by Barry Sadler
Casca didn't make it all the way with the caravan. When they stopped at Halicarnassus, on the coast, he got drunk with some sailors and woke up to find he had signed on as a crewman. The creaking of the timbers brought him staggering to the upper deck of the bireme, where he emptied the remains of the previous night's revelry into the Mediterranean. Being a fatalist, he reconciled himself to the change in his mode of travel. As long as they didn't try to chain him to an oar, he was as well pleased as could be expected.
The captain was fair and the food not too bad. They were carrying an amphora of grain and olive oil as well as hauling precut slabs of marble to be used as facings for public buildings in Rome. These they used as ballast to settle down the tendency of the galley to pitch and roll.
When they finally put into the port of Ostia, he chose to stay on board rather than take the time to visit the city of the Caesars. The last time he'd been here they had first put him in the arena, and then "Mad Nero" had sentenced him to life as an oar slave on the galleys of Rome. No, the Imperial City still had a bad taste for him and he stayed close to the ship, not venturing much further than the nearest tavern for a drink now and then. Finally they had reloaded their cargo holds and made sail. They sailed first to the west, then north, this time to Massilia in Gaul, where he had first enlisted as a boy in the legions.
He felt an increasing desire to be gone from the hot humid lands of the Mediterranean and also away from the Pax Romana. There was only one place he could go where the long arm of Roman law didn't reach - across the Rhine into Germania. He also wanted to see if what the mercenaries he had served from the northlands had said about the women was true. It was a poor reason, but who said you had to have a good one?
Casca felt a sense of relief when they finally left Ostia behind them and headed out again to the open sea and into the clean sea air. Here the stench of a decaying and corrupt empire would fade with the distance. Rome still left a bad taste in his mouth. At nights, when the sea was quiet and the bireme rocked to and fro with the swells, he would often awake with a jerk, his body soaked in cold sweat as memories rushed on him in his sleep. In his nostrils would be the sweet, sick smell of blood.
It was blood from the sands of the arena - the circus where he'd fought for the amusement of the Roman public, where women in a frenzy would sell themselves into slavery, making wagers on who would die. He could hear the voice of Corvu, the Lanista, barking out commands at the tyros, the same as a sergeant in the army would, constantly repeating commands to recruits until the response to orders became automatic.
"Don't go for the throat or the leg - hit the gut first. It's the biggest target. Cut the bastard after he's down. Remember, a leg wound might eventually slow a man up, but if you get careless he can still kill you. Play it safe. Only get fancy when you know he's through; then make it look tougher than it is. Keep in mind that you're out there to entertain the people, not get yourselves killed. Let the bastards from the other schools do the dying." But even Corvu was not above rigging a fight against one of his own students if the man was a troublemaker. It was simple enough to arrange. A little drought of a sleeping drug in the cup of posca, the watered vinegar that each gladiator would rinse his mouth with before entering the arena, would ensure that in a few minutes the man's reaction time would slow down. And before the audience caught on that he was drugged, his opponent would surely take advantage of the situation and put a quick end to the unfortunate one.
But of all the faces of the arena, the one that haunted him most was Jubala, the monstrous black prince from Africa. He was a giant of a man, with the strength and courage of a desert leopard, and with a hatred in his heart that made him not just a hunter, but a killer who fed his hate on pain and death.
So that even now, when the hortator of the bireme struck the skin hide of the drum to set the measure for the oarsmen, Casca could feel a twinge seem to ripple over his back, for a slave master's lash, on the galley he had slaved on, had made its mark there. All this, he owed to Rome. But still, he was a Roman.
When they reached Massilia, Casca transferred over to a grain ship heading up the Rhone to Lugdunum, again trading the muscles in his back and arms for passage. Leaving the barge at Lugdunum, he took a large portion of his remaining sesterces and bought a young gray ass to carry what wealth he had on its small back, and struck out, trying to avoid contact with any of the Roman garrison along the way. After all, he was still a deserter and the arm of Rome is as long as her roads, reaching from Asia to Britannia. He didn't really understand why he wanted to cross the Rhine into Germania, but his feet took him to the same spot where he had killed his first man. Was that it?
Had he come back here because this was where he'd become a soldier, where his sword for the first time had cut the life out of another human? The number he had taken since that day, he couldn't recall. Only rarely did a face stand out in his mind for a moment, then fade back into the mists of the past where they belonged. Perhaps forgetting helped him to keep his sanity. If all the slaughter and pain he had inflicted and suffered himself were to come to him at one time, it would be too much for his mind to stand. Perhaps forgetting was the way the mind cured itself of the sickness that could linger with bad memories.
It was with a sense of something yet to come that he reached the banks of the Rhine just before nightfall. It was too late to make a crossing now; he would have to wait until the morning. He cast a regretful look at his ass and sighed. There was no way he would be able to get the animal across the rushing waters. So, waste not, want not. And it was time for chow.
Chapter One
Casca watched the broad back of Glam Tyrsbjorn as the ox of a man moved with amazing silence through the brush and tall forest. His double-handed sword hung from a sling on his back and a single-bladed axe dangled from a thong on his side. In his hand, he carried a spear made for the killing of wild pigs, but it served as well for men.
Glam was the first man he'd met when he came out of the waters of the Rhine and then, the red-nosed, oversized hunk of sausage had wanted to rob him and leave him all but naked. What was it I called him that pissed him off so much...? Turnip dick, that's it!
He had conned Glam into putting down his weapons and letting the Roman come out of the water to fight him with bare hands. Glam was big, even for a barbarian, but the Roman had learned something about fighting with empty hands that the barbarians of the dark woods had no concept of. They only knew to hit and smash or, if you were strong enough, to grab your opponent and squeeze his ribs until they caved in. Glam's brute strength was no match for the few techniques taught Casca by the yellow philosopher from beyond the far Indus river, where the priests learned to defend themselves without the aid of anything more than their own hands and feet. True, Shiu Lao Tze had not taught Casca a great deal, but what he had was more than enough to make him a match for anyone he had met so far on this side of the world.
But Casca also knew that if he screwed up and missed one of his movements, a good blow could knock him down. And no matter who it was, if you were landed a really good shot, the odds were you would get your brains kicked out, tricks or no tricks. Since then, he and Glam had become sword companions and Glam had been his guide and teacher. The gruff bear of a man was basically good-natured and, once he had gotten over being peeved at Casca for whipping his butt, he became a fast and good friend. They'd had no more disputes since that day when after tossing Glam into the Rhine, he had threatened to braid the big German's legs if he didn't behave himself. When Glam had considered the effect that this act would have had on his sex life, he'd rapidly agreed to a truce. But now there was something else happening ahead of them that demanded their attention. The sun was up only an hour and low mist swirled around the roots of the giant pine and fir trees twisting up into the morning sky. They were like ghostly tendrils, which some of the legends spoke of as being the spirits of fallen warriors eternally searching to find their way to the great Halls of Valhalla.
A touch of smoke m
ixed with the vapors. Barely audible were the distant sounds of dying. Shrill screams from women and children mingled with the deeper grunts of men killing each other. Casca raised his face to smell the mist, to search out the direction of the cries. In these dark primordial forests, sounds were hard to pinpoint.
He loosened his sword in its scabbard and took his small, round, hide-covered buckler with a brass boss in the center from the pack on his back.
The gray-blue eyes sparked with anticipation. His companion, that monstrous bear of a man who, from a distance could have been easily mistaken for one wrapped as he was in the hides of those beasts, swung his single-bladed axe from his shoulder and ran a calloused finger over the edge. Glam, son of Halfdan the Ganger, wiped his other hand on his bristled beard to get rid of any sweat so he could get a better grip on his broad-bladed boar spear. "Do we go?"
Casca nodded his head in the affirmative. They knew that the sounds of battle in the distance were probably instigated by the members of the Quadii, who had been raiding far from their tribal lands.
More than once since the snows had gone, they had come across the mountain passes to leave gutted and burned villages behind them, taking with them only the women and children. The rest were put to the sword. The women and children brought high prices in the slave markets. The survivors would find themselves being offered for sale, time and again, many going as far as the slave pens of Rome or even Alexandria in Egypt. Fair hair and blue eyes brought high prices and Germans were known to make good slaves if you could catch them young enough.
Wary and tense, they moved through the woods. Everything around them was covered in a rich, lush, green haze from the wild undergrowth of ferns and brush. Ground fog danced between their legs as they moved to the sounds of the slaughter.
Casca advanced with no sense or feeling of injustice for the people being taken as slaves. After all, slavery was the natural order of things. He had even been one a couple of times himself. No, it was the killing of the women and children and helpless old people that pissed him off. There had always been slavery and probably always would be. It was a person's fate to be one or not.
Besides, he didn't like the raiding tribesmen very much anyway, and it gave him an excuse to work out some of his frustrations on them. Glam had said it was not good to keep one's feelings bottled up inside. It could drive a man crazy if he wasn't able to express himself fully. Therefore, it was much better to do just what you felt like and let your feelings come to the surface with a little healthy killing. Besides, there was always the chance of picking up a little booty along the way.
Several shadows moved out of their way, back into the brush. The sounds of fighting brought others to the scene. The forest wolves had long since learned that smoke and screams meant that soon food would be had. They gathered now to wait until the sounds quieted down. Then they would have their turn to feed on the remains of those left behind. These wolves had grown brave of late. They had learned to dispel some of their fear of man by finishing off the wounded and those too weak to fight back. At first the wolves would take a tentative bite, then jump back to see if their meal had any fight left in them. If there was no retaliation, they would go in for the kill. After a few times they learned not to wait. Human blood was not their favorite, but it was easy to get, and the meat, though saltier than that of the forest deer, would still fill empty bellies and give the pups something to cut their teeth on. And now anyone who left the confines of his or her village alone was considered fair game.
The leader of the pack sniffed at the scent of the two intruders, his gray muzzle wrinkling back to show long yellow canines. He gave a low whine and his pack moved away from the two men with steel in their hands. He knew it would be best to leave these humans alone. Killers always recognized each other. They would be content to wait for easier prey. It wouldn't be long. They licked their muzzles and cleaned their paws. Soon they would feed, but for now they would wait.
The smell of smoke thickened. If there had been no mist, it would have been easily visible rising up to the tops of the trees to blow away into the morning sky. The sounds of fighting had died down to an occasional scream as the raiders took their pleasure with the women of the doomed village.
Casca and Glam crawled into some brush, the sweet clean smell of damp greenery contrasting with the odors of violent death coming to them from across the small clearing. Lying on their bellies, they could see about twenty dwellings in various stages of being burned, but most were already no more than piles of smoldering embers. The low stockade surrounding the houses had been designed to serve more as a fence to keep their livestock in than slavers out.
The slavers were moving their cargoes out. They were hooked together with ropes of braided hide connecting them together at the neck. They had been broken down into age and sex categories: children on one line at the rear, women in the center, and a few surviving adult males in the front. All of them totaling about thirty, stumbled out of what had been only minutes before, their homes.
Of the males, only two appeared to be out of their teens. The other four varied in age, anywhere from twelve to fourteen. Their new owners were, rough-looking men, wearing mixtures of hides and armor. Several wore homemade imitations of Roman helmets that they had decorated with the horns of animals or wings of birds. All wore long untrimmed beards of various colors. The throwing axe was carried along with a Gallic-styled sword, one longer than that of the legions', but shorter than the one preferred by the Suevii tribesmen or the Marcomanni.
Once they were clear of the village, Casca and Glam moved in to see if there was anything worth saving. Only a few broken pots were left among the ruins. Bodies in broken positions lay scattered about the smoldering ruins. That the invaders had not had things go completely their way was evident by the number of them lying about with ripped out stomachs and throats. They too had been stripped of anything of value and left for the wolves to clean up. Several were lying on top of women. They had died in the process of rape. A short-bladed knife broken at the hilt in the hand of a young blonde-haired girl showed how it was done. The rest of the blade was between the ribs of her ravager.
Everything in the village had been slaughtered, from the cattle down to the dogs and children. Glam helped Casca gather the bodies together in a pile, then collected what unburned wood they could find and stacked it around the bodies. Sweating after their labor, they took a smoldering brand and blew it back into life. The funeral pyre burned bright and the fresh smell of new fire made the wolves in the forest whimper. They knew they would have to wait a little longer, and the smell of burning flesh told them there wouldn't be as much to feed on as they had hoped for.
A slow drizzle started to wet down the furs on both of their bodies, cleaning off the traces of soot from their faces. They followed after the raiders, knowing it would be best to wait until the hours just before dawn so they could see what they could do against the forty-odd barbarians. Time would be their ally. It was about all they had - that and a desire to let their weapons taste the blood of those they followed.
The slavers made camp shortly before nightfall in a grove of oaks by the edge of a clearing. They tied their slaves to trees, having three men guard them full-time. The leader of the slavers selected a young female for his pleasure and let the others share the remaining women - after the slaves had, of course, tended to the women's work of making campfires and preparing meat.
From a safe distance, Casca and Glam lay on their bellies watching the movements around the fire. The smell of meat cooking set their mouths watering. They had not had food for two days - not since they had eaten their last horse, or, at least, since Glam had eaten it. Casca had consumed only a few pounds of the lean red meat while Glam gulped one chunk after another until Casca thought his savage friend's gut would stretch permanently out of shape. There were only a few scraps left now.
Right now, Glam was grumbling under his breath about how he could devour one of the forest bears, hides, claws, and all
, and Casca believed him. When it was empty, Glam's stomach had a habit of making sounds not dissimilar to the noises made by feeding hogs. There were too many of them for a direct attack, so they decided to take their time and wait for anyone that got careless or straggled. If they got one or two a night, it wouldn't take too long before they had the odds down to levels they could manage.
Fortunately enough, the rain had eased off to no more than thin, vaporous drizzles that only served to keep them damp and cold.
Glam nudged Casca's ribs gently enough to cave in the ribs of an ox and pointed one long, black-nailed finger off to the side of the grove. A single barbarian was hauling a woman off to the bushes. Glam grunted ... probably a shy type, or he's built so bad he doesn't want anyone else to see his deficiencies. They gave their quarry time to get settled into his work over the female, and then slipped on each side of him just as he finished and was raising himself off the unresisting female. She had given him scant pleasure, just lying there with no movement or emotion; but for his needs that served just as well.
The barbarian was involved with tying up his leather breeches when Glam's hands went around his throat. Cutting off any sound, he raised the man clear from the ground and twisted. The crack of the neck breaking was muted. The girl lay still, eyes closed. She wasn't even aware that her abuser was already on his way to whatever hell his race believed in.
Chapter Two
Casca covered the girl's mouth with his hand. She didn't move, thinking it was another of the slavers come to take their turn at her.