Casca 37: Roman Mercenary

by Tony Roberts

  He went to the village boundary and looked out towards the east. The sky was growing lighter there, over the peaks of the mountains. His breath billowed out in huge clouds before him and he stamped his feet to try to get the circulation going. Then he stopped and looked over the ground.

  There were those hoof prints again. He quickly looked round but could see no rider. He cursed. Making his way back to the camp he clapped his gauntlets together. “Up, and quickly eat something! We’re off in a few minutes. I think they’ve found us.”

  The others scrambled to their feet or came running from various parts of the village. “How do you know that?” Gerontius demanded, clipping on his belt.

  “Hoof prints out there. A scout, obviously. They’ve got men searching us and one came across us some time in the night. Must have been when whoever was on guard was on another part of the boundary. We haven’t got much time. They’ll be here before long, if I know how my luck goes.”

  They got their equipment together, threw food down their throats and were off just as day broke. They could see quite a distance in the clear morning air, and off to the north stretched an iced-over lake. To the right of this the plains stretched back towards Aventicum. In the far distance some black dots could be seen, moving.

  “You’re right,” Flavius said. “Damned war band, quite a big one.”

  “Go!” Casca snapped. They half ran out of the village and continued on their way westwards. The road ran up and down over undulating countryside, and they came to another abandoned village after about an hour. The road turned south after this and ahead could be seen a range of mountain peaks.

  “What’s there?” Flavius asked, panting.

  “On the other side of those is Gaul,” Casca replied. “We’ve got to get through them. Before that is the Lemanus Lake. This road leads to a port, Lousonna. If we get there first we’ll be able to get a boat to cross it before they get to us.”

  They concentrated on the mountains ahead, plowing on through the snow-covered road towards the still unseen lake. At every crest of a rise Flavius, the back man, turned anxiously to scan the landscape behind. His face became grimmer with every look. The Burgundian chasing pack was getting closer, easily outstripping them. Flora was making the best pace she could but exhaustion was claiming her. Gerontius lifted her onto his back and carried her, but even so the pace was painfully slow.

  Casca kept an eye on the terrain ahead. They were getting close to Lousonna but they would be overtaken before they got to the town. Mattias kept on looking at Casca, hoping for some command, or a solution to their predicament. Wulfila and Manneric said little; they knew a fight was coming. Six against sixty. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

  Then their luck really turned against them. With a cry Wulfila fell, his foot caught in a crack in the road. It was a miracle it hadn’t happened before. All heard the crack of his ankle as it snapped and the Ostrogoth screamed in pain.

  “Shit!” Casca sprang to the stricken man’s help, but Manneric beat him to it. Wulfila’s foot was eased out of the hole and he lay on the road, panting in pain and breathlessness. Flavius stood to the rear, looking along the road. “They’ll be here pretty soon, sir,” he said, a touch of anxiety in his voice. “What are we going to do?”

  “How bad is it, Wulf?” Casca asked quickly.

  “Fucked. You heard it,” Wulfila hissed through his teeth. “Leave me. I’ll take some of them with me.”

  “Are you mad?” Flora asked, shocked. “You’ll die!”

  “We’ll all die if someone doesn’t hold them up,” Casca said. He straightened. “Get him up.”

  Manneric and Mattias pulled the injured warrior up. There was a rise in the ground just ahead and he was seated on it. “Sorry we’re parting ways,” Casca said. “It was good having you here with us.”

  “Sorry I’ll miss the victory party,” Wulfila gasped. “Now get going, all of you – including you, Manneric. Go!”

  Manneric hesitated, his face contorting. Then he spun and followed Casca, his face thunderous. Flavius clapped Wulfila on the shoulder. “Be seeing you,” he said in broken German.

  Mattias merely nodded at Wulfila who nodded back. Flora sobbed and was carried away by Gerontius, his face as if made of stone. The group, now only six in number, made their way down the other side of the rise and the road twisted right, then left as it descended the plateau towards the town. Ahead the lake could now be seen, half of it covered in ice with only the middle part still dark with open water. Somewhere below them the town stood, yet to be revealed by the tree-covered broken hills and cliffs around the lake’s shores.

  Wulfila eased his throbbing ankle. His axes were all placed in the snow, blades down, in front of him. He knew he had little chance of survival, but he’d make a nuisance of himself. The thought amused him.

  The sound of feet thumping the ground alerted him and he tensed, planting his one good foot on the rock he was sat upon. He reached down and gripped the first two of his seven axes. The rasping of breath came to his ears and suddenly the first of the war party came into view, dark, fur-covered shapes with long, sweaty hair and bushy beards. Spears, shields and swords adorned these men. They were concentrating on the footprints on the road before them and only saw Wulfila as he hopped up onto one leg.

  “Greetings, filthy scum!” Wulfila shouted and hurled the first axe straight into the chest of the open-mouthed scout. He staggered and sank to his knees before pitching face down in the snow. His companion reached for his spear but the second axe was already spinning towards him, and the blade sliced through his neck, showering the man behind with blood. The wounded Burgundian span round, clutching his throat, and fell backwards, his eyes wide in horror.

  Roars of rage and battle broke from the rest and they spread wide, spears raised. Wulfila hurled a third axe and fell forward, overbalancing. The axe sank into the skull of a third man, splitting his cranium apart and cutting deep into his brain. The man fell back, dead.

  Spears arced at Wulfila and the Goth took one through the shoulder and another through his right thigh. Pinned to the ground he writhed in agony. Slowly, the war band approached, wary in case the warrior was still able to get up, but it became clear he was stuck fast, so they crowded round him. One of the sub-captains waved at two of his men to remove the spears which they did non-too-gently. Wulfila screamed.

  “Now, bastard son of a swine, how many of you are there, and where are you headed?”

  Wulfila sobbed, scrabbling in the snow, but the fingers of his right hand were clutched around one of his axes underneath his body.

  “Get him up!” the sub-captain snapped. As hands pulled him round, Wulfila swung with all his remaining strength. The axe took off half of one of the men’s heads and he fell, dead before he hit the earth.

  Instantly the others hacked him down and continued to slash and stab until the warband leader called them to stop. What was left wasn’t identifiable as human; it was just a bloodied lump of flesh. One of the group had gone ahead and peered down the long slope. Even though it was late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, he caught the movement of people below, far below on the winding road. “There! Six people! They are halfway down the cliff near the forest!”

  The others all came running to look down at the scene. They had no eyes for the beauty of the mountains, forests or lake. They had one thing on their mind; to catch those in front of them.

  Casca glanced up the long slope to the top, and now saw the line of men looking down at them. He grimaced. Wulfila had given his life so they could get further ahead; he’d succeeded, so now it was down to them to see that he hadn’t died in vain.

  Somewhere ahead through the forest the lake began, and where the road met it stood a town. He hoped to hades that it had a wall and was manned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Casca came to a halt suddenly, sending snow spraying up and across the road. “Stop!” he snapped, looking back through the trees up the slope. The others stood staring
at him. “We’ve got to slow them down some more. We’ve got to have a chance in getting into the town and across that lake before they get there. Once across the lake we’ve got a chance in losing them if they don’t see where we go.”

  “And how are you going to do that?” Gerontius demanded, his chest rising and falling.

  “Two of us ambush them and lead them off the road. The rest of you get into the town, get a boat and wait for us.”

  “It’s madness,” Mattias said. “Who are you thinking of staying here with you?”

  Casca glanced at the group. “Flavius.”

  “Allow me to be the one,” Manneric suddenly spoke. All turned to look at the Goth. “They killed my cousin. I wish to avenge his death on the very people who killed him.”

  Casca nodded. “Very well. Manneric and I will slow them down. We know where we’re going. Daylight will last here for another hour or so and then the sun goes down behind the Jura Mountains. Once that happens Manneric and I will make our way to the town.”

  “And how will you find us, should you survive this insane idea?” Gerontius asked.

  “The town is a lakeside settlement; it won’t be very big. The waterfront will be where the boats are; grab a small one, enough for six. I think we’ll need to drag it across the ice for a distance.”

  “In the dark?” Flavius exclaimed. “You are mad! We’ll most likely fall in.”

  “Maybe you’re right; but get going now! They won’t be that far behind. Good luck! See you in the town.”

  Gerontius took hold of Flora and guided her along the sloping road. The girl was still upset over Wulfila’s death, and went without much argument. Flavius and Mattias both paused, then nodded and followed, vanishing round the next corner and were lost amongst the trees within moments.

  “Right, Manneric,” Casca said. “Opposite sides of the road, into the trees. I’ll strike first, then when they go after me, you take out one from behind. Hopefully between us we’ll confuse them long enough to gain time and make our escape. If we get separated, make your way downhill until you find the lake or the town.”

  “It shall be as you say,” Manneric said darkly and made his way over to the trees on the opposite side of the road. Casca wouldn’t want to be the one who faced him in battle, the way he was at the moment. He doubted Manneric would have any pity.

  Casca walked off the road across ground that had been cleared in the recent past; tree stumps still stood here, and slid round the first large tree he came to, about twenty feet from the road. Whoever had built the road had hacked a swathe through the forest, leveled the ground by building up the downhill side and cutting into the upslope side. Here and there evidence of rock faces having been cut was there to see, and it must have been one huge effort. It had to have been the army. The road could have been built twenty years ago or a hundred and twenty. It was hard to say.

  The sky was getting darker. Clouds were building and perhaps the temperature would climb as a result, but the wind was picking up so that might cancel it out. He gripped his sword two-handed and slung his shield across his back. He peered across to see if he could spot Manneric but nothing betrayed the Goth’s presence.

  Then he inched back behind the tree. The Burgundian party were thundering down the road, leather squeaking, buckles clicking, breath panting. They were not wasting any time. Casca stood rock still and counted the shapes passing by, then slid out and ran hard, jumping over two stumps and emitting a shrill scream as he got to the roadside.

  A Burgundian turned in surprise just as Casca’s sword was coming down from a high starting point. The blade cut through the warrior, slicing deep into his neck and chest. The man fell backwards, arms wide, and crashed into the road. His nearest companion came at him, teeth bared, and Casca flicked his blow aside contemptuously and slashed up without pausing. The Burgundian was flung back, a deep red bloodied mark across his chest. Casca turned and ran hard for the trees, a pack of men running after him. A spear came flying close and buried itself into the tree Casca ran past.

  As he plunged into the trees, pursued by fifteen angry Burgundians, Manneric moved noiselessly out from his place of concealment and came up to three men standing on the road looking into the forest. Manneric slashed down across the first man’s back, then stepped forward and brought his sword up across the second who was turning in shock. The blade ripped through the man’s arm, taking it off near the shoulder. He was left staring stupidly at his spurting stump, then fell slowly to his knees, screaming in pain.

  The third man slashed wildly at throat height but Manneric ducked and plunged his blade point first into the Burgundian’s gut, skewering him. The man fell back and Manneric turned and ran for the trees, pursued by a large group of men, taking no heed of their captain to come back.

  Casca heard the shouts and grinned and he sprang from one space between two trees to the next, dodging and swerving. He was going downhill, watching the steepness of the slope, making sure he avoided the bracken and brush that could obscure a sheer drop. The men chasing him were strung out in a line; the fleeter footed ones getting ahead of their slower comrades, and Casca glanced briefly behind him and saw that two were getting close.

  He suddenly stopped and swung round, catching the first by surprise, and his blade slashed through the man’s throat, sending him crashing into the undergrowth, staining the leaves red. The second roared in fury and raised his sword as he came up to the Eternal Mercenary, intent on cutting him in two from nape to crotch. Casca met the down strike above his head. The force of the blow knocked Casca back a couple of paces. Gritting his teeth Casca regained his balance.

  The Burgundian came at him again. Yellowed teeth bared, he slashed down hard once more. This time Casca’s parry was with braced legs and the Burgundian didn’t have the force of his run to add strength to the blow.

  Casca swung down and the blade cut cleanly through the warrior’s chest and exited in a shower of blood and entrails from his abdomen. Leaving the man twitching in his death throes on the forest floor, Casca turned and ran again, just as the main body came upon him.

  Their cries of anger and vows as to what they’d do to him were clear to Casca, adding strength to his plunge down the slope, bouncing off a tree trunk here and there, eyes scanning the ground for holes or roots. Someone fell behind him and the shout of dismay briefly brought a smile to his lips, then he was once more serious, trying to get as far from the pursuit as possible.

  Back at the road the warband leader raged at the stupidity of his men. “For Odin’s sake! Get those fools back here! The main group went down the road here, look!”

  “But what if Mattias was one of the two who struck at us from the forest, chief?” one of his sub-captains asked.

  “Did your mother mate with an ox? Even I saw it wasn’t him! One was that big ugly scarred Latin-looking swine and the other a scrawny Goth! Our quarry is still on the road and getting further away with every step! Recall them! Sound the horn!”

  The man with a curved aurochs horn put it to his lips and a deep, eerie sound echoed through the trees, even reaching the ears of the four still on the road, far below almost at the bottom of the long slope. “What was that?” Flavius asked, a worried look on his face.

  “Hunting horn,” Mattias said. “They use it to gather the warriors. Sounds like our enemies have become scattered. Casca’s tactics could be working!”

  They hoped Mattias’ words were true and continued, finding the route much easier now and the road straightened through the forest. Ahead the lake could now be seen, and on the shore, the walls of the town of Lousonna. They had made it.

  Casca heard the horn and turned as the sound of pursuit stopped abruptly. The Burgundians were strung out wide fifty feet away, looking down at him. There was an argument as to what to do. Just then, the horn sounded a second time. One of the group pointed his sword at Casca. “Do not think you are safe, dog! We shall hunt you down soon enough and mount your head on my spear!”

  “T
ry it, you goat fucker,” Casca snapped back, his chest heaving. “That horn saved you from certain death.”

  “Ha! We shall see when we next meet.” The Burgundians turned and began walking back, more than one looking back at Casca, their faces thunderous.

  Casca sheathed his sword and carried on down the slope, now at a much slower pace. He cut back to the right, trotting when he got to a level patch. After a short while he came across the road again and was relieved to see footprints going in the right direction. He followed them, avoiding the icy looking prints, preferring instead to plow through virgin snow. One thing with the pine forest; it kept most of the snow from the ground. Here, where the trees had been cleared, the ground was covered.

  Manneric came out of the forest to the right and waved, and Casca caught up with him. “We did our job?” the Goth asked.

  “Yes, it’ll be dark shortly and they won’t follow us out onto the ice at night. Let’s go find the others.”

  Lousonna had a rudimentary low wall with square towers at regular intervals. It didn’t look all that good a quality construction, and Casca guessed it would crumble soon enough without maintenance. The gate was in between two towers and the double doors swung inwards after Casca asked for entry, stating they were being chased by wild barbarian brigands. The frightened militia captain had been given the gory details already by Gerontius and Flavius, and even though they looked like the very barbarians of his nightmares, their educated Latin and obvious Roman features had convinced him to let them through and to look for two more of their party who would be coming behind them.

  “How many barbarians are out there?” he asked. He looked like a fisherman. He smelt like one, too.

  “Fifty at least,” Casca said. “Keep a good watch this night.”

  “We will. But if they attack, we have little to stop them with.”

  Casca slapped the man on the shoulder. Like all the civilians of the region, they had been left to fend for themselves after the withdrawal of the legions. He felt sorry for them. Lousonna stretched along the shore of the lake, a long strip settlement. It was a fishing port, and much of the lakeside was taken up with jetties. The water was frozen over and the ice stretched off into the distance, but there was no way of knowing how thick it was. To the right stood the boutiques and basilica along with the forum, and here was where most of the businesses were. The homes of the townsfolk were to the left.