by Barry Sadler
Glam stopped about fifty feet down and rapidly built a small barricade of stones across the stream. When he had finished, he yelled for Casca to chase the fish down to him.
Casca jumped into the chilled waters, which reached just above his ankles, and started the startled trout down to his bearish companion. With a quick flick of their tails the fish were gone, streaking through the shallows. Casca followed, splashing with his feet and cursing the chill. He arrived in time to see Glam bent over, his arms groping in the stream. First one, then another of the silver bodies were knocked out of the water by Glam's paws.
When the fish reached his small dam, they could go no further and were trapped between Glam and Casca. Casca was sure that Glam had bear blood in him as the barbarian bent over the water, arms swinging as Casca had seen bears do when fishing. They would make a swipe with their paws and send a fish flying onto the shore. Casca left the wet fishing to Glam, who was doing just fine in his groping. He contented himself with keeping the fish from getting past him back upstream, though several did manage to flick their way between his legs and escape. In no time at all Glam had enough fat trout lying on the grass to make a large enough meal to satisfy even his oversized appetite.
That night they fed well on baked trout. Glam had packed the bodies in mud and then put them in the coals of their campfire to cook. Casca cursed between clenched teeth as he burned his fingers in his impatience to get at the succulent white meat beneath the baked mud shell. When he finally got the shells opened, the smell of the fish mingled with the clean odor of the pines, and his mouth was watering in anticipation. They spiced the fish with a touch of rock salt and for once, even Glam seemed content with the quality of the food. It had been a good day and they were tired, but it was the kind of tiredness that felt good. With full stomachs, they slept under the open night sky, enjoying the quiet of the evening, which was broken only by the crackling of the embers in their campfire.
Noon of the following day found them high on a ridge looking out over a primeval forest far below in a valley broken with glades and streams. The wind was cool, giving them a clean, fresh feeling as it brushed over their faces. It was a time to be savored. After the violence and bloodshed of the past months, moments like these were too few not to be treasured.
With, some degree of reluctance they headed back down into the shadows of the trees on the other side of the mountain. Glam whistled off-key between his furry lips, trying to imitate the trillings of the birds with no success, though he thought he performed the act to perfection.
For three days they wandered with no plan, seeing no sign of humans other than the distant smoke of an occasional village, which they avoided. Casca wanted no contact with people. Where men were to be found, so was trouble, and he had no desire to involve himself in anything that would spoil their journey.
At the base of the ridge the deer trail they had been following narrowed, leaving only a small space on which the ledge they were on could be crossed. There their peace and tranquility was broken by the sounds of men coming from the other direction. Casca was about to make the decision to go back the way they had come and leave the deer trail for the quiet of the woods, but it was too late; he had been spotted. A furred, spear-toting warrior that could have been a smaller version of Glam broke into view.
Casca and Glam stopped, as did the warrior, who was facing them from about thirty feet. Rapidly the lone warrior was joined by others until five armed men faced them.
Glam mumbled to Casca to watch out. These were Saxons and they were too far from their own lands to be nothing more than tourists. And they were still inside the boundaries of Helsfjord. The five scowled at them from under shaggy brows. They talked in whispers among themselves when there came another movement behind them and several women and children came into view with another Saxon behind them. Glam spoke softly. "They're slavers. Perhaps the smoke we saw yesterday wasn't from campfires,"
Casca agreed. If the captives were from one of his villages he would have to do something about it. It was his duty.
He called out to the Saxons, "Peace, warriors, and welcome to my lands."
The Saxons talked among themselves a moment, and then one stepped out to the forefront. He was a few inches taller than the others although still shorter than Glam, but he made up for what he lacked in height with the width of his body. Even under his fur robes, thick bands of muscle were easily visible, especially those that led from his neck down to his massive, thick, sloping shoulders. As with all his companions, he had a full growth of reddish-blond beard with a fierce sweeping mustache. He responded to Casca's welcome. "And whose land is that?"
Casca shifted his boar spear to his right hand.
The motion did not go unnoticed by the slavers. They too loosened the thongs holding their axes and shifted their spears to a handier position.
"It is mine, Casca of Helsfjord."
The Saxon called back, "You lie. Helsfjord is ruled by Ragnar."
Glam chose that time to speak up. "It was ruled by Ragnar and Ragnar was killed by this man, who has claimed all that was Ragnar's and has taken Ragnar's own daughter to wed."
Casca cut Glam's oration short with a wave of his hand. He eyed the Saxons opposite him. "Where did you obtain your captives?"
The Saxons preferred not to have any trouble if they could avoid it, and their leader said, "Some day's journey from here where we paid good silver for them."
A woman in the back cried out a name before the rope around her neck choked off any further response. But it was enough. The name she spoke was Lida. Upon closer inspection, Casca discovered that this slave was indeed one of the Lady Lida's personal handmaids.
Glam moved to present a smaller target by turning his body slightly to the side.
Casca called back, his voice friendly. "Why, then, we have no quarrel if you bought and paid for your slaves like honest men. Travel on, Saxons." Casca turned from them only to lower his body down. In the next instant he whipped back around, hurling the boar spear underhanded. Before the Saxon leader had a chance to react the spear had implanted itself in his chest. He wondered briefly about the pain in his back. He died not knowing that the head of the spear had torn clear through him and was sticking out a foot from his spine.
Glam bellowed and hurled his own spear, which entered a warrior's stomach and kept on going until at least half of its own length penetrated out the Saxon's back. He always had to try and outdo Casca. Grinning, he spoke to his friend. "Two down and four to go, so don't you get greedy now. Remember to save a little for me."
Glam rushed to the front and blocked the trail with his body, his axe already swinging with irresistible force, smashing down the guard of the two Saxons facing him. One had barely managed to swing his buckler off his shoulder when his face disappeared in a bloody whirl. The other suffered a quicker death than his gurgling comrade when Glam split him from pate to chin.
Reluctantly he had to let Casca in on the fight when he stopped for a moment to work the axe out of the skull by stepping on the Saxon's face to hold him still while twisting the thick blade free from the bone.
Of the remaining Saxons, one came on with a half-hearted sweep of his long sword, but Casca could see in the man's eyes that he was already dead in his mind. So to save the poor soul from any further confusion, Casca dispatched him with little effort, blocking the long sword. Then with a single long step inside the man's guard he thrust his own short sword up at an angle where it could reach the doomed warrior's heart with little trouble. The man coughed up a spurt of blood and died without further ado.
The single surviving Saxon gave up completely and released the rope holding his string of captives together. He chose the better part of valor by leaving his weapons behind and disappeared back down the way he had come as fast as his hairy legs would take him. Glam wanted to go after him now that he had his axe clear of the bony mess it had been stuck in, but Casca stopped him with the comment that the survivor's story might deter others fro
m coming to Helsfjord on slave raids.
After releasing the captives to return to their villages, he and Glam continued on their interrupted journey. Glam was in high spirits after the day's bloody work. Casca was a little less so but he did have to admit that a good fight did wake up the blood.
The trouble behind them, they wandered on for two more days until they were near the boundaries of the Helsfjord. From there they would go no further. It was time to return to Helsfjord with the regret that always comes when one has to give up the free life and return to the pressures of normal life. They were just about ready to turn back and head for home when Glam told him to stop. He had heard horses and voices from across a small glade. Glam crept up a little closer and called Casca to him.
The noises came from a band of traders bringing goods from Gaul to trade for whatever they could find of value in Germania. Gold, silver, and amber were the most sought-after, but they would take amounts of rare furs back with them and nearly anything else the tribesmen might have acquired on their occasional forays across the Rhine or Danube. Glam asked Casca if it was all right to see if the merchants had any wine in their packs.
Casca agreed; they looked to be legitimate traders. True, they did have a couple of tough-looking Marcomanni with them as bodyguards and guides, but that was only natural.
He and Glam made their way to the encampment walking through knee-high grass damp with dew. They called out their coming to avoid being speared by an overanxious guard. They stopped while still out of spear range and called out once more, requesting permission to enter the camp.
Permission was granted, and Casca, followed by the hulking Glam, entered the camp. They were greeted by wary but not necessarily hostile looks. After all, there were only two of them and the camp guards could surely handle them if the need arose.
The merchant whose expedition it was came forth to greet them. "Ave, brave warriors. I am Lucius Decius, an honest merchant of the world come to exchange my wares for the goods the people of these parts may wish to part with. I'll take almost anything-gold, silver, slaves, amber, or what have you. Now, what have you need of, my friends? Thread, needles, or cloth for your womenfolk? Or perhaps fine blanks of Roman steel from which your smiths can fashion blades to your own taste?"
The balding stocky merchant went on with his spiel. Casca could tell the man was a confirmed horsetrader. He asked to see some of the bolts of cloth. Perhaps there would be something worth taking back to Lida. Glam asked if there was by chance any wine in the casks and kegs he could see lying about the camp.
Decius replied that certainly he had brought with him, at great personal expense, a few kegs of good wine which, as he was sure the noble German knew, helped to make a day's trading go easier. And for a man such as he, Decius had even stashed away a few flagons of an especially fine and rare Lesbos.
Glam rattled his purse, which gave off the clear tinkling sound of silver coins, and gently requested that he might be permitted a sip of the good stuff before buying. The tinkling of hard cash brought an immediate affirmative response from Decius, who quickly regretted his action, as Glam's sip could take in more than most grown men could in two full swallows. Decius grimaced at every bob of the German's Adams apple as first one skin then another went flacid. It was only after a bout of hard haggling that Decius was able to just break even on selling Glam two small kegs of his cheapest wine.
Casca was ready by then with his choice of material. They settled down to dealing over the price of some of the blue damask interwoven with threads of silver, which Casca thought would go well with Lida's fair hair and complexion. Casca made his offer on the cloth and Decius agreed. They spit in their palms, slapped hands, and the deal was closed.
Casca had just packed the cloth away in his kit when he heard a voice just out of sight in one of the merchant's tents. A man's voice was pleading in Latin. Casca walked over to the tent before he could be stopped and threw open the flap. A small balding man with only a fringe of gray hair surrounding his pate was on his knees trying to clean up a mess where he had spilled a bowl of stew. One of the merchant's hirelings was laying it on with a staff across the man's shoulders and cursing with every thump of the club. His efforts were halted by Casca's hand grasping his wrist and squeezing, though not too hard; he didn't want to break the bones. The hireling grunted in pain and tried to break out of the crushing grip, but the years Casca had spent at the oars of the Imperial war galleys of Rome had given him a grip that few could equal. As the bodyguard was forced to let go of his club, he dropped squealing to his knees alongside of the man he had been beating.
Others of the camp came rushing to the tent at the sound of the disturbance. Decius reached the tent first, and spoke. "Why have you interfered with the chastising of my property?"
Casca looked at the little bald man still trying to clean up the mess on the tent floor. There was intelligence in the sad brown eyes and it had been a long time since he had spoken the tongue of Rome.
He turned to the merchant, still keeping a grip on the moaning guard's wrist in one hand while his other touched the hilt of his sword. Glam had moved to the rear of Decius' group, holding his boar spear in his left hand while raising his axe to his shoulder with the other.
Casca spoke to Decius. "This man is your property?"
Decius replied that he was in fact his property and had a proper bill of sale to prove it. Decius noted Casca's interest in the slave and his merchant's mind went to work. "Yes, he is my slave and an extremely valuable one that would bring an excellent price, as he knows both numbers and writing in Latin and in Greek. A man such as this is worth more than rabies on this side of the Rhine."
Casca spoke to the slave in Latin, keeping an eye on Decius and his men. "What's your name, man?"
The slave straightened himself up as much as he could, rubbing his sore shoulders. "I am Corio the builder."
"What kind of builder?"
Corio sensed that he might have a chance of exchanging masters, and from the way this barbarian had stopped his being beaten, it might be a change for the better. And the barbarian spoke Latin perfectly. "I can build many things, noble sir-fortifications and canals, though my best work has been in the shipyards of Ostia, where many of my ships have sailed safely on the seas thanks to my good works."
Casca thought it over for a moment. A shipbuilder is he? He turned his attention back to the merchant. "How much for the fellow? I may have need for such as he."
Decious hesitated. These two savages were poorly dressed, but appearances could be deceiving, and they had paid for what they had bought in good silver. "I would have three gold ounces for him, and he is a bargain at that price, for I have had to feed and care for him the last two months."
Casca reached into the bottom of his purse and withdrew his only two gold ounces and tossed them to the merchant, who deftly snatched them out of the air.
"I'll give you two and make you the offer that if you come to Helsfjord, you will be well received, for I am master there."
One of the guards whispered in Decius' ear when he heard the name of Helsfjord. "I think it would be wise to accept his offer. If this man's name is Casca, he is not to be toyed with. I have heard of how he came to power there and it was over the bodies of those who opposed him. It is also said he has a giant as a companion who is nearly as dangerous as he is. The builder is not worth any of our lives. Even if we won, the price would be great."
Decius pursed his lips. "And what is your name, noble sir?"
The blue-gray eyes turned cold. He knew they were weighing the odds. "I am Casca of Helsfjord and this is my sword companion, Glam, son of Halfdan the Ganger. Do we have a deal, merchant, or do we make a trade that would be hard on everyone?"
Decius swallowed a taste of bitter bile; he was a trader, not a warrior. The sight of blood, especially his own, gave him fits of nausea.
Casca loosened his sword in its scabbard a bit more.
Decius hastily responded, "Of course, of course
. You may have the man for two gold ounces and welcome, Lord Casca. By all means, he is yours." Decius entered his tent and returned after a moment handing over to Casca the papers of ownership.
Casca told his new slave to get his things together. They would be leaving now. Corio scurried to do his new master's bidding. It didn't take long, as he only had the plain rough-woven tunic on his back, a threadbare cloak, and a few scrolls of numbers that he would need in following his craft.
Casca led the way out of the camp with Corio in the center and Glam bringing up drag, still keeping a wary eye on those in the camp. The merchant sighed a breath of relief that things hadn't turned out much worse. He had even made a small profit on the slave. He turned to his subordinates with the orders to break camp. He looked back longingly to the south where the civilized lands lay. It was always chancy when you dealt with savages, but that was the way of things. If you could survive a trip or two into the dark forests of Germania, a man could make enough profit to set up a proper trading house. From there he would be able to take his ease and send others out to do the hard and dangerous work of bartering with the savages. He was especially glad that he brought with him a couple of packs of mirrors, for each of those would bring almost as much as did the slave.
On their return to the hold of Helsfjord Casca had many hours in which to learn of how Corio had come to his unhappy condition. The little man was a habitual gambler, a disease that afflicted many Romans. The only ones Casca had ever met that were worse than the Romans were the Arabs. Corio had been legally sold to settle the debts owed his creditors. An official ruling from the magistrate at Ostia had been forwarded to the shipyards of Messilia where Corio had been on a subcontracting job laying the keels for a couple of fat merchantmen. Without any fuss he had been duly informed of his changed status and sold the next day to the trader Decius, who was even then on his way to the frontier.