Casca 37: Roman Mercenary

by Tony Roberts

  Flavius was the first he found, half asleep sitting on a stool by the doorway, keeping a half-hearted watch. He was sober and Casca nodded in approval and got him to help find the others. They were sprawled amongst the sleepers, some more drugged by alcohol than others, but after a few slaps and kicks they were all up, grumbling. A few of the Alemanni tribesmen cursed them but Casca whispered to them to shut up and go back to sleep, which they did.

  Assembling the group outside, shivering in the freezing air, Casca quickly told them why they were going now. He didn’t want any over inquisitive official questioning them in the daytime as they could still run the real risk of being arrested and imprisoned. The fact they had three Romans in their group wouldn’t go down well, neither would having Mattias with them.

  They ghosted through the town towards the north-east gatehouse. The two Ostrogoth cousins were taken aside by Casca and he whispered instructions to them. They nodded and began covering their throwing axe heads with strips of cloth torn from one of their shirts. The streets were dark, and only occasionally lit by torches or candles in house windows or doorways, a much different night time than what had been during Roman rule. Then, like all towns and cities under imperial rule, so Casca reckoned, most of the main streets would have been lit. The vigiles would have made sure of that.

  Times had changed. Rome was no longer mistress of the former imperial frontier. Casca wasn’t sure that things were better; the infrastructure was being allowed to decay and the buildings and roads were falling apart. What would come of it all? He put such thoughts from his mind and waved the group to a halt just out of sight of the gatehouse.

  “Right, Wulfila, Manneric. Go do your business.”

  The two cousins grinned in the darkness and crept off, keeping to the side of the street, close to the houses, one on either side. Mattias nudged Casca. “Why leave this way? You run the risk of having the Alemanni on our asses.”

  “We’re not coming back this way,” Casca said, “and if we get questioned properly in the daylight by whoever runs this town, they may not be satisfied by our story. And we can’t leave during curfew hours. So we break out.”

  They watched as Manneric got to the end of the street and crouched, eyeing the guards by the gateway. He hefted his two axes, wrapped in cloth, and waited until Wulfila had stopped opposite him. The two glanced at one another, then nodded. Both rose up and made their way out onto the clear ground before the gatehouse.

  Three guards were half asleep, two leaning on their spears, heads nodding, while the third was yawning and rubbing his eyes at his position on top of the stairs looking out into the night. Wulfila pointed at the two nodding guards to Manneric and then jabbed his thumb at his own chest and pointed to the man on the ramparts. Manneric nodded.

  As Wulfila scuttled towards the bottom of the stairs, Manneric came to within twenty paces of the guards and drew back his right arm, axe firmly gripped. The guard, leaning for support on his spear, never saw the axe spinning through the air, nor did he feel the stunning blow that struck him full on the face, knocking him clean over. The guard next to him jerked up straight and stared in disbelief at his comrade toppling to the ground, his spear striking the ground next to him.

  He wasted too much time wondering what in the name of God was going on, and a second axe came out of the night to crash into his face, sending him into a heap by the gates.

  The guard on the ramparts turned and stared down, shock written over his face. He saw Wulfila halfway up the staircase and grabbed for his sword, but Wulfila’s first axe came hurtling up at him nd took him under the chin, snapping his head back. The man staggered, clutching his throat, and Wulfila sprang up the last of the steps, grabbed him by the arm and smacked the back of his second axe down across his exposed neck. The guard collapsed onto the ramparts, out cold.

  Manneric, meanwhile, had got to the gates and had pulled the bar up and off the hooks. As he began pulling the gate open, Casca got to his feet and waved the others to follow. “Hurry, we don’t know how long it’ll be before someone spots us.”

  Wulfila joined the others and as one, they left the town, now on the northern side of the Dubis. The way was clear now to the Rhine.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Or, rather, it should have been. They had rested just before dawn, far enough from the walls of the town, then had carried on until the afternoon. The weather had turned worse and an icy wind now blew into their faces, bringing with it sleet and snow. Winter was with them.

  Cursing, Mattias was leading the group onwards, up one slope and down the other side, a gentle rise and fall. They weren’t fighting the flow of the land, thankfully, but moving north-east along a long, wide valley towards the Rhine. They all had their furs on and were hunched low, plodding forward into the wind.

  It was only because they were approaching from downwind that Mattias heard the sound of horses from ahead. He stopped and tensed himself, peering into the flakes that blew straight into face. Ahead the vague shape of the land was half seen, rising high to the right. As he concentrated, he saw the shape of a man on horseback slowly materialize out of the white, a man who hadn’t seen Mattias as yet.

  The horseman wasn’t moving much; he was hunched over in the saddle miserably, holding onto his reins, probably with gauntleted hands, looking as though he were frozen to the core. Maybe a scout; maybe not. Mattias crouched low and backed away, keeping close to the ground. He had gone perhaps twenty paces when he bumped into Casca, the next in line. Quickly informing him of what he’d seen, he returned to the place he’d seen the horseman.

  Casca turned and waved the others to stop and remain silent. He put his finger to his lips and pointed ahead. The others gathered his message and reached for their weapons, crouching low. Mattias stopped as the shape of the rider came into view again. The horseman was advancing once more and was going to pass fairly close to him, so Mattias slipped into the lee of a shrub and gripped his spear, the best weapon against a horseman he had.

  The rider came alongside and Mattias’ expression hardened. This was no Alemanni; he was Burgundian. The rider had more leather armor on and his conical helm with the neck guard was more eastern than those of the Alemanni and the other ‘western’ Germanic tribes. What he was doing here was anyone’s guess.

  Casca and Gunthar were next, and the Burgundian spotted them, and he sat upright in surprise. He peered hard at them, then cursed and pulled on the reins to gallop off and alert his comrades. Mattias stood up and ran at the man, spear raised. The point sank into the rider’s back and Mattias kept on pushing, skewering the man. He toppled off his horse which bolted off into the wind, reins flying.

  Casca and the others came up and crowded round the fallen man. Mattias pulled the spear free and looked down at him dispassionately. “A scout. There’ll be others.”

  “Agreed,” Casca nodded. “He seemed to know who we were.”

  “Word has got out,” Mattias commented. “They do want me quite badly.”

  “So it would seem. Right you lot, let’s get going. Weapons ready. If you see anyone on horseback, hit them hard. We’ve got nowhere to run, so we’re going to have to kill.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Gunthar said with relish.

  Casca led them off at an angle, heading to the left of the valley away from the direction the horse had bolted. The rider less horse would probably be found before long and bring the other Burgundians in their warband running. There was no knowing how many of them there were. Casca knew they’d have to fight like the devil to get through to the Rhine.

  They stumbled on, the wind to their right cheeks, half running, half trotting. Sound came from further along the valley, and shapes could be seen off to the right. The sleet and snow had turned from being a hindrance to a help. Casca led them on further to the left, heading for the side of the valley, some distance away. They couldn’t help leave tracks, but maybe the falling snow would cover them fairly rapidly.

  He was hoping they could find more brok
en terrain but their luck couldn’t hold out forever, and the wind dropped and the snow faded, leaving a dull, glowering sky, and a much better degree of visibility across the land. A shout went up and one of the outriders sat in his saddle, pointing at them.

  Casca cursed. He glanced round and saw little that could offer much cover, except a small ridge of stone to the left and ahead. “Over here, come on!” he urged, breaking into a full run. The others followed, filling the air with grunts, thudding of feet and squeaking of leather and clinking of steel. The outcrop of stone was perhaps twenty feet in length and seven feet or so high at the center, tapering down at either end.

  Fifteen horsemen came galloping towards them in a long wide line. Casca waved to the two Ostrogoth cousins to ready their axes while he planted himself on top of the outcrop, freeing his shield from his back, and sliding his sword free. This was how he fought best.

  Gunthar came up onto his left and Mattias to the right, while Flavius and Gerontius stood with spears ready close to Manneric and Wulfila. The Burgundians came at them still in their long line, spears raised. They weren’t going to parley or try to take prisoners by the look of things; they were here to kill them all.

  Wulfila screamed and hurled the first of his axes. The weapon span fast and in the space of a heartbeat took the leading Burgundian in the chest. The man flung up both arms and flew off his horse. Manneric span one of his at the second, taking him in the shoulder. In the blink of an eye he flung his second, this one catching the wounded man in the throat. With a splash of blood the man crashed to the ground and lay there unmoving.

  The rest rode wide and came round the group in a circle. Spears were raised and the first came at them. Casca gritted his teeth. He raised his shield and took the shock of the blow. The spear fell uselessly to the ground. The second rider came past and threw his missile. Mattias blocked it with his shield. Manneric turned and threw his next axe hard, taking the man in the back.

  The air was full of thundering hoofs, grunting and swearing from the combatants and the screaming of wounded and dying men. The Burgundians now decided they were being picked off far too easily and closed in for the kill. Casca and his men, grouped at the top of the outcrop, could only be approached from three sides easily. The fourth side gave the defending mercenaries the height advantage.

  Shields came up, presenting a barrier to the attacking horsemen. Casca guessed they weren’t too used to fighting on horseback, for their attack was uncoordinated and clumsy. Two got in each other’s way and Gunthar smashed his shield down on the head of the nearest horse which reared up in fright and pain, and dumped its rider on his ass.

  Mattias swung his sword from a low start point and sliced through the throat of the second horse. The beast staggered away, spurting hot blood, and collapsed in a heap, tumbling the rider. Casca grabbed his spear, sticking his sword in the ground, and aimed for another horse. He drew in his breath, then released the missile. It arced through the air to impact against the next horse’s side. It screamed and reared up, then toppled over, the spear sticking up out of its side.

  The warband leader roared orders in fury and the rest dismounted. Casca grabbed his sword and stepped forward one pace. The Burgundians, enraged at the loss of their comrades, charged as one. He saw Gunthar smash his shield into the body of the first to reach him, sweep him off balance and slice him almost in two with one huge down sweep of his sword.

  Casca saw nothing more of the fight as he was occupied with one enemy who came at him, hair wild, eyes even wilder. He was wearing a poor quality chainmail hauberk and a brown leather jerkin, and he came at the Eternal Mercenary with his sword high and shield thrust forward. Casca stood his ground and met the down blow solidly above his head. The blow was transmitted down his arm and the blades rang out with the force of the blow.

  He smashed his shield against that of the Burgundian. The warrior stepped back two paces, surprised he hadn’t knocked Casca back. Casca now fixed his mind on overcoming the Germanic warrior. He aimed his blow at the man’s head. It was met in front of his face, but Casca slammed his shield forward again like a battering ram.

  The quick strikes had the Burgundian staggering backwards in confusion. A body fell across Casca’s path and he paused, allowing the draining body of the Burgundian to settle, and to make sure he was dead. Mattias laughed in delight and moved onto the next opponent.

  Casca stepped forward over the corpse. His opponent was outclassed and both knew it. Another Burgundian was sinking to his knees slowly off to Casca’s right peripheral vision, but this was just another minor detail. He slashed hard from right to left and the Burgundian met it with his shield, then struck back for Casca’s waist which was in turn met by his shield.

  Casca gritted his teeth. Time to finish it. Sword blow to the head and shield thrust under the guard. The Burgundian raised both arms to defend himself. Casca pressed in hard and denied the man any space. His next blow was a straight stab, under the guard and up into his stomach. The Burgundian cried out and dropped both sword and shield and clutched his ruined gut. Casca stepped back, wrenching his blade free, and watched at the man sank to the ground and curled into a fetal ball.

  “Casca!” Flavius shouted a warning.

  Instinctively he whirled and met a full-blooded blow from another. His shield was knocked sideways with the force, but Casca was already slashing down in response. The Burgundian, expecting to have killed Casca, didn’t count on the scarred mercenary striking back so soon. Casca’s blade scored a deep cut across the German’s face, neck and chest, and he span round and fell to the ground.

  Looking left and right this time, cursing his own carelessness, he saw nobody was close. Nodding a thanks to Flavius, he checked the rest. All his men were still standing, mud and blood spattered, but alive. Ten Burgundians lay in various states, most of them dead, and the others likely to be pretty soon. The rest were fleeing back to their horses.

  As they mounted up, the leader glared at them. “Word will be sent back, Mattias. We will come back with more men, and next time you will not escape. Your head will fetch a high price. The King has commanded it.”

  “Try if you like, scum,” Mattias roared back, his face flecked with blood. “I’ll put all of you to death. Tell that mewling coward of a King he hasn’t the balls to face me man-to-man in a fair fight.”

  The warband leader spat in response and rode off, yelling further insults.

  Mattias sneered and wiped his face. Casca took out his cleaning cloth and wiped his blade clean before sliding it home. He looked at Gerontius who was wincing. “You hurt?”

  “Small wound,” the Roman grunted, holding his upper arm. “I’ll live.”

  The rest seemed fine, and both Manneric and Wulfila were busy retrieving their axes from the ground and the bodies of those they’d cut down. “Good fight,” Gunthar said with feeling. “Makes one feel alive, slaughtering these stupid swine.”

  “Don’t get over-confident,” Casca warned, wiping the worst of the gore from his tunic, “they’ll return with a bigger force. We’d best be in Argentoratum by then.”

  “How long will that be?” Flavius asked.

  Casca shrugged. The last time he’d been in the region he’d gone via the roads in safety. “Another twenty miles. Say a day and a half in this terrain? We’ll be at the Rhine by nightfall.”

  “And those vultures?” Wulfila asked.

  Casca looked at Mattias. The Burgundian chewed on his lower lip for a moment, thinking. “Two days by horse.”

  “Ah, then we’ll be in my capital whoring and drinking!” Gunthar exclaimed, clapping his hands together in glee. “Let’s be going!”

  “Check the bodies,” Casca said loudly, halting them in their tracks. “They may have stuff we can use.”

  The dead were relieved of the few trinkets the mercenaries could use, plus a few items of food and wealth they found in the saddle bags on the dead horses. A couple of items worn by the dead warriors were taken too, then they moved on
, leaving the dead to the wild animals and birds that were already closing in, eager to feast on the unexpected and welcome food that had come at a lean time of year.

  As Casca had predicted, they crested a rise later that afternoon and below them stretched the mighty Rhine. No longer a barrier of worlds, it was now just another waterway. Wide and deep, nevertheless the tribes had crossed it and would cross it yet again and again. The Burgundians clearly could on horseback, and somewhere there was either a bridge or a ferry.

  With the river to their right, they made their way north and were at last in sight of their destination, and hopefully the woman they were coming to find was still alive somewhere within the town now under Alemanni rule.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Argentoratum – the city of silver – was a sprawling metropolis on the left bank of the Rhine. There was no wall. Whether it had been pulled down by the invading tribes or had not been rebuilt by Julian after his victory over the Alemanni fifty years previously Casca didn’t know.

  The fields outside the city were being consumed by undergrowth, but animals were pasturing there, for there were pig pens and signs they had plowed up the earth around them. Orchards still stood, and someone had planted some crops, but clearly not to the extent they had before. In the time of the Roman administration, a city had grown not only enough food for itself, but also more to sell either to traders who came to the city or to trade downriver or deeper into Gaul.

  Wooden huts formed the first dwellings the tired and dirty group encountered, and they walked past, drawing a few curious looks from the citizens. Most looked Germanic, and a few children playing in the street ran to their homes and stared at them with wide eyes from the security of their mother’s side.

  Gunthar sucked in a deep breath and sighed in satisfaction. “Ahhh, it is good to be amongst my own people again. I must catch up with the gossip from my distant cousin Gerhard. I must find that reprobate.”