nobody. Trajan or Hadrian wouldn’t have tolerated these leeches. Gaius Honorius may well have been on the throne for sixteen years now but he was a shallow and spineless ruler, pushed this way and that by ambitious and scheming men with no thought for the empire. Gods! Casca would slaughter the lot, send the army down south to annihilate the Goths, fill the army with their survivors, turn north and then deal with Constantine. Maybe then Rome could begin to recover. He scowled. Maybe not. Things had probably rotted far too much to bring it back.
Honorius was a thin, sickly looking man, nervous and totally lacking in charisma. He had about as much as a castrated rabbit, Casca mused.
After the flunky had announced them, and permission had been granted for them to stand, the two could then look at the phalanx of officials stood to either side along with the guards. The latter were all stone-faced and clearly took their duties of guarding the emperor very seriously indeed. One word from the unimpressive Honorius and they would strike down the two without so much as a flicker of regret.
The officials ranged from fleshy overfed middle-aged men to relatively youthful but arrogant-looking types, men who knew how to wheedle their way into imperial favor. Casca despised them all. Still, it was best to keep a straight face and not allow his true feelings to reveal themselves. Honesty was something alien to this world. This was the domain of deception, of the knife in the back. It was their lair, and Casca was as much at home here as they would be on the battlefield.
“So, the two men in my army who know Arelate, and who have worked for the usurper recently. Are you men of God?” the emperor asked, leaning forward.
Casca frowned. What the hell had this to do with anything?