by Tony Roberts
That way only he, Constantius, would then know about the map and once his men found the fugitives Longus and Flavius and handed him the treasure, he would then be in possession of something that could make him richer than avarice. He smiled. Honorius could then be disposed of, his men paid off out of the treasure money. It was amazing just how often money paved the way better than any show of arms.
All this was irrelevant to Casca. He was dressed in a shabby set of rags, shuffling along the street, crying out in a wheedling voice for alms. Behind him, slowly making her way along on the other side of the street, was a disinterested Helga. She’d been given a close examination at the gates leading into the city that morning, smiling at the guards as they went through her belongings. While this was going on, Casca had walked up to the gate, shaking a battered tin. “Alms, alms for a poor dispossessed quarry worker.” He had decided to adopt that profession as his build certainly was not that of a standard street beggar. He’d found some rags on a corpse on the roadside, the poor unfortunate having shuffled off the earth a few hours previously, and put them on.
The hood served to conceal his scar, and Casca’s five-day stubble added to the look of a down-and-out. His sword was firmly strapped to him underneath the cloak which was stained, ripped and faded. It smelt like a goat.
He’d been waved through irritably, the guards wanting him out of the way so they could get a good look down Helga’s cleavage. She had played up to them, dropping a cloth roll onto the ground and leaning down to pick it up, fumbling so the guards got a real good look down her front.
She kept the wide smile on her face and nearly all of the guards had forgotten everything else. One, though, had asked what her purpose of coming to the city was, and she told them, as per her rehearsed lines, that she had been on a farm that had been burned and she had been the only survivor, and was happy she had made it safely to the city. She intended finding a job as a cleaner or seamstress, hence her cloths.
She was waved in, with a couple of sneaky grabs of her ass to help her on her way. She was used to worse so it didn’t worry her unduly. Now she followed Casca, pretending to look into doorways and at buildings, clearly a new arrival. Casca was ignored except for a few curses to get the hell out of the way and so on.
They got to the boats once more and Casca stopped by one big vessel, looking over its lines. He threw the tin into the river and stepped onto the gangplank, Helga stopping by the ship on the jetty. A sailor barred the way. “No vagrants. Piss off.”
“I’m looking for a job,” Casca said, eyeing him calmly.
“I said no vagrants. You deaf?”
“Look,” Casca said, exerting great patience, “I’m out of work and need a job. I want to see if there’s one here, is that too much to ask for?”
“You stink, you piece of shit. Now fuck off before I break your legs.”
Casca flipped back the hood and tore the rags in two. He faced the sailor, flexing his arms. “Alright, you big-mouthed wise-ass, let’s see who’s a piece of shit!” He slammed a fist into the sailor’s jaw and send him staggering back across the deck, to be halted by the main mast. He rubbed his chin and eyed Casca who had stepped onto the deck, both fists clenched.
“So, you fancy yourself as a brawler, eh?” The sailor pushed himself away from the mast, working his jaw. That had hurt; this guy punched hard. “Well, you’ve got a lot to learn.” He came at Casca, left hand swinging for the scarred mercenary’s face. Casca dodged it, but the real attack came from the right in an uppercut. And as an extra insurance policy, the sailor’s knee aimed for the groin.
Casca had been around far too much to be dumb enough to get caught like that. He stepped back, then kneed the sailor’s thigh and punched him twice, very hard. One fist smashed into his temple, the other the chest. The sailor fell as if poleaxed. The deck shook to the impact.
The other sailors crowded round, intrigued by the punch-up. Casca shook his right fist. That stung. But the sailor wasn’t getting up any time before lunch.
“So what was that all about?” a new voice demanded from the doorway of the rear cabins.
Everyone turned to face the ship’s captain, a barrel-chested big man with wide shoulders and a black, thunderous expression across his face. The captain looked at his stricken crewman, then at Casca who was stood over the prone man.
“Ah, Captain,” one of the other crewmen volunteered, “the scarred guy just came on board and knocked Philimus out.”
“Did he, by God?” the captain puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs into his wide, leather belt. “So what have you to say for yourself, stranger?”
“I wanted to ask if there were any places going for an extra crewmember but your Philimus wasn’t being in a friendly mood today.”
The captain screwed up his face and gave Casca a really close scrutiny. “Done some sailing then?”
“Plenty, Captain. Egypt, North Africa, Britannia, Greece.” He decided not to mention crossing the ocean to the land of the Teotec. That would be showing off and the captain probably didn’t know who or where he would be referring to anyway.
“Hm. Well I could do with one extra set of hands – lost one of my crew last voyage. Silly bastard fell overboard off the Balaerics. If you’re serious I’ll be happy to take you.” His attention switched to Helga who was standing close behind Casca. “And who are you?”
Helga introduced herself. “We’re travelling together – I can cook and sew,” she added, seeing the captain looking doubtfully at her. “I just want to leave here. Too much fighting and worries about the invading tribes coming this way.”
Casca thought that ironic, since she was of the tribes, but maybe it was just a way of her trying to give an explanation as to why she wanted to come.
“She’s your woman?” Casca was asked.
The eternal mercenary nodded. “We hitched up north of here at my farm until it was burned. Decided then to get away from Gaul. Where are you sailing?
The captain shrugged. “We’re based in Nova Cartagena but things are going to shit there. Getting fed up with the changing regimes. We set sail one day and by the time we get back its all changed. Happened too many times for my taste. We need a settled empire and get trade back up and flowing.”
“I suspect things will settle down between here and Italia now the empire has Massilia and Arelate back. You sail to Africa?”
“Sometimes, yes. Think we’ll cross over to Ostia. Always stuff there to buy and sell. Will see a man I know there; he gets us good contracts.”
Casca nodded. Corsica was on the way. “You could try Ajax on the way.”
“Corsica? Hmm... good olive oil there. Maybe you’re right. Ah well, welcome aboard. Put your good lady below and come see me right away. You’ll be cleaning the deck.” He grinned.
Casca knew he’d get the crap jobs, the newest recruits always did. He watched as Philimus was helped to his feet, his eyes trying to focus. The crewman shook his head and gave Casca a look of pure hatred before he was led to the other side and a bucket of river water upended over his head to wake him up fully.
Below deck was reached via a steep wooden set of steps and Casca went first, helping Helga down with her bundles. There were cramped crew’s quarters at the rear, and Helga found a corner where she could get some privacy, helped by putting up a cloth for a screen.
Casca returned to the deck once he was happy she was settled in. She wasn’t worried by the conditions since she’d been used to similar conditions the last few years. As expected, Casca was given a bucket, water and a brush and told to get to it. With a resigned air he began cleaning.
Philimus came up to him later that day and glowered at him. “If you think I’ve forgotten you, you’re mistaken. You’d better watch your back as I’m going to get even with you. The sea’s a big place and plenty of room for assholes like you.”
“Like my predecessor, eh?” Casca replied, leaning on the handle of the brush. He’d guessed that the crewman hadn’t met with an
accident; it had been a sad end to a confrontation. It happened all the time.
“I’m saying nothing, Scarface.”
“Then don’t. I’m tired of your hot air. If you get in my way I’ll just wipe you over the deck like today. Now piss off before I add you to the river’s trash.”
Philimus sneered and moved off to coil some ropes.
The captain shouted orders, wanting a tidy ship. He prepared to set sail, and just before the time came, a group of soldiers came marching down the dockside, accompanying a scribe. The scribe came aboard with two of the soldiers. Casca slunk away to the bows to clean them diligently. He didn’t hear what was said but kept his back to everyone until the soldiers left.
The ship left the jetty and sailed downriver, leaving Arelate, and headed for the estuary and the Mediterranean. Casca completed the scrubbing and sat down with the other crewmen on deck to eat. Helga turned up, a bowl of cheese and olives in her hands. “Captain wants me to be the ship’s cook,” she explained and sat next to Casca.
“Mm. Bet you’re the best cook this ship will ever have had,” Casca said.
“Wow lucky man,” one of the others commented. “Glad she’s able to work her way.”
“Well what did you think I could do?” Helga replied acidly. “Just lie there smiling? I learned when I was a girl. I can hunt, trap, cook, sew and other things. So don’t you go thinking I’m just a passenger.”
“I know,” Casca said. “Don’t think he meant any insult, Helga.” He knew the tribeswomen were pretty well self-sufficient from his time in the northlands, so Helga’s skills came as no surprise. “I always look forward to tasting your wares.”
The other crewmen roared with laughter, except for Philimus. Helga gave Casca an old-fashioned look and pointedly ignored him for the rest of the meal. The captain beckoned Casca over to him once the meal was finished.
“Now you’ve done the deck, I want the cargo hold checked over and tidied. There’s some things down below that’s been moved about and I want an even ballast, if you know what I mean.”
Casca assured him he did.
“Hmm. Saw you avoiding the authorities back there. You a wanted man?”
Casca thought fast. “Deserter. Worried they may catch me and you know the legions don’t take kindly to one who leaves without permission. Got tired of the civil war.”
“I see. Well, we’ll keep quiet on that unless someone pushes it. I don’t want to get into trouble with the authorities, especially as its all new here. I want to be able to sail without being barred, you understand?”
“Sure, Captain. I’m just looking for passage away from here. You can drop me off the first place we get to.”
The captain nodded thoughtfully. “That may be wise. We could always pick up a new crewman at Ajax. Well, keep your head down, follow orders and things will be fine.”
Casca didn’t think it would, especially with Philimus glaring at him at every opportunity. When evening fell, Casca retired to his little alcove with Helga. They pulled the cloth screen around them and settled down on the lumpy straw bed – it was just a stuffed mattress lying on the floor that had seen better days.
“Enjoyed being the ship’s scrubber?” Helga teased.
“Oh, wouldn’t change it for the world,” Casca replied, squeezing her bottom. “What about you? What’s the menu for tomorrow? Peacock’s livers?”
“Don’t be facetious; I think you’re jealous. Thought I was just another whore who had no other skill than to open my legs, mm?”
“No, not at all.”
Helga jabbed him. Clearly she didn’t believe him, and he had to admit she was right. Over the next couple of days they settled down to a routine, but Casca always knew Philimus was waiting for an opportunity to get even. One evening Casca was asked to move a few amphorae from the hold to the deck, and Philimus was on duty as lookout. If the man was get even, then it would be now.
Casca lifted the empty amphora up the steps and onto deck. It was a moonless night and the stars glittered in the sky. The air was warm and it could have been an enjoyable experience, but Casca’s back crawled. Philimus was slowly moving towards him from the stern, making himself appear casual. Casca wasn’t fooled for one moment.
He put the jar down and stowed it with a rope as he’d been directed. No doubt the captain wanted a few amphorae handy when they reached port to use as storage for samples. As he finished he became aware of a dark shadow behind him, and he moved quickly, throwing himself to one side.
Philimus’ blow, aided with a spike, missed and struck the deck. Casca whirled and straightened, hands outspread. Philimus cursed and came at him again, the iron spike clenched tightly. He wanted to crush Casca’s skull and throw him overboard.
The next blow was stopped. Philimus planted his feet firmly on deck and tried to force his hand down, but Casca had his wrist clasped tightly. He swung his other fist but this was grabbed, too. Now Casca’s hands began closing, crushing Philimus’ wrists. The crewman was engulfed in agony. He had no idea Casca had developed his grip from years on slave galleys serving the empire.
He grunted, writhed and tried to pull free but was held fast.
Casca sucked in air and gathered his strength. Time to deal with this pain in the ass. He turned slowly, pulling Philimus with him. Now the desperate crewman had his back to the rail. “Enjoy the voyage, you stupid bastard,” Casca whispered. Now he transferred his hold from the wrist to the throat.
Philimus’ hands were numb; all feeling had been crushed and they were nothing more than dead lumps of flesh. He couldn’t use them or stop Casca from lifting him up off his feet. He was put in a choke hold and now couldn’t shout or cry out. He knew he was going to die and his bladder emptied itself.
With a convulsive heave Casca sent the man over the rail. The splash could be heard only about halfway across the deck, and then it was gone. Casca stood there drawing in deep breaths for a short while, then shook his wrists and returned to his duty.
It was after he had retired to his bed that the alarm went up. Philimus had not woken the man he was supposed to be replaced by and the captain had searched the deck. The man was missing. All the crew were roused and the ship searched form stern to prow. Nothing.
Casca was questioned, of course. He shrugged and said he’d seen nothing. All knew the two hadn’t got on at all and Casca was number one suspect, but nothing could be proven.
The captain was doubly determined to let Casca go once they reached port, and Helga was just another distraction to his crew, so the sooner the two were off the better.
Ajax would be the place.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ajax was a typical port. Bustling, full of warehouses, wharves, jetties and smells. Ships plied to and fro, bringing goods to and from the island. Corsica was somewhere Casca had never been to before, so he took a special interest in it.
First things first though. A place to stay. He had a few coins and spent them hiring a room in a dockside tavern for him and Helga. Once they were settled in he went about asking for jobs, and enquiring as to whether a group of people had arrived led by the merchant Geto. Nobody seemed to know, so Casca eventually sought out the harbourmaster and asked. There were no jobs for him but the man did say he had seen a group of people, three men and a woman, who had arrived a week before and he thought the name had been Geto. He didn’t know where they had gone but directed Casca to a trader on the edge of town called Pretaxis. Pretaxis knew everyone and what they did, and he would be the one to know whether Geto had been through.
The place was up near where the houses ended. There was no wall, oddly. It was a white-walled villa and lavender plants grew all round, attracting bees. The smell was very strong and Casca inhaled deeply. The heat of summer made the ground shimmer and he looked back over the town out to sea for a moment. If he wasn’t an immortal and driven to move on so frequently, a place like this would be wonderful to settle down in.
But he was an immortal, damned to live until t
he Second Coming. He shrugged his shoulders and passed under the stone archway into the villa grounds. A gardener challenged him and Casca responded. He was shown to the entrance porch and a house servant showed him to a guest reception room. Casca stood alone for a few moments, looking round at the painted walls and the floor mosaics. It was a relief to see these kind of traditional Roman things still intact here. So many had been destroyed on the mainland, or just allowed to rot and fade away. Here, at least, the old order was being preserved.
A sun-tanned man with a swarthy complexion came in and looked at the scarred warrior. “I’m told you’re looking for me. I’m Scevolius Pretaxis. And you are?”
Casca introduced himself, and why he was there. “I am keen to reunite myself with the family and friend. They left Arelate a few days before me.”
“Oh? And what value are you to them?”
Casca thought it an odd question, but continued, albeit a little more cautiously. “I was in the employ of Geto, and helped his son and daughter escape the clutches of a ruthless rival. The other man with them is a friend of mine whom was hurt in a fight.”
“And I ask again, what value are you to them, or them to you?”
Casca was now pretty well on edge. This Pretaxis was a trader, but a trader in what? “A friend has a value beyond any price, as I’m sure you know. The Geto family are associates and I just want to know if they are safe. That’s all.”
“Indeed. Well I shall make enquiries, and of course this will cost you. That kind of thing always costs money. Corsica is a large island and if they are here I’ll need to cast my net far and wide.”
Casca sighed. “I do not have any funds. I’ll just have to make my own enquiries, that’s all. Thanks for your time,” he said, stepping away from Pretaxis.