by Tony Roberts
“I wish you’d put it less crudely than that!” Scarnio snapped irritably. “But, yes. You may get help from other barbarians in the area as the different groups are not that friendly to one another. Now they appear to be settling into newly acquired land, they have found that alliances of the past are no longer convenient; the legions are defeated and the common enemy is gone, and now they can revert back to their childish squabbling. Further to the north is Mogontiacum and this is the seat of power of Gundahar, King of the Burgundians. You may get some help from him, so my agent says.”
“Or he may want your daughter for himself,” Casca said.
“Hmmm. That may be a possibility. Do you know the area?”
“Yes,” Casca said. He thought back to when he’d been there. His first battle in the seventh legion had been on the Rhine close to Argentoratum, and he’d crossed near Mogontiacum when he’d bumped into his old friend Glam for the first time. The landmarks wouldn’t be that much different, and towns were towns, no matter if Roman or Burgundian administration was holding power.
“Will you take the job?” Scarnio asked, his eyes almost pleading.
“What are you paying? What help am I to get? I can’t do it on my own.”
“You will be well rewarded,” Scarnio said and waved the slave into the room from the doorway. The man was carrying a small pot, and Scarnio took it and upended it onto the table. Gold coins scattered out, nomismae, denarii, and others. Casca’s eyes lit up. There was a small fortune here, surely too much for just him. “How many are you expecting to come with me?”
“Four to five, maybe six. I’ll leave the recruiting to you; a man of action such as yourself will know who is suitable. I’ll also leave the payment to you of course, but it’ll come out of your coin horde, so you’ll have a limit to what you can pay and how many you can afford to take. Now, I’d like to show you something. Come with me.”
Casca followed the rich man out of the room and down the corridor to the inner courtyard. Covered walkways surrounded the entire square, and slender pillars of marble supported the roof. In the center of the courtyard a fountain erupted from a fish’s mouth, and the rest of the space was taken up by pleasantly arranged shrubs and vines. A couple of statues stood at the ends of the walk-through. Scarnio stopped by one of these, a beautifully sculptured life size statue of a young woman, of perhaps sixteen years of age. Casca had a good idea who this was. “Your daughter?”
“You are perceptive, Longinus. Yes, my daughter, Flora. Named after the Goddess of Spring, during which time she was born. I had it commissioned this year and made in time for her sixteenth birthday. Alas, she has never seen it. Study her well, Longinus, so you may recognize her. I shall leave you here as looking upon her is too painful for me at present. I will be in the triclinium – the dining chamber. Petruvius will remain here with you,” he added, indicating the messenger. With that, he left, leaving Casca to look at the exquisite statue.
Flora looked like a beauty, although the sculpture may have been enhanced at Scarnio’s request. Casca thought maybe not, if this was being used to identify her. Long hair, expensively arranged to tumble down her back – how did these artisans manage that with marble? – slim, lithe, not yet fully grown, a shy look to her. Dimpled chin, upturned nose (definitely not Roman that one, Casca noted with a wry smile), so maybe her mother had been German or Scandian. He’d need to ask about her eye, hair and skin color.
After returning to the dining room, Scarnio gave him leave to recruit a small group of tough sword arms, and then report back to him for a final set of instructions, which would include a route and possible places and persons to go to for help. He answered Casca’s questions about Flora’s coloration; pale skin, blue eyes and dark blonde hair. Definitely had Germanic blood in her from that description.
With that Casca left the villa and stood outside, sucking in the warm air. Good, a job. One also that might lead to dishing out some grief to barbarians. Even better. Someone was going to get the wrong end of his temper for what had happened to Rome.
CHAPTER TWO
Massilia was where Casca had joined the seventh legion all those centuries ago. Originally he’d gone to Livorno, not too far from where his village had been, but he’d been turned down. That had probably been due to his state of mind, which to be fair, wasn’t his fault. He’d just buried his family, victims of plague, and he hadn’t been in the best of moods. So he’d wandered the coastal region of Liguria and ended up in Gaul, where he’d made a better impression to the recruiting officer in this city.
Casca looked down at it from the hill. It had grown a bit, spreading out left and right, but was hemmed in by a wall that hadn’t been there before. The docks were still there, and he guessed that would be so until the Second Coming. His mood darkened at that thought. “When in the name of Hades will that be, Jew?” he growled to the heavens.
No reply came, as expected. Kicking a stone angrily across the street, narrowly missing a passing dog, he tramped down one of the stepped streets towards the area he’d been recruited in. A tavern. Always a great place to find warriors. Many spent their days of peace in these places, as boredom gripped them, and they desperately wanted to forget the present, wishing rather to live for the time they would be once again in battle, feeling alive.
The Three Amphorae tavern close to the harbor looked like it fitted the bill, and he pushed into the dark interior, swatting aside the door and looking around at the clientele who had turned to regard him. Noisy entrances either heralded a militia raid, a press gang, a drunk or some fool with an inferiority complex. Casca didn’t look like any of those, so they stared at him with interest. Any man wearing a sword and looking as beefy as he did commanded interest. The serving wench wet her lips. Wonder what he would be like in the sack? She smiled at him, thrust her chest forward and lowered her head, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. Casca recognized the challenge.
Grunting half in amusement, he wandered past a couple of tables to one in the corner. Two men were sat there, glaring up at him as he neared. “Out,” Casca jerked his thumb behind him. “Go find a seat elsewhere.”
One of the men, an unshaven swarthy type with a light colored shirt and bare, muscled arms, stood up, his face thunderous. “Who the Hades are you to tell me where to go?”
Casca grabbed him and sent a meaty fist into his face and pulled him over the table, throwing him onto the bare floor. He glared down at his companion who was sat there, his mouth open. “Want to join him?”
The man shook his head and scuttled round the other side, away from Casca, and helped his stunned friend up, trying to staunch the blood running from his nose and lips. “What’s your problem, friend?” the unhurt one asked.
“You’re in my seat, that’s what,” Casca growled, sitting down.
“That’s not your seat!”
“It is now. Get lost.” He watched as the two made their way unsteadily through the room to the far side, not wishing to be anywhere near the ugly brute of a stranger. He dressed like a Roman and looked like a Roman but he acted like a barbarian. The serving wench came over, picking up the knocked over mugs and put them on her chipped tray. “What would you like?” she asked, pushing her body towards him, making it quite clear she was offering herself to him. Times were hard, money was tight, revolts everywhere and lawless armies rampaging across the countryside here and there. Who knew when things would finish here? Best to live for today for tomorrow may never come.
“Maybe later, sweetheart,” Casca said, appraising her body, squeezing her ass just to make her feel better. She squealed softly in delight and pressed against his hand. “For the moment I need a drink – here’s a couple of coins.” He tossed two denarii onto the table. The girl’s eyebrows almost vanished into her hairline. That was worth an all-nighter.
“Certainly, love,” she said huskily. “Anything else?”
“Information. Any soldiers here looking for a job?” He reckoned the tavern wench would know more than a
nyone else.
She took the coins and looked around. “Over there,” he pointed to a man sat by himself, leaning over the bar, morosely drinking. “I think he was in that army that got beat in Italy. You know, Constantine’s army.”
“I didn’t, but thanks anyway. Ask him to come over here. I want to discuss something with him that may be to his advantage.”
“Oh?” the girl said, intrigued.
Casca put a finger to the side of his nose. “Man’s talk. Time for you and me later.”
She shot him a saucy smile and wiggled off, deliberately swaying her hips to provoke him. “Bitch,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure whether he needed a drink, a fight or a woman to dispel the depressed feeling that was smothering him. Maybe all three. He’d try each. He watched quietly as the girl spoke to the man, who looked over at Casca in surprise. Casca nodded, and the man shrugged, pushed himself away from the bar and came over, slightly unsteadily. As he neared, Casca could see he was around thirty, lean, tough looking, wore his hair short and had strong looking arms and legs, dressing in the traditional manner of Roman soldiers.
“Ave,” he greeted him, his voice slightly slurred. “You wanted to speak to me, the girl said?”
“Sit down. I’m like you, a soldier. Like you, I was part of an army but now finds himself out of work. I might, however, have a lucrative job lined up, and I’m looking for tough bastards to come with me.”
The man snorted. “Sounds like a swine of a job. I’m through fighting for dumb causes that end up with our asses being kicked.”
Casca appraised the man shrewdly. “Want to tell me about it?”
“Firstly, my name is Flavius Tibunnus, former legionary of Rome serving in Britannia, then under the usurper Constantine.” He paused as the girl came back with a jug of wine and a couple of mugs. She smiled at Casca and leaned forward, her low cut top showing him her bare breasts, nipples hardened. As she looked up at him, her tongue ran along her lips. Then she was gone.
“Good God,” Flavius said, stunned. “That was on a plate to you, sir.”
“Aye. Don’t think I’m going to get out of here without being raped.” He picked up the jug and poured into the two mugs. “Hard life, isn’t it? By the way, name’s Longinus, Casca Longinus.”
They clasped in the Roman manner, hand to the other’s forearm. Casca raised his mug to Flavius. “Here’s to a successful job.”
“Sure,” Flavius said and drank a mouthful. “Hey, this is better stuff than the vinegar I was given earlier.”
“Stay with me and you’ll get decent food, drink and a good fight. Good pay, too.”
“Oh?” Flavius looked interested. “And what is this job?”
“Rescue mission. Travel way outside Massilia. Can’t tell you too much until you accept the job.”
Flavius grinned. “Alright, I’m in. You seem a decent type, and tough enough to tackle a lion. What rank were you, by the way, and with whom?”
“I’ve held top ranks in my time,” Casca said, smacking his lips in appreciation of the quality wine. He’d been a baron in Chin and a general in Persia over the past century. “But latterly I was in Honorius’s Palace Guard until we fell foul of Alaric’s Goths. He took me prisoner and the bastard forced me to watch Rome being taken and plundered. I’m still aching to work off some feeling for that, and this job’s just what I need.”
“So you’re Honorius’s man?” Flavius said with surprise. “I wouldn’t go round here saying that – not in earshot of the authorities, at least. You might end up in the harbor.”
“Don’t worry,” Casca growled, pouring both of them another drink. “I’m through with that scrawny dick. He’s as much of an emperor as my ass is. Couldn’t organize a drinking party at a brewery.”
Flavius snickered at Casca’s comment. “That’s better; he’s not well loved by anyone here, but nobody here expects Constantine to last long. Too many enemies, you see. Looks like we’ll have to see which way the wind blows and go with that.”
“What about you?” Casca asked, looking sharply at the soldier. “If the going gets tough on this job will you desert? If you do I’ll cut you up into pieces.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, sir. I’m not one to desert. I stay loyal to whatever army or group I’m in. It wasn’t through desertion that I’m here today; it’s because the damned army I was in fell apart in Italy. I was lucky to get back, I can tell you!”
“Hmm,” Casca leaned back and coolly appraised the man. “You’re a Comitatus? The heavy infantry?”
“Yes, sir. Shock troop.”
“Good. I’ll need a tough man to be my number two. You’ve got the job; congratulations.”
They raised their mugs and clinked them together before taking another draught. Casca pressed Flavius about others who may be suitable, but the soldier admitted he’d not seen any of his old buddies since he’d gotten back from Italy. He would check out his old haunts to see if anyone was looking for a job, and Casca arranged for Flavius to meet him back in the tavern the following night.
Flavius staggered out unsteadily into the night and Casca finished off the drink, allowing it to warm his gut and slightly dull the nerves in his hands and feet, then looked at the serving wench as she brought the other patrons their particular poisons. He had an urge to vent those pent-up feelings building up inside him, and he nodded at her once when she looked his way. He threw the owner a coin for a room for the next week or so, as he guessed it’d take that time to get a group together, then pointed upstairs to the girl and went up to the room the owner had said was free. Refugees were coming in all the time and rooms were being snapped up left, right and center. He had been lucky to get one, he was told.
He threw himself onto the sagging bed in the sparsely furnished room, and eyed the window that was ajar, letting some of the heat of the day out, letting in the cool breeze coming in off the sea. He thought about closing it, then decided not to, putting his hands behind his head and lying there, brooding on the fate of the empire.
The door opened and the girl came in quietly. She stood before him, silently, while he looked up at her, not moving. She undid the clasp on her top and allowed it to fall away, revealing her bare chest, then she untied her skirt and that joined the top on the floor, and she stood before him naked.
“Come,” he said.
She knelt on the bed and he pulled her onto him and began kissing her. She responded enthusiastically, divesting him of his clothes swiftly, eager to try this heavily muscled man who excited her. “Oh! Those scars!”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, used to people’s reaction to his old wounds. “I survived them all.”
“Mmmm,” she said and continued. He pulled her over onto her back, needing the physical release more than any other time he could recall, and without any hesitation penetrated her. As he worked away at her, he saw the flames of Rome, the death of his homeland, the end of the touchstone that had been there ever constant throughout his long, long life. A home that was always there no matter how long he was away, no matter how many times Rome had mistreated him and abused him. Like a child, he yearned for Rome, and now it was slipping away from him. What was his future? Where could he from now on feel he could go to recharge himself? He sobbed as he thrust ever harder into the woman, who groaned and cried out herself, scoring long lines down his back with her nails.
“Harder! Go on!” he urged her, wanting pain, wanting to feel something.
He wailed deeply as he felt his climax approaching, not knowing how many times she was screaming out in her own waves of pleasure and pain.
Later, he sucked her fingers clean of his blood, and she lay there totally relaxed, smiling. Nobody had ever screwed her like that before, and although it had exhausted her and she was very tender inside, it had been a totally satisfying experience. She didn’t know why he was sucking his own blood, but it was erotic and she was starting to feel horny again. She wondered if her body could take another session like that again so soon.
The next day Casca walked slowly along the waterfront, his eyes hurting from the bright sunshine reflecting off the whitewashed buildings and the sparkling sea. It had been an exhausting night and he felt tired, and his back was itching from the healing it was undergoing after the deep scratches he’d received. But he felt empty inside. The sexual energy and sweat-filled passion of the night hadn’t taken away the feeling of loss and anger and – as he had to admit to himself now – fear. Fear of losing his surrogate parent, Rome, fear of losing that security. How he could come to terms with it was anyone’s guess, and only he would suffer this way. Mortals would have their short-term problems and be submerged into their own private Hades, but he would live on and have the lasting memory of it for centuries – or even longer.
No, sex wasn’t the answer. He was looking for a new place to recruit more suitable people for his mission. The tavern wench would want a repeat performance and he wasn’t sure whether he was up to it. His heart wasn’t in it and he couldn’t face the distraction of dealing with the likely consequent sulking and bitching, so he was out in the sunshine rather than looking over the new arrivals in the tavern. He’d left a sore-headed Flavius to do that. Maybe it was a bit cowardly, running away like that, but he had other things to think about.
Drink wasn’t an answer either; he knew the relief would be temporary at least and he’d feel worse afterwards. So what did that leave him? War. Killing. Death. It’s what he did best. Damn the Curse. Now the mission was the most important thing to him. He needed to bring along some kick-ass brutes with him to dish out some serious pain to some sonofabitch that deserved it, and his enquiries had pointed him in the direction of a really low quality drinking hole along the docks where the scum hung out.
Casca found it readily enough. The boarded windows and the chipped door was evidence enough of fights, and rat-like eyes watched him from the alleys and gutters across the street as he came to a stop outside. The scum of humanity regarded him hungrily. His clothing was new and fresh, unlike the rags they wore; his sword could fetch a month’s food. He would have money on him, money they craved. Casca gave the nearest one, a lump of misshapen rags and sores, a withering look that dared him to try, before kicking open the door and pushing in out of the bright sunlight.